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winter-parrot · 10 hours ago

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for @911whatisyourpride week 3: family. took this prompt a little sideways but the idea hit me like a truck like two hours ago and then i typed this entire ficlet directly into the tumblr post dialog like a madwoman, so.

buck doesn't exactly try to adopt a dog, and fails anyway. tommy picks up a dog and an (ex?)-boyfriend. | bucktommy (duh) | post season-8 | 2.4k

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Buck keeps thinking about Blaze. Not Bingo, who went back to his family and is probably spoiled and happy and exactly where he belongs. But Blaze, whom for that single day had belonged to Buck. Who had been a friend when he and Eddie were on the outs, and everything was falling apart, and he had nobody to talk to because everyone thought he was overreacting. Someone who was happy to see him, who looked at him adoringly, who took joy from Buck's mere existence and gave joy in return.

Now, his life is a hundred times the mess that it was back then, but the parallels aren't escaping him.

And yeah, yeah, he's always got Maddie. But she's not his, not really; she's got more important people in her life. Her own family. Chimney, and Jee, and newborn baby Robert-who-he-still-cannot-call-Bobby. Chim's got her and Jee and Robert, in return. Eddie's got Chris, and Tia Pepa. Hen's got Karen and Denny and Mara too, now. Athena's got May and Harry, and anyway he's not going to impose on her, not now, not after everything.

Point is, everyone's got someone who's theirs. Everyone except him, that is. For a minute there he thought he might have Tommy, but well. Shows you how much he knows about love, about building a family.

So instead he's sitting all alone--in a shitty little Airbnb he's got for the week, because apartment hunting in LA is anything but fast--thinking about Blaze. And looking up dog rescues, just to dream about holding them all, and bringing one home, and having someone to greet him and be excited to see him when he gets home.

He knows it's pathetic--knew it even then, when he was clinging to Blaze and ignoring Eddie--but the one thing more pathetic than having a dog for your only friend and source of love, is having no one for a friend and source of love. Although, dreaming about having a dog for his only friend and source of love, when he can't even get a dog because he doesn't have a home address and anywhere with a pet deposit is going to be way out of his price range, is probably more pathetic than both.

The thought doesn't stop him from scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling past the little squares of photos and blurbs. There's a five-year-old beagle named Dot that reminds him a little too painfully of Blaze. A six-month-old mutt of a puppy--they think it's maybe a boxer mix--with bright blue eyes called Frankie. A massive ninety-pound Doberman named Sergeant with a noble air to him--and behaviour problems, apparently. A tiny yorkie, by far the teey-tiniest dog he's ever seen, called Mini.

And then, at the bottom, a raggedy three-legged lab mix called Tres. He's the longest-running resident of the shelter, according to his bio. Lost his leg in an accident, while wandering in the streets. Seven years old, old enough to have trouble being adopted even without the missing leg. He's also got the biggest, most soulful brown eyes Buck's ever seen on a dog. Ever seen period, maybe.

Before he quite realizes what he's doing, Buck has the address memorized and the keys to his Jeep in his hand. No, that's not entirely true. He sort of halfway realizes what he's doing, but refuses to let himself recognize it all the way. Because if he did, then he'd have to acknowledge that it's insane, and then he'd have nothing to do but sit there and think about how pathetic he is, and how sad Tres looked in the photos.

The shelter is almost halfway across the city, because he wasn't exactly paying attention to the location when he started down this impromptu spiral. But that's alright; he's on day one of a four off, so he's got the time to kill. It's early enough, too, so traffic won't even be that bad. (He Does Not think about why he was up so early on his day off. That way lies grief and pain and danger, and he does not want to end up accidentally wrapping his car around a power pole.)

Still, this is LA, and "not that bad" ends up being nearly an hour instead. Plenty of time to think about what the hell he's doing, and all the million reasons it's a stupid, impulsive idea. But he's started this already, going Full Buck as they'd say, and he's determined not to turn back. Maybe he can't take Tres home, doesn't even have a home to take Tres to, but that doesn't mean he can't go see the dog, right? Maybe he can't be enough for anyone in his life, can't make them happy or hold them together, but surely he can be a bright spot in one sad dog's day. He can be good for this one thing.

The shelter's open, but just barely, when he gets there. No cars in the tiny parking lot, thank God, because most sane people don't show up to animal shelters at--he checks his phone--8:17 in the morning. The tiny bells above the door chime a happy little chorus as he walks in. A woman behind the front desk looks up, seeming startled to see him there. Fair enough.

"Hi, u-um, I saw this dog on your website?" Buck says, uncertainty tilting his sentence up into a question.

"Are you looking to adopt?" the woman--Miranda, according to the name tag Buck's now close enough to read--asks, already rummaging for some forms.

"U-um, not-not yet. I don't, um, I don't currently have a pet-friendly place," Buck says. He doesn't have any place, of course, but that's a lot to unload on this poor woman at barely eight in the morning. "B-but, um, but I'd like to someday. When I'm in a- a better place." Winces at the phrasing; apparently he's so chock full of death euphemisms these days, it's leaking out everywhere. "I just, um, I just wanted to see the dog for now? Maybe play wit him for a bit, if-if that's something I can do?"

Miranda looks at him for a long moment. It feels, oddly, like the way Bobby used to look at him. Piercing and uncompromising, but not unkind. Like she was looking at him, really looking, past his shell and right down to the core of him--not to judge, or find him wanting, but just to see. To understand. To maybe even help. The moment stretches like gum, and Buck's not even sure he's breathing. Not until she nods once, sharply, and says, "What was his name? The dog you were looking at?"

"U-um, Tres," Buck says, somehow surprised by this turn of events despite literally showing up here for it. "I was looking at Tres."

Miranda's face turns apologetic. "Oh hon, someone already put in yestereday to adopt him."

Something inside Buck stretches past breaking point, snaps into overstretched pieces. Of course he can't even do this right. Too late and not enough. Forces his lips into a smile that feels far too brittle for how practiced it's become, these past few weeks. "R-right. Okay. That's, that's good for him, right? G-going home to someone who can love him." Love him better than Buck ever could. Who probably has a yard for Tres to play around in, and a cozy fireplace for Tres to curl up in front off, with a fluffy dog bed all set up and waiting.

Miranda nods, but she seems distracted, chewing at her lip. Looks down at her desk. Shuffles through some papers, looking for something. Squints down at one sheet, running her fingers along the lines. "Pick up time, pick up time... ah! Yeah, that's what I thought." She looks up at him, still holding the paper in her hand. "Listen, you seem like a nice guy--the people who come here for the saddest dogs usually are. You can see other dogs, of course, whichever ones you want. But if you've got your heart set on Tres, The owner's out back right now, picking up Tres and his stuff. I can go and ask if he'd be okay with you at least say hi to Tres."

Buck nods, mumbles out a thanks that may or may not come out intelligible past the growing knot in his throat. He can't explain it, why meeting Tres feels so important. Maybe it's because he felt like they were kindred souls, in some terribly pathetic way, forgotten and left behind and waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to finally want him. Maybe it's because he thought that he could save someone, even just one sad dog, from the terrible loneliness eating him up from the inside--and be saved in return. Maybe he just wanted to be good for something, anything, and this was the one tiny thing that felt maybe, possibly, within his reach.

Or maybe he was just a sucker for a sob story and big sad eyes and abandoned dogs. It doesn't have to be that deep.

Miranda pops her head in from the back door where she'd disappeared to. "He said yes, of course. Come on and meet Tres. It'd be good for his socialization anyway, to meet some more people."

Well. At least this whole insane trip wasn't a total loss, then. He can go meet Tres and his new owner, play with a dog for a few minutes, and then drive back to his sad Airbnb so he can keep searching apartment listings. Buck makes his way across the lobby, towards the door that Miranda's holding open. Ducks out through the gap. Steps into a little back yard, lined with straggly grass and patches of sand. Looks around for Tres.

Finds himself looking at familiar blue eyes, instead.

"Evan?" Tommy says, staring right back at him like he's seeing a ghost. His eyes are wide, and so blue, and rimmed faintly red with exhaustion. Buck's pretty sure there's new lines in their corners, stupidly wants to reach out a run a gentle finger over them, to learn their new shapes. Clenches his hands into fists in his pockets to stop himself.

"T-tommy," he says, more breath than word. Has to swallow twice and clear his throat awkwardly before he tries again. "Hey. I, uh, I didn't know you were in the market for a dog."

Tommy shrugs, a little awkward. Something about the motion somehow makes those strong, wide shoulders seem small. "House was feeling too quiet. Thought a dog might help liven things up. Plus, I've always been weak for the puppy eyes." The last sentence comes out with the weight of a confession, too heavy for the back yard of an animal shelter with a soon-to-be-spoiled three-legged dog sniffing around by their feet.

Buck makes his lips curl up at the corner, pretends he doesn't notice it feels more like a grimace than a smile. "You've got good taste," he says, jerking his chin towards Tres. "I had my eyes on him this morning, too."

"Sorry," Tommy says, and it feels like he's talking about more than the dog. "Didn't mean to steal him from you."

It's Buck's turn to shrug, this time. He tries not to think about other things Tommy's stolen, not from him but for him. Tries to hold on to the fading memory of how he felt that sun-drenched morning in Eddie's kitchen, in that helicopter still full of hope over the LA skyline. Tommy's going to be good to Tres. Buck knows, because he was good to him, too. Besides, Tommy's got a solid house, big back yard and a fireplace just like he'd been picturing.

Buck's got no house, and no dog, and no one to go home to. He leans down to pet Tres instead of thinking about that. Lets Tres lick his face and slobber all over him. Pretends that's why dampness weighs down his lashes.

"I was just gonna take him home, get him settled in," Tommy says above him, after a few prolonged minutes of silence.

Buck get up, because he does know how to take a hint, sometimes. Time to get out of Tommy's hair, let him take home the dog he wants without the ex-boyfriend he didn't want. Doesn't meet Tommy's eyes as he turns to leave, because even he's got a limit for how pathetic he's willing to be in one day.

"Do you want to come with me?" Tommy says, the words uncharacteristically rushed.

Buck looks up with surprise. Tommy's got a hand rubbing against the back of his neck in a gesture Buck hasn't seen in ages.

"D-do you want me to?" Buck says. Tries not to feel like he's asking about more than just Tres. Fails. It's like they're having a whole second conversation--except they're not, because they haven't said more than maybe fifty words to each other and neither of them are actually saying it. So maybe it's all in Buck's head; maybe he's gotten so desperate that he's reading signs into innocent

Tommy's wide-eyed again, breathing a little fast and shallow. For a second, he looks almost panicked. Doesn't quite look at Buck as he reaches down to clip a leash onto Tres's collar, and lingers to pet down the line of Tres's spine with a huge hand.

When he stands back up, something in him has straightened. He's steady, looking Buck straight in the eyes as he nods firmly. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I want you to come home with me." Glances down at his feet, where Tres is sitting patiently with his tongue rolling out. "You and me and Tres."

They're still not talking, not really. Not about the them of it all But it's the closest they've come since the helicopter--no, since before that. Since that morning, maybe.

It feels like an invitation. Like a closed door, reopened. Like a second, third, fifth chance at something.

Buck leans down to give Tres one last pat--for luck, for hope, for gratitude, for courage. He takes the hand Tommy opens to him. Him and Tommy and Tres. It feels like a good place to start.

#bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #bucktommy fic #911 fic #911 #911whatisyourpride #my fics #9-1-1 #this is SO LATE for this week too #but it's not midnight yet!!!! (just barely)#anyway i said '1k' at the top of this thing when i started writing it #like a hopelessly optimistic idiot #in my mind they go home and actually fucking talk #and buck moves in to tommy's spare room so they can co-parent a dog together #before they're even together-together #but they get their shit together eventually #and buck moves in probably instead of pretending he's just a prolonged guest camping out in the spare room #and they live happily ever after with tres and like three kids the end #i ain't got time to write all that though #this is all i got for tonight #i was supposed to do so many other thing sintsead of write a fic for two hours #i will pretend i'm gonna clean this up someday later #bc otherwise i'll lose my mind over posting this

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geeky-nightphilosopher · 2 days ago

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Things I wholeheartedly believe about the Wayne Kids and why I believe them:

1. The Wayne kids at gala's naturally migrate to Lois and Clark first, even before Gotham reporters. No, it's not because Clark is/was the first person outside of the family that Bruce truly trusts - it's because even though Lois and Clark do everything to get to the bottom of the story, the truth to the story, they are nice and not looking for money or gossip. And the kids can be themselves.

2. (I made this before, but I want to repeat it.) Handwriting. Each kid knows how to forge every single person they knows handwriting. (All of them.) It's their superpower. It makes Bruce crazy and it's easy to prank people... and helpful sometimes.

3. Despite their turbulent relationship with Bruce, they are loyal to Bruce and Alfred. And each other. Not only is it because they are family, but because when it comes down to it, Bruce and Alfred have always been on their side.

4. Jason owns several bookstores. Some book stores are like libraries where they can check books out, some you have to spend actual money at to read them. It doends on what side of town you live in. It's too help youth get back into reading.

5. Tim, Jason, and Damian play D&D together. I don't actually have a reason for this, but I believe it. Sometimes, they rope Jon, Kon, Roy, Wally, and several others to play. Not Dick though. Dick- somehow - always cheats.

6. Dick and Duke's favorite chickflick movies are; She's The Man and the Devil Wears Parada. Steph's favorite is Legally Blonde 1&2. Cass likes Miss Congeniality. Jason's and Tim's favorite is any Hallmark Movie. And Damian thinks they're all insufferable.

7. Damian goes to the park to feed ducks and secretly has a duck army. He also feeds stray cats.

8. Selena loves all the kids. But Dick will always be her favorite because he helped soften Bruce and help give him some humanity and light back.

9. Duke once stopped a school shooter. As Duke, not Signal. I don't have a reason for this. He just did. I feel it in my blood.

10. Jason and Cass sometimes keep an eye on Gotham Academy, where Duke and Damian are. They'll watch from roof tops. Jason will say it's because he's looking for drug dealers, but secretly, ever since the school shooter scared, he's been worried about his brothers. Cass does it because she saw one of the teachers at a Gala once, and the teacher made her feel uncomfortable.

11. (Another post I made, but still.) The only people allowed to make fun of Dick and Damian's accents are those those who are in the family and are close friends of the family. Anyone outside that group gets pummeled or worse. One time, a minor Leaguer made a joke about Nightwing's accent, and it took Batman and Superman to get Jason off the them.

12. Anytime an article comes out ranking the Wayne boys' hottest list- Steph always doodles on their picture and Snaps them with things like; "Ew, since when did you have a stache?," or "Lol, you look like Clark."

13. Cass will join one of her brother's teams occasionally. And when she does, the only ones that interact with her outside her brother's are the ones closest to them. Tim's team of Young Justice hides when she comes.

14. Steph, Duke, Damian, and Jason are the athletes in the family. Cass, Dick, and Tim don't care much, but will play despite being athletic themselves.

15. Bruce has a swimming pool and hot tub. Can he ever use it? No.

16. Selena and Talia have fought against each other. Somehow, they are evenly matched.

17. Diana, Harley, Lois, Dinah, Ivy, and Selena will have girl days. Sometimes, they'll allow Steph, Barbra, and Cass with them. The boys are jealous.

18. As an April Fools joke, one year, Wally and Barbra convinced Dick they were dating. It put him in shock for three days.

19. Jason won't admit it, but Tim and Dick are evenly matched on favorite brothers. Duke's favorite is Jason, Damian's favorite is Dick. Dick loves them all equally and Tim's favorite is Duke.

20. Alfred has multiple scrapbooks for each of his grandkids and son.

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ptej1980 · 1 day ago

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Same same but different…

We know the story….we have seen the plot but why does it feel just a little bit different.

The Lukola crew have come to expect a certain pattern of SM activities, picture drops, sightings ect, coordinated over the last 12 months. However what we have scene over the last few weeks, although seemingly coordinated seems different.

