#and I'm about to make it everyone's problem

[narnour-momo-007]

sometimes I think of them and I get ill

[solxamber]

Stake Through the Heart || Rook Hunt

You’re absolutely convinced your neighbor is a vampire. No evidence yet, but your gut—and your deeply flawed instincts—say yes. The investigation is underway. Nothing will stop you. Not even common sense.

You were already suspicious of the building when you signed the lease. The hallway lights had a flicker that could only be described as "threatening," the elevator creaked like it had regrets, and your sink coughed before turning on. But hey—rent was cheap, and you had resigned yourself to coexisting with at least one minor ghost. Maybe two if they were a couple.

What you didn't expect was your upstairs neighbor dragging a human-sized trunk up five flights of stairs at exactly midnight like it was a perfectly normal time to engage in cardio and/or hide a body.

You were brushing your teeth—half-dressed and fully irritated—when you heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping aggressively against tile. It was the kind of noise that said, "I am absolutely not supposed to be here, but I will make it everyone's problem anyway." You paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Another thump. Another scrape. A strained grunt, followed by—

"Ah! The climb is arduous, but so is the ascent of the soul!"

You spit your toothpaste directly into the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror like, Did I just hear a villain monologue in the hallway?

Curiosity won. You opened your front door just enough to peek out—and there he was.

Wide-brimmed hat. Floor-length coat. Boots that definitely cost more than your microwave. And a trunk. A massive trunk. The kind usually reserved for pirates or magicians or suspicious aristocrats who "don't go out during the day."

You watched, transfixed, as he slowly dragged the thing up another step, muttering something about "fate's heavy burden" and "destiny's ever-turning wheel."

Your brain, overworked and overcaffeinated, came to a single, definitive conclusion:

Vampire. 100%. No notes.

No human being talks like that. No one wears a coat that dramatic without drinking blood recreationally. The man radiated "I sleep in a silk-lined coffin and I know all the moons of Jupiter by name."

Still, you tried to play it cool. "Hey, uh… need help?"

He turned. Slowly. He reminded you of an NPC about to issue a side quest.

"Ah," he said, bowing slightly. "A kind spirit in the veil of night. May the stars illuminate your path, trésor."

You blinked.

He smiled. Too many teeth.

"…Right," you said. "I'm gonna go back inside now and pretend this conversation didn't happen."

You shut the door. Locked it. Double locked it. Briefly considered salting the threshold but remembered you were out of salt.

You pressed your back to the door and exhaled. That was fine. Everything was fine. You didn't need to know what was in the trunk. You weren't the main character. You had a day job and seasonal allergies and no time for undead drama. You were going to mind your business.

Until the next morning, when he knocked on your door holding a fruit basket, a poetry book, and a glass bottle that may or may not have been full of suspiciously thick, red liquid.

"Good morrow," he said with the confidence of a man who still used words like morrow. "I have brought tokens of neighborly goodwill."

You stared at him.

He stared back. Smiling.

"I, Rook Hunt, am most pleased to meet you."

You took the basket. You nodded. You said thank you like a hostage in a movie.

And in your heart, you knew.

You were absolutely going to get involved in whatever this man's dramatic, possibly blood-soaked nonsense was. Whether you liked it or not.

You did not, for the record.

You didn't want to be that person. The kind who built conspiracy boards out of half-baked assumptions and circumstantial evidence. The kind who said things like "I just think it's weird that…" before launching into a theory involving aliens, lizard people, secret societies, or in this case, your neighbor being a vampire with a flair for the theatrical.

But then came The Curtain Incident.

It was the next evening. You had gone to the store for boring mortal things—dish soap, batteries, a very specific type of screwdriver that only existed in legend and IKEA manuals. You were minding your own business. You were trying to pick out lightbulbs that didn't hum when you tried turning them on.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it: the hat.

Wide-brimmed. Looming. Definitely not weather-appropriate.

You whipped around so fast you almost knocked over a display of lawn flamingos. And there he was, in all his nocturnal glory: Rook Hunt, your neighbor, standing in the middle of aisle seven like it was a catwalk at fashion week. Long coat. Gloves. That same calm, vaguely predatory smile. And in his cart?

Blackout curtains. Three sets. Jet black. Extra thick.

You stared. He made eye contact like a man who knew. Knew he was being watched. Knew he was being suspected. Knew that this was not how humans typically purchase home decor unless they were trying to turn their living space into a vampire's safehouse slash crime scene.

You tried to act casual. Failed immediately.

"Heyyy," you said, voice cracking like a out of tune violin. "Doing a little… home improvement?"

He inclined his head. "Mais oui. The sun—ah, how she burns with such cruel passion, non? I find her embrace a touch too… insistent." He lifted a curtain panel with one gloved hand. "To cocoon oneself in shadow, to drift in velvety darkness… c'est magnifique."

You nodded, as if that explained literally anything.

"That's cool," you said, backing toward the paint swatches like they could protect you. "Totally normal. Curtains. Love that for you."

His smile widened.

You were spiraling.

Because listen: you're not completely irrational. You know some people are just weird. You know blackout curtains are a thing. Maybe he works nights. Maybe he's just allergic to joy. But also?? His shopping cart contained no other regular item. No food. No tools. Just three sets of blackout curtains, a single red candle, and—swear to God—a hand mirror.

Why would a vampire buy a mirror?! Was it a decoy? A flex? A prop for when he practiced brooding dramatically at an empty reflection?!

You left the store in a daze, carrying a pack of AA batteries and a sense of unease. As you walked home under the streetlights, you made a mental list:

Never seen him in daylight.

Talks like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot no one asked for, but with more French vowels.

Dragged a suspiciously heavy trunk into his apartment at midnight.

Blackout curtains.

Keeps bringing you gifts that feel like offerings before a blood pact.

Smiles like he knows how you die.

By the time you got home, you were pacing your kitchen whispering, "He's definitely a vampire," like it was going to summon help from the garlic gods.

You considered texting a friend, but how do you even phrase that?

hey quick question if ur neighbor owns a cape and possibly a coffin do u call the cops or the local priest or like, what's the protocol here

Instead, you sat on your couch, stared at the wall, and decided you had two choices: move out, or commit to this bit like your life depended on it.

Because if your neighbor was a vampire, then you were either going to die horribly or end up in some kind of ancient blood soulmate contract by accident—and if it was going to be the second one, you were at least going to get a dramatic entrance line out of it.

You were having what could generously be described as a trainwreck of a day.

Your boss had decided to hold a mandatory team-building exercise that involved trust falls and absolutely no regard for personal space. Your lunch had been mysteriously replaced by someone else's aggressively spicy quinoa salad (you were not emotionally prepared for that level of chilli oil). And your phone had spent the entire afternoon at 3% like a drama queen begging for a charger and attention.

All you wanted—all you wanted—was to drag your exhausted corpse up five flights of stairs, collapse into your lumpy couch, and watch garbage reality TV until your brain leaked out of your ears.

But fate—unrelenting, nosy fate—had other plans.

You hit the third floor landing. Your eyes were on your phone, trying to Google "can you die from inhaling someone else's quinoa," when you looked up—and there he was.

Rook. Your neighbor. The cryptid. The probable vampire.

He was just casually coming down the stairs, like he wasn't the most suspicious person in a ten-mile radius. Still wearing a long coat, still dressed like a brooding poet about to duel someone over honor and a baguette. But this time…

This time he had a sunburn.

Just a little one. Right on the tip of his nose. Faint. Pink. But real. You squinted to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick of the hallway light—but no. It was there. Angry and tender.

Your brain slammed the panic button.

OH MY GOD.

IT BURNS HIM PHYSICALLY.

I KNEW IT.

The conspiracy board in your head lit up. Thumbtacks connected by red string. Newspaper clippings. Grainy surveillance footage of your neighbor dramatically pulling blackout curtains shut while whispering about "la nuit éternelle." It all fit. The signs. The trunk. The curtains. The sunburn. The French.

He caught you staring and—like a man who had just stepped into a spotlight and loved it—tilted his head, utterly unbothered.

"Ah! Bonsoir, my dear neighbor. I fear I was… overzealous in my ambitions today." He gestured vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall, where the last rays of the sun were beginning to fade. "Even the mightiest hunter is humbled by the cruelty of Sól."

Sól. He named dropped the sun like it personally betrayed him. You were one step away from calling the Vatican.

You cleared your throat. "So… you got burned? By the sun?"

"Indeed," he said gravely, touching the red spot like it was a war wound. "A careless moment. I was enthralled by a flock of birds and lost track of time." He smiled. "Still, I find the sting to be a reminder—ah, how fragile the flesh, how divine the dusk."

You nodded slowly. "Yup. Happens to the best of us. Just, you know. Skin melting in the light of day. Totally normal."

He laughed. Laughed. A rich, delighted sound like he'd just watched someone walk into a trap he set.

"Your wit is ever sharp," he said, and then—because of course he did—he pulled a tiny glass vial from his coat pocket and dabbed something that might have been cream onto the burn.

You turned and bolted upstairs before he could hand you an invite to a midnight blood tasting.

In your apartment, you slammed the door, leaned against it, and let your bag slide to the floor.

It was real.

He was burned by the sun.

This was no longer a hunch. This was evidence. This was Exhibit A in your vampire trial. You didn't know what you were going to do yet—alert the supernatural authorities? Start a blog? Join him in eternal night as his dramatic, overly caffeinated familiar?—but you did know one thing:

Your neighbor was a vampire.

And that burn was your smoking gun.

The plan was simple.

Invite him over. Offer pasta. Load said pasta with enough garlic to stun a horse. Smile innocently. Observe. Wait for spontaneous combustion, bat transformation, or dramatic gasping followed by a monologue about curses, betrayal, and forbidden cravings.

It was a flawless trap. A garlic-scented bear trap of domestic hospitality.

You set the table. You dimmed the lights to a level you assumed would make him comfortable. You even lit a candle—not romantic, just for ambience. Everything smelled like garlic. The sauce, the bread, the air. You yourself smelled like you had crawled out of a room full of garlic-scented incense.

When he knocked on your door at eight o'clock sharp, you opened it with your most casual expression.

"Bonsoir, mon ami," Rook greeted, bowing slightly, because of course he did. "The moonlight suits you so exquisitely tonight."

You smiled like someone who absolutely was not trying to expose their possibly immortal neighbor through the power of garlic. "Thanks. I guess."

He stepped inside, gave a pleased hum at your lighting choices, and then—froze.

His eyes, usually sparkling with strange poetic menace, locked onto the garlic bread.

You watched in silence as his entire body tensed ever so slightly, like the baguette had just challenged him to a duel. Slowly, reverently, he walked up to the plate and looked down at it like it had personally wronged him in a past life.

