#the Boogeyman is real and you found him

[tojisun]

it takes a rampage (to be a dad)

!! fluff & angst; simon’s pov; simon’s insecurities; vague descriptions of violence; repeating allusions to past child abuse; parenthood; f!reader // wc: 3.5k // dividers by @/plutism!

a spinoff of the apple that rolled over to the tree

simon’s not a good man, but he concedes that there are just certain circumstances where you have to be the good man. where you have to bleed and burn through, and sacrifice a shit ton because that’s what being good is.

case in point: the child, who couldn’t be any more than two, bundled in his arms as the squad tries to come down from the adrenaline after a dangerously high-tension exfil.

“where,” johnny pauses, breathing deeply, quick fingers unlatching any tight strapping that’s making it difficult to gulp in air. “where ye dumpin’ the brat?”

it’s callously said, but they all know johnny’s meant it in a place of worry—which is founded, by all accounts, because the base is a terrible place to care for a two year old toddler. no one’s even equipped to deal with the boy, not with the mission still on its last legs; granted, the winding dregs would only require their captain, maybe garrick for backup, to finish but nothing is ever certain.

but—

the boy shifts on his lap, big brown eyes staring up at simon with unfathomable trust. like the sight of his mask, and weapons, and even having seen him in action—poised guns and clean shots on the head; unfazed eyes scanning the explosion of brain matter spilling he’s caused—was not petrifying.

simon knows what they say about ghost—the living boogeyman; the harbinger of death and destruction. and yet here the little boy is, looking up at him like simon isn’t anything other than man; like simon is something so human.

simon thinks about his place back home that’s dancing close to the outskirts of the city; he thinks about its picket fence and its brick walls and its big backyard.

he thinks about its love, forged from the softest hands that simon’s ever held; from the hands of the only one that simon’s ever loved.

“i’m bringin’ ‘im ‘ome.”

.

laswell was kind enough to pull some strings so that the boy has whatever legal documents he needed so simon can bring him back safely—passport, citizenship papers… adoption documents.

jacob emory riley. (yakov in russian. yasha.) he’s simon’s ward now. his son.

(laswell had congratulated him with crinkled eyes and the softest of smiles; it might just be the first simon’s ever seen her look so at peace.

somehow, it was that brief talk with laswell that made everything feel tangibly raw; simon realized that things got too real too fast, and that he found himself almost wanting to reverse everything he’d done so far because what if he wouldn’t be a good guardian to the child? what if simon’s too broken for the child? what if—

his thoughts stuttered, quaking until they reach a tentative halt because the boy closed his little fist around the entirety of simon’s finger. he was so small, like that, and still so blindingly trusting even with all the littering scars on his little arms and little legs. he held onto simon so fiercely, he didn’t even notice the turmoil in simon’s heart. or how simon had almost given him away in an act of his cowardice because simon is a coward. especially with this.

but jacob—

but yasha held him, chose him, and the storm raging in his head died down, petering into a quiet chill until simon could bite out a weak but not any less genuine, “thank you,” to laswell.

laswell stared at him, all-knowing as always, before bidding him and yasha a sweet goodbye.)

the boy responds better with the diminutive, all giggly and grabby hands as he toddles over simon. the rest of the squad had eased into their roles, battle-worn bodies turning into the softest cushions with yasha in their arms. he is a shy little thing, hiding behind simon’s leg whenever price would come visit, or refusing to be put down from simon’s arms or even make eye contact with mactavish when it’s his turn to babysit.

garrick was a different story altogether. yasha had looked at him once, studying with such inquisitive curiosity, before deeming his sergeant the safest after simon. he’d grumbled and cooed and begged for uppies—garrick had been all too pleased to give it to him.

which is why saying goodbye now is difficult.

yasha would not stop crying, pale face all blotchy and snotty as he wails, chubby arms thrashing, trying to reach for kyle, but the sergeant and their captain are already suited for the mission, ready to leave the moment simon and johnny and little yasha do.

“ky! ky!” he cries out, unable to fully say kyle’s name but trying so desperately because his grief is so much bigger than himself.

simon bounces him on his hip, trying to calm the little tyke down, but shrill wails pierce their ears, unstoppable, and he wonders if it was too cruel to have made him say goodbye to kyle and price. simon heard from the medic that it was healthy for children to cry, but yasha sobs like he is grieving, and simon can’t fault him—this is his first, and hopefully his last for a long while, experience of abandonment. sure, they’ve all told him that kyle would just be gone for a while, but yasha is a child, unable to reconcile such reality where his uncle isn’t flying home with him.

(they didn’t mention the fragility of their lives in their line of work; how, every time they suit up, there are chances that they’ll never return. yasha is too young for such reality.

‘sides, kyle promised to come back. so he has to.)

kyle is teary-eyed, so is mactavish, and simon presses his sorry’s and his reassurances on yasha’s inky black hair, while kyle makes a vow once more.

“don’t worry, son,” their captain croons, his face creased in the softest it has ever been. “i promise i’ll bring your uncle back in one piece.”

yasha sniffles, watery brown eyes not looking away. then, “o’ay.” he lifts an arm up, waving it cautiously. “buh-bye?”

“yeah, bubsy,” their captain replies because no one can, not kyle who is crying nor simon who can’t lift his face up from where he’s breathing in his son’s baby smell. “bye bye.”

“buh-bye,” yasha repeats, still quiet but more sure. “ky? buh-bye?”

kyle chuckles wetly. he steps forward and pinches yasha’s cheek. “bye bye, little man. see you in two weeks, okay?”

yasha hums, having grown exhausted from his emotional outburst. the base shrink said that’s normal for children; that it’s good when they’re emotional, it’s healthy, so simon bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from fussing.

instead, as a distraction, he nods at his captain and his sergeant, and he and mactavish turn to leave.

“daddy?” the little tyke asks.

“yeah?” simon replies, turning his full attention to yasha.

“buh-bye?”

“oh, son no,” simon murmurs. “daddy’s always goin’ t’be with you.”

yasha nods, and flops back down on simon’s chest, satisfied.

.

the flight was tedious, sprinkle the listless child with that, and it was just about draining. he couldn’t thank johnny enough for being with him throughout because being an uncle to tommy’s kids didn’t teach simon much about this—cranky and emotional two year-old’s, and their complicated tastebuds that almost made it impossible to feed them aeroplane food, and their odd sleeping patterns.

but as simon shoots yasha a glance, watching the boy sleep peacefully finally, he thinks to himself how it’s all so worth it.

.

johnny doesn’t follow them to prestwich, crashing instead somewhere in stratford before making his way back to dundee. yasha hadn’t cried as hard for johnny as he did when he said goodbye to kyle, but he’d been teary-eyed even when he refused to be given to his sergeant’s waiting arms. still, simon’s boy had been solemn and gave mactavish a weak wave.

simon tells yasha that johnny would come back in two weeks’ time too, with the captain and garrick, before trailing off when he realized he doesn’t know how to tell yasha exactly why johnny was giving them space.

shit, he hadn’t even thought about how yasha would react when—

the house appears past barren trees, and simon’s lungs constrict in one full swoop. god, he’s missed this place, very much so.

pinpricks fill the back of his eyes, and he desperately blinks them away as he tries swallowing past the lump in his throat, but not even the familiar warmth of yasha could ground simon back. rather, the reminder that simon’s not returning on his own this time makes everything feel a lot more intense, like ragged tendrils curling at the base of his neck, grasping him until reality and faraway dreams blend into something miasmic.

simon’s never once deluded himself with thoughts of having his own family. he once thought he’d go grey on his own, something he was perfectly fine with because nothing is ever sacred—the catholics had a word for it, johnny said, how one’s mere existence was the original sin, and simon is neither a pagan nor a believer, but when you grow up with shadows that are ever so perpetually haunting, you learn that not even the sign of the cross can truly ward off the demons.

but then, his beloved appeared before him—just as… fearful; as self-punishing as he had been, and he knows it was twisted but he had been pulled. he had been lulled into the weight of your gravitational force, dragging his heart until it was homesick for anything less.

(two words have never sounded sweeter to him before.

i do.

since then, he’s never hunger for more.)

(until yasha.)

the cab stops, the driver dutifully ignoring how simon must look, all brooding and emotional as he holds his child close, like if he blinks, someone would take him away. he tips generously, and declines any offer of helping with the unloading of bags in the trunk. simon didn’t even bring much, just a travel bag and a rucksack stuffed with as many travel essentials for yasha.

the boy is asleep again, exhaustion dragging him back to his dreams. he looks so peaceful like this, and younger too, and simon knows that isn’t a good thing because yasha’s so small for a two year old. simon’s only comfort is that he’s bringing him somewhere safe; a place filled with boundless love.

he walks to the front door, debating on whether he should just take the spare key underneath the nondescript potted plant to get in or just bite the bullet and introduce yasha to you like this, through the entrance.

the choice is taken from him when you swing the door open, surprise and disbelief lining your face.

“i saw you—” you say at the same time that he rasps out, “love—”

he beckons you to go first. you did so with a tremor in your voice.

“i saw you from the cameras,” you pause, roving your wide eyes over him, before stopping at the bundle he’s carrying. “haley helped me set them up—said you can, uh, get notification of movements outside and, and…”

he watches as you realize that you’re about to ramble, so you take a deep breath, finding the centre of your gravity, before, “baby? who…”

simon adjusts his hold on yasha, before a careful hand sweeps away the blanket so you can see the boy better.

“this,” he says, quiet and fragile. “this is our son, jacob emory riley.” he licks at his chapped lips, the word ‘our’ settling so warmly in the pit of his stomach. “our yasha.”

“oh,” you whimper instantly, tears already springing from your eyes. a choked sound gets stuck on the back of your throat before you’re rushing forward, careful to not jostle the tyke awake, until you’re pressing yourself against simon’s side, watching raptly.

“simon he’s—” you hiccup, rubbing your face on his shoulder. “darling, he’s perfect.”

simon ducks down to brush his lips on the crown of your head, humming deep because yeah, he is. but so are you—and he wouldn’t have done this, anyway, without you. because yasha deserved the best and simon doesn’t know anyone who could step up other than you.

you, who is so bright and joyful; who has crafted fortitude from the ragged shards of your pain.

you, who is the strongest person that simon’s ever met; how you could look at the storm and find a reason to dance.

you, who is so beautiful and lovely, and so utterly full of love that it spills into everyone you meet and everything you do.

yasha deserves you.

and, love, you deserve a family just like this too.

.

yasha wakes up and simon makes the mistake of not being there for him. he didn’t even know he accidentally slept in the living room, long body sprawled on the couch gracelessly. he jolts awake after the loud ring of cries, the fear he felt at hearing yasha’s familiar sobbing slams so fiercely into simon’s heart.

he topples to the ground, knees thudding against the hardwood floors, before he bolts up, frantic as he tears through the house, trying to find his boy, desperate to comfort him and to apologize and to make things right because he never wants yasha to feel so alone in his new home—

simon pauses, feet stopping just in front of the bedroom where you and simon had put yasha in since the guest room has yet to be baby proofed and prepared, when he hears your familiar croon.

“shh, darlin’. you’re alright, i promise.”

simon angles himself so that he can see through the ajar door. you’re kneeling on the floor, head a few feet away from where yasha’s is pillowed. the boy is staring at you with wide eyes, wet and red, but he’s no longer wailing, and simon wonders if it’s because yasha’s internalizing his fear, but then he sees the tyke make grabby hands at you��pudgy fists closing, then opening again. he seems like a baby like this, more than a toddler, and simon watches as you coo, inching closer, giving yasha room to roll away if he wants, but the boy turns to his side, facing you properly, and it’s all the confirmation you need to take him in your arms.

you rise up from the floor, yasha perched on your hip. the boy is still watching you, curious, and you murmur something too faint for simon to hear, before wiping at his wet cheeks and his runny nose.

“hi, love,” you murmur, voice a tad quiet. simon sees the hesitance in your gait, like you don’t know what else to say. it takes a heartbeat, before you’re uttering your name, voice curling around the vowels the way simon never gets tired of hearing.

“i’ve heard good things about you, you know?” you say, brushing the pad of your finger along the bridge of yasha’s nose. simon’s ears pick up huffing sounds, then your giggles, and yasha’s hum.

“oh, i sure did,” you add, smiling, bouncing the toddler in your arms. “simon said you’re the best boy ever!”

simon did, he guesses, say that but with more words—he told you how he found yasha, and how yasha had been so brave after such a stressful change in his life; how yasha had been so excited to learn and to trust, and how he’d brighten up everyone’s day back at the base; how yasha had first called him daddy, and the others unca’, his brave little boy so eager for a family that he made one even when all he’s surrounded with was a ragtag of broken men.

yasha is truly such a beautiful boy, so darling and loving.

“si-‘on?” yasha says, attempting simon’s name.

“yeah,” you reply, just as choked up as simon is. “simon… your daddy.”

yasha hums, fist curling up your shirt.

