#A filthy fucking rich orphan at that

[sommerregenjuniluft]

ok i'm back!! lune. lune oh my god your JP vision is everything to me, i can see him so clearly and i LOVE the fleamont/treasure/estate situation

i have additional questions: does he also have a fun name for the estate the way john b calls his house the chateau? who's who in the friend group bc me personally i can absolutely see sirius as jj and remus as pope and lily could be kinda like kiera (mainly in that like,, fiery and independent vibe she has) and i feel like for peter you'd have to kinda play around with some characters but i can totally see them as the pogues.....

and then regulus as sarah.... yeah..... please elaborate on the fucked up mentor/mentee relationship with riddle also please and thank you

miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllll<3333 that makes me so happy to hear T^T

hhmmmm i havent thought about it, maybe we can come up with something! i love having little easter eggs that relate to something in canon. idk if hogwarts would be too on the nose HAHSAHA but i mean. it is an old, big house that kinda looks like a castle...... sjfds idk i'd love to brainstorm with u. and yes mil you read my mind. that's what i thought too regarding the friendship roles/gang composition. though i think it's fun to mix the backgrounds/family situations/relations to the treasure around a bit. i'd want lily to be the book smart one, the one with the scholarship opportunity and also i think i'd want her to be the one related to denmark tanny (or whatever the name will be in the au). but i want her to have had the kook year that kiara had, lily alone in the nest of the snakes. and possible give her something close to jj's family situation. or like, an apathetic parent perhaps. remus can have the poor but loving family that pope has, with lyall and hope<3 i dunno what else he has going on besides that for now, possible something disability wise? terminal illness.....the gears r turning. sirius is a mix and match again. in this au both sirius and regulus are orphans, lets say their parents died when they were pretty small, then it was their grandparents and at last alphard but it didnt take long then for regulus to get swooped up by tom (i'll get to that in a minute.) so sirius is living with alphard and he kind of has the relationship with him that kie has with her parents, sorta abusing his position in a relatively wealthy home and using up all of his resources for his family, his friends (here his inner jj swings with as well, he's so boundlessly loyal). now coming to reg. riddle is a big shot kook obviously, filthy rich but from rags to riches type beat like ward. and his thing is that every like 5 to 10 years he adopts kids and like sponsors them sort of? like a sick twisted version of carlyall from twilight. i'd imagine maybe he started out with an ophaned niece and nephew or maybe or distant cousins and then just. kept going because he craved the company and liked playing the role. sometimes it's more but mostly he adopts two at a time, a boy and a girl. cue, barty and regulus as rafe and sarah versions. now what i'm about to say next is a bit fucked up so feel free to dip jdhgks. when they're 14/15 barty and and reg have this weird little pseudo incest thing going on where they're dating sort of. or not directly in a romantic and sexual sense but it's wildly different from regular platonic and familial. and it's all a bit bananas since they have the same father figure yknow. so they live with riddle, they have dorms at his estate. but evan is also sort of in the picture. (kind of filling the spot where the topper character leaves a whole). and evan is,, idk probably in love with both of them. which is, again, twisted and weird and bananas. since theyre. adoptive siblings on paper. skjgjsd anywho! i'm still not sure what to do about wheaze and rose. i considered bellatrix and delphini (that affair child bella had with tom) but i could never make her barty's adoptive mom. she'd just encourage his psycho ass and then the plot would crumble in over my head. at this point i also wanna take whoever is reading this by the cheeks, look u deep in the eyes and remind you of the little rafe x kie (bartylily) crumbs we'd get when exploring the s3 plotline :3 oh! oh!! also dorcas as cleo. hot sexy badass, french/jamaican accent having goddess of a young women that lily pathetically immediately falls for. it's just a big ol' OH moment where lily is like. yo i'm into girls?!?!!!!! i've pondered for a long minute what to do with the pope x kie romance plotline and i think i'd wanna make it a mutual comphet thing. remus is pissed at sirius for rejecting him after they have an almost kiss after dancing around each other for so long and then lily is there so he takes the out.

((lmao tumblr told me i need a paragraph here, i really been yapping too much already))

and sirius can't say shit because he's the one that bailed on remus, so remus lets him suffer (and also punishes himself for advancing on him in the first place). and for lily it's just that it takes her a minute to understand that the reason she can't choose between her boys is not that she's an indecisive slut but that she really does love her boys all the same amount, just not in a romantic way. cue dorcas strutting in with her knife wielding skill and her criminally sexy little belly button piercing and her braids and. yeah,,,,.

i'm also thinking latino james possibly, lily being mixed ghanaian (1) (2) (3), cambodian black siblings, and remus can be the token causasian lmao. barty as well and evan will always be some kind of blasian to me.

okay before i come to an end i wanna talk about trans fem reg for a second though. i've been browsing the net and reading about mtf transitioning a bit to portay regulus accurately and give a good enough representation. in my mind regulus, in this au, noticed that she's different pretty early on. and what with having sirius and it being a very modern, 21 century au, her transition began rather early. medically it's typically recommended to start with testo-blockers around 15 and added estrogen at 16. and that's exactly what regulus does. like always, when taking hormones there's gonna be some side effects, unfortunately. thrombosis risk increases, your libido decreases and you're probably gonna be tired and exhausted a lot and also more emotional and sensitive, have a shorter fuse. regulus does a lot of biking and swimming in her free time against the thrombosis, preferably in their long pool at the riddle estate but when she's feeling good enough about her body she does like to take out the boat with barty and evan and beat them in a swimming race. she's nap queen, she's sleeping everywhere, all the time and when her and james start getting together he calls her sleepyhead all the time and in the most affectionate tone and it sorta just keeps being the main pet name he has for her. also the low libido/possible body dismorphia go very hand in hand with the sarah arc where she's unsure about having sex for the first time. all in all regulus is pretty snappy and thin skinned, emotinal. but it makes her passionate and compassionate especially, which james loves and adores. all of it. yknow how in s2 sarah and john b stay at that hotel and jb steals the phone. i want james to overhear a pair of older-ish women complain about menopause and their pills and then break into their room when they're away for dinner and steal regulus some estrogen pills. it's probably not the right dosage and reg can't take them but!!!!!!!!!!!! it's the thought that counts and to regulus that counts A LOT.

[inkyquince]

Daddy ur so brave for making such a FILTHY IF 😳😳 I can’t wait for it to come out :3

Jokes aside tho, it’s actually awe inspiring that you made a dark IF and from what I’ve seen in the IF community they’re quite vanilla at dark things. Like i remember one IF where one of the LI is their brother, i mean they’re not biologically related since the brother is an alien but i guess the sounds of raunchy stepbrother filthy alien sex is scary to them. And seeing you inky one of the best filthy disgusting porn writer making an IF honestly it is very amazing and i love you for it keep it up daddy can’t wait for your next content to drop out‼️

Dont let nobody stops you from making a disturbing content the shit you make is honestly so fucking great

ur so fucking sweet and im going to go fucking insane you little lad im scuttling over im tackling im kissing im wailing im peeing on the floor a wee bit

i just want to implement my favourite shit. a greying doctor who happens to be connected to one of the origins in a familial way, a deeply repressed guy who wants to fuck in werewolf form, a mean husband who wants to make MC their kept paramour, an openly horny nasty one, a younger sibling to another RO who openly WANTS TO smash no matter what- LEGITMATELY, emil/emilia is one of my favourites cuz they're so fucking sick in the head, no matter how you treated them in prior games, from sweet and kindly to dismissive and rude, they're going to develop a weird fixation on the MC just cuz of that and will get so nasty if ur romancing their sibling and want you to cheat. plus an opera singer who is the ex of one of the others who will either be such a fucking bitch to you or will be so weird and possessive and obsessive if you show interest in them both or just them-

inhale.

im just happy i get to implement my favourite tropes plus making an MC i would wanna play with the different origins. like you got bastard mc, adopted mc, rich bitch mc, orphaned mc, etc and URH

im so excited to work way more on it

and you, you sweet, sweet, horny anon, i kiss on the lips for being so fucking nice and sweet

also they should have had nasty alien brother sex in that one game, weak

[4uru]

Yet To Be Named

Chapter 1: Zimo and the Singing Angels.

Enjoy

Taglist: @thevagabondexpress @faithfromanewperspective @light-wayland @what-ho-christopher-put-in @alastairstom @tleeaves @fangirlghost-19

(comment if u have any story name ideas bc I sure don't.)

It was a cold night. Zimo was breathing through his mouth, his nose was blocked. His lips were cracked and his throat was dry. The cold was making his eyes hurt. At least Hell had central heating.

If you're wondering how he knew, well it's a long story actually.

You see, Zimo's mother was the antichrist. And his grandfather is the devil. You know from The Bible. His antichrist of a mother left him in front of an orphanage as a baby, with just a piece of paper with his name written Ha Zimo and nothing else and somehow passed the mantle of the Antichrist on to Zimo. Which was shitty of her. And she didn't even leave him outside a nice childless couple's house like those movies. No, she left him outside “Singing Angels Orphanage for boys” and boy, wasn’t that ironic as fuck. There are no angels in that godforsaken place.

Zimo, being born with a biblically accurate misfortune, was the punching bag for the other boys until he hit his growth spurt and became taller than the other boys and also learnt how to hold his ground.

Before he learnt how to fight the universe would fight for him, some tree branches would conveniently fall, and sometimes the light wouldn't quite fall on him, helping him melt into the background of the dreary halls of Singing Angels.

He didn't get adopted in the beginning because he was too round, And later because he was too old. They don't pick the older one. Especially not a 6’2” Chinese Giant. Zimo did not fit the white suburban dream family. And no Asian couples wanted him because he was too much of a British orphan, he didn't know the formality that they wanted. He didn't fit any of their moulds.

Zimo learned to make a corner of the orphanage home. From the back room loft in the church, nobody could see him there. But he could see everything. Only the face of one of the angels statues was faced where he would set up camp. It was a nice cozy space just big enough for Zimo to settle in with his comic books that he stole that one time they let the children roam the city.

But don't get your spirits down. Because, one day, a man in a very expensive suit walked through the doors of the orphanage. And adopted our young protagonist. Things were looking up for Zimo. The man was filthy fucking rich. Zimo packed up his 2 t-shirts, 1 jumper, and 3 comic books and sat in the passenger seat of the Ferrari.

The man was nice. Too nice. He had a smile that didn't quite reach his dead dark eyes. But who was Zimo to complain? He was out of that hell hole. He was out of reach of the bullies that roamed the halls of Singing Angel. He would never have to hide in the dingy cupboards and the dark classrooms. He would not have to eat the shitty food with a secret ingredient (hate). Zimo was free. And filthy fucking rich, baby.

So it turns out, the old man had a mansion. Which was cool. But you see, Zimo had a rule, good people didn't live in palaces. He quickly checked his skill set. If this man turns out to be a tosser, Zimo was big and competent enough to fight his way out. He had nothing to lose anyway. He might be 14 but he could easily pass for an adult. The man was alright. For the most part. Zimo ate good food three times a day. They talked and he didn't hit Zimo. It was all fine and dandy. Well…until the portal to hell, Zimo stumbled upon in the library.

It was all going so well before the portal to hell in the library! So yeah. Turns out the mansion is a portal to hell; the man is his grandfather, The devil, From the bible. Judging from Lucifer's big evil monologue he performed in front of Zimo at the library, Zimo was the anti-Christ. And also Merlin, the greatest Warlock to walk the earth. And it's his responsibility to bring Armageddon (how does one even do that?) yada yada yada. Just when Zimo thought he got out of the god-forsaken hellhole. He literally drove into the literal god-forsaken hell in a fucking Ferrari.

Now before you judge Zimo for staying in the mansion that had a portal to the actual hell. The food was good and the mattresses were even better. The devil had good taste… and he was family. Zimo liked the mansion for the most part. But he avoided the library (the blood-curdling screams of the tormented souls brought the vibe down, you know?) It was all good.