Starting with the hollowing out as Fia calls it, the pic of Nic and Luke in Adelaide…but leaving it so ambiguous to keep you guessing. Random water pics from Cyprus, no time stamps. A forlorn sad JD in gym saying how much he missing his friends…

There is no interaction between Lukola and the adjacent’s over the last few weeks except Nic liking a couple of posts and 1 friendly comment about a moustache. And a lot of insinuating of the 🐜 of Cyprus 🤮

No telling exactly where in the world Nic and Luke are just that they are quiet and missing ( although not new for Luke lol).

Out of the blue or perfectly timed…I mean you decide, Luke archives 30 posts and changes his PFP. It sends some of the fandom into a spiral….but the good things about this is change. His PFP is from his iconic photo shoot with Nic in NY from the WT. He chose, that specific pic. Also 12 out of the 30 posts have Nic in them. It means a change is coming…a big announcement….a new project in work as well as life.

Less than 1 day after this Nic post what we call Chaos week V3…with 3 stories 1.sweet treat - Luke coded 2. Pic with thumbs up and side of head selfie ( clearly Luke) 3 song that you could relate to Lukola. Chronically online Nic knows what we know. It was done with purpose. This is why everytime she wears her ring 💍 out there it is a massive sign. She knows what we believe about the ring, so the original finger slip like of the engagement ring post of Yagirlmia was no accident.

Then to just by accident find a stroller pic of her..Baby Newts and crew it seems strategic. This pic and her stories are now floating around x with the majority now linking Lukola….like I said same same but different.

The drop of the restaurant pic….whether it was misdirection for travel cover, 🐜 team dropping it for clout because they could who knows, but everyone seems to see it as an old pic (which it clearly is). And as the same tired story, and no one cares about it.

What I can say is that over the last few days the subfandom’s (Jakola’s and Antlukes) have been very quiet. Usually when Lukola positive posts float around X you get some bite back , but I have not seen or head a peep.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next but I am feeling positive…but let’s just be real I have always been positive 😉. I am feeling excited and optimistic that our faves will soon be free to share their joy. I can not wait to see happy Lukola again.

💛🐝

#happily waiting and watching #all in time time will reveal #adjacents out

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dixonsdarkelf · 12 hours ago

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LMAO I knew exactly how this would go based on the title & it still caught me off guard when it happened 😭😂

Daryl’s the same way. He just loves you, is all. You’re like an Apocalypse Barbie, all pink and soft and cute and sweet but tough when you need to be, in a world where women like that don’t exist anymore. Daryl never realized how much he missed femininity, until you came along with all your frills and princess demands and pink panties and makeup, keep trying to put blush on his cheeks just to See, Daryl, you’ve got great cheekbones. Look! Don’t even get him started about what he saw the other day, when he walked in on you tying a purple ribbon around the handle of an axe.

This is precisely what I would aspire to be in a post-apocalyptic world. Bow on the axe & all 🎀

Hey now, she has a point. She did ask you to hold it, sir 🙄

You roll your eyes, one of your favorite things to do around them. “I’m just teasing him, Rick. Just wanted him to put me in my place,” Daryl actually lets out a laugh at that. You’re so funny. So honest. “You’ve both been neglecting me so much lately,” you whine, and while you’re definitely being a little dramatic, especially since one of them is almost always somewhere around you if not physically with you, the both of them have had their hands full with duties in the community.

Should just give babygirl the attention she's looking for 😉

Daryl doesn’t need anything else to create tension between him and Rick. So he’s kept the secret from you, about the dead bodies that they’ve found when they’re on runs, bodies that have been brutally murdered, and the people they’ve met that have tried to harm them. Alexandria has been doing great, but there’s shit scarier than walkers out behind the gates.

Yeah, probably best to keep that a secret for now tbh...

But it’s not the main thing that turns him on, the two of you together. You turn him on, and it’s not because of Rick, or what you two do together. What the three of you do together. Daryl realizes that he’s so into you because he trusts you, has bonded with you emotionally, which is why he’s able to get intimate with you in more ways than just fucking you. He loves you, and it’s the first time in his entire life that he’s ever felt this way.

Oh my heart 🥹 This is so sweet.

What he does know, is that his dick starts chubbing up almost immediately as the name leaves your pretty mouth, and he lets go of your hand to rudely re-adjust himself in his jeans before smacking you on the ass on the way out of the door.

Ope 😳 Sounds like someone's into it.

Daryl feels it all the time. When Rick gets you all to himself some nights, when he hears the headboard pounding against the wall and neither one of you invited him in the room. He feels it, burning hot in his chest, when people say you guys are such a cute couple when they see you and Rick together, and a million more examples he could think of that hurt. But Daryl takes it out on you in bed, in the way that you like, with his tongue or his fingers or his cock, sometimes with a hand placed carefully around your throat. And sometimes he gives Rick a taste of his own medicine. Daryl planned to do that tonight, but you beat him to it, calling him Daddy when that’s a word meant for Rick.

Oooh a little jealousy...okay boys, I see you 👀

The most special word to you. You call Daryl by that name all the time now, but it’s less about sex and dominance with him like it is with Rick, and more about the feeling of safety. Being taken care of. Daryl loves it.

Oh that's kinda wholesome 🥰

Rick’s a little scared at what he’s discovered outside of the gates. Miles and miles away from home base, sure, but seeing the bodies of people strung up to trees, gutted like fish, branded and hurt and just - He doesn’t really want to think about it at dinner. Told Daryl he’d put those thoughts away for tonight, because the likelihood of anything happening over a plate of Deanna’s shitty brussel sprouts and Carol’s potato salad really isn’t likely. So Rick’s trying to enjoy himself, taking whatever alcohol is offered and keeping his eyes on you.

If I found something like that, I'd find it hard to think about much else either, honestly.

I'm a Spencer hater to my core, so I feel this deep in my bones.

Rick is not having a good time tonight. Just internally. He feels edgy and he feels like he wants you, all to himself, with a lock on the bedroom door and his dick buried so far inside of you he could get you pregnant in just one shot, but. Here he is.

WHOA SIR 😵‍💫

People think it’s wrong, or they don’t want to think about it at all. They don’t like it. Rick gets that. If he wasn’t apart of it, he’d probably think the same thing too.

Tbh it's no one else's business. They don't have to like it, but they can keep their opinions to themselves.

Finally, when dinner is about to end, when Rick starts to feel some relief - It happens.

I'm already cackling 😭😂

“Daddy, can you please pass the salt?” It’s like he’s on autopilot. The name is just so familiar, Rick’s trained to answer to it. There’s some salt in the middle of the table, a cute little ceramic shaker that Deanna must’ve paid a lot for before, handpainted, and he reaches for it while in a conversation with Carol when his fingers brush against Daryl’s, and - Fucking hell.

When I tell you I cried laughing 😭 These poor guys can't catch a break.

“Oh, shit,” he teases, shaking his head like he’s proud. “You know what they said. The prettiest girls got the worst daddy issues. It’s in the Bible or something,”

BRO 😭

Pouring your salt and complimenting Deanna on the potatoes, while Daryl literally gets up and walks outside, grumbling something about never coming to another dinner again, and all Rick can think about is the fact that you could’ve easily grabbed the salt shaker yourself. Spoiled brat.

LMAO I think we all know she did it on purpose 🤭

“Think I earned that title fair and square, man. Made her cum six times the other night,”

SIX TIMES BRO??? Goddamn 🥵

“Fuck off,” Daryl replies, and then you whine, tossing your panties in the direction of the both of them. “No, fuck me already!”

LMAO poor Reader You'll get it soon enough, baby.

This was so funny, and it made me laugh so hard. I really needed that. Thank you 🖤

‎ 𝐃𝐀𝐃'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒! 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 & 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 ━━━ ✧˖°

‎ ‎ ‎ 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘, 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐓?

‎ part one + dbf! rick and daryl masterlist

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” Daryl asks, holding back a scoff at the expression on Rick’s face. As close as they’ve gotten over these last few years, like brothers, and even closer now with everything involving you, Daryl still doesn’t like to feel on the spot. He’s uncomfortable with the way Rick’s looking at him.

Like he’s smug. Or a little pissed. Or jealous? Shit, maybe the reason Daryl hates it so much is because he can’t read Rick at all.

Rick shrugs. They’re sitting in the living room, and Rick’s drinking a beer while Daryl holds your glass of water while you grab something upstairs. He could set the cup on the table, sure - but it didn’t even cross his mind. You were cuddling against his side, tucked up all nice and snug under his arm, and then you got up and pecked his cheek when Rick told you to go get ready for dinner, asked if he could hold your water for you since you’d been sipping on it.

Daryl follows rules really fuckin’ well. He’s not the rebel people make him out to be, not even close. But now he feels a little embarrassed about it, with Rick looking at him and all, so he puts the cup down and wipes the condensation off on his pant leg. He grunts, while Rick laughs and shakes his head. Daryl scowls.

“Nothin’, man,” Rick promises, although it’s obvious now that he’s teasing Daryl. He always does, whenever he sees how far gone the older man is for you. How in love he is. Which is funny, because Rick still thinks he plays it cool around you. Still thinks nobody can tell that he’d ask how high if you told him to jump, that he tries to satisfy your every whim as long as it doesn’t jeopardize your safety - pretends he’s all dominant and Daddy and whatever else, and that might be the case in the bedroom…

But it ain’t the case in regular, day to day life, that’s for sure.

Don’t even get him started about what he saw the other day, when he walked in on you tying a purple ribbon around the handle of an axe.

Daryl wants to tell Rick that it’s obviously not nothing, and to stop fucking teasing him because he hates that shit, but then you come down the stairs and you plop yourself down next to him again, looking to your water glass on the table. There’s strawberries in the glass because you wanted fancy water so you cut them up and added them to the pitcher in the fridge, and it must be for decoration because Daryl tasted those strawberries and they tasted sour. They taste like ass, except -

Well, Daryl’s only tasted one ass, and it was yours, and truth be told, you didn’t taste bad at all. Better than those strawberries at least. God, he’s blushing, so he turns his focus on you, except you’re glaring at him.

Like an angry kitten. Big eyes, nose sort of scrunched up. You still look cute, even when you’re pissed. He’s confused, until you poke him in the chest with your little finger, nails painted with something sparkly. “I told you to hold my water, Daryl,” you’re pouting, and you’re upset over something so stupid that Daryl just kind of wants to kiss the pout off of you. He tries to, but you pull away.

So you’re doing this game again. The brat role, where nothing is good enough for you until Daryl or Rick forces you to take it. Which is fine, he supposes. Daryl can work with that.

“No kisses. I told you to hold it, and you put it on the table. You never listen to me, Daryl. I swear, it’s like,” but Rick cuts you off, as he always does when you start your little filibuster of fake crimes either one of them committed. Sometimes Daryl hates that Rick always cuts you off, because he likes to hear the bullshit you’re spewing because it’s just so damn ridiculous. You’re smart, the way you can make mountains out of molehills. Actually takes some brains to be so ridiculous.

But Rick cuts in. “Leave him alone, would you?” Daryl thinks Rick is standing up for him, but instead he says, “I could’ve held it for you. You didn’t even ask.”

It’s been like that lately. Petty between the two of them, and Daryl hates it. As close as he and Rick are, nothing can really prepare a man for sharing the woman he loves.

Daryl’s just glad Merle’s not alive to see him like this - sharing a bed most nights with Rick and you. The other night his foot accidentally brushed against Rick’s and it was so uncomfortable. Somehow even more uncomfortable than the way their dicks accidentally touched when they were both inside of you a few weeks ago. Daryl’s face is definitely pink from the memory of double penetrating you with his best friend, but your bickering with Rick stops his boner before it even starts.

On the walker front, things are stable. The community has enough supplies, and plenty of trustworthy, able bodied residents. Every job is filled, every person has a place to sleep, and things are good. Better than ever, although sometimes Daryl wonders if that’s just because he’s in love.

Maybe everything looks better with you in his heart.

But that sappy shit still makes him feel weird, so he just replies to you. Places a hand on your thigh.

“Just busy, you know. With all those threats. You know we’ve all been on guard, tryin’ to figure out what we saw out there,” Daryl doesn’t say as much as he planned to, because Rick shoots him a look that reminds Daryl that they talked about this. Disagreed actually, because Rick doesn’t want you to know about the potential danger outside of this community, and Daryl thinks you deserve a right to know about everything. You’re grown. You’re smart.

But Daryl’s kept his mouth shut to avoid any drama between him and Rick. He already hears enough bullshit from him about making your hair smell like cigarette smoke whenever you join him on a smoke break (and you still won’t admit to Rick that you like to smoke too), or from keeping you up too late when you play cards with him and Abraham over at Abe’s place that he shares with some of the others from the group. Shit like that.

Alexandria has been doing great, but there’s shit scarier than walkers out behind the gates. Rick doesn’t want to worry you, and neither does Daryl, but -

He supposes it’s a worry for another time. You’ve all got to get to dinner, remind the rest of the group that Daryl and Rick aren’t a pair of perverts that keep you locked up in the house.

Your brows furrow, and then you place your hand on top of Daryl’s and lean up to kiss him. “Alright,” you grumble against his lips, surprisingly agreeable. Daryl’s focused on you, but he can feel Rick staring, probably a little tipsy from his beer and maybe even a little turned on, watching the two of you together. He’s admitted he likes it before, watching, but it still feels weird to Daryl.

He’s into this whole thing because of you. He loves you, and he wants whatever you want. Sure, it’s hot, watching you blow Rick, or call him Daddy while you ride the cock of a man that was already grown before you were even born. But that’s just because he’s a man, and any man seeing that shit would pop a boner.

“Good girl,” they both praise, accidentally at the same time - although Rick’s has a tone of something degrading and mocking, while Daryl’s good girl is genuine. The silence that follows them saying the same thing at the same time is long, and you freeze before letting out a laugh, standing up and taking Daryl’s hand.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you say, and it sounds innocent coming out of your mouth, but it’s far from it. When you say it, you look directly at Daryl, and maybe you just really want him right now, because you get like that sometimes, horny for just one of them, which is understandable. Daryl can’t believe you’re even able to walk with the amount they both fuck you, honestly.

Or maybe you're just trying to piss Rick off - which you do, every damn day. Daryl doesn’t know your reasoning.

He doesn't have to look behind him at Rick to know that he’s jealous.

Rick says that he doesn’t get jealous, but Daryl knows that he does. Doesn’t know why Rick even pretends like he doesn’t, because it’s natural and it makes pretty damn good sense why he’d feel that way.

But Daryl takes it out on you in bed, in the way that you like, with his tongue or his fingers or his cock, sometimes with a hand placed carefully around your throat. And sometimes he gives Rick a taste of his own medicine. Daryl planned to do that tonight, but you beat him to it, calling him Daddy when that’s a word meant for Rick.

It’s just that - you’ve been doing it more and more lately. Calling Daryl Daddy. For a long while, he had a feeling that he was just the third wheel in whatever romantic adventure you and Rick were on. He thought that you liked Rick but you didn’t want Daryl to lose feelings for you, so you let him hang around. You assured him that wasn’t the case, but still - it was hard not to feel that way. But as time has gone on, he’s starting to believe you.

Daddy. The most special word to you. You call Daryl by that name all the time now, but it’s less about sex and dominance with him like it is with Rick, and more about the feeling of safety. Being taken care of.

Daryl loves it.

Daddy, open my soda can? I got a scratch on my finger, you’ll say, as if those things are correlated in any way, as if you need to make up reasons for Daryl to dote on you, but you’ll hop on yout tip toes for a second, looking all cute and innocent, or your tits will jiggle when you bend over the counter to hand the can to him - and, fuck. Truth is, you ask and Daryl always delivers, so he does whatever you need and kisses the tip of your nose.

