#sometimes people die when they don’t deserve to
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A monster witch who murderer her poor husband: This story makes me sick to my stomach
⚠️Trigger warning: violence, murder, torture, strong language⚠️
I was looking up murder stories because I was bored and I found this. When I read it, I actually cried. It made so mad and so sad. The psychological and physical torture this man had to go through is just horrific and this woman got a pleasure out of it. This worthless fucking whore beat and tortured her poor husband and starved him. If someone did that to brother/cousins/whatever, I’m LITERALLY ripping their teeth out.
Edit: she was given a 32 year minimum sentence in 2010 when she was 28 and IIRC she could possibly be eligible for parole when she’s 60 (though hopefully she never leaves prison)
#Andrew Gardner#crime#tw violence#tw torture#tw murder#Clare Nicholls#female murderer#male victims#I just want to bring light to this and have people to speak out about this#this is just fucking horrible#people like this Clare Nicholls bitch#deserve all the hell they can get#sometimes people die when they don’t deserve to#and sometimes people don’t die even when they deserve to#This is to spread awareness about a sadistic woman who took advantage of a meek mentally disabled man#andrew was a beautiful kind hearted angel who didn’t deserve this#rip Andrew Gardner 🙏#this story may be old but please spread the word 🙏
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i’m having such a hard time wrapping my mind around liam payne’s death. i didn’t like him as a person and i don’t think anyone whose discussed his abuse of maya henry should retract their statements or feel bad about them no matter how harsh they were because it’s important to talk about to prevent it from happening again. because of his history of abuse and grooming fans i can’t mourn him the way i would’ve ten years ago and any tears i do shed will be for his friends family maya henry and his other victims who shouldn’t feel bad and be made to feel bad by stans who put their faves over the protection and safety of women and girls. i don’t feel like it’s the place of people who didn’t know him personally (knew him through one direction etc) to tell other who didn’t know him because emotions have no morality and people’s feelings over a death shouldn’t be dictated underneath a urfaveisproblematic lens
#liz informs you#i didn’t like or love him#still sad because that’s how some people feel when someone dies believe it or not#talking about how sad you are that a one direction reunion’s not gonna happen is so unbelievably insensitive#they were his friends. what they’re going through rn is unimaginable.#i hope they’re surrounded by people who love them rn.#i hope maya henry and his other victims don’t doubt themselves for one second#sometimes bad people die horribly. doesn’t mean they were suddenly good people actually#and those they hurt are to blame for his death#i cannot say that he deserved it knowing that his son is gonna have to grow up without a father#and he’s gonna grow up and see how shitty he could be without being able to navigate that with him#hopefully this sounds coherent#twitter is a cesspool rn and i wanted to talk about this without a mutual suddenly turning on me because i used the wrong word#and i didn’t make a saint out of him or say that he’s burning in hell#if 9/11 2 ever happens it should be to the tmz hq#anyways tell your loved ones that you love them. live your life to the fullest#never take a second of it for granted#one direction#music tag#liam payne#harry styles#louis tomlinson#niall horan#zayn malik
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#i do not want to work tomorrow i want to lay in bed and be sad#i’m really realizing how miserable of a person i am i am always fucking Sad and when i do feel happy i cry when it’s over#and i can’t even resemble a human being without medication and i know that’s fine but i’m still always sad. it doesn’t go away#i feel like nobody deserves to have me weighing them down like i’ve cried in front of people three times this week and i know it’s fine#but i feel so fucking guilty about it and i feel guilty about everything i feel like i’m doing nothing right and i’m not dealing with thing#right and i’m not living right and i feel like it must be so fucking difficult to love me and i don’t know how people do it#i don’t even feel capable of asking for. any sort of love ever#i feel like i don’t deserve like anything. i feel like nobody actually wants to do things for me lol#every single dsy i’m like wow i want to be held and every single dsy i feel bad even asking for a hug from someone#when i need reassurance i’m afraid to ask because what if i’m just being annoying and overbearing and too much Bad#i never feel like too much good. only bad.#i know a lot of these shitty thoughts are just because i’ve been unmedicated (meds will be ready tomorrow lol) but it just like#it sucks to know medication just kinda hides these thoughts better and that deep down i feel like this because i don’t want to#i feel like everyone in my life doesn’t deserve someone who doubts everything all the time#i think my mother deserved a stronger daughter and i think my friends deserve someone that’s not always breaking and i just don’t feel Good#i don’t know why anyone keeps me around#sometimes i feel selfish for sticking around and that sounds so awful and i’m not gonna act on it but i just feel like a waste of a person#the last week has been so good and now i’m just a fucking mess and i feel so fucking guilty about that :)#i feel like no matter what i always just default to miserable#i don’t feel like i’m doing enough at all#i’m struggling in school i don’t work enough i can barely take care of myself#like i wouldn’t even properly take care of myself if taylor wasn’t helping me i feel so guilty about that all the time#i feel so guilty for even thinking any of this right now and i’m trying to remind myself that i’m unmedicated and i’ve had a long day#and my best fucking friend just went back home and i’m allowed to be sad about that but i just. feel like i’m making excuses i guess#it’s not immoral to be sad but maybe when i’m wanting to die all the time i’m the problem. idk#anyway i’m gonna go to sleep and i’m gonna try to convince myself tomorrow will be better#sndnsksjkakejdkalwosjhdkwosjdjsk. i will be fine
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The Incredible Hulk (1968) #253
#ugh ok this is falling kind of flat for me because characters are saying things that are simply not true#in a way I don’t think is justified by their limited perspective as characters#like ‘left alone he’s harmed no one’ is literally not true#I love the Hulk but he’s definitely really hurt people who weren’t deserving of it#it’s just more complicated than this simplistic perspective#which isn’t so interesting when all of the characters are inexplicably agreeing on it#like one character being at this level of denial I could take but come on#the Hulk’s issues are caused by so many things#and he hasn’t completely unearned his bad reputation#he lashes out physically when he’s overwhelmed by sensory issues#nobody needs to hurt the Hulk for him to get upset by the sounds and smells and sights of a city and smash it#and sometimes he hurts people who had no intention of fighting him because he assumed they were going to because of his trauma#or because he had simply misunderstood them because he’s not very bright#and the Hulk’s own issues exacerbate whatever problems are caused by other people#like the Hulk is never going to just be magically not-disabled and so able to handle these situations in a way that works out better for hi#and the correct response in a moral sense is not to take that and try to ‘cure’ Bruce of the Hulk i.e. killing the Hulk#the Hulk doesn’t deserve to die because he’s inconvenient#it’s to try to create a safe space for him where he can then actually grow and not just experience trauma all the time#and so learn to handle things in a way that aren’t so destructive to other people and himself#which is what Samson tried to do#and that failed because of that Moonstone villain#but also because of the Hulk’s character concept and publishing format meaning that that he can never have his problems actually fixed#cause they need to keep publishing stories about his troubles#marvel#bruce banner#betty ross#thunderbolt ross#leonard samson#my posts#comic panels
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worst comes to worst, have a backup plan friend who’s cool with you eating like their arm or something. like obviously absolutely last option just too keep you from keeling over until you can get your next meal, but it’s only like an arm and they consent
Posts that be like “If I were a monster that had to eat people, i would just eat horrible people~” are so absurd to me. How often do you see Known Criminals on the street? Billionaires out for a nightly stroll around town? Effectively fucking never. If I have to drag myself to the grocery store, you think it’s gonna be any easier for me to hunt Bezos and Co. every time my stomach growls? I can’t bother to plan meals more than a day in advance, how am i gonna perform whole ass detective work to confirm someone’s a serial killer before i eat them? Ya’ll got that much time on your hands? Planning 5 course meals every night of the week? Don’t make me laugh. Eat a pedestrian and tragically wrestle with guilt like the rest of us, idiot.
#consensual cannibalism#cannibalism#i’ve thought about this sort of thing extensively#consensual/righteous eating of people#the reason i’ve thought about this is because of jonathan sims#like if bro just found people who knew what they were getting into and allowed him to eat their trauma then everything would’ve been okay#and if everyone else wasn’t as convinced of his less than dog status#basira literally said that she’d ’put him down’ if he did anything#as if he was a fucking dog that bit a child#nah nah nah#i don’t fuck with that shit#idk if literally everyone in that office thought he was such a monster#he deserves to be able to eat#just because his diet is different then yours doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to make it work#you literally eat meat#how can you have any moral standing when you eat meat and he eats nightmares#do you know how much damage the meat industry causes the ecosystem?#you raise animals to die (sometimes not even raising them)#then you feed them enough food that could feed a family#then you give them land that could be used for other food sources#then they drink water that could’ve been giving to a person#im not saying you should be a vegetarian im saying your a fuckin hypocrite#like i eat meat and i like eating meat and i would find some way to make this work#even if it’s just getting myself into supernatural situation so he can feed off me#at least i know i won’t be alone in my nightmares#at least i have someone watching over me#at least i know i helped a fucking friend#a fucking person#a fucking human being#sorry this was just me posting about how much i hated how people treated jon
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5 years ago, I was in Rehab.
10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.
But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.
One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.
Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.
For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.
But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.
Happy.
It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.
Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.
It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.
A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.
5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.
It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.
Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.
I’m a Rescue.
She gave me a Home.
And, so, I gave her a Family.
It seemed fair
This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.
don’t give up yet, ok?
It could get good, even.
#troglodyte thoughts#tales from Real Life#cw addiction#cw alcohol#sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of an approaching train#run#fight#hide#SURVIVE#do not go into the light#there are unpet dogs#and unhugged children#and unseen sunsets#and maybe even love#even for a wretch like me#the best part of your life might be old age#you don’t know
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The whole plot of Crumbled! (at least the main plot since several characters aren’t. Involved in that. Funny side plots and characters baby!) is how organized crime affects people, inside of it and out. It’s how members of the mob don’t have anything else they can do in life aside from the life of crime, it’s how the general public are harmed by organized crime even if they aren’t being targeted personally, it’s how being a member of this lifestyle can destroy or build your relationships, it’s how no one is pure evil or pure good, it’s the complexity of people while also being about The Horrors.
