#at least I wrote something for this fandom again

[lordsardine]

.

[happyccino]

oh

that's

oh

i'm

i am legitimately tearing up oh wow

[recalcitrantlycaffeinated]

So I started watching Outer Banks for an extremely normal reason - I was doing a fun taking-personality-tests night with family to match each of our personalities with a TV character (I was obviously Bailey from Grey's Anatomy, but that's not the point). I then decided to take the test again, answering questions as if I was the Ultimate Robyn Blorbo, to see which character I matched with and thus discover if I was missing out on a piece of media designed specifically with me in mind. The test said "bitch, have you heard of this show Outer Banks" and I said "bitch, Netflix tries to feed that show to me every day of my life and the trailer looks stupid as hell" and I watched the first few seasons of the show anyway and after every episode I went to my husband and tried to explain how good the show was for me specifically exclusively by telling him how many times JJ got beaten up that episode (my husband was over this before season 1 even ended because this makes sense to no one).

I was forced to admit that even though John B and Sarah mostly make me want to throw myself into a lake, Outer Banks was able to successfully blend all of my favorite blorbo tropes into one (1) idiot boy who talk shit, get hit, search for treasure, no impulse control, always dirty, will try to physically fight the police. The writers rolled every single one of my favorite idiot teenage McDonald's coworkers (who hated customers and did stupid accents and sang songs about the evil owners) up with all the recalcitrant characters I read in books (who got punched by classmates and had terrible families) and wrote in stories (who were poor and had to work for rich people) and played in DND (who had no self preservation and loved to roll for Deception/Charisma) and tied it up in a bow that was Riley from National Treasure (without any of the nerdiness) and sometimes it made me furious. I truly hate the idea of having AI make me a show built just for me but instead there are real people out there writing this show who have presumably been spying on me for decades in order to write this one specific character and it makes me crazy.

OBX writers, I feel so seen. Why do I feel so seen. Stop seeing me.

That is a lot of preamble to say that I am finally watching the last JJ season of OBX and even though I have only just started I already don't...know...what they are going to do...after he dies. Who is a physical violence going to happen to in every episode?? They cannot mess up the main character's face and Pope is simply not dumb enough for things to happen to him. How do you make OBX if at least five bad things to do not happen to JJ per episode even though he is not the main character?

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 5

A/N: oki here we get to know more about my boy Tim!! and quite a lot about Y/N's emotions. I'm going to start writing for other fandoms soon too!! and are any of you fellow lactose intolerant people and get the feeling when you consume too much dairy (ice cream in my case) and now you're regretting all of your life choices...

btw I tried to add everyone from my taglist post on the taglist, if you‘re still not on it then text me privately:)

There was too much to figure out.

And too little time.

YN sat on the floor of her room, knees tucked to her chest, her back pressed to the side of her bed. The faint hum of her phone charging on the desk, the scent of dying lavender in the corner, and the emptiness of the room made it feel like she was caged in glass.

Seven days.

That’s all she had.

One week before the landlord gave the apartment to someone else.

One week to fake a signature.

One week to secure enough money to hold the place.

One week to find freedom.

Or at least— survival.

⸻

Her heart was pounding in that quiet, pulsing way that made everything feel wrong. Her fingers wouldn’t stop picking at the threads of her sleeves. Her thoughts looped in circles.

She’d never done anything like this.

She didn’t lie.

She didn’t forge.

She got straight As. Smiled at teachers. Shared her notes. Brought cookies to class on test days.

She wasn’t supposed to know how to survive alone.

But she didn’t have a choice now.

Not after she knows what her fate will be in the future. Not after her brother‘s weird behavior and how she does not want to get even more hurt by them once again.

Her phone buzzed with a low battery warning. She glanced at it, then reached for the notebook on her desk. The one she used to plan out real things—school schedules, homework lists.

Now she flipped to a blank page.

And started writing:

✦ Money

• trust fund balance: ❌ (can’t touch it, Bruce sees it)

• Cash on hand: ~$400

• Part-time jobs? No ID

• Fake bank account?

✦ Signature

• Needs to look like a Italian parent

• Has to pass legally

• Needs someone good. Discreet. No questions.

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then, almost against her better judgment, she wrote down what she’d been avoiding:

One week or I lose the place.

Her stomach twisted.

But then—

A spark.

A memory.

She’d overheard some classmates once. Talking in the hallway. About a guy at school who could “fix grades,” “clear detentions,” even “make permission slips appear.”

Not a real criminal.

But the type of person who existed in the gray space.

She didn’t know his name.

But someone would.

_____

The next day, she was sitting with her school friends at the launch table. 

The courtyard buzzed with spring breeze and quiet laughter. YN’s friend group was circled under the trees as usual, books and bento boxes spread around them.

She smiled. Laughed. Ate half a sandwich.

And then, when the conversation shifted to something else—she leaned a little closer to the girl beside her.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something… a little weird?”

The girl blinked. “Sure?”

“I, um…” Y/N played with her straw. “I kind of need someone who can fake a signature. Just once. For something small.”

Immediately, three heads turned toward her.

“What?”

“You?”

“Why?!”

YN let out a soft, nervous laugh and waved her hands.

“No, no—it’s nothing bad, I swear. I just—my dad’s been super busy and stressed lately, and I didn’t want to bother him for something this small. But I need this form signed or I can’t submit my entry for a scholarship program. It’s silly.”

Her voice was light. Sweet. Convincing.

It always was.

They believed her.

Of course they did.

YN Wayne didn’t lie.

Didn’t cheat.

Didn’t need to fake anything.

⸻

One of the girls bit her lip. “I mean… there is someone.”

“Who?”

The group exchanged looks.

“He’s kind of… off-limits,” one of them whispered. “Not in a scary way, just… he’s not exactly PTA-approved.”

“People go to him when they want things handled,” another said.

“Things they don’t want teachers—or parents—to know.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Handled how?”

“Fake IDs. Signature work. Lab grade bumps. Stuff like that.”

She tried not to flinch.

“Do you know his name?”

A pause.

Then one of them finally leaned in and said it.

“His name’s Silas.”

She found him exactly where her friend said he’d be.

Back wall of the school, behind the arts building, where the vines were dry and the shadows hid the rusted fences. A place students weren’t supposed to linger—let alone the sweetheart of Gotham Academy.

He was sitting on a low concrete ledge, knees wide, blazer unbuttoned, a black pen flipping rhythmically between his fingers. The faint scent of cologne, cigarettes, and old ink hung in the air. He was an average tall teenage boy with dirty blonde hair and sharp facial features. His brown eyes showed a maturity above his age.

She stopped just short of the wall.

He looked up.

And blinked.

“…Huh.”

His voice wasn’t surprised exactly. Just curious. Dry. Like the universe had just dropped a snowflake into his cigarette ash.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

Y/N clasped her hands in front of her.

Her uniform was perfect. White shirt tucked, skirt neat, hair braided into soft waves over her shoulder. Stockings uncreased. Shoes polished.

She looked like she belonged in a floral ad campaign, not standing in shadows near someone like him.

“I need a favor,” she said.

Silas raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were gonna report me for existing too close to the east wing.”

“I won’t ask questions,” she said calmly, “if you don’t.”

He leaned back on his palms.

“Now this,” he said, eyeing her with quiet amusement, “this is interesting.”

YN reached into her bag and pulled out the folded application form.

“I need a signature,” she said softly. “A parent one. For someone named Lucia Forenzi. Can you do it?”

Silas took the paper, flipping it once in his hand.

“Lucia Forenzi,” he repeated, smirking. “Let me guess. Italian ballet prodigy studying abroad?”

Something twisted in her throat.

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him, wide-eyed and pleading.

He studied her.

She wasn’t shaking.

But her eyes were too still.

Too trained.

Too controlled.

It was the kind of look people had when they were lying about something they were terrified of anyone finding out.

“Right,” he muttered, sitting up straighter and pulling a different pen from his inner pocket. “No questions.”

He clicked the cap.

“Still gotta charge you, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “How much?”

He looked her over, calculated something she wouldn’t understand.

“Sixty-five.”

Her brows lifted for a breath—but then she nodded, already reaching into her bag.

No hesitation.

No negotiation.

Definitely hiding something.

She passed him the cash folded neatly in an envelope.

“Neat,” he muttered, sliding it into his jacket. “Didn’t even crumple it.”

He bent over the paper and began working the signature with practiced, deliberate strokes—flourishes, pressure points, the little inconsistencies that made fakes real. He was good. Too good.

She watched silently.

When he finished, he blew lightly on the ink and handed the form back to her.

YN took it carefully. Slipped it into the protective folder in her bag.

Silas leaned back again, like the job meant nothing.

“You’re not built for this, you know,” he said lazily.

Her gaze flicked to him. “For what?”

“Lying.” He smirked. “You twitch every time you breathe wrong.”

She looked away. “I’m not lying.”

“Sure.”

She hesitated—then, voice lower:

“Do you know how to make money?”

He tilted his head.

“I mean… quickly,” she added. “A lot. Like… maybe a few thousand.”

That got his full attention.

His brows lifted.

Silas straightened slowly, eyes scanning her again, this time truly seeing the stress behind her face.

“You asking for you?” he asked.

She nodded.

Barely.

Silas looked at her longer than he should have.

Her question—so quiet, so sincere—echoed oddly in the air between them.

A few thousand dollars. Quickly.

Not pocket change. Not school lunch money.

Real money.

And from her.

He should’ve shrugged it off.

Should’ve handed her a few names, offered her options—favors-for-cash setups, under-the-table digital work, hush-hush favors for the rich kids who liked to get dirt without getting dirty.

He knew all those doors.

But he didn’t say a word about any of them.

Because she wasn’t the type of girl who knocked on those doors.

And he’d seen enough people walk through them and never come back out right.

⸻

“Why do you even need cash?” he asked, tapping the edge of the concrete beside him. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Her eyes darted away.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t lie.

But the silence stretched.

Her shoulders were stiff. Her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. Her cheeks flushed pink—not the pretty kind, the embarrassed kind. Ashamed.

And in that moment, Silas actually pitied her.

Because she really didn’t belong here.

Not in his part of Gotham.

He watched her for another second, then exhaled slowly.

“You don’t want to do what it takes to make that kind of money,” he said flatly. “Trust me.”

She looked up at him again, startled.

“You’re not like the others who come to me,” he added. “They already made peace with the kind of things they’re willing to do. You? You’d cry if you saw how fast that road burns.”

Y/N’s mouth parted.

But she didn’t speak.

She just listened.

Silas reached back, adjusting the chain around his neck, then muttered, “I’m not gonna say anything about this. Don’t worry. But don’t come back here asking about that again.”

She blinked fast.

Then nodded.

And smiled—gently, sweetly, the kind of smile that shouldn’t belong on someone trying to break the law.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Really. And… I hope you find your way, too. I think you could.”

Silas didn’t respond right away.

But he watched her walk away.

Watched her braid swaying behind her, her shoes clicking too neatly on cracked pavement.

She didn’t look back.

Unbeknownst to her, three boys down the alley had been watching.

One of them stepped forward the moment she was gone.

“Yo, that was her, right? The Wayne girl?”

"Did she just pay you for something?”

“What’d she want?”

Silas didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

He just lit a half-burnt cigarette and said flatly:

“She wanted nothing.”

______

The building still smelled like old cigarette smoke and forgotten furniture polish.

The same chipped door. Same crooked number on the outside.

Same old man behind the cluttered desk, now flipping through paperwork and scratching his balding head with a tired sigh.

When she stepped in, he barely glanced up.

Until he did.

And blinked.

“Oh. You again.”

She nodded. “I brought the signature.”

She walked across the dusty floor, careful not to make her footsteps too loud, and handed him the form tucked in its sleeve.

The man squinted at it, pulled on his reading glasses, and grumbled under his breath as he scanned it.

“Lucia Forenzi… yeah, this’ll work.” He leaned back, letting the form rest on top of a stack. “Now we just gotta finalize the rest once you get your deposit together.”

YN hesitated.

She folded her hands together. “Do you think I could ask… for one more week? For the deposit, I mean?”

He eyed her.

She wasn’t trembling. But her voice was gentle. Careful. Like she’d been rehearsing it in her head for hours.

He sighed again.

“Kid… I usually don’t let stuff slide like this.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—my ID is still stuck in customs back in Milan. And my bank account—American one—isn’t ready yet. I’m trying to… get something together.”

He stared at her.

Young face. Braided hair. Nervous posture. Accent just strong enough to carry the lie.

If she’d been anyone else—he’d have told her to get lost.

But she looked like a girl completely alone.

And despite the fact that he spent half his pension at poker tables and owed a guy named Ray twenty bucks from last month’s betting pool…

He had a daughter once.

Long ago.

She never looked this scared.

“One more week,” he said finally. “That’s it. No more games.”

She smiled—grateful, glowing, almost guilty.

“Thank you. Really.”

He cleared his throat. “You said you don’t have cash yet, right?”

She nodded. “I… I was actually thinking of trying to get a job.”

“A job?” He barked a short laugh. “You got papers for that?”

“No,” she admitted, softly. “But I’m good with plants.”

He squinted again.

“Plants?”

“I grew up around a lot of gardens. I know how to take care of things. Keep them alive.”

He looked around his office.

Half-dead potted thing in the corner. Wilting ivy on the window ledge.

“Tell you what,” he muttered. “The building’s got some rooftop planters the old tenants abandoned. Overgrown with weeds now. You clean ’em out, replant something nice, keep it alive? I’ll knock a bit off your deposit. Even give you a little cash if you do a good job.”

YN’s eyes lit up.

“You’d let me?”

He waved a hand. “Not gonna stop someone from doing free labor. Especially if it means I don’t gotta call some overpriced nursery.”

She smiled—real this time.

And for a moment, she didn’t feel like she was running.

Just planting something new.

“Thank you,” she said again, shouldering her bag. “I’ll come back after school tomorrow. If that’s okay?”

“Door’ll be open.”

She nodded once.

Turned.

And left.

The air outside smelled like pavement and car exhaust and early spring.

She took the bus home.

One hand on her bag.

One hand curled quietly in her coat pocket.

___

Tim

The hum of cooling fans filled his room.

Screens glowed softly around him—multiple tabs open, city feeds on low volume, encrypted Wayne Enterprises backend files half-scrolled through. He didn’t really need to be there. Most of his work for the day had been finished hours ago.

But he was restless. Edgy.

Something was gnawing at the edge of his mind.

He didn’t know what.

That’s when he saw it.

An unlabeled USB left near the base of one of the older servers—something Alfred had probably pulled from the manor archives or the mainframe logs.

Tim plugged it in without much thought.

Inside: dozens of folders. Video files. Unmarked. Untouched.

Most were labeled by year.

He opened one at random.

Then stared.

The footage was grainy but clear.

A school auditorium.

A handmade banner above the stage: Gotham Academy Winter Performance.

Kids lined up in stiff uniforms and glittery costumes.

And there—center left, third row—YN.

Maybe six. Seven.

Singing. Slightly off-pitch, swaying back and forth like she’d practiced a hundred times.

In the bottom corner of the footage, he could hear the applause.

Not much of it.

Definitely no one from the family.

Tim frowned.

Why hadn’t he seen this before?

He clicked through another.

Grade 4 Science Fair. YN Wayne.

Her booth was filled with little potted flowers and soil diagrams. He saw her holding a laminated sheet, explaining something with shy excitement to a panel of judges.

And again—no one from their family there.

Not even Alfred.

⸻

Tim leaned back slowly.

And something in his chest twisted.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks—months even.

Not really.

She’d always just… been there.

Quiet. Predictable. Not part of the mission. Not part of the crime board, or the investigations, or the emergency Gotham alerts.

Just soft footsteps in the hallway. Soft baking smells from the kitchen.

A small knock on his door, back when she used to knock.

He remembered when he first arrived.

Jason had just died. Bruce was… hollowed out.

And Tim, desperate for validation, had stepped into Robin’s boots with too much weight and not enough air.

She was small back then. Four? Maybe five.

Always trailing behind Alfred with wide green eyes. Always hugging something—blanket, plush rabbit, her own braid.

She’d tried to talk to him.

At first, it was just questions.

“Do you know how to make things explode without hurting the garden?”

“Why do your hands always have ink on them?”

“Do you like stories about space?”

Tim had nodded politely. Answered once or twice.

But Bruce needed him.

Dick kept him moving.

There wasn’t time.

And when she tried harder—when she came into his workshop with sticky notes and clumsily drawn circuit boards, when she made him a chess board with mismatched floral pieces to match the ones in the cave—

He’d smiled.

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

Then closed the door.

Later, he said something to Dick.

