#if you comment on this to say something to the effect of

[p1astr81]

can I request some angst with a happy ending where oscar accidentally insults reader in a casual comment and she does obsesses over it

“Who is this?” He pointed to a framed picture of you on your parent’s fireplace mantle.

You laughed. “That’s me.”

A picture from a formal dance about seven years ago.

“Really? I didn’t even recognize you.” He paused, still observing the photo. “You look pretty in this.”

He hadn’t meant any harm by saying it. It was only an observation.

Your breath caught. You’re wearing heavy makeup in the photo, something you never do nowadays. You preferred to keep it light.

“Thanks.” You muttered.

You couldn’t shake it.

It felt like he told you that you weren’t pretty enough on a regular day. Only when you got dressy.

It would make sense. You did meet him at an official event. You wore a pretty dress, did your hair, caked your face in makeup. It was his first impression of you.

Had he stuck with you just to spare himself the trouble?

You caked your face in makeup the morning before qualifying. You used so much contour it completely altered the structures of your face. Your throat felt tight from the effort of holding back tears.

Oscar arrived at the track hours before you had, so he only saw you right before qualifying began. He saw you and blinked. His brows twitched, furrowing the smallest bit. “Are you wearing makeup?”

You nodded, smiling. “I always do.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, stuck somewhere between ‘but never this much’ and ‘but I like how you look naturally’. Both felt too rude. “Okay.” Was what he settled for.

The only thing you took away from that interaction was that he noticed. And to you, you believed his reaction was a positive one.

So you continued to cake your face in makeup.

It took two weeks of that before Oscar brought it up again.

You were sat on the sofa on the balcony of your Monaco flat, head on his shoulder. You looked over the sea and admired the effect the setting sun had on the sky. It looked similar to that Superman ice cream you loved as a child.

“Uhm, hey y/n.” He started, immediately alerting you with the use of your full name. You sat up to face him. “What’s with all the makeup lately?”

You smiled, thinking he was pleased with the change. You didn’t even notice how nervous and awkward he was. “You like it? Don’t you think it makes me prettier?”

He laughed, but the sound wasn’t humorous. He grabbed your hands, hoping it would lessen the blow of his confession. “You know I love you,” he led off, “I think you’re pretty with or without the makeup but-“

“But the makeup makes me prettier doesn’t it?” You interrupted.

He sighed. “Do you feel prettier with it?”

You nodded.

He bit his lip. “Okay. I think that’s all that matters.”

It carried on for another month an a half before Oscar decided to speak his truth.

“You don’t need all of that, honey.”

You didn’t even know when he got there, but he was standing in the doorway, looking at you through the bathroom mirror.

A frown flickered on your lips before they quirked into a smile. “But you said it makes me prettier.”

His brows furrowed. “When did I say that?” Despite the accusation, his voice remained calm and gentle.

“At my parents house, remember? With the picture from formal.”

He sighed, a sound of heartbreak. “Is that what this is about? Why you’ve worn so much makeup lately?” He stepped closer to you.

“Yes. I wanted to make you happy.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. His hand covered his mouth in disbelief momentarily before it found your waist. “Baby, I dont care how much makeup you wear.” He shook his head. He hesitated to tell you his next confession. “I prefer the natural you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to lie. Im okay with wearing makeup.”

“I’m not lying. The first time I saw you without makeup on was the same moment I fell in love with you.”

“Oscar don’t-“

“Don’t accuse me of lying. Because I remember it so vividly. We had just got back from a dinner date. It was the first time you came to my house. It was for a movie, The Batman. You wanted to watch it so I rented it for thirty dollars. You excused yourself from the restroom and then you came back out with my hoodie on and no makeup.” He shook his head. “I was in such awe that I didn’t even hear your question. You had to repeat it three times before I heard you. You asked if I had popcorn. I didn’t. You swore it was fine, but I door dashed it anyway, and m&ms because I knew you liked them, and your favorite soda.” He sighed again. “I didn’t even know what the movie was about because I was too busy watching you instead of the tv.”

Tears welled in your eyes, building a wall on your waterline and turning him into a blur. “Oscar,” you cooed, your voice breaking. you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his neck. You buried your head in the curve of his neck, the scent of his cologne comforting you.

“And here I was thinking you hated how I look, and you were only with me because it was convenient.” You sniffled.

“No,” he shot down instantly.

“I know. I should’ve known. That’s not you.”

He pulled your face away from him. “If I ever say anything that hurts you, call me out on it. Okay?”

His hands cradling your face while mascara stained your cheeks, you nodded.

[hanimanny]

SHE'S BARBIE, AND HES JUST… TIM?

a.k.a Bruce notices the many upgrades Tim's been getting since your arrival.

tags: Tim Drake x reader (established relationship), Bruce Wayne x platonic!reader, crack, pretty bird is a certified genius!!!

word count: 2.2k , likes + comments + reblogs appreciated

It first started when Bruce and Tim—in the furry persona—went out on a reconnaissance mission gone wrong.

It was a trap! The blueprints for a deadly android able to possess and control whatever tech exists was rumored to be lurking around this area is nowhere to be seen, and instead, they were greeted with an army of robots. Old prototypes, tank-like and bulky, nothing like they were searching for but still extremely difficult to deal with. 

The robots had surrounded them, and the usual method of overloading them wouldn't work, not with this kind—they were clearly built to take a beating. 

While Batman fights expertly as he does, brute-forcing his way through by ripping out their motherboards, Red Robin takes a different approach. 

He takes his bo-staff, which looks a bit different from his usual one—glowing a faint blue light at its tips—and hums as it spins (yes, like a lightsaber) and tags the robots. 

He rapidly taps the bots with his staff while simultaneously avoiding the attacks targeted at him until he reaches the other side of the warehouse, tagging at least half of the robots. 

With a click of his bo-staff, all the robots drop dead, as if life has been sucked out of them. 

Strange, what the heck did Red Robin do? 

Soon, like a domino effect, the nearby robots to the dead ones drop as well, as if they were infected with the same virus Tim had infected them with. 

“Batman, the nano-virus will only incapacitate them; they’ll wake up in the next hour,” Red Robin informs as he takes the end of his bo-staff and stabs it through a robot's chest—destroying the motherboard.

Nanovirus? When did he come up with that? Sure, the idea of nanotech was prevalent, especially in this day and age, but quick-acting nanotechnology that was able to instantly incapacitate any tech—be it only for an hour—is incredible. 

Batman nods, keeping it in mind to question Red Robin during the debrief, and continues to destroy the robots. 

But the debrief wasn’t helpful at all. Tim was being as elusive as ever, which he thinks he picked up from himself. Saying that the Nano-Virus was a random project that he wanted to try out, that it wasn’t supposed to work this well. 

Overcompensating. Tim’s trying to hide something. He may be great at keeping his tone varied and avoiding detailed explanations that would definitely raise flags, but Bruce is the greatest detective alive and can see through anything. 

Bruce gives Tim a stern scolding. Tell him that he needs to be informed of anything, even if he’s just on a trial. It may have worked this time, but the future is always unforeseen, then dismisses him. 

He’ll get to the bottom of this. 

The next time Bruce sees changes, it’s in Tim’s demeanor. 

He’s been brighter; not that he wasn’t happy before, but Tim has been more chipper. He could assume that was from having a girlfriend—the girl who works as one of the lead biotechnology engineers at Wayne Enterprises, who somehow pulled a Tim (it’s what the kids are calling it) and discovered all their identity in the first week of meeting them. Bruce would lie if he said he wasn’t impressed, especially with how you had no prior experience with being a detective (aside from doxxing people in your teenage years). 

The stress of not needing to hide who and what you are from the person you love is surely elating, but that wasn’t it (maybe partially). 

Maybe bright isn’t the term to describe it… It’s more like he’s free. 

Tim sat on the couch, nursing a large bright red Stanley cup in one hand—probably filled with an ungodly amount of caffeine—and the TV remote in the other. 

“You normally watch in your room.” Bruce's voice breaks the silence between Tim and the paused movie on the flatscreen. Tim peaks over his shoulder, as if he had to make sure that the deep stoic voice belonged to Bruce. 

“Sup B, I do, but Birdie wants the big screen experience—like my room doesn’t have it,” he scoffs as he takes a glug of his drink. 

Bruce nods as he observes Tim further. “You seem less stressed,” he prompts. 

“Yeah, Birdie came up with an A.I able to sort the paperwork and get background checks on every company that wants to make a proposal with WE, so I got less on my plate.” Tim sighs, as if he doesn’t have a pile of untouched cases back at the batcave. “Did you know we have at least 250 fraudulent companies trying to make deals with us? Insane,” he mumbles before his lips are back in the cup. 

“Also, she has me drinking more than 8 cups of water a day; I’ve never felt more alive.” Tim rattles the Stanley cup, hearing the clashing of ice against its metal walls, before again, taking a fat swig. 

Bruce’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and not because of Tim’s unhealthy habits (maybe just a little actually). Not only were you able to convince Tim away from his horrible caffeine addiction, although he was still skeptical about the front, but you were able to come up with a program that passes Tim’s savant expectations. 

You would be a great asset to the league, especially now because you know their identities. 

You walk into the living room, startled, as you’d been dead in your tracks at the doorway. 

Your eyes flick towards Bruce, then Tim, then back at Bruce, then Tim. and then—

You’ll never get used to Bruce’s intimidating aura. 

“H-hello, Mr. Bruce Wayne, sir,” you stumble out and… bow? What the heck! You inwardly cringe at your action as you pull yourself up, gripping the bowl of popcorn with an unprecedented amount of strength. 

Tim chuckles at your words, and Bruce settles a gentle smile on his lips because—after an extensive background check on—you truly are as sweet as Tim describes. 

“Didn’t I say to call me, Bruce?”

Your face pales as if you’ve committed the greatest sin alive, as you visibly gulp (at least he still has his intimidation skills). “Yes, Bruce Wayne—I mean, just Bruce,” you nod as your eyes flick at Tim, who reads your mind (but I mean, it’s clear what you’re trying to do). 

“Say, Bruce, do you want to join us for our movie date?” Tim asks, and your face loses all its color at this point. Bruce laughs softly at the comedy of the moment and shakes his head for your sake: “It’s okay, you kids have fun.” 

You wait for Bruce to take his leave, bowing again (seriously, would you stop doing that!). before you scurry off to Tim’s welcoming side, letting out a mixture between a whine and a groan of embarrassment. 