No one here faces “traditional consequences” to their actions, aside from a few. Hershey doesn’t go to jail, Donna doesn’t die, etc etc. This is a story that doesn’t need those consequences. From day 1 you know these characters are doing horrible things, and at the same time these characters learn and fully comprehend they’re doing bad things. The most they get as “traditional retribution” is how some of their personal relationships are affected. Aside from that, these fuckers dont NEED what the masses would deem a traditional consequence because the entire fucking plot is them going through the horrors because of their actions! Being in the mafia and seeing and doing horrible things while having to just live with it is a pretty damn good “consequence” to me! Melphis doesn’t need to go to jail because “he needs to suffer the consequences of his actions” when every single damn day he suffers‼️
Even if Cheon’s family isn’t destroyed, even if the Oreona family doesn’t ostracize it’s members that are criminals, even if the extremes aren’t reached in these “consequences” there’s still a damn effect!!! But at the end of the day like I said these guys suffer the consequences of their actions constantly so they don’t need jail time or death or anything like that oh my god. And if you think that’s wrong and makes me romanticize, endorse or fucking glorify the mafia because Melphis doesn’t get locked up and only two members of the Oreo Gang die in the end then OHHHHHH GROW UP‼️ GROW UP‼️‼️
#like I said I’m feeling mean .#NOT like anyone has ever explicitly done this to me I haven’t been hit with the glorifying accusations#but walk with me. walk with me guys... sometimes the narrative is about bad people and they don’t need to get torn apart for their actions.#sometimes stories can have bad people and just because you aren’t told up right ‘This is bad!’ means the thing is being glorified#Melphis is not a perfect person he has done wrong. but his ass does not need to face time for his crime for the narrative to be complete#like I said Bro suffers every single day.#and he’s the most sympathetic in this group! But Everyone else follows a similar philosophy#Guo doesn’t need to die because he does wrong Phoenix doesn’t need to die no one here deserves death#The two that do die are even tragic.#You can argue one of them needs to die so everyone can go free and Cheon can get his full revenge but shit man.#She was raised to be a monster. She never had a chance to be a better person because she was raised to take over the mafia and only had that#Her mom feared what would happen if she tried to take her with her when she fled. So she had no other exposure to a normal life#And no one dared try to take her away from her father. They feared the consequences. they all feared what’d happen#and then it was too late. She never had the chance to be a regular person and she died a monster since she had nothing else to her name#that doesn’t excuse her actions obviously but damn. how sad!#and the other one that dies just fucks up Cheon. Because it’s salt in the wound over his whole revenge plot#It’s the final emphasis on how his drive to avenge his parents’ deaths led to more tragic than needed. how even in the end his perfect kill#-(in quotes) was tainted by the blood of someone no one wanted to kill. someone who was flawed and wrong yeah#but people love to see him and his brother as more sympathetic than Cherry. so rip.#shit is just fuck and I don’t need to make them go to jail not every narrative like that needs it#and like I said if you treat my ocs like them not dying brutal deaths or other ‘traditional consequence’ by god eat a lime.#Phew. anyways#demon’s ocs#crumbled!#Look into my twisted mind boy /J
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can we get more myung gi/ player 333 oneshots/hcs plsss (if u can)💕💕
boyfriend myung-gi in the games.
warnings … there may be some typos, i apologize
lovely notes … ask & you shall receive ml 🙂↕️
꩜ [ 600 words ]
boyfriend myung-gi who cherishes the small moments with you. the moments after games, moments right before lights out, and even the minuscule moments like when he makes direct eye contact with you from across the room.
boyfriend myung-gi who lets you get in line before him because you’re his top priority, always.
boyfriend myung-gi who always gives you a share of his food. he doesn’t care about you saying you “don’t want it”, he insists that you stay more fed than him. he’ll put your well-being before his every time.
boyfriend myung-gi who is wary of all the other contestants, even more with you in the games with him. he doesn’t trust them, nor does he want you to blindly trust them.
boyfriend myung-gi who makes a silent vow to himself to protect you at the start of every game. he puts your welfare before his every time, so he will defend you with his entire life.
boyfriend myung-gi who always has a vice grip on your hand. whether you’re in a game, waiting to vote, or doing something so mundane such as sitting next to one another. he likes to feel you at all times, it anchors him in a way
boyfriend myung-gi who squeezes your hand just a bit tighter when thanos or nam-gyu walks by. they’re the last people he wants to get near either of you, so of course he feels a need to protect you.
boyfriend myung-gi who always moves your head to rest on his shoulder when sitting next to one another. or he places his head to rest on your lap. he just wants to be near you, is all.
boyfriend myung-gi who always wakes up before you. you sleep in his bed, and he can’t help himself but wake up a few hours before you. he enjoys the mere moments when he can have you in his arms without any concerns.
boyfriend myung-gi who’s the first to acknowledge you when you walk into a room. his eyes immediately shift to you when he’s in the same vicinity as you. it was like a magnetic force pulled his eyes to you every time.
boyfriend myung-gi who covers your eyes when other participants die. if possible, he’s going to shield you from the horror that is the reality of the death game you’re in. the last thing he wants you to see is lifeless bodies dropping left and right.
boyfriend myung-gi who randomly says “i love you”. he wants to remind you of his unwavering love all the time, of course.
boyfriend myung-gi who’s only level-minded around you. you’re the only one who can ground him because god knows how unbalanced he’d get without you.
boyfriend myung-gi who’s constantly near you during every game. red light, green light? you’re behind him. six-legged pentathlon? you’re obviously on the same team as him. mingle? you’re in every single group with him. other participants may see it as clinginess, but both of you see it as myung-gi protecting you with his everything.
boyfriend myung-gi who would quite literally fall to his knees if you got injured. he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if you got wounded under his observation.
boyfriend myung-gi who has the most extravagant plans for when the both of you get out of the games. he has dozens of date plans just for when you make it out.
boyfriend myung-gi who sometimes feels like he doesn’t deserve you. you’re the only constant in the cruelty that you both found yourselves in. and he feels so undeserving of you and your tenderness so often.
#(౨ৎ) — fics .#lee myung gi#lee myung gi x reader#myung gi x reader#lee myung gi fluff#lee myung gi imagine#lee myung gi scenario#squid game#squid game x reader#squid game fluff#squid game imagine#squid game scenario#squid game netflix#squid game season 2#squid game 2#x reader#x reader insert#reader insert#gender neutral reader
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✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ FIRST KISS — GOJO SATORU.
contents. fluff + mutual pining if you squint, it’s literally just you being satoru’s first kiss <3, he’s just a loser boy beneath all his facades !!
it’s summer the first time you kiss satoru. his lips taste like the lingering sweetness of kikufuku. the cicadas are calling, and the sun finds every crevice of your skin to hug.
it’s hot outside—but you don’t mind the heat so much when it’s the fan of satoru’s breath against your skin. you can feel his hands tremble as they finds your hips. hesitant, you note as he pauses a moment before finally letting them rest against you.
“you’re eager, sweetheart,” he hums—because satoru, even dazed from the taste of you, is still persistently himself. large hands are gently cradling the curves of your waist—he’s warm there too, where he holds you and pulls you closer to his chest. he grins when you press a kiss to his jaw, rubbing circles into your hip with his thumb.
“it doesn’t feel like you’re kissing me while held at gunpoint either, gojo,” you roll your eyes. your hand cups his face, thumb tracing over the swell of his cheek gently.
gojo—his lips, rosy and just a bit swollen, pout at the use of his surname. surely, now that you’ve stolen the innocence of his lips, you can spare him a bit more than that. surely, the intimacy of his given name doesn’t outweigh the intimacy of exchanging breath.
satoru—he imagines the way the name would sound from you, carefully whispered like a secret. everything you do is careful, he’s noticed, everything about you is thoughtful and soft.
more than anything, you’re careful in the way you touch him. you’re delicate in the way you let yourself explore his skin, like he’s fragile and easy to hurt. like all he’s ever known is pain. it’s ironic—someone like satoru should know very little about pain, should never feel the devastating blows at its hands when infinity leaves more than enough room for him to remain untouched.
but you’re funny like that; take him by surprise as you carve out the slant of his cheekbone with your thumb slowly enough that you might almost think your touch is enough to slice the skin.
it’s nice, he thinks distantly, being handled with care is nice. it’s not something this world affords so easily.
“this your first kiss?” he asks shamelessly, throwing you that lopsided grin of his.
am i your first? is what he means to ask. what he wants to ask. what he aches to ask.
is he your first? or are you only his? has anyone else tasted the strawberry of your chapstick? was it a different flavor before it was ever strawberry? satoru hopes he’s the only one to ever explore the flavors your lips might come in—maybe you’ll try cherry next. he’d like that.
“it’s certainly your first kiss,” you giggle, thumb moving down to trace his bottom lip, “i can feel you trembling, y’know.”
not many people catch gojo satoru embarrassed—you do, though. that enough should make you feel like god, perhaps. who else is powerful enough to feel the strongest quake? who else feels the quivers of his hands and the uncertain hesitance under his touch?
no one but you—and you’d like to keep it that way.
his face flushes a little, against his control. even gojo satoru is not above the rush of blood rising to his cheeks, even he cannot stop the hue of color that paints across his face. he’s human, after all—and he deserves to be treated as such: with the fragility of being human.
“no it’s not,” he scoffs, “i’ve kissed plenty.”
“yeah?” you chuckle, admiring the rosiness of his flesh, “name one person.”
“i don’t recall anyone’s name,” he shrugs, hands still making sure to keep you painfully close. if you pull away, satoru thinks he might die—thinks he might never recover from the aftershocks of such devastation. “no one was ever worthwhile enough to remember.”
he’s too much sometimes—but never less than enough. you snort, huffing out a small laugh that rings in his ears and makes him gulp.
perfect—you sound and look and feel and taste perfect. gojo satoru is the strongest, but is he deserving of the one thing this earth has that’s devoid of flaws? he’s not so sure. but he can try to be worthy, and perhaps that’s enough.
“well, then tell me, gojo,” you murmur, gently slipping the bandages from his forehead to fall to his neck. he’s only recently left the sunglasses behind—you like him better this way. you can see the outline of his features better, even if you do miss his eyes.
“hm?” he quirks a brow, breath almost hitching when his eyes meet yours—since when have you looked at him like that? since when have your pupils housed so much affection for him? have you always done so, and he’s never noticed?
it would be a crime to not have noticed before this, he thinks, a cruel and terrible reality of missing every soft and affectionate gaze.
“will i be long forgotten after this kiss? or has this one finally caught your attention?”
there is no prior kiss to compare yours to—but there never needs to be one after, either. this is the best kiss he’ll ever have, the only kiss he wants to have. no one will ever feel like you, he’s sure of it. no one will ever make him feel what you do, and even infinity is something that cannot protect him from the risks.
but satoru is not scared, not of you—and never with you.
so he grins, tapping his chin in thought as he hums, “give me another, and i’ll decide.”
you scoff in disbelief—amused, if anything, before shaking your head. he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him.