Until Lucifer drugged him and brought him to a different mansion that looked the bloody same but had a red ambience (The devil was dramatic)

Lucifer demanded that Zimo learn magic and get ready to well, bring armageddon. Zimo went with it. (Hell also had good food and a good mattress) and there is not much Zimo won't do for a comfortable life. So he learnt magic.

He liked the fear in Lucifer's eyes when his magic would go overboard and give good ol Satan a run for his money.

So turns out, Zimo had an insane amount of Magic. Which he pulled from his surroundings. Hell being Hell, it amplified his magic. Which was…fun. Zimo liked that he felt weightless when the magic flowed through his veins. It tasted amazing. The air smelt like burnt wood. It was intoxicating. The force of it would make him close his eyes. But he would become much more aware of his surroundings. Like he was connected to everything around him. Zimo decided that he liked magic.

Then good old Grandpa Satan busted out the Tome of Evil™, it contained the most powerful spells in all the realms, but it was also a key. Without it, Lucifer wouldn't know how to travel between the realms and would be trapped inside his red mansion. And who could blame Zimo when he took the big Evil™ tome and ran away with it? He is the grandson of the devil. It's on Grandpa Lucy that he didn't see this coming.

If you're asking Why Zimo ran away, well dear readers, it's because Zimo did not have a fucking clue about how to bring on the end of the world. And it was pretty clear that the only reason Lucifer was keeping him alive and around was because he thought Zimo did. And it was only a matter of time before he would realise Zimo wasn't the big bad Antichrist. He was just a British orphan from Singing Angels who liked reading comic books and the genealogy chapter in his biology textbook.

The tome was heavy. And the evil™ book was leaking magical energy. It took Zimo a stupid amount of time to realise that the magical energy could be used for heat.

The night was bearable. He settled under a bridge. It smelt terrible. But beggars can't be choosers. Zimo used his magic to make the boulder he was leaning on softer. He made his jumper warmer, and let sleep take over him.

[random-conspiracy]

Oh my god, oh my fucking god, GUYS, IT'S HERE, SOMEONE TRANSLATED IT!!! This is peak spanish copypasta shitpost AND IT'S HERE in english!!! READ IT. The rat with thinner

Some time ago, I was renting a flat with one of my cousins, but the bloke was a sexually deranged man. He often came back home with car-washers, natives, orphans, beggars, and even Mexicans directly from the railroads.

My cousin, out of goodwill, fed them, let them shower, and even sometimes gave them clothes and shoes; but with the condition of having sex or at least receiving oral sex. I admit that at first, I disliked the idea and preferred to lock myself in my room, listening to music, hitting my joint—anything but smelling the tramps. But my cousin was bringing more and more fucked-up junkies, spoiled and crazy fuckers, and he asked me to take care of him if they became aggressive, besides he gets too dunked when on poppers.

I accepted reluctantly, but I have to admit I got used to watching my cousin being drilled by bums without rubber lmao. Once I was in the kitchen when my cousin arrived, and I got a really fucked-up stink. I initially thought he had brought home a corpse or something, but when I looked up, I saw he had the most fucked-up drug fiend deadbeat. Filthy, lousy, with his hair made into dreadlocks of blood and shit, shaky, and with a lost look, dressed in a mud-hardened jacket.

We gave him instant ramen, and meanwhile, he was eating, I told my cousin, "Shiiit, you went too far," and he just said, "Haha, I know." Then, the shithead puts a hand in his jacket, and I almost took out my twenty-two. But no, he only brought out a fucking giant dead rat, soaked it in paint thinner, and snorted it like a puff.

I said, "Holy shit, what the heck?" but somehow my cousin got fucking horny and he started to blow him without bathing him. The hobo was there, legs open, “mousing him up,” and my cousin was already taking off his pants and plucking him out. He was so big, maybe even his scepter would be rich without the coats of smegma and crabs that adorned his pubic hair. My cousin gulped him entirely and I didn’t know whether to turn on or puke, so I opted for smoking some weed.

My cousin, concupiscent, took all of his clothes off and offered his ass to the vagrant, and he, without thinking twice, started to lick it. My bottom cousin was in pure ecstasy, in a state of trance at feeling his ass pampered by the mouth of the drifter. Eventually, he shoved his big ass shaft, diamond hard without protection, making my cousin moan and scream like a dying cow, all of it while on poppers.

They were “tunneling the cave,” when the dude brought out his rat again, hit it profusely and—wham!—shoved it in the butt of my cousin.

Sheesh.

He kept pumping it harder, pushing the rat more and more deeply inside my cousin. It was an intercourse getting feral increasingly. After a while, with my cousin dripping in cum, the bum pulled out his flaccid weenie, ate all the ramen, and started yelling at me. I didn’t know what he was gibbering, and I was high AF, so I just pointed my gun at him and sent him off. The dude whited out so quickly that he forgot his pants on the floor, and I just stayed there napping.

An hour later, I was woken up by the shrieks of my cousin. He was sobbing that his ass and guts were hurting, he didn’t even remember what he did with his lover hehe. I helped him get to the toilet to shit the cramped cum and—HOLY SHIT—he farted out the whole rat, but butchered and dripping in maggots. He almost passed out and asked me to take him to the hospital to have his guts washed.

But he was feeling so brave in his horniness, hehe I swear it’s true.

-Traslated by Umeboshi

[dairy-farmer]

Hi! I love reading your work 😊. I have an idea 😃. Imagine Tim as a gold-digger. He's always been more into being filthy rich with practically no work. He loves being rich!! And then his mommy and daddy die and he can't access the trust-fund until he's 18. He can't handle that!! He's so used to expensive things, he doesn't want to eat cheap frozen meals you heat up in the microwave and drink alcohol from convenience stores!! So he decides, (Jason doesn't die here please 🥺) he's gonna bag a wayne (adoption or boyfriend, either way he is happy.) Or he'll trade his secret for a life of lavish.

no because listen if tim were only SLIGHTLY more selfish a lot of the bad things that happened to him would've never have occurred. tim is a very out-of-the-box thinker with a rich determination and a dedication to seeing things through. if he didn't have such a heart of gold he'd have lived a very different life and honestly tim could've been a very spoiled child (maybe he is in some ways that we don't see?). at 14 both his parents die and he has just enough ingenuity to fake a drafted will in his father's office about an uncle who will care for him. and tim's dad and lawyer had always been very close so even though the will isn't enforceable they put tim in the custody of his 'uncle' rather than the state.

but there is no uncle. and what little money tim found around the house and that he had tucked away will run out.

tim knows he won't survive until 18 with his usual standard of living (if he sticks to cheap boxed mac and drinks filtered water he'll make it but he'd rather DIE than do that).

tim knows he's pretty. he has a cute eyes and a nice voice and while his parents were out of gotham he'd sneak boys back to the house every other day.

tim would pick boys from the 'other side of the tracks' boys fucked hard, fucked fast, and bossed tim around because they loved riding the high of fucking some little future socialite and getting their dirty paws all over them.

gotham academy boys all loved to brag and the last thing tim wanted for the rumor mill to spit out that he was a slut that banged a different boy each week.

what could tim say?

he liked the way cock felt hammering into his little pussy.

tim doesn't mourn his parents in the typical fashion. he's sorry to see them go, he misses them fiercely but at the end of the day they'd never really known tim. and he hadn't known them.

tim was sure if they were still around they'd be in support of his endeavors. they'd always wanted the best for tim. indulged him and provided for him in ways most people could only dream of.

tim knows they loved him. as distant as they may have been. tim knows they wanted to provide for him and make sure he lived and safe and comfortable life, that much was evident from the amount of zeros sitting in a trust for him.

all he had to do to revel in that love was survive until 18 without giving up the life he'd grown used to.

tim was a little spoiled he knew that. you don't get used to the finer things in life and NOT come out a little spoiled.

if anyone could attest to that it was the waynes whose lavish and luxary never failed to astonish even the most seasoned socialite.

waynes.

well now there was an idea.

bruce wayne was still a bachelor. he had a son that lived outside the city that rumors said he was estranged from. he had another son that went to tim's school. jason todd. tim had heard rumors about him, he'd been a hot button topic when he'd been adopted.

but he was also a loner- he didn't even participate in afterschool extracurriculars.

tim has the beginning of a plan of an idea. he's a sad, poor (very poor) little orphan who is only scraping by with the yearly payout to his "uncle" for his care. he's a very pretty, sad little orphan with the best pussy the east of gotham.

tim knows that if his mother and father were around they'd smack him over the head and scold him to high heavens for even thinking of being a good-for-nothing golddigger.

but tim's in a sinking boat.

and if being a good-for-nothing is what we'll get him out of his leaking raft and onto the yacht passing by- he'll do it.

[bracketsoffear]

In hindsight, a great submission for a Flesh Avatar would have Oswald Mandus, a wealthy industrialist and butcher. A supreme misanthrope, his rants show he has utter contempt both for the "filthy and brainless" lower class and the rich and "enlightened" upper class who happily allow the suffering of those "beneath" them to continue. However, when Mandus was driven insane by visions of the evils brought about by the industrialization of tyranny and war in the 20th century, he decided to make a massive underground machine designed solely for the systematic slaughtering of human beings (who he saw as no better than pigs), in order to conquer the world and "save" it. Thus, he created The Machine, a fucked up eldritch industrial slaughterhouse, to manufacture vitae - an arcane substance derived from human pain and suffering - on an industrial scale and basically become an industrial replacement for God. Some of the lovely locales in The Machine include the Pigline, where dozens of human carcasses are suspended by meat hooks and sliced by enormous mechanical butchers, and the Tripery, where ground human flesh is pushed through pipes like sausage, and the player is forced to wade through an ocean of blood and body parts.

Oswald also created Manpigs--horrific combinations of man, pig, and machine with a taste for human flesh. The Manpigs are released upon London by The Engineer--the malevolent split personality of Oswald which has uploaded itself into the Machine--to destroy/consume humanity. The Manpigs, within the span of two hours of being released upon London, create the aforementioned ocean of viscera encountered in the Tripery.

Furthermore, in a recording, Mandus describes in a recording how orphan child workers are very useful for crawling into the factory's narrow pipe systems and cleaning them out. Then he nonchalantly mentions that many of them get scalded to death by the machinery reactivating and sending hot steam into the pipes. If that wasn't horrific enough, he then describes the fate of children who manage the cleaning operations successfully. He tells them he is proud of them, and then has them fed to the manpigs. These aren't the only kids he's killed either, because he murdered his own sons to spare them the horrors of the 20th century--and then proceeded to use the industrialization that he so despised to murder thousands and experiment on hundreds more.

Relatedly, the painting "Faim, Folie, Crime," which depicts a woman in a crazed state brandishing a knife and cooking an infant, repeatedly appears throughout the game. It befits a man who could think of no way to combat what he hated--industrialized mass slaughter orchestrated by the rich and powerful--except to become the very monster he despised and turn countless people into meaty fuel for his misanthropic design.

.

[arugula2048]

need ur shen jiu thoughts

the fact that his character is defined by a single unconditional love to the end fucking kills me. from orphans on the streets to enslaved boys to just one enslaved boy to rogue cultivator to cultivators.

can you imagine shouldering all the pain from the qiu manor with a pipe dream that his naive friend has somehow cracked the wuxia code and become an honored cultivator, rich enough to buy his freedom? SJ was always a smart boy who found the one solace from his cynicism in YQY. when he let YQY go with that lie about his broken leg, i think some part of him accepted his death in that moment - in a dark, dirty hole, aching all over, alone and afraid, with YQY running off into a hopeful wide world with a snowball's chance in hell. that's how they both actually died anyway lmfao

we see that pattern repeat itself throughout their lives, that moment scarred them both to the soul. SJ thinks reaching out to YQY (or YQY reaching out) means dragging him back into the hellish pit he ran away from (and that SJ freed him from, which would make reaching out also spitting on both their efforts and all the pain he went through), and YQY thinks reaching back to SJ thinks it'd always be too little, too late, and risks SJ pushing him away even further. god.

and it just boggles me really, how SJ repressed and repressed and repressed until he became a caricature of a human to everyone who knew him, except maybe the prostitute ladies. SJ took those moments with YQY and decided that if his dear, childhood friend that he gave all his loyalty to, treats him like this, how good will others really treat him? better not try, so he... what, doesn't have to give his loyalty to them too? he can only bear so much weight. if he owes nothing to others, he will never be owned again.

and in deciding to never give anyone else his loyalty ever again, he turned everybody against him and decided to indulge himself with 1) dallying off to the brothels to hang out w the prostitute ladies, and 2) child abuse, repeating the cycle to act out his previous traumas?, both of which are comfortable routines that reinforce his belief that deep inside he's just the filthy slave boy who will never crawl out of his self-made grave. everything he touches will never be anything more than twisted echoes of him.

when LBH dropped the shattered pieces of Xuan Su in front of him, i think SJ finally realized this was his end game. the other shoe that he kept fearing would drop, finally dropped.

i do wonder if in his last years, in the privacy of his mind, if SJ had the time and health to do some heavy introspection and see how this came from his self-fulfilling prophecy. and if he knew that YQY's humiliating death could have been avoided if he just repressed himself even further. stupid number seven, he never learned his lesson.

