#so she chooses her tiny body for the sake of convenience

[brooklynisher]

1. Saw the length of the video and wondered if Spine was actually going to say anything nice about GG (Answer: Not really. Had a few things to say about Spider-Man though.)

2. GG has multiple bodies

[wickjump]

Heyheyheyheyheyheyheyheyheyhryhdyhryhhheyheyhryheyhryhryhrghdyhey

Soo you know how everyone is around the same height in sanses? (Tallest is fresh who loves taking tall sanses for some reason , shortest is ink who needs to drink some soup)

Well , imagine if you will , dear wick , Reaper. Reaper is from godtale. Godtale characters are gods (duh)

Sometimes , when drawing random unrelated gods or powerful deities (some eldritch deities for example) , they'll make them tall.

Basically what I'm proposing is Reaper being like 30 stories tall or something.

Like imagine you go out into the multiverse and everyone is "tiny" and then you discover you're the tall freak. And then you discover that the gods out there are even tinier than average.

Also afterdeath. Afterdeath in that context.

(basically please rant about literally anything in the context of Reaper being very very tall),

unamzi i will be answering this but first i really want to say that reaper comes from reapertale not godtale they’re all gods but it’s reapertale im so sorry. the comic is called reapertale (by renrink). he is called reaper similar to the reason fell is called fell. it is the name. anyway here’s a warning for being so uncanon that it’ll probably get annoying fast

ANYWAY i love the idea of god characters being able to change their heights—or more accurately, forms. im obsessed with the ink and error are gods headcanon so they’ll be here too im so sorry to the god hc haters. dream and nm will not be here though because they’re guardians and not gods and thus infinitely lamer

i like to imagine god characters in reapertale (and any god characters outside of it) have two forms similar to some ancient stories, which i will dub (very creatively) their big boy forms, and their teeny tiny forms. obviously they often pursue the latter. reaper is still tall in his though because i’m a reaper with morticia’s body type truther. probably about as tall as fresh. i also imagine ink would be one of the only gods with a lot more control over his form but that is unimportant here

the reason i imagine this whole form changing thing, specifically for reaper, is convenience. when in his universe’s version of the heavens, he’s in his big boy body. but it’d be really hard to reap souls if you were that big and couldn’t fit into the hospital room, much less use your scythe to comfortably reap their soul without accidentally killing everyone else in the room as well because your scythe is also that big, so he, alongside other gods, were given a teeny tiny form for convenience. i also imagine life (rt!toriel) stays primarily in her teeny tiny form for the sake of not being detected by the other gods, and so she can be a comfortable size when taking care of the plants in her garden. i have no care for canon when im having fun. joy and whimsy > accuracy

and as for afterdeath, the save screen is also huge. possibly infinitely so. so when pushed by geno after a while, reaper would probably relent and oh my god that is a big ass skeleton, yet he would still manage to comfortably fit in the save screen. imagine you go on your computer to play undertale and look at the title screen and see some emo ass sans covering up a solid half of it. anyway, reaper’s big boy body would probably intimidate and probably scare the hell out of geno at first, but i’m in love with the bride and the ugly ass groom trope when it involves a god/dess that’s like seventy feet tall and the stupid little husband, so that is also very much them at times. not always, because you know, comfort, but sometimes. geno and his ethereal husband

as for ink and error because remember that tidbit? yeah canon is dead i killed it. so as for them, the anti void and doodlesphere are both also huge, so they could again comfortably fit in each of those places while being big boys. i like to think they choose deliberately to not be ‘big’ all the time. while reaper does it for his job and to not scare mortals, most of his life in the heavens is spent in big boy form. ink and error meanwhile rarely are in theirs, probably because ink ventures into aus so often that he either forgets he even has one or just wants to appear the same as other sanses. error is probably he same, but rather because he steals things for fun, and what’s the point of stealing a bar of chocolate if it’s barely visible compared to you? how is he supposed to enjoy that?! he finds it easier

i also really like the idea of applying more biblically accurate angel type designs to ‘god forms’ or whatever the equivalent is, or something ‘creepy’ and symbolic of their character/jobs. i’ve got cool designs stored away that i might remake actually….. aw fuck look what you’ve done you’re making me be creative oh god

i like. i like god headcnaons…

[siderealmaven]

New Moon in Sidereal Pisces

Originally posted for free on Sidereal Maven's Patreon page.

Song: Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer

Do you ever get tension headaches? Do you ever feel your teeth grinding together like two toxic  lovers that just can’t get away from each other? Do you ever find that you couldn’t open your mouth and say what you wanted to, even if you really tried? Do you feel the words lodged in your throat like a sea turtle wrapped in coca cola plastic? Have you felt the shame of your lack of language try to grab at your ankles like tiny hands and pull you under the water? Have you ever been so frustrated that you wanted to let it?

Mercury in Pisces is the mermaid Ariel brushing her hair with a fork on the boat of her captor with a smile on her face and wonder in her heart, while the crew discusses what to do with her in a language she doesn’t understand. In a world where words can mean anything, the person speaking them is a stranger, and the truth is being withheld or concealed for the sake of not rocking the boat (just yet,) it becomes imperative to assess the material circumstances and reassess your convictions.

Perhaps Ariel cannot speak the King’s English, she knows not the way of these people or their expectations of her; how to make them see her as a person too. She doesn’t realize that they already don’t. But she can look around the boat and see the uneasy stares of the crew, the weapons on their hips, the lack of women on the boat, and can hear the harsh tone of the whispers behind her back. Ariel has to ask herself: based on her past experiences, does she believe these things to be signs of danger? And can she believe her body when it tells her that there is danger even if no one else is acknowledging it?

The mutable signs ask us: “How do we know what we know?” and Pisces will tell you intuition. Pisces knows because their body told them so, they don’t need it to be affirmed by others, to see material evidence, or to believe it already to be true. But is it intuition that is telling Ariel something is off though? Can she accurately make the assessment of being in danger on intuition alone? Will trusting our feelings always lead us to the right answer?

I’m gonna argue she can’t. In true Pisces Venus fashion, Ariel is ignoring what everyone else around her is ignoring as a means of connecting and maintaining relationship. She is much safer if she too chooses to ignore her own feelings in favor of prioritizing Prince Eric’s, who is after all, the man who now holds her fate in his hands. Prince Eric is in love with this beautiful, mute woman he found lying shipwrecked on a beach completely unable to fully consent to a relationship with him at just the right time for him to get married like his father keeps telling him to do. What a convenient means to an end. Of course she loves him too!

The unfortunate truth that Moon in Pisces must accept is that sometimes our bodies lie to us. We may be experts at knowing when someone is lying, but still not believe our own eyes when our most trusted person lies to us directly, because we believe them to be honest. Because the words they say (or don’t say) sound correct enough. When you have an over abundance of one sign (like this Pisces stellium) then you need to go to the opposite sign to get the tool you need to deal with the circumstances that arise with it.

Which is to say, when you are overwhelmed by the feelings, desires, and needs of others to the point that you can no longer fully see and understand your own then it is time to get your facts straight. Why don’t we go ask Mars in Gemini what the facts are? (This is a joke. Mars in Gemini will say anything to get a rise of you and it doesn’t care if they’re making sense.) Mars in Gemini is the crew on Prince Eric’s boat ooohing and ahhhing over the beautiful mysterious lady they actually want nothing to do with because Prince Eric is doing it. They’re telling magnificent stories about the dry land while planning to murder her before she ever sees it.

When Mercury in Pisces is being squared by Mars in Gemini, the words being spoken can be in direct conflict with what you’re feeling. Yeah maybe Ariel is feeling the unspoken tension, but everyone is saying such nice things to her. Prince Eric’s love is all consuming, so fast. It’s easy and almost natural to get caught up in the moment, in the feeling of being desired. But logic is necessary for Ariel’s survival here. She needs to be observant and attentive, and look at what is physically happening around her in order to catch on. She needs…. Virgo bitch.

Ariel needs to look at her hair brush and reconsider its purpose as a weapon. Just how far into a man’s flesh can a fork really go? How many times until his heart stops? Is she just being dramatic, paranoid and over sensitive or did the pirate say one thing and really mean another? How can she really be sure what any of them mean without any cultural context? (There is no Sagittarius here!) How many times can she overlook her feelings, the material evidence, the thing right in front of her face before ignorance turns into an active choice?

What Ariel lacks is logic and decision making power. I mean, she’s a mermaid princess who spends all of her time being Gemini; shes inexperienced, curious, adventuring and collecting human artifacts, making up stories about what they are based on her feelings. What experience does she have with humans beyond what her father has told her? Beyond the beliefs and prejudgements he has passed on to her and she’s already disregarded based on how she feels? How many times has she had to make a snap decision with little information that has drastic material consequences if she’s wrong?

The problem is there is no Virgo here either. If Virgo were here, Ariel would have looked at the trail of waste following the ship, would have seen the fishing nets, would have noticed the guns on these mens belts, would have seen the human castle for what it is: a prison. If there was Sagittarius, she might have listened to her father and never approached to begin with. She might have never gone to seek out Ursula, because she would be afraid to do so.

Yeah, that’s right. My argument is that Ariel could use a little black and white thinking and prejudgement in this situation, the whole thing could have been avoided. But The Little Mermaid is not a story about saving yourself with your ability to assess a situation quickly and accurately. It’s a story about falling head over fishtail in love and trusting in what it is you really want, even when there is a lack of evidence to prove it worth pursuing, in spite of evidence and cultural stories that tell you that it is the wrong thing to want.

Venus isn’t in Pisces right now, it’s in Aries. It’s a courageous thing to do to allow your desires to take up space when all of the other mutables are telling you No. To be willing to walk into the lair of your father’s greatest enemy in order to obtain said desire when your father is the King of Atlantica with a magical trident? Ariel is one ballsy bitch. She’s not concerned with the consequences because Mars is in Gemini and she doesn’t fully understand what they are. She should have just “known,” but she didn’t.

Which makes Ariel incredibly reckless. But in the end, it’s this recklessness that makes space for Ariel to have the life she really wanted: To be a human in a romantic relationship with Prince Eric. Sure, she almost died like five times to get there or whatever. But he wasn’t lying, he does love her, and he saved her from Ursula in the end. Her desire and intuition to follow it was wrong for a lot of people, but it was right for her.

It doesn’t however, make her untamable curiosity, lack of logic and reasoning, or disregard for cultural narratives in favor of idealism any less dangerous. We need all four mutable signs in order to determine truth, not just one or a few because truth is subjective to perspective, facts are malleable and stories are better than facts. Feelings are bigger and more powerful than all of that. Or they can be, if you’re willing to speak them out loud.

What is your heart’s true desire and how can you make more space for it?

How do the words, beliefs, and circumstances of others cause you to doubt your desire and ability to obtain it for yourself?

Can you imagine a future in which your life is not dictated upon whether or not people agree that it’s okay for you to do/have it? In which there is no punishment for being who you are?

How far are you willing to go to prove them wrong? Are the material consequences worth what it is going to take? Do you see yourself at the end and doing it again?

Imagine a future in which you never try and you never get it. Can you live with that?

March 21, 2023

Patreon | Blog

[meet-me-in-the-kitchen]

SIX CANDLES, ONE WISH (2)

part one

Harry misses his daughter’s sixth birthday, and some things can’t be undone.

— Recap of Last Part —

“You didn’t even call, daddy.”

“You have to understand that some things just are the way they are and in order to provide for our family—“

“Nevermind,” she muttered under her breath. “Forget I even asked you.”

— Recap Fin.—

Y/N knew what it meant to have a father who was willfully absent when it came to their child’s life.

Her father had been a man of great physical prowess coupled by a both thrilling and frightening lack of restraint resembling that of a wild animal in a kingdom that had never learned the rules. He was once a boxer renowned in a small town which multiplied in tourists whenever the ring flooded with the divinity of his strength. Somehow, somewhere, he had met her mother. After she had died while giving birth to Y/N, she had always felt the cruel truth of her father’s hate simmering somewhere in the back of her mind.

Harry wasn’t like that. She’d married him knowing he wasn’t like that, partly because he would never intentionally miss recitals, avert his eyes from his daughter- eyes that held anything but the palpable disgust y/n had been used to as a kid. He wouldn’t resort to alcoholism. she’d sworn her children would never be stuck in the cycle of worshipping their father most days, and wishing their bodies were drained of his vile, cursed blood on others.

“Forget I even asked.”

Yet, as her daughter, barely ninety centimetres tall, pushes the phone back into her hand while the receiver rings with excuses, she’s not so sure of who Harry is anymore.

“Y/N,” he starts, voice still flat. He doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong, she realizes with horror. “It was just a party. I’ll come home soon, and we can celebrate properly. It’s just her sixth birthday, any—“

“Six.” She repeats, voice choking with disbelief. “She’s six now, Harry.”

“What are you saying?”

Sighing, Y/N moves further back as groups of kids rush past in a game of tag, all with bright smiles on their faces, besides the birthday girl. A bit of anger stirred in her chest. Of course, he’d had to make her sad on this day.

“It lasts so much longer, you don’t even know,” y/n shakes her head. “Darcy’s six now, but she won’t be forever. She still waits up for your phone call, regardless of the fact that you’ve missed calling her for weeks. Do you know what it does to her, when I have to tell her own father chose a stack of documents and negotiations over her own birthday?”

“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important—“

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m afraid you’re forgetting that she is too.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he rebukes harshly. “Stop putting words in my mouth, Y/N. I never said that.”

“I don’t need to put words in your mouth,” she laughs bitterly, “your actions are enough. I don’t have to tell you what went through her mind when she blew out her candles, with everyone there but you. She’s a baby, Harry. Our baby. Her self-confidence is going to be in shreds if you keep this up.”

“I still call,” he cries, his voice lined vaguely with desperation. “She knows I love her more than anything.”

“The least you could give her is some consistency. On the rare occasion you call, it’s when it’s most convenient to you—she stays up till two in the morning some days, just to hear your voice. You know what she wished for? For you to either come back, or stay away.”

“I didn’t—“

“I’m not done,” she exhales sharply, swiping her hand over her tearstained cheeks. Her voice broke. “She asked me if you wanted to give her a divorce, Harry. What am I supposed to tell her?”

He’s sobbing at this point. Guttural cries harshly racking through his chest, and he’s never cried so hard that his rib cage felt it would burst from the image of his little girl blowing out the candles dejectedly, searching for her daddy’s face in an otherwise crowded room, only to come back empty. For fuck’s sake, she thought he wanted to abandon her. He had never hated himself more.

“How do I tell her you choose paperwork over her life? How do I keep her from thinking she comes second all her life or developing an inferiority complex. She’s six now, Harry, but I’m afraid of what happens when she’s not anymore. If she carries all of this with her. I still carry it with me,” she sniffles, “and it is not pretty.”

“You really hurt her.”

“I love her so much,” his hoarse voice insists unconvincingly, an ugly feeling spreading within him at who he has become. His fingers shake as they hold onto the phone. He glares at the fineprint in front of him as it blurs to meaningless, double-spaced diatribes. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know,” y/n says, looking down at the streamers that lay on the ground. The shattered tiara. Her voice lowers as people pass by. “I’m just afraid, one day, you’ll forget.”

Darcy watches her mother’s wet face crumple and then twist into an unconvincing smile as guests walk by her. She hears her father’s cries, rendered meaningless to her young mind by the simple fact that it measures meaning through who shows up. And he hasn’t shown up for quite some time.

Her wish echoes in her mind: for daddy to come back or stay away. Lifting herself off of the ground, where she sat quietly listening to her unbeknownst mother’s words, she decides the latter would hurt less.

—

“Hey,” Harry breathes, shrugging off his black coat and gently pushing the door shut in conjunction. His eyes immediately find Y/N, who shuffles a bit closer. She blinks blearily, confused and uncertain if he’s actually there, or if this is some sleep-induced dream.

Her worries are smoothened by a low “come ‘ere,” and his strong arms pulling her to his chest, twisting around her in an impossibly warm cocoon. She mumbles something incomprehensible even to herself, and feels his chest rumble as he chuckles, lips pressed furtively to her hairline.

“Miss me?” He questions, light humour in his voice, but sincerity in his green eyes. She rolls her eyes, are you kidding me? This brings a smile to his face; he leans in slightly, cupping her cheek with one palm, capturing her lips in a tender kiss, his mouth closed over hers, like she had been waiting for.

It was easy to get lost in the kiss. Her head was swimming from impact, the dizziness sending her knees buckling, his arms holding her up. She blames it on being exhausted, but internally knows it’s because it’s him.

“Sleepy girl,” he brushes a lock of hair back with his fingers, eyes lighting up with affection at the sight of her: with a bare face and blinking eyes, a yawn tugging at her lips.

“As much as I am not opposed to this sort of intervention,” she begins, rubbing her eyes with closed fists, “mind explaining why you’re here at—“ turns to look at the digital clock atop the kitchen’s oven, “—two in the morning?”

“Guilt?” He offers, sheepishly. She’s confused at first, but her eyes soon widen with realization.

“Right,” she sounds, pushing him back lightly. “You’re,” tap “a,” tap, “jerk.” (jab)

“I know,” he grouses, “but ‘m an apologetic jerk. I need to talk to m’baby.”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Y/N sighs, eyes flickering towards Darcy’s bedroom tentatively. “She’s really upset.”

His eyes are morosely swimming with guilt. “I want to make it better.”

