#as stupid idiots doing a frivolous and stupid thing who deserve what they get?

[creekfiend]

23andme did indeed send me an email like "oopsie whoopsie we let your DNA profile get leaked and now you're proooobably on a White Supremacist's Jew List! hehehe butterfingers" but luckily for them everything else in my life is so on fire that I was just like "sure man add it to the pile"

[shiplessoceans]

To all the Buddie shippers, I'm so sorry fam.

I watched up to season 4 and posted here last year sometime that I was sure buddie wasn't gonna happen (though I had my fingers crossed for you all anyway) and I am sorry that 911 has turned out like all the other queerbait shows. I've been there, we've all been queerbaited and ignored and made to feel like we're stupid and it sucks ass.

I promise you, you are not being silly or frivolous or deluded for seeing what was right in front of you. Your feelings are 100% valid. The creators used romantic tropes and applied them to two straight characters with no intention of addressing it to either confirm it OR deny it.

That lack of denial is very telling.

TV show creators, producers & showrunners will always say that the fans or the audience are "getting the wrong idea" about a queer pairing. It's incredibly reductive and feels like an attempt to 'shame' fans.

Yet they never try to put an end to the romantic tension they have created. A few lines of dialogue. That's all it would take. A quick denial. Tension resolved, on with the story. Get Maddie to say to Buck:

"You and Eddie have gotten close, hope I'm not overstepping but are you...more than friends?"

That's it. A question. Simple one. Would be in character, make sense and be judgement free.

Hell, they could have any character mistake them for a couple and have them clarify that they are just friends who enjoy hanging out but are straight.

But the writers will never do that. Because they want it both ways. They want fans to watch the show for some representation, without having to provide any.

Denying Buddie is a thing would mean losing the audience that watch the show hoping for it. It means they lose you. And you make them money. It's gaslighty. They treat their fans like idiots and I will never watch a show that does that ever again. (Supernatural was the wake up call).

So while you come to terms with all this buddie fam, do yourselves a favour and use this energy to create! Write fix-it fanfic, draw art, make playlists, crochet...steal the characters you love and just write or read or imagine your own stories....

You can close the door on canon and have fun with the characters on their own.

It is also totally valid to move on to other ships, shows and characters. There's a heap of newer media that consciously avoids queerbaiting and those are the shows that deserve your dedication.

Love and hugs to you all!

[rosegoldandrubies]

So I love the tv show The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. There are moral issues that I disagree with (the constant swearing and in front of children, nudity, casual attitudes towards prostitution and stripping, cross dressing, one night stands, a character getting an abortion) but I still watch the show and enjoy it. The left controls Hollywood so their biases are obviously going to show up and because they believe the majority of people support them they don’t feel the need to write any counterpoints or write characters that disagree with these views that aren’t strawmen parodies of conservative values.

What I do like about it is it’s positive portrayal of traditional femininity. Midge, Rose, and Imogene love being wives and mothers and take pride in being homemakers. They are smart, educated women but knew that raising children and supporting their husbands was the best thing they could do for their families. They are proud to be feminine and femininity is encouraged. In the world of the show, femininity and elegance is what is expected from women and in turn, the ladies are happy to do their best, no one is bitter over having to wear a dress or curl their hair. Even the extras in the background are dressed as girly and fashionable as Midge. In any other show these women would be the mean girl villains and portrayed as vapid, frivolous idiots who just don’t understand that traditionally feminine pursuits are actually wastes of time but this show celebrates it. Even after the ladies have their careers they still maintain their femininity. Rose and Imogene get jobs that are either associated with women or value traditional roles (Imogene becomes a secretary and Rose becomes a matchmaker). Midge enters a male dominated field but refuses to apologize for being a woman. She doesn’t change her appearance or writings to blend in with men. She refuses to be bullied out of the business by men and demands to be accepted for who she is and the value her point of view brings.

So I don’t understand why a show this dedicated to showing that feminine women are intelligent, ambitious and nuanced human beings would dedicate an episode to vilifying Phyllis Schlafly, another ambitious, feminine woman.

In 3x07 Midge gets an offer to do a radio commercial for a female politician and she’s initially excited about it but then backs out at the last minute after learning that the politician is antisemitic and racist. That would be completely understandable, if Phyllis Schlafly actually was any of those things, but she wasn’t.

I said earlier that the left can’t write conservative characters who aren’t strawmen and that’s exactly what the writers made Phyllis Schlafly. The episode portrayed her as antisemitic because she said “kingmakers in New York” are the ones who actually pick the President but this myth that Schlafly was antisemitic has been debunked for decades. In Schlafly’s own book A Choice, Not an Echo, everyone she describes as being a “kingmaker” like Rockefeller, is Protestant. The episode could’ve easily said that instead of implying she was talking about Jewish people, but then again if they were honest, they’d have to admit their arguments are based on false information and they only hate Phyllis because she’s conservative.

Also the commercial that Phyllis wrote that Midge backs out of has the line “I also believe certain minorities don’t deserve rights” which is beyond stupid. Phyllis never said that. No one has ever said that. No racist talks like that or else everyone would know they are awful people. But of course in Hollywood, all conservatives are stupid and racist. They can’t outsmart Phyllis so they dumb her down.

Midge’s father tells her that when you have a voice you have to be careful what you’re supporting. In that same episode Midge does a commercial that implies women are too stupid to do math, she does another that promotes cocaine as a weight loss drug and another that is implied to be underage porn. So she’s totally ok with the consequences of using her voice to support these commercial but suddenly a conservative female politician who supports family values is the worst thing in the world and something she has to take a stand against even though she loved being a wife and mother and many women in her life are homemakers. Ohhhh but it’s different because Midge is liberal which makes her opinions on womanhood ok and Phyllis is conservative which makes her opinions on womanhood a threat, ok great I got it now.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the little death rating: T+ word count: 2,409 summary: Two years after his fight with Death, Trevor’s injuries start catching up to him while Alucard realizes that humans are more fragile than he thought. 

For @trevorsmellmont ❤️  Thank you so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

There’s a sharp pain pooling beneath his right arm, coursing through his ribcage. Trevor ignores it just as he’s ignored all the other aches, jabs, and stings over the past two years. Two years of building something better, something sustainable to last far longer than its young, admittedly green founders. Countless days, weeks, and months erecting homes, gardens, and pens for those dumb gentle animals who think the entire townscape is their personal pasture. Not another mistake of allowing them to wander aimlessly straight into the castle. As if heifers need to learn how to craft medicine or conduct what’s being referred to as “electricity”.

The work will never be finished. Even on days like this when the sun burns hotter than any circle in hell. A few drops of warm salt-ridden sweat crawl past Trevor’s pressed lips and into his dry mouth. Pain and thick heat were never enough to stop him before—he tells himself this, barely certain of his own supportive thoughts (a new concept taking root in his mind). Take it slow, don’t push yourself, idiot. This cabin made from the earth will get built eventually. Another family will receive their forever home to fill with lots of babies. Old wounds beg to differ as Trevor’s arms begin to weaken, each movement slower than the last, struggling to keep up with Greta’s superior pace. She’s always known her way around a mallet.

Another bead of sweat gets caught in Trevor’s lashes, sparing his eyes from temporary discomfort. Though it wouldn’t have mattered as they’re already past any sort of respite. He looks for distraction but can only see the blurred shapes coming from a huddle of bodies, despite being a short distance from them. He knows it’s only Sypha and Alucard with the village children, which gives Trevor some relief.

There’s more comfort to be felt when he remembers that one of those little monsters is his own, nestled in Sypha’s lap then placed in Alucard’s gentle arms. She has a name far too long for any toddler to pronounce—Elizabeta Belnades Tepes Belmont—so what rolls off her developing tongue instead is simply “Liza”. She’s innocent now but once she leaves this little man-made paradise and ventures into a harsher world, she will take more after her mother and father. Grabbing whatever life offers with both fists, clawing and biting her way through every obstacle until her teeth are reddened with bloody meat. For the time being, they relish Liza’s soft cheeks, wispy hair, and the way she throws herself at whichever adult happens to be in her nearest vicinity. The other children are helping her socialize by playing games and embracing frivolity; a tactic Trevor remembers from his own upbringing, though with less games and even less frivolity. 

“Think you can handle one or two more?”

Greta’s voice manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog. Funny how she asks if he can “think” about anything especially at this suffocating moment. She must have noticed the way his lips curl into a happy doped up grin while observing his family and couldn’t help but inquire. As any close, loved and valued friend would.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s wrong with looking a bit further into the future? Now that we all have one.” 

“Looking is one thing, but seriously suggesting is something else completely. My… performance in certain areas isn’t as up to snuff as it used to be.”

As Trevor says this, things deteriorate and get a bit fuzzier from his eyesight down to his chest. Out of focus. Painful. He keeps talking, keeps ignoring the inevitable. Always ignoring what his own body screams for.

Greta wrinkles her nose at his statement. “There are children present, Belmont.”

“What? I’m referring to the house. I barely managed to get one wall up while you’re already on the fucking roof.”

“So dramatic. You three really do deserve each other. And you’re still young.”

“On the outside, maybe.”

She laughs at his lie, misinterpreting it as another piece of mild self-deprecatory banter he might never be able to live without. Greta says something else, perhaps her own personal jest to counter his, but Trevor cannot hear. Breath grows heavier, forcing out a raspy “it’s fine. It’s just my chest”. Barely able to tell if Greta actually said anything about his sudden condition. Or rather, not so sudden. No, this has been building over quite some time now. His muscles and bones screaming, begging for relief or death, and end to everything—whichever comes first. Feelings that only worsened over the years.

Trevor loses control over his legs, now practically boneless. The collision between his head and the ground is nothing compared to the inner war over his heart. Whether it will finally succumb. Greta immediately calls for help—he thinks without confidence, once again. Trevor can still hear voices, but not their exact words. Not Sypha when she demands to know what happened. Not Alucard when he begs for him to stay conscious. Not even Liza as she cries for her papa.

Then all the chaos in the world fades into slow darkness.

--

Alucard stands outside the closed bedchamber door, contemplating how often he’s touched Trevor’s body. Lithe fingertips have memorized every crevice, scar, soft and rough spots alike. Not just as a lover with wandering hands underneath blankets in the dead of night. Or a friend who holds him steady on both feet when he needs it. But as this family’s self-appointed physician. 

Perhaps the prince of two worlds took after his father after all. “Polymath” is what Alucard used to describe Dracula and the very same word others have referred to him as, mostly in the realm of medicine. He knows more than anyone, little offence given towards the herb dispensers and leech farmers (only to be polite for his own townsfolk). Thus, through the anxieties and trembling hands, Alucard gave Trevor his diagnosis: heat exhaustion along with a muscle somewhere in his chest that decided to go rogue and strain itself.

The son of Tepes, the only local doctor worth trusting, and arguably the co-leader of their little prospering hamlet paces across the hall like Trevor did the day Liza was born. He’s on the other side of that closed door, resting. Bedridden from heat exhaustion and a fucking pulled muscle. It bothers Alucard. This shouldn’t have happened to someone who stood up to the personification of Death and pissed in his eye. A stupidly common and easily treatable inconvenience to the human body shouldn’t be the end of a fucking Belmont.

It shouldn’t—unless Trevor’s scars have anything to say about it. The ones on the inside and outside. Inside, unseen, and untreatable. There’s a harsh revelation to be found there; one which the prince has been purposefully avoiding up to this moment. Alucard can try as he wants, use the tools left behind by his father and mother as though it were their final death wish, but he might never tend to what pains Trevor on the inside. He’s a Belmont, undeniably so, but Belmonts are human despite the many recurring signs pointing to the contrary. Then there’s Sypha with her magic, but she’s human as well. Greta and Liza are still human. Humans are more susceptible to dying easy, little deaths even when they follow world-saving victories.

Where does this leave Alucard? Thoughts spiral down, down towards darker places the longer he nervously hovers outside the bedroom. He’s been known to awkwardly stumble into deflection, insisting he’s only half human whenever certain someones bring up this topic of necessary conversation. Meaning he might as well not be human at all. Not when the bodies of those he loves change so rapidly while his remains petrified. It’s only been two years, filled to the brim with countless hours he wouldn’t ever want to trade for the entire world. But the thought of one night as they nestle themselves into bed and Alucard touches either Trevor or Sypha’s chest only to feel an anomaly within their hearts. The earliest sign that time and age will eventually betray them as it does for all mortals—it could be the one thing to break him.

Alucard stops himself at the opportune moment, right before he starts thinking about his mother and father. Did Dracula ever contemplate Lisa’s mortality? Was the decision to never turn her easy or the hardest thing he forced upon his unstable, immortal conscience? Arms crossed over his chest like a protective cage, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt until it hurts, Alucard swallows a bitter glob of spit and reaches for the doorknob. Sypha will have to accept the fact that he couldn’t wait for her. He quietly thanks her for the lessons she taught him. If he needs to talk about something—truly talk, no sarcastic wit or banter, just the raw emotions—Alucard no longer hesitates. He won’t, not as he enters the room and immediately sees Trevor still in bed, not quite altogether there. At least he can manage a decent smile and wave of his hand.

“Evening.”

“How does your chest feel?”

“Still a bit tight, but I’ve been taking deep breaths like the doctor ordered.”

The amount of strain heard in Trevor’s voice worries Alucard. Hopefully the Belmont has learned something from the recent past, so he won’t be stupid and suggest anything having to do with leaving bed or getting back to work.

 “I think I should get up.”

“I think that’s a poor decision.”

“Are you saying that as my physician or because you’re letting that pretty little blonde head of yours get too worked up?”

No. Yes. Both? If only Trevor didn’t look up at him with those glassy eyes (can he still see him?) the colour of stained glass windows erected in cathedrals he felt so unwelcome inside. If only that smile, somehow both soft and shit-eating, wasn’t in place of a more serious expression. Then maybe Alucard could voice his concerns without being accused of acting overbearing—an accusation grounded in solid evidence but he’s not ready to admit that yet. Not out loud.

“Normal, healthy adults do not become bedridden after pulling a small muscle in their chest.”

“Belmonts aren’t normal… or healthy in my case.”

Alucard’s brow furrows. “I want to think you’re healthy—” I need to. “—that you’ll live long enough to see the children of this village have little ones of their own. Liza included.”

“God’s sake, she’s only two years old. You and Greta, always talking about looking one step too far into the future. Let her be a child before adulthood rears its ugly maw.”

“Try not to change the subject.”

Trevor lifts his head off the indent pressed into his sweat drenched pillow. “Alright. Fine. I feel much better. I won’t push myself and give my heart some more time to recover.”

No response coupled with broken eye contact; sure signs of Alucard’s reluctance to accept his rather weak assurance. The Belmont has no other choice.

“Come here. Sit.”

Another moment’s hesitation before Alucard complies. Feeling his weight upon the mattress, Trevor blindly reaches for his wrist until calloused fingers grip cool, unblemished skin.

“Now lie down. No, no. Not like that. Place your head right here.” He pats his chest and with a fleeting amount of guidance, Alucard’s cheek fits perfectly between his breasts. Two hands smooth over the dhampir’s curves before one before one rests on his silk smooth head and the other against the small of his back. Alucard lied about one thing: his own body can change in small yet noticeable ways. Without the need to fight for the lives of others, whether today or tomorrow, sharp edges turn softer. Trevor and Sypha have finally let themselves breathe as well, let go, and enjoy all of life’s pleasures.

“Hear that?” He asks Alucard.

“... It’s slow.”

“Slow and strong like it should be.”

Alucard wishes he could bottle up that heartbeat or place it in a box. Preferably a music box to listen to its soothing melody long after its original body and soul are both eventually gone from this world. Who knows? It might make things hurt a little bit less like when he redrew his parent’s portrait or built a much larger nursery where his own used to be. Not a lot, but Alucard could possibly live with just “a little”.

“Speaking of Greta…” The baritone of Trevor’s voice sends deep vibrations through his broad chest, tickling Alucard’s cheek. “She said something about more children.”

“More orphans joining us?”

“No, even though I know how much you love those damn orphans. She asked if we could handle one or two more.”

“What did you say?”

“I implied that she was taking after Sypha’s influence by being wonderfully insane.”

Alucard chuckles in agreement. That sounds like Greta. “You never know. It might be good for Liza if she has a younger sibling.”

With the sound of Sypha’s well timed arrival, he’s mercifully saved from Trevor’s lengthy speech about how patience is apparently a virtue and tirades about his “performance” or lack thereof. Greta reveals herself shortly afterwards with a still crying Liza in tow. So many bodies gathered around one inebriated individual, here for him and him alone. Trevor’s consoled yet exasperated expression directed at Greta in particular says “isn’t there someone more important you could be helping right now?”

Sypha is the first to voice her gratitude after fussing over her exhausting loved one. “I will never be able to thank you enough, Alucard.”

“I think the bed did most of the heavy lifting, love.”

Trevor is given an affectionate, somewhat caring glare in response but his focus is demanded elsewhere once he suddenly notices Liza jumping onto the bed. She snuggles herself between him and Alucard, wetting their shirts with her tears.

“Easy there, you little monster. Papa’s still a bit tender.” Not that she can understand or care.

There’s an aura of relief felt amongst everyone in the room—less with Alucard who smiles bittersweetly. It’s a truth he knew he had to acknowledge before it tore his heart open. Trevor and Sypha will die one day and he will have to bury them. He’ll bury Greta, he might even bury Liza. Not today thank all the gods, or tomorrow, not for the next few decades if fate is kind enough. 

But the day will come. And it will be Alucard’s own little death.

[quirkystories]

Imagine: When they have a crush...PART 1

Contains: possessive behavior, rejection, mild obsession, some unhealthy behaviors, lovestruck boys.

Midoriya - Midoriya is, predictably, a stammering red mess around his crush. He struggles to get words out, or think of the right thing to say. He will often start rambling and just go on and on until somebody interrupts him. Midoriya struggles between either avoiding his crush due to his anxiety, or seeking them out in order to be close to them. And, as much as being near them sends his heart racing and has him breaking out into a panicked sweat, Midoriya really wants to be around them.