Sometimes you get scared at night, because the world is a fucking scary place, and sometimes you just want some extra comfort. Will sit on his lap on the couch and ask him to hold you (as if you have to ask) or pull the covers halfway up over your head when you’re in his bed, head on his chest, just seeking some comfort with the soft murmur of Daddy leaving your mouth.

And, yeah, okay - it’s sexual too. Whining Daddy and damn near ripping his hair out when he’s between your thighs with two fingers curved inside your tight pussy and his tongue on your throbbing clit, or when you’re bouncing on his cock like a fucking bunny.

The jealousy that Rick feels is valid, and Daryl understands. In a way, that feeling just goes straight to his dick. Makes him horny and angry and fired up when the roles are reversed, but for right now? He enjoys the feeling of Rick’s eyes on your hand that’s interlocked with his. ‘S what the fucker gets anyway, for hogging you the entire night last night.

Rick’s just jealous ‘cause Daryl’s got himself a title now too.

Daddy. Yeah, Daryl’s pretty sure Daddy is better than boyfriend any day.

────

When the community is doing well, it usually means that Rick is exhausted.

Granted, he’s been exhausted every single day, every single second, for the last few years - and he’s pretty sure everyone still alive feels the same way. If there’s ever a day, or a week, where things feel hopeful and exciting and good - he can pretty much guarantee a storm of shit will follow soon after, a pattern he’s starting to recognize by now.

He doesn’t really want to think about it at dinner. Told Daryl he’d put those thoughts away for tonight, because the likelihood of anything happening over a plate of Deanna’s shitty brussel sprouts and Carol’s potato salad really isn’t likely. So Rick’s trying to enjoy himself, taking whatever alcohol is offered and keeping his eyes on you.

Everyone wants to talk to him, because he’s the leader, so he listens and answers and tells Deanna he doesn’t care if the chicken meat she’s serving is white or dark, but he’s not really paying attention to anything except for you. Nothing else matters when you’re around - and that’s amazing, but it’s also really fucking dangerous, but it’s not your fault. You can’t control how lovable you are, but sometimes Rick wishes he could go back in time and kick your dad’s ass for making such a perfect woman.

He has those thoughts in his more insane bouts of anger and frustration, but. You know what? He’s going to drink to that. Takes a big sip of wine and pretends like he's a normal boyfriend. That he doesn’t share his girlfriend, who’s young enough to be his daughter, with his best friend who’s also old enough to be her father. That he’s not going to take you home after this and fuck you until it hurts to walk, just to take all his frustration out on you. Sexually, that is.

Because you love that shit. It’s never hard enough for you, never rough enough. And maybe you’re just a brat, trying to get Rick to go deeper and faster to get a rise out of him, but sometimes he feels like he can’t keep up with you.

Little Miss Virgin, his ass. You might’ve been a virgin when he first fucked you, but you were far from sexually inexperienced, and Rick feels jealous all over again just thinking about you with other guys.

And a little turned on, which further irritates him. Maybe what you said is true - told him you learned, in a psychology course, that men deal with anxiety by getting angry. You’re a little smarty pants, and Rick loves you so much, but.

He’s just in a mood today.

Daryl always tells him to stop being so rough with you. Left fuckin’ bruises on her man, he said the other day, flipped out about you limping after they fucked you at the same time, and he really hates it if he’s around whenever Rick gives you a little slap on the cheek. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell Daryl that you want it, it still upsets him to witness you getting hurt. Because Daryl can be rough because that’s just who he is. It’s accidental. He’s big, a little uncoordinated, whereas Rick really does try to make you take more.

It’s hard sharing you, but Rick knew it would be. But he also knows Daryl, and he knows you, and for a situation like this, he quite literally couldn't pick a better man to share his girl with. Daryl’s such a great guy, such a good friend, and he treats you so damn well that it feels nice to know you've got someone else. In case something ever happened to Rick, or even the other way around.

He and Daryl have talked about it, what it would be like if something happened to either one of them. At least you’d still be taken care of, because the likelihood of one of them getting hurt isn't zero. Not in this world. It feels nice to know that no matter what, you’d be okay.

And, both Rick and Daryl tell themselves that to feel better, to push away the guilt of double-teaming their dead friend’s daughter. To keep her safe. But, hey. Whatever gets them through the day.

Maggie asks Rick something too serious for this dinner, so he brushes her off as nicely as he can, but then he sees you from the corner of his eye giggling with Spencer, and Rick wants you to have friends, but come on. What could you possibly talk about with Spencer? Rick just doesn’t like the guy, never has. Even before you said he looked like he could be a model for a surfing brand one night to Rosita. Whatever.

When you laugh a little louder, Rick hears Daryl call Spencer’s name to take his attention off of you, and he does it so smoothly that nobody else probably realizes why he did it. Or maybe they do, because the entire group does know about the three of you. They think it’s weird as shit. Rick knows this, and has had people in the community question just how reliable and trustworthy and good both him and Daryl are, but the other man set them straight.

Really, people are more afraid of Daryl than they are of Rick.

“The fuck you care for? Don’t needa tell anyone who I’m stickin’ my dick in. Rick don’t have to tell you shit neither,” he snapped at the first person to voice their concern, and then followed it up with, “‘And ‘s not gay, before one of you fucks tries to say sumthin.’ More gay to worry about who I’m fuckin’, if you ask me.”

And, yeah, that shut people up. But both Daryl and Rick still try to keep the PDA to a minimum around you, although you make it impossible. It’s why he’s sitting across from you, and Daryl is a few people down from you at this large table, because they both want to give the group space from this. They know it’s weird. Saw the looks on people’s faces when they were leaving for a few days on a run and you hugged and kissed them both, practically sandwiched between them in front of everyone.

People think it’s wrong, or they don’t want to think about it at all. They don’t like it. Rick gets that. If he wasn’t apart of it, he’d probably think the same thing too.

But for right now, he’s just glad that Daryl hates Spencer just as much as he does.

Without Spencer to talk to, you finally focus on eating. Rick watches you push a pea around your plate, thinks the way you tease Eugene and try to take a bite of his mashed potatoes is funny, until he retaliates and grabs your bread roll off your plate, and since Gabriel is sitting next to Rick, he notices when the man almost falls out of his chair, making a scene until someone says there’s cake.

Rick doesn’t even have to hear him say it to know you fucked up with a game of footsie. Which sucks, because Rick would’ve had fun playing with you right now. Too far to the right, sweetheart, he wants to tell you, but you brush it off rather well, stick your tongue out at Daryl who shakes his head like you’re crazy, and Rick just feels sorry for Glenn and Eugene who’re sitting between you two.

Finally, when dinner is about to end, when Rick starts to feel some relief -

It happens.

It starts with Deanna offering someone the last scoop of mashed potatoes, and then you say you want it, are about to split it with Tara, and everything is fine. Rick doesn’t even know he’s supposed to be bracing himself for what’s about to happen. The mashed potatoes are on your plate, you’re bragging to Eugene that you got the last serving, and then -

“Daddy, can you please pass the salt?”

It’s like he’s on autopilot. The name is just so familiar, Rick’s trained to answer to it. There’s some salt in the middle of the table, a cute little ceramic shaker that Deanna must’ve paid a lot for before, handpainted, and he reaches for it while in a conversation with Carol when his fingers brush against Daryl’s, and -

Fucking hell.

Rick’s never felt so awkward. And in all the time he’s spent with Daryl out on the road, seeing terrifying things - the look on the other man’s face when they both realize what happened has more terror on it than Rick has ever seen before.

He swears his entire body turns the color of a tomato, and his neck starts heating up, so much so that he jerks his hand away from the salt shaker and starts pulling at the collar of his shirt. Daryl clears his throat, but he does hand you the salt, all the while Abraham hoots with laughter at the end of the table, slamming his hands down so hard his plate almost bounces off.

“Oh, shit,” he teases, shaking his head like he’s proud. “You know what they said. The prettiest girls got the worst daddy issues. It’s in the Bible or something,” and he’s drunk, and he’s wrong, and Rosita smacks him so hard on the back of the head that Rick’s actually a little concerned, but you seem just jolly.

You know what?, Rick thinks. Fuck it. The truth is out, he can’t take it back. So much for no PDA or keeping your bedroom activities and the dynamic of the relationship on the down low. He stands up, says he’ll see everyone bright and early tomorrow, and fixes you with a look. You’re familiar with it.

It’s the same one he wears when he tells you to get on your knees or lectures you about running off. You’re well trained, and you show it by quickly standing up, no longer the playful little minx that had Rick walking on eggshells during dinner.

Rick walks to you and grabs your hand while you say a quick goodnight to everyone, then he tugs you along back to the house you share.

“You need to be more fuckin’ careful,” he warns, dropping your hand to pinch at the back of your neck while he leads you to the house. Not too rough, but enough to get you to know that he’s serious. That it’s not cool to pull that shit, although something like pride is starting to rear its head inside of him as you both make your way up the porch steps, where Rick can see Daryl, already in the living room with the lights on, from the window.

“You’re so grumpy today,” you complain, but Rick ignores you. Doesn’t want to start bickering before he gets to fuck you.

Mine, he thinks, knowing you pulled that whole stunt on purpose. Mine, mine, mine. Everyone knows that you’re his. Daryl’s. Theirs. What’s he got to be embarrassed about? Rick’s done enough for this entire community to have what he wants without judgment, hasn’t he? Daryl too. ‘S what he deserves. What Daryl deserves. A pretty girl like you, even when you’re an attention seeking little brat.

And a pretty girl like you deserves two men who know how to give you what you want. They’re better for you than some idiot guy around your age. Better for you than someone like Spencer, who couldn’t be the man you needed him to be even if he tried.

Rick’s not jealous. Seriously. He just hates that guy.

Rick’s in a significantly better mood now that he’s away from everyone, knowing that he can charge you with some petty crimes to punish you, and hopefully this time - get Daryl in on it, instead of that good cop, bad cop shit. If they tire you out enough, maybe you won’t make such a big fucking fuss when he tells you they’re leaving tomorrow to go investigate the threats outside the walls.

But tonight is for fun.

“Can’t have two Daddies, you know. Gotta think of sumthin’ else to call Daryl,” Rick says. He leads you up the stairs, and he follows with Daryl following him, and he can’t see it but the other man just shakes his head.

“Think I earned that title fair and square, man. Made her cum six times the other night,” a little pause, when they get to the door of the Rick’s bedroom and block the doorway while you get on the bed. Your dress is slipping off your shoulder, and later that night, Rick will tell you he knows you did that salt thing on purpose, because you’re an exhibitionist little brat. Could see how wet you were, from the spot on your panties as you took your clothes off for him and Daryl while you were on the bed.

But for now, in the present, Daryl takes his shirt off. “She can have two Daddies if she wants. Can have anything she wants,” he promises, walking closer to the bed.

Rick’s already taking his belt off. He laughs, loves how much Daryl loves you, before shutting the bedroom door. And just in case, he locks it.

“Whatever you say, Uncle Daryl.”

“Fuck off,” Daryl replies, and then you whine, tossing your panties in the direction of the both of them.

“No, fuck me already!”

‎ just a little oneshot bc i missed my bfs 🩷 part two coming soon!

426 notes · View notes

agentstarkid · 3 days ago

Text

WHAT THE GODS TRIED TO BURY ✦ 06

✦ WORD COUNT: 7.8k

✦ WARNINGS: language, cussing, angst, a brief appearance of the green monster, self-deprecation and feelings of inadequacy are a soulmate thing ig, brief mention of torture. Proofread but i'm so sure i missed something.

✦ MAY'S RADIO: i'm posting this now because if i read it one more time i'll keep changing things 🫠 i think it was a good idea to split it into two chapters tho—this one has so much emotions woven into it. it's blowing my mind all the love this series is receiving—thank you so much, angels!! 🥹🖤 i really hope you guys like this one,,, if you don't,,, well, fuck.

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Cassian’s mouth fell open. “What the fuck—”

But he stopped himself.

The woman standing in front of the hearth, hood still drawn over her features, was the one who had vanished again after refusing Azriel’s outstretched hand. And at the same time, the one who once dragged him into the kitchens in the middle of the night to steal a pie—and then somehow made him take the blame when Rhys’ mom caught them.

She came home.

Azriel took a single step forward. The shadows that lingered between them stilled—then split down the middle, as if granting him passage.

She didn’t bother lowering her hood. Didn’t need to. The firelight reached beneath it anyway, casting golden arcs across the scars that hadn’t been there two hundred years ago. Eyes gold as ever. A little haunted. A little dangerous.

She didn’t smile.

The tension in the room was suffocating.

The scent of lightning still hung heavy in the room, threaded with scorched cedar and something bitter—like ozone before a storm. Feyre said nothing, her arms tight around Nyx. Rhysand hadn’t moved.

And there she was. The female who had once fought and laughed beside them, who’d whispered war plans with Cassian on balconies and stolen wine with Mor in the library. Who’d told Azriel secrets in the dark.

Now she looked at them like strangers.

Cassian’s stomach twisted.

Ghosts don’t walk, he told himself. Don’t smell like crushed spices and ash and saltwater. But he still stared at her like he was seeing a ghost. Everyday since, he’s been struggling with accepting the knowledge of her being alive.

“No. No way.”

She tilted her head. “Surprised?”

His eyes narrowed. Then widened.

“Wait a damn minute—” His gaze darted to Rhysand, then Azriel, then back to her. “You–You’re the one who—”

“Sent half your soldiers running in circles? Lit up your wards like Solstice lights?” Her lips curved—not into a smile exactly, but something crooked. “Yes. That was me.”

Cassian let out a sound—half a laugh, half a curse. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Gods, she was really here.

Even after she’d sworn she never would be again.

“You really do know how to make a fucking entrance,” he muttered, running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair.

But he didn’t move closer.

Not yet. Not unless she let him.

Because part of him still wanted to grab her and shake her and demand why.

And another part—deep down—was afraid that if he got too close, she’d vanish again.

(And this time, he might not survive it.)

She took a step forward, shadows curling up her back like half-formed wings. Azriel still hadn’t moved. But she felt his gaze—like a hand at her spine. Tracking every breath. Every shift.

Cassian’s arms crossed. Not defensive. Just bracing. “So, what—after all this time, you’re suddenly here to…do what exactly?”

“You said you needed help fighting Koschei,” she said smoothly.

Cassian folded his arms. “So? Why now?”

Her brows lifted beneath the shadow of her hood. “Well, you asked.”

Cassian blinked. “What?”

Her eyes flicked to him. Unbothered. “That’s what you asked me to do, isn’t it? To help you?”

“That was four months ago,” he said, voice low, but sharp enough to cut. “You told us to go fuck ourselves and vanished into the wind, remember?”

“I do. Vividly. And yet, here I am,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “You wanted help against Koschei. Now you have it.”

Cassian laughed—short, humorless. “Forgive me if I’m not falling over with gratitude.”

She raised a brow. “That’s fine. I’m not here for thanks.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?”

A pause. “Strategy.”

“That’s not an answer,” he snapped.

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

His wings shifted behind him, like a reflex. “Why now?” he pressed again. “Why show up now? How do we know this isn’t a trap?”

Her smile was slow and razor-sharp. “You think I’m working for Koschei?”

“I think,” Cassian said carefully, “that the male who raised me like a brother left you to die. And I think I’d be a fool not to ask who you’re really loyal to.”

That landed. Her expression didn’t change, but the air around her sharpened—grew colder, heavier. A faint pressure curled inward, as if the room itself had taken a breath and was holding it. The scent of ozone threaded through the air.

A bead of condensation gathered on the nearest glass.

Her voice was quiet, lethal. “You think I’d put myself in the same room as this asshole for fun?”

Feyre’s grip on Nyx instinctively tightened.

Cassian didn’t flinch, but he didn’t back down, either. “I think I don’t know you anymore.”

A beat of silence. The air loosened—just slightly. The invisible pressure receded, the tension ebbing like the hush after distant thunder.