[tobiasdrake]

Okay. I guess I should probably rank the chapter twos or something. That sounds like a thing I could do. Sure.

Castti - It would be a crime not to give Castti the top spot after she literally made me fucking cry. This was so tragic and so beautiful and I wept for how good it was.

Throné - Very close behind her. The dramatic back and forth, background information, and confrontation with Father that went very much south had me hooked. I already kinda assumed that she was an orphan or something but finding out she's a trafficked slave makes her situation even harsher, and failing to save the other slave? Brutal. We're gonna kill that guy's ass.

Agnea - Precious sunspot lit up New Delsta. Went full Tangled Bar on Gil's tavern and then got to go full Karen on a mobster-like theater owner with mah boar-shakin' knife. EXCUSE ME, BUT I WOULD LIKE TO SHANK YOUR MANAGER, PLEASE. I loved this. It was a lot of fun.

Partitio - Precious sunspot lit up Clockbank. Partitio's chapter was every bit as much of a treat as Agnea's, and the only reason she edges him out is because breaking the jackass's kneecaps was more cathartic than fighting a guard dog and then promising to make the jackass filthy stinking rich.

Hikari - Kazan frees an entire gladiator arena full of slaves, using Hikari as the means to carry out the plot. This was fantastic. I loved it. The only thing keeping it from going above the two sunspots is a moment at the end that I had a significant grievance with. But yeah. Aside from that, keep it up, Hikari. This was good.

Temenos - The intrigue surrounding Temenos's fraught relationship with the Sacred Guard is interesting and I'm really liking his dynamic with Crick - especially if my suspicions turn out correct. I'm less invested in the central mystery surrounding the murders, however. I'm mostly just here for the character interplay, and there's plenty to be had here.

Osvald - Not a fan of Osvald or his plotline, but Emerald's mistake and sacrifice did get me. Probably not a good sign that I found Emerald more compelling than Osvald, especially since Emerald's dead now. But I did like the relationship between these two characters.

Ochette - Collecting Cateracta went a lot more smoothly than I would have expected. We didn't really get to do much at all, to the point that the actual dungeon we delved into seemed almost gratuitous. Kinda just felt like we went to pick up the thing, then got the thing and left with minimal fuss. Some bits of thematic backstory about the evils of man did little to make this feel any less like a fetch quest completed.

[bella-daonna]

Alright I heard u are the keagan main to go to for this so theories on Nessa let's hear em 👀

sorry anon i got halfway through answering this and then got busy! but here i am!

LADY NESSA (And Keagan)

What do we know about her?

Keags worked as her "personal assistant" but they haven't met in years, and she's "not fond of people meddling in her personal affairs".

They seem to have parted ways on unfriendly terms - it "didn't end well"

She's hot as fuck obviously

She lives in Fálias (at least now, but I think that it is likely that she always lived there - nobles tend to have a Big House that they stay in) - and Aífe gives us a caution about prying

Keagan is the only one who calls her by the title Mistress, everyone else uses Lady Nessa (Mistress meaning woman head of household) -> either a nod to their history together, or a verrrry subtle insult by being overly familiar/ refusing to use her proper noble title [which would be... Keagan core]

What are my theories about her?

Before we get into that, since this concerns Keagan's backstory I want to establish a couple more facts about HIM because this ties into what I'm thinking about Lady Nessa.

What are my theories about Keagan's backstory?

So we know that

Keagan is an orphan,

he grew up in Finias, but did not know Aife when she lived there

at some point he came to Fálias, where he lives now,

he rose through the ranks quickly during the War,

he seems to have found out the queen's secret

he keeps his background shrouded in mystery,

he's filthy rich (and loves it),

he's a good employer who cares about his staff - paying them well (notably unlike other nobles),

he doesn't have any friends other than Aífe (🥺)

his name is very obviously made up,

he's shady as fuck and

he loves to pry.

My conclusions from this are:

he did NOT grow up rich (he loves to flex - he'd say it if he had. He treats his staff well because he wasn't born with a silver spoon. He doesn't go by his original surname but I think that he would if it was a noble name. He's obsessed with his own wealth because it's new to him. If he was noble then people would know who he was from before the war, but they don't. And Aífe specifically would know who he was, but doesn't. Why would he have needed to work as a PA to the lady if he was a noble son? there's better ways for the nobility to get patronage.)

Sometime after his parents died, obviously he had to fend for himself. Without some kind of big inheritance, what options were available to him?

He also made his way to Fálias in this time, after his parents died.

What are my theories about her? (fr this time)

So I was thinking that:

She noticed Keagan somehow, and decided to take him in because he was useful - he probably showed his worth to her, perhaps via finding out an important secret and using that information to prove that he could be useful to her? - and she took him under her wing. Basically, sponsoring him, which gave him a bit more access to things.

An alternative is that he got himself into that position with the intent of spying on her, which is what all the "she doesn't like people prying into her business" references are about.

Obviously, either way, Keagan definitely stuck his nose where it shouldn't have been, pried into things he shouldn't have pried into, and got caught with it. Hence the relationship ending poorly, the warnings about prying.

However, there's some reason why she has not done anything about this. Perhaps he knows something important, and has ensured that in the event of his death, it would get out? Or she simply cannot touch him?

But somehow I am leaning towards that she isn't trying to actively make him dead... for now.

And finally

One last thing: everyone in the discord agrees she's either a milf or sus (or both, but you have to pick one)

Kinda interested in what other people think though and I have polls now so-

[seraphtrevs]

do you think you would ever write more lalo/ciro besides lucky to be here?

I desperately want to! I actually really want to write Lalo/Nacho/Ciro, which I've had drafted for ages now. The original idea for LtBH had Nacho showing up at the end, so I wanted to use some of my ideas from that version of the fic. I also wanted to play around with the idea of Nacho being a willing spy for Gus. Plus it would be sexy.

I have a little bit of it written so far - when I get caught up with LtBH and Sweet Tooth (ha!) I might dust it off. It's called Folie à Trois

Here's what I have written so far under the cut!

Lalo’s place wasn’t like Nacho expected.

He’d expected something sleazier—a step up from Tuco, maybe, but in the same ballpark. Lalo’s place was nice, though. It reminded him of a country home he’d visited once. Back when he was a lowly dealer, one of his clients had gotten the idea to piss off her parents by bringing a scary thug for a family weekend in the country. They were all filthy rich and fatally bored—playing head games with each other was the only real pleasure they seemed to have. Same as the cartel, really—just with fewer shootings and more pastels.

What had interested him about the family was their understated displays of wealth. Their belongings were of top quality and obviously so, but their presence was like listening to classical music—elegant and enchanting, but with the ability to fade gracefully into the background. Narco wealth usually screamed like a boombox at maximum volume.

But Lalo’s place was a charming country estate, complete with a live-in staff who waited on the lawn to be presented to their master’s guest as the car made its way down the drive. Lalo smiled as he spoke easily with them (he never stopped smiling), catching up as if they were old friends and not employees. Lalo liked to be liked. He wanted love as much as obedience.

Nacho added it to his mental list of potential weaknesses. That’s what Fring had asked him to do. When Fring approached him about spying on the Salamancas, he jumped at the opportunity. Sure, it was a dangerous game, but he’d been playing dangerous games for years now. He was still alive, so that meant he must be doing something right. In exchange, he’d win freedom for himself and his dad.

The love-in with the staff came to an abrupt end when one of the guards failed to anticipate Lalo’s desire to have their luggage taken in right away. He cursed and berated the poor kid—and he was a kid, unlike all of the other guards. In all of their months together, Nacho had never seen Lalo lose his temper. The kid also seemed surprised as he fumbled with their bags. He cast a bruised look in Lalo’s direction—and then caught Nacho’s gaze. He blushed and dropped a bag, which invited another round of insults.

“A little hard on that kid, weren’t you?” Nacho observed when they were on the patio, enjoying a drink while dinner was prepared.

“Who, Ciro?” Lalo scowled. “Yeah, well, force of habit. He’s always fucking something up—once he almost burned down my house.”

Nacho’s eyebrows shot up. “How’d that happen?”

“He lit a cigarette on the stove burner in the kitchen while on patrol in the middle of the night, and forgot to turn it off. He never uses his head.”

“Then why do you keep him around?”

Lalo looked taken aback at the question, as if he’d never considered it before. “He’s an orphan,” he said eventually. “His father worked for the Salamancas—distinguished himself, too. It’s the least I can do to make sure he’s taken care of.”

“Why not write him a check? Seems like a liability to have a guard who accidentally sets fire to your house. Can’t imagine he’d be worth a lot if you were attacked.”

Lalo waved a hand. “He’d just get into trouble. Better to keep him here.”

So he cared about him. Interesting.

[fayesdiary]

Hmmm what if to show the good vs bad sides of technology you could show the fantasy world still severely affected by things we take for granted due to lack of medical advances? Ex, lots of people don't know their mothers because Death By Childbirth is routine, children aren't even named until they reach a certain age because it's expected they'll just die without formula, common ailments eradicated in sci fi are rampant and dangerous. Which leads to sci fi world's invasion for resources bc

Oh I really dig this👀

Imagine the fantasy people looking at the sci-fi ones like they're fucking ancient beings cuz they can live up to more than a century potentially, also would be a really neat explanation as to why most people in FE are either orphans or their parents are unkown!

Also another neat foil would be something akin to healthcare in the fantasy world vs sci-fi, where the fantasy world is much better at providing first aid thanks to staves being able to patch wounds and heal from poison aliments but the sci-fi tech healthcare is far more proficient in the long-term, treating illnesses that the fantasy world would consider fatal as well as aiding with disabilities like, say, a missing limb...

And combined they would be wonderful. Problem is that, of course, the sci-fi healthcare tech is extremely privatized by the corporation and pretty much inaccessible to anyone who's not "worthy" (AKA privleged and filthy rich)

(but also as you said illnesses that are common in the fantasy would likely ravage the sci-fi population and vice versa, which is one of the big consequences of colonization)



Also for a more poetical moment, the sci-fi people who landed on the fantasy world as their first foreign planet being in awe at being able to actually see the stars since there's no light pollution⭐

Or the fantasy people being equally in awe about the existence of other worlds! Even if they are finding out in the worst possible way.

[fxckn-sxck-fr]

𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈

Yandere Dick Grayson x GN Reader

❥ Part I >> Part II >> Part III >> Part IV

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓: Wanted to write a platonic older brother Dick Grayson story, but depicting his spiral into yandere-hood. Tumblr can’t handle my swag AO3-length writing, so multiple parts it is!

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒: platonic sibling yandere content, older brother Dick Grayson, younger sibling reader, non-vigilante reader, adopted reader, slow burn yandere(?), the pacing is very a-day-in-the-life-esque, kind-of stalking, unsettling build-up, Dick isn’t a full-blown yandere yet, starting off tame, biblically accurate Batfam, CLIFF HANGER!!

❥ 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. 𝐁𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃.