“you never change, gojo,” you say fondly, “do you know that?”
“say satoru,” he says quietly. it’s almost a plead—it sounds like a plead.
you smile. it’s an innocent little thing, untouched by the cruelties of life—or maybe it has, and you still find a reason to stay pure. maybe it’s the latter, he realizes, maybe you’re just resilient enough to remain unwavering in the way you love so unapologetically.
“come here, satoru,” you whisper, gently pulling his face closer as you hold his cheeks.
desperately, he needs to taste his name rolling off your tongue—so he comes closer, bridging the gap and kissing you again. and again—and he can’t find it in him to stop.
the same day satoru has his first kiss, you call him by his first name. it’s summer. the flowers smell sweet as the cicadas call, and you put the sun’s heat to shame.
he’ll always stay warm wrapped in you.
tbh this was supposed to be y’all fucking for the first time but then it just turned into this. alas, we prevail
#teepods.writings#drabbles.#gojo x reader#gojo fluff#gojo x you#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#jjk x you#jjk fluff#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru fluff#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen fluff
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one
summary: One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do; two can be as bad as one, it's the loneliest number since the number one. Or: you're two years old when you lose your parents. Your brother, a kid himself, is unable to give you the love you deserve, and you end up at twenty being as burn out as only a Gotham University student can be. So, what do you do? Change scenery, of course.
pairing(s): clark kent x wayne!reader, bruce wayne x sister!reader, eventual platonic batfam x reader (no use of y/n)
warnings: genius kid trope, kinda doomed siblings, language, there are reference to what happens in "the batman" but there will be a merge of both comics and films, written with david!superman in mind cuz he's my pookie 😞, bruce is so pathetic i love him sm
word count: 2.2k
author's note: my first ever fanfic for the dc universe!! constructive criticism is welcomed as english is not my first language,
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Gotham has left you feeling more claustrophobic in the last few months than it did all your life.
Maybe it’s because you’re seeing your brother slip into his work — aka beating criminals in the night as a hobby — more and more, or maybe it’s just your brain playing tricks on you. It’s probably the latter.
You’ve never been good with emotions — it comes with being a Wayne, and surely, having your parents die before you were three didn’t help your situation. Bruce spending most of your childhood abroad with barely any contact with you also probably didn’t help either.
“But I’m here now,” he had said once, “Am I not?”
He is, but even if you love him with all your heart, sometimes you think that you’re more like colleagues rather than siblings. Your bond is strained, with him being so closed-off and spending most of his free time cosplaying as a bat, and you having just entered your twenties, trying to get your second degree in biology after an early graduation and an even earlier PhD in engineering. And since his first big case four years ago, neither of you has been the same.
Your relationship has never been easy. The flood and the Riddler’s case basically forced you to trauma bond over what you both had experienced, as surely no therapist would’ve wanted to hear about all the horrors that you two experienced, even for all the money in the world. Besides, it’s not like Bruce could just enter a therapist’s office and tell them that he’s the fucking Batman.
As of now, you tend to have your… ups and downs. Both prefer to just hide behind paperwork, projects, cases or research rather than just talk some things out. Because yes, Bruce’s your brother, but that doesn’t mean he’s easy to love. There are some days where he seems to be barely able to talk to you, others where you know he just wants to scream at you for whatever reason, others where… others where you think he might just crumble at your feet and start crying.
You don’t have a lot in common. Maybe that’s why he manages to stay in Gotham even after all that’s happened — combined with the fact that he’s spent ten years or so abroad. Maybe you need that, too.
“I’m thinking of moving out,” you tell him during one of your rare dinners together. You have already talked about your plan to Alfred, who has shown his support towards the idea and urged you to get out of Gotham as soon as you could, but you also wanted to tell Bruce — just to be honest with him.
Yes, he left you to study abroad all those years ago without any kind of goodbye or anything, but you have no intention of leaving him behind like he did to you — you may be grown adults now, but that doesn’t mean that being left behind doesn’t exist anymore. You doubt Bruce would ever feel left behind by you, of all people, but still. “Found a faculty in Metropolis that will be able to transfer all my credits and studies and a nice flat downtown near the Wayne Enterprises’ site there. I think I need a breath of fresh air– I need to go somewhere where the sun actually shines and not everyone has hidden agendas.”
You’ve heard good things about Metropolis, and you think that the Martha Wayne Foundation could be expanded a bit more — somewhere far from Gotham, where surely there are other orphanages, other people in need that could use some help. “I could handle Wayne Enterprise’s gestion and settle our matters there while continuing my studies in a more… calm environment.” calm is a big word for a metropolitan city as big and populated as Metropolis, but every city is calm in contrast to Gotham.
Your brother doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you, wide-eyed, fork still raised to eat the potatoes Alfred cooked, his face blank. Is he having a heart attack? You didn’t think that you moving out would’ve been such horrendous news for him. Yes, even if you are not that close he’s still very protective, but he went to live abroad at ten. You’re twenty and you’re just… moving to Delaware. It’s not like you’re going to the fucking Himalaya mountains as he did.
(Meanwhile, Bruce is spiraling. He wonders when the hell did his little sister grow up, how it can be that she isn’t the little girl he used to sway around anymore, and why would she ever want to move out. Is it because of him? Did something happen?
Isn’t Metropolis in another state? Is he so tremendous that you have to move states in hopes to forget about him? Is he too overbearing? He thought he had always given you enough space to do your own thing–)
Instead of saying all of the things he’s thinking, he tries to muster up a smile, even if it comes out as a grimace. “Alright.”
He nearly jumps out of his seat when you beam at him — is he really that obnoxious that you can’t wait to move out and have him out of your life? “Oh, I’m happy that you’re taking it well! I was afraid you’d freak out.” you get up from your seat and move over to hug him, and he chuckles nervously. “Why would I? You’re an adult, you can do what you want.”
(What do you mean?!, his conscience screams in his head, She isn’t even twelve! Just yesterday she was talking about going to the homecoming dance with her friends–
But time has passed, and even if Bruce feels that it was particularly hard on him, he didn’t think it’d affect you too, somehow. It’s weird acknowledging something’s — someone’s — changes in the years in… so little. He had gotten so used to you being his little sister that he didn’t even think about you becoming a full on woman. He still remembers the pink bundle of blankets your parents had given him that day at the hospital, telling him to be careful with her, she’s your little sister.
When have you grown this much? Where did the time go? He swears it was just yesterday when you were admitted to Gotham University.)
“But… a flat? Are you sure you’ll be comfortable there? It’s not exactly as big as a manor.”
You avoid his gaze, scratching the back of your head. “Yeah, about that…”
He raises an eyebrow, “Let me guess, you bought the whole building?”
You snap your fingers, “They don’t call you the greatest detective for nothing!” you sit back down, cutting the meat on your plate, “I plan on making the floors I won’t live in into a laboratory of sort– almost like the Batcave, y’know, so I can continue working on the models I designed undisturbed.”
When Bruce had started his crusade as Batman, you had just gotten your bachelor’s degree in engineering, and were working on your master’s degree. You had basically given him the head-start, creating the software of the Batcomputer (or of the computer, as he calls it), designed and adapted a sport’s car to the Batmobile (just call it the car, Bruce always insists) and basically modified and created every single one of the gadgets and systems he uses.
You just hope he won’t let the Batcomputer get hacked as soon as you land in Metropolis — you spent weeks programming her and years perfecting her system. You spent so much time on her, she might as well be your firstborn by now.
“I’ll always be a call away,” you murmur when your brother’s eyes get a little dazy, unfocused– like he’s in another world, always thinking about the worst that could happen. “You know that, right?”
Bruce blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I– I know that.”
(He isn't sure about that.)
You pat his hand, mustering a smile. "Maybe you should take a break, too. Why don't you book a vacation in, let's say... the Bahamas? Just to get a bit tanned and remember what the sun actually looks like."
He shakes his head. "Can't. Batman doesn't go on vacation."
You raise an eyebrow, sighing in defeat. "Well, I'm sure the GCPD could handle Gotham for a few days, but do as you like."
Your arrival in Metropolis is, of course, followed by an unhinged swarm of journalists and press that surround you as soon as you land.
You can already see the headlines — THE PRINCESS OF GOTHAM NOW IN METROPOLIS or some other corny predictable shit like that — as they shove their cameras in your face, screaming and trying to grab you, as your bodyguards try to contain them. You're much calmer than they are, having already endured years and years of invasive journalists.
“Miss Wayne, would you care to tell us the reason for this abrupt change in scenery?”
“Has your move got anything to do with your relationship with your brother?”
“Miss Wayne, look here! A smile for the front page–”
“Miss Wayne, why Metropolis, of all places?”
“Miss Wayne, a word for the Daily Planet?”
The guy for the Daily Planet catches your attention– he seems far too nice and isn’t elbowing anyone; he must be either new at the job or is too nice for it. He’s got a mop of curly, black hair atop his head, thick glasses perched on his nose, baby blue eyes behind them. His posture is a little crooked — he’s getting squeezed by reporters on both of his sides — but, even as disheveled as he is, you notice a thing.
Ohh, he’s pretty. Like, jaw-dropping pretty, the kind of pretty that makes you want to bite his cheek and never let go for the rest of your life.
You stop in your tracks, lifting your sunglasses to your head, bodyguards panicking at the swarm of journalists that suddenly all point to one direction; you reach for the pocket of your jeans and take out a business card that you pat on the pretty reporter’s chest. “Another time, pretty boy,” you promise as he takes the card, his fingers brushing yours, the other journalists speechless around you. “I’m kinda busy right now.”
You don’t stay long enough to see him blush and hold the business card tight in his palm so that the other reporters don’t snatch it out of his grip — the bodyguards urge you forward, towards the SUV with obscured windows that is waiting for you right in front of the arrivals’ exit of the airport. One of them opens the door for you, and you don’t hesitate to get inside, the car speeding off as soon as everyone’s inside.
“Never seen anything like this,” one of the men mutters.
You shrug, “I’ve had worse.”
The ride to your building is short, mostly because it’s late in the evening and there aren’t many people still around. You leave a generous tip to both the bodyguards and the driver, thanking them but assuring them that you can walk alone the thirty steps that separate you from the entrance to what’ll be your home for the foreseeable future. They help you take out your trolley and duffle bag, which you swing over your shoulder right after taking the keys of the building out.