Then—

“Well,” she said, flicking a hand, “maybe you never did.”

Cassian huffed a bitter breath, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something softer. “That’s not true.”

She tilted her head. “Isn’t it?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then shook his head, muttering, “Gods, you’re still such a pain in the ass.”

That crooked smile ghosted her lips again. “You used to call it charming.”

Cassian gave a snort. “I used to be stupider.”

“Used to be?” she echoed, mock-surprised.

Even Azriel blinked at that, a flicker of something almost like amusement passing through those shadows. Feyre glanced between them, brows lifting slightly. Rhysand remained stone-still, but his gaze was locked on her like he was trying to crack open her skull and see what had changed.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Cassian threw up his hands. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You vanish for two centuries, walk in here like it’s nothing, and the first thing you do is insult me,” he whined.

“Some things never change,” she said airily.

“No,” he agreed, voice quieter now. “Some things don’t.”

The pause that followed didn’t feel like silence. It felt like something fragile being held between them.

It was too easy, the banter.

She saw the moment he realized it too—that despite everything, despite the pain and the betrayal and the impossible distance of time, this rhythm between them was still there.

Still alive. Still theirs.

Cassian looked at her the way someone might look at a memory they thought they’d lost. One that hurt to remember—but hurt even more to forget.

She saw it. Felt it. And something in her cracked, just a little. A flicker of warmth. Of familiarity.

She’d told herself it was gone. That the person she was with him—who she used to be—had died long ago.

But for one blink of a moment, it felt like stepping into the past. Like that old rhythm between them was still there, buried under everything.

Then Feyre shifted Nyx in her arms, and the small noise was enough to snap her back.

Her spine straightened. Her face smoothed over again into something unreadable.

The mask slammed back into place.

She turned back to the fire. “Don’t mistake this for something it’s not. This isn’t a family reunion. It’s a war council. Let’s not confuse the two.”

But Cassian—stupid, soft Cassian—did.

The General’s chest tightened. He nodded once, solemnly. But he couldn’t stop the way his eyes lingered on her face—just for a moment longer.

Because even if she’d shut the door, he’d seen it.

That flicker.

That piece of her—the real her—still buried underneath the bitterness and bone-deep hurt.

And for the first time in two hundred years, it had looked back at him.

Her voice cut through the room, clear and cold. “I'm here because we have a common enemy.”

Cassian’s brows knit. His arms remained crossed, “So what—you figured we were convenient?”

“I decided,” she said, gaze hard as flint, “you were the lesser of two evils. That’s it.”

That landed harder than he expected. His mouth pressed into a line. For once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback.

There was no warmth in her tone. No room for argument or emotion. Just strategy. Cold, clinical. Calculated.

And in that moment, as he stared at her, he saw it. The Commander of the Night Court’s army. His right-hand soldier. The blade-sharp edge of her that had once led thousands into battle without hesitation.

Next to him, there was no motion from Azriel, no flicker of expression. The weight of his stare alone felt like pressure against her ribs. His eyes locked on her—deep, still, assessing. Like he was watching for signs of damage. Or for truth.

She didn’t flinch under the weight of it. But gods, she felt it.

That pull. That old, terrible pull.

Like standing too close to a cliff’s edge and pretending the wind at your back isn’t temptation.

His eyes devoured her—like he was cataloguing every inch. Lingering on the scars. On his shadows that now curled around her shoulders like armor. Like she might disappear again if he blinked.

The silence stretched until footsteps echoed down the hall.

Not heavy ones like Cassian’s. Not the silent, predatory gait she knew belonged to Azriel or Rhysand.

These were lighter. Hesitant.

The door creaked open.

A female stepped through. Her presence was all polished grace and gentle hesitance. There was a kind of stillness about her—like spring dew clinging to a blade.

She paused just over the threshold in a sweep of soft fabric and garden-blushed perfume, her hand still on the doorknob. “I heard voices—”

Her words died when her eyes landed on the hooded female standing before the fire.

The room seemed to shift.

The female’s gaze moved slowly—from Rhysand to Feyre, to the shadows gathered male in the corner. It lingered there a moment too long before flicking back to the stranger at the hearth.

Only… not quite a stranger.

Not with the way a few of Azriel’s shadows were wrapped around her like they were tethered. Not with the way Cassian stood taller, broader—like a shield he didn’t realize he was trying to become. Or the way Rhysand’s eyes seemed to be stuck on her, a weird mix of softness and wariness in them.

Elain blinked, her expression uncertain. “Is… everything alright?”

The hooded female made no move to greet her. Only turned slightly, shadows hiding most of her face, and offered nothing but silence.

Feyre’s voice broke through, too soft to startle. “Elain.” A faint edge of worry laced her words, though she kept her tone calm—for the sake of the child in her arms. “It’s alright. You should head back to your room.”

But the female—Elain—didn’t move.

Didn’t listen.

She could feel it, after all. The tension hanging in the air. The sharp alertness of those she called family. The way they stood like they were braced for a fight.

(Who was going to fight who wasn't clear, though.)

So Elain stepped forward instead, crossing the room in soft, deliberate steps and stopped beside Azriel.

(Too close.)

The dark-cloaked figure kept her eyes ahead, focused on the hearth, but she felt it—the closeness of Elain’s hand near Azriel’s, the tilt of her body turned subtly toward him. Heard it in the way Elain spoke quietly to him, a question only he could hear.

And maybe it was the softness in her voice. Or the way she reached out to gently touch his arm.

But something sharp twisted in the female’s gut.

She wasn’t sure if it was instinct—or the ghost of something far older.

Whatever it was, it made her shoulders stiffen.

Azriel didn’t answer Elain right away. His eyes were still on her.

Because his shadows—traitorous little spies—slithered away from her and coiled at his ear, whispering the truth directly into his ear.

She’d tensed the moment Elain stepped beside him.

Tensed like something in her had bristled. Like instinct. Like a wound prodded open.

Something inside him stirred and purred pleased.

His shadows curled inward for a breath, then slithered away again, like smoke drawn back into a flame, as if relaying the message had been enough.

But one tendril lingered. Slipped back toward her like a question, like a breath. Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t stop it. It brushed the edge of her hood and gave the faintest tug—just enough to let the firelight catch her face. Just enough for him to see.

As he instinctively took a step in her direction, the air shimmered—

And Morrigan winnowed into the room, voice already mid-rant. “What the hell is going on? I swear if you made me share the same air as Keir just to—”

She froze.

She stared.

The blood drained from her face.

“No,” Mor whispered. “No. That’s not—”

Her voice cracked. She took a step forward. And then another, slower. Almost afraid. “We thought you were—Rhys said you were gone. We grieved you.”

Her expression softened. Just slightly. “I know.”

“You died,” Mor choked. “I—”

“I didn’t.”

Her voice wasn’t cold. Just tired.

“Mother above,” Mor breathed. “It’s really you.”

And then Amren appeared, in a swish of silver and cold.

She scanned the room. Took one long look at the cloaked figure. And unlike the others, didn’t freeze.

She tilted her head.

“Well,” Amren said coolly. “I’ll be damned.”

The second-in-command female gave her a once-over, arms folded. “Still using chaos as your calling card?”

The golden-eyed revenant arched a brow, not once breaking eye contact. “Still collecting trinkets and terrifying males?”

Amren’s lip twitched. “I should’ve known the attacks had your signature on them. Subtle as ever.”

The woman shrugged. “Subtle doesn’t get messages across.”

A beat of quiet.

Amren tilted her head, a glint of something like approval flickering in her ancient gaze. “Good,” she murmured. “I’d hate to think you’d gone soft.”

The female’s mouth curved—barely. “You always did have a warped idea of softness.”

But the tension between them wasn’t harsh. Not quite. There was a flicker of familiarity. Of something like respect.

And then silence again. The kind that meant there was too much to say—and no time to say it.

Still, she could feel it. The weight of a gaze locked on her.

Hazel eyes. Unmoving. Watching.

She met them, finally.

A second passed. One heartbeat.

Two.

And it felt like the whole room tilted.

So many words unsaid.

So much weight.

But it wasn’t just his gaze she felt.

Just beyond him, she caught the brown-eyed female. Lovely, all delicate features. Draped in softness, in sweetness, in everything she never was. She noticed the way the girl’s hand hovered near his, too casual to be coincidence. Familiar. Intentional.

The scent of flowers and honey curled in her throat. She almost gagged on it.

Something in her chest coiled, but she smothered it before it could rise.

She looked away first.

“Wait–Hold on. Where have you been? How are you here?” Mor’s voice wavered, thin and disbelieving, cutting through the charged silence and dragging her gaze from the male standing motionless—as if carved from stone—and his lovely shadow dressed in bloom. “I saw you fall and–and Rhys confirmed to us you died. I–I mourned you.” Her final words cracked around the edges, barely holding together. Her eyes scanned the female as if trying to find the seams in the illusion. As if convinced she’d dissolve if Mor blinked too long. “And now…now you are here.” Her voice dipped into a breathless whisper, as if the truth of them had only just landed—and it hit hard. Too hard. Her expression twisted—shock still warring with something darker. Like she wanted to be angry, needed to be, just to hold back the grief clawing at her edges.

“Standing in front of us as if nothing has happened.” Her voice sharpened. “Why would you do that? How could you do that?” To me. She didn’t need to say it aloud but the weight of it was there. It settled between them like ash.

The female didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Only said, “I could explain to you the hows and whys, but I think it would be more fun to hear it coming from the one who orchestrated everything, don’t you think?” Her voice was calm—almost too calm. But there was something simmering underneath it. A glint of challenge. A thread of buried fury woven into silk.

She turned her head slowly toward him. “What’d you think, Rhysand? I always did enjoy listening to a good storyteller.”

All eyes turned to the High Lord, who until now had kept to the shadows of the room. He stood with Feyre and their son positioned protectively behind him—his silence no longer a shield but a spotlight.

His posture was a practiced stillness—one he’d mastered over centuries of war and diplomacy. But inside… his heart was thundering. The sight of her—alive, standing, breathing—was a blow he hadn’t prepared for. Not even in his nightmares. Not even in his hopes.

And now, every lie he’d told to keep his court together, every excuse he’d spun, was unraveling—thread by thread.

“What does she mean, Rhys?” Feyre’s voice was quiet. Controlled. But her hand had gripped his arm, tightly.

He didn’t answer.

Because her eyes were still on him. Pinning him like a butterfly beneath glass. There was no softness in them. No mercy. Rhysand could feel the weight of it—her gaze, like a blade held at his throat. Daring him to lie. Daring him to not say it. And from either side of the room, four more gazes pressed in.

Cassian’s: wide with disbelief, waiting—needing—answers.

Azriel’s: colder. Sharper. Burning with a fury so quiet it could only have come from grief.

To the side, Mor stood frozen mid-step, golden hair catching the firelight. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. She looked between her cousin and the female she hadn’t seen in centuries. Her face was pale, the beginnings of realization dawning like a storm behind her eyes.

Amren sat back in her chair, her expression unreadable, but her silver eyes narrowed on Rhysand with laser precision. She hadn’t said a word either—but she was watching. Not just the scene unfolding, but everyone. Measuring truths. Measuring lies. Her stillness was a warning in itself.

“Would you like for me to make an introduction or would you prefer taking center stage?” Her tone was laced with mockery, but just beneath the sarcasm lurked the sharp edge of frustration—like a long-held dam threatening to break.

Cassian breathed her name like a plea—soft, like it would settle her. It didn’t. It only helped to light a fuse beneath her skin. The weight of it, the familiarity, the audacity. Was he seriously trying to play peacekeeper now? After everything she’d already been forced to carry alone?

Her voice snapped like a whip. “Shut up.”

She turned to Rhys once more. If they were going to stand there and pretend ignorance, then fine. She’d spell it out for them.

“Won’t you like to know how your brother handed me over to the enemy like I was just some fucking inconvenience?” Her voice rose—not in volume, but in fury. Low and shaking and sharp. “Or how he watched me beg for help when, suddenly, my body didn’t respond to me?” A brittle laugh broke from her lips, all edges and old wounds. There was no humor in it. No cruelty either. Just the brutal edge of a wound that had never healed.

Rhysand’s stomach hollowed.

It scraped through the room like shattered glass.

“Oh, would you like to explain to them why that happened, Rhys?”

Silence fell. Total. Suffocating.

Rhysand opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter now, pulsing around him like restless sentries. As if they could sense something his body hadn’t yet allowed itself to feel.

He couldn’t stop watching her.

The cut of her jaw, sharper now. The way her stance held weight, not just from the steel at her back, but from something deeper—grief calcified into bone. The tilt of her chin, defiant and exhausted in equal measure. The brief sight of new, faint tattooed lines, branching out and resembling lightning, going up her arms and disappearing under her leathers; ones that were worn and plain, travel-stained and practical. No jewels, no flourish. Just her—and somehow, that made her more striking than he remembered.

But it wasn’t just how she looked.

It was the silence she carried like a cloak.

It was the stillness in her eyes, the kind you only learn after you’ve lost too much, too young, for too long.

What made him excel at his job was the fact that he had always been good at reading people—at seeing what was buried beneath the surface. And with her… he saw it all.

The fury in her voice might have been aimed at Rhys, but beneath it, Azriel could feel the pulse of something else. Something cracked and quietly bleeding. A kind of tired that didn’t sleep. A sorrow that didn’t speak its name.

She was angry, yes.

But she was also hurting.

And he understood that hurt more than most would.

He’d known the girl she’d once been. The girl who laughed too loudly at Cassian’s jokes and used to steal his books. Who slept with her head against the armrest whenever he was reading just to keep him company. The one he’d sparred with in quiet corners, who thought silence was safer than asking for help.

And this female before him?

She was still her. But not.

There was a new stillness to her. Like standing before a frozen lake—you could admire the beauty of it, the sheer, clean edge of the ice, but beneath it ran dark, cold currents you’d drown in if you weren’t careful.

Azriel couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know what he expected to feel when he saw her again—if he’d feel anger for the way she vanished, or guilt for how they’d failed her. But all he could feel was the weight of the distance between them. A distance not just of time, but of everything unsaid. Everything broken.

She had every fucking reason to be this angry, this wounded, this hard. And still, all he wanted—all he wanted—was to step between her and the pain. To reach for her, steady her, shield her from all of it like he hadn’t done when she’d truly needed it.

But would she even let him?

Would she flinch from his touch the way she had flinched all those months ago?

He wanted to protect her.

Even if she didn’t need it now. Even if she might stab him for trying.

She had survived something none of them had seen. Had endured far beyond what they’d all assumed she couldn’t. And he—

He wanted to know her.

He wanted to know what had been carved away and what had been built in its place. What had been lost. But he also wanted to learn the new pieces—the armor she’d had to forge, the edges she’d had to sharpen just to make it back alive. Just to exist again.

What still lived behind those eyes he used to know better than his own reflection?

What had she sacrificed to stand here now, cloaked in silence and fury?

What had it cost her?

Could he ever be worthy of even asking?

And maybe if she’d let him, he wanted to earn the right to stand beside her again.

Whatever she’d become in the years she’d been gone… a part of him had never stopped looking.

Not really.

Not when she became the only silence he could never quite find peace in.

Azriel couldn’t look at Rhys without feeling something twist inside him.

He had followed Rhysand into war, into darkness, into every impossible choice—and never once flinched.

Until now.

His brother was composed, too composed. Still as stone, jaw tight, gaze unreadable. But Azriel knew him too well. He saw the tension in the way Rhys’s hand subtly shifted in front of Feyre, the careful way he stood between her and their son—as if the female across the room posed a threat.

She had posed a threat. But only to the truth.

And that, Azriel realized, was what Rhys feared most in this moment. Not her wrath. Not her return.

But what she might say.

And wasn’t that telling?

Azriel’s jaw clenched. Because even now—after all this time, after all this pain—Rhys hadn’t said a word. No denial. No explanation. Just silence.

