#and that's all like all of the others are either dead or are in-between as in Otto is technically alive as Luocha in my head

[public-benches]

Hi I was one of the campers during that year (go valks) and I want to add a little reporting from the kids’ perspective because this event haunted the camp for years after it happened. Like everyone knew the Zac Efron Died story even if you weren’t there that year and if you WERE there that year it was retold like an oral history passed down between generations because again, no technology to share it with and nothing more than a few ambitious girls’ diaries as evidence cataloguing this great historical landmark.

Anyways I was there that year, and as some cultural context for readers, the way that young girls create community when cut off from the outside world and the internet and without any men around is… kind of incredible. We all wore uniforms, like just white collared shirts and blue fabric shorts every day, and I didn’t think much of it at the time but I think that really contributed to breaking down social barriers that might have otherwise remained from The Real World. There was nothing else to do or worry about for an entire month, so we lived pretty harmoniously in this bubble and made our own fun.

The Zac Efron Incident was like a fire catching in a field of dead grass. The downside of cutting a large community of girls off from the outside world is that every scrap of information becomes 100 times more precious and impactful, and there’s nothing to distract us from supposed tragedy.

Some people remember where they were during 9/11. I remember where I was when Zac Efron “died”. I was in line for the showers because that was usually the time mail was distributed. One moment everything was normal. The next, everyone around me was breaking out into the same conversation: “oh my god, did you hear? Is it true? So and so told me that so and so’s bunkie got a letter saying… yeah she saw it! It’s true!” And then the town criers came wailing down the streets: “ZAC EFRON IS DEAD!” And the whispering turned into chaos, and girls were crying and clinging to each other and running to tell their friends in their cabins, and it was a whole mess.

For my part, I had never seen high school musical. I knew the name Zac Efron but I couldn’t place a face to save my life. I didn’t care if this guy had died. Half the girls in my cabin didn’t care either. What we REALLY cared about was joining the fun, because this was the craziest thing to happen at camp the whole month we’d been there, and we were barely in middle school, and obviously girls our age were supposed to care about hot TV boys, so we played along. Everyone else was upset, so I had to be upset to appropriately share in the others’ pain, but mostly I was just having fun. I didn’t take to the streets or anything myself but I enjoyed the rush of adrenaline every time I heard another cabin go up in screams because someone knew found out, and people came running in and out of our cabin like at least twenty times to make sure we knew too and that they hadn’t missed anybody. It was less that they wanted everyone to know and more that everyone wanted to witness the moment when the news broke to someone who hadn’t heard it yet. Girls who wouldn’t have given me the time of day on the Outside were desperate to keep me in the loop at camp, and for a little oddball like me this was quite the addictive thrill.

But because of this, it was also really difficult to calm the girls down and convince us Zac Efron was alive. We didn’t want to believe it: this was the biggest thing that had happened all month, and it was a lie? So a lot of girls held out in their mourning, either out of genuine conviction or just because it was fun to be so upset about something that big, and the knowledge that it was probably not true almost made it safer to engage with the idea that it could be. Schrödinger’s Zac Efron: he’s both alive and dead until camp ends and the girls can see for themselves whether or not it’s true. I’m pretty sure on the final day of camp when some girls got their phones back it was the very first thing they looked up.

But yeah, I don’t know if anything quite that nuclear ever hit camp again. It was a perfect storm. The day Zac Efron died.

The most dramatic moment during my Camp Counseling career at an all girls camp was when a girl got a letter from a friend saying that Zac Efron had died and one of her bunkmates ran out of the cabin and shouted��“ZAC EFRON IS DEAD!!!!!” and the camp immediately fell into chaos girls were crying in the middle of camp and running around spreading the news everyone was yelling and the counselors had to look up wether or not Zac Efron was dead (this is a wireless camp so the girls couldn’t access the internet and check for themselves) and then get out a megaphone and be like “ZAC EFRON IS NOT DEAD PLEASE REMAIN CALM” outside of all the cabins it was insanity. 

[taegularities]

we can't be friends | jjk (m) | teaser

Summary: Jungkook once planted a garden in your chest that he watered when he smiled and you killed when he left. But flowers withering isn't enough; that doesn't mend the ache. No – you want this entire story to die.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: exes to ?, college!au; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: heartache, past breakup, flashbacks, memories, memory erasure (eternal sunshine of the spotless mind vibe), tears, anxiety, angst angst angstttt, fighting but also such tender moments, college sweethearts 🥺, smut (details to be added when the fic drops)… the ending 👁 ➵ est. word count: around 25k; 796 for the teaser ➵ drop date: mid-july! will do my best and announce the specific date asap! ➵ a/n: another angsty taegularities special :D coming next, so stay tuned!! and come talk to me about it if you'd like 👁

The feeling of standing between two realities is odd.

Like a foot planted in life and another in death. You aren’t dead, of course — you’re so painfully conscious of your surroundings and so clearly alive, but if it was your heart detailing its state, it might as well declare itself fallen. 

There is no other way to really perceive this, you think, and as long as you relive the moments leading to what you fear, you will probably not quite feel at ease. It must be the spring sun above. Or the leaves finding their bright colours, the flowers spreading their scent.

Back then, you thought of all this as a new beginning, just what this season is known for — new sensations, a new heartbeat, brand new warmth to your cheeks.

When Jungkook rushed to meet you at the park eventually that you sent him the location of, he looked brighter than he’d ever been before and lovelier than he’d ever be again. Not that he wasn’t happy during the time you blessed him with worldly joys, but…

When you fall in love… the seconds just before you admit it, to yourself and to the other… when the heart, violently pumping, almost cracks your ribcage and threatens to burst…

Then, each of these elements makes the sentiments truly significant and unique. Love gets the blood flowing through the veins, but it’s the falling that truly births exhilaration. There is no memory like the growing adoration before anything even starts.

“And you were worried you were going to be late,” you told him as he came to a halt in front of you, bending down, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Take it easy, though—”

“No,” he panted, “I was imagining it like this.”

“Imagining what? Like what?”

“Just… you. What I want to say.”

“What–”

You paused when he licked his lips, squinting when his gaze moved up to yours. You were standing right under the sun, you reckon, blinding him in more ways than you usually did. But you weren’t so immune either.

Not to the rosy cheeks. To the messy, dark hair. To the college jacket wrapped around his hips, or to how he uprighted himself, brushing back the bangs that fell back anyway. To his words.

And certainly not to how close he came to you when he took a step further towards the sun, waking up all the butterflies, cocoons stirring in your stomach. You felt disgustingly giddy when he lifted his hand, putting it on your shoulder, acting as if he was still helping his lungs, calming down.

As if you weren’t aware that he just wanted to be nearer, to touch you, to look at you as he liked to.

It was weird for a moment; not because you found the proximity unwelcoming, but because you weren’t used to this. The two of you were chaotic, jokesters, not ones to indulge in cliché, corny scenes.

You were friends, after all. No matter how he looked at you, and no matter how many times you’d kiss his cheek to wordlessly utter the day’s goodbye.

He had been your friend long before he was anything else. And this might probably haunt you forever. The days you spent dawdling. And the weeks you cried over your laptops, cramming until sunset.

How he was still a little sweaty from running, exam forgotten, fingers leaving your shoulder and not pretending anymore when he moved them to your face. Stared at your lips for a second. Sighed as if he was yearning, dying, done with waiting.

You knew what was to come. You know it now, too, because you remember. You used to love that you did — and now you hate that you still do.

You think of Dr. Choi’s words. They are snatching your heart out of your chest as you stand there, in slow motion, probably cutting you up as you lay there in front of her. It feels like it, at least.

“Can you do it?”

Friends. Lovers. Nothing.

You can’t be any of it anymore. Or can you? Can’t you, can you? It’s as if ripping the petals of a flower, asking it to predict, only something you are barely able to deal with.

Fuck…

Will this ever stop playing in your head? But you don’t want to forget. You should. You don’t want to. Because—

You once decided there would be nobody else ever again. But you’re starting to think that if you don’t let go, there really won’t be.

But you don’t know how to do it. How to give into it.

You remember again. Words from above.

“Can you do it? Just that one moment?… It’s all that’s left.”

He’s all that was ever left.

this is just one of the harmless parts (and just the first draft of this scene), and the rest is just… :')) gosh, i am so excited to share this and all that i have in store for you! it'll be a journey. hope you will like it once it drops!! i have been very unsure about (my) writing lately, but i do feel motivated to write this and a few other stories, so fingers crossed it'll be a good read 🤞

which is also why it'd be absolutely amazing if you hyped this up a lil if you're just as excited :p your words mean a lot and make things happen even faster and give me a little boost to stick around hehehehe, so yeah… come and talk to me <3

also, here's the taglist!

[acewithapaintbrush]

I saw the initial post by @wheretimegoestodie and @aroace-get-out-of-my-face addition about an Ella Enchanted AU with Stan and how easy it would be for Ford to accidentally activate the curse and it got me thinking, yeah but what if he does it intentionally cause he thinks he's helping Stanley? Cause, you know? The road to hell is paved with good intentions and all that.

I started writing and it kinda spiraled out of control so more under the cut. Trigger warnings for gross food stuff and non-descriptive vomiting.

Stanley rolls his eyes as Ford sighs obnoxiously loudly. It’s the kind of sigh parents use when they want their children to notice that they have done something wrong without having to spell it out for them. Too bad Stan is not an unruly child. He’s an unruly adult and as such he ignores his brother who is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a scowl on his face.

Ever since Ford found out about Stan’s little predicament he’s been overly careful with his words. Stan is thankful, really. It has made this house safer than any other place he’s ever been where people just tell you to do things without thought, mostly even without bad intentions. But it means that sometimes there are moments when they are in the same room but it’s just this overwhelming silence between them that presses down on Stan like an anvil to his chest. He’s never been bothered by silence before, not since his enchantment certainly, but it’s different with Ford. Everything is always different with Ford. He forgot about that.

Sometimes it comforts him, sometimes it makes his skin crawl.

Ford sighs again and Stan tenses. Usually ignoring his brother long enough does the trick and the guy will either tell him what bothers him about Stan this time or he’ll give up. A second, even deeper sigh is new.

“You have skipped breakfast again this morning,” Ford states in that way that is supposed to be a question.

“I had a banana,” Stan lies because he isn’t actually sure it’s the truth. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it might have been yesterday. It’s hard to keep track sometimes and there are more important things to worry about right now. Like making sure his brother eats and sleeps with that demon in his head, cleaning up the house to make that doom and gloom disappear. A little bit of dusting and letting some fresh air in has already done wonders to the place in the three weeks Stan has been here.

He glances at his brother in the doorway and nods to himself. Ford looks better. He is still horrifyingly sleep deprived, too afraid his possessed body will do something he’ll regret if he allows himself to fall into a deep sleep circle, but he’s less pale and doesn’t look like he’ll drop dead any second now. His old biker gang used to make fun of Stan’s mother hen tendencies but if they help make sure his brother doesn’t end up in an asylum it’s worth it.

Ford watches him move another box and his expression is a cross between pain and exasperation. Stan knows that his stubbornness is not making this easy for his brother but he can’t help it. He needs to do something, to keep busy. Make his stay here worth Ford’s while. Sometimes he thinks this desperate need to make himself useful, to feel needed, is just another side effect of the curse but then he thinks of all the people that mocked him for being so needy, so hungry for acknowledgment and affection, to be noticed and seen.

Maybe the curse was inevitable for someone like Stan.

“You need to-” Ford starts and when he sees Stan tense he quickly switches track. “I mean, a balanced diet is important, Stanley.”

Stan snorts. “Look who’s talking.” Ford starts to glare with real annoyance. Good. He’s been too nice the last few weeks. It has thrown Stan off, made him wonder when the other shoe is going to drop. His brother rubs a hand over his face and it must have been another all nighter. He looks especially rough, in a way he hasn’t for a while now. For a moment Stan feels guilty but he needs to get this room cleaned up and so he swallows any apology he could make and instead waves his brother away. “Go do your portal science stuff. I’ll eat something later.”

“We both know that's a lie!” Ford hisses between clenched teeth. He’s fiddling with his hands and alarm bells go off in Stan’s head. “And I’ll do what I want in my own home!”

“Easy, poindexter.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Stan feels the compulsion take hold but it’s okay. It’s an easy enough command to follow. Ford hasn’t even noticed and Stan won’t tell him. His brother slips up sometimes and it’s okay, at least he tries. (Okay okay okay, Stan repeats in his head multiple times, until he believes it).

“Easy Ford," he starts again but his voice is trembling. He’s on edge now, wrong footed, vulnerable. “Why is this such a big deal? I’m fine.”

“Because I’m worried about you, you dunderhead. And you are not fine. You are the farthest thing from fine. You look like you’ll fall over any second now.”

Stan rolls his eyes again because Ford being worried about him? Please. “Yeah. Sure.”

His lackadaisy response sets Ford off in a way Stan has never seen before. His brother seems to explode right before his eyes without any sound. His eyes flash, his teeth gnash together. He slams a fist against the door frame and tears at his sweater as if he wants to rip it off. Stan involuntarily takes a startled step back.

“I am!” Ford shouts and his voice sounds wrong, strangled, as if he’s trying to hold back tears even though his eyes are dry like the desert and blazing with fire. “I am, Stanley! You are working yourself ragged right in front of my eyes and I can’t watch this anymore. You need to eat!”

Stan freezes and this time Ford notices what he’s done. He can feel himself take a step towards the kitchen and Stan expects his brother to take it back like he’s done a dozen times before. His brother opens his mouth, his expression stricken and apologetic but then something else crosses his face. Fear, resignation, horror, sadness.

And then, worst of all, resolve.

“Go into the kitchen and eat. And when you are done I want you to go to bed and sleep for eight hours.” He’s averting his eyes as Stan pushes past him in the doorway. “I’m sorry Stanley.”

Stan wants to scream at him. Coward. Asshole. Traitor. He wants to punch him and beg him and curse him. He wants to do so much but all the curse allows him to do is walk towards the kitchen on wooden legs and listen to his brother sink to the floor behind him, softly cursing under his breath “fuck fuck fuck”.

His brother never curses. Stan almost wants to laugh.

Not that he’s allowed to.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Go into the kitchen and eat.

That command is easy enough to follow. Thanks to Stan the kitchen is well stocked with all kinds of food.

But that is the problem. Because his genius brother has given a very broad command.

Stan is supposed to eat and when he’s done, he’s supposed to sleep.

Not when he’s full. Not when the leftovers of breakfast are gone. Not when he’s eaten whatever he likes. Stan is supposed to eat until he’s done. And without a clear limit that means eating everything in the kitchen.

Fuck.

Stan’s feet carry him to the bananas on the counter first. Maybe a cosmic punishment for his earlier fib. Thankfully he peels them before shoving them into his mouth one after another, barely enough time to swallow before the next one follows. There are seven bananas and he eats them all and he already feels full and slightly nauseous. No one is supposed to eat so many bananas in one go.