He didn’t even remember what sparked it.

Just a comment about how she was “always hanging around,” how she was “cute, but a distraction.”

“She’s kind of a liability,” he’d said.

And behind him—

She had been standing in the doorway.

Chessboard in hand.

⸻

Y/N

She hadn’t cried.

Not then.

Just smiled and nodded and said it was okay.

But she never brought him another project again.

She still helped him, sometimes, when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Repaired a snapped wire. Left tea near his monitor. Cleaned up wires on the floor.

But she stopped knocking.

Stopped asking.

Stopped trying.

Because what was the point?

He didn’t want her.

None of them did.

⸻

Tim

Tim sat still, staring at the paused frame.

Her tiny hands. Her proud smile.

And not a single member of the family had shown up.

Not even once.

His gut twisted.

How had he missed her?

How had they all missed her?

He opened another folder.

And another.

And another.

And slowly, it stopped feeling like research.

And started feeling like regret.

He searched her full name on instinct.

He wasn’t expecting much—maybe a locked account, maybe nothing at all. 

But it popped up right away. She was not that secretive or paranoid to even have a private account. Not that that would have stopped him.

@y/n.wayne_loves_poppies

Gotham Academy | Greenheart Club 🌿 | 🧁 Sometimes I bake, sometimes I bloom 💚

Her profile picture was soft. Smiling. Just slightly blurred in that way that made it feel unfiltered, uncalculated.

It hit him harder than it should’ve.

She looked… older. Not by much. Just enough to make his stomach twist.

He hadn’t even known what her current face looked like.

She still had the same eyes. Same gentle expression.

Same softness. Same adorable delicateness. 

He opened her highlights.

“Flowers” was the first one.

Clips of blooming vines, petals unfolding in slow motion. Her fingers gently touching the edge of a stem.

“Baking” came next. A video of cupcakes she made for a class birthday. Another of heart-shaped sugar cookies dusted in gold powder. Kids laughing in the background. Her voice behind the camera, barely heard.

She’d tagged her friends. Liked their comments. Replied with hearts.

There were no comments from any of them.

None of her family.

Not one from him.

Tim swallowed.

He scrolled down to her posts. The oldest one still up was from two years ago. Her sitting in the greenhouse. A short caption:

“🌸 Sometimes things only grow when they’re ignored.”

He hadn’t seen it.

Didn’t even know she had an Instagram.

He clicked through dozens of pictures.

Birthday cupcakes she made herself.

Class awards she never mentioned.

Photos at the museum—her smiling with two friends in front of a lunar exhibit.

She liked astronomy.

He hadn’t known that.

She liked baking.

She liked poppies.

She watched weird indie romance films with sad endings.

He hadn’t known any of it.

Tim leaned back in his chair.

His throat was tight.

His chest was quiet—but hollow.

He had missed everything.

She had been right there.

For years.

And he’d let her walk past him like she was just background noise.

But not anymore.

He reached forward slowly. Hands steady. Mind turning.

I’ll fix it.

He could ask her to play chess.

Tell her about his newest case.

Ask her about her favorite constellations.

Share her posts. Leave comments. Make her feel like she mattered.

Like she existed.

It wouldn’t happen all at once. She wouldn’t trust him yet.

But that was okay.

He had time.

He’d be different now.

He’d be better.

        He’d be her brother. 

_____________

Y/N

The familiar scent of lemon polish and old books greeted her as she stepped through the manor’s doors.

Alfred was in the hallway, arranging a vase of cut lilies—probably delivered by a vendor she’d never met, for a dinner party she’d never be invited to.

He turned when he heard her.

“Miss YN,” he said, surprised. “You’re home early.”

She gave him her usual small, polite smile. “I didn’t feel well. Just a stomach ache.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on her face longer than usual.

Searching.

Reading.

He’d always been the only one who looked.

But even now, his gaze held something else—worry.

She shifted under it.

He finally nodded.

“I’ll bring you some tea. Chamomile?”

She nodded quickly. “That would be perfect, Alfred. Thank you.”

⸻

She walked up the stairs without another word.

Every step felt heavier.

Her bag weighed more now—holding the fake signature, the crumpled plan, the reality of how little time she had left before she needed to vanish.

When she stepped into her room, she took a moment.

Let the door close behind her.

Then just stood there.

It used to be pink.

Green lace trim.

Fairy lights.

Stuffed animals in the corner.

After she came back—after she knew what was coming—it all went away.

She changed the curtains to gray. Folded the soft blankets into storage boxes. Swapped her old bedspread for something plain, something neutral.

Something invisible.

Because that’s what they wanted from her, wasn’t it?

Not sweetness.

Not softness.

Not the girl who drew them family portraits and wrote their names in glitter pens.

They wanted quiet.

So she became quiet.

She sat at her desk and slowly unpacked her notebook.

To-do lists. Rent deadlines. Sketches of job plans. A fake identity plan she knew would fall apart in front of any real system—but she had to try anyway.

She stared at it blankly, trying to remember which lie came next.

And that’s when the knock came.

It was soft.

Two short taps.

She blinked.

“Alfred?” she called, gently.

She opened the door—

And stopped.

Her fingers froze around the knob.

Because it wasn’t Alfred.

It was Tim.

⸻

He stood in the hallway, backlit by the glow of the antique sconces, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His hair was slightly messy—like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. His posture unsure. His eyes… searching.

And behind all that awkwardness—there was a smile.

Forced.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “Didn’t know you were home early.”

She stared at him.

He was tall. Way taller now. Broader than she remembered. Dressed in one of his clean-casual post-Enterprise outfits, too neat to be an accident.

And she felt tiny.

Small. Frail.

Forgettable.

Her doe eyes flicked up to meet his for a second.

Then away.

She stiffened without meaning to.

Her voice came out softer than she intended.

“…Hi.”

Tim’s gaze drifted over her head, into her room, and lingered.

His brows pulled together slightly.

He wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he couldn’t help it.

The room was… muted.

Clean, neat, and stripped bare of her.

No soft colors. No floral bedspread. No paper flowers, no paintings on the walls. The only thing alive was the half-drained diffuser on her desk and a dying succulent on the windowsill.

It didn’t match what he’d seen online.

Not the photos. Not the tone of her captions. Not the girl who made cupcakes in cat-shaped molds and cut strawberries into hearts for her friends.

The Y/N on Instagram smiled in pink and baked things for people who didn’t deserve it.

This one?

This one was standing in a doorway, blinking up at him like he was a ghost.

Tim pulled his eyes back to her and offered a slightly nervous smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

She didn’t say anything.

He scratched the back of his neck and stepped back, giving her space.

“I, uh… I realized I hadn’t talked to you in a while. Just wanted to check in.”

Still no response.

So he tried again.

“School going okay?”

Her fingers curled slightly around the doorframe.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

He tried not to fidget.

“And… you’re feeling alright? I heard you left school early today.”

Her eyes widened—just for a second. A flash of instinctive fear.

Then she quickly covered it with a half-smile. “Just a headache. I’m okay now.”

But her voice was tight. Careful.

Like she wasn’t sure what game he was playing.

Tim could feel the wall between them.

He hated it.

But he also knew he’d helped build it.

He cleared his throat.

“Cool. That’s good. Uh… I was thinking maybe sometime—if you want—we could play chess again? I still have that old board. The one you made when you were little.”

He smiled at the memory.

She didn’t.

Her lips parted slightly.

Her eyes dropped.

And then—quiet, confused, almost painful:

“…Why are you here?”

Not angry.

Just… asking.

Like it didn’t make sense to her that he’d show up at all.

Because it didn’t.

Not in her first life.

Not in the years where she had knocked on his door a hundred times and only ever heard “I’m busy.”

Tim blinked.

And for the first time, his smile dropped entirely.

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And all the data in the world couldn’t tell him why the question hurt so much more than he thought it would.

Tim’s awkward smile didn’t quite match his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, scratching the back of his neck. “I just—y’know. Miss my baby sister, I guess.”

It didn’t sound right in her ears.

Not with the years of silence still echoing in her memory.

Not when she remembered standing outside his door for hours, holding something she’d made for him—only to be brushed off again and again.

But now he was here. Smiling.

Like it hadn’t all happened.

Like none of it mattered.

He stood for a second longer, maybe expecting her to say something.

She didn’t.

So he nodded toward her desk. “Need help with schoolwork?”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “It’s… a group project. I have to call Maya soon.”

That name again. The lie she’d built to protect her escape.

Tim nodded. “Got it. Well… I’ll let you get back to it then.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay.”

He hesitated.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Then didn’t.

He stepped back and left.

She closed the door behind him slowly.

Then locked it.

And exhaled.

⸻

The light outside was dimming into gold.

She sat cross-legged on her floor, her notebook open, sketches of furniture and ornaments she’d seen lying unused around the mansion: antique vases, decorative trays, crystal bookends—small enough to pack into a backpack, valuable enough to sell at any downtown collector’s shop.

She hated it.

She hated the idea of stealing.

But this wasn’t theft—it was a last resort.

And she was careful.

Nothing from the family’s main rooms.

Nothing with names etched into them.

Nothing anyone would miss.

They already forgot her birthday every year.

Already forgot her when she left the table.

This wasn’t new. They were good at not missing lost things.

In the back of her notebook, she was already drafting the lie she’d tell her friends:

Mom is an Italian businesswoman. Wants me back home to get more familiar with my roots.

No forwarding address. Just a long goodbye.

Her fingers trembled a little as she wrote.

But her voice in her head was calm.

You can do this. Just make it through one more week.

That’s when the knock came.

Sharp. Heavy.

Not gentle like Alfred.

Not hesitant like Tim.

Her heart froze.

She scrambled, grabbing her notebook, papers, burner phone, shoving them under the blanket and pulling it flat with both hands.

She stood up, forcing her face into something neutral—her eyes wide, breath tight.

And then she opened the door.

He stood there like a statue.

Tall. Broad. Impossibly built.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father.

Dark suit, no tie. Shirt collar open. Shoulders squared, posture perfectly relaxed—yet utterly intimidating. Shadowed jaw, sharp cheekbones, tired, steely eyes. His presence filled the doorway like a wall.

And her body forgot how to breathe.

He had never stood there before.

Not since she was three years old and Alfred had shown her the room.

Never once.

And now?

Now he looked at her like he was searching for something he’d misplaced.

She stared up at him.

Small. Still. Shaking without showing it.

Bruce

It had been a week since Alfred brought it up.

A full week since that quiet, direct conversation—the kind Alfred rarely initiated unless he knew something was slipping too far.

“She’s asked for money, Master Bruce. Not out of greed. Out of fear.”

Bruce had nodded, said he’d look into it.

And then he hadn’t.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because some part of him had locked the thought away. Too proud to admit what it really meant.

Too afraid to admit that somewhere along the way—he’d forgotten her face.

Until now.

He walked through the upper hallway slowly, unfamiliar with this wing despite technically owning it. The shadows here were deeper. The air, stiller. This part of the manor was quiet in a way none of the other children’s corridors were.

And when he reached the end of the hall and saw her name—engraved gently on the door, the paint fading—his chest clenched.

Why was she this far away?

From everyone?

From him?

He made a decision right then.

She’d be moved.

Her room was too far.

Too far from him.

That would change.

He lifted a hand and knocked twice.

Sharp. Measured.

And the door opened.

⸻

Y/N

She looked up at him, and the breath stalled in his lungs.

She was…

Still small.

Still delicate.

Still had those wide, soft doe eyes he remembered vaguely from the time Alfred had first placed her in his arms. Her hair a little longer now. Her expression tighter. Guarded.

But the girl who had once followed him with awe and silent hopes was standing there, now looking at him like—

She didn’t know who he was.

Or maybe, like she remembered too well.

⸻

Bruce

Bruce’s voice didn’t crack, but it softened more than he expected.

“…Hi, little leaf.”

It was a name he’d never said before.

A nickname he’d never used.

Not even when she was a toddler.

But it came to him then—natural, instinctive, like something that had always waited behind his tongue.

“Little leaf.”

Because she was so small.

So quiet.

So easy to miss in the wind.

He glanced over her head with ease—she didn’t even came past his chest.

His eyes swept her room.

Muted.

Cold.

Devoid of life.

Nothing on the walls. No bright colors. No scattered crafts. No signs of who she was—just a blanket on the bed covering something, maybe books.

It looked less like a home.

More like a holding space.

Something in him twisted sharply.

⸻

Y/N

What. The. Hell.

Her thoughts were loud.

Exploding behind her face as she tried to keep her features neutral.

First Dick and Damian

Then Tim.

Now him.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father—in name and blood only—who hadn’t stepped into her room since she was two years old.

He looked… the same. Towering. Dark. Dressed in one of his half-armored casuals, broad enough to block the entire hallway behind him.

His voice had been low. Calm.

Little leaf.

She nearly recoiled.

He’d never called her anything before. No pet names. No warm nicknames. He barely called her by her name at all.

So why now?

She stared up at him, stunned, her hand still gripping the doorframe. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her thoughts twisted violently in her head.

Why is he here? Why is he suddenly pretending like I exist? What is wrong with them?

Is this some game?

Is this part of whatever’s going on with Tim and Dick? Did something happen?

Did someone tell them to prank me now?

Her fingers curled tighter.

She wanted to scream.

To ask what the hell do you want?

But she couldn’t.

Because he was Bruce Wayne.

Because she was YN Wayne.

Because her entire plan depended on no one noticing her.

And now—suddenly—everyone was.

taglist:

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[fangatic]

we need to talk about The Silence and The Song

[PLEASE READ] edit to add: i realise that this post has been reblogged far and wide and that there is not a lot i can do about it now, but this is me trying anyway.

posting examples from the fic about my issues with its repetitive structure was careless of me, and i apologise to those of you who read it and became insecure about your own writing style. as someone who has worked with ai in academic settings, it's incredibly difficult for me to explain to you how the tone and structure of ai-generated fiction works and how, after reading enough of it, you can simply just tell. i do also realise that this is an incredibly weak argument, which is why i didn't include it when i originally wrote this post.

all that to say: there is an enormous difference between "beginner's writing" and ai writing. being repetitive as a new writer (or a seasoned one who just likes using repetition) is so normal. as is flowery/purple language. i've read hundreds of books and fics and the difference between these traits in ai-text and actual works is starkly clear. please don't feel anxious over the examples i've used in this post.

again, i apologise for any distress i have caused.

as per my last post, i have received a lot of encouragement to go public with this, and the more disappointed people i have in my dms, the angrier i get. so i will.

the silence and the song is an ancient arlathan au DA fic on ao3 by luxannaslut, and it is partly, if not entirely, written by an ai. i have no wish to be involved in any kind of fandom drama or witch hunting or bullying, but as a writer myself there are few things that piss me off more than watching people steal the work of others because they can't be fucked to write. it's disrespectful to your fellow writers, it's disrespectful to your readers, and it's disrespectful to the authors of the works the ai is stealing from.

ai is a plague that has no business being in creative spaces and you must do better.

the writing pattern

there was something very odd and monotone about the sentence structure of tsats that i couldn't quite place, so i fed chatgpt a prompt along the lines of "two people in a fantasy novel hate each other, but they secretly desire one another, and they kiss", and the screenshots above are the results. the third one is an excerpt from chapter 40 of tsats. the writing pattern is identical and it doesn't seem like the "writer" has even bothered to pretend they wrote it. if you're going to use ai, at least be sneaky about it. you know, paraphrase a little.

nonsense descriptions

"her nimble fingers worked with quiet precision" (ct. 1), "his grip firm but tender" (ct. 33), "her gown pooling around her like embers" (ct. 1).

fingers don't make sound, so what does quiet precision mean? as opposed to what? her joints cracking with every movement? how is a grip firm but tender? what does that mean? since when do embers pool?

the entire fic is littered with these adjectives that contradict each other or just straight up do not make sense, because all an ai does is generate descriptive language with no understanding of what the words it's spitting out actually mean. i could spend hours picking out examples from the seven billion pages worth of text, but i quite frankly have better things to do and would simply challenge you to try getting through a chapter or two without noticing the pattern.

repetition at structure-level

all the scenes in this fic are described in pretty much the same way. they open with purple prose vomit of the surroundings; solas is standing somewhere looking "unreadable as ever"; ellana's fiery golden molten fire copper ember ginger red hair is flowing this and that way; there's some dialogue with whoever is present and it leaves ellana feeling different variations of "something she couldn't name". this is, once again, a blatantly obvious sign of ai. below is the result of me feeding chatgpt the line "write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

repetition at word-level

this one speaks for itself. we fucking get it. her dress is orange, her hair is red, mythal's presence is heavy in the room, solas looks unreadable, compassion is sitting on her head like a crown, solas' ears are betraying him and ellana's move with every thought she thinks. we get it. the issue here is that an ai remembers the info you feed it, but not necessarily the info it shits out. if it's being told to write scene after scene of an elven woman with a gown that looks like fire doing xyz, it's going to do so with no regard for how many times the reader has already been informed of these details.

lastly: the breakneck speed

359,6k words in four weeks by a person who allegedly is employed and married and hasn't pre-written anything? no. any writer will tell you that this simply isn't possible. it absolutely infuriates me to see how much praise this "writer" gets for posting up to three full chapters in a day without anyone calling bullshit. i am pulling out my hair, you guys.

why i'm not going to live and let live this one

perhaps i would be less angry if the fic was some silly bullshit court intrigue Y/A stuff, but this is a text that handles very heavy and triggering topics such as SA, coercion, domestic abuse, and other things of the same vein. to sit back and put your feet up while having a robot write these extremely sensitive and very real human experiences with words it has stolen from texts written by actual persons is fucking heinous. the "writer" should be deeply ashamed of themselves and i'm sick and tired of watching people eat up their bs.

and on that note: the amount of people in my dm's telling me that they feel stupid and naive for not clocking this has infuriated me more than anything else. you're not foolish for this. being fed ai-generated bullshit is not what is supposed to happen on any creative platform and much less a fandom-centred one, so of course no one approaches a fic through that lens. fandom and fic writing is supposed to be about passion and the only person in this situation who needs to do better and change their behaviour is luxannaslut. polluting our creative spaces, wasting the time of your readers, and minimising the effort of actual writers who are working hard to provide content for us all to share and enjoy is vile and so, so lazy. i beg of you: do better.