“You will,” she promises, “you’re you, and she adores you. But, it’s not going to be a cake-walk, either.”

—

Darcy wakes up to the scent of buttermilk pancakes and the sound of bacon sizzling on the griddle. Lifting herself out of her twin-sized bed with a yawn, she squinted her pale green eyes as sunshine flooded into the room, signifying it was morning. Her stomach rumbles with hunger.

“Mumma,” she called hoarsely, waiting a few seconds before calling again, with a slightly higher voice.

When Y/N walks in the room, she quickly shuffles over, pressing her face against her leg, so her cheek is mushed.

“Good morning, darling. you hungry?” y/n asks, lifting Darcy up so she’s latched onto her hip, free fingers caught in her thick, chocolate brown curls, detangling them gently.

“Mhm,” she responded, clinging to Y/N like a koala while her mother took her into the washroom to brush her teeth.

“I have a surprise for you, Darc,” she hums, turning the faucet and testing the water for lukewarm temperature with her wrist. This causes Darcy to brighten a bit. “A belated birthday present.”

“Present?” Darcy asks delightedly while Y/N finally carried her freshly washed self to the kitchen, where the scent of stacked thick, syrupy buttermilk pancakes, bacon, and berries once again evade her senses. What causes her to shift slightly in her mother’s hold is the familiar man in the kitchen, his back towards them. He has chocolate curls just as she, and once he turns, those are her eyes on his face, the same dimples poking out as he grins.

“Hi, Darc,” he coos, setting the spatula down and walking towards them with arms wide open.

Darcy twists in Y/N’s hold, and Harry clearly doesn’t notice—he’s still smiling expectantly.

“Look! Daddy’s home, baby,” she urges, but Darcy just tightens her grip on Y/N uncomfortably.

“Momma,” she mumbles lowly, hiding her face in her mother’s neck when Harry comes closer. She lets out a low whine.

Beginning to notice a pattern, he frowns, stepping back a bit before forcing a smile onto his face. Harry gestures to the breakfast foods on the counter.

“‘ve made your favourite,” he tries half-heartedly. Y/N’s own heart breaks at the look on his face and the way Darcy’s hiding from him.

“You two should eat,” he finally says to Y/N, smiling at her reassuringly, although she can see the dejection in his eyes. “She’s hungry, and I don’t think she’ll eat if I...”

“H...”

“It’s fine,” he says, kissing Y/N soundly and then retreating to the bedroom. Her eyes follow him worriedly as he leaves, but her train of thought is disrupted with tiny fists tugging at the hem of her top.

“Pancakes,” Darcy instructs, and Y/N rolls her eyes, before following the command.

—

Harry likes to think he’s making progress when he sits by Darcy as she plays with her toys, and she doesn’t exit to the nearest room. Of course, he’s sitting quite still, just watching her and not really making much conversation as she conducts a tea party, but he can wait until she wants to talk.

Things are going fine, until he rises to step out for a moment and get something from his car. Darcy’s eyes curiously follow him, before being filled with dread.

“Daddy, wait,” she whimpers, carrying herself as fast as her legs could take her, before her arms finally latch around his left leg, catching him by surprise and nearly sending his clumsy self tumbling. He struggles to balance himself with the six year old at his leg. He’s quite alarmed to look down and find her wide, green eyes shining with tears, her bottom lip trembling just like Y/N’s does before she’s about to cry.

“Hey,” he croons softly, lifting his daughter up, smoothing his hand through her unruly curls as she hiccups a small cry. “What’s wrong, hm? Are you hurt?”

“Are you leaving again, daddy?”

His heart stops.

“Are you leaving for good, because I didn’t play with you? I promise I didn’t mean it when I wished for you to stay away, I take it back,” she cried, breathing unevenly and sniffling.

He lifts her up until she’s at eye level with him, and shakes his head.

“No,” he stresses, making sure he’s firm. “I am not leaving. Never leavin’ you, bug. Never think that.”

“But you didn’t come to my birthday,” she sniffles. “Y-you don’t even love me anymore.”

“That’s not true!”

“You don’t hafta lie,” she says softly, looking at the floor and shifting uncomfortably, sadness coating all of her cute features. Her eyes darken to a hazy jade, just as Harry’s do when he’s upset.

“I’m not lying,” he promises, expression softening as he sets her on the ground and then sinks to her level, on his knees. Her posture suggests she’s just gotten told off, back hunched and face crumpled.

“Love you this much,” he gestures, spreading his arms as wide as he could, “and more.”

Darcy peers at him skeptically, still not quite convinced.

“And I’m sorry,” he enunciates slowly, regret written all over his face. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there last night, or any of the nights before. I lost sight of who I was for a moment, but I don’t want anything if I haven’t got you. You’re the most precious thing in my life. I’m sorry I was being a shi— er, a bad daddy. I swear I won’t be anymore.”

“Pinky swear?” Darcy asks in a hushed tone, bringing a smile to Harry’s face. His hand reaches for hers.

“Pinky swear.”

MASTERLIST

[paipayaseeds]

(PUT ON THE MAID DRESS - 🌺)

Aimi shook her head against him.

"I can't cancel it. She's important to my career..."

She sighed, hugging him close. She shut her eyes, and touched fluffy hair. She was barely registering what he was saying, but she felt him squeeze and did her best to stay awake.

"not trash.. you're my pretty, pretty boyfriend.. oh wow, you're my boyfriend."

Still barely conscious, Aimi suddenly pulled away to look at him in awe, as if this was some sort of groundbreaking news. She traced his face with her fingers, taking everything in.

"You're like..an angel. I don't think people are supposed to look that beautiful.."

She kept mumbling to herself, whispering praise in a progressively slurred speech. She lowered her body, laying against his chest but (against her wishes) trying to give him enough room to slip away if he had to. Snuggled up and comfy, she got ready to take a nice nap.

Thanks to the medicine, it didn't take long for her to fall into a deep sleep, mumbling incoherent things and twitching occasionally. Aimi wouldn't be sure of what her dreams were herself, but this time it seemed to be something about how much she loved marshmallows (or, a marshmallow).

Mimi walked over, pushing her little head against Nagito's hand. It didn't matter if her slave was passed out, it was petting time and someone would have to do it.

Nagito only felt his heart growing warmer, to the point it had almost been concerning. "... A- angel?" He could never think of himself that way, nor could he think someone else could either. To be compared to a near godly being in the skies? Was she trying to break him? He was on the verge of tears; but for the sake of not crying in front of the cat, he stifled the urge to sob from the fireworks sparking up in his heart.

With a quiet sniffle, Nagito reached his arm over her to tug the blankets over her now-sleeping form. “You've got it all wrong; you're the real angel...” He chuckled quietly, before very, very delicately stealing a tiny kiss that he hoped wouldn't rouse the girl from her sleep.

— Funny, because a second later, as he attempted to reach for his phone to order, he fell off the bed and on his ass loudly. Tensing, he crossed his fingers in hopes that if he stayed silent, it'd give both of them the illusion that nothing happened, and it was just a hallucination.

Nagito stiffened as his phone suddenly buzzed and voilà, his luck had paid him back in full because, lo and behold; a coupon. For the delivery app. In any store. That expired in — oh shit, an hour!?

He scrambled to sit back up, leaning his aching back against the bed he had just fallen off of. With an apologetic sigh, he gave the cat one last pet before focusing on the task at hand. "Sorry, Mimi, I'll pet you right after I order, okay?"

With his finger hovering inches away from the screen, he paused and looked at Mimi directly in the eye. "... Do you think your owner will get mad if I get something for you?"

"Fish? Cats like fish, right...?" Thinking back to it now, it probably wasn't a good idea, but he forgot to ask Aimi what she wanted for delivery, so he just decided to... order everything. And that included a very convenient food delivery place made specifically for cats.

Believe it or not, but you're going to have to choose the former — Nagito is... extremely rich. The lotteries he's won, the money he's gotten in return for just, a terrible, terrible day; it all adds up because he doesn't really buy much for himself.

So it barely made a dent in his bank account as he bought Aimi and him, a feast akin to 6 Thanksgiving dinners — as well as her fridge full of Thanksgiving leftovers.

He didn't think twice; he just... bought them all. Everything.

The coupon was worthless to him, but what's so bad about saving money?

With a shaky sigh, his eyes burned from the scrolling and the tapping of probably more than 47 restaurants, and so he put his dreadful phone down; ready to rest his eyes.

Without much thought, he slipped in next to Aimi's position on the bed — albeit awkwardly,, the boy had been an inch away from falling off the edge of the bed, but he didn't want to disturb the sleeping girl again. He would have to hang on for dear life if he truly wanted to be a good boyfriend.

As he promised, Nagito reached for Mimi, beckoning her over softly to get back to petting her — it seemed it was more for his benefit for hers at this point. "I believe I owe you well-deserved pets?" He chuckled tiredly, eyes tired and drooping. Who knew scrolling on the phone for so long would have him so incredibly tired?

As soon as his fingertips merely grazed the cat's fur—

... And that's all he remembered before passing out.

[violetsmoak]

The Specter at the Feast [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556579/chapters/59300599

Summary: A tragic incident as a child left Tim Drake with the ability to commune with the dead. It’s a skill he’s used to close some of the most confounding cases to come across his desk at Gotham City’s Major Crimes Unit. But when he learns of an apparent murder-suicide that could link to a very personal case he’s been working for ten years, he might need more than a connection to the afterlife to solve it. Especially when Detective Jason Todd, a man in denial about his own psychic abilities, is assigned lead on the same case.

Sparks immediately fly between the two detectives—and not necessarily in a good way—as they are forced to work together to take down a macabre serial killer before it’s too late.

Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: Here’s one of the stories I’ve been working on for JayTimWeek. As I mentioned on tumblr, I got hit by a big blast of inspiration for one of my original stories and have kind of been working on that like mad for the past three weeks, so unfortunately I didn’t have time to dedicate to the prompt fills for JTW as I wanted to. As soon as I run out of steam for that, I’ll get back to filling the prompts. So, bad news I probably won’t post anything else during the event, but eventually my prompts will all crop up once I recapture my attention span :P Huge thank you to strawberyjei for taking the time to beta-read this chapter!

_______________________________________________________________

“That stuff will kill you one day.”

Tim Drake frowns and glances to his right, noticing the half-amused and half-exasperated smile playing on his best friend’s face.

“Will not,” he retorts with the instantaneity of an oft-repeated argument and leans more securely against sun-warmed stone. He takes a defiant sip from his jumbo travel mug, enjoying the bitterness of his favorite morning indulgence—slow-brewed light roast with three shots of espresso. “Besides, how else do you expect me to be awake enough to drive out here at this hour?”

He doesn’t have to see Kon to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually have to—you’re the one who keeps showing up; I just wait here.”

There’s something buried in the joking tone, and Tim shifts in discomfort as he detects the unspoken scolding. Choosing to ignore it, he swallows another mouthful of coffee and stares past the well-kept shrubbery, observing the gentle waves on the river.

From a distance, Gotham’s elegance is deceptive. By daylight, the riot of architectural styles jutting into the horizon appear whimsical instead of grotesque, and the layers of filth and decay suggest character as opposed to rampant corruption. Even on a Sunday, it teems with energy.

I guess that’s what still convinces people to move to the crime capital of America.

Tim knows from experience that the city’s grandeur is not as noticeable when combing her streets for the criminal element.

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging out his cellphone and snapping a few lazy photos. The quality won’t compare to shots taken with the Nikon he has at home, but it’s rare to perceive the city of his birth as something other than sinister; he won’t squander the opportunity.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Tim suggests in a light tone. “I could just be out here, minding my business, taking in the scenery—”

“Hah!”

“—and you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking’s your thing.”

“Is it really stalking if you get paid for it?”

“Whatever you say, detective,” Kon sneers without true malice and crosses his arms across his chest. Despite the chilly early spring air, he’s wearing only a black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol. Tim gave it to him for his birthday a few years ago, but the sight of it these days still elicits a nostalgia-induced lump in his throat. “Either way, you’re the chump who showed up here on his first day off in forever. Sunday, remember? You’re supposed to be spending the day lounging at your fancy estate, getting ready to gorge yourself on Alfred-made dinner, not bumming around with me.”

“That’s not for hours,” Tim dismisses, “and to be honest, I’d rather skip it.”

Kon glances sideways at him. “Haven’t you missed it all month?”

“I was working the entire time. Everyone in the family has to do the occasional weekend rotation, Alfred knows that. Besides, I see them all at some point or another every week.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Kon taunts. “I thought we agreed you needed to stop isolating yourself?”

The furrow in his brow is one that Tim recognizes as a prelude to concern, though, and he suspects he won’t be able to deter his friend.

“I’m not isolating myself.”

“That so? When was your last date?”

And there it is.

“I left myself wide open for that one,” Tim sighs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Here it comes…”

“I’m serious—you can’t still be carrying a torch for your ex—”

“There are no torches.”

“—hoping it’ll work out—”

“I’m not!”

“—because that ship has sailed,” Kon concludes. “She’s dating your sister for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s been two years.”

“I’ve been on dates in the last two years,” Tim protests.

“Cassie doesn’t count,” Kon replies. 

That earns a wince. “We agreed never to speak about that.”

“And I told you I was fine with it, man, it’s not like I was there.”

There’s a heavy sensation in Tim’s chest at that reminder, and he scowls at Kon for bringing it up. That usually earns a shrug or palms-up gesture of surrender, but today Kon squares his shoulders and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I already told you it meant nothing. We were both hurting and just…needed someone,” Tim insists.

Kon ignores him. “Which I’m okay with—relieved, even. I know you guys wouldn’t have looked at each other if circumstances were different. Which brings me back to Cassie, not counting.”

“She was there for me as much as I was there for her—can we please talk about something else?”

“Depends—do you have a better example than my last girlfriend?”

“Hey, I’ve been with other people! Remember Tam?”

“Yeah, your dad’s former business manager’s daughter,” Kon deadpans, “who you only started dating because everyone thought it was convenient. And she left you because you weren’t interested enough in the relationship.”

“What are you talking about? I was interested!”

“You didn’t even get to second base with her, man.”

“Are you seriously using the baseball metaphor?”

“Then there’s Bernard Whatshisname for the occasional booty call.”

“I regret ever telling you about that.”

“And don’t even get me started on that cop from Hong Kong that you hooked up with last month.”

“Okay, that one was a mistake,” Tim admits.

“But none of those were actual relationships. You haven’t had one of those since Steph.”

“I don’t recall you being this judgy before.”

“You’re one of my only sources of entertainment,” Kon deflects. “It’s like binge-watching Netflix and yelling at the idiot hero to stop screwing up his life. Except in this case, the idiot hero can actually hear me and have to listen.”

“‘Have to’ is debatable…”

Kon pushes off the stone they are both leaning against and turns to face him. It always annoys Tim when he pulls this, given he’s three inches taller and has twice the upper body strength.

“This is what you do, Tim. You keep people at a distance and on the rare occasion where they disappoint you or hurt you, you close yourself off,” Kon sighs. “You need to relax, man.”

Tim’s phone rings, granting him a welcome distraction.

“The last time I relaxed, I got stabbed,” he reminds Kon as he glances at the device. He blinks in surprise when he recognizes his brother’s scowling face and phone number flashing up at him. “Speak of the devil.” He swipes at the screen and answers, making a face at his best friend. “Gremlin.”

“Timothy,” is the terse answer, and Tim can almost hear the scowl in the younger man’s voice.

Huh. First name today. Either something bad happened, or he wants something.

Tim ignores the tiny edge of worry blossoming at the thought; if it were a family emergency, Alfred or Dick would call him, not Damian.

It must be the second thing.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you this morning?” the younger man asks, ignoring the question.

“It’s Sunday, where do you think I am?” he shoots back, deciding two can play ‘answer-with-a-question.’

Except Damian seems to have no intention of following the usual script.

“Of course,” he says instead, sounding distracted. “Then you should be close enough.”

“…For what?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Damian says, “I may have stumbled upon something you’d find…interesting.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous…

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“I’m at work,” Damian says. “Securing a crime scene.”

That moves Tim along the spectrum from wary to defensive at once. He goes to substantial lengths to avoid working with any of his siblings in a professional capacity. It’s a necessity in a family where law enforcement is all but synonymous with the name Wayne. Even if their older brother Dick hadn’t started the tradition of downplaying that link in the professional sphere, Tim has always been diligent in establishing professional boundaries. So far, his family has respected them. Damian, in particular, has always been gleeful—almost militant—in keeping to that maxim; for him to break it, something must have upset him. 

And for him to reach out to me instead of Dick is…I don’t think it’s ever happened.

“Are you sure you should have called me then?” Tim queries in a careful tone, wanting to make sure he’s not misreading the situation. “Dick might be a better option.”

“Richard wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t view it the same way.”

“The same way,” Tim repeats, the words sparking something—a flicker of suspicion begins to take shape.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Damian continues, “so you’d better be appreciative—”

“Spit it out, Damian.” Tim doesn’t have the patience for the adult version of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’.

“Murder-suicide. Apparently. The bodies were posed,” Damian says, voice low as if he doesn’t want someone to overhear him, “And all the victims are holding hands.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry and his entire body tenses. “All?”

“Five,” Damian tells him shortly.

That makes Tim close his eyes in dismay. “Other than the number it’s the same MO as the others?”

“The crime itself, yes. Don’t your files say the last one was five years ago?”