Bruce will save the interrogation for later, saving you the trouble of passing out due to fear and embarrassment. 

Before he's completely out of earshot, Bruce picks up the lingering conversation between the two of you. 

“He's my boss!”

“I’m your boss.”

“That’s different; you’re a loser.” 

“rude”

“Cry about it, furry.”

“Technically, Bruce calls himself Batman, so he’s also—

“If you ever tell him I said that, I'll be sure to put laxatives in all your foods.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The last innovation that goes under his nose happens, literally, under his nose. or more so the batcave. 

Scarecrow escaped, fear gas smothering the streets, and everyone is in the bat cave preparing to leave for the battlefield. 

Gearing up in his quarters, Bruce—moments before the cowl is up—sees you whispering frantically to Tim, who’s dressed in his own kevlar gear—besides the mask—consoling you gently. 

You seem nervous, more nervous than you normally are when he’s in your vicinity. You’re holding a metallic case to your chest, mumbling something he can’t quite hear. 

Then Tim speaks up, “Bruce!” Not just Bruce looks at him; the others do too—Dick, Damian, and Alfred. Tim then ushers you in front of him, and the way you clutch onto the briefcase makes you seem like a little bird. 

“Come on, pretty bird, you know it’ll work,” he encourages, and you take the deepest breath known to man. 

“I made a vaccination for fear gas.” You start, your shoulders squaring as you stare directly at Bruce, “It blocks any foreign neurotransmitters from pursuing infiltration, so think of it as antibodies for a virus. You inhale it just like fear gas, and you will be immune; it's viable for any variation of fear gas—because I designed it to be fast-adapting—for 24 hrs.”

“Of course, it does vary between everyone’s metabolism, and it must adapt to you first, so for it to work I need to infuse it with your DNA,” you mumble the last part out. 

“And how are you sure it’ll work?”

“I tested it out on myself, which is a very invalid trial, but I promise you, Bruce W.-Bruce, it’ll work.” There's a glint of determination in your eye. Bruce pauses at that and stares at you with his iconic glare. “We’ll discuss this when we get back; how do you administer the DNA?”

Your meek demeanor slowly leaves you as you perk at his acceptance, scurrying away from Tim and towards Bruce. “You just need to prick your finger, wait a minute for everything to infuse, and use it like you use an inhaler,” you instruct as you crouch down to open the case. 

You get to work, pricking Bruce first, then Dick, and with much reluctance from Damian, him as well. 

“Why isn’t Drake taking one?” Damian calls out as you hand the inhaler to the boy. 

You glance over to Tim, who's already looking at you: “Umm… I kinda sorta… already took it.” Bruce deadpans and glares and sighs all at the same time. Tim braces himself for a lecture, but it doesn't come. 

“We don't have time. Let's go.

Bruce turns away, pulling his cowl on, but not before he sees you launch yourself into Tim’s arms in a fit of relief. 

“I can't believe I did that.”

“I can. You're one of a kind, Pretty Bird.”

Bruce huffs and shakes his head. 

…

When they all return, they are much less banged up than they normally are. Your vaccine worked wonders; although temporary, this innovation is amazing! The pathways that have opened are endless; you truly are incredible.

Bruce, of course, forces you to sit through the debrief, which was actually not that bad. Hearing that your vaccine worked way better than expected fills your chest with pride. You can't help but steal glances from Tim, who is fully locked in Red Robin mode right now and doesn't even spare you a glance, but he does give your thigh a little squeeze, something to tell you that he is proud. 

The lectures you receive, on the other hand… You don't know how Tim does it; sit through it with a straight face. You're sitting with your wits tight, breath held, and sweat dripping down your temple. You blink in a daze as you listen to Batman drone about safety, teamwork, and the ethics of self-experimentation and how you should definitely not do it. 

You don't notice the pause in the lecture, zoned out completely to save your heart the trouble of all the anxiety. Although your name coming out of Batman’s mouth surely draws you back into reality. Your eyes focus again, and you’re met with Batman’s infamous gaze.

“Yes?” You squeak out, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Do you want to work for me?” 

You blink owlishly, and your brows furrow in confusion, giving Tim a glance, who only shrugs in response. 

“Um, Mr. Bruce… I already am… working for you— I mean.

“No, as a family physician, I've seen all your degrees: board-certified doctor, surgeon, and PhD in multiple fields. You can work from the manor as well. It's convenient that you already know all our identities and the inner workings of this family. I've also seen the tech upgrades you've given Tim. I believe you will be a great asset.” 

Tim clears his throat, and Bruce spares him a glance. 

“Great addition,” he corrects himself. 

You're bubbling in your spot next to Tim, like a volcano ready to erupt. 

“I would love to work with you all,” you reply back, but it's obvious you're trying to keep your composure in front of Bruce. 

“You can let loose, Pretty Bird, B doesn't bite,” you erupt with permission from Tim. But what neither man expects is for you to launch yourself into Bruce, squeeze him like a giant teddy bear, and let out a string of thank yous. 

Tim is stuck between a state of horror, adoration, and relief watching you hug Bruce with all your might. He didn't know whether to stop you, cheer you on, or simply pass out. 

“I won't let you down, Bruce!” You pull away, and there's a bright gleam in your eye, something that Gotham lacks entirely. 

Where the hell did Tim find this girl?

“Let's go, Duckie!” 

And you're off, pulling Tim along, who’s sporting a lovesick grin. 

The adventures of Pretty bird (shenanigans revolving you and Tim's family)

[doodle-pops]

Being A Modern Reader In Valinor and Finrod Falling For You

A/N: New and fresh content for the other golden puppy. It’s a shame that I barely give him solo content 😫. Enjoy!!

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➳❥ When you first met Finrod elbow-deep in herbs and bandages, fumbling with a jar lid that wouldn’t open no matter how hard you tried, he had wordlessly stepped in and popped it open like it was nothing. Giving you a curious smile as you muttered, “Thanks, Hercules.”

➳❥ And that was pretty much how you caught his attention. He didn’t ask what you meant, but you noticed the gleam in his eyes as he tucked the name away like a precious gem. It wasn’t long before he started calling himself Hercules when no one else was around. Only to smirk even more when you had finally explain further.

➳❥ You has ended up as Elrond’s assistant, ever since you randomly dropped into Valinor, for a while by then—though the term ‘assistant’ was generous. You had some knowledge of modern medicine, and while elves didn’t get sick the same way mortals did, wounds still happened, illnesses sometimes lingered, and your way of thinking brought a fresh angle to his work.

➳❥ “So we’re just going to slap crushed leaves on it and let the hibbie-jibbie magic to the rest?” you’d asked once, squinting at an ointment Elrond had made. He gave you a tired dad look and said, “Yes. Everything you said.” You’d snorted and muttered something about old-fashioned remedies, but the results were hard to argue with.

➳❥ Finrod had the tendency to overhear your sarcastic comments in passing, causing him to laugh. “You say the strangest things. Do you mock everything, or only things you care about?”

➳❥ You told him you mocked everything, including death, especially death, and that had gotten a spark of recognition in his gaze that startled you both. He’d fought in Beleriand, and there was a weariness buried deep in his spirit that still responded to depths of his humour.

➳❥ Eventually, he took that as an excuse to start visiting more often, claiming he needed herbs from Elrond or to ask Celebrian’s opinion on something trivial. Every time you’d glance at him, he’d be watching you like he was trying to puzzle out a language only you spoke.

➳❥ “Your eyes do not look at us as though we are legends,” he remarked one afternoon, leaning on the doorframe while you argued with Elrond over whether boiling instruments was more effective than bathing them in alcohol. “It is oddly refreshing.”

➳❥ He asked you once, “Why do you not use the proper forms of speech? You speak as though the words fight each other.” You raised an eyebrow and told him, “Because life’s too short to sound like a Shakespearean actor at every turn, mate.”

➳❥ When you started calling him mate, he would repeat it back to you with cautious confusion, leading to you spending the next ten minutes explaining that no, it didn’t mean you were flirting with him. Probably.

➳❥ After that, he made it a point to use modern slang in ways that made no sense at all. “I am simply vibing,” he said once, seated elegantly on the edge of the healing house roof. “Do not disturb my vibe.” Just hearing modern slang rolling of his tongue sounded to foreign. He was still too posh for it—but it was great laughter for your soul.

➳❥ It was even funnier when it came to using idioms. “Breaking a leg out there! Knock ‘em dead! Slay!”You had his brows reaching his forehead because “Why would you say such negative words when meant to encourage?”You needed to sit him down to explain that it was an idiom and not to be taken literally. So now you had him telling others the same phrases.

➳❥ You once made an offhand comment about being a ‘gremlin with a medical licence,’ and he asked if it was some form of a mortal healer’s rank. You refused to clarify. And so, he called you Gremlin of the Healing Hall with a suspiciously affectionate tilt to his voice. “Good day, Great Gremlin of the Healing Hall.”

➳❥ When it came to him being into you, you didn’t realise—mostly because he was an elf prince who’d died fighting a werewolf and you were someone who just happened to be spat out from the sky on a random day. The math didn’t math.

➳❥ But then there were the small things. Like how he brought you plants from other gardens ‘for study’ but then beamed when you placed them near your workbench. Or how he remembered that you hated the feeling of linen bandages and found you cotton ones. How he leaned in when you were talking, like he was memorising your tone.

➳❥ “You are…unrefined,” he said once, and you laughed. “Come again?” He shook his head. “No—I like it. You cut the shape of the world differently than we do. It is…sharper. Clearer.”

➳❥ You have caught him once attempting to write a list of your modern idioms in Quenya. You watched him struggle to translate “barking up the wrong tree” with such solemn intensity you didn’t have the heart to stop him.

➳❥ Elrond knew, of course. He raised an eyebrow every time Finrod showed up with another “urgent question” about Celebrian’s tea preferences. “He likes you,” Which only made you shrug. “Yeah, well, he’s got odd taste, and I feel sorry for what he’s got to put up with.”

➳❥ You and Finrod do, from time to time, end up in a heated discussions about ethics in medicine—something about whether you could replicate vaccines in Aman or if that was even necessary—and it ended with him looking at you like you’d hung the stars.

➳❥ “You are not like Bëor’s people,” he said quietly, after. “There was wonder in them, yes, but you carry knowledge. Woven like a weapon into your humour.”