Midoriya is highly emotional and feels things deeply. Even before he realizes the truth behind his feelings, he comes to adore this person and admires almost everything about them. In his eyes, they are flawless. He often fights with the urge to confess his feelings to them...They could be sitting somewhere just having a casual conversation, and Midoriya may sense his emotions beginning to overwhelm him - and the words nearly spill from his mouth. 

He will often stare at them dazedly, with a soft smile on his face, while admiring something about them - it could be anything from their smile, the way they tuck their hair behind their ears, or something sweet that they just said. Midoriya admires kindness and courage. He admires someone who looks after others - someone who looks after him.

Midoriya may hesitate to confess his love simply due to feelings of inadequacy - what if he isn't good enough? Strong enough? What if his crush deserves someone better? These feelings give him further motivation to become both a stronger person and a more capable hero - this will especially be the case if his crush is also an aspiring hero. If his crush is a civilian, they imbue him with an even stronger urge to protect.

Despite his inner trepidation, Midoriya will try to at least talk and associate with his crush. If they ever need help with anything, he stumbles in with a solution and a flustered offer of assistance. 

Midoriya will likely start a separate journal dedicated solely to his crush. It’s inevitable. It's his habit to write about subjects that he finds interesting - so the young hero attempts to quell the feeling that what he's doing may be perceived as weird or creepy. 

But, yet again, he can’t help it - Midoriya's just so smitten, and collecting information about a subject, to him, simply means that he's passionate about said subject. He also writes about his friends’ quirks after all. The major difference is that, rather than just any information about his crush’s quirk (if they have one), Midoriya will additionally document every other little thing he manages to learn about them...Their favorite color, favorite food, their hobbies...Everything.

If his crush wound up with someone else other than him, or simply rejected him, it’s no understatement that Midoriya would be heartbroken. It would take him a very long time to get over this crush - he would always refer to them as his “first love.”

Todoroki - Todoroki will likely understand quickly when he has a crush on someone, as such emotions entail feelings of attachment, fondness, and a desire for companionship, all of which Todoroki is not accustomed to feeling. Also, Todoroki is not all that invested in romantic relationships - that is, until this person comes around. He will quickly come to realize that this person is special...

He will both consciously and subconsciously seek them out. Todoroki has spent much of his life isolated and starved for affection, so when he finds someone who makes him feel differently - warm and happy - he is drawn to them like a moth to a flame (ha).

He is genuinely a caring person, but he will be even more caring and attentive to his crush. He notices his crush falling behind in their studies? He will offer to tutor them. Not getting enough to eat amidst a hectic schedule? Todoroki will bombard them with information on the importance of proper nutrition and personally escort his crush to a restaurant to make sure they eat. He will be paying, of course, calmly stating that he invited them after all. Todoroki can’t even imagine having his crush pay for anything, whether or not the two of them are romantically involved. 

If his crush is a UA student like himself Todoroki will, of course, be constantly concerned for their well being, but will also be willing to help them hone their skills. He has the urge to protect them and wishes to be relied upon by them. At the same time, he understands the importance of them being able to fight for themselves. 

Still, deep down, he often wishes to be relied upon more by his crush. It may very well be the more domineering part of his personality coming through - a side that Todoroki wasn’t even aware that he had. However, even if he tries to deny it, Todoroki does have certain “alpha” tendencies; and they show in his actions and feelings toward his significant other.

Todoroki will often do certain amorous, or “romantic” things unknowingly. To him, he is simply being himself and being honest. He’s not necessarily shouting his feelings from the rooftops, but he is certainly being particularly nice to his crush - his feelings are pretty clear to most people observing him. His crush, even if they don’t completely catch onto Todoroki’s true sentiments, will still be flustered by his unusual actions. The way he smiles so kindly at them, his eyes focused on them as if they’re the center of his world. The way he just comes up and automatically takes something heavy from their hands, saying that he’ll help and that it’s no good if they hurt their wrists. The way he compliments them on modifications on their hero costume - a color change? It suits them. Matches their eyes. 

Todoroki takes his feelings fairly seriously, considering how rare they are for him. He doesn’t get frivolous crushes. He doesn’t want to lose touch with these emotions...For the first time in a long while, he knows what he wants. But these feelings come with fresh fear - will he able to protect someone who he cares so deeply for, after he failed to protect his mother? What if his beloved gets hurt? What if he wants to control and dominate them, force them into something that they don’t want, much like the cruelty that his father inflicted upon his mother? Once these fears surface he may start unwillingly distancing himself from his crush, but quickly discovers that he can’t - he just wants to be around them all the time, they’re his light in the encroaching darkness.

If his crush winds up with someone else, or denies Todoroki’s feelings, Todoroki will be left cold inside. He will be deeply hurt after allowing himself to feel such things - for having such high hopes, only to discover that they were nothing but distant fantasies. For some time he will lock that hurt away and pour himself into his hero work. But slowly, he will attempt to deal with the experience and how it made him feel. It would take him a long time to allow himself to feel that way again. 

Bakugou - Bakugou is in denial at first. Hard, steadfast denial. He isn't an idiot - deep down, Bakugou knows what these feelings are. Even if he’s never felt them before - he knows. But he will constantly deny them for a long time...He's a future pro-hero in training! He doesn't have time for stupid, meaningless crushes!

His denial will only make things worse as it will cause his emotions to boil over. As much as he tries to avoid looking at his crush, his eyes are drawn to them. As much as he tries to avoid contact with them, his legs automatically carry him to wherever they may be. As much as he tries not to admire ANYTHING about them, he finds himself doing the exact opposite - admiring their body, their voice, their jokes, their laughter, how their clothes hug their figure just so. Bakugou likes a spitfire, someone who doesn’t take any shit. They don’t necessarily have to be loud and abrasive, they can just as easily be someone quieter and intense. Point is, they’re strong and confident. 

With that attraction to personality comes a potent physical attraction. Bakugou is a very healthy young man - he has urges. And it’s not long before he finds himself fantasizing about his crush. These fantasizes both arouse and embarrass him. He feels as if he’s at the mercy of someone - that this person has the ability to hurt him, to affect him. And Bakugou Katsuki does not need mercy from anyone.

He doesn’t need them.

As a result of all these mixed feelings, Bakugou runs from the truth. He becomes further frustrated and angry. He takes all of this out on his crush, blaming them inside his head for all of his inner turmoil. Deep down - deep, deep down - he feels guilty for how he treats them. He almost wishes he could interact with them like the rest of his UA classmates - easily, in a friendly manner. But no, his pride won’t allow it.

Conversely, he becomes angry seeing his crush with anyone else, especially if the interaction appears romantic. He doesn’t consider how illogical his actions appear. One minute he’s making a fuss, berating his crush and whoever they’re with for spending time together. And the next minute, he’s belittling his crush and acting like they’re the scum of the earth. His crush is beyond confused. Some people in class 1A, notably Kirishima and Kaminari, may catch onto the fact that Bakugou has a crush.

Later on, when Bakugou matures somewhat as both a person and a hero, he may attempt to have a civil conversation with his crush. He may even try to hint at his feelings. But the damage will likely already be done. Bakugou would have to really put himself out there for there to even be a chance for his crush to accept him and his romantic feelings. But he’s persistent and will not take “no” for an answer that easily. He will attempt to wow them with his battle prowess and his hero work. And he will always be there to protect them and take a hit for them.

If denied, Bakugou is left angry and vindictive. Even though he’s aware that it’s likely his own fault that he was rejected Bakugou will still, in his bitter heart, blame his crush. They were a fool for rejecting him. Look at him. He’s famous, powerful, gunning for the position of the strongest hero in the world, he’s going to be making millions, he has so many admirers - who the hell would reject him???  

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Whump you say? Geralt gets Hanahaki

I’ve been waiting for you, Anon. I’ve been waiting for this prompt specifically and boy when I tell you I might have cried writing it...

2k ish (a little less) words long. Idk why y’all were worried, it’s me. It’s gonna have a happy ending.

tw: Hanahaki, blood mention, illness, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending ---

It had started up just before they parted ways for the winter; Geralt had quietly coughed a handful of rose petals into the corner of his cloak and hidden them from sight as Jaskier gave him their yearly parting embrace. “See you in the spring, Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

You might not ever see me again, actually, the Witcher thought. He tried not to let anything show on his face; not his fear and certainly not his longing, but he ached to tell Jaskier that he loved him and that he’d miss the bard’s presence through the long and dreary cold of the winter months. Geralt also knew that if he told Jaskier the truth about his feelings that he may never set eyes on the bard again anyway, regardless of how the disease currently wracking his body developed over their time apart. He was sure that Vesemir could identify whatever the strange illness was; the old swordmaster might even have a cure ready to go in the old storeroom. If not, they could send for Triss. 

“Safe travels.”

“And you as well,” Geralt nodded curtly. He mounted Roach with all his usual grace and ease, biting back another cough and tasting the sickly sweet floral note of rose rising up his throat to coat his tongue again. 

---

“Fuck,” Vesemir sighed. “It’s Hanahaki disease, Geralt. It’s not going to be easy to cure now that the pass is full of snow.”

“What’s Hanahaki disease?”

“It’s-” the eldest Wolf Witcher scrubbed his hand over his bearded face and took a moment to compose himself. He’d seen it happen before. He’d seen human bodies buried in the ground with entire root systems crawling from their chest cavities. He’d watched young men and women alike cough entire violet or rose or daisy buds from their mouths while they shivered with fever and seemingly unending pain, but a Witcher? Vesemir hadn’t even thought it was possible for a Witcher to contract such a frivolously deadly illness. “I don’t know exactly how to explain this to you, Geralt.”

“I won’t go screaming into the hills, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” his middle-child joked, “I can’t run very far anymore without a coughing fit.”

“I can’t send for Triss or Yennefer, either. They won’t be able to do anything,” Vesemir spoke calmly and evenly. Geralt, propped against some pillows on adoptive-father-enforced bed rest raised an eyebrow. “It’s a disease that eats at you from the inside out. It latches on to, uhm, romantic feelings and grows with them until it overtakes its host completely. Or until the host, uh… confronts those feelings head on and admits them to the object of their affection.”

“So this is…” Geralt’s eyes were wide and terrified. The eldest Wolf had never seen the stoic boy look quite so scared before, and he’d seen him go through the Trials. “This is going to kill me, is what you’re saying.”

“Who are you in love with, you stubborn oaf!?” Lambert cried, marching into the room from where he’d been lurking in the hall. He startled the other two Wolves and Geralt coughed out another handful of petals. The blood that came with them was surprisingly new. 

“What do you mean!?”

“He means,” Vesemir said, as slowly as possible (so that even the great Geralt of Rivia would understand his situation), “That until you tell this person how you feel, the flowers inside you will continue to grow and dig their roots in and, if you never tell them how you feel at all, you will eventually die.”

“Then I guess my fate is sealed,” Geralt smiled sadly, settling himself back against the pillows. “My time as a Witcher is up. Coughing up flowers isn’t the worst way to go, all things considered.”

Lambert growled angrily. “I’m not ready to lose my brother yet, Geralt, so just tell us who you’re pining after and we’ll go fetch her back!”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not?!”

Geralt, growing increasingly more feverish and already exhausted from everything that had happened that afternoon, closed his eyes. “Because he deserves better than me, Lambert. He deserves so much more than I could ever give him and I’m not about to steal him away like a selfish ass and force my feelings onto him for my own sake. I’d rather die.”

“Self-sacrificing bastard,” the youngest of the Wolf Witchers snarled, storming from the room. “Ass! Cock! Fool!”

Vesemir could only nod his agreement and follow silently after.

---

Jaskier read the letter once.

Then he read it again.

After a third time through he was sure that he hadn’t misunderstood the contents.

Dear Jaskier (aka Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Prof. of the Seven Liberal Arts at Oxenfurt),

I am Eskel, brother to Geralt of the Wolf Witcher School at Kaer Morhen. I write to you now to ask for your presence at the keep. Geralt has fallen gravely ill and will not likely make it through the season. He does not know that I have written to you, but as his best friend and companion on the Path, I thought it my duty to invite you to see him one last time before he’s gone for good. He’s loathe to admit it, but he misses you and fears for your safety come springtime.

Sincerely,

Eskel of the Wolf School

Somewhere beneath the bright embroidery of his doublet and the hand-woven muslin of his chemise, Jaskier’s flighty, deeply-loving heart shattered into a million pieces. 

He grabbed his heaviest woolen cloak from its peg near the door and made for the stables at once.

---

“Geralt!”

The White Wolf opened his eyes a sliver to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating again; ah yes. What a lovely last dream to have before I die. Standing in the middle of his bedroom at Kaer Morhen, covered with still-melting snow, was Jaskier. The bard’s blue eyes were brimming with tears and his bottom lip was wobbling violently as he gazed upon the Witcher’s withering form.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Your father and brothers sort of explained it to me but I’m still not sure what’s happening. You’re dying?”

“Don’t worry, bard,” Geralt smiled. A loud, sudden cough wracked his body and he bent over double, spitting a blood-spattered but fully-bloomed rose out into his cupped palm. He laughed joylessly and tossed the bloom onto his bedside table. “I’ll be out of your hair, soon. Won’t this be a last ballad to write, a wolf dying as he’s eaten by flowers?”

“I don-”

“Hush,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier dropped his cloak to the ground uncaringly and rushed to his Witcher’s side. He sat on the edge of the mattress and took Geralt’s closest hand in his, grasping the appendage to his chest and sobbing into the sword-calloused skin like his tears might save his best friend’s life. “Don’t be sad, Jaskier.”

“I am sad, Geralt! I’m absolutely fucking terrified and heartbroken and crushed! Vesemir said you could heal this at any time but you just… you just won’t because you’re stubborn and an idiot and the sweetest goddamn man I’ve ever met in my life! How dare you tell me goodbye when you are perfectly capable of fixing this problem yourself! How could you promise to see me in the spring and then break your word by dying well before the grass turns green again?! You bastard!”

“You won’t miss me after another year passes,” Geralt reassured him, flexing the hand still held tight in Jaskier’s grip. “You won’t even remember me by the time the first daisies spring up.”

“How dare you,” the bard cried again. He pressed a nervous kiss to the tip of the Witcher’s pointer finger before letting go completely and dropping his head into his own hands. “How dare you say those things to me when you know full well that I love you with all my stupid, fragile mortal heart. You asshole.”

“Wh...what?” 

“I love you, Geralt!” The Witcher stared up at his friend with nothing but confusion written across his handsome features. Jaskier reached out, wiping a smear of blood away from the corner of Geralt’s mouth as tenderly as any maiden in any of the bard’s favorite romance novels. “I love you and I’ll never forgive you for letting yourself die on me like this.”

Geralt blushed. He stammered. He coughed up two or three more bloody roses and Jaskier tossed them all into the fire with rage blazing in his cornflower irises. 

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything on this gods-forsaken Continent and now you’re going to take yourself away because you’re, what, scared of something? Is it Yennefer? If she’s refusing to help you then I’ll ride all the way to Vengerberg by daybreak and then I’ll break all her fucking fi-”

“I love you, too.”

“What?” Jaskier asked, stopped mid-rant and mid-thought by the Witcher’s sudden admission. “What did you just say to me, Geralt? If I didn’t misunderstand, you said you loved me too.”

“I did. I do! I have loved you for a rather long time, actually.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve settled that,” Vesemir said from the doorway. He turned on his heel and disappeared. “See you both for breakfast tomorrow, I’m sure. Well... maybe breakfast is being a bit optimistic. I’ll see you for lunch.”

“What did he mean?” the bard asked. His eyes flitted between the empty doorway and Geralt’s guilty grimace. “What the fuck did Vesemir mean when he said he’d see us at lunch?! You’re still clearly dying and I-”

Geralt felt his fever receding and coughed experimentally. There were only a few brown, half-dried petals that fell from his lips. No blooms. He coughed again and nothing came out of his mouth at all. He grinned and laughed, tugging Jaskier up onto the bed and against his broad chest. “Vesemir was right!”

“What the fuck is going on?!” the bard begged. His hands twisted into the neckline of Geralt’s shirt, holding him still and steady. Blue bore into gold with such heated intensity that the Witcher thought he might pass out regardless of his recently healed disease, “What just happened!?”

“I- I told you I loved you and it cured the Hanahaki!”

“You had fucking Hanahaki and I was the cause of it? Oh Geralt, I’m so sorry! I should have noticed sooner! I should hav- Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I didn’t think you loved me back.”

“You didn- Geralt, have you been paying any sort of attention for the past seven or so years? I follow you everywhere, I bandage your wounds, I put food on your plate and a pillow under your head whenever we get the chance. I bathe you and mend your clothes when your fingers are too stiff from practicing your forms to do it yourself… you utter fool. You buffoon. You great, dumb, goofy, idioti-”

He was cut off by Geralt bringing their mouths together with such gentle but insistent pressure that all Jaskier could do was melt against him. His hands unwound from the shirt and stabilized against the Witcher’s pectorals instead. He sighed into Geralt’s mouth, swallowing down the happy sounds his dearest Witcher made in return. When they were finished pouring out their affections they sat, breathless, curled against the pillows of Geralt’s enormous bed. 

A large pointer finger slipped beneath Jaskier’s chin and tilted his face up, locking their gazes, “This isn’t how I wanted you to meet my family or see Kaer Morhen for the first time, but I’m glad you came. I know the journey through the snow couldn’t have been easy, even though I’m sure there was some magical assistance.”

“For you, my love, I’d travel the pass barefoot.”

“You’d die of exposure.”

“Not if your life was on the line,” the bard murmured against those flower-chapped lips. “For you, Geralt, I could survive anything. Just as you must swear from this moment on to survive whatever you can to make it back to me.”

“Will you go back to the academy until spring?”

“I’m never leaving your side again, Geralt of Rivia. Come flora or fauna, you’re stuck with me for good.”

“Hmm. Good.”