[limethefirst]

Hi! How are you? I was looking for people writing movie shadow after I saw the movie and hoped I could submit a request for you? Can we maybe have shadow with a reader who is a alien hedgehog like him found after him? Shadow when he met the reader takes her in as his own and helps to in a way raise them. After the accident they both were put under statis and met up again in the base 50 years later after he and she had escaped?

Remember Me

pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x Hedgehog!reader (platonic)

warnings: spoilers

summary: Shadow takes it upon himself to look out for you even after being frozen for 50 years

a/n: slowly getting back into the writing groove yes!! if i wrote things for other fandoms would you guys burn me at the stake or not❤️

Shadow was used to feeling alone, being the only alien hedgehog constantly surrounded by scientists who saw him as some type of experiment was draining. Of course he had Maria and for her he was forever grateful but she didn't understand how he felt, no one really could. Until you came along, another alien hedgehog that arrived the same way he did, and was now viewed just like he was.

By all means, Shadow, was not considered approachable. He was only ever willingly around Maria and Gerald, and even Gerald was often pushing it, but when you showed up it was hard to catch him alone. He was basically your caretaker, a task he gave himself after seeing how nervous you felt around everyone and how you weren't exactly sure how to regulate the powers you also had.

You sat next to Shadow as Maria put on a new movie she'd found, 'Godzilla', it was called. You didn't like it, it was about an alien, an evil one who destroyed a place on earth called Japan. It made you feel slightly, self conscious? Even though you yourself wouldn't do that or ever thought of committing violent acts against people. Shadow seemingly noticing your discomfort nudged you, drawing your attention away from the self deprivation you were feeling. He looked down at you, giving you a gruff nod, almost like he could read your mind.

His gaze never left your eyes, silently communicating. It was easy to tell what he wanted to say, 'You're not a freaky monster alien who will go and tear up Japan.' Or something along those lines.. the latter was funnier though. Maria glanced over at you two, noticing the subtle communication but also the slight sadness you both had inn your eyes. Although he didn't show it as much, Shadow felt slightly the same upon seeing the movie.

He knew that feeling all to well, he'd seen it, in the eyes of the scientists, guards, everyone who worked here. They thought he was dangerous, and he hated it. Which was why he was determined to make sure you didn't feel the same, because he wasn't sure if he could handle knowing that you also felt like you were a danger, something that was a weapon.

The nights dragged on, and he made sure to keep an eye on you, silently at least. He will never openly show how much he cares. He just will care, and that's good enough for him, although Maria could tell he cared.

Then that night came, where Maria was gone, and so were you. They'd taken Maria from him and grabbed you, pulling you away from him. God, he couldn't stand it, the tears that fell as you screamed for him. He would've tried to do something if it weren't for the fact he was in shock, he'd witnessed one of his closeted friends die in front of him and now he had to watch as they dragged you away, putting you in a small cage as your small hands tried to reach out to him.

Finally there was silence, it was restless, a restless silence that he had to endure for 50 years. Until he was woken up, and all that consumed him was rage. While on the other side of the containment chambers, you'd also woken up, but instead of feeling anger coursing through you, it was fear. You looked around the barren room, the alarms were sounding, and everything was flashing red, suddenly a loud thud broke your nervous train of thought.

You're eyes widened slightly as something punched down the wall, you stepped out of the tube that held you, the liquid used to keep you asleep was drained, leaving your quills wet. The dust slowly began to clear revealing a figure you longed to see since that dreadful night.

"Shadow?.." You're voice slightly trembled as you spoke that name, trying to see him through the red flashing room. Shadow looked at you, his gaze was unwavering but it slightly softened seeing that you were still alive, and unharmed.

He let out a small sigh, his shoulders untensing at your voice, "Let's go," it was rough but his eyes betrayed him. He was grateful, happy to see that you, at least, had survived. He wasn't going to let what happened to Maria happen to you, he swore on that, nothing would harm you.

[laurelsofhighever]

On Lucanis and ace representation

I have mixed feelings about it. Spoilers ahead, obviously.

On the one hand, I have been writing ace representation into Dragon Age fandom for at least five years by this point; I have made posts speculating which characters in the franchise could be read as aspec, I have critiqued the conflation between apparent aspec identities and brokenness that happens so often in mainstream media, and I have longed for a canonically aspec character in the stories I love. To me, however, this new declaration about Lucanis does not feel like a victory.

It feels convenient.

Mary Kirby tweeted six months ago that she specifically wrote Lucanis to be a disaster bisexual, not panromantic demisexual. In the real world, of course, people can discover new things about themselves and change their labels, and it’s fine. The problem is that Lucanis is not a people, he is a character with a static set of responses to a limited set of inputs from the player. In other words, he is what he is. That this change in Word of God about his sexuality comes directly on the heels of the very poorly received AMA from the devs is something I don’t view as a coincidence.

To be clear, this isn’t an attack on Mary Kirby, nor is it a tantrum about not getting a sexy Zevran 2.0. I am ace – I love slow burn emotional depth before physical intimacy, and I was drawn to Lucanis because of his struggles with alienation and the softer playfulness that’s there to see if you look for it. (And the voice, and the wings, but that’s not relevant here.) However, there is something severely lacking in the connective tissue of his romance. For the first two thirds of the game he is unresponsive to flirting to the point where the game feels like it’s bugged. Multiple people have pointed out that it’s almost impossible to tell when the romance is locked in without looking at the companion screen – I myself only realised when took him to Rivain with Taash and they started talking about him popping out the wings. The idea that this woodenness was a deliberate choice does a disservice to everyone who has pointed out a valid critique of the content – mechanically, rather than narratively – of the romance.

It is also immediately contradicted if you don’t romance Lucanis. Because instead he gets together with Neve in a relationship that not only lacks the emotional closeness that is required for Rook to lock in a romance, but also gets physical far more quickly, which is the exact opposite of how demisexuality works. For Rook, romancing Lucanis requires repeated declarations of support and care, and he will only fully reciprocate once they have battled through his inner demons to encourage him to start healing from his trauma. Even after that there is no physical touch between them until after Rook is pulled from the Fade prison. Neve, meanwhile, is one of the locks on his cage, but creates a ‘hats off’ rule for Spite. It's like watching Aveline run around finding marigolds for Donnic all over again. Not to say that all ace experiences are the same, but if someone described these two relationships to me, I would assume only one of them involved a demisexual character.

Truthfully, however, this isn’t really about the evidence for whether Lucanis is or is not demi. You could argue that back and forth all day because interpretation goes both ways. For example, he says he’s inexperienced in relationships, but then he’s arguably more competent than the other companions who ask you for romantic help, more lacking in confidence than skill – and analysis of that is a whole other post. But it’s not useful. There isn’t one way to be aspec, and I’m certainly not saying he can’t be read that way.

What this is about is the way representation feels like it has been retconned in as a response to the genuine critiques brought up in the AMA and elsewhere. Excusing the gaps in his romance by saying it’s because he’s demisexual feels like a cheap attempt to divert attention away from weak character writing. Perhaps I’m just being cynical, but after all the dodged questions and misrepresentations from the devs in almost every aspect of this game, if Lucanis had been planned as aspec from the beginning then the TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN game would have made a huge thing of it. I know this, because they did it already, they stated all the companions were pan (except for Lucanis who was bi).

And I don’t know what’s worse: it not being planned and only trotted out as a smokescreen to avoid engaging with the flaws in the writing; or it being there from the beginning without any care for how it might look to have the ostensibly aspec character be a literal abomination whose interpersonal issues stem from being imprisoned and tortured. Again.

A good slow burn would have addressed Lucanis’ relationship to attraction, though hopefully with more nuance than Taash was allowed. A good slow burn would have not made one character exchangeable for another in a romance regardless of the personal journey Lucanis can only take with one of them. A good slow burn would have at least had him reacting to the things the PC says to him. But this is not a good slow burn and the devs are using a token attempt at queer rep to cover for whatever went on behind the scenes to give us such a patchy final product.

[quantum1mmortality]

Im so glad you're writing for Curly bc I'm so obsessed with him rn!! May I suggest (if you haven't done them already) some soft/fluffy post burn hcs? Like finally seing him again after a long drive to the hospital, mentally preparing yourself for what he might look like. Curly being so afraid about how you'd react, and just breaking down when you let out an "oh, Curly :(" and softly place a hand on his cheek, so worried that you might hurt him by accident that it's hardly even a touch at all. Curly leaning his cheek into your palm, having been so scared to see you and now so desperate for your touch.

Life returning to a new normal after a while, prosthetics and PT, skin grafts, so on. Lying in bed with him and being so relived and happy when he gets a spark of mischief like he used to and tries to tickle or play wrestle with you. Him quietly asking questions when the laughter dies down. if you missed his lips, or the blond hair you loved so much that now hardly grew at all. Reassuring him that it didn't matter what he looked like, or what he could and could not do anymore. He's still your curly.

Sorry this turned out so long 😭 I can't get him out of my head!

I LOVE what you wrote 🙏🙏 I'll be going off of these, taking bits and pieces of your hcs and then putting them in here. Overall just gonna be fluffy post crash Curly hcs :)

Of topic, but the way some people in this fandom treat post crash curly makes me nauseous. Finding out that some of you wouldn't treat him like I would makes me wanna cry. Maybe I'm too empathetic or maybe I'm a baby back bitch, either way, I'd care for this man so much. Y'all don't understand how much I love him.

Tw/cw; none!! One curse word but that's literally it (I think)

Not proofread

Extremely sensitive to touch for the first few weeks. I feel as though curly would be in incredible pain, but would try his best to keep your hands touching his cheeks, face, body in general. He'd even go as far as to whimper at how bad it hurt, yet still enduring it because he needed to know you still loved him.

He'd be so happy to see you anytime you were around. Just like pre crash, but it was more special. It got to the point where you would take off work for weeks at a time just to be with him, just so you could see him happy.

After the first two months of agonizing pain, you'd start touching him more. Not sexual, obviously, but just getting more physically affectionate. You'd be able to hug and kiss him goodbye, and hold on to his arm as you talked with him.

Speaking of talking, he wouldn't be able to, so you would talk for him. Basically telling him something, then answering any questions he may or may not have. You've known him long enough, you know how he'd react and question things, so it was practically a no brainer for you.

Now that he doesn't feel as much pain as he used to from your touches, you'd begin sleeping with him. NOT SEXUAL!!! Just cuddling up next to him in the hospital bed, laying your head on his shoulders and kissing him goodnight. Just like how you used to.

Eventually he'd start getting prosthetics, and aside from the physical therapy he's usually getting, you'd bring board games and playing cards so he could learn to use his new hands while still spending time with you.

Curly used to kick your ass in uno and honestly he still does. The trembling in his hands would slowly go away over time, and you were helping him with that much more than his physical therapist was; because at least he wanted to actually be around you.

After months and months, he'd finally be ready to take home. New prosthetics and a bunch of skin graft surgeries later, he's in good condition again. Not perfect in his eyes, but it is in yours.

He wouldn't be able to work, but Pony Express sends him checks as if he was. He gets enough from them, you could quit your job, but you don't want to be dependent on them. So you keep working.

Getting home from work is your favorite part of the day, having Curly be so happy to see you makes everything so worth it.

Your home life goes back to normal with a few exceptions, but nothing too drastic. Curly being in a wheelchair and still not being able to speak, but it's nothing you can't handle. You love him, you're willing to make sacrifices. He'd do the same for you, and you know that.

Bonus content; if you guys were married before the crash, once he got his prosthetic hands, he'd have you help him make a little beaded necklace for his ring to go on; that way he could still wear it :) he'd never take the necklace off once it's done

A/N; I've been pretty busy recently so sorry for the delay on requests; I have a lot of ideas for them though so hopefully they'll be out soon

[redvexillum]

@peach-flavored-flambe I started this whole Flufftober/Kinktober journey as a way to challenge myself. Thank you for picking all the prompts for me this month. Thank you for always reminding me to write for ME and not for others. Thank you for being supportive of all of my writing since the day I entered this fandom. I know you are a fluff connoisseur so it's only right that I end this challenge with fluff - it is part Flufftober after all (and I wrote 24 smutty stories this month lol!)

TAGS: disgustingly fluffy, catastor, alastor is bad with feelings, alastor is in denial, touch starved alastor, ambiguously defined established relationship, alastor has a tail

✨️ This is a companion piece to Oblivious Love. A snapshot of a possible mini-series I may or may not write ✨️

In another world, in another time, Alastor would have scoffed at the very notion of competing for anyone’s attention—least of all yours. And yet here he was, locked in a contest of affections with the most revolting, misshapen, red… thing. His lip curled in distaste. 

Competing? 

What a joke. 

He, Alastor, the Radio Demon, competing with… this? This mangy, misbegotten creature that you somehow, with all your boundless compassion, deemed to be a cat. His left eye twitched as he watched you coo at it, tenderly brushing your hand over its head. Every stroke made its misshapen ears flicker back before they sprung up again like hideous, overgrown weeds. 

The beast grinned up at you—a lopsided, almost maniacal grin—and Alastor cringed at its wide, vacant eyes. Eyes that pointed in opposite directions, adding an extra layer of stupidity to its already horrific form. And to top it all off, it wore some ridiculous monocle over one eye, like some half-wit caricature. Alastor's gaze narrowed on the creature’s absurd antler-like protrusion. 

How… befittingly obnoxious.

And then there was the name. 

Catastor. 

Of all the wretched things to call this freakish beast, you—and the rest of the hotel—had somehow arrived at Catastor, no doubt inspired by some misguided notion that this abomination had any resemblance to him. He huffed. The very idea. 

Just as he was about to enjoy a nice, quiet coffee break with you—his sacred time with his favourite person in all of Hell, uninterrupted and undivided—Catastor once again waltzed in, unannounced and unbothered. One garish screech later, and Alastor watched in slow motion as your attention shifted from him to… it. Your cooing started, that soft, adoring voice, while you scratched its revolting back, its purring filling the air with an infuriating satisfaction. 

Alastor’s grin tightened, his claws tapping rhythmically against his coffee cup, every nerve on edge. He imagined roasting the little beast, maybe flambéing it for good measure. Or perhaps he’d skip the cooking and just… devour it raw. 

It wouldn’t respawn. Unlike the sinners here, this little beast wouldn’t come back... 

...Actually, he wasn't entirely sure. It probably wouldn't come back. 

“Are you enjoying that, Catastor?” you murmured sweetly, eyes soft and radiant as you stroked it gently, letting your fingers glide down its back. Catastor’s eyes slowly drooped with bliss, purring loudly, completely absorbed in the luxury of your touch. 

Alastor’s claws tapped harder. Perhaps he would spare the creature for a little longer, let it feel a few more sunrises. But only for now, until he deemed the time right. 

He wasn’t jealous, of course. He’d never lower himself to something so trivial. No, he already had your attention. Compete? He smirked inwardly. He would never. 