You open the front door, carefully closing it behind you, taking the elevator right in front of it. You press the number thirty out of thirty-four, which turns green with a ding, and wait for the doors to open back up. And once they do, you’re not disappointed.
The loft is arranged just like how you asked the movers to — it would’ve been hard not to, as you sent them the 3D interior design plan you had made, but still. You’ve been raised with the idea that if you want something done well, you have to do it yourself, so you’re pretty happy about how it turned out.
Still, something’s missing.
You check around the loft for any pieces of missing furniture or something like that, not finding anything. You even go back to the 3D model to make sure that everything got here safe and sound, only to find that yes, everything is in the colour you ordered and exactly in the place you asked for it to be.
You sit on the U-shaped couch that sits right in front of the giant windows that let on the skyline of Metropolis, eyebrows knit in deep thought. The house is nice — for fuck’s sake, you bought a whole building just for you and your projects — but it’s weird not having anyone else around. There’s no Alfred to welcome you, no half-asleep Bruce roaming without an idea of where he is, no squeaking and creaking of the floor when you walk.
You sigh. “Maybe I should get a cat.”
#superman imagine#superman x reader#clark kent x reader#clark kent imagine#clark kent x you#clark kent fluff#bruce wayne x sister! reader#platonic bruce wayne#superman x y/n#superman x you#clark kent x y/n#wayne!reader#superman fanfic#superman fic#clark kent fanfiction#clark kent fic#batfamily#batfamily x reader#batfam x reader#dc fanfic#alfred pennyworth
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I Miss You, I'm Sorry
masterlist! | read part 1 here!
synopsis: vi breaks you out of the prison she puts you in, but sometimes apologizes aren’t enough on their own
pairing: vi x reader
Stillwater Prison was hell.
It was cold, dark, and lonely. No sounds penetrated the walls this deep in the prison, and no one talked to you unless they were talking to you with a stick in their hands ready to teach you a lesson.
That’s what you thought was going to happen when the familiar sound of a pair of heavy boots hitting the hard ground of the hallway echoed down the cell block they were holding you in. You didn’t even make an effort to go to the cell bars to see who it was anymore, it would be foolish to hope for anyone but the warden at this point—you had heard echoes of an outbreak not too long ago, Jinx and Sevika had broken out half of Zaun from Stillwater, but you were too far deep into the prison for them to even try to reach you, if they had.
You stayed slumped against the cold wall, arms draped over your knees, head resting against them as the sound of boots grew louder. It wasn't until they stopped directly in front of your cell that something about the cadence made your ears perk. Hesitant. Familiar.
The silence lingered, heavy and tense, before a voice you thought you’d never hear again cut through it like a knife.
“Y/n.”
Your head snapped up, heart twisting painfully in your chest. You couldn’t believe it. You wouldn’t believe it. “Vi?”
She was standing there, gripping. The bars of your cell with knuckles so white you thought they might split. Her pink hair was longer and suddenly black, her face was harder, smeared with black makeup. She didn’t look like the Vi you knew, but she sounded like her—rough around the edges, soft in the center.
“I came to get you out,” she said, her voice low and tight. “I’m sorry it took me this long.”
You didn’t make a motion to move, but you made a point to move your head, to catch her gaze. “Caitlyn ditch you when she realized you're still a street rat no matter how hard you pretend you aren’t?”
Vi flinched, your words hitting like a slap, but she didn’t look away. “I deserve that,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I deserve worse.”
You laugh bitterly, leaning your head back against the wall, the chill of the stone seeping into your skin. “You’ve got some nerve coming here. What’s the angle, Vi? Guilt finally too much for you? Or did Caitlyn send you to finally kill me?”
“I’m here because I couldn’t let this stand,” Vi snapped, the fire in her voice rekindling for just a moment before softening again. “I–I made a mistake, okay? I believed the wrong people. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“The right thing,” you repeated, tasting the words on your tongue as if you were testing them out in the space between you. “For who? Because it wasn’t for me. And it sure as hell wasn’t for you.”
Vi leaned her forehead against the cold bars, her shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. “For you,” she said, her voice breaking. “I know what type of hell this place is, but I was so scared you were going to die. I thought I was protecting you. I thought… I thought if I stopped you, it’d keep you safe.”
You laughed again, the sound sharp and hollow. “You really are delusional, Vi. You didn’t protect me. You ruined me. You put me here. You handed me over to them, and they—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, refusing to let the tears threaten to spill. “You know what they did to me here. You don’t get to come back and act like you care now.”
Vi’s hand gripped the bars tighter, her knuckles trembling. “I never stopped caring,” she said fiercely. “I’ve been trying to fix this since the day they dragged you in here. I’m not leaving without you, Y/n.”
You shook your head, a bitter smile twisting your lips. “And then what? What happens after you ‘fix this’? You think we can just walk out of here and pretend nothing happened? That I can forgive you?”
“No,” Vi said, her voice steady despite the pain in her eyes. “I don’t expect forgiveness. God knows I don’t deserve it. But I can’t live with myself knowing I didn’t at least try to make it right.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. You wanted to yell, to scream, to tell her to leave and never come back—but part of you, a part you hated, wanted to believe her. Wanted to run into her arms and bury your head in the crook of her neck and inhale her familiar scent of stale alcohol from her dad’s bar and dirt.
“Why now?” you finally asked, your voice quiet, more than fragile. “Why come for me now? Aren’t I a lost cause?”
Vi’s gaze met yours, raw and unguarded. “Because I realized I was wrong.” she said simply. “And because I never stopped loving you. I miss you, and I’m so, so sorry.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning and regret. You didn’t know if you could trust her again, if you even wanted to—but the ache in her voice, the crack in her tough exterior, made something inside you falter.
“Get me out of here,” you said finally, your voice cold and unyielding. “But don’t think for a second that this changed anything.”
Vi nodded, her jaw tightening. “Fair enough.”
She stepped back, pulling on her gauntlets with a low hiss. They hummed to light, emitting a blue light as she placed her hands on the bars of the door and pried it off their hinges. With a creak and a groan, the metal bent and broke under her hands, and she stepped aside, tossing the door to the ground, giving you the space to leave.
You stood slowly, your body aching from the time spent alone, waiting, and stepped out of the cell. For a moment, you stood face to face with her, the weight of everything unsaid lingering in between the two of you like a bubble you couldn’t pop and a line you couldn’t cross.
“Let’s go,” you said, brushing past her.
—----------------------------
You never knew that the sun shone this brightly this deep in the underground.
In your brief memories of childhood, there was never grass, never light. It was just you and Vi in the darkness of the streets until her parents called her in for dinner and your father called you in to go to sleep.
Now, being back here again—although ‘here’ was different—felt weird. As if everything had shifted. Vi was different, leaner than you remembered her last, her hair dyed black, her eyes a little harder. But, you supposed that comes with time.
Leaning back on your hands, you looked up to the sky, to the sun filtering through the polluted air. The grass underneath your palms felt foreign.
“Weird to be out here in the sun, huh?” Vi said quietly, brushing her hand over a stone that had the remnants of a white marker scrawled onto it.
You nodded, your eyes still tracing the faint clouds in the sky, the blue hazy and far from the pure shade you had imagined reaching down here when you were younger, more naive. “I never thought it would reach down here.”
Vi remained quiet beside you, but you could feel the tension rolling off her. It was the first time in what felt like forever that you were sharing the same space without the weight of a fight looming over you.
Her gauntlets were off somewhere under the strict ‘no weapons’ policy, and she looked smaller without them, more fragile. After a long pause, she turned toward you, her voice softer, more hesitant this time. “I know I can’t undo what I did. And I can’t take back the betrayal, or the things I said or didn’t say.” she cleared her throat, absentmindedly tracing patterns in the dirt. “But I’m sorry, Y/n. I really am.”
You didn’t respond immediately. Her words, though a faint echo of the apology you once prayed for, still felt incomplete. The rawness in her voice, the same tremor you had heard in the prison, didn’t quite reach the part of you that had been shattered when she turned her back on you. Still, there was something there—something you hadn’t expected: sincerity.
“I know you are,” you said finally, your voice softer than you had intended. You didn’t want to give in, not yet. But the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes tugged at something inside you. It had been years since you’d seen her this close, this unguarded. It hurt, seeing her like this, but the grip of anger was loosening, it’s hold faltering the longer you watched her in front of you the way she did all those years ago.
Vi shifted next to you, her gaze lingering on the ground. “Do you remember how I used to protect you? Remember how I used to shove you back anytime someone picked trouble with us? I wanted to keep you so far away from all the violence that surrounded us.” She paused, as if trying to collect her thoughts. “I thought that if I kept you away from everything, that you wouldn’t have a shot to kill yourself. That you’d be safe. That I’d figure out a way for us to be safe.”
“You thought wrong.” You didn’t say it harshly, but the words stung both of you. It was the truth, and you both knew it.
Her face fell for a moment, even more than it already was, her eyes dimming just enough to show in the sunlight. “I know,” she murmured. “I wish I could change it, but I can’t. I can’t fix it all. All I can do now is try, but… I’ll keep trying.”
You turned to face her, finally locking eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt something other than anger or hurt. It was a flicker—just a spark, barely a flame—but it was something.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whispered. “Not yet.”
Vi nodded, her eyes glassy, but she didn’t say anything more. She didn’t need to. The apology was there, and maybe this was the rebirth of something familiar, yet new. Not a clean slate, not yet, but a possibility. A chance.
She reached over and squeezed your hand so gently it almost felt like a warm breath on a cool day, a silent promise, as if her presence here wasn’t just about getting you out of prison, but about finding a way back to each other.
“I missed you,” she murmured, her voice soft, but heavy with lingering emotions that might never fully go away.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat, and you could feel the time of all the years that had passed between you two—everything unsaid, everything unhealed.
“I miss you too,” you said, the words lingering in the present, not the past.
If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!
#vi x fem reader#arcane vi x reader#vi x you#vi arcane#vi x reader#vi x y/n#arcane x female reader#arcane x y/n#arcane x you#arcane x reader#arcane#arcane s2#arcane season 2#piltover's gayest
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Hi Neil.
I know you are flooded with asks and this somehow became extremely long. Too long. “Why am I suddenly telling this poor man my life story?” too long. “I think I’d rather he work on the GO3 script than read this wild beast” too long. “He’s going to think you’re criminally dangerously insane” too long. If you never get to it, I’m good with never seeing a response from you. Maybe it’s better that way? Maybe an anon would have been nice here. But, it’s 2024, so I say “we ball.” It’s a privilege to be able to send this to you at all. You get a lot to this effect and I hope they give you good feels, so maybe what’s the harm, yeah? Because this is not an ask. This is a thank you letter.
