#and something about it being SEEN almost more than it existing
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visions — abby anderson.
summary: a love letter to trying (or the time when you met your favorite people in the world, an overly stressed med student and her overly adventurous one-year-old, in your apartment's hallway).
notes: constantly suffering from chronic baby fever so this is a present from me to you because i spend way too much time thinking about abby as a mom <3
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You’re stepping out of the elevator when you suddenly hear it— a series of light thumps on the floor, fast but determined like a tiny little elephant who really has somewhere to be right now. Another step and then you stop clumsily when a flash of golden hair comes rushing past you. You follow the sight with your eyes, tilting your head. A little girl is walking, no, stomping through the hallway. She’s no older than two years old, her thin shining hair in two short braids, blue jean overalls and red socks on her feet. She moves so confidently that you almost don’t think about it, almost have the instinct to look away as if to not accidentally appear nosy, but her tiny stature and wobbly sense of direction keep your attention.
You look around the hallway, expecting surely the sound of the little girl’s parent calling her name (something sweet and pretty and classic, you imagine; it’d suit her). You picture her name being followed by a tired sigh before her patents rush to catch up, maybe rolling their eyes in a way that pretends to be annoyed but unmistakingly holds a million times more affection. A perfect family, a tiny glimpse of a full life somehow existing right in your unimportant building.
The hallway is long and terribly empty. You look back at the little girl who is striding forward in less of a rush now, with no worries, like this is the same route she’s taken for years.
What are you supposed to say to get a kid’s attention when you don’t know their name? What’s something concise, yet nice, yet simple enough to be understood? Babysitting as a teen has prepared you for a lot, just maybe not all of it. It's been a little too long. You linger on it for just a second before spitting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Hi, princess,” It’s a little awkward, but you’re relieved when she immediately stops and spins around, like something about it sounded familiar— could be your sweet tone or the nickname, you’re not sure. The little girl tilts her head to the side, round cheek lightly squished against her shoulder. It's the cutest thing you’ve ever seen and it makes you giggle like a charmed kid. “Where did you come from?” you ask, but before you have the chance to reach her she pouts her lips, as if just now realizing that you’re not who she thought you were. And then she turns her back, like there's no time to waste, to return to her journey with renewed enthusiasm.
In a scarily fast moment, you realize that she’s going for the stairs. It would maybe be a slightly less terrifying idea if that stupid door actually worked— but it doesn't, it broke sometime last May and now it's awfully easy to open, no strength or shove required. Sometimes, if it's windy and quiet enough, you can faintly hear it swing back and forth from your apartment. The little girl reaches a hand out, not intimidated by the tall door more than three times her height. If you weren’t this terrified, you’d find it amazingly admirable.
You don’t register you’re running until you reach her, don’t register the sound of fast steps behind you or the scream of Rue! or anything else other than the heavy relief on your chest when you lift the baby by her armpits and hold her over your hip against your side. She’s fussing in your arms immediately, upset that she’s being interrupted, especially by a stranger. “I know, I’m sorry, baby. It’s okay, you’re okay,” you coo, though trying to be soothing when your heart is beating this fast is admittedly not the easiest task.
“Rue!” Someone repeats, and this time you do hear it. A woman is running down the hallway, hand coming down to mindlessly drop a tote bag bursting with groceries on the floor by the time she’s in front of you. The little girl reaches out her arms immediately, tiny fists opening and closing furiously and you sigh with relief as you carefully pass her over to the arms of the tall stranger. Her hair is blonde but darker than Rue’s, held back in a braid that looks both pretty and messy, like it was once pristine and then slept on. She’s wearing jeans and a half unbuttoned white shirt, a black tank top underneath. Her chest rises and falls and you notice that yours is no different. Adrenaline is a strange bond to share with a stranger, but it does make things less awkward, knowing you’re both here, feeling the same thing. You meet her expertly focused eyes for just a second before she turns to look at the little girl, searching for anything that could be wrong. “I’m so sorry, sweet girl. You’re okay, right? You’re okay,” the baby flashes a precious, wobbly smile at the sound of her voice, but she’s quickly distracted by the endlessly fascinating rainbow of groceries that lie on the floor. Her tiny head peeks over her mom’s shoulder to observe and it’s like you both can take a more soothing breath now, knowing she’s okay. “Thank you so much,” Abby says. You blink a couple times before you realize that she’s talking to you. “Sorry, I really don’t know how that happened. We were— we just got home from the store and I hadn't even put down all the bags yet and I thought— I was convinced that I shut the door, but…” her rambling drifts off and the stranger takes another breath, reddish embarrassment crawling up her neck.
You understand, suddenly, that she’s not only struggling with the stress of losing and finding her baby, but also the shame of having to face a stranger who might judge her for it. It feels insane to you, to think that she would be forced to prioritize that right now. “Oh, no, it’s okay!” you rush to respond. “I saw her immediately, and you were here in seconds! She wouldn't have gotten any further than that,” your smile is soft, but you speak with enough confidence to be reassuring (babysitting lessons, perhaps), “It was just a scare— don’t be too hard on yourself, please.”
Abby looks disarmed by your answer, her eyebrows raised in surprise. A short moment passes before she nods and smiles back, a small gesture without any less warmth. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen her so far and it suits her beautifully, enough to make your face feel warm. Her blushing is much less forgiving though, more physically evident on her skin, spread over her cheekbones and the bridge of her pretty nose.
Rue giggles and it distracts you both, her hand waving excitedly at the colorful bird printed on a box of cereal as soon as she spots him. Abby looks at you for a second too long before she clears her throat, joking, “Sorry, she really loves that guy.”
You hum. “He is pretty cool, to be fair.”
Abby tilts her head, copying your sincere tone. “I don’t know, I always thought he’d be kind of a dick in person. He just looks like the type.”
Your startled laugh makes her smirk but she's frustratingly good at hiding it, free hand covering her mouth casually enough that you don’t notice. You look at the grabbing motion of the baby’s hands and pout with sympathy. “She loves him, though. We should probably get him off the floor.”
“Yeah, I should get that— I guess I just ran out with the bag, huh?” Abby huffs. She looks and sounds, physically, a lot less anxious now, less ashamed and more annoyed at herself.
“Would you like some help?”
“That’s okay, I got it,” she’s not sure that she does but she says it anyway, instinctively. Abby tries to lean down and Rue clutches her shirt, pulling enough to communicate that she is not ready to be put down yet. Abby straightens her back quickly enough to communicate that she is not ready to risk getting her any more upset for today. She meets your eyes for just a second. “Well, maybe some help.”
“Sure, just some,” you chuckle. “I’ll get it, don’t worry about it.”
People say that to Abby a lot— don’t worry about it! She hears it from her colleagues when she inevitably asks for the notes from the last class she ran a little late to, from a few of her kinder professors when she’s a day past some assignment’s deadline, from the guy at the grocery store that picks up the packets of M&M bags from the floor when Rue’s curious hands knock them over, from her dad when she asks if he’d be okay with babysitting for just a tiny bit longer. It always makes her stomach turn with guilt, some cases more intense than others, her lips usually pursed as she turns around and takes a breath. This time when you say it, she finds the guilt passing through her with ease, a short visit that makes her shoulders tense before it gets replaced by something else. She believes you, for some reason. Her brain is quiet except for thinking, for once, that there could really be nothing to worry about.
Your hands move casually as you pick everything up, resting on your knees like it’s not uncomfortable, like they might as well be your groceries. The idea is startling. Abby thinks, suddenly, that if someone were to walk into this scene, they wouldn’t read you as a kind stranger. Your ease would hint to something else, a friend, a lover, a picture of a family. Abby finds herself looking at your hands again, brought back to reality only by the slight tug of her hair. Rue plays with her braid distractedly, mumbling to herself about her froot loops friend— except she hasn’t quite learned to pronounce it yet, so it sounds more like oot oops.
Abby chuckles, brushing some of her loose baby hair behind her ears, mumbling back answers to her gibberish to keep her entertained even if Rue doesn’t seem to need it. She’s always endlessly thrilled to just be outside, perhaps the one trait she got from her grandpa rather than her mom. Other than her light snoring.
“She loves you a lot,” you comment, rising from your knees with the bag hanging on your shoulder. You don’t ask and Abby doesn’t think about it— you just start walking back to her apartment together. “Don’t you, Ru-Ru?” the baby giggles, her head turning to you, blue eyes sparkling. You laugh, “Oh, you like that name. It suits you, Ru-Ru.”
“That’s what my dad calls her,” Abby explains.
“He sounds like a man with taste,” you say. “What do you call her?”
“Princess.”
Your smile is wide and pleased. “That suits her even more, I fear.”
“I think so, too,” Abby agrees, a proud little glimmer in her eyes. She stops in front of her door, B06 engraved in silver. Is it always such a short walk from the elevator? She’s seriously thinking about it until, after realizing in an embarrassing second that she never introduced herself to the person kind enough to chase after her baby, help pick up her groceries and carry them home, Abby suddenly turns to you with widened blue eyes and pretty, reddened cheeks. You forgive her before she even says anything, and forget your traitorous reason before it gets a chance to warn you about how dangerous that thought is. “God, sorry, I never told you my name. I’m—”
“Abby, right?” you smile softly at her surprised face, chuckling before you explain, “One of our neighbors is an old friend of mine and she kinda threw this welcome party for me when I moved in. I promise we weren’t gossiping, but I think someone mentioned you.”
“Oh,” Abby nods casually, brushing it off as if she won’t be spending all night thinking about what your first impression of her might’ve been like. Rue fusses in her arms, a little grunt as she kicks her legs to be put down. “Sorry— I‘ll be right back,” Abby shares a quick look with you and you wave goodbye, not surprised to be missing Rue as soon as she turns around. You watch them walk inside together, a tiny hand waving back at you and making you smile as she excitedly makes her way to her playpen, shrieking bye-bye! Abby places a kiss on top of Rue’s blonde hair and makes her laugh with some noise that you don’t quite catch. She’s comfortable here, walking amongst colorful toys and biology books. She moves like an expert, pulling down her shirt where it rode up somewhere along the way. You make half an effort not to stare, but it’s half more than the effort Abby makes to not let it get to her head. The most confident she’s felt so far, she asks you, “Did that totally innocent welcome party of yours happen, like, two weeks ago? I think I heard some music.”