“I’m done,” he thinks fretfully but the curse doesn’t care. There is still food in the kitchen. It makes his hand reach for the cereal standing next to the empty fruit bowl and tip the damned box up to pour the contents into his mouth. It’s the boring kind, fibers and nuts and raisins. He chokes on the dry food a little. His brother didn’t tell him to eat and drink, just eat, so he has to swallow it as it is without milk which would have made this a bit more bearable.

Once the box is empty (a lot of it fell to the floor but thankfully the curse doesn’t make him lap it up like a dog) his body turns to the sink and his heart skips a beat. There is a big chunk of minced meat defrosting in there. He had planned to make burgers later that day. The thought now makes him gag. He starts to reach inside the sink and he just knows that the curse won’t let him cook it first. Food is food.

With more mental strength than he thought he was capable of he focuses on the pickle jar standing ready next to the sink and makes his body reach for that one instead. As he takes off the lid and starts shoveling pickles and pickle water into his mouth he finally starts to cry because he knows it’s just a temporary relief, just a postponement of the inevitable. The raw meat is right there, waiting for him, mocking him.

A pickle gets stuck in his throat and Stan bends over, coughing it up. All the food he’s already eaten suddenly protests and combined with his terror at what’s yet to come Stan can’t help but bend over further and start to gag. With a cut off curse he vomits everything he’s just eaten back up again.

The mess spreads over the kitchen floor and Stan has a moment to think how much he doesn’t want to clean that up later when he hears footsteps rushing towards him. Ford appears in the doorway, lured by the sound of Stan throwing up. He takes in the scene, the banana peels and the empty pickle jar and cereal box and the mess on the floor and if Stan had any mental capacity to pay attention to his brother he might have been able to see the realization dawn on Ford's face in real time.

As it is, the curse is already forcing him to continue and it’s with a resigned kind of horror that he watches his own hand creep towards the sink.

“NO!” Ford shouts and when Stan still reaches for the meat he runs forward. His voice is pitched impossibly high. “Don’t eat that! I release you! Stop eating. For now, I mean. Stop eating for now. Only eat if you want to! Oh God, Stanley!”

Stan slumps to the floor. He would have facepalmed into the mess if Ford hadn’t grabbed him and pulled him backwards into his arms. The two of them sit down on their asses with so much force that it’s gonna leave a mark for sure.

Stan is still heaving, still gagging. Now that the compulsion is gone he can taste everything with so much more intensity. He’s never going to eat bananas again. Ford snakes his arms around Stan from behind and pulls him closer. It almost hurts, the way Ford is crushing him against his chest. Stan can feel his brother’s heart jackrabbit in his chest through their clothing, can feel Ford’s breath against the nape of his neck.

He wants to push him away, to fight his way free. To punch him, honestly. He tries but Ford just clings tighter with an almost animalistic whine and Stan slumps back, loose-limbed and exhausted.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Moses Stanley, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to… I was just worried. I was so scared for you to- I’m sorry. Please, Stanley, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Stanley. Please.”

Stan has no idea what Ford is pleading for. His forgiveness? As if there was ever any doubt.

“It’s alright,” he rasps through an abused throat. It’s not alright, but if he repeats it often enough maybe he’ll believe it one day. He pats his brother's hand that is fisted in his shirt, the only part he can reach. “It’s alright, Ford.”

It’s alright It’s alright It’s alright

For some reason that makes Ford sob and cling even tighter. He is shaking and a part of Stan wants to comfort him, tell him that he understands that Ford was just trying to help. But he is frozen, like an animal trapped in a snare.

“Never again,” Ford promises between sobs. “Never again, Stanley. I swear!”

“Okay.”

He’s tired. Maybe he won’t need Ford’s compulsion to sleep for eight hours.

This is actually good, he tries to tell himself. Stan was growing too complacent, too relaxed. He’s been waiting for the other to drop and there it finally is, dropped on his head like a ton of bricks. All that wrong sense of safety has made him forget the first rule of survival but he’s back on the right track.

He’s more familiar with this situation.

He knows how to handle this.

+++++++++++++++

The next morning Ford finds Stanley making enough breakfast for two and the table set for two people.

Ford goes into the bathroom and cries.

He's not hungry but he will eat.

Every last scrap.

********

Don't be too hard on Ford, he's got a demon in his head and runs on two hours of sleep, eight cups of coffee and spite

[another-lost-mc]

Thinking about the Date Everything game except it takes place in the House of Lamentation.

Some of the objects are truly cursed with almost zero chance of dating them, assuming you survive meeting them at all. Most of the objects are similar to their human world counterparts, except they’re a bit more…well, demon-like. There’s an unfamiliar intensity in their eagerness to see you. Each greeting is laced with their desire to be your favourite object, their need to have your attention focused on them and nothing (no one) else. The competitiveness and aggression between them scares you. Some objects suddenly stop responding to you while others rejoice in their absence and mock their inferiority. It feels like an inside joke you’re being left out of on purpose but what you don’t know, can’t hurt you (yet).

The Devildom is already a spooky place but things escalate to new heights as you start meeting new friends in the house. The undesirables, the ones other objects warn you to stay away from. They’re the neglected objects tucked out of sight, the cursed objects that could kill you if you’re not careful, the shadows that are more than what they seem.

It’s not long before the eerie sensation of being watched creeps along your spine and never seems to go away. It doesn’t matter if you purposefully seek out objects or not—their interest has made them stronger and now it’s their turn to find you. The quiet sound of footfalls on the carpeted floors somewhere behind you aren’t just a figment of your imagination anymore. Candlesticks and oil lamps flicker in the dead of night. Items slide off the shelves by themselves. No matter what room you’re in, the furniture creaks softly, untouched, responding to nothing but your presence. You catch glimpses of fanged smiles and predatory grins whenever your eyes glance quickly over mirrors or the polished pieces of art decorating the stone walls.

Your bedroom is no different. The mattress sinks beneath your weight at night and it feels like an invisible embrace pulls you down before you manage to drag yourself out of bed. The doorknob sticks in the mornings when you’re already frazzled from sleep littered with dreams you can’t quite remember. The demon brothers grumble about misshapen door frames and worn out metal hinges. It feels silly to tell them that uttering a quiet please is usually enough to coax the door to open for you—for now, anyway.

If you’re brave enough to tell the others—while risking angering the house in the process—it does little to soothe your nerves. The objects don’t usually respond if anyone else is nearby. They don’t see what you see or feel what you feel. Of course things are strange and mystical and dangerous here in the Devildom, that’s their specialty. The demon brothers think you’re paranoid and the angels soothe your worries as best they can. Solomon’s curiosity, charming in most other situations, only serves to frustrate you because he’s no help either. He’s never experienced this during his immortal lifetime visiting the Devildom, so how could such a thing happen to you?

The point is, your friends might mean well but they know firsthand how delicate humans like you can be with your delectable souls and fragile bodies and timid hearts. Whatever you think you’re going through, they believe that this too will pass with time. It’s no different from any other hardship you’ve managed to overcome since you joined them in their world.

You’re the Devildom’s precious exchange student, after all. Why would anyone want to harm you? You’ve endeared yourself to the young prince and his most trusted advisors. You’ve become someone precious, someone worth admiring.

Everyone in the Devildom seems to love you.

Everyone.

[batsandbirdbrains]

I keep thinking about a portal opening up and the batfam (but also Dick specifically) meeting a alternate version of themselves and they’re all a little more sharp-edged, acrobatic, and revenge driven in their fighting but they’re much more emotionally stable in their everyday lives. And everyone is like “hmmm wonder why that is.” Then we learn all of their call signs and none of them are Robin. None of them have ever been Robin. Dick isn’t with them either, he’s the only one that’s missing. And at first Dick is like “:( my family is so much better off without me” but then another portal opens and out steps the alternate version of Robin. This Robin is not Dick though. No, this Robin is probably closer to Bruce’s age. This Robin is shorter, appears colder and more closed off. This Robin - this Robin isn’t Dick. No, she’s Dick’s mother. There’s a bit of tense silence where nobody knows what to do or say, but eventually both families share their pasts.

In the alternate universe, Dick had died with his father, and it was his mother who had sought out revenge. She’d coined the name Robin to honor his memory. She found Zucco and had put him in a coma, and he was declared medically brain dead afterwards. She was a vicious fighter, and though she operated in Gotham, her and Batman had been… adversaries for a while. They had slowly gained a tentative alliance over time, but they weren’t really friends and mostly avoided each other. Then Batman took in Jason, and suddenly, Robin was so pissed about him letting a child out on the streets to fight crime that she made an arrangement: she would get to train Jason and keep an eye on him, or she would leak Bruce’s identity. They’d eventually worked it out, but Robin was protective of all of Gotham’s children, especially the ones stupid enough to fight crime (especially the ones who looked so much like her Robin). At first, she wondered if she was getting too involved. Then Jason almost died (saved by her quick thinking), and she’d put Joker in a grave real quick, and decided that someone needed to keep Batman and his brood of kids in check, and nobody else was stepping up to take the job. Over time, she found herself acting as a mother again, and it hurt her just as much as it had healed her. She still didn’t get along with Bruce, but she loved those kids with a fierce passion and would anything to keep them safe.

Dick is torn between relief and heartache. Relief to know that he hadn’t been fucking up, relief at knowing his mother would have gone after Zucco with just as much viciousness as he’d intended to, relief because at least in one universe Jason had someone looking out for him, someone to protect him. Heartache because it seemed like no matter what, The Flying Graysons would always turn into a solo act. Heartache at the thought that his sweet mother had been turned into a grief-torn, angry, vicious version of herself. Heartache at sight of his mother at an age he never got to see her grow to (an age he’ll never see her grow to). Heartache at the thought that the woman standing in front of him was so familiar and so different at the same time. Heartache because while this woman had this mother’s face, her actions, her posture, and her attitude were so unrecognizable to him. Heartache because - because if his mother (his real mother) was standing in front of him today, would she be able to recognize him? Would his father? Had he changed so much since he was a child? For a split second, Dick hated anything and everything around him. He hated this woman who wore his mother’s face but was so different than she was in his memories. He hated this alternate version of his family for having something that was ripped away from him. He hated his family because he could see clearly now that he was forced into the role that this alternate Robin had chosen for herself, he was forced to be everyone’s mother and not once was he thanked for it, not once did they appreciate it, and not once did they extend the same care for him. He hated Bruce for parentifying him, for taking Robin away, for turning him into an adult when he was still a child, for somehow managing to fuck up in another universe, and for so much more.

But more than anything, he hated himself. He hated himself for still struggling to find peace. He hated himself for not killing Zucco, the way his mother had done for him. He hated himself for going along with everything Bruce had said and done so willingly - instead of standing up for himself like his alternate mother had. He hated himself because - because clearly he was the problem. It was obvious that without him in the picture, his family was happier. Even this alternate version of his mother had been able to heal, to move on. He didn’t know if ever could.

you're all determined to rip my heart out and tear it into little pieces, I swear. my stomach dropped reading this oh my GOD.

i love it it hurts so good.

But you know if they're all meeting, if all these different versions are together and his mother is seeing how upset this is all making him, you know she'd go to him. You know she'd know that was her boy, her baby she never got to see grow up, you know she'd want nothing more than to hold him again, to tell him she loves him one more time. She knows he's not really her Dickie, but he's a version of her son. And she will always love her son.

She cradles his face and says so gently, so full of love, "My little Robin, look how big you've gotten."

And the room stills. Because while some of them may have known Robin was a nickname for his mother, maybe it never really hit them just what that means. Her version of the batboys can't believe they're looking at the grown up version of the little boy they'd heard stories about, they can't believe this is the boy who their Robin always said would have loved to be their big brother. They can't believe there's really a version of themselves out there where he is their big brother, and he does love them, it's so obvious in the way he interacts with them. And Dick's version of the batboys feel like they've been punched in the gut, because they didn't quite realize that oh, she really did call him Robin, it really was his name.

When he starts saying he failed because he didn't kill Zucco for her like she did for him? "You were just a child."

"I still should have killed him!" he argues. "For you! For both of you!"

"I would not have wanted you to," she tells him, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Neither of us would have wanted that for you. Not when you were just a little boy."

And they stay still for a long time, just looking at each other, and Dick gets so upset. Because he thinks everyone would be so better off without him. And when he says as much? When he lets it slip that clearly these alternate versions of his little brothers are all so much happier because it's him who's not in the picture?

"No," she tells him. "They're happier because they have a mother to look after them. Because they were not left alone with the Bat to fend for themselves, to take care of each other. Your brothers clearly love you very much. But it should not have been your job to raise them."

idk idk I don't want this to be a total like bad dad Bruce situation. Maybe just like a not really knowing what he's doing kinda dad Bruce? He tried his best, he really did, but he relied a lot on Alfred to help with Dick, and then Dick to help with the others.

God this situation is so angsty and delicious though, anon. You've made me cry. I love it.

[partyven0m]

what if like Susie met the reader who is kind, forgives easily, and laughs easily? But the reader is like closed off about their feelings, but makes sure others are fine… 🫩

'Say what you mean, tell me I'm right'

in which... your people-pleasing tendencies become Susie’s last straw. [fem reader] (notes at the end! <3)

Susie couldn’t remember the first time it started bothering her.

It wasn’t anything big at first. Just little stuff. Forgettable, probably, at least to anyone else.

First,

your guys’ class was assigned a partner project. You got paired with Berdly.

He spent half the class talking over you and the other half acting like he invented the slideshow format. He rewrote your notes, ignored your suggestions, and made a big deal about how you should stay after class to finish formatting the “visual components.”

You just smiled. Laughed, even.

Susie watched the whole thing from three rows back with her chin propped on one hand, dead-eyed, trying to explode Berdly with her mind. 

You looked back at her once. Gave her that dumb little wave. The one you always did when you were trying to brush off how uncomfortable you were.

You walked past her in the hallway afterwards, rubbing your shoulder like it hurt. You didn’t look upset. Just tired.

Susie opened her mouth to say something.

Maybe even offer to switch partners, let you “borrow” Kris, have her deal with Berdlys bullshit, but all you did was look towards her and smile.

“He’s not that bad. I don’t mind.”

So she closed her mouth again.

Then,

one day after school. The group of you were hanging around outside the library, trying to figure out where to eat.

You’d been hovering near Susie’s side the whole time, glancing at her now and then like you wanted to say something but didn’t. 

You didn’t. You never did.

Kris eventually suggested a sushi place a few blocks away.

You hesitated for maybe half a second, barely even that, then said, “That sounds good.”

Susie glanced sideways at you. Your smile was polite. Tight.

She’d heard you mention once, just once in passing, that you didn’t like sushi. Something about the texture, maybe an allergy, she couldn’t remember. But she remembered that. And she knew damn well Kris didn’t.

So she cut in before anyone could start walking.

“Pick somewhere else.”

Kris blinked at her, tilting their head a little.

Susie scoffed, voice flat. “Just do it.”

She didn’t explain. Didn’t even look at you either, a part of her was too lazy or maybe too annoyed to.

Next,

your locker got jammed between classes.