Tim knows it should irritate him that Damian’s been poking around his casefiles—he always considered office protocol as more guidelines than law. But the infraction pales next to the knowledge blossoming into being.

It’s happening again.

“If you want to see for yourself, get here before whoever they assign as the lead detective does,” Damian is saying.

Torn, Tim’s eyes flick to Kon, who clearly knows what is being said and whose expression is all-too knowing for Tim’s liking.

“Where is it?” Tim asks at last.

“Diamond District. Gotham Tower Apartments.”

“That’s unusual,” Tim grunts, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Only one of the earlier cases took place in what either of them would consider an upper-class neighborhood. “Also, outside of my jurisdiction.”

“That wouldn’t stop me if I were in your position.”

There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Tim gives a slow exhale, closing his eyes.

He and Damian were never the closest, but once the early friction between them eased, they developed their own dynamic. And one specific shared understanding that they bonded over in secret, away from the prying and often unintentionally judging eyes of family.

“How is he a jerk even when he’s trying to be helpful?” Tim mutters more to himself than Kon. He’s already calculating how long it will take him to get across the bridge from Metropolis.

Half an hour, with no traffic.

It will be cutting it close, assuming Damian holds off giving his own precinct the details until the last second.

He must be serious about this if he’ll risk being called up on discipline for not following protocol.

Tim turns to Kon. “Sorry, but I need to head out.”

“Like I won’t see you again next week,” Kon dismisses with a grim smile. “After all, you’re always here.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to be,” Tim replies, suspicious.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re my best friend, I obviously want you to visit. But you need more in your life than work, checking in with me and—I dunno—chasing some white whale.”

“Really?” Tim deadpans. “You, of all people? You want me to give up trying to get justice—”

“Not what I’m saying,” Kon interrupts. “I’m just trying to tell you there’s more out there and you deserve to find it.” He pauses. “And   agrees with me.”

Tim cuts off a curse with a hiss. “That is a low blow, you two ganging up on me.”

“What can I say? You’d better listen, or he’ll do something impulsive, if he hasn’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim grumbles, keying the coordinates of the crime scene into his phone’s GPS.

“Remember,” Kon calls after him, “ ”

“Always do,” Tim replies. As he heads for the gates of the cemetery, brushing his fingers against the headstone that reads: Connor Kent, Beloved Son, Brother, Friend—Brave Fireman of the Metropolis Fire Department.

⁂

“Six days,” Jason Todd fumes, glaring down at the muddle of papers and file folders in front of him. “I’m gone for six days, and you jerks decide to turn my desk into an episode of Hoarders.”

“Relax, Todd, it’s just paper, not toxic waste,” Detective Adams drawls as she passes by, unapologetically grabbing a few of the offending folders on her way.

“This? This is not just paper, it’s a potential biohazard.”

His desk, usually the immaculate outlier in the chaotic, open concept dumping ground of the 12th Precinct, is now covered in empty coffee cups, old take-out cartons, and other detritus.

“Says the man who filled my desk drawer with a cubic foot of golf balls the last time I was on leave.”

“None of which were covered in saliva—I mean, come on!” He holds up several crumpled napkins. “It’s just common fucking courtesy!”

“Take it up with Rayner.”

“Of course it was him. Guy has it out for me…”

“You did shoot him.”

“One time! And it was a shoulder wound! If I hadn’t, both our covers would have been blown and we’d both be dead.”

“Cry me a river, Todd,” Adams snorts. “I’ve got a lead on the Kirano case and don’t have time to wipe away your tears of manly angst.”

She stalks away, totally missing how he flips her the bird. Not that his heart is in it; he’s actually fond of Onyx and would even work with her if she could stand him. But the one time they were partnered together, it ended with them running away from an exploding truck and a two-inch-thick shard of metal through her shoulder.

Still trying to figure out how I got the blame for that one…

It’s not like he goes into a situation intending to get the people next to him injured. For some reason, he just happens to be better at intuiting incoming threats, whether it be a perp taking a swing with a knife or stopping just short of being shot.

It happens, sometimes, this inexplicable intuition. Roy always called it a sixth sense, but Jason takes issue with any of that hokey paranormal crap. He gets hunches—gut feelings that have served him extremely well in his career and helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

But he doesn’t like to think of himself as psychic.

He likes thinking of the possible reason for his “hunches” even less.

Finally getting the worst of the garbage into the trashcan beneath his desk, Jason starts on the wayward papers, pleased that most of it can be shredded and won’t require a trip to the file room. There’s one folder, however, that doesn’t fit anywhere: some arson report that has nothing to do with any of his ongoing cases.

He skims through the particulars of the folder and notes the name on the CSI report—B. Allen—which suggests it isn’t even recent. He’s been friends with the new ME, Stephanie Brown, for two years now, and never met the guy that was here before her.

Maybe someone’s trying to find a pattern or something.

Jason decides to bring it to the captain; if anyone’s missing a file related to their case, she’ll have a better idea.

He skirts around uniformed officers moving to and fro, some leading handcuffed offenders to the holding cells at the back of the building, others talking over their cases with each other or on the phone. He passes the office corkboard, filled with everything from sketches of perps at large (it seems Dr. Pamela Isley is up to her usual eco-terrorism) to reminders about the Gotham General Blood Drive (anyone who donates in uniform gets the rest of the day off, as well as the next one).

By the time he reaches the captain’s office, he’s sweating. It might be crisp outside, but inside there are so many bodies moving around that it might as well be the hottest day of summer.

Raising his hand to knock, he’s surprised when the door opens inward and the captain steps out.

“Todd,” she says with a blink, then nods to herself. “Right. You’re back today. That works. Get in here—I’ve got a case for you.”

He’s too used to Artemis’ brusque manner to be bemused; instead, he ducks into her office and closes the door behind him.

“It’s not another missing kid, is it?” he asks apprehensively; the last case involved a fourteen-year-old girl. “No promises I won’t break some scumbag’s teeth again if that’s the case.”

“You’d better not break anyone’s teeth,” Artemis chides him, a warning glint in her eyes. “Especially since you just got off suspension.”

And that for using “unnecessary force” in apprehending a drug dealer selling his shit to a bunch of kids.

“But no,” she continues, sitting behind her desk and reaching for a file, “it’s not. The officers on the scene are reporting it as an apparent murder-suicide.”

“And you thought that’s how I wanted to spend my first day back at work? I’m touched. Whatever made you think of me?”

“The fact that you were conveniently in front of me when I opened the door.”

“Aw, here I was expectin’ you to say something like, ‘well, you’re a constant pain in my ass, but you’ve also got the best record for closin’ cases in this department’.”

“You don’t need the ego boost. Now either take it and be grateful, or I’m giving it to Adams as I planned—”

“Gimme,” Jason interrupts, snatching the file folder from her.

“That’s what I thought.”

He settles into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk and opens the folder.

“I want this one looked into and closed as soon as possible,” Artemis goes on.

“Why?”

“Because of who the victim is.”

Jason frowns, scans through the preliminary report to see that the victim—victims—have, in fact, been identified. His eyebrows shoot upward.

“J. Devlin Davenport.” He looks up at Artemis, askance. “The investment guy? The one being investigated for embezzlement?”

“Fraud Squad’s been building a case against him for six months now,” Artemis confirms. “The guy set up a fake company and defrauded his investors out of 200 million. They’re still trying to track the stuff he funneled through the Bahamas.” 

“If they find it, send it my way,” Jason says, still skimming through the papers.

“Could you sound any more cliché?”

“If I tried, maybe,” he replies, distracted as he slides the folder he brought to one side of her desk. 

“What’s that?” Artemis asks.

“Dunno. File was on my desk. Arson, I think. Figured someone left it there.”

“We don’t have any arson cases ongoing at the moment, but I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s doing case research.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason murmurs. He taps the paper in front of him. “Listen, if they’re saying this is a murder-suicide, that’s probably what it is.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Look at the transcript from when it was called in.”

“‘Bodies of the deceased were…arranged around the dinner table’,” Jason reads. “What the… ‘lack of struggle might suggest sedation before they were removed to the dining room and posed’—posed? Like a photographer does?” He makes a face. “Kind of a lot of effort for someone who just committed suicide right after…”

“If I’m not mistaken, that would be the thing that needs investigating.”

Jason ignores the sarcasm, checking to see who called this in.

Al-Ghul. Huh. Well, at least he’ll keep the place from being overrun. Kid’s scary good at keeping the rubberneckers away.

And pissing off the MEs by lurking around while they work.

Jason knows the new officer just wants to learn, but he also tends to be a bit of an entitled know-it-all like most of his generation. It’s a trait he’ll lose the longer he walks a beat and works up through the ranks, but right now it makes most people want to punch him.

Jason might be one of those people if it weren’t for the fact Al-Ghul is meticulous about taking statements, prompt in securing crime scenes, and entirely willing to go the extra mile to help a detective close a case even when he’s off the clock. He recognizes the ambition and the need to prove himself from his own first years as a cop.

If he adjusts that attitude a bit, I might even put in a recommendation to put him on detective track…

Jason closes the folder and grins at Artemis.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard you’re pairing me with today?”

He doesn’t work well with a partner, given his tendency to ignore rules in favor of his gut instincts. Especially since it’s never steered him wrong. Most other detectives can’t stand that, with the exception of his last partner, Roy Harper, who transferred to Star City six months ago to be closer to his daughter. Then again, Roy always considered rules arbitrary anyhow.

Since then, Jason’s been cycled through almost all the detectives at the 9th Precinct, all without finding a decent fit.

Pretty sure it’s Artemis’ way of torturing me since plenty of other guys work their cases solo.

It’s a blatant implication that he needs a babysitter.

“Rayner wrapped up most of his cases last week,” Artemis replies without even checking the duty roster on her desk.

“Hell no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I giving you the impression you have a choice?”

“Unless you want me back on suspension, you’re not putting me with that asshole.”

“Well, Jason,” she says, finally looking up at him with an expression that suggests she’s fully ready to call his bluff, “you have this tendency to either piss off or sleep with whoever gets assigned to you. At least if you’re working with someone that pisses you off, I’m less likely to need to fill out the paperwork to reassign them afterward.”

“And if they happen to fall into both categories?” he leers at her in an exaggerated manner. She was one of his partners once, both on the job and briefly outside of it. He prods at the plaque on her desk that reads Captain A. Bana-Migdhall. In retaliation, she reaches over and raps him on the knuckles with it. “Ow!”

“You’re not helping your case right now.”

“You know, it’s not my fault Eddie decided he’d rather play Bond Babe for the scary CIA chick with the one eye. And Miguel’s the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me, so…”

“Just…go find Rayner,” Artemis sighs, waving her hand in dismissal. “I need that crime scene checked over and wrapped up quickly. The Mayor’s office wants an answer on this pronto.”

Jason sneers at that. “Of course they do. Because the Waynes and Davenports are old country club buddies, right?”

“Maybe fifty years ago. But Bruce Wayne spent more time as a cop than some rich college co-ed. He got elected based on his tough-on-crime stance, so it’s more likely he just wants to make sure the high-profile target of a class-action suit hasn’t been the victim of foul play.” Artemis pauses. “Especially since, having met the man, I’m pretty sure Wayne would have liked to beat the truth out of Davenport personally.”

“Now there’s a reality show I’d watch.”

“On your own time. Now go do your job.”

“Or Rayner.”

Artemis drops her pen and stares. “What?”

“Well, from what you said before, I figure if I fuck Rayner, it means you won’t ever make me work with him again, so—”

“Get the hell out of my office!” Artemis barks, throwing her tissue box at his head. Jason ducks and slips out of her office with a grin on his face.

There are a few good-natured laughs from his coworkers—“In trouble again, Todd?”—and he heads across the room to Kyle Rayner’s desk.

“What do you want?” the other detective demands, nose wrinkling at Jason like he’s just smelled something rank. It’s his default expression whenever they cross paths.

It’s also the expression that drives Jason to mess with him whenever he can.

Time for a bit of payback for the desk thing.

“Not me,” he says, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Captain wanted to know if you could head down to the 7th.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Apparently her opposite number there has something she needs to be sent over and doesn’t want to wait on official channels to slow everything down.”

“What do I look like, a courier?” Rayner growls, but Jason can see from the way he smooths a hand through his hair that he’s got him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jason’s workplace nemesis has a thing for Precinct 7’s Captain Troy, or that he’ll take any excuse to go flirt with her.

It’s unrequited, of course, and Jason’s bound to get an earful from Donna the next time they run into each other, but worth it to get Rayner out of his way.

“Whatever, man, I just work here,” he says, only half-pretending irritation. “You want to tell Captain ‘no’, it’s your balls in a vice, not mine.”

“Yeah, that’d be a switch, wouldn’t it?”

But the other man pushes back his chair and grabs his jacket.

Jason smirks at his retreating back and spins on his heel, returning to his own desk to grab his car keys.

Maybe the day’s looking up a bit.

⁂

There’s a gaggle of reporters already on the scene when Tim arrives, and he wonders not for the first time just how many of them have their own inside sources in the various police precincts of Gotham. There are also two ambulances on the scene, but thankfully someone had the foresight to park them in a way that shields the entrance of the high-rise apartment.

Officer Kelley, Damian’s partner of six months, is walking back and forth along the police tape to ensure none of the intrepid rubberneckers can get through. Head down and dark glasses firmly in place, Tim hurries past the press before they can recognize him (it thankfully doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s a pain in the ass) and approaches Kelly. Though they’ve met before, he flashes his badge and identifies himself. 

All of Tim’s official identification name him as Timothy Drake-Wayne and have since he was about seventeen, but he only uses the latter name if he absolutely must. With regards to work, he’s only ever used it during official meetings with the Commissioner or during obligatory police ceremonies.

Or when Bruce makes up some official sounding excuse to check up on me when he feels he hasn’t heard from me in a while.

He's endured at least one of those this past month.

Kelley barely raises an eyebrow, suggesting Damian must have warned her who he was calling and waves him through. It speaks to how much they trust each other as partners that she’s going along with what’s clearly a personal issue. Most other cops would question the need for two law enforcement officers from the same family needing to be at the same crime scene.

There are two elevators in the lobby, one of which is already open with a sign posted to warn residents from using it. Another officer Tim doesn’t recognize is waiting beside it, and Tim once again flashes his badge before heading up.

He’s subjected to a brief interlude of elevator muzak, before the doors open to the foyer outside of what has to be the victims’ apartment. Two ambulance techs are just exiting, carrying with them tools that are clearly useless here. He waits for them to pass and slips inside, taking in the stylish décor of the hall and nearby living room. Inside the latter, there’s a small woman speaking to another EMT, a blanket over her shoulders as she tries to speak through sobs.

Damian is watching the scene from across the room, mouth pulled into his habitual frown; this deepens when he sees Tim. Undeterred, Tim strides over—he was invited, after all.

“So, are you going to tell me why I’m risking Cassie’s wrath this morning?” he asks as he joins the younger man. Tim's friend might not be the type of captain to fire him for the flagrant conduct unbecoming, but she can make his life miserable for the foreseeable future.

“The bodies were found this morning by the cleaning lady,” Damian says, also not bothering with such trite pleasantries as a greeting. “No signs of break-in or struggle.”

“Cleaning lady? This early on a Sunday? They must have been paying her overtime.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Pennyworth works Sundays.”

“Only because it would take the same amount of phenobarbital to stun a moose as it would to make Alfred take a day of rest.” They exchange a wry look of agreement, and Tim returns to the subject at hand. “So, she identified the bodies?”

“Yes. Joseph Devlin Davenport, his wife Lina, and the three teenaged offspring—Neil, Irene, and Roderick.”

Tim’s eyes go wide; he’s met every one of them before. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Damian flips through his notepad, though they both know it’s for show. “All the victims were executed by two gunshots to the head, except Davenport himself; the medical examiner was here, and her preliminary findings suggest the husband shot his wife and children first, then turned the gun on himself. There are no signs of struggle, no bruising, or markings on the bodies…”

“None of that’s particularly extraordinary though.”

“And then there’s their hands.”

They share a look.

“Did you mention that when you called it in to your superiors?”

“No, when I called it in I gave them the basics. Since then I’ve noticed a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact a firearm was discharged several times in a residential complex and no one heard anything,” Damian says. “Yet I didn’t find a suppressor anywhere on the scene; just the weapon itself.”

“Is the penthouse soundproofed?” Tim asks.

“No. When I spoke to the downstairs residents, they told me they had even made several noise complaints to the building management in the past. Nothing ever came from it, of course—money talks—but someone should have heard something.”

“Assuming they recognized the sound of gunfire. This isn’t exactly Burnley. Which…could be a good thing. Buildings like this tend to have good security systems.”

“Obviously that was my next thought,” Damian drawls. “While Kelley was calming down the help, I went to speak with the security guards in case the camera system caught sight of anyone suspicious.”

"And did they?"

“No. They apparently had to run a routine update on their software, which knocked out the feed between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.”

“And you think this is when the shooting took place.”

“I imagine Brown will find the time of death to be around that point,” Damian agrees with a smug upward quirk of his lips. “For Davenport to decide to kill himself at the exact time when the security feeds go offline is rather coincidental.”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Anything else?”

“What about the fact Davenport was left-handed but shot himself with his right hand?”

Tim blinks. “And how do you figure he was left-handed?”