"A classic," he murmured. "So bold. So… persistent."

"It's garlic bread," you said flatly.

He gave a tight smile, like a man at war with his own immune system. "Indeed. It is… not to my taste. The scent tends to cling, comme un souvenir unwelcome. It is difficult to hunt the wind when one's coat reeks of crushed cloves."

You blinked. "You don't like garlic?"

"I find it… overwhelming." He sniffed delicately. "Like a song sung off-key, but shouted."

Oh. OH.

He hates garlic.

He fears garlic.

He is one garlic knot away from bursting into flames and ascending to the underworld.

You knew it.

You were a genius. Sherlock Holmes WISHES.

But then—

He sat down.

And without flinching—he ate the garlic bread.

The entire world went silent.

You watched, slack-jawed, as he took a bite, chewed like a man contemplating the duality of pain and pleasure, and swallowed without so much as a grimace. Then he sipped the wine he'd brought—red for the record—and turned to you with a serene expression.

"Your cooking is divine," he said. "The flavor lingers like a haunting melody."

You stared at him, heart racing, mind screaming.

HE ATE IT

HE. ATE. THE. GARLIC.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

Was he lying? Was he in pain but hiding it because his honor wouldn't allow him to show weakness in front of a mortal? Was he so ancient, so powerful, so unknowable, that garlic simply didn't affect him anymore? Had he built up a resistance? Were you dealing with some next-level Nosferatu Final Boss?

Or.

Oh no.

What if he's a half-vampire?

What if he was born of both worlds? Doomed to walk the line between the night and the garlic aisle? Too vampire to bask in the sun, too human to fully reject pasta?

You looked at his elegant profile, the way he sipped his drink, the slight wrinkle in his nose that said he still hated the garlic but was choosing not to comment on it. The duality. The mystery. The drama. The tragedy.

You were spiraling again.

You tried to speak, but what came out was, "So… you're definitely not allergic?"

He tilted his head, smiling. "Non. I simply dislike being followed by the scent of someone's kitchen for a week."

You nodded. Sure. Totally. Not suspicious at all. Definitely something a normal human person would say. The whole garlic-aversion-due-to-personal-aesthetic thing was definitely not code for "I will turn into mist if I touch raw cloves."

He took another bite of garlic bread and made a soft noise of appreciation.

You were absolutely losing it.

Because you had no idea if you were in the presence of a man… a monster… or a fashion-forward night creature of immeasurable strength who had conquered his natural aversions through sheer will and seasoning tolerance.

And you still weren't ruling out the bat thing.

You chewed your pasta slowly, cautiously. He was either about to compliment your sauce again or turn into a cloud of smoke and vanish into the air vent.

Frankly, at this point, you weren't sure which option was more terrifying.

You'd been holding it together for weeks. Weeks of tiptoeing around your extremely suspicious, extremely courteous neighbor who may or may not be a vampire, a demon, a historical reenactor, or some kind of poetry professor. You were normal about it. Chill. Totally fine. You only Googled "can vampires enroll in rent-controlled housing" once.

But today? Today broke you.

Because today, Rook complimented your socks.

"Exquisite pattern," he had said, eyes lingering on the tiny frogs doing ballet across your ankles. "Such expression upon so small a canvas. You are, as always, a delight of aesthetic paradoxes."

You blacked out for at least four seconds trying to interpret that.

And then, without waiting, he took your grocery bags. Both of them. Including the one you packed with canned goods like an idiot. Just carried them effortlessly up the stairs, whistling some baroque little tune under his breath like he wasn't actively enabling your spiral into conspiracy madness.

And so now here you are, pacing a cracked sidewalk outside the convenience store, holding an emergency slushy and waving your arms like you're about to summon lightning bolts. Ace and Deuce are sitting on a bench watching you with the exact expressions of two people who have absolutely heard this before and regret returning your texts.

"He complimented my socks," you repeat, wild-eyed. "Who even sees socks? Who notices frogs doing ballet unless they're training themselves to observe every detail of their next victim?"

Ace slurps obnoxiously from his ice cream cone. "Dunno, sounds like you just have a weird crush."

You point at him like you're about to smite him. "I will take that cone out of your hands and launch it into traffic. Try me."

He raises both hands. "Okay, okay, chill! Just saying. You're the one who keeps inviting him to pasta night and analyzing his cutlery use like it's a crime scene."

Deuce, bless his concerned little heart, tries to play diplomat. "Maybe he's just… a polite guy? Some people are like that. Maybe he was raised well."

You whirl on him. "No, Deuce. He's not just nice. That's vampire hospitality. They're known for being strangely polite before draining your life force."

"…Is that a thing?" Deuce asks, already regretting it.

"YES," you shout. "It's part of the psychological warfare. They lure you in with compliments and help carrying your bulk baked bean purchases, and then bam—next thing you know, you're waking up with two holes in your neck and an allergy to garlic."

Ace is now straight up cackling. "Oh my God. You think he's grooming you. For blood reasons."

"I'm not saying he's gonna drain me tomorrow," you mutter, offended but also a little flattered at the thought. "But I am saying I've been watched like a fine wine and I feel it. He called me a 'treasure of contradictions.' Who says that? No one normal. That's Dracula-core."

Ace, still wheezing, gestures with his cone. "You're insane. I love it. I'm not helping, but I'm definitely watching you go down in flames."

Deuce pats your shoulder gently. "I mean… if he tries anything weird, I'll beat him up?"

"That's sweet, Deuce. But he'll probably just evaporate into mist before you can land a punch."

At the end of the emergency meeting, which concludes with you scribbling "suspiciously aware of frog socks" under Rook's name in your increasingly unhinged spiral notebook, you realize something tragic.

You are no closer to solving the mystery.

Rook remains an enigma. A poetic, shadow-wearing, door-holding enigma.

He may be a vampire. He may just be French.

He may, horrifyingly, be both.

And so, you slurp your slushy. You stare into the distance. You prepare yourself for another sleepless night of Googling "can half-vampires enter your apartment without an invite if you leave the door cracked."

This was for research. Pure. Intellectual. Unbiased. Definitely not emotionally compromised in any way. You had a theory to prove and a public duty to fulfill. You were a lone academic on the brink of a supernatural breakthrough.

This had nothing—nothing—to do with the fact that Rook Hunt had the kind of smile that made your lungs forget how to function, or that he said things like "Ah, your laughter—it rings like wind chimes in spring rain," and then meant it.

You were a serious investigator. You were hunting the hunter.

That's why, when he asked if you'd accompany him to an "exhibition of twilight-themed oil paintings" this Friday, you agreed.

Not because he looked like he belonged in an oil painting.

Not because he bowed slightly when he said "It would be my honor."

But because, scientifically, museums are great places to see if a person casts a reflection in glass.

"Consider this a field study," you muttered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair for the fourth time. "Not a date. A field study."

The "not-dates" kept stacking up after that.

A sunset walk through the botanical gardens ("Ah, the dying light brings out the golden undertones of your soul," he said, and you nearly tripped into a decorative pond).

A late-night jazz café, where he sipped his wine and you absolutely did not spend the entire evening imagining what he'd look like with his hair down and a dagger in his teeth.

A poetry reading. Where the poet stopped mid-verse because Rook was clapping too emotionally.

He always paid. He always pulled your chair out. He always smelled like cedarwood and wind.

He called them dates.

You called it recon.

You brought a tiny hand mirror to dinner once. "Oh this? I just… use it for checking my eyeliner. And your reflection. No reason."

He didn't even blink. "Ah, how clever. But perhaps you'd see more clearly if you looked into my eyes instead?"

You choked on your breadstick.

Every time you tried to interrogate him—"So, what's your opinion on eternal life?" or "Ever wake up craving plasma?"—he'd laugh, then dodge the question with something outrageous like, "Only a fool seeks eternity when each moment with you is already infinite," and you'd have to physically reboot your brain like a crashed laptop.

You were flailing.

You kept trying to stay professional. Collected. Objective.

But it was hard when he looked at you like he was composing a sonnet in real time.

When he held your hand like you were made of porcelain.

When he picked a flower off a tree and tucked it behind your ear without asking and whispered, "Even the moon must envy you, mon chèr."

You were on high alert. Not because you liked him. No.

You were vampire watching.

That's why you kept a notebook titled "Behavioral Observations of Suspected Night Creature." Not because you were doodling little hearts around his name. That was for decoration. To, um, throw off suspicion.

And yes, you did Google "can you date a vampire if it's for science," and yes, you did find three different Reddit threads about people claiming their immortal lovers left bite marks shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

But that was research.

Totally. Entirely. Academic.

And if your heart skipped a little when he kissed the back of your hand and called you his "bravest flame in this dim world"—that was probably just heartburn.

You were on a mission.

You were not falling for him.

You were simply… emotionally compromised by how obscenely attractive his collarbones looked in candlelight.

It could happen to anyone.

Dinner had been amazing. Which was kind of the problem.

You weren't supposed to be this charmed. You were supposed to be investigating. Your whole deal—the entire point of this increasingly suspicious series of encounters—was that you were gathering evidence. You were the lone voice of reason in a world of garlic apologists. You were the slayer. You were—

"You have a beautiful way of smiling when you're trying not to laugh," Rook had said tonight, eyes soft, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked with your mouth half-full of food and trying to hide it behind your napkin.

And you had smiled wider. Like an idiot. Like a fool. Like someone who was no longer on the hunt but absolutely being hunted.

He had pulled out your chair. Tipped the waiter. Paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. Walked you home under the glow of warm street lamps and murmured poetry under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. He held your hand when you almost tripped on the curb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You let him. 

You had, in fact, squeezed his hand back.

What the hell was happening to you.

When you finally got back home and closed the door behind you, still glowing with post-date buzz and clutching the flower he'd picked out of someone's garden "because it matched your joy," you stood in your dark living room and had a single, terrifying realization.

You hadn't looked for a single vampire sign tonight.

You hadn't tried to check his reflection in the restaurant windows.

You hadn't counted how many times he blinked per minute.

You hadn't casually brought up crosses or holy water in conversation.

You hadn't even offered him garlic bread as a passive-aggressive test.

In fact—

Oh god.

You had leaned in. You had laughed. You had flirted back. You had let him compliment your soul's timbre and hadn't even made a joke about bloodlust once.

You had been on a normal date. Like a normal person. With a man you liked. Who may or may not have been literally undead.

You slowly sat down on your couch, holding the flower like it was damning evidence and also maybe your new favorite thing. You stared blankly at the wall for a full minute before whispering, with great horror:

"Oh no. I'm into it."