A silence Azriel might’ve once interpreted as strategy. Restraint.

Now it felt like cowardice.

He didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to believe that Rhysand, who had once sworn to protect them all like family, had made a choice that damned her. That left her to rot in some prison of shadows while they grieved a ghost.

He’d seen the wound beneath her calm.

Something Rhys had put there.

And that… that was harder to swallow than anything else.

Because if it was true—

If Rhys had let her fall…

If he had decided she was expendable, a sacrifice made in the name of some greater good—

Then what did that mean for everything they were?

Azriel kept his face blank. His shadows knew better than to react.

But inside, a slow, cold fury was building. Not explosive like Cassian’s, not loud.

Something quieter. Sharper.

Rhys hadn’t just miscalculated.

He had lied.

And whatever came next… Azriel would not forget that.

Not when it had cost her everything.

But Azriel had always known how to bury things.

Pain. Doubt. Longing. He was a master of silence, of shadow, of holding truths in his mouth like they were knives too dangerous to set loose. Loyalty had always been a clean line for him—clear, unwavering, etched in stone. Rhysand was his brother, his High Lord. The one who had pulled him out of the hells of his childhood, who had given him purpose, a place, a voice—even if that voice was most often used in whispers.

But tonight, that line blurred.

He watched her speak, saw how she looked not at the floor or the ceiling but straight through Rhys, eyes sharp as blades honed in silence and survival. The same eyes that used to hold mischief, defiance, the fierce fire of someone who trusted the people around her. That fire was different now. Still burning, but colder. More dangerous.

And Mother help him, Azriel understood.

Because he knew the way people broke quietly—how they bled out belief, drop by agonizing drop, until the only thing left to believe in was yourself.

And he knew Rhysand. Knew how far his brother would go to protect the bigger picture—even if it meant cutting pieces out of the frame.

So he began to do what he always did when the world tilted.

He started sorting things.

Loyalty to Rhysand.

Loyalty to this Court.

Loyalty to her.

He didn’t know yet which would win out. But he understood now, with a cold clarity, that they might no longer be the same thing.

And it terrified him.

Because if Rhys had truly done what she implied—if he had let her be taken, if he had made the call and never told them, never told him—then Azriel would have to ask himself a question he’d never dared to before:

What happens when the person you trust most turns out to be the reason someone else you care about suffered?

He wasn’t ready to answer it. Not yet.

But in the corner of his mind, he began building the walls anyway.

Not to shut Rhys out entirely.

But to protect himself if—when—he had to choose.

Because he wasn’t just watching her now.

He was watching Rhys too.

And for the first time in centuries, he wasn’t sure which of them he’d follow if those paths ever split.

Mor finally found her voice. “Rhys…” she whispered. “What did you do?” But even she didn’t seem sure whether it was a question or an accusation.

Amren, from her seat, gave a soft snort. “Well? Say something, boy, before she tears your spine out and feeds it to your own pet shadows.”

No one laughed.

Not even Cassian, whose hands had curled into fists, trembling slightly at his sides. Who looked like he might be sick.

“Well?” she asked.

Time was up.

Rhysand couldn’t run from this anymore.

Feyre’s voice cut in, tight and confused. “Rhys, for Cauldron’s sake, what is going on?”

Nyx was quietly in her arms, one small hand clutched in her gown. But his violet eyes were locked—not on his father, or his mother, but on the female across the room.

Rhysand straightened, gaze never wavering from the female across from him. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse—but steady. “I had to make a choice.”

The silence pulled taut, a thread ready to snap.

“A choice,” she repeated, soft and disbelieving. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

He inclined his head. “It wasn’t an easy one. You were outnumbered, surrounded. We had seconds. And the information we had… it pointed to a trap. One that risked not just your life, but hundreds of others.”

Her laugh was low. Empty. “You violated my trust.”

She took a step forward. Rhys didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his eyes as her next words fell, deliberate and quiet:

“It took me time to realize why I couldn’t move. Why my body didn’t respond—why I couldn’t even scream. I saw you above me. Stone-faced. Still. And then I felt it, faint but there—velvet and cold. Your talons in my mind. Wrapping around it. Silencing it. Holding me down.”

Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury so raw it scraped bone.

“You made yourself judge, jury, and executioner. And you handed me over—gift-wrapped—to our enemy.”

A sharp inhale echoed from Feyre. Cassian muttered something under his breath, a curse swallowed by disbelief.

“I didn’t understand at first,” she went on, tone tight. “I kept asking myself why. Why would my brother leave me there? Why would he do that? Why would he betray me?” Her fingers clenched at her sides. “I kept asking myself that as the first arrow struck. And the second. And the third. Each one laced with faebane. And then… then I asked it again for years. In a dark hole beneath the earth, as they tore pieces from me and stitched them back together just to start all over again. For ninety years.”

The room was stone-still.

She paused, her jaw trembling before she forced the words out.

“I became their entertainment. Their toy. But even then, even as they carved me up and left me bleeding and barely alive in the dark—I never gave them anything. Not a single name. Not a secret.” Her eyes burned now, fixed on Rhys. “I protected this Court, even as it abandoned me.”

Rhys's composure wavered—only just. He opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” she snapped.

She stepped forward again, and Azriel found himself shifting slightly, instinct tightening in his gut. She didn’t need protection—he knew that. But his body itched to offer it anyway.

“I shouldn’t have cared if it burned.” she said. “But I’m not you, Rhys. I don’t betray my people. And the people here aren’t to blame for the monster they follow. The people didn’t betray me. You did.”

Her words cracked the air.

Across from her, Rhysand stood motionless—no longer the powerful High Lord of the Night Court, but something far more raw. More haunted. He stared at her as if trying to hold onto the shape of her now that the truth was laid bare between them. But there was no shape he could mold her into that would make this easier.

So he spoke.

Low. Rough. A voice trying not to tremble.

“There was a prophecy.”

The room stilled again. Even Nyx looked up at the change in his father’s tone.

“It was passed down to me once. A long time ago. From my father.” Rhysand’s eyes didn’t leave hers.

Her confusion etched plainly across her face. Rhys reached for the worn leather-bound tome resting on the desk beside him—a translation of the scrolls passed down from High Lord to High Lord. The pages crackled faintly as he turned to the marked passage, careful, reverent. The ink was faded in places, but the translation was still legible, scrawled in the slanted handwriting of a High Priestess long dead.

He read aloud, his words slow and deliberate:

“And when the final storm awakens, the skies shall be torn asunder.

Lightning shall carve the heavens, and thunder shall shatter the earth.

Their fury shall be unrelenting; their wrath, unyielding.

And where they walk, ruin shall follow— For they are the storm that ends all wars.”

He looked up slowly as the words settled between them, hanging in the air like smoke—dense and clinging, curling through her thoughts and refusing to clear.

It didn’t make sense.

It made too much sense.

“Should the storm be unleashed, the world shall bow—or be undone.”

The line surfaced unbidden, echoing in her mind—familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten. Older. Deeper. From the dreams that returned night after night, always ending in fire and ash and her—wreathed in lightning, standing where the world had cracked.

Her breath caught in her chest, shallow and too fast, as if her lungs suddenly forgot how to work properly. Her body remained still, but inside, she felt like she was falling—spiraling down through every memory, every unanswered question, through nightmares, through a prophecy that had always worn her face.

She was drowning in the space between then and now. Between the moment Rhysand chose to let her fall, and the truth he was finally speaking into the open.

A prophecy.

A storm.

A destroyer.

Rhysand’s voice pulled her back. “It was translated from an old tongue,” he added. “At first I naively thought it was about a warrior. A symbol of hope. I thought it meant someone would rise to help end our suffering. A weapon the world needed to break free. But that night, when I saw what was beginning to awaken in you…” He exhaled. “I understood. The prophecy wasn’t about salvation. It was a warning.”

Cassian spoke softly. “You never mentioned it before.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Rhys said. “Not then. I grew up with old stories and half-burned scrolls. Riddles dressed as legends. None of it ever felt real. I didn’t care much for myths.”

He drew a breath, the next words slower.

“But then I saw her. I’m guessing high emotions triggered it…” She looked away. Lowered her eyes like they were too heavy to hold his gaze. Because she remembered—

The way Azriel had fallen.

The sickening sound of his body hitting the ground.

And how something ancient and foreign inside her had cracked open.

“...The sky began to bend around her. The air itself went still. Like the world was holding its breath.”

A silence fell over them again. Uneasy. Unwilling.

“I saw the power waking up inside her,” he said. “And I realized—this prophecy wasn’t about ending the war or saving us. It was about ending everything.”

He turned his gaze fully on her. “If you had let go—if you’d truly given in—there wouldn’t have been anything left. Not of our enemies. Not of Prythian. Not even of us.” He swallowed. “So I did the only thing I could. I stopped you. I stopped the storm.”

A pause. A whisper. “And I lost you forever.”

Her heart thundered so loud she could barely hear him. Her mind raced, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of the ground shifting beneath her.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

This wasn’t supposed to be her.

Mor’s voice broke the silence. “Is that all the texts said?”

“No,” Amren murmured, her silver eyes distant. “I’ve read them too. Before the scrolls vanished.”

Rhys blinked. “You can read Iskra’tan?”

The old tongue. Most scholars could barely decipher fragments—let alone speak it. And yet Amren said it like she’d lived with it.

“Yes,” Amren said simply.

Cassian frowned. “How the fuck do you even know it?”

Amren didn’t answer at first. Only tilted her head, silver eyes glinting. “I remember it,” she said simply.

Mor’s brows knitted. “From where?”

Amren’s smile faded. “From before.”

She continued, lifting a shoulder. “It’s older than the mountains. Difficult to translate without... context.”

“Context?” Feyre echoed warily.

Amren’s smile was slow. Unreadable. “It is not a language you learn in books, girl,” she went on, tone distant now. “Iskra’tan is… primal. It was never meant to be transcribed—I’m impressed someone managed to, somehow.” She explained. “It was carved into the world before your kind ever walked it. You don’t read it. You listen.”

They stared.

“And you understand it?” Feyre asked, disbelieving.

A glimmer of amusement sparked in Amren’s eyes. “Well enough.”

Silence again.

Then Amren turned her attention back to her. Her silver eyes, usually so sharp and dismissive, were watching her as though she were a blade unsheathed. Something like awe in her gaze.

“They spoke of a lost kingdom,” Amren said. “A bloodline that should have died out. It was said their very existence threatened the balance of this world. Not because they were evil—no, the Gods do not fear monsters.” She tilted her head. “They feared what could not be controlled.”

The words slammed into her chest.

“They could bend the skies,” Amren went on. “Crack the fabric of reality itself. Maybe more. No one really knows. But it was believed that, if one of them ever reached their full potential, they wouldn’t just defeat their enemies—they’d shatter the world.” She held her gaze. “The only reason it never happened before was because they were wiped out before they could reach that point. Hunted until none remained.”

Amren paused.

“Or so they thought.”

The room blurred.

Her thoughts scattered. Dizzy, jagged, directionless.

Too much. It was too much.

Was this who she was?

Some... ancient weapon?

“And you think she’s one of them?” Feyre asked quietly.

Rhysand didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The truth was already written in the set of his shoulders. In the way he couldn’t look away from her.

In the way he’d let her fall. Chosen it.

Her fingers curled at her sides to stop the trembling, to ground herself in something, anything. But the ache in her chest kept growing. A raw, trembling weight behind her sternum, pressing into her lungs, into her spine, into the very seams of her bones.

Her voice had vanished somewhere. Her mind scrambled to process it all—the betrayal, the prophecy, the bloodline she had never heard of, the things she had felt inside her and never dared to name.

And worse still—the dreams.

The dreams she'd had for years. A ruined kingdom, crumbling towers choked in ivy and ash. A river that bled red. The unfamiliar symbols etched in stone walls that felt too familiar. The cold marble beneath her feet as bodies reached for her. The deafening screams and the storms that always followed.

Had those dreams not been nightmares?

Had they been memories?

Were those people—the ones who called to her across the veil, who screamed her name as the walls cracked and the skies turned black—hers?

Was that ruined place where she came from?

Was she the reason it fell?

Her thoughts spiraled faster than she could catch them. Doubt sank in like ice water in her lungs.

Maybe this was why Rhysand had done it.

Maybe he had been right to let them take her.

She tried to be angry again, to stoke the fire that had burned so hot a moment ago—but it flickered now, dimmed by the overwhelming certainty that maybe—maybe—she had never been meant to survive.

That she shouldn’t have.

She had begged for death in that dungeon more times than she could count. Had hoped for it. And maybe—maybe if it had come, the world would’ve been safer for it.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall.

She couldn’t.

Because how could she let them see that underneath the fury, underneath the wounded pride and rage, there was only this:

A female who didn’t understand what she was.

Who never had.

Who wished she could go back in time and never listen to Theron when he told her to come here. Who wished she'd stayed hidden with him, far from the Night Court and its shadows and its history and its truths.

Ignorance would have been a kindness.

They could have stayed by the sea, in that sun-warmed villa, chasing chaos across distant lands, letting the world forget she ever existed.

And maybe—maybe she should have been forgotten.

Maybe that was the only mercy she’d been denied.

Her heart pounded, her breath caught—and across the room, Azriel saw it all.

She wasn’t saying a word, but she may as well have been screaming.

Because every emotion painted itself on her face like a storm rolling in: confusion, grief, a dawning terror. The look of someone suddenly unmade. And Azriel—he watched as if each crack in her resolve echoed in his own ribs.

He didn’t move, but his shadows did.

They hovered near her, restless and reaching, as if unsure whether to touch her or not. As if unsure whether she would shatter or unleash a force that would level them all.

Her throat worked around a breath, rough and thin. Like her lungs had forgotten how to function.

She didn’t look at anyone. She just stared at the far wall—at nothing—as her voice finally slipped free.

Soft. Tired.

“Maybe you were right,” she said, her eyes cast down. A breath in. A breath out. “Maybe I am something to be afraid of.”

The words hung there. Flat. Lifeless. As if even she didn’t know whether she meant them. The silence that followed pressed in from all sides.

“No,” Azriel said. Quietly. Firmly. The first word he’d spoken since she’d arrived.

She looked up, slowly, into his face.

His shadows stirred gently at her side, not in warning, but in comfort.

“You’re not a monster,” Azriel went on, voice low but steady. “You never were.”

Her throat worked around the knot lodged there. But she said nothing.

Rhysand’s mouth opened slightly—but no words came. Maybe because he heard what everyone else did:

She wasn’t accusing him anymore.

She was accepting it.

Worse.

He stepped forward. Slowly. No High Lord mask now—just a male who looked older than she remembered, more tired than she’d ever seen him.

“I thought I was protecting everyone,” he said, voice hoarse. “I thought I was protecting you.”

The apology wasn’t eloquent.

It wasn’t enough.

“I didn’t need your protection,” she replied, not with venom, but exhaustion. “I needed my brother.”

Surprisingly, Amren was the one who stepped forward next.

Only a step—but it was something. The silver in her eyes shimmered, the faintest trace of what they’d once been. She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her like someone who saw too much.

Her voice was low, quiet, but unmistakably steady. “You weren’t born for shelter, girl. You were born from the storm itself. Wild. Unwritten. You’ll never fit in their neat little kingdoms. You were meant for something greater.” A faint curve pulled at her lips. “You keep trying to be understood. Stop. You weren’t made for understanding. You were made to be felt.”

The female didn’t answer. Didn’t acknowledge it. But the words found her anyway. Sank deep.

Cassian shifted next—just a little, his arms folding over his chest again like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. The look in his eyes said it all. That big brother kind of grief. The helpless kind.

He cleared his throat. His voice was a poor cover for the emotion choking it. “I was supposed to protect you,” he muttered. “Back then. I—I didn’t. And I don’t know how to make that right.” She turned to him, just slightly. “But you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again. I don’t care if the whole damn mountain shakes when you breathe. You’re still my sister.”