“It was extremely innocent,” you insist, eyebrows raised teasingly, “And no, sorry, not sure what that was— I moved here like a year ago.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
You grace her (or yourself) with a second of silence before you laugh at her awkward expression, the way she brushes a hand over her flushed face and huffs. “Fuck, that’s embarrassing. I’m kinda terrible at keeping up with this type of, uh, social stuff.”
“It’s not embarrassing, I promise. It’s a big world,” you reassure her. “Even bigger when you’re doing a million other stuff.”
You tell her your name and Abby, who is young like you but also highly knowledgeable on little specific human interaction cheat-codes that come with being a mom, nods her head and makes her eyes light up with what seems, to the naive eye, like recognition. “Oh, that’s right!”
You stare for a second before squinting your eyes. “Are you lying to me, Abby from B06?”
Abby grins, wondering when was the last time she found being caught this funny. “Yeah, sorry. I’ve never heard that name in my life.”
You laugh the loudest you have so far and a daydreamed life flashes in Abby’s head— in that big, dramatic way that it does only when you’ve been watching too many rom-coms every night, or when you’re getting too much dating advice from your friend who’s been married since eighteen, or maybe when you fall in love with a pretty stranger who seems to be able to read your mind. It’s an idealized vision of an idealized world, and Abby finds herself being completely okay to clutch it in her fists to keep, because it’s fucking lovely.
“Well, I forgive you,” you tell her, unaware (maybe?) of the chaos that you’ve induced inside of her. “You’re a busy girl.”
Abby tries to think of a good, smooth way to tell you that she could see herself saying your name everyday, placed adoringly after good morning and I miss you. All she comes up with is, “I got enough time to learn it.”
—
You play with the hem of your shirt, pajamas made of mostly Abby’s clothes every night, a scent on them that’s not yours but it might as well be. It’s yours in all the ways that matter, in the same sense that she is. Abby walks out of the bathroom wearing her usual pajamas— a shirt that fits too loose and boxers that are a little too tight around her thighs. She doesn't seem to mind them, and you don’t seem to wanna complain. She knows by the way you look at her. You’re leaning back on your palms, your head tilted, the same shyness and sparkly adoration in your eyes that you’d get when you didn't know each other all that well. It’s not too often that she sees that nervousness anymore, but she still gets glimpses of it, a blink of something on your face or your tone or your breathing that says I have a crush on you and I’m hoping you can’t tell. She likes that nervousness the best right now, the way it’s timid and then settles into something like cockiness when you remember that she’s looking at you just the same, when you remember how much you like the way she copies the tilt of your head and teases you as if she's not also smiling like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world.
Abby loves every moment like this, loves getting home and helping prepare dinner and making Rue laugh before kissing her goodnight, loves doing the dishes with you and flirting and talking about the day. Today, she’s especially looking forward to the latter.
“So, how was it?” she asks, the back of her thighs resting against the dresser. She’s trying to play it cool and she's annoyingly good at it, even now.
“Hm?” you hum, leaning further back to rest on your elbows, your back almost fully touching the bed. Abby feels a little bad keeping you up, but she knows she’ll be tossing and turning all night if she has to wait until the morning to ask.
“The school meeting.”
“Oh,” you smile wide enough to look silly and beautiful, sweet enough to rot teeth. She feels like she could sink in it, your smile and the relief it brings to her well hidden nervousness. “I loved it so much, Abs.”
Abby is smooth when she walks closer, soft when she cups your cheek, but there's something anxious in her eyes if you know where to look. “Yeah?” she insists.
You nod your head and kiss the palm of her hand, your lips pressed together in that funny way of trying to hold back an excited giggle. Abby smiles and feels nostalgic for the time, many many months ago, when she’d bring a finger to her lips to shush you and then remind you in an expert whisper that Rue is sleeping in the other room. She doesn't have to teach you much at all anymore, and every moment that proves that to her feels like the most beautiful, unfamiliar peace.
“I’m so happy,” you announce, looking up at her. You’re tired enough that it feels almost like being drunk, which is maybe why a short giggle manages to escape. Abby finds it contagious, your joy moves through her as naturally and importantly as the pumping of her blood. “I’m so excited for all of it.”
It’s the second parents' meeting that you’ve attended at Rue’s school— but you spent that first one sitting quietly by her side, practically hiding behind her, too aware of yourself and of the fact that you don’t really know what you’re doing. “Nobody knows,” Abby confessed on your way home, a hand on the steering wheel and another over your leg, her fingers tapping a comforting rhythm. “Parenting is beautiful, it just comes a lot less naturally than you’d think. That thing about a biological, primal wisdom or whatever— it’s a nice concept. But the best things I know came from me actively trying.”
Her words echoed in your head when you said yes to attending this school meeting alone, when you smiled and made the effort to look as calm as you could, kissed her cheek and said “of course!”. Being Rue’s parent doesn’t always come naturally, but it comes from the most genuine love, every single time. Of course you can go to her meeting when Abby can’t reschedule work, because of course you want to know about how Rue is doing in school. It’s an honor to be there for her, to speak for her when you know she needs you to. This is you actively trying.
“How were the other parents?” Abby asks, lying on her side now, her finger tracing unreadable patterns on your cheek. She craves physical contact more than she’d like to admit— but it works great, because you never ask her to admit it if she doesn't want to. The pads of her fingers say enough.
“They were cool, they were all very sweet to me. Well, Leo’s mom is a little passive aggressive but she’s that way with everyone,” you comment through a yawn, the side of your face comfortably pressed against your pillow. Abby hums, agreeing. “Sophie’s mom was the nicest, she sat next to me and invited me to join her and Jade’s mom for brunch.”
“Which Sophie?”
“The one that gave Rue a Valentine’s gift, that milk chocolate that she loves.”
“Oh, I like that Sophie.”
“Me too. I think I wouldn't mind joining a weekly brunch cult with her mom.”
Abby laughs in the way that she only does when she’s sleepy, where she sounds almost like her teenage self, shy and sweet. By the time it dies down, you’re almost asleep. But then, softly enough that you almost don’t hear it, she asks, “How do you think you would feel if she called you that?”
You make a questioning little sound that sounds like "what?" but not quite.
“If Rue called you mom.”
Your eyes open in a second, though not without effort. You look at Abby’s face, her pretty, relaxed features, and answer honestly. “I would probably cry. And then kiss her cheeks for as long as she let me.”
Abby chuckles. “Like when she fell off the swing and got the tiniest scratch on her knee?”
“Yeah, just— the joyful version of that, I guess. They would be the happiest tears ever spilled,” you explain, so sincere that Abby almost tells you. And you know her enough to read it on her face, the way she barely parted her lips and then pressed them back together quickly. Your head lifts from the pillow. “Wait, why? She told you something? Did she ask about that?”
Abby is great at keeping it cool, but less so once she’s been caught. Her nervous chuckle says it all. “I…”
“Abby, I swear to god, I will not let you sleep until you tell me.”
She more than believes you, but a flash memory of her pinky finger wrapped around Rue’s holds her back from spilling any more details. “Sorry, baby, I’m not allowed to say.”
“Oh my god,” you drop back onto your pillow, this time lying flat on your back. “You think she’s gonna say it?” you ask, and Abby is unsure if you’re asking her or the ceiling or a godly presence way above it. Or yourself, most likely. “It’s okay if she doesn't, maybe she was just curious. Maybe she needs time. I mean, obviously. She probably won’t say it, like, tomorrow, right?” you turn your head and look at her, so wrapped up in your inner monologue that you don’t process the amusement and adoration that’s all over your girlfriend’s face. “What if I react super weird and she doesn't say it again?”
Abby’s lips stretch into the softest smile, so in love that she almost forgets to answer and instead holds her hand on the back of your neck and pulls you close to press a kiss against your forehead. Your eyebrows are still furrowed worriedly when she pulls away, and she brushes her thumb over your cheek as she lets out the kindest hum, acknowledging your question. “You’re not gonna react weird, sweetheart.”
Momentarily flustered, you shake your head to remember the point that you’d been thinking about. “But I shouldn't cry, imagine how confusing that would be for her— what if she thinks she made me upset?”
“That won’t happen. She cried happy tears when you moved in, remember? She knows what they are,” she says. It’s one of the best memories you have, the nervous look on Abby’s face when she asked you, rambling, “It would be a big change, but not the worst, right? You’d just be a couple doors down the hall. It would be a lot of the same in a lot of ways, just with us.”
After that came the late nights at your apartment, dates hidden behind the excuse of packing, half empty boxes on the floor and Abby stuck to you like glue, a kiss or ten whenever she got too carried away with excitement. A couple weeks later came your clothes in her closet, your favorite blanket on the couch, and Rue’s eyes glimmering with happy tears as she hid her face on your neck and tried to understand her feelings. Then, after a few minutes of patiently rubbing her back, came her little frown of concentration and the way she attentively listened to you and Abby explain that her reaction was normal, that sometimes happiness feels like too much to hold in just a laugh or a dance. “Oh, okay,” she’d said, in this cute proud tone that she gets whenever she learns something new that makes sense to her. It was the sweetest thing. She’s the sweetest thing— and you can’t believe this is your life, that you get to take care of her and hang out and teach her new things to be proud of.
“You think she wants me to be her mom?”
Abby smiles. “You are her mom, baby.”
Rue doesn't say it the next day. You don’t overthink it— couldn't if you tried. It's a nice feeling to be so happy that you don't feel the need to think. She doesn't call you mom that morning, but she runs to the doorway where you’re putting on your shoes to get to work and wraps her arms so tight around your legs that you have to balance yourself with a hand against the wall. Her hair is messy from sleep, her yellow pajama shirt wrinkled, her eyes blinking lazily as she looks up at you and asks, “Back soon?”
“Soon as I can, princess,” you promise, leaning down to kiss her head. What is there to overthink? What more could you possibly need?