You, the world's most paranoid supernatural truther, had let your guard down. You weren't even wearing your emergency clove of garlic necklace. You had become everything you swore to destroy.

Worse—you hadn't even noticed.

And now you were spiraling.

Because he was so weird. And so poetic. And so suspiciously strong when lifting heavy objects with no visible strain. And he knew so many historical references and always seemed to know when the moon was full and probably didn't even own a full length mirror, and yet—

He made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

You buried your face in a pillow and screamed for three seconds.

Then you picked up your notebook of vampire observations, stared at it, and quietly flipped it closed.

For now.

Not forever. You were still reasonable. You were still observant.

But maybe… maybe you could let yourself enjoy this.

Maybe, just for tonight, you didn't need to know if he slept in a coffin.

Maybe he was a vampire.

Maybe he wasn't.

But tonight he kissed your knuckles like you were made of starlight and promised to write you a poem, and honestly?

That felt a lot more dangerous.

It started with a cough. A sniffle. A minor ache in your bones that you absolutely ignored, because you were a functioning adult with deadlines and a very real fear of your boss showing up in your nightmares wielding a spreadsheet.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. You could survive on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer force of spite.

By day three, you were half-delirious, wearing two mismatched socks, and attempting to microwave a cold compress while muttering "this'll fix it" like some kind of cursed wizard. You were not, in fact, fine.

And that was when Rook showed up at your door.

Unannounced.

With soup.

"You did not reply to my messages," he said, like that explained how he somehow knew you were dying. "I feared you had succumbed to some terrible affliction of the soul. Or perhaps a particularly villainous flu strain."

You tried to smile and failed. It came out looking like a grimace. "It's not that bad," you croaked, clutching the doorframe for stability like gravity had become an optional setting that you'd accidentally toggled off.

He gave you a look. One of those devastatingly fond ones. The kind that made your insides do cartwheels despite the fever.

"Mon pauvre cœur," he murmured, brushing hair off your forehead with all the delicacy of a man who absolutely did not know what personal space was, "even your aura looks congested."

You were too weak to argue. Too feverish to care. You let him in.

He floated around your apartment like a very helpful, very beautiful hallucination. He made tea. He changed your blanket. He hummed something suspiciously like an 18th century lullaby while rearranging your cluttered living room into a sickbed worthy of a fever-ridden noble, which you had definitely not asked for, but you were too busy dying and blushing to stop him.

And then he brought the soup.

It was… soup. Probably. You couldn't taste it. You could've been drinking warm mop water for all you knew. But he was feeding it to you with this maddening look of gentle amusement, like he was taking care of a wounded dove he'd found by a pond and had already named and written a sonnet about.

He knelt next to you on the couch, one hand holding the bowl, the other carefully tilting the spoon toward your mouth. His voice was low and tender.

"You must eat. Even if only to give your immune system the dramatic support it deserves."

And you—

You just looked at him.

Hair pulled back, those ridiculously green eyes crinkled with worry, coat sleeves rolled and he was feeding you soup and calling you mon cœur and—

Oh.

Oh no.

You were in love with him.

It hit you like a falling anvil. Right in the heart. The full Looney Tunes experience.

You were in love with Rook Hunt.

Weird, dramatic, possibly-a-vampire Rook Hunt.

Who once described your laugh as "a forest waking in spring."

Who carried around obscure herbal tinctures and had once given you a bouquet that included a flower used to curse kings in the 1400s.

And you did not care.

You were flushed from fever and feelings, you looked like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck, you hadn't washed your hair in a shameful number of days, and yet this man was looking at you like you were the embodiment of a love ballad—and for once, you believed it.

Garlic, sunlight, potential bat transformation—none of it mattered anymore.

You'd fallen. Hard. Unrecoverably. Irreparably. Ridiculously.

You swallowed the next spoonful of soup with the gravity of someone accepting their fate, and Rook smiled so warmly it was unfair.

"…Can I ask something?" you mumbled, voice a little hoarse.

"But of course," he said, setting the bowl down gently.

You looked into his eyes. "If I die from this fever… will you write me an epic poem and read it dramatically at my funeral?"

He blinked. And then laughed. Soft and breathless, it felt like sunlight through curtains.

"Mon amour," he said, like that was a thing you both had agreed on, "I would do so even if you were merely five minutes late to brunch."

You sighed. Leaned back. Let yourself fall fully into the pillows and into this moment. Feverish, exhausted, helplessly enamored.

Vampire or not.

You were doomed.

You woke up to warmth. You shifted under your blanket, eyes squinting against the morning light filtering through your curtains, and that was when you noticed it:

Rook was sitting beside you.

Still holding your hand.

You blinked at him, groggy and confused and still crusted in the aftermath of a full immune system breakdown, and the first thing your brain offered up was:

He was warm.

Which, scientifically speaking, meant he wasn't technically a full vampire.

You lay there, fever-free but still dumbstruck, staring at his hand in yours. He wasn't wearing gloves. His palm was pressed to yours like it belonged there, fingers curled so gently it was like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his hand was warm.

Your inner conspiracy theorist made a brief, tired attempt at logic:

"He's warm. That means he probably has a functioning circulatory system. Which means he probably doesn't sleep in a crypt or consume Type O-Negative on toast. Probably. Probably."

But the part of you that still had soup breath and eye gunk and emotions just went, Shut up. He stayed.

Because he did. He had stayed. All night. Sat by your couch with his coat thrown over the chair and a book he never got around to reading and a cup of tea that went cold. And he was still there now, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, watching you like you were more fascinating than the rise and fall of empires.

When he noticed you were awake, he smiled, slow and soft.

"Ah, bonjour, petit trésor," he murmured. "You look slightly less haunted. A triumph."

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a dying toad. "How long…?"

"All night," he said, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could not leave while you burned like that. It would be a crime against romance."

You tried to sit up.

Your body politely declined the request.

Rook tsked like a disapproving aunt and pressed you back down with one hand—still gentle, still infuriatingly poetic about everything.

Then he placed the back of his other hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

"Much improved," he said, beaming. "Your internal sun begins to rise again."

And in that exact moment, with his hand on your face and his eyes glowing like the sunset in a prose-heavy novella, you realized something extremely stupid.

If he leaned down right then, bared fangs, and whispered "May I bite thee, my precious bloom?"—you would have said yes.

You would have said yes so fast.

You would've thrown your neck back and exposed the vulnerable curve of your throat like you were in a Twilight reboot. You absolutely would have gone down in history as the idiot who looked at their maybe-vampire crush and thought, Take a nibble, king, I trust you.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there. Holding your gross, clammy hand and looking at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow, that was worse. That was so much worse.

You'd completely lost. He could be a vampire. He could be a wizard. He could be a really enthusiastic barista. You did not care.

Because last night, you had been miserable and messy and borderline incoherent, and he had stayed. He made soup. He hummed lullabies. He called you his heart's ember and meant it.

You were in love.

Utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.

And as Rook gently brushed your hair off your face and offered you a glass of water with all the reverence of a man presenting the Holy Grail, you decided you'd deal with the vampire thing later.

Preferably after he kissed you.

Or after you asked if he was free for dinner again next week.

You know.

For research.

You ended up taking another nap. 

You were floating somewhere between sleep and soup-induced delirium, the kind of half-conscious state where time didn't exist and the laws of physics didn't exist either. Vaguely, you were aware of warmth—sunlight, probably, or maybe just the lingering fever turning your body into a baked potato. But then movement caught your eye. A silhouette crossed your blurry vision, elegant, composed, and way too vertical for this hour.

Rook. He'd stayed again.

Then he did the unthinkable.

He walked to the window.

He reached for the curtain.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He said, casually, as if it were normal behavior, "You must receive a little sun, mon trésor. Even a flower must bloom."

You made a sound. It was supposed to be words. It came out more like a blender choking on gravel.

Because no.

NO.

You watched his fingers brush the curtain, and something in your barely-functioning brain screamed, "HE'S GOING TO COMBUST."

You didn't even think.

You launched.

With the coordination of a squirrel on Nyquil, you hurled yourself across the couch, staggered upright, and threw your full weight into him just as the sunlight began to stream in. "NO—YOU'LL BURN," you shouted, with the certainty of someone who'd done zero research but had watched two vampire movies once in high school.

The two of you hit the floor in a pile of limbs, your fevered body sprawled dramatically across his chest like you were shielding him from a grenade.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Rook blinked up at you.

Then—like you'd just told him the funniest knock-knock joke in history—he started laughing.

Loudly. Joyfully. Like a man who had just been tackled by his crush and decided it was the best day of his life.

You were still clinging to him like a paranoid marsupial, blinking in confusion. "What? Why are you—? You were in the sun!"

He wheezed. "You thought—mon dieu—you thought the sunlight would incinerate me?"

"Yes???" you said, still on top of him, still wildly unsure about the rules of nature. "You—midnight moving, blackout curtain buying, garlic bread dodging—you showed so many signs!"

He laughed harder. "Oh, mon trésor, I gave you those signs. You were so adorably suspicious."

You froze. "You what."

"I knew from the first moment you side-eyed my coat like it was made of coffin lining," he said, beaming. "You were so serious. So intense. So endearing. I could not help myself—I wanted to see how far you'd go."

You stared down at him, horrified. "You knew I thought you were a vampire and you played into it?!"

"Mais oui," he said cheerfully. "You were like a curious little owl—staring, theorizing, leaving garlic on your balcony. I was enchanted."

You felt your soul attempt to leave your body via cringe teleportation. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot raccoon caught with both hands in the garbage bag."

"You're delightful," he corrected. "And very creative."

You groaned and flopped forward until your face was smushed into the side of his neck, which, to your horror, was warm and pulse-having and distinctly not vampire in nature. You could feel your dignity dissolve molecule by molecule.

"So you're human," you muttered.

"Yes," he said, "Entirely human."

You made another noise of despair. It sounded like a dying fax machine. "I tackled you."

"You did. With great passion."

"I thought I was saving your life."

He tried very hard not to laugh again. "You were magnificent."

You sighed into his neck. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"It's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," he said brightly. "I got tackled by someone who cares. How very romantic."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"And yet," he said, cupping your cheek with a hand full of laughter, "I did stay all night with you. Even made you soup."

"…You did do that."

"And if I had been a vampire," he added,  "I assure you, you'd be one by now."

You groaned again. And then stayed where you were, because honestly? You were still kind of in love. Vampire or not.

Even if he was the most dramatic man you'd ever accidentally tackled.

You told them over milkshakes.

Because if you were going to admit to wildly misdiagnosing a man as a nocturnal bloodsucker and then also falling stupidly in love with him, it needed to be over something cold and full of sugar. Preferably in public, so they wouldn't scream.