“Please,” Damian dismisses with a snort, “I’ve been forced to attend enough fundraisers with Father in the past, and Davenport was often present. Even you would remember that ham-fisted troglodyte trying to sip from a champagne flute had you ever deigned to attend.”

Tim tilts his head in acknowledgment of both the barb and the observation. “Fair. Though so far all of this sounds pretty circumstantial—nothing really screams 'second shooter' here. And other than the hand thing—”  

“Go see for yourself. The bodies are in the dining room. I imagine your specific talents will confirm my suspicions.” Tim starts into the apartment. “By the way, if you’re still here when the lead detective gets here, I’ll deny knowing you.”

Tim snorts. “As expected.”

“And you are not to tell Richard I was involved in this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tim has to hold back a chuckle at that; Damian is even more acquainted with Dick’s mollycoddling than he is.

“Noted. Let Alfred know I might be a bit late for dinner tonight.”

“It’s not Alfred you have to worry about.”

Tim heads down the hall, accepting a pair of plastic gloves from one of the passing investigators. As he pulls them on, he takes note of the doors to the bedrooms that remain open, and the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls. Nothing is disturbed, no signs of a struggle like there would be if the victims had been dragged from their beds, and there’s no sign of blood on the floors leading from the rooms or even the hallway itself.

That means the victims either walked voluntarily—which is unlikely—or sedated and carried.

It’s looking like Damian’s instincts might be on-point here, but it’s not until Tim steps foot in the dining room that he realizes just how much that’s the case.

He freezes in place, hit with a familiar jarring of his senses at something not meant to be perceived.

Davenport was a man in his mid-forties, tall and with the look of a skinny person that’s suddenly gained a whole lot of weight, and not in a healthy manner. Tim remembers meeting him at some dinner with his parents when he was younger, and his mother disparaging the man behind his back as a social-climbing schemer.

And that was before the Ponzi scheme.

The man’s blond hair implants are now plastered with blood and brain matter that oozes down the left side of his head. His eyes roll in wild fear, tears and snot running down his face, which is immobilized in a stiff smile from regular Botox injections. That mouth is now twisted in a grotesque scream that makes Tim wince even in its silence, the unsettling sensation of nails on a chalkboard traveling up through his nervous system.

Tim is careful not to draw the attention to himself, not just because of the crime scene team still milling about the scene, but because the last thing he needs right now is a panicked ghost latching on to him. Davenport’s spirit is still in too much shock for rationality and may fixate on Tim if he discovers he can see him. Which he knows from experience is not fun.

The newly dead are like drowning victims—if they catch hold of you, they’ll drag you under with them. Best case scenario, Tim experiences a few seconds of possession and a week of dissociative identity issues; worst-case scenario, he could die from the same trauma.

Unfortunately, given the lack of control newly dead spirits have, the latter is most likely.

The ghost is luckily far enough from the dining room table that Tim can edge past him without ostensibly acknowledging its presence; instead, he studies the actual bodies and tries not to regret his coffee that morning.

The five victims have not yet been moved, but the placement of tarps over them suggests the crime scene photographers have already been by. Going from one body to the next, Tim lifts the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb anything too much in his investigation. The victims are all dressed in their nightclothes, seated around the table on wooden, cloth-back chairs. 

Damian wasn’t lying; all of them holding hands.

The dining room table is fully laden with dishes and cutlery, glasses filled with orange juice and bowls with the soggy remnants of cereal and milk. Other than the angry red entrance wounds on their foreheads—two shots each—there are no other visible injuries. Only the body of the presumed shooter, based on the position of the gun and his hand, is splayed out unnaturally across the table, ostensibly from the force of the gunshot.

Otherwise, it looks like they were all just sitting down to breakfast at the time of death.

His stomach roils a bit at the notion, not only because of the clearly depraved mind behind arranging the tableau but because the scene is familiar to him in a way he wishes it wasn’t.

Teeth clenched, Tim digs out his phone and starts to take his own pictures, not wanting to have to contact the lead detective and beg for copies. In the periphery, Davenport’s ghost continues to spasm and flail, making it hard for Tim to concentrate.

His eyes rest on the spot where the murder weapon fell and is struck by a sudden idea. Hoping he’s right, he takes a quick tour of the rest of the apartment but makes deliberate stops in the bedroom and the home office.

It’s another fifteen minutes of taking pictures and lightly rummaging through the belongings of the dead before he finds something. Striding out of the office and back toward the scene of the murder, Tim shoots a text message off to his friend Victor at the ATF.

Running gun serial numbers might be a little more complicated than on TV, but the guy owes me a favor. And if I’m right—

His thoughts cut off as he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement that belongs to someone living this time.

There’s a newcomer on the scene, and from the way he flashes the badge, Tim would guess it’s the detective who’s actually supposed to be here. He’s redheaded, wearing a leather jacket and a loose tie that looks like he threw it on in a hurry. Even from this distance, Tim can make out a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and the edge to his mouth that’s inherently challenging. The man’s whole esthetic reads scrapper, but his posture and carriage inarguably declare cop. Tim would know, his family is made up almost entirely of them.

Pretending like he hasn’t noticed the stranger, Tim shifts to face the scene once again, continuing to study him under his lashes as the man exchanges words with Damian.

He blames Kon entirely for the way his attention rests on the man’s muscular thighs, before the man turns toward Tim and starts forward, conversation with Damian clearly over.

Well shit…

⁂

Jason has an uneasy feeling in his stomach even before he even arrives at the Davenports’ penthouse apartment.

It’s not an anticipatory reaction to seeing the aftermath of a murder—he’s worked homicide long enough to have developed a means of distancing himself from the crimes he investigates. The feeling is more like expectation, a nagging sense that something huge is about to happen.

Never a good sign in my experience.

“Detective Todd?”

Jason pauses as he finishes putting on a pair of plastic gloves and glances up at the speaker.

“Officer Al-Ghul,” he replies, more formal than usual as he tries to shove the weird feeling to the back of his mind. “What’ve we got?”

The kid excuses himself from the small, tearful woman he’s speaking to and strides over.

“It seems to be a murder-suicide,” he says and launches into a report that’s almost word-for-word the transcript of what he called into the precinct, with a few extra additions. Jason lets the words wash over him, keeping an ear out for anything that deviates too much from what he already knows while casting his eyes about the apartment.

Geeze, you could fit three Crime Alley families in the living room alone. Who the fuck needs all this space?

His eyes fall upon someone across the room that he doesn’t recognize.

Young—maybe a bit younger than Jason—with an athletic build and good looks that, despite being clean-cut, give no clue as to whether they’re male or female. Whoever it is, they’re not dressed as a CSI or in an officer’s uniform, but they’re studying the crime scene with the eye of someone in the business. When the stranger notices Jason, he or she turns around, apparently fascinated by the photographs on the living room wall.

“Who’s that?” Jason interrupts Al-Ghul. “New CSI?”

Al-Ghul scowls in annoyance, either at the interruption or at the subject of the question, Jason isn’t sure.

“Major Crimes,” he says after a beat. 

That immediately puts Jason’s back up. “What the hell is MCU doing here?”

Al-Ghul shrugs, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’, and returns his attention to the woman from before. Deciding this is a welcome distraction from his own unease, Jason stalks toward the stranger, ready to rip them a new one.

“Hey, buddy—wanna tell me what you think you’re doing at my crime scene?”

“Just taking a look around,” the detective replies, not turning around immediately.

Jason’s eyes flick to the photos on the wall, wondering what seems so captivating.

Most of them are glamor shots, professionally done, but some are clearly personal photos. Davenport and his wife on a golf course, the teenagers lounging around against a tropical beach backdrop, and another of Davenport sitting in a bed surrounded by his kids. Though his surroundings seem comfortable, he’s hooked up to some kind of IV stand, and despite the smile on everyone’s faces, there’s a haunted edge to it.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

A while back there was something in the news about him undergoing treatment for some kind of blood cancer. He actually tried to use that to discourage his case from being investigated. Just proves what kind of scumbag Davenport is.

Was.

Which brings him back to the present.

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that unless you want me making a call to the brass up at MCU,” Jason warns.

The detective turns to offer Jason what is clearly intended to be a disarming smile. “No need for that, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Jason prides himself on not being susceptible to that sort of thing, but—

Holy shit, he’s hot up close.

And yes, that’s definitely a male face studying him with an air of appraisal, in spite of the deceptively delicate features. The guy is mostly clean-shaven and wearing a smart-looking peacoat that offers a compliment to his eyes, which are very blue. It’s the intense color you don’t see very often outside of newborn babies, but with a pronounced gleam of intelligence that feels almost penetrating.

There’s also a confident set to his shoulders and a stubborn bend to his lips that instantly puts Jason’s mind on the defensive (and other parts at attention).

“Detective Drake,” the guy goes on, offering a hand to Jason. His voice is warm and smooth, the kind that’s more suited for phone sex than reciting Miranda rights. “Major Crimes, as you already seem to be aware.”

Jason refrains from taking the hand. “Detective Todd. 12th Precinct. Homicide. There a reason you guys are sticking your noses into a murder-suicide?”

“There’s reason to believe this may actually be the work of a serial murderer,” Drake replies, looking unbothered by the rebuff.

“Really,” Jason says flatly. “And what are you basing that on? Because the report I got is leanin’ pretty hard on this guy killing his wife and kids, then himself. That’s probably how the city’s going to record it. This isn’t a scene that needs in-depth investigating and there’s no need for one lead detective here, let alone two—especially not a guy who’s clearly out of his jurisdiction.”

‘Detective Drake’ doesn’t appear to notice the clear marking of territory.

“Have you been in there yet?” he asks instead.

“No, because I’m wasting my time explainin’ protocol to a smart-ass out of his jurisdiction.”

Drake smirks at that, sharp and unwavering. “Well, when you get around to it, you’ll probably cotton on to the fact the murder weapon was a .32 automatic with the serial filed off.”

“So?”

“So, first of all, the neighbors would have heard the discharge if it was fired without a decent suppressor, but there’s no evidence of one at the scene of the crime.”

Which, Jason can admit, is out of the ordinary. Most people committing suicide don’t care about how loud the shot will be that takes them out, but if they did use one, it would still be attached to the gun.

“Second, Davenport was an ardent supporter of gun rights. I remember seeing a clip of him on the news, going at it with the Mayor over his proposed gun-control laws.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

“My point is that generally, gun rights activists own guns. Which Davenport did—you’ll find them in his closet and his study, next to all the relevant paperwork: 9mm Glocks. And they have serial numbers.” Drake levels a challenging stare at Jason. “What’s the point of procuring an unregistered weapon when you have your own within easy reach? And why chisel the number off if you’re just going to commit suicide? It’s not like you need to care about it being traced once you’re dead.”

“The guy was rich—rich people do weird things. Probably some convoluted insurance thing,” he suggests.

“Or it wasn’t his.”

“So maybe he was holdin’ it for a friend. It happens. Still doesn’t change the fact this tool offed his own family.”

“And what about the fact that the same model gun has been found at the scene of at least fourteen other murder-suicides in this city in the past ten years?”

“It’s Gotham. Play the probabilities game long enough, you’ll get a bunch of seemingly random crimes that resemble each other.”

“Maybe. But in the ninety-something years before that—in fact, as long as the city’s kept records on this sort of thing—there have been only two murder-suicides that could fit that pattern, and those had enough additional evidence to solve immediately. But in the past decade, we've got two particular years where a series of murder-suicides were committed using an unregistered .32, where neighbors didn’t hear any of the gunshots and yet there was no sign of a suppressor. Five years ago, and ten years ago,” Drake tells him grimly. “Both those years there were exactly seven incidents, and then they stopped. None of those have been solved.”

“That says more about the investigating cops than the crimes themselves. You don’t solve a murder-suicide—the evidence is right there,” Jason insists, though what Drake has to say is uncomfortably close to what his own gut was telling him when he walked into the apartment.

“And the fact that in each situation, the victims are found holding hands?” Drake challenges, with the air of someone presenting a winning argument.

And, yeah, that’s a bit of a weird coincidence, but still not an argument for a major investigation.

“If that’s an actual detail in all these supposed cases of yours, it would have been noted.”

“Not if no one thought it was worth noting,” Drake retorts. “Not if whoever made those reports just thought it was some kind of death pact or…cult related suicide. They weren’t looking for it.”

“But you are.”

“Clearly.”

Jason peers at him another beat and then shakes his head. “Look, I have about seven other cases of actual homicide that need my attention, so if you could just—"

“Seriously?” Drake demands, losing some of his smooth calm at last. “You don’t find any of that compelling enough to—”

“To what? Start imagining serial killers where there are none? No, I don’t,” Jason snaps. “All I see so far is some rich bastard got caught running a Ponzi scheme, so he decided to take the easy way out and dragged his poor family with him. It’s what rich people do when things get hard; because if they can’t have it, no one can.”

That earns him a cold look. “Out of the other fourteen cases, only one of them involved a couple who could be considered rich.”

“Fourteen other cases where only you seem to notice the pattern. I dunno what you want me to say, buddy. Clearly, you got an ax to grind, so do me a favor and grind it away from my scene.”

Despite his words, it’s not a suggestion, and Drake recognizes it.

Scowling at Jason in something like disgust, he straightens up. “Fine. I’m going. But when another family is slaughtered by this nutjob—and it will happen—you’ll remember this discussion. Hopefully, before you have to answer another six homicide calls.”

Drake spares Jason one final judgmental look and heads for the front door.

Jason watches him, briefly admiring the man’s ass as he walks away, and then puts the encounter out of his mind. He’s got a job to do, and Artemis said she wanted this sorted out today.

Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for another grim sight—he hates crime scenes that involve kids—he heads out of the living room toward the back of the apartment and the scene of the crime.

Crossing the threshold to the dining room, Jason’s earlier disquiet morphs, evolving from nervous apprehension to a full-blown dip towards dread. He barely catches a glimpse of the tarps draped over the bodies, when his stomach pulls tight, shoulders tensing as if waiting for a blow from the right, but there’s no one there. Something far too close to fear chokes at his throat, forcing him to pause in the doorway and put a steadying hand on the doorframe.

Spots appear across his vision, a chill winding up his spine, and—

—sobbing, hysterical tears, please don’t do this, please just let them go, heart racing, blood thundering, please no, I’ll give you anything, someone help, click, bang, agony, nothing—

Jason shudders as he comes back to himself, reeling back a step.

The sensations ebb a little but don’t completely vanish, and he has to take a few breaths to regain his control. Now that he expects it, it won’t be too hard entering the room, but the fact it hit him like that...

Jason glances back to the entrance of the apartment, mouth setting into a grimace. He’s cleaned up plenty of suicides, and they never hit him with that degree of dread before.

 He has a bad feeling that Detective Drake might have been right—whatever happened in the apartment, it wasn’t as simple as it's meant to look.

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel! ❤️️ = I love this story!

😳 = this was hot!

💐 = thank you for sharing this

🍵 = tea spilled

🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!

🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!

😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

🤯mind blown

🤬god damn cliffhanger

😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!? 