First, thanks for reblogging my therapist post, I hope it amused you. I nearly sent you “How am i supposed to explain this to my therapist?!” But refrained. At that time.
So, therapy. What is therapy really? Well…
Things have been really rotten for as long as I can remember. Bad health, bad doctors, bad relationships, bad coping mechanisms, bad all kinds of things. (Yeah, bad is a weak and unhelpful word, my therapist reminds me, but we’re doing this.)
Well, things got even more really really rotten and BAD these last few years. Health declined further, coping mechanisms declined further and more intensely, packed up my life, applied for disability, moved back in with my parents across the country.
Then 4 years ago last week I watched my fiance die of a sudden heart attack. I was 29. Two years later my best friend died. Then last summer I sauntered vaguely into a cancer scare. Not long before an operation my cat who has been my companion through so much garbage died as well. I’m not entirely in the clear on the cancer scare front. All my attempts at going back to work, volunteering, going to grad school - they collapsed on me because I couldn’t get through this STUFF.
(Sometimes when I talk about this, when I tell people, I think “they are going to think you are a raging pathological liar.” Because I’m not sure I would believe someone if they told me all of this happened to them. In such a short time period. All before they were 35. And hell if that hasn’t been isolating. You know how it sounds? Lonely. And it is.)
I did the hypervigilant and sensation/experience chasing stage of PTSD. It got me in a lot of trouble in all kinds of ways. I had to do a lot of medical and psych advocating because things kept getting worse. That was exhausting. Then that peaked. I went into the thick of the “I feel absolutely nothing” stage for a long time. I didn’t feel fatigue or hunger or thirst. Not people, feelings, a reason. Not hope.
But of course, like seems be for a lot of us, I somehow found Good Omens at just the right time. I was a very “I’m so cool and intellectual I mostly consume non-fiction media” person for too long. Like, what? How is that even a real thing? And it wasn’t real. It was just part of this curated autism mask that I don’t think anyone really bought anyway.
I think I got to a point where I’d just had too much reality. I needed fantasy. I didn’t realize I always needed it. But I denied myself for too many odd and painful reasons. Maybe I thought it was an escape I didn’t deserve.
But as it turns out, it wasn’t an escape. I watched both seasons last fall, and then this light came on. I watched it again and again.
I came to tumblr because I needed more. I found this fandom. I stepped into this beautiful world of fanart and fanfiction and brain flexing meta writing and a sense of community and wonder that you and Terry created - that everyone involved in the show inflated - exploded in the right way - like fireworks if fireworks were some kind of autocatalytic reaction - a self perpetuating force.
It’s not a “saved my life” feeling. Not a “getting my life back” feeling. It’s been a “maybe it’s time for you to have the life you’ve always been denied - that you’ve denied yourself” feeling.
I’m creating. I’m not “great” yet. Not terribly “good” at all. Maybe “behind” as far as the “proper” timeline for starting. I know there isn’t one, not really, but boy does that society machine make ya feel like there is. And sure, I started and stopped a lot in the past. But the second it got hard I always gave up. I felt like if I didn’t get it “right” to begin with, then I just didn’t have it in me at all. But for once I’m really in it. I’m writing and trying to draw things that look less like fever dream five year old drawings. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, is there? 🙃) I’m eating better. I’m sleeping better. I reach out to old friends more. I’ve made new friends who share this love of Good Omens.
My therapist has been floored by the change in me. After that first funny mini flop, he has been so encouraging about it. I saw him this week and I said “Maybe this is helping me get prepared to start living again. Maybe it’s a springboard.” And he honest to god said “But You ARE living. This is YOU LIVING. Why does it have to be a springboard? Why do you have to turn this into ‘work?’ Just let yourself have this for once in your life.”
But there were two more added elements that made it all work. And I can’t help but think this whole brainrot thing wouldn’t have happened without them. So many things just happened all at just the right time - a proper coincidence.
In all of the madness of the last few years I finally got the memo that I'm autistic. i figured I was for a while. But it finally sunk in for me and my docs and my people. So I’d been working on unpacking that. Grieving the life that could have been entirely different, shedding the mask. I let myself hyperfixate openly instead of hiding it and hating myself for “spiralling” or “obsessing” like others -!like ‘I’ always punished myself for before we knew that it was a trait and not a personality flaw.
Then over the last few months my therapist and I started trying this new exercise. One session he stopped me and said “in the last 20 minutes you have responded to what I’ve said with 9 ‘I knows.’” My response to that? “Ugh, I know.” So we started this “I know” swear jar type situation. Really, I’ve been afraid of not knowing. I couldn’t let myself “not know.” Because it meant I was “dumb.” I was just drowning for so long in guilt and self loathing for the “I knew better and screwed up anyway.” Or “I should’ve known better - I should know that by now.”
As it turns out, there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That I didn’t know. Things I will never know. And refusing to admit all of that kept me from learning a damn thing. Kept me from asking questions. Kept me from trying new things because it was scary to do something new - something unknown - and I "knew" how it would all turn out anyway. Kept me from connecting with people because it was painful or embarrassing when they knew things I didn’t and it seemed like I already should have. Kept me from getting better at making art, music, writing. Kept me from forgiving myself. Kept me from growing. And kept me from moving forward. Maybe not on. I don’t know if we ever “move on” from things. But we can move forward as we carry them. And as we do, the weight gets less. We’re able to carry it better. But only if we can admit that we don’t know how. Only if we don’t treat ourselves like this is something we do know or should know and we’re just failing because we’re less than. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving. We have to be able to say “I don’t know how to do this.” And then we can start looking for the answers. We can ask. We can learn.
I thought about the apple. Being able to tell the difference between good and evil. Aziraphale’s years and years of watching what he “knows” to be true be proven wrong. Crowley’s need to ask questions…
The simple and enormous gift of “Knowledge.” The “Knowledge” of the difference between Good and Evil. The “Knowledge” that can only be gained by realizing, accepting, admitting that there are things we don’t know. Asking the questions. Sometimes we get answers we don’t like. Sometimes the consequences of asking hurt us. And unless you want to stay in that painful place that painful knowledge got you, well, you’ve got to let yourself learn how to get out.
So all of this good? I never expected this. I never thought I deserved it. Joy and belonging and this sense that “Yeah, maybe things can get better. Maybe things can be good.” Because I said those things, not truly believing them, to the people I thought needed to hear it. But it couldn’t save them. It was hollow. The proof for us wasn’t really in our orbit or on our radar at the time. And now they’re gone.
People always say “it’s never too late.”
One of the people I lost said “it’s later than you think.”
I jokingly would respond “it’s already too late.”
It was for him in the end. For them. For some people I guess it really is. But maybe a lot of the “too late” people are there because they think “they know” that things will never be good for them. So they stop looking, they stop asking, stop finding. And eventually they just stop.
Then there came Crowley’s “It’s always too late.” The first time I heard it I thought “For sure, Crowley-cakes, I KNOW.”
But then…I just needed to rewatch the whole thing. And lines like that…familiar things…familiar themes…I was suddenly identifying with these characters. I suddenly saw myself. And the realization hit - I connected with something! Something new. And I FELT THAT. And that tiny little crack that made in the wall was just enough to start breaking it down. Yeah, when you start letting yourself feel after not feeling for so long, opening up to the good feelings means opening up to feelings and then the bad ones come out too. But when there IS good … it helps you balance. You can deal with the bad a little better because you’ve got the good thing to lean against when it gets too much. And now you’ve got feelings. You’ve got good and bad. You’ve got sticky foggy grey. You’ve got life.
Whew.
So, TLDR, thank you. From the bottom of my slowly healing heart, thank you.
And to sign off with some shits and giggles… I couldn’t find this in existence as a sticker so I had to custom order. Perhaps this will spread misery and panic among the humans of my city - or at least a malignant and creepy sense of unease.
Or maybe they’ll say “wtf” and go home and google it and they’ll fall into the Good Omens hole they never knew they needed too.
Thank you for this. I never quite know what to say to messages like this apart from I am really glad that it helps. (It becomes the weird extra piece that I worry about when writing season 3 -- hoping that it will be that thing again. Not just a story, but something that helps people feel and helps with healing and helps with love.)
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i have been holding space for the Agatha finale (i’m in queer media) and am pleased to report that my feelings about it have shifted quite significantly. follow me, my friends, to a more or less coherent, very long text post at the end
primary thing: this show is very much about motherhood. idk why that didn’t totally register for me in the first half given how often they mentioned Nicky, but realizing this changed my analysis a ton. Billy doesn’t just remind Agatha of Nicky — Agatha loves Billy like a son. (i know “like a son” is an oversimplification, but I’m sticking with it for this post.)
with that, my thoughts on Agatha’s arc almost completely flipped. when Rio shows up in E8 and says she has to take Billy, Agatha is revisiting her deepest wound all over again. her reaction is harsh, but it’s not some long-simmering revenge plan or a calculated effort to hurt Rio. Agatha is literally just reacting to the fact that, after all of the almost-reconciliation, the love of her life is taking her son again. i think she was trying to get Rio to fight for her or to say the trade was too high a price and bend the rules. Agatha was trying to get Death to act only as her lover, and looks devastated when Rio actually walks away instead.
and so, when Agatha goes to the morgue trial and says that “sometimes, boys die,” she’s continuing that realization that Rio isn’t personally chasing her down and causing her grief. sometimes, death just… happens. and “out of Death, life” is largely about Agatha realizing that Rio did bend the rules for Nicky, but also doubles down on the Nicky and Billy parallels. both of Agatha’s sons were literally borne of Death and living on stolen time. loss is inevitable.
i think Agatha genuinely believed that Rio could have kept Nicky alive and chose not to. we know that Agatha blamed herself for Nicky dying (“the truth is too awful”). so Agatha, who was taught by her own mother that nobody would ever actually love her for who she is, probably thought that the love of her life just… didn’t love her as much as she thought she did. going back to E1, i think “you don’t have a heart” is equal parts about Nicky as it is about Agatha herself. her main takeaway is that everyone will betray her, even when they claim to love her, and so she hides behind power and a god awful reputation so that she can keep everyone at arm’s length and never get hurt again.