“Just… Just don’t bring me flowers any time soon.”

[mwolf0epsilon]

What would be the Bendy cast's dream summer holiday?

Dream summer holiday you say? -cracks knuckles- I'll give it my best shot.

Joey Drew - Finally go to the Bahamas. Amazing islands with great beaches and spectacular coral reefs? This man wants to go scuba diving so bad it makes him look stupid... Also no one's going to find him when there's so many places to hide.

Henry Stein - Go camping with his wife and daughters. He knows some good spots up in the Appalachian mountains. Just them and nature... No weird machines that can summon inky devils. What more can you ask for?

Linda Stein - She's not picky when it comes to how she and her family spend their vacations. As long as everyone can unwind she's up for anything. Variety is a must tho, doing the same thing every year gets a little stale.

Sammy Lawrence - He never got to go to Coney Island so he'll likely look into finding the closest thing to it as possible. Maybe goes to Disney World out of pure spite. Overall just wants to have one day where decorum and appearances mean nothing. Deserves a break from being the guy with the stick up his ass.

Jack Fain - Traveling abroad is a big vacation goal for him. Call him cheesy but there's something about going to tourist attractions with the husband that feels really romantic to him. They're making memories together!

Susie Campbell - She's not one for big glamorous vacations. Just wants a couple of days to herself, maybe go to the beach to work on her tan, and overall just has a good couple of "Me" days. Might go to flea markets to get some goodies. She's treating herself!

Norman Polk - Look me in the eye and tell me he wouldn't travel to Paris specifically to sneak into the Parisian catacombs... Sends everyone the ugliest postcards he can find.

Allison Pendle - She'd invest to either go on an amazing tour of the Amazon forest, or a safari trip in Africa. As someone who appreciates the realm of the supernatural, Allison strikes me as someone who'd want to take a break through the natural.

Thomas Connor - Wherever Allison goes, he goes. All of their photos are mostly just Tom grumpily scowling at the camera while holding souvenirs, or laying in the hotel bed looking miserable because of mosquito bites. He's not a big vacation person but he'll endure it since his wife is really enjoying herself. He's honestly just glad to be away from other people.

Wally Franks - Disney World with the family. You can't tell me Wally wouldn't plan a massive trip for his entire family and all his friends. It's always a party with the Franks, and it's also likely someone's going to get arrested.

Shawn Flynn - Goes on a week-long hiking trip. Very big on photographing the journey, but the pictures aren't of the spectacular views or local fauna. Its just weirdly shaped rocks he finds that he thought were pretty neat.

Grant Cohen - Vacations are expensive. He'd rather just stay home and maybe sleep for an entire week or so. Seems like the type to turn on the radio and just get lost in cheesy radio-dramas.

Buddy Lewek - His family has never really had money for big vacations, so he'd do something like camping. Whether or not it's indoors or outdoors depends on how eager he is about the whole thing. Mostly he just wants to spend a bit of time reading and drawing without being disturbed.

Dot - She spends an entire month on a family trip to all the oddball tourist traps they can find. Writes about these family vacations and takes fun photos. Her favourite trip was to a UFO fanatic town. The people were quirky but polite and welcoming.

Abby Lambert - Travels to France to go see the Mona Lisa. Does some sight-seeing and ends up painting the view from her hotel balcony. Sends Henry a little Eiffel Tower statuette and a card with a charcoal illustration. Likely runs into Norman at some point.

Doc Hackenbush - Volunteers to do veterinary work at a zoo for an entire month. Gets up close and personal with some of the most magnificent animals the world has ever seen. It's a humbling experience for a vet like him.

Bertrum Piedmont - Is taken against his will on a fishing trip by Lacie. He's initially grumpy about it, but relaxes once he realizes how calming it is. Eating a big fat meal of fish has never tasted better, especially after catching it himself.

Lacie Benton - Goes on a month-long fishing trip with Bertrum. Inheriting her uncle's boat has it's perks, especially when she feels it's time she and her best friend need some time alone from the idiots at JDS.

Emma LaMonte - A trip back to England every year keeps the homesickness away. Spends that time with family and friends, and is very private about it.

Detective Sinclair - When you're an old detective like him most days are a vacation anyway. Work can be quite scarce. Doesn't really care for long frivolous trips anyway. Hitting the local bar or catching the latest baseball game is good enough for him.

Nathan Arch - Hasn't had a vacation in years and doesn't plan on it anytime soon. His health wouldn't allow him either way...

Nathan Arch Jr - Spends a maximum of two week in a cheap ocean themed motel, just to be alone with his thoughts. It's become a bit of a ritual and the motel owner always saves him the same room. Despite the tacky decoration it's the only time he ever feels relaxed and content in the entirety of the year.

[whatawriterwields]

Am I Wrong?

The bookshop’s window looks out onto the street. Aziraphale stands there, feet planted firmly on the dusty wood of the floor, shoulders back, head erect. Hands clasped behind his back. A soldier at attention, though he can’t stop his hands from fidgeting, hard as he tries. He stares out at the cars and the pedestrians passing, one after the other, back and forth, back and forth. He watches the pattern repeat until he can hardly stand it, until he wants to scream. His eyes burn, but it’s not enough to produce real tears.

He’s used to this feeling, this twisting, swirling sensation in his gut. He’s been known to stand this way for hours, days even, before finally breaking down and crying, and then trying to forget about it. As his hands tremble now, and he fights to keep them still, he hopes this one will pass more quickly.

But this time he’s interrupted. Though he’s turned his bookshop’s sign to CLOSED - though he’s had the wild thought, as he always does in these episodes, that he should close the damn thing down and leave London for good - the door swings open around noon, and a familiar voice calls out to him above the bell.

“Angel?”

His heart leaps, faintly, at the sight of Crowley’s red hair making its way toward him through the shelves. For a moment he thinks about moving away from the window, opening a bottle of wine with the demon, and whiling away the afternoon and the evening with pleasant conversation. Laughing about customers and hearing horror stories about Crowley’s plants. But then the thought crumples. Aziraphale deflates, and turns back toward the window, eyes burning a little stronger. That’s just like him, to think of distracting himself with pleasure. How stupid of him. How selfish. 

Read on Ao3

Crowley appears by his side. “What are you doing here? I fancied a lunch date.” 

Aziraphale forces a little smile. “That sounds fine, dear.”

“Fine?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

His lips twist into a half-grimace, and he focuses his eyes on the people passing by on their side of the sidewalk. It’s not many people - the day is overcast, and it’s a weekday, and most people are at home or at work - but it’s enough. Enough to remind Aziraphale why he should be at work too.

“Something’s bothering you,” says Crowley. “Tell me.”

Oh, that would be easy, wouldn’t it? To confide in Crowley, to heave all his inner turmoil on the demon’s shoulders, to let him carry the weight Aziraphale was made for. That would be convenient enough. Aziraphale swallows, tasting salt on his tongue, and stares away. “It’s nothing.” 

“Don’t be daft. I’ve never heard you that unenthusiastic about food.” 

And that comment, though it’s said in a lighthearted tone, a gentle tone, even - though Aziraphale knows Crowley is only teasing, and that Crowley loves him, and that Crowley doesn’t mind going out to restaurants and watching Aziraphale eat everything on the menu - because of those things, in fact, that comment makes Aziraphale’s shoulders sag, and he covers his face with his hands as they begin to shake.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is taken aback. “Hey, hey -” he puts an arm around Aziraphale, using the other hand to draw Aziraphale’s damp fingers from his eyes, to brush the brimming tears away - “what did I say?” 

“N-nothing.” Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s arms. He doesn’t deserve comfort. “I’m…”

“What? You’re what?”

“I’m all wrong.” He gestures helplessly out the window, too overwhelmed to try disguising the catch in his voice. “Do you see the people out there? The people who walk by my bookshop every day, and have for hundreds of years, and did before I came here and started this ridiculous business?” He locks his eyes on a man with his head bowed against the wind, and points. “That man just lost his job. He’s trying to care for his son, but he’s barely making ends meet, and he’s been praying every night for a miracle to change his fate.” 

Crowley’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

Oh, Crowley doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t. Aziraphale has never told him what the world is like for a principality. That’s one secret he’s never confided. “I know them all, Crowley. I can know every human’s suffering if I want to.” 

“What?” 

“See that woman?” He motions, somewhat wildly, to an elderly woman several paces behind the man. “She hasn’t talked to any of her family members since her brother died. She tries to work up the courage every day, but she just can’t stop thinking about which one of them is next, and maybe it’s her but even worse, maybe it isn’t, and she’s terrified of letting herself cry about this first loss when she’s got to keep herself strong for so many more.” Aziraphale dashes more tears from his eyes. 

Crowley’s mouth is hanging open. He seems utterly lost for words, but that’s just fine - Aziraphale isn’t done, he isn’t close to done. 

“I’ve been in this shop since the eighteenth century,” he says, “and I’ve seen every kind of suffering under the sun. I’ve seen people break down and cry in the middle of the street. I’ve seen arguments end decades-old relationships. I’ve seen people dying, out there in the cold during the worst winters, and no one caring enough to help them.” He clutches his head, running his fingers through his hair, his breaths shaky, uneven. “But most often I just see the pain in their minds. And it doesn’t show up on their faces. And I can read exactly what’s happening to them - I can see how badly they need the world to just stop being so unfair, and for some great cosmic order to right their lives, and for things to start making sense.” 

Aziraphale lets his arms fall. “All while I’m here, in my bookshop, wealthy as can be, able to go out to lunch whenever I like, never needing to worry about money or dying or how I’ll keep warm when winter comes.” He wants to let his legs give out under him. He wants to fall apart. “All while I’m reading books and eating crepes.” 

There’s a moment of silence. Aziraphale doesn’t look up at Crowley; instead, he turns and leans his forehead against the window. He can still see people passing. He sees the ones in their cars, too, and it takes him no time at all to pick out the ones hurting. To see their stories unfurling out from behind them like so much shredded ribbon. 

“You...” says Crowley at last, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a bad angel, Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps. “I’m saying I was supposed to be a warrior against the forces of evil and injustice, and I don’t know how. I’m no good at fighting. I’m saying -” his hands are still clenching and unclenching, feeling, Aziraphale knows, for the flaming sword he still senses like a phantom limb - “I’m saying that I’m frivolous, and shallow, and selfish.” 

“Oh, come on.” Crowley reaches out for Aziraphale again, hands going to his shoulders, comforting - and once more Aziraphale sidesteps them. Why is being kind so easy for Crowley? Why does comforting come so natural to a demon? Why can’t Aziraphale reach out to the person driving that car out there, who’s fallen off the wagon for the third time, and give him some of that healing warmth that flows from Crowley without a thought? 

“I care so much about books,” Aziraphale whimpers. “I read them over and over, and I collect them, and sometimes I just sit in the middle of them and stare at them and feel so happy I can’t even explain it. And I want to care that much about all these people. I want to - really, I do. But it’s so exhausting.” He can feel another sob building in the back of his throat. “It never ends, their pain. And when they come in here I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t know how to help. I’m useless.” He has that wild thought again, that reckless, wits’-end thought, that maybe it’d have been better if his bookshop stayed burned. “All I can think about are these stupid books.” 

And he sobs again, and again, and leans against the window like it’s a lifeboat keeping him above a flood. Like it’s another little raft that keeps him from harm when the humans around him are drowning. 

“I don’t know how to help,” he sobs. “I’ve been here six thousand years and I don’t know how to help them.” 

And he feels so weak, so pale and fragile here in this place that’s supposed to bring him joy, that he barely notices when Crowley touches him once more. When Crowley’s fingers press to his cheek again, turning his face, slowly, tenderly toward him. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, quiet. “Look at me.” 

Reluctantly Aziraphale raises his eyes. Crowley’s sunglasses are off. His golden serpent’s eyes are on full display, spread without whites around them. They’re filled with something Aziraphale can’t quite name. 

“You’re not a bad angel,” Crowley says. “No one should be forced to carry the whole world’s suffering. That’s too heavy a weight for anyone.”

“I could be doing it better,” Aziraphale mutters. “I could be - I don’t know - I could be rescuing people from war zones. I could be going out distributing food to the hungry. I could be miracling jobs for every underemployed family. I could be out shouting down bigoted preachers - in fact I could have been doing that for hundreds of years, as they don’t seem to be getting any less bigoted as time goes by. I could have used some divine miracle to stop the Inquisition, if I’d caught it in time, if I’d been more vigilant. I could have stopped the Terror.” 

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for every terrible thing humans have done to each other.”

“What else can I think? They commend you. They ought to have punished me.”

“Come on.” Crowley tilts Aziraphale’s chin up. “We both knew they were idiots for thinking I started the Terror and the Inquisition. We both knew it wasn’t possible for a single demon to do that much damage. How can anyone have expected a single angel to stop it?” 

“So many people died.”

“People die, Aziraphale. It’s what they do.” Crowley moves his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, still gentle. “It’s not your fault.” 

Tears are running more freely, now, from Aziraphale’s eyes. “But it’s my mission -”

“Was your mission.” Crowley’s thumb runs over Aziraphale’s damp cheek. “It was a terrible mission, given to you by angels who didn’t care about you. It was a mission that just set you up to be a disappointment. But you’re free now.” 

“And what am I supposed to do?” Aziraphale wants to pull away, but he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He needs Crowley’s hands. He needs his breath. He needs his comfort, pathetic creature that he is. “I want to help. I want to be good. I don’t want to spend another six thousand years here not making a difference to anyone.”

And Crowley smiles, a smile so slow and so easy and so tender it’s like watching the dawn break in the sky. 

“Angel,” he says. “You’re an idiot.” 

Aziraphale blinks. 

“You know I’m a demon, right?” Crowley nods down at himself. “You know not a single person in six thousand years has ever been kind to me, except for you?” 

Aziraphale glances away, cheeks going red. Crowley’s exaggerating. Though his earnest expression, the way he ducks his head to make eye contact again, belies any sort of teasing intent. 

“You gave me hope in goodness again,” Crowley said. “When you gave away your sword. That’s not nothing, is it?”

“I…”

“You think you haven’t mattered? Angel, you’ve mattered to me for all six thousand years you’ve been on this planet. You’ve mattered more than the sun. You’ve mattered so much you convinced me to stop Armageddon, and it’s not because you were some grand warrior out fighting injustice. I met enough of those types in Heaven.” Crowley jerks his head, as if to dismiss the legions of God’s army in a single gesture. “It was because you loved.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Loved, not the way they talked about in Heaven - not the way they meant it when they said God’s made of love.” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in both hands and holds it steady. “Listen to me. You loved because things brought you joy. Because you were happy, in this world, and that was incredible to me.” 

Aziraphale hiccups. It’s hard for him to keep his mind on the gaping chasm in his gut when Crowley is looking at him like that. When Crowley is holding him so near, and still smiling that close, loving smile. 

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley murmurs. “You’re so good, angel, and you’re a light in this world without even trying to be one. You have no idea how much happiness you can bring just by loving books. It’s not wrong to be the way you are.” 

“Oh, Crowley -”

“Shh.” Crowley draws Aziraphale in, wrapping his arms around him and fitting his head against the crook of his neck. “Hey. It’s all right to cry. Get it out.” 

And Aziraphale cries; he stops trying to maintain his soldier’s stance and leans fully into Crowley, letting Crowley support him. Crowley pets his hair. The feeling is so nice, so wonderfully soothing; he shouldn’t enjoy it, he shouldn’t be thinking about Crowley when he’s supposed to be thinking about the world, but somehow he can’t help it. 

Maybe Crowley’s right. Maybe he doesn’t have to.

“The world needs people like you,” says Crowley. “So you aren’t a warrior. Who needs another force for violence anyway? Humanity’s better off with you watching over them than anyone else.” 

“You really think so?”

Crowley pulls back, and his lips meet Aziraphale’s, softly, so softly. Aziraphale can’t help the smile that blooms in his mouth at Crowley’s touch. 

“I know so,” he says. 

For a long moment they stand in silence, Aziraphale taking slow, steadying breaths, Crowley with his arms still around him, rubbing soothing circles into his back. For a long moment Aziraphale works to let go of the shame he let overcome him.

Then the bookshop’s doors jingle again, and the two of them break apart.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Someone else has entered the shop, someone he doesn’t recognize - a young girl, a teenager, with short dyed hair and large earrings. She looks a little small for her clothes, like she’s shrinking into herself, like she’s lost. It takes her a moment to turn her head in their direction.

When she does, her gaze drops immediately to their joined hands, before she looks up at their faces. Aziraphale catches the trace of a smile in hers.

“Hello,” he says, voice still wobbling slightly. “My apologies. I was just - ah - well, I’d been having a hard morning, and my -” 

He looks over at Crowley, who gives him an encouraging look.

His eyes move back to the girl, and he reads the lost look in her shoulders with hardly any need for a miracle - came out to her parents, they’re not pleased, she left the house to clear her head, but she doesn’t know what’ll be waiting for her when she comes home. 

“My partner,” he says, voice a little stronger, “was giving me some good advice.”

The girl’s smile widens into something more substantial. “Uh. No problem.” 

“Would you like to - er - look at a book?”

“He doesn’t like it when you buy them,” Crowley stage-whispers to her. “Just look and put them back, though, and you’ll be fine. And don’t get any smudges on the covers.”

The girl lets out a tentative laugh. “That’d be great. I’m just… looking for some light reading, you know.” 

Suddenly the spark of an idea enters Aziraphale’s head. With a little bounce in his step, suddenly, he disentangles himself from Crowley and moves toward a particular shelf, beckoning the girl to follow him.

“How do you feel about classical poetry?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “I don’t know much about it.” 

“Well, there’s a delightful poet from ancient Greece I think you might like. I’ve got a book of her work around here somewhere…” 

Crowley watches from the window as Aziraphale rummages happily through the volumes. The girl is starting to relax, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see what he’s looking for. Aziraphale can feel the bright grin growing on his cheeks, but he can’t stop it. And he doesn’t want to. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to talk about Sappho. 