You didn’t call anyone over. Didn’t ask for help. Just stood there tugging at it, gentle, and polite, like you were trying not to disturb the people passing by.

Susie spotted you from down the hall, hunched a little like you were hoping no one would notice. She almost kept walking. She wanted to. It was your fault for not asking for help, she thought bitterly.

But then you looked back and caught her eye. Just for a second.

You didn’t wave her over. Didn’t even gesture really. Just gave her this tiny, uncertain look.

Like you were embarrassed.

So she came over.

Didn’t say anything. Just walked up, grabbed the locker handle, and yanked it open with one loud bang.

You were gonna need a new locker.

You blinked, surprised. And then, that smile. That soft, nervous, fluttery one you gave her sometimes, like you were so happy she was there in that moment.

But just before she could share that fluttery feeling and smile back at you with that proud cocky grin of hers, came the worst part. The part that sat in Susie’s chest for hours after.

You touched her arm, just barely, and apologized.

She stared at you.

That was it. No “thanks” no “you’re amazing,” not even a dumb joke.

Just “Sorry.”

Like helping you had been a hassle. Like doing this one thing for you was a chore. 

She went quiet for a bit. Just watched as you pulled your books out of the locker like nothing happened.

But then her body began to shake as it let out small awkward chuckles. She wasn’t 100% sure why she was laughing. Disbelief? Anger?

“Damn, do you ever stop saying sorry?” The question slipped out before she could really think about it.

You paused in your movements. Blinked slowly. Then turned your head towards her, confused.

“…What?”

Your voice was so soft. Like you really didn’t get it. Like you thought she deserved the apology.

That made it worse.

Her eyes flicked to the floor, then back to your face, then away again.

“…Never mind.”

She turned on her heel and walked off down the hallway, fists clenched in her hoodie pocket, pace just a little too fast.

And she didn’t look back.

The last straw,

tonight.

They’d all planned it. Days in advance. They were gonna take the bus to the city and loiter and get cheap milkshakes and just be teenagers for once.

You’d been so excited. It was the most animated Susie had seen you in weeks.

And then, an hour before they were supposed to meet up, she got your text.

‘hey guys! rlly sry but i can’t come tonight! someone asked me to help with festival decorations... Again, sry !! hope you guys have fun, take lots of pictures for me !! (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)’

Susie stared at it. Read it once. Then twice.

Replies from the rest of the group were sent in seconds. Noelle saying ‘aww next time then!!’, Kris replying with a thumbs-up.

But Susie didn’t respond.

She just sat there, on the steps of her apartment building with her phone in her hand and her jaw clenched.

You’d been talking about this all week. You’d literally texted her last night about how excited you were. She remembered because she’d taken a screenshot of it, read it until it burned into her memory.

You wanted to go. You wanted to.

And still, the second someone else asked you to do something, you just… gave it up. Sent her a message dressed up in cutesy symbols and exclamation points like it didn’t gut her to read.

Susie didn’t even realize she was standing up until she was halfway down the block.

She didn’t text the group. Didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Her hands stayed jammed in her pockets the whole walk there, thoughts racing and her mind going into overdrive.

.  .  .

You were in the clubroom, exactly where she figured you’d be.

Half the lights were off, and the place smelled like paint and streamers. You were crouched near the back, fiddling with some box of decorations. Laughing nervously at something someone said.

And then you looked up.

Your smile dropped the second your eyes met hers.

“…Susie?”

You stood up slowly, dusting glitter off your hands.

“What are you–”

“You’re not doing this.”

The whole room went a little quieter.

You blinked. “What?”

Susie was already walking straight towards you, fists clenched.

“This. This bullshit. You cancel plans you were excited about, because someone asked you to do their work?”

“Hey,” one of the kids near you said, confused, “she offered–”

“No, no she fucking didn’t.” Susie snarled. “She didn’t offer. She just said yes. Like she always does.”

You stared at her, wide-eyed. “Susie, stop–”

But she grabbed your wrist. Not rough, but firm. And without waiting for your permission, she yanked you a full step towards the door.

“Susie–!”

“She's busy.” Susie barked over her shoulder. “Find someone else.”

You stumbled a bit as she dragged you out into the hallway, eyes looking around the classroom like you were waiting for someone to stop her, but no one did.

The schools front door slammed behind you.

You stood there, stunned.

“…What the hell was that?” you asked, breathless.

Susie didn’t let go of your wrist right away.

“You were excited.” she repeated, voice tight. “You wanted to go out tonight. You told me.”

“I forgot…” you mumbled.

“No, you didn’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “You remembered. You just didn’t think it was important enough.”

You looked away.

“I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

“Yeah? Well guess what, life is complicated.” She snapped, “And it’d be a little less complicated if you learned to speak up for once.” 

There was bitterness in her voice. The kind of anger that only came from caring way too much and having no idea how to express it.

You flinched. Just barely.

And Susie hated that. Hated the way you kept folding in on yourself. Hated the way you looked at the floor like you deserved to be yelled at.

She let go of your wrist, finally, and shoved her hands into her hoodie pockets.

“I’m not mad ‘cause you missed some stupid hangout…” she muttered. “I’m mad because you keep acting like what you want doesn’t matter.”

You looked down again, like you were about to fold, again.

And maybe that was what made something click for her.

She exhaled hard. Rubbed the back of her neck like it physically hurt to be vulnerable, to actually encourage someone without being negative.

“…Okay.” she muttered. “You know what? Fine. Let’s try this your way.”

You glanced up, confused.

She rolled her shoulders back. Tried to speak slower. Quieter.

“I’m not great at this shit.” she said, “But, like… I dunno. What do you want?”

You stared at her.

“…What?”

Susie’s brow twitched.

“You said you didn’t wanna make things complicated, but you’re the one making it complicated by not saying anything ever. So, say something.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like what you want!” she shouted suddenly. “Anything! I don’t care if it’s dumb or weird or pathetic or whatever, just say it!!”

You flinched, taking a step back.

“I–I don’t know–!”

“You do!” Susie barked, stepping closer. “You’re just too scared to say it!”

“I’m not scared, I’m–!” You threw your arms up. 

Susie blinked, caught off guard by the way your voice cracked, not in fear, but frustration. You were cracking. Finally.

“Right now. What do you wish you were doing right this second…?”

Then, suddenly, your hands clenched at your sides, and you yelled.

“I-I …I wish I was spending ten dollars on a shitty milkshake downtown!”

There was a beat of silence.

Susie’s mouth twitched.

“…Yeah!?” she shouted back, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And then what!?!”

“Then… then I wanna check my bank account and regret it!!”

“GOOD!!” Susie yelled. “That’s something!! What else? What else do you wanna do?”

“I wanna say no when people ask me for homework answers! Even if they’re really nice about it!”

“Hell yeah!” 

“I wanna punch Berdly in the face!!”

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!”

You were both yelling now, flushed and breathless and weirdly energized.

“I want to turn my phone off and not answer texts for an entire day!!”

“I WANNA EAT FRIES OFF THE FLOOR AND NOT TELL ANYONE!”

“I wanna not lend my pens to people who never give them back!!!”

“I KINDA WANNA BE ADOPTED BY KRIS’S MOM!”

“I wanna– I WANNA KNOW WHAT YOUR HANDS FEEL LIKE!!!”

Dead silence.

You froze. Mouth still open.

Susie blinked, stunned.

You covered your mouth halfway, eyes wide. “…I… I mean…”

But Susie didn’t move.

Didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

She just stared at you for a long second.

Then,

“…Y’know what?” she muttered as a smirk spread across her face revealing her sharp teeth, voice suddenly scratchy. “Hell yeah.”

Your eyes shot up. “What?”

And then Susie grabbed your hand.

Rough, calloused, and… strangely cold.

“Let’s go get you a shitty milkshake!!”

.   .   .

“you weren’t serious about the homework thing right…?”

“. . .”

“sorry sorry…”

. . .

a/n!!!11! This was honestly supposed to be a small drabble but i was liking it too much i kinda just kept typing lolol and i think that’s obvious by how different the tone of the ending is but whatever TYYYYYY TY FOR THE SUSIE REQUEST MUHAHAHA THIS WAS SO SELF INDULGENT!!1! such a cute idea too!! honestly like... idk y but i had the most fun writing this... susie is rlly fun to write!!11!

1 susie request out of 9 done... but also im not complaining cuz again, shes rlly rlly fun to write! TGHANKS SMMMM!! <3333

ALSO! sry this was a fem reader rather than my usual gender neutral one! again, it was rlly self indulgent and i was kinda just typing non stop lol, didnt rlly pay attention to the type of gendered language i was using!

(title isnt a pierce the veil lyric this time 💔)

[thatnightlamp]

ANGRON NSFW ALPHABET

Tags: @incrediblethirst, @iluminatka16, @absynthe-mind, @morb-untamed

A = Aftercare

He doesn’t know how. Afterward, he just sits there, breath ragged, body still trembling with the effort of not tearing you apart. But he’ll cradle you in his lap, one trembling hand cupping the back of your head, forehead pressed to yours like he’s praying to something long dead. Sometimes he rocks you in slow, broken movements, like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re alive, whole.

B = Body part

Your ribs. He counts them with his knuckles when you lie against him, like you’re breakable, like you matter. He can’t explain it, but pressing his palm there anchors him reminds him you’re alive, his.

C = Cum

Hot, heavy, and almost painful, he cums with full-body violence. Not from pleasure alone, but release. Relief. Need. It pours into you with a growl torn from his throat, like he's marking the only thing he doesn't destroy.

D = Dirty secret

He touches you when he dozes off. Soft, desperate ruts against your thigh, mouth open near your neck. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Sometimes he wakes with your name crushed between his teeth, fists bloody from digging into his own palms to stop himself.

E = Experience

He’s raw. Not clueless just untrained. He doesn’t fuck with grace; he fucks like it hurts. Like he’s trying to learn your body by brute force. He improves every time, by watching you, listening to your breath, your sobs, your pleasure. That’s how he learns. You teach him.

F = Favorite position

You flat on your belly, his massive weight over your back, one hand over your mouth, the other fisting the sheets. He fucks you deep and slow like that, less risk of losing control. It’s also the only way he can truly let go without seeing your face break under his strength.

G = Goofy

Never. The Butcher’s Nails leave no room for laughter. If you laugh during sex, he’ll flinch like you hit him. But if he realizes it’s because you feel safe? He might nuzzle into your neck, almost confused. That’s the closest he’ll come.

H = Hair

Rough. Coarse. He doesn’t care about grooming. His pubic hair is wild, but his body is scarred and muscled, bare in patches from fights or implants. His skin smells like sweat, copper, and smoke. It sticks to you for days.

I = Intimacy

A trembling thumb swiping the tears from your face. His forehead pressed to yours while he still throbs inside you. His hands spread on your back as if he could absorb you into his chest and make the Nails shut up for once.

J = Jack off

He does not. He cannot. The Nails do not permit arousal without agony. The moment his mind strays to you, they devour it, twist it, punish him. So he waits. Caged. Starving. And when he finally has you again, he takes you like a dying man offered breath.

K = Kink

Size kink.

Touch-starvation. He’s starved of comfort. If you let him cling to you during sex, fingers shaking as he grips your back, he’ll cum faster than he wants to admit.

Breeding. He needs to fill you. Deep. Repeatedly. Like he’s trying to claim your womb with every thrust.

Overstimulation: He doesn’t know how to stop. One orgasm becomes three. You’re shaking and crying and still, he needs more.

L = Location

Somewhere far from his men. Somewhere with stone walls and no witnesses. A bolted door. A low bed. Anything where he can drop to his knees and fuck you until the Nails go silent.

M = Motivation

You touch him. That’s all. Just a hand on his chest. A kiss to his temple. A whisper like, “Stay.” He shudders. Growls. Then grabs you like you’re the only tether to his soul.

N = No

He won’t hurt you. He won’t let go during sex because he’s afraid his grip will crush you. He refuses to let you bind him either, he needs to hold you, even if it breaks him.

O = Oral

Giving A mess. He doesn’t know what he’s doing—but fuck, he tries. Tongue too rough, growling between your legs, gripping your thighs until they bruise. But the effort? Heartbreaking.

P = Pace

Violent when he can’t think. Slow and trembling when he can. Sometimes it feels like he’s barely moving, grinding so deep it steals your breath, holding you like glass. Other times, he’s pounding into you like a war engine.

Q = Quickie

He doesn’t plan for them. But if you kiss his neck in the wrong hallway, or straddle him while he’s sharpening his axe, he’ll grab you by the waist and grind against you until you’re limp and shaking, one hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds.

R = Risk

Low. He’s too scared of breaking you. If you suggest something dangerous, he’ll go still. His voice rough: "No. I’ll lose control."

S = Stamina

Insane. Four, five, six rounds if the Butcher’s Nails are throbbing. He fucks through the ache, through the rage, through his own body. He doesn’t stop until your voice is gone or you collapse in his arms.

T = Toys

No. He doesn't trust them. He doesn’t trust himself with them. What if something snaps? What if you bleed? He’d rather use his fingers. His mouth. Himself. That’s all he needs and all he trusts not to fail.

U = Unfair

He doesn’t tease. Not because he wouldn’t, but because he can’t. He’s too desperate. Too hungry. If he starts, he’ll break. So he takes you hard and fast.

V = Volume

A beast. Growling. Snarling. Snorting like a bull. He bites the pillow when he cums or buries his face in your neck to keep from roaring. He moans your name like he’s begging, low, raw, broken.

W = Wild card

He keeps your clothes when you leave. Not out of perversion, but to smell you. To hold them when the Nails scream. He buries his face in them, clutches them like a wounded animal, and survives another night.

X = X-ray

Huge. Thick. Ridged with angry veins. A cock like a war club, hot, hard, almost violent-looking. He leaks precum constantly when aroused, especially if he’s holding back. It pulses like something alive.

Y = Yearning

Unbearable. He’ll stare at you like a starving man then look away as if he’s done something shameful. His sex drive is monstrous, but he denies it until it spills over. Then he takes you like he’ll never get another chance.

Z = Zzz

He doesn’t sleep. Not well. But if you curl against his chest, he breathes deeper. If you stroke his temple, he might drift off. Not for long. But long enough to dream of peace. Of you. Of something that doesn’t hurt.

[hwang-inhos-fish]

Doubly Obsessive In-ho X "Resurrected"!Gi-hun AU Idea

Gi-hun falls.

In-ho feels the last of his humanity shatter in the moment he hits the ground.

But then Jun-ho arrives. Too late. Too late to save In-ho's heart, his soul. Too late.

But Jun-ho is determined. He's furious. He's relentless, and in this, In-ho's moment of absolute weakness, absolute desolation, Jun-ho is the stronger of the two.

He physically drags In-ho to the escape boat. Through the facility. Dodging soldiers. Outrunning the spreading fire. In-ho holds the daughter close to his chest. His last piece of Gi-hun.

And then there's trouble. The Hwang Bros find themselves (for whatever plot reasons) dangling literally on the end of a rope, a rope that's breaking, and In-ho mourns that Jun-ho will die with him, for him, he mourns the innocent child, but he does not mourn his own death -

And just before it snaps, someone catches the rope up top. It slips, sways, and remains taut. Firm.