You can do this forever, have mornings like this and feel grateful in a way that you didn't know existed until now. You love the way it comes at random times, the way you’re still you, still grumpy when your coffee tastes watery, still a little bad at getting to the train station on time, still learning not to burn the first batch of pancakes. It’s a big change, but not the worst, right? It’s a lot of the same in a lot of ways, except Abby is there at the kitchen kissing your cheek, and a tiny head of blonde hair is peeking from the back of the couch, gummy smile and freckled cheeks, saying, “I like my pancakes like that, mom!”
#abby anderson x reader#abby anderson fic#abby x reader#abby anderson x female!reader#abby anderson fluff#abby anderson headcanons#mom!abby#doctor!abby
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movie night
summary: vil devotes his time to showing you all the movies you haven't seen yet
type of post: short fic
characters: vil schoenheit
additional info: romantic, FLUFF, reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, kinda short
author's note: I so often think about how yuu is completely unfamiliar with pop culture in twisted wonderland. vil would lose his mind if he found out you hadn't seen a single movie yet. in my heart I know he's a little nerdy about it
It's to be expected.
Of course. Of course you haven't had the time or the means.
It's perfectly reasonable that you'd put your studies and social obligations before leisure time. He understands.
But hearing you so openly admit that you haven't seen a single movie since arriving in this world, let alone one of his, doesn't sit well with Vil Schoenheit.
As it turns out, the mythological being who doesn't spend their free time absorbed in media is real, and they're standing right in front of him with an apologetic smile.
Oh, you poor, poor thing.
Even after the conversation dies and you part ways on good terms, Vil can't shake this odd, itchy feeling.
He wonders what it must be like- not understanding anyone's references, being left out of conversations, still so dependent on a culture that doesn't even exist here.
Is there something wrong with the people you spend your time with? Surely at least one of them would take the time to show you the classics. Just one.
No wonder everyone regards you as naive and innocent. No one's taken the time to explain anything about this world to you. And he's sure that extends far beyond cinema...
"What is this?"
It's the first thing you ask when he opens the door to you. Ever curious, ever clueless.
"Is that a rhetorical question?" he says, looking thoroughly unamused with your naivete.
A projector. A white screen. And a tray full of luxury skincare essentials that he'll be sure to test on you while you're distracted.
"Seriously," you say. "What's going on? Your message was really vague."
He sighs. "Oh, goodness, just come inside,"
Vil sits you down on the edge of his bed and hands you a plush headband to push your hair out of your eyes. He's more than pleased at your lack of protests thus far, and continues to take advantage of your willingness while smearing a sweet-smelling face mask over your cheeks.
"It needs to set before we start,"
"Start what?"
Vil smirks, standing and drifting across the room to a large wardrobe- no, a cabinet. He opens it- no, a shelf. Packed full of DVDs, arranged by date and in pristine condition.
"Wow, Vil. I never took you for a nerd,"
His gaze sharpens. "Hardly. And try not to talk so much right now, you'll crack the mask,"
He hums merrily, delicate fingers dancing over the smooth plastic cases before stopping at a soft white one. "This'll do,"
You watch as Vil returns to your side, carefully inspects your face, and then walks back around to tinker with the projector. You, of course, wait patiently, hands folded neatly in your lap as the screen ahead of you comes to life.
He turns off the lights and sits beside you as a white light illuminates your face, turning the hue of the mask a strange color.
"This is a classic," he whispers. "It's the first film I remember loving."
"It's that good?"
He chuckles. "No, it's quite outdated, and terribly unfunny. I'm just fond of it,"
If there's anything Vil Schoenheit is, it's honest. The entire black and white picture (which you surmise is quite old by Twisted Wonderland standards) is heaped with unfunny and confusing references, terribly paced, and acted like a primary school play.
And yet, there's a sense of warmth that permeates the external terribleness of it, that of which takes form in each of Vil's awkward laughs.
You revel in each of his little comments, his tidbits about the actors, his trivia about the production. He certainly seems to know what he's talking about, and his grace and confidence almost distract you from how nerdy he's really being.
Though, he's really not paying close attention to the screen. Vil seems far more interested in watching you, your reactions, almost as if searching for some kind of approval in the expressions you make. Do you laugh at this joke? Do you ask about this plot twist? Do you enjoy this song?
It's a completely alien experience, having him looking to you for validation, although you make sure to comment on how much you enjoyed yourself. Just to see him smile again.
"Same time next week, then," he says. "One movie won't be enough to catch you up on decades of pop culture, after all."
And thus, a tradition is born.
It's strange for him to think about how you've made yourself a home in his schedule. Wedged between expensive photo shoots and meetings with luxury brands, there's you. One single name in the same spot every week.
He couldn't admit it, but you've quickly become the highlight of his calendar.
"And this is just after they transitioned to movies with sound. It was a grand extinction event, not every studio nor star survived," he says, nodding to the screen ahead.
You hum in agreement. Your eyes are heavier than usual, and you're leaning against your elbow, absent-mindedly agreeing with everything he says.
A part of Vil wants to tease you for finding his taste in film boring, but he's not even sure if you have the mental capacity to listen to big words right now.
"Sleepy?"
"Grim kept waking me up last night..." you sigh. "I'm paying attention, I promise."
He watches you lie through your teeth, and then he watches as your words grow heavy and your body slumps over, awkwardly positioned against his.
Vil sighs- whatever is he going to do with you and that terrible sleep schedule of yours?- and readjusts so that your head is neatly set in the crook of his neck and your body is comfortably fit against his.
He finishes the movie, and lets the screen play the menu sequence over and over again. It's not really worth waking you up over, after all.
You're so cute when you're sleeping.
He hates himself for thinking that. You're perfectly inelegant- awkwardly breathing, practically drooling. And yet, he could stay here for the rest of the night and not wholly regret it in the morning. He just wishes you'd picked a better time to fall asleep on him.
Someday, he'd gladly return to bed to cuddle with you after he'd done his evening routine.
But... just this once, he'll let it go.
#had a rough day yesterday and I use this blog to decompress#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#vil schoenheit x reader
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Radioapple/Appleradio Secret Marriage au part 3:
(No one asked for this but I got a lot of time on my hands.)
When Alastor returned after 7 damn years, Vox could've sworn he'd mellowed out somehow – gotten soft around the edges in the years they hadn't fought like mortal enemies.
Well, not mortal enemies per se. More like the desperate attempt to gain the others attention which succeeded most of the time.
But anyways, Vox could practically smell the emotion on him and it didn't suit Alastor. It didn't suit his Alastor. Alastor was his enemy, the man who never hesitated to kill and humiliate others for entertainment. The man who had a reputation for being unpredictable and murderous.
He could see the way he'd look at the wannabe demon Charlie or the cowardly King of Hell who was shorter than two egg bois stacked on top each other. He saw the light in Alastor's eyes and it unsettled him. The way it somewhat resembled the look in Alastor's eyes before their falling out.
It was a certain softness which was obvious, especially when you're so used to seeing a cold expression with a manic smile. The expression he had looking at Lucifer was a soft grin, the emotion in his eyes which Vox couldn't quite put his finger on but he craved it. He craved to have Alastor looking at him in that exact way with the exact angle his eyes would curl at to the lack of teeth in the smile and even to the way his ears would twitch subtly when Lucifer looked back.
And it enraged Vox to see him like that for someone else. Even more so when he'd see that Lucifer seemed even more soft for Alastor. His gaze infinitely bright and his smile carefree as ever, as if he didn't care for pride in that moment and all that mattered was the red deer infront of him. The way his smile would stay consistent as he'd stare at Alastor with genuine happiness, as if just being able to look at him was something worth more than Hell itself.
And his anger, his rage, reached endless amounts when he saw them treating Charlie as if she was their child. Yes, she was Lucifer's but that certainly did not warrant Alastor making her pancakes every morning and asking how her day went and combing through her unruffled hair and telling stories and even helping her pick out dresses. Alastor shouldn't be treating them like that. And he certainly shouldn't be ignoring Vox as if he didn't exist.
He wanted Alastor to fight him, glare with hatred, anything but indifference. Anything but confusion with a question, "Who are you, again?" He would've accepted anything at that point, even his usual shit-eating triumphant grin that he'd wear when looking at Vox. As if he'd won a battle that hadn't even started.
He didn't like how Alastor had almost forgotten his own rival. He didn't like how Alastor and Lucifer would have subtle gestures for each other; holding a door open, pulling a chair out for the other and even helping each other if their outfit was in some way dishevelled. He especially hated how Lucifer would deliberately ruin his own tie, just to go to Alastor and have him help. And it didn't help how Alastor would let his guard down around Lucifer, almost forgetting that Vox was always watching. And Alastor's shadow was never nearly as affectionate with Vox as it was with Lucifer.
Everything was ticking him off. And it didn't help when Val tried to offer 'relieving him' or when Vel made an offhanded remark about him being sexually-frustrated and pissy about the lack of attention from his dear rival. And he almost felt the urge to just storm over there and break them up when he'd seen Lucifer leaning in to kiss Alastor, only to realise that Vox was watching and hastily pull away.
He hated how he wasn't in Lucifer's place.
(Lucifer tops in this au btw-)
👀
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For the last 2 weeks I've been transfixed on a strain of lost media I've come to call "bad memory induced media", where the supposed media in question does not (or at least more than likely does not) exist, but there are swaths of people convinced that they have definitely seen it at some point. There is rarely anything more to go off of for the hunt than a vague summary outlined in a post on some forum, but the lack of specificity allows people to fill in the blanks with similar types of media that they've seen, giving them the impression that they've already experienced it. I've found that this is extremely common for alleged lost shock media in particular, which isn't surprising. I talked a little about this on my LOL SUPERMAN post, and I get the impression that a similar strain of logic applies on a smaller scale.