ALL OF THIS IS TO SAY: when Billy is about to die, Agatha almost retreats back into the version of herself she became after Nicky died, but she doesn’t. she turns around and faces the pain head-on.
and I want to take a second to appreciate how immensely hard that would be. Agatha spent centuries killing people so she could be powerful enough to stay numb. Agatha spent all of that time pushing away the love of her life, who still loves her, who still sees her fully, and who Agatha is clearly still desperate to return to. Agatha realizes, probably to absurd amounts of despair, that she was wrong about all of it. and she still turns around.
it’s not about Agatha randomly sacrificing herself for a last minute villain kind-of-redemption. it’s about Agatha breaking the cycle she’s trapped herself in for an unfathomably long time, admitting that she knows Rio couldn’t change the outcome, and acknowledging that, yeah, she actually does love this kid.
and honestly?? i don’t think Agatha becoming a ghost counts as killing her. she’s literally still around, doing stuff, picking up brooches (👀 Rio wya), and getting a second chance at… not motherhood, exactly, but caring for a child. (and a queer child! and the idea of Agatha, who has been queer since the *1600s*, getting to tell this gay kid over and over again that there’s nothing innately wrong with him makes me actually sob.)
HOWEVER! i maintain some criticisms. i think Jen deserved to have an actual fight with the doctor who bound her. (the oops! it was Agatha All Along twist was… complicated. i have mixed feelings. essay for another day, but i wanted Jen to have rage time that everyone was just cheering for.)
i needed Death lore. how is she physically with Agatha so often if, as Agatha states, 120 people die every minute? is she Death the cosmic entity, or are green witches sort of responsible for decay on earth?
some of the plot elements were severely under-developed, and frustratingly, the vast majority of the underdeveloped plotlines had to do with Agatha/Rio’s romantic relationship, Agatha’s mother, and Agatha’s reasons for killing people. (the fact that they said she’s a siphon in interviews and not once on the show will never stop baffling me lmao.) i find it very frustrating that a LARGE chunk of the underdeveloped stuff relates back to Agatha’s queerness in some way.
however… i am willing to be generous about some of that, because i find it difficult to believe that this *extremely queer* creative team actually just disregarded major queer plot elements. i am far more inclined to believe that they were operating under a hostile corporation and pushing as far as they could, and in that case, they did a fucking phenomenal job.
i genuinely think that the way they landed the show opens the door for them to… dare I say it? … give Agatha/Rio a happy ending?? ghost Agatha literally need only show up to Rio’s house or cave or dimension or whatever and be like “heyyyyy, yeah that kiss was forgiveness and also i’m solid enough to use my hands now” and it would be believable. the fact that it would take them only 15 seconds to give us two fucked up lesbians having their version of happily ever after is actually pretty cool
anyway, this is an abridged summary of how my feelings abt the Agatha All Along finale went from like a 4/10 rating to an 8/10.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤGOTHIC HORROR! — vampire!dean
the most loyal of soldiers build their armies, expand their ranks. they do not get attached to their underlings. they do not find solace in you.
content warnings, devotion to the highest, unhealthiest degrees. slight emotional manipulation. blood & gore depictions. minor self h/rm, but not with harmful intent. bloodplay. nsfw elements & insinuations, undetailed. voyeurism? undetailed. bi!dean. nick saint cameo. i made up this vampire lore as far as i'm aware, so discrepancies to the media you know is purposeful!
dean was far used to the act of bleeding a person dry; it was you that was troubling him.
there came times in which he could not bring himself to take the victim out of their misery. it gnawed in the back of his mind, as they choked and spluttered on the blood pouring from their lips, that this life he’d carelessly taken had been cut too short. this one, his mind would tell him, was meant for something greater.
and he’d singlehandedly snuffed that flame.
dean was far too old, now, to wallow in guilt or feel bad for actions he willfully chose to make. but if there was anything keeping him human, it was his conscience.
his mouth was still crusted with the blood he’d ripped from your throat when he brought his wrist up to tear into his skin. no blood naturally pumped through him anymore, but the accumulation of his immortality and abilities kept a supply cycling through him so that the body he inhabited did not wither or concave in on itself.
droplets as thick as cream and as dark as the richest wines pooled in the teeth marks he’d left on himself. his body was, for all intents and purposes, dead; he did not feel pain when he tore open his wrist, and he did not feel pain as it already began to stitch itself together.
his unmarred arm slips beneath your upper back, raising you enough to cradle you into his chest. your eyes are as vacant as his must appear — death tended to get impatient, and steal the souls away before the heart finished its thrum. your breaths are ragged and thick with the blood pooling in your lungs. death’s rattle. he was here, then.
death always seemed to follow the dead. it was why genuine, true hauntings usually ended in death, too, for those involved. that place is cursed, the mortals whisper about the homes, the abandoned buildings, the decimated ruins of destruction, everyone dies there.
it is lonely to die and be dead. sometimes the spirits or the creatures are impatient, and need something new to play with. sometimes, their conscience wakens from the deep slumber it typically stayed in, and reminded them that the people they feed from deserved second chances as much as they believed that they did not.
even in your semi lucid state, you struggle against him, trying to force your mouth away from the skin he presses to it.
“don’t make this harder,” dean grunts, your struggles surprisingly strong for how little life essence still lingered in you. the adrenaline burst before your body gives, he imagines. it makes him more forceful.
you choke and splutter, and he knows by now what his blood looks like on the skin of the lives he takes. yours, fresh and the color of ripe strawberries. his, thick and deep red, the color of decay.
there will be three minutes between your subsequent death and the revival. he does not have many that he sires, but each one was personable enough to remember these details. four of them, portraits lined on the walls of his dusty, towering home. portraits the only thing that dean has left of them, as they all unceremoniously left him when they realized how unhealthy it was to linger.
maybe you would stay. dean hoped that you did not.
he hears your heartbeat splutter out its last revs of life, and feels when your body becomes a heavier weight in his arms. three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, for him to look at you without you trying to claw through his clothes and pierce a vein.
if you’d asked, dean would not know how to explain why he’d chosen you. there were many bodies that he left in his wake in the century that he’d been alive. there were exactly a handful now of ones that he’d chosen to keep.
his first was because he was his friend, once. closest friend.
his second was because she was lovely, and he thought he might have loved her.
his third was a child, and he torments himself about this one constantly.
his fourth was a mistake, by all accounts of the word.
his fifth was… you. pretty? yes. significant? he didn’t know. you had to be, or else his conscience would have stayed silent and slumbered on for another decade or so. but there were no indicators that you would have any impact on his life.
dean has always called it the shift, because the vampyr that had sired him called it such. when a soul slips away and the body is lifeless, and then suddenly, a jolt, as if what had been set free had been sharply snatched back.
another wave of adrenaline pumps your heart back to life for a split second, enough to propel you conscious.
dean lets you fall from his arms gracelessly. he takes a step back that is quick enough to instead be feet away from you.
this is the part that dean does not ever get used to. the rage. how angry the bonded are to have been spared. did they not know that dean did this for them?
you look ravenous. it is no surprise that your speed is the first part of your new undead abilities that you tap into, when you launch yourself at him, fingers fisted tight and unwavering while you desperately try to claw at him.
“don’t,” he repeats, fiercer this time, as he twists away before your teeth can sink into his skin, “make this harder.”
he predicts the next words out of your mouth before they’re even spoken. “i am hungry.”
hungry, and his blood, to you, would taste sinful and addictive. salted caramel and bourbon, a friend had once said, tracing his tongue over dean’s throat and sinking his teeth in.
it is always the shift of a new youngling vampyr that draws the memories of the others from the depths of his mind. if he isn’t careful, dean is going to end up doing something stupid — like writing them a letter, like calling, like…
you’re screaming, now. thrashing in his grip as if you were seizing, desperate to break his hold and gnaw the marrow out of his bones.
he tightens his hold. snaps your wrist with nothing but a little more force from his fingers. that is what brings you to a halt. your broken wrist, hanging at an awkward angle.
“behaving now?” dean asks, still keeping the hold on your wrist, only tight enough to feel the bones beneath the surface of your skin knitting together, the skin pulling taut.
you rip your hand free from his, as if only then realizing the lengths of your strength. good. dean was not restraining you to hold that power over you, but mostly to keep control of the situation. it is best for the fresh vampyrs to discover their abilities on their own.
“what have you done to me?”
that one hits closer to home than dean wants it to.
it does not strike as deep in his heart as it could; there are words he hears, still, from previous decades that remind him of his first four bad choices.
you would be different.
you had to be different.
trust does not start with secrets. but it is not something that should be handed out so freely. and so it is a conscious choice for dean to hold out his wrist in offering while still maintaining the physical distance between you two.
“it will be better if you drink,” he starts, his voice low and nearly apologetic if it wasn’t so self satisfied. “some things are hard to hear on an empty stomach.”
it was the same, though, as it always was. dean, letting you feed from his wrist like someone starved, while he tried to piece together the sugared down version of what he’d done to you. he always puts so much strain on himself; rushing the time with those sired to him, attempting to speak coherently as if his mind was not thrumming with the effects of your venom in his system.
you closed yourself off into the room of his manor that he designated for the freshly turned vampires. they were closer to being human than he was, and humans needed space for themselves.
the door was always locked to him. never once, in all five of his sired, had one of them invited him in. and so he spends a week outside of said door, listening in out of fear of what would happen if he did not.
he'd gotten chaotic with the one prior to you. reckless, impulsive. dean would not let himself make the mistake again.
at least he was busy in those moments that he waited on your reappearance. dean was never one to make use of his time, usually; he had forever, why would he clean the bookcases now when in his equivalent to a blink, they'd be dusty again?
he wrote letters. four letters. olive branches extending blindly into the dark. the ravens carried them away. the birds were the only ones who knew where they were, after all. like he'd never been invited into their space, his original underlings had never bothered to send a postcard, either.
that little fact hurts like a bleeding wound, in one instance.
it aches like a bruise, in another.
it tears him open, in terms of the third.
it feels like solace and healing, with the fourth.
perhaps they would take up the invitation to come back to the manor tomorrow, if only for a night. more than likely, they would ignore him, and continue to let him rot.
out of the seven days he'd lingered outside your room, it is now that dean finally opens his mouth to speak. he will not let you abandon him like the others.
"if you starve yourself in there, i'm not permitted to enter and lay you to rest," dean calls from the heavy wooden frame.
your silence on the other end is unnerving. dean is in the middle of opening his mouth to call to you again when your voice rings out, finally. "go to hell."