[unproduciblesmackdown]

i’m always 2 exhausted even by thinkng about it to even begin discussing At Length what’s So Exhausting About Billions’es Handling Of Their Trans Character (which is way way better than it could be) but like, some of the main points of it are

taylor can outright say that they’re nonbinary One Time, but otherwise their gender can only be Made Relevant via other people misgendering them and/or by being transphobic towards them, and this happens like. loads of times. and sometimes in ways that feel a touch excessive / kind of indulgent in reminding us like haha don’t forget this character Is Seen As ___ by people and their body and presentation is a matter of Fascination for cis audiences, but not necessarily respected, and we can see the character navigate this but they won’t discuss it at length b/c why would any trans person Want to talk about being trans OR have another trans person in their life to talk to, cuz what are the odds of That. 

in relation to that last point: taylor can’t talk about their Not Cis experiences / reality, or even hardly mention it directly / by name, but the show can keep writing them as reaching out to random useless cis people in their life when these cis people are having some kind of super particular individual problem, and taylor laying out some really REALLY watered-down, vague, indirect version of their being trans as a way to show they Relate to whatever dumbass situation this awful cishet person has gotten themself into. being in some kind of frustrating situation? feeling alienated or isolated or undermined or misunderstood or judged? well i guess you’re experiencing a tiny bit of the trans existence! except you are not. and like, of Course a character would look like an asshole if they were like “boy taylor, now that i’ve had a rough week due to some really dumb problem, i think i understand what it must be like for you to be nonbinary!!!” but it’s fine if Taylor Chooses To Relate Their Transness to whatever some cishet loser is dealing with. no, being #outed as i-do-bdsm is nothing like being an out lgbtq individual. and like all these people in taylor’s sphere are nightmare people who don’t deserve their sympathy in the first place but that’s another gripe lmfao

can’t believe that was the “brief overview” version lmao but anyways, i was thinking about another weird and kinda frustrating thing that someone brought up on twitter

well actually it was kinda what two people were talking about on twitter, and the first thing was how like, yknow in a show like this where the ppl focus of the series (supposed to be axe and chuck i guess like eugh can you even imagine) are Supposed To Be Assholes? it’s always like, how those main chars in “prestige drama” are generally men who are *meant* to be seen as shitty and probably dumbasses, and yet like, there’s an inherent Sympathetic Treatment in focusing on them and in having their godawful exploits drive a lot of the plot and action and suspense and etc, and it’s not exactly enough to just say like “oh but you’re suppoooosed to Know that they suck”

but the second thing was how in “Prestige Drama” Tv With Shitty Protagonists, there has this tendency to have the crappy usually-cishet-white-abled-men main chars be like, not ever really display any “””especial””” level of bigotry?? saying something how like, any big -isms or -phobias seems to be reserved for the “”””real”””” bad guys. and that kinda ties in a bit i think with how, even if there’s the “well they’re supposed to seem unsympathetic” justification, they’re still........not really supposed to seem too unsympathetic. and it’s not that anyone would ever think it’s ~realistic~ for a nonbinary person to be in the world of High Finance and be able to announce their pronouns and have their identity for-the-most-part respected by everyone right off the bat, and i sure don’t want billions to be going for that ~realism~ on this one thing (especially when it doesn’t exactly try to strictly hold itself to Realism in plenty of other regards) and have taylor dealing with constant misgendering and likely no one with authority consistently watching out for them in this manner and people telling shitty jokes behind their back and etc etc etc which might be more ~realistic~ but please don’t.........

but at the same time it’s awfully convenient that apparently everyone at axe cap is such a committed Trans Ally that even when taylor defects by the end of s3 and everyone is like “booo hiss we hate taylor” they all feel free to disrespect taylor in pretty much any way Except for showing any signs of transphobia, ever. very nice that none of these characters have to bear the burden of being labeled A Real Jerk for insulting taylor on the grounds of their being trans (other insults are fine). like the guy on twitter said, bigotry is only for the Really real bad guys who really only need to be one-dimensional or in the background or otherwise not given that much attention.

like it exasperated me So much when there was some scene with axe and wags and wendy (like, scream. already i’m in hell. for gods sake) where wendy’s getting the green light to try to sabotage taylor’s relationship with their dad (to.....destabilize their fund?? just kinda bum them out, possibly??? it seems to be the latter 9_9 ) and axe is like “yeah fuck it, go for it, grrrr i hate taylor >:| “ and wendy says something in which she then Pauses and adds a footnote to her sentence, in which she clarifies that by “them,” she is referring to taylor, not taylor and [someone else she’d mentioned in the same sentence]. it’s just exhausting, ugh. like, yeah yeah believe me everyone who uses singular They pronouns knows allll about how oh no, there’s the chance for Ambiguity now!!! we never have that problem with other pronouns ever!!! and it means we deserve to force people to pick He or She! and it’s just like, ugh. yeah thank you for reminding us that these three bastards who are currently plotting how to permanently destroy a familial relationship of tay’s are nevertheless being sure to Respect Their Pronouns while doing so!!! not that they *shouldn’t* but like, as fucking though. and it’s just so......fucking unnecessary ugh. you don’t have to awkwardly make sure to point out you were using ~the singular They~ right then just as this clunky reminder that oh i’m not Transphobic @ them tho........like shut up thanks so much. i would like for taylor to never have to interact with wendy again, but god knows im sure that wish won’t come true. like, you didn’t have to clarify in the first place. and it’s so nice that all these nightmare individuals are such committed #allies. ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[waezi2]

Five reasons to why Dreamworks' "Trolls" is secretly brilliant.

For some reason, I keep underestimating the brilliance of Pixar and Dreamworks movies.

But can you blame me on this one? Making a movie about a weird ugly toy from the 90s? Sounds like Emoji Movie shit.

And the fact that the movie looks like the result of a unicorn eating too much slush-ice and then puked makes you think annoying kids movie. We talking Care Bear annoying. But since a friend of mine mentioned loving the movie, I swallowed my pride, bought the Blue Ray from my local movie shop... and was amazed by how good this feel good film actually was.

Here are five reasons to why this on the surface seemingly dumb movie is secretly brilliant.

The trolls.

Making a fantasy race of small people, you need a gimmick and an unique appearance so they aren't just slightly different gnomes.

Like the Smurfs. They are blue, have a weird little tail, and they have a society build around everyone having one job that they are extremely good at.

(... It makes you wonder if the whole Smurfs society would completely fall apart if one of those Smurfs became unavailable.)

So, how do you do that with creepy ugly dolls that 90s people for some reason liked?

The trolls are all about being happy little buggers, so why not make them colorful instead of uncharmingly paper brown? In fact, let them have fur that only have color when they are happy. And since their hair was their most notable trait, why not make their hair into an important part of their body? Like making it alive and be a muscle. It can be used for fun and festive purposes, but it also has a function as in it can be used to help you survive when you are a tiny creature lost in a forest with wild animals who wants to eat you.

The selection of songs.

I love musicals. I freaking LOVE them. And as a musical fan, I think the selection of songs and the variety as well as relevance to the plot is of the utmost importance.

And that's why "Mama Mia" didn't work. Sure, the music was nice, but the selection of songs and the timing was a messy. Even inappropriate at times.

"Trolls" however has a nice collection of songs, not only feel good and upbeat ones. The trolls are all about happiness and joy, but that is not the same as saying that they are strangers to sadness and loneliness. Music can be an instrument (no pun intended... okay, maybe a little... a lot) used to calm or comfort. Poppy realizes that Branch is not interested in her happy and upbeat music, so she instead sings "The Sound of Silence", a song about being aware of loneliness as well as bitterness towards materialistic tendencies. And it actually moves Branch, though he is too proud to admit it.

Also, the movie has the song "Clint Eastwood", but more of that later.

The evil of creating a need.

The villains of the "Trolls" movie are the Bergens, more specifically the chef of the Bergens. they are big, grey orc-like creatures who are plagued by unhappiness. And seemingly, the only way for them to gain something that resembles joy is by eating the little trolls who are basically small balls of joy.

But it is just a fix. And the chef who feeds the Bergens is very much aware of this. But being the one who provides the people "happiness" gives her a position of power not even the king has. So she let's the drown in misery so she can on occasions feed them trolls. She creates a need that shouldn't be there to begin with.

Not that it is all on the chef, the Bergens are as much to blame for letting her be their source of happiness for the sake of convenience.

Our hero is optimistic, not stupid.

Poppy seems like a run-of-the-mill happy idiot who needs to be taught a lesson about how the real world works. But instead, she is a confident princess, a soon-to-be monarch who cares deeply about her people and is proud of being the daughter of the king who bravely put himself in harms way in order to save the trolls. She is a strong believer in optimism, not to say that she is unaware that bad things can happen, she just choose to hope for the best. That optimism gives her an incredible willpower that helps her through many hurdles. In fact, when she goes through hell to get to the Bergen city, in is only after several hours of travel and physical pain that she finally faints, but she already had a plan in order to "force" Branch to join her so he could save her bacon if it came to that.

It is surprisingly often that kindness and optimism is mistaken for weakness and stupidity. Poppy is anything but that, she doesn't learn a lesson. Her philosophy about optimism and happiness doesn't change.

A freaking Gorillaz song is in this movie, and it fits in perfectly.

Ironically, I think including the song "Clint Eastwood" in the movie was a stroke of genius since so many others thinks it's dumb. The reason being that the song is about doing drugs.

Let's take a look at the part of the song included in the movie:

“I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad

I got sunshine in a bag

I'm useless but not for long

The future is coming on”

As a old-school Gorillaz fan, I say that claiming that it’s only about drugs is simplifying the song. I think it is about not being happy and then create a stimuli that resembles happiness and escape reality because you don't have the guts to face it. There are several ways you can do that, drugs is one, but it can also be listening to music non-stop till the point that it becomes addicting noise. OR play online games to create a sense of pointless success.

[crushimaginesandsuch]

#13-These Four Years

Request: OMGG could u make a dad!Calum where he had a girl with the reader at 19 and now the little girl is 4, and when they go to tuck her in after he came back from tour and had a day of fun they just realize that their lives would never have been the same without their angel. So there's like flashbacks of when (Y/N) told Cal she was expecting, to the struggles of him being on tour while having a little girl on the other side of the world, the stress of being so young and expecting a child.

Okay I’m in love with this request... like just imagine your crush and your daughter and aGH. But that’s all I’ll say on THAT 😂 just a note-if you have fandom specific requests I still take those! Some things will be generalized (names, specific plot point from tv shows) but character’s status (celebrity, occupation ya know) and the request setting, etc. won’t change. :) request away!!

People always talked about how hard it must be to be a celebrity. How little privacy you had, how you couldn’t lead a normal life. But not once in the 17 years leading up to meeting C/N had I heard how excruciatingly painful it was to date one, however. Let alone raise a child with the man you love halfway across the world.

I sighed as I spread the blanket across my lap. Lia was in her room, choosing the book she wanted me to read to her tonight. The moment of silence was wonderful, but brief.

“Good Night book!” My daughter giggled as she climbed onto the couch next to me. I smiled at her, pulling her into my side.

As I began to read, I let my mind wander. It had been six months since we’d seen C/N last. Sure—we’d FaceTimed a few times a week, and every day Lia and I called him, but it was hard on both of us.

Management had refused to fly C/N out twice a month or for special occasions and parties, and Lia and I hated flying. It was just too much to handle, so we remained content with video chats and texting, lucky for the contact we had.

When your daughter’s father and the love of your life is in an internationally-adored band, you have to take what you can get.

Tonight, however, was one of those nights I felt like screaming for help. Between my job, caring for Lia, and taking care of the house, exhaustion had overcome my body. Emotionally and physically—I was drained.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Lia frowned, staring at me.

“Hm?” I blinked, turning to her.

“You stopped reading.”

I sighed, with a shake of my head, apologized and began the book again.

“Good night bed, good night stars. Good night chair and good night” —

“Bed time already?”

My heart stopped, and slowly I turned around. There, in the doorway, stood C/N. He looked groggy, tired from a long trip, but a light smile played across his face.

“Daddy!” Lia screamed, jumping from the couch and into his arms.

“My beauty! Look at you, you got so big!” He whispered into the top of her head. He held her up, wrapping his arms around her small body.

Tears sprung to my eyes and I didn’t bother to wipe them away before rushing to hold my family.

C/N met my eyes and he was smiling so wide. I mirrored his grin and shut my eyes, burying my head in his shoulder.

We held each other for so long, but when Lia let out a low yawn, we separated.

“Guess it is bed time, huh beautiful?” He smoothed back her hair.

“No, I’m not tired.” She whined. With a wink, C/N tossed me a smile.

“Well, I am, baby. So maybe we should all go to bed?” I asked, rubbing her back. I yawned wide to really sell it.

Lia rubbed her eyes slowly. “Okay, Mommy.”

Within a matter of minutes, our girl was passed out in her bed and we had moved to our own room. I lay on C/N’s chest, hands wrapped tight around his waist.

He was rubbing my back under my shirt. His lips moved against my ear and though I couldn’t hear him, I could feel him mouthing words against my ear.

“I love you,” I whispered into his chest. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too, love.” He pressed a slow kiss to my lips. Like a ghost, his lips moved over mine with a concentrated pressure. He loved me—that kiss told me everything I’d ever needed to know.

It quickly became more heated, and the gentleness faded into urgency. Mad and desperate. As if he might die if he wasn’t touching me. His hands moved from my back to my waist pulling us as close as possible.

We hadn’t been like this in so long... with burning desire I pushed back, matching his strength.

His lips moved down my jaw, to my neck, to my shoulder, to my collarbone and—

A loud yawn rippled through my body, pulling me apart from him. Oh god. Here we were—finally alone with C/N and able to love him, and I was too overworked to do so.

“Tired, babe?” He raised an eyebrow, chuckling.

I frowned and pressed my face into his chest. “I’m so sorry, I just”—

“Hey, hey,” he lifted my chin up to meet his eyes. He smiled lightly, “there’s no need to apologize. You have a right to be tired. You’re working, raising Lia without me...” His smile fell into a frown as he sat there, thinking.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper as his eyes narrow. He looked in pain, as if he felt guilty.

“I’m not here for her. I’ve never been here for her.”

I could almost cry at the way his face scrunched together. He ran a hand through his hair, and my heart broke for him.

I had felt so horrible when I missed Lia’s first steps while my mom was watching her. I was tired, done with watching a young kid. I’d asked my mom to watch her—just for a night—and I’m missed her first independent steps...

But C/N had missed more than just her first steps or her first word. He missed getting to live with her and watch her personality grow. He missed her first day of preschool. God, he even missed the first time we got to see her...

I’d been sick for weeks. C/N had just left for another tour and I assumed it was my reaction to missing him. He’d only been home for a month before a press tour launched, boasting the band’s new documentary. Needless to say, we did it like rabbits for the short time he was here.

I was proud of him, but sad to see him go. And that was why I was so sick. I missed him. There was no other possibility.

But as I stood in the convenience store aisle, just paces away from the pregnancy tests, I wondered if maybe there could be another reality...

Superstar C/N’s girlfriend couldn’t be seen in public buying such things, however, so I settled with my bar of chocolate and cheesy romance novel.

Later that night, though, when my best friend stopped by with my pizza and tests, I’d learn life without C/N was about to get much, much worse.

A week later, I found myself at a free clinic, watching as our baby shifted inside of me on a monitor.

I’d cried for joy confirming I was in fact carrying his baby, but as I realized what this meant for us—I couldn’t help but let a few solemn tears go. He couldn’t be there for the bulk of my pregnancy, nor most of our child’s life.

And what if he wanted me to end the pregnancy? Watching the tiny figure move on the screen, I knew I couldn’t do that.

“Sh, sh.” I traced his jaw with a light finger. “Don’t say that.”

“No, Y/N.” He sat up, gently pushing me off of him. “I’m supposed to be her father. Instead I’m... I’m like some uncle that comes into town, gives her a gift, then takes off again.” C/N ran a hand through his hair. “God, and-and then I leave you to raise her on your own.” He met my eyes for just a second before dropping them back to his lap.

C/N had always had a habit of getting caught in his thoughts. The problem with that? It was only when he was hurt or guilty. I knew he was drowning in lies right now—about how he wasn’t enough, how he was somehow hurting our daughter. That he was selfish—not ready for this. He narrowed his eyes as he focused on the pattern of our comforter, whispering silent words to himself.

“Baby, look at me.” He didn’t move his gaze. His lips, however, had stalled to a rest. “C/N look at me.”

This time, he followed. His eyes were watery and his voice trembled as he whispered a soft apology.

“Don’t apologize.” I grabbed his hand in mine and stroked small circles in his palm. His tension faded, but I knew he needed more. “Do you know how much that little girl loves you? How much I love you?”

C/N shook his head. “That’s not the”—

“No, it is the point. Baby, we love you. So, so much. And it hurts to see you think you’re not doing enough for us. You provide for us, you make the time for us out of your busy schedule, you beg your managers to come home and surprise us for God’s sake!” I chuckled a little but he dropped his eyes again. With a sigh, I continued. “Do you remember when I told you about Lia? What you told me?”

It was two days after I’d visited the doctor, and I paced around my bed. On top lay my phone. The phone I was about to use to tell C/N about our child. The child we hadn’t planned. The child he might not want.

Piece of cake, right?

With a sigh, I fell back against the pillows and tried to massage away the migraine pressing against my skull. To the chagrin of my splitting head, my phone rang. And to add insult to injury, C/N was the one calling.

“Hello?” I mumbled into the phone.

“Y/N, hey!” My boyfriend answered. I could hear the smile in his voice, and it was enough to lift my spirits. Until I remembered how somber the conversation was about to turn.

I shifted to sit up against my headboard. “Why’d you call?”

Pause. “I missed you... is that all right? I know it’s kinda late over there, but we’ve been non-stop recently. I’m sorry, if it’s”—

“No, no you’re fine.” I cleared my throat and desperately tried to prepare myself for what was to come. “Look, C/N we need to talk.”

“Okay, babe. Anything.”

His voice had changed so drastically from when I’d picked up, and I wanted to do anything to change his mood. But I had to tell him about the baby. Whether it made him happy or not.

“I’ve been sick recently, and”—

“You’re sick? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I suppressed a pleased smile at how much he cared. “Well, I thought it was just a stomach bug, but it’s something more than that”—

C/N interrupted me again. “Babe, do you need me to come home? Because I’ll pull some strings, whatever it takes, Okay?”

“Will you please let me speak?” I chuckled.

“Sorry.”

“Thank you,” I sighed, “C/N, I’m pregnant.”

There was no sound coming through the line, and I’d thought he had hung up. My breathing grew heavier as I pulled the phone from my ear. I couldn’t believe he would do this to me.

“You’re pregnant?”

I pulled my phone back to my ear, frantic. “Yes,” I breathed out.

“Oh my god angel, that’s amazing!”

It took a moment for me to process what I’d just heard. “What?”

“We’re gonna be parents.”

Again I could practically see C/N’s wide smile. Almost feel him hugging me.

Tears budded my eyes but I didn’t bother wiping them away. For the first time since I’d seen the sonogram, I was crying because I was happy. “Yeah. We’re gonna be parents.”

“You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now.”

I laughed. “Me too.”

We sat for a while, just laughing and crying. Of all the ways this could have turned out, I had tried to avoid dreaming of C/N being happy and excited for the baby. But now I knew how stupid that was.

He and I loved each other. We’d already made plans for our future, when he would take a break from the band and focus on building our life together.

This baby was just a little early, but nothing could keep us from loving it.

“Y/N?” C/N asked towards the end of the call.

I yawned. “Yeah?”

“I have a promise for you.”