Anyway, 2 major cases I have been looking at for a while are Saki Sanobashi/Go For A Punch and Evil Farm Game. Saki Sanobashi in particular fascinates me because an urban legend like this should have crumbled to the wayside by like 2018 at the latest, since that's when anime more or less became demystified to normal people. The basic premise is that it is an 80s/90s horror anime about anywhere from 4-8 girls trapped in a bathroom. The girls talk about their lives, hopes, dreams and philosophies before slowly going insane and dying one by one. If you like horror stuff you probably are already getting the vague impression that it sounds familiar- which could be influenced by any swath of media artifacts from Saw to the Russian Sleep Experiment creepypasta to the Ikea SCP to ClockUp's Euphoria to snippets of Battle Royale to that one Grisaia no Kaijitsu arc. OP insisted he found it fully subbed on the deep web (omegalul) and hasn't found a trace of it since, implying some kind of murky origin or legal status (the OVA is not pornographic btw). As you can probably tell I think this is silly. Like, so much goes into anime production that it would be difficult to hide any traces of this thing's existence. Someone had to voice act those girls. Someone had to sit hunched over a desk and draw that settei. OVAs were such a new thing in the 80s and 90s that both sfw and nsfw series were advertised in magazines. The only way that this could be so lost that not even a MAL entry remains is if it had been a student/indie production or something made for a single comiket event...but even at that....you're telling me that someone still managed to rip this from a vhs and subtitle it? And then chose to upload it to the deep web instead of youtube? even the title sounds like something google translated but didnt format correctly ("Saki Sanobashi" being gibberish while "Saki-san no Bashi" translates to "Saki-san's Bridge").
And yet there are people who will say "I definitely saw this at some point" because they saw a reaction image similar to the alleged scene where the protagonist smashes someone's head into a mirror. "The neck scratching death sounds familiar...." because you watched a higurashi amv! And OP did too, and thought it was so creepy that he involved it in his fake story. It's almost grating how much you have to suspend your disbelief to embrace that something like this exists in the exact way that stories like this insist. And yet, despite everything, the hunt for Saki Sanobashi continues because kids are too old to believe in Squidward's Suicide.
Evil Farm Game gives me a chuckle because it goes like this: a redditor posts to r/tipofmytongue about an old flash game where you play as a farmer who kills his wife and then has to hide her body while going about his farm tasks. The setup is completely fine and actually kind of reminiscent of a few story driven flash games I played on newgrounds as a kid. Many people came forward insisting that they had played this as well, one person even producing a link to a file from their hard drive that they couldn't open, but strongly believed that the game was there. A subreddit was even created to support the search. The twist is that it was a misremembered joke from a vinesauce stream.
Everyone knows that memory is an extremely fallable thing; people can be coaxed into believing that they did or saw things that they didn't with the correct prompts, but what gets me is that a lot of people on the hunt for "bad memory induced media" seem to largely be hyping themselves up. They want to believe there is something that exists against all reason no matter what. Its chuuni in nature. Do not get me wrong- the interest in finding a cool, mysterious, haunting piece of media isn't lost on me, but dog, the dopamine hit of finding a previously lost 1985 commercial for almonds in a box of vhs tapes you got from eBay is the same.
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Good morning what are the movies or tv shows that traumatized you as a kid mine are the BBC production of A Christmas Carol and a handful of David Suchet Poirot episodes
#my dad always thought if something was well done it was appropriate for children#so we never watched the silly little kid version of things. The muppet Christmas Carol? My dad would N E V E R#anyway a Christmas Carol ruined Christmas for me for YEARS#i hated to think about it#and poirot was just. traumatizing#there’s one called murder on the links which involved a golf course at night which is one of the most terrifying locations I can imagine#also there’s one called death in the clouds#and poirot uncovers the murder because there are two spoons on the dead lady’s tray of airplane food#and the way he says ‘he picks up a spoon giving him the task of a waiter to carry out’#when explaining the murder at the end to this DAY sends chills up my spine#I know this is very obvious but the thing about fear is that it isn’t about logic or reason but it is about revelation#it’s like the flip side of moments of good and happy insight#at least for me#what terrifies me is a moment where some kind of evil is revealed in a blinding FLASH#a motive or (I guess) a ghost#and there is this presence of some malevolent entity underneath the reality of things#and something about it being SEEN almost more than it existing#is so scary. Like I.#Poirot uncovering the murder and describing it with such studied fascinated careful attention#pulling back the layers of a blind of one kind or another#shakes me to. my. CORE.#and it’s all so visual and instinctive. it’s one tiny little moment that doesn’t fit suddenly pulling back the curtain of reality#with such terrifying abruptness#makes me want to sit down and cry like a baby#the knowledge of evil doesn’t scare me. as in it doesn’t elicit an emotional/physical reaction of fear#but seeing it in embodied action. again. where it’s some tiny ordinary little detail suddenly ripping reality as you know it to shreds#the surprise of it. the recalibration it demands#I !!!!!!!!! Get so afraid
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#I have learned that my image my reflection is not my own#love reading about lives that are infinitely more intriguing than mine#1. I was hesitant before reading this I judged almost exactly the way emily judged demi moore's memoir: a reflection on both of our parts#2. I teared up during the conversation with her mother how since she's older now men don't look at her the same and emily mentioned how#-it must be peaceful.#it must be one of the most freeing experiences: to exist without being seen as something else#3. a part of me wishes i'd have a daughter and try to teach her how to not equate her worth to her beauty#-the other part of me would rather die than become a mother but that's neither here nor there#4. she was too young.#8/10#books :)
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The thing is that the portrayal of Neanderthals as having been inherently grotesque and alien to H. sapiens is something we will never have proof of. But we do have proof that, in different locations and in different populations across time, we all found eachother desirable. We saw eachother and wanted to touch. And the offspring were held by their mothers and raised and had their own offspring in turn.
When you look for the first proof that H. sapiens found Neanderthals repulsive, you have to wait until the Victorian era, when the white masters of empires were busy portraying Neanderthals as stupid, brutish, and (of course) dark-skinned.
In more modern times, we’ve had people arguing that instead of seeing Neanderthals as Benighted Savages, they should instead be seen as Noble Savages, (allegedly) cruelly destroyed and driven from their lands by H. sapiens. Which one of their two you believe says more about your modern political views than it does about ancient H. sapiens.
And, whether we construct Neanderthals as Savage or Noble Savage, the fundamental assumption we project into the unfathomably distant past is still that H. sapiens saw Neanderthals as an Other, with the language we use being almost explicitly that of modern racial dynamics.
But we have no proof of any of that. We have no proof of hostilities. We know we co-existed and we had sex. That’s it.
Humans obviously have sex with some humans and kill others. We also know that, when small groups of humans occupy vast spaces with infrequent contact with others, unique cultures will always form, some more hospitable, some more neophobic/xenophobic. But many cultures of small settlements placed among huge unpeopled landscapes place supreme emphasis on hospitality to strangers. Plus, we fucking love other social animals, as evidenced by how we befriended wolves.
I’m a humourless weirdo and a wet blanket about popular constructions of Neanderthals as “monstrous”, and I freely admit it. But that’s because it’s tied up in legacies of imperialism. Not only that, but it also privileges one culture (yours, mine, modernity’s) as being most human by implicitly assuming we can project it onto people in the past. Since you don’t pretend that all global cultures share exact same values as you do, it doesn’t take more than a few moments’ reflection to realise you can’t do that to the past.
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and TODAY ON "Songs Fionna can't listen to without them fucking her up immensely and remind her why she doesn't listen to them very often every time she listens to them", we have:
youtube
#logs#every time i'm like oh this song gets me in my feels i should listen to it and every time i end up hurting#something something proof of being alive yeah yeah but i really can't handle it#big shouts to trocadero for making songs that fuck me up every time i listen to them#i mean nothing comes close to contact in terms of how much a trocadero song fucks me up but you gotta admit‚ and i wonder where you are /#and i wonder what you wore / and i'm lost inside a bar / and i'm drunk inside a war / and i wonder where you are is also terrific#okay i'm gonna go cry about the tragedy of making a hyperspecific space opera that holds so much meaning and discusses so many things from#grief through moving on through learning how to live after having spent a significant portion of your life without any kind of autonomy#through reunions and learning how to talk with someone you haven't seen in nineteen years to‚ ultimately‚ having hope no matter what gets#thrown your way and that is ultimately about giving people happiness and closure but that loses a lot of its value by fitting into very#specific niches due to its nature as a work of fiction based on two works created by other people and having the centerpieces be not people#i have managed to come up with and whose stories i've written#but rather pre-existing persons that are mindchildren of a completely different individual#the worst part is that the story simply wouldn't work with different characters or using a different story as a basis. what i have created‚#what i WANT to create is‚ by all standards that count... perfect. the story /works/ /because/ of the characters involved. but the overlap#between the people who enjoy the story the characters are derived from AND the story that serves as the setting is so comically small that#it's all but impossible to find an audience to whom the story would mean as much as it means to me. and there are a few people out there‚#sure enough. but i am terrified to reach out because this is so personal to me. i'd love to share this story with people but spilling my#entrails out and having people turn away dissatisfied with what they see or saying it's ''not for them'' hurts me more than almost anything#else in this world. call me a coward‚ but my soul's aged too fast‚ and i'm tired‚ and i can't bear that risk.#one day‚ though... someone will listen.#black blank blah-blah-blah
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I looked up some stuff about the "domestication syndrome" in animals because I read a couple times in books the idea that domesticated animals are neotenous, meaning they retain juvenile traits into adulthood. The idea being that humans have essentially created more helpless, more exploitable versions of wild animals to "dominate" and abuse nature.
I thought, "Okay, that sounds like something that couldn't be proven. How much do we even know about the juvenile brain development of, say, wild goats or boars, anyway?"
So I found this review of the literature that goes back to the fur farm fox domestication study and it's even worse than I thought: We don't even know that a 'domestication syndrome' in animals exists at all, let alone whether it is a retention of juvenile traits into adulthood.
So the fur farm fox domestication study: you may have heard of it, it claimed to have demonstrated that within a few generations, by selecting for tameness, the researchers bred "domesticated" foxes with a whole suite of traits that appear in many domesticated animals but seem unrelated to tameness, such as piebald coloration and floppy ears. The idea is that the genes for tameness and for these other traits commonly seen in domestic animals are linked, that is, an animal that inherits one is likely to inherit the other.