"i am also not permitted in there, either," he says back, with a little twitch of his lips. "you may hate me and be angry with me all you want, i will never deny you the human feelings you cling to. but your strength is important."
it's a conscious choice of words. calling it livelihood when there is no ounce of life left within you did not go over well with the others.
his ears strain, but he hears it. the padding of the bedspread dipping, the near silent, inhuman steps to the door, the harsh click and turn of the lock. useless, he wants to say, your invitiation is the only thing that keeps you from him. but there are little human things that every single one of his underlings still maintained. he was not cruel enough to take them away, too.
dean suspected that you'd look weary. seven days denying yourself what you wanted tended to do that. he does not offer his wrist this time, but he does nod backwards down the darkened hallway. "it is my due diligence to wean you off, not encourage the bad habit."
"that does not make any sense," you snap at him, your sharpened vision blowing the pupils in your eyes wide. you are trying to study the portraits hung on the walls. he quickly extends a hand, not crossing the threshold of your room, to stop you. "i do not want a tour of my prison."
dean's mouth quirks again. you remind him of himself, and his first love; second sired. "it is not a tour of the prison, it is a lead to the kitchen."
"what could you possibly have in there?" your words are fierce and vile, spat at him like they will somehow poison him. "the dead do not eat vegetables."
"the dead keep their blood cold and from spoiling in the refrigerators. do not try to explain to me what you know nothing about."
you stare at him for a long while before one of your feet steps out of the boundary. "i do not want to drink blood."
dean nearly snorts. he did not want to, either. "but the second i spill my blood, you will be clawing at me for a taste."
your pupils are still huge when they land on him. the hunger has been wearing you down; he sees it in your lack of inhibitions. he lets his hand fall when it is clear you will not take it. "but it is my responsibility to not let you become addicted, even though i know the temptation to tear my clothes off and tear into me must be unbearable."
"you have a lot of arrogance for a man who must force all of his playthings to stick around," you say, and it hits a little too close for comfort. he is glad that you did not take up his hand, because he might have lashed out.
he leads you down the hall regardless, this time in a silence that feels as heavy as lead. he breathes deeply, slowly, though it is entirely useless of a gesture. it'd been a long time since dean had to take ten deep breaths, to maintain his composure. while you and his others had your habits, he'd considered his long forgotten.
as he promised, the ancient kitchen is empty. the fridge is nothing more than a metal box on claw feet, the table coated in a thick layer of dust. the cabinets, once deep mahogany, were grayed.
dean grabs a wine glass from the cupboard and sets it on the dust coated countertop. he opens the fridge door and, lo and behold, there is a severed arm lit up like a halo in the center rack. if he was capable of it, he'd blush. how embarrassing to leave leftovers scattered around when he knew he had guests.
he shoves the fingers out of the way and closes his hand around a vial of blood instead. you would probably like it from the source better, but you would not like anything until he acclimated you off of his taste, and onto human blood.
another mistake that he has since fixed.
he pours the vial into the glass, and then shatters it on the edge of the countertop. the shard is what he uses to break the skin of his wrist, letting the blood pour in a slow stream into the glass too. less than how much you took from him a week ago, though still more than he should. he was bound and determined, it seemed, to let history repeat itself.
your control is better. the little one that'd turned, a week in, was still climbing over the counters and throwing furniture to get to the open wound in his arm. a week in self-proclaimed isolation had done well for you.
when dean turns, he holds the glass out. "won't be as good as you will wish for it to be," he says, his arms folding across his chest, "but it is a necessary evil, i assure you."
"i do not want this," you try to argue, but your voice is weak, and you take a sip anyways in the same breath. a sip becomes a long drink becomes the glass is emptied.
dean doesn't bother making a comment on it. you'd still poked an open wound earlier. grudges were more often than not held longer by those who lived forever. "we all do things we don't want to do."
"is that how you justify it to yourself?"
at least this time, you have the decency to regret it. it is easier to be kind to him when his blood is in your system. hard to be angry with when you want to devote your every breath to him.
dean is not in the mood to play tonight, though. his other bonded might come the next day. it was important to him that he was prepared for it, and not wallowing in the cruel words you weaponized against him without knowing how true they were.
"goodnight, beautiful," he says anyways, as he turns to leave.
he has never been good at denying himself indulgences.
you sense the stranger's presence before you see it. undead, like you, like the one who turned you. there is no heartbeat but there is a steady thrum of blood, still as a stagnant pond.
"interesting," the person says. deep voiced. heavy footsteps indicate big, heavier shoes, thudding hard on the hardwood of your room's floor. male, you imagine. "and here i thought he wrote because he missed me."
your eyes fly open, and there he is. you did not see much of the paintings on the wall, but that was the first, the one closest to where your room's door was. broad shoulders, tall in stature, and looking entirely too amused for your comfort.
sleep was not necessary for you, but it was peaceful, in a way, to imagine you still could. the act of going about your every day routine brought comfort that you hadn't imagined you'd feel lost without.
"who are you?" you ask, unable to tear your eyes from him. dark mop of hair. piercing light colored eyes that, too, have not left yours.
his eyebrows bounce, and the lift of his lips indents dimples into his cheeks. "i'm the first you."
the riddled, vague speech was becoming old and frustrating at once. "explain it."
"what, this whole situation? or what i mean?" he tips his head to the side, eyebrows raising even higher on his forehead, disappearing behind the soft, dark bangs. "words hold meaning, little fang. you live too long now to use them so uselessly."
the man from the painting is nearly as infuriating as the one who'd bitten you. "the whole situation. he is keeping secrets from me."
"because dean winchester does not know how to properly treat the toys he feels entitled to play with," the man's response is immediate, shrugging off the coat from his shoulders. "i feel the best place to start is the hall."
you sit up slowly in the bedspread, your expression twisting. "the hall?"
something akin to bitterness drapes across his face like a mask. "get up. there's not a lot of time between the flicker of the switch and him noticing the light is on."
riddles again. this time, you do not argue. instead, you clamber out of the bed and follow in silence behind him out of the room. right beside your doorframe is a light switch you both never noticed the presence of, and never noticed was always off.
he flips it up, and the hall lights golden.
peeling maroon wallpaper gives way to wooden boards. the trim is curling in on itself, deep mahogany exposing the pale splintered wood. but what somehow remains untouched, undusted, well kempt, are the paintings.
four large portraits evenly spaced along the side of the wall that your room is on.
a man, a woman, a child, a husk.
the one closest to you is identical to the man stood beside you; the same but younger. fresh clothes off of the rack, unmarred by the long life that you imagined he'd had so far, if he was truly the first.
the next is beautiful. warm skin that's golden underneath the hall's lights, curls spilling down her shoulders, a little smile on her mouth. on her shoulders rest the straps of a sage green dress that cuts at the cups and turns into picture frame.
the third is like a punch in the stomach. a little boy with terror in his glossed eyes, his lips parted like he was shuddering down gasps that did nothing to alleviate his panic.
the fourth used to be a man, you think. a long mop of brown hair, warm eyes. but the humanity ends there, and in its place is greyed skin, a vacant expression, dirty and thin clothes from a time period that was no longer.
"i don't understand," you breathe out, unable to look away from the sight laid out before you.
the man beside you straightens. "his best friend, his first love, his first save, and his brother."
it is a plain enough answer, but there's not enough detail to lessen the blow of it. there's a lot to unpack, and so you land on a starting point. your finger reaches out to tap the wooden frame of the first portrait. his portrait. "it's you."
"not really," the man says, stepping forward to brush a finger's worth of dust from the tops of the frames that you could not see. "he picked to preserve my memory from a time when i actually liked him. that has not been me for... hell, decades now."
you step forward to examine it better. the bottom of the frame is engraved. nicholas.
nicholas steps around you to stand in front of the woman's portrait. he dusts along the top of this one, too, with his finger. "cassie." his voice is wistful, memories and history you don't know built in between the words. "i imagine she will not be around today."
"what's today?" you ask, even though the answer feels so disconnected from you. here are people that the man who turned you — dean — cared for desperately, and now... you. how did a person even go about unpacking decades worth of history and find a place for themselves within it?
his smile is spread thin across his mouth. "a day of desperation for him, i imagine. it comes every decade or so, when dean feels the need to line his mistakes up and check in."
"is that what you think this is, nick?"
dean's voice cuts through the silent buzz in the hall, and your eyes shoot to the end of it, where he takes up the entire width of it.
"well, you certainly don't love us anymore," nick says back, that bitter smile leaking into his words, now, "that sentiment is made exceptionally clear when you make a fifth and then think of the others you subjected to this life."
you want to shrink away. you did not want to stay here, but being used as a weapon in their argument feels like poison in your veins. you did not know dean, especially did not know nick, but already you had become a thorn in the sides of both of them.
"don't spoil the mood before the others come." dean turns on his heel before he glances over a shoulder. his eyes land on you, and then nick's, and all it seems to do is rub salt into wounds you did not mean to make exist.
"you are a fool to think that cassie will show, let alone bring jude."
jude. the child, or the man who looked more like death than he did like a person?
dean's jaw visibly ticks. "i was a fool for thinking that, at the very least, you wouldn't show."
"don't be unkind in front of the baby vampyr, dean, it's unbecoming."
it was not unbecoming to you. uncomfortable was the better word for it. there was no comfortable way to witness an argument rehashing itself after decades of time elapsed.
you begin to walk through the middle of their argument, not making any sort of eye contact with dean as you brush past him. it is not your business, and you will not make it as such.
the men do not follow you to the kitchen. part of you is desperate to listen in, well aware that you can now. the other part does not want to get involved in their drama anymore than you've already become.
it would be easier to detach from them, you'd thought. but there was no easy way to unwind from around dean winchester when he'd sank his teeth into you. you just didn't know it yet.
dean does not know how this always happens, or he does, and it is just not something he wants to address.
nick was his first mistake. everything a vampyr creating a sire bond could do wrong, he did. he let nick feed on him whenever he wanted. he let nick become addicted. and then he let nick leave, knowing that nothing would ever be able to satiate him; no person, no experience, nothing. not unless it was dean. and it was made clear, the day that nick left, that dean was the last thing that nick ever wanted to see.
and yet every time dean got lonely, confined to his own solitude, he could send a raven and know that the only one who would come was nick.
cassie was successful in cutting dean off. was the only one that was, really. jude might have come if cassie hadn't declared herself his caregiver, and ran off with him in the night. it is wishful thinking at best.
sam...
he didn't think about sam if he could help it.
no matter what, though, dean ended up here, in this exact position. knelt on the soft mattress of his unused bed, letting nick sink his teeth into dean's shoulder, his throat, his mouth. blood coated his skin like a second layer. it didn't ever bother dean; nick always cleaned up after himself.