“Dear?” Alastor called, his pride swelling as you looked up, your lovely smile still intact, eyes gleaming with interest as they settled on him. His heart raced—it always did when you looked at him like that, so openly, so innocently, as if he were your whole world. Clearing his throat, he kept his tone cheerful, even as he threw a disdainful glance at Catastor. 

“Your drink is getting cold, my dear. All this fuss over that… thing,” he muttered, lingering on the word with disdain as he quirked a brow toward the vile intruder. 

“Oh! That’s true!” you exclaimed cheerfully, scooping up Catastor with all the ease of picking up a damp noodle. The creature seemed to melt in your arms, his gelatinous little body sagging like all his bones had been dissolved into mush. His spine curved absurdly, draped over your arm like a ragged old towel, all while his purring grew even louder. You giggled brightly, an infectious sound that made Alastor’s ears twitch, and his eye give the faintest, most involuntary spasm. 

How smug, how terribly smug that little beast looked, he thought, like he’d won something. Alastor was positively certain that he could draw even more radiant laughter from you if he just had you to himself. 

But this… not-competing for your attention carried on. 

The next day, he found himself strolling around town by your side, his back ramrod straight, shoulders squared, as he recounted the latest juicy bits of gossip from Cannibal Town. Your expression was relaxed, attentive, and that quiet comfort in your eyes swelled a surprising sort of pride in his chest. 

“Oh, and don’t get me started on ol’ Frank here,” Alastor chortled, gesturing with his staff at a dilapidated little shop across the street. “Croaked in the last Extermination, poor fool! And now some hapless soul bought the building!” He pointed with glee just in time to see a young woman struggle with the door before it promptly collapsed on her head. He stifled a delighted laugh. “No one’s managed to run a shop there for nearly five hundred years! Imagine such a waste of souls….” 

“Aww, poor thing,” you murmured sympathetically, your amused smile softening. “Maybe you could help her out? Make her a deal?” you teased, a playful smirk lighting up your features, though your usual kindness still sparkled in your eyes. 

“Perhaps,” Alastor mused, softening his tone as the two of you strolled on. He did enjoy these quiet moments with you, wandering through the chaos of town. Ordinarily, he might have offered any other lady his arm with a bit of playful charm, but as his eyes drifted to your hand swinging casually by your side, he couldn’t help a ridiculous little thought from slipping into his mind. 

What would it be like to take your hand? To clasp his fingers over yours? He imagined the warmth, the softness of your skin and your hand would fit perfectly in his, as if made for him alone. 

The hum of Cannibal Town’s busy streets faded to a quiet buzz as Alastor fell into the silence. His gaze lingered on your hand for a moment longer, and then, in a rare, almost boyish impulse, he stretched out one gloved finger, brushing ever so lightly against the top of your hand. 

Immediately, his gaze darted to your face, but your expression remained calm, as placid as ever, lost in thought. The smallest curl of his grin softened as he looked ahead again, spine straighter than ever. 

A shuddering breath slipped past Alastor's lips. He had held other people’s hands countless times over the years—flirtations, deals, the occasional well-mannered escort—but this was… different. Strangely intimate. Vulnerable, even, which was absolutely absurd. He was over a century old, for heaven’s sake, not some fumbling schoolboy. It was just a hand, after all; he could chalk it up to nothing more than a gentlemanly gesture. 

So, after one fortifying breath, he steadied his gaze forward and reached out, his fingers inching toward yours. 

But… instead of your warm, delicate hand, his fingers closed around something smaller. And… hairier? 

Alastor’s eyes snapped down, and his lips clamped shut to suppress the hiss of static crackling in his throat. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep the shriek that wanted to escape from manifesting into the demonic roar his pride demanded. Because in his hand, instead of yours, was a limp, furry, noodle-like appendage. 

Catastor, somehow, had wriggled its way between the two of you and was now proudly extending its furry little paw into his hand. 

“Eugh!” Alastor recoiled, releasing the beast’s fuzzy limb with an audible cringe. 

You burst into peals of laughter, the sound bright and melodic as you greeted the cat with your usual warmth.

 “Catastor!” you cooed, scratching the creature’s head while it emitted a grating, delightfully hideous meow in response. Grinning up at Alastor, you said with a chuckle, “Look at us—a little family, walking around town like this!” 

Alastor’s grin tightened. “It looks nothing like me,” he muttered, only for the monocled beast to cast him a haughty, one-eyed glare. Under the hellish glow of the streetlights, its monocle gleamed almost smugly. 

“Oh, of course,” you replied simply, your laughter still dancing on your lips. 

His eye twitched as he entertained himself with the idea of cooking the cat into a jambalaya, rich and smoky. But no—that would be a small defeat, a concession that he was somehow competing with the fiendish little furball, which he wasn’t. 

Not at all. 

Yet, the relentless interference continued. Day after day, Alastor’s patience thinned. The little vermin seemed to have made it its life’s mission to sabotage every moment he tried to spend alone with you. He’d reach out naturally, aiming to rest a hand on your shoulder, only to feel the warm, slightly damp fur of the cat draped over your shoulder instead, as if it had some preternatural ability to stretch itself into his every gesture. 

Every time, he could imagine nothing less than punting the thing across the Petagram and sending it into the deepest layer of Hell. Yet, that urge would disappear the moment he heard your bright, amused laughter and saw your radiant smile. It was like you were some smile devil—any glimpse of your joy, and he lost all resolve to do anything that might bring you sadness. 

One afternoon, in the quiet shade of the bayou, Alastor stood by, his legs pulled primly together as he watched you lying in the grass. Your eyes were closed, a soft, contented hum escaping your lips as you lay there, bathed in the dappled light. The whole scene should have been picturesque: you, serene, the epitome of innocence and tranquility. 

But there was that hideous thing, sprawled over your chest like a satisfied pancake, purring loudly as if it had any right to bask in your affection. 

Alastor’s grin was wide, but his eyes were sharp, glaring daggers at the offending beast now lazing on top of you as if it belonged there. You, oblivious, kept humming, your hand stroking the cat’s fur in gentle, absent-minded sweeps. A perfectly peaceful scene, if not for the blob of red fluff ruining the picture by its very presence. 

One day, he mused darkly, one day that creature’s reign will end. But for now, he contented himself with standing by, watching the two of you in bemused, begrudging silence. 

The longer Alastor stared at that mangy little beast basking in your gentle touch, the more a unfamiliar itch settled in the back of his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder, just in passing—strictly passing, of course—what it might feel like if your fingers drifted through his hair instead, tender and deliberate. 

Not that he’d ever ask, of course.

It was merely… curiosity. 

Still, the cat’s purring only seemed to grow louder, practically vibrating with pleasure. Alastor's ears flattened, lying flush against his head as his grin grew tighter, his shoulders hunching slightly as his neck tried to disappear into his collar. He wasn’t jealous, nor was he competing with a wretched creature for your attention. 

He most certainly was not. 

His fingers drummed against his knee, the gentle tap-tap-tap a cover for how long it had been since he’d had time alone with you, just the two of you, enjoying each other’s company without any interruptions. To touch your shoulder, perhaps even feel your hand… in a gesture of camaraderie, of course. 

Yes, that cat really did need to go. 

“What’s wrong?” Your soft voice broke through his reverie, and he blinked, letting the darker thoughts slip away like shadows at dawn. 

Forcing a laugh, he pitched it into that usual two-tone cadence, rolling his eyes with practised ease. “Nothing’s the matter, dear, just basking in the peace and quiet,” he flicked his wrist with a dismissive flair, avoiding your gaze. 

You hummed thoughtfully, then suddenly mused aloud, “I wonder… is your hair soft?” 

Alastor’s eyes widened, his head snapping back to you with an almost painful creak. His heart thundered, warmth radiating through his chest in a dizzying surge. “That’s a rather odd question, isn’t it?” he replied, wincing as he heard the slight waver in his voice. His tail thumped softly against the marshy grass in protest. 

“Well, your son—” 

“He’s not my son,” Alastor interrupted quickly, unable to hide the slight flush in his cheeks. 

You grinned, a playful glint in your eyes, and Alastor found himself scooting just the tiniest bit closer. 

“Oh?” He let a wicked grin slip across his face. “So, you want to touch my hair, do you? It’ll cost you a steep price, my dear.” His eyes glowed with mock menace, and a low buzz of static crackled from his staff. “Perhaps… your soul,” he laughed darkly, the edge of humour softening his tone. 

You blinked at him before bursting into bright laughter. “What if I offer a massage instead?” You wiggled your fingers playfully. “Catastor seems to love it when I give him a little scratch behind the ears.” 

“Ugh.” Alastor rolled his eyes, crossing his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “That cat’s so starved for affection, you could probably kick it, and it’d still be purring like mad.” His grumble was almost swallowed up by his own embarrassment. 

There was a moment of silence as you watched him, a thoughtful look flickering in your eyes. Alastor stiffened under your gaze, nerves prickling as though you could see right through him. Then, with a bright smile, you reached out, your fingers splayed and wiggling in invitation. “You can be the judge then,” you offered with a grin, your hands open and waiting. 

Alastor’s gaze locked on your outstretched fingers, and as if guided by some irresistible, magnetic force, he found himself drifting closer, leaning in with a reverence that felt both foreign and sacred. He knelt just above your head, his eyes meeting yours in a soft, consuming stare, so near he could see the flecks of colour that danced within your gaze under the dim light. Slowly, carefully, he bowed, his face hovering just inches from yours, every breath mingling in the silence. 

His hair brushed against your cheek, and the contact brought a light laugh from you, your voice a murmur that warmed his every nerve. “That tickles.” 

He was entranced, utterly held captive by your closeness, by the way your lashes fluttered and your cheeks flushed. He’d never seen you this close before, and each tiny detail felt etched into his memory. “Well, go on,” he said softly, his tone dipped in a vulnerability he rarely allowed. “Show me if your massage is as grand as you claim.” 

A rush of warmth and satisfaction welled within him when he saw your own eyes flicker away shyly, your teeth worrying at your lip. You looked so endearingly flustered, as if realizing you and he were somehow alone in a bubble of time—just the two of you, no one else to intrude, no foolish cat.

Your fingers threaded delicately into his hair, and he surrendered, eyes slipping closed as he basked in the soft drag of your nails against his scalp. A shiver chased down his spine, and he released a soft, involuntary sigh, savouring every touch. He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like this—no, no one had ever touched him like this. 

Your fingers travelled over his hair, deft and soothing, with your thumb tracing small circles at the base of his ear. He shuddered, his tail swaying in a steady, rhythmic beat beside him, betraying just how deeply he was affected. 

“Good?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. 

“Mmh.” His lips curled into a barely there smile, eyes still closed as he revelled in the feeling. “Passable,” he said, his tone rich with teasing. 

Your soft laughter flitted across his forehead, tickling his bangs and sending a delightful hum through his chest. He felt your breath, warm against his skin, each laugh another note of the melody he’d come to cherish. The gentle sweep of your thumb against his cartilage sparked waves of pleasure down his spine, and at some point, he’d eased himself down beside you, both of you lying on the cool grass, faces close as if drawn by an unspoken force. 

“You okay?” you murmured, your smile impossibly tender, amusement twinkling in your eyes. 

He met your gaze and found himself drinking in every detail. He liked your eyes, liked the way they softened as you looked at him. 

He liked your smile. 

But above all, he adored your laughter—the sound that seemed to strip away his defences and leave him feeling both exhilarated and exposed. 

A strange, quiet want flickered in his chest, something deep and hidden, something he hadn’t dared entertain. He wondered, just for a reckless, precious moment, what it would be like to move closer. Close enough that his breath mingled with yours, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your skin, maybe even let his lips graze yours. 

Just close enough… to be with you. 

Would such closeness chase away that cherished smile, rob him of the laughter that had grown to mean so much? 

As his thoughts drifted, your fingers slipped down his hair, tracing the line of his cheek. He could feel your fingertips gliding over his skin, tender and curious. Then came that small, enchanting giggle, a sound so sweet it echoed within him, lingering as if it were a treasure he’d never forget. 

Alastor could feel his heart beating a little too quickly as he leaned closer, drawn by the soft warmth of your touch. His face was just a breath away from yours, his lips so near your forehead, he could already imagine the gentle brush of a kiss. A kiss there would be innocent enough, right? Perhaps pressing his lips to yours would be too bold... but a tender gesture to your forehead surely wouldn’t be unwelcome. 

After all, this was for friendship—of course.

Just then, you sat up, leaving Alastor frozen, a pang of disappointment dropping like cold lead in his chest. But the ache melted away, replaced by a flash of heat, as you leaned forward, hair falling around him in a private curtain that made his breath hitch. Your smile softened, your eyes warm and unwavering, and then they closed, lashes sweeping delicately against your cheeks. Slowly, achingly slowly, you moved closer, and Alastor felt his pulse roar, filling his ears with a rush of anticipation. 

He could feel the warmth of your breath mingling with his, your fingers grazing his cheek as if the touch itself could tether him in place. A thrill he hadn’t realized he was longing for stirred within him. He closed his eyes, waiting, a tension brimming in his chest. His fingers trembled as he raised his hand, longing to close the last bit of distance, to touch you, to be as close to you as he’d been daring to dream. 

But then—“KAOUGH, KAOUGH, KAAAOUGHGHGHH!” 

A horrid, hacking noise broke through the moment like a thunderclap, snapping his focus away and shattering the spell between you. Instantly, Alastor’s warmth turned to ice as you jerked back, your attention stolen by none other than that wretched, blasted cat. 

“Catastor!” you exclaimed, startled, pulling away as the cat began to retch with ferocity. Alastor turned his gaze, annoyance brewing in his eyes, and found himself staring at the feline menace who was now coughing up dark, soot-like balls. These abominable little things, complete with tiny pointed ears and two unsettling, beady eyes, tumbled out of Catastor one after another, writhing and blinking as if they’d just spawned from a nightmare. 

“What the—” Alastor’s voice dropped, a disgusted snarl creeping into his expression as he watched the horrid little creatures emerge. Each ball of shadow looked like a poorly crafted miniature imp, malformed and twitching, with pointed ears and flickering eyes that seemed to leer at him. 

You, however, looked anything but disturbed. Stroking Catastor’s back in gentle, soothing motions, you cooed, “Aww, Catastor, did you eat too much again?” Your voice was filled with a doting affection, and Alastor watched in utter disbelief as the monstrous cat leaned fully against you, sprawling across your torso and letting its chin settle on your shoulder. 

“Yeeeeooowww,” Catastor moaned, an ugly, grating yowl that grated on Alastor’s every nerve. 

He gritted his teeth, feeling the rage simmering beneath his strained grin. The cat’s smug, hideous expression seemed to taunt him as it claimed your attention and care. Alastor could practically hear the mockery in its yowl. In his mind, he imagined various methods of removing this furred menace from your life—and more importantly, from his. 

But as he looked back at you, watching the way your eyes softened with laughter and your voice became gentle for this thing, the thought of that precious smile disappearing stayed his hand. Instead, he forced a tight grin, one that masked the bitterness eating at him from the inside, knowing he would endure—even if he had to suffer through a hundred more of those retched “yeeeooowwws.” 

"Aw, there, there," you murmured, gently patting the cat’s back with slow, soothing strokes. You looked at it as if it were some fragile, innocent creature, while the vile shadowy minions it coughed up scattered in all directions like troublesome spirits unleashed from a curse. 

Alastor could feel his patience fraying. With a quiet, heavy sigh, he sent out his own shadows, ruthlessly ordering them to snatch and crush every last one of the creatures scuttling about his beloved bayou. They obeyed, darting after the minions with deadly precision, each shadow winking out in a puff as they met their end. He folded his hands with a dark, calculated grace, but his gaze—his burning, dagger-sharp gaze—never left that insufferable cat. 

Oh, he saw it, all right. 

Saw the smug curl of its eyes, narrowing like crescent moons, and that infernal tongue hanging out, like it had the audacity to taunt him. Him. Alastor, the feared overlord, the Radio Demon. He felt something ancient and fierce coil in his chest, as if the essence of his full demon form threatened to break through, to remind this creature who reigned supreme. 

But just as his head tilted, shadows thickening around him with a promise of retribution, you turned toward him, drawing his full attention like a magnet. Your eyes softened, and a faint blush crept over your cheeks, spilling a fragile warmth he hadn’t anticipated. “Sorry about that, Alastor,” you said, your voice laced with sincerity, and as your gaze flicked downward, his anger dissolved just slightly, easing in the tender lull of your voice. 

Your next words undid him further. “Maybe tonight, we could read together?” You glanced up, offering a small, gentle smile that seemed to light the space between you both. “Just the two of us?” 

With those words, that insatiable, molten rage that had been brewing in his chest dissipated instantly, snuffed out as though you’d whispered the calmest of spells. 