He’d sombered up—not sad or angry or frustrated, but he spoke with more precise words. Whatever he was about to say, he did not take lightly. “I promise to love you and our child—and all future children—as much as one person can. No matter where I am or what’s going on, I’ll make time for my family. If I’m on tour, I will quite literally take a break from a concert to read a bedtime story to our baby.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s a little extreme, babe.”

But C/N didn’t chuckle. “Not for my family, it isn’t.”

C/N nodded. “I remember that night.” A faint smile spread across his face. “The boys were so happy after I told them.”

“You promised me that you would do anything for us. And guess what, you have.” I brushed a stray tear from his cheek. He leaned into my touch for just a second, but then pulled back with a sigh.

“No, I haven’t. God, it was a struggle just to get management to let me come for a weekend.”

“But you still came, C/N. That’s the point. You’re doing everything you can to balance your dream and your family. I could never ask for more.”

“That’s the thing, Y/N. You two are my dream.” And C/N pressed a light kiss to my lips before pulling away. “But let’s just sleep now, okay? I’ll make a call tomorrow morning. Maybe I can work something better out.”

And with another kiss, we fell asleep together.

[imagine-loki]

Imagine Loki was married to a woman who had a little girl already.  Her father left her as soon as her mother told him she was pregnant and has never been in the picture.  He utterly adores his wife and – to his surprise - comes to love the child very much, so much so that he thinks of her as his own.

Although they were together for two years beforehand, his wife is tragically killed after they’d been married less than a year.  At about three and a half, she becomes his responsibility.  Loki is the only father she’s ever known, and he is more than willing to continue to be that for her.  He intends to raise her as his own, because that’s how he feels about her.

She is his daughter, no less so than any child of his body.

His wife’s family, who never liked him - out of holdover anger from his attack on New York and general suspicion of him as an alien Gawd – appears on his doorstep one day not long after his wife has died, entirely unannounced.

It’s the little girl’s aunt and grandmother, wanting her to come live with them – her aunt and uncle – in Idaho, where her grandmother and grandfather also live in the same town. 

They are obviously nervous to be around him, although he is very polite and tries to be welcoming despite their stated intent, bringing them into the house and offering them refreshments, which, just because he can, he uses his magic to make appear on the coffee table in front of them, secretly enjoying how amazed – and somewhat more tremulous – that makes them.

Loki hadn’t formally adopted her, and therefore technically – legally - has no real claim on the child.  His wife had always meant to name him as the child’s guardian in case something happened to her, but she never got around to it.  But he is loath to give her up for any reason.  The little girl doesn’t know her relatives at all, and he firmly believes that she needs the stability of living in a place and with a person with whom she’s familiar, who knows her and loves her.

And the little girl loves him right back – very much - and adores living with him – especially since her mother has died.  She’s become a bit clingy, not that he minds at all.  He’s doing his best to reassure her both that he will never leave her, and that she is safe enough with him to continue doing what she already enjoys doing.  So he’s been taking her to school and play dates and generally trying to shower her with affection and attention while keeping things as normal, stable, and secure for her as he can.

And it doesn’t hurt that he lives in Avenger Tower, and the Avengers are always around her, too.  They’re also all actively helping him make certain that she feels safe and loved.

But, despite everything how secure he’s trying to make her feel, and how much she loves him,  she also mistakenly gets the idea that he doesn’t really want her there, that she’s just getting in his way – which is very much like her mother believed about him at first. 

She overheard him not long ago saying to his big brother, Thor, that he couldn’t join a mission because he had to take care of her, and misinterprets it that he is unhappy about that, when that is the farthest possible thing from the truth.

He hadn’t been complaining to Thor about having to stay behind with her, he was explaining.  In truth, he is eager to put her first in all things, and he has no problem at all declining missions in favor of daddying his little girl to the best of his meager abilities.

Regardless, that cemented in her mind her childish worries about being a bother to him, and that he’d prefer she live with her relatives so he wouldn’t have to take care of her, even though he’s never once made her feel like that - ever.

Loki assumes that the little girl knows how he feels about her – he tells her that he loves her all the time – and that she realizes that he truly wants her to be with him.

After a certain amount of negotiation, during which he feels their thinly veiled hostility towards him, he and the family finally settle on the idea that she should be allowed to decide for herself where she’s going to live.

Loki only does so because he is very confident that she will choose him, and is utterly devastated when she decides to go with his wife’s family, instead.  He tries to make the best of it, though, for her sake, not wanting her to feel badly about leaving him since this is her choice.

She doesn’t seem to be very excited about going, though.  She doesn’t want to pack or do anything that has to do with moving.  She’s listless and obviously sad, although every time he asks her if there’s anything bothering her, she shakes her little head of red waves and curls and says in a heartbreakingly tiny voice, “No, Sir.”

When they arrive a few days later to take her with them back across the country from him, they refuse to come in, preferring to stand expectantly in the doorway instead.

He lifts her up in his arms, ruthlessly holding back his tears so as not to upset her as he hugs her incredibly tightly while kissing that baby soft cheek goodbye.  Loki murmurs quietly to her as he tries to drink in and permanently imbed a picture of her in his mind, “You remember that I love you, honeybunch.”  It’s the nickname her mother used to use for her and he consciously adopted it.  “You can email or Facetime or text me or call me any time you like, and I’ll come out to see you whenever I can.”

But her grandmother corrects him, none too gently, “Not for quite a while, please, so that she can get settled into a new routine and new surroundings.  If you want to talk to her, please contact my daughter so that she can arrange a time that would be convenient for her to be there with Lily while you do, and also before you come out and we’ll decide whether or not it’s a good time for you to visit.”

Loki frowns fiercely at the idea of being denied the ability to contact or see her, but reigns himself back in because he doesn’t want her to see them arguing, giving them a tight lipped, “Of course.”

Then he squats down and sets her on her feet, reluctantly relinquishing the little girl’s hands to her grandmother and aunt, who pull her eagerly away from him and through the open door, although her head is nearly swiveled all the way around while she toddles away from him, desperately trying to continue looking back at him.

All of a sudden, though, the little girl tears herself unexpectedly away from them, running back to where he’s still crouched down and nearly knocking him over as she practically takes flight and launches herself into his waiting arms, weeping pitifully.

With her little mouth buried against his neck and his hair surrounding her face, she wails loudly through her tears, “Pease – I don’ wanna go!  I won’ be in tha way, I promise!  I’ll be good an’ take care a’ myself so you can go on missions wiv the ‘Vengers ‘n don’ gotta stay behind ‘cause a me.  An’ I’ll stay outta your hair an’ never be a bother – pease can I stay wiv you, Daddy Loki?!  Pease?!”

He’s startled to hear her mention something about missions, but then dismisses that thought in favor of being ecstatic that she’s run back to him, his eyes closing on a blissfully relieved sigh as his arms wrap around her tightly.  Loki is surprised at this turn of events, but is also incredibly happy.  Still hunkered down, he sets her on his knee while everyone else looks aghast at what she’s said, and immediately tries to change her mind, crowding around her and touching her and talking loudly over each other in their haste to try to convince her to go with them.

But she leans away from them, clinging to Loki, tiny arms looping around his neck as she tries to bury her face against him while the other adults surrounding her close in on her.  He can feel her tiny body trembling against him, and she begins to cry louder, and he knows it’s because she fears that she’ll be taken away from him.

And now that he knows that she really wants to stay with him, Loki simply won’t have that.

He stands with her in his arms – and is, then, immediately taller than everyone else, of course – holding her very securely to him, but distinctly away from them at the same time, saying firmly, “I believe her true choice is clear, ladies.  I’m sorry that you were misled, and for any other inconvenience we have caused you, but apparently my little one thought incorrectly that I considered her to be a bother,” he turns back to her, cupping her cheek in his hand and pressing his nose and forehead to hers, “when she is my greatest joy and dearest love, and could never, ever be a bother or an inconvenience in any way.”

It’s impossible to miss how crestfallen his wife’s family is at the thought of not having her close.

So Loki turns to them, wanting to reassure them of his feelings about them, too, and proceeding to treat them much more graciously than they had him.  “But I want you all to know that you are welcome to come see her any time you like.  You are her closest relatives.  You were all close to my wife and she loved you very much, I know.  I want my little girl to get to know you all and I want you all to be a part of her life.”  However generous his first statements are, his last statement is very emphatic and does not invite any kind of argument or discussion whatsoever.  “But she will be living with me, and that is final.”

The relatives leave with obvious reluctance – after making unsuccessful, abortive attempts to cajole and coax his little one to recant, which he immediately puts a stop to.

When they’re gone, Loki takes the little girl to sit on the couch on his lap.  “I’m very, very glad you decided to stay with me, babygirl.  I would have missed you something terrible.”

She’s still clinging to him, and he rubs her back, holding her close against him.

Eventually, when she’s calmed down at bit, he leans her away from him, gentle fingers beneath her chin coaxing her to look up at him.  Going on his instincts, which were hardly finely honed in this instance, he nevertheless vowed firmly, “I don’t know what you might have thought you saw or overheard, but you were completely mistaken, little love.  I adore staying home with you and taking care of you, and I would always much rather do that than go on any old mission.”

Her eyes go round at what he’s said.  “But I hearded you talk to Uncle For ‘bout not been able to go wiv him and th’other ‘Vengers on a mission ‘cause you hadda stay home wiv me.”

Loki tapped the tip of her nose lightly with the tip of his finger.  “I don’t have to, babydoll.  I want to. You are not now, nor have you ever been, nor could you ever be any kind of a burden to me, angel.  And I will never again let anyone even try take you away from me.  You are my little girl, and I love you.  And I promise you that you’ll always be with me.”

  Author’s Note:  Here are some of my thoughts about the possibilities of where this might go:

Does the family sue him for custody?

Loki could take her to Asgard, of course.  Maybe that’s his first impulse.  But he knows that that would result – because of his previous bad behavior – in him being banned from going back, and he doesn’t want his little girl to experience banishment, too.  She’s Midgardian, and that is where he intends to raise her.

Hopefully.

And if they do try to sue, are the Avengers character witnesses for Loki – even Tony?

Part of Loki’s argument for him to retain custody is, “What could be better than for a little girl to grow up surrounded by superheroes who all love her and help take care of her?”

The family’s lawyer of course mentions the Hulk, and everyone they’ve killed, the danger, etc, especially pointing out that Loki was a danger, at one point, who attacked the very place where she’s now living.

In the end, does he adopt her and give her the last name of Laufeyson?

[alo-piss-trancy]

hey idk if you’re still taking drabble requests, but if so how about sakura from dr desperate during a class trial (since she’s always picked to spend the entire investigation time guarding the body she probably wouldn’t have time to go the bathroom beforehand, and the trials can get really long)

((Thank you anon, you knew the girl after my own heart! 💛 I hope you enjoy this! My memory's a bit hazy on the order of the early trials and I didn't want to get bogged down with extra details, so I kept it vague. I enjoyed writing it though! Also once again, it broke my under 1,000 goal. I guess I should have made it 2,000 since that's what all of these keep hitting lmao ))

A body's strength is only half the battle. Strength of the mind is just as important. My mind is strong, and my willpower nearly unmatched. I will get through this.

Yes, this was merely another test of her abilities, and she refused to fail. She wouldn't lose when there was so much more at stake.

When her core was already so tight, so firm, any minor distension was noticeable. The waistband of her skirt was crushing her bladder in its coil, every breath tightening the cinch. She was grateful that the podium hid her abdomen from view, spare the peers on her left and right. Luckily, those few were also too busy to pay her any heed, each focused on the ongoing debate in front of them.

The debate. Yes, she had to focus on that. One of their peers, their friends had died today, and she could not allow her soul to rest without finding out who the killer was. If they didn't choose correctly, they were all doomed. Her swollen abdomen may be screaming at her, but her righteous anger at the injustice of this situation screamed even louder, and she held her stance, peering at Naegi as he kept speaking.

He has been quite skilled in our past debates. Surely this will not take too much time, as long as he has a decent hunch.

She herself had her own hunch, but there was no point in interrupting now. All who stood on this floor deserved an equal chance to speak. Listening calmly was far more productive than shouting over one another and delaying the process.

Another wave of pressure rammed through her, and she felt herself begin to sweat from the strain of remaining in position. Tickling beads of liquid, rolling slowly down her back, or dampening her hairline. Her thighs were still apart in her usual stance, and that distance didn't help ease the desperate throbbing between her legs. Delaying the process. This whole incident today had delayed her...

She had never exactly asked to be appointed bodyguard (in the most literal sense). It had just been the duty expected of her. Yes, she was arguably the most capable, and with her strength and strong moral compass nothing would happen to their fallen comrades, but it...wasn't the most convenient job. Standing in one place for hours at a time, especially when she was called into action suddenly, without any prior warning, could make for some unfortunate circumstances. The fact that she was always stuck next to Mondo as well only made things worse.

Yes, on some levels she respected him, but he was also hot-headed and had far too large of an ego. He loved to tease his peers, especially for needs he considered 'weak.' So she'd had no plans of giving him the satisfaction, even if it would have given her the chance to leave before the trial had started.

Besides, leaving her post, betraying her duty of protecting their fallen comrades, who were often mutilated enough already, would have been a disgrace, spitting on her very honour. If anything had happened to their sacred corpses while she was gone, she couldn't have forgiven herse-

"Hey, why are you pointing at me, Naegi?!? Sakura looks pretty suspicious!"

She'd been too lost in her thoughts to place the voice, but now she was all too aware of the cluster of eyes set on her. She wasn't usually the type to feel flustered under pressure, but in this moment, it was difficult to shrug off the scrutinizing attention.

"Wh-What?" She shouldn't have stuttered. She never stuttered. Fighting to summon a glare, she cast it over everyone in the room. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I said you look suspicious!" Naegi tried to interrupt their peer, but they brushed the puny boy off and continued. "See, look how badly she's sweating! I think she's shaking too! She has to be the killer!"

The same moment that the accusatory finger lunged to point at her, all of the water and protein shakes in her bladder seemed to lunge for the exit, plummeting with such a vicious sensation that she found herself gasping and flinching to press her hands against the podium. Adding pressure against the wood and ducking her head was the only way to ride out the wave without grasping herself, every muscle tensed as tightly as they would go.

I have the strength of a dam. I can hold an ocean back.

That thought didn't ease the throbbing pain, and she had to force herself to straighten back up, even as she moved her legs to finally press together behind the podium. Her accuser was right, her body was trembling. A structure that should have been solid, unshakeable, and she was quivering like cherry blossoms in a storm.

"I'm not...not..." Damn it, she could barely think clearly enough to speak in her own defense, every ounce of her mind occupied with keeping a different kind of defense up. One that was rapidly weakening. Every breath brought fresh, burning waves through her, forcing her to pant. All of those years training, and they hadn't prepared her for this...

"Naegi's right, she's not the killer! Sakura would never do that!" Aoi's voice cut through the chatter for a few seconds, the only sound that could distract her. "Sakura, what's wrong?" It was then that she was aware Aoi had turned her focus directly towards her, and her own face blazed hotter than the sun.

"I..." How could she make such a shameful admission in front of everyone? She would rather d-

No. That is no longer a simple expression here.

It could be a very real consequence of her actions. Not just for her, but for Hina, and the others. With that perspective, it would be even more shameful to hold her pride as of higher importance than their safety...

"Sakura? Come on, work with me here! Naegi and I can't defend your good name if we don't kno-"

"My apologies, dear Hina...I should not be keeping secrets from you, from all of you, during such dire circumstances." It was extremely difficult to keep her voice steady while her body waged a war, but she was determined not to whimper, not to stutter again. If she was going to lose her dignity here, then she would. With dignity. "The truth is...I am in dire need of a restroom." She couldn't bring herself to look anyone else in the eyes, only glancing at Hina with the slightest smile she could muster. It vanished a moment later, when she was forced to grip the podium against another wave.

"I apologize for the interruption. Please continue the debate, Naegi." It was hissed through gritted teeth, and she couldn't see his reaction as her hair fell into her eyes, clinging to her face in sweaty strands.

"Hold on!" Aoi piped up, raising her hand. "Monokuma, if it's this bad, can she take one of those court recesses real quick!?! Just, like, a couple minutes tops!"

The ursine demon only cackled, clapping his paws together. "Hell no! No one leaves this room under any circumstances, no matter how silly! You think I would actually trust you kids with the oldest excuse in the book!?! I'm not that stupid, ho-ho-ho!"

"But-"

"No buts! Those are the rules! And if you break them, you know what happens...~"

The swimmer was too good to her. Much too good, considering they barely knew each other...Fighting back a grimace, she glanced over at Aoi again, hoping she sounded less grim than she felt. "It's alright, Hina. Don't concern yourself with my fate. Our...ah!-priority is finding the killer. Focus on that."

"Hhh...I guess you're right..." Aoi mumbled, tapping her fingers together. "But don't worry! We'll finish this trial super fast, and then you can-"

"No!" She'd meant to object to Hina's statement, but at that very moment, a wave of pain finally broke her control, the first squirt of urine gushing out to wet her underwear. Cringing, she squeezed her thighs together and hunched over, although it barely relieved the pain. "Hina, do not rush this for my sake! The fate that befalls me is nowhere near the risk that will befall you if we get the vote wrong." It was growing even more difficult to speak, every word plagued by the agony overtaking her body. But she had to make the girl understand. She had to be clear.

I will not let my own needs overtake the needs of the class.