The female blinked once. Just once.

Mor… Mor had tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She made no move to hide them.

“You were my sister,” she whispered. “You are. And I don’t care if you can split the skies in two. That never scared me. And it never will.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The room was too much—too many truths, too many eyes, too many pieces of herself scattered across the floor like someone had taken a blade to her past and split it wide open.

Her throat tightened. The room blurred at the edges. She didn’t want to cry in front of them. Something in her locked down, like a gate slamming shut in a crumbling hall.

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Her shoulders drew back—but not in pride.

In armor.

A fortress rebuilt in a blink.

“I’m tired,” she said finally. The words scraped against her throat. “I need—” she broke off, then tried again, “I need to go.”

Cassian moved instantly, almost panicked. “Wait—don’t—”

“Please,” Mor said, already circling to intercept, her voice trembling. “You just got back—”

They all felt it—that same gut-deep instinct the winged Illyrian males felt in the forest, the same one that screamed if she leaves, we may never find her again.

Her gaze swept the room. The hurt in it. The confusion. The hope no one dared name.

“I’ll come back,” she said, quiet but sure.

“No one will stop you,” Rhysand said, but his voice was hollow. Ash in the wind. “But please—don’t disappear again.”

A hundred words waited on her tongue. But she swallowed them down. Too raw. Too unfinished.

“You can stay here—” Feyre rushed to offer.

“No, I can’t.” she shook her head slightly.

Then she exhaled—and vanished.

The air around her warped.

Like lightning through glass.

A shimmer along the seams of the world, threads of raw pressure and storm cracking outward in thin, silvery lines. The space she occupied seemed to fold in on itself, pressure building so fast it made the walls hum, the fire gutter. The temperature dropped. The scent of ozone rushed in. Sparks—real sparks—danced in the air, gold and white and pale blue.

And then the room shuddered with a sound like distant thunder.

She was gone.

Just… gone.

Like the storm had come for her and taken her back.

And the room—so full of tension and hurt and grief—stood still again.

Except for Azriel.

Who hadn’t stopped watching the place where she’d stood.

Not even when Mor sank into a chair, shell-shocked. Not even when Cassian cursed under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. Not when Elain moved towards her sister and nephew.

The silence she left behind wasn’t quiet.

It thrummed. It sang. It ached.

And as the others stood frozen in the echo of her departure, Azriel only breathed her in.

Because some fools ran from the storm.

But he—

He’d always been the kind to step into it, head bowed, heart bare, hoping it would swallow him whole.

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thepartyresponsible · 23 hours ago

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prompt fill! someone requested dick grayson and the prompt "i don't trust anyone else." my brain is all vampires apparently, so i wrote a sequel to this short vampire au with dick grayson, bucky barnes, and tony stark.

warnings for general vampirism and some enthusiastic blood drinking. this one might end up cross-posted to ao3, since it's longer than what i usually post here.

---

Dick Grayson leaves the Tower at four in the morning, lively and warm, a healthy flush glowing along his cheekbones, and Bucky figures they’ve done good work, but they’ll never see him again.

“Dick Grayson, huh?” Tony mumbles, drooping a little against Bucky’s side. He gave more than he should have, but he always does. “Wow. Let’s go to Gotham more.”

“Rein it in, Stark,” Bucky advises.

Beside him, Tony scoffs. “I’m not the one still staring at his ass.” He pauses, hums thoughtfully. “Well, I’m not the only one.”

And Bucky doesn’t plan to stop either, but that’s not the point. “I didn’t have his teeth in my throat for fifteen minutes,” he volleys back. “And then the cuddling.”

“He was cold,” Tony says, unapologetically, “and then I was cold. And he smells really good, Bucky. What the hell is that? Can we bottle it?”

If you could get Dick Grayson in a bottle, no one would ever leave their homes again. The population would collapse. End times.

Might be worth it, though. It’s not like the current times are going so well that he’d miss them.

“Okay,” Bucky says, because Dick’s gone, turned a corner, left their lives. “Let’s get you some iron supplements and a cold shower.”

---

But Bucky’s wrong. Dick does come back. Four months later, looking even more ragged than the first time. He waits politely in the lobby of the Tower, tucks himself toward the doors, keeps his hands visible at his sides, smiles at the guards like they’re doing him a favor. When Bucky steps out of the elevator, Dick looks his direction but doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Hey,” Bucky says, slowing to a standstill a solid six feet out. “You’re in bad shape, huh?”

“Thanks,” he says. He does that smile again, the sad one that almost hides his teeth. He’s handsome enough that any smile makes an impact, but, having faced the absolute devastation of Dick Grayson smiling like he means it, this one rings hollow. “I just—look, sorry, I just wanted to ask a favor.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Whatever you need.”

Dick’s eyebrows pull together. “You don’t even know what it is.”

Out of sheer grace and goodwill, Bucky does not roll his eyes. “Yeah, I know your type. You’re not gonna ask for anything we wouldn’t want to give. You probably wouldn’t ask for a glass of water if you were on fire.”

Dick laughs, a little unevenly. “Blood,” he says, like he thinks he’s proving Bucky wrong. “I’m here to ask for blood.”

“Great,” Bucky says. “Whose, mine? Tony’s? The bagged blood upstairs?”

Dick blinks and then wavers, seems thrown for a loop.

“What, you bored of the regular stuff?” Bucky shrugs. “Steve’s is kinda zippy. Wouldn’t recommend it. Kinda burns. And Banner’s always a gamble, because sometimes the other guy shows up midway through. Barton’s actually really good, but Nat gets jealous, so you’ve gotta pretend you hate it the whole time or she’ll---”

“Tony’s,” Dick says, probably just to get him to stop talking. “And I want you there.”

These people, Bucky thinks, despairingly. These nice, good people. They always think they’re going to horrify him with what they need.

But the horror isn’t that Dick needs to feed. It’s that someone, somewhere, taught him he deserved to starve.

“Sure,” he says. “Come on up.”

---

Tony’s caught in a tricky bit of welding or something equally ridiculous, so Bucky escorts Dick Grayson up to Tony’s suite and is thrilled to find him utterly unimpressed. “Well,” he says, and then gestures in a way that almost hides the miserable twist of his mouth, “Bruce Wayne, you know? I used to live like this.”

Bucky wonders how Bruce Wayne is doing, and how his adopted son ended up haunting the streets of New York, desiccating by the day. Sometimes, people need their mistakes explained to them. One expeditious method Bucky’s discovered is defenestration. Maybe it’s all the time he spent in Russia, but he's found that nothing says You fucked up like getting thrown through a window.

“You want to live like this again?” Tony asks, breezily, as he saunters out of the elevator, already working on the buttons of his shirt. “Please, do me the favor.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says, just so he can get out ahead of this, so he can point back to this exact moment later and say: I tried to get you to have a single ounce of decorum, you wayward libertine.

“I’m cultivating the world’s most evocative private collection of raven-haired vampires with impeccable abs,” Tony says. “Nat won’t dye her hair yet, but we’ve agreed to the occasional wig at public events.”

“Wow,” Dick says. “Evocative?” Which is far more encouragement than Tony’s ever needed.

“You wouldn’t describe yourself as evocative?” Tony shrugs out of his shirt, leaving himself in an undershirt at least one size too tight for decency. “Would you prefer 'exquisite?”

“Maybe ‘exsanguinated,’” Bucky interrupts, before this gets truly out of hand. “Tony, give him a break. He can’t think right now.”

Bucky can barely think right now. These days, he’s the best fed he’s ever been, but Tony, standing there with his throat and arms bare, practically begging to bleed, is making his jaw flex involuntarily, desperate to bite.

“Just how I like ‘em,” Tony says. He tips his chin to the side, raises his hands, makes a little come and get it gesture with his fingers. “C’mon, Grayson, this is my favorite part.”

“Fuck,” Dick says, so soft it’s barely a word, eyes pinned, pupils blown, damn near vibrating in place. “Fuck,” he says, again, like a prayer.

“I’ve got you,” Bucky says. “I’ve got him. It’s okay.”

Dick shudders across the room so fast that he’s a blur even in Bucky’s eyes, but he’s still impossibly careful when he bites, neat and sweet, an arm around Tony’s waist, hand caught up in that too-tight tank like it’s already so good he needs the anchor just to stay afloat.

---

Afterwards, after Dick swoops Tony up and carries him across the room, after he spills Tony across couch but doesn’t spill a single drop of blood, after he crawls half on top of him, murmuring things Bucky should probably have the grace to pretend not to hear, after he drinks right up to the edge of reasonable, Dick pushes himself away and grabs for Bucky instead.

“Barnes,” he says, stretched out, breathless, eyes twin black pits of need and want, “it’s—I can’t stop.”

“You did stop,” Bucky tells him.

Dick runs his tongue along his lip, leaves a smear of blood behind, and there’s no time at all between Bucky, staring at that red, and Dick tipping his chin up in offer, and Bucky leaning in to lick it away.

“Shit,” someone says, and that must be Tony, because Bucky’s lips are on Dick’s, tongue in his mouth, chasing the taste.

He’s heard a few rumors about Grayson, all those exes he has. Seems like half the masks on the East Coast have spent time with him, but that must’ve been before, because no one’s taught him how to kiss with his new teeth yet.

He’s eager, and desperate, and he catches Bucky’s tongue with one of his fangs with just enough pressure to break the skin. And then it’s Bucky’s blood in his mouth, and Dick Grayson moans like he wasn’t drinking a better, purer vintage sixty seconds ago.

Bucky moves to pull back, and Dick moves to follow, and Bucky’s flattered enough that he lets him get another mouthful before he puts his hands on Dick’s shoulders and pushes him away.

Dick’s strong, but Bucky’s stronger, and Dick seems delighted by that fact, grins wide, shows Bucky his own blood on his teeth.

“You’ve been holding out,” Dick says. And then, a second later, with the kind of sidelong hopeful look that must get him damn near anything he wants. “You did offer, right? Earlier?”

“That was a joke,” Bucky says. He heals fast these days, but there’s still enough blood in his mouth that he has to wipe some away with the back of his hand. “I didn’t think you’d like it.”

“I like it,” Dick says, transfixed by the blood on Bucky’s hand. “You taste good.”

On the other side of the couch, Tony makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, no, don’t mind me,” he says, waving them off. “Keep making out in front of me and talking about how much you like tasting each other. That’s a very kind thing to do to me when I don’t have enough blood left to participate. That’s great. Appreciate it.”

Bucky, just to be an asshole, plants his knee between Dick’s sprawled legs and leans over him, pinning his shoulders to the couch, mouth hovering a spare couple of inches over Dick’s. “You know, Stark,” he says, “you can leave at any time.”

“Fuck you,” Stark says, watching as Dick playacts at biting, snaps his teeth up at Bucky. “My objections are entirely timeline-based. The content is great.”

Dick laughs and looks between them, can’t seem to decide which view he likes better. That blush is coming back, Bucky notices. He’s warm underneath him, relaxed, looks drunk on Tony’s blood.

“Feeling better?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Dick says, a little breathless, squirming in his own skin like he forgot what he could feel like. Or never knew, maybe. “You feel like this all the time?”

“Well, the high’s not quite as high,” Bucky says, “because I don’t let the lows get so low. You drink any fresh blood since we saw you last?”

Dick hesitates, and some of that easy glow dims out of him. “I don’t trust anyone else.”

It’s a terrible, shitty thing. Dick Grayson, who led the Titans, saved the world, scared to the point of starving himself, scared of what he never asked to be made into.

Bucky used to be scared too. But if you don’t learn to live with your monsters, you can never learn to control them.

“You stopped without me,” Bucky reminds him.

Dick shrugs, shrinks inward, drops his eyes away. “But I didn’t want to.” There’s shame on his face, and fear, and guilt, and all the endless demons that took their bites out of Bucky too. “I wanted more. I wanted--- Barnes,” he says, voice dropped to a whisper, “I wanted all of it.”

Bucky hooks his thumb under Dick’s chin and lifts his head until he’s staring directly into his eyes. Nobody tells them, all these good people. Nobody told Bucky, either, and he tore himself to pieces until he finally figured it out.

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” he says. “It only matters what you do.”

#writing #fic

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yfere · 1 day ago

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Episode 5 of the Amazing Digital Circus was such an interesting meditation on vulnerability, emotional intimacy and friendship. I'm hit the most by the shot at the end -- Pomni and Jax walking off together in one direction, Zooble and Gangle (and Kinger) walking together in another direction, and Ragatha, by herself, just sighing and walking alone.

This is a continuation of the dynamic she struggled with in stargazing --one screenshot shows it all, Zooble, Gangle (and Kinger!) are close together and bonding, and Jax and Pomni are together at some distance, while Ragatha is again by herself

She wanders over to join the Jax-Pomni conversation, and hoo boy I could TALK about how that conversation went but that's a different post - point here is, she misstepped badly, and then deflected clumsily and ran back towards Kinger and company.

What both of these scenes show me is that Ragatha is a person who is profoundly lonely - the people around her (especially Jax and Pomni, and Zooble and Gangle) are getting involved in close, intimate friendships that she is not a part of, despite her trying *so* hard, all the time, to be as nice and positive and uplifting and friendly as possible. And while the others (excepting Jax) do like and appreciate her, the relationships she's cultivating remain surface level, partly because she's unwilling to be vulnerable, both with her anger and any other negative emotions that she has. Her way is to apologize profusely for any perceived social misstep (even something as mild as "being a bad sport" - which was actually just her talking bad about herself). When things get too emotionally volatile, she looks to change the subject or flee the scene, and she seems genuinely frightened of being rejected for the things she says while angry (or while under the influence of the stupid juice). She seems to struggle to interact with others in ways that don't boil down to either encouragement or scolding.

I found it particularly striking that she criticizes Jax for deflecting all the time - while he does deflect, it was his willingness to open up to Pomni about some of his worries that led to them getting closer recently. Meanwhile, look at Miss Deflection here:

She started to open up, but once she noticed the attention on her she immediately put her walls back up. I don't think she realizes that she has her own way of keeping people at a distance - that the closeness she wants and envies from others isn't so much a matter of acting "correctly" or even kindly, so much as it is letting people in, and being willing to risk some emotional vulnerability.

#the amazing digital circus #ragatha #ragatha my love #hitting my favorite 'toxic positivity' character traits I seeeeeee

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 18 hours ago

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i really liked your post about judges of character!! its the first post i saw of yours and its super cool!! followed!

i was wondering if you were willing to expand on more characters and why they aren’t good judges of characters. i totally agree with leona being ss tier, i just wanna see you articulate more characters if possible!!

in order of desire and namely, i wanna read about ruggie, trey, ortho, floyd, malleus, cater, yuu

thank u sm!!!! your writing and analysis is a total treat to read. take care of yourself!!

[Referencing this post!]

Thank you for enjoying my stuff and welcome to the fold (flock?) ^^

You listed a lot of characters so I’ll do a rapid-fire round and try to avoid dragging this response out for super long 🙂‍↕️ In your order:

Ruggie — He pays attention to people only in so far as to see when it the best time to swoop in and ask them for stuff (unfinished foods, donatable items, etc.) or to offer his services (for a fee). I don’t think he cares to look beyond that and seek a person’s hidden character. What comes first and foremost is his own survival, which is very focused on… himself, rather than how he reads other people and their character. It simply does not matter so long as Ruggie has his needs met.

Trey — Briefly covered in the tags of my previous post. He tries his best to keep out of conflicts, but this also means he must observe a lot and knows how to keep a distance. Trey notices some things that others don’t (like how Cater doesn’t like sweets in book 1 or how Vil is tired in his Labwear vignettes), but I wouldn’t call these instances evidence of Trey being a good judge of character. The Cater thing is something Trey picked up on from always seeing Cater go for savory foods or suggesting things to cover up sweet tastes. Noticing Vil being tired feels like a skill Trey may have learned from acting like a caretaker, especially with his younger siblings and dorm members. When Trey does try to discern people’s characters, it seems to fall flat because he takes them at face value and assumes goodness on their part. For example, he mistakes Jade as someone meek and being taken advantage of in Jade’s Ceremonial Robes vignettes.