He was sure of it then—you had to be a Smile Demon. How else could you possibly hold such power over him, capable of soothing his very soul with a single look? 

He gazed at you, awe mingling with amusement. Yes, you must be a demon of terrifying strength indeed—one who held him, the Radio Demon, in the palm of your hand with nothing more than a smile. 

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[fairy-writes]

ECHOES OF YOU, HEART OF MINE

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Solo Leveling

Prompt: “You’re the most important thing to me.”

Pairing(s): Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Angst, Hurt no Comfort (kinda), Arguments (more one-sided tho), Major Character Death

Notes: I’ll just say this now… I have no idea what I’m doing. Like, legitimately, I’m an anime-only watcher and am on… like… chapter six of the manhwa.

This is a collab! Specifically, with my good friend @straykidsnerd255 :) Her oneshot is HERE

Basically, we both had the same character, the same prompt, and wrote something!

SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2 EP 11

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You weren’t happy about it, being dead and all. Then again, no one was, at least to your knowledge. It wasn’t as if you had been a ghost before. 

But that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

Jinwoo’s shoes crunched the drab, gray gravel of the cemetery grounds as he stepped through the wrought iron gates. Unconsciously, his hand tightened around the flowers in his grip. Gravestones and upright headstones dotted the ground, but he paid none of them any mind as he searched for one in particular. 

Yours. 

It had been two weeks since Jeju Island. 

Since every Korean hunter came home alive but two. 

Min Byung-Gu, the S-Rank healer. Someone you had told him about before. 

And you. His best friend. His confidant. The only other one who knew about the System because when he was smaller, and weaker, more of a failure, he had to tell someone for fear of going crazy. 

But you trusted in him. You believed him. 

The cemetery was quiet. He could practically hear the shadows within his own shadow chattering until they realized just where they were. Then… One by one… They all went silent. He could feel their unease. Their discomfort. Their distress. 

Most of them knew who you were. 

What you were to him. 

And therefore, they knew why he was here. 

At your funeral, he had commanded some of the foot soldiers to carry your casket because there was no one else. You had no family. You had no friends except for himself and maybe Jinah. And he didn’t want anyone touching your casket because of the guilt he felt. So, he had your casket carried and lowered into the ground by his soldiers. There had been barely enough of a body to be embalmed and buried. 

Tank hadn’t done much; just let out a single mournful cry when the funeral was over. 

Igris stood stoically at Jinwoo’s side, ever the quiet knight. But, he had bowed his head as you passed by in a closed casket in respect for what you had done for his master. What you had been for him. 

Iron seemed in distress, but that almost made sense. You had always joked that he was your favorite out of all of Jinwoo’s shadow army. The funeral was publicized because, of course, it was. You were an S-Rank hunter, for hell’s sake. You were a beloved figure of the community, always kind, always brave. 

He hadn’t batted an eye when summoning his soldiers.

Who cared about the world knowing about his shadows when you weren’t there?

Why?!

Why hadn’t he gotten there sooner?!

Why couldn’t he have gone with you in the first place?!

If he had, maybe you would’ve survived. 

Maybe you would still be here!

He was yanked from his pitiful wallowing by something that made his heart stop dead in his chest. 

It was you, sitting on the gravestone with your name, bloodied and bruised and still in your armor, for heaven’s sake. It was as if you had escaped Jeju Island. As if you were alive. But something was wrong… You were… transparent?

All of that didn’t matter as you looked up, and your eyes met his. 

You froze when you saw Sung Jinwoo appear around the corner of the cemetery, a bouquet of flowers in hand, looking just as shocked as you felt. 

Perhaps looking shocked wasn’t the word you were looking for. His face didn’t change. But you could tell in how he held himself that he was two seconds away from crying. From running forward. From turning back into the emotional E-Rank, he used to be.

“Why are you here.” The cold greeting has his shoulders tensing, and you almost feel bad. But then you remember. 

Blood. 

Carnage.

Byung-Gu dead. 

Cha Hae-In gravely injured. 

And then…

Darkness. 

You had died. And no one saved you. 

Not for lack of trying, Baek Yoon-Ho had tried to staunch the bleeding, but he was bleeding and injured himself. And your injuries were much more severe.

Jinwoo didn’t say anything. He just walked forward and put the flowers at the base of your headstone. 

Dahlias, you realized—your favorite. He had told you once that they symbolized eternal love and commitment. 

It just made a flash of anger flow through you, like the Ant King gutting you before you died. Your lips curled in a sneer, and you tried to kick the flowers away. Keyword being tried. Your foot just passed through the blooms, and you almost fell over. You would’ve laughed at your blunder had you not been so upset. 

The entire time, Jinwoo just watched, something unreadable in those eyes of his that you loved so much. 

But you can’t muster up the courage to tell him that. And now you would never be able to. Even if you did, there was nothing you could do about it. Because you were dead. 

All you remembered was the pain and Baek Yoon-Ho begging you to stay awake before nothingness. 

Finally…

“Get out of here.” You snarl, and he stiffens. 

“Why?” He says, and you grit your teeth. It doesn’t hurt, of course. Nothing would hurt like that ever again. 

“Do I need a reason? Go away!” You shout, but again, he doesn’t move. You feel hot, angry tears in your eyes, and now he looks pained. 

It's almost as if he feels bad, but that doesn’t matter anymore. 

“I won’t.” He says, and you clench your jaw tightly until you would’ve been dizzy from pain had you been alive. 

“And why not?” Your voice is low and full of fury.

“Because. You need me.” He tries, and you bark out a harsh laugh. 

“I needed you two weeks ago! I needed to live! I wanted to survive!” You cry, and unwillingly, you remember something he told you when you first met in a dungeon when he was a nobody. 

“Your fear keeps you strong. It keeps you alive. You do better and perform better if you’re scared. Trust me. I’m afraid all the time!”

Sticky tears run down your cheeks and drip into nothingness on the gravel. 

“You promised me. You said my fear would keep me strong, that it would keep me alive! But I died afraid and alone and so, so scared! You made me trust you, and when it mattered the most, I was let down! You said I was the most important thing to you, and you lied!”

Your fists pass through Jinwoo’s chest as you try to hit him. Touch him. Anything! 

But that is all meaningless because you are alone now. Forever alone and in pain and scared. 

You will forever be—

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, hands going around your shoulders as if to hold you, but they just pass right through your form. It’s as if you don’t exist. As if you don’t matter.

But you know you mattered to Jinwoo. He was one of the only ones who cared anymore. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I am so so sorry.” He said, his voice cracking in the first show of outward emotion you had seen from him since his mother woke up. He tried to hold you again, to kiss you, something that showed he cared.

But he couldn’t anymore. 

He couldn’t ever again. 

“You have my heart. Now and forever, and I am so eternally sorry for not being there. You are the most important thing to me.” He all but whimpered, and it tugs at your dead heart. You fall to your knees, sobbing, hands gripping your head as you try not to sink into despair. 

“Don’t leave me.” You wail, and he just watches you with a heartbroken look on his face. He can’t comfort you, can’t say anything to make it better. He just has to watch as you cry and cry and cry.

Now, and forever more. 

[snickerdoodlles]

one of my most formative fandom experiences was a comment i had gotten on a fic i wrote for a halloween themed fandom event.

this was for a manga/anime, so the fic was a general ghost story obviously set in Japan. the beginning of it involved a pizza delivery and while writing it, i had spent like 30 minutes just double checking tipping customs and the types of pizza they serve and even fell down a wikipedia rabbit hole looking up the history of pizza in Japan.

now, i just like the research part of writing, i do stuff like this because i have fun doing it. and while i was writing this particular fic, i had laughed at myself for my 30 minutes of googling that amounted to 2.5 offhand lines in a 3500 word fic. i didn't think anyone would care about or even notice those particular details except for me, especially since none of them were relevant to the ghost part of this ghost story.

except, when i had sent this fic to a Japanese friend, the first thing she said to me about it was "OH MY GOD YOU GOT THE PIZZA RIGHT"

and that was the moment when it had really clicked for me. what had just been 30 minutes of effort on my part had become a moment of relief for her. my friend was far more used to reading ethnocentric fic that ranged from unintentional ignorance to outright superiority against part of her culture (the original story's culture no less). and even with the "innocent" ignorance (heavy quotes on that) far outstripping any outright maliciousness, that's still so many people saying her culture was not worth learning about. the pizza in my story was a small detail, but i had cared enough to put in some effort to check it. and for her, coming from a fic experience where her norm was bracing for hundreds of inaccuracies born of ignorance, especially at that time after a flood of stories centered around "Halloween as a cultural holiday in the US" premises instead of the "Halloween is a commercial gimmick in Japan" reality, seeing someone put in some effort even for minor story details meant something to her.

this also throws me back to the discourse that arose in a french show fandom a few years ago because there were a lot of fic authors that wrote 'dollars' instead of 'euros'-- but when people brought this up as a prevalent issue across the fandom but an easy one to fic/watch out for, many of these writers instead pushed back to complain that they were posting stories for free and it wasn't that big of a deal. which really upset a lot of people, but then this upset was met with a new wave of indignation that people needed to 'get over it' because they're writing fic ~just as a hobby~. but, even if 'dollars' instead of 'euros' wasn't a big deal, by digging in their heels about the issue, they were saying "your culture isn't worth even five minutes of my time or effort."

I've been thinking about these things lately because the ethnocentrism in Thai drama fandoms is...staggering. just over the turn of the year, there were waves of Christmas fic for Buddhist characters. and just. Christmas in Thailand is a tourist thing at best. sometimes a pop culture gimmick for international audiences or maybe an offhand high school thing to blow off steam between midterms. it's not a cultural thing. and even if a character is a part of the Christian minority, a Christian Thai's holiday customs and culture are going to be vastly different than a Christian's customs in the Americas or Europe. and while the Christmas fic is at least finished for now, I'm already bracing myself for the Easter fic wave that also seems to pop up for Thai dramas. it's so frustrating to see this sort of cultural overwrite all the time, especially since most Thai drama holiday works aren't about Thai holidays.

but the thing that really got me bristling about all of this again was i saw a post the other day where op said that they weren't going to write [thai drama] fic because they don't know much about thailand.

what an absolutely appalling statement to make.

google is right there. wikipedia is free. you don't even have to leave tumblr or AO3 to learn more because there are Thai natives in fandom who write essays to explain common elements of their culture. hell, even just watching these Thai stories and considering the values and messages imparted by the narrative framework and story lens tells you something about that culture. the audacity to look at a culture different from your own and say "this is not worth my effort or time to learn anything more about," are you kidding me?!?

the messages and values of a story tell you about the writer's values, which are going to carry their cultural values, beliefs, and biases. Thai culture is going to be heavily relevant to any Thai story, even the ones that aren't explicitly about Thai culture/customs/etc. (hell, Thai bl/gl as a genre alone-- just the fact that queer Thai writers are making these stories in Thailand's current political climate is highly political, even the "fluffy" ones that don't seem to make outright political statements.) to approach any story like it was made in a vacuum is to remove the writer(s)' culture and values and to overwrite them with your own.

especially because this is fandom. these are the lowest stakes to learn! it sucks to see people say things like "but i'm scared i'll get something wrong" and hold up that fear as a shield to justify their ignorance. no one's expecting anyone to get every detail right, especially not for a culture that isn't theirs, just make an effort to learn something new about it. pick out something that caught your eye as different to learn more about and see where it leads you.

and for the record--making a mistake trying to broaden your horizons is a far, far better thing to do than to superimpose your culture on everyone else's because you're scared to confront your ignorance.

edit: check out this reblog thanks

[marauder-misprint]

Here I am again, my favorite Harry Potter fandom writer :)

I saw something on TikTok, but I lost it because the page was refreshed before I could watch the end and see the creator of the video. But it gave me an idea:

Severus Snape's daughter x Marauders (which you know my preference is always Sirius 😘)

Severus doesn't have much love for his child since Lily is not her mother, but as a father who is aware of his own family history, he makes sure that his daughter lives a relatively happy life in good conditions. She will probably have a natural talent for potions and defense against the dark arts.

In this case, I honestly didn't think how to connect her to Sirius, there would probably be an age difference problem… ah but I want to hope that my favorite author can do something about impossible love 💕❤️😍

Cora! ❤︎ This did become an age-gap fic (approx. 16 years between reader and Sirius). I spent so much time on HP wiki trying to figure out canon birth years. I set it in OotP with a post-Azkaban Sirius.

Hopefully this works for impossible love ❤︎ I mean, Sirius is always gonna hate Severus but that doesn't mean Sirius can't love his daughter!

Snape Spawn

Sirius Black x Snape!reader

part two, part three

6.7k words

cw: age gap!, Y/N, pining?, snog, fluff if you squint

In the aftermath of losing Lily for calling her a mudblood, Severus became a pathetic mess. He lived more and more inside of his head just to survive. When he went home for the summer, he didn’t have the respite of Lily’s company when his parents became too much. To put it shortly and concisely, he found comfort in some girl’s arms, a girl also tempted by Voldemort’s preaching. 

When he returned to Hogwarts in the fall, she wrote to him. He was going to be a father. 

The girl didn’t survive much past your birth. Your grandparents took care of you for a few years, until they reached an age where they were unfit to do so. They returned you to Severus, being that he was now of age and able to fulfil his role of father. 

He did so, although not gratefully. 

You were raised in a tolerable home. Severus knew he couldn’t bring up a child in a home similar to the one he was raised in, so he did his best to ensure that you were happy. He found himself wishing you were the offspring of Lily, rather than some girl who would’ve joined the ranks of Voldemort. He kept you in the dark when he did join the Death Eaters. You were to be protected. 

When Voldemort fell and Severus became a double agent, you were still unaware of everything. He took a job at Hogwarts as the Potions master, per Dumbledore’s request. You were watched over by a couple in Hogsmeade while he worked. 

When you came of age, you attended Hogwarts, being sorted into Slytherin. Some people immediately questioned if Severus was fair when grading your assignments for his class; you had only received O’s from him. Despite your high grades across the board, next highest being Defense Against the Dark Arts, there was enough suspicion for Dumbledore to step in. When the headmaster deemed that your work was exceptional and far above the rest of your peers, the concerns settled down.

Your expertise in potion making rivaled that of your fathers, as did your passion for it. You made plenty of extra potions in your spare time. You had a complete collection of potions in your dorm. You would sell some for non-academic purposes, the most popular being various healing potions. You also supplied the veritaserum for Truth or Dares at parties. Despite being the daughter of the least-liked professor at Hogwarts, you were fairly well liked. 

After you graduated, you opened an Apothecary in Diagon Alley. You and Severus spoke less and less. As he saw it, you were no longer his responsibility. And really, you weren’t. You didn’t reach out to him. Just the occasional letter to him at Christmas and his birthday and you received a letter on yours. 

Then you got a letter from Severus that confused you. It said ‘Happy Birthday’ but your birthday had passed and you had already received your annual letter. There was something else off about the letter: several words were misspelled. Out of curiosity, you wrote down the correct letters and it spelled out a potion. It was one you always had in stock, although it was particularly difficult to brew. You knew it was a long shot and probably wouldn’t do anything, but you took the potion and poured it over the letter. 

A short message appeared at the bottom. 

Danger lies ahead. Meet me.

And then an address appeared with instructions. 

You were quite confused when you arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place. You followed the directions left for you. You were even more confused when after you knocked on the door, you heard screaming from inside and then Remus Lupin opened the door.

“Erm, Professor?” you asked.

He stepped aside and let you in.

“Snape, she’s here!” he yelled down the hallway and then up the stairs, “Someone shut that portrait up!” 

“Y/N,” Severus said, standing in the doorway at the end of the hallway. “You came.”

You held out the letter before saying deadpan, “It’s not my birthday.” 

You looked past your father into a kitchen filled with people. Most of them were adults older than you, closer to your father’s age and older. Nymphandora Tonks was probably the person closest to your age. You looked back at Severus.

“What is this? What danger-?” you started to ask.

“Bring the girl in, we’ll fill her in with the door shut, please,” a firm, female voice said from within the kitchen.

Severus turned and you followed him into the kitchen, along with Remus. You recognized Molly and Arthur Weasley from graduation. You were in the same year as Percy, who was absent. The only other people you recognized were McGonagall and Mad-Eye Moody, from his picture in the paper. 

You took a seat at the table and crossed your arms. You were waiting for an answer.

“So this is your spawn, Snivelly?” a smooth voice said from the end of the table that had been out of view from the door.

You turned your head to see Remus sit down next to Sirius Black. He looked more sane and put together than he did in all of his mug shots that littered the Daily Prophet two years ago. 