Tonight, when the shop closes again, Aziraphale resolves, he’s going to take Crowley out for dinner. 

[rosaline-kei]

Oh my god that yandere armin x mikasa fanfic was sooooo good. Reading that really brightened up my day thank you for taking my request! I realllyy can't wait for part 2!!!!!!!!!

Disclaimer: I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin / Attack on Titan nor its characters.

Title: Yandere

parts: 2/2

Synopsis:  Unknown to everyone but his victims, there’s a side to Armin that he dedicates to protecting his beloved.

Requested By: @bobfregmegler

If it's ok may i request a yandere!armin x mikasa fanfic set in the aot world? If that's comfortable for you of course.. I loved your fanfic, Bared and I am in desperate need of some arumika content.

Rated: T / M (I’m not that sure; but it’s a fanfic about yandere so there’s that. Read it at your own risk. I might finalize the overall rating depending on the second part.)

Pairings: Armin Arlert / Mikasa Ackerman

Read it also on / Please Leave a Review at: my Ao3 / FF net (might post there soon.)

A/N: Thank you for liking it! Here’s the second and final part. I hope you’ll enjoy it <3. There’s a slight twist at the end?? Sorta. It’s up to your personal interpretation.

-

Mikasa could handle her own, Armin knew. Alongside her striking beauty, was her prowess in pure, physical strength. But, that didn’t mean Armin should lower his guard.

It didn’t mean he shouldn’t protect her.

Scanning the crowded room, it didn’t take him long to spot them. Not when the herd of uncivilised barbarians stuck out like a sore thumb, with their yapping and hollering; their disruptive noises that dared ruin his serenity.

They were sitting together, and aside from all the chaos that erupted from their mouths, reverberating about, they were enjoying the sight of voluptuous women putting on a performance in front of them while wolfing down their bottles of beer. The next thing Armin knew, he was eavesdropping.

“What a show!” One of them exclaimed enthusiastically before clapping, “Too bad it wasn’t that oriental lady! Ahh! What a waste, I tell ya!” Armin tensed, his hand diving into the secret compartment of his jacket, searching impatiently for his dagger.

Wait, no… Control. He reminded, hand abruptly halting in its search. Upright killing them in this crowd is silly… and luring them out might take too long… I don’t want to keep Mikasa waiting. He considered. That only leaves one other option…

“Do yer’ think we can get a grab of her? I saw her enter that motel nearby…” His friend hiccupped, taking another swig of alcohol. Cheeks flustering; not because of the alcohol, though. Armin felt his stomach twist. “Her friend looks like a puny piece of shit anyway…” A smirk decorated the blonde’s expression.

“Ha! Why not?” He smirked deviously, “You don’t see Orientals these days… and can yer’ get us a little more alcohol pal? The encore’s gonna start! And then after… I’ll gather the boys and…” The revolting, impure look said it all, and that was enough eavesdropping for Armin, who felt his patience and control thinning; the taut thread waiting to just… snap!

I’ll kill you. He swallowed, eying his prey that departed from the pack, staggering towards the counter, bargaining with the bartender for another few bottles. He waited, as much as it pained him, he waited, for the right moment. To make the right move.

Luck seemed to be on his side, given how his doltish and stupid prey appeared to be distracted, his attention being directed towards a pig-tailed brunette who revealed a little too much. Watching his mouth water as he slid himself toward the brunette infuriated Armin; did he think about Mikasa like that, too? His Mikasa?

Control. Control. Armin, you can’t let loose, yet. He reprimanded himself, shaking his head, recalibrating himself. Before he knew it, the ugly drunkard and the lady got themselves entangled, swaying back into the crowd.

Perfect.

“OI!” The bartender yelled at the man, who clearly forgotten his order. “YOUR DRI—”

“I’ll deliver it to them!” Armin exclaimed in an awfully high-pitched tone, eyes fluttering as he emerged from the shadows, twirling his way in front of the bartender who looked at the blonde questioningly. “Oh, come on, I don’t wanna keep them waiting! I want to impress them!” He had his lips pouted out, arms crossed, internally praying he’d buy this gimmick. If he could pass off as Historia with a wig and a skirt, this shouldn’t be that much of an issue. Besides, based on his intuition and gut, this particular bartender didn’t seem like the sharpest man out there; he appeared to be more flippant and frivolous.

“Whatever… I’ve seen too much shit, and I’m not paid enough.” He waved his hand dismissively at Armin, evidently fed-up with whatever he had going on in his life. Not that Armin cared though. He was just grateful that his intuition was right.

“Thank youuuu!” He squeaked, smiling all too brightly, before carrying the tray of beers away.

To a secluded corner, where the edges of his smile sunk, grimly settling into a frown

Quietly, he removed a vial containing a form of floral poison he had extracted from a flower not too long ago. It was back when they resided in the woods with the rest of the squad, when he accompanied Mikasa one day to gather wood.

“Careful!” She warned when the blonde nearly trampled on a patch of violet blossoms. “Those are poisonous…” She explained, before rambling on about how her late mother once told her how these killer flowers were commonly mistaken for another more innocent breed, and how it would irritate your skin, possibly leaving long-lasting scars if you got too close to it. “Poisonous, huh?” Armin said, intrigued. How… useful. He didn’t say that out-loud. And it didn’t take Armin long to find out the effects of consuming such a deadly little thing. (How he found out, Armin didn’t have the time to recall his experimentation).

Cautiously, he dripped the deadly liquid into each of the beer mugs, letting it swim and camouflage in the yellow drink, staying hidden, awaiting to strike when indulged. Luckily I brought this along… You never know what trespassers you’ll meet. He noted to himself, eying the idiotic bunch.

Taking a deep breath, he continued with his performance.

“Heeeyyyy sirs!” Armin chirped as he skipped his way to the hooligans, wearing a cheeky smile as he set the venomous tray down.

He watched as their eyes watched him carefully, and as he had anticipated, they were too intoxicated to even remember who he was, or the fact that he wasn’t a woman. “Ehhh? What happened to t—”

“Ah, who cares? That bastard’s probably humped himself elsewhere. Tsk!” The man spat, unconcerned with the disappearance of his other friend. “Besidesss,” He droned out, shooting an inappropriate look towards Armin’s direction, licking his lips ravenously. “We got a flat babe here to fool with before we chase the Oriental… c’mon, join us—”

“You should drink first!” Armin insisted, arms and legs both crossed as he continued, “I wanna go wear my specciiaaalll bunny costume for you… delightful men…and maybe get a couple of my friend to join, after all, you guys seem like charming folk!” He persuaded, a slight whine echoing towards the end of his statement.

“Bunny costume eh?” He watched as their face twisted into something nauseating as they let their fantasies run wild.

Disgusting. Impure.—Those were words Armin associated with people like them; people that dared cross that line. Fortunately for him, they’d never have the chance to inflict those fantasies on Mikasa. Not after this.

“Be right back!” He giggled, stepping back into the crowd as they raised their jugs, exclaiming eagerly that they have scored one, before chugging all of it down.

“Drunkard fools.” He uttered under his breath, his giggling and cheerful appearance alike coming to a halt, replaced by a cruel yet excited look. Alas, Armin began the countdown.

10.

He watched as they continued chattering amongst themselves, full of corrupted exhilaration as they waited for Armin to supposedly return with toys and goods for them to exploit.

9, 8.

He watched them starting to shift uncomfortably, something itched.

7,6.

Something was set ablaze in their throats, they first shrugged it off as the burning aftermath of alcohol at 7, but at 6, they started to drown themselves with beer, then water in hopes of extinguishing whatever was burning.

5,4.

Then, the world spun before darkness enveloped some of them. The others who were still stubbornly fighting against the flame, refusing to surrender to their abrupt fate, dropped to the ground, one by one, choking. No one paid too much attention, having either assumed they drank one too many bottles or were too engrossed with the music; with their dance to debauchery.

3.

They gasped for air. Pathetically, helplessly. Armin watched with elatedness, although he was a little disappointed with himself that he had given them a quick and easy death. If he hadn’t promised Mikasa that he was to be back within forty-five minutes, perhaps blood would’ve been spilled. Perhaps he’d have something else schemed, to drag out their death, to make it excruciating. Ahhh! What a missed opportunity! He couldn’t help but think as he bit his lip, watching their deaths unfold.

2.

Everything became numb, from their flesh right to their bones. Everything became limp; everything, all their nerves started to relax itself—settling them down into an ugly afterlife or hell. That was what they deserve.

1.

Death washed them over, stilling them completely. P-e-r-f-e-c-t. Armin hummed, pleased by the results. Turning away, he snuck his way to the back-exit before anyone could notice that they were, in all actuality, dead.

I can’t believe I had to use that high-pitched tone… ahhhh! How embarrassing! Not to mention, I still have to buy bread... what a troublesome day! He huffed calmly, taking a glance at his watch. I have eighteen minutes left… geez, time flies too fast…Ah! I should get some bread for Mikasa too! He smiled, rubbing the hand that Mikasa touched, feeling and embracing her lingering warmth. I should hurry…

He wanted to see her, quickly. To gaze at her undying beauty, inhale the sweet scene her entire being emanated, perhaps to even embrace her… to lay next to her—if Mikasa’s offer was still on the table; he wouldn’t force anything on her.

Never.

“Ah… I wonder if they have the bread Mikasa likes—”

Having been too engrossed in his thoughts about the raven, he had failed to pick-up the approaching, threatening steps that headed towards his direction; failed to be aware of his surroundings.

He had carelessly fallen prey, his words cut off when a bloody barbarian shoved him against the wall face-front, gripping both his hands.

“Y-YOU…! YOU MURDERED THEM RIGHT?!”

Ah, right. Him.

It wasn’t Armin’s intention to keep him alive out of his own good heart, he thought it’d be humorous to let him be the only one living while his other friends died. It was wicked, sure. But in his mind, it was his own fault for being so careless to leave the drinks right there, in his reach—and maybe Armin would’ve sincerely thanked him for that, if he hadn’t touched that hand.

“I…I saw you serving them that fucking shit!”

His grip was wavering, trembling. Armin couldn’t tell if it was due to some form of developing trauma eating him up, or the fact that he was still drunk. Either way, that wasn’t his primary concern at the moment.

“I…I will kill y—”

“…ouched…th… and…at…he…” Armin’s words were at first inarticulate, as he tried to comprehend the sin that this man had just commit.

How dare he.

“H-Huh?!—”

Interrupted by a successful kick to his groin thanks to his incompetency of securing his entire body properly, Armin threw him on the ground, his feet crushing his face. “How… dare… you…” His voice started out low as he squatted down, glaring daggers at him while his right hand searched for one of his own.

“W-W—”

“How…dare you touch this hand?” He lifted up his left hand, while his right snatched out a dagger that had been waiting in a hidden compartment of his attire. “You know…? Don’t you know…? I knew you barbarians were idiots but I didn’t expect you to be this stupid… This… This was the hand that she touched… and you—” He pointed the dagger right at his throat, tracing it round and round, finding some amusement as he watched his hunter-turn-prey’s eyes follow the knife, evidently terrified.

“…And you fucking contaminated it.” He cursed, head tilting in this flummoxing being right in front of him. He couldn’t understand nor comprehend how someone could be this impolite, this inconsiderate. Even Captain Levi—who had once lived in this place—never did something so offensive!

“I…I… Y…You’re a sick bastard!” The man choked out; and before he could even have the chance to struggle, the dagger pierced right through his throat.

Armin watched the life drain from his eyes. “Sick bastard…me? But what about you?” He said in an accusatory tone, dragging out the plunged dagger, trailing it around his eyeballs, paying no mind to the blood that spewed out. “I saw that look… you know? The look you and your low-lives gave her... and I heard… what you planned to do to her and oh… did that ticked me off.” He said, an eerie chuckle following after as he aimed the tip of the dagger at the lower end of his eye, tempted to dig it out, and perhaps hang it as ornaments somewhere far away; where that look wouldn’t reach Mikasa.

But alas, he didn’t have the time. There was still the bread.

“Ahhh, I’m going to be late!” He groaned as he stood up, patting off any dirt or dust that stained his clothes; he’d have to deal with the blood later. Albeit, he was careful enough not to let it stain too much on his clothes. “Maybe in your next life, you could be a little more considerate of wasting people’s time… honestly, was seeing your dead friends not enough? Ah! Or you could rot in hell! That way you won’t bother this ‘puny little shit’ anymore… right? Right? Hah!” Armin shook his head, taking one last laugh at his idiocy before strolling off, unbothered to clear the mess. It was the underground after all; decomposing bodies and murders weren’t a rarity. And right now, he doubted the military police would even bother with an investigation, given the corruptness of the system, and the trouble the corps were stirring up.

What a day.

“Hmm… I wonder if the bread shop has that bread she likes a lot…” He hummed.

-

Armin stood outside silently. He was a twist of the doorknob away from reuniting with his love.

It is unlikely Mikasa is asleep, no matter how exhausted she is. Armin calculated, and then took a glimpse at the edge of his sleeves where a faint crimson stain remained smudged. The room is dark, it has poor lighting… she won’t see this… then again, she has sharp eyes… ahh… Well, even if she does, I’ll think of a reason… I wouldn’t want to worry her. But if she’s asleep… I’ll just set the bread down and make a run to the washroom.

Taking a deep breath and grasping the packet of loaves, he entered the dimly lit room, closing the door after. “Mikasa… I got you some bread if you want to eat it, oh and it’s not that stale! Even if you’re not hungry, it could be tomorrow’s breakfast before we have to set out in search of those documents…” Armin spoke, settling the package down.

Albeit, before he could do a full scan of the room in search of the raven, he was met with a sharp pair of familiar obsidian orbs that never failed to steal his breathe away. “M-Mikas—”

“You’re… early.”

“I…I didn’t want to keep you waiting…” She’s close. Armin noted, feeling her breath brush the exposed surface of his neck; needless to say, it sent a thrill down his spine. It was difficult to contain, control. “I…Is something the matte—”

“No, No… I’m glad, you’re back safe—”

“Your wrist!” Armin gasped; withdrawing himself from his lovesickness the moment his eyes caught sight of a scar that stretched form the top of her wrist to god knows where. Did… someone come here? Did I miscount? Did I miss someone? I’m sure all of them drank the poison… and I even made sure to get rid of the last… who did it? I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have—… but… who did it? Who dared to touch h—

“I was… just checking if our gear was working, and I accidentally cut myself.” Mikasa assured, “Even in the dark…” She took a step closer. “Your eyes never miss a thing, do they?” Whether it was meant to be a praise or not, Armin took it as one.

“But don’t worry, I’m fine.” She smiled, hand reaching out for his. And Armin would’ve let her. Hell, did he desire her soothing touch. Words that she can’t say, she made it up for her actions. Armin loved that about her. Just a tight squeeze of her hand on his was already overwhelming, it was heaven and earth and all of serenity. He wanted to feel it, but then he remembered it.

Panicked and instinctively, he took a step back, his hands hidden behind his back.

He won’t let her hands be contaminated too, with that filth.

“A…Armin?”

“A-Ah! No… I’m just a little dirty, that—”

“Not that.” She said, a finger pointing towards the faint smudge on his sleeve. “…Is that…--”

“Jam.”

“Jam…?—”

“The bread shop owner spilled some on me when she was taking the bread. Ahhh, it doesn’t matter now! Geez Mikasa you don’t need to be so worried.” Armin quickly brushed it off. He looked at her worried eyes. “I’m fine, I promise.” Even in the dark… he thought, admiring her eyes as his hand reached out about to caress her cheek, your eyes are sharp too—

But froze when he recalled how filthy.

“A-Ah! Sorry… I—” And then, Mikasa nuzzled herself in his palm, Armin’s eyes widened in horror. “M-Mikasa! I’m dirt—”

“It’s fine.” Armin flinched. What? “Because it’s you, it’s fine. I couldn’t care less.”

Armin felt his heart skip, race, palpitate.

He wanted to hold her longer, closer, tighter. He was obsessed. But… he couldn’t risk her noticing that that red patch, wasn’t jam.

“I-I… I’m going to take a quick shower!” He coughed, before forcefully dismissing himself.

Once he closed the door, his back hit the wall and slid down. He held the hand that had the blessing of touching her cheeks. Were they… pink? Armin couldn’t tell due to the lighting. He bit his lip. I love her. He couldn’t help but think. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so filthy anymore.

Caressing the hand, he once again savoured the warmth that was there. Never again, was he going to be so careless to let anyone stain it with their own trace of impurity.

I love her. I love her. I love her, so much. He bit his lip. Nobody’s… I’ll make sure nobody will bother you.

Nobody.

--

Mikasa heaved a heavy sigh. I wonder if that was really Jam… I can’t tell anymore, not in this dark. Not when… Her eyes glimpsed at her fresh scar, and while Armin may not notice due to his little adventure that Mikasa was unaware of, there was a faint scent of blood in the air. Not Armin’s, not the man he killed, and not—

At least he looks fine… he’s… Her cheeks blush, as her hand reached out to touch the side that Armin touched. He’s safe…

She bit her lip. I’ll make sure he’s safe.

--

A/N: Is Mikasa a Yandere too, hm? Well. I left it ambiguous! So it’s up to your personal interpretation <3

[justhereforseverus]

A Rose by any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet

Miserable_toad

Chapter 15: A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury.Summary:

You and Severus spent an intimate night together and he seems to open up to you more and more. The morning comes with a rude awakening and you can't hide your frustration with Dumbledore anymore.

Notes:

This took AGES. I’m so so sorry. Partly, because life is.. strange. Also due to my complete inability to write anything smut related. Sorry for the cringe in advance. There’s also fluff in there. And angst. Basically, a full package.

As always, thank you so much for reading, for your kudos and comments! :3 Comments are always appreciated.