There's some major problems. First of all, all the foxes used in the study were from fur farms, and had already been selected for some level of docility and for coat color variation. The foxes didn't get white spots on them because they were selected for tameness, instead the pre-existing population they were selected from had those genes in it to begin with. Also, the effective population size of the foxes in the study was pretty small, meaning a small amount of genetic drift could have a big impact.
Second, there isn't very much evidence for most of the "domestication syndrome" traits in most animals. Even where the "domestication syndrome" traits can be found, they are often particular to specific breeds, and it's unclear whether they are linked to domestication as such or just the development of that specific breed.
This study only deals with a few animals, mostly small animals. It would be even more interesting to see a breakdown of even more animals (particularly more large animals). Off the top of my head, almost none of these would apply to horses, and only in specific cases would apply to cattle. Even in dogs, extreme changes in skull morphology have happened relatively recently with breeders in modern times going after extreme phenotypes.
Particular to cats: extreme skull changes and floppy ears occur as part of some "breeds" because they are specific painful genetic disorders that breeders of cats decided to perpetuate VERY recently. Scottish Folds were deliberately developed from cats that just so happened to have a disease that causes them to be in constant suffering due to their messed up joints, it's not just a variation that regularly pops up in cats to varying extents. Likewise with the smushed-face Persians. Their brains are getting squished into where their spinal cords should go because their skulls are so messed up from selective breeding for an extreme look.
What domestication means has been majorly shaken up in the past hundred years. With companion animals, breeders are in a race to make the most screwed up animal with the most extreme, striking traits possible, and with livestock animals, lots of heritage breeds with more variations have straight up gone extinct because they've been flattened into industrial monocultures to produce meat and milk as efficiently as possible, health and genetic diversity be damned.
To study domestication itself, you would have to study landrace breeds, right?
Basically there isn't one thing that domestication is
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Gojo Satoru x darling
TW: NSFW, noncon, fantasy au
gn reader
Thinking about hunter Gojo and the pretty little nymph that gets themselves snared in one of his traps.
You can’t get your poor leg loose, having twisted your ankle in your fall to the ground – something’s wrong with your wing too, you can feel it – the thin network’s been folded, almost broken – so even if you did manage getting loose, you wouldn’t be able to fly away.
Branches snap around you along the crunch of old leaves – and your heart’s beating out of your chest in fear of it – knowing something large and dangerous is not far behind, that whoever set the trap is not something that wishes you well.
“You’re not a rabbit.” The man says, having crept in close before you’d even heard him approach – crouching in front of you with a hunter's grace. Hawk-eyes ice-blue and piercing, hair as white as pure snow.
He’s got three daggers sleaved in his belt – a fillet knife, a gutting knife, and a larger one you imagine is meant to slice throats. He doesn’t carry a sword like most men but has a bow and sack of arrows slung on his back. Otherwise, dressed lightly – brown leather boots, brown slacks, and a blue cotton shirt. You could have mistaken him for a woodland elf if it weren’t for the thick stench of man.
“Eating creatures from the holy forest is forbidden.” You snip, despite your wide eyes and the wobble of fear evident on your lip.
He only smiles at the quip, a grin like a predator humored by prey. “You wouldn’t tell a wolf not to hunt.”
He stalks you, leaning in closer, and you try shuffling away – but the movement only makes you wince.
“I’m just another hungry animal…”
Rope gnaws into your fine skin while his breath puffs hot and dewy on your face.
“And tonight… seems lady luck has favored me once again.”
He gags you and ties you further up before redoing his snare for the next unlucky creature – then carries you over his shoulder until he’s dropping you down on a bed of furs.
Your skin flushes with goosebumps at the thought of being skinned the same way – mouthing a little prayer around the cloth he’s split your teeth and lips with. He’s cut trees down as well; you hear their pitiful screams when he lights a fire with their bodies. You mourn them, too.
At his full height, the man must be two heads taller than any male nymph you’ve ever seen and at least three heads taller than you. You hope you’re enough to satisfy him tonight, to spare the forest of further bloodshed.
You shiver and sniffle when he starts prepping you – removing your clothes and groping your tender, fleshy places with a strength you’re not used to – hands large and crass – kneading you like dough – probably to assess the quality of your meat. He has a smile on his face while at it.
Humans make you sick – to think he’s planning on roasting then eating you despite the soul fueling your spirit and the beating heart in your chest. But you’ve long known that all death but their own matters little to them – they don’t feel the same way nymphs do – they don’t regard life with the same respect they’ve donned themselves. It must be a sad and lonely existence, you think. It even makes you feel a little sorry for him.
You yelp when his gritty fingers brush the area between your legs – shimmying when he lowers his mouth down to the same place. Oh God – does he plan on eating you raw? While your body’s still hot and pumping blood?
But the bite never comes – not yet eating but tasting it would seem – licking and slurping and sucking on you.
He takes his shirt off. Probably to avoid spilling on it, you think.
You don’t really understand what’s going on until he’s got his fat manhood pointed toward your kernel-sized hole. Eyes wide as he splits you apart slowly and unabashedly – as though it isn't as deviant as a dog mating a cat – sinking in inch after meaty inch.
You whimper at the stretch – wincing when the plush mushroom-shaped head grinds against that special place inside you.
It doesn’t fit more than halfway, but that doesn’t seem to bother him – rolling his head back with a rusty groan, even with just the tip gaining purchase within you – pounding into you like a beast in his rut.
“What's the matter, pretty nymph? Did you think I was gonna eat you?” He laughs, bearing over you – his hands steadying your hips to meet his sharp thrust – each hit deeper than the last. “I’m the only hunter in this forest; I can eat what I want when I want – but eating you?” He scoffed and snickered. “That would just be a waste.”
The blood on his breath makes you wrinkle your nose – squeezing your eyes shut as his tongue sweeps up the tear streaks on your cheek.
“My stomach’s already full. Time to empty my balls.”
#yandere jjk#yandere jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujustu kaisen#jujutsu gojo#jujutsu kaisen#gojo smut#satoru gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#gojou satoru x reader#satoru gojo#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo saturo#jjk gojo#yandere gojo x reader#yandere gojo satoru#yandere gojo#yandere satoru gojo#jjk smut#jujustu kaisen headcanons#gojo headcanons
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So there's a lot to unpack here but I want to start by talking about the ending and specifically about the Metatron and the calculating moves made at the end of episode 6.
Every single piece of what happened there was a manipulation technique being employed against Aziraphale to an almost brilliant degree and I'm honestly a little obsessed with what this says about the Metatron in particular.
Let's go in order.
First of all. We see him order coffee. In a human body. Something sweet and sugary. He talks to Nina and asks her about her shop name. Does anyone ever ask for death? And when she tells him no they don't his response is to say "so predictable". Our introduction to him here even when everything about him reads like a sweet old man is presented to show us someone who reads the world in terms of being predictable to him.
He then shows up in the middle of Aziraphale's existence being threatened. He immediately cuts down the threat's authority (using outdated language like Az himself would favor) and reemphasizes his own connection to Heaven. When Michael doesn't recognize him and he puts her down and then directly engages Crowley. Crowley who, to Aziraphale, has for centuries at a minimum been someone he thinks is smarter, better, more Good than these other archangels. The Metatron validates these beliefs. Crowley is more Heavenly than these archangels who couldn't even recognize the voice of God when he was standing right in front of them.
The Metatron draws attention to the fact he's in a human body. The kind of body Aziraphale has been in and loved for nearly 6000 years. He then banishes the archangels, implying their morality is in a gray space, and validates Muriel someone we have seen Aziraphale react positively to and someone outside the current power structure. Look at me, he's saying. I see and validate the little guy.
He then tries to talk to Aziraphale. Aziraphale says "I've made my position quite clear." And then the Metatron offers Aziraphale the coffee. This bartering chip, consuming sustenance, is a thing that Aziraphale and Crowley have used as their connective tissue for centuries. It's an olive branch for them. It's giving Aziraphale bodily pleasure and the Metatron implies that he himself has partaken also - a thing we know that Aziraphale has struggled historically with moralizing. He is seen by the closest thing he has left to his parent and he is having old fears validated as safe and old habits being played upon to make him feel secure
He then REMOVES Aziraphale from his home turf. Not only does he remove Crowley from the equation but he takes Aziraphale from the place that has stood as a place of sanctuary throughout the entirety of the season. The shop is Safe and Aziraphale is leaving it and he is leaving the one person who might be able to smell the bullshit coming from the Metatron. The music notably turns absolutely dire here.
The next time we see them the Metatron tells Aziraphale that he doesn't need to answer instantly. He can take his time, if he likes. All the time he needs. And then tells him to go tell Crowley. Once again bringing Crowley in as a valid part of this while manufacturing a scenario where he can't possibly be.
Az ends up in a place where he's overwhelmed and confused and he wants so badly to believe what he's being told. It's an appealing thing from his perspective! He feels off kilter like he's made a mistake in judging the Metatron. He can't even fully articulate what happened to Crowley at first and he's had absolutely no real time to actually think it through. He's running on sheer reactive energy.
The Metatron starts their conversation by asking Aziraphale's opinion. Who should rule Heaven? This is once again playing into making Az feel validated and like he's a part of this decision making process. The Metatron corrects him, complimenting Aziraphale and making him feel capable and in control. He reassures Aziraphale's bafflement. And draws attention to some traits that, while true of Aziraphale around Crowley, are not his defining traits in the eyes of Heaven. You don't just tell people what they want to hear I find particularly notable in this regard given Aziraphale spent most of his time on earth actively lying to Heaven and doing just that. But it fits into the narrative Aziraphale has built around himself, especially post Apocalypse. The Metatron then says I need you (a phrase Az will use much more painfully here in a minute).
And even after all this Aziraphale says no. He says flat out he doesn't want to go back to Heaven. He says this!!! And then the Metatron sweetens the pot. He swaps tactics. Not once has this come up until Aziraphale pushes back against the idea. If the Metatron could've gotten him without using it I have no doubt he wouldn't have bothered with it. Come to Heaven and we can save Crowley. Aziraphale loves Crowley. Aziraphale thinks Crowley is better than any of the angels he's interacted with. Crowley is Good and Nice and Kind and always saving him and now he's being presented with a way to return that. He can Forgive Crowley - a thing Crowley has always presented to Aziraphale as something he struggles with. All of these things Aziraphale has watched Crowley react to in a way that belittles himself or distances them from one another. Of course he wouldn't consider that maybe what he was actually saying is "I'm unforgivable and I don't want that forgiveness."