“daddy,” he repeats, nodding. then, like he remembers that simon isn’t there, yasha begins to look distraught again, whining, looking up to you like you hold the answer when he asks, “daddy where?”

simon takes that chance to walk in. you two whirl to look at him, both with pained faces easing up into the loveliest of smiles just at his mere presence. it makes simon feel… raw; that somehow, all he needs to be is himself, and it’s enough to brighten up the room.

his lips twitch up in his own smile too.

“hey there, kid,” he greets, slotting himself to your side so he can pull you close and be in yasha’s line of sight.

you turn, moving to pass yasha to him, but the boy’s hand is still tight on your shirt and he still looks at ease with you, and simon nuzzles his face on the top of your head in comfort when he sees the way your lips wobble at yasha’s easy display of trust.

“daddy!” yasha cheers. “you here!”

simon ruffles the soft tufts of yasha’s hair. “of course. did you nap good?”

yasha nods, distracted by the bright colours on the bed. the yellow pillows and the baby blue blanket.

the dog stuff toy.

yasha gasps, utterly delighted, and he wriggles out, begging to be put down, and you and simon watch as he runs to the side of the bed, plucking the toy out with a giggle.

“towy!” he says, showing it to you and simon.

simon files the name for next time, focusing on yasha as he runs to hug simon’s leg, then yours, before running back to the bed, chatting animatedly to the toy.

simon pulls you close, slotting your back to his front to bury his face on the crook of your neck, because this, right here, is change. but also, he’s home.

“i missed you,” he murmurs, because it is the only thing he can verbalize. he wants to say more—he wants to say how he’s never once stopped thinking about you, how he’s always kept a picture he has of you in his helmet, tucked under the crown pad, how he’d always toy with his ring when he has the chance because simon is made of many things, and one of them is your love.

but this is all that forms from his lips, inadequate, but then simon hears the twinkle of your laughter, and, “i missed you too, love.” and knows, there needn’t be any more words. not when you two have more time than he’s ever had the privilege to spend.

.

the first time yasha calls you his mom—“mommy!”—was just days before the squad was set to meet the riley’s in their residence.

it was a mundane day; you and yasha are in the living room, playing with his army of anatoly’s—towy—when yasha squeals, finally able to dig out his favourite anatoly from underneath the couch after futile attempts. you’ve asked him if you can help him with it, but he’d been so adamant, tutting the way simon does and it’s honestly so adorable that you let him have at it.

so you laughed at the sound of his happy trills, watching as he turns, running to you, saying, “mommy, towy look!”

he falls to your lap, humphing loudly and smooshing the turtle stuffie on your face, and all you can do is gather him close, trying not to cry in front of him but—

he’s called you mommy.

your little brave boy called you—

“mommy, sad?” yasha asks, readily giving you another treasure, saying the word so naturally like you were never anything else to him.

“no, sweet pea,” you reply, choked up with the weight of your joy. “mommy’s the happiest she’s been.”

you kiss his chubby cheek, breathing in his scent, before letting him squirm out of your hold so he can play with another anatoly, leaving you the turtle one. you hold it close, trying to ground yourself, but the happiness bloats and you feel floaty.

god, it is almost unimaginable.

(you tell it to simon later at night, and simon coos as he wipes the tears away from your cheeks.

“i’m so, so happy si,” you breathe out.

simon bumps his forehead to yours. “i am too, baby.”)

.

simon is not pouting, thank you very much. if anyone says otherwise, he’d like to go on record and say that they’re all a bunch of liars. yes, that includes his beautiful wife too because, again, simon is not pouting.

sure yasha has refused to detach himself from uncle kyle, but that doesn’t mean simon’s jealous, he swears.

“yer a lying scumbag,” johnny hisses at him because he’s been trying to get simon to admit that he’s jealous, which simon isn’t. “i’m on you, LT. i’m on you.”

“whatever ‘tavish,” simon grumbles, hands twitching at another hearty giggle that rings from where kyle is playing with yasha. “last i checked, the boy still runs away from you so, you know, start with that.”

“oh you motherfu—”

“boys,” price barked out, and simon and johnny cringe at the chastising voice of their captain. “language.”

johnny says something that no one picks up because he’s chewing on his words. simon sniffs, looking away only to meet your eyes. unabashed glee is bright on your face, and simon knows he would be hearing you teasing about this later on tonight.

simon scrunches his nose. you reply with a playful rolling of your eyes.

yeah, it’s a good day. and simon still isn’t pouting.

notes: it turned out to have heavier (?) parts than expected. also to clarify, yasha’s been picked up from a mission (the specifics were removed since things got a wee graphic). i’ve included a concept photo of simon and yasha, which was fun to use while reimagining! i hope u guys liked this <3 peace out and sm love mwah!!

[stolasdearest]

is it okay if I ask for Alastor x Reader who is like angel dusts sibling and reader goes to Angel dust you talk about their lasting crush on Alastor?

Alastor x Reader ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

EVERYONE SHUT UP! YES I LOVE WINGMAN ANGEL

Not proofread + 4:30 Lilly so writing might differ

Reader is Gender neutral!

Being Angels sibling wasn't easy, at least within in the hotel..or outside of it for that matter; but in the hotel it was definitely better, at least everyone didn't try and talk to you about your brother and instead talk to you.

You however had your eyes on someone very specific, a person not many people would have their eyes on..well, Maybe your brother in a— joking fucking around type of way; but your eyes were looking at the Tall Red demon in a very different way; a fond way you weren't all that used to.

Thing is you were the youngest in your family, that didn't rid you of your family's habits and mannerisms, So you weren't surprised when you ended up in hell alongside most of your family but your brother had kept you away from many scenes, that included partners; so your new found feelings for the Demon were overwhelming, suffocatingly so and you had no idea where to go with it, that lead you to go to the only person you trust in this newly found shit hole

"Anthony?"

"what's up, sweet cheeks?"

Angel was still not used to being called by his real name, But it was allowed in private from prying ears; he set fat nuggets down and sat up on the side of the bed; patting a spot next to him gesturing you to sit with him, a familiar smile on his face while you scooted next to him

"what's on your mind?"

"Alastor."

"oh—"

Angel laughed as you covered your face with your hands, His name bluntly slipping past your lips as you cringed at yourself

"he's like the Boogeyman, don't say his name too loud or he'll appearrr"

You smacked his arm and laughed, watching Angel make "scary" gestures as you both giggled amongst one another, before you patted your thighs and dramatically inhaled and sighed

"yeah yeah.. Boy troubles aye? Been there"

"yeah so help me"

"with him, Sweetie I can pray that's it"

"Anthony!!"

"sorry sorry!!"

Your big brother kneeled over laughing as you scoffed at him, crossing your arms with a pout as you cleared Your throat

"ANYWAY, I need help, I have no idea how to approach him— if at all!"

It took the spider demon a bit to compose himself Before he ran his fingers through his hair before looking at you, a sincere genuine look on his face, his voice soft and gentle; just like you remembered

"I don't know mister cheeky Alastor that much, but he does seem to like you, so I'd say go slow; test the waters or he might rip you to shreds"

You tensed, he was right and you were playing a dangerous game trying to woo the radio demon and you knew that but what'd you have to lose?..oh right your life yeah yeah

Falling flat on the soft bed you groaned; Alastor was tricky especially for someone who'd never flirted in their life so this was uncharted territory and you weren't exactly starting on beginner mode, you skipped straight to expert. Angel soon joined you in laying on the bed, him to staring at the ceiling as you pondered and wondered, He was probably zoning out but whatever, but after moments of silence Anthony soon realized this was a heavy topic on your heart so he turned on his side, pulling you to his side; one of his hands ruffling your hair

"worry about that tomorrow will you? You need your beauty sleep; Alastor won't date a slob"

"what won't I do?"

"AAAAHHHHH"

Authors note: Sorry for the ending Im starting to get a headache😭😭

[mitsuriville]

Otis Digital Painting

I love House of 1000 corpses sm, it’s one of my other favorite movies

“The boogeyman is real, and you found him”

Insert boogieman by White Zombie

[g0blintears]

[Yandere! Dead By Daylight x Reader]

Summary: You are a mystery to both the survivors and killers within the fog. A servant of darkness, a creature created by the entity itself, you are the shadow behind the scenes that provides the survivors with the necessities they need to survive, while also assisting killers with the weapons they need to sacrifice. You are a servant void of humanity, but not one that seeks out despair. An empty slate that perhaps just needs to be taught a little bit of hope and empathy to help the survivors escape once and for all.

Eight. Thrilling Tremors

Danny has always loved the horror genre.

Ever since he was a child, his father would tell him real life horror stories. Those stories of a cat chasing a mouse. A predator hunting down prey. It was all the same stories that ended with a field of bloodshed and a victor that would rise above it all…and Danny was absolutely fascinated with each thrilling tale.

Mutilated bodies would engrave itself into his mind. Haunting scenes with vivid details would replay in his head like a broken flickering filmstrip. From the creepy music to the dramatic pauses, Danny would find his heart pounding in his chest with a wide smile curving on his lips as he became enamored with each piece of horror media he consumed.

However, the exhilaration of facing the unknown, the details from the unsettling sounds to the tense atmosphere— none of those things were his favorite part. And for a while, Danny actually wasn’t sure what he loved so much about the genre. He knew he loved true horror. The real stories of monsters that lurk in the night. The real boogeyman that blends into society. He was captivated by true, raw horror. 

So, that begged the question, was he simply just entertained by the reality of human nature? Did he just enjoy seeing how ‘civilized’ people would react to the real demons that ran around with the same blood that they bled? 

Or, did he simply love horror because it fed into his own bloodlust?

When Danny brought his first horror story to life, he knew he had found the answer. Although his first design was sloppy, it was still created with passion that was driven by instinct, and that was when Danny had come to a realization. 

Humans are animals. They are destructive by nature. As intelligent and ‘evolved’ as they may be, Danny knew that all humans have primal instincts, and those instincts were bloody and chaotic. Some may deny it, but Danny knew the truth. And if he was going to accept his human nature as a whole, he may as well be creative with it.

So, Danny went on with his life, loving every second of it. He loved existing as a human. He loved having the ability to create. And most of all, he loved creating real life horror stories. Obviously, his passion is looked down upon. But that doesn’t stop him. If anything, Danny was glad that the playing field was so small. It made it easier for his work to stick out, and it made his stories even scarier.

However, as much as Danny adored bringing terror to the public, he always had to be cautious of his work. His designs needed to be perfect. Any flaw could wind him up in the electric chair. So, even if he loved sharing his stories, Danny would often feel dread when he would have to lay low under the radar. After completing each design, Danny would have to stop his work for a while, and that often gave him an uncomfortable itch that would sometimes leave him wishing he could freely create his stories without feeling the burden of the consequences.

It was simply just wishful thinking during those impatient times, but unknown to Danny, his wishes would be heard.

So, one could only imagine the delight he felt the moment he was wrapped around in a fog, a darkness consuming him until his eyes met the flickering red and orange flame of a campfire where an other-worldly being had suddenly emerged. Stepping in front of him from beyond a black fog, you had gazed down at Danny with empty, soulless [eye color] eyes as you introduced him to a realm of nightmares. 

And Danny was absolutely ecstatic to be there.

Like an artist given his own studio with an endless supply of paints and canvas, Danny was given the opportunity to perfect as many designs as he desired. And so, he would carry on like that in the realm. Danny would create different horror stories for all the survivors on every single map. He even learned to adapt his designs so they would come out flawless! 

It was fun for a while, but then…Danny got bored.

Don’t get him mistaken though. He still loved creating his designs, but he craved for something more. He needed a bigger project. Something that would give him a challenge. Something that would be his Mona Lisa. 

And then, there was you. 

The very first being that Danny had met in the realm. The very first being that Danny knew was on a completely different scale from him. You were something that looked human, but you weren’t. You were something extraordinary. And you were the first being that would become Danny’s new passion project— his muse, if you will.

Thus, leaving Danny to where he is now. 

One of his arms wrapped around your torso, fingers clenched around the fabric of your blazer as he dug into your waist. His other hand was wrapped around your arm and chest, leveling his blade up to your eyes. A smile curved on his lips from behind his mask as he gazed at your reflection in the knife. You were completely unfazed, just as he expected.

“Did I get you this time?” He asked in a hush, observing every feature of your face.

You stared into your own reflection, your eyes moving from your own empty stare before flickering over to the killer behind you. Although you couldn’t see him, Danny could practically feel your eyes bore into him as if he weren’t even wearing a mask to begin with.

“No. I knew you were approaching three minutes ago.” You responded, monotone as ever as you kept your expression stoic.

Danny wasn’t surprised by this, but your response did intrigue him. He had been stalking you earlier, and his interest was piqued when he saw you very subtly reaching out for the flames, so he knew that something was going on in your mind. Just what exactly was it?