Ace was halfway through slurping his chocolate shake like it owed him money when you said, in your best casual voice, "So… turns out Rook's not a vampire. He's just French."

Deuce blinked slowly. "What?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Like baguette and poetry and politely opens doors French. Not sleeps-in-a-coffin French."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ace let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to man, dragging his hands down his face like you personally had caused his suffering. "Oh my god, DUDE."

Deuce, meanwhile, turned to Ace and, with the unshakable calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment, said, "Pay up."

"What," You snapped, "you bet on this?!"

"Yeah," Deuce said, deadpan. "I bet you'd fall in love with him. Ace thought you'd just spiral into full conspiracy and get arrested trying to break into his basement."

You squinted. "Rook doesn't have a basement."

Ace gestured wildly. "AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND ONE."

You groaned and covered your face. "This is the worst."

"No," Ace said. "The worst was you texting us at two in the morning like 'what if he's half vampire and garlic only makes him stronger.'"

"I was being thorough!" you cried.

Deuce helpfully added, "You also asked if vampire sunscreen exists."

"I WAS SICK," you yelled. "ON MEDICATION. MY BRAIN WAS BARELY FUNCTIONING."

"And yet," Ace said, sipping his drink loudly, "you tackled him. You physically tackled a man because he tried to open a curtain."

You made a noise that could only be described as internal combustion.

"Oh," Deuce said suddenly, "by the way—I almost called an actual mold inspector? Like, to check your house? Because your vampire theory was so intense I thought you might be hallucinating from spores."

You gawked at him. "You thought I had mold poisoning and your solution was not telling me and just… calling a guy?!"

Deuce shrugged. "I was trying to help."

Ace pointed at your milkshake. "You don't deserve that."

You flipped him off.

"Anyway," you grumbled, "I love him."

Ace choked on his drink.

Deuce blinked. "Wait. You what?"

You sank lower in your chair, hands over your face. "I said I love him. Okay? Because he took care of me when I was dying and he's warm and nice and has cheekbones like a fantasy novel villain and I'd let him bite me even though I know now he has a working circulatory system."

They both stared.

Then Ace said, "You are so weird."

And Deuce, bless his heart, just patted your shoulder and said, "That's kind of romantic. In a fever-dream, garlic-bread, public-health-incident kind of way."

You sighed into your straw.

Ace, of course, was already texting someone. "I'm telling Rook he better marry you before you accuse him of being a merman next."

You scowled. "That was one time and he was very wet."

"You were following him around with a seashell, bro."

You groaned and started googling "how to fake your own death with dignity."

Somehow, they still paid for your milkshake.

Rook had taken you out to some quaint little garden bistro.

He'd spent the entire evening being charming in that completely effortless way he had—holding the door open like it was an art form, ordering in lilting French, complimenting your laugh like it was a rare wine, and absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.

And you—foolish, once-misguided, now-fully-delirious you—had melted for all of it.

You'd laughed, and blushed, and kicked his foot under the table like someone who hadn't once sincerely believed he was going to transform into a bat mid-conversation.

Now, you stood outside your apartment under the stars, the night cool and still. Rook faced you, hands behind his back like he was either about to recite a sonnet or present you with a rare bird. You were prepared for either. What you were not prepared for was what came next.

"Mon cœur," he said, gently, "would you allow me the honour of calling you my partner?"

Your brain static'd. Just—flatlined.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at him like he'd asked you to solve a riddle in a collapsing building. And then you did the only logical thing your brain could come up with.

You kissed him.

You kissed him like your life depended on it, like you'd never get another chance to make up for all the garlic bread and wild accusations and crime-scene-level suspicion. He made a quiet noise of surprise—pleased, delighted—and kissed you back, one hand moving to cradle your cheek like he was holding something deeply precious.

When he pulled away, he was smiling.

The smile was resplendent. The kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind of smile that had absolutely no business being that sweet or that bright or that heart-wrenchingly warm.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a vampire.

Because with that smile?

He drove a stake through your heart anyway.

You stood there, dizzy, in love, fully emotionally slain.

He tilted his head, as if waiting for you to say something, but all you could manage was a breathless, "Yeah. Yes. I'd—yeah."

"Ah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Alors, it is official."

He twirled you like a ballroom dancer in the middle of the sidewalk.

You let it happen.

Because honestly? Your first impression may have been unhinged. You may have staged an entire fake investigation and tackled him in broad daylight. But this?

This was it.

He was your person.

Not a vampire. Just tragically French. And unfortunately perfect.

Masterlist

[malleusmaleficent]

nah bro if i have a problem i'm making it everyone else's problem and i WILL be complaining bitterly about it, idc what it is

i have shame, of course, but my desire to be a spiteful hater is always greater than my shame

some problems are so humiliating the only solution is to solve them yourself and then continue to never talk about it

[pathologicalreid]

everything is gonna be alright | s.r.

in which Spencer comforts your seven year old when he feels like he's unable to live up to the expectations set for him

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (hurt/comfort) content warnings: dyslexia, boy dad!spencer, bearcia, bullying, feeling like the weight of the world is on your shoulders at only seven. word count: 1.96k a/n: listen i know i'm usually pushing the girl dad!spencer agenda but there's something about boy dad!spencer that i think would be so healing for him and i especially love jamie and his little teddy bear with matching glasses :-(

There was a heavy fog that had settled itself over the Reid household, Spencer could feel it in the air the moment he walked through the front door. Instead of being met by two running kids, excited to see their father after he was gone for two days, he found you in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. 

Your youngest was sat at the kitchen table, scrawling the answers to her math homework on a worksheet while music played softly in the background. It might’ve looked perfect to the average passerby, but something was missing from the image. Someone. 

“Hey,” he greeted you, leaving his go bag in the mudroom and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. 

Not looking up from the cutting board, you hummed in response, “Hey, baby.” Any other day, he might’ve assumed he’d done something wrong to cause you to be short with him, but this time he knew. It was what the day had done to you that had caused your sour mood, not caused by the actions of another person. 

Spencer squeezed your hip comfortingly, “How did it go?” He asked, your five minute phone call before the jet had taken off hadn’t left much time for details, just the Reader’s Digest version. 

This time, you set the knife down, laying your palms flat on the countertop and sighing, “Exactly the way we expected it to.” You were disappointed, despite the fact that you’d been given the answer you’d been expecting, you had dared to dream. A mistake, as it turned out. “He’s upstairs in his room. I couldn’t get him to come out for a snack after we got home, but I thought maybe he’d let you in.”

He nodded in understanding, “I’ll go check on him.” He offered, separating himself from you before making his way to the kitchen table, “Hi, Rosie.” 

Your three year old sighed despondently, “Hi, daddy.” Her voice was tired, as if spending the day at preschool had really taken it out of her. 

“What’s wrong, honey?” He asked, making a quick pit stop to crouch next to her, a small cushion beneath her so she could properly reach the tabletop. 

She pouted down at him, “Math.” 

Her disdain for the subject had become apparent in the weeks since the school year had started, while she seemed to enjoy every other subject that school had to offer, she and math were off to a bad start. Though, calling her homework math was a bit of a reach, all she needed to do was color in the correct number of fruits for each problem. Spencer certainly wasn’t going to be the one to point this out to her. “How about this? What if you finish up your work, and I’ll come back down and check your work before we put it back in your packpack?” 

Rosie beamed at his proper use of the word packpack, nodding excitedly at the offer of having her dad check her homework. She turned back to her worksheet, hesitating for a moment before asking, “Are you gonna see bubby?” 

Spencer nodded softly, “Yeah, I’m gonna go talk to him for a little bit.” 

“Mommy says bubby’s sad,” she told him mournfully. “Can you make him happy?” 

He frowned at the sensitivity of your youngest child, her wish to make everyone happy had a tendency to make him sad. It wasn’t the first time his heart ached at his inability to make the entire world happy, just to put a smile on his daughter’s face. “I’m certainly going to try my best,” Spencer answered, reassuring her that he’d do what he could to make her big brother smile. 

Ruffling her hair, Spencer stood up and walked away, making his way upstairs to James’ room. Unsure of what he was walking into, he paused before knocking on the door. It was silent for a moment, the soft scratching of paper could be heard on the other side before a small voice spoke, “Yeah?”

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open so Jamie could see who was home. “Hey, buddy,” Spencer whispered, his heart breaking at the red-rimmed eyes that stared back at him. 

“Hi,” Jamie said meekly, shoving something behind his pillows before fiddling with the colored pencil in his hand. “Is it dinnertime?” 

Spencer shook his head, walking inside and closing the door behind him, making sure no little siblings would accidentally wander into his room. “Not yet, I just got back though, and I wanted to see you before we had to sit down to eat.” He sat down on Jamie’s bed, leaning against the wall and peeking at the page he was drawing on, “What are we working on?” 

Silently, Jamie handed the paper over, letting his father look at his most recent project, “Scarabs,” Jamie answered, pointing to the one that was still being colored in. “Rosie thought they were scary, but I told her they were rainbow colors,” he explained patiently. “She wants a purple one to put in her cubby at school.” 

He looked around his son’s room, all along the walls were different drawings that he had done over the past few years. His sister’s room had one wall that was dedicated to drawings from her big brother, the fridge was almost solely occupied by his artwork, and each member of the BAU had a specially made drawing for them. Bugs had been his favorite lately, a common interest for seven year old boys, and when he wasn’t chasing his little sister around with pictures of spiders, Spencer found himself in complete adoration of his son’s talent. “Do you remember the word I told you to describe the rainbow scarabs?” 

“Iridescent,” Jamie answered, sounding out the word from memory and pointing to the sticky note that Spencer had made for him, now hanging over his bed in a place of honor. “I wanted to make this one yellow,” he said, pointing to a colorless beetle on his paper, “but the colored pencil is running out.” 

Spencer hummed thoughtfully at the sight of the yellow colored pencil, sharpened into an oblivion, nothing but a nub. “We’ll get you new ones this weekend,” he offered. “We can go to the art store near mommy’s work, and you can pick whichever ones you want.” 

Your son shook his head dismissively, “No, I can just use the crayons.” He pointed to his art supplies, separated by things he was allowed to use in his bed and things that were for deskwork only. Too many sets of sheets had been ruined before you had to put those rules in place. 

“We’ll get you the colored pencils,” Spencer repeated, worry flooding his chest, that Jamie was somehow punishing himself for things outside of his control. 

Jamie nodded, setting down his yellow-green colored pencil and shifting uncomfortably on his bed, “I’m sorry.” 

And there it was, the proverbial shoe that Spencer had been waiting to be dropped. Of course, Spencer already knew what had happened, and there was no reason to make your seven year old recount the events of the day. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Spencer assured him, ruffling his hair softly and silently willing the solemn expression on his son’s face to go away. 