Chapter Text:

We went through the empty hallways, down the staircases to the dungeons. When we stepped into his office, he locked the door behind us and led me to the fire. I sat on the couch after I had hung my jacket to a nearby hanger and put off my high heels. I could see that Severus carefully removed the handkerchief with the lily, looked at in thought for some moments and then put it on a small table near the couch, before going to the kitchen to get some tea. He came back, offered me a cup and then sat beside me. He was still smiling while putting his arm around me. I felt so warm and glowing with love and happiness. I sighed happily and put my hand on his knee. I asked him: “That handkerchief is pretty. Why a lily though? I know they are flowers of purity and virtue but seems very specific.”

His eyebrows furrowed and he drew in a long breath before saying: “…I bought it on a wimp many years ago. As a reminder.”

“Of what?” Wait, maybe I shouldn’t pry into this….I quickly added: ”You don’t have to tell me further. Just...”

He interjected: “No, it’s fine. Remus didn’t tell you anything about Lily Evans then?” I shook my head. “She was.. IS James Potter’s wife and I’m sure you’ve heard that name before.” – he said with a rather dismissive undertone.

“Yes, I think I’ve seen a picture of him in the Daily Prophet at some point because he was promoted or something? He was the guy who defeated Voldemort. I think Remus and Sirius are also friends of him. He lives in the US, doesn’t he?”

Severus nodded weakly: “I think so, yes. Lily and I.. We’ve been childhood friends, neighbours in a way. Went to Hogwarts together. I… liked her… a lot. She broke contact at some point. She was justified in doing that. I was an idiot but it still hurts.”

I think I’ve started to understand..in the end I commented “We all were idiots when we were young.”

“Maybe but I called her a terrible slur and I shouldn’t. Especially, because she was trying to help me when her precious future husband and a certain Mr. Black had me hanging from my ankles in the air.”

Oh Sirius… what an idiotic bully you’ve been. I only replied: “Ouch….you didn’t deserve that.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t but it’s not like anyone but her cared. It doesn’t matter now. I know I did wrong. I know I was at fault. She never spoke another word to me after that and it’s fine. It’s long over now. I bought it to remind me of not doing that mistake again. But I don’t think I need that reminder anymore. At least, I hope so.”

“What.. slur was it?”

“You know.. mudblood, which in retrospective was pretty stupid. Thinking about the fact that I’m a half-blood myself.” - he said with a tired smile.

I gasped: “The head of Slytherin a half-blood?! Wow Salazar must turn in his grave.” I chuckled. “The person obsessed with pure-blood ideology has someone so brilliant and beautiful as a leader, who isn’t fulfilling his first requirement of ‘good’ wizards.” I kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled again,“That’s a secret though. Don’t tell my students.”

“But you’re the change they might need. So never tell me you’re useless again. And we’ve all said things that in retrospect were… shit. Like really shitty. We regret and learn from them. Some people forgive us and see our growth.. others don’t. In the end she married a bully so I guess she changed together with him, too. It’s sad she didn’t give you another chance though.”

Sadness cloudes his features: “I think I was always difficult to handle, especially back in those days. It was difficult to fit in a house that was full of rich and arrogant purebloods. But yes, you’re right. We’ve all changed, I hope. That’s the difference. In the end, it’s ok.. I think. I don’t look for her anymore, haven’t for years.” He exhaled and pulled me closer to me before adding cheekily: “I have to disagree with one point though, I don’t think Salazar would be particularly interested in the looks of his followers.”

I puffed: “Hello?! Have you seen his portrait?! He was certainly obsessed with his own looks. That cloak is extremely fancy and his pose so over the top.”

Severus laughed and I was relieved to see him happy again. Though, I had the desire to be closer to him now, to do more. With an unexpected rush of bravery, I saddled him on the couch. His eyes widened with surprised. I started to kiss him, softly at first but then more passionately. I could feel his hands wandering over my knees and thighs up to my back. I also wandered with my kisses to his neck until I could feel his hands tightening on my dress and an ever so quite moan escape from his lips. I liked hearing the ever so tight and controlled professor in a weaker position. But before I could expand on this new experience, he flipped me on my back in a swift movement and positioned himself between my legs regaining control. Unfortunately, the couch was a bit too short for that and we had to take care not to fall to the floor. He laughed and smiled, his face over mine, his long black hair falling softly around me. He said: “I think, we should continue this in a more comfortable environment.” I nodded, and to my surprise he carried me up in his arms like a bride to the bedroom. He cautiously laid me on the bed, continued his position from before and started kissing me passionately. I was completely lost. He smelled so nice and I loved feeling his weight on me, his hips on mine, his hands that slowly wandered down my sides. At some point my dress really started to bother me though. I couldn’t reach the zipper on the back like this nor was my wand in close proximity. So, I whispered: “My dress... Could you..”

“I understand.” He said and got to the side. I sat up and he helped me out of the dress by pulling the zipper down. I rather awkwardly moved out of it and he started kissing me on my neck and shoulders and I melted. He put his arms around me and tightly pulled me to his chest. “Oh, Severus – what are you doing with me?” I said softly with a shaking voice. He replied by whispering in my ears: “Let me worship you, darling.” And his hands wandered down to my bra, unlocking it, while getting rid of his shirt and pants. He leaned over me and I took a good look at him. He was mesmerising. I could see some scars on his hips and chest and made a mental note of asking him about them later but for the moment… I was enchanted and just drowned in his eyes. He looked like he felt the same before diving into another series of deep kisses. I could feel his hands on my chest, exploring, sending shivers to my core. His kisses wandering down and down, until he kissed the inside of my thighs, looking at me for consent. I nodded and he made me truly feel worshipped with his tongue and fingers until I fell apart. But I wanted more. He moved up to my mouth again to kiss me, removed his underpants and mine before lying on me. He gave a last questioning look before I confirmed again and then pushed deep. I could hear him panting, moaning quietly, a deep and holy sound in my ear, while he moved inside of me and my mind went blank with passion. Everything was just feeling, a fire moving between us until we both reached the peak.

Sweating and panting we laid in the darkness. I put my head on his naked chest and he ran his fingers through my hair before saying: “I…. sorry.. I feel like I can’t speak properly right now but.. shower maybe?” I answered with a heartily yes.

His bathroom was painted green and black and the walls were windows looking unto the Hogwarts lake. It felt like being under water as fish and other creatures swam by. Severus explained to me that the walls are not see through from the other side. He admitted, it’s weird at the beginning to get used to it. It was kinda cool though. Like showering in the sea. We went under the shower and the warm water felt fantastic. He pulled me close to him again and kissed me caringly.

When we went back to bed we just cuddled and I laid my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat while he ran his fingers through my hair. After he sighed contentedly, he whispered: “I’ve never had such a pleasant Yule Ball night. Usually I leave the ball room early, punish some student couples who hide outside to do their frivolous activities and then go to bed early.”

“Oh, these nasty students” I laughed: “But yes, I agree. Thank you for the wonderful evening.” He kissed me again and after we talked for a little bit further we both fell into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning, I felt myself rather reluctant to do anything. In the end, most staff and students would probably sleep out their hangover, so this Saturday was intentionally left without events. Severus seemed to feel the same. He woke up earlier than I did but brought the breakfast on a big dinner tray to bed. He was very cute, sitting in his pyjamas with legs crossed on his bed, eating a croissant carefully over his plate. I took a sip from my orange juice and said: “I somehow didn't see you as the type to eat breakfast in bed.”

He smirked and scoffed: “Oh, what should I do then? Sitting on the fully set table, smoking a pipe and reading the newspaper every morning?”

“Would be very stylish indeed.”

“No. As reserved as I am, I rather don’t have breakfast at all or like that really. My family didn’t have a breakfast tradition anyway. I was glad to get a slice of toast on the way out on some days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that… though I often don’t have breakfast, too. I’m very bad in getting out of bed. It was different during my childhood though. My parents insisted on the morning ritual. I’m sorry to hear you that you didn't Is that the reason why you don’t talk much about your family?”

His expression dulled while he replied: “My parents were poor, my father was an incompetent and very angry fool. My mother suffered much. There is not much to say. It’s a boring story.” He shrugged. I told him that, independent of that, it’s part of him and I wanted to know if he wants to share. He told me afterwards that they died a couple of years ago and I said my condolences. He replied sharply: “Don’t be. It was probably the best for both of them. Though I’d wished I could have told my father what an asshole he is. I’ll never forget what he did to my mother in his rage.” I didn’t want to press further but it was certainly good to see him opening up bit after bit. He looked thoughtfully towards the ceiling.

A bell rang and disrupted our peace. Severus went to the door and told me to stay in the bedroom. He put on a morning gown and left. I could hear Filch speaking through the door: “I can’t find her. Her room is destroyed and Dumbledore sent me to you. Do you know where she is?”

Severus replied cold and distant:“...I do. Go to Dumbledore, we all meet up in his office.”

Severus explained to me that there was another break in. This time not in my classroom but my office. They were unable to break the spell protecting my private quarters but my office was turned upside down. Books destroyed, desk in half.. it was a sight. When I was standing in the middle of my destroyed office surrounded by Filch, Albus, Minerva, Sprout and Flitwick, I couldn’t hold in my anger anymore: “How did they even come here?! I thought Hogwarts was so protected?! You promised me that it wouldn’t happen again?!” I yelled in anger. I was frustrated and unreasonable and frankly, I didn’t care.

Dumbledore said in an overly calming tone, which kinda annoyed me: “They must have help from the Ravenclaw house” – here Flitwick looked to the floor ashamed – “The portrait hasn’t reported anyone not being a student of her house coming in but there are ways to conceal oneself. At least the protection on your private quarters worked. Of course, there is also a possibility that they didn’t want to go that far just to intimidate someone.” The headmaster got closer to me, grapped my shoulders in a comforting gesture before saying: “I’m sorry that happened. I truly am. I promise you we’ll find a solution and a punishment for the perpetrators. But if they were only students. they must have some help from someone who knows how to get around these spells. This isn’t taught at Hogwarts.”

I was devastated: “So, what?! It doesn’t matter! We knew who it was that did this to my classroom. What will you do now, headmaster? This has to end!”

“I know” – he said. “I’ll do my best. I’ll talk to him personally. To son and father. I’m sorry.” – he said sadly and turned away from me. That wasn’t as satisfying for me as it should be. I was disappointed and still angry. Minerva interjected before I could say more: “I don’t feel good with you returning to your quarters, darling. Maybe you should stay somewhere else for the time being. I wouldn’t feel safe knowing that someone was so close to my bed. Albus, you really have to consider that this was a direct attack on all of us. Please.” She petted my shoulders and looked at me with a pleading half-smile. I couldn’t be mad at her and she was right. I’d feel unsafe sleeping here for the time being.

“She stays with me.” – Severus interrupted sharply. Everyone looked at him and didn’t dare to challenge him on that proposition.

“Very well, Severus” – Dumbledore replied before adding “Under the proposition that Professor [y/n] wants that, too.” I nodded “yes, that’s fine with me. Thank you, Severus. I’m sure they won’t dare to break into your office.”

“And if they do, they’ll see what messing with me really means this time”, Severus said while looking closely at Dumbledore.

[overdrivels]

Free as a bird

“How’d a guy like you get a name like ‘Sparrow’ anyways?” 

The question doesn’t come as a surprise to Genji, especially not after the latest fight he had with his brother. The memory of the fight is not as raw as he anticipated. It’s almost laughable now. 

In just ten years Genji nearly forgot just how childish Hanzo could be sometimes. No, he never forgot--he just never noticed it in the first place, too focused on living his life and getting away from the stifling control of his family. 

Hanzo has always been like that, getting hung up over the stupidest things like the perceived favoritism in the form of a single word. Sometimes he can't believe he had such anger toward someone as petty as his brother. (Though anyone would be angry at nearly losing their life.) 

Genji turns away from McCree, staring out past the balcony of the seedy hotel. 

Yes, the same type of seedy hotels that Genji would have found himself getting dragged out of by his angry brother. 

Going back home is always a bit of a spectacle. The morning would still be gray and the streets filled with the elderly and people who have to walk their dogs or other pets in the morning. Very few people dare look the racoon-eyed Hanzo in the face (especially if he had a fist curled in Genji's shirt collar--if he was lucky enough to have one on), subtly making way for the two Shimada heirs and the occasional guard who trails along, pretending to do their job. 

It’s a routine almost as old as his puberty. 

Genji would fuck off in the middle of the night after training, hanging out with whatever ‘friends’ were fearless enough to accompany the second Shimada heir to a club or bar or whatever he felt like doing that night. It would be near dawn before Hanzo would bust in, signalling the end of his fun. Genji never really knew how Hanzo found him--he was so sure to destroy any tracking devices he found on his belongings (sometimes dumping everything but his underwear and pants into the river all together, sometimes putting it on a stray dog or a bird, always checking and making sure his fun cannot end early). Genji chalked it up to ‘mysterious older brother senses’. Either way, Hanzo would drag him back home to their father. 

This time was no different than any other. 

The two of them stood in his father’s office, Hanzo at attention and Genji still yawning with his pants unbuttoned and Y-shirt crumpled from people grabbing at it. Without even a greeting, their father waved his hand at Hanzo in dismissal.

「You may go.」

Obediently, Hanzo bowed, taking his leave with a deep scowl. The grinding of his jaw echoed in the room and Genji could even swear he heard Hanzo’s fists tightening. Genji didn’t really care that his brother was annoyed or lacking sleep--it was Hanzo’s decision to come after him instead of sleeping. If only they’d leave him alone, maybe neither of them would have to suffer so much. 

The door shut quietly behind Hanzo, allowing silence to settle between Sojiro and his youngest son. 

Sojiro put both his arms into the sleeves of his happi.「Out late again, young dragon?」

Genji put his arms behind his heads and grinned despite the glare his father was giving him.

「You know it, old man.」

「What caught your fancy this time?」

「Hah. There was this great DJ playing over the net at the club owned by Yashiro. He looks like he’s twelve, but he’s good! He’s going to be big one day. 」

Genji rambled on and on about the club and DJ with reckless abandon. It wasn’t as though his father was curious about Genji’s night--he just wanted Genji to feel bad and say that he was ‘sorry for being irresponsible and he’ll be more prudent in the future’ or some bullshit. 

He held up a hand.「Genji. A dragon does not indulge in such frivolous activities or mingle so easily with...those people. When will you learn to be responsible?」

‘Those people’ was Sojiro-talk for ‘plebians’. He was still adamant that their blood was superior because they supposedly descended from ‘dragons’. It’s a well-practiced and well-learned speech that Genji has heard enough that he could probably recite it by heart and would probably find it carved into his gravestone if he happened to die before their father. (Not that he’ll let that happen.)

Rolling his eyes, he decided he no longer wanted to listen and put up a middle finger. "Kiss my ass, old man.”

One of his English speaking friends taught him that. A useful phrase if only for the imagery. Genji could feel a little proud of himself for rendering his father speechless. Sojiro’s eyes widened and breath deepened, a sure sign that he did not expect whatever Genji said. 

The swell of victory is accompanied by the song of birds outside the wooden window sill. 

A sparrow. Common in these parts. 

But Genji could see the light in his father's eyes. He curled a hand beneath his jaw, settling a little deeper into his seat and Genji almost wanted to roll his eyes. His father only ever did that when he thinks he's thought of something clever. (It's almost never clever and usually spelled out humiliation for many people.)

"...Sparrow."

Father never used English if he didn’t have to. Or any other language. Of course, he was perfectly fluent in English (and Mandarin, and Cantonese, and Korean, and Taiwanese, and a little bit of Tagalog, and at least four very different dialects of Japanese--all standard in this household), but he preferred to keep his cards close, skillfully showing one at a time when the situation calls for it. (Watching the blood drain out of the face of a rival gang's leader after Sojiro laughed at a snide comment delivered in Tohoku-dialect was extremely satisfying.)

‘Everything a Shimada does must be done with purpose’ is what his father taught him when he was young. His father calling him ‘Sparrow’ in English is no coincidence. 

「What, Father?」 Genji didn’t hesitate to throw the slight back. 「Forgetting how to use Japanese at your age? Unsightly.」

「Hmph.」 There was an amused twinkle to his father’s crinkled eyes. 「The words of foreigners are good enough for you, Sparrow. If you feel that you cannot be a dragon, then you are no better than a common bird.」In Genji’s ears, he only heard the sounds of a line being drawn. 

A sparrow is nimble. 

A sparrow is free. 

A sparrow can be crushed in one hand. 

Fine, if his father wanted to ridicule him with a word like ‘Sparrow’, then he shouldn't mind if Genji took one of his teacher's lessons to heart. 

The best way to disarm a weapon like that is to take it as his own and wear it as his armor. 

Sojiro called him ‘Sparrow’ at any chance he got. Genji wore the name with pride. 

‘I am my father’s cute, little sparrow.’ 

Not a fearsome, powerful dragon of legend, but a weak, common creature of insignificance. 

The imagery is powerful. 

Ever since the name became known, the notch between Hanzo's brows only grew deeper, the scowl almost permanent. It’s almost hilarious to see, and since Hanzo didn’t bother asking for an explanation, Genji never bothered clearing up the likely misunderstanding that was developing in Hanzo’s overactive mind. 

The name spread to the other employees within the Shimada’s employ. Without knowing the meaning behind it or the origin, they all parroted it, taking small pleasure in the seemingly cute nickname. Genji encouraged it, referring to himself as ‘Sparrow’ in place of his own name. 

It’s another thorn in his stern father’s side. 

Genji didn’t expect his father to put up with having his own jest thrown back in his face. He was always every bit proud of being ‘descendants of dragons’ as his brother was. 

So it came as no surprise when the daily morning routine shifted. 

「I was just in Kyoto. Did you know what I found in the stands there?」

There was only one real reason why his father would mention Kyoto if it’s not work-related.Genji shrugged, feigning ignorance. 

「Was it some cute maikos? You know, if you give them my name at the Gion Hatanaka ryokan--」

Sojiro ignored his son’s nonsense and produced a small take-out container with--he guessed it--a gnarly display of two perfectly grilled sparrows. Kyoto was the last prefecture to still sell skewered sparrows on sticks, after all. 

But the message is clear: Keep it up and you too will end up like that.