Raising a brow, the male tilted his head, “That’s two minutes off from usual.” His voice rasped out. Gripping your torso tighter, Danny brought the blade to your neck and traced the sharp edge over your skin. His eyes focused on your reaction. “What’s on your mind?”

“Is this your question for our game?” You instead inquired, causing Danny to pause in thought.

Right.

Ever since Danny has made you his muse, he took it upon himself to learn everything about you so he could create the perfect design. After all, his first attempt didn’t go exactly as planned… so, he tried a new method— he made it a game between the two of you. He will be merciless in trials, and in exchange, he gets to ask you questions about yourself. 

Obviously, you accepted those terms. And so, he began with the obvious. 

“What is your name?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Where did you come from?”

“My creator.”

“Who is your creator?”

“The entity.”

“Why did she create you?”

“To serve.”

You were honest, but dry. He wasn’t sure if you were just clever to be wary of him, or if you truly couldn’t comprehend anything other than to follow orders. Regardless, Danny didn’t like that you gave him the obvious answers. You weren’t playing fair. Why should he be merciless in trials for you if you were just going to give him the copy and paste answers that you gave to every other killer and survivor?

So, he had to try something else.

He needed to dig deeper. More personal. He needed just a sliver of space that he could crawl his way into so he could witness just a glimpse into your mind. So far he had been asking all of the practical stuff, and up till now that’s gotten him nowhere since the start of his passion project. Not as if he was in any rush to start his design, of course. Danny is quite a patient man by nature, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t getting annoyed by how bland you were being with him. 

Looking over your empty stare, Danny took a moment to study you. 

Danny is a people person. So he knew how to read people no matter the poker face, and you were no exception. Memorizing every detail of your features, the man could say with confidence that he could probably draw your face from memory. From the patterns in your irises, to any subtle wrinkle on your face. Danny had learned how to read your face. It was just getting you to change just the smallest detail that was the issue.

He needed you to open up. But how?

With his knife held tightly in his hand, Danny let out low, quiet breaths until finally he made a decision.

“Yeah,” he finally chuckled out, “This is my question for our game. What is on your mind right now?”

You still hadn’t moved, but your eyes did briefly glance over the masked killer once more before setting your stare to the fire in front of you where the flames highlighted your [skin tone] skin in a golden hue. 

“I’ve come to realize that I’ve long forgotten what ‘warmth’ feels like.” You spoke, a sort of interest lined within your words. 

This caught Danny’s attention. 

For as long as he’s studied you, he has not once heard or seen you show any kind of interest other than your assigned tasks. So having witnessed your fingers brushing over the campfire, and hearing the very subtle change in your tone, it hooked him in.

“I didn’t even realize you knew what that felt like.” He spoke, keeping a steady grip on his knife. “I thought you said you couldn’t feel anything.”

You took note of his slight change of demeanor, but you remained impassive as you hummed in response.

“Yes, well, I have felt cold before and I have felt warmth before, but it was a long while back.” You paused for a moment, “perhaps a few eons ago.”

“Oh?” Danny perked up, his blade ever so slightly pressing against your skin. His heart was beating quickly with excitement now that he seemed to finally be getting somewhere with you.

“And what might’ve made you lose your senses?” He asked, and for once in a very long time, Danny’s pupils dilated the moment he saw the faintest flicker of emotion appear in your eyes. 

Those usually vacant pools of [eye color]— they widened a bit. The colors brightened and he could see the crinkle at the very corner of your eyes shift from a misty void to a clear display of loss.

“I’m..unsure.”

Your voice, usually crisp and clear, seemed to have wavered a bit, leaving Danny with his heart pounding against his chest.

There. There it was.

He wasn’t sure if he was imagining the whole thing, but he swore for the first time that he saw a moment of weakness.

Danny hadn’t meant to do it. But he couldn’t help it. He pressed his knife hard against your skin. He felt a rush of adrenaline as he pressed the blade into your neck and pierce into your flesh.

He could see the blood trickle down your skin. That deep maroon color dribbling down your clear [skin tone] collarbone and staining your white dress shirt. He could practically smell the iron that stained his blade as he continued to press his knife deeper and deeper before twisting the handle and tearing it across your neck, practically decapitating your head from the rest of your body. 

Holding onto your torso tighter, Danny closed his eyes and savored the sounds of the quiet forest air that was filled with music from your choked gurgles.

Except… that wasn’t what happened.

For the moment his knife pressed into your neck, the blade instantly shattered.

Just like his first attempt on your life, any weapon that would try and penetrate your skin would instantly break like glass. 

Danny watched in stupor as shards of his blade fell into little bits and pieces onto the foggy ground. He was still in a daze, but much like his fallen knife, his illusion was shattered and left him standing behind you with his heart racing and mind numb from exhilaration. 

A long and heavy pause would ring in the forest air. Nothing but the sound of fire crackling would be heard as the two of you stood in silence.

While the killer was coming down from his high, you, on the other hand, stood there unconcerned. If anything, you had foreseen this coming from the moment The Ghostface tried to kill you the first time he brought a blade to your chest. You just figured he would try a different strategy since he wasn’t as bloodthirsty and adamant as The Shape. 

With your vision still fixated on the fire, you briefly moved your attention to the shattered blade on the ground before quickly looking back at the fire. Your body was still in the hands of Ghostface, granted his hold on you had loosened up, but you still kept yourself still as you looked over your shoulder to meet the masked killer’s eyes.

“It seems that you’ve accidentally shattered your knife again.” You commented, finally snapping Danny back to reality. 

Letting his arms fall to his side, Danny took a step back. He was pissed. He was so fucking angry that he didn’t get to actually tear into your throat. He didn’t actually get to experience seeing you bleed and die in his arms. 

However, as Danny stood silently behind you, from behind his mask, the man was practically glowing with joy. A smile was on his face as a breathless chuckle left his lips.

He was also very relieved. 

This is why you were his Mona Lisa. This is why he picked you to begin with. He was so glad you were going to be a challenge. If he had actually killed you, Danny was sure he’d make sure your body would rot from where you stood. But no. Danny was smart. There was a reason he chose you instead of one of the other survivors or killers in the realm. 

Letting out an airy laugh, Danny brought a hand to his head and ruffled his black hair from under his hood. 

He knew he made the right decision in choosing you.

While Danny laughed to himself, you simply stood there and observed. 

Humans, they were so odd. 

You know the sound he was making was that of laughter. You may not understand human nature, but you knew enough to realize that he was showing signs of amusement. You just couldn’t understand from what.

Once Danny settled down, the male finally looked over at you with a tilt of his head.

“This is why you’re my muse.” He commented with a sigh, and walked over to your side.

You couldn’t quite wrap your head around his interesting choice of words, but you didn’t get to dwell on it when he brought a hand to your shoulder. With his attention on his knife, Danny tilted his head in your direction.

“Do you mind?”

You blinked, “Mind?”

He smiled, “Fixing my knife. Can you work your magic again, sweetheart?”

“Oh.” Your eyes then flickered back to the blade broken into pieces on the ground at your feet. “Of course.”

Crouching down, you grabbed the handle of the knife and the biggest part of the blade. With your eyes glowing a [eye color] hue, a fog of black with golden particles floated into your hands and covered the broken pieces.

Danny watched in awe as his once shattered blade came back brand new. 

Again, he was practically grinning from ear to ear as he found that he was going to create the perfect design all for you. He was already buzzing with excitement just to see more of you. Whether you had or hadn’t actually expressed something earlier, Danny knew that either way you were already destined to be killed by his hands, and he was going to make sure that your death was going to be flawless.

Standing back up, you presented the knife to the killer, “Here you go.”

Carefully, Danny took the knife and twirled it in his hand. 

“Good as new,” he breathed out while practicing his jabs into the open air. With a smile, Danny pocketed the knife before turning his attention to you. “Thank you. Hope that didn’t take a lot out of you.”

You shook your head, “Not at all. If you need any more repairs to any of your weapons, I am here to assist.”

“Right, right. I’ll remember that,” Danny expressed lamely, before bringing a hand to his pocket. Still having his blood pumping vigorously through his veins, the male was nearly itching to start his trial. So digging into his pocket, Danny brought out three items: a chewed up pen, his old driver’s license, and originally he planned on taking out a shiny broken coin, but after the illusion of killing you, the killer was just driven by his murderous instincts to kill by his own hands.

So instead, the male brought out a bag. Opening up the small coin bag, Danny took a quick peek at the glowing red triangles and brought it over to you. 

“Do you think I can buy an offering?”

Your eyes not once wavered from his mask as you took his bag. With your eyes briefly flickering down to scan the bag, you kept your voice firm upon returning your attention to him, “What would you like?”

Danny’s eyes were feral and bloodshot. His smile was hurting his cheeks as he already began plotting his next few designs. He may not have been able to kill you today, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to create a horror story at all.

So with his head tilting playfully, Danny let out a raspy, shuddered breath. 

“I want a memento mori.”

You nodded. And again, the crawling mist all around the two of you swirled with life. It was comical to Danny. Because while a human skull was formed within your hands, the air around reeked of rotting death.

Breathing in the fog, Danny closed his eyes and relished in the silence of the blowing wind that moved the black mist. If he listened closely, Danny swore that he could hear ghastly whispers move with the rustling forest leaves.

Then, it was silent once more.

Opening his eyes, Danny turned his attention to you. He watched as you stared back into the campfire. With the glow of the fire highlighting your features, Danny took note of your expression.

He couldn’t read you again. You were as emotionless as a doll. Simply standing there with a pretty, flawless mask.

Flickering his attention from your side profile and back down to the skull in your open palms, Danny silently took the skull from your hands and tossed his pen, license, and skull into the campfire where the flames burst with life and shrilled a loud shrieks before returning to crackles. 

As Danny stood next to you at the campfire, the male kept his attention straight at the dancing fire. He wanted to get the trial started as soon as possible, while he was still in a pleasant mood.

[headfullofdrought]

The boogeyman is real and you found him.

[illumalux]

Life Series Victors as Tarot Cards

A presentation on why we’ve got it all wrong when it comes to grouping life series victors.

This post will continue on with the implication that ZombieCleo is a Victor, simply because she is. She won real life, therefore she's a victor. Argue with the wall.

Now, I see your celestial trio of the first three winners. This should never change. This feels the most apt, it centers perfectly, and each of the things it represents are present in multiple different categories. Obviously in space, as everyone has adapted to, but also in a Minecraft world, and what I see as more important: in a tarot deck.

Think about it this way.

The Watchers, in whatever form you think they (or we) take, are collecting these Victors. Each one means a different thing, survived a different landscape. While I understand the celestial motif of the first three Victors, and how it fits into their characters, I would argue that many others are far too grounded for that.

It’s a collection, remember? What is better for assembling a set than a deck of cards? Especially ones that meddle in Fate, something the Watchers seem to adore.

So here are the cards each Victor represents, with card meaning and my defense as well. This will go in chronological order of the seasons.

Before I continue, I just want to give a disclaimer. Every tarot deck has a slightly different explanation for what each card means. The definitions I use are a mix of three of my decks and the official Rider-Waite-Smith deck's explanation, so if there are inconsistencies with what your deck says or what you know, please don't come for me.

Grian, Third Life:

XIX. The Sun

Beyond the obvious desert motifs (a whole extra post in and of itself), the Sun is representative of not only Grian's gameplay, but also how the Watchers (those collecting this deck) feel about him. Grian is one of them, so he naturally starts out in their good graces, with a greater level of respect.

Rider-Waite-Smith defines the card as one of success. Of course the Watchers will gloat when their baby wins. Even if he wasn't meant to, it did inevitably mean that throughout his game, Grian was inarguably one of the largest sources of negative emotions, second only to the Red Army. Again. Extra post on its own. When he won, it saved anyone the satisfaction that might negate their negativity, alongside the delicious outpouring of grief that was the final duel of Third Life.

Reversed, the Sun is a card of depression. As I just touched on, one of the most defining moments of Grian's game was his final victory. When the ending came down to himself or his greatest ally, he went about it in the way that caused probably the most pain to both parties involved. It pushed him to the very brink, ending in him defining his own ending just moments after winning.

Scott, Last Life:

XVII. The Star

Even ignoring the starborne origins and headcanons, as well as the crown of stars included in his skin (Void below, these posts write themselves) this one looks like a super simple explanation, but actually requires me pointing out something that may not be obvious to some Watchers: Scott, in every game and Iteration has made it a point to rebel against the rules in whatever way he can. I could go into full detail, but thats a lot of words and I don't need anyoen to get bored. (Void, this series and side tangents that require other posts)

In third life, a game about death and destruction, and the originator of factions, Scott took a very different route: he got married and built a house in a flower field. When grief finally found him, he refused to give the Watchers any satisfaction, literally crystalizing his grief into a part of his character design (and one that would remain for two to three more seasons, depending on your thoughts on the coral pieces). In Last Life, he is the singular person in all five seasons (technically two, but shhh this is more dramatic) to withstand the Boogeyman curse, something the Watchers installed purposefully to make people kill allies. Double Life, obviously, as Scott rejecting the soulmate the Watchers gave him. Limited life, in which kills gave more time, Scott did not die a single time without giving life freely, either to an ally or a temporary ally.