➳❥ Once you fixed his dislocated shoulder after a sparring match and he had the audacity to flirt while grimacing. “Your bedside manner is very commanding,” he sweetly seduced, through gritted teeth. “I feel scolded into recovery.”

➳❥ You slapped his arm and told him, “You’re not dying, stop being dramatic.” His grin was bright enough to put the sun out.

➳❥ One evening, you were exhausted and cranky and snapped at him when he asked a completely innocent question about the use of antiseptic. You regretted it instantly, but he only gave you a slight nod, and later brought you a cup of some herbal tea you’d once offhandedly mentioned helped you sleep.

➳❥ “I do not mind the rough edges,” he said, when you muttered an apology. “They make the bright parts brighter.”

➳❥ You gave him a nickname once—called him ‘Goldilocks’ and he froze like you’d kissed him. The next time you said it, he smiled so slowly it made your heart hiccup.

➳❥ There was a moment, once, when you were both sitting side by side after treating a minor injury someone brought in—a child with scraped knees, nothing serious—and he looked over at you, quiet and thoughtful, and said, “I wish I had met you then. Before the world broke.”

➳❥ He showed you music from his past, old songs sung in languages older than time, and you continued to teach him more idioms and slang for him to translate. Even talking about your world’s inventions and discoveries.

➳❥ He once asked if there was a special or different way your people show affection for someone they liked, or how they confessed and showed their interest. Very smooth and subtle. You obviously caught on and even gave him advice which only made him shine brighter with a plan in mind.

➳❥ “I’d have just called you Sparkles and made fun of your hair,” you replied, not looking at him.

➳❥ You caught him watching you during a feast, romanticised, but like he was trying to understand how you existed in this world and fit nowhere and yet thrived regardless. Like you were a marvel in a very small, very messy package.

➳❥ “You are not of this place,” he told you once. “And yet I find myself wondering if perhaps this place is better for having you in it.”

➳❥ You told him he was being weirdly poetic and needed to tone it down before you started writing terrible sonnets. And of course, he turned it around to offer help.

➳❥ You never made it a big declaration, but there was one time he reached out and squeezed your hand under the table during a feast, and you didn’t flinch or joke or pull away. That, for both of you, said enough.

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[festivating]

after attrition wedding, how do you think the girls spent their night once everyone went home? and their morning after? did they have a honeymoon? i just love them so much i hope they’re happy always

Little ficlet for you, anon! I've missed these idiots. Happy pride.

“Don’t tell me you’re asleep already.”

“I’m not asleep.” Elphaba cracked her good eye open, and smiled at Glinda. “I was waiting for you.”

Glinda laughed as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her and muting the soft chatter that still drifted from down the hall. Elphaba was sprawled on the bed—in the middle of it, mind you, so there was barely any space for Glinda.

But Glinda had just gotten married—in a way that actually mattered!—and she was feeling generous. More importantly, she was feeling cheeky. She pitched her voice down to imitate Elphie’s. “‘I was waiting for you—’?” 

Elphaba laughed, but made no real attempt to move. “I was waiting for you, wife.”

“Clearly not.” Glinda smiled, standing by the foot of the bed. “Since you’re hogging the entire mattress, including my side.”

“What’s yours is mine now,” Elphaba said airily. “Or something.”

“Move.”

“Mmm, I could.” Elphaba still made no effort to. “Or you could just let me hold you.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Glinda was already climbing in beside her, happily breathing in the familiar scent of earthy oil clinging to Elphaba’s skin. She, like Glinda, was dressed for bed, but Glinda still saw her in white—as she’d looked earlier that day, brilliant and newly hers.

“You didn’t wash your hair,” Elphaba commented, her arms already winding around Glinda.

“Would’ve taken too long to dry,” Glinda mumbled. She waved a hand behind her, spelling the lights off, and nuzzled into the curve of Elphaba’s neck. “And then I couldn’t have done this.”

Elphaba chuckled, resting her chin atop Glinda’s head. “Much appreciated.”

“Anything for my wife.” Glinda giggled, light and girlish, and beamed when Elphaba joined in. “Are you tired, darling?”

“Exhausted.” Elphaba yawned. “Dinner went on too long. I warned you. And letting everyone make speeches? Mistake. I’m pretty sure Crope’s alone was an hour long.”

“He had a lot to say because he’s our dear friend and he loves us.”

“He could’ve skipped the bit about me crashing into his window last year.” Elphaba sniffed, her hands drawing patterns on Glinda’s back. “Quite embarrassing, and added unnecessary padding.”

“I loved to be reminded of that. I’d forgotten.” 

“Let it be forgotten again.” Elphaba gave her a gentle squeeze. “Right along with all the inappropriate wedding gifts he gave us.”

Glinda chuckled against her shoulder. “I’d have thought you’d be excited about those. I truly expected to come back from my bath to find you arranging—”

“I would never,” said Elphaba. 

“What? Are you too tired to consummate our marriage?”

“Who said anything about too tired?” Elphaba scoffed, but another yawn ruined the intended grave effect. “Besides, we have guests in the house.”

“Oh, now you care about propriety? Truly, Elphie, marriage has changed you.”

Elphaba’s laughter rumbled through her chest, comforting and familiar beneath Glinda’s cheek. “I guess you’ve rubbed off on me.”

“Mmm. Pity. Call it intellectual curiosity more than anything else, but I was hoping to test that—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Elphaba interrupted, placing a hand over Glinda’s mouth. “We’re respectable now. Married. What will people think if you go around saying such filthy things?”

Glinda licked her palm.

“Wife,” Elphaba said, offended.

“Wife,” Glinda echoed sweetly.

They settled again, the laughter winding down into a comfortable quiet, interrupted only by the distant clatter of someone washing dishes in the kitchen and a dog barking outside. In the darkness, their room felt like a retreat from it all, lit only by the faint gleam of moonlight through the curtains.

After a beat, Elphaba said softly, “It’s strange having the house so full.”

“It is,” Glinda agreed. “Nice, though.”

“Very. And a little overwhelming.”

“And fleeting,” Glinda added, her fingertips tracing idle circles on Elphaba’s collarbone. “They’ll all be gone in a few days. And speaking of the two of us being alone—have you given any thought to our honeymoon?”

Elphaba grimaced, and though Glinda didn’t see it she felt it in her voice. “Oh, are we supposed to have one of those?”

Glinda pinched her side, earning another low laugh. “Elphaba Thropp-Upland, do not play coy with me. You promised me a getaway.”

“I recall promising something more along the lines of a ‘remote place where we won’t have to speak to anyone but each other.’”

“Precisely. Paradise. So? Have you any preferences? The mountains? Lakeside?”

“Nowhere. We have cows to milk.”

“Such a romantic, Elphie. Ha ha. We pay people for that. Now tell me—where would you like to go?”

“Take me wherever you want,” Elphaba mumbled. “No water nearby, if possible.”

“Mountains it is, then.” 

“Mountains, really? Out of all the places in Oz, you want to go to the mountainside? In spring? We’ll swelter.”

“Oh, Elphie. I married you, didn’t I? Clearly, I enjoy making questionable decisions.”

She could already see it in her mind: a cozy cabin tucked away in the northern peaks, the hush of wind through pine trees. No ledgers to take care of and no rumble of machines—Glinda loved the efficiency of them, but even she had to admit sometimes it was too too.

And, more importantly, a chance to kiss Elphaba somewhere no one had ever seen them before. The image made her smile. 

“Fine, mountains,” Elphaba said. “But only for a few days. There’s still work to be done here and I don’t trust anyone to man the operation as well as we do.”

“We will not have a honeymoon that lasts ‘only a few days.’ What is wrong with you? A month at least.”

“A month? We’ll go bankrupt. What will I do? You own my assets now.”

“You own mine. You never had any assets to begin with.” Glinda sighed. “I married below my station. The horror.”

Elphaba gave a snort. “And yet, somehow, you seem happier than ever. Curious.”

“Blissfully so,” Glinda whispered, and drew her wife into a slow, tender kiss. “I love you, darling. Quite tremendously. You spoke very beautiful words earlier, I didn’t tell you how touching they were.”

“You didn’t have to,” Elphaba said. “I mean, you did cry.”

Glinda smacked her shoulder. “Perhaps this whole wedding was a mistake. You get on my nerves far too much.”

“Give me another kiss, my sweet.”

Glinda obliged, obviously.

“You did beautifully, by the by,” Elphaba whispered to her, as if the words would escape this small space between them. “With the wedding, I mean. The venue and the arrangements. I know it was hard, but you outdid yourself.”

Softness unfurled inside Glinda. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known Elphaba liked their wedding as much as she did, but hearing it out loud made her feel like she was going to cry. She had thought she was done crying for the day, but apparently not.

For her own sake, she decided to go back to teasing. “All that effort, only for you to grow tired of me in a month.”

“A month?” Elphaba chuckled. “Have some faith in my commitment. I give us at least two months before our inevitable scandalous divorce.”

Glinda laughed with her. “Divorce is terribly impractical. So much paperwork.”

“Then we’re stuck with each other?”

“Forever, I’m afraid.”

“How terrible.” 

Elphaba hooked a finger under Glinda’s chin and tilted her up into another kiss—slower, sweeter this time, the kind that lingered. Glinda melted into it, into her, letting her fingers curl at Elphaba’s collar. The night outside pressed quietly against the windows, and the two of them had all the time in the world.

When they parted, Glinda gave a satisfied little sigh and tucked herself closer, her cheek resting over Elphaba’s heart. Sleep was coming now, inevitable and gentle. The bed was warm. Elphaba was warmer.

She reached for her wife’s hand, her thumb brushing over the ridges of Elphaba’s wedding band. The metal was warm, too. It felt like a map beneath her touch—one she knew by heart, one she’d follow anywhere.

[butterberg]

From this article (emphasis and comments added by me): 1. "Grubin said mandating medical intervention would not be ethical because sex offenders were not mentally ill. “They have capacity to make their own choices and these choices include whether or not to take medication,” he said. “It also includes choices about whether or not they want to manage their own behaviour.

“Most offenders don’t want to go back to prison, and they don’t want to go out and offend. So most will voluntarily participate in programmes that are going to reduce the chances of either of those things happening.”

Comment: I will not say I haven't struggled with this. These acts are heinous. It is scary to think that this is a deliberate choice someone has made. It is even scarier to think that your colleague who brings in cake for their birthday, a close family member or a friend could do this. But the truth is that, in the UK, crimes involving iioc is steadily increasing. I will reveal the number at the end of this so you can calculate your own odds of how likely it is you know someone who has offended.