There was only one course of action. One that was about to happen any moment anyway. Her control was already slipping further, tiny leaks filling her undergarments no matter how tightly she clenched. Feeling her eyes begin to water from both shame and pain, she closed them, hunching against the podium and slowly parting her legs to gain a more balanced stance. Her body was already weak, and it needed no further coaxing to relax completely, her shoulders slumping as she laid her head against the wooden surface.

It started like the warm summer creeks she used to see in the woods, flowing into her clothes and running along the skirt to caress her legs in slow, meandering paths. But within mere moments, it picked up speed, and soon the very waterfall she used to sit under was gushing between her legs, pattering and splattering onto the floor. The sound was akin to thunder in the otherwise silent room (or perhaps it wasn't silent. She only knew that she was trying to block out her surroundings with meditation). The puddle was surely growing, seeping towards her shoes, and when she opened her eyes to check, Hina was stepping back, trying to avoid the flood reaching her own podium. That inconvenience only made her skin burn hotter, and she glanced away, choosing to stare at the floor as ragged pants choked out any attempt at an apology.

As humbling as this experience was though, she couldn't ignore the blooming relief in her chest. Denial often resulted in the most fulfilling rewards, and this event was no exception. To finally empty her bladder after all of that suffering, even in such an inconvenient place, was nearly a high. Being a beacon of strength all the time was exhausting and tense. The chance to unwind, to revel in weakness for just a moment, was almost relaxing, and she found a long sigh escaped her lips as the stream began slowing down. Without the additional force propelling it, the weakest streams once again chose to cling to her legs, a comforting heat in the cold courtroom.

Like most heat though, the warmth was fleeting, and as she finally finished relieving herself, that chill began to seep into her bones, accompanied by the stunned murmurs around the room. Shock. Open disgust. Judgement. Confusion.

Mocking laughter, barking and loud, from the beast in the chair. A gavel pounding the surface in unbridled glee. "You actually pissed yourself! I thought I'd seen it all, but here we are, fwupupu!!!" More laughter. When the creature spoke again, he was nearly wheezing. "Well, I guess when urine trouble, there's only one way out! Get it! Didj'ya'll get it!?! Ho-ho-ho!!! Hee-hee-hee!!!"

"Sakura..." Hina stepped around the podium and the puddle, navigating until she could put a slender hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay? Don't worry, it's not a big deal! Why, just last year, I was at a swim meet, and the locker rooms were, well, locked! And I totally-"

"HEY!!! GET YOUR BUTT BACK IN YOUR OWN SPOT, OR ALL OF YOU WILL HAVE HELL TO PAY!" Monokuma screeched, bashing the gavel against wood until she could feel a headache begin to form. "JUST BECAUSE THAT ONE AMUSED ME DOESN'T MEAN WE AREN'T STILL IN A TRIAL! DON'T WASTE TIME!!!"

Clenching her fist at the nuisance's words, she forced a thin smile, nodding her head for the girl to leave. "It's alright, dear Hina. Let us finish the debate."

"Okay..."

With Aoi back in her place, and the urgency of their mission back in the forefront of their minds, she took a deep breath, crossing her arms back over her chest. It was difficult not to shudder at the sopping texture clinging to her thighs and bunching up under her skirt, but her focus couldn't be spared right now. She had to give all of her attention to Naegi as he began speaking again, listen carefully to the interruptions from other peers. They had to find the killer, and soon, before Monokuma became bored again.

Aoi was still looking at her, she noticed. Every few minutes, when the girl thought she wasn't paying attention. There was...such pity in those glimmering eyes...

You need not pity me, dear Hina. When it comes to your safety, and everyone else's, I would make any sacrifice necessary. Whatever is needed to protect those kinder and stronger than me...

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter One

Weight drifted; the shape of a man strolled past the storefronts and the forts that stored wares. Homeward bound, a dog in heat, yet a cold night encroaching the warnings of smoke. Bodies ran, no names attached. He continued his stroll, pace matched by the dampened streetlights. It would be soon, as he approached, so too, the smoke.

Smoke was blocked off by other buildings, intruding on the smoke's right to life. Or the smoke was intruding on the buildings. But these towers, logs reaching the sky with windows at every angle, would not let the smoke through. There was nowhere to go but up. So, he went up, to the tower of his own.

Flights and flights of stairs. Every ten steps, a new flight. Yet he never grew wings, only managing to step above the steps until the flattened steel welcomed him. However, the doors the passed on his way were less welcoming; each one beckoning a hum and a moan that begged for the end of peace. Peace began and ended indoors. At the end of the hall was his door.

“Are you ready to begin your next mission?” The door asked of him.

His breath escaped the prison of his lips. “Sure.”

Below was a panoramic scene unfolding, creasing its seams – two crowds at opposite ends of the alleyways.

“There is a fight between two gangs going on – The Plaths and the Woolfs. Your mission is to side with one of the two gangs. You may use any weapon you like.”

Little somersaults were being made on both ends. As each shot of gunfire struck, another few bodies took their place on the pavement. Mists of blood mingled with the smoke rising in the air, the gunfire toxic and enduring. From the railings of the complex, he could see it all, a film he would soon have to take part of.

“I take it survival isn't a guarantee.”

“It never is,” the door agreed.

One more exhale. If there was a proper word to describe such an exhale, such word would sound like the sound itself.

Five fingers, each gripped onto the door. Despite its automatic nature, there was an antiquity to a handle. Something to hold on to, an object so cold and without a heart and held all the love a little object could. Brief respite, a miniature labyrinth of comfort and cushioned nothingness. Empty, stiff air. Each room resembled a cubicle in an office for a business in the red. Yet the room was more of a pale blue hue, in spite of its whites. Chattering fridge nearby, skittering wires where entertainment would have resided.

There were three, or four rooms if counting the bathroom. That room was counted by him, as before the preparations were met, he found it necessary to scrub the grime off his hands. He knew he would soon be a new contaminant.

In the next room were stacks of his prizes. He picked up the shaft of his favorite and caressed it. Ribs and vibrations echoed and reverberated within the tool for violence. With the murderous mechanical child strapped to his back, he reached behind and cradled it but once before exiting the room, and so too, the apartment. As the door closed behind him, such a residence was rendered lonesome. Peace inside was considered a means to count each room before leaving peace behind.

“I see you chose the pneumatic shotgun. Energy efficient and charges electrically. Feeling environmentally conscious this evening?”

“Shut up,” he grunted to the door. On the door was a red eye which rolled before closing itself up. On the screen of the door, a countdown began. He peered from the balcony and wished to bear witness to something a little more romantic.

In a squint, the scene was easier to be surveyed; between the two gangs was a woman, caught in between. Green jacket, or gold under the right moonlight. There was something in her pockets that she seemed to be reaching to, but it could have been a memento.

“Who's afraid of the Big Bad Woolf?” Roared yells from the stampeding Plath gang, marked by their daffodil hues. Woolfs in their red dress attire were also on the prowl. With the sprints the Plaths made, only one conclusion could be drawn: this woman was in trouble.

“I've made my decision,” was the announcement, not decision, made. Spoken with the furor of a Fuhrer at a rally. “I'll aid the Woolfs.”

The door did not speak. There were little flashes from the corner of his eye, little ticks that may have been made. Notations. Between the man and the door was an awareness, in spite of the lack of consent, that all of this was being recorded.

So a leap from the railings later, a mighty fall that could have led to a different environment. Sure enough, the drop to the ground revealed a world he would always pass but tonight he would have to walk among. No, no walking. Paces and strolls were left to the pacers and the strollers. For such a mission, a run and a runner was the necessary action.

Run shifted, a transformative motion, into a sprint and a leap as he found himself in the lion's den of Plaths. Bells tolled from a nearby tower, yet no bell could be seen and the sound was a chime mimicking a heartbeat.

One in particular, a shaved headed man with many piercings, seemed to aim right for the woman, and closing in on her. His movements were a gazelle, or a cheetah, all the anxieties that come from embodying a swift animal. The individual who held the pneumatic shotgun charged toward the one who could have been a cactus if the needles were piercings. He aimed the shotgun, but instead the pierced man shoved him down.

“Think once before you act!” He commanded, a grunt, a yell.

Shotgun on his back, his back on the pavement. Tiny pebbles dug into his skin. Bruises would soon follow, and the prints of heels upon his clothes. Not just the clothes, his face. Bloodied and bruised. Not from assaults or gunshot wounds but the carelessness of footprints. Heels, boots, dancing shoes. Each of them took their turns.

Shooting continued, but he knew he couldn't be of any help. This pounded flesh may as well been ground beef and if the pavement had been warm enough, he would have made a nice burger. Instead, he was a soggy, sordid omelet. His eyes closed and although the soothing vibrations of screams followed by the barks of a pulled trigger made such beautiful music, sleep would silence it all.

Midnight or 3 A.M. Three hours had passed, each flashes of clocks on the side of buildings made sure he knew of that. His head buzzed along with the signs of ramen shops. Within the vacuum of a jeans pocket, he rummaged and found his wealth in lint pieces. Those pieces gained a new home. Home...

“You have failed to aid either side and as such, you have 24 hours to take your belongings and vacate the premises.”

Of course. His door took a certain satisfaction in those succulent words he walked the many flights just to hear. Certain grips could be an act of sexual enhancement, although the particular one used on the door handle was one of defeat. White-flagged palm flinched at the static on the knob. Within the apartment was the model area for a minotaur. Some items taken would grow lonesome as he resolved to take whatever would fit over the mountain that slid down his neck.

Sandwiches, a couple of weapons, flask of dirty memories in liquid form. Bullets upon bullets sleeping snug in a rolled up sleeping bag. Folded up tent. Atlas would be an apt name for this man, tortoise would be an even more apt creature. For the sake of convenience, Riley would have to do.

He allowed the door to slide back in on its own. In the moment where a breeze became the new tenant, he allowed himself a humble gesture.

“Thank you for your hospitality. I'll be on my way.”

“If you choose to return, you will be shot on site, in accordance with --”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Love you, too, Karen.”

Rusted lamented railings guided him to the societal limbo. Greater regret came in the thought of never learning the name of his door.

Paring knives across fiber optic cables, powering every corner along every block. With each illumination, another step. More of a slump than a stroll. Casual and dangerous. All the songs about an open road were hummed, however, within an enclosed container. Moonlight slaughtered a promise of darkness, paired with the dew of the streetlights and the sequential devices upon the buildings. Egg upon the earth, scratches tick the countdown before dawn. Yet from the scent of the lamp dew came the notion of lights always on.

One such light revealed a shadow. Spotlight upon a man, smoking.

“Hey, you!” Smoking man signaled, a beckoning that the now nomad wished not to concentrate on. Even yet, shoes will walk when feet reside in them.

“You tried getting in the way of our gang tonight, didn't you?”

Riley, or the tortoise, gained insight past the weary mind. Smoking man had a multitude of piercings. No longer the shaved head, but a combination of the previous lack of hair and a pompadour.

“You got me.”

He gave an uproar as if he was not the one with the spotlight on but rather the audience and the comedian was the bitch of a situation the former homeowner found himself in.

“It was pretty cool how you rushed headfirst into battle!” He snapped his fingers. They were twigs made of meat and he could reattach them at any time.

Blood cobbled rather than curdled. “I saw a woman in between your gang and the Woolf gang. It looked like you were about to attack her.” Justifications could crack with enough weathering and split-second decisions only last so long. “I thought I made the right decision...” his voice trailed off, a new land on the horizon, one with forests and a nice cottage. He would have to use a new voice from here on out.

“Aha!” Piercings guy slapped his knee and drew a puff of smoke from his nostrils. “That's my girlfriend! She's a real trooper! She's the type who gets in front of everyone, tries to get all the shots in. All the rest of us Plaths are just there as backup. Ya dig?”

“I...dig.”

“Hell yeah!” He passed the paper noodle filled with whatever flakes of madness toward the tortoise nomad. “C'mon, take a puff!”

Puff was taken and the stars all reappeared in the sky at once; populations fell to Earth and sperm grew the size of skyscrapers, smiling and shattering like what was speculated to have killed the dinosaurs. All such things returned back to the recesses of the mind and an exhale was excited.

Then, came the bloodied coughing.

“What's in this?”

“All the good stuff! Peyote, marijuana, mint leaves, shrooms, tea leaves! You name it! None of that artificial stuff! No tobacco. Just pure nature up in this ass, man!”

Stricter series of coughs. No signs of permanence.

“I like you! Say, who are you?”

“I need a park bench.”

“Far out! I'm Sydney! Girlfriend's name is Sylvie!”

“Do we know that the stars are sperm?”

Sydney gave the single-puff strung-out lost soul a hefty pat on the back. The shotgun on his back ought to have gone off but behaved.

“I can tell you're the type who respects women. You were misguided – this isn't a place of heroes – but your heart's in the right place. Anything for the sake of women is a worthy cause!”

Slurps were made. Sip of a drink that were far out of reach. After a couple of coughs, it could have been said that moonlight was being sipped upon.

“Here in the Plaths, our core tenet is that it's a man's word, but it would be nothing without a woman. That's what Sylvie believes, that's what I believe! I ain't nothing without women around, and you ought to feel the same way.”

There was a twitch in the air. Carcass of night's last gasping breaths. Whoever the creature said he was wouldn't respond. Needed another poke, another push and pull.

“Violence, man. It's life, though. It's birth, it's sex. We wouldn't have it if not for violence. So we live so that the violence is a good one.”

Astute, there was a nod. Consensus.

“We aren't getting anywhere, are we?”

It was but the location on a map speaking. The destination to a good time. There was a path somewhere, but there was also moonlight, obscuring all but the present conversation. Smoke too, evaporated and liquid became dust. Air was reclaiming itself.

“I'm sorry, what you gave me...”

“Don't worry about it! Look,” our jovial speaker grew to a shrink. Quiet and low. Howling in between words. “I know my girlfriend and I won't always be together. We have our troubles. She's goal oriented and I gotta stay true to myself. She wants to make the Plaths the gang to be and I...I'm here to respect women.”

Corpses lined up to be served bread, although if the birds were around in this day and age, they would be the ones lining up. Whichever one is a ration. The line started and ended a few blocks down in an alleyway which the two companions either ignored or had no business dealing with.

“I think I want to join,” Our turtle spoke up. “What I respect is few, but I adore the comfort of indoors and having a place to go to.”

There were timers and hues of blues and greens, bright lights where moonlight could not strike. Outside of it all, within the confines of a side street where no vehicles could pass, two friends who could take pleasure in not having killed the other, walked side by side toward somewhere cool yet warm.

“I don't like Sydney, by the way. Sid is good. As for Sylvie, Syl is good. You don't have to remember this.”

Riley would not do. Such names were placeholders and someone was going to have to polish the laminated wood when the demand rose for it. To wipe off the smudges that gathered from age.

“Cool. Call me whatever you want. From here on out, I take missions with you guys.”

Whatever it was that was to be called, a pact was born from fewer drops of blood than seen in a single night. How much blood could equal liters worth and none at all. Oh, to arrive at a front door, intact.

[kinlochhold]

kh mods her game: DAO, Part 14 - Fixes, tweaks and some miscellaneous mods

These are largely mods to repair and restore broken dialogue and plottish things, gameplay fixes and tweaks, with a few small equipment and visual tweaks, and some voice set edits. (Note: Awakening-specific bug fixes are covered here.)

Dialogue/quest fixes, tweaks, and overhauls

The following mods restore, repair, or tweak numerous instances of bugged and broken dialogue and plot flags. All of them can be used together, after making the necessary adjustments outlined in the various ReadMe documents and comparing files to eliminate conflicts. (And so I recommend using manual override versions in all cases.)

Improved Romance Scenes and Fixes - Alistair [mirror] by cmessaz. Even if not romancing Alistair, this is, IMO, an an essential mod, for the many fixes and lore-sensitive tweaks, and the restored Ostagar content.

Morrigan Restoration Patch Dialog Fixpack [mirror] by Terra_Ex. In addition to repairing issues with Morrigan’s dialogue and plot flags, this mod restores several scenes that were fully voiced, but omitted from the released game. (Be sure to grab the campfire texture fix from the optional files as well!) ZDF Dialog Fix - formerly Zevran Dialog Fix [mirror] by ejoslin. Repairs dialogue-related bugs and broken plot flags for numerous NPCs throughout the campaign. Also restores some ‘lost’ banter and fixes the broken epilogue slides.

Magenta Emerald by Jengonthanda. Dialogue, plot flag, logic and script fixes.

Fixed Political Support in 'A Paragon of Her Kind' by firepanda. Overhauls and bug fixes the main Orzammar quest line.

Dialogue Tweaks by Avaraen. Mostly fixes for Leliana and Zevran.

More options for girl Wardens to tell Jory off Removes a (IMO, unnecessary) gender check from a male-only dialogue option during the Joining.

Sandbox Assessment by Ninivekha. Loghain will comment on how pretty all female PCs are, when speaking with him at his tent during the Prelude. Vanity, thy name is Warden! [Not using this.]

Gameplay fixes and tweaks

Again, my preference for modular packages which allow me to choose which files to install (or not).

Just Another Fixpack by ovi187. This large fix pack which deals solely with gameplay bugs is the ‘base’ I build on. It has a modular, manual install, and again, I review each file and omit any components which are undesirable or which conflict with other mods/tweaks.

Dain’s Fixes by dainbramage. An assortment of bugfixes and tweaks.