The Metatron offers Aziraphale a Dream Offer for the pre Armageddon Aziraphale. You can keep your Crowley. You can heal him like you have always thought he deserved. You can have power and control the people who for your whole existence has beaten you down. It can go back to how it was but BETTER.
When Aziraphale leaves he still hasn't answered. He goes and has the conversation they have. It's intense and emotional and the Metatron comes in after the Moment all casual and asks how it goes, knowing fully well the shitstorm he had just set up to get created. And then he turns around and says "always did want to go his own way" which is not only true of Crowley but framed as a bad thing despite the fact that he has just spent twenty minutes or so telling Aziraphale that he's done his own thing and that is Good. He is playing both sides of this perspective as it suits him. And then he cuts down Crowley asking questions, pressuring Aziraphale to avoid doing the same. He then proceeds to ask Aziraphale not if he's made up his mind but if he's ready to get started. He is one by one closing off exit routes to this thing as Aziraphale starts to look more and more panicked and indecisive. He makes sure the bookshop is in good hands and asks Aziraphale if there's anything he needs to take with him. Letting Aziraphale have the illusion of choice while cutting down "I don't want to" as an option altogether.
And Az, as soon as the Metatron is out of shot, tries to express this. And then he falls back right on old coping methods. The Metatron pats him on the head. Reassures that he's the right one for this. That he is Good. That his particular skillset is needed here.
It is a masterstroke of manipulation. A very dark twist on what we see Crowley do time and time again with Aziraphale throughout the millennia. Familiar in a way that makes Aziraphale feel safe. Except this time this is being used to put him back in line. It's brilliant and painful and it fucking hurt and I need a season 3 to see the Metatron get what's coming to him stat.
#good omens#good omens season 2#gos2 spoilers#good omens spoilers#Metatron#Aziraphale#Episode 6#Every Day#good omens meta
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lucky charm
pairing: lando norris x reader
summary: lando finds comfort in your presence as doubt starts to creep in before a race (2k)
warnings: minimal swearing
a/n: hi i know i'm still super new here and i'm not even sure if i'm actually going to start writing rpf but i think about this motherfucker 24/7 now and this came to me in a dream <3 let's ignore the actual way he got his ring necklace okay? okay!
“No one saw you come in, right?”
Lando let the door close behind him gently, a total opposite to the quickest few steps you’d ever seen him take across the small driver’s room, and he leaned over to kiss you, hard.
You let out a squeak of surprise at the force of it, but had no hesitation in kissing him back as soon as your body caught up with your brain, arms looping around his neck to bring him down and closer to you.
Lando’s knees hit the cushions on either side of you, hands doing the same on the leather backrest, clumsy as all hell but twice as determined not to let his mouth leave yours.
Your fingers knocked the McLaren cap right off his head as they moved into his hair, clutching at his chocolate curls on instinct like you’d done so many times before. But never here, never before one of Lando’s races, and certainly never at the risk of being caught by anyone in the facility at any given moment.
It didn’t seem to matter to Lando, though, with the way he was kissing you like he was parched and you were the only thing that could quench his thirst.
But given the rather frantic series of texts you’d received from him that got you here in the first place, you weren’t at all too surprised. You knew how nervous Lando got before races, and if there was something you could do, you’d never hesitate to be there for him. Especially since you were able to make it to this one.
“Yeah,” He mumbled between kisses, panting against your lips. Somehow he’d managed to switch positions so he was the one on the sofa now and you were sitting on his lap, straddling his hips as you continued your rather sloppy makeout session. “Yeah, yeah, we’re good. ‘M sneaky like that.”
“Had a lot of practice at this, have you?”
“No!” It was almost comical how fast he pulled away from you to blurt out his answer. “No, not at all. I don’t know why I said that, I—”
“I was just kidding, bub.” You chuckled, smoothing the pad of your thumb across his kiss-swollen bottom lip fondly. Lando grinned sheepishly, giving your waist a playful little pinch. You’d never get over the way he looked at you, like you were the only other person to exist in the world—especially when he was under you like this, and especially with those eyes. His baby cow eyes, you always called them.
Even so, Lando was extremely tense, you could tell. He tended to get very in his head before races, probably why he asked you to come meet him so close to the green flag, to help him quell his nerves a little. He always said you helped him more than anything else ever could.
“I have something for you.” You said softly.
“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” He leaned back against the cushion, happily accepting the chaste kiss you pressed to his lips before you bounced off his lap and over to where your bag was sitting.
You rummaged around in it for a few moments until you found what you were looking for, a triumphant grin on your face as you made your way back over to an intrigued Lando. This time you settled next to him, throwing your legs across his lap. His hand came to rest on your knee immediately.
“Open it.” You urged, pressing the small black bag into his waiting palm. He undid the drawstring carefully, beaming even before he got a look at what was inside. That smile only grew bigger as he poured the contents of the bag into his hand.
A thin silver chain, joined together at the ends with two interlocking rings, sleek and silver just like the rest of the necklace. Upon closer inspection, he saw numbers etched into the inside of each one. One of them, Lando recognized instantly as the date of your anniversary. The other looked like a set of coordinates, but he wasn’t too great at geography, so he looked to you for an explanation.
“The place we first met.”
“You looked up the coordinates of that tiny little restaurant? Nerd.” He chuckled, artfully dodging the swat you aimed his way at his teasing remark.
“It could be, like, your new lucky charm or something.” You shrugged, watching him turn the rings around carefully between his fingers.
Lando glanced up, bumping your shoulder with his gently. “I’ve already got one.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. It’s you.”
“Me?”
“I like knowing you’re watching me. Even though I can’t see you, or even if you’re not here, knowing I’ve got you cheering me on from wherever you are helps. I think it makes me a better driver.”
“Lan, you’re already a great driver.. You don’t need me for you to know that.”
“I know. I just—it keeps me focused. To know you’re there.” He said softly, giving your hand a tight squeeze. “And now with this, I can have a piece of you with me whenever. Here, help me put it on.”
“You can’t wear it under your suit, Lando, even I know that.”
“Alright, well, I’ll figure it out later. C’mon, put it on me.” Lando leaned forward, giving you space to bring the chain up over his head and around his neck. He even managed to sneak in another kiss whilst you followed the silver down to where the rings rested just below his collarbones. Your fingers stroked at the warm skin there, the cold of the metal contrasting.
“It looks good on you.”
Lando melted like a popsicle on a hot summer day under your touch, smiling so big at you that you could hardly believe this was the same boy who had other drivers trembling in their fireproofs. He hoisted you back into his lap effortlessly, nosing at your pulse point a bit before smacking a kiss to your cheek when you wrapped your arm around his shoulders. “You look good on me.”
“That was so bad. Like, really bad. I get why they call you Lando Norizz now.”
“What?! Bad? That was so fucking smooth!” He huffed, going from looking completely smitten to entirely offended. “And I happen to have lots of rizz, thank you very much. I practically ooze rizz, love.”
“I take it back.” You replied solemnly, patting Lando’s cheek. “That was worse.”
“You’re so mean to me. I don’t know why I even put up with this harassment!”
“Always so dramatic, you.”
“I’ve got to be! How else would I be able to withstand this abuse?”
You scoffed playfully and moved to climb off him, opting to keep a safe enough distance away so you wouldn’t be tempted to kiss him stupid. Then he’d really be late. “Don’t you have a race to prepare for, driver boy?”
“I am,” He said earnestly, tucking his hands behind his head. You arched a skeptical brow, hands propped on your hips.
“By hiding out in here with me?”
“You know what they say—calm the mind, and the body will follow.”
“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that.”
“Well maybe people should start!”
You huffed out an amused chuckle, crossing your arms. “Are you ready?”
A sudden silence blanketed the tiny room, Lando’s non response giving you all you needed to know.
He reached out for you with a pout that you’d never been quite able to resist, fingers beckoning you back over longingly, like you were too far away for his liking. You gave in almost immediately despite previously wanting to give him space, trudging over with an overexaggerated roll of your eyes and letting yourself be pulled back onto his lap yet again.
“I’ll be alright.” He answered finally, taking your hand in his. He fiddled with your fingers, tracing along each digit languidly and then circling his thumb over your palm—once, twice, a third time.
This, something you’d learned quite early on in your relationship with Lando, was one of his many versions of self-soothing. The repetition of his actions proved rather calming to him, and it certainly helped that he got to feel your skin against his.
His brows drew together in thought, furrowed and tense until you pushed your thumb into the wrinkle between them, smoothing out the scrunch. He wrapped his fingers around your wrist loosely.
“You’re gonna do great, you know.” You insisted.
He offered you as good of a smile as he could muster. “Yeah. I know.”
“You’re gonna do your best, and whatever happens, you’ve got so many people who’ll be proud of you no matter what.”
“I don’t know if it’s enough.” Lando blurted, scratching at a patch on his suit. “I’ve been racing for years, and I still have no wins to show for it. It’s not fair to my team, it’s not fair to the fans. It’s not fair to you. You shouldn’t have to have a boyfriend who can’t fucking drive for shit.”
“Lando, I’m not with you because of your job.” You said shortly, pressing your lips into a thin, unamused line. “And quite frankly, I feel hurt that you could even think I was.”
Lando was quick to soothe, shaking his head frantically. He took both your hands in his, squeezing. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, it’s just—I get in my head a lot. And I start to overthink, and shit comes out of my mouth that I don’t mean. I know you’re not like that, I do. I’m sorry.”
You softened, sighing. “You could never win a race, ever, and I'd still love you all the same.”
He snorted. “Well, I’d like to win one at some point.”