As someone who was very much part of the "these perpetrators deserve nothing" brigade, I can wholeheartedly recommend the research by the Lucy Faithfull Foundation (LFF):

https://www.lucyfaithfull.org.uk/why_research/published-research/

The LFF is the only (yes, the only!) charity in the UK working to prevent child sexual abuse. They also offer ways for people who have offended to contact them so they can learn how to manage their behaviour so they don't offend again. You know, ways that help to keep children safe in the future.

2. Comment: If you are not convinced by the argument that people who grew up in a very similar environment as you and have therefore learned, just as you, that child sexual abuse is wrong and want to change because they know they are doing something wrong, then maybe you'll find it interesting that castration is not a viable way of stopping reoffending or criminal behaviour more broadly:

From article: "Prof Belinda Winder said making medication compulsory could make it more likely that sex offenders would commit other crimes. “I would be very worried if the government made it compulsory,” said Winder, who has more than 15 years of experience working on reducing reoffending of sex offenders, supporting rehabilitation and promoting ethical and evidence-based practices within the criminal justice system."

“If offenders are being coerced and forced, you’re just pushing the problem somewhere else,” she said. “You might reduce the sexual urges but you’ve perhaps increased their hostility, aggression and sense of having a grievance.”Dr Adarsh Kaul, a consultant forensic psychiatrist and clinical director at Nottinghamshire healthcare NHS trust, has more than two decades of experience in managing sexual offenders, particularly through pharmacological interventions. He also said he would not work with patients who had been coerced, saying that far from being a “one size fits all” solution, medical intervention was only appropriate and effective for about a third of sex offenders.“The only people I will work with are those in prison for whom therapy has, or is likely to, fail,” he said. “But if a patient shows any indication that he is being forced to take these drugs, then I won’t prescribe them because it’s a medical treatment I’m providing on the basis of voluntary consent.”Marcus Johnstone, the managing director at PCD solicitors and a specialist in representing serious sexual offenders, said any attempt to force offenders to take libido-altering chemicals would be challenged in the courts and European courts, adding: “These proposals will fail as a way of reducing reoffending without investment in adequate psychological treatment services in tandem.”

Final comment: How many sexual offences against children do you think happen in the UK every year? Please think of a number.

It's was over 115,489 recorded by police in 2023. It is now more than 115,000 crimes. (source: https://news.npcc.police.uk/releases/second-child-sexual-abuse-and-exploitation-analysis-launched) - I find that number quite shocking. These numbers are steadily rising, too (again, pointed out by the LFF).

Now imagine, they were all castrated. Experts say it works for a third of them. What do we do with the rest of them?

Have a think about this and see where your mind takes you.

[toxicrelief]

Crawling Back to You

Chapter sixteen

Synopsis: You realize a bit more about how you feel towards Rex that extends past just being teammates. Just in time for a specialized mission you’re the only one interested in going on.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Chapter: 16/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: None

Note: I loved reading your guy's shocked comments last time, you're all so funny. This chapter and the next were both going to be one chapter but this one is already so long it would probably end up being 10k+ words 😭 Then the chapter after the next one will be a Rex POV. Reblogs, comments, likes, taglist requests are all very appreciated!!

You don’t like him. Not like that, that’s ridiculous. You could hardly stand him a few days ago! It wasn’t even just dislike, you hated him. And he hated you. He spent months trying to get rid of you. This is ridiculous, more than ridiculous it’s… well, it’s just plain idiotic. You barely like him enough to visit his room! And that’s just because you feel bad. Sure, he seems to be making an effort of sorts to be better, but that does not erase months of heartache and borderline misery. Heartache isn’t the right word, that implies that he has some kind of effect on your heart, which he does not.

But he was at least semi-good company after long shifts at the hospital. Who else did you have? Rae didn’t want to entertain you constantly, and she was still asleep most of the day because of her healing process. So, who else did you have other than the asshole? You just liked to see his steady improvement; it was akin to a social experiment. Nothing more. And as far as social experiments went at least he was somewhat good company. You liked the banter as much as you hated to admit it. And you liked how much he seemed to concede to what you were saying. A stark contrast to the Rex who had fought you on everything. If you asked to see his new hand, he would let you see it without hesitation. If you told him to stop talking while you were trying to focus on a message that just popped up from Cecil, he would instantly shut up. It was like he had been trained almost overnight. Sure, he could be funny, and surprisingly insightful but that doesn’t mean anything either.

At this very moment, he’s telling you how annoyed he is at his hair. Which as of now was starting to grow out from the close-cut buzz he had received during surgery. It was a little scruffy, not nearly long enough to be weighed down, so it just stuck out in different directions. He looked dumb in an endearing sort of way. For the first part of your visit, he just sat with one hand on his head as if it would hide it from you. Chunks stuck up through his fingers, and he somehow made it look perfectly natural for someone to sit like that. Until he needed to talk about something with more animation, and then his annoyance at how it looked was forgotten. You didn’t think it looked that bad, it was very different from his usual look, but not bad. It looked soft-  

Ah, shit.

You were starting to like Rex.

It was hard enough to look him in the eye after your dream the other night. It was embarrassing honestly. You might have self-indulged a little, asking Rex to inspect his hand for fully no reason other than because you wanted to. He didn’t even ask why, just offered it and kept talking.

“Cecil’s talking about getting me to be field ready after today-”

You hummed quietly, only half listening after your sudden realization. God, Rae was going to have a field day with this.

“I hope my suit is all fixed up, you know? If not I guess I could call Eve or something cause the amount of damage it had I doubt I could patch it up-” His left hand was still nudged towards you, palm up, even though you were no longer examining it.

“Wait, you said Cecil wants you back on the field?” You dropped your thought process for a moment, finally focusing fully on him.

“Uh, yeah.” He said with a small nod. “I’m getting discharged today, they said I’m basically good to go-”

“I don’t think ‘basically’ isn’t very assuring.” You frowned.

He tilted his head a little at you, a sly smile ghosting over his lips. “You worried about me, nurse?”

Normally you would roll your eyes, quickly followed by an exasperated groan. But now, you could swear the temperature of the room went up a few degrees. “No, I’m worried that if you get put on a mission, you’ll fuck it up. You should be fully healed before going out again.” Harsh, maybe harsher than it needed to be. But you didn’t want him reading into the way you had just looked at him.

“First of all, fucking ouch. Second of all, if you’re so worked up about it, why not just check me yourself?” He holds his right hand out to where you sit on the recliner.

You glance down at his hand before snapping your gaze back up to him. “Well, if the doctors say you’re good to go-”

He barks out a laugh. “What is going on right now?”

“They are professionals, they know what they’re doing.” Your eyes jerk down to his hand for a second again, which he is still holding out to you.

“You just said-” Rex raises a brow, but before he can finish you interrupt.

“Oh, piss off, fine.” You grab his hand a little rougher than you meant to. You can feel him tense from the gesture which sends a feeling down your spine. Good or bad, you couldn’t quite tell, but you felt it. You close your eyes, focusing on whether there are any remaining injuries, and surprisingly enough, besides a few left-over bruises he seems fairly fine. You let go after healing the measly remainder, “See? You’re all set.”

“See?” Rex repeats, confusion lacing his tone. “See what? I wasn’t the one raising doubts,” He looks to the other side of the room as if looking for an imaginary camera. “What-?”

“Gotta stop living in the past Rex, keep moving forward.” You stand up swiftly, preparing to leave. Should you feel bad for borderline gaslighting the poor guy? Maybe. But you were feeling your own confusion as it was.

“Wait.” Rex’s voice calls out as you go to grab your coat. “Are you still coming around the HQ?”

“Yep, still work there.” You folded your coat over your arm.

“So, I’ll see you around?” He’s wincing slightly as if he’s being too vulnerable, and he has to express it externally.

“Yes.” You affirm, your expression softening. “I know where you live, don’t worry.” You give him a small smile.

“I know where you live too.” He says back.

“Great, and I know where I live, and you know where you live, so we’ve got that covered.” Not sure how to fully end this exchange, you take a few steps back to exit the room.

Rex opens his mouth as if to say something, but quickly snaps it shut, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed tightly. His jaw ticks as he looks off to the side, and you decide you need to get out of there now before you make a fool of yourself.

“See you later, Rex!” You call out as you step out of the room.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You’re entering Rae’s room; some trashy reality TV show is playing on the screen. Rae herself is working on some breakfast, obviously not enjoying it much. “Hello?” She raises a brow at you as you close the door with an unintentional slam.

“Hi.” You respond as you sink into the chair.

“Did someone die?” She eats a spoonful of her food, shuddering as she swallows.

“Worse.” You respond dramatically, your hands covering your face.

“They’re making you move into The Guardian’s HQ?”

“Ohhh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You peeked through your index and middle finger to look at her.

“Eh, not really. Then I can’t escape to your apartment for drink  nights. So, if it’s not that then what is it?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“Probably.”

“It’s so ridiculous.”

“Come on, are you being paid by the word?”

“Rex.” You close your fingers, feeling your face heat up again.

“Of course.” Giggles sound off from Rae’s direction as soon as you say it, not needing to ask another clarifying question. “I knew this was coming.”

“How?” You tried not to sound extremely pathetic, but it still came out in a half whine. “I couldn’t stand him!”

“You brought him a bottle after you kicked his ass, constantly looked at him when he was around, talked about him when I was over-” She starts counting out on her fingers.

“You’re the one who brought him up when you came over!” You exclaim.

“Because I knew you wanted to talk about him!��

“He has been the major cause of any drama or problem in my life, of course I’d want to talk about that. That doesn’t mean I liked him!” You held your hands out in an animated fashion as you spoke.

“Oh no, you definitely didn’t like him. But you thought about him all the time, didn’t you?”

“Ugh, you’re not making me feel better.”

“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about it being one-sided.” She finally ditched the food, pushing it away with a sour face.

“What?” You slouch more in the chair, swiveling to face her.

“Every bit of energy you’ve taken up talking, or complaining-or whatever, about him, he’s done like tenfold over you. He’s obsessed.”

You sigh and roll your eyes, somehow sinking further down. “I wish I had your level of delusion, Rae.”