That got long. Anyways. Scott's game has always been one of hope, spreading positivity and refusing to be pushed around by the Watchers. And that's exactly what the Star means. Upright, this is a card about hope and perseverence, pushing through challenges, which is exactly what Scott does. He refuses to let the Watchers' actions upset him and continues to play the game for his friends and for the future and nothing else.

Even reversed it still fits. Reversed, the Star means loss or abandonment. I've already used up too much time on Scott here, so I'll let you pick your favorite instance of that.

Pearl, Double Life:

XVIII. The Moon

This one is far and away the easiest. Like the previous two Victors, Pearl's story connected her with her symbol even before she won. But blood moons and wolf packs aside (as that's a whole different post for a whole different day) when you take a look at the definitions provided, it becomes even clearer.

The Moon is a card of transformation and change, as well as revealing one's inner self. Rider-Waite-Smith attributes hidden enemies, darkness, and terror with The Moon. While I'll happily analyze every single one of Pearl's actions as the Scarlet Pearl, I think this one is plenty self explanatory. After her rejection early on in the game, she immediately isolates herself and latches onto the night motifs, leaning in to what everyone expects her to be.

The reversed meanings also explain Pearl's arc in Double Life perfectly: confusion, mixed messages, and disbelief. This perfectly encapsulates Pearl's feelings at the very beginning of the game via her rejection by Scott and subsequent abandonment by Martyn in an attempt to get back into Cleo's good graces. Her instinctual reaction is one of shock, not understanding why Scott would choose to pick a soulmate when she was right in front of him.

Martyn, Limited Life:

XVI. The Tower

One of my favorite cards, the Tower is instantly recognizable. While most of my analyses aren't about how the card looks, I feel like it's important to share this time around. The most common image consists of a tower and one or both of two elements: lightning, and people falling. As a card, it represents sudden change, destruction, and chaos.

If anyone here is not yet convinced that I'm correct, please go rewatch Martyn's last LimLife episode, then come back and argue.

You're back? Great. We agree? No? Fine, I'll explain.

This fixates mainly on his winning game, but I'll touch on the rest of his games as well. LimLife ended with a huge betrayal on Martyn's part, one characterized by being so insanely sudden. (Of course it's the Watchers meddling. But the Tower isn't always about your own choices being your downfall.) He quite literally snapped as if hit by lightning (see description of the card), and this spells the beginning of the end for him.

Similarly, in all of his other games, Martyn finds himself with one pivotal moment that spells his downfall. The Red King, Betrayal at the Southlands (and honestly his worst move in DL was abandoning Pearl to try and beg for Cleo's forgiveness).

Funny enough, the reversed meaning of this card is almost a perfect match. I don't think this needs too much more explaining.

Scar, Secret Life:

X. The Wheel of Fortune

I adore Scar in these games. Every single season seems absolutely plagued by chaos. The worst season, obviously, was the one in which he gained his crown. Poor guy was just trying to make friends, and it seemed like every new secret was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

The Wheel is just what it sounds like: it's the card of luck, destiny, and fate. I won't add a new paragraph for the reversed meaning here either, as it means the exact same thing as upright, but with negative connotations in the form of bad luck and misfortune.

Scar is plagued by the whims of luck left and right. It seems like, more than any other player, Scar is unable (whether by others, fate, Watchers, what have you) to take full control of his own story and take actions that he wants to take, instead limited to where the current takes him.

But in the end, that chaos is what gives him his win. The lack of alliances and freedom that the game forced on him was what eventually lead him to be unmoored and able to volley his pain wherever he wanted, leading to a mostly painless win.

Cleo, Real Life:

XIII. Death

A little on the nose, I know, but which of these choices aren't? For a series entirely based on improv, there are a stupid amount of coincidences present.

Now, I know this is far and away the shortest series, so I'm going to analyse Cleo as a player across all of her seasons, not just her winning game. Sorry Real Life. You should have been longer.

While the meaning of the Death card may seem obvious, it's twofold in actuality. In some historical decks, even, the card is instead named Rebirth. I know how ironic that is that the zombie is the one who stands for death and rebirth, but again. Blame the stupid narrative, not the poor me trying to make sense of it.

In what my lovely mutual Honor called "phoenix behavior", I'm going to focus specifically on her deaths and rebirths, specifically BigB's betrayal in LastLife. Cleo takes her death hard, as anyone might. But her rebirth comes with change. The minute she respawns, it's with a different understanding of the world around her. She immediately embraces the change that has been given to her, burning down the Fairy Fort and ditching her alliance for a new one.

The reverse captures Cleo as a character over her seasons better than anyone on this list. While the upright meaning of the card is change, reversed it signifies stagnancy, obsession, and immobility. This can be seen almost perfectly with her thoughts on alliances. Scott remains forever in her good books, even over the course fo multiple seasons, simply because he has never wronged her. Even when they aren't direct allies,she still cooperates with him whenever, simply because she retains her previous feelings about him. The same can be said for BigB, but in the opposite direction. From the moment of the betrayal onwards, she refuses to trust him, going so far as to warn Pearl away from allying with him in LimLife.

Bonus: Jimmy Solidarity, the Canary

XII. The Hanged Man

But Moon! you shout, throwing your complimentary bucket of popcorn at me. Jimmy isn't a Victor! He's the exact opposite!

Yep.

That's why he's so soggy and why he goes on this list. You wanna argue that he doesn't have the same lore impact as a Victor? Too bad. Can't hear you. Jimmy gets his own card.

Initially, I was kinda sad that I already used the Tower, because that's the portent of doom and gloom or whatever, perfect for a canary. But then I spied an even better, even more Jimmy card.

The Hanged Man is the card of sacrifice. While I could go on a whole rant about the Fool's journey and how it is represented in the Life Series, that is Extra Tumblr Post Number IDK Anymore. Instead, today I'm going to stick to the basics. To specify sacrifice, the card doesn't just mean giving up. It signifies self sacrifice specifically. And what is Jimmy if not a semi-willing first sacrifice to get the chaos rolling?

How many times has he gone out to stop his friends from being the one who has to herald the change? The canary knows that he will sing the final notes, but so long as he can ensure the miners don't have to, he will descend once more.

Conclusion:

Now. Did I spend more time on this post than I ever did on an English Lit essay? Maybe. But as much as I love the space motifs this fandom has, I fundamentally disagree when we get to the latter winners. Come on, guys. Tarot decks are right here.

If I missed anything, or I misrepresented a player's game, please tell me. I can't be everywhere at once, and I'm always happy to learn more about some of the players I don't watch as regularly.

Anyways, this was way more fun to write than I expected. If anyone wants to see me give cards to the rest of the players who have yet to win, or an analysis of anything a mentioned in my tangents, please let me know.

Special thanks to @honorsongs who kept me company through this whole process and gave me many a suggestion when I lost my train of thought.

[lazycats-stuff]

Hellooo, I was wondering if you could write a fic on how the bat family would react to the male reader having a mental breakdown. The male reader always acts like he is the best. And all of a sudden he just broke down and started crying and they all feel bad for him. Idk if this makes sense I'm sorry 😭😭

It does, don't worry. My poor baby boy...

Summary: (Y/N) thinks he is the best. The pressure amounts and eventually (Y/N) breaks.

Warnings: mental breakdown, (Y/N) is just lost, supportive family, crying, (Y/N) is just overwhelmed, everyone feels bad

This has been a long time coming. It was inevitable and honestly not that surprising. (Y/N), one of the Wayne kids, often felt the pressure from both his normal life and his hero life. When you are a Wayne kid, everyone's eyes are on you.

You are criticized for every little thing you do. Something that a normal teenager does, (Y/N) is criticized. He knew he shouldn't take it to heart and Bruce often told him that, the papers just want some drama and more reads and clicks.

Of course, (Y/N) has tried to let it go, but it has been going... Well, as well as you would expect it. (Y/N) has honestly tried to let it go, but the words have hurt. From the papers and from the many people online who put their hate out there.

(Y/N) had always assured his family that he is fine and that those comments are not affecting him.

Now that is one big fat lie.

He didn't want anyone to worry. Damian and Jason would fly of the handle and then there would be real trouble and actual backlash. (Y/N) didn't think he could handle the pressure of it.

Not to mention that there is the pressure of being a vigilante under his father, under Batman. Batman or rather his dad, is a legend. Batman became a boogeyman for many criminals, both in Gotham City and all around the world, of course depending who you are and how powerful you are.

Batman is coming for you.

Of course, there is always pressure when you are out in the field, but people have an impression that you are going to be great, just like Batman is and not some sort of d-tier vigilante. More so when Batman doesn't have any type of powers.

Just a human in peak physical and mental condition.

Now that is hard to beat, no matter how you look at it. And if (Y/N) made a mistake on the field, he would take it really hard. Everyone knew that mistakes were normal, but (Y/N) is taking it way to seriously. He just wanted to be the best.

But every ambition has it consequences. Every single one of them. (Y/N) has been more exhausted, he found it hard to smile anymore and before he smiled a lot.

There were times when he cried in his room, seemingly out of nowhere. Of course it isn't seemingly. The pressure from every single part of his life was piling and he couldn't identify it. For now at least.

He didn't notice how he withdrew from everyone. How he lost interest in doing things he loved doing before. He just focused on being the best of the best.

He had to be. Failure is not an option.

Bruce never pushed for perfection and he never will. He only wanted them to be able to protect themselves. Not to mention, every part of them gets sharpened. They are able to think quickly on their feet, observant in their environment...

But of course, there are the negatives. Mental battles and nightmares, not to mention trauma that comes with this... But there have to be both negative and positive sides for something to work.

The patrol was pure hell tonight. Nothing went right and (Y/N) got his ass handed back to him tonight. It seems like everyone targeted him tonight. Every single villain. (Y/N) was utterly pissed and frustrated. Bottled up feelings from months before didn't help at all.

He just wanted to go to his room and sleep. Just sleep it off and then punch boxing bags in the gym. For at least an hour. Or two. Depending if he is exhausted or not.

" (Y/N)? " Bruce called out to his son, who stopped on his way to the locker rooms. (Y/N) turned around, hands itching to take this suit off and just get under a warm shower.

" Yes? " (Y/N) asked, trying not to sigh.

" I need to talk to you about tonight. " Bruce started, thinking how to approach this. (Y/N) sometimes got frustrated and he would just blow up.

" I just want you to know that one night doesn't define you. Is it awful? Yes, but you can't always be that good. Some nights you are the best you can be and some you are just God kill me please. " Bruce started and (Y/N) looked down.

The boys were still in the cave, looking at the interaction. They felt that something was off with (Y/N) for some time now, but they couldn't approach him until they had more evidence.

Now they could see if Bruce is going to have some success with him.

" Not for me. "

" What do you mean? " Bruce asked concerned and confused.

(Y/N)'s eyes widened and now he knew he slipped up.

" What does it mean? "

" It means I'm always best. Not just one night. " (Y/N) started and Bruce tilted his head.

" What do you mean always? " Bruce repeated.

" Just like you heard, always. Doesn't matter with the suit on or off. " (Y/N) said and his voice cracked slightly at the end. The boys glanced at one another. Uh oh.

" What? "

That one word and sheer fact that Bruce couldn't understand pushed him over that edge. Everything boiled over and he couldn't even contain it anymore.

" Because everyone expects me too! The media, the other heroes, everyone! No matter what I do it seems that everyone has something to pick on! " (Y/N) yelled, his voice echoing through the cave. " No matter what! So by becoming the best I could, I could avoid the criticism! " (Y/N) yelled and afterwards he started crying.

Bruce wasted no time in hugging his son tightly. His poor son. The others joined in. They all felt bad. How didn't they act on their gut feeling?

How could they have been so stupid and blind?

" Oh my son... " Bruce said into (Y/N)'s hair, feeling the way that (Y/N) shifted to completely hide his face. " Why didn't you tell me? Or anybody else? " Bruce asked and (Y/N) didn't bother answering.

Not that he could anyway. It has been to overwhelming for him. He is taking out the feelings that were bottled up for a long time.

Everyone the others hugged (Y/N) tightly too. Their brother was suffering and they were too blind and to scared to approach him. How stupid could they be?

But they were going to make this right. No matter what.

[consultingskeletondetective]

Virginal, chapter 2

Michael had left you alive, and you couldn't begin to fathom why. You know all you can do is try and forget it and move on with your life.

Except...Michael has followed you home.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, hair pulling, forced orgasms

The police hadn’t caught him yet.

It had been almost a week since your encounter with Michael Myers in the woods on your way home from work, and he’d been on the run ever since. You hadn’t reported what had happened to the authorities, even if you’d been on the verge of it many times. You’d spent the whole week waking up in cold sweats with a gooey and shameful mess between your legs at the memory of Michael’s large hand on your neck, or the sense-memory of his cock pressed heavy and dangerous against your core. The way he’d used you, fucked you, like his own little plaything haunted you.