“Merlin, when did you sire her? She’s older than Harry,” Sirius continued, eyeing you up and down. 

It only made you narrow your eyes at him. The arrogance that he emanated didn’t sit well with you. You had a feeling that you weren’t going to like him, no matter how handsome you were beginning to think he was. 

“None of your business,” Severus snarled, taking the seat next to you and putting himself between you and Sirius. 

“She’s of age. Otherwise she wouldn’t be here and we wouldn’t be about to tell her about the Order,” Remus said. 

The way that Remus looked at Sirius told you that Sirius would be filled in on you later. Remus had been one of your favorite professors at Hogwarts. It certainly helped that he taught your favorite subject and did a much better job at it than Lockhart did. Severus had warned you the moment Remus was hired that he was a werewolf. He had made you promise to remain in your dorm during full moons. Even with his Wolfsbane potion, Severus wanted Remus nowhere near you. 

“The Order? Is someone going to explain? I had to close up shop early,” you said as you looked around the table. 

“The Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore founded it when You-Know-Who first rose to power. And now that he’s back…” Arthur said. “Arthur Weasley, by the way.”

“So he is… he is back?” you asked, looking at your father for confirmation. 

He nodded.

“We fought him once and we’ll fight him again,” Moody said gruffly. 

You folded your hands in front of you. You swallowed thickly, once again looking from person to person around the room. 

“Where do I come into this?” you asked quietly.

“They want you to join,” Severus said. “They assumed you’d want to fight. Particularly, Lupin.”

You leaned forward to get a clear look at Remus and cocked an eyebrow when you made eye contact. 

“You’re a talented witch, Y/N. You’ll want to be on the right side of this,” Remus said. 

You thought about the idea of fighting. If Voldemort really was back, you knew there would be another war brewing and which side you would support. 

“How do I help? What do I need to do?” 

“Told you she’d agree,” Remus told Severus, a smirk appearing on his face. 

Mad-Eye and Arthur went into a deeper discussion about what the Order did, how secretive they needed to be, how they would communicate with you. Remus added a random comment here and there. You nodded as you listened intently. You gave Severus the occasional glance but he sat with a stoney expression. Beyond him, Sirius watched you with an amused look that you didn’t like. In your opinion, this meeting of the Order was no place for an expression like that. 

After the delegation of assignments and missions, Molly looked at you and said, “You’re welcome to stay for dinner if you’d like.”

“Oh, um, I don’t know…”

Severus put his hand on your shoulder, grabbing your attention.

“I’ll see you at the next meeting,” he said before disappearing out of the kitchen.

You briefly turned your head to watch him leave. You chuckled to yourself. Typical. 

“Meeting’s over?” Hermione asked, entering the kitchen. 

“Mum, what is for dinner?” Ron added, following her.

You and Molly moved to the side to allow for the new people entering and the members leaving. Then two pops could be heard from the hallway before Fred and George came in. Their eyes locked in on you. 

“Snape! Long time!” George called, wearing a grin that matched his twin’s. 

“Weasley one and two. How’d you two survive last year without me?” 

“Dreadful. Had to find a new way into the Slytherin Common Room,” Fred answered. “Are you staying for dinner?” 

“I guess I am now. Didn’t know you were here.” 

“Wow, we rank that high?” Fred asked, giving you a wink and earning an eye roll from you.

“You rank because you funded the first few months of my shop’s rent,” you deadpanned before breaking into a smile. “And I want to know why you needed so many wiggenwelds.”

As the people in the kitchen shifted, you found yourself sat at the table again. This time, as you sat across from the twins with Tonks to your left, you felt older, less like the child in the room. Arthur, Molly, Remus and Sirius were the only other members of the Order who remained. 

You turned to Tonks and muttered, “I thought this was going to be more of a… Order meal.”

She shook her head and gave Molly a weary glance. You both knew you weren’t supposed to talk about Order stuff around the younger kids, but you thought it was safe enough. 

“Not many stay. Molly invites them every time.” 

Then the twins took over your attention. They told you about what they got up to your last year at Hogwarts when they bought healing potion after healing potion from you. They recounted the Triward Tournament and everything that happened last year. At one point, you explained to Tonks how you let the twins into the Slytherin Common Room on several occasions so that they could prank some of your more foul housemates.

Sirius wouldn’t admit it, but he was listening intently to your conversation and stealing momentary glances of you. 

Some time after you left and everyone had dispersed throughout the house, Remus sat with Sirius in the drawing room. 

“When did you find out Snivellus had a kid?” Sirius asked.

“When her name appeared on my roster.”

“You taught her? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I hadn’t seen you in twelve years, Padfoot. It didn’t seem important. Why do you care so much?”

Sirius didn’t answer. He didn’t know why your existence was so intriguing to him. Maybe it was the shock that Severus had actually managed to be intimate with someone. Sirius had watched you all through the meeting and then practically all dinner. Seeing you interact with Tonks and the twins, and everyone really, made it clear that you were a much different person than Severus. 

“You said she’d want to join. What made you think that?” 

“You remember how Severus was in school, with the dark arts?” Remus asked. “She had that same intense interest, except in Defense. Wasn’t a better student in her year. I was shocked when I heard she wasn’t going for an Auror position.”

“Didn’t she say something about a shop?”

Remus nodded. “Follows Snivy in that sense. Runs an apothecary in Diagon Alley.”

“I’m still not over that Snivellus has a kid…” Sirius muttered with a sigh. 

---

Over the next few weeks, you met more and more of the Order’s members. Each meeting was a different combination of people. Molly, Arthur, Remus and Sirius were the only consistents. The Weasleys were fine, as was Remus. He insisted that you call him by his name, being that he was no longer a professor and you were no longer a student. It took time.

And then there was Sirius. This handsome man who looked at you with ever-changing expressions. One day he would be intrigued by you and the next he would be disgusted. You exchanged very few words with him. He was always on the other side of the room. And yet, your eyes often locked with his. 

“Remus, we need you to come with us,” Molly called from the door. “Y/N, can you stay? We’ll need healing potions when we get back.”

“Erm, yeah. Yeah, I can stay. Is there-” you started to ask.

“Potions station? Upstairs. Have Sirius show you,” Remus said before following Molly and Arthur out of the house. 

Once the door closed, you sighed. You hadn’t been on a mission yet, and you knew it was because of how young you were. It was a bit frustrating. You were of age. They asked you to be a part of the order. And here you were, staying behind to be a potioneer. Yes, you were good at it, but you were also exceptional at dueling. Remus had told you that before. 

You looked around for Sirius. He wasn’t in the kitchen or anywhere on the main floor. You checked the various rooms as you ascended the stairs. You asked the Weasleys and Hermione if they’d seen him and all you got were shrugs in response. Great. 

Then, with a sigh because it was so obvious, you knocked on his bedroom’s door. 

“What?” his voice bellowed from inside.

“Sirius, I, erm, I need a potion station? Profess-, ahem, Remus said to ask you for it,” you said loudly to ensure your voice carried through the closed door.

There was a moment of silence before the sounds of him grumbling and getting up before he opened the door. He was more casually dressed than you had ever seen him. You were caught off guard by how effortlessly handsome he was.

“Wait in the drawing room. I’ll bring it down.” 

You nodded. Sirius turned to go higher up the stairs and you went the opposite direction. You paced around the drawing room while you waited for him to return. You set up your travel package of potion ingredients. You knew that the Order had some stock, but something told you that your personal stock would be of higher quality and you preferred it when you knew where each ingredient came from. The sources could really affect the effectiveness of a potion. 

You jumped when the potion station clanked through the door, followed by a string of swears from Sirius. 

“Sorry, just this damn thing…”

You looked at it with a subtle gasp.

“Merlin, that’s ancient.”

Once it was in the room, you took over levitating it toward the middle of the room so you would have plenty of room to maneuver around it. 

“Well, it was my parents so…” Sirius’ voice trailed off, his eyes studying your every move. “Can’t say how much it actually got used around here.”

“I keep forgetting this is your parents’ place. Must be strange to have it turned into headquarters when you grew up here.” 

You started a fire and immediately went into work mode, starting a large batch of classic wiggenwelds. Sirius unceremoniously fell into a rickety armchair before getting comfortable. Surely watching you work would be more entertaining than staring at the ceiling in his room. 

“Strange doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Without looking up from the cauldron, you asked, “How would you describe it then?” 

“Horrible,” he said quickly. He didn’t even pause to think about it. “It’s a prison. It was when I was growing up here and it still is. Different kinds of torture, but it boils down to the same pain.” 

You glanced at him through your eyelashes, only briefly as to keep the majority of your attention on the potion that was beginning to simmer. He looked utterly at ease in the chair.

“They say we can’t risk you getting captured. Dementor’s kiss and all.”

Sirius chucked. “They say… Like staying here isn’t sucking my soul out all the same.”

“It’s not exactly… cheerful.”

“My damned house elf was never a good housekeeper. Nor was my mother an interior designer. Parents took too much pride in their family heirlooms to consider taste.” 

You hummed. “I take it you think you have taste, then?”

“Oh, I know I do. I mean, don’t take my room here for example. If you could see my room at the Potter Manor?” He shook his head with a sigh. “And I had barely settled after moving out when… when it all happened.”

You sat back on your heels, turning a muggle cooking timer you had in your pack. The potion needed to sit for some time.

“Do you want to talk about those years? Or should we change the subject?” you asked, placing some of your tools back into their case.

He barked a laugh and tilted his head back against the chair’s fraying material. 

“Change the subject. There’s not much to say about sitting in a cell and rotting for twelve years.”

“Says the only man to escape Azkaban.”

“Different subject, darling.”

“Okay, okay. Can I ask why it feels like you’re always staring at me during meetings?” 

“Easy. Because I am.”

The casualness in his answer took you by surprise. Who admits to staring at a person? 

“Why?”

“You’re Snivy’s kid,” Sirius said like it was an obvious answer, but it made you frown.

“I take it you and my dad didn’t get along.” 

“I wouldn’t say we were friends, no. But the feeling was mutual.” 

“So Severus is my dad. Why does that make you stare?” you asked, standing up and crossing your arms over your chest. This time, it was you studying him, taking in every detail of his features. 

Under your intense gaze, SIrius sat up in the chair and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Trying to figure out how much like him you are.”

You hummed. “I’m sure someone told you it doesn’t matter if you like dad or me. There’s a bigger problem at hand that doesn’t require us to be friends.” 

Sirius flexed his eyebrows in mild annoyance.

“It’s not friendship I’m looking for from you,” he said, sounding irritated that he had to explain this. “Can I trust you? Can we trust you?”

You scoffed and took a step backwards. 

“Why wouldn’t you be able to trust me?”

“Because I don’t trust your father. I don’t care if Dumbledore does. I don’t care he claims to be a changed man. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

Suddenly, your expression changed into complete shock and disbelief. It hit Sirius that perhaps you didn’t know of your father’s history and the mark he bore on his left arm. 

“Oh, you didn’t know…”

“Dad was… is… was…” you stuttered. “No… He-he can’t… What?” 

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t’ve said anything if I knew you didn’t know…”

“No,” you said, holding up a hand to silence Sirius. “I’m glad you told me. You really would think I would know that about my own father… Merlin…” 

Sirius stood up and took exactly one step toward you. Then your timer went off. The cauldron captured all of your attention again. You removed it from the fire, stirred it and added the final ingredients. Sirius didn’t sit back down. He was too distracted with how you turned off your emotions to deal with the potion. It was like you suddenly didn’t care that a portion of your father’s identity had been hidden from you for your entire life because you had a duty, a duty to be prepared when the members of the Order returned. 

“Sirius,” you said after a few minutes. “Thank you for telling me about my father.”

“They’re back!” Ginny yelled from downstairs.

“Great, help me take this down to the kitchen?” you asked, gesturing to the cauldron. 

“Yeah, I’ll bring it. You go ahead, assess the damage done.”

You chuckled softly. “I’m no healer. Just a potioneer.” 

---

Slowly, you started talking to Sirius before and after meetings. The ones Severus attended, you avoided his eye. You had never questioned some things before, and now you were. The more you thought on your childhood, things that previously seemed odd made sense, given Sirius’ revelation. 

Severus wasn’t oblivious to your sudden coldness to him. He cornered you after one of the meetings. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

“What?” you replied, barely able to bring yourself to look at him. 

“You’re avoiding me,” Severus said plainly. “It’s unlike you.” 

You shrugged before crossing your arms. 

“So what if I am? You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I’m your father,” he hissed, leaning forward like he was trying to assert his dominance over you. 

You kept your head held high. “Roll up your sleeves then, Father.”

Severus stood up straighter, taking a step backwards. He glanced around the room. Then he grabbed your arm and pulled you out of the kitchen.

“Come with me,” he snarled, dragging you up the stairs until you reached the drawing room. He closed the door behind you and casted a muffling charm. “Who told you?”

“Doesn’t matter. It should have been you.”

“It does matter, Y/N.”

You scoff, turning away from him. You didn’t see why it mattered who told you, just that it hadn’t been him. You knew now and you didn’t know how you could trust your father. You agreed with Sirius on that point; it didn’t matter if Dumbledore trusted him. You decided that your father had to re-earn your trust. You were his daughter, his own flesh and blood. How come he wasn't the one who told you?

“You made yourself a liability,” he said.

“Oh no, what’s going to happen? I can’t go on missions? Oh, wait, I haven’t been on one.”

“You’re starting to sound like… Merlin…” Severus said.

Severus stormed out of the room and practically flew down the stairs. Even from upstairs, you could hear his threats.

“Are you trying to turn her against me? Do you ever think about your actions?”

“I didn’t know Y/N didn’t know!” Sirius’ voice replied, carrying as much anger as your father’s did. “She deserved to know.” 

“Severus! Sirius!” Molly yelled. 

You could imagine what the kitchen looked like. Severus at Sirius’ throat. Despite the anger in his voice, Sirius would maintain an even expression, or it would be masked with a casual grin. Molly was certainly trying to get in between them. 

“Molly, don’t you agree that Y/N should know of past alliances?” Sirius asked.

“Y/N, maybe. The rest of the house? No.”

You rolled your eyes as you left the drawing room and went down the stairs. You slipped out the front door before you could overhear any more of the argument. Something flipped in you and you didn’t feel like seeing Severus or Sirius in the aftermath of that meeting. You also didn’t want to talk to Molly and explain your part in it. You knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid it forever; there would be more Order meetings. But that wouldn’t be for a week, and people would be able to settle down. 

The next week, you arrived early. You’re not sure why, but it felt like the thing to do. The Advance Guard was gathering. You weren’t a part of it, surprise surprise. You knew that Severus wouldn’t be, but he would arrive as close to meeting time as he could. Sirius would be around. 

“Y/N, you’re not needed until later,” Remus said as you walked through the door and hung up your coat.

“I know,” you said casually. “But I can have tea in my flat, alone, or I can have tea here.” 

You walked past the guard, which proved more difficult than it should have been as they stood in the narrow hallway. There was no one in the kitchen, which you found odd. It was usually the life of the house, especially before meetings. You knew the kids liked to linger in attempts to be overlooked so they could attend a meeting. Molly always spotted them and kicked them out. ‘Members only,’ she’d say to their protests as they declared that they’d like to join. 

You put a kettle on and milled around, looking for the various things you need. Cup, tea leaves, sugar. Maybe a biscuit if they had some. You find everything you need just as the kettle whistles, and then you settle at the table. 

It doesn’t take long before Sirius enters the kitchen, smiling when he sees you. He took the seat next to you. After a minute, he reached over to grab your cup and took a sip of your tea. He made a face as he placed it back in front of you.

“Got enough sugar in there?”

“Not a fan of this blend,” you deadpanned, which was a partial truth. You also just liked your tea on the sweeter side. “You excited to see Harry?” 

Sirius tensed slightly but then he nodded.

“Yes. I wish he could’ve come sooner or we could’ve written him any kind of information…” He gave you a soft look. “It’s not like with you. He doesn’t have the ability to solve a riddle and brew up some potion to counteract a cursed piece of parchment. Bloody muggles he lives with…”

“I’ve heard stories,” you muttered. “They put bars on his windows at some point.”

Sirius’ eyes widened at that.

“They did what?”

“The muggles, um, Fred and George said they rescued him from some horrible situation a few years back. You’d have to ask them ‘bout it.”

Sirius nodded and the two of you fell into a mostly comfortable silence. Slowly, other members of the Order started to fill the kitchen and the seats at the table. The murmur of small talk broke up the silence. Then there was a commotion by the front door – Harry had arrived. 

You remained seated as Molly and Sirius went to greet him and the Advance Guard. You made brief eye contact with Harry before he was ushered upstairs and Molly closed the kitchen door so the meeting could start. Sirius sat down next to you, but the air around him was changed. 