Richard Grayson didn’t really like you.

He never told you outright, but you knew. It was painfully obvious during your initial meeting (one that was “long overdue,” according to Bruce), back when Alfred dropped you off at his Blüdhaven apartment with all your belongings. Though he offered a welcoming smile with complimentary dimples, something dark swirled in his sapphire eyes, a stony cold stare contrasting with his warm greeting of, “nice to finally meet you, (Y/N).”

You didn’t know that much about Richard Grayson, other than his role as your pseudo older brother (and the fact that he was Robin, and now Nightwing, but you were still wrapping your head around the idea of your filthy rich adoptive father being fucking Batman, so… there’s not much you could say on that). He seemed friendly enough in all the gala interviews you’ve seen, but you were starting to realize to not take someone’s press persona as gospel: after all, Bruce Wayne seems much more put together in front of the cameras than he does in the manor. So, while unsettling, you couldn’t say you were too surprised by this official first impression.

Maybe he was just tired, you told yourself. He probably doesn’t get much sleep, with the whole crime-fighting thing and all.

(Yeah… crime-fighting thing… y’know, cuz your pseudo older brother is Nightwing, and your filthy rich adoptive father is fucking Batman.)

However, after getting all your things settled into his spare bedroom — Alfred being a big help, as he always was — you were getting the sense that your gut intuition was right; Richard Grayson didn’t really like you at all. He may have acted all cordial, giving you a tour of his apartment and making polite jokes, but as soon as Alfred left and he excused himself to make a phone call in his room, his true feelings on your collective predicament became painfully apparent, as thin walls did nothing to hold in his heated argument with Bruce.

“B, why the hell are you doing this to me?! ……. No, they’re in their room. Getting all their stuff settled in right now. ……. I know I did, but now that they’re here, I just—!! ……. No, they’ve been okay so far, it’s just— come on, B, I know you’re an empty-nester, but if you weren’t ready to take in a kid, why’d you—?! ……. Really? So adopting orphans is just a hobby now?! ……. Yeah, and it’s really unfortunate what they’ve gone through, but you can’t just pick up every stray you see, especially if you’re this fucking paranoid about them wanting to—”

This was the only time you could understand Bruce’s response over the phone; “I DON’T WANT ANOTHER DEAD CHILD, DICK.”

… Ah.

There was a beat of silence before Bruce continued, though his softer tone made it impossible to make out what he was saying. He went on and on until Dick sighed. “Bruce, I want them to have a happy home. And, yeah, I sure as hell agree that the manor might not be the best choice, but I’m off doing my own thing just as much as you are. At the very least, Alfred— ……. What would’ve been good for both of you was to not sign the papers in the first place. You’re still healing, and they need someone who can be there for them. ……. No. No, they’re already here. I’ll stay true to my word, B, but they can’t stay here forever; you know that. It’s just not healthy for all of us. ……. Yeah, I know. I’ll do my best. Look, I gotta figure out what I’m gonna make this kid for dinner.”

And then, without a single goodbye exchanged, the call went dead.

So, yeah. Richard Grayson didn’t really like you.

Which was fine. Really, it was. You weren’t even his sibling by law, as you learned from Alfred that Bruce technically never even adopted him, yet here he was being asked to take care of you, a reminder that he can’t escape Bruce Wayne or Batman no matter how hard he tries. While you were still learning the full situation (again, your filthy rich adoptive father is fucking BATMAN), what you already knew didn’t paint a pretty picture. Honestly, you didn’t blame Richard Grayson for being a little spiteful towards you. It did make sense.

You just wish it didn’t make you feel so… unwanted.

“How was school, kiddo?”

A questioning hum was startled from your vocal chords. The car ride had been so silent, you found yourself lost in your own thoughts, almost forgetting that you were buckled into the passenger seat of Richard’s — Dick’s, rather; he told you to call him Dick the day you moved in — older, copper-colored car. After taking a few moments to collect yourself, you threw your temporary guardian a glance only to find he was pointedly staring at you (which was concerning, as he was driving).

“Uh…” your voice faltered a bit, forcing you to cough in your fist. “It was alright.”

His eyes lingered on you for a bit longer before returning to the road ahead. You thought that was the end of the conversation, but then he spoke up again. “Did you learn anything?”

A bit of an awkward thing to ask, but at least he was trying. “Factoring in algebra. And I guess a little about the Mongol Empire.”

“Factoring,” he said with distaste. “Wasn’t a fan of that. Though it didn’t really help that I had the worst algebra teacher. Ended up with a 70 in that class by some miracle.” A small beat of silence. “Do anything fun with friends?”

You grimaced. Though you tried your best not let it show, you knew Dick probably caught it through the rear-view mirror. “I, uh, haven’t made any friends yet.”

“It’s already October,” he skeptically stated with a quirked brow.

“I know. It’s just…” you clutched your book bag closer to your chest. “It was my first day here, so… gotta make new friends.”

“… Oh.”

As much as you wanted to dryly chortle at his reaction, you refrained. It probably wasn’t his fault he didn’t know about being transferred from Gotham to Blüdhaven Academy, since Bruce apparently had a habit of keeping people out of the loop with things. For all you know, Dear Ol’ Daddy Bats just gave Dick an address and said, "drop off at 9, pick up at 3:30," leaving your pseudo-older brother to fill in the blanks from there (“this is an address to a school, so I’m assuming this is where they go to school,” or something like that).

So, all you could do was shrug. “Yeah.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see his jaw tighten. He seemed to be deliberating on something, eyes burning holes through his windshield as he let out a sigh. “So, guessing you have no one to stay with for the night?”

“Stay with?” You furrowed your brows. “What do you mean, stay with?”

“Well, I’m gonna be out tonight,” he explained, his tone sounded a bit exasperated. “Can’t just leave you on your own. Do any friends from your old school live near by?”

You were at a loss for words. He wanted you to stay with someone? For the entire night? “Wait, hold on… you just wanna dump me at a friend’s house anytime you do your hero shit—?”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, kiddo, but we’re in Blüdhaven,” he spat at you. “And my apartment isn’t exactly in the nicest part of town.”

“But— it’ll be fine, ‘cuz you have a Bat-level security system,” you protested.

His grip got tighter on the steering wheel. “Doesn’t matter. You’re used to the manor, not street-level crime, kid.”

“I grew up in Gotham,” you retorted. “I’ve known street-level crime way longer than I’ve known the manor.” Before he could say something to that, you beat him to it by following up with, “and besides, all my friends from Gotham live in areas that are just as bad as your apartment. Wasn’t all that popular with the socialite kids with mansions, you know.”

No response for several seconds. Dick’s expression was far from pleasant, and you were starting to worry if you were getting yourself into some sort of trouble. Eventually, however, he let out a frustrated sigh, his cold eyes snapping towards your figure. “You make one hell of an argument, kiddo. But listen. We’ve gotta go over home-alone rules when we’re back to the apartment, alright? I don’t want anything happening to you under my watch.”

“Fine by me,” you shrugged.

The conversation was then dropped.

A small smile started to bloom on your face. He really thought he could rid of you like that, didn’t he? You knew he didn’t really like you, but using it’s not safe as an excuse to a Gothamite? Really? Yeah, that’s a bunch of bogus.

… Though, you had to admit, it was nice that he at least sounded considerate.

You woke up to the sounds of disgruntlement coming from the living area.

It wasn’t too loud, as you couldn’t exactly comprehend what was being said, but it was loud make you realize the disgruntled party was extremely ticked by something. Getting out of bed, you put your ear to the door for better listening.

“I already told you, I can’t. I’ve been leaving this kid home alone far too often for my liking. ……. Where, Roy?! Where can they stay?! Bruce isn’t in the right headspace to have another kid in the manor, and— ow, fuck— it’s not like they have any friends to crash with for the night! ……. Transferred schools. Would’ve been nice if Bruce said something about that, but— ……. Said their Gotham friends live in areas just as bad. Besides, there’s no way in hell I’m letting them step foot back into that hellhole without me being there. ……. ‘Cuz it’s fucking Gotham, Roy! It’s only city in the world that has a death by killer clown statistic!!”

Ah. Another phone call. Dick had been making a lot of those, recently. You never knew who was on the other line, except if it was Bruce or (by rare chance) Alfred, but you had a general idea that it was always one of his super hero friends. Not very many people casually talked about beating up thugs and criminals, after all.

“No— absolutely not. Bruce would be pissed if he found out!! He’d think I’m trying to make them into my sidekick or something, and god knows what happens to them after that. I’ve been through the system, Roy. While I’m not too keen on keeping a kid around, putting them back there is not an option. ……. They’re just— safer in my apartment than anywhere else right now. I can’t have anything happening to them. Not after Jason. Bruce would never forgive me, and I— I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. ……. I’m sorry, Roy. Maybe next time. ……. Yeah. Tell the other Titans I’m thinking about them, okay? ……. Yeah, good luck tonight. Try not to show up on the news. ……. Yup. See you.”

Your ears picked up on a low beep, heralding the end of the call. As Dick let out a string of curses, you couldn’t help but feel… empty. You were more than just a pain in the ass for Dick; you were a full-blown problem. It wasn’t just the fact that you were keeping him from having hero fun. Even if he wasn’t all that fond of you, he still considered you his responsibility, and seemed genuinely worried about your safety when he wasn’t there. You were under the impression that he went out at night to forget you existed, but…

Jason…

Jason was a name you were only vaguely familiar with, usually used as a heavy blow in a Dick v. Bruce argument. While you don’t exactly know the full context, Alfred did make mention once of a kid who lived in Wayne Manor before you (the one who is “no longer with us,” as the butler solemnly said), and upon stumbling into the Batcave by accident, some of the only coherent mutterings he offered were, “Jason,” and “no, not again.”

Again, you didn't know the full context, but it's easy to put together the pieces from there.

A particularly loud curse from the other side of the door brought you back to reality. You at first wondered if you should go out there and make sure your current guardian-figure was okay, but you decided against it, as A.) he was probably just patching himself up from a particularly rough skirmish, and B.) he didn't seem like he was in the mood to see you. Besides, with your thoughts on this Jason kid, you didn't know if you had enough self-control to keep your burning questions locked away on your tongue.

So, instead, you decided to lay back down in your bed, brainstorming ideas to get Dick to talk about Jason.

This was… kind of a terrible way to ask.

Sure, you were curious. The thought had been haunting your thoughts since Bruce’s breakdown, and being out of the loop was slowly eating away at your mind. But maybe you could’ve been less… abrupt… and given Dick a little bit more time to be mentally prepared. It was an extremely sensitive topic, after all, and you knew even he was healing from the aftermath.

You hoped he understood your question wasn’t just morbid curiosity; Jason’s death is in-part the reason you’re here, after all.

Dick stared at you across from the dinner table. His fork had a few pieces of macaroni skewered one the prongs, half-raised to be shoveled into his mouth. Blue eyes stared right through you, blinking owlishly as he presumably tried to process what the fuck you just asked him. All you could do was hunch into yourself in your seat, mentally scolding yourself for how fucking rude your question probably was. Painfully long seconds ticked by with no sort of response, and you eventually decided that the best course of action was to do some preemptive damage control.

“You— actually, you don’t have to answer,” you weakly sputtered. “I’m so sorry, that’s— that was so uncalled for. I’m really sorry, Dick.”

He set his fork down. “No, it’s fine. I’m just… did Bruce not— he never told you?”

You shook your head.

“… Ah,” was his reply. His eyes wandered towards the window, an unreadable expression falling onto his face. He seemed a bit… lost. Which was understandable, as you didn’t exactly give him prep time for a conversation like this. You gave him as much time as he needed to put his thoughts in order.

Finally, he gave an answer. “Killed in action. Ended up in the hands of the Joker, and… well, he didn’t come home. No Robin ever since.”

The flat tone that carved through his words caused your hair to stand on end. He kept the details vague, but you didn’t find yourself minding all that much. If the Joker was involved, it probably wasn’t that much of a lovely story. “So, he was Robin after you?”