No one could know what he’d done to you, no one could know how you felt about it, even if the guilt gnawed at you. Maybe if you’d told someone, they might have caught him by now, and people might still be alive. But there was a part of you, a part of you you wished you didn’t have, that reminded you that if Michael wanted someone dead, then there was nothing any earthly power could do to keep that person alive. Michael left no survivors.

Except for you.

It had been on the news religiously all week; police were baffled by his location and utterly at a loss for his motivations and patterns. Michael, it seemed, cared not a bit to cover his tracks. He even seemed to decorate his murder scenes artistically, propping bodies up and, blurred though they were on the television, reminding you of a sick and gruesome game of action figures. They were Michael’s bodies, to do with as he pleased. Twelve people he’d killed since he found you. Twelve. That the authorities were aware of, anyway. The thought chilled you to the very core.

You’d learnt from the heavy reporting that Michael Myers had been being held at the Westbrook Sanitarium for the criminally insane, not four miles from where you worked, and he’d escaped that night he’d taken you - thrust against your weak body until he came on your cunt like a wild animal. 

You were the first person he’d come across, apparently, and after years of solitude, Michael had some frustrations to take out on you. You knew well who he was, you recognised that mask and that boiler suit the second you’d seen it. You’d grown up with stories of the boogeyman who’d murdered his sister the same as everyone else, thrust into the spotlight when he’d escaped from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium a few years ago and murdered a bunch of teenagers on a spree. You’d seen the youtube video essays and buzzfeed articles on the stoic killing machine who’d baffled psychologists and doctors up and down the country, maybe even the world. You’d walked past books in shops written about this monster, his silence, his rage, his gore and death and damnation were a part of your culture. It made it easy to forget that Michael Myers was real, and not just some fictitious product of a sick mind. He became very real to you that night, your own personal boogeyman.

You’d learnt that Michael Myers was no man, he was an evil spirit, a hell-sent silent demon, a ghost - one that was haunting you. 

You turned the television off and went into the bathroom, shucking your clothes into a messy pile by the bath as you stepped under the cool spray of the shower.

It was a warm day, your skin over-hot, and you welcomed the clammy dribbles down your back. You washed quickly, fingers pressing too familiar over the lips of your pussy, you expected them still to be swollen, puffy from use where Michael had rutted his scorching and elephantine cock against you like a beast in heat, but it wasn’t. It was like it hadn’t happened. Except it had, of course, because you still wore him on your skin. His fingertips were in every bruise, his grip was the ache in your bones with every groan of your sore body. It was like he’d marked you, made your tiny body a part of his eclipsing form. 

You shook your head frustratedly to yourself in the bathroom mirror before flicking the lightswitch off and making your way to your bedroom. You couldn’t think of him every moment for the rest of your life, you couldn’t live in fear of the boogeyman. He had left you alive, and you had to live with that. Michael was gone, and you’d never see him again. 

You pulled a short nightdress on, the flimsy material to combat the hot and sticky night you anticipated, and you made your way to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle to take to bed. 

The outside light was on.

It wasn’t yours, but your neighbours. It was motion-sensored, you knew that because it blinded you every time you stumbled back from a night shift.

You frowned before crossing to the door, to close the blinds over the glass so no one would be able to see into your home in the middle of the night. Your hand tangled in the string before it froze, along with the rest of your body. Like your blood had frozen to ice inside you and made you a dead weight to the floor.

Michael was standing under the light, 50 yards away from your door. He was staring sightlessly at you through the empty eyes of his mask, utterly emotionless. His hands rested unclenched by his sides, his back razor-straight as always. He was just watching. His form gave no indication of how long he’d been there. Maybe hours.

Fear shot through you and the string began to shake violently in your grip as you stared at him. He’d come to finish what he’d started, you realised in horror, he’d noticed his mistake in leaving you alive. Was it so you couldn’t tell the police? Was it just that you needed to die, he’d had you in his grasp and that was that, a rageful itch under his skin that wouldn’t be quenched until your blood was soaking his hands?

It didn’t make sense. He was stood in the street, bathed in your neighbours motion light like a bloody homing beacon. Surely they’d seen him. Surely someone had seen him and called the police? Why weren’t there any sirens? It was deathly quiet. Just you, him and the wind. Maybe it was a fever dream, a sleep paralysis nightmare and your demon had returned to you.

He began walking leisurely towards the door, his pace bone-tinglingly unhurried as ever, before he stopped at the glass and peered down at you. You shrank, paralysed with fear. You’d somehow forgotten just how big he was. He might have been two foot taller than you, and just as broad, taking up the whole of the door so he blacked out any light behind him. That was as good a metaphor as any to describe Michael. The darkness followed him. 

You didn’t know why you weren’t moving, dazzled, you supposed somewhere in the back of your mind. A monster brought to life, in front of you, enough to convince yourself that you were dreaming.

His fist shattered through the glass, shards of glittering ice hitting the kitchen floor as his hand curled down to find the handle. You screamed, backing off so violently your back hit the fridge and tears wept down your cheeks until they were quite literally soaking the front of your nightie. This was no dream. It was a nightmare incarnate. 

Even his violent outburst seemed calm somehow, shattering your backdoor into shards of glass like it was nothing. His large hand found the door handle and began to rattle it, and the noise caused your brain to snap back to where it needed to be.

You forced your eyes from him, pushed yourself away from the fridge and scurried into the living room. The front door was in your sights. You didn’t know precisely what you planned to do with yourself when you got outside, your brain hadn’t made it that far yet. All you knew was that you needed to survive, and you had no chance of that locked in the same cage as this rabid animal.

You grabbed for the front door handle with a hiss of accomplishment, throwing your gaze back over your shoulder to ascertain how much time you had. No time. Michael was already in the living room, walking towards you like he had all the time in the world. You shrieked in pure terror at his towering form as you flung the door wide open, the concrete of your front step was cool on your barefoot but the sensation barely lasted a second as fingers tangled roughly in your hair and yanked you roughly until you fell onto the carpet. The open-palm of Michael’s free hand slammed the front door shut, cutting off your exit, and the oak creaked under the force of it, the foundations of the house damn-near shaking.

You scrambled onto your knees, screeching, crying, grasping at his hand in your hair, wincing when every flex of his fingers yanked at your scalp, tearing individual hairs out by the roots. He had to bend his back to hold you to the floor, his emotionless mask looking down on you. His breathing was barely audible over your devastated screams. You couldn’t move.

“Please, please, please, Michael, please don’t kill me. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! I won’t! I don’t want to die, please let me go, please, please-”

You could barely beg, your throat hoarse, your words sobs. He didn’t respond except to drag you into the middle of the room by your hair, kicking the coffee table aside to make room for you both in the middle of the floor. One of the wooden legs of your poor table snapped under his boot before he tossed you down like a ragdoll. Your back hit the carpeted floor and it shook your whole frame. You instinctively planted your palms on the floor behind yourself, to crawl back, to spring up, you didn’t know.

Michael’s boot came to rest on your bare thigh, his weight utterly solid and you wailed as he pinned you to the floor. Your nightie had ridden up, not to the point of indecency, but enough that his boot kissed your flesh. You froze as fresh tears streamed down your face, remembering exactly what he’d done the last time he’d had you like this, as if just realising how acutely vulnerable you were in this position. Were you even wearing underwear? You didn’t think so. His boot was mere inches away from your exposed cunt, all he’d have to do was push your dress up and he’d see everything. See how fucking wet you were. You hated yourself.

“Please,” you tried again, voice barely a whisper as you looked up at him. Submissive, you realised, prey before a predator, begging for its life. “What do you want?”

He didn’t move, you could barely tell if he was breathing, just staring down at you as everything else in the world fell away. His hands were still loose by his sides, no knife, you noted, but a grim red-hued dirt on the rough palms of his hands you could identify without too much guesswork. Your stomach rolled.

His hand raised and you jolted, expecting pain, to be struck, stripped, killed. 

How long had he been searching for you? Maybe he’d never left, maybe he’d been one step behind you all week, watching you sleep, watching you shower - were those twelve people dead because they lived close to you? Did you kill them?

His large hand came to rest over the front of his crotch and your mouth fell open. Not again. Why me? You were already shaking your head, breathy hitching sobs racking through you.

“No, Michael, please -”

He toed your thigh with the steel-gap of his boot, shoving it to the side, affectively opening your legs and you wanted to close your eyes, the feeling of vulnerability and shame as he spread your legs for him hurt something deep inside of you, you felt dirty and shameful in every one of your nerves. Your slick was soaking the back of your nightie and probably your carpet too. What the fuck was wrong with you?

He fell to his knees in front of you, in a way that could only have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound as his large, gore-stained hands gripped your bare thighs and tugged until you were lying in front of him. You squeaked, your legs not quite touching his, more left hanging in the air as he scraped his calloused hands down your thighs in a way that definitely didn’t make your heart speed up, no more than it was already hammering, before his palms were flat on your inner thighs, pressing them apart and into the floor. You tried immediately and desperately to close them and his grip on you tightened to the point of extreme pain, your femurs tremoring dangerously like they might snap if you moved even an inch.

You stilled completely, you couldn’t tell where he was looking, but it seemed to be right at you, that emotionless masked expression, or lack of, giving you nothing, but you could feel the rage and the dangerous power wafting off of him, you could feel the coiled strength in his fingers, the strain of his bicep muscles in his boiler suit as he held you immobile and you swallowed, shivering in fear and pitiful acceptance as you stopped struggling. If you had any hope of getting out of this alive, and as uninjured as possible, you had to stop fighting. 

His pathetic, mewling hole, your brain supplied almost bitterly.

Once apparently satisfied you’d stopped struggling, MIchael’s grip on your thighs lessened somewhat, leaving deep red bruises regardless, and he shifted forwards on his knees, taking up more space between your legs, as he rucked your nightie up to your belly, sitting back a little just to stare at your pussy, exposed and dripping and vulnerable, as if getting a good look at the wet little hole that had made him come so hard the last time. 

Your cheeks burned boiling hot as he looked at you, your thighs twitching conspirately to close but you forced yourself to try and calm, utterly impossible, you trembled like a newborn foal.

He dipped his head between your legs and your back arched, startled, wondering what he possibly meant to do, particularly, your horrible brain chipped in, with a mask over his face. You could hear nothing but that breathing, before it was sucked in, the nose of his mask just nudging your folds and making you jolt. 

Was he - was he smelling you? 

He made no noise, his body shifted an inch. What was he doing? It was like he was searching for something. He kept his nose buried against your soaping heat for a few more moments before he apparently found it. Then he was sitting back up again. Your knees were nearly knocking together in terror when his hands, fuck, how were they so big? framed your cunt, pulling at the flesh of the tops of your thighs, spreading your folds, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh of your seam, your clit.

Oh fuck.

He prodded you with a long finger a few times, painful sharp jabs until he caught the rim of your opening and sunk in to the knuckle. It burned, it burned so hot, you clenched painfully around his finger. Fuck, it felt like the size of a cock all on its own. But the finger was withdrawn as quickly as it had breached you, like a fucking dip test, but no less rough on the way out and you grimaced. You had a pretty good idea about what was to follow, and the anticipation of the pain alone was enough to make you cry again. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you tried again pathetically, wondering somewhere in your mind why you were trying to distract him from fucking you, when the alternative was his heavy hands shattering your collarbone until your heart was pierced by your own brittle dagger. Survival, you kept saying to yourself, one day you might believe it, you were trying to live. Nothing else. Nothing else.

He’d already unzipped his boiler suit, you could just glimpse a sliver of pale flesh beneath but he undressed himself no further, reaching down into his trousers and pulling his cock free. 

Fucking hell.

It was a goddamn fucking monster. It sat snug in Michael’s large hand, long and thick, crown red with blood and dribbling precome, it curved up slightly, in a way that was designed to attack that spot inside of you, and when he dropped it, it dipped, bobbing against his boiler suit, so heavy under its own weight it could barely hold itself up, but it did, his cock stood proud and to attention, ready for action, as he shifted down a little, hands once more finding your thighs and hauling you practically into his lap. He threw your legs over his broad hips, stretching your thigh muscles, as his cock rested hot and heavy on your pelvic bone, like a leaden weight on you. Oh fuck, you were so fucked. It was near enough the size of your thigh, and you knew it was going to wreck you.

You jerked your hips uselessly, trying in vain to put some distance between you and Michael’s thick cock, you’d never had a partner that size before, you’d never even had a toy that size. It wasn’t going to fit, it was as simple as that. Except he didn’t care.

He pressed his hips up, taking you with him, lifting your back clean off of the floor so your spine was arched uncomfortably. He paid you no mind as he gripped the base of his erection and slipped himself down through your folds.