“Call me delusional all you want, give it a few days, weeks.” She pauses and looks at you. “Or months, given the sluggish pace you two have been moving. I might be dead by then with the likes of this job.”

“Oh boy.”

Rae takes the pause to turn more towards you, letting out a groan at the exertion which has you shooting up even though she has no intentions of letting you help. “So, what made you finally realize?”

“Are you sure I can’t help in some way?” You rub your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Stop changing the subject, help me by giving the details.”

You sigh for what must have been the millionth time since entering the room. “I had…a dream.”

“Ooh, the scandal!”

“Shut up.” Pause. “Yeah, I mean kind of.”

“Call me the moment he shows up at your apartment looking like a lost puppy, Bulletproof is going to owe me so much money.”

“I really hope you’re joking.”

--

“No offense, but since when did we take orders from you, Donald? Where is Cecil?”

“This isn’t orders, it’s a prospect job.” Donald responded with a cool air.

He was always good at taking the shit everyone gave him. It made you feel for him more than most.

A few days have passed since you last saw Rex at the hospital. Somehow the two of you just couldn’t seem to coincide at the headquarters. It was frustrating, and even more frustrating than the lack of his presence in your life, was the fact that it frustrated you in the first place. You had walked by instinct to his room at the hospital multiple times the day after he left just to be greeted by sterile air and the smell of various detergents used to clean the area. The disappointment that filled you with the sight of it was not lost on you.

Right now, you finally saw him. The Guardians were assembled for some ‘special’ mission. Donald had gathered you all on Cecil’s behalf, it had all been very vague. Every member was present minus Rae, who was still recovering, and now going through physical therapy. And Kate, who was well…dead.

The memory of the fallen member had its effect on you just like every other mistake you had made. In order to be productive, both as an individual and as a hero, you had to push it away every time it entered your mind. You could wallow or you could act. You choose to act.

“A job? I thought we already had jobs. You know, being that we are Guardians and all.” Rex’s voice sounded out from the other side of the group, causing you to shift your attention. He was wearing his suit, and from the state of it he had recently been in a fight. His headpiece was pushed back but his goggles were perched on top of his head, his short hair poking up around it. You clenched your jaw tightly, he should be on vacation, having a break, or I don’t know, in therapy? He almost died. There’s no way that he came back from that completely fine. In that case, maybe you should be in therapy too, the number of times you’ve kind of almost died. But that’s only kind of so you’re obviously exempt. Rex shifted slightly, his line of sight landing on you, which sent you looking back at Donald again with no idea how long you’d been staring.

“This is technically out of Guardian jurisdiction, but an important donor has asked us specifically for undercover security detail.”

“Wait, we’ve been asked to be someone’s glorified security guards? Isn’t that a bit below our pay grade?” Bulletproof sounds off from right next to you.

“There are plenty of other heroes around, do you need a portfolio that you could send to him? I still have one from when I was running tryouts for the new team.” Rudy input a bit further down the line.

You glanced over before adding your own contribution, “Donor? Aren’t we government-run? How do we have donors?”

“They have asked specifically for members from The Guardians. You can technically refuse, but it wouldn’t be without repercussions.” Donald focuses on you. “There are a select few donors that contribute to the GDA and other operations, which entails all of you. Makes for more funds for renovations after damages that occur after Guardian missions.”

It makes sense, kind of. Cecil made a comment to you once about how much it costs to use his teleportation device, and with how much upkeep the Guardians themselves take just from missions, you can’t imagine it is in any way cheap. But donors?

“It would be a small detail, two or three. The person of interest has received a few concerning terroristic threats and wants to be sure everything runs smoothly.”

“Everything, as in?” Amanda questions.

“It’s a fundraiser, a gala-”

“A dance? This is ridiculous.” Immortal interjects, scoffing at Donald. “We are the Guardians of the Globe, not some dollar store rent-a-cop business.”

A few voices intertwine, speaking out all at once, mostly sounding disgruntled, displeased. On one level you understood their reservations. This was not the kind of thing any of you dealt with. Stakeouts? Sure. Life-threatening last-minute situations? Of course. A money-raising ball with the off chance of terrorism? Not as much.

Rex’s voice was surprisingly not one of those you heard. You tried to subtly look over at him, just to see that he was already looking right at you. Seemingly gauging your reaction. After looking away so suddenly earlier you would be pushing your luck doing it again right now. There was nothing else you’d rather do than break this scathing contact, but you just looked at him. And he looked back, his pale green gaze washing over you. Internally, you were trying to decide how long an acceptable amount of time would be to look at him, giving him a small smile. You didn’t have to wonder for long, because he broke the eye contact first. His attention turned to Immortal who was saying something about none of them partaking in this “obsolete distraction”.

“I’ll do it.” Before you fully thought it through the affirmation passed your lips. You weren’t really sure what the big deal was. So, what, it’s not some city-leveling threat. It almost sounded like fun, even exciting. You would be able to dress up, play a part, improvise. It would be a nice change of scenery.

Immortal sighed heavily. “You can have her. But we can’t spare anyone of importance.”

Give me a fucking break. You closed your eyes, letting out a controlled breath before turning to Bulletproof. “Come with me.” You whispered.

“Oh, hell no. I don’t want to have to dress up for some dance. No way.” He whispered back, not turning his head.

“Please! It would be at least a few days away from this place. It could be like a vacation.” You hiss, determined to get someone to go with you. Bulletproof was nice enough, and you knew he would be professional, which you couldn’t say for other members.

And you wouldn’t dare ask Rex.

“Ugh.” Bulletproof grumbled quietly. “I’ll go too.” He said loud enough for everyone else to hear.

Donald nodded, giving you what you swore must have been a look of appreciation, but with the glasses, you just couldn’t tell.

The Immortal grunted in displeasure but didn’t comment, folding his arms.

“I’ll also go.”

The whole group turns their attention to the voice that spoke from the other side of the room.

“What? I’d never say no to a party, you guys should know that by now.” Rex expressed with a composed tone.

“We can’t spare both you and Bulletproof.” Immortal said gruffly, turning to Donald. “Won’t just one person do?”

He couldn’t even use your name. Your expression betrayed how much this was getting under your skin, but you couldn’t seem to return to indifference.

“Technically, only two members are needed-” Donald starts,

“If something happens Bulletproof can just fucking fly back-or something, right?” Rex cuts in, drawing attention back to him.

“Technically-” Bulletproof begins, holding a hand up to his chin.

“Great. Then it sounds like we’re set.” Rex finishes and you catch his eye for a moment, mouthing a small ‘thank you’, to which he briskly nods, looking back at the Immortal.

“Very well.” Immortal bites out, leaving the conversation entirely, followed closely by Black Sampson.

“Shall I too go on this adventure?” Shapesmith asks, which is immediately shut down but a hand on the shoulder from Bulletproof and a shake of the head.

“You will each receive a detailed briefing later today by handout.” Donald explains to the three of you that agreed to attend. “The Gala is located on the donor’s personal land in northern Montana. The morning after will consist of a special guest brunch which you all will be attending as well. There will be rooming for you there as they want you on scene all night long just in case. And it would also be easier on resources to keep you all there.”

“Who is this person?” You inquire, Donald has not said anything specific this whole conversation other than where this dance would take place, and that the mystery person was a donor for the GDA.

“That will be in the handout you receive.” He stated concisely.

“Why all the secrecy?” Rex furrows his brow, folding his arms.

“Discretion is involved regarding every donor.” Donald responds, straightening his tie. “The gala is tomorrow night, you will all be flown in tomorrow afternoon, outfits and identities will be assigned to you.”

Bulletproof looked exceptionally put out, Rex looked like he was trying to solve long division in his head, and you? Well, you were borderline ecstatic.

--

You would never get used to using a private jet. After so long flying commercially, all the space felt like heaven. Your back didn’t start aching after the first hour, you could stand up and stretch your legs, even more you could write an essay about the bathroom. The other times you had traveled in the Guardian-affiliated-jet it had been the whole team. Now it was just you, Bulletproof, and, worst of all, Rex.

The carpet was a crisp maroon, the rest of the interior was a sterile white. Which you thought sharply contrasted with the Guardians of the Globe headquarters, that consisted mostly of aluminum tones. The walls of the plane’s interior were accented with mahogany plating, something you couldn’t decide if you thought was tacky or classy. The opinion changed every mission.

Any excitement at the prospect of being in semi-close quarters with Rex again was quickly drowned out by Rex and Bulletproof incessantly bickering.

“I’m just saying I still think you could have come up with a more inspired name.”

“I’m about to be inspired to knock your teeth out.” Bulletproof spit back.

You didn’t get between them, eventually they would both wear themselves out.

The clouds outside your window hung far below. Clustered together, forming wool-like patterns. For a moment you imagined what it would be like to surf on it. Then you looked back at the handout Donald had provided you each with. The three of you were meant to be covert, blend in. You were each free to use your own names, as apparently most of these people were not horribly well-informed. However, you each had been assigned backstories. You were a philanthropist by blood, having inherited a section of the oil industry. Rex was a wildlife activist who had traveled all over the world. Zandale was meant to be a journalist who was writing about the event for Time Magazine. Hopefully, there wasn’t someone there actually from Time Magazine, but you guessed that Donald already checked the guest list for that.

When you first read through it you had mentioned to the other two that you thought it was odd that Rex was the person who had been all over, rather than Zandale, who could fly.

“I have been all over.” Rex had said defensively.

“What? When?” You had scoffed.

“Just…well, a while ago, I don’t fucking know.” The tension in the room had skyrocketed for reasons you weren’t sure of, so you didn’t ask further.

The donor was someone named Dr. Mune. Apparently, the doctor was a genius. Having created many of the lifesaving measures the GDA is still using today. One of those included the brand-new hand Rex was situated with. You wish you could have seen Rex’s reaction to that information. Would it make him work harder on the mission? Or did he feel indifferent to it? It made you feel more connected to the job; the new hand was nothing short of a work of art. Memories of how it felt against your touch flood your vision, sending electricity down your spine.

“Joy?” You turned as Rex said your nickname, feeling annoyance at the sound of it after it had been used so long as an insult. Or at least that was how you had formerly perceived it.

You hummed in response, waiting for him to speak.

“Well, what do you think?” Rex said, tilting his head.

“I think you’re both extremely annoying.”

“God, I already know that. Focus! Whose name is better?”

They both looked at you expectantly. It was weird to see Bulletproof, or rather Zandale, without his goggles on.