Ortho — I think Ortho would theoretically be a good judge of character, but it is complicated by him relying on drawing conclusions from algorithms and data sets he is fed. It’s true that Ortho acts more human than a typical android, but he learned how to act this way by watching movies, which are mostly inaccurate depictions of real life. I feel this would “poison” his data and lead to him processing cues incorrectly. He can accurately tell the time and read your vitals because those are objective facts and numbers—but gauging human character is much less concrete. Maybe Ortho can fine-tune his skills by observing more humans irl (especially considering his advanced learning capabilities), but right now I think he’d still be working on it.

Floyd — I think judging people’s character comes more naturally to Floyd than to Jade (as there is a recurring theme of Floyd being a genius while Jade has to put in effort to be competent). Like many things though, his proficiency shifts with his mood. I don’t see Floyd as being super observant in spite of this, as he also didn’t seem to sense something was “up” with Jamil despite arguably spending a lot more time with him in the same club.

Malleus — Malleus notoriously had difficulties understanding others, albeit this is definitely influenced by his sheltered upbringing. He missed Rollo’s weird vibes (too blinded by the thought of genuinely being invited to an event) and even describes himself as “[being] no good at divining humans’ minds”. This could be considered a cultural misalignment rather than him being a poor judge of character, but considering how he frequently uses on his own (very limited) POV as reference (which is what led to Endless Halloween Night and misunderstands with his fellow dorm leaders at meetings), this still puts Malleus in a situation where he cannot read others well because HE also doesn’t project his own emotions or true character very openly; he always has to maintain a certain air about him as a future king.

Cater — He’s great at reading the room and using social standing to get what he wants. For example, Cater knows his underclassmen will defer to seniority so he tricks Adeuce into helping him do his chores. He is also shown intervening multiple different times when the situation gets heated to get everyone to cool their heads. This means Cater is socially savvy and intuitive rather than a good judge of character. Because Cater spends so much time online and intentionally holding people at a distance, I don’t think he bothers to look deeper into them than what’s presented on the surface. For example, he’s always clout chasing (seeking pics with important and notable peers) but doesn’t make an effort to really see or judge people on a deeper level.

Yuu — Ehhhhh 🤷‍♀️ Yuu is a blank slate character for players for project themselves or sonas/OCs onto. How good or bad they are at judging others is defined by the individual. Instances like Yuu being friendly with Malleus aren’t so much of them seeing the goodness in him as it is Yuu being oblivious about who he is. We don’t really get any comments from Yuu that have insight into their peers’ characters either, only surface-level remarks and observations along the lines of, “oh, they’re being kind of rude again” or “wooow, he’s being nice for once?”. Twst leaves Yuu vague so you can fill in the gaps using your own imagination.

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honeyhenry · 2 days ago

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Possessive!Bruce headcanons

I'm very nervous to post this as it's a little different from my usual work! I tried my very best to write this as it was my first ever request for Bruce and had been voted over 50 times by you lovely lot! I really hope I have done this justice, it's still very sweet because I just love sweet things!!

Bruce is the type of man to have his hands all over you, certainly in private but definitely in public. He wants every eye looking in your direction to immediately link the two of you together. To know that the two of you are connected physically, and in every other way.

Often at the galas you both attend, his hand will rest at the small of your back as you both effortlessly glide past your guests, pausing briefly to smile or offer a kind or complimentary word. (You were too sweet for a man like him, he thinks, but he will always aim to be a better man for you and follow suit.)

Speaking of!!!! The compliments this man gives you in front of others not only makes you blush, but is a double edged sword for anyone who had even a millisecond of thought about you or your relationship.

"isn't my girl so beautiful" aka she's the most beautiful and she's mine

"I couldn't host any of this without her" aka we are never parting even for a moment

"we're just as surprised as you are that we managed to have the manor prepared for you all arriving....we are incredibly busy" aka you two fucked all day because it was duty to keep you happy while you were simply begging for him...

and believe me...the subtext is obvious to everyone close enough to hear him

whew

but yes at galas he has you right by his side, keeping close to you, and if he's not holding the small of your back then he will definitely be holding your hand

not in a clingy way but in a "she's mine and she's staying with me while I talk funds and management strategies." you don't mind leaning into his broad stature, squeezing your hand when you want his attention, which he readily gives

there are many times where you miss an event because he was just too wrapped up in you to care about actually leaving the manor

"baby, you look too good I don't want anyone else to see you...this can be just for me"

"bruce...I spent so long getting ready...I was looking forward to trying that place's oysters"

the Michelin star resort delivers the oysters to the manor door for Alfred to receive, right as bruce has you on your second orgasm that night

at high end restaurants, or the days you manage to convince your upper-class husband to visit your favourite local cafe, he always requests a booth so you can sit together.

he's not sitting across a table from you when he could be right there with a strong arm around your waist and a hand on your thigh as the waitstaff take your orders, hopefully being paid well enough for their efforts to ignore the intimacy of your embrace

Bruce just can't help the fact that he'd delivered quite an exquisite dress to you earlier that day, so his presence by your side ensured that anyone who dared to look, would have to deal with him first.

the dress - and you - were for his eyes only

once, Bruce had snapped both of your orders at a poor young boy who's gaze had merely blinked down to your cleavage, before growling a request for another waiter "with manners"

"Bruce, he's only young...besides...the dress doesn't leave much-"

a squeeze to your thigh lets you know, even without words, that he was deadly serious about his claim on you

"no one looks at what is mine" he had gritted out

the jewellery also marks his possessive nature!!! You hadn't had much of a collection before meeting Bruce, and now he could use his wealth to decorate you in pretty jewels and precious metals that people would instantly associate with his status and class

the first he gifts you is a bracelet with "mine" engraved on the inside. once he clips it onto you, you never take it off, matching it with every outfit for every occasion. for you it's far more sentimental, and you enjoy being his.

you don't mind his little possessive streak. you feel so safe knowing how invested he is in you, how serious he is about his commitment to you.

the second item of jewellery he buys for you is a pair of earrings, worn only to grand events, with sparkling diamonds that glint beautifully with each and every dress you own

he loves hearing you be complimented on your jewellery "oh thank you, Bruce got me them. doesn't he have wonderful taste?"

oh yes, he thinks, he does.

you adore the necklace he gifted you for Christmas one year, and make it a habit to wear every day. A small, dainty, shining letter 'B' hanging from a delicate chain. Initially, Bruce had suggested it stood for you being his baby, one of his favourite nicknames for you. but you knew better. B stood for Bruce, and it meant you belonged to him

one of your most precious - if not the most special - pieces he gifted you was your engagement ring

you dread to even think of a number that comes close to its value, but when he dropped on one knee, Bruce Wayne knew that a giant diamond was the best way for people to know you were his

in every picture since your engagement, he loves to find and look at your hand which unmistakably carries the precious stone. through photographic evidence, you were his.

when you married, and had been spotted at further events, it was unmistakable that you were a Wayne due to the pearls hanging gracefully around your neck

Martha's pearls

Bruce could only part them from the other family heirlooms once you'd signed on the dotted line to be his forever, and now a Wayne in name, he couldn't think of a better way to show the world that you were his

Bruce feels much more possessive of you when you are crowded. even by one person. he doesn't want you to ever feel uncomfortable.

when you visit his offices, he meets you right away so that no one else has the chance to steal you away or talk to you. you are his and you belong to him only. you never mind, you always laugh at his intensity

"honey, who else would I be here to see?"

one time Bruce did NOT make it to you first, as you'd decided to visit his office as a surprise

one of the men from sales or some other irrelevant department - in bruce's words - had seen you standing at the mid-floor elevator, dressed in your favourite sundress and a light shawl. despite your rings, which he either hadn't spotted or plainly ignored, he had started a line of conversation about how a "pretty thing like you" seemed lost in such a place as Wayne Tower.

"Maybe I could give you a tour, and afterwards we could grab a drink?"

You had tried, politely, to decline. For more than the obvious reasons, you knew the second Bruce caught wind, this man would be made jobless, homeless, or even headless depending on his mood.

"C'mon sweets, don't be shy. I'll even tell ya a couple secrets about the big boss here. That guy's a wack job"

enter Bruce, via elevator

he sees you first, as always, and then the man who is practically breathing the same pocket of air as you

his inital response is to punch he guy's lights out

but he's not Batman here. he's Bruce Wayne. Owner of Wayne enterprises, the Prince of Gotham, and first and foremost, your husband.

you smile, relieved, as you catch Bruce's eye as he strides over to you with an sly air of confidence and a stern expression

"who's your new friend, baby?"

he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you tightly into his side as you lean up to kiss the space between his cheek and jawline

Safe to say the stuttering, bumbling fool who had approached you, never set foot back in the tower

during sex, Bruce growls your name, claiming you as his, pumping into you while he reminds you; "all mine, you hear me? who do you belong to huh? who owns you? who gives you everything you deserve and more huh? that's right baby, say my name"

"bruce....fuck...i'm all yours"

that's gets him cumming every time

whenever you wear his clothes, his brain shuts down entirely, except that primal part that wants you right on his lap so he can admire you inside and out

the morning you put his shirt on for breakfast, you ended up not leaving the bedroom for 3 full days

not even Alfred deserved to see you wearing that

your pregnancy was not planned, but also not unplanned

you loved the idea of a family, a baby that looked like your husband who you could love and raise together

Bruce loved the idea that with a swollen belly, everyone would know you were his

However, Bruce was so possessive of you and your growing baby, that he'd convinced you that it would be better off to spend your pregnancy in peace

you were a goddess carrying his baby, and no one else deserved the privilege of seeing that

Bruce owns a film camera and snaps hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures to look at and admire. you take plenty of him, especially adoring the ones where his hand rests on your belly

which, let's face it, is 90% of the time

one afternoon you feel the baby kick, but bruce is in the garage setting up a car seat in each of the cars, so the only person to hear your squeals is Alfred

he rushes to the library in the north wing, where you feel most comfortable

"Mrs Wayne? Are you-"

"Alfred, it's the baby, they're kicking! feel!" you all but place his hand to the side of your belly

sure enough, Alfred feels it, before removing his hand and clearing his throat

"i shall fetch Mr Wayne at once, he will be so thrilled"

Bruce is in the library within the minute, heart racing from the excitement he feels at the opportunity to feel his baby move within you

"B, come here...feel!" you pull his large palm to your belly, and again, within a moment, a gentle kick presses against the spot of skin he has engulfed with his hand

he's about to comment when you softly whisper "they did it there for Alfred too"

Bruce blinked, moving his head away from your belly to now take a better look at you

"wh- Alfred? He felt...my child..." his brows furrow in annoyance

Safe to say, Bruce had to give himself a reality check when he feels possessive about his family over his own butler doing his job by being there for you.

"He helped me, honey. He's family too. Please don't be mad at him" you had pouted

Alfred just chuckles it off as he leaves you both in peace "Mr Bruce has always been one to keep what’s his just for him, Mrs Wayne. You and your child included."

Bruce insists on private healthcare, only the very best and most professional to keep his family safe

“Well they’ll be born in the manor, not...Gotham general” he would spit out

he watches the doctor and midwife like a hawk, frowning as you winced at the cold gel smoothed over your stomach

"Should she be shivering?" he'd asked, pointedly

"Brucie...hey, relax...they're just doing their job."

safe to say, he has a million (actually 76) questions for the doctor.

When they manage to get Bruce away from you for all of 4 minutes, they do a welfare check to ensure of your own health

"It's good to have a strong support network, especially due to the private nature of your pregnancy. Has your husband been involved? He's not worrying you, distancing himself at all?"

You could only laugh

“He’s been….clingy. A little….over-possessive…but in a sweet way. He’s so good to me, to us. We're all doing so well.”

Bruce Wayne would die for you, but in the meantime he would have you all to himself, and he would make sure that the world would comply

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne writing #bale!bruce wayne #bale!bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #babygirlbatau

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thats-the-biz-babe · 1 day ago

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i almost made this a part of my last post but it deserves its own i think. the first date thing is always brought up as a reason tommy is bad for buck and like. i'm not being funny but tommy was so kind and patient and possibly far more lenient than he should've been towards a guy that just shoved him back in the closet after a whole lifetime of struggling with accepting his sexuality and coming out.

he'd literally just expressed to him that he hasn't always been so cool and confident and openly gay and that he has had a hard time getting to the point where he could be himself. buck didn't need to tell eddie they were on a date but he didn't have to drag tommy down with him. i get it, he panicked, he was put on the spot in a situation he didn't think he'd find himself in because what are the chances, right? poor buck was clearly kicking himself about it too, and tommy understood and forgave him since he knows what it's like to be that guy.

he felt for him, he didn't want to pressure him before he was ready so he left. most people wouldn't have even lasted the rest of dinner, because that shit does hurt even if tommy acted like he was fine with it. he was kind, he told buck that he was adorable before explaining that he didn't think he was ready (so he did make it clear the reason WHY he was leaving). and he was right! i know it's annoying that people keep telling buck how he feels, but in this case it was clearly true that this wasn't gonna work while buck was still skipping steps and pretending he wasn't going on dates with men.

okay, so he made a subtle closet joke that was obviously going to fly straight over the head of anybody who has known buck for years and known him to be 100% straight with no real indication he was into men. there is no way eddie was gonna guess they were on a date, especially after buck freaking out and making it especially clear they were out together for entirely heterosexual dude-bro reasons. straight people are fucking oblivious man, and none more than eddie diaz. tommy knows that, he knows eddie, eddie who he knows still has no idea that tommy himself is gay despite the fact that he has made no attempts to hide it. i wouldn't be surprised if there were already some obvious signs regarding tommy that eddie had completely missed. if eddie didn't suspect anything immediately upon seeing them dressed up sat so close together at the most intimate little pizza restaurant ever then he was never gonna work it out.

and i mean, you can never have too much closet space? isn't that true? and relevant to the discussion they were having? like it just so happens that the joke he made towards buck fit seamlessly into the conversation they were having so that eddie didn't notice it at all. which was ON PURPOSE because even though tommy is hurt and buck deserved that little dig, he knows not to out somebody before they're ready and he would never do it because again he's been there.

eddie was like "hey! you guys are hanging out, that's great!" and then tommy replied by saying "yeah, we are just grabbing a bite and then we're going to see a movie". nothing tommy said implied they were on a date, he was careful on purpose, eddie clearly had no thoughts other than 'oh cool my two good friends are hanging out with each other' and buck decided to jump in with the "hot chicks" thing when the whole situation was already handled (and if anything buck made it look way more suspicious, but again eddie is still oblivious). tommy making a low-key joke in retaliation that eddie was never gonna pick up on was far from the worst thing he could've done. he was being considerate! he wasn't going to force buck to come out on the spot and almost certainly would've still gone to the movie with him up until buck decided to shoot himself in the foot. now tommy's been forced into a position where he has to play it straight with his new buddy when he thought he'd never have to do that again, because he can't contradict buck saying that they were going out to pick up hot chicks without also potentially outing him.

then what, he didn't get mad at him or stand up and storm out but decided to end the date after dinner and skip the movie. okay, so he could've told him before they left the restaurant so buck could order his own uber too. there are ways that he could've handled it better. but like, here's the thing. tommy is not perfect. he's hurt. he's not a confrontational guy, he doesn't want to make a big deal out of things and make buck feel bad or like he's done something wrong. maybe he assumed buck already knew it was over, maybe he didn't. buck, being a 6ft2 grown man at the big age of 32, a fucking firefighter who is more than capable of handling himself, was not left in danger by being "abandoned at the side of the road". it was a busy, well lit street and they were right outside the restaurant so buck could easily go back inside. he's not a small vulnerable young woman abandoned in a dark alleyway in the middle of nowhere.

you have to give tommy grace here for how he handled things if you are to give it to buck when he (even unintentionally) acted like an absolute knob and forced his date back in the closet. buck was well aware of the fact he fucked up, which is why he asked tommy out for coffee to apologise for his behaviour and to ask for another chance.