He was silent, calm and ferocious as he pressed forward against you with so much pressure that it hurt. You could feel his heaviness hard against your pelvic bone and you trembled in fearful anticipation of what was about to happen.

Finally, Michael found what he was looking for and his thick cockhead breached your hole barely a centimetre but still you gasped, already undone by being so violently penetrated by not even a goddamn inch of that fat unforgiving head. 

Michael surged forward, in triumph perhaps, or just in a hurry to get his cock stuffed deep into you as quickly as possible, but your traitorous cunt was wet enough that he slipped straight back out again, whole cock fucking upwards and jamming through your folds, gliding gloriously against your clit. You let out a loud moan and he stilled entirely except for the throb of his cock against you. You clapped your hands to your mouth and forced your eyes to the ceiling. You hadn’t meant to do that. You didn’t want to give him the sick satisfaction. It was the last thing you could keep for yourself.

Michael was a fast learner, it seemed, because this time he inched a little more slowly inside you until a good inch of solid cock was spearing you open. You thought you might die, knees knocking against his hips helplessly as he forcibly stretched you obscenely around him. You will take me, I will make it fit.

Only when he was firm in you, and you were surely going to pass out from pressure alone, did he plunge his hips forward, his whole cock sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust. 

The pain, fuck the pain was indescribable, burning, aching, stuffed full, stuffed beyond full - he didn’t care - he didn’t care that he’d probably just ripped you in half, stretched you so full you were more cock than you were yourself anymore. He didn’t care you were crying, shivering, he cared that you were an open, wet heat to warm his cock in. 

Those blood-stained, murderous hands gripped your hips and an ache blossomed in your bones, your skin beneath his skin turned white to red to near-black with bloodied pressure-bruises as he gripped you hard enough you fully believed he intended to shatter bone. He could, you knew he could. It was enough to lose yourself to, you were going to pass out, you were going to die from the stress and agony forced upon your weak and small body. This was how he was going to kill you.

He moved, shifted his heavy length inside you, nudging spots of your flesh where a cock was not meant to be. He pulled out incrementally, shoved back in and oh - oh .

Your thighs shook again, trembled, as spiralling pleasure mixed with pain and your pussy clenched around his cock, contracting around it as he thrust in again, as if traitorously and deliriously pulling him in to you, to where that thick and hot pressure felt the best. He thrust in again, harder than before, faster than before, immediately picking up an athletic, robotic pace as if he were half-way through a marathon fuck, thrumming with energy. You had no time to adjust, no time to build-up - you were there immediately, clenching uncontrollably on Michael Myer’s mercilessly hard cock, your cunt fluttering and clenching on every brutal, animalistic intrusion, until you couldn’t take it anymore. There was no edge, there was just falling.

You yelped, back arching up even more than it already was, legs squeezing the small of Michael’s back as your poor cunt spasmed, coming hot and hard until you felt your own slick dribbling down the backs of your thighs. Michael didn’t stop for a second, he didn’t even slow, you nearly choked on your own spit.

He was utterly devoid of anything, breathing heavy and focused, no movement except the piston of his hips as he fucked you deep and unforgiving until you were sure his thick crown was kissing at your cervix. 

Your head was hazy, eyes unfocused, you had absolutely no control over your overworked cunt anymore, whining pitifully as you came around him again, lathering his cock in your traitorous spend, praying every time that he’d slow, but he didn’t, and you felt that molten lava in your core building again until you were covered in a sheen of your own sweat, spent, exhausted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t done yet, he wanted more. He took it.

He angled his hips up, chasing a sensation, you weren’t prepared for it. He hammered into you until his hip bones were slamming against your inner thighs with enough force to shake your entire body. His cock against your sweet spot was like a punch to the gut and you screamed. Pain, pleasure, you didn’t know anymore as your hips convulsed and jerked, clamping down on him hard enough that if he were a normal man, he wouldn’t have been able to move.

But Michael was no normal man. 

He held your hips down, taking your clenching orgasm for himself as he slammed into you. Being fucked into your leg-shaking release was like being volted off of this ethereal plane and into another, your eyes whitened, your brain slowed to juddering holt as dizzying, mind-numbing ohmyfuckinggodthisfeelssogood short-circuited your entire being.

Michael slammed into you one final time, unable to withstand the vice-like grip of your velvet walls any longer before he was stilling completely, his cock an erupting volcano inside of you that spurted hot white heat against your walls, filling you utterly.

Your mouth opened in shock, or exhaustion, as your whole body trembled, jerking uncontrollably in the aftershocks.

He didn’t linger. His hands left your hips first, the bruises behind ached immediately, black and devastating to your skin where even taking a breath in bothered them. Then he snapped his hips back, swollen cock slipping free of your drenched heat, sopping with white. He let it hang there, between his legs, a stark contrast against his boiler suit, and you trembled with undignified arousal. Your cunt felt wrecked, stretched wide, forced open to accommodate him, and yet your body still somehow ached for more. No, you were terrified, fighting for your life, this wasn’t real. None of it was.

He stood, using core strength alone, leaving your legs to fall heavily to the floor. They ached where the muscles had been stretched, kicking the pain in your back and your hips into eleventh gear. You’d been twisted like a pretzel for too long. You frowned. How long had he been fucking you? It felt like no time at all, it felt like days.

You pulled your nightie down as far as it would go, scrambling your legs together despite the way they twinged. You could feel him squelching between your thighs and your untouched clit twinged pitifully.

When you gathered the courage to look up at him, you saw that he’d tucked himself away and zipped himself back up. He stood tall and menacing over you, gargantuan in your living room, his head near-touching the ceiling. He was peering down at you, that devoid mask giving nothing. The utter silence was as terrifying and deafening as any death cry.

He cocked his head ever so slightly and you winced, fight or flight response, before he was turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen.

Terror rocked through you, vomit-inducing, head-spinning terror, and you were on your feet in a heartbeat. Your mauled insides and your ruined hips complained at you but you ignored it. They would mean nothing if you were dead. Which you were about to be. He was going for a knife, surely he was. He -

The creak of the kitchen door caught you by surprise, but it took a few long minutes for your heart to stop thudding loud enough for you to realise that he wasn’t coming back in. After a few breaths, your curiosity got the better of you and you crept into the kitchen. The back door was shut, except for the hole gaped in the glass by his fist, of course, and the kitchen was empty.

You were careful with your bare feet to avoid the shards of glass on the floor, not that it would make massive amounts of difference to your ruined body, before you shakily peered through what remained of your door.

The motion detector light was on, the street was empty.

Confusion and shame rocked through you with enough force to make you tumble and you had to grip the countertop to keep yourself upright.

How on earth were you still alive? For a second time? What did the most infamous serial killer in the country get from keeping you alive?

A hot, wet hole to come in.

You could feel the ache between your legs like Michael was still there, it was a glorious, horrible burn, trembling pleasure, irrefutable depravity - the best fuck of your life.

What did that make you?

Everything was eerily quiet. Your water bottle still sat on the side. If it weren’t for the broken door and the shards of glass, it would be easy to imagine that Michael hadn't been there at all.

Except for the warm come dribbling down your thighs where he’d marked his territory inside you. You swallowed. Whether you were his next victim or his fucktoy - you couldn’t escape that you were his. And you knew, even now, with terrifying certainty, that Michael Myers was not going to let you go.

link to chapter 3

[dreamlingnation]

Welcome to Dreamling’s House of Horrors! 😈

Spooky season has arrived, and so has our prompt event! We invite you to let out the creepiest parts of your imagination with this chilling list of prompts to Put Those Queers In Situations like never before!

This event is multiship, so don’t feel deterred from participating if Dreamling isn’t your thing! We also encourage all sorts of creative ventures for our prompts; be it fanfic, art, edits, fan videos, playlists, crafts, all is welcome in the House of Horrors.

Entrance

Cursed painting

Unopened letter

Empty house

“Won’t you invite me in?”

Living Room

Scented candles

Making out

Scary movies

“Don’t torture yourself, that’s my job.”

Kitchen

Knife

Unknown caller

Hot chocolate

“If you tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine.”

Dining room

Tea set

Kidnapped

Fire

“I do wish we could chat longer, but I’m having an old friend for dinner.”

Bedroom

Nightmares

Skeletons in the closet

Blood stained

“It’s all true. The boogeyman is real and you’ve found him.”

Attic

Ghost

Locked trunk

Chains

“You can’t choose between life and death when dealing with what’s in between.”

Backyard

Leaves falling

Pumpkin patch

Run for your life

“You can’t close your eyes and pretend he isn’t there— because he is.”

Bonus: Ballroom

Invisible orchestra

Corpses

Bloody clothes

“I told you that you belonged to me.”

Tag us on your posts and/or use the hashtag #DNHouseofHorrors to be featured on our blog! Happy haunting! 👻

[youhavelessproof]

Not a batcest shipper but your brudick propaganda helped me understand the context behind how these characters were written and how real life affected their characterizations. I don't think I can ever become a batcest shipper, I find the idea of Bruce and dick being brothers who's relationship is constantly evolving but always having that foundation of trust and deep understanding far too interesting, but I do understand why some ppl are. I find it interesting how fandom tries so hard sanitise and arrange relationships and dynamics into neat little easily digestible boxes and in the process of doing so we sometimes strip the most interesting parts of these characters

Ppl are taking these polls a tad bit too seriously and I feel like ppl just need to learn how to block, move on and not actively try to consume things that make them so upset. So 👍🏿

I totally respect not being a batcest shipper. everyone has their likes and dislikes. I really appreciate you listening to what I had to say though. even without shipping Brudick, I think it's important to understand the history behind it. if only to deeper your understanding of their bond (platonic or not) and just Batman comics in general.

it's not even just fandom that's trying to box the relationships into easy to understand categories. DC has really been pushing the Batfamily into those categories too. that's why, even if you hate batcest (not talking about you specifically) you should also be upset about the current state of found family in DC.

complex relationships like Bruce and Dick, (like you said they had a very interesting brotherly relationship,) that's being reduced to Bruce being Dick's dad and that's all. even if you always read them with parental undertones, which you definitely could, that was never all they were.

though fandom has been taking that and running with it and it makes it hard to have nuanced conversations about character dynamics. I mentioned Dick and Jason in one of my responses and like. part of their fun was that they were sorta brothers but they were also just two guys that had a mutual connection to a very important person in their lives. but now they're just brothers. that's all. Dick isn't allowed to have complex feelings about Jason, that's just his baby brother. that's all.

I love mama bird Dick, don't get me wrong, but he's not a character to just sit there and have no complex feelings about people. sometimes it feels like Dick is made of conflicted feelings.

wow this got out of hand. basically I am agreeing with you very hard. comic book characters are messy, let them be that way. they can still love each other and not be this perfect father/son dynamic. Dick doesn't need to call Dick dad for there to be a mutual understanding that Bruce did help raise him.

also ngl I do have to remind myself to not respond to everything. I'm trying to be good about only responding to stuff that's directly responding to something I said (aka reblogs) or when I'm addressed directly. it can be hard when I see people misinterpreting my words, but that's bound to happen and I need to let it go. (though I keep noticing that there are anons talking about "these people" or "Brudick shippers" or "that propaganda post" on the poll blog and it is a little entertaining to be referred to as a boogeyman figure. like you can just call me YouHaveLessProof or Moon. promise I won't appear in your room if you do.)

[dark-elf-writes]

Song Shuffle Challenge

This is entirely @musicfeedsmysoul12’s fault as I haven’t even thought of one of these for years but it looked like fun so here I am.

Labour - Paris Paloma

Inko’s hands shook as she zipped up Izuku’s bag. Nothing more than his diaper bag. A scant few changes of clothes and his most beloved toys packed safely inside.

It looked innocent. It had to.

Hisashi couldn’t know. Couldn’t suspect.

Some animal part of her tucked deep inside bleated with fear as she scooped up her son and settled him on her hip. He smiled at her in that sweet way of his and offered her a damp All Might plush.

They would have nothing. Have nowhere to hide. Nowhere that would be out of his reach.

She had found the proof, tucked deep in his belongings. The messages between him and the doctor. The horrible plans that would consume all of Japan if left unchecked. A kingpin. A boogeyman. The nightmare that had haunted the country for two hundred years.

The plan had been formulated over days. Had come together in bits and pieces all while she hid behind smiles she gave everything to feel real.

She had been so young when she had sold her soul to the devil himself. She would die before she would watch him shatter their son in those blood drenched hands.

So now she would run and keep running until they were far far from here.

Someone To You - Acoustic - BANNERS

Izuku leaned against the doorframe and watched their friends bicker from where they had spread out around Tenya’s dorm.

(“If I wanted All Might staring at me while I did my homework, Zuku, I’d do it in class!”)

They had never thought they would have this. Never thought that useless quirkless Deku could have this. Friends who loved him. Friends who cared.