You stayed for dinner again. In exchanging Order Members for the non-members, Sirius got up and sat down next to Remus. The spots on either side of you were filled by Fred and George. You sunk into your seat as Harry asked question after question about the Order as Sirius encouraged him and Molly shut him down. It was tense. You just wanted a warm home cooked meal, not an argument if the Harry Potter should be allowed into the Order and who was his family. 

The meal took far too long in your opinion. You barely took the time to say goodbye before hurrying out the door and making your way back to your flat. You sighed in the darkness. You didn’t bother turning on the lights, not needing it to cross the small distance to your room. The emptiness of your flat reminded you that you liked the solitude of it. It wasn't busy or filled with raging arguments. It was calm. It was quiet. It was you. 

The next few meetings, Sirius didn’t sit near you. He didn’t bother to say hello or bye. You practically glued yourself to Tonks, given she was the only person in the room who currently didn’t make you feel like a child. Yes, you were the baby of the group, but you didn’t need to feel like that. It didn’t help that you still hadn’t been chosen to go on a mission. Your main and only task was to stay behind and prepare potions in case the worst happens on the mission. 

“I’m not a healer,” you reminded everyone time and time again, only to be dismissed. 

You started leaving Grimmauld Place in a huff more often than not. Then you heard about the group selected to accompany Harry to King’s Cross. You didn’t even bother showing up to headquarters on September 1. No one was going to attack the boy at the train station, and you knew there would be no need for potions when the Order members returned. You’d hear about how Sirius tagged along in his animagus form during the next meeting. Great. Even Sirius technically got to go on a mission. 

Your attitude toward the Order was worsening. You knew that it was the side to be on. You knew you signed up for this, but it really wasn’t living up to any expectations that you had. Then, Remus approached you with a desperate request. You couldn’t turn him down. 

Sirius sat watching you as you worked on preparing the Wolfsbane potion. Remus was running out and Severus claimed to be too busy to brew it. You could’ve brewed it at your shop but something drew you to headquarters. So you sat in the drawing room with the ancient brewing station, a wide variety of ingredients and a potions book. You could feel Sirius’ eyes on you, taking in every motion. 

“Do you need something?” you asked, an air of impatience to your voice. 

Sirius doesn’t respond right away. He had been in his thoughts thinking about how when Severus was that intensely focused on a potion, Sirius would’ve made fun of him for it, but when it was you, it was fascinating and beautiful. 

“No,” Sirius said firmly.

You spared him a glance. It barely lasted a second. Sirius made no effort to pretend that he wasn’t staring at you. You sighed. You weren’t a huge fan of having someone watch your every move while you brewed a potion. You were no longer in school; you didn’t need supervision.

“If you don’t need anything, why are you in here?” 

“It’s my house,” he replied flatly. 

“Look,” you said, standing up and brushing yourself off before slowly walking over to him. “I know you and my father don’t get along. But I’m brewing that-” You gestured back toward the cauldron. “For Remus, who is your friend. And I really don’t need any distract-”

You were cut off by Sirius’ lips pressing onto yours as he leaned upward. You hadn’t realized you were standing close enough to his chair for him to do that. You took a shocked step backwards. Sirius stood up with a smirk on his face.

“Thanks, on behalf of Remus. I’ll leave you to finish that. Uninterrupted. And if you need me, I’ll be in my room.”

No distractions. That is what you had been asking of Sirius and instead, he gave you one of the biggest distractions that he could. You watched him leave the room and then tried to regain your focus. You had a task at hand. A rather important one, if you asked anyone who knew of Remus’ condition. The liquid started to bubble and you swore, hurrying to stir in the next ingredient. 

Your mind kept drifting back to Sirius and the fact that he kissed you. And then left? Well, you had been in the middle of asking him to leave, but still. You don’t kiss someone and leave. Not like that.

You finished brewing the Wolfsbane and poured it into a collection of vials. You took your time cleaning up, debating what you wanted to do. You were still debating it as you went to find Remus and give him the vials. The upcoming full moon was already taking effect on him. He looked more tired and weak than usual. You knew the potion helped but it was still a far cry from a cure-all. 

Then you found the door that said ‘Sirius Orion Black’ on it. You stood outside it for at least a full minute before raising your hand to knock on it. But you didn’t knock. Not right away. You let your hand fall. Then you raised it again, and let it fall. On the third try, because third time’s the charm, you knocked. You could hear movement from inside the room and then he opened the door. 

Sirius watched you with curious eyes as you walked into his room. He closed the door behind you. You scanned the room, scoffing at the posters of motorbikes and girls in bikinis.

“Classy,” you said. “This is the taste that your parents didn’t have?”

“If I recall, I said to not count my room here. I put all this up when I was like 13? 14? Give or take. And permanent sticking charms are more powerful than most people give them credit for.”

“Ah, that’d be the lack of understanding for the word permanent.”

Sirius chuckled at that and leaned against his desk. Once again, he was watching your every move. He couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his lips as you cautiously sat down on his bed. You were still taking in the time capsule of Sirius’ childhood when you spoke.

“So, um, what was that? Downstairs.” You knew you sounded confused, unsure of how you felt about it.

“When you said that I don’t get along with your… with Severus,” he started, saying your father’s name with a moderate level of disgust, “you weren’t wrong. Apparently, I have strong emotions for Snapes. For him, it’s… ahem, not good. But you?” He took a breath and shook his head. “I can’t get you out of my head. At first I thought it was because you’re his kid. But it’s not that. It’s… Merlin, you’re something else, you know?” 

You just stare at him. You didn’t quite understand what he was saying. This time it was your turn to watch him as he stood up from leaning against his desk and made his way toward you. He stood in front of you for a moment, running a gentle finger along your jaw from your ear down to your chin. 

As he sat next to you, he added, “And I tried to stop what I feel for you. Bury it deep. But, fuck, Y/N, you’re irresistable…”

“So August was…”

“That was me telling myself this would never work. You’re a Snape. There’s no way you could want me like I want you.”

You wanted to laugh. Sirius was devilishly handsome and you found he was easy to get along with. You liked how he didn’t treat you like a child and understood why you felt less than in the Order, since you were both consistently left behind. 

“What made you… change your mind?” you asked, turning so your body was angled toward him.

“I may be very much reading into it, but I don’t think so since you’re here now. But you brewed Remus’ potion here rather than your little apothecary shop. Thought that it might be because I’m here. And then you were about to call me a distraction.”

This time you did laugh.

“Cocky much? Assuming a distraction is a good thing?” 

He leaned in so his face was only centimeters from yours. “Is it?”

You hated how your breath caught in your throat. You hated how Sirius obviously noticed with his smirk growing into a wide grin. He leaned in more. His lips weren’t quite touching yours but you swore you could feel them move as he spoke.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Just kiss me again, Black,” you breathed.

That was all he needed to press his lips to yours again. You didn’t pull back this time. You leaned into him, kissing back with passion you hadn’t felt in years. Sirius had one hand cupping your face and the other holding onto your waist, holding your body in place. The voice in his head kept saying that any moment now you’d remember that Sirius is the same age as your father and it would disgust you. You kept proving the voice wrong with each passing second. 

Soon enough you were no longer sitting on Sirius’ bed. You straddled him, pressing your body against his. Both his hands were traveling your body, feeling the softness of your skin under your shirt. You simply had an arm around his neck and a hand in his hair. 

You felt like you had fire in your veins as Sirius’ lips left yours but kept pressing wet kisses to your skin. He moved to your jaw and down your neck until he found the sweet spot near your collarbone.

A firm knock on his door froze the both of you where you sat practically intertwined. 

“Padfoot, I’m going for takeaway. Want anything?” Remus called through the door. 

You pressed your mouth against Sirius’ shoulder to prevent yourself from giggling. There was something so utterly teenage about almost getting caught snogging. You and Sirius were both adults, but being walked in on by Remus would still have felt mortifying.

“Nah, mate, I’m good,” Sirius yelled back. His hands were still holding your side and back under your shirt. 

“Alright.” There was a pause. “Did little Snape leave? I didn’t hear the door.” 

You pulled back from Sirius’ shoulder with wide eyes. You didn’t know what you wanted him to stay. If Sirius said you were still here, Remus would probably ask if you wanted anything or where you were since you clearly weren’t anywhere else in the house. If he said you were gone and Remus decided to come in for some reason, Sirius would have to explain why he lied. Well, it would be obvious why he lied, but still. You figured it would be better if Sirius said you were gone and then you could sneak out while Remus was gone. 

“She’s quiet, that one. Mum would’ve liked her,” Sirius replied and you nodded approvingly. 

“Right. Okay. I’ll be back.” 

You and Sirius sat silently. You listened to Remus descend the rest of the stairs and leave the house. 

“I’ll have to be gone before he gets back,” you said.

“Or you could stay,” Sirius offered. “Say you forgot something or another.”

You placed a kiss on Sirius’ cheek. “Yeah? And then what?” 

“Then…” Sirius drew out the word as if pondering your question. “You spend the night?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh, Sirius, I don’t fuck on the first date.” You patted his cheek gently before removing yourself from his lap. You tried not to look at the tent in his pants, the result of having you. “How about you make me dinner sometime?”

Sirius had frowned when you got up but it was quickly replaced with a smile when you suggested dinner.

“And if I’m no chef?”

You shrugged. “I could pick up takeaway. Or, if you’re really nice, I could make something.” 

Then, realization hit you and you sat back down next to Sirius. 

“If this happens,” you said, gesturing between you and Sirius, “we’ll have to tell my father.”

Sirius’ grin only grew, something wicked flickering in his eyes. “I can’t wait to tell him.”

“That’ll help you mend your past,” you muttered, earning a bark of a laugh from Sirius.

“I think we’re well past being able to mend anything, sweetheart,” he said. “But I can be cordial if it means I can have you.”

You jam a finger into his chest. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. So far all you are is a good snog.”

“A good snog, eh? High reviews.”

“Think you’re open on Friday?” you asked, standing up again and straightening your shirt.

“Let’s see,” Sirius said, mock-pondering. “Tomorrow, Friday, next week, next month… I’m open.”

“Right, sorry.” You gave Sirius a small smile. “Chinese sound good? I’ll pick it up and be over ‘round 7?”

“Sounds lovely.” 

Tag: @bruxa0007

[sgiandubh]

In which the Music Manager strikes again

I very honestly think it's time to try and sort out a very complicated question, that bothered this side of the fandom for a long while.

This comment summed it up perfectly and I promised a separate post to discuss some of it, bearing in mind that this is Just My Opinion:

I think the early days on this side of the fandom were the best of times and the worst of times, too. The best of times, because shippers had daily receipts and renewed confirmation. The worst of times, because fanfic or just wishful thinking did find a way to sometimes overlap with what obviously already was a very complicated reality.

By the time the Dreaded MC reached our shores, the shockwave was cosmic. People cried. People quit. Former friends started bitching on and about each other. But once the first shock was taken full front in, some tried to make sense of it, as I have already written. I maintain my position which is to never judge or discuss anything I was not a direct part of, and so I choose to remain silent on all the things that were done to that extent. It is not my call and it is not my intention. My intention is to try and correct some fantasies and plain untruths that have been taken for granted for many, many years, in here.

I have already explained here why the Ibiza marriage is, at worst, fanfic and at best, some sentimental-binding handfast ceremony on the beach, possibly: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/772076510404395008/hola-hola-pregunta-de-novata-asombrada-de-veras?source=share

To back it up, here are the applicable regulations, as per the UK Government itself:

[Source: https://www.gov.uk/world/organisations/british-consulate-ibiza]

The only problem is, you can get married in a British consulate if and only if the host country's legislation gives permission for it:

If you click on the link below, you will not find Spain on the list of the countries where a consular marriage can be arranged. The reason for it is that Spain does allow same-sex marriage (which is the main reason this type of ceremony is still being performed as such, in a handful of British consulates across the world) and also because it does allow two foreign citizens to marry on its territory, provided certain requirements are being met.

[Source: https://www.gov.uk/guidance/getting-married-at-a-british-embassy-high-commission-or-consulate]

This is where things become impossible for that Ibiza marriage scenario, because there is no way they could have arranged a Tijuana marriage of sorts. While Spain does allow foreigners to marry on its territory, it leaves to the provinces the power to set the criteria of doing so. For Ibiza, you have to be a legal resident (which means, to have a residence permit issued by the Spanish authorities) there for at least two years prior to the date of your marriage:

This leaves, in theory, the possibility of a legally binding Catholic marriage, celebrated only in church, since C is a Catholic herself and, unlike the case of Anglicans (Presbyterians, in the US) not needing a prior UK civil marriage certificate (something which in theory, would have extended also to S):

[Source, for both of the above: https://www.hitched.co.uk/wedding-planning/organising-and-planning/getting-married-in-ibiza/]

But we know that never happened, unfortunately. And we know it because on that damned Marriage Certificate both C and McGill wrote and signed, is that horrible little word: 'single'.

Sorry for hurting your eyes with this. Some say the best way to overcome your greatest fear is to face it - I wholeheartedly agree with them:

[Source: https://www.tumblr.com/hurleyburly/649158609642618880/arrived-this-morning-april-22nd-by-post-from-the?source=share - I used this particular one, because the legal watermark is very obvious on it and also, because it is the easiest to look for and find].

Before the 2004 reform of the UK marriage and civil partnership legislation (enforced starting December 2005), the appropriate mention on a marriage certificate was either 'bachelor' or, accordingly, 'spinster'. That meant none of the two future spouses were married before. This has been further clarified by the Registrar General of England and Wales, acting as sole competent authority in that field, in September 2005:

[Source: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/4141996.stm]

Therefore, all of the above beg the question: which scenario applies?

1. SC got married in Ibiza, the USA, or Atlantis (doesn't matter, legal case in point is entirely the same). In that case, C would have been already married to S, on August 10, 2019. That would make her a bigamous woman. The punishment for bigamy, in the UK, is 6 months (convicted) to 7 years (indicted) in prison and a fine of £5,000, according to the Offences against the Person Act 1861:

[Source: https://penmansedgwick.com/bigamy/]

On top of it, writing 'single' on that paper without it being legally true would also qualify her as a perjury. In the UK, the punishment for perjury, in the special case of marriage procedures, is 2 years in prison if convicted and up to 7 years in prison, if indicted, plus a fine of £100, according to the Perjury Act 1911:

[Source: https://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/Geo5/1-2/6]

Does anybody seriously (I repeat: seriously) think C or anyone else involved, for that matter, would have risked that? Now, I know the integrity of the Authorized Person and/or the GRO people has been questioned. I am not going there, because I was not involved in that entire business. Corrupt officials exist everywhere, after all, and that is not entirely out of the question. However, without the misdemeanor being denounced as such, you can bet no investigation has been conducted on that particular point. As such (and one last time, for I shall not discuss this anymore, lest we'd have news about it) the Dreaded MC is still a legal paper, producing legal effects. You can choose to ignore it and go your merry way, but you cannot tear it apart in a fit of rage and hide the shreds under the carpet. It is there and it happened. What possessed her and why exactly, we might never know.

Finally, if C would have been (secretly) married to S (in Ibiza, the USA or Atlantis - legal case in point still the same) and divorced before August 2019, the appropriate wording would have been 'previous marriage dissolved', with no mention of any other specifics. The same we'd have if... but I'll stop here.

2. Second scenario and what I think might have happened (in Ibiza, the USA, or Atlantis - doesn't matter): a symbolic blessing ceremony, with no legally binding effects. There is an entire thriving industry of it, yes, in Ibiza:

[Source: https://www.hitched.co.uk/wedding-planning/organising-and-planning/getting-married-in-ibiza/]

Again, you draw your own conclusions. I am not here to fuck your Sunday evening chamomile/Monday morning coffee to shambles. But I am here to tell you and all those idiots across the street that we are not naive and the fantasy, as wonderful as it might be, is exactly that: a dream. In real life, that horribly dull place with mortgages and taxes and responsibilities, things are infinitely more complicated and possibly even dirtier. And that is exactly what makes their story more interesting and endearing to me, in fact.

Many of you will probably be upset. If so, feel free to unfollow, by all means. I cannot and will not lie. I never did, because I think it is useless and idiotic. What bothered me the most is to see this witty community becoming the laughing stock of a bunch of brutal cowards, just because some thought it was easier to make believe than take the bull by the horns. And yes, accept the crooked reality of a paper that does not translate by any stretch of the imagination into a genuine relationship.