A hum of confirmation came from Dick. “The mantle was open, since I took up a new name. After finding out that Bruce was Batman, he practically begged to be trained as Robin.” He slowly brought the fork to his mouth. “That’s what Bruce said, anyway.”

It was then you noticed the silverware rattling from some sort of rhythmic thumping. After a few moments, you realized it was from your knee hitting against the table, causing you to will your legs to stay still. “Um…” you cleared your throat. “Were you… close with Jason?”

“I mean, we were friendly.” He still neglected to make eye contact with you. “I tried to be a good example to him, but I was busy doing my own thing here.” His gaze dropped to the linoleum floor. “Didn’t spend enough time with him.”

A heavy pressure crushed down on your chest. While you didn’t know Jason personally, you were no stranger to the concept of loss, and the more you learned about his death, the more your current situation was starting to make sense. Jason discovered Bruce was Batman. He wanted to be Robin, and Bruce let him. Then he died as Robin. Bruce’s adopted son died on the field, in the costume.

So, after you found out Bruce was Batman… it probably felt all too familiar.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you practically whispered.

Dick only sighed. “It’s alright, kiddo.” Finally, he raised his eyes to look at you. “Say, how are you doing in that chemistry class?”

… Huh?

The abrupt change in subject was… interesting. But definitely understandable, as talking about Jason’s death probably wasn’t all too pleasant. Guilt started to eat away at your conscious, the thought of making Dick uncomfortable by reminding him of his grief and regrets making your heart feel heavy. So, you merely offered a shrug and said, “uh… I’m doing fine.”

“Thought you were having trouble with valence equations,” he mused.

You could only dumbly stare at him. Okay… this was new territory. Sure, he always asked how school was while picking you up, but this was the first time he’s talked about it at dinner. Then again, this is the first time you two have talked at dinner period, since most dinners were spent eating in total silence, so maybe he was just trying to cleanse the awkward air that you created from randomly inquiring about Jason (because you can't do anything right, apparently).

So, ignoring the warmth that swirled in your chest at the thought of him actually caring about your life outside of the polite, seemingly obligatory after-school exchanges, you indulged.

Blüdhaven nights weren’t all that different from Gotham’s. They could get noisy, the sounds of the city mixing together into one cacophony. You’ve learned how to sleep through it all, and it’s not like it’s all high energy for the entire night; around 1 in the morning, there’s a lull in activity that yields little to no sounds to disturb your slumber. Some would even call this hour the most peaceful that places like Gotham and Blüdhaven can get, despite all of the dubious activities that are probably happening.

So, something like the sound of a window sliding opening is enough to disturb this peace.

It was your window. It sounded like it was right in your room, so it had to be your window. You stayed as petrified as a statue in your bed, the fog of sleepiness immediately airing out of your brain from your nervous system screaming, holy shit, someone is opening my window. Well, maybe, if you continued to stay still, they wouldn’t recognize the obvious lump in the bed, take whatever the fuck they wanted, and be on their merry way. With any luck, Dick was done doing his hero shit, and the unfortunate sap breaking into the apartment would have a run-in with Nightwing.

That’s when a your bed began to creak from a new weight being added to it.

… Ah, shit.

You didn’t move. There was no way in hell you were moving. Even if the intruder seemingly knew you were there, you could do nothing else but stay stagnant in place, waiting for them to make the next move. Maybe, if they touch you, you could swing your arm to hit them and catch them by surprise. That might give you enough time to run, find Dick’s room, and pray to god he’s home. If not, then you could at least lock yourself in his room and hold out until he does.

Your thoughts were cut short when a familiar voice rang out.

“You didn’t lock your window.”

… That bastard—!!

Relief crashed through your body like a tidal wave. A heavy breath tumbled out of your lips — one that you didn’t even know you were holding in — which alleviated the growing pressure in your chest. Now that you could feel your limbs again, you willed away the shiver that wanted to travel through your body as you turned to face this so-called intruder. “Kind of an unconventional way to come home, don’t you think?”

Your eyes met the pearly white lenses of a domino mask. The shadowy figure sitting on your bed had his arms crossed over the unmistakable azure symbol of Nightwing, which, oddly enough, had an intriguing iridescent shimmer under the moonlight. Huh… none of the cameras really pick up that detail, you mentally noted, glancing back and forth between the contrast of matte black and shiny blue. You were no professional superhero costume critic, but it was a nice little touch.

Dick’s tired sigh snapped you out of your thoughts. It was a grim reminder that — oh, yeah — you’re about to get chewed out by your vigilante kind-of-older-brother… at an ungodly hour. “Kid,” he began, the chastising tone you were becoming more and more acquainted with lacing every word, “you can’t keep forgetting to lock everything like that. What if I was some crook, or kidnapper, or worse?”

“Good thing it was just Nightwing coming through my window to give me a heart attack,” you humorlessly mused.

Though you couldn’t see underneath the mask, you knew he was giving you that one unamused stare you’re all too familiar with. “(Y/N), I’m serious. This is about your safety, your life, even. If something bad happens while I’m out, I won’t be able to protect you. For god’s sake, kid. I could be on the other side of Blüdhaven while you’re getting taken, or murdered, or whatever!!” He took a moment to heave another sigh. “Just… promise me you’ll lock your window next time, alright? Please.”

All you could do was wordlessly nod. After taking some time to process what he was saying, you admittedly felt bad. He was right; neglecting to lock your window like that could very well mean death in Blüdhaven. It’s not like growing up in Gotham is any different, so you knew this fact very well. Maybe your time at the manor caused you to become less careful, as it’s unlikely any criminals are hitting up the Wayne residence anytime soon; and it’s not like any of them know about the Bat-level security, either.

A springy click echoed through your room, and you looked up to see Dick inspecting your window (you’ve long stopped questioning how he just teleports like that). After deeming it to be safe, he softly padded towards your door. His hand was on the knob, but he seemed a bit hesitant to turn it. Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked at you over his shoulder and said, “goodnight, kiddo.”

“… Goodnight,” you mumbled.

He was out the door.

Click.

Now alone in your room, you could finally replay what just happened. Dear Big Bro Dickybird just gave you the scare of a lifetime, chastised you about being irresponsible, and left to assumingly go to bed (though you’re not sure if that man actually sleeps or not). The conversation — well, more like lecture — played in your mind, repeating on loop like a broken record… because of course your mind wanted to make you feel guiltier than you already did.

That’s when something weird stuck out to you.

“You can’t keep forgetting to lock everything like that.”

… Keep?

As far as you knew, that was your first time actually forgetting…

So... how did he know?

Thwack.

Before you could even begin to register whatever the fuck just hit your forehead, a teasingly dry voice rang out from above. “Your handwriting really sucks, y'know."

With furrowed brows to showcase your confusion, you forced yourself to sit upright on the couch. A small notepad fell from your chest to the floor, the pages sprawled out from the metal spiral to reveal your list of things you wanted from the store. “I was writing fast,” you grumbled.

"Sure you were," cooed Dick with a less-than-friendly smirk. He then cocked his head to the side, arms crossing over his chest. "Wanted a change of scenery or something?"

You felt your face scrunch up. "What does that mean?"

"You usually watch your dumb little YouTube videos in your room," he explained. "Not sprawled out on my couch."

Honestly, you weren't even going to question how he knew that. Maybe it was that dumb Bat-detective intuition, or the fact that you probably need to start turning the volume on your phone down a notch (thin walls, remember?). Rolling your eyes, you situated yourself so that you were once again lounging comfortably on the couch. "Trying to tell me something, bucko?"

"Yeah, actually." Before you knew it, you were being ripped away from the cushions, an indignant yelp leaving your lips as you dangled mid-air from your legs. You had to adjust to your new upside-down view in order to throw Dick an incredulous glare. The bastard merely offered a shit-eating grin, simply stating, "get off my couch."

"... Could've just told me that," you spat out.

He began to walk you out of the living room. "You wouldn't of listened."

"Wha-- I totally would've!"

"Somehow, I doubt that."

Whatever retort you wanted to throw at him dissolved into a heavy OOMF as he dropped you onto the floor. You found yourself glaring up at him once more as he swiped invisible dust off of his hands, giving you a champion smirk before heading back in the living. You managed to orient yourself into an awkward squat just in time to see him confidently throw himself into the couch cushions.

That asshole just kicked you out of your spot.

You were not about to let that slide.

With an animalistic yell, you began to gallop — yes, gallop; it was a weird mix of running and crawling, as you were already on the floor — at him full speed. He barely had time to react to your charge (as you victoriously noted from his surprised OOF as you pounced on him), and within seconds, the both of you were locked into a fight to the death. Dick might've had the upper hand when it came to combat technique, but what you lacked in experience, you made up in dedication as you tried your damned hardest to push him off of the couch.

"Hey," he wheezed out. "Quit it, you little freak!!"

"You quit it," was your breathy reply. "I was here first!!"

"But it's my couch!!"

"Didn't see you using it!!"

"Just 'cuz I was getting your dumbass groceries!!"

"You were out for a whole-ass hour!!"

Despite giving it your all, the battle was beginning to turn against you as Dick managed to wrestle your upper body between his forearm and bicep. He eventually managed to pin your viciously kicking legs under his arm, and looking back on it, the scene probably looked reminiscent of a zookeeping holding down a trashing crocodile. This didn't deter you however, as you began to gnaw at his forearm, drawing a sound of disgust from your captor. "I had to spend, like, 30 minutes trying to decipher your shit handwriting," he scoffed. "Now can you just accept defeat and stop biting me!?"

You tried to respond with something along the lines of, "not until you give me my spot back," but it came out as garbled nonsense with your mouth full of his forearm. He aggressively told you to repeat yourself (probably under the pretense that you were giving him some major lip), and during the time you relieved his skin of your teeth to say something much worse than you initially did, a cheerful little tune began to play from Dick's pocket.

"... Hold that thought," he murmured.

Respectfully, you kept still and allowed him to use one of his hands to fish his phone out of his hoodie (you thought about using this as an opportunity to escape, but that would go against the unspoken rules of battle). He squinted his eyes to read the caller ID, only to heave a frustrated groan. “Bruce,” he curtly informed you. You were about to ask if he wanted some privacy, when he suddenly released you from his hold and sent you careening towards the ground. So, taking that as an answer, you scrambled off of the floor and headed towards your room, phone somehow materializing in your hand in the process.

From your room, the call sounded so faint.

… Maybe the walls weren’t as thin as you initially thought they were.

You let out a jet of hot air through your teeth. “The hell is taking him so long?”

The time was 3:50, but Dick’s old car was nowhere to be seen in your school’s parking lot. You shot hit a text 5 minutes ago that has yet to be read, and if you were being honest, you were more anxious than annoyed. Dick was never late to pick-up. Late to drop-off, sure (there was one time you showed up to school at 11:25 due to him sleeping in from a late-night drug bust, and you got the pleasure of making up an embarrassing excuse at the expense of Dick’s pride to the front office), but never pick-up.

So, this meant one of two things; he’s finally forgotten about you, or there’s an emergency.

Just as you were debating on checking the local news, your phone buzzed in your hand, screen lighting up to reveal a message from Bastard. You could feel your apprehension melting away as you unlocked your phone to read his message:

robbery going on

… Ah. That explains the spike in police siren activity going on around you.

You were about to shoot him a classic, “what the fuck” text, but his typing bubble popped up. After a second, another message followed:

gonna be late

Okay, now you decided to send your, “what the fuck.”

The read status under your text didn’t show up until a few minutes later (because that’s what you needed in this moment; more anxiety), and he immediately got to typing.

sorry kiddo

stay put

be there in a sec

Your shaky fingers managed to type him a message along the lines of, “be careful, good luck,” which was left unread by him. A snake of apprehension began to squeeze at your lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe. You had to force yourself to suck in a good bit of air to calm your nerves. Maybe he was just busy kicking some ass, that’s all. He’s stopping a whole-ass robbery from happening, so it’s not like he can keep up with your messages. Besides, he told you he would be there “in a sec,” so he’s probably wrapping everything up now.

Calm down, (Y/N), you scolded yourself. Your brother is Nightwing. He’ll be fine.