How unsubtle. 

Genji just took one and bit into it, the crunch reverberating in the room and he stared his father down. He’d love to see his father try. 

Luckily he didn't have to. 

Their father, Shimada Sojiro, died in his sleep not too long after--a more graceful death than anyone who acts like him deserves. 

(Flipping off his father's gravestone as he escaped the castle is almost a habit.)

As everyone expected, his brother was designated the new leader of the Shimada clan. 

Genji took to his namesake more than ever--disappearing and making a home out in town more often than he stopped by the castle. There was nothing tying him down. He could be free and live his life however he wanted and actually be a part of the present, a part of the world, not tied down by decrepit ‘traditions’ or the stories his father so desperately clung to even in his final moments. 

His brother did not take kindly to Genji’s absence, claiming the household is in shambles because of Genji’s flightiness. Apparently there were still some idiots left who clung onto the hope that Genji might still possibly lead the clan. A stupid thought that offends Genji as much as Hanzo. 

Each time Hanzo would grab Genji and bring him home, Genji would say, 「Don’t you know it’s illegal to keep wild animals like sparrows as pets? 」before slipping out again. Escaping was almost second nature to Genji by this point. Everything he’s learned in his training for assassination was being honed just so that Genji could finally leave. 

The final time before Hanzo’s attempt on Genji’s life, they sat down (well, Genji wasn’t there by choice) to talk. Hanzo was clearly fed up with the disrespect and overloaded with the responsibility and mocking whispers of his incompetence (“What sort of leader can be trusted to control a clan when he cannot even control one person?” “Maybe Hanzo is the wrong choice, maybe the position should go to someone else.” “Why does the leader let his brother debauch the Shimada name? Is he looking for the family to fall?”)

「When will you stop being a child? You have all that you could want here--power, respect, wealth--why leave? If you took your position seriously, we could rule all of Japan, we could have an empire.」

Hanzo was tired, Genji could see it in the way his tensed shoulders slumped, could hear it in his voice. He didn’t look like the proud dragon he’s always boasted himself to be. He looked like the shadow of their father. But only that--just a shadow. 

A dragon stays within its castle walls. Mighty as it is, it will only ever know its palace and the bottom of the sea. A sparrow, though small and insignificant, can make a home anywhere and fly anywhere, free of obligation. Though the name was supposed to make fun of Genji, he thinks it’s probably the best thing his father has ever said about him. 

「I don’t want any of that. I want to be a sparrow.」Hanzo snarled, a hateful look crossing his face.「And a sparrow does not belong in a crumbling castle.」

「This Shimada castle, crumbling? Foolish.」

「Which of us is really the foolish one, brother?」

It was one of the last things he said to his brother before the night Hanzo decided to end everything. In a way, Genji almost became a dragon again--consumed by hate and revenge, he was trapped in a crumbling castle known as his mind. 

But now, things are different. He is different.

Genji takes a thoughtful sip of his cider and waves the bottle at the scenery before them. 

“My father, Sojiro, called me that as an insult.” He meets McCree’s sudden incredulous look with a cheeky grin. “I’ve grown to like it.”

[vagrantblvrd]

Twist of Fate (1/1)

Summary: Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for leave in a while.

Notes: Prompt fill for Anon who wanted Battle Buddies with one of them trying to win a stuffed toy at a carnival booth. :D?

(Read on AO3)

Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for leave in a while. Always a critical mission here or world-threatening crisis there. Enormous mountain of paperwork to forge through with command breaking down their necks, that kind of thing.

So this?

A chance to unwind for a few hours on (relatively) friendly soil before someone back at HQ secures them transport back home is a nice break.

Jeremy’s charming a booth operator, Ryan can hear him from here. He’s using that atrocious southern accent of his that slips every other sentence. Can never hold on to accent for long, will swing from southern to some mangled form of British or other to an approximation of Australian.

Irish, sometimes, when he’s feeling a little family pride.

Half a dozen other accents that would rightly insult their native speakers if they even recognized them for what they were. (Jeremy...he’s just bad at accents.)

Ryan can’t help the fond little grin that breaks out as Jeremy walks towards him. Smirking like an asshole and two heaping plates of amusement park food.

Greasy, covered in cheese, and likely to contribute to heart problems somewhere down the line just looking at it.

“The hell is that?” he asks, as Jeremy hands Ryan one of the plates, gesturing towards an area with picnic tables under canvas awnings.

Jeremy, because he’s Jeremy, shrugs and shovels a sporkful of the stuff in his mouth.

“Who knows,” he says, “Lorna gave it to us for free and promised there’s less than ten percent rat meat in it.”

That -

Okay, yes.

They are in Los Santos, cesspool of the great and beautiful state of San Andreas, so that’s a thing. (Only here, Ryan knows, would that kind of statement be something to be proud of.)

“Let’s never come back here again,” Ryan says, because any percent of rat meat in anything is too much.

Jeremy, because he’s Jeremy, laughs at him like he thinks Ryan’s joking. (He’s not, but really, what are the odds they’ll end up back here again anyway?

========

Ryan must have been a horrible human being in a past life because they end up in Los Santos again.

To be fair, it’s probably the safest place for them to be now what with the whole thing with the agency and all.

“Wow,” Jeremy says, limping a little. “This places smells worse than I remember.”

To be fair they didn’t exactly take the scenic tour through Los Santos’ sewers the last time they were here.

Oversight on their part because it’s just lovely down here.

“Less talking, more walking,” Ryan grunts, and it’s mostly the bruised ribs talking. “Also, yes.”

Jeremy snorts, moving closer and being all so subtle about worrying about Ryan falling on his face and into ankle-deep sewage as they trudge along.

One of Ryan’s old contacts has set up business in Los Santos, ought to be able to help them out, if they can find him.

Just gotta keep the cops from finding them after the commotion they got pulled into. Daylight robbery and comical ineptitude on the part of the cops that had them mistaking Ryan and Jeremy as the robbers, and they’ve only been in Los Santos for a few hours.

It’s been a hell of a day. (Week? Month? He’s lost track by now.)

========

Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for time off in a while. Always a job here or a heist there. Cops on their assess because Jeremy just won’t let this whole damn Rimmy Tim business go and people notice. (People in Los Santos are just different than people anywhere else. Sniff that shit out like you wouldn’t believe.)

Still.

Every once in a while they manage to get some time to themselves away from the chaos of the crew. Get the opportunity to walk around the city without someone looking at them and pegging them as public enemy number one.

They end up back at Del Perro Pier where they got their first real look at Los Santos all those years ago.  (A lifetime ago.)

It’s changed a lot since then, chic little restaurants and cafe’s replacing most of the outdoor eating areas. Food vendor booths with their questionable foods boasting about the lack of rat meat in their dishes like that was the selling point that would convince people to hand over their money.

Although...he’s not so sure the food these chic little restaurants and cafe’s are selling are much better when he thinks about it.

Ryan still doesn’t know what they had for lunch, but it was tasty enough and odds are good they won’t live to deal with the consequences anyway.

Not with the way the Fakes approach life, all chaos and anarchy and this careless disregard for their own mortality like they’re racing the clock. (Everyone’s always running out of time, more so here in Los Santos than anywhere else Ryan’s been.)

Jeremy nudges Ryan with his elbow, tips his head towards the midway and waggles his eyebrows.

“You know,” he says, grin on his face and mischief in his voice. “We never did get the chance to really check this place out before.”

That sounds ominous, given it’s Jeremy and nothing’s exploded or even combusted around them for, oh, a good couple of hours.

“Huh,” Ryan says, and lets Jeremy drag him towards trouble.

========

So here’s the thing, right.

The two of them, they’re doing alright for themselves these days.

The agency’s one of those bad memories behind them they don’t have to worry about anymore thanks to a judicious application of explosives and planing and petty vindictiveness. (Mostly the explosives.

They’re part of a crew that doesn’t want them want to claw their own skin off, might even feel like family. (The stupidly annoying kind you’d do just about anything for, but would be a mistake to let certain members know because they’d never hear the end of it, but there you go.)

High up enough in the food chain here in Los Santos without their status in the crew they could get by just fine if things ever fell apart. (Unlikely as that is.)

So why, Ryan wonders, why is he losing his goddamned mind over an amusement park game booth?

Ridiculous little pellet gun in his hands and the faces of horrendously drawn clowns laughing at him as he fails to hit a single bullseye even though he’s a damn good marksman. Hell of a sniper, even if he’s gotten a little rusty over the years with Jeremy on overwatch while he gets up close and personal, uses his size and reputation for maximum effect.

The booth operator is a bored looking teenager with this tiniest of tiny smirks tugging at the corner of her mouth and obviously laughing at Ryan and his repeated failure to win the grand prize.

A whole stack of consolation tickets and one or two low-level monstrosities meant to be some form of adorable animal, but no luck with the giant purple and orange abomination Jeremy had eyed before moving on. Or trying to, before he realized Ryan had forked over money trying to win it for him. And failed and failed and failed.

Ryan shouldn’t even care about it this much, he knows that.

They’re hardened criminal types now, and battle-weary spec ops operatives loaned out to some hush-hush secret agency before then. No room in their lives for sentiment or nostalgia and all that because those were weaknesses they didn’t need.

Jeremy had done the smart thing, passing the stupid little stuffed animal by, but Ryan?

Stupid, idiot Ryan had noticed the little flicker of a smile on Jeremy's face, some bit of childhood nostalgia or something else, and in all his infinite stupidity decided he’d give winning it a try because why the hell not?

They’d sacrificed enough to get where they are, and something frivolous like this was more than deserved.

All Ryan had to do was hit the bullseye on all the targets in a set amount of time and the damn stuffed dragon was theirs – Jeremy’s, whatever.

Seemed simple enough, which should have been a warning sign.

“Son of a bitch,” Ryan hisses, and sets down more money for another go at the stupid targets in front of him.

Jeremy’s not quite at the point of laughing at him, but the asshole’s certainly enjoying Ryan’s complete failure to win this game.

Stupid goddamned rigged game.

Ryan was one of the agency’s best marksmen, had all these certificates and cute little trophies from “friendly” competitions – and all that to back it up. (Not to mention the carefully redacted files and trail of bodies that set of skills netted him.)

He’s up there when it comes to snipers you can find in Los Santos – maybe not as good as Ray, but then again who is anymore – but he can hold his own.

And yet somehow he’s finding it nigh impossible to shoot a goddamned clown in the goddamned nose.

Nightmarish renditions of the things painted on wood and laughing at him every time he clips the outer ring around them.

“Ryan,” Jeremy says, the way he does when the situation has spun out wildly out of control in a manner that isn’t exactly life-threatening but still the kind of disaster where Ryan just wants to set the world on fire. “Oh my God, Ryan.”

Ryan glares at Jeremy because that’s not helpful, and – still laughing it up – Jeremy takes the toy gun from him and takes a turn.

Hits the bullseye every damn time even though his aim’s sure to be off with the way he’s still giggling like an idiot.

Grins up at Ryan as he shoves the stuffed dragon in his hands and a moment later gasps in overblown surprise at the sight of it in all its tacky glory.

“Oh, Ryan,” he says, hands on his face like that kid from that one movie, look of surprise and utter delight on his face. “You shouldn’t have!”

The feigned surprise and soft joy is ruined by the giggling he can’t seem to stop, but when he takes the dragon from Ryan and leans up for a quick kiss to his cheek, it’s a little more tolerable.

Okay, a lot, because Jeremy is happy, even if it’s at Ryan’s expense.

All bright joy and clear laughter and Ryan’s heart does this little flip in his chest because it’s been a long, long time since they’ve had the luxury for either and he intends to hold on to it as long as he can.

[camillemontespan]

the history of us [drake x camille] [part seven: 3rd august- constellations]

Part Six here if you want to catch up!

Warnings: Severe angst. Alcohol abuse. Fluff. Emotional torture. Sorry. 

I don’t think this chapter is particularly exciting or drama filled, it’s quite serious actually because this a serious subject matter. Hope you still enjoy though. 

@fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @jovialyouthmusic @pug-bitch @sirbeepsalot @moonlightgem7 @emceesynonymroll @stopforamoment @burnsoslow @symonde @nomadics-stuff @gardeningourmet @notoriouscs @sawyer0akleyscowboyhat @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @iplaydrake @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @ccolz88-blog @dcbbw @drakesensworld 

      *****************************************************************************

'Drake?' Camille whispered. 'Answer me.'

Drake swallowed, trying to find the right words to explain why he was spiking his morning coffee with whiskey.

He came up with nothing. Because making his whiskey Irish at 8am in the morning wasn't a typical thing to do.

Camille waited. She looked like she was holding her breath.

Drake had to say something. 'I just wanted to mix it up a little?' he said, unconvincingly.

Camille's eyes flashed. 'Outside, let's go.'

He followed her through to the garden where they sat down at the table near the oak tree. They were out the house away from Lily. This wasn't a conversation she should overhear.

Camille exhaled. 'I want you to be honest with me. It's 8am on a Thursday morning and you're already having a drink. You had a hip flask at the kids party. Is there something I need to know?'

Of course there was. She knew there was. She wasn't an idiot.

Drake looked down at the table, at the tree, at the house. Anywhere but at his wife.

'Please,' she whispered. 'Please just talk to me.'

Drake's eyes met hers. She looked like she was in so much pain. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

'I'm feeling overwhelmed,' he admitted. 'The DILF articles, constantly wondering what people think of me, trying to act like I'm a good Duke, trying to prove I'm a good father.. Its exhausting. I'm exhausted. I just wanted something to take the edge off.'

Camille's gaze was steady on his. 'Why didn't you just talk to me?'

'I don't know,' he said quietly. 'I guess I just didn't want to admit I was struggling so I kept it inside.'

'You're using whiskey to self medicate,' she said. 'That's not keeping it inside. That's you turning towards a dark place.'

'Please don't judge me!' Drake burst out. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, focusing on what to say.

Camille grabbed his hands, making contact. 'Honey, I'm not judging you. I'm just trying to understand and to help. Let me help you.'

'All these problems are part of the package of being a Duke,' Drake told her bitterly. 'I just got to deal with it in my own way.'

'By drinking whiskey? Drake, that's not healthy!' she protested.

'I know it's not!'

Camille went quiet. Her eyes were filling with tears. 'I love you,' she murmured. 'I just want to help. I want you to know you can talk to me and I won't judge. I would never judge you. We're a team, remember?'

Drake nodded mutely, his eye back to the table. Camille's heart tugged. She took out her phone and began to tap away on the screen. Drake frowned. 'What are you doing?'

'Cancelling my meeting,' she said, putting the phone down.

Drake felt instantly guilty. 'No, Camille. You love those meetings, it's an important campaign you're organising -'

'You are more important,' she replied firmly. 'I want to sort this out.'

Drake reddened. He didn't deserve her.

'What are you thinking?' she asked.

'I'm thinking that I don't deserve you,' he whispered.

'You deserve everything, Drake,' she said with steel in her voice.

She leaned forward to kiss him softly.

'Now let's unpack this,' she said. 'Starting with the DILF articles. Samantha was on to a good thing trying to show you as a family man because that's who you are. That's the real Drake Walker. But you've never been one to enjoy this kind of attention. So, I suggest we talk to Samantha and see if we can tone down the DILF stuff. She'll understand, it's her job.'

Camille was speaking so gently.

'Next up, the secret drinking.'

There was a silence. Camille swallowed. 'Maybe we can get you help -'

'No Camille,' Drake interrupted. 'I don't need help.'

'You're sneaking whiskey from a hip flask and mixing it with coffee,' she replied dryly. 'This is the start of a downward spiral but we can fix it before it gets worse.'

‘You’re acting like I’m an alcoholic’ Drake said sharply.  He looked down at the ground, clenching his fists with frustration.  ‘I’ve just been stressed. That’s all. I’m not exactly falling around and shouting obscenities at Bertrand, am I? Some people deal with shit by talking or writing or doing fucking yoga, well this is how I deal with stress.’ 

Camille placed her hands on his knees now. He could smell her perfume as she leaned close to him, trying to get him to make eye contact with her. 

‘You were drinking at 8am this morning,’ she said quietly. ‘I was due to go to my meeting. You would have been with Lily today and you would have had alcohol in your system. Do you not see how twisted that is? What if I had gone and you continued to drink?’

Drake opened his mouth to protest but Camille squeezed his knees gently, making him stop. She continued, her voice steady and low. ‘I’m not saying you are an alcoholic, Drake. I’m just worried. I’ve never seen you like this before. I know you like a drink but never in the morning and certainly not with your daughter nearby. Do you not see?’

She was trying so hard. Her voice was becoming more desperate as she spoke now. 'I just want you to be healthy. I want you to be happy. I want you to be a present father, not one who is stuck in a drunken stupor. Please, Drake. We can stop this before it escalates.'

Drake considered her words. He thought of Lily picking up his hip flask. He thought of Camille's face when she drank his spiked coffee.

He sighed. 'I'm not an alcoholic,' he told her. 'I'm not.'

Camille smiled sadly. 'I know you’re not.’

Drake exhaled. 'So if I get help, it's only because I don't want to get worse,' he explained. 'You know me, you know I hate opening up.'

'If you want, I can sit with you so you've got support?' she suggested.

Drake smiled weakly. 'Okay. I'll do it for you.'

Camille sat back, her warmth gone.

'No, Drake. You have to do it for you.'

                         *************************************************

3rd August 2023

We've arranged for a therapist to visit us. Samantha advised that we don't go to the therapists office as the press would catch wind of the situation.

Samantha's been understanding. She agreed to try tone down the DILF image once I told her about Drake's drinking. She's been contacting media outlets to say that calling a Duke a DILF is highly inappropriate. If there's one thing Cordonians hate, it's being told they're disrespecting the nobility. Still don't know how she'll stop the Torso of the Week feature from happening again but she's basically Wonder Woman so I think she's got it handled.

The therapist is visiting today. I'm allowed to sit in the meeting with Drake as moral support. I know talking about feelings is difficult for him but he has to learn that it's okay to be vulnerable, it's okay to feel overwhelmed. He's made such amazing progress keeping his walls down, I would hate for him to go back to square one.