His creative, gentle, caring, perfect son had been taken down by a test result, and it broke his heart that he couldn’t do anything to make it all go away. “Am I stupid?” 

“No,” Spencer answered immediately, nipping any use of the word stupid in reference to his son in the bud. He would never tolerate anything like it. Stupid, dumb, idiot - they’d all be banned words in this household if that was what James needed. “You’re not stupid,” he corrected him, “You have a learning disorder. Being dyslexic doesn’t mean you’re stupid. In fact, I never, ever want to hear you use that word again, okay?” 

Jamie nodded slowly, fully processing his father’s words. “Is that why I can’t read good?” 

He opened his arms for Jamie, letting him climb into his father’s lap like he had when he was much smaller, but Spencer’s arms would always be open for him. “Yeah,” Spencer admitted, “Do you remember when you told mommy and me that when you read sometimes the letters get all mixed up?” 

The seven year old nodded, “Yeah, and we had alphabet soup for dinner.” 

When you first decided to get Jamie tested for dyslexia, you’d sent Rosie to be doted on by the BAU ladies for an evening so you could talk to Jamie in private, and you’d given him alphabet soup because he said that was what his brain looked like. It had given you something to use when you explained dyslexia and that you wanted to get him tested. 

You’d gone in for the test last week, but this afternoon was when you went over the results with the educational psychologist. It had turned out exactly how you suspected, but no number of childcare books could’ve prepared Spencer for how awful it was that his son was being so hard on himself. “That’s all it is, Jamie. Your brain just works differently than other people’s. It doesn’t make you any less intelligent, okay?” 

Jamie didn’t look entirely convinced, “Roger told me that I was dumb when I couldn’t do my reading aloud in class.” 

Spencer’s chest ached, this wasn’t the first time he’d heard Roger’s name in relation to name-calling. He just hoped that was the extent of the bullying, making a mental note to call his teacher tomorrow. “Roger’s wrong, and I’d imagine he has no idea what he’s talking about. You’re not dumb, you’re lightyears from it, really,” Spencer promised him. “You just need a little help figuring out what works for your brain, and mommy and I are going to help you, okay?” 

Nervously, Jamie nodded, “Okay.” He smiled shyly up at Spencer, “You’ll help me read?” 

“Yes,” Spencer confirmed, hoping Jamie knew how much he intended on keeping this promise. “We can read together every night if you’d like. In person or over the phone - whatever you need, lovey.” 

Leaning his head against his father’s shoulder, Jamie sighed in relief, “Thank you.” 

He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Jamie’s head before asking, “What were you hiding in your pillows when I came in?” The question made him nervous, afraid of the answer and hoping it was something simple like a snack that he’d snuck from the pantry, which is why he was surprised when Jamie clambered off of his lap, producing a familiar stuffed animal that had been wedged between the pillows. 

The brown bear brought a warm feeling to Spencer’s heart, recognizing it immediately without seeing its face. “I don’t sleep with him every night,” Jamie insisted, feeling the need to defend himself. 

Spencer shook his head, “You can sleep with Bearcia all you need, bubby,” using Rosie’s nickname for her older brother. “And you don’t need to hide him beneath your pillows,” he mock scolded, “He won’t be able to breathe.” 

Jamie looked fondly at the bear, and Spencer wondered if he thought of the same memories as him when looking at the thick black frames, stitched on by his namesake, that so closely mirrored the frames of James’ own glasses. “Then maybe he can stay on my bed again,” Jamie concluded, holding the bear tightly in his arms, just like he did when he was three and the scariest thing out there was thunder and lightning. 

Smiling at the memory, Spencer reached out, gently pushing Jamie’s glasses up on his nose before repeating the motion for Bearcia. “I think that’s a brilliant idea,” Spencer agreed.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Enemies to Lovers or the "Give Us Nothing" Trope

This is a particular bane of romantasy, but it's been going on way longer than that in a lot of fiction. You know him, I know him, it's the "super hot bad guy to whom a redemption arc is a joke" trope. The irresistible evil dude. Pretty much one of the main options for a romantic lead these days. This trope is awful, rarely done well, and has been driving me crazy for ages. Let's talk about why!

Subgenres of this trope are The Liar ("I withheld critical information from you for 2/3rds of the plot yet you still want to fuck me") or the One-Dimensional Rogue ("I have the moral convictions of a flea but you'll still get with me over the good guy you've known your whole life"). All of these characters seem interesting on the surface, but there's a handful of factors that cripple them:

Being unwilling to give us a real motive. Why is the hot evil guy evil? What made him go down this road? What do they truly believe and why? If your character has less motivation than a Disney villain, you've got nothing to go on. Gaston has more depth than most of these bozos, and the point of Gaston is that he shallower than a dried puddle!

Being unwilling to actually write romance. These dudes is supposed to like the lead, yet they never really do. The key problem here is that once your mysterious hot lead starts to actually want to be with someone, he stops being so mysterious. Actual character development might expose some flaws or make the dude awkward, and we can't have that.

Not conflicted, not interesting. The bad guy doesn't have any emotional turmoil about what he's doing and why. Or maybe he feels a little bad about lying to the heroine, but goshdarnit, the sex is just so good. There may be trauma driving him, but it's mostly present in the form of a sexy scar or a sad background that'll never be plot relevant, so why bother?

The redemption is a joke. Being willing to do one good thing and then immediately dying isn't redemption. Demanding (or having the romantic lead demand) acceptance immediately after a heel-turn isn't either. Redemption is hard, there's often little room for it in Enemies-to-Lovers, and the story suffers because of it.

I'm not going to say this trope never works, because it absolutely can. This really can be an interesting dynamic if you put your heart into it. In fact, characters that these characters you can look at that do this right include:

Han Solo (aka the Scruffy Rogue, Star Wars)

Listen, Han Solo is always depicted as the ultimate rogue, but he's actually a loser. He was a shitty smuggler who was terrible at his job. His attempts to hit on Leia were laughable. He probably smelled like Wookie most of the time. Han does not start off as a cool, suave character. He thinks he is, and pretty much everyone sees through him.

But Han earns his way by turning back to help the people he barely knows. He uses his own connections to help the rebels, and when that backfires on him, his friends are invested enough to come save his ass because he already risked himself to save theirs. Han starts off a loser and becomes cool by throwing it in with the good guys, even when he'd rather run.

Han works because he lets go of the walls he's built up and allows himself to care and believe in his friends.

Zuko (aka the Actual Redeemed Bad Guy, Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Zuko's bad boy exterior is almost immediately shattered in ATLA. He throws temper tantrums at his uncle. He blows up constantly. Zuko only becomes cool when the narrative changes and we get to know why he is the way he is, but he's still a bad guy. We see him struggle with his anger, and we see him continue to make bad choices. We see his slow journey to something more.

And, most importantly, he almost immediately loses all his cool aura when he joins Team Avatar. He becomes awkward and stilted, because he has to truly humble himself and admit he was wrong. He's no longer the main character of the story, and he has to accept that. He never really regains that cool exterior, but he becomes a more confident, capable person because he's willing to do the right thing.

Zuko works because he's willing to face his trauma, admit his flaws, and work to correct the mistakes he's made.

Catra (aka the REAL Enemies to Lovers, 2018's She-Ra and the Princesses of Power)

All ya'll motherfuckers are sleeping on Catra. A villain who remains a villain for most of the series, Catra is fueled by both ambition and anger. She continues to make bad choices, even when she realizes she's wrong. She continues to hold Adora's defection to the good side against her, even when Catra knows she's not doing the right thing. She's manipulative and cruel, but absolutely genuine.

Catra's going to be the most controversial person I add to this list, but I think she's the most critical in the Enemies to Lovers done right. Her deep, personal connection to her love interest is the driving force in her decisions to remain on the bad side. Her conflicted emotions drive her to the brink, and only when she breaks does she realize she's in the wrong.

Catra works because we always know what her motivations are and why she makes the choices she makes, even when they're the wrong ones.

People not on this list are Draco (who never redeemed himself and that was the fucking point) or Kylo Ren (done in by bad writing). You can fix them in fanfiction and hell, that's what it's there for. But you can't really build off of them for your original work, because the building blocks are wrong. You've got to knuckle down and make your bad guy character have real flaws, face real consequences, and be able to humble themselves, or it's just not going to work.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Does Vlad know about Menace!Danny? Like, has the things that happened in the DP show happen here or did Danny's parents sell him to the lab before all of that? I'm so curious on how Vlad would act in this universe.

Vlad knows about Danny, and after finding out the little badger resurfaces as Brucie Wayne's ward, he attempts to get the kid back with some overshadowing. He planned on using Bruce as a meat suit to sign his guardianship over to Vlad.

Unfortunately for him, Bruce Wayne suddenly became really interested in the supernatural (perhaps as a means to connect with his adopted son?). With plenty of money to spare, he started buying up anything remotely related to the paranormal as decor.

A random teen making evil spirit repellent charms on Etsy? Bruce gets one for every window in the manner.

A fortune teller who operates by phone calls only? Bruce has them send over star chars that are so inexpensive he may as well have made them himself from the $1 store.

A woman who claims she can see dead people by reading tea leaves? He calls her to ask for recommended teas to drink. Bruce, Alfred, and Danny now have weekly tea parties.

False artifacts are sold by the thousands to him, supposedly warding off bad luck, but they do nothing at all. It's featured in the left garden, because it's almost as tall as him and it's made entirely of stone. It actually looks quite lovely, Vlad will admit, since it's in the shape of an old goddess pouring water, even if it was just a scam that Bruce was a victim of.

It's just Vlad's luck that, among the many hoaxes that Bruce fell for, he somehow managed to acquire some things that actually work in keeping him out. Some sage from Native Americans makes it impossible for him to send evil luck ghosts, such as Johnny or the vultures. A few talismans from Japanese shamans create a barrier around the manor and on the Wayne members (Bruce wears it around his wrist like it's a fashion accessory).

Around the wall of the manor, far away from Danny but covering the Wayne properly, blood blossoms have been planted, making it hard for Vlad to pass through.

Basically, Bruce unknowingly made his manor a fortress against ghosts, so Vlad decides he has to catch Danny when he's running around as Phantom, only to get jumped by the Justice League Dark and Batman himself.

Vlad Masters is arrested and sentenced to fifty years by the Court of Observants for breaking the laws of the Infinite Realms. He was turned in by a trench coat-wearing warlock who is more than happy to ensure Vlad's cell and prison are Half-Proof.

Vlad is not a problem by the time Tim is around, as Robin, but everyone knows of him since he keeps trying to bother Danny.