Tainted Blood Fix by trcvrs. A fix for the Tainted Blood ability which is bugged when by the Dual Weapon Expert passive ability. Second Drain life bug fix by Dread Wolf. Fixes a bug in Return to Ostagar in which a second Drain Life spell line can appear. Critical Hit Chance Quickfix by JOG. Fixes a bug in which the player character has a base critical hit chance of 0.0% while everyone else has 3.0%. (Only needs to be enabled briefly on a per character basis to repair the base value.) Plus Healing Received Fix [mirror] by Dennis Lee. Fixes the vanilla bug in which equipment with the +Healing Received attribute had no effect. The mod can be removed/disabled after all companions have been recruited and ‘fixed’, though leaving it installed has no detrimental effect. (Or Nukenin's +Healing Received Fix, which addresses the same issue.) Dual Striking fix by ultramailman. Fixes the bugged RNG for one of the  Dual Striking animations always resulting in a missed hit. Item Sets Fix by didymos1120. Keeps item set bonuses active, even through party changes and in camp. (Uses EventManager and thus may contribute to buggy behaviour  of certain quests - i.e., Redcliffe zombie battle, Captured! Landsmeet and Broken Circle Fade quests can break, Rescue the Queen disguises may not work.) Nukenin’s Stealing Fix by Nukenin. Fixes a stealing glitch introduced by the v1.03 patch, which made it impossible to steal random items from creatures if the PC had any coin. Also includes a few convenience tweaks (floaty notifications, optional cooldown reduction).

Golem Registry and Shaper’s Life Reward Fix by Dennis Lee. Fixes the bugged rewards of two quests.

Some fixes I’ve used in the past that are incorporated into Just Another Fixpack: Ancient Elven Boots Fix (or Ancient Elven Boots) to add the errant boots either to the Lothering chantry as intended, or spawn them directly to inventory. Gazarath Sword Drop fixes a vanilla item drop bug. (Scroll down to Misc. section for the file.)

Visual and item appearance consistency

Bergens Honor Fix [mirror] by Falryu. Changes the model of the helmet to the appearance used for its icon.

Templar Armour Fixes Unifies the material and tiering of vanilla Dragon Age: Origins templar armour parts, and assigns a model to the invisible templar boots.

WTF, Lyrium Dust? A clumsy hack that recolours the pink-ish Lyrium Dust inventory icon to blue.

Annoyance fixes and QoL tweaks

A Fallen Templar Quest Fix by Freedon Nadd. Logic fixes to Ser Henric’s quest in  Lothering. (Makes the ‘templar’ corpse a knight, and renames the quest to ‘ A Fallen Knight’.)

Dead Templar and Fade Qunari Fix by valerie1972. Fixes inaccurate labels on several templar corpses, and gives the Qunari in Sten’s Fade dream floaty text reflective of their dialogue.

Gloves During the Joining by b-lighted. Prevents the removal of the player character’s gloves during the Joining cutscene.

Tiny Fixes by danexuslurker. A floaty-text consistency fix for Lord Vollney, and a bugfix for the Dalish Camp statue of Ghilan'nain remaining interactive, even after the relevant codex entry has been obtained.

A good nug is a quiet nug by Phaenan. Shuts up Schmooples (and all the other squeaky idle nugs) without any bloodshed.

Power of Blood For All by Dennis Lee. Makes the Warden’s Keep Power of Blood abilities available to companions. (Note this mod merely unlocks the abilities, which need to be enabled on a per companion basis via the developer console and then acquired through the expenditure of talent points.)

Dexterity Light Armor by Noslen. Changes the base attribute requirement for light armours from Strength to Dexterity. (Note the No Helmet and No Armor hacks require a compatibility patch if using this tweak.)

Damage Statistic Fix by RustyBlade. Raises the player Damage Dealt and party Damage Dealt statistical maximum to 99,999,999 and fixes the player’s “Damage Dealt” statistic and “Contribution to Party Damage” percentage to accurately reflect the amounts accrued if/when the player goes beyond the 999,999 damage points.

Statistic Fix - Bosses Killed by Jake Zahn. Changes the “Bosses Killed” statistic to actually count killed bosses (Unique and ‘Orange’ creatures), and shifts non-boss ogre and dragon kills to their base creature group stat.

Rejuvenate Tweak [mirror] by Dennis Lee. Allows casting Rejuvenate on Self. Primarily for use with Advanced Tactics, to avoid a potential situation in which a caster might get stuck trying to cast the spell on Self (as an Ally).

Dragon Age Mutator [mirror] by TheMutator. An external utility that enables various gameplay changes. (I’ve only used the banter trigger, and the Chain Lightning and monetary gain tweaks.)

Voices (and the lack of them) Human Female Cocky Voice by thecatisout. Restores the omitted Female Human ‘Cocky’ voice set to the available options during chargen. Universal Voices [mirror] by Kesaru. Removes the race restrictions on voice sets, allowing any sex appropriate voice to be selected during character generation, with Elf voices designated as ‘High’; Human voices as ‘Medium’, and Dwarf as ‘Low’. (Can be disabled after chargen.) PC Voice Set Edits WIP by cmessaz. Removes a lot of annoying, repetitive battle cries. I toss this in my override at the point when hearing “Desperation is an ugly perfume!” makes me grit my teeth and ball my fists. (I also use the edited voice set for Leliana to keep her from yammering about locks and such.)

Silent PC by JOG. Adds a no-voice option to chargen, for a truly silent protagonist. NPC equipment refinements

Full disclosure: I’ve replaced the next three mods with my own, larger NPC equipment overhaul, but I do recommend them for anyone disinclined to devote hours reviewing and revising character files in the toolset rather than actually playing the the game. (I think they are called ‘sane people’.)

Clothed Prisoners by danscott84. Adds appropriate garb to all those prisoners, dead bodies and other NPCs who would normally be wearing smallclothes but instead turn up nekkid when a nude body replacer is installed. (Note that the Cailan tweak is glitchy, and he’ll probably be 'alive' and idling after the initial cutscene.) [No longer using this.] NPC Equipment Refinement by Ali Bengali. Gives more appropriate armour, weapons and clothing to some NPCs. Optional file to put Redcliffe Teagan in armour. [No longer using this.] True Dalish by Ali Bengali. Similar to NPC Equipment Refinement, but focused solely on the Dalish camps. Some of the alterations it makes are fine, but others seem like changes-for-the-sake-of-change. [No longer using this.]

And a smattering of my own NPC gear tweaks and fixes:

The King is Dead A non-glitchy fix for naked!RTO!Cailan. (He’ll wear noble clothing and stay dead after interacting with his body.)

Better Bannhammer Equips Bann Teagan in all his appearances with consistent and (more) appropriate gear. Also addresses the variations in his descriptive floaty text.

Her Hammer is her… uh… never mind The Proving Master warns the Warden, “watch out for Myaja’s hammer.” But Myaja doesn’t wield a hammer/maul, she fights with a mace and shield. I gave her a hammer with nearly equivalent stats (swapping her Aeducan Mace for Trian’s Maul), and an appropriate two-handed AI package.

Connor isn’t an Elf! Epilogue Fix For all things epilogue, Connor is incorrectly assigned a morph from a random Dalish camp elf boy. I’ve replaced it with an edited version of his vanilla morph, sans the bruising/discoloration and heavy makeup.

Jowan and another different Jowan fix Replaces the morph of Jowan’s doppelganger in the Jowan’s Intention quest, because one Jowan is plenty.

Better Gear for Fergus A lore-appropriate adjustment to Fergus Cousland’s equipment, both in the origin arc, and for the post-coronation/epilogue scenes, replacing his ordinary Heavy Chainmail with the Ceremonial armour set.

A Sword for Ser Donall Ser Donall, the Redcliffe knight encountered in the Lothering chantry, is equipped with a kite shield, but no sword. That seemed… silly, so now he also has a Longsword.

More Believable Fade!Duncan Equips the Lost in Dreams iteration of Duncan with Oathkeeper-and-dagger, rather than a sword-and-shield, with a corresponding alteration to his AI package. (Optionally, buffs Duncan’s rank from Critter, for a slightly more challenging encounter.)

Elfy Ghost!Boy The distraught ghost child in the Brecilian Forest Lower Ruins is human in appearance, despite his babbling in elvhen and the overwhelming evidence in his toolset character file that he was intended to be elven; I’ve altered his morph to be more elfy. Elora is a Mage Elora, the Halla Keeper in the Brecilian Forest Dalish camp, is a mage with a full battery of Primal spells. To reflect this, I’ve changed her attire to the Chasind Robes. Aldous isn’t a Tranquil Aldous, the scholar in the Human Noble origin, wears the robes of a Tranquil. I’ve replaced them with the non-magical, non-religious vanilla ‘Robes’ (or an alternate version which equips ‘Brother Aldous’ with Chantry robes). Ostagar NPC Tweaks (Ser Jory and nurse) Some tweaks to the appearances of Ser Jory (equipping him with Heavy Chain armour) and the Ostagar nurse (replacing her incongruent, brightly coloured noble dress with something more practical). Includes an optional replacement morph for the nurse. Better Mages, Better Templars, WTF Tranquil? (for DAO) A small, modular collection of vanilla equipment tweaks for Templar and Mage NPCs, to address logic and continuity issues.

[whatareyoulikeincapslock]

Airport Hopping

The shuttle bus driver seems preoccupied with the fact that there’s been a no show, as he’s talking in broken English over the radio. We’ve been stuffed into that bus for half an hour, driving around down town San Francisco, and I’ve been watching the multitude of homeless people that litter the streets, in various states of disarray and distress. I haven’t been privy to this many displaced people before, but the Uber driver who’s taking me from the more affluent Bay Area to downtown the day before has already pre-warned me. He says it’s because the weather is milder than other states, that it’s an easier place to be. It doesn’t look easy to be there to me, but one time when I was in Canada Dan told me about the number of homeless people that freeze to death in the winter and I realised it was something that had never occurred to me because we don’t have snow in Australia.

I down load and read a novel “places where I stopped on the way home” by Meg Fee, as I take a flight from SF to LA and then catch a connecting flight to go back in the opposite direction, and wish that I had checked my flights when I booked them. I’m wasting a day in transit, but I’m drinking a glass of Californian Riesling, and a fat lady next to me orders a dirty martini. She talks about how she doesn’t like L.A. and that it’s okay to wear yoga pants but not if you’re fat, and I tell her that you can wear yoga pants any time you want. She chuckles and they head off to wherever is home for them, and I realise once again how strange and huge and varied the United States is but that how it’s the most broadcast place in the world and every city conjures up an image inside of me that I’ve only recently discovered to be very accurate, and surprisingly so.

I listen to John mayer on the airplane on the way to Portland and let Johnny’s comment from the morning burn through me and I wonder if it’s true. I also really really hope it’s not and I chastise myself because I don’t want to look.

I talk earlier in the week to Renee about the fact that girls get attached to men when they share their bodies with them, and there’s something about the book that I’ve read today that talks to me about that tiny voice inside yourself that says “not him”, and I hope there’s that voice inside me and that it’s loud and not louder than the loneliness.

Will lasted a couple of days without going out drinking and then came back with a split forehead and blood everywhere and no recollection of the event. He managed to make a story up in his mind about being hit by a bottle but was told by a person he was on the phone to that he just smashed his head into the key box above the door. I feel a stream of jealousy as he doesn’t tell me who he was talking to at stupid o clock in the morning and then Johnny’s comment about me having feelings for him later on in the day smacks me in the face with the same force that I imagine drunken Will ran into the side of the door, completely unexpectedly.

I do not want that, he is not the right one for me, and I think maybe somehow I’ve become somewhat addicted to that horrible slide of horror show that is the unavailable and only that. As soon as Josh stopped messaging me, when I knew he would because I gave him what he wanted with all the ease of a slippery slide, I thought of him every day. I didn’t call him, but I wanted to. Even a week later when I messaged him when I was drunk and he wrote back a feeble response just for the sake of reminding himself that he was a good guy but also revealing to me that he definitely wasn’t interested by the lack of response after that one interaction.

Then, Will. On the day before I left we spent the whole day in bed and I could feel my need for his company rising up in me. He made me help him choose his dinner for him and showed an unusual need for gratification that I haven’t seen from him since. Not to mention, he knows about josh and about the threesome that I had with Hayden and Tess and he congratulated me on both of them with the ease of someone who really doesn’t care and I wondered when I started to, because this recent need for his approval only sprung up in the last week of me leaving. It was subtle. And then all of the sudden I was in America replaying the last time we had sex like it was something special when it was exactly what it always was, which is convenient, for both of us. And now, I was making it messy and I have chastised myself every day since and wondered why. I have two more weeks here and then he is away for another two after that. I hope a smooth month of separation will nix this bizarre infatuation and I wish more than once that I was a man and was just programmed to not get attached or just broken enough that it wouldn’t happen.

But somehow I’ve found that I’ve become preoccupied with another no show, just like the shuttle driver, speaking over a radio and largely into space, to no one that cares about it.

[newstfionline]

My daughter would still be alive if I’d known about the danger that killed her

By Jordan Magill, Washington Post, December 5, 2017

Jordan Magill is a writer living in Silver Spring, Md.

A little foreknowledge, plus about $50, and my daughter would have lived to see 13. The amount keeps me awake. Many of us spend more each month at Starbucks. Not pocket change, it’s not enough to change your life. Or so I thought. Like every parent, I’d received a dumpster full of child-rearing warnings. The warnings started with pregnancy. They continue to the present day. Why then is my daughter not in her room texting friends, but in the cemetery? It was the warning never given.

To begin near the end, one morning last May while I was showering, my wife burst into the bathroom. Our daughter, then 12, wouldn’t wake up. I ran downstairs, naked and dripping, and found her on the floor, unresponsive. I pulled her into the middle of the floor, began pounding on her chest. Our other daughter dialed 911. The EMTs pulled me--still dripping, still naked--off her and rushed her to the hospital. The ER doctor, a soft-spoken woman who looked half my age, put her hand on my shoulder. My brilliant, bubbly daughter showed “no brain function.” Ever full of life, she was dead.

My wife and I pieced together the course of events from the autopsy report. A day earlier, sometime around 5 p.m., our daughter swallowed a palm full of my prescription anti-depressants, more than 10 times my daily dosage. Right after, she vomited. That evening, she told her friends and us about vomiting. Like any parent, we took her temperature (normal), got her some fluids (ginger ale), and put her to bed early. She never told us about the pills. Critically, this particular drug is time-release. Once capsules rupture, the medication cannot be purged. Vomiting does nothing to rid the body of the poison, a fact to which we are sure she was ignorant (since we were). The same pharmaceutical magic that allows for steady time release holds the black dog of my depression at bay--tiny particles of slow-dissolving medication designed to pass with ease and rapidity into the intestines--makes them unpurgeable. Irony, meet tragedy.

Our daughter plainly expected to wake up in the morning. Last texts with friends speak about weekend plans. She wrote with youthful excitement about an upcoming trip. My wife tucked her in, gave her a kiss. During the night, she slipped into a coma. A massive seizure. And she was dead. The crazy parental nightmare: tucking a child in bed, finding her dead come morning. So many questions.

We will never know what she was thinking. Why she took those drugs. Why she vomited. These unknowns haunt us. Her social media was unremarkable, rife with all the usual drama of adolescents. We will never know that “why.” The question haunts us, and still we have no idea.

Much of what we do know applies to every adolescent: Her brain was a teenager’s brain. Despite abundant cleverness, she lacked an adult’s grasp of consequences. Mature decision-making was still eight to 12 years away. Emotional tumult often rules teenagers’ lives. Things that, for an adult, might seem minor, even trivial, can provoke terrible actions. The possible act, not the incendiary, is the grave risk. That’s why many parents who don’t own guns choose not to, why gun-owning parents lock up weapons.

But few parents think about the pharmacy in the bathroom. Few are ever warned. The pediatricians tell everyone of dangers: grapes (halved!), electrical sockets (covered!), promiscuity (don’t!), screen time (not too much!). Sure, we read brochures about toddlers mistaking pills for candy, and kept caps well secured. That, however, was years ago. Yes, we knew of the danger of opioids (and therefore kept none in our house). No one mentioned securing other pharmaceuticals from adolescents and teens. Our medicine cabinet, the unlocked arsenal of our family tragedy. Now, at a friend’s house, spotting a vial of medicine for convenience sake left on a windowsill is enough to bring a panic attack. Medicine bottles on their bathroom counter look like shotguns.

Statistics quash any notion of this as hyperbole. Children suffer staggering death and injury rates from legal prescription medications. In 2013, according to the CDC, almost 60,000 children arrived at the ER due to overdoses. More than 1,700, in 2014, based on NIH research, died due to prescription drugs. These rates are all rising.

The issue isn’t good kids vs. bad kids. It isn’t whether your kid is smart. Or kind. Or behaves. The issue is young brains being undeveloped. A kid at home with an unsecured medication might just as well be left with a loaded gun. No child should be so vulnerable. Nor can you assume “I’d know if it were my child.” Research shows that, contrary to conventional wisdom, almost 25 percent of suicide victims go from decision to attempt in a mere five minutes, and 70 percent take less than an hour. One impulsive moment explodes into tragedy. We secure guns. Likewise, we should secure medication. Because it isn’t just opioids that can kill.

Two children now sleep in my house, where once slept three. A locked medicine chest now sits beneath my sink. The price online was $48.99. Not having it earlier--that was the real cost. It is a price no parent should pay.