One for All pressed against the inside of their skin, scratching its way along their changing joints and over breaks healed over and over again. The ache of it was familiar. Comforting even, in the knowledge that they would do it all again. Would shatter themself over and over for the people who now looked back at them and smiled.

For them they would do anything.

Happier Than Ever- Billie Eilish

It had been three days, twelve Hours, and fifteen minutes after when Izuku laughed for the first time.

Bright. Free. Unafraid.

They had frozen at the sound. Had seen their friends freeze and look at them with such wonder like they had forgotten the sound. Just like Izuku had.

Their phone buzzed with an incoming call.

Happy. They were happy. When was the last time they had felt this?

Their phone buzzed away.

They had been keeping up a facade for so long they had confused it for their own face. Had smiled through every party they had attended alone. Through every interview where Kacchan had spoken over them. Through every drunk call where they had begged him to come home safe and been ignored.

Their phone buzzed.

Izuku reached out and ignored the call.

Saviour II - Black Veil Brides

It was the phantom hand on their shoulder that kept them from crumbling. Kept their smile from faltering in the slightest even with the agony lancing up their arms.

They had been molded for this. Had been born for this perhaps.

A successor for a symbol. An idea to step into the shoes of another. Everything they were and could have been stopped back to a beaming smile and the quirk that pounded through them.

Still they held their head high. Kept their smile firmly in place.

They had been molded into this. By him. For them all.

So they would smile and they would give all they had to save as many people as they could. Even if it killed them.

Boyfriend - Dove Cameron

A hand appeared in Izuku’s vision, drawing their eyes away from their phone. Drawing their hand away from it too as they were tugged up from their seat and into a secluded corner away from the eyes and dancing.

A familiar smile greeted them when they had finally broken out of their shock to look up. Sharp edged. Full of heat and promise.

“Come home with me,” Shinsou Hitoshi didn’t ask. Wouldn’t ask something like this. Wouldn’t leave even the slightest possibility of this not being Izuku’s choice.

A gentleman… of a sort.

“Kacchan—,”

“He treats you like shit.”

Well, no one had ever accused Hitoshi of being one to mince words.

Izuku should pull away. Should argue. But… couldn’t find it in themself to. Couldn’t even find the will to pull their wrist back from Hitoshi’s loose grip.

He saw it. Of course he did. That smile ducked closer as Hitoshi leaned in to whisper in their ear. “Let me treat you better, Zuku. Let me bring you flowers and do all the couple shit that he hates. Let me stand next to you for all these galas so you’re not left alone.”

Izuku should pull away.

They felt that smile press against their ear. Heard it in Hitoshi’s voice. “My wardrobe is better than his.”

They laughed and didn’t pull away.

[luvtonique]

I just woke up and I chose violence let's go.

Look all I'm sayin' is

If you're gonna attack AI generative art

You should, for the same reason, attack Toby Fox.

The reason I've seen the most for people not liking AI is that it's not "Real art" and that it "Takes jobs from artists" and that it "Steals from other artists"

Well, then, let's talk about how Hopes and Dreams by Toby Fox uses fake Violins to mimic a symphony orchestra. Toby could have hired a real orchestra but he used a fake one and y'all came in your drawers over it.

Why'd nobody ever lift a finger to cover social media in how Toby Fox doesn't deserve to make money because his song "Undertale" uses a fake guitar that sounds just like a real one? He could have hired a musician to play guitar but he didn't! That cost a REAL guitar player a job, didn't it?

And how come when it was found out that Toby Fox stole entire lietmotifs from other games like Kirby n shit, y'all had like 600,000,000 excuses to defend him?

I don't dislike Toby I think he's amazing, like 100/10, one'a the brightest examples of a success story of all time and one of the nicest most pure-hearted people on earth who made two of my favorite games of all time and a ton of my favorite music. Spider Dance has been my ring tone for like 8 years.

I'm just saying, the literal same reasons I see people attacking AI gen art is shit that Toby does, all of it, and y'all worship Toby for it but attack artists.

And neither here nor there, but hear me out?

Y'all will say you're in defense of artists keeping their jobs and their livelihoods which is so very noble of you, but if an artist draws shortstacks that are just a little too short, or if an artist utilizes AI, or if an artist draws Rose Quartz skinny, or if an artist draws Sans and Frisk getting a little too Frisky, or if an artist votes for Trump, or if an artist says a dirty word you don't like, or if an artist draws a black person that looks just a little bit too stereotypical, or if an artist draws a lesbian character getting fucked, or if an artist doesn't believe in gender identities, or if an artist doesn't put trans characters in their graphic novel, or if an artist makes a sexy character with butt-jiggle the protagonist of their video game; Y'ALL ARE COMPLETELY OKAY WITH SAYING THAT ARTIST SHOULDN'T BE MAKING MONEY, AND BANDWAGONING A HATEMONGERING BRIGADE AGAINST THEM.

Or in the Sans and Frisk case: PUT SEWING NEEDLES INSIDE OF COOKIES AND GIVE THEM TO THE ARTIST WHO DREW IT, PUTTING THEM IN THE HOSPITAL.

Listen

Spare me this "We hate AI because we care about the jobs of artists" shit, you lying scoundrels. You don't care about my job! You've tried to cancel me like 500 goddamn times, got my Patreon frozen twice, got my PayPal frozen over 100 times even right in the middle of conventions, flooded my stream chat and spammed the N-word in chat trying to get my Twitch banned, flooded my Discord multiple times with links to CP trying to get my Discord banned, and you have entire Discord servers literally called things like "Jay is an asshole" and "The We Hate Jay Society" (YEAH I KNOW YOU FUCKERS EXIST, HI, HAVE FUN SCREENCAPPING THIS).

My artistic career has been under fire for the past 12 years because I draw things y'all disagree with, have opinions you don't like, and have family members who vote for politicians you think are the boogeyman that's the cause of all your problems (and haven't disowned those family members). With all due respect, when I hear "We hate AI because we believe in fair wages for artists and want to protect the jobs of artists" I just wanna strangle your lying ass.

You hate AI because it's popular to hate AI.

AI is like a prosthetic robot arm that helps you carry the groceries, and disabled people like myself (rheumatoid arthritis) benefit from its uses greatly (such as being able to draw backgrounds much easier which has greatly improved my art and INCREASED MY COMMISSION REVENUE DUE TO MY ART QUALITY IMPROVING [But y'all don't care that AI helps artists earn more money, you hate AI because you claim it's hurting artists' ability to earn money]), but you're so hung up on people using the robot arm instead of their real arms that you think you're some crusader against injustice.

You aren't.

You're just looking for reasons to attack people, it's what you do. I've been dealing with y'all looking for any goddamn reason to attack someone that you can muster for the last 12 years, hell even before that I dealt with you types. You just want to hate, you want to be prejudiced so fucking bad that you look for literally any reason you can possibly find to make some vaguepost about how much you hate an artist and post it to Reddit, and then when you get called out, get so surprised that I found your bitch ass that you start pretending you didn't mean any ill will, and start pretending that you're someone else in the most pathetic attempt to dodge blame I've ever seen.

[Context: The OP of this post accidentally revealed who they are on Tumblr, and then when I called them out on Tumblr, they pretended they were someone else because they were scared I was gonna out them on Tumblr and they tried pathetically to cover their ass, and even politely said "I never wanted to garner hate against you" when they literally posted "I hate the way he draws women" on r/mendrawingwomen and flooded the comment section (mostly now deleted) with how "disgusting of a person" I am, while I was in the comments politely giving context to the shit he was saying about me, and he started getting furious when other people were liking my art and agreeing with me instead of him. I have like 600 screencaps of all the cringe this guy spewed, but I'm not gonna post it all because it's tangential anyway. Case in point? This guy's blog is absolutely covered with how much he hates artists for drawing things he doesn't like, and he regularly posts about how AI is taking jobs from artists. Not gonna out his blog, but that's who he is. A shining example of exactly what I'm talking about. "I hate AI because it takes jobs from artists!" "THIS MAN-THING DRAWS WOMEN IN A WAY I DON'T LIKE AND HE'S A DISGUSTING PERSON, EVERYONE JOIN ME IN HATING HIM AND TRYING TO RUIN HIS REPUTATION AND THEN WE CAN CELEBRATE WHEN HE LOSES HIS JOB!!!"]

Like, y'all can sit there and act like you're defending me and artists like me all you want, you're liars. You're boldfaced fucking liars. You are disgusting. It's completely pathetic watching you attack a tool that can be used to improve our art, and claim it's in defense of the authenticity of our art and the continued financial stability of our artistic careers. Fucking give me a break.

You're looking for people who say positive things about AI art so you can attack them and feel justified because it's popular to attack them.

All while sitting there and gladly swallowing the cum of any musician who makes amazing music with synths, fake symphony instruments and autotune.

"We care about the jobs of artists."

Yeah.

Long as those artists fall in line with your opinions and only draw things that agree with said opinions, right?

Wouldn't wanna care about the jobs of "problematic" artists who draw "offensive" stuff or vote for politicians you don't like.

Final note: This isn't even an attack against any political opinions or activism or anything like that, but I'm being realistic here because these are the people I see brigading against AI art. It's not me saying those people are dumb for having their opinions or political standpoints or being activists for their beliefs, it's me saying those people are the ones who are constantly attacking AI art in "defense of artists," while in the same breath attacking artists for not sharing their political standpoints or also being activists for the same causes. If you truly, truly cared about the livelihood of artists, you'd stop attacking artists' livelihood for disagreeing with you. Or for that matter: Any reason. Stop attacking artists' livelihood, or stop pretending you care about it. Be consistent, at least.

[beetle-goth]

please share your goth jeeves thoughts i am very interested

Goth Jeeves thoughts let’s go!!

I’ll start with my least coherent and go towards my most

Honorable mention: music is tough. The first real instance of goth music came in the 50’s and in the one story that took place in the 50’s we hear no mention of music. However, Jeeves is not a fan of popular music or showtunes and shows preference for classical music. Not goth, per se, but Bach and Beethoven do kinda have some goth-y vibes.

First, he’s very into serious literature and poetry. Which isn’t saying much but gothic poetry and literature was very prominent in forming the subculture and it sort of seems like the stuff that Jeeves would be into. He likes philosophy and lots of gothic literature has overarching philosophical thought on the nature of good and evil, man vs creator, the nature of death and mourning. And for poetry, the stuff he quotes in Joy in the Morning makes me feel like he’d enjoy Edgar Allan Poe, especially his more romantic stuff like Annabelle Lee and The Raven

“ "It is indeed, sir. I always feel that nothing is so soothing as a walk in a garden at night."

"Ha!"

"The cool air. The scent of growing things.

That is

tobacco plant which you can smell, sir."

"Is it?"

"The stars, sir."

"Stars?"

"Yes, sir."

"What about them?"

directing your attention to them, sir.

Look how the foor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."

"Jeeves

"There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest, sir, but in his motion like an angel sings, still guiring to tho young-eyed cherubims."

"Jeeves-

"Such harmony is in immortal souls. But whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."

"Jeeves-

"Sir?" “ —pages 107 and 108

Second: his fashion! My man does not like colors and while we mostly see him in his uniform, I feel we can make some assumptions based on his non-uniform clothes and the way he tries to dress Bertie. His black, calf length outdoor jacket is such a goth win! Bertie doesn’t own anything like that and we rarely see other domestic staff wear something like that so it’s easy to assume that Jeeves picked that out for himself. He will wear tan, we’ve seen him wear tan clothes coming back from his vacations but that could be because of class status and/or the standards of driving clothes. Because when we do see him on his nights off, he’s still wearing clothes that look like his valeting uniform (black waistcoat, black tie, black jacket, ect). Bertie also mostly wears tan when he’s driving bc it hides the dirt better.

What’s interesting is how he tries to get Bertie to wear dark and subdued colors. Lots of navy, lots of greys. It makes you wonder if that’s how he’d choose to dress if he had the option. Also related to clothing, Jeeves shows an interest in both jewelry and silver in Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit and Jeeves in the Offing, respectively. He was a jeweler apprentice briefly under his cousin. Accessories, especially feminine jewelry and silver, is very goth.

Third: he’s simply a spooky bitch! Season 2 episode 5 he immediately knows a local folktale about a boogeyman called Old Boggy who roams the streets. In a town he doesn’t live in, at night where he cannot access a library. Which leads one to believe that he reads about the folklore about places he and Bertie visit with special focus placed on ghost stories. And in Right Ho, Jeeves he has this whole section.

“'You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?'

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir'

I had to pause a moment to master my feelings.

'You did, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You thought it funny?'

'Yes, sir.' “ pages 765 and 766 of the Jeeves and Wooster omnibus.

Smiling?? He laughed very much?? This story stuck with him into adulthood?? So much so that he thought it would be funny to tell Bertie this story moments before Bertie has a late night bike ride?? No matter how you interpret this scene, Jeeves is a morbid and spooky bitch for this. Rip Jeeves, you would have loved watching the Final Destination movies.