When In-ho drags himself up, for the child, for Gi-hun's daughter, he finds a hunched, half-skeletal figure at the top. Dressed in black and white and red. Bloody all over. Both shoes braced against the lip of the ledge and the rope wound so tightly around both arms, both hands, that his fingers are purple-black.

A player. A finalist. Or someone in their clothes.

And then that figure raises his head, and In-ho feels his heart restart in his chest like the sky itself blasted a lightning bolt straight to his chest as a defibrillator.

Because the eyes that fix on his from between shaking, braced legs, wet with pained tears and alive with feeling, with emotion, with anguish, the all-consuming pain of existing after a fall like that, the agony of holding two grown men's weight with a broken leg and broken shoulder and ribs (plus probably a cracked skull) -

It's Seong Fucking Gi-hun.

He's alive.

He's alive and he followed his baby. Followed In-ho.

And In-ho, already at the crumbling edge of rationality and sanity, immediately and irrevocably goes a little crazy.

Sweeping choral music rings in his head. Gi-hun is ringed by light. A vision of exquisite agony worthy of the old artists, the masters. A paragon of goodness, kindness, light - resurrected from the dead. His heart. His fixation. The father of The Daughter.

At least, that's how it seems to In-ho's brain - now and forever more.

And if In-ho was obsessed before?

Oh...

It's not obsession anymore.

It's fucking religion.

From that moment on, In-ho worships Seong Gi-hun - literally, passionately, without hesitation or scruple.

If Gi-hun tells In-ho to go get coffee, he goes and gets coffee. If Gi-hun tells In-ho to fuck him, he does. If Gi-hun were to tell In-ho to jump off the top of the Pink Motel, he'd do that too. Without one single moment of hesitation.

Gi-hun, In-ho, and Jun-ho hunker down in the Pink Motel, hiding from the various people coming after them, all chipping in to raise The Daughter.

And Jun-ho worries about In-ho's rapt, devoted obsession with Gi-hun, his intensity, but Gi-hun isn't exactly whole now, either - and honestly, they're a good match for each other.

Gi-hun is changed. Broken. His body is shattered. It takes a long, long time to recover.

In-ho is an exceptionally attentive personal nurse.

[novasillies]

okay. wifi sorted. squid game i hate you i will try and keep this organised. spoilers upon spoilers beneath the cut, this might be a long one. i had an 8 hour journey to watch the whole show in one go and then ruminate on it for two hours of driving. so. yeah.

As many issues as I have with this season, I will say some things were pretty interesting. So let's start with the few positives I have.

One, the commentary on democracy and the idea of a democratic vote. The fact that the players were forced into making this choice, either threatened or manipulated into voting one way or the other, and treated differently by the group depending on which way they voted was very interesting and something I am not at all smart enough to dissect beyond surface level. the whole "through your democratic vote, you have all chosen to continue the games" thing made me go hrrhrhrhrr every time because, yeah, democracy is far from fair and two-party systems with one final choice cannot accurately represent the wants of an entire group. love it speak on it.

Two, I didn't mind In-ho's story this season (or, what little story he had). The fact that he's tried to save Gi-hun's life at every turn, and the man has been too stubborn to listen, rightfully so, if the writers had decided that optimism was something we deserved in this day and age. He begged him to get on that plane, to stop looking for the games, to kill the other players and just take the money. In-ho wanted Gi-hun to live. And he didn't. And In-ho delivered, in person, his jacket and money to his daughter. He never called him a friend. He blew up the island. I'm assuming he left it all behind now that the coast guard got involved. God knows. Actually, never mind, his story was lazy and nonexistent. The contrast between him and Gi-hun when given that chance to kill them all and take the win was interesting, though.

Three, i cant think of another thing i liked. which is troubling. Oh, I do love a tragedy done right, so Gi-hun's death did satisfy me in the way that it was horrible. I still think he should not have died. But the fact that it was like that. I don't despise it. Not happy about it. but it could be worse.

I'm gonna just get right into my main issue with this season (and season 2 now that it's over and I can be sure of it), which is: THIS WAS NOT NECESSARY.

The entire two-part story (ridiculous) of seasons 2&3 was literally, in the end, for nothing.

Nobody's characters developed and they all died. Jun-ho didn't get anything out of finding the island because they blew it up and he was only there for 25 minutes. He saw In-ho again, said like 8 words to him, got nothing back, and then left again. Pointless. So many hours of television that were for nothing. He didn't grow as a person, he didn't learn anything new, he didn't even realise Gi-hun (WHO HE WAS MEANT TO BE LOOKING FOR) was dead however many feet below him. All he got was that fuckass CGI baby and 45.6 billion won of blood money.

Gi-hun went back just to stop the games, then killed himself to let a two-day-old newborn become a multi-billionaire for the hope of that innocent little FUGLY FREAK being a better person than him. He said maybe 20 lines the entire season. He spent the whole time silently plotting dae-ho's death, then killing dae-ho, then trying to kill himself until he finally did. His entire story was just a playbook on how to give up.

They watered Jun-hee and Geum-ja and No-eul down to just Mothers with nothing else to show for themselves. Two out of three of them killed themselves for their children and one of them tried. No-euls entire storyline felt just as pointless as the rest of them, with its weird maybe-your-daughter's-alive-maybe-she's-not open ending of her flying to China. It didn't help that we've spent this whole two-season storyline waiting for Gi-hun to have some magical moment where he figures out how to save them, only for all of them to die slowly and pointlessly one by one. Geum-ja's suicide was the only death this season that upset me, purely because I only realised what had happened just as the coffin got carried in, and her big monologue to Gi-hun finally made sense and became far more sad. It was really only thanks to her actress' performance that Yong-sik's death made me feel anything, too. Everyone else had nothing. Just cheap SFX and two seconds of shock value.

What the fuck was Hyun-ju's death. Like. Excuse me?? Myung-gi had no reason to still be killing people, let alone hunting them like animals. Why the FUCK did he kill her??? And why did Jun-hee's water break and her baby was born within five minutes???? I don't think there was a single woman in the writer's room for season 3 honest to god. I wasn't even sad about Hyun-ju's death I was just so so sooo confused. It made no sense. And then I was like uhgggh she shouldve gone through the door but no she was right to go back but wtf myung-gi why did you do that you useless piece of human garbage. and maybe it was a little bit poignant because they were so close to all surviving together. but they could've. very easily. Hyun-ju's death was just as unneccessary as the rest of this story.

Don't even get me started on myung-gi. I didn't like him last season on the principle of what he did to Jun-hee, but there was always the justification of him trying to protect her from the people who were after him but. god. I was so right to hate him. Even then, he was somewhat likeable. He did nice things sometimes. He acted like a normal human being. Who the HELL was that this season?? trying to throw his own newborn daughter off that tower for THE MONEY??????????? I thought Gi-hun would hand over the kid, myung-gi would be all sweet and sad and sorry and kiss his daughter on the head (WHICH GI-HUN THEN DID AND MADE ME GO !!!!!) before he pressed the start button and threw himself off. A nobel sacrifice for the kid, just like her mother had done, or whatever the fuck. but no. nooooo nonono of COURSE not. that wouldve been HEARTFELT and SWEET and would've let OUR HERO survive. can't have that can we?!?!?!?!??!?!?!? i need to calm down.

Side note, what the hell was kate blanchett doing there?? we do NOT need an american squid game spinoff with kate fucking blanchett as the recruiter and in-ho going full gi-hun and trying to infiltrate it and take it down in his memory or some bullshit STOP IT.

Another side note, why did they spend more time on min-su's grief over se-mi than like... any other character feeling anything?? i didn't give a shit about those two personally so every drawn-out drug-induced hallucination about it just felt like watching paint dry.

Also the games sucked. Sorry. They were all dissorientating in the most midly inconvenient way and the direction of this season was all over the place. whoever was director of photography for s3 needs to have a long think about things. And the sound design??? was it always that weird?? no, right? there wasn't always the freakish distorted music and stuff? and that weird prowler sound whenever gi-hun was staring at dae-ho and wanting to kill him?? I felt like i was going crazy it was either too silent or too loud but whatever.

And the CGI baby. Come on now. Terrible!!! There was an egregious amount of CGI in this season and it was very clearly rushed. you're on a Netflix budget with one of its most popular titles and you still managed to come out with cheap, uncanny special effects??? I would be happy about the use of CGI because yeah newborn babies look like that not like 4-month-olds and yeah that's a big rope swing u cant be throwing those at real people in real life without some serious waivers signed and some serious injuries nonetheless but you had the money to make it good. you should've taken the time, too. I have an inkling that the six-month gap between seasons instead of a few years had a small role to play in that, even if it was all shot at once. Maybe if you hadn't stretched out your nothing burger of a second season into two of them, we wouldn't be having these problems. It's just so confusing how season 3 felt so much lazier and just worse than season 2 when they should've been written, filmed, and begun post-production right alongside each other. so so sooo weird. The subpar performances of the actors i think didn't help. i just felt like i was watching actors act instead of watching people exist within a story and that always irks me. to be fair, with a cast that big, you really can't expect the greatest performances from all the nameless side characters. but like. still. lock in for me guys plz. and maybe stop throwing babies from extreme heights (Gi-hun is just a man)

The thing is, season 1 was neat and tidy and concise and heartwrenching and purposeful. It had a true meaning. A moral. It was a representation of the horrors of capitalism. The characters changed - gi-hun became an entirely new person due to the trauma of it all, sang-woo became colder and so desperate he was unrecognisable, sae-byeok's end was so tragic but before it happened, she learned to trust, jun-ho actually learned new things about his brother and the games and uncovered secrets as the viewers did and it was interesting - and the story was written with clear intention. This storyline, stretched over two seasons to get more fucking money from continuous streaming and renewal of interest, shocker, anti-capitalist my ass, was literally nothing more than a cash-grab. It was heartless. They somehow brought back queerbaiting for a second there. Nobody (at least I hope) believed it, but they tried. And that is just so so disappointing. Because they knew this story wouldn't stand on its own. They knew they had not written it for any real reason. It was all for the money. And how ironic is that?

This story could have been so good. All of the pieces were in place for them to craft something insanely relevant, a story about goodness, community, honesty, and hope beating the 1%. A story about redemption. A story about equality.

Instead, Squid Game season 3, and the overarching story of season 2, teach nothing more than there being only one thing we all can have and deserve to have: death.

Sacrifice yourself, give up, because the rich are just gonna keep getting richer. And you will never win. But, hey. There's always the next generation. Here's to hoping.

[anarcho-commeownism]

Okay so take this with as many grains of salt as you like, because I'm just gonna talk about my own personal experience here, but I have a few things to say on this.

First of all, this isn't a new revelation by any means. You can find some form of sex aversion treated as an illness in many many instances throughout history, far before homosexuality was considered as such. This conversation HAS been thoroughly picked through in discourse on this very website but I really don't think there was ever a real conclusion to it because I believe a lot of important context hasn't really been touched on, so I appreciate someone bringing it up!

Now, my personal issue with this whole thing: I struggle with identifying as aromantic and/or asexual because the thing is? Sometimes medications, disorders, and illnesses do cause asexual/aromantic behavior and inclinations. I'm on multiple medications that decrease libido, I have sexual trauma, I am autistic, I have several anxiety disorders known to cause sexual dysfunction, etc. I've got a million and one medical reasons as to why I might feel so repulsed by the idea of having sex myself, or being in a romantic relationship, and I never had a break between being a child and being a medicated chronically ill adult to figure out what I'm "really" into. I don't feel like I ever will have a chance to find out what I'm "really" into, either, because my life is centered around my disabilities and their side effects, and there is no cure for most of this. So I've settled with it—I would rather have my life-saving medication than be allosexual, and by extension, I have a basically identical experience to that of what seems to be the "correct" asexual individual.

This kind of wholesale rejection of asexuality in a medical sense kind of leaves those of us that do experience these things medically out in the cold. It's as if we don't exist within aspec discourse at all because our existence must "prove" that asexuality is inherently medical even though we are individuals that have chosen this label because of the disorders we have or life saving medications we take or what have you. There's a reason I don't say I'm asexual most of the time—the only reason I'm "like this" is ultimately because I would be dead if I wasn't on several medications that significantly decreased my sexual desires and libido. Functionally, I am at least on the asexual spectrum, and I'm often deeply uninterested in actually having sex. I believe that the label fits me. But again, I don't like disclosing this because I know how The Disk Horse puts me directly in the center of two opposing sides, one of which thinks there's something wrong with me because I don't have sex, and the other of which believes there's something wrong with me and I would actually like sex if I wasn't chronically ill.

We have to understand that there are many reasons for asexuality, and yes, that includes medical situations. That includes trauma. These things do not inherently mean that all asexuals are the result of a disability or medication. They just mean that we exist, and you can't just ignore that to push your own one-track narrative on asexuality's relationship with the medical field.

Asexuality on its own should not be considered its own disorder, I agree. But there is a significant lack in awareness of this gray area that I am in wherein our asexuality is indeed a symptom of something else, and there are a huge variety of reactions to this! Some people do actually want their decreased sexual desires to be remedied because they miss a time in their life when they were functionally allosexual, or they feel as though they're missing something and want to experience it at least once. Some people (like me) don't mind much and want to identify as asexual and/or aromantic because that is what feels best to us. We all have the same experience, but with different conclusions. The best way to comprehend this is to just let people identify how they feel most comfortable, of course.

That's the difficulty with asexuality—while there are no provable causes for someone to become gay or transgender, there are plenty of ways a person might find themselves permanently asexual despite not being asexual previously. Sexuality is fluid! I believe those people deserve the label as much as anyone else.

Also, none of us want to be told that we would be allosexual if we weren't ill, OR that we would be asexual even if we were abled. That completely & arrogantly disregards our experiences with chronic, often life-long conditions, and our personal reconciliation with those things, just because you can only see this in a black and white way where asexuality is never a medical issue for anyone.

I suppose I just want to clarify that asexuality should not be considered a disorder on its own, but it can indeed be the result of a medical situation. And as you may not seem to understand, some people do want to see a remedy to that—and since its in this blurry gray area where some people consider it asexuality and some people just see it as decreased sexual desire, some might choose to call that conversion therapy even if the person involved was not asexual prior to their medical situation and is uncomfortable with their lack of sexual desire and/or motivation, and feels more like themself once they are off the medication they were taking or taking something to aid their libido.

It literally doesn't matter if we'd be allosexual if we weren't disabled. We're disabled. We're in a situation medically that restricts our sexual desires, motivations, and enjoyment, and there's often no way out of it. We each individually make our own decisions on our situations and what we want "fixed" medically. Sometimes people just want to enjoy sex again. Sometimes we're fine with the way we are on our meds. Does that make us less valid as asexuals? As aromantics? I don't know. You tell me.

I've come to the conclusion that the way asexuality (and by extension aromanticism if we're being real) are pathologized now is similar to how homosexuality was pathologized in the 80s.