“What I meant was, I can’t speak for everyone else, but my pride for you has nothing to do with how well you do on the track, my love.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m proud of you because you’re you. You’re kind and you work hard, and you try your best at everything you do. Even if the outcome isn’t what you expected, you keep at it. You keep going. That’s one of the reasons why I love you, that’s why I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m stupid.” He groaned, tipping his head back against the couch cushions. You simply made a noise of agreement. “You’re too good to me. I love you.”
“I love you too. Now, you really need to go back to the garage. I’m sure Oscar’s sent out a search party for you at this point.” You said firmly, giving his chest a sharp poke. Lando groaned again but made to get up, shifting your legs off him so he could climb to his feet.
“Fine. Just kick me out of my own room, why don’t you?” He huffed dramatically, swiping his hat off the floor and jamming it back over his hair. You aimed a fake kick towards him, stifling a giggle when he caught your foot and pretended to undo your laces. “Kiss?”
“You need to leave, Lando,” You whined, batting him away gently. “I refuse to be the reason you’re late.”
“One more. Just one more for good luck and I promise I’ll leave.” He insisted, expression pleading. You grumbled something unintelligible, reaching up begrudgingly to bring him down for one last kiss.
Lando smiled against your lips, snaking a hand around the back of your neck to keep you in place a few beats longer than you intended. You practically had to unstick yourself from him, giving him a little shove towards the door so he’d actually leave.
Immediately, he whirled around. “Wait, wait—”
“Lando! Go!”
“No, no, hold on, it’s important.” He slipped his newfound chain over his head, rubbing his thumb over both rings before holding it out towards you. “Keep this safe for me?” He asked earnestly, pressing the necklace into your hands. “Can’t have my lucky charm getting lost already, can I?”
“Give ‘em hell, number four.” You smiled, donning the necklace yourself. He beamed, blowing you a kiss as he backpedaled down the hall. "Number four on the track, number one in my heart!"
You could hear his infectious laughter echoing even as he retreated around the corner.
Lando would be fine. And if he wasn’t, he’d bounce back, like he always did. And you’d be there to support him every step of the way, like you always were.
follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post new fics :)
#lando norris#lando norris x reader#ln4 x reader#ln4#lando norris x you#lando norris x y/n#lando norris imagine#lando norris one shot
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Six Answers to Questions You’re Too Embarrassed to Ask about the Hottest Year on Record
You may have seen the news that 2023 was the hottest year in NASA’s record, continuing a trend of warming global temperatures. But have you ever wondered what in the world that actually means and how we know?
We talked to some of our climate scientists to get clarity on what a temperature record is, what happened in 2023, and what we can expect to happen in the future… so you don’t have to!
1. Why was 2023 the warmest year on record?
The short answer: Human activities. The release of greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide and methane into the atmosphere trap more heat near Earth’s surface, raising global temperatures. This is responsible for the decades-long warming trend we’re living through.
But this year’s record wasn’t just because of human activities. The last few years, we’ve been experiencing the cooler phase of a natural pattern of Pacific Ocean temperatures called the El Niño Southern Oscillation (ENSO). This phase, known as La Niña, tends to cool temperatures slightly around the world. In mid-2023, we started to shift into the warmer phase, known as El Niño. The shift ENSO brought, combined with overall human-driven warming and other factors we’re continuing to study, pushed 2023 to a new record high temperature.
2. So will every year be a record now?
Almost certainly not. Although the overall trend in annual temperatures is warmer, there’s some year-to-year variation, like ENSO we mentioned above.
Think about Texas and Minnesota. On the whole, Texas is warmer than Minnesota. But some days, stormy weather could bring cooler temperatures to Texas while Minnesota is suffering through a local heat wave. On those days, the weather in Minnesota could be warmer than the weather in Texas. That doesn’t mean Minnesota is warmer than Texas overall; we’re just experiencing a little short-term variation.
Something similar happens with global annual temperatures. The globe will naturally shift back to La Niña in the next few years, bringing a slight cooling effect. Because of human carbon emissions, current La Niña years will be warmer than La Niña years were in the past, but they’ll likely still be cooler than current El Niño years.
3. What do we mean by “on record”?
Technically, NASA’s global temperature record starts in 1880. NASA didn’t exist back then, but temperature data were being collected by sailing ships, weather stations, and scientists in enough places around the world to reconstruct a global average temperature. We use those data and our modern techniques to calculate the average.
We start in 1880, because that’s when thermometers and other instruments became technologically advanced and widespread enough to reliably measure and calculate a global average. Today, we make those calculations based on millions of measurements taken from weather stations and Antarctic research stations on land, and ships and ocean buoys at sea. So, we can confidently say 2023 is the warmest year in the last century and a half.
However, we actually have a really good idea of what global climate looked like for tens of thousands of years before 1880, relying on other, indirect ways of measuring temperature. We can look at tree rings or cores drilled from ice sheets to reconstruct Earth’s more ancient climate. These measurements affirm that current warming on Earth is happening at an unprecedented speed.
4. Why does a space agency keep a record of Earth’s temperature?
It’s literally our job! When NASA was formed in 1958, our original charter called for “the expansion of human knowledge of phenomena in the atmosphere and space.” Our very first space missions uncovered surprises about Earth, and we’ve been using the vantage point of space to study our home planet ever since. Right now, we have a fleet of more than 20 spacecraft monitoring Earth and its systems.
Why we created our specific surface temperature record – known as GISTEMP – actually starts about 25 million miles away on the planet Venus. In the 1960s and 70s, researchers discovered that a thick atmosphere of clouds and carbon dioxide was responsible for Venus’ scorchingly hot temperatures.
Dr. James Hansen was a scientist at the Goddard Institute for Space Studies in New York, studying Venus. He realized that the greenhouse effect cooking Venus’ surface could happen on Earth, too, especially as human activities were pumping carbon dioxide into our atmosphere.
He started creating computer models to see what would happen to Earth’s climate as more carbon dioxide entered the atmosphere. As he did, he needed a way to check his models – a record of temperatures at Earth’s surface over time, to see if the planet was indeed warming along with increased atmospheric carbon. It was, and is, and NASA’s temperature record was born.
5. If last year was record hot, why wasn’t it very hot where I live?
The temperature record is a global average, so not everywhere on Earth experienced record heat. Local differences in weather patterns can influence individual locations to be hotter or colder than the globe overall, but when we average it out, 2023 was the hottest year.
Just because you didn’t feel record heat this year, doesn’t mean you didn’t experience the effects of a warming climate. 2023 saw a busy Atlantic hurricane season, low Arctic sea ice, raging wildfires in Canada, heat waves in the U.S. and Australia, and more.
And these effects don’t stay in one place. For example, unusually hot and intense fires in Canada sent smoke swirling across the entire North American continent, triggering some of the worst air quality in decades in many American cities. Melting ice at Earth’s poles drives rising sea levels on coasts thousands of miles away.
6. Speaking of which, why is the Arctic – one of the coldest places on Earth – red on this temperature map?
Our global temperature record doesn’t actually track absolute temperatures. Instead, we track temperature anomalies, which are basically just deviations from the norm. Our baseline is an average of the temperatures from 1951-1980, and we compare how much Earth’s temperature has changed since then.
Why focus on anomalies, rather than absolutes? Let’s say you want to track if apples these days are generally larger, smaller, or the same size as they were 20 years ago. In other words, you want to track the change over time.
Apples grown in Florida are generally larger than apples grown in Alaska. Like, in real life, how Floridian temperatures are generally much higher than Alaskan temperatures. So how do you track the change in apple sizes from apples grown all over the world while still accounting for their different baseline weights?
By focusing on the difference within each area rather than the absolute weights. So in our map, the Arctic isn’t red because it’s hotter than Bermuda. It’s red because it’s gotten relatively much warmer than Bermuda has in the same time frame.
Want to learn more about climate change? Dig into the data at climate.nasa.gov.
Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!
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After a vacation in Alpha Centauri, Gabriel and Beelzebub come back to earth and move in together. They proceed to be the worst and most baffling neighbors anyone in the neighborhood has ever experienced.
They introduced themselves as Bee and Jim, but immediately started laughing about it, so people are pretty sure those aren't their real names.
Neither of them seem to have jobs, but they must be rich, because their house is massive and they're always wearing fancy clothes, and their wallets are bursting with money. Maybe they’re in the mafia?
Speaking of fancy clothes, “Jim” is always wearing designer suits. There is an ongoing game where people attempt to take a picture of him in any other clothes. One time, an enterprising teenager went so far as to sneak over in the middle of the night to look into his bedroom (hoping he’d be in pajamas), and saw him still in a suit, Standing on Top of the Bed, eyes wide open and Smiling Brightly. (Gabriel has not gotten the hang of sleeping yet.) (The teenager refuses to go near the house ever again.)
The short one, “Bee,” is consistently trailed by flies. This is alarming to everyone. They say that they're a “fly-keeper,” but people are pretty sure that's not a thing. Do they carry rotting meat around or something?
Bee also seems to be constantly changing appearances. One day they have a buzz cut, the next day their hair goes to their mid-back. Their eyes are a different colour every time you see them. People have set up cameras to take pictures of them on different days, and upon comparing them they are Definitely almost 6 inches taller this week. Even their facial features shift.
It gets to the point where people decide Jim must just have multiple partners, and be lying about it. (“Multiple partners that all look similar and are never seen together?” the opposition will point out. When asked if they have a better theory, they can never answer.)
The two of them will have romantic moments Anywhere, including standing in the middle of the highway staring into each others eyes. By all rights they should have been run over, but in a bizarre coincidence every car in the area ran out of fuel and stopped moving at that exact moment. People want to blame Jim for it (he did make a strange hand movement, after all), but that would just be absurd.
They use the absolute worst pet names for each other. A list of overheard ones is being recorded. “My rotten cabbage?” “My hell-bringer?” “Dearest packet of crisps??”
You cannot let them notice that you're disgusted by their lovey-doveyness. They will either get exponentially more cringey, or straight up insult you until you run away crying. Or both.
“Everyday” by Buddy Holly will be audible to the whole block at all times. Do they know other songs exist? Don't they get bored of this one?? Why is it so loud???
There’s a statue of Jim in the front yard. Its 20 feet tall and definitely a HOA violation, but people are too scared to mention it. Both Bee and Jim will come out at different times and spend hours staring at it dreamily.