That’s when you witnessed an explosion light up the sky.

It was distant, but big enough to send a low rumble through the ground. You watched in absolute horror as the violent orange and yellow dissipated from behind the cityscape, leaving an inky trail of smoke behind as its calling card. More and more sirens of different origins — police, fire, ambulance — were overlapping in a terrible harmony, though it was hard to process from the brazen ringing in your ears, clogging your brain out from the outside world.

Oh, shit.

What if that was—?!

You desperately fumbled with your phone, unlocking it to reveal your still unread message to Dick. You were hoping for some sort of sorry about that text, or at the very least to see his typing bubble, but you were met with radio silence. Apprehension became pure fear when your thoughts began to race. Something bad happened to Dick. There’s no way in hell an explosion happened coincidentally, so something bad just happened.

Not good, not good, not good at all…!!

It took longer than you wanted to get your fingers to type something:

Dick??

Dick, you okay??

I saw that, are you okay??

Dick??

Dick??

… Nothing.

You resorted to calling him.

… Beeeeeeeeep…

… Beeeeeeeeep…

… Beeeeeeeeep…

“Come on,” you muttered. “Come on, come on, come on, pick up—!!”

… Beeeeeeeep…

…

“Hey, you’ve reached the voice mail of Dick Grayson, just shoot me a text and I’ll—”

You hung up.

This was bad. This was so bad. Something bad is happening, and you’re not even sure if Dick’s okay. Hell, you saw how big that explosion was. Is he even fucking alive?!

You couldn’t help but utter a watery, “no…”

You’re not going through this again.

Without a second to spare, your legs began to carry you forward in a full sprint. You weren’t exactly sure where the explosion went off, and it’s not like you’re all that familiar with Blüdhaven just yet to know where any possible candidates for a robbery could be, but you followed the smoke pillars like a beacon, gauging how close you were based on the surrounding sirens. People stood like statues on the sidewalks to ogle at evidence of destruction wafting through the sky, and no cars dared to run you over as you cut through the streets.

“Come on, Dick,” you said between huffs. “Please— please be okay..!!”

He had to be okay.

You couldn’t lose someone else in your life.

[childactress]

@againstsquares, cont'd.

" you know -––you are the love of my life, but … you are truly detached from any version of reality. " was she joking? sometimes he didn't know. it gets him laughing though, gets him to bury his face in her shoulder, makes him want to eat a whole hand of banana's. he was eating one, smoking with the other. when he pulls back he impudently observes mara's face, continues to eat. it tastes so sweet, his lips linger on the fruit as he asks her: " d'you look at the checkout when you pay for groceries? you know, where it says how much they cost? " he raises his eyebrows, still smiling. he holds out his hand, offering her a bite.

❝ well, i get my groceries delivered. ❞ duh. but it's not so cold the way she says it, or the way she means it: it's just the bejeweled, orphaned, family-residual elephant in the room. i made more money as a child than you'll ever make as an adult, mara knows, observationally and not cruelly. she laughs a little too. ❝ or jack gets them for us. ❞ she knows what ben's getting at and mulls around a few answers as she nabs a bite of banana. ❝ i don't know. i haven't had to worry about money since, like... ever. but that doesn't mean shit for me was easy, okay? money doesn't solve every problem unless you're filthy fucking rich, and i never was. just reasonably rich. ❞

[meowmeowirena]

watching orphan and 50 min into the movie, all the "red flags" are like... exactly what you'd expect from an adopted traumatized 9 yr old kid u know nothing about. the main characters' parenting is frustrating in a specific way. as in it's frustrating bc irl a lot of parents would react to her this way but it's framed like they're right. so it's less a frustration w the writing and more w how oddly parents treat kids.

like this girl insists on locking the bathroom door and the mom is not gonna let her. ok but what if she was abused in the bathroom growing up? even if she wasnt as her new parent u should uhhh make an allowance for this kid coming from unknown and different circumstances than ur other kids. or them reacting so negatively to her knowing what "fucking" means. again, could point to abuse. but also it's just a word! discuss it w her without judgement! if u think she has negative associations w sex, then go to therapy w her!

but no the dad resists sending her to therapy and it's like wtf, how are u adopting a kid this age and not immediately having FAMILY therapy?? this is a massive adjustment for everyone!! literally they should all be doing this. it's not like they're not filthy rich, they can absolutely do everything they can to make the transition easier. oh, she wears "weird" clothes? again there's resistance to it. let her wear what makes her feel comfortable! she's rude sometimes? shocker, it's almost like she's adjusting to a new household and has confirmed trauma and possibly trauma no one knows about! oh she lied? as if compulsive lying isnt a really typical behavior for kids trying to gain some control over their lives when they live in a world that just buffers them around. especially if there's trauma. oh she may have been violent towards a bully? obviously that needs to be addressed but it's absolutely not surprising??? considering everything??

and i know the twist but so far no character does and so all of the "signs" something is wrong is like. everything id expect from a kid this age going thru this kind of transition. did the parents expect her to be literally perfect w/o any behavior problems (or just behavioral differences)? it's so annoying but also depressingly realistic when it comes to american parenting.

[sam-or-whatever]

Morals/Matricide | Self-Para

Shrieks filled the air. Tragedy had struck, and there was no way around that. While the areas of Lanford that had once seen lush, lively and livid with bustling people and the sheer vibrancy of life in pseudo-metropolis weren’t entirely vacated, silence hung over them as a court of viewers spectating a public execution. The air was dead. It beckoned for the hawking of a crow, the drop of a pin, anything to break the lack of noise that seemed so brittle in the suburban streets that it could crack should anyone open a window; and yet, it didn’t.

But the world around Sam was not silent. White noise screamed around her, hisses and hazes screeching in her ears, unintelligible mumbles and yells from strangers not in her line of sight. There were bodies-- people, perhaps. At least, vague outlines of them. Faces and limbs blurred, smeared across her peripherals and melting into each other, a bizarre Dali or Ernst painting. None of them mattered. No one mattered.

Heels clacked along the sidewalk outside of the hospital, ankles wearing down. She’d ran from the park, from the tent, from the fire that grew exponentially like a cancer on the tarp, stands and apparent souls that it consumed. The park wasn’t too far from the hospital, nor from her own apartment; she could’ve very well run home instead, sat there like a coward in her shelter until whatever horrendous apocalypse outside had passed over and was nothing more than a news headline in the morning that would soon be forgotten about as more global politics consumed every outlet.

But she had to go. Had to. There was no other option but to.

She’d seen the firemen and paramedics arrive, seen what few straggler cops come by as if there was any other prime objective in the entire city to tend to (Perhaps a drug bust in North End seemed more important). And soon, a swarm of them had arrived, too late in time for her own comfort. She saw stretchers, people carried out, limping, crawling, emerging from smoke like a macabre rebirth. Perhaps that’s when they were taken, when they’d managed to get out. Someone was doing their job.

She’d made her way home, sat on the front stoop to the apartment for far too long, lost in the thought, perhaps in shock, of what would happen to all those back at the masquerade. She knew someone had died. Well, perhaps not knew-- but the likelihood of no one losing their life in the disaster seemed unlikely.

It was almost dawn when the phone call reached her. Details scarce, she was drawn to the hospital in concern of her “family”.

Automatic doors slid open, practically at her command even if it was merely a mundane electronic routine for them, and heels clicked on linoleum rather than cement.

The emergency room wasn’t anything unexpected.

Every seat occupied, standing room only. Some wept. Some were silent. Unintelligible noisiness from behind the scenes, the medical wards themselves, leaked out into the space, more white noise to cut through the bleak. Not all of them were there because of the fire; it hadn’t injured the entire town. Of course the world still turned and people still did stupid things or were shot or got into car crashes when fires broke out. These people still would come here. But yet again, they didn’t matter.

“Did Andrew Blackwood check in here today?” Manicured hands slammed down on the desk before her. The woman on the other side, some short, Lisa Loeb-looking type with uber-chapped lips stared up in near awe.

“Ma’am, what’s your name?”

“Samantha Blackwood, now answer the goddamn question.”

“Do you bear any relation to An--”

“Just answer the fucking question, you useless cunt.”

“Please don’t use that tone with me, miss, I’m trying to help you.” She rapidly tapped away on the computer, perhaps searching databases for something that should’ve been a simple yes or no question.

“A state senator checks into an emergency room in the wake of a town-wide disaster, and you’re telling me you can’t fucking remember if you saw him or not? Is he here, yes or fucking no?”

In the corner of her eye, she saw the door to the back swing open as an orderly called someone else to come in.

“There is indeed a Blackwood checked into the ICU right now, bu--”

“Thanks.”

She bolted through the open door, nearly knocking the orderly in her bizarrely Lisa Frank scrubs over. Squeaks on the tiles, the taffeta and tulle of her dress flying behind her in lieu of smoke or dust from wheels.

“MISS--!”

Whatever the receptionist had to say was gone behind her, lost to the sound of crying patients, beeping hospital equipment and the ringing in Sam’s head that grew, tinnitus off of its tracks, perhaps an oncoming migraine.

Andrew. Where was Andrew?

Fuck Eliza.

It really didn’t matter to her where her mother was. She knew they both were in the tent when the fire broke out. Far from the entrance, at that. Perhaps they had been trapped in for a while. Perhaps they both managed to escape. Both Eliza and Andrew were too paranoid and high-strung for their own good to brush off any remote injuries; Eliza had checked herself into the emergency room for being pricked with a thorn from a rose her husband had given her. But if she had gone up in flames like the saganaki she enjoyed once a month, it would all be for the better. As long as Andrew was alive. He mattered. At least a little bit.

White. Everywhere around her was white. White floors, white walls, white curtains, oppressive white fluorescent lighting. Perhaps she stood out in grey, but the dress itself may have been what stood out moreso than the color.

Eyes darted around, wildly, for any signs of him-- Eliza’s dress would stand out if she were to see it anywhere. A hideous, voluminous ensemble of deep yellow-orange would perhaps now be singed to black. But Andrew’s matching suit would stand out just as well.

Through cracks at the edges of curtains, nothing was to be seen.

“The ICU” the Loeb had said, and an elevator trip and another quarrel with a receptionist, Sam found herself outside the room wherever one of her parents rested.

“Please tell me it’s Andrew,” she grumbled to the accompanying nurse, who held her elbow gingerly; perhaps it was for comfort, perhaps it was for control. Sam knew she could burst into a tirade and a tantrum at any moment. Security could be called if she got out of control. But as she stood, fingers prying at each other as if begging to dig under her acrylics, she was still.

“Miss, we--”

“Save it.”

“But you--”

“Just stop fucking talking. Please.”

There was a beat. A pause.

She looked upwards, up at the lengthy lights that ran across the ceiling like highway lane stripes, bearing down on the hallway below like a judgmental god. Then down at her shoes again, tips scuffed from her journey, rhinestones still perfectly in place.

She should go in. She knew she should. And so, so she glanced-- a simple lean forward and glance to the left to peer into the room. The yellow was striking; yet, she couldn’t make out what it was, the suit or the dress, from behind the curtain. It was clear that the fabric wasn’t really on its wearer, so much as draped on some coat rack or chair right behind the curtain that obstructed her view of the sole resident of the room. The sound of a breathing machine and the beeping of a heartbeat were the only sounds inside.

She pulled back, turning to the nurse.

“Where’s the other one? Whoever it is?”

The nurse bit her lip, her own hands fidgeting near her waist in a way not unlike what Sam’s own were doing.

“Miss, that’s what I was trying to tell you.”

Sam’s eyebrow raised briefly, too shaky to be as intimidating as she would’ve preferred.

“Only one of them has made it this far.”

“‘This far’?” Her voice nearly cracked.

“They both were rushed in together, and... Perhaps we should sit down.”

“No.”

“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, miss?”

“Stop saying ‘Miss’ as if I’m some irrelevant. You know our goddamn name. Now call me Sam or Miss Blackwood or something.”

“Alright, well, Samantha, do you u--”

“I said Sam, you absolute twit. You’re so fucking incompetent.”