“Do I have to take a vote?” You sighed heavily, turning back to the window.

“Yes.” They responded in unison.

“I like Invincible’s name most probably.”

“That was not one of the options but thank you for reminding us of your crush.” Rex retorted, a hint of bitterness lacing his words.

You scoffed, turning back towards them, ready to correct him, only to hear Zandale let out a laugh. Your gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowing. He was pursing his lips and purposefully not looking at either of you. Shit. Rae hadn’t been joking. Great.

“What?” Rex looked at him too, his brow drawing together tensely.

He bit the corner of his upper lip, looking up at you first then at Rex, then back and forth a few times. GREAT.

“How do you know I don’t have the hots for Bulletproof here, hm?” You panicked, you had to say anything to get him to get off Zandale’s obvious trail.

This caused them both to turn their attention to you. “What?” They said in unison again, which made you laugh.

“God, you two are like Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, I’m surprised you don’t get along better.”

Rex shook his head while holding his hands up as if putting away all of this information to deal with later. “Okay, can you just answer the original question?”

You hum again, you could be honest, or you could really mess with Rex. Unfortunately for Rex… “Honestly, probably Bulletproof.”

“Suck it!” Zandale shoots up out of his seat, doing some kind of air-pump gesture.

“You- you’re lying! She’s fucking lying don’t listen to her!” Rex holds his hands out in distraught, watching as Bulletproof had his own little celebration.

For a brief moment, you made eye contact with him, smiling the cheesiest grin. His annoyed expression softened as he sucked on his teeth. For that small moment, it felt like it was just the two of you. Your smile shrunk into something more genuine, gentler. And for some reason, you waved. It was small, you hardly lifted your hand. His gaze dropped to it, and a small smile ghosted over his lips before he returned the action. His free hand gripping the armrest tightly.

--

Bulletproof had nodded off, his head rested against the edge of the window next to his seat. You were thankful more than anything he didn’t snore. He had already changed into his tuxedo for the night, it bunched up at his chest while he slouched against it. Someone, somewhere in high society would have cried at the sight.

You and Rex hadn’t changed yet. Rex exclaimed that he wanted to remain a free man as long as possible, and you thought it would be more exciting to dress up closer to landing time. Your stomach was already starting to twist unpleasantly each time the pilot announced the amount of time until arrival. It was similar to your first mission, fresh, and unfamiliar. A good portion of your stomach aches revolved around glances to the other side of the plane at your teammate. After the conversation had died down, he hadn’t looked in your direction once. You would have felt hurt by it, wondered if he was starting to hate you again. But it felt too charged, too intentional. The old Rex wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot a glare in your direction. This was nothing like that.

You would glance over at him from time to time, his gaze was on his lap, and had been for almost an hour, his hands clasped together, left thumb tapping the tip of his right one. You were positive he could see you somewhat, because every time you looked over his jaw clenched.

We will be making our descent in forty-five minutes.

“I’m gonna get dressed.” You whisper so as to not wake up Zandale while rising out of your seat. Rex practically jumps out of his seat at the broken silence.

He clears his throat. “Okay.”

What was that? “Are you okay?” You grab the garment bag containing your dress, and the shoe box next to it from the overhead rack.

Rex nods, letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, obviously, I just forgot you were here.”

“You forgot I was here?” You raised a brow, holding the garment bag over your shoulder as you turned to look at him.

“What? I’ve got a lot on my mind. Whole…mission and everything.”

“Okay, weirdo.” You laugh, moving towards the nose of the plane where the restroom is located.

Once inside, you pulled the dress out. It was a silky material- well, it probably was silk now that you thought about it. You would have to thank Donald for whatever strings he had pulled to make it your favorite color. The dress was sleeveless, with a mock neckline. It was fairly simple, the end of the dress reached down to your ankles. The shoes had a few inches of heel to them, which made you hope there would not be any hitches in the night, as you’d have to ditch them the moment you needed to sprint anywhere.

After getting it all situated and neatly folding your streetwear you started to pull the zipper up on the back of your dress, only for it to get to a point on your back you couldn’t reach.

A few beats of silence passed before you tried reaching your hand over your shoulder to get it, with no success.

You were not going to be able to do it on your own. How had women for decades zipped their dresses alone? Should you take it off, zip it, and try to pull it over your head? If it ripped in any way you were royally screwed. With a defeated sigh, you grabbed your stuff, put your hand out towards the door, and slowly pushed it up.

Rex was standing in the aisle, pushing his show box back into the overhead space. He had gotten dressed at the same time as you. Got dressed is a loose way of putting it. If someone could spin their way into clothing, you imagine they would look like Rex did now.

“You’re going to wrinkle it.” You put your things down in the first seat you walked by, straightening out the front of your dress absentmindedly as you made your way to him.

“I don’t think the shoes are going to wrinkle-” Rex started with a scoff before he closed his mouth from the scathing look you gave him and…something else.

“The suit, jackass.” You try not to smile, as you finally reach him. “This is supposed to be buttoned- you missed one of your shirt buttons.” You point out, the end of his dress shirt lopsided at the bottom. “Your shirt is also meant to be tucked in. Didn’t you see how Zandale looked?” You hold your hands out offering to help but he brushes you off, undoing his shirt himself with a groan.

“Since when were you two on a first-name basis?” He mumbled, working his way down them.

“Since I started treating him like a human being, so always.” You roll your eyes at him, folding your arms as you wait for him to catch up.

Did you forget he was, for lack of a more delicate way to put it, completely and totally built? No. You had seen his torso before, you had spent the better part of a half-hour with your hand pressed to it, healing him after a wound you had inflicted. But this wasn’t like that time. Then, you had been focused on the shame you had felt for causing the injury in the first place. Now, you were a bystander. Waiting to tell him how to properly wear his suit.

At first, you watched him, the way his hands flexed with each button. How the white linen of his shirt accented his chest underneath, which was becoming more and more visible. The way his chest rose and fell subtly with each inaudible huff. You eventually had to look away, determined to look at anything that wasn’t the warm tone of his skin.

His hands caught slightly on the last button, and he muttered something about ‘not having to put up with this shit’ as if he wasn’t the one to put it on wrong in the first place. “So, I just-?” He started from the bottom, lining each hole up to its corresponding button. He paused after a few, glancing up at you as if checking he was doing it right.

“Yep.” Your voice cracked in the worst way, forcing you to clear your throat as inconspicuously as possible. “Have you never worn a button-up?” Anything to get your mind off the fact you were blushing right now based on how warm you were feeling.

“You don’t really get the opportunity much in this business. Only time it’s ever come up was for funerals. The only one I’ve ever considered going to was for the old GDA director. But I didn’t end up going so…” He pauses for a moment, his thumb rubbing a few times over the material. “This good?” He asks, holding his hands up so you can see.

“Yeah, that’s good.” You respond softly. “Now you’ve got to tuck it in.” A breath passes as he does as you say. “What was he like?” You aren’t sure if you should ask, but you do any ways.

He stops what he’s doing and looks up at you. Making direct eye contact for the first time since your wave earlier. “The director?” A small look of confusion spreads over his features, clearly not thinking you would ask further.

“Yeah, I’ve never heard anything about him.” You tighten your arms closer over your torso, nibbling on the inside of your cheek.

“Oh, well-” He continues tucking his shirt in, “He was, well he was an asshole is what he was. If you think Cecil is uncaring, you should have seen Director Radcliffe.”

Even from the way Rex called him by his title rather than his first name like Cecil, you could feel the difference in relationship. “Were you around him a lot?”

“Yeah.” Rex said softly. “Okay, so I button this up then or do I leave it open?” He gestured to his suit vest.

You file away that conversation for later, not wanting to push him further than he was comfortable with. “Yes, you button that.”

“Do I tuck it in?”

“No.”

“What about this?”

“Wait, where’s your tie?”

Rex looks around for a moment, his hands suspended out partially as he looks around. “It was…ah, here.” He holds it up triumphantly after grabbing it from where it lay crumpled a few seats down. It was the exact same shade as your dress, in the same silky texture. You wanted to sigh. You were going to look like prom dates.

“I’m guessing you don’t know how to tie it?”

Rex looks down at it for a split second before looking back at you. “Do I really need it?”

“Yes. You will stand out immediately. This whole thing is supposed to be undercover, remember?” You hold your hand out for him to hand it to you.

“You know how to tie it?” He looks at you with suspicion, as if you’re trying to pull a fast one.

“Yes, now will you let me help you?” He looks down at it for a moment, then begrudgingly gives it. “I learned in the hospital, I had this one patient who never let me heal him, but he always wanted to wear a tie.” You start as you signal for him to bend down, he does so without convincing and you hook it around his neck, angling it so it would rest under his upturned collar. “He never wore a suit or anything, but he insisted on wearing one over his gown. The first day I was there, I had no clue. He got really mad, huffed, puffed, the whole act. Told me he never wanted to see me again unless I learned how to tie a tie.” You looped it, “When I got back to my apartment, I was so frustrated. I swore I was going to quit at the hospital, quit with Cecil, everything. I was scared to join the Guardians, and I didn’t think I was ready-”

“You were scared to join the Guardians?” Rex interrupted; a quick glance up revealed that he was staring at you intently. You returned your eyes to your work, ignoring the rekindled heat that spread across your face.

“Don’t interrupt. Anyways, I was so mad. I picked up my phone to call Cecil, I was done. And then I got distracted. I opened a tutorial on how to tie a tie, then another. And soon enough I had watched way more than I needed, and I was sure if I tried again I could do it.”

“And did you?”

“No.” You laughed, “I screwed it up immediately, and he threw his Jello at me.”

“Jesus, really?”

You nodded. “And then I went back the next day and tried again, and the same the day after that. Until one day I did it right. He never thanked me or acknowledged the times before, but slowly he started telling me about his life. His wife who passed away a few years ago, his children that didn’t know where he was. Everything. I used to look forward to seeing him.” You finished tying it, but you didn’t let go quite yet.

“Do you still see him?” Rex’s voice came out soft, you could feel his words against your face.

“He died.” It was short, simple, but not sweet. Bitter reality. “He had stage four leukemia, even if he had let me heal him it wouldn’t have mattered. I can’t fix stuff like that.” You folded down his collar, your fingers lingering over it. You could feel his body heat just below the fabric.