Because, if you don't know, when homosexuality was taken out of the DSM in 1974 it was immediately replaced by a new disorder called ego dsystonic homosexuality. This "condition" basically stipulated that homosexual desire was a disorder, but only if the patient was distressed by their sexuality. This compromise disorder was obviously introduced because while they couldn't go on pretending homosexuality wasn't intrinsicly disordered, they couldn't let go of that idea completely and it wasn't removed until over a decade later in 1987. But asexuality and aromanticism are still seen this way. Asexuality is still in the DSM under the name hypoactive sexual desire disorder, which stipulates that lack of sexual desire is a disorder, but only if the patient is distressed by their sexuality.

Both disorders' diagnostic criteria warn that people who are happy in their sexuality should not be considered disordered, but this only serves as tacit admission that it was never a disorder in the first place. A true disorder is a disorder regardless of how the patient feels about it. Anorexia is a disorder even if the patient is adamant that they're happy and healthy. Chronic depression is a disorder even if the patient says they're fine. And while this has been acknowledged with regards to homosexuality, it still hasn't been acknowledged with regards to asexuality.

And this perception of asexuality is imbedded within the wider culture as well. When people hear someone, be it a fictional character or a real goddamn person, say they're not attracted to anyone or interested in sex or romance, often their immediate thought is "Oh, there must be something wrong with you." Some of them will back off if you say "Actually I'm aro/ace" but some of them won't, and even for the ones who do, their first thought was still that there's something wrong with you that needs fixing. And they only thought your lack of interest was acceptable with the excuse of labelling yourself asexual/aromantic like it's a necessary hall pass.

Because fundamentally people can't let go of the idea that asexuality and aromanticism are disordered, even if they nominally support aro/aces, so they have all these excuses, like "Well maybe they're just repressed maybe they're just traumatized maybe-" yadayadayada. Because they can't simply associate lack of attraction with being aro/ace, they can only think of being aro/ace as one possible explanation. We're literally just stuck in "Oh you say you're into the same gender not into anyone? Well maybe you're traumatized or were abused as a kid or you're going through a phase or a late bloomer and you'll find the right person someday." But it's fine because if you use your hall pass then maybe they'll back off but if you don't have it because you don't know or accept you're aro/ace yet, tough luck. It's no surprise that asexuals have the same conversion therapy rate as gay people.

[l00kingatthem00n]

PLEASE DO A FLUFF X READER WITH 1x4 OR SHEDLETSKY OR HATRED FROM BLOCKTALES

━━ WRONG MOVE, AND YOU'RE DEAD!

WARNING: canon-typical violence - she/he/they pronouns are used to refer to 1x1x1x1.

This match has been nothing but miserable, with body after body dropping. As the sole survivor, you're left to fend off against 1x1x1x1 and their creations made from their emotions. While she seems intent on killing you, his underlings seem to want otherwise.

THE REJUVENATION OF ROTTED BODIES. What’s dead is now alive once more. Corpses regain consciousness, a sound that fills the cheap hotel with fragmented bones forcefully cracked into their place and slit skin sutured shoddily. Then, what follows is a sort of hissing sound, like that of a snake about to sink its fangs into its prey. The sharp winds from cast swords rip throughout the decrepit hallways. You grit your teeth. You squeeze your eyes shut. You unintentionally tighten the bandage wrappings around your arm’s swelling wound, anticipating the pristine blades to pierce your flesh. But, it’s not meant for you; not yet, anyway. 

Still, you’re startled. With your heart erratically beating against your ribs, especially as a scream eventually resounds through the desolate hallways. There goes Shedletsky. Now, you’re all by your lonesome. A sigh of compliance leaves you; an acceptance of your fate. What supplies the medkit offered is barely enough to salvage your sorry state. Be it yours or the others, you don’t know whose blood you’re caked in. You can’t exactly make out what you’re seeing either, vision obscured and losing its colour. You’re not sure how you’ll manage to pull through, and so you’re certain that you’re just not going to make it all through this final minute. At least a certain somebody will be pleased by the end of all this. 

You’re sure the 1x1x1x1 you’ve envisioned in your mind is perfectly tailored to what you’ll see when you meet him again. A smug smirk crossed their typically zipped lips, with arms crossed and chin tilted upwards in triumph. She’ll probably go on and on about how you can not beat an entity composed of pure malice, but your attempts were at the most “intriguing” and “amusing” to watch. For as much as they love you, not even you are exempt from their venomous tongue. Again, you sigh and firmly secure the bandages against your arm despite the blots spotting your sight. It would be nice to just accept your miserable death, but the Spectre loves a show, doesn’t it? 

Begrudgingly, you pull yourself from the corridors. Despite how nice it is that the Spectre lets you see where 1x1x1x1 is when you’re the sole survivor, you’ve missed the chance to see them at all, seeing as you’ve finally finished tending to your wounds. Whatever. It’s fine. Considering how you’re not rushing around the map to survive, you don’t think she saw you either. You trudge through an old bedroom, footsteps muted along the carpeted floor. It’d be best to get to that ball pit. That little staircase is enough elevation to have you some leverage over them when they do all that necromantic sorcery. 

You shamble through into another room. That strange junction between the grim halls, the play area, along with this bedroom. The fluorescent light hums softly throughout the room. A dark green glow cast upon your surroundings. You squint, trying to discern whatever familiar furniture you can make through the blur of your vision. Though you’re not given much time to entertain what’s in your surroundings, there are footsteps other than your approach and you’re not allowed to react accordingly– Damn your injuries.

Something cold, clammy and corpse-like grabs you by the shoulder. It’s not 1x1x1x1. But, it’s certainly one of her undead underlings. Its grip is iron-clad, keeping you where you are, and you’re too paralyzed with fear to even try moving away yourself. You swallow thickly and only expect the worst to come. Maybe you’ll have your limbs broken, a dislocated elbow or knee. Maybe you’ll be bashed into the wall, spun and slammed so hard you’ll risk another concussion. Or maybe you’ll be pushed into the ground, your body unable to sustain the weight of the living dead. However, those possibilities aren’t exactly brought to fruition. Rather, you’re met with something strange, to say the least. 

The underling regards you with an indiscernible expression, which is impressive considering their lack of expression in general. Suddenly, with a softness you didn't even think it was capable of, spins you around and it just, hugs you. The gesture itself is not unpleasant. It’s just maybe a little awkward when you think this could be Shedletsky’s dead body embracing you so firmly. Regardless, you don’t dare to move. With taut muscles, you stand there as the undead holds onto you. And eventually, it rests its heavy cheek upon your shoulder. You blink; once, then twice. 

What do you even do about this?

Despite the mass of corpses littered throughout the hotel that should be intent on killing you, there’s a tenderness in the way this resurrected being of malice handles you. By now, you’re admittedly expecting a behavioural change, to be met with violence once more. Though, now that you’re thinking about it, if these reanimations are extensions of 1x1x1x1, whether that be his character and consciousness. Then, it is so charmingly unfortunate that their own creations are practically spilling their affections for you. You’re finally about to reciprocate the underling's embrace. Your hands move to drape across its shoulders. Before you know it, however, her voice chimes throughout the otherwise quiet room.

“What is the meaning of all of this?”

A loud pop follows the snappy movement toward where his voice comes from. Their form lingers near the doorframe. The dark green light cascaded from the fluorescent fixtures, casting a heavy shadow against 1x1x1x1’s hunched posture. Their chained, bonded hands drag the weight of the daemon shank behind them. While their eyes, a blank white sclera in contrast with the piercing red star that takes up where the other socket would be, they practically pierce through you. This would be absolutely horrifying if you weren’t already so accustomed to it. Even with the ferocity that underlies her expression, you can discern the ever so slight crinkles of her eyes, the imperceptible smile, the fond exasperation. 

“Nothing. Just some bonding, that’s all.” You teasingly drawl, finally reciprocating the affections of the underling. 

With this, 1x1x1x1 seems to scowl. Not at you, not yet. But, at the minion you’re embracing, something that they’ve willed into existence. An elated smile curls across your lips. You can’t help but laugh at the evident displeasure on her expression, along with the obviousness of the creature you’ve become sweet on. 

“With something as lowly as that? You know so much better.” 

“Well,” You hum. “It’s a lot more receptive than you are.”

1x1x1x1 rolls his eyes; your smile only widens. 

“I assure you I’m ultimately much better than that shambling thing.”

“It’s an extension of you, honey. Be as nice as you can be.” 

In what you can only assume is half-hearted displeasure, they click their tongue at you. Your bottom lip juts forward in a pout, batting your eyelashes at her. You loosen your hold on the content minion. It wanders around with the sound of its footsteps muted on the carpeted floor. You take a step towards 1x1x1x1. Your hands clasped as you lean forward and close some of the distance between the two of you.

“Well, either way, you know your little minion seems fond of me? Which is funny considering they’re part of you.” 

He raises a brow at you. You chuckle softly about to compromise the slightest chance of you winning this.

“I didn’t know you liked me this much, 1x.”

Their rage comes slowly. You can see the embarrassment, but mainly the displeasure that crosses her features. A frown across his zipped lips, squinted eyes, and narrowed brows. Then, all of a sudden, you feel a bursting pain piercing through your lower abdomen. Only to worsen when you feel nausea overcome you, somehow worsening your already awful sight. 

“QUIET,” 1x1x1x1 exclaims, snapping their head away from you.

You glance down and you see what the issue is. To your unsurprise, 1x1x1x1 has ensured her victory this round. Of course, by thrusting the daemon shank forward and stabbing you in the gut. All that leaves you is a teasing hum. Then, your knees buckle once the blade is withdrawn. You may be feeling an overwhelming sensation upon the wound. Nevertheless,  you know that once the Spectre resurrects you, you’re going to love seeing her again. Well, it’s not worth it to delay the inevitable. You close your eyes; everything goes dark, and you die. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 1x1x1x1 the thing that you are. /pos i love bro but characterizing was such a heruclean labour. and also. HAS . ANYONE EVER CONSIDERED GIVING 1X LIKE, A "NORMAL-SOUNDING" NAME.

i love bro but i feel so ridiculous writing out 1x1x1x1 😭 and like. 1X IS FINE TOO. WHATEVER I GUESS 🙄 but is there a fanon like "normal" name for her like. Micheal. Or Stacy. /j

anyway, hope you're all doing well! i've been doing better ever since some personal stuff got figured out. make sure to take care everyone :D!

[leafbowl]

Jason Todd can see Dead People.

Jason can see dead people. Finding that out was... weird, to put it simply. He didn't even notice at first that some people were more blurry around the edges than others, that some people had weird features because apparently, ghosts can just choose what they look like. But when he watched the soul of a child leave their body, there was no denying it. He could see the dead, touch their souls and hold them in his arms, as he'd done for Rhune over and over again and he would again and again because that kid meant everything to him.

Jason can see dead people because other dead people can see dead people. It was almost unheard of for someone to straight up die and then be brought back. Of course, as Jason grows to find out, he's not the only one of the bats to die, or just in general die, and then be brought back to life. But somehow, no one else can see what he can. No one else can see the people who can walk through walks and choose to have big wings or duel-wielding horns. Believe me, he tried to find someone who could see ghosts too. He assumed he was a fluke and the universe did it's best to fix the fluke, making sure no one else could see between the realms but what's done cannot be undone. Jason will always be able to see dead people.

The worst ones are a couple that hang around the manor and Crime Alley. They help the young kids. They're considered to be everyone's parents. Jason isn't surprised. Not really because just taking one look at those faces- He knew who they were. He knew who their son was. He knew- Fuck, what did he know? What did Jason Todd know about Martha and Thomas Wayne? Not much. Certainly not enough to warrant being their grandson. So he ignored them, like he did most ghosts. He ignored them and refused to acknowledge them.

They knew he could see them. They knew and they waited until he was ready. He was ready, eventually. He was ready one night when he was bleeding out in the back of some alley because he was too proud to call for help. He was too proud to call for Bruce, for Dick, for Roy. God, if Roy could see him now he would slap the shit out of him. Dick too, probably.

"Jay, you're getting fuzzy," Rhune whispered, ever immortalised as eight years old. They had their hands pressed into his side over where the blood was pouring from between Jason's now-slack fingers. They were trying to hold them together but the pressure they could give wasn't nearly enough to save Jason's life.

"I know," Jason whispered back, unable to speak louder. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."

"Nope." Rhune shook their head. They stood up. Their dragon-like wings flexed behind them agitatedly.

"Nuh uh." They turned, their weird fucking baggy ass pants swishing as they moved, their hands digging into the tank top they were wearing.

"What're you lookin' for?" Jason asked, needing to focus on something other than the slowing of his heart.

"Mom and Dad," Rhune said simply. "They'll help. I know they will. They're always willing to help you, following you around everywhere."

"Wha-" Jason didn't get to speak any more after that because there were footsteps coming down the alley. He was far too out of it to figure out who. He hoped it was Bruce. He wanted it to be Bruce- and wasn't that thought terrifying? He was dying and all he wanted was his dad.

It was not his dad. No. There were steady hands replacing his own and pressing down on his wound. Jason groaned at the pressure but someone's fingers wound into his hair, whispering soothing things to him as someone pressed the skin on either side of his wound together. He didn't know who, only did when he felt the pit's magic race through his veins, finally able to kick in due to the careful hands holding the wound together. His eyes shot open and he sat up, green receding from the corner of his vision. And there, knelt in front of him was Thomas Wayne, telling Rhune to go not squeeze him so tight. Jason didn't even notice they were holding on to him.

And that's how it started. After that, Martha and Thomas didn't pretend not to notice him. They often stopped by his apartment to see how he was doing and to make sure he was taking care of himself. He usually wasn't. They also pushed Jason in the direction of his family, back to Wayne Manor and to his dad.

Jason went, not wanting to ever feel that twisting in his stomach because he never did tell Tim he was sorry for trying to kill him. Twice. He apologised. Tim looked confused and kind of uncomfortable. Jason wondered if he knew the tips of his fingers kept brushing against the scar across his throat.

He told no one about seeing ghosts, never uttered a word to them in front of others or looked in their direction. Well. That's what he thought he was doing. Apparently he was doing quite the opposite because Dick decided to hold an intervention.

Jason blinked at the awkward, very wound up Richard Grayson sitting on his couch. Jason moved slowly to take off his boots and his jacket. "What're you doing here?" Jason asked.

Dick cleared his throat. "I'm... I need to talk to you about something."

Jason narrowed his eyes, fighting off the want to look towards Martha and Rhune who had decided to eavesdrop from his kitchen. Rhune was on his counter and he wanted to scold them for it. "Okay? What?"

Dick shuffled over and patted the spot next to him. Jason plonked himself down there. Dick took a deep breath. "I think... Jason, I think you're schizophrenic."

Jason blinked. Martha gave a quick snort while Rhune cackled, doubling over and clutching their stomach at the force of their laughter. "What?" Jason's eye twitched.

Dick put a hand on Jason's shoulder, which he side-eyed with distaste. "It's okay if you are, Little wing, I'm sure trying to look out for you and make sure you're safe."