My point is that if he could, he would have loved being goth. He’s spooky and morbid, he loves dark, subdued colors, his loves poetry and literature with philosophical themes, he likes silver and jewelry and he likes slower, more subdued music without saccharine and cheery lyrics (let us not forget his disgust while Bertie was singing Sunny Disposish)

Hopefully I didn’t forget anything important but I feel like I’ve covered my bases on this headcanon

[chalkrevelations]

I. Hm.

This isn’t what I’d planned to post about tonight, so this is a little more off the cuff than I’d like it to be, and some of it is cobbled together from things I’ve posted elsewhere, but almost a week later I’m still surprised at how many people I see talking about Boston setting off the Only Friends Ep 5 fight with Ray because he was bored, or because it amused him, or because he was having fun - because look at his face throughout that fight. At what point does Boston look like he’s having any fun? There may be a kind of feral satisfaction when he scores an emotional hit, but none of it looks like fun.

Here’s the thing, something I suspect is vital to understanding Boston and his emotional makeup and his motives, something that gives me some sympathy for him: Boston is the monster in the closet. The Closet. He’s a very specific kind of queer boogeyman, he’s got a lot of toxic behaviors, and a lot of them are rooted in the fact that he’s a creature of the closet, the human equivalent of a plant that’s been grown without enough light. His father’s political ambitions mean that he cannot be out, he can’t be open about his sexual/relationship orientation. This is not just about whether or not he’s willing to cut himself off from his family – which is already a lot to ask of him. Even if he was willing to cut himself off, to be disowned, it wouldn’t necessarily protect his father’s career and political ambitions, it wouldn’t prevent the possible social shame and opprobrium that might fall on his family if anyone found out and had undeniable proof and wanted to make a big deal out of it. It certainly wouldn’t be filial. That's a LOT of weight to put on someone's shoulders.

Being open about his desires and what would make him happy would mean disaster. This is the message Boston’s internalized. He is so shameful that not only does he have to be hidden, he has to make sure that he’s not exposed at any cost. He threatened someone – and with what? - to make them delete a video of them together. He can’t allow even a picture of himself with another man in what could be a compromising situation (and boy, does that make me wonder what actually happened between him and Top, that Boston is willing to forego every bit of his conditioning to keep that photo-booth strip of them together, lying around his house). Boston doesn’t have relationships – Boston cruises, Boston has one-night stands, Boston has hookups, Boston has a few people here and there that he may fuck more than once. Does he want a relationship? He doesn’t act like it, we don’t know – but it doesn’t matter. Boston can’t have a relationship, and he knows that. How could he have anything long-term when he has to hide? Who’s going to be willing to live like that with him? Who’s going to be able to maintain the level of secrecy that would entail? Nothing would ever be permanent, so nothing – and no one - can ever be real.

And I wonder if the photographs he takes of men who are, presumably, hookups are less a kind of serial killer trophy and more of a way of trying to have some evidence that maybe, even if for a moment, they were real, a way of solidifying those men, making them less ephemeral, even if Boston, himself, can’t be in the photos so that he and the experiences he had with them remain ephemeral, unreal. I wonder if it’s his attempt to somehow actually humanize the experiences he’s having and the men he’s having them with.

Boston, as he is, the person he is - his very self and being - cannot be allowed to exist openly, in public, in the light. He lives in a constant state of denial of self, of self-abnegation. That is a tragedy. The closet has fucked Boston UP, and I have some sympathy for that.

I'm also willing to admit that he is fucked up, that his coping skills are toxic, that treating other people as disposable after you’ve had your entertainment – even if you think you can’t keep them around, even if a night’s entertainment is all you can allow yourself - is also toxic, along with the (likely) resentment and resulting contempt he has for people in general, and Ray in particular. Because he seems to have it out for Ray, for some reason – and has done since Ep 1, since he called Ray a “burden while drunk", echoing the language we’d later learn Ray uses for himself at his lowest points. I wonder if he sees Ray as weak, as well as being pissed off that Ray didn’t keep Mew away from Top. Because almost the only nice thing we’ve ever seen Boston do is not be a Category 5 bitch to Mew when Mew called him about finally fucking Top - when Mew called to let his friend, who’s been trying to “help” him lose his virginity since Ep 1, know that it was finally going to happen. But what Boston does, at the first opportunity, is displace all his pain and anger over Top fucking Mew onto Ray. I don’t think that confrontation was for fun, and I don't think Boston was bored, and I don’t think it was premeditated in the same way that most of his other moves have been. He had no idea that Ray was going to be at Sand and Nick’s apartment. It was opportunistic, but I also think it was taking a whole bunch of emotional turmoil and lashing out at the weakest perceived target he could find, the person in the room who he knows best, whose painpoints he's the most sure of hitting, and of cutting the deepest.

None of that is about fun or boredom.

[verdemoun]

hi!!! i absolutely adore the rdr2 timewarp au. it is EVERYTHING

so if i remember correctly you had a post a while back where you mentioned that arthur is super paranoid about his health in the modern era which is so real after everything. but it got me thinking, he can’t stay perfectly healthy 100% of the time, that’s not how the world works. so like, how does he (and everyone else) handle the first time he gets ill post warp? bc i’m guessing not well 😭😭😭

also i’d just love to hear more about how everyone’s deaths affected them, if you’re willing, bc most of them were obviously incredibly traumatic 💔

i apologize if someone’s asked this already 😫

thank you!! 🫶

hello hello and thank you so much!! and yes indeed i did and i love a chance to talk some angst: to the second point first! most of the gang had relatively quick deaths.

dutch gets vertigo. maybe it's the meds, maybe it's the distant memory of plummeting to his death

lenny gets really bad heartburn/phantom chest pains. sometimes it's just uncomfortably close to the pain and shortness of breath of being shot in the chest, and he will need someone to sit with him until it passes.

cannot overstate how much trauma kieran has related to his death. one thing that the gang would absolutely bully him for IF they didn't know why, is that Kieran sleeps with a nightlight. if he wakes up in the dark he will panic. Kieran remembers having his eyes gouged out: passing out because of the pain only to wake up to darkness. So he gets a nightlight because waking up to Kieran Duffy screaming is not good for anyone's mental health.

but arthur morgan hypochondriac queen

being that he lives with hosea, bessie, kieran, lenny and sean: none of them saw arthur get sick. sure, arthur can tell them he died of tb, but after timewarping the ravages of tb have simply been erased. he looks as healthy as chapter 2 arthur. so the fact he coughs, something as innocent as a cough, and gets a wild, terrified look in his eyes, throws all of them off

bessie just sighs because despite her best efforts and getting them all vaccinated asap and seen by a gp, the fact is viruses have evolved a lot faster than humanity in 100 years and they almost all end up with at least the common cold shortly after they timewarp. part of not leaving the house too much at first is as much about their immune system adapting as it is about learning modern era slowly.

and it's really hard to watch because as the cough worsens and a low fever takes hold, arthur is a wreck. coughs hard, pauses, only to turn pale and sprint to the bathroom before throwing up more in distress than illness. it just doesn't seem like arthur morgan, the invincible enforcer and boogeyman of the VDL gang.

hosea has seen arthur through many a cold, so he knows arthur isn't usually like this. usually it's a mission in itself to get arthur to lay down when he's sick. instead, arthur is completely fixed to the bed, shaking more violently than his temperature would suggest. his eyes squeeze shut at the mention of food, panting like the room's running out of air. confesses late into the second night of that he thinks he's dying.

hosea would've believed it if he hadn't seen sean macguire through food poisoning already. tries to assure him he's fine, it's just a cold. he'll be over it in a few days. it has been a long time since he's seen arthur this - needy. he really is more like that young boy he and dutch found cowering on the streets than the man he raised. which hosea doesn't entirely mind, even if it just seems dramatic

arthur proceeded to recover and act like nothing weird happened at all and he was fine the entire time. the whole gang side-eyed this response, and the side-eye suspicion next time arthur got a cold and once again became terrified - convinced he was dying.

when arthur moved out, hosea would still need to stay several nights whenever arthur got a cold because he will get trauma-justified man flu. this later becomes charles's job to take care of when he timewarps and becomes arthur's u-haul lesbian speed husband. admittedly sometimes charles has to call hosea because as someone who did see arthur get tb, he also gets upset seeing arthur sick

if you have had a cold in the past 48 hours arthur morgan will not go near you. he starts his morning with every immunity-boosting over the counter pill he can find and always starts the morning with a disgusting glass of homemade orange ginger turmeric juice he swears by.

[angelicalchaoticabyss]

(Shadow and Light Demon Fnaf Au) Moon x Reader

A monster in the dark,

That’s what lived in your house, it always lived in your house. From the time you were a child you knew it was there, when the shadows proceeded it would follow your quick steps upstairs to escape the boogeyman. It would hide under your bed, in your closet, in any dark depth it could find. The red eyes that would stare and whisper if you didn’t go to bed under its gaze. No one would believe you when you talked about it, they all thought it was just your imagination turning the shadows into something scary yet harmless.

Little did they know how real it was. Over time you became less scared of it, by the age of 10 you had gotten out of bed and approached the shadow.

“Mr Boogeyman…do you wanna be my friend?” You asked in your innocent little voice.

And that’s how it started, you were no longer scared of the mysterious shadow, it became your friend. The friend that would follow you through the darkness no matter what, who would tuck you into bed and comfort you from your nightmares. When it’d come into moonlight you could see what Mr Boogeyman really looked like, glowing red eyes, a crescent moon for a face, sharp teeth. He looked like a weird clown, wearing bells on his wrists and pointed shoes. Starry pants and a starry night cap, he looked a lot less scary when he wasn’t hidden.

You remember all the times he cradled and shushed you when you had bad dreams, when he listened to your stories and imagination. When he cared where your parents didn’t. You even learned his real name. Moon. Mr Moon.

Over time you stopped seeing him, he appeared less and less at night. You missed your friend but eventually he disappeared altogether. You do remember WHEN he started to disappear, it’s when your parents started bringing your church’s pastor to the house every week where he’d recite verses from the bible and leave crosses around the house. Maybe he and Mr Moon didn’t get along? Is that why your friend left? When you asked your parents about it, they dismissed Moon as your imagination just like they always had.

Eventually, you and your parents moved out of that house. You lived your life like normal, made friends, had fun, but you always felt like you were missing something. Your dear friend Mr Moon. You were beginning to wonder if it really was just your imagination, that you stopped seeing things as your childish mind grew and expanded. But even so you missed your imaginary friend, you were impressed that your tiny brain created something so…immaculate. So scary yet friendly and nice. So sweet and caring, soothing from the terror the dark could bring. You wondered if you could replicate it.

Finally, you were on your own, now an adult, you found yourself living in your childhood home. You got it extremely cheap, hearing funny rumors that it was haunted when you don’t recall it being so. You chuckled to yourself.

“Mr Moon, I’m back. Do you remember me?” You asked, of course, to no answer.

You got all your things settled and when night rolled around you turned off all the lights, beginning your trek upstairs. That’s when you felt something staring at you. Turning your body to scan the darkened room, you obviously saw nothing, so you continued upstairs. Getting yourself into bed you tried to sleep but couldn’t kick the feeling of something looming over you.

Opening your eyes, you screamed as a shadow did indeed stand over your bed and stared down with glowing red eyes. The moonlight entering the room cast on this being, revealing a crescent moon face.

“Mr Moon…?” You questioned, and a grin spread on his face.

He nodded, confirming your words.

“Hello Starlight, so good to finally see you again~.” He let out a little giggle.

You smiled and sat up, giving the tall being a hug he gladly returned. You missed him so much! Here he is! Proof you weren’t making things up! In fact, now you can finally ask him what happened and why he left. Which you did, Moon’s face changed from happy to a mixture of anger and sadness.

“I was…banished from this house for a while. By that pastor of the church, you see, I’m a demon and I didn’t like everything he was putting in the house. I’m…sorry. But I would never hurt you! I don’t want your soul or anything like that!” He was quick to say that last part.

You thought over what he said, so your little monster in the dark was a demon all along. Well, he was a very nice demon, he never brought harm to you after all. He cradled and cared for you! So, you smiled.

“Don’t worry Moon, I know you won’t hurt me, I trust you.”

Moon once again got that big grin on his face, very pleased at your words.

You decided not to tell your parents that the demon they worked to get out of the house was now back and living with you. They’d demand you either leave the house or exorcise him again. Both of which you’d never do, Moon was your friend, and you’d never leave him again…even if it meant you might just will lose your soul to him.

Moon helped you throughout your daily life, and you felt rather happy with him around. He would help you cook, clean, rest, etc. He even helped when a toxic ex had come back to hurt you, you didn’t see what Moon did to them, but you had a feeling you didn’t want to know. Either way, he was YOUR special demon, your best friend, your care giver. Now you couldn’t imagine a life without him, y-you’re not in love with him of course! He’s just your friend, yes, just a friend. A monster in the dark.

He’s YOUR monster in the dark.