[bugzzybabe]

Social Media [Steve Rogers x Reader]

Summary: Reader teaches Steve how to use social media and he sees her more provocative pictures.

Authors Note: This was written with the intention of a second part so let me know by the end if that sounds appealing. Enjoy!

WC: 1.2k

Steve might have been over a hundred years old but he did his best to keep up with the times. Over the past two years of being with the Avengers, Steve and you had fallen into routine of you casually keeping him up to date with societal standards and routines. Whether it was explaining to him hookup culture or ubers, he was always attentive during your lessons.

You hadn't recognized it, but the past few months, Steve had been taking extra care to impress you. Listening and being there for you was something he took extra pride in as he wanted you to know that he cared.

Little did he know, you had also grown quite fond off the talks you would share. The way his shoulder would brush yours would send shocks down your spine as you tried to ignore any type of non platonic feelings. You truly believed he could never feel that way about you, so you did your best to maintain the friendship.

It was especially hard to keep this act up though when he was staring at you with those bright blue eyes that peered straight into your thumping heart, as he was doing now.

"Please teach me how to use the online medias. Tony won't stop posting pictures of my butt and posting them on the bird app calling it 'America's Ass'." Steve shuttered as he recounted the memes the team would make of him when he wasn't looking. Tony did have a secret spam that he would use to often make fun of the team in a loving way. Everyone assumed it was Peter's doing until you walked in one day on Tony snickering while posting a photo of Clint having fallen asleep in one of the vents.

Looking back at the tall and brutally handsome man in front of you, you sighed and patted the seat on the couch next to you. Steve gave you that faint worthy smile as he politely sat within arms reach of you. The body heat he gave off made you want to melt but you brushed it off and gestured for his phone.

"Oh right!" He fumbled as he patted his pockets down for the phone under Stark Technologies. Steve was one of the only people who denied all the updates Tony would provide for all the team's tech. You always felt bad as using technology for Steve was hard enough without all the constant updates of flashy nonsense.

"So first I'm going to go to the app store and download some of the more common social media apps like Twitter and Instagram." You gently explained as Steve watched you maneuver throughout his phone. He was always left in awe of how natural it all came to you.

"And I don't have to pay for it?" He questioned as you shook your head.

"Nope! Some apps cost money but most don't. Either way, Tony probably would cover it no problem." You stated as the apps downloaded.

Once they were loaded, you opened Instagram and began to sign Steve up. Since there was already an account for Captain America, run by the team's press, there was no need to create a professional one.

"Now I'm gonna make you an account just for your personal use, not to promote any avengers things. Just for Steve!" He nodded along as you rambled, just in awe of you. Honestly you could say anything and he would probably go along with it.

"You can use this account to post or not post whatever. Some people use it for aesthetic pictures they take, photos of friends and family or just selfies of themselves."

"What do you post?" Steve asked as your rambling was cut short. You should've expected this question but you never thought your crush/friend/coworker would ever see your feed (seeing as Steve is clueless when it comes to the internet).

You blushed and stammered to answer, "Well I post pictures of my friends, food I really liked or photos that I look good in I guess..." You mumble the last part and internally beg he wouldn't request to see it. The reason for this being that you had a couple bikini pictures up that usually weren't a problem or shameful secret, but you just didn't want Steve seeing them.

"Can I follow you?" Steve asks with a soft look in his eyes. Your heart fluttered as you pretended to be chill and shrugged looking back at his phone. You proceeded to look up your account and followed it before quickly exiting before he had a chance to see anything.

Steve smiled at you before continuing the conversation, "Thank you for helping me with all this. I didn't want to ask the others and have them make fun of me." He shyly stated as you looked at the man with wide eyes. You didn't realize how comfortable he felt around you until you realized you were the person he came to for help with all of this.

"Oh Steve, it's no problem at all! Plus you're such a fast learner that it's no big deal." Plus you loved being around him so that made it easy. You weren't gonna tell him that last part though...

After another hour of explaining how social media worked, Steve gave you another genuine smile and excused himself to go finish up a last minute report. The second he left the room you let out an exhausted sigh and sunk back into the couch.

Everytime Steve was around you, you got so in your own head that he basically consumed your mind. Little did you know you had the same effect on Steve. The second he stepped into his office, he let out a sigh he didn't realize he was holding. The only real reason he wanted to get on social media was to see all the photos you always seemed to be posting. He saw one of your photos on Natashas phone the other day when she left it out and had never felt so compelled to steal something before.

Within the privacy of his office, Steve finally brought his phone back out and opened Instagram. Going to his following page like you taught him, he opened your account and almost passed out. Right there on your third latest post was a picture of you and Wanda from a hike you had gone on a couple days prior.

Looking at the blissful smile on your face, Steve felt himself falling even harder for you. He continued to scroll through your account until he landed on one of your posts from a couple months ago. You had gone with the girls on a beach trip (funded by Tony) and had a mini photoshoot at the beach. Steve's face flushed bright red as he tried not to look too hard at the photo. He couldn't help but admire the red one piece you were wearing and how it hugged each of your curves in a way that left his mouth watering.

Fumbling to exit out of the photo before he continued to think the lewd thoughts forming in his mind, Steve accidentally hit the like button. Actively trying to not mess up further, Steve threw his phone across the room, hoping it would turn off. Digging his nails into the desk, he took deep breaths as to try and erase the image of you looking so breathtakingly stunning in his mind.

Hesitantly going to pick back up his phone, Steve noticed a new message from you. He quickly opened it up to find a text that made his breath catch, "Come meet me in my room in 10". Holy shit. 

Authors Note: Comment if you want a part 2 with smut ;)

[bernardsbendystraws]

a brutally honest post from me to you.

to preface, I know this is a corner of social media where we fangirl and write fanfiction. i'm aware that these issues are not as severe as irl problems, but just because it's not that serious doesn't mean that a stress/frustration/sadness just goes away.

so yeah, i do know that these aren't the biggest issues that people are gonna face in life, but it's some i wanna talk about. if you don't wanna hear it, scroll. this is a judgement free space and i'll block anyone who disturbs that.

[ posts not doing well hurts. ]

when you're brand new, it kinda sucks. getting traction is hard. people like familiar names with familiar writing styles and layouts. they know what they're getting into.

its not because you're writing sucks, it's because you're different. maybe you have some weak points, but everyone has those at some point. so no, it's not you or your skills, it's because you're new and people like gravitate towards familiar things.

when you're not new, it can really suck. now you know you can get the readers, but sometimes that's almost worse. you'll feel like there's more pressure, that you'll never be able to top xyz. and it really hurts, especially if you make something that you're so proud of and it doesn't get as much traction as you hoped it would.

its not because it's bad. there's so many factors. sometimes it's because one of the triplets posted, maybe just an active period on tumblr where the algorithm is really in your favor, or maybe it was because the readers were sharing your work behind the scenes because they loved it so much.

it varies and it sucks. there's pressure to 'do better' but then you feel kinda stuck. you can't always do better, but you can always do your best.

either way, it's not truly your fault. there's so many factors that contribute to how well a post performs. your efforts are still something you should be proud of regardless.

[ friends ]

this is something i've really struggled with. it's really difficult. social ques are not my strong suit, I take things as they are presented to me. every friendship is different and not all of them are created equal.

some people want to be friends for interaction as a transaction. some people want to be your friend to make it seem like they have a place on sturniolo tumblr publicly. some people want to be friends to be your friend. there's a difference.

doesn't matter who you are, how many followers, or how many fics you have. not all intentions are genuine, even if they aren't necessarily bad.

[ drama ]

i've been in drama and i've also watched it. i've tried hard to avoid it but sometimes it is necessary to call out. when i was a smaller blog there were a lot of big blogs people loved that were straight up mean.

i can say confidently that i've never been mean to someone right off the bat for no other reason than thinking i was better than them. that has and will never happen because i know exactly what it feels like.

talk to a person in private first. i don't care what it is. ask them questions and have them give you direct answers. if it is something deeply concerning like a predator, that is an instance where it is important to speak up since it directly effects people on here.

it broke my heart when the juno / bri situation happened and i had dozens of minors dming me saying something happened but they were too scared to speak up.

i really hope that never happens again, but if it does, people need to feel safe enough to go to an adult on here. i'm happy i was that person for a lot of people because i needed a person like that when i was a kid.

put mdni on all you want, but please don't isolate minors when they are wanting to feel included. that's puts them at an even more vulnerable position and people know that. draw boundaries but keep all of this in mind.

i can and always will admit when i'm wrong even if i'm still hurt by the other person. apologizing isn't something that says 'oh this person is wrong, that person is right,' it's something that is required for basic human decency and respect. if i hurt someone, i want them to at least have the closure of having an apology.

i can't take back the actions or words, but i can validate their feelings and that's really important since we're all human and have feelings.

agree to disagree if you need to at the end of the day, but leave people alone. exposing people for things that aren't necessary is never gonna make you feel better.

interacting and creating genuine friendships will you give a lot more peace and joy then hate and conflict ever will.

point is, treat others how you want to be treated. we're all humans with feelings and coming here for an escape to fangirl and write. do things to make the community better. do things to make yourself happy and proud in the long term.

i appretiate anyone who has stayed to read this, truly. i don't know how much of a difference it will make but i don't care. i said what i said and i meant it. if this helps one person, that already makes it worth it in my eyes.

i love being apart of this community and i hope we can build it to something we're all proud of and wanting to be apart of at the end of the day.

with love and big tits, rose 🫶🏻

[seasasyan]

Hello here is my two cents worth of suggestion!!

Any char because i love the boys and i'm not picky x reader/yuu who isn't afraid to publicly smother them in love

It doesn't even have to be romantic it can just be reader like wrapping their arms around the boy from behind and cooing about how cute/handsome he is, how what he just did was super cool or how he got stronger since the start of the year (for Epel or Deuce for example since I think they might appreciate it)

Idk I just want to give to their emotionally constipated ass a big smooch on the forehead/cheek (i don't think i'd reach mal-mal's forehead...), a head pat and one big hug while cooing at them, idc if he's 16 or 700 yo

That's it!! Thank you for coming to my ted talk

this idea is so cutesy

── ace trappola

he eats up every compliment or praise you give him like his ego gets boosted so much he'd be like "haha yea babe i know...what else though??" he's such a dork but it's okay cause he's cute

don't let that facade fool you cause he's internally screaming and blushing, he'll actually think about everything you say all day with a dumb smile on his face

overall i think he'd be fine with public pda and would also start to do it with you too to tease you, but he really wants you to know he's as equally proud as you are of him

── malleus draconia

if you try to hug him or simply hold hands with malleus do not expect him to let go any time soon, he will be stuck to your hip every second of the day with a smile plastered on his face

and if you try to praise him? he WILL get back to you ten times sappier, he knows his way with words and he doesn't hold back when it comes you

overall he's completely smitten with you and he'll proudly show off every touch or sweet word you'll offer him in front of everyone

── azul ashengrotto

praising azul in public is like directly killing him, he can't take a compliment by you withouth having his face bursting red in a second

the way you lean onto him makes his legs weak but he can't show it, he has to keep his businessman posture on at all costs, he calls you a tease but you both know he's loving it

he doesn't have a problem with light pda in public but he prefers sharing his love to you in private where he doesn't have to hold back

do not let me choose the characters coz it literally took me an hour to pick just 3 🥹

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Plant dad’s Stucky

I know random but I just thought about them having a lot of plants and also giving them names. But their missions make it hard to take care of them 24/7 so they hire someone..