"Dick, I'm not-"

"I see the way you keep glancing at the corner of rooms, the way you can't help but smile at the weirdest times- and the way you helped with that case a while back?"

Jason winced. He didn't want Bruce to bring it up. There was a boy who had been murdered by a bunch of predators after being raped by all of them. Jason had asked the boy for his help. He had agreed. They had got the guys. Dick wasn't supposed to ask Jason how he knew the things he shouldn't've.

"You knew everything about that kid, everything that happened to him. I know that isn't normal. I think you're internalising people's issues and projecting them into existence."

"That's the stupidest thing that's ever come out of your mouth," Jason deadpanned. He ran a hand down his face. "Look, Dick, I'm not schizophrenic."

"Yes, Jay, you are," Dick said eloquently.

Jason groaned. He slumped back on the couch. "No, I'm not. I can see dead people."

It was Dick's turn to stare. He blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

Jason sighed. He pressed the tips of his fingers into his eyes. "Because I died, I can now see, touch and talk to dead people."

"But-" Dick's mind was running 40 miles a minute, faster than he could comprehend. "But I've died before and I can't-"

"No, you can't." Jason shook his head. "But you died after I did. I was never supposed to be able to communicate with the dead, but I can and I'm the only one and I need you to not freak out about this and tell me it's all in my head."

Jason closed his eyes. He heard Martha move, felt her grab his hand. "Because they can't be fake," Jason whispered, gripping Martha's fingers tightly. "I need them to be real, Dick. They're all I have left."

Dick shifted on the couch. And then he was hugging Jason. Dick was hugging him and Martha let go so Jason could hug his brother. "I believe you," Dick whispered into Jason's shoulder. Jason's fingers tightened on the back of Dick's jacket.

"I believe you, Jay. I always will, okay? I always will."

And that was that. Dick knew. Jason did his best to introduce him to Martha, Thomas and Rhune. Dick was a bit awkward and he didn't know where to look but he kept his eyes on Jason, watched his baby brother smile and laugh for the first time in a long time. He didn't fully believe it all but he knew more than anyone how fucked the world was and he wouldn't put it past someone to let this happen. Besides, Jason needed this and anything Jason needed, Dick would burn the whole world down to get it.

[persoj]

Been a while - Steph's turn.

That poor girl. We see her openly friends with Max - imagine, you make friends with this nerdy guy - this guy who your other friends hates, like, literally wants him dead - and the next thing you know, you're friends with all of his nerd friends too. And suddenly, suddenly- you're in the Waylon Place. Because you're pulling a prank, you're sticking up for your new friends against their bully - and something goes wrong - and now your friend, the guy who was just about to protect you from some ghosts is DEAD, that's a fence poking through his CHEST-

(I apologise for my overuse of hyphens but they're my favourite punctuation mark.)

Then imagine you've finally relaxed. The guilt has been haunting you, sure - but life's pretty calm now. People are actually happy, and maybe- maybe you did a good thing? Maybe it's okay? And then one of your new friends dies. Your football team loses the game because YOU assisted in your FRIEND'S DEATH. Can you imagine the guilt she felt? And she couldn't talk to Solomon about it, how could she? He already thought she was crazy over her phone, can you imagine how crazy he'd think she is if she said that some nerd died and she actually cared? He'd probably say she's just trying to use it as an excuse for bad grades! And then your other friend dies! This little weirdo who said she was in love with you just because you were kind to her once - you know that that girl never had the chance to experience a proper relationship. One where she was cared for, and valued. And you know that she saw that in you. And oh god, she saw that in you. And you treat her like shit. And now she's dead. Oh god.

And then- then she finds out her dad is working with literal Gods. Gods who rule over Hatchetfield. And she gets ZERO time to process that before her dad DIES. His assistant DIES. She sees Miss Tessburger's HEAD. Can you imagine how gory that must have been in real life? And, considering Solomon was the mayor of Hatchetfield, can you imagine how many cameras were being shoved into her face from every angle? How many questions she was being asked with no one there to guide her through them anymore? And sure, Solomon was a dick, but he was still her dad - she probably still cared about him. And Miss Tessburger, as much as she was annoying, seemed like she was a constant presence. So it's safe to assume Steph notices that she's gone too.

Can you imagine how quiet her house must have been? How she would've gone from a loud, constantly yelling environment to sudden silence? How quiet it must've been for all of them? Grace would've isolated herself at church after seeing the demon she became, she'd never talk to anyone there again. Pete's used to being ranted at about Evangelion and Star Wars in the hallways, and now- now it's just quiet. No fear, because he doesn't have to run from Max - but he misses it weirdly, because at least it wasn't quiet when Max bullied him. Steph's used to Solomon constantly yelling, Miss Tessburger constantly making snide remarks - so the house is quiet for the first time in years, and it's weird. Really weird. The silence is almost deafening.

And then she's in her new relationship with Pete. And it's great, Pete's a great guy, a helpful guy - but their relationship relies purely on their pain. If all of that hadn't happened with Max, if Solomon hadn't gotten mad about the phone, if Richie and Ruth hadn't pushed Pete - their whole relationship is a reminder of the trauma they've been through. They either grow extremely close and co-dependent or their relationship ends in the most explosive way possible. No in between. I love them, but they're so doomed. Poor kids.

People who talk about the nerdy prudes not mourning Richie and Ruth annoy me sm. Like yes, their friends died, but also - they were going through an EXTREMELY traumatic time. They'd just MURDERED someone for God's sake. They can't process trauma properly. Yes, it's not healthy, but it's more than likely that they were all suppressing it because they physically didn't have time to process it. They had to worry about Max, about Grace, about the fact that their friends were being murdered- they couldn't mourn because they had to constantly be vigilant and worry about 'am I next, am I next, am I next' and whether they were going to get arrested or not. People fail to realise that they were literally on the run. And they were seeing shit that was barely within their comprehension - Steph, Pete and Grace all met FIVE GODS! And if Ted's religious (Presbyterian or whatever he says) then it's likely Pete is too, so it's entirely justified to think that Pete and Grace have both just had their entire sense of faith crushed before their eyes. And if Tinky already had Ted in the Bastard's Box, then Pete's also just been forced to see his (missing/assumed dead) brother. Steph's just found out that her dad is involved with five Gods who created Hatchetfield and who want her to KILL the guy she loves - there are lots of big emotions happening and NONE of them are going to be able to process their grief or ANYTHING properly because their lives are actively falling apart around them. I personally think the reason Grace goes over to the LiB so easily is because she needs something to put her faith in again. She can't cope without the concept of God ("DO SOMETHING YOU SON OF A BITCH" - A line I will never understand why people laugh at) and she needs to find something to fall back on.

I just. Idk. Grief is a big thing and trauma is a big thing and trauma and grief are a terrible mix that means you process neither thing properly.

People also aren't tapping into the ability to make a hurt/comfort fic with all this. Like - imagine Grace, Pete and Steph just having a sleepover and talking about all of it. Getting out all their big emotions. Supporting each other. It'd be so nice 🥺.

But yeah. Don't get me started on people using it as justification to go 'LOOK THEY WEREN'T FRIENDS BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T MOURN'. They couldn't!!

[ultraviolencecunt]

For all those girls who always loved a powerful figure with an immense amount of money in their lifetime, who would also do anything for them. Even kill.

Part 1

A/N: Here's part two as promised. Enjoy <333

Trigger warnings: Blood and lots of it, slight blood kink, pinv, murder mentioned, overprotective gojo, men whimpering, degradation kink, praise kink, slight breeding kink, self harm mentioned, make sure to read part 1 to understand the situation better, size kink, rough sex, not proofread. Again, read at your own risk.

I look at his eyes, searching for anything, denial or remorse, but all i see is a deadly amount of lust and admiration.

I kiss him with so much force that I am surprised . I grab him by his collar as our Bodies slam against each other and blood smears around my body as well, I feel a wetness pool between my legs as I let him kiss my neck and my Collar bone.

I moan while clutching his frosty light hair, that only seems to fuel him to go much harsher and harder.

“I have been dreaming to do this to you, baby.” He says against my breast and it takes a swift moment to leave My top on the top of the blood of that bitch. Fuck her, she got what she fucking deserved and i don't even feel a single amount of remorse Towards her.

He leaves wet and sloppy Kisses over both of my breasts as if he misses them forever.

“I need you, y/n so much that it hurts.” He says while looking at me As he's on his knees below me, having such a powerful man below me on his knees is making me feel things i never knew i could feel ever. he leaves featherlight kisses on my stomach as he takes my pyjama's down, revealing my scars that i started doing since i was 13. i Realised it Now that her separated parts of legs also have an insane amount of Cut Marks as slices across the skin.

he probably knew I also did it with a knife as well.

“Saw you clutching the knife like your life depended on it, that's when I called you.” He says as he sees me stare at the dead body. Faint memory covers my head like fog.

I pull him with his hair as I slam my lips against him hard, making him almost Whimper.

I take his shirt off only to reveal His chiselled abs and his biceps make me go all wet. His fluffy shuffled hair from my pulls isn't helping to control myself either. I am all in flames as he takes his pants off, only leaving him in his overly expensive sunspels' boxers.

“Take it off” I say against his lips as we both hurry. Like I am a bitch in Heat and I need him right here right now.

He takes off his boxer as I stare at His rock hard groin like i have never seen dick before. Surely not as big as he is, it's probably like at least 8 inches. How's that thing is supposed to fucking fit?

“It will fit. I will make it fit.” He says as if he reads my thoughts only by looking at my face.

He slides two fingers first making me groan since I haven't had sex for almost 2 years now but however masturbation sessions are a different story.

“Fuck youre so tight, love” he says as He pulls out his fingers which are glistening in my wetness and he takes no time to suck it off.

“You taste so sweet baby.” He says while I only stare at him while he makes Sure to maintain eye contact. The room smells like him and blood and maybe a little bit of myself.

Without any warning he slams right onto me as I let out a scream against his mouth only to be muffled by his ruthless Yet needy kisses.

He fucking whimpers as he moves a little bit to make him fit inside me while i am all on my tears.

“Fuck baby don't you cry, but i realised i do love making you cry like this.” He chuckles and it only seems to unfold a bitch in heat in me even more. He kisses me so hard that I taste blood, and he smears a little bit of blood from my lips across my tits as they are rock hard. He sucks on it while slamming into me as I let out the loudest moan that I have ever moaned. His insanely big cock is visible inside me as a little bump is created in my lower tummy. Everytime he slams into me I feel like my guts are being rearranged and it's the best feeling ever.

Like I am chasing something so powerful and strong that I feel like it might break me to pieces.

He's fucking me like a beast while devouring me,

“Do you want me to fuck a baby in you so bad huh? You're such a slut for me, aren't you? Hm?” He says behind my ears as he pulls my hair to look into my eyes.

“You can take it. You are doing so good for me baby, do you know that pretty girl? “ He says as he licks my tears. I kiss him as his rocking hips add up with one hand on my hips, lifting me entirely and the other one on the little bump now.

“Do you feel me here? In your womb” he chuckles, and that hand is located at my neck next,

“Say my name baby, who are you a good Girl for, hm?” He says as he looks so much with something I don't know.

“you, Satoru!” I scream as our wet, blood covered bodies are against each other, minds so full of lust.

“I could and would kill for you any day, y/n. You're mine to fuck, mine to protect, mine to love and admire. You understand? Anyone else touching you would equivalent in them being dead and me fucking you in with their blood, its not a threat but a promise.” He says as I feel my entire body Crashing against him as my hips shake and so does my legs. He still slams into me until I am filled with nothing but him. His cum drips down to my thigh as he carries me from the soundproof basement , leaving that bitch's body here. He has men who would take care of the body for him.

He lays me down into his bed as i am still wondering how he can walk after fucking me like that. He turns on the shower as he washes the blood, the sins from both of our bodies. And i just realised that,

I might have just fallen in love with him.

[limitedattennaspam]

Yellow Pages

Reader x Mr 'Ant' Tenna

(also on AO3, if you wouldn't mind tossing a kudo my way)

You, a 'Lightner', were pulled into the Dark World. Just for an hour the first time, but thankfully not the last. This 'TV World' was a dream-come-true for Luddites such as yourself. Oh, and the inhabitants were also kind of interesting, one more so than the others.

“And so then, this guy tries to say I should cover it under their warranty!”

The man - if that was an accurate descriptor for the person sitting across from you - roared with laughter. “He. Did. Not!”

“He did!” You reached for your glass of mysterious liquid. Whatever it was, it was highly intoxicating and made the hair stand up from your arms, like walking near a severed power line.

“Penny-pinching bastards.” Tenna shook his head slowly in amusement, taking another swig from his oversized glass. “Lightners did run some very strange commercials.” He tilted his glass in your direction. “I saw the ones Legal rejected, oodles of them, and they all ended with the same phrase: ‘call toll-free 1-800’. Folks could hardly tell ‘em apart. Which one did you have in mind?”

You let out an amused snort. “I wasn't going any more out of my way for this guy; I decided to laugh in his face and say the warranty must’ve expired decades ago.” You realized you’d made a mistake when that energetic - and apparently literally ‘award winning’ - smile froze completely motionless.

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

It had been - without a shadow of a doubt - the single weirdest service call you’d ever heard, let alone been on. You’d gotten up to answer the phone one evening. “Yello?” you’d asked, cradling the receiver between your head and shoulder in order to idly thumb through an old appliance manual snagged at a garage sale the other day.

“‘Ello, luv. I’m sorry to call you last-minute, but I’m in dire need of a repair technician, y’see.” Though the call wasn’t the greatest quality, you’d picked up a distinct British accent coming from the other end.

“Ah, sorry, house visits only. Shipment is too risky for older devices. No exceptions.” You’d bring the equipment back home with you if absolutely necessary, but you didn’t trust delivery drivers. Just how they’d managed to destroy that solder kit was beyond you. Never again.

The caller laughed, “Don’t tell my boss that; ol’ Tenna very much prefers the word ‘vintage’. A specialist is what I need, and your reviews on Yelp were immaculate. It’s just he can get a bit sparky at times, if’n y’know what I mean.”

Well that was a relief, constantly worrying that some of your clients were a bit more ‘eccentric’ than the average Joe. You seemed to have a knack for winning them over, though. Hobbyist solidarity, you supposed. “Still...” Having to turn down such a polite person blows; you’d only refused service from the snootiest ‘collectors’.

“Travel’s a bit much, innit? Don’t fret, hon, we’ll be coverin’ that, too.”

“Really?” Buses were so expensive though, and what if the distance warranted a flight? No way you were any kind of famous. Besides, you’d only posted your services on local platforms, specifically to avoid this kind of thing.

“I’ll give you the quick run-down when you get here, then,” they said in obvious relief, “Ta!”

“Wait, you haven’t even given me an add-” But the line had gone dead. Huh. They’d seemed so serious that you’d decided to play along with the prank call, growing increasingly doubtful about if it even was a prank. Whoever that was - you hadn’t caught their name, either - was pretty creative. What the heck kind of name was ‘Tenna’? Maybe you just mis-heard them.