"a new one," he all but snarls into the curve of dean's shoulder. "do you think so little of me, of us, that you dare repeat the same mistakes you always end up making?"
he's a little heady with nick's venom working through him. there's a lot of it, too, because nick is incapable of stopping himself. he's starved until dean makes the decision to call on him, and so he does not hold back on the fixes he feels entitled to.
and dean could never be mad at him for it, because this is the monster that he created.
"it will be different this time," dean slurs around his own pointed teeth. the sired taste like nothing to him, but he's always finding himself lost in the moment, with nick. they were both gluttons, in a sense.
nick leans in to capture his mouth in a kiss that is more teeth than lip, puncturing dean's bottom one with his fangs and sucking on it. "you said that about sam," he dares to say, dares to, because there was an unspoken rule that no one could talk about sam, and only nick ever seemed to breach it.
"sam was—"
"a mistake," nick interrupts, lifting his mouth off of dean's. his eyes are pitch black, his mouth is stained and glossy red. still, as weak as it's making dean, his chest swells at the sight of the color staining his skin now. no longer so pale and death-stricken. "we were all your selfish mistakes, dean, and now sam is in the caverns—"
dean grasps at nick's throat with his fingers, pushing him backward, creating space. "enough."
"staked," nick strains out anyways, and maybe he would have kept pushing, would have forced dean to confront his worst possible choice, if not for the floorboard outside of the bedroom door creaking.
you, stood watching, mouth agape. it must have been quite the sight. two men, nearly naked, coated in the deep dark of one of them's blood.
not to mention how the conversation steered. nick had reacted the same way to hearing about dean's slip in judgement. black magic to restore as much humanity back to his long dead brother as possible, and then the turning process to try and prolong him.
black magic was never simple, and never gave without taking. sam was less than human, less than vampyr, and now permanently staked in a coffin in the caverns so that he could not tear through the fabrics of the world and destroy it.
nick's mouth curves upward in a bloody, toothy smile at you, which only serves to make dean grimace. you were not safe around him; not when nick was always the most possessive over what he deemed to be his sire. "little fang."
mortification shifts onto your expression now. as dean always could, he sensed the general sense of where your head was at. he always could with his sired. nick needed dean in every way he could possibly imagine, and still, it would never be enough. you were beginning to realize why dean was so adamant on breaking the addiction quick, because your head was beginning to swim with the same thoughts that tormented nick.
dean did not want him to invite you in here. for some reason, this felt too intimate and intense for you to be thrown into. dean was doing so good with you, keeping you at arm's length, close enough to get your fix until you were free from him, far enough so that breaking away would not be difficult.
it is to his horror that dean is the one to say it. "come in." it's barely a breath. it weighs a thousand pounds on his chest. "if you'd like to."
nick's gaze is a physical weight on him. it speaks a thousand words that he does not utter out loud. i told you so, it seethes in dean's ear, you are the same as us, as much as you despise it. addicted and foolish. desperate and needy.
it is both relief and torment that you turn the other way and leave. relief, because you still have a chance. torment, because the voices were right.
he was not a good man.
dean was going to end up hanging a portrait of you, too.
notes. lots of lore cld still be unpacked with this random au i threw together starting last night. so if u want a part two or something ... let me know hehe. i tried to make it as gothic as possible bc u know ... the title or whatev ... but if it's not good or it's too much MINDDDD UR BUSINESS ACTUALLY. anyways thank u for reading love u!
tags. @titsout4jackles @moonstruksandco @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @itzavahere @sagegreen17 @bruceewayne @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @deansbeer @blushpinkdoll @warpedless @sabrinasopposite @k-slla @deansbite @foolinthera1n @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @whyyouegg @bluemerakis @fallbhind @florchids @figthoughts @beausling @chevroletdean @mccartneyqp @bluestrd @sthefferrete @rubyvhs @tortureddarkstar @aileenunfiltered @frosttbitessam @theosaurous @blushpinkdoll
#──★ dahlia's jrnl#──★ gothic horror#──★ saint nick#vampire!dean#vampire!reader#jensen ackles#jensen fucking ackles#jensen ackles one shot#jensen ackles x reader#jensen ackles x you#dean winchester#dean winchester one shot#dean winchester x reader#dean winchester x you#vampire dean#supernatural#supernatural one shot#spn#spn one shot
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It’s crazy to me that people just trust in “the universe” or “fate” when they are magically adept.
You understand that sometimes people’s fate is to be on the street a drug addict
Some people’s fate is to lose everything and die alone
Some people’s fate is to always fail at reaching their life-goal.
The purpose of magic is to alter your fate, to make the life you feel you deserve.
Don’t wait around for something to save you.
#folk witchcraft#traditional witchcraft#witchcraft#folk witch#folk witches#traditional witches#witch#trad witch#fate#the universe
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i think aphrodite kid reader x clarisse is simply just better??? like the trope is just superior??? like, we have clarisse who is tough, and mean and one of the strongest people at camp, then we have reader who is kind and compassionate and really doesn’t care all that much about fighting. so naturally, clarisse is super protective and treats reader like a princess?? how could people dislike it 😔😔
no exactly and i actually must write about this - basically this is just all about the little things clarisse does for her perfect princess angel daughter of aphrodite gf (me!!!!!!)
okay as payment for my absence please accept some shitty headcanons I LOVE YOU ALL BYEEEE
she’s just always DOING THINGS FOR YOU
she’s so perceptive and she always knows exactly what you want and need even if you don’t know it yourself
like if you like wearing high heels one) clarisse genuinely wonders what is wrong w you
she sees no practicality in them bc there isn’t lol
but also she’s like omg???? MY GF feels safe enough around me to wear shoes she can’t run in???? WHAT JOY!!!!!!!!!
and you’ll come back to your cabin being all ugh omg my feet hurt so bad laying on the bed and putting your feet UP
and clarisse is like “well i could have told you that”
excuse me????
“don’t get me wrong baby you look gorgeous and i love you wearing heels but it’s your funeral”
“DIE”
she just laughs and takes your shoes off
she’ll continue to bully you as she’s literally massaging your feet like ok girl yeah we see you
clarisse is also a MENACE about making sure you eat
“did you eat today?”
“babe you SAW me at lunch”
“just making sure….”
you’re just so kind and amazing and clarisse loves you so much but you are not the best at fighting!
she is constantly stressed when you’re not by her side
bc no one loves you like her who will protect you 💔💔💔💔
when someone takes advantage of you she gets so PISSED OFF
bc it’s not like someone is beating you up it’ll be like someone is using you as their personal therapist or smth and you’re just like “pls go speak to an actual professional wtf 😭😭😭”
and she’s so pissed off bc WHY IS THIS BITCH PSYCHOLOGICALLY AND EMOTIONALLY TORTURING HER GIRL??????
she’s not afraid to beat people up for you and actually enjoys it!
anyways, clarisse is also a koala bear
and an emotionally stunted caveman
she’s not good with her words so these actions are all she has to show you that she loves you
idk if y’all have noticed but clar rarely saying ily to y/n bc it’s my personal headcanon that she has such a hard time saying those words. she shows you she loves you but for some reason it’s just so hard to get the words out. (…BC SHE IS AN EMOTIONALLY STUNTED CAVEMAN)
so she quickly adapts to do all these little things
if you’re walking down a flight of stairs trust she is holding your hand
QUEEN of opening jars for you
if you’re not feeling well or you’re tired or just feeling lazy she’ll bully someone into doing your chores for you
also this bitch is NOT afraid to stand up for you and make sure you get what you deserve.
like that one meme
“UM… she said NO PICKLES… you fucking dumbasses…”
“CLARISSE 😭😭😭”
also like in “better than revenge” she loves to watch you do your makeup
finds it so fascinating that you can only get PRETTIER
like she’s okay at makeup but you can do that shit perfectly like standing on your head
you make it seem so effortless
she’s not a HUGE makeup girly but sometimes she’ll let you just go crazy
so you can sit on top of her….. that one sapphic meme yes…..
also she’s constantly bragging about you
“yeah… i have the prettiest gf in camp… y’all are just losers what can i say”
ofc if anyone were to agree w her she would go insane
“yeah y/n is so pretty”
“um ok yeah you don’t have to say it i say it enough….”
even if one of your siblings gives you a compliment she’s like HOLD THE FUCK ON- then she remembers THATS YOUR SIBLING ITS OK and she’s like oh this is so embarrassing.
will she stop? no ofc not
she’s constantly telling you how pretty you are. beautiful. gorgeous. exquisite. all the words
loves kissing you all over
KISSES YOUR HAND 🤭🤭
anyways going back to the clarisse koala bear agenda that got away from me
she’s just always touching you
hand on the small of your hand guiding you somewhere
hand around your waist
SITTING IN HER LAP AT CAMPFIRES
no matter what type of hair you have she’s obsessed w it. if you have pin straight hair she’s so obsessed w the fact that you don’t need a huge curl routine like her, finds it fascinating
if you do have curls she loves doing a curl routine together
whatever whatever type of hair you have she’s obsessed with it and will wash it for you if you want
so soft and lovingly like a more of a scalp massage than a hair washing
will brush your hair for you, braid it for you, anything you like just OBSESSED
she loves when you like sit on top of a picnic table and then she gets to sit in between your legs on the bench thinks it’s so so fun and so so silly
she LOVESSSSS sleeping w you OBVI.
on top of you, you on top of her, she’s a koala bear. like entirely wrapped around you
partially bc she is as aforementioned a koala bear and partly bc she is overprotective even in her sleep
if you move in the middle of the night even just a little bit
she’s a super light sleeper i feel like
always on the guard fr ✊
a little bit better when you’re there tho
so if you move in the middle of the night she’ll just like caress your hair and kiss your cheek and try to shush you back to sleep
like bitch you’re still asleep have you never heard of ADJUSTING? MOVING? SHIFTING?
hope you’re not one of those people who has to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night bc with clarisse that will stop
you can’t abandon her even for 2 minutes even for basic bodily functions like you just can’t it’s so inconsiderate to her… 💔
taglist:
@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss @ravisinghs-wife @marsconer @evangelinexo @randomhoex @luvrrish @rebecca37 @saltair-and-palemoonlight @ace-spades-1
#clarisse la rue#clarisse la rue x reader#clarisse la rue x y/n#clarisse la rue x you#pjo tv show#pjo x reader
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