Just popped to my head and I thought I had to share this with you, because Idk who else to tell.

Like a Good Neighbour

Hopefully it's not too much. Here's a little idea that popped up. Thanks for the thot.

Warning: general creep factor, obsession, allusions to stalking.

"Hey, you think you can keep an eye on the place again. The monstera's finally looking good again." Steve leans in your door frame. arms crossed as they strain the sleeves of his cotton tee. He's got a leather duffel on his shoulder and his shield on his back.

"Does Captain America not have everything figured out? You're out there saving the world and I gotta save your English Ivy from rot." You scoff.

"I left Bucky instructions but... he forgets."

"Right. I guess I can look in. He's around?"

"In and out. It's been a lot of back and forth for both of us lately." He sighs.

"That's too bad."

"Oh, and Alpine's been eating the philodendron... Jerk."

You chuckle. "Cat's are so cute, aren't they?"

He shakes his head. "Still got that copy of the key?"

"Did I not give that back? Gee, I hope you don't think I'm a creep or something." You kid.

"Hey, no problem. Think me and the other old man can take care of ourselves," he straightens his arms and grins. "If a little trail mix goes missing or even some of the candy bars he keeps under the sink that he thinks I don't know about, won't be too much. Oh, and I'll even pay you."

"It's nothing, really."

"It more than that to me," he insists. "Anyway," he taps on the door. "Should head out. Usually I'm on everyone else for being late."

"Alright, Steve. I'll let you know if anything catastrophic happens. Like maybe the leaves start growing eyes."

"Right. Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"Like I said," you go back to fiddling with the broken zipper on the cushion. "It's no problem."

🪴

You knock on the door. You haven't seen either of your neighbours in a few days. You wait and try again. You don't mind the favour asked but can't help but feel intrusive.

When no answer comes, you shove the keys in the lock and let yourself in. You flip on the light as the keys jingle noisily. Steve and Bucky's apartment has a particular feel; weather wood and black iron. Very vintage.

A shelf frames one of the large windows, filled with overflowing pots of vine and leaf and a few petals. The smell of the foliage blends with the faint scent of cedar. You cross the apartment as you shove your keyring in your back pocket. You touch the soil; dry. The sun is streaming right in on the greenery.

You re-arrange a few pots. Some should be in direct light and these ones need a little recovery. You take the watering can from beside the shelf and turn. You gasp but don't shriek as you're met with an unexpected presence. Phew. It's just the cat.

The snow white cat stares. You watch he warily as you cross the apartment. Her eyes follow but not her. You go into the kitchen to feel the can.

As you carry it back out, a door opens and your voice finally tears free and breaks the lull. You touch your chest as you slosh water onto the hardwood. 

Bucky stands in the bathroom door, covered only from the waist down. A towel hangs precariously around his hips. His stomach is thick but muscled, his arms sculpted in the same layers of strength. You focus on his face.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Steve asked me--"

"He told me he didn't trust me. Wasn't me who killed the orchid." Bucky intones dully.

You nod. "Uh, right, I'm just going to water them and I'll be out of your hair."

"Mm," he hums. 

The white cat circles his ankles and he bends to pick her up. You look away, not wanting to see too much. You go to the shelf and pour the water over each pot.

"You got a mop or something? I'll clean up the spill before--" You reach up and stand on your toes, straining to get the higher row.

Bucky takes the can from you and you gulp back your surprise. He's close as he continues the task across the top. He hands it back quietly.

"I'll deal with it. Thanks."

"No problem. Um. I guess I probably don't need to come back, right? Since you're around."

"Leaving. Tonight." He says. The cat flops and bats at his foot. He looks down. "Can you feed her when I'm gone?"

You shrug. "Well, sure. I'm already feeding the plants."

"Thanks," he says. "She chews on any more of those and he'll sleep on the couch again."

You chuckle. "Plants can be fickle. Cat's too."

"Men too," he snorts and turns away. "Nice of you to do that but I'm still going to have to keep sneaking in new ones."

You narrow your eyes as he disappears down the hall. You almost laugh again. Of course he'd be sneaking in replacements. You're pretty sure the spider plant was in a different planter last time.

🪴

Your visits become daily. The cat is needier than the plants. She still avoids you, keeping the room's breadth away from you. She watches you, chaperones you even, as you check the plants. They look better.

You back up to take a photo for Steve. You send it and tuck your phone away. You go to the kitchen and grab one of the little trays of cat food Bucky left on the counter. She gets the fancy stuff.

"Filet mignon, oooh." You say as you scrape the food into her dish. "You eat better than me."

You carry the bowl to the little holder and put it beside the water dish. She's quick to shove her head into the pate.

You stand and back up. Your foot hits something on the floor as you do. It's small. You squat to scoop it up. You lift the charm and hold it up. You recognise it. Huh?

The last time you wore this, you thought you lost it on the train. How did it get here? You're happy to see it but you're confused. Or maybe you just didn't notice the empty chain until later.

You put it in your front pocket and look around. Wait a minute. You never paid that much attention when you came to their apartment. Always just in and out. But that's your mug. With the Ojibwe art. It's hand-crafted and one of a kind. You thought it got lost in the move. That was so long ago.

You bristle. What the heck? Are they some sort of kleptos? The necklace could be a happy accident, but the cup?

You slowly trawl through to the front room. You look around cautiously. You pace through the front room. That's your copy of The Stand. You know because the strip of tape across the spine.

This is wild. They knew you were going to be here. Could they be that clueless or that brazen?

You leave the book and charge around, fueled by shock and anger. In the bathroom, there's a tray on the shelf beneath the mirror. On it is your old toothbrush you threw out and a ball of hair. Your hair. What in the fuck?

There's a clear container right above the toilet. No fucking way. Ew, ew, ew. Your panties and menstrual pads. Used. You nearly gag.

Your outrage turns to disgust then piques to horror. You need to get out of there. Now.

You turn and find the doorway blocked. You blink at Steve as he chews his lip, the tendons in his neck tensing. His mouth curves weakly and his brows wrinkle.

"You were supposed to water the plants." He says.

You stare at each other as the statement hangs in the air. It's shadowed by what he doesn't say; about what you weren't supposed to do; or supposed to notice. You both know there's only one way out and who will win that fight.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

I bring a sort of "flawed female characters can be fun and enjoyable blorbos - both flawed in terms of having character flaws and in terms of having occasionally flawed writing" that it appears many, many, many people do not like

[justbagworm]

The best community I have ever found for exercise is rock climbers. (Here we go, I'm getting on my climbing high horse again lol)

In general, the community I found at my local rock gym is full of the BEST people. Once, when my area got hit by a hurricane, all the climbers who lived in the area got together the day after the roads opened again and had a hang-out in the gym. A couple people brought snacks, and everyone just vibed in that post-'yeah a huge storm just wrecked like 30% of our trees and a bunch of roofing shingles'-traumatic-event way. (I say traumatic event loosely, but my rant about the perceived danger of low-category hurricanes in prepared communities is for another time.)

ANYWAY, I really love rock climbing, and how welcoming my community is just goes to emphasize the above point! It might be a different thing for you, but the problem with exercise isn't exercise, the problem is the people who tie it to disordered body image ideals.

Tldr: idk man, throwing myself up a 15' section of wall unassisted every week or so in the company of Chill Peeps just makes my brain happy or somethin'.

more people would exercise if this culture didn't make it absolute hell

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 6

Danny hates it here. There's pollution from almost everything that creates pollution blocking out the sky at all times, the buildings that aren't condemned are only feeding the rich while stealing from the poor, an entire twenty-four block are has been given up on by mostly everyone, the local vigilantes won't kill the recurring problems like the cockroaches they are, and it's so overly gloomy that you'd think no one could ever be happy here.

He's said it all before, and he will plant his unmarked grave on this hill.

The words Jason had used to describe the burger place he'd (he asked his pronouns on the way into town via car stolen from Bruce Wayne) taken him to was exactly how he described it. The building was straight outta the early 80's, heath code violations and all, the parking lot gave off Denny's vibes, and the uniforms were literally Halloween costumes.

Also, 'Bat Burger'? What a stupid name.

"Don't diss the Bat Burger," Jason scolded out of nowhere, "It's the best worst burger in the country."

"How the hell did you know what I was thinking?" Danny demanded.

"It's a Gothamite thing."

Danny looked at his food. "Uh huh." There must be something in the food.

"C'mon, kid," Jason pushed the newly arrived tray of two Bat Burgers with Jokerized fries and large drinks, "Eat up!"

Danny looked down at the food that'd been pushed to him. It didn't look like it'd been tampered with, but it rarely does. Well, other than the fries. The salt on those things were purple and green, making look like they'd covered the potato strips in ugly glitter.

Jason grabbed one of the fries from Danny's box, ripping off a piece of lettuce from his burger, too, and ate them quickly. "It's not gonna hurt you, kid. Eat up."

He was still skeptical, but he can appreciate him showing him the food's okay. He picked up the burger and took a bite.

It tasted somehow both worse and better than a McDonald's cheese burger with nothing on it.

"How the hell did they manage that?" Jason laughed at him. "I'm serious! How have they managed to make it taste like that!"

It took a few minutes before Jason's laughter died down. When he finally calmed himself, whipping a tear from his eye, he motioned to the fries. "You gotta try those next."

Danny glared at him as he picked up and ate one of the fries. After a moment he said, "That is one of the best fries I've ever had, and I've had Nasty Burger food."

Chuckling, Jason asked, "What kind of name is 'Nasty Burger'?"

"It's only the best burger place in the whole Midwest!"

"The name says otherwise,"

Danny shrugged, eating a few more fries. "It used to be called 'Tasty Burger', but someone painted over the 'T' and no one though to fix it, so,"

Jason picked up his burger. "That's fair."

They finished their lunch with sporadic conversation shared between them. Comparing burger places, joking about their lives after dying, even throwing in mentions of what powers they did or didn't gain after coming back.