Tomorrow was a busy day, jam-packed with shopping runs; high-quality replacement parts might mean no repeat business, but the satisfaction of restoring a ‘hopelessly broken’ ‘piece of junk’ to full functionality was worth more to you than the money. ‘They just don’t make ‘em like they used to’, and all that.

A mug of hot tea sounded like the perfect accompaniment to your newfound prize. Crossing the room toward your kitchen, you heard the unmistakeable click-hum of a CRT turning on. Usually you only plugged things in to test them, how unlike you to have forgotten. When you reached the outlet, you saw that nothing was plugged in at all, and wasn’t that the one with a completely mangled power cord anyway? The light overhead flickered, stove clock resetting from the brief loss of power, before shutting off with a ‘pop’ that you sincerely hoped wasn’t fried wiring.

Severely confused, as there had been no storm of any kind, you opened your front door to see if the neighbors had been hit as well. You didn’t see anything amiss.

You didn’t see anything at all.

A quick scrub of your eyes revealed no change. Had you gone blind? You could see the faint outlines of your furniture back inside, lit by the LEDs of your assorted projects. Some had been completely disassembled, but every unit to have a display was lit up; you knew the location and status of each one precisely.

You still couldn’t see anything past the door, and after continuing to stare, you didn’t even experience the phantom flashes that accompanied cave darkness.

First one step, then another. Your foot hovered in the air, bracing to see if your stairs were just as you remembered them. It met no resistance initially, and you sighed in relief.

But no impact came, encountering none of the ledges adorning the front of your house.

“W-what?” You were plummeting through space, no wind rushing past you, but definitely falling all the same.

Unsure of such things as ‘up’ or ‘down’ or even ‘how far have I fallen’, you were on the verge of true panic when a sense of impending arrival swept over you.

You were standing, on what that surface was, you weren’t quite sure. Something about your surroundings twisted unsettlingly, unnaturally, and your senses came flooding back.

Everything looked normal, familiar even, what seemed to be some kind of office space. The ceilings were terrifyingly high, though.

A rather short man started talking from just beside you, when had he gotten there, had he been there all along?

“Mr Tenna’s working himself into a right state, ain’t he? Please,” he gestured ahead, saying your name, “follow me, quicklike.”

Obediently, and more than a little confused, you trotted after the man. Short, stocky, bushy purple hair - nothing particularly unusual there - but his face and exposed skin had a strange sheen to it, reminding you of plastic left out in the sunshine a little too long. The eyes, clearly weary from this ‘state’ that his ‘Mr. Tenna’ was in, also looked a little off, deep-set and dark without being sunken.

“Excuse me, but -” That was the same name given during that phone call, just now. They couldn’t be connected, could they? “- I didn’t catch your name. What happened, how did I get here?”

“Blimey,” he laughed, running his hand through his hair in embarrassment, “you must be right gobsmacked about now. You’re in the Dark World, and this here’s TV City. Name’s Ramb; it’s an emergency and you’re my last chance, the only one I could find.”

You silently mouthed the unfamiliar phrases, trying to make sense of them. These were places?

Ramb continued to explain, still not making a lick of sense. ‘Lightner’? ‘Real, but not in the same way’? It was made even more difficult to understand by a commotion echoing down the hall.

“Okay, sure, I get it,” you fibbed, “but what kind of ‘emergency’ involves dragging me out of my house?” That you’d exited freely and of your own volition was hardly important. The shouting was getting louder, and though you couldn’t make out the words yet, it sounded distinctly displeased. “Don’t you have some kind of in-house maintenance? Tech suppor-”

You and Ramb rounded the corner and about collided face-first with an incredibly shiny belt buckle, looking like a stylized TV. You could see your face in it and slowly tipped your head back, now aware of the source of the overly loud and far-too-exuberant-for-this-late-in-the-day voice. “- before our ratings come crashing down as well, haha!”

What in the heck? The one standing in front of you made your guide look normal by comparison - two, if not three, times your height and clad in a flamboyantly red suit with long tails flared out. What was truly weird wasn’t the man’s insane proportions, but the structure of his face: he seemed to be wearing a box on his head, one shaped like a TV, except the TV was on, and the bunny-ear antennae mounted on top were twitching in an agitated pattern as if they were alive, and there was a very large nose protruding from the screen, and also a mouth, and -

He hadn’t noticed you yet, finishing calling instructions to some unseen employee in a cheery yet menacing tone.

“Excuse me,” you repeated, starting to get fed up with being told nothing actually useful, “I’d kind of like some answers, if you people don’t mind.”

“Not now, can’t you see I’m a little busy?” His jaw was clenched as he turned to face you fully, somehow furrowing nonexistent brows in mild confusion. This man has no eyes.

He bent down for a closer look at you and frowned, evidently not liking what he saw. “Ramb!” The massive TV swiveled to the side, addressing the man beside you, “I thought I told you to find me an expert. What is a Lightner doing on my set!?”

Ramb took two casual steps forward and shrugged, hands stuffed in his pockets and body angled back to meet his boss's stare in a practiced pose. “Just doing what y’ asked, Tenna.”

‘Tenna’. There the name was again. This must be that ‘sparky’ boss you’d been warned of, that apparently needed a ‘repair technician’.

“So what exactly am I doing here? No offense,” you shrugged apologetically to your guide, “but you’ve told me like literally nothing.” They couldn’t possibly... Those solder fumes must have built up, you thought, covertly pinching your arm hard for the dozenth time. Owch! You had ruled out dreaming, but it could still be a hallucination. Perhaps all the toxic gases you’ve breathed in over the years had finally reached critical levels...

“Great. Just great.” White-gloved hand on his hip, Tenna continued to glare at you, and then you saw it: his screen jittered, irregular patches glowing and dimming in rapid pace.

“In here,” he barked, shoving open the nearest door and ducking inside with a stride longer than you were tall.

You looked at Ramb, silently pleading. An out, encouragement, advice...

The - you suddenly realized what his face reminded you of, an electrical socket. At least your hallucination was consistent with its imagery - hapless worker just gave yet another shrug, an unspoken ‘What can you do?’, and jerked his head towards the door.

Seemingly with no other choice, you stepped into a richly decorated office. It should have been too much - the red, the gold, the shameless quantity of posters with a grinning TV face on it - but somehow it all blended together nicely.

Must be an executive office, pretty swanky if you said so yourself.

Ramb closed the door behind you, standing in front of it with arms folded. Was he keeping other employees from barging in, or you from leaving?

More amd more unsettled by the second, you turned to Mr Tenna pacing angrily across the room. He was snarling quietly with a staticky whine overlaying the highly creative imprecations.

You took in a deep breath, determined to resolve the core of this hallucination so your awareness could return home to your nice comfy bed. “I demand an explanation! Why did you bring me here?” You didn't care if people would comment on how rude you were being, they started it. Blunt and to the point was the only way forward.

The man paused, pivoting on one foot to face you. His glitching screen was getting worse, either because he was losing composure or because the error was compounding. Probably both.

His large shoulders were tense and he gestured to his face with a sharp motion. “I want you to find whatever’s wrong and fix it!”

Yikes. Sadly, you were used to client outbursts like this. “You don’t know what’s wrong? Can’t you just have your assistants take a look at it?”

“They. Made. It. Worse.” Even without eyes to complete an expression, you could tell your questions were only pissing off the already-agitated ‘Mr Tenna’. The projection of his teeth was gritted, and was that a tic flashing at the upper right corner of his screen?

“Understood. I’m just trying to figure out everything that led up to now.” You held your hands up, hoping he could see the calming gesture. 

“Oh, peachy!” Tenna swung an arm dramatically to gesture towards the hall door. “Some good-for-nothing stage hand didn't follow safety procedures for the ‘Scrub In’ physical challenge and an axe nearly chopped one of my dear contestant's hand off. Lucky miss, otherwise we'd need to cut to an early commercial break, ha!”

He crossed his arms in front of him, fingers and one gleaming yellow shoe tapping in rapid tempo. “Hit me instead, which was simplicity itself to play off.” The beat faltered briefly, hastening to reassure himself - not that you really cared one way or the other - of the show host’s competence before bouncing in place. “O-of course I did, and the audience loved it! Fun Meter through the roof!”

“Hit you?” Better not have been the blades end, nothing you could do about a shattered casing. “In the head?”

Multicolored error screen flashing briefly as he shook his head to clear it told you more than words ever could.

Damaged head. Head was a CRT television. You restored equipment just like that. Ergo, they called you.

“I’ve never-” You chewed on your lip; the usual service reassurance spiel would definitely come across as an insult. “I’ll definitely do my best, but you are still a little-” For emphasis, you held your index finger and thumb slightly apart, “-bit past my usual field, and I don’t want to hurt you by accident.”

Oh man, you’d kill for a quick scan of this guy’s manual. Like, actually commit homicide to get your hands on it. Sadly, you couldn't control this hallucination any more than you could lucid dream.

“Damn you, Ramb!” His gloved fist rattled the nearby desk with a frustrated pound. “Can’t you do anything r-” He cut the sentence short with another snarled curse; the room was completely empty, a door slamming far down the hall the only hint you hadn’t been alone not 15 seconds ago.

Palm now pressing flat against the poor abused furniture, Tenna dug at the side panel of his head with a free hand and groaned, “Damn it all, I can’t go on stage like this, my audience will-” He didn’t finish the thought, and didn’t seem to want to, slumping wearily against the desk - if it wasn’t his, you’d eat your left shoe.

“I- um.” How were you supposed to go about this? “I could take a look?” Please say yes. “Just see if something got knocked loose?” An unwilling visit to this ‘Dark World’ would be more than worth it if you could only catch a glimpse of how this guy ticked. Just one little peek.

Tenna didn’t respond, had he even heard you? Just before the silence became too awkward, his display flickered again, mouth glitching back and forth across the screen before reshaping with a frown. “Yeah.” His antennae drooped in resignation. “I mean, ‘yes’. After all, the show must go on! Can’t disappoint my fans over something so inconsequential!”

A confident smile brightened his screen, looking around the office with renewed purpose. “Ah, yes, perfect!”

He stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk, roughly shoving already-messy stacks of paper to the floor and flopping roughly into a fancy office swivel chair. “Right, how about this?” One extraordinarily long leg crossed casually over the other and Tenna nodded expectantly towards his cleared desk. “You should be able to reach, ah, me if you stand here.”

Now this was novel. Usually you'd have spare and disassembled parts strewn across a desk or table. Despite being used to carrying heavy loads by yourself, you barely managed to pull yourself onto the cleared surface.

The two of you stared in awkward silence, broken by the soft creak of the chair spinning around. Even seated, Tenna still had to tilt his head down slightly for you to even see.

“What the-” You whispered, stunned by the sight before you. “Who in the fuck did your cable management!?” The wires practically called to you, fingers itching to yank them all out and rearrange them in a neat, tidy, and enticing arrangement. Five minutes. Just five minutes alone and uninterrupted with the equivalent of his set-up guide, and you could die happy.

The man underneath your light touch jerked, a full-body twitch, though whether it was from perceived insult or your imminent handling of the literal inside of his head wasn’t immediately obvious.

Various electrical cords tightened like muscle contractions, confirming your theory that every part of him was alive.

An actual tech support staff member would have nightmares if they could see this. Everything was in perfect condition, but twisted and tangled beyond belief. Ramb had summoned you for a visual glitch; you weren't here as an electrician, so the danger of wires rubbing and frying until the delicate cores were exposed wasn't your concern.

Or so you kept telling yourself.

You swallowed, mouth bone-dry from nervousness. “Okay, uh, try to relax?”

“Easy for you to say.”

Yeah, it really did sound like a stupid question. You bit your lip, deciding to take a huge gamble. ‘All in on red’, you slowly rested your palms on hunched shoulders.

Tenna flinched again, but you deliberately ignored it. Couldn't have him jostling around when you were literally digging inside his head. Not that you weren't sympathetic, but your task would be borderline impossible if he was touch averse.

“It's okay, I'll be gentle.” You gradually pressed the balls of your thumbs into the fabric between his shoulders, rubbing firm circles as your fingers similarly kneaded beside his clavicle.

It felt... Normal? Every inch of this unusual TV-headed figure was covered, yet there was a definite muscle-bone structure beneath that suit.

“But I'll need you to tell me if I've touched anything I shouldn't, or if it starts to hurt.” So much more of a mess back there than you expected; your memory was hardly photographic, but you'd long ago committed television layout to memory. That didn’t mean you weren’t still a little nervous as your hand returned to the back of Tenna’s head.

With neither a manual, camera, nor informant to describe in perfect detail, you were loathe to unhook more than one cable at a time.

Fingers drifted across tangled wires, ‘seeing’ their paths more through touch than by sight. Nothing was labeled - unsurprising - but several of the ports were as familiar to you as family. Perhaps they even were by now.

You gently tapped one such recognizable outlet. “I think I found our culprit. Is this one okay to unplug?”

Tenna shuddered, stifling a groan. “Yes...”

Though the jack matched perfectly, as if made for each other, it wasn't seated correctly. It came loose with a slight wiggle, and the man whimpered.

You grimaced; this had to be highly uncomfortable for him. “Looks like it's visual output.” You tried to peer around and check his screen but he was too large, and you didn't want to lean on him any more than you already were. His screen’s glow had dimmed, but the glitching was definitely hardware based, not something a reboot could fix.

What did ‘reboot’ mean, in this guy's context?

Tracing the offending port’s outline, you wished you had a penlight on you. “It wasn't mounted correctly; I'm going to take a closer look.” You waited for a response. Oh God, what if you broke him? “Um, Mr. Tenna, sir?” Over-the-top professionalism had yet to fail you.

“Mmm?”

Okay. Not dead. Dazed still wasn't a good sign. You placed one hand on his shoulder and the other on the top of his casing, plotting the erratic motion of the antennae, and squinted.

Aha, there you are, you naughty little thing.

“Brace yourself.” You angled your finger inside the socket and pried at the bent pin until it looked no different from its fellows. Forcing yourself to ignore the sudden gasp, you slotted the plug back in and traced around the connector, checking for any gap. “There! That oughta do it!” Another job well done.

“Oh.” For someone so opposed to your having been there in the first place, he sure sounded pretty disappointed.

You hopped down from the desk and dusted off your hands, more out of habit than anything; there hadn’t been a mote of dust on those jumbled cords. “Well?” The chair still hadn’t spun back around, and didn’t move when you walked around to face its occupant.

His hands were clenching the fabric of his pants, sure to leave horrendous wrinkles, and shaking slightly.

“Are...” you dragged the word out, concern growing, “Are you alright, Mr. Tenna?”

He wasn’t looking up, a vivid red tint to his screen. “I. Um.”

You really hoped it wasn’t a display error. Probably just being embarrassed at having needed help, nothing out of the ordinary there.

“I’m f-fine.”

You don’t sound ‘fine’.

He cleared his throat... somehow. Maybe there’s a manual in his desk.