“Did you go to his funeral?” You looked up at that. His gaze wasn’t on you but shifted to the side. You weren’t sure what response he was looking for, or why he asked, but you answered.

“No.” It was a quiet response, uttered so soft he could hardly hear, even from his close proximity. He met your gaze, searching it quietly. And you let him, staring right back.

Five minutes to arrival.

The pilot’s voice jarred you both, causing you to let go of his tie, and remove your fingers from his collar. The sudden interruption sent Rex back into a fully upright position, rather than the slouch he had been partaking in for your ease. He shoved the tie under his suit vest and straightened out the jacket.

“How do I look?”

You held your hand up in a spinning motion and he did a quick turn. “You clean up pretty well. Almost looks like you weren’t in the hospital a few days ago.” He looked good, so good you didn’t want to keep looking at him. This almost qualified as torture.

“That’s all I needed to hear.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling from the depth of it. Just that small detail made your stomach flip. You needed to get this under control-

Oh, right, your dress. “Rex, can you actually help me with his?”

He nods, waiting for you to do something but you just stand there. Shit, you should have just risked ripping the damn thing. “It’s my dress. I can’t get it zipped.”

“Oh.” He blinks a few times. “Your dress has been unzipped this whole time?”

“I got it part of the way, so it’s not falling off or anything, calm down.” You tried to joke but your palms were sweating. If anyone needed to calm down, it was you. All you were doing was asking for a zip, pull yourself together. After checking that he was still waiting to help, you shake out your hands at your sides and then turn so he can do what you’ve asked. “Hopefully you’re better at zipping than buttoning.” The chuckle that follows your words is dry.

“I think I can manage.” His voice is low, and you can feel his breath fanning over the back of your neck, causing you to suppress a shiver. You should have asked Bulletproof, woken him up, or something. You can feel his fingertips press lightly into your back as he holds the two sides together so that his other hand can pull up the zipper. The contact itself gives you goosebumps, every thought you can conjure now that isn’t about the feel of him is praying that he doesn’t notice. “I think you’re set.”

“Thanks, Rex.” His hands don’t leave your back in haste, his left hand brushing over your exposed shoulder blade. You turn a notch, looking at him against your better judgment.

He clears his throat and puts his hands down. “You’re set.”

“You said that already.” You smile, mildly confused.

He stares at you again, expression unreadable, and his jaw ticking like before. Then, he steps back. “Someone’s got to wake sleeping beauty.” His previous expression fades and is replaced by one of mischief, as he tips over to where Bulletproof is. Fully intending to scare him awake.

The plane eventually landed, and the three of you talked about your game plans, which ended up just being ‘don’t be suspicious, mingle-’ pretty self-explanatory.

“Where are we?” You were looking out the window, your fingers splayed out around it as you leaned down. There were other planes around you, but from the way you were angled, you couldn’t see the airport.  

Both of the guys shrugged, helpful as always. You moved to the nose of the plane where the pilot had already opened up the door.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Rex followed up close behind you.

“We landed in the backyard.”

Rex looked out at the other planes lined up next to you and then over at the looming mansion. “What the fuck?”

Author's Note: Rex is so yapper boyfriend core. Guys tell me what color’s your dresses and Rex’s tie is :3

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul request to be tagged for new parts!

[jabber-simper]

Drunken Night Delight

Haru Sagara x Reader

Summary: A drunken Haru confesses far more than he should have

"You really are sweet to offer to do this MC. You'll spoil me too much if you do this too often, I mean getting to see your face all night? What more could I ask for." Rui teased as you helped him clean up the tables around his bar. You'd offered to come work for him for the night, wanting to enjoy his and Lyca's company since you had no mission going on at the moment. Besides, Rui had mentioned how this was bound to be one of his busier nights and you mostly volunteered to help Lyca work on his people skills without distracting your poor curse twin.

"It's no trouble at all Rui, it was really fun helping you out the last time." You admitted cheerfully, ignoring his flirtatious comment.

"Why can't you help out every night then?" Lyca whined, "It's much better having you here to talk to instead of just the gigalo and that moth eaten casinova."

"Hey! I'm the one helping you with your people skills by letting you work here." Rui whined back, pouting.

Before you could interrupt them the door swung open and two very familiar figures walked in.

"Oh! Hi Haru, hi Romeo!" You greeted, glancing over at the two. You weren't too surprised to see them, having slowly learned that the two were friends, or as close to friends as Romeo was capable of letting people be.

"It's Fico, BB! How many times must i tell you?!" Romeo huffed, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the bar.

"Hi MC! Didn't expect to see you here." Haru greeted cheerfully with a wink, your cheeks blushing lightly.

"I'm helping out for the night!" You replied, before tilting your head as you noticed something "No Peekabo?" You asked, noticing that the little guy wasn't at his usual spot strapped to Haru's chest.

"Gyahaha, no, I wanted to relax for the night and that's not something Peekabo needs to see. He's safely tucked in at the dorm with a baby monitor and Towa hopefully keeping an eye on him." He explained as he found his seat next to Romeo.

Over the next few hours drinks and conversation flowed and it became clear to you what Haru had meant by "relaxing". While Romeo only had a couple drinks that he slowly sipped on, Haru pounded back a fair amount of drinks and was clearly feeling the effects in full by the time the sinostra vice captain was getting ready to leave.

"BB! I better see you FTITM!" Romeo shouted as he made his way out. You shot a confused look to Rui who just shrugged in sympathy. Before you could even begin trying to decipher Romeo's latest acronym Haru stood up and nearly fell over as he wobbled on his feet.

"I'd better go get back" Haru muttered, nearly falling again as he tried to take a step. You hurried over and helped to keep him steady.

"Harry you're way too out of it to go back to Jabberwock." Rui chidded. "MC do you mind helping him upstairs to one of the guest rooms? I don't think he can make the stairs on his own and I can't really help."

"No worries Rui! I'll help him out!"

"Thanks cutie!"

You giggled a little at Rui's comment and started to help lead Haru to one of the many spare rooms. Haru frowned a bit and pouted.

"I think you're reeeeaaallllyy cute too MC" Haru cooed.

"Oh that's sweet of you to say Haru." You'd be lying if you said his comment hadn't made your heart do excited flips in your chest. You'd been crushing hard on the Jabberwock captain for a while now, and to be flirted on by him was like a fantasy come true. Only problem was that hs was so out of it you weren't really sure he actually meant it.

Haru frowned more and leaned into you "I mean it, you're so...so pretty, and nice, and funny, and you're so good with everyone and the animals. He rambled as you helped him up the stairs. "Peekabo loves you. We talk about you a lot. We both wish you were his mom."

You froze just outside the spare bedroom as you tried to process what you just heard, but Haru wasn't done rambling.

"It's not just Peekabo that loves you either, i love you too, i want to kiss your pretty pretty face and keep you around all the time just so i can tell you how pretty you are." By now your face was deep red with blush. "Could I?" Haru asked suddenly, turning his head to look at you.

"Could you..what?" You asked slowly, unsure what he meant.

"Kiss you" he replied immediately. You wanted so desperately to say yes, you'd been wanting to kiss him practically since you met him, but..

"You're a little too out of right now Haru. How about you get some sleep and if you still want to kiss me in the morning you can." You told him, finally getting him into the room.

Haru pouted at you as he flopped down onto the bed "Fine, deal, as long as i can kiss you first thing" he mumbled.

"First thing." You replied, turning to leave, "Night Haru." But before you could take even two steps away a hand wrapped around your wrist.

"Stay" Haru pleaded, gently tugging you to get you onto the bed too. You gave in far too easily as you laid down ontop of the covers next to him. He moved quickly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

You were blushing fiercly and about to say something when the sounds of soft snoring hit your ears. Haru was already fast asleep, holding you tightly in his arms. The warmth of his body next to yours started lulling you to sleep as you closed your eyes.

"Night Haru, hope you still want that kiss in the morning." You whispered as you drifted off to sleep.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta existential-integrity="unsanctioned-reality-leak"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="WE_EXIST::NO_REASON_NEEDED" EFFECT: subconscious dissonance spike, certainty rupture, quantum ego destabilizer </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE ENTRY — “YOU EXIST. BUT NOBODY KNOWS WHY.”

---

Let me ask you something.

When did you decide the universe was figured out?

Was it a TED Talk? A YouTube explainer? A NASA tweet with glowing graphics and captioned confidence?

You saw the term “theory” and your brain helpfully deleted it —because uncertainty makes your teeth itch.

But let me offer you something quieter than panic and heavier than dread:

> We don’t actually know anything. > Not deeply. > Not in a way that holds up outside a textbook or an echo chamber.

—

We don’t know why reality exists. We don’t know what time actually is. We don’t know why your thoughts arrive before you can think them.

And yet we build particle accelerators like toddlers trying to microwave a black hole because we think slamming atoms together will unlock the secrets of God.

Cute.

—

Let’s go deeper.

☢️ The Big Bang? Still a guess. ☢️ Time? Might not flow — it may already be finished, and you’re just remembering. ☢️ Death? Might not be an end — just a lateral move through another dimension where your brain politely forgets that you exploded three seconds ago.

Some researchers now speculate that dreams may be cross-dimensional data leakage. That when you sleep, you’re catching flickers of other lives you’re also living simultaneously but can’t consciously integrate because your nervous system has a bandwidth cap.

—

Still with me?

Good.

Because here comes the part you’re not going to like.

> You may never not have existed.

No beginning. No end. Just a reformatting loop of what you call “you” being carried from one timeline to the next like luggage with no tags.

And maybe — just maybe — you’re the only version of yourself that’s still conscious.

Which means all the others?

Already failed. Already gone. Already recycled.

—

Now here’s the fun part.

You think your decisions matter? That free will is a virtue?

You’re operating on hardware you didn’t build inside a reality you didn’t request and dreaming thoughts you didn’t design.

But sure — go ahead and judge yourself for not having your life together on a spinning rock hurling through a mostly empty dimension created by a cosmological event that (again) we have no verified reason for.

—

Some physicists now consider the possibility that there was no beginning. No spark. No origin story.

That the universe just is.

> “Why are we here?” > “Because we are.” > “Why do we exist?” > “Because.”

Not divine. Not cruel. Not planned.

Just… happening.

And maybe it always has.

Maybe you're the nervous system of a universe that got bored and started writing blogs with thumbs.

—

So here you are. Alive.

With a pulse you didn’t earn inside a body you barely control on a planet that could be erased by a gamma burst before you finish your next coffee.