“Sam, do you understand what I’m trying to get across to you?”

“One of them is dead.”

“I...”

“Is that not what you’re saying?” She stared into the girl’s eyes, her own red and sore, yet tears did not well up quite yet. She was not about to cry in front of a stranger. Enough people cried in hospitals. It was too cliché. She would not allow it.

“It... is... Indeed.”

“Then thank you. I don’t think your useless services will be required much further here.”

“You’d like me to leave?” The girl bit her lip.

“Yes, you stupid bitch, go back to your post or changing bedpans or whatever it is you do.”

“Alright... I’ll... send the doctor in soon.”

“Don’t fucking bother. I don’t need to know about any prognosis or whatever. If a doctor was that important to the situation, he’d be the one here talking to me about a dead parent, not you and your fresh-out-of-med-school, doe-eyed ineptitude.”

She stood there for another moment, almost in awe, unable to move. Maybe out of fear, or uncertainty of what to do, but as Sam’s eyes widened, her lips pressed into a firm line, the girl finally turned on her slippered heels and bolted back to her station.

Fists gripping at handfuls of fabric at her thighs, it was a miracle it didn’t shred under the sharpness of her nails. Knuckles turned white, begging to shred the rice paper skin over top.

She had to go inside.

She had to know who it was.

Why wouldn’t you just fucking ask?

It was stupid. Stupid to need to see for herself, to have the knowledge be tangible rather than verbal, to see for herself which parent was remaining.

Perhaps then she would know whether to mourn or not.

Please be Andrew.

She would never say it out loud.

Her own relationship with him was well beyond “estranged”; as long as he still fed into her material desires and kept her connected to his bank account, she could say they were still on good terms. He was a man of morals. The black sheep in his family for the mere fact that he was democratic-- and made his way into the Senate as such-- when it was a miracle his family could stand upright considering how far they all leaned to the right. But she never was close to him. They never shared intimate moments. She had safely told that therapist whose name escaped her almost a year ago that both he and Eliza failed as parents in that regard. She would have no reason to feel upset at his passing.

And yet, the fact that he wasn��t an insufferable force of nature of condescension, patronizing, self-indulging, high-strung shrieking that Eliza was. Andrew not being a Passive Aggressive Queen of the Universe himself made him instantly worthy of a tear or two.

A sigh and a grunt later, she turned into the room, the view of its resident still hidden.

“What could be behind curtain number one...” she mumbled.

The air hung heavy with silence. The tap of her heel-- always at the back of her mind throughout the day-- nearly matched the rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor, and slower still, the breathing machine gasped in and out every couple seconds.

The heap of fabric visible under the curtain made itself more visible-- yellow faded into black and grey at parts that had been singed, burnt into nothingness. Which garment it was still wasn’t clear; only bits were seen sweeping the floor.

With one more step, she rounded the curtain, eyes still fixated on the clothes before the person in the bed, and her answer became obvious.

The dress was in shambles, rags, tattered and torn, almost all of it but what touched the ground wrinkled and burned into blackness. It’s volume depleted, shape nonexistent. Thousands of dollars wasted.

Her breath held.

The breathing machine continued, almost in lieu of her own inhalation.

Eliza laid in the bed, nearly unrecognizable. A thin film of what might as well have been saran wrap isolated all but her face from the rest of the world. She was covered in black; green-tinged darkness that crinkled and peeled at random places. But by far the most shocking bit were the cuts-- nearly gridlike slices in her flesh that left her seared flesh in pieces, giant planes with deep rivers of pink in between them. From Sam’s own view, it seemed as if nothing of her hadn’t been consumed by the flames. It seemed almost impossible that she wasn’t already dead. Wires and IVs branched off from each arm, from random places on her body, tracking her vitals.

And then her face. Obstructed by the tube shoved down her throat, it, too, had a majority of it covered in the swamp-green blackness of the burn that everything else was. It swelled, gigantic, her natural features, one Sam could identify as pretty and inherited by herself had they not been ruined by association with Eliza’s personality, were gone amidst the destruction. Only two locks of her bleached hair remained, the rest, shriveled to nothing or gone altogether.

Gone was Eliza’s outer armor of beauty. Her vanity had been one thing that she made clear in previous days as important to her, always pulling out her compact to recheck herself in the middle of conversations or rantings at Sam. The woman that laid on the bed, breathed in peace, was hideous. An ogre. The monstrosity of who she was was finally visible on the outside for the world to see, but for Sam, it was only a culmination that she’d been waiting every day of her life to see.

“Of course it’s you.”

Her hands relaxed, rested limp at her side.

She stood at the end of the bed, staring at the creature before her, its chest rising and lowering in sync with the machine to its left.

A knock at the door broke what could’ve been serenity.

“You’re not allowed to be in here.” The man at the door’s white coat and clipboard announced what he was before he even breathed it out the next words. “I’m Dr. Guthrie... And you would be?”

“This woman’s daughter.” Her body remained still, only her head turning to look at him with her watery eyes. Tears were forming, indeed, but not because of Eliza. Or, perhaps it was because of them-- because it was her who laid in the bed with a chance of survival and not her husband. “You should know. Aren’t you the clown that called me?”

“You still shouldn’t be in here, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Are you going to not allow me to see her? Am I in the way of someone’s work?”

“Well--”

“Because as far as I can see, you’ve left her here. ICU, my ass. Are there more critical patients that everyone’s run off to take care of? Is she just supposed to stay here like a victim of the Salem witch trials while you lot run around filming scenes for Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Ms. Blackwood, I--”

“I really don’t fucking care.”

“I just want you to know that we’ve done all we can at the moment.”

“I said I don’t fucking care, but where does that leave her?”

He paused, biting his lip. His eyes bounced, from daughter to mother and back again.

“She hasn’t been breathing on her own. She's scheduled to go into surgery again soon for debridement of the outer layers of skin in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

“Around ten.”

“And you think she’ll survive?”

He paused again. And before he opened his mouth to speak, she spoke over him--

“You don’t have to worry about sparing my feelings. Bedside manner is bullshit. I just want to know what to expect.”

“Full recovery does not seem likely.”

“So, she’d be like this for the rest of her life?”

“Internally, she’s mostly in shape-- her breathing is the main concern; she hasn’t been conscious since she was brought in, and we’re not sure if that could change.”

“Were you also the one that treated my father?”

“I meant to extend my condolences on that part.”

“You could’ve called earlier, you know.”

“We--”

“Frankly, I don’t care. Was he dead on arrival?”

He silenced himself again.

“Listen, Dr. Quack, are you, like, Nell, or something? You have the communication skills of a recluse. What’s the matter with you?”

“Ms. Blackw--”

“Just leave me with her for a moment. Please.”

He nodded, before scurrying off, not unlike the nurse. He paused at the door:

“You should really be wearing a mask and a gown.”

He shut the door behind himself.

She turned her head again, facing the beast on the bed.

And after a moment, she walked, moving to the side to seat herself in the only other chair in the space not occupied by a destroyed piece of couture.

She leaned in, staring at the devastation on Eliza’s body even closer-- cracks, fissures, hints of muscle visible in the valleys between skin continents, surprisingly such little blood visible. Perhaps it wasn’t safe to be around her-- exposing her to external contamination and whatnot. But then again, the sheet that covered her seemed to have that part taken care of.

“You’re really fucking ugly, you know that, mom?”

She squinted her eyes, staring at the Halloween mask of a face that rested on the pillow. Her eyelashes were missing, yet her lids seemed like the only part of her face that remained intact.

“You used to tell me that. I know.”

Eliza’s lips seemed stretched, plastic surgery gone wrong.

“I was never good-looking enough for you. But we looked kinda the same before this, no? I have your cheekbones. Your nose. Your smile. Your lips. Dad’s eyes, I suppose, but your face was mine. Do you think that was part of it? That you thought you, yourself, were never as beautiful as dad said you were, or how you told yourself in every mirror that you were the most gorgeous woman in the world? Did you think that was a lie? And rather than tell it to your own face, you told it to mine, to try and watch me tumble into insecurity, huh?”

She smiled. The thought that Eliza’s current face could no longer do that was almost comforting.

“You failed. Like much of your parenting, you failed that. I never thought I was ugly. And until the day I’m as hideous of a person as you were-- or, are, if you could look yourself in the mirror right now-- I will never think that.”

She leaned forward again, scooting the chair even closer, practically breathing in the unconscious woman’s ear.

“But your personality was always the ugliest part. Shrill. Screaming. Demeaning. You set the standard for horrible mothers in the world. For bitches in every TV show. Set an example of whatever paths should not be followed. You know, you mocked Jodi for not vaccinating her kids-- and yet she still tries to love them. You couldn’t love me. Or at least, you refused to, and I suppose I’ll never get to understand that. At least not now, will I? You can’t wake up and answer me-- and even if you were awake, you wouldn’t tell me. Is that because there’s no reason? There’s no reason for you not to love and support me? No reason for you to treat me as if I was the bane of your existence and the source of every anxiety and struggle you faced?

“You didn’t face any struggles, you bitch. The rich do not face more issues than the poor just because you have too much cash to count. You can waste it all on valium and vodka, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever have to need any of it. You grew up wealthy, you married wealthy, you’re straight and white, and your parents didn’t beat you like you always said I should be lucky you didn’t do to me. You slapped. You struck. You didn’t beat me unconscious or bruise me, but you laid one too many hands on me whenever you lost your temper because you don’t know how to handle a little bit of sass. 

“You don’t know how to handle anything, actually, when I think about it. You couldn’t handle being single, so you found the richest, handsomest available guy in New York to call your own. You couldn’t handle responsibility about birth control, apparently, or else I wouldn’t be here. And you couldn’t handle the idea of an abortion because you still went through with a child it’s clear you never wanted. You couldn’t handle a baby, you couldn’t handle a toddler, you couldn’t handle a pre-teen, you couldn’t handle a teen, you couldn’t handle an adult. You could never manage self-sufficiency, either; living off of your own parents’ money like you’ve given me so much fucking flack for my entire life, then soon found yourself clinging to your husband and claiming his networth for your own. The only thing I know you can handle is your drinks and drugs. At least that’s one thing we kinda have in common.

“You were the source of every issue I’ve had in my life. I was not good enough. I wasn’t worthy of your affection. I couldn’t have my birthdays about me, they had to be about you and your clique of cunt friends who just love to compare their husband’s dick sizes and whatever Ralph Lauren purchases you’ve made. Straight A’s still meant I wasn’t smart enough for you, even my taste in clothes wasn’t good enough for you-- newsflash, bitch, Balmain and Balenciaga will always trounce a Chanel suit when it’s all you wear, and your Gucci staples are the biggest fashion faux pas I’ve seen since the 2012 Met Gala.”

She laughed. Perhaps she was delving too much into joke territory. If only Eliza could hear this. A glance around-- there weren’t any cameras. No one could hear this. Or see this. It was almost unfortunate there wasn’t an audience. And almost unfortunate Eliza wasn’t awake to turn the scene into a full-on production.

“I know, I know-- I didn’t make it easy for you. I didn’t take orders. I didn’t take rudeness easily. Flippancy, facetiousness, bitching back and forth for hours, it all something I could’ve avoided. But what do you want from me? What did you want from me? To apologize for having a personality? To just let you steamroll me and for me to just lay there like a ragdoll on autopilot to make you satisfied when you were never going to really care if I did well?

“I did do well-- I’m doing well. I’ve done more than you ever have in your entire, insufferable life. No, I didn’t marry rich, but I could if I tried. No, I don’t have lunch with the Romneys and attend the 2017 inauguration-- neither of which I’d be proud of, anyway-- but I have things you don’t. I have a place I chose for myself without making someone else miserable in the process. I have a job that I’m happy with. Yes, your sister-in-law got it for me, but I still have it. I have a friend. You’ve met him, you know. His name is Jude. No, he’s not a cop. No, he’s not some other fashion maven. He’s a rocker. I think he’s broke. But no, he’s not leeching off of me like you would assume, either. But he’s one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met, and our times together are not spent comparing our superficial struggles and trying to outdo each other in the same field, because that’s not what it’s about. But I don’t expect you to understand that. I don’t know what you value. Money, maybe, but it flies out of your hand far more often than it does mine, so maybe you don’t value anything.