Drake read the diary entry. This was brutal. But he had to keep reading and remembering. She was forcing him to remember.

                         **************************************************

The therapist, Tessa, was very gentle. She spoke with a soothing face and she wore huge glasses that made her look like an owl.

Lily was being babysat by Bertrand and Maxwell while the therapy session was going on.

Bertrand and Maxwell's styles of babysitting were strikingly different. Bertrand seemed fixated on teaching Lily about etiquette, keen to turn her into his protégé.

'Lily, have you ever used a dessert spoon?' he asked her seriously while she picked at a plate of sliced watermelon. The look she gave him was one of incredulousness.

Maxwell, on the other hand, thought they should build a fort in the garden. 'We can make it your own palace!' he cried, practically frothing at the mouth. Lily had jumped at the idea and abandoned her watermelon so she could follow Maxwell outside.

Bertrand sighed and followed too, accepting the fact that he would have to build a fort today. Such childishness. Such frivolity.

                              **********************************************

'How long has this drinking been going on?' Tessa asked.

Drake bit his lip. 'Since we arrived home from Texas.'

Camille's eyes widened. She had had no idea.

Tessa wrote in her notes. 'Okay so today is just a little taste of what our sessions will be like. We have 60 minutes to talk. Anything you are feeling, let it out. It's a safe space here. Nothing you say will leave this room.'

She was meant to say that as a professional but Drake and Camille had ensured that Tessa had signed a confidentiality contract.

Drake bit his lip. 'I'm not good at talking to people I've just met,' he admitted. 'To be honest, Camille is the only person I can talk to freely.'

'I see. Why didn't you talk to her before?'

Drake reddened. 'I didn’t think there was anything to talk about.’

Tessa wrote more notes. 'Well, you have to talk to her now. What we're going to do is you are going to address Camille. You're not going to talk to me. Instead, face each other. Talk to her and pretend I'm not here. This is just your own bubble with Camille.'

Drake turned his chair to face Camille. She smiled at him encouragingly.

'I've felt overwhelmed since we came home,' Drake admitted. 'Just everything with Lily's broken arm, Madeleine talking to the press about us, the DILF articles, all the articles about Lily.. It’s too much. I wanted to sort of numb myself, I guess? So that's why my whiskey intake has increased. I know it's stupid but I just start to feel anxious and like I'm not in control. Drinking takes the edge off. I'm sorry. '

Camille squeezed his hand as Drake spoke. He forgot Tessa was there. It was only him and his wife who was trying hard to get him to open up. 

He knew Camille was always paranoid that he would build his walls back up. It was the one thing she worried about when it came to him because she had seen firsthand how closed off he could be. When they first met, he was a fucking fortress. 

Drake had to keep his walls down. He had to do it for her.

I can’t let her down. 

                     ********************************************************

‘This is a palace of fairylights and dreams!’ Maxwell cried, studying the fort they had built.

‘Yes, very impressive, Maxwell,’ Bertrand said in a bored tone. ‘Can we please start our lessons with Lily? If she’s anything like Camille, she will be easy to teach about the nobility.’

Lily ignored him. ‘We need blankets!’ she shrieked. 

‘Oh my god, Lily, you’re a genius!’ Maxwell shouted, jumping up and down while clapping his hands. ‘Bertrand, you man the fort! We’re off to find blankets!’

They raced off back into the house to find blankets. Bertrand sighed and sat down in the fort. It had cushions, fairylights strung up and its roof was made out of bedsheets, held together by garden chairs. 

This is actually quite cosy,  he thought to himself. 

          **********************************************************************

Tessa left an hour later. Drake breathed a sigh of relief. Camille looked at him and smiled. ‘I’m proud of you,’ she said. 

Drake kissed her on top of her head. ‘Let’s go see Lily. Hopefully she and Maxwell are running Bertrand ragged.’

They went out into the garden to find Lily, Maxwell and Bertrand himself inside the fort reading picture books. 

‘This illustrator is terrible at drawing..’ Bertrand was saying. 

‘Yeah, those books aren’t the best,’ Lily mused. ‘But The Adventures of Olivia the Owl are pretty drawings! Look!’

She showed Bertrand her picture book.  ‘This book’s my favourite because the owl’s called Olivia,’ she told him seriously. ‘Like my Aunt Olivia. I need to show her.’

‘I’m sure Olivia will loooove that,’ Maxwell muttered quietly, keeping his eyes fixed to his Alfie book. Lily didn’t hear him, thankfully.

Drake and Camille reached the fort. 

‘Hey guys!’ Camille greeted them. 

Lily looked up and gave her parents a wide smile, jumping up to cuddle them both. ‘Do you like my fort? Uncle Maxwell and Uncle Bertrand helped.’

‘It’s the best fort I’ve ever seen,’ Drake told her. ‘Wait till it’s night time, you will see the stars if you stay in the fort.’ 

Lily’s eyes widened. ‘Can we look at the stars tonight, daddy?’

             *********************************************************************

That night when it was dark, Drake and Lily settled down in the fort. It was past Lily’s bed time but Drake made a special exception. They sat on the edge of the fort,  looking out at the night sky which twinkled with stars. 

‘Did you know that these stars have constellations?’ Drake asked. 

‘What are con..stell... what’s that?’ 

Drake chuckled. ‘Constellations are stars that form a pattern in the sky, like a drawing you can see. They look like animals or magic people.’ 

Lily frowned. ‘I can’t see any animals in the sky.’

Drake pulled her onto his lap and pointed up at the sky. ‘Okay, you see this one here?’ He dragged his finger and made a pattern. Lily followed his finger, concentrating. 

‘It looks like a polar bear,’ he told her. 

Lily frowned some more, biting her lip, until her eyes lit up. ‘I see it! I see a polar bear!’

‘Awesome! Well, that’s called the Ursa Major.’ 

‘Ursa Major,’ Lily repeated. ‘Why not just called it the Magic Polar Bear?’

Drake laughed. ‘You can call it that if you want.’

‘I will!’

Drake rested his chin on her head and held Lily close to his body. She smelled of cotton; that lovely child smell that only children seemed to have. This is what he had dreamed of having. A family. A kid to teach the stuff his own dad had taught him. 

They may not have been in the woods in wilderness.  They were in Valtoria in their own garden and he was still a Duke. But right now, he felt calm. He felt normal. He felt like he could steal little pockets of joy like this one and give Lily the childhood he wanted her to have. 

He softly kissed the top of her head. Lily snuggled into him and looked up at the stars in wonder. 

‘Tell me another one,’ she said.

Drake grinned and began to teach her more. When Camille came out with mugs of hot chocolate for them, she found Lily standing up and pointing up at the sky with a beaming smile on her face. 

‘Mommy, I can see Orions Belt!’ she said. 

‘That’s amazing, honey!’ 

Camille stole a look at Drake. He was sat cross legged and watching his daughter with a dopey grin on his face.  Camille happily thought she should leave them be to let them soak up each other and the stars. 

   ********************************************************************************

I left them alone because seeing Drake teaching her about stars warmed my heart. Especially after our hard day, it was nice to have a cosy moment. He was born to be a dad, which I know he might scoff at but he really was. For someone who would hold me at arms length when I first met him, preferred to stay in the shadows at palace balls, answered any question with a sarcastic comment, Drake changed when we started seeing each other. He changed even more when he became a husband and even more when we had Lily. He’s completely different- at least, he is to me. 

Teaching Lily about nature, about the universe, about the stars, all of those subjects you can only learn by observing, is something Drake has wanted to do ever since he held her in his arms. He had dreams of teaching her about the world and how it works and now he’s doing it. 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: being a father has been a making of Drake Walker. 

I didn’t think it was possible to love someone so much. Like I thought when I married him that my love for him had reached its full capacity. But as soon as he held our little girl in his arms, it’s like my heart grew ten times larger. When he plays with her, my heart feels full. I watch him take part in her tea parties with her toys and I could burst with happiness. 

It’s a joy to witness. 

Drake threw the diary across the room. It landed with a thump on the floor, disturbing Cheddar and Olive who had been resting on the rug. He placed his hands over his eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling but he failed. 

If he had just stuck to the therapy sessions, he might have managed to keep his marriage afloat. He might have had Camille here right now, telling him about her day instead of being alone. He might have had Lily beside him, asking him to play with her. 

But he was alone. He had had it all. But he had ruined it. 

He stared at the diary on the floor through blurred vision. This diary was tormenting him. It was torture to read. He knew Camille wanted him to remember their life together; that was clear now. She wanted to remind him how good he had had it.

Well fucking done, Camille, you win. 

He stopped himself from thinking more poison.  She had given him this diary for a reason. He had to keep reminding himself of that. 

Drake wanted a drink. But the thought of whiskey right now, after reading about how it had been an accomplice in tearing apart his family, made him feel sick. 

He was not going to drink whiskey.

He was going to finish the diary. 

Man the fuck up. 

He padded over to where the diary lay and picked it up. He settled back down on the sofa and found the next diary entry. Camille’s voice filled his head once again. 

[yobaba30]

Brace yourself, dear reader, for today’s topic is rage. Not just any garden-variety rage, but its narcissistic kind, one of the darkest and most destructive manifestations of our Shadow.

A narcissist’s rage is always there, sometimes barely under the surface, sometimes hovering above it in the form of sadistic cruelties dispensed casually without specific reason, just because (that stupid dog was in my way, you are so fat and ugly, only idiots park their cars in this spot, and no one talks to me like that — any or no reason would do). There are, however, solid enough explanations of its existence.

You may have heard of Donald Trump’s very bad day the other Tuesday — or rather what would have been a very bad day for any normal person / presidential candidate confronted with his inaccuracies and lies. For Donald, however, it was just Tuesday as usual, complete with playing the Perpetual Victim™ of the Cruel and Unforgiving Press, and humiliating people who dared to question him about these pesky things known as facts.

The sordid as usual spectacle was instructive, as is everything else coming from the man, in the dynamics of narcissistic pathology.

First, the bombast. His over-the-top pronouncements about his huuuge charitable efforts are meant to shock and awe the audience into unquestioning submission.

Second, should any audience member retain his or her bearings and still manage to persist in their questioning, next comes the unloading of the massive victimhood complex designed to cow them into silence filled, presumably, with commiseration and appreciation for the Put Upon Donny and His Unique Suffering (and, oh, how he suffers! only a narcissist can suffer so — you mere mortals / losers cannot possibly comprehend it).

Third — since, remarkably enough, the first two options did not quite work, a sign perhaps that some of the press members are growing spines — there followed a predictable, but still shocking, dose of sadism in the form of insults, direct and less so, meant to shut everyone up for good.

It is instructive to watch The Donald, who epitomizes dishonesty and sleaze, rage at the reporters for being “dishonest” and call them sleazy — for trying to extract some honesty and truth from him. He shames them — or futilely attempts to, given that his moral standing is non-existent and reality is decidedly not on his side — with the ease and force that indicates the extent of his own fear of shame.

This sequelae, seen above, in response to shame is classic for any narcissist, especially one of this extreme caliber, for very obvious reasons:

The narcissist tends to be very sensitive to shame, which he perceives as humiliation: a blow to his ego (sense of self) and/or a threat to what he sees as his important status compared to others. This sensitivity is the reason why he tends to lash out at those who shame or appear to shame him in any way. His reactions to shame are grossly disproportionate to the “offense;” he will hold grudges and seek revenge sometimes till death, his own or his “offender’s,” whichever comes first. Hell hath no fury like a narcissist scorned.

Shame is so difficult for a narcissist to tolerate because it arises from an exposure of some flaw of his to others. He has many serious shortcomings; but in his own eyes he is perfect and surpasses everyone else, as he will let you know time and again, directly and not. He must retain this grandiose delusion of superiority and perfection at all costs because this is all he has. His bigger than life persona hides an empty inner core, devoid of meaningful values and attachments. A prick of shame exposing any flaws in the narcissist’s façade has a potential of deflating it and effectively destroying him since there is nothing of substance to fall back on within his inner world.

The rage with which a narcissist reacts to shame or humiliation thus deflects attention from his inner emptiness. That rage is often a predominant emotion, particularly in a narcissist who feels chronically deprived of the admiration and perks he believes he deserves (and as his need for admiration and perks is bottomless, so then is his sense of deprivation). It does not take much to provoke it: a simple, neutral observation or a request can suddenly unleash it on an unsuspecting victim.

The vehement defense against shame is also another reason why a narcissist never takes responsibility for his behavior. Why should he anyway, when he’s perfect and does no wrong? Nothing is ever his fault, no matter how great a mess he creates. Responsibility is always projected outwards, onto others, as blame. Admitting his culpability in anything could lead to shame and cracks in the false façade that defines his character — and his ego won’t allow that. It is a matter of life and death, ‘psychically’ speaking.

The flip side of his shame intolerance is his desire to humiliate others. It comes as naturally to him as breathing. He derives pleasure from inflicting on others the kind of pain he himself wants to avoid at all costs. Humiliating other people is almost as satisfying as winning. It helps that the two often go together in the narcissist’s life. In fact, humiliating others is itself a win. And he likes to win.

What we have seen in Donald’s behavior was a relatively mild version of narcissistic aggression in response to shame, but it gives us a glimpse of what’s beneath it. We are still in the wooing phase, and Donald is, believe it or not, on his best behavior.

He is still The Charming Donald (or what passes for charming in Trumpland), trying to curry our favor and votes. If he makes it into the White House, then we will get to know his true self, unhampered by all these frivolous niceties.

We must appreciate the often sadistic and always revealing quality of insults dished out by The Donald at the people who try to confront him with reality, because, in the Freudian-slippage way, they expose his shadow — take this one, directed at ABC’s Tom Llamas on Tuesday:

You’re a sleaze because you know the facts and you know the facts well.

In this breathtaking attack, The Donald conveyed more than he wished. While his intent was to imply that he was being unfairly (but of course) criticized by the reporter who should know better, he let us know, Freudian-slippage style, what we have observed time and again: that reality as we know it with its pesky facts is optional — and threatening — for him, because he lives in his own version of it, where we all should join him (if we knew what’s good for us).

This again ties in with his pathological defense against shame. A narcissist’s facts and facts as most of us know them are distinctly incompatible, and you bring it up at your own risk.

Should the truth — those inconvenient realities of his life and his character as the rest of us see them — be revealed, he would be emotionally annihilated, so he cannot allow that. Yes, a narcissist would kill, easily, to protect his fragile ego from this unforgivable, to him, insult of the truth.

That narcissistic rage attacks can be deadly we see in, for example, the tragic and seemingly incomprehensible instances of lethal domestic violence where a narcissistically injured spouse, usually a husband, lashes out at his wife who may have offended him “for the last time” by confronting him with some imperfection of his (as in, Would you take your shoes off the table, please?). We can also see it, brazenly displayed, in the lives of genocidal tyrants. Saddam Hussein, for instance, was known to invite his advisers to give him honest feedback, and then execute those who took the honest part seriously. Ditto Stalin.

The epidemic of gun violence in the US, particularly mass shootings — a persistent clamoring of our Shadow to pay attention to its presence, something we equally persistently refuse to do — is also driven largely by narcissistic rage. During a news conference several days ago about the UCLA shooter, the chief of LAPD said the following:

Everybody tries to look for a good reason for this. There is no good reason for this. This is a mental issue, mental derangement.

He was correct that there is no good reason for this and that “mental derangement” is the cause — but we should learn to identify and name this specific mental derangement, called aggrieved entitlement, which is a form of narcissistic rage, already. Our failure to do so, repeatedly and with the kind of stubbornness that suggests willful blindness, is deadly. Whatever other difficulties the UCLA shooter may have experienced, we can assume with a fair degree of certainty that narcissistic entitlement and rage were among them, as it is nearly always the case. For it takes a grand dose of faith in one’s specialness to believe that one has a right to take another’s life — or many — in revenge for whatever slights, real or imagined, one may have experienced.

Tom Llamas’ offense, like those unlucky honest Hussein’s advisers, was, in addition to confronting Trump with cold facts about his charitable inactivities, ignoring those central facts that comprise the narcissist’s reality:

It is not, however, as though his understanding of himself and the world is entirely fact-free. There are three major facts around which his whole reality is organized:

1. I am great.

2. People unfairly malign me.

3. I will show them (they will pay).

Those are not just beliefs — they are facts etched deep in his psyche, and they evoke corresponding emotional states of 1. grandiose pride, 2. sense of victimhood and resentment, 3. desire for revenge, all of which form the core of his sense of self and motivate his actions.

“You’re a sleaze because you know the facts and you know the facts well” — the real facts, about the narcissist’s unsurpassed and unquestioned greatness — and you choose to ignore them. You will pay.

Trump’s gratuitous putdowns hint at the reservoir of narcissistic rage within. If physical violence (or a lawsuit) is not an option, sadistic insults will do. We all remember his gleeful mockery of a disabled reporter; yesterday, he gave us another example when talking about John Kerry’s accident in France last year:

He goes into a bicycle race, and he breaks his leg, and he’s incapacitated. And you know what they’re saying to each other? ‘How dumb is this guy? How dumb?’

The crowd laughed, as WaPo reports.

Narcissistic rage is easily evoked by the weakness of others, which the narcissist finds contemptible and deserving punishment, sometimes giving us hints at his own early traumas he may have experienced as a weak and helpless child at mercy of his harsh and/or cruel caretakers.

It also gives us a close look at other aspects of his shadow. Here is what Trump said about Hillary Clinton this week:

She’s a total mess, she’s unstable, and she can’t be president.

And how he responded when asked why he engaged in Twitter wars with Elizabeth Warren:

Because she is a nasty person, a terrible senator, and it drives her crazy.