“Yes! Fine! Never better! Commercial break’s almost over, gotta go!” Shooting to his feet, Tenna stumbled toward the door. “I’ll-tell-Ramb-to-send-you-back-to-the-Light-World-bye!” And just like that, he was gone.

The hell was that about? You didn’t feel like standing alone in the gargantuan empty office

It was finally your turn to head to the hallway, wondering where to start exploring. This hallucination - or illusion, or fantasy, whatever it exactly was - had so much detail that you wondered what else it had in store for you.

Just one step out the door and the lights flicked out, leaving you in total darkness, sputtering back to life to illuminate your cluttered living room.

You’d- A TV had literally just asked you to fix it. And not like those stupid new fancy ‘smart appliance’ gimmicks. The marks on your arm from your attempts to pinch yourself awake made for a compelling argument that no, the previous night hour had not been a dream.

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

“Um, Mr. Ant Tenna?”

Though he had no eyes, you’d been working with - well, technically ‘on’ - him for long enough to get a pretty good feel for where the entertainer was looking. And right now...

Nothing.

Some people might’ve resorted to a bit of ‘percussive maintenance’ - just because older models were way more durable than the new fancy wastes of silicon, it was still a good way of breaking something delicate inside - but smacking somebody upside the head was generally a pretty bad idea. You could fix busted electronics easily enough, but the guy clearly needed a therapist right now, not an unorthodox doctor.

Giving it exactly zero thought, you stood up and stepped around the table to flop roughly down on the sofa next to the much-larger figure, somehow managing not to spill a drop of your drink on him. “Warranties are a scam anyway, that’s what I tell anyone who’s concerned enough to ask. As long as you take proper care of it, the classics never get old.” That actually reminded you...

“Back in the ‘Light World’, I’d seen a set as nice as yours this one time, I think the owner did carpentry or something? Had it mounted in this detailed cabinet, said it was mahogany, with a super elaborate sound system.” You idly played with the loosened tie spilling across his chest, wondering what material it was made out of. “Funny, I can’t remember a damned thing about the client, come to think of it, just how nice of a setup they had...” Your voice trailed off, sneaking a peek at Tenna’s face. His expression had unfrozen back to neutral, and the display had started to brighten. Definitely a sign to keep going.

“That’s what makes a successful game show, someone who stands out from the crowd, who’s memorable.” You gave the yellow tie, now wrapped around your fingers, a light tug. “The host being total eye candy certainly doesn’t hurt.” Okay, maybe that was crossing a line. He wasn’t your boss, because this was just a profitable hobby, but he was still paying you and client-repairman was only a few steps up from being a total stranger.

“Uh, really sorry about that.” A blush rose on your cheeks, only mostly from embarrassment; you’d just realized you were practically in his lap.

Your drink finally spilled, falling over the moment you practically threw it onto the coffee table in your scramble to get back to your chair, or perhaps out the door in shame.

Sofa springs and frame creaked, an unnatural sound reaching your ears. “W̗͈ͨ͡͡A͖̘̽́͘Iͬ͜͏̥T̖̋̆͘͞.ͯͭ͟͏̩” The noise made you freeze, some primal instinct firing off deep within, resonating from back when humans had yet to reach top of the food chain.

You stood up all the way before turning just in time to see a broad outstretched hand curl into a tight fist, trembling slightly before falling limply to his side.

“You’re drunk.” Tenna’s head leaned so far over the sofa’s back you could barely see his face. What you could see, however, was the heat haze emitted from his vents with that derisive scoff. “You’re just saying that.”

Blinking, own head tilted slightly, you mulled over the sudden shift in mood. These beings, these ‘Darkners’, they weren’t human, definitely not physically. But they were still very much people, each an individual with their own hopes and fears, wants and needs, joys and sorrows.

You sat back down with a carefree shrug, pretending as though it wasn’t a big deal and that you definitely hadn’t heard the panic and desperation in Tenna’s staticky plea. The fabric under your crossed leg made a soft ‘shff’ sound, sinking deeper as the television gradually shrunk at the sofa's far end. “Not as much as you are. ‘Sides, it’s true.”

“I know what you do in the Light World,” he snapped, still refusing to look at you, “Your job-”

“Hobby,” you correct him firmly, nudging the side of his leg with an outstretched foot. “It’s a hobby that I do for fun. Ramb can’t even pay me in Light World currency; I only take his calls because I like seeing your shows and all the backstage magic that goes into broadcasting them.”

He heard you, but was refusing to either look your way or listen. “‘Hobby’. I guess that makes it all fine and dandy, doesn’t it?” It wasn’t a tone you’d heard before, not from him. Bitter. Resentful, even. This made you more than a little annoyed, realizing it must be one of the performer’s famous ‘moods’ you’d heard so much about, though some had gone so far as to impolitely use the term ‘tantrum’.

Navigating emotionally-charged social interactions was not your strong suit, but such a petulant outburst seemed like it would fit a diva straight out of Hollywood rather than this Darkner. Tenna continued in a voice almost as black as the Fountain propping up this section of the world. “You think it’s ‘fun’ to visit other Lightners’ houses, ogling all their newer possessions while you deign to keep the older ones on l̩̄͟ḯ͏͇f̵͙ͨę̭̔ ̠̄͝s͈̒̀ṷ̢͖̌͒̀p̦̽͝p̲̎͞o̶̪ͪr̸̂ͅẗ̡̗́?” Again, your brain struggled with the alien-sounding words, narrowing down the possibilities from context.

Ohh boy. You’d just stepped into one hell of a minefield. And, from what you’d begun to figure out of this world’s Rules, it could very literally become just such a hazard.

From what you’d seen, Darkners were very much aware and accepting of the fact they were metaphysical representations of objects in your world, in your layer of reality. Somehow, that made it even harder to reconcile their oxymoronic bilocation: the same entity, in two places at once, a household appliance there, a sapient being with personhood here. You didn’t know where Tenna’s reflection back home was, and it really honestly didn’t matter to you.

“I can’t exactly hold a conversation with them like I can you. It’d be one-sided to the extreme, and I already risk people thinking I’m ‘weird’.”

“All it would take is just one Fountain of Darkness in the area and you won't have that problem anymore! You can move on to someone more relevant, one of those ‘Livestream’ Darkners I’ve heard so much about, no more of those outdated reruns I’ve been forced to air.”

You didn't think it would be helpful to correct Tenna that you had no idea how Dark Fountains were created, nor had you met anyone who'd heard of such a thing. Not that you'd been asking around or anything, that would also flag you as weird. “That would be some completely different Darkner, right?” Oh hell, you hoped so, being wrong might cause him to spiral further. Another ‘Tenna’ still wouldn’t be the ‘Tenna’ you knew. The very notion that he could be supplanted, just like that, was utterly laughable!

“So? They’re newer. Flashier.” You could almost see his Volume level ticking down. “...not glooby.”

“They don’t interest me, though. Never have. They’re pieces of garbage; why do you think I’ve had so many people requesting my services if they could just buy some shiny new toy?” You dared to slide a little closer, taking note of the single antenna twitching in your direction. At least he’d stopped changing size. “Overpriced plastic bricks, designed to break in less than a year just so people have to keep buying new ones, shelling out the big bucks. People missing ‘the old days’ aren’t just emotionally nostalgic. Devices from your era-” You were close enough now to poke him in the side. Which you of course had to do, because why not. “-didn’t break unless someone beat the crap out of it, or it had a factory defect.” One more little scoot and you could reach his face. Poking time!

“And you-” You’d fielded many complaints about a ‘broken’ set, making the owner’s skin tingle when they leaned in too close. Most didn’t believe you after you informed them that meant it was working correctly. That familiar and comforting buzz greeted you now, pushing your index finger against the large screen and smirking. Its texture was unusual, somewhere between smooth glass and malleable flesh.

“-are not-” Poke.

“-defective!” You kept prodding the screen, demanding a response in the most annoying fashion you knew.

His arm snapped around, grabbing onto your wrist and locking it in place.

Fortunately, you had a second arm and waggled all your fingers directly in front of Tenna’s face. “I’m not gonna stop until I hear you say it.” He’d have to sit up and and make direct - well, not ‘eye contact’, but close enough - or else you’d find out how sensitive that screen really was. “Say it,” you said firmly. “Say ‘I am not defective’.” Adding in a much more lighthearted tone, “I swear I’m going to tickle you if you don’t.”

His antennae drooped in what appeared to be resignation this time, muttering so quietly you could barely make out any words over the residual static.

“Your volume buttons are right there.” Also within poking distance. They looked like they’d make a satisfying ‘click’, too. Okay, now you absolutely needed to try! Your index finger extended, tracing slow circles in the air, wondering how much it would take to make him crack.

“I said, ‘I’m not defective’!” Not letting go of your wrist, Tenna bolted upright and away from your threatening hand, antenna rigidly twitching in panic. “Mike, replay that clip!”

Old habits sure did die hard. You could only grin cheekily. “And I'd know! ‘Hobby for fun’, remember?”

He glanced down at where an immaculately-white uniformed glove encircled not just your wrist but most of your forearm, screen tinting faintly pink in embarrassment. Movements jerky, clearly not sure how to react to your authoritative - you were an expert, after all - claim, Tenna loosened one finger at a time, pulling his arm away jerkily, as if not knowing what to do with his limbs, and draped it awkwardly over the back of the sofa.

You pressed your advantage, sliding over so your legs were almost - but not quite - touching. What you weren't expecting was to slip those last few inches down the divot the much larger TV host left in the cushion with a nervous cough and blush of your own.

“So, ah.” He was doing that thing, it always annoyed you to see on someone, where they were pointedly not looking at you but still trying to. “Y-you...” Tenna gulped nervously.

You knew what he was going to ask, and completely understood that he was almost too afraid of your answer to speak at all. You waited, giving what you hoped was a pleasant expression with reassuringly raised eyebrows.

“Meant... it?” So much doubt. A ray of fear. Small cracks of hope.

“Ding ding ding, we have ourselves a winner!” You beamed, trying your hardest to mimic your- The thought ground to a halt with cartoonishly squealing tires. Could you really call this man - who believed not entirely inaccurately that he was just an old television, existing for the sole purpose of being used by humans for entertainment - a friend? Knee-jerk reactions tended to be the most indicative of one’s true feelings.

Yes.

Tenna was your friend.

Friends looked out for each other.

You didn’t like seeing a friend upset, and this was kind of technically your fault. ACTions seemed to have a stronger effect than words. You flopped backwards, tucking yourself under his outstretched arm like you belonged there.

“Yeah! Who wouldn’t? I mean, sure-” you gave a judgemental one-shoulder shrug, “some people have preferences, but I can’t see why anyone would think otherwise.” You didn’t want to lay it on too thick, lest the honest truth become unbelievable. “And you’re you. You’ve got so much energy on stage; people tend to like other people who really love what they do.”

Flirting was definitely unprofessional conduct... the man still wasn’t your boss, or coworker, or whatever, so no harm done.

What time was it? Had to be after midnight by this point. You made to stand up but he lurched forward, desperately wrapping his arms around you. “Don’t go!” Tenna pleaded.

“It’s late. Like really, really late.” You could hear your bed calling your name.

“Don't go,” he repeated in a tiny voice.

“I don't belong here,” you reminded him, trying to drip reassurance into your words. It didn't quite succeed, Tenna's grip tightening with a short burst of white noise, so you worked your arm hand up to gently stroke his casing. “But I'm not going to leave you; nothing will stop me from showing up at your studio every off day I get.”

Though you didn't add the words ‘I promise’ - far too cheesy for a raw moment like this - you'd never meant anything more seriously in your entire life. It was a vow, a personal oath sworn to your own self.

“I am gonna go get you some water, don’t want any stage hands seeing you super hungover tomorrow.” It was for the same reason you hadn’t offered to walk him home.

Appearances.

Tenna cared so much about he was perceived, his ‘viewers’ weren’t limited to people tuned into his shows. You weren’t sure why you were excluded from the crowd of surface admirers, but you had a few theories. First of all, you weren’t a Darkner, so you couldn’t spread gossip about the studio. Admitting to not watching TV much should have been a major strike against your character, but your passion for old electronics - you really loved what you did - seemed to make up for this massive lapse in judgement. And you did legitimately like him, though you could never tell how noticeable your affections were.

You were ‘safe vulnerable’, or at least safe enough for a drunken confession, and couldn’t affect the ‘Fun Meter’ Tenna was so stressed over.

He was fast asleep when you came back with an armful of bottled water, the DVD logo slowly bouncing across a black screen. You stifled a snicker and tried not to watch; the longer it went without hitting the corner, the more frustrated you’d get.

It looked like you’d be spending the night; saying you weren’t going to leave and then not being there when he woke up... Untrustworthy. A fraud. A liar.

Not like you had anything better to do tomorrow, or at all. You set your accumulated hydration down slowly, and carefully curled up against the opposite arm of the sofa.

I've got my own ideas for how someone could enter a Fountain's area that wasn't spawned at their location. No idea where I'm going with this, so strap yourselves in, fellow Light Nerds! With thanks to @2000sangel, who was kind enough to give me some feedback. Credit also to insectatlas and their awesome Tennacord server.

[seleniclight]

[ALNST] Mizi and Luka Parallels

ok, as promised, here are the main parallels I noticed between mizi and luka.

other people's idolization of them.

through other people's eyes (mostly till and sua), mizi's often seen as some sort of saviour or salvation. to them, she represents everything that is good about the world.

on the other hand, luka kind of has the same thing going on for him. except, he represents the epitome of what is seen as a 'perfect' alnst participant to the humans and the aliens. the admiration held for him stems more from this image he (or rather heperu) crafted of himself rather than the genuineness (?) people see mizi with.

this is also what differs between mizi and luka. while people put mizi on a pedestal because of how seemingly 'good' and 'innocent' she is as a person, people put luka on a pedestal based off a false (but still kinda true ig cause of all his actual skill stemming from brutal training) image he created as this untouchable being.

the fate of their loved ones (sorry lol).

think about it though, what do these two have so painfully in common? the fact that both of them have genuinely no one left (ok technically mizi does have till at the end of karma but yk idk if mizi is even alive atp).

mizi - sua (dead in r1), till (it's complicated ig), ivan (dead in r6), hyuna (dead in wiege)

luka - hyunwoo (dead when they were kids), hyuna (dead in wiege)

like i mentioned in a previous post about 'karma', when mizi says not to act righteous cause neither of them deserve to live it's likely because in mizi's eyes, both of them are common factor/catalyst for their loved ones suffering/dying.

the ways they were raised.

this is one part where they distinctly contrast each other.

mizi was the case where shine loved her and cared for her, not actually wanting to have her participate in alnst.

while luka was the case where he was literally genetically engineered and trained to be the perfect alnst competitor (talk about the two extremes lol).

this also severely impacted the worldview that each of them held where mizi was a lot more sheltered (despite the new info we have on her backstory) while luka lacked the ability to communicate with others and see things beyond his gilded cage (and the siblings).

alright, there are probably more parallels but for now this is all i can think of. if i have more to add, i'll either edit this one or add another post. byeeeeee.