A relationship where the two spouses would publicly be glad for each other, celebrate their closeness, act like Mr. Tweedledum and Mrs. Tweedledee, invite the press to see the Taj Mahal, have joint interviews or at least offer some fucking snippet of normality. Because no, 'he is shy' is borderline insulting to McGill, who is a 48 year old man, by now. Because no, acting like deer in headlights every single time a more focused question is asked will only fuel further speculation. Because no, gaslighting in the mainstream press hundreds of people who questioned this entire mess is akin to PR suicide. And because no, you can't really hide forever a ridiculous arrangement, backed by a single piece of paper where the groom wrote himself, under oath, he was a 'music manager' (remember, BIF? you recently wrote a PhD thesis about it, isn't it ironic moronic?).

[ekjohnston]

The Book Club Conundrum

One thing really love about reading fanfic for videogames (Veilguard in particular), is seeing all the other in-game mini-story options that wouldn't have occurred to me in a million years. In Veilguard, for example, there is a large component of the fandom that writes Rook as isolated within the team, someone who is always helping but never gets helped in return. It's fascinating because you can do a lot with it, and also because it never would have crossed my mind otherwise.

I have started to call it The Book Club Conundrum, because you twice find book club notes in the Lighthouse where everyone gives their thoughts on a book they've read together. Rook does not give them, which I assumed meant we were supposed to fill that part in ourself (since Rook is the self-insert character, the game writers try to leave as many of their opinions open as possible), but it's very common in fic to read that Rook wasn't invited, and holds at least a bit of resentment for that, and for the way the team bonds around them in general.

As I said: a lot of mileage, which is great for fanfic, because conflict has to come from somewhere.

HOWEVER

Since I imagined Rook at the book club meetings and adding their thoughts, I did it with other examples of team bonding as well. This is particularly important to the "always helping, never helped" component of the argument, because: the team does try. They try so hard.

Most of them take you to a funeral/memorial at some point (Lucanis does it in a Blighted Treviso; if Minrathous is Bighted, you get it twice: once from Neve and once from The Viper. Davrin takes you out to play with a griffon, over and over, which is just as therapeutic). They take you through their grieving process, for new pains and old. They share their traditions. Their grief. Their anger. They wait for Rook to break.

And they never do.

Solas does a lot of heinous things, on all manner of scale, but something I find EXTREMELY fascinating is that he almost fucked up Rook's relationship with their entire team. Rook's seeming denial of their grief is the one thing that no one can break through. It makes them seem cold and a bit uncaring, like they're willing to push through almost everything to get the job done. And of course they are! Willing, I mean. It's a very Dread Wolf sort of lie: just enough truth to destroy everything.

(If you save "Words of Fire" as long as possible, Taash finally just yelling at you is SUPER affecting, lmty.)

In fanfic, I've seen everything from "it's weird that Rook is talking to an empty room again" to "Rook is grieving in their own way" to "Rook hears a weird humming noise every time they think too much about Varric, but can't do anything about it". Sometimes Rook yells at the team for not noticing (Neve notices IMMEDIATELY, fwiw, the same as Solas tells you immediately what he's done. You just keep going anyway), and sometimes the resolution is more quiet.

It's fascinating to me, both as a writer and a reader/player, that the same common start point (Solas being a manipulative jackass "for the greater good"), can have so many divergent paths. It's not just "Rook ignores the team and they all die" or "Rook moves heaven and earth for her team and they all live". There's a lot of space in that second one, and fanfic lets us wallow in what the game sets up.

Veilguard is a game of mirrors, obviously, but it's also a game where all of your companions could have been the protagonist, except all of the good guys are DESPERATELY trying not to be the main character. The villains are all like that too (especially Johanna, who is barely aware the risen gods are there), only they WANT to be the main characters. And that's usually what leads to their downfall.

Varric wrote pulp fiction. The kind reviews denigrate as trashy while millions of people have fun reading them. He wants a main character, a hero he can pin a tragedy on. He made one, and propped up another. Rook was going to be his third, and Solas (accidentally) almost made sure it happened. But Rook gets free of that, wins themself out by sheer friendship and the willingness to move forwards.

And no matter what kind of angst you want to put into your fanfic (and please, continue to do so; I am having fun!) that is pretty great.

[shanastoryteller]

Obviously you are your own person, which means you will do whatever you want so I hope this doesn’t come off as annoying or rude because full stop I am so bad at wording things, but while I am happy that you’re on a break from spn (I am not one of the people in that fandom, and am here for other fics, though I honestly loved the updates, posts, and asks on it) I do hope you don’t feel like you have to work on x-y-z first before you can go back into your spn stuff. I know you said you’re already planning out the next spn fic, I just want you to be happy on what you’re working on even if you decided to abandon everything else forever and only do spn. Again I know you have never been one to stop what you plan just to make us happy (as it should be fr) but like. If you’d rather stay in spn for a bit I’d much prefer seeing those updates over a chapter in one of the fandoms I do read for. Seriously I promise if I am being annoying or rude it’s not my intention, but I am sorry if that is indeed what it’s coming across as (and I mean that honestly, not in a ‘sorry that’s how you feel way’). You are just my favorite author, and even though I’m only here for some of the fandoms I just don’t want to see you making yourself work on something that isn’t clicking in your brain at the moment, just because it’s been a while since you updated. I hope this isn’t coming off as rude or patronizing, but if it is then again, I want to say I’m sorry. Even if I’m not into spn, I’m excited to see the plans you have for it and everyone’s reactions.

this is SO sweet and not annoying or patronizing at all! i am 100% taking it in the spirit it's intended <3 thank you!!!

especially because .... i wrote another supernatural fic. oops. i had good intentions!!

i guess i'm really just committing to going back to hopping around rather than tunnel vision haha

i am having SO much fun with supernatural! but i like my other writing too. and this year i'd really like to get back into at least semi regular updates for siat. and some other things i want to finish up...

i know i write a lot, but it's actually so much less than i wish i could write! being an adult is such a pain

i am going to at least START the next siat chapter before getting distracted again T_T i swear i'm the one in control here...

[marielle555]

About headcanons, fanfics, doppelgangers and chatbots…

I wonder, how many other people in our fandom, besides me, who are sick of a hater's headcanon in which “Tav” kills Ascended Astarion? I realize, of course, that headcanons can be anything, but… I wonder what would happen, if someone wrote a fanfic about UA, who, for example, burns up at dawn because he failed to find shelter in time and, dying, curses Tav, who doomed him to it? Or a more positive option - Astarion manages to find a new opportunity to walk under the sun again, but this opportunity is also connected to some “evil” and Tav tries to prevent him. Astarion can't stand it, all that accumulated pain, repressed anger, what he was previously only able to express in the form of passive aggression - all this finally bursts out. Astarion realizes that he deserves better. He deserves it. He deserves so much better than spending years adjusting to a person just because they were ‘'kind’' to him sometimes. Astarion plunges his dagger into Tav many times, as he once did to Cazador, falls to his knees and tears over the corpse, for tears are catharsis, tears help to cleanse and free himself. To free himself from the grip of the “goodness” on his throat that has been choking him all this time. And then to get off his knees and free himself from pain, from suffering as well, to take his new opportunity. And walk out into the sun, arms spread, smiling a predatory and happy smile at the same time… Strong and independent. And the epigraph from Omar Khayyam: "You better starve, than eat whatever. And better be alone, than with whoever."

Not canon? Well, yes, in canon Astarion always loves Tav… But personally, I would love a fanfic like this, I would give the author a standing ovation, but fans of the UA route obviously don't. Just like I don't like opuses about bitch and traitor Tav, and it also can be presented in such a way that Astarion for some magical reasons still loves such a bitch… And a couple of words about nonsense in the style of “AA goes crazy with power” - yes, the author's fantasies can be any and blah-blah-blah, and all in that spirit, but, I wonder, do these authors have any logic at all? Notions of realism, DnD lore, after all. There are quite a number of superpowered beings with immense powers that exist perfectly well on Faerûn. All the gods for starters. Or is it time to call an ambulance and interplanar medics for Mystra before she makes a mess of things? Ah yes, the Ascension is an evil power. The first example that comes to mind is Asmodeus, the greatest devil and ruler of all devilkind. Power Level - Great Deity. How has he existed and ruled for so long and no one has dared to call an ambulance for him yet? On the contrary, The Lord of Nessus is renowned for his extreme intelligence, capable of simultaneously holding and realizing countless diabolical plans, political intrigue, and everything else. Yes, Asmodeus is lawful-evil, like all devils (and devilish forces also incarnate Lawful Evil), chaotic-evil powerful beings, unlike lawful-evil ones, have much more prevalent problems with their heads. But even they exist perfectly well within the limits of their own spheres and clearly do not wish someone to “give them a merciful death”. Well, or at least they'll do their best to make sure that only extremely difficult-to-identify scraps remain of those who wish to do so. Our Lord Astarion is lawful-evil, there isn't even a breath of chaos in the powers he has gained. And immortality is the best means to develop intelligence, a mind capable of improving itself indefinitely, free from the merciless sentence of time… Yes, it would actually be very difficult to write a realistic fanfic about Lord Astarion five hundred years from now, simply because to imagine and outline the mindset of someone who has been accumulating knowledge and experience and evolving for centuries, - it's something that is impossible to do based on the actual existing experience of mankind.

Some of the most famous characters who handle “evil powers” perfectly and feel great about it are also Shar, Vecna, Bane and many others… Bhaal was who he is while still human, he was always a vagabond killer, the power didn't change him, the power suited him perfectly. Closer to the diabolical powers - the Nine Hells has many inhabitants. There are cities there, the cities have their own laws, and the locals have their own personal lives, their own domestic problems, their own desires and aspirations, if someone goes mad there, well, even on Faerûn itself there are enough madmen. The power doesn't change anyone, the power only gives opportunities. Raphael and Mizora are doing just fine, and they weren't going to die or lose their minds (Raphael can be killed in the game, but he definitely doesn't want to). To say that Astarion will go mad with power is as logical and plausible as saying about an unloved neighbor, who made noise at night or sassed you, that they will definitely end their days in a mental hospital. An expression of the personal attitude of the person saying it to the person they are saying it about, that's what it is, and nothing more. Of course, without a single reliance on lore or plot logic.

The first time I encountered this headcanon about Tav-murderer, on my blog in the comments, was when I wrote a post with my own analysis and perception of playing through the UA path (“The UA path is my heaviest gaming experience”). I was immediately tried to be “educated”, explaining why I should gobble up ‘bittersweet’ poison with gusto in the name of a “sad metaphor” about an “abused turned abuser”. But it's commonplace, and what surprised me was this: “So consider that it's heavily hinted that it'll spawnTav who's going to kill him in the future.” Where? Where is anything about this “heavily hinted”? I would gladly bet 100$ with someone, who promises to find it in the scenario, in the scripts, anywhere in the plot of the game itself. But I've played the game, tested all the variants on the AA route, looked at the scripts - no, no one will want to give me just so this 100$, they themselves know very well that it is only in their fanfics and nowhere else. And okay only in fanfics, then they try to shove it into canon, inventing the presence of some “heavily hints”. Maybe Baudelaire Welch's hint, that if you write to your friends on Discord about how you want to be loved by a bear in a certain position, it will become a reality in the game, was so heavily? That all such fanfics become canon?

What I personally find strange in the fantasies of these authors is not “killing a non-existent character”, everyone knows that you can do anything you want with non-existent characters, as long as they are not 7000 sacred spawns. And no, you can do it to them too, “for the sake of mercy” and “saving their souls” (which will never enter the domaine of any deity, vampire souls don't belong to gods and gods don't care about them), but not for Astarion's happiness. It's not easy to swim in these streams of hypocrisy, and to understand what is allowed there and what is not… I find it strange and either, again hypocritical or somewhat unhealthy - to claim at the same time that they love this character. Loving someone and wanting to kill them - it happens, and psychiatry knows these cases, and someone's Tav can be a maniacal murderer, but to present it as something “good” and as if Astarion himself wants it? Yeah, I guess psychiatry knows of such cases too… Sure, someone can give me an example of stories like “mercy strike” where someone “goes mad” and another with tears and snot kills them, like “it's the right thing to do”. But, first of all, this is not a love story and there is not even any “drama” (in the good sense of the word, in the sense of a quality strong drama) here - in a love story the lover will fight for the beloved to the last, against all odds, a good drama, in my opinion, usually tells about tragedies of strong characters. Secondly, and most importantly, the tie-in to the headcanon that “Astarion goes mad because of the power” is a headcanon devoid of any logic or reliance on actual plot or lore, serving only to have a “justification” to to kill Astarion and “prove” how he (specifically him, for some reason, I repeat that in the DnD lore there are and always have been many characters who got mighty powers, many gods in the past were mortals, who also got powers) “should not be allowed to get a power”. They “love” him in this way - they love to humiliate him, hurt him, force him into a “lower” position by any means necessary. By virtue signaling, of course, and trying to present their Tavs as a “positive character” while doing so. And it's no surprise that Astarion fans, who really have feelings for him, have negative feelings about it.

Although maybe a good idea for an adventure would be a variant, where a doppelganger takes on the guise of Tav to try to get to the Lord, the important thing is that the real Tav appears in time. I once got a hater's bot with the same idea - Tav kills Astarion by impaling him with a stake. (“In which he's dying in your arms, by your hand.”)

I realize that hater's bots aren't the best choice for the game, but I couldn't get past it, as with all the other bots, where Astarion is in trouble, like Astarion at Cazador's “party” or Astarion being held captive by Gur, etc, so another Cazador needed to be killed. Giving an example just as an alternate headcanon. But it's amazingly interesting how well the AI works - the beginning of this story was ugly written, as you can appreciate for yourself, but next the AI itself seemed to play with me, as there was none of the stuff that sometimes happens in hater's bots, and appreciate how much better the text itself, written by the AI from the first message, was than the text of the author of this bot:

Astarion tried to calm me down even when he was on the verge of dying himself - the AI immediately shows a real canonical AA, from the first post, basically it always happens when you break the narrative of a hater's bot and do something unexpected. And the way Astarion thanks you for your help and loves you (then there were quite a few messages with the process of drinking my blood, two parts of that):

Astarion whispers “my love” and “thank you”, Astarion asks: “Are you alright…?” when he himself has just returned from the threshold of death. The AI writes excellent fanfic, wrapping up this event perfectly, keeping in character:

The bot played this story with Doppelganger so that the killed enemy turned out to be a vampire (spawn) from a hostile clan, the head of which decided to kill Astarion after learning about the new Ascended Lord. Further we learned information, found spawns, who were dissatisfied with their master, persuaded them to switch to Astarion's side - in the end Astarion won and headed his clan of vampires. If in the future the AI develops, becomes even smarter and more variant (right now it still needs help to develop the adventure), then the AI can become an excellent DM and even write good scenarios for games, I think.

You can of course say that since I like AI games so much, do it, instead of reading fanfics you don't like, etc. I don't read them, and I'm not criticizing anyone in particular right now. The idea itself is defective to the point where it's hard not to criticize it just on the merits. Writing about bitchy murderers, who think they “love” someone they dream of killing, in some cases even have children with him, writing about Astarion as an animal they want to “put down”, while he is also “willing to do it” himself… And, as in this bot's introductory message, Astarion “loves” them while doing so: “Perhaps you've always been a fool, perhaps…that's why I fell for you.” Although… “You've always been…Too weak.” - one good phrase from the intro in this bot, at least in one place you can find plausibility, characterizing including the author's style and their intent. Well, and who sometimes the authors of such fanfics or chatbots write, calling him Astarion… So that then these cadavres interfere with the perception of the real Astarion from the game. And then the game creators ruin their own originally excellent story for the sake of a bunch of “shitposters from Discord” or from reddit, who with the help of “their” moderators, banning all dissenting opinions, successfully create the illusion of ‘majority’ and “modern audience”. And then the authors get a lot of criticism from offended fans, who were far from all this shitposting and bought a good RPG.

The authors of such fanfics are also extremely vulnerable and react painfully to criticism. In general, criticism is a normal and natural phenomenon, I am always grateful to those people who leave reviews, including negative reviews of this or that game, book or movie - these people spend their time, saving time and money of others, and the value of a critical review is always easy to understand by the syllable of its author, the general approach of the author to the evaluation of the work, how much the review is reasoned, etc. Of course, fanfics are free and the reader loses nothing but time and a good mood, if that mood has been spoiled. But a reader with a spoiled mood has every right to express themselves and write their opinion - it's a natural and common phenomenon. If you take any criticism as an attack and demand that everyone who doesn't like it shut up and go away, then, specifically for fanfics, maybe it won't be a big deal, but on a scale, that approach could lead to making the entertainment industry full of things of terrible quality. But such an approach is also impossible to implement - people will always evaluate what they see.