These grade-school level barbs, which, like everything else that comes from the man’s mouth, are based on projection, tell us most about his shadow, facts which he does not want to — cannot, at a risk of grave injury — acknowledge of himself: that he is a nasty person, a total mess, unstable, terrible at his job (whatever it really is), and easily driven crazy by petty insults and criticisms. Oh, and that he can’t be president. If only Donald listened to his shadow…

Narcissistic rage is one of the darkest and deadliest forces known to mankind. Before it erupts, it usually simmers and percolates for a long time, fueled by resentment, envy and entitlement, the latter always aggrieved as the narcissist’s need for adulation and glory is insatiable and he can see the world populated by the undeserving, inferior people who nevertheless dare to be happier and/or more successful than he is. It thus creates enemies out of the innocent and often weak who become vessels for the narcissist’s hateful and envious projections.

These sustained projections form a basis of an attitude called the narcissism of minor differences, first described by Freud, where we exaggerate small differences in people who are our neighbors — their dress, the shape of their noses, etc. — in order to feel superior to them and exclude them from our group. This attitude, like anything else based on fear and hatred, easily infects others, already narcissistically predisposed; and the sharing makes the hateful projections grow and spread. The co-existent phenomenon of collective narcissism, which intensifies the in-group ties (and which is unsurprisingly associated with authoritarianism) at the expense of excluding and demonizing those who do not belong to our group, strengthens this pathological, but common and predictable enough process.

Once established as a more or less legitimate shared worldview, the narcissism of minor differences leads to an easy dehumanization of The Other, entrenched in racism and other forms of prejudice. It culminates in mob actions, gang violence, terrorism, and endless internal conflicts and wars, which — because of their grand scale and the magnitude of destruction — are the ultimate expressions of narcissistic rage and the deadliest manifestations of our Shadow.

And we allow this to happen.

Much cyberink has been spilled on analyzing Trump’s enduring appeal to American voters, and lauding his purported political mastery. This predictable but misguided adulation that stems from widespread narcissistic collusion and denial it creates (and the other way around) is exactly what the narcissist desires and aims at extracting from others.

It is unforgivable that our media not only legitimize this destructive individual, but imbue him with all kinds of special skills, attributing to him, with admiration and awe, political genius and media savvy.

Not coincidentally, the same happened with other leaders in human history who shared this character defect: while they were ridiculed by some, they were lauded by the press, domestic and foreign, for their “eloquence” and “brilliant political skills” as they peddled their grandiose dreams of glory alongside contempt and hatred for their “enemies,” The Others.

“This is a marvelous demagogue who can really inspire loyalty.”

“This guy is a clown. He’s like a caricature of himself.”

That’s how the media both idealized and devalued another similar character from the past who set out to show the world how great he was and how much adulation he deserved, Adolf Hitler.

This happens every time with an extreme (psychopathic) narcissistic leader / public character, because his pathology evokes just that very kind of response in people, media people included: it makes us either laugh in disbelief and contempt, or idolize his hyped-up “skills” — which are really nothing more than expressions of his pathology — often both at the same time. And while the public is both amused and mesmerized by the future tyrant’s larger-than-life persona, he ever so persistently marches toward his ultimate goal unimpeded — because the number of those who fall for his narcissistic manipulations is always too large.

The predictable and co-occurring idealization and devaluation are two emotional states that generally define a narcissist’s attitude toward himself (idealization) and others (devaluation; see the insults discussed above). He projects them, primitively — i.e., without any self-reflection or inhibitions, as there is no functioning conscience to impose such “obstacles” on his mental processes and behavior — onto the world and constructs an entire ideology from them.

When dressed up in grandiose and empty sloganeering on patriotism, faith, national purity, and other perverted “ideals,” this pathological process is mistaken for “political brilliance” and other such dangerous nonsense, as it inspires too many people to follow the leader, even if straight into an abyss. His irresistible pull lies not in any specific policies he may be promising (and being blissfully unacquainted with reality, he is always short and/or vague on those), but in the feelings his words engender in his followers, specifically a narcissistic identification with the strongman, which compensates for his followers’ inadequacies; and narcissistic rage, which the strongman embodies and already unleashes on the nation through inciting chaos and violence. The only promises that matter are those which bring in a possibility of revenge for the real and imagined hurts of his followers. That, too, is our Shadow at work.

This phenomenon, part of narcissistic collusion that develops between narcissistic leaders and their followers in any human group and organization, is as common as it is dangerous. It should be obvious that any promises and “serious” pronouncements such a leader makes are not worth the air he wastes uttering them. The only “skills” that he possesses come from his emotional primitivism combined with his grandiosity and lack of conscience, which allow him to unleash the disordered contents of his psyche on the world without any inhibition or compunction.

This appeals to and “awes” people who are psychologically similar, but frightens and repulses, correctly, the rest who are not as primitive and/or disordered and who see where this dangerous process leads. Unfortunately, too many journalists, not to mention Trump’s admirers and supporters, apparently belong in the former camp, as their shadow dangerously colludes with his.

[rogue205]

Oh for God's sake!

I am SICK of these posts and articles and whatever by so-called “fans” declaring that Star-Lord is stupid, an idiot, moron, blah blah blah and why he deserves to be replaced as leader of the Guardians by Thor. Followed by exaggerating Peter’s “flaws” and glossing over Thor’s. Before I start, I just want to affirm that NO, I don’t hate Thor but I’m just sick of angry entitled people trying to force him into Quill’s place because they “hate Quill and he’s out because I say so”. 

Examples from one article: 

Reason One: “The Guardians are ‘stuck’ with StarLord” which starts out with “Peter Quill is an awesome character but has his flaws.” Then proceeded to belittle Quill. 

My Answer: Thor has flaws too!!! Or this author is just turning a total blind eye to Thor 1 where he was so ridiculous that Odin finally threw him off Asgard till he learned his lesson. 

Reason Two: “Thor is truly a God now”. So? This should automatically make him better? This was followed by “Thor lost so much in such little time. Yet he refused to give up and continued to persevere. Quill wasn’t the only one who lost his lady love. Thor has lost much more than Quill but he decided to rise above his losses and start anew.” 

My Answer: Ummmmm…. so are we just conveniently forgetting Thor striking Thanos in the chest with Stormbreaker, not the head? Yeah yeah, I can buy the whole “hard to hit the head at that distance” but instead of marching up, yanking the axe out and finishing it right there, he chose to gloat about getting his revenge for Asgard. Sure don’t sound like “rising above his losses” to me.  Also, if he hadn’t been completely pinned down when Thanos killed Loki what would his reaction have been? Yeah. Exactly.

Reason Three: “The Guardians like Thor” “Thor literally dropped onto the Guardians windshield and instantly impressed Drax, Mantis and Gamora. He even managed to convince Rocket and Groot to come with him to Nidavellir to help Thor forge his new weapon, Stormbreaker. Rocket later sympathized with Thor as Thor opened up to him to show how much he had lost in all these 1500 years and yet he still lives to serve others. Groot even lent his arm to create the handle for Stormbreaker. Someone who could inspire such loyalty from complete strangers in such a short span of time is truly a born leader.” 

My Answer: This author clearly didn’t watch Guardians Volume 1 where Quill had the loyalty of the “Galaxy’s Deadliest Assassin, the Destroyer and two bounty hunters/thugs” by the end of the movie and Volume 2 where they all went rushing to Quill’s rescue during the whole Ego fiasco. Or Drax repeatedly demanding of Rocket to know where Quill was, or Gamora’s “I’m not leaving without him!” or Rocket’s “I can only afford to lose one friend today.” Sure as hell sounds like they like and care about Quill too. 

Then “Peter Quill is a brat and annoys every one of his team mates with his stupid antics. But Thor is not someone who is frivolous. Not only is he more powerful than Starlord, he is also more experienced after having battled the Frost Giants, Monsters and other Gods. He has what it takes to lead the team while Quill is still a novice.” 

My Answer: Holy crap, wish I could say this on the website but if that is this author’s reaction to friends who annoy you sometimes, I hope s/he doesn’t have any if their idea is to toss said friend aside and replace them with a new one for no other reason than because “they’re annoying”. It IS a little stupid considering that Quill was supposed to have matured a bit more after being forced to watch Yondu die for him, so thanks Russos. Before people get all uppity, yes, I know James Gunn wrote the Guardians parts for this two-parter but he wasn’t the director here. And Thor is more powerful than Tony and Steve too, where’s the argument then that “Thor should replace Iron Man/Captain America as the leader of the Avengers because he’s clearly better suited”? AND Quill has killed a God by himself and has faced and took on all sorts of monsters and civilizations out to kill them with his team. Not to mention the shit he would’ve gotten into with the Ravagers, with most of that when he was a child/teenager. But sure, let’s just ignore all that for the purposes of making Thor look better. 

Conclusion given: “With the Stormbreaker as his new weapon, Thor will probably continue his outer space adventures after Avengers 4. The Guardians are a popular superhero team within the MCU. Quill’s reckless act in Infinity War tarnished their reputation a bit and spoilt their chances of saving the universe.” 

My Answer: Nope. Nope, reserve all judgement until after Endgame in regards to 'tarnished reputations’. Guardians 3 is now finally going to get off the ground, so we’ll get that too, not to mention that anyone I talk to about it is happy that it’s actually going to get made and not ONCE did anyone insist that “Thor need to replace Quill because Quill SUCKS!”. And Quill’s reckless act? Hello!!! That’s called “being human”!!! Stark pulled the SAME. DAMN. THING. in Civil War, what with trying to murder Bucky in cold blood after he found out Winter Soldier killed his mother, and trying to force people to sign away their freedom with the Accords just so he could feel better about his own shitty decisions, like creating Ultron. Yet somehow, this ended with Steve becoming the bad guy for fighting back as well as protecting his friend while Tony remained the poor victim with him and Thor getting free passes for the exact thing people are giving Quill shit for. Because they’re Avengers and not Guardians? 

 Last thing I’m gonna say is No. Thor doesn’t need more “outer space adventures” and even if he does, why do they NEED to be with the Guardians? Are we forgetting that everyone dusted is clearly coming back in Endgame and that is QUILL’S ship? Chris Hemsworth did express an interest on continuing as Thor, but we know Loki is getting a television show, so there’s an option for him. As it stands, Hemsworth’s contract has been run out and Thor’s story is completed with Ragnarok. So all these haters will just have to deal with Star-Lord staying right where he belongs. Thank you for sitting through my rant.

EDIT: Well that’s just great. Now Thor has actually joined the Guardians. I PRAY none of this crap actually comes true and they leave Quill where he belongs. We’ve got James Gunn again for the Vol 3 though and NOT THE RUSSOS! At least.

[deijnar]

Anger Relief

Marichat May, Day 1: You’re injured, please stay the night. Please. ran by @marinette-buginette and @australet789

AO3 // fanfiction.net

overview // next day>

"Holy cow, Marinette did you hear what was going on just now?"

Grimacing Marinette held her phone away from her ear to avoid Alya's screams from deafening her.

"No I haven't but I'm certain you'll yell me every word in a second" she answered with an amused smile as she put her phone on speaker and kept drawing up the design she was currently working on.

"That's not a joke, Mari. There was an akuma and Chat Noir seemed quite determined to beat the crap out of them on his own" Alya explained in a serious tone.

Immediately Marinette's face went pale and she grabbed her phone to press it to the side of her head.

"What?!" she asked in disbelief and stood up, already heading towards her balcony.

"They hit him pretty bad, that's for sure" Alya stated rather impressed than worried and even changed to a seductive tone. "But he really did look as sexy as ever. You would have liked it" she teased her best friend who groaned and rolled her eyes despite her grave concern for her stupid, stupid partner.

"This word slipped out once and it was months ago, why can't you let me life this down?" Marinette asked pleadingly, glad she could hide her worry behind frustration.

She could literally hear her best friend's grin through the phone.

"Oh girl, because that doesn't change the fact that it is perfectly true. You're crazy about that cat boy in leather" Alya responded and Marinette pursed her lips as an ashamed blush spreading over her cheeks found her guilty.

"I'm going to hang up now" she announced tersely, hardly trying to keep up her countenance. And again she could feel the self-righteous smirk at the other side of the call.

"Yeah, I'm sure there are already videos of him up on the internet. There's no time to lose."

"I hate you."

Sighing Marinette pressed the red button on her screen and hurried to the ladder leading to her bed. The moment she stood in the chilly evening air she spotted a well-known shadow approaching her but he didn't move as smoothly as normally.

No wonder after such a foolish act, she ranted internally but all her temper died down the moment Chat's face was in clear sight.

Okay, yes, he may look pretty good and truly heroic in a state like this but her worries were much stronger than her ridiculous hero-crush.

"Hello Princess" Chat greeted her through clenched teeth and even his flirtatious smile couldn't hide the pain he was obviously in.

Firmly but careful Marinette grabbed his arm and dragged him into her room to place him on a chair. Guiltily silent he waited while she searched for the first aid kit she kept inside her room since Chat Noir had grown a habit of getting 'experimental' on patrol and asking for her help afterwards.

"Hey Princess, I-"

"You're such an idiot!" she cut him short as she turned around, cotton rounds and disinfectant in her hands. "What happened? And don't even try to convince me otherwise, I know that it was your fault."

For a second he wanted to disagree but he knew he had to acknowledge that she was utterly right.

"Well, yes. A little. But the miffed kitty cat was no match for your catsolutely pawsome furry tail Prince" he stated as he flexed his scratched biceps and wiggled his eyebrows while Marinette raised hers in annoyance.

"You've got claw marks all over your body" she noted deadpanned and started to dab off the blood streaming down his face, not caring for his sharp hisses.

"You're an acute observer, your highness" he answered tensed and in response she harshly poked his next wound, causing him to suck in his breath in pain again.

"But" he continued, letting her get away with her devious attack on him since he had to admit that he deserved it "you should see the other guy!"

"I assume they're perfectly fine and at home." Unimpressed she kept swabbing his wounds, barely holding in her anger.

Seriously, how could he be so calm and keep making dumb jokes? Some of those injuries were pretty deep or close to his eyes, he was more than lucky that nothing grave had happened. And she hadn't even inspected his leg yet but she'd seen him limping earlier.

Didn't he realize that she was truly worried? Couldn't he feel her uneasiness?

"Which means I did a purrfect job!" he pointed out, still not giving up his carefree charade. "You should be paw-roud of…"

"Cut the crap, Chat!" she finally exploded and banged the bottle of sanitizer down on her desk.

"Enough is enough. Stop acting like a child that doesn't understand what's going on. You could have gotten seriously hurt, gosh, you could have lost your eyesight there!" she yelled in frustration.

Taking a deep breath she tried to calm down by watching the clouds outside the window.

She couldn't face him for a moment.

"I know" he responded earnestly and looked up at her apologetically. "I'm sorry, I just… I don't know. I have no excuse." He sighed and shook his head. "Like you said – I'm an idiot. And my puns get even worse when I'm nervous."

But Marinette was way too furious to let it go that easily.

No matter how cute and sorry he sounded, no matter that he seemed to sincerely regret his behavior. No matter what a strong impact his expressive and beautiful green eyes had on her emotional state.

"Why did you try to do this without Ladybug anyway?" she asked angrily and glared at those soulful eyes in front of her.

"Maybe it was a silly attempt to impress my special little Lady" Chat whispered and stood up, not tearing his eyes from hers.

She rolled them.

"Chat, you and Ladybug have been partners for, like what, five years now? I don't think you have to impress her." Annoyed she crossed her arms.

Imperturbably he took a step closer and Marinette froze due to the fact how close he was all of a sudden.

"What if I didn't mean Ladybug?" he asked under his breath with an unfamiliar craving in his deep and husky voice.

Her heart leapt into her throat and her breath hitched as he gently gripped her hips and pulled her close. All of her rage melted into thin air.

"Who… who do you mean then?" she breathed dazed, unable to avert her eyes from his irresistibly close lips.

Slightly chuckling he cupped her face and leaned in even closer, their faces only a hair's breadth apart.

"Oh Princess" he sighed affectionately as he closed the remained distance between them, fulfilling the strongest desire of both of them.

It was a tender, shy kiss and Chat held Marinette's face as if he was afraid he could crush it.

Still it felt like her heart kindled with a fiery passion that consumed her entire body. The world around them seemed to hold its breath and everything she could sense was his kiss.

He parted their lips way too soon to her taste.

But just as he wanted to lean back she woke from her paralyzing trance and longingly wrapped her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against his body as she finally did what she'd dreamed of for so, so long.

Almost desperately she sealed his mouth with hers, felt his warmth, smelled his scent, tasted his lips.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. If these were tears of joy or relief or something entirely different she couldn't tell.

All she could tell was that she loved him.

She loved this dumb, silly, reckless man who held her with a strength that reassured her that he would always be there to uphold her. That he would cherish her, that he would make her happy, that he would love her.

Regardless of all his frivolous solo actions he would always be considerate when it came to her, to his Princess.

Driven by her yet suppressed emotions she buried one hand in his hair as the other hovered over his chest, his shoulders, his back, his neck.

There was too much of him too explore, too much she wanted to feel.

Eventually Chat took her hand and held it close to his heart, provoking another wave of heat flooding through her body, ending all her overanalyzing thoughts.

Overwhelmed she let her feelings take over and concentrated on the only things that mattered right now.

His body so very close to hers, his hands on her hips and his soft lips on hers.

But before it went too far she had to reluctantly let go of him.

A little breathless and heated they separated and Marinette looked up at him while he rested his head against her forehead with a beatific smile, his eyes still closed.

"You're injured" she eventually said breathlessly and he slowly opened his eyes to look at her with so much affection and happiness that her thoughts got blurry again and she nearly forgot what she wanted to say.

"Please stay the night."

Tilting his head aside he gently caressed her cheek, causing her to pleasantly close her fluttering eyes.

"Please."

"I was afraid you wouldn't want me to stay" he whispered into her ear as he lifted her up in his arms and buried his face in the crook of her neck while she wrapped her legs around his waist.

After all she was the one deciding what counted as going too far.

And she wanted to be as close to him as laws of nature allowed.

This is for @reyawoodelf because she loves aged-up stuff and I love her <3 (I hope it’s not bad though, oops.)