"Anger issues?" Danny scoffed, "Loser."

"Watch it, ghost boy," Jason smirked, "I got some magic swords, too."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "So? I have the icy winds of the underworld at my disposal."

"That isn't just normal ice?"

"Nope. Normal ice can melt and be melted by an outside source. My ice instills the fear of death in people as it slowly creeps up on them, freezing them to death from the inside out."

The building grew cold suddenly, making both Danny's and Jason's breath visible. Ice crept up the window panes, frosting them over and blocking their sight.

"Neat trick," Jason whistled, sitting up straighter. "Please tell me this is your doing."

Danny shook his head. "My ice has green in it. Like mint."

They both tried to stand, spurred into action. However, they found themselves frozen to their seats. Everyone else in the building having been frozen completely, though Danny could tell they were all still alive. For however long, he wasn't entirely sure. Optimistically, they had ninety minutes. But something told Danny they'd have barely twenty.

"What an interesting power you have," Mr. Freeze said was he walked from behind the counter. The Riddler was with him. "Mind if I borrow it for a while?"

Danny looked at Jason, panicking a bit. How could he have let his guard down?! Then, without feeling the cold that could never compare to the temperatures of the Far Frozen at it's warmest, his world went blue.

Part 8

[ineffablecabbage]

"Maddie says Buck hasn't left his apartment in a week."

Well, Bobby. He doesnt' fucking work there anymore, because he quit, so it's none of your business, actually.

Secondly, does anyone on this show understand how trauma works? For first responders they are pretty shit at it! The man was crushed by a truck, had a major surgery, got dumped, puked up blood, had three major blood clots, and just got told that he couldn't have his dream job.

Sitting in your apartment ... is not the worst way to handle that trauma.

LIke, yes, it is a sign of depression. BUT GUESS WHAT. HE PROBABLY FUCKING HAS IT. Forcing him to get out of his apartment or mocking him for it is not going to magically make it go away. Goddamn.

And first y'all were bitching because was pushing him self too hard. Now he's not pushing himself hard enough?

Y'all need slapped.

Okay, so the rest of my reactions are behind here. Because... It was long, and also because uh. I got a little furious.

I am furious. At everyone not named Evan Buckley or Athena or Christopher or Hen. Everyone else can go fuck themselves for real and I"m not even to the goddamn lawsuit.

Buck should have quit for real and fucked off and changed the locks.

And Eddie needed punched no less than five times.

I WONDER WHY.

WHEN SOMEONE WANTED TO FORCE YOU TO STAY ON LIGHT DUTY YOU MOVED THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT ?

Or you know what? Fuck you too, Eddie.

Maybe it's trauma. "He'll get over it." What a weird thing for a vet to say about someone who has had their job forcibly taken from them by a life altering injury. lmao.

You need smacked, too.

GODDAMN I hate everyone already and we aren't even to the fucking lawsuit properly.

I hope Hen doesn't piss me off.

"I like to give Buck crap as much as any of you. But this was a body blow, you guys. Guy's allowed some time to mourn."

THANK YOU FOR BEING THE ONLY SANE PERSON LEFT.

oh, GET FUCKED, Chimney. Maybe he should have thrown a tantrum and endangered other people's lives on the freeway until a piece of rebar got buried in his skull.

And a week is not that fucking long, you dumb ass.

I feel pretty confident that Buck would literally never say that to you.

And you need punched, not slapped.

Hope someone says that to you when your kid fucks off to Texas to live with your shitty parents, asshole.

God.

"Whenever stuff didn't work out for me, my dad always told me to brush it off."

Eddie, this isn't just stuff not working out. This is literally his livelihood, you fucking dumbass.

Also what works for one person doesn't work for everyone.

And make go look up toxic masculinity.

HE WAS WRONG.

GOD.

Welp. I enjoyed liking you for one fucking season I guess.

Goddamn, I hate you. There are bad sisters, and then there's you.

You were, again, a fucking nurse. WHAT IS TRAUMA? Do we know?

I mean. I understand that you seem to think that a dick is the answer to all of life's problems, but Buck's not going to discover he likes those for a few more seasons, so he can't take a page out of your book, sweetie.

God, I hate you.

THAT'S NOT HOW DEPRESSION WORKS, YOU STUPID WOMAN.

WHY DON'T YOU KNOW THAT.

Also!!!! you were just bitching about how he was pushing himself too hard.

IT'S ONLY BEEN A FUCKING WEEK.

GOD.

Welp! Good news. You're a shitty sister, so nobody cares.

But you're bested by Eddie telling his supposed best friend to "stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Goddamn. I hate everyone in this episode except Hen and Athena and Buck. Everyone else I would like to stab..

Nah.

Fuck off.

Bringing your kid and making someone who is depressed deal with that without warning is a shitty thing to do. It's not cute. It's not being a good friend.

Fuck, it's not even being a good parent.

This was unfair to Buck and it was unfair to Christopher, and it was fucking shitty of Eddie to do.

Well.

Fuck you.

Yeah.

I'm no longer neutral.

I am never, ever going to ship this. I don't care how much he cries later. He's a dick.

And Eddie can go fuck himself.

Gosh Sure would be too bad if Eddie's son fucking died. Hope he wouldn't feel sorry for himself about it.

Asshole.

[solarbiomechanist]

that very same phone could have a free painting app on it, you could be writing poetry or fanfic or whatever the hell you want rather than... declaring that you don't have the money to enjoy life as though the person telling you you could get more out of life is attacking you personally.

That's deeply bored and stressed ape behavior right there, to give center stage to the fact that us humans are animals like any other, at the end of the day, with needs and limits like every other animal has. The same amount of time spent writing that and being focused on being angry could have been spent cloud watching and it would have been better for that person in terms of giving them time where they are not being overloaded with sensations from the outside and have time to actually think inside their own head.

I get wordy after the cut, also

CW; food insecurity, general mentions of abuse recovery, general mentions of shit life conditions. All of it is from a perspective that is post-everything, and with the intention of describing what helped rather than dwelling in doom or decompressing emotionally.

A lot of us could benefit massively from making ourselves sit in relative quiet and watch the world go by, actually. It doesn't feel good, at first. The internal pressure to seek out a distraction was immense, it felt like I just *couldn't* sit still without looking at my phone for five minutes, let alone fifteen, but eventually that empty space started to be filled in by awareness of my own thoughts and feelings, in clear lines from end to end, rather than as the threads I was constantly tangled in and tripping over. There was space to stop stewing in my emotions and start cooking with them, so to speak. The same background thoughts and feelings I had been replaying the worst parts of over and over finally had the time to run all the way to the end and turn into either 1. Not actually a problem 2. Not a problem I could do anything about, therefore not worth worrying about until something changes 3. Something I could do something about, therefore a plan and not a cloud of dread. 4. A problem that I couldn't do anything about but that I cannot stop worrying about because it affects everything (like food access problems) therefore; make room for the fact the worry will persist but still do my damndest to not worry about the parts I cannot control. If I had food and had a plan for how I would get food at the next interval within my control, the longer term and the points between the points of control were not worth worrying about, they would simply be what they were. Hoping for good luck is fine, feeling miserable in it's absence is wasting energy.

At least, that's what I decided to think, in order to give myself a sense of control I desperately needed while my life was falling apart, and admittedly now that my life is back together (as much as it can be in current circumstances), it's really fucking hard to do more than momentarily unsettle me. As long as I am the one who determines my actions, I can take action about actionable problems, and choose to not worry about non-actionable problems. As long as the choice is mine, and it is, then I am not at the level of the worst problems I have ever survived.

Most people have not had the experiences I have had and I am glad for that. I don't expect everyone around me to have the carefully constructed resilience I made in order to reclaim my life as my own, but I'm pretty sure a lot of the tools don't actually require having gone through a baffling variety of nonsense to learn and make use of, so I do my best to spread the word about "you are generally in control of most of your actions, therefore you can make choices about your life. That is a good thing. You are not powerless and anyone who tells you you are does not have your best interests at heart. Not acting is also a choice amd sometimes it is the right one for you." and "if you look around, there's usually something to play with. You may need to broaden your definition of play and your definition of thing, but there's generally at least a rock or a blade of grass and human civilization has gotten a lot done with those two things, so you can too! Go forth, make art." And "having a clear idea of who you want to be gives you a guide of how you should act when you are not feeling clear-headed or situations are evolving rapidly, but developing that internal compass requires taking the time to think about your actions before making them, and then consistently actually acting. If there is something keeping you from taking the time to think through your actions before making them even when there isn't a crisis, it might be best to consider whether that thing is a necessity in your life. If there is something keeping you from acting, it might also be best to consider whether that is necessary in your life. An overabundance of guilt generally does not prevent more harm than it causes."

Thank you for reading. That went a lot more places than I was expecting and didn't keep on one topic extraordinarily well, but I'm still pleased with what I've written for the most part.

This person wrote a manifesto I ain’t reading all that but this is literally the type of behavior im talking about the idea hobbies all cost money is so removed from reality if you have the time to pick up your phone and write 7 paragraphs on how im victimizing you with my offhanded post you have the time to watch a movie on YouTube with your very same phone instead come on now. How is you freaking out on the internet helping any of these issues

[drdemonprince]

Yo,

This may be more of a BPD ask than an autistic ask but whatever.

My friend gently called me out for saying something fucked up to them. They still wanna be friends with me and I’m capable of not doing or saying the fucked up thing…

…yes I still wanna change my name and run away or kms out of embarrassment…how do I stop feeling this way? Also why do I feel this way?

Asking the wrong question, I'm afraid! You cannot control how long you are going to feel this way. But you *can* control whether or not you pull some shit that makes it worse. It sounds like you're handling the situation perfectly fine -- you've made amends, you know you can prevent future incidents, and the relationship has been maintained. You can spare yourself & your friend future problems by not excessively apologizing or dumping your guilt onto them, and taking a little time to yourself to nurse your wounds if you need to. Immediately after an uncomfortable faux pas, I think it can be beneficial to temporarily withdraw yourself to give everyone a little time to cool down, but you don't want to avoid them so much, or for so long, that reuniting again becomes awkward. I'd give it a couple of days, or skipping one hangout, not more than that. In the meantime, why don't you talk about what happened to a friend who is known to put their foot in their mouth from time to time? Sit down and think of the people you know who alienate the most people (but are able to have respectful, loving relationships, and can listen to you). They might be able to help you feel less alone. People who run their mouth too much sometimes are typically also people who have the wonderful gift of good humor and outgoingness; you don't get the benefits without some of the risks, really, so perhaps you can come to see this quality as a thing that's good about you overall.