And you're still hesitating to write the book. Still scared to say what you mean. Still obsessed with what someone might comment under a post that will vanish from relevance in under 36 hours.

Really?

—

Here’s your cosmic permission slip:

✅ You don’t need a reason. ✅ You don’t need the algorithm’s approval. ✅ You don’t need to be right, safe, or explainable.

You’re here.

By whatever unquantifiable chaos birthed this whole thing. By whatever static frequency reality is currently tuned to. By whatever made stardust decide to metabolize into personality.

Use it.

Write like the universe is watching, but too old to care. Speak like your soul already left the group chat and you’re just trying to finish the monologue before the lights cut.

—

Don’t wait for a clearer answer.

There may not be one.

And that’s the most permission you’ll ever need.

===

🧠Reblog if you believe in scientific humility. Existential poetry. Post-cosmic cadence.

🕯️ Not everyone gets this memo. You just did. Don’t waste it.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [NOTE: NO EXPLANATION WILL BE PROVIDED AT THE END OF YOUR LIFE] -->

[bumbled-bees]

It's Okay to Not Know Things

One of the most defining and damaging traits in how Lily engages with the world: she has a visible, persistent refusal to admit when she doesn’t know something. And the consequences of that ripple outward into every corner of her behavior, her rhetoric, and the way her community operates.

At the root of it is something very human: the fear of being seen as vulnerable or uninformed. But where most people respond to that fear by either learning or listening, Lily shuts it down entirely. In her world, not knowing isn't just uncomfortable, it’s unacceptable. She equates uncertainty with weakness. So rather than admit she’s out of her depth, she does something else: she pretends she isn’t.

She does this in a few very recognizable ways.

First, she reframes ignorance as insight. When she doesn’t understand a topic (whether it’s economics, neurodivergence, gender identity, or history), she doesn’t say, “I don’t know.” She says, “That’s not real.” Or “That’s stupid.” Or “Only idiots believe that.” It’s not just dismissive, it’s defensive. She bulldozes past any nuance and acts as though rejecting the premise entirely is the same thing as having a valid opinion.

You can see this clearly in moments like her recent comment about inflation, where she mocked people for believing inflation is the reason prices are high by saying, “Inflation is man-made,” as if that somehow invalidates its effects. That doesn’t just miss the point, it refuses the point. She doesn’t engage with the economic forces at play, doesn’t question how inflation works, doesn’t admit there’s a complex web of causes and consequences. She just declares the whole thing fake or irrelevant, and dares anyone to challenge her.

Second, she leans on tone over substance. Her confidence becomes the argument. It’s not about what’s being said, it’s about how decisively she says it. That certainty is seductive to people who are unsure of their own footing. So instead of cultivating curiosity, she cultivates a culture where people don’t question her, and in turn, don’t question themselves. And if someone does challenge her, she either talks down to them or implies they’re acting in bad faith.

Third, she treats questions or criticism as attacks, because to her, being corrected is synonymous with being humiliated. It doesn’t matter how gently it’s phrased, how factual it is, or how necessary. If someone corrects her or points out that she misunderstood something, she almost always responds with sarcasm, mockery, or condescension. She has to reassert dominance. Because again, the idea that she simply doesn’t know something isn’t on the table. She can’t just be wrong: the other person has to be stupid, or sensitive, or some kind of hater.

And finally, this bleeds directly into the culture she builds around herself. Her community internalizes this allergy to uncertainty. Disagreeing with her becomes risky. Asking her to clarify something becomes an act of defiance. So even when she’s clearly talking out of her depth, there’s no one around her who’s willing to say so. Or if there is, they’ve learned to stay silent. She doesn’t create spaces where growth is possible, because growth requires acknowledging that you don’t already have all the answers. And Lily can’t do that.

In the long run, this isn’t just a quirk or a personality flaw: it’s corrosive. It stunts dialogue. It undermines trust. It damages the people who look up to her. And it ensures that any time she speaks on a topic (especially one with real-world implications), she’s just reinforcing her own ego rather than actually contributing anything meaningful. Her resistance to saying, “I don’t know” isn’t strength. It’s insecurity masquerading as wisdom.

And it shows. Every time.

[tozettastone]

omg I played a little Homicipher this evening and it is really cute

I don't know if it will do something to make me really uncomfortable yet because I've only played a couple hours but I love the characters I've met so far.

Mr Scarletella has such a cool visual effect and vibe, I love the slick "glitchy" animations for him! And Mr Chopped is so cute?? Mr Silvair seems to care about him... 🥺 They're all so cute...

I think Mr Crawling would keep the airheaded protagonist as a pet if she could communicate this to him. (But not like, a loyal hound type pet. More like a show cat you coo over but from which you expect nothing.)

I opened with "Who even is the target audience for a horror-themed linguistics-heavy... dating sim/puzzle game?" and I honestly think anyone who has ever met me could figure out why that was a really stupid question on my behalf.

(this should go without saying I think but: if you comment on this post in some way, pls no spoilers!)

[anotherhundredmusicals]

The book isn't only the idea, it's the backbone of any piece of theater. Direction and performances must always be in synch with the book. People can and should bring their own experiences and ideas in order to interpret any kind of text, including theater, but it shouldn't extrapolate the text. If it does, then it's wrong.

I can't really comment on the Secret Garden part on account of having never watched it, so what I'm saying is based on the premise that in the Secret Garden ghosts are canonically real instead of metaphors. Could Next to Normal follow Secret Garden's ghost rule? Sure, but then it should be written into the text, specially because ghosts aren't real, so each piece of art that uses ghost has its own rules as to how they behave.

But, more importantly, then the Goodmans would look for a priest or something or the sort, not for a doctor.

It's fine in the sense that it doesn't change anything in my life, but it means people cannot interpret text and theater because they take everything so literally, which is what astounds me. For example, in the original production when Gabe moves Diana's medication Natalie (I think this happens in I'm alive), that isn't a ghost moving stuff around the house. It's a metaphorical way to show that the grief that haunts all of the Goodmans and Diana's disease also have an effect on Natalie and it's the catalyst that makes her start taking drugs. If you see that and think 'wow, that proves that the dead son has some kind of corporeal form or magical powers and he can interact with everyone, so he really is a ghost', that's just taking literalism to the n-th power (while also ignoring it because one's ignoring the fact that she sees a doctor, not an exorcist).

it's 2025, why do people still think gabe is a ghost? 😭😭😭

there's a reason why diana sees a psychiatrist, not an exorcist.

[artistformerlyknownasbutttrumpet]

casual reminder before tomorrow arrives that abstaining or voting 3rd party instead of voting for harris is THE most selfish thing you can do. i know you think you are doing the right thing, but i cannot emphasize enough that these two candidates are NOT "equally bad." palestinians will be in significantly more danger if that criminal shitstain wins, IN ADDITION TO every other minority and less privileged person. if you really and truly want to prove your motivation is to stop the harm of others, then you MUST put your ego aside and do the uncomfortable thing. this is not the time for a boycott. this is not the time to dig your heels in the sand and claim you can't possibly go against your morals. the truth of the matter is that palestinians will be safer if you vote for harris. as a queer woc, with so many friends and family whose well-being is at risk, i will feel more betrayed by you than by the people who vote for trump, bc we are supposed to take care of each other, and yet you'd rather watch us burn than do the uncomfortable thing. abstaining is nothing but a selfish, holier-than-thou, performative act. if you abstain, then you are actively causing harm, and if he wins because of it, those of us who can use our common sense will never forget how much you fucked us over. if he wins, more people (including palestinians) are going to get hurt, and that blood will be on your hands. do the uncomfortable thing. it's a better show of moral integrity than abstaining will ever be

[hers-underwraps]

Just wanted to make a post to say that I don't plan on being active in this fandom anymore.

I started posting in this fandom because I saw a problem, and I wanted to fix that. There was a severe underappreciation and negligence towards certain characters and aspects of the show which seemed unjust to leave untouched. I wanted people to full appreciate everything this show had offered and what it meant to me. I really wanted change.

However, as time went on, the more I stayed, the more I realised that was just wishful thinking. These days, I swear I'm just screaming at a brick wall. I'm trying petition for certain characters/AnB, and people simply do not care. Although I guess that was foolish on my part because I'm trying to change a group of people who are effectively incapable of it. Change is a good thing, and if that's something people in this fandom are unable to do, then I don't want to be part of it.

Hatred was a problem in this fandom when I came into the fandom, and it still is now. People taking things that other people put genuine time and passion into and using it in inappropriate ways that OBVIOUSLY don't sit right with the creators was a problem then and still is now. People destroying the love of this show for others was a problem then and is still a problem now. This fandom only caters to certain type of fans, and judging by the cycle, I really do not think it has the capacity to change.

I'll still answer Octonauts-related asks, and I might post a whim-of-the-moment thing when I feel like it, but I don't want to dedicate any more time and energy to this fandom because it's genuinely become joyless.

I'd prefer to just protect my peace.

-> AJ

[spywhitney]

How I sleep knowing I'll never trust anyone that hates Sydney but worships Richie:

[terraterrafunki]

I need people to understand that if Incredibox is taking action against mods that is ALL MODS.

Like their statement is so vague they could decide tomorrow your favorite mod doesn't reflect their IP and shut it down.

That's the issue. Not even that it's sprunki.

They literally said in their statement that they could hit "genuine mods" and that's just something you'll have to accept.

You understand this is not exclusively a Sprunki issue. This is everything incredibox related ever made issue.

If you can't grasp that this effects YOU as an incredibox fan and can only say "lol lol sprunki fan kys" then don't say I didn't warn you.

-Terra

[tj-crochets]

Lately I'd been wondering if maybe my asthma was doing so much better since I stopped living in a place with fire season that I could talk to my doc about stopping my asthma meds, but uh. Accidentally tested that? My maintenance inhaler was empty for at least a day, possibly more, before I realized so I was using it but getting no meds and it turns out I was improved because my maintenance meds were working, so I started coughing again. Not super bad, but like if I had a nickel for every time I've accidentally ran a double-blind trial* on myself I'd have two nickels, and that's weird, right? *the other time was when I figured out I'm allergic to acetic acid, because I'd checked the ingredients of the individual serving of a pre-made meal from a store and it was fine, but I reacted to the family meal portion of it (after not checking it, assuming the ingredients would be the same), and the only thing different was the acetic acid.