#this isn't a buck is bad post it's a people are weird about tommy #and choose to take everything he says in bad faith bc they can't handle (pretty mild) sarcasm post #he's a bitch and he's really fucking funny i think he should be worse #again some of you could never handle british people lol #not just us there are many countries where they grow you up nice and snarky but ykwim #apparently we all have to talk to each other like we're toddlers now otherwise it's 'mean'#anyways again they like it when eddie is being 'cunty' so...#i don't want to call it homophobia but like coming from the homophobia fandom? not as unlikely as you think #at the very least for a fandom full of queer people you should be more understanding of why what buck said was so hurtful #tommy kinard #evan buckley #bucktommy #911 abc #911 #fandom wank

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atomicrebelfire · 2 days ago

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📌 Caption:

I’ve seen posts dismissing Buck and Tommy’s relationship as shallow or forgettable — and I get it, it was short, Tommy’s a guest star, the arc ended quietly. But I think reducing it like that misses something much more interesting the show was actually trying to do — about Buck, about emotional intimacy, and about what it means to be seen in a relationship. This isn’t about shipping, or trying to make a case for “endgame.” It’s about giving narrative weight its due. And about why Tommy Kinard, even in limited screen time, brought something out of Buck we’ve rarely — if ever — seen before.

🧵 Re: That Buck/Tommy Take — I Disagree (Here’s Why It Deserves More Respect)

I got an anon earlier, and out of respect for their request, I won’t post it directly — but the gist was this:

“Buck and Tommy’s relationship wasn’t that deep. Tommy wasn’t a good partner. Why are people so obsessed with it? Can we stop fixating like it mattered?”

And respectfully?

Absolutely not. That reading misses a lot of what the show actually did — and what it meant. Let’s talk about it.

1. “It wasn’t that deep.”

Then why did it break Buck?

If it was just a fling, why did he:

Go into full spiral trying to get Tommy’s attention in 7x04?

Ask for a second chance and a coffee date — then invite him to Maddie’s wedding as a date (7x05)? That’s not something you do for just anyone.

Practically burst out of the closet to his family when Tommy showed up (7x06)?

Obsessively bake, spiral, and hesitate on texting Tommy again in 8x07? (Compare that to how he treated Taylor, Ali, or even Natasha post-breakup. Nothing. This was different.)

The entirety of 8x11 episode?

Start peacocking in a helicopter in 8x15?

That’s not surface-level. That’s a man who caught real feelings and didn’t know how to handle them.

And Tommy? He wasn’t untouched either. The shock on his face during the breakup, the sadness in the bar conversation, the heartbreak the morning after — and even in that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment in 8x15, watching Buck’s hallway breakdown from across the room — all of it points to something deeper. He felt this.

Maybe he didn’t expect it to be serious. But it became serious — quietly, fully, and in ways that clearly left a mark.

2. “Tommy wasn’t a good partner.”

This one honestly stings. Because Tommy might be the best partner Buck’s had on-screen.

He respected Buck’s boundaries. Checked in often.

He prioritized Buck. He prioritized Buck’s comfort — comforting him post Buck’s basketball spiral, showed up to the wedding like it meant something, and turned into a doting boyfriend during the Billy boils drama.

He offered open, enthusiastic affection — called Buck hot, smart, impulsive, adorable… repeatedly. To his face.

And Buck? Buck called him “cool.” Once. At the very beginning.

Tommy gave emotional warmth constantly. Buck basked in it — but we never saw him offer the same back. That’s not on Tommy.

3. “They barely developed it.”

Yes, Tommy was a guest star. The screen time was limited. But don’t pretend there was no development — because there was, and more quickly than some longer arcs. (Cough Taylor.)

We got:

Initial attraction

Mutual admiration

Emotional hesitation

A breakup with actual dialogue

A post-breakup hookup, driven by unresolved feeling

Lingering fallout that continued afterward

That’s more emotional continuity than Buck’s had with multiple long-term love interests. If the writers didn’t mean for it to matter, they sure wasted a lot of carefully written scenes making it feel like it did.

And yes — we keep using the same five scenes to prove our point. Because that’s what we got. But what we got? Was charged. Focused. Intentional. Emotionally dense.

And let’s be real: screen time is scarce on a show like 9-1-1. It’s not a character drama — half the runtime is dedicated to emergency calls, visual effects, and procedural pacing. Everyone’s fighting for space. Ryan Guzman literally said scenes get cut all the time. Oliver and others have talked about emotional beats that never made it in.

So the fact that Buck and Tommy still got this much? That alone should tell you the writers wanted it to land. And it did.

4. Tommy brought out something new in Buck

What sticks isn’t just the dynamic — it’s who Buck got to be inside it.

He was softer. More grounded. He wasn’t chasing a high or trying to play a role. He was allowed to be unapologetically Buck — extra, campy, chaotic — and Tommy met him there.

No need to impress. Just… show up. And be seen.

Hell, even his whole look shifted — relaxed in a way that felt intentional. Not just a “new season” change, but a visible softening. His hair. His clothes. His vibe. It was noticeable.

That’s rare for Buck. And worth paying attention to.

Just because a relationship was short doesn’t mean it was shallow. Just because it ended doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. Just because you didn’t care for it doesn’t mean the story didn’t.

You don’t have to ship it. But pretending it was meaningless? That’s a disservice to what we actually got — and to a character who, for once, saw Buck clearly… and liked what he saw.

P.S. This isn’t about being a Lou Ferrigno Jr. fan account or trying to hate on people who ship other characters with Buck. I genuinely love character analysis — we’ve been doing it for others as well — and this post or previous are coming from that place, not from bias or bitterness.

You don’t have to ship Buck/Tommy. But if we’re going to talk about what the show chose to give us? Then let’s give it the credit — and the critique — it deserves.

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for-yoongi0309 · 3 days ago

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— SUGA⭐ wrote a post! :

Hello, everyone. It's good to see you all, It has been a while. This is SUGA. It's been about two years, have you been well? As of today, I have been discharged from service and I came to greet you for the first time in a long time. I thought a lot about how I was going to come and greet you all, however I just wanted to say that I'm sincerely grateful for all of you, the fans who have been waiting for me all this time, I truly missed you.

I believe I was able to take the time to think and reflect on myself over the past two years. In particular, I thought about trying to maybe step back and distance myself from this work that I've been doing for so long, back then - I have been solely running forward, only looking straight ahead of me without stoping and looking back to give myself a chance to reflect on my life. But throughout this time, the past two years, it has given me time and the opportunity to reconnect with myself.

Never less, ARMY, I am truly grateful and thankful that you waited for me. However I am sorry for the disappointment and concerns I have caused due to what happened last year. But more than anything, what was breaking me the most was that I hurt the hearts of my fans. I am also sincerely sorry to my members, who were in their own places and had to deal with heavy hearts because of me.

With continuing forward, I will try and work harder and harder so I am able to repay and give back the love you all given to me. I sincerely love all of you - I will share updates and keep you posted from time to time.

#idolsincedits #mgroupsedit #maleidolsedit #ultkpopnetwork #suga #yoongi #min yoongi #bangtan #bts #p.weverse #t.translations #0620

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aimasup · 1 day ago

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Wonder if you seen the new digital circus episode, was really good full of silly stuff and insight into the characters

Caught it the minute it came out babeyyy it was a very pleasant Saturday surprise!

I'll take the chance to combine this ask with watchblogging

TADC EPISODE 5 live notes, spoiler warning, longass post and my personal magnifying glass vision analysis rambles:

Is it just me or is the animation somehow even better. The lighting is gorgeous and the expressions and body language are stellar as always. We should be watching this in theaters and yet it's for free

I kind of miss the uncanny 2000s 3d look but it's not really meant to be a horror show, just character-focused and kind of edgy, so it makes sense!

Opening with Zooble, fantastic start already. Love your new look

I assume they had to be in the ocean for a long period of time, which is good because they can't drown but bad because they can still feel like they're suffocating

Ragatha is still trying to become closer to Pomni! Is it because of Kaufmo's recent abstraction? She's so nice but that's it. Not good not bad just nice and trying. Such a fascinating and realistic character

I wonder what's up with the mannequin, Pomni's noticed it by now

It's not just me right - something is up. Caine's adventures are getting darker and darker.

Love his poses still though. I don't know if I've talked about this but despite everyone in this show being cartoony, the humans don't move like cartoons unless the situation calls for it, but every little gesture of Caine is dramatic and showy and stretchy. the subtle differences are very cool

Tell a good story? Caine I thought this was about making the humans happy 🤨. I know you mentioned your 'craft' in earlier episodes but you can't have both all the time man. Wow his ego is more fragile than we thought - hope he loses it and goes full AI meanie soon

Sex appeal

Caine is. So angry at Zooble. Zooble is literally just sitting there. Amazing that he now sees her as a blight and expresses murderous rage towards her normally only reserved for Bubble lmao. He does not love all his humans equally and he has no idea what he's doing

I feel like the fact that he likes them isn't the only thing holding him back. Might be the circus' systems leashing him as well

Premise of this episode is fun as hell, roller coaster mixed media let's fucking go

Yeah figured Jax would suggest this

Bowling alley screen animation ha

Jax did you make everyone a fursona

Wait do I like Jax now. Is he a charming rascal? Is he a cute bastard? What is happening

Pomni is so underqualified help her

I love how her mind keeps wandering off when distracted and she isn't the best at holding conversations

THEY BROUGHT BACK LUCID KINGER AND MADE AN ORAL JOKE THIS EPISODE RULES

You know what I like Jax now. He's actually fun to watch for some reason here. I like it when bastard characters are stupidly commited to being a bastard, look at Jax doing his funny Australian accent and flailing his arms around and making Zooble go splat. He's invested! What the hell! This is fun!

Yeah they're really nailing how useless Ragatha's cheer comes across now huh. It's rare seeing a show have someone be super nice and not have it be the solution to everything but also not make it a mask for their 'secretly evil real self'.

Anime segment threw me I love this show. I can't wait to browse fanart

Zooble just KNOWING it's Gangle's suggestion

Yeah Kinger you would be a language teacher huh

Yeah Jax you would hate slice of life huh

you know what I'm starting to see the relationship between Jax and Pomni now. Jax talks to her like. A lot. He is constantly trying to gossip with her and she calls him out but keeps her distance emotionally so she can still hold a conversation with him given the chance.

Love the anime figurine being our designated noodle incident

Stargazing is canon :'O they made the stargazing end credits screen canon I'm gonna sob

they're on a fucking picnic. OH. BE STILL MY MUSHY BEATING HEART

Jax is way too chill here. I was as shocked as Pomni when he started getting all sleepover-talk-like. Have all the rapid fire adventures worn him out?

Everyone makes valid points here. I love seeing this!!! No one is the bad guy in this specific conversation they just say and do horrid things that cross the line and their actions just happen to conflict - does that make sense? Arguably Jax is the bad guy - he's a right jerk but he's in the same cage as everyone else and clearly just needs someone to meet him where he's at, not reform him. Crazy. I care about him now, weird

Touchy subject for Jax. Ragatha definitely didn't mean it that way, she just can't stop putting her foot in her mouth

Pomni laughing at Jax's quips. I don't think we've seen her casually chuckle in a conversation before?? Huge stuff

Caine >:( Caineeee you insecure mf

Ooh yeah Jax definitely had a frog friend that abstracted before Kaufmo. The hallway door during the intermission, the confirmation from Gooseworx, the fact that Pomni's design used to be a frog (designs mean things, that's why Jax always talks to Pomni, habit probably)

BARTENDER ZOOBLE BARTENDER ZOOBLE BARTENDER ZOOBLE

Now this is nice and relaxing, love everyone giving their stories here, the dialogue is super fun, just the best, give me two more episodes of just this

Zooble bartender and tattoo artist confirmed. I can see why he's such a good listener. So many things are getting confirmed HOORAAAAY

Oh that makes a lot of sense for Ragatha, both her upbringing and that she actually shares a lot of her trauma even if she doesn't mean to. She is not that great at hiding her emotions! Damn!

Dude Jax and Ragatha are plain fighting over Pomni at this point. I think they do want to connect with Pomni genuinely, but they're sort of using her as a prize in their rivalry, smugly jabbing at each other, trying to knock each other down from their perceived pedestals.

There's a lot of clearly pointed words here, it feels manipulative and I don't mean that in the 'evil!! They're evil and smart and plotting!!' way, I mean that just literally. They're trying to play to their advantage here, the both of them. You can genuinely care about someone and also want to use that relationship to your personal benefit, because good relationships are supposed to help you right. Super unhealthy shit

Jax being afraid of corn is fantastic dude we love seeing him be brought down to earth. But on a serious note I like that there's shots of him being quiet of contemplative. He is clearly not going to open up a lot that easily so we have a collection of him throughout the episodes looking to the side with furrowed brows. That's cool

Yeah Caine is getting really antsy lately huh. He's no longer as jovial, he's SALTY that he isn't the reason they're having fun. Because that might mean he is the reason they're unhappy. That is salt on my screen right there

Evil team is great. Love this entire sports segment and the beginning part from episode 4 was brought back. Was this Ragatha's suggestion? Interesting

Kinger being constantly placed into authority figure roles is so neat. He earns it by seniority alone

Evil Pomni is literally just Pomni if she was careless as hell and super dexterous. That's funny

I adore Evil Ragatha with all my being. I love her so much

Evil Zooble was absolutely Caine's doing. he does not like their perceptive ass

Holy shit maid outfit canon. hell yeah

Zooble and Jax's rivalry brings me so much joy. Her throwing his words back in his face duuuuude

Kinger's collection of the most random knowledge on things continues

Ragatha being so hard on herself is expected, unfortunately. I like how not everything is resolved with one Pomni talk, it's that Pomni reaches out in the first place that changes things at least a little bit

Jax getting along with Evil Pomni makes a lot of sense tbh

My god these bitches fighting. Good for them

Love that Pomni is acknowledging both of them not really thinking about her when fighting with each other. It's not exactly about Pomni, is it you two

Ragatha GO OFF GO OFF

AND she apologised for that out of pocket comment about Jax's friends. This is a change for them, certainly. Jax's eyes dilating are so intriguing ooooh.

Cat Jax

Love small moments like these. Gangle doing great because Ragatha gave her advice, that's so sweet

Zooble just punting the opponent is great. He is so tired of this bs

Kinger is so unconditionally supportive, the way he spun her around and the others came to celebrate her, that felt meaningful somehow. Yeah it's because Caine doesn't know how softball works, and it's kind of awkward because it was kind of anticlimactic, but I feel like Ragatha getting a plain win without doing anything and without having to live up to some huge expectation is pretty significant.....Maybe I'm reading too much into it

Heheheheeee love the vegan joke

Meanwhile Caine's still had that going on for him in the background. Man I love how much more we see multiple characters progress in such a short amount of screentime

Dawg Pomni has a mean streak and Ragatha isn't a fan. Probably because to Ragatha it's reminiscent of being a Jax, the worst possible thing someone could be, since she is terrified of becoming a jerk. ITS SO MESSY. EVERYONE IS STRUGGLING AND PROJECTING. GOOD

Look at Jax here, the way they can communicate what he's thinking without changing how he carries himself is just peak

He had fun with them. That's like a massive deal. I don't even like Jax that much and I found this episode to be so good for his character. This exchange makes me feel warm inside my chest

Unexpected friendships let's go

Ragatha is just the phrase 'people pleaser but no one is pleased' damn

#my post #personal stuff #tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc episode 5 #tadc zooble #tadc gangle #tadc caine #tadc bubble #tadc ragatha #tadc pomni #tadc jax #tadc kinger

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