“And that’s totally fine, you know. It’s totally okay to not have standards, rules for yourself, things to have sacred. It’s fine. I just try not to make the world around me worse for it. No, I’m not a nice person a lot of the time, but I’m not actively trying to ruin people’s life. I don’t have someone that I brought into this world and have responsibility over and fuck them over at every chance I get because I like to see little children cry-- well, that’s a lie, I do, hence me stealing candy from a baby on the boardwalk last summer, so I guess that makes me a hypocrite, but you are a black hole, Eliza. You are the quintessence of virility, of the reason people think the upper class is out of control, you are the source of all evil in the household that I grew up in, and you have not suffered one day in your life because of a family of cunts bearing down on you.

“Well, you know what, that might be unfair of me to say. Maybe you did. Maybe you went through the same things I did. Maybe your mother really was an uber cunt-- you never let me see it. But if I was you, I wouldn’t bring that full circle. I would not choose to make my child miserable because the same was done to me. Like I said, I know I’m not a nice person a lot of the time. Maybe I’m net-evil at that because I say evil things all the time and get a kick out of being a casual villain, but I try to do good things at times. I try to be nice. I have friends for that-- especially Jude. You don’t. You may have experienced whatever hells the Rheiders put you through, but you just became one of their numbers in the process. The Blackwoods are not much better.

“And in fact, that’s why I wish dad was where you are right now. At least having some chance of survival. Not being wiped out of this world without a fighting shot. He was like me. He was a victim of at least some goodness in a family full of nothing but horror. His brothers are pigs. His parents are garbage. They’re your crowd. Maybe you thought he was like them; maybe that’s why you married him. But he was a good fucking man, you know? That’s why he kept taking care of me. That’s why he didn’t cut me off despite all your horrendous attempts at ruining my life even when I wasn’t in it anymore. You didn’t fucking care about the money I was spending. You wouldn’t have even known. Yeah, I know I spend as much money in a month as the average American household does in a year, but is that not what you do weekly? Context is the key here, and you wouldn’t have felt the impact I left on that bank account if you weren’t obsessively checking it to find reasons to do me in.”

She laughed again, finally leaning back in the chair.

“Funny, isn’t it? How you always called me a leech? A dependent. Yeah. I’m a dependent. I depended on you and-- fuck it, just Andrew’s money. And here you are, your life hanging on by a thread, dependent on machinery and the works of other people to keep you from slipping away.”

She glanced at the machine-- an series of thick tubes that somehow funneled to one that slipped into her mouth, keeping her lungs inflated. She stood up, moving over to it, eyes scanning whatever nonsense floated by on a screen about how many breaths she took in a minute. It didn’t mean anything to her. It just meant Eliza was alive.

All that stood between Sam and salvation was this machine.

She turned back to her mother.

“I think it’s also even funnier that you burned. You’ll burn again, you know. You were so concerned with God. A casual Christian, so perhaps not that concerned, but you did tell me I was going to hell once or twice. But I guarantee you, if I’m there, you’ll be several circles deeper than I am. Or did you not read Dante’s Inferno? Maybe you weren’t that interested. Or maybe you just weren’t that intellectual. I never saw you read anything.”

She bent down by the machine, tracing the wires, the tubes-- finding where it plugged itself into the wall. The source.

She glanced back up at Eliza-- restful, peaceful, far too content since she wasn’t being tormented by fire. It was all so undeserving.

She stayed down fingers resting on the plug at the socket.

Could she do this?

It felt too right. There wasn’t a shakiness in her hands. There wasn’t the nervousness that one would assume would come. The cable called to her, like the knife from months ago that she dragged across her wrist, told her this was the thing to do.

“I wished death upon you many nights, you know. Wished so many times you were just out of my life. And even when I was finally living alone-- four years ago, can you believe it?-- that wasn’t good enough, because I still had to see you from time to time. I wished you would get into a crash. Perhaps someone would try to assassinate dad, and hit you instead. Or that we lived in 18th century France and you were guillotined. That’d be entertaining. And it seems... I may have finally gotten my wish.”

She yanked the cord.

The hissing of the breathing machine stopped.

All that filled the room was the beep of Eliza’s heartbeat.

Slower.

And slower.

She rose, hand still clutching the cord, eyes wide.

It was happening.

Her chest didn’t move.

The monitor was practically sloping downward.

And finally...

A flatline.

The beep stayed ringing, consistent, long.

Any moment, she expected the door to burst open, medics running to attend. She needed to wait as long as possible. Let it be real.

She bent back down, rushed, shoved the plug back into the socket to let the breathing resume.

Standing up again, Eliza’s chest moved under the carnage of flesh and the clear sheet.

But the monitor did not fluctuate.

“I’ll be happy to see you in hell, mom.”

The door flew open.

Practically a mob of medics flooding in, rushing to the bedside with whatever horrendous array of revival tools they had to help revive her.

She stood back, at their command, their words gone not registering in her ears. Her eyes stayed on Eliza’s disfigured face, seeing her unmoving eyes, her chest still bouncing as if that movement meant life inside still occurred.

Their actions were not visible, a blur in her peripherals, chaos in the room trying to bring back something that had left and all that mattered to Sam was that it was gone.

Her mother was gone.

Her parents were dead.

With a twitch of an eyelid, she smiled, staring off at Eliza’s face, through her face, into nothingness as the medics realized the fruitfulness of their attempts.

And so she turned, moving for the door, the dress trailing after her once again as her heels tapped on the tile, leaving behind a corpse that no longer had its perfectly-manicured ironfist grip on her life.

She was free.

[lalalaure]

I have no self control. And I simply just HAD to make this Victuuri. Because Reasons.

[credit for the prompt to @writing-prompt-s , check them, they're GREAT]

Imagine, super duper cutesy couple Victor and Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov. You know, the ones that always coo at dogs they see while having their morning run or the ones who never forget to double tip those poor overworked waiters. The kind of people to kindly smile at a grumpy looking stranger just to brighten their day, if only a little.

[It always works and how can it not when they see how cute Yuuri's dimples are? How much Victor's sea blue eyes sparkle in the sun when he smiles?]

Anyways, they have a secret.

That, per se, is not something extremely surprising. Everybody has secrets. But theirs? Oh boy, theirs is maybe the biggest, and best kept, secret one could ever come across on this Earth.

Imagine Mischievous Supervillain Victor Nikiforov.

[more after the cut]

[And yes, I know, everybody seems to be convinced that my boy 'Stammi Vicino' would be a superhero and I always ask myself why, like, have you heard the part where he skates to what literally translates to: "I'd like to cut open with a sword the throats of all who sing about love"

like,

that's murded bby boy

so anyway, enjoy catsuit clad extra supervillain Victor Nikiforov]

Icy eyes, cold smile, long hair [yes, he has long hair here, because I Say So] so light and bright they almost look white. White as the colour of his sinfully thight catsuit that literally leaves nothing to the imagination.

["It's for practicality, Yuuri. How do you expect me to climb walls and rob the pants out of those filthy riches without it? It helps me bLeNd iN tHe sHaDoWs!"

"It's literally white."]

Donned with surprisingly strong ice powers and inhuman reflexes, he is a 'rob the rich to give to the poor' kind of guy. They call him The Coreographer: lethally smart, silver tongued and so pretty he could kill a man with a look, [he never did, though, he believes in peace] a literal mastermind of crime but mortally bored with his dull, empty life. That was, until our dear Katsudon Fatale entered the game.

Imagine Insecure Superhero Yuuri Katsuki.

Ah, my boy Yuuri. Cute smiles and soft caramel eyes that always seem to hypnotize everyone around him to bow to his every command. Literally.

When our cute chubby 12 years old Katsudon firstly discovered that he could LITERALLY TALK PEOPLE INTO DOING ANYTHING HOW lS THIS HIS LIFE HELP HIM PLEASE HE IS SCARED.

And that didn't help his anxiety. At all.

This way, he learns the Weight of his Words and always saves them for when they are absolutely necessary.

How he came to be a superhero, he still doesn't know. He suspects it to be Phichit's fault.

How he came to meet The Coreographer, through a collaboration he did with Yuuri's Squad, befriend him and find beautiful Victor inside that hardened mask of cool and composed, still baffles him.

He still remembers that night, in front of the sea, where, after almost three months of collaboration [because this time it was serious, this time there were lives at stake and he had done nothing to stop it before, but now that light was in his life again Victor would be damned if he let this one happen, if he, voluntarily, let other people, other children, suffer like he did] Yuuri still let his doubts get the best of him and screamed at Victor for all he did, and didn't do, before.

He immediatly regretted it when he saw those perfect blue eyes swell up with tears and regretted it even more when Victor finally told him about his life. Stories about being beat up, when he was still an orphan on the streets, for who he was, for his Power and about how people, bad people, had tried to use him for their own gain. He told vague stories about friends of his who had died of starvation during the night, in the cold cells they were kept in all day, from where they could exit just to be experimented on because they were weapons, not people.

["But you were only ten, Victor. Do you mean to tell me that they...?"

Victor's silence was loud and clear to Yuuri, who felt his stomach churn with a venoumous kind of anger he had never felt before.

"I'll make them pay."

And he meant it.]

Soon, Yuuri hopes, Victor would also talk to him about his time on the Squad (although a different one) that likely shaped the person he was today, but that he soon left. Yuuri came to know this from his first, real, researches on The Coreographer, head burrowed in some dusty, old documents he found on the Squad's Main Head Library. He always felt a bit guilty about that.

[Later, Victor will explain to him that, while it had indeed been a good time in his life, prolific for the shaping of his mind and his morals, the Squad, like any other organization, was not keen on butting heads with wealthy, well paying criminals. He learnt that the hard way. So he left, taking up the pieces of his heart that shattered when he understood that his life in the Squad had been a big, fancy, lie and that if he really wanted to do something he had to do it by himself, on the streets.]

To this day, Yuuri is still baffled that this wonderful person, this precious fighter chose him. Who was he, anyway, to deserve his love?

But he has stopped fighting against it and learnt to accept it as it is. To always love and protect Victor who, despite of his fucked up childhood and teenage years, has taught him to love and protect himself, too, for being exactly who he is. Him, too, an anxious, sweet, precious, fighter. Even when his mind makes him weak, he will rise again and fight for what is right. [Victor's words.]

But he has to believe them, after all, those were his vows on their wedding day.

So, one day when he has to change his costume and finally, finally he can desing it himself [that meaning that Victor can picture it exactly as he wants] he doesn't even flich when it turns out to be an exact copy of his husband's catsuit, a little less thight, with more pockets and also a belt and wow, a trasparent jacket too. He is in awe of the colour, a perfect shade of blue, similar to his husband's beautiful eyes. It is perfect. And it's his.

He wears it everyday.

His eyes are a little teary though, when he finds himself in front of his husband during work. They caught The Coreographer and his team stealing some important antiques from a house. A house that, mind you, was owned by a disgusting, oily little man who had too much money, and too less respect for his own good. He knew his Vitya's project and knew that those money were going to benefit an hospital of sick children in Malaysia. But still, robbing was against the law. That meant that Yuuri had to find a way to distract his team, again, to help his idiot of an husband escape with the money, again. The nerve of that man.

But when he saw him, all clad in his new pink costume that MATCHED YUURI'S, [a distant part of his mind reminded him that he, Yuuri, had chosen the colour as well, during one of the nights where Vitya was being all weird about colours and kept asking him for what was, in his opinion, the perfect match to blue] etheral hair flowing in the wind and beautiful heart-shaped smiled aimed just at him. And, oh, he was weeping at the sight of his beautiful husband that finally, finally smiled again and...

The weight of his Squad's stares was heavy on his shoulders and, oh boy, was this going to be a long one to explain.

As usual, REBLOG is fine, REPOST only with my permission :))

[love y'alls]