People would hate them, but ever since they moved in the weather has been perfect, crime is at an all time low, and there’s little trucks that go around selling hot chocolate, and those things Probably cant be because of them, but still...
Plus, Jim doesn’t understand how money works at all, so he’ll give you $300 for a bag of chips. It's endearing, even if he is sometimes a jerk.
Bee does seem to know how money works, but they’ll frequently pay even more than Jim, especially if the person seems overworked and the place is under-staffed. They say they have experience with it.
After a month of them living there, most of the neighborhood is in a group chat created to discuss the two of them. Beelzebub is secretly in the chat, and reads their favourite theories to Gabriel.
A rumour starts going around that they're an angel and a demon in disguise, but no one can agree which one is which.
Beelzebub is the one who started the rumour.
If anyone writes a fic with any of this by all means tag me I'd love to see it!!
#ineffable bureaucracy#gabriel x beelzebub#beelzebub x gabriel#good omens#good omens spoilers#good omens 2#is all of this in character? Maybe not#but the dynamic they have in my brain is hilarious so it's what I'm going with
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Danny was pissed. He was chilling in the Speedforce, waiting on his dad—the Flash—to show up when he felt something shift around him. He exited the speedforce to find that the timeline had changed again, and he had been written out of the timeline. He technically was a time anomaly now, and didn’t exist. So he talked to Clockwork, a ghost he’d gotten to know extremely well after Danny’s creation.
Danny was a clone of the Flash and Green Lantern(Hal Jordan) as part of an experiment that Lex Luthor had taken prior to cloning Superboy. Lex had wanted to know if the power ring was able to transmit anything genetically (it couldn’t. It was a wearable weapon, not a genetic thing.) but Danny had inherited Flash’s superspeed, so he wasn’t a complete loss. Danny wasn’t sure if he looked more like either man, considering they both wore masks. He had brown hair and green eyes. Beyond that, he tanned well, was tall for his age, and packed on muscle far easier than the Flash did. He hadn’t ever seen either man out of the costume.
After a talk with Clockwork, he decided he was just going to force his way back into his Dad’s life. Both of them, if possible. He arrived years before his creation by mistake, right near the start of the Justice League. By his estimates, the team had only been formed for a year before he’d arrived. It was strange; he both didn’t exist and was from the future. He guessed that it was around nine years before his birth, and since he was technically six months old, he was 9 years in the past. Thinking about this was going to give him a headache.
The Justice League was severely mistrustful of each other. They didn’t go out of their way for teamups, didn’t have weekly meetings, and almost pretended if the other members didn’t exist. The most recluse of them was Batman, of course. If any hero set foot in Gotham, they were booted out before they even got to downtown. Danny highly suspected Batman had the entire city on camera. The situation was weirding him out more than before. What had happened to the team?! He was used to everyone being one big family, and even the sidekicks having their own teams… speaking of sidekicks, why was Robin so small?! Wait a minute, that wasn’t the third Robin that he was used to, that was the first Robin! Baby Nightwing!
Thankfully for him, he still had his costume on this entire time as he zipped around the country, spying on the younger members of the Justice League. It was surreal watching everyone try to capture him, but he wasn’t going to be caught that easily!
Eventually his presence forced the Justice League into another teamup. Batman laid the trap out, and Flash lured him into it. The plan was so beautiful that he didn’t even realize it was a trap until he was caught in it. Green Lantern took off Danny’s mask, and for the first time, he looked at his fathers without a mask. They didn’t make the connection to him right away. It wasn’t until Wonder Woman’s lasso made its way around his wrist that the truth finally came out.
“Who are you?” Wonder Woman asked.
“Oof , hard question—ow ow oww—I’m being honest!” He struggled against the lasso as it started to burn him. “My designation was Dn-y, I go by Danny, though. I’m a clone.”
“Of who?” Batman demanded.
“Flash and Green Lantern.” The lasso was glowing brightly, indicating that he was telling the truth.
“How did you escape?” Flash asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He was trying to think about how to phrase the whole time traveling—timeline erasure thing when the lasso started to burn him again. “Ow ow! Sorry, I’m thinking! Ow! Turn down the settings on that thing, holy shit—okay, okay.” He winced, his words coming out in one breath as he quickly talked, “What do you know about time travel?”
Diana’s eyebrows were rising. “How are you able to resist the lasso for so long?”
“I’m not really resisting it.” He answered, noting the obvious deflect of his last question, “I just-oww—okay! My mind moves too fast for me to put into words sometimes and it makes me stop to think about it, but like, I’m not good at controlling the speed in which I speak all the time—owww make this thing stop burning me! I’m speaking honestly!”
Diana revoked the lasso, and he rubbed his wrist where his costume was starting to singe. He was still trapped in an anti-speedster prison, so it wasn’t exactly like he was going anywhere anyway.
“Why were you asking about time travel?” Batman asked.
“Based on the crickets chirping I heard earlier, that leads me to believe you guys haven’t had any experience in it yet.” He leaned against the wall of the prison, wincing as it shocked him with electricity. “Seriously? How paranoid are you, Batman?” He rubbed his shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was expecting with you people, but I feel so attacked right now.”
“So we have experience with it in the future?” Superman piped up.
“Yeah?” His tone of voice equated to a ‘duh’ tone. “Why would I ask what you knew if I wasn’t from the future?”
“How far in the future are you from?” Green Lantern asked.
“Nine years, maybe close to ten? Timelines are weird. I’m technically six months old, but at the same time I’m sixteen. Cloning is odd, but I was like, the first clone ever, so I don’t really have a basis for this sort of thing, if you catch my drift.” He shrugged. He seemed like he talked a lot more than the heroes did, but he didn’t know if that was because he was a chatterbox, or because they weren’t comfortable in each other’s presence. Either way, the silence was odd to him.
“How did you end up here?” Batman asked.
“Honestly? I don’t fully know. Don’t give me that look, Diana! I’m telling the truth.” He added quickly as Diana fingered her lasso again. “All I know is one minute, I’m chilling in the Speedforce, and the next, the timeline is changed and I’m nine years too early for my birth. You’d think the timeline would at least have the decency to spit me out in my own year, but nooo, it wanted to—“
“What’s the Speedforce?” Superman interrupted.
He tilted his head at Superman’s question, then turned to the Flash. “How long have you had your powers?”
Flash shifted uncomfortably. “Two years.”
“Oh boy.” Danny’s green eyes widened. “You don’t know anything about them, do you?”
“I do know things!” Flash deflected, “My suit doesn’t catch on fire anymore! I can run up to Mach 2! I can get from either end of the country in thirty minutes!”
He groaned loudly. “Oh no. Oh no.” He chewed on his thumb, trying to recall everything he’d learned about his powers from his Flash. While he hadn’t learned his or Green Lantern’s identity yet, he knew almost everything about their hero personas and a lot of personal information. They were just worried of the Cadmus connection and didn’t want their identity to fall into the wrong hands if they still could see inside of Danny’s head.
“What’s wrong?” Diana asked.
“Okay.” He ran his hands through his brown hair, making it spike up. “Hypothetically—“ he cut himself off as Batman glared at him. “Okay, totally real, but uh, Flash, let’s just say that I’m faster than you right now. A lot faster.”
“How much?” Flash took a step forward, obviously curious.
“From what we can tell, I’ve topped out at Mach nine.” He responded with a dry laugh, “But your speed was still a lot faster than mine. You’d never tell me what it was. I’m still growing though, and I’m getting faster. I’m able to beat my precious time by almost double each time we test. But my situation was complicated, and things were happening, and it was a mess.”
“Like what?” Superman asked.
“World war three. I think?” He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that he had picked up from Green Lantern, “Things got complicated. That’s why I was going to wait for…” his eyebrows scrunched together as the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “It was you!” He turned to Flash. “You!” He jabbed a finger at the speedster. “You set this up! You set ME up!”
The heroes took fighting stances, but Superman took a step forward, blocking them from Danny. “What are you talking about?”
“Okay okay.” He was trying to calm down his anger, but he had been told by Green Lantern in the past that he had inherited the man’s anger issues. “Let me start at the beginning. This is going to be a long story, you might want to take a seat.”
Nobody moved, but everyone was tense.
“Or not. Okay. So my creation starts with Lex Luthor.” He noticed Superman stiffen. “He used me as his trial, if you will. Once he got a successful attempt at cloning—me—he moved onto his real target. Cloning Superman.” Danny’s green eyes hovered onto Superman’s blue ones. “He was successful.”
“What happened?” Superman’s voice was unnaturally quiet.
“Well, at first, Conner wasn’t showing that he had all the powers of Superman. So Lex tossed him aside and tried again. The second attempt was more successful than the first. But cloning Kryptonian dna was hard, I guess.” He shrugged. “The second clone lacked basic emotions. Empathy, remorse… it made him the perfect little weapon for Lex. But eventually, the clone’s anger and Lex’s greed got to a point of no return. Lex was elected President of the United States and uh…you can probably see where this is going, right? While the fighting hadn’t like…’officially’ started,” He used his fingers to create air quotes around the word ‘officially’, “Things were getting tense. See, we couldn’t take the clone down because Lex had wrote out the Kryptonite deficiency out of his weakness. And the clone had all the strength of Superman and none of his remorse…”
Superman looked pale. “I see.”
“So Flash and I came up with a plan.” He turned back to his father, “We were going to travel into the next dimension for help. From what we could tell, that dimension was full of god-like beings, and one of them actually helped me out earlier! But for a lot of them, they ask for a price for their help. But anyway, Flash and I were going to take our case to the King and plead for help. I was waiting for Flash when the timeline reset and I found out that not only did I not exist, but I was nine years too early.”
“What are you going to do now?” Green Lantern asked.
“Dunno,” His voice dropped as the reality hit him. He wasn’t going home—his home didn’t exist anymore.
#dp x dc au#dp x dc writing prompt#dp x dc#dp x dc fanfic#dp x dc prompt#dp dc crossover#danny phantom crossover#dp x dc crossover#danny phantom#dp crossover#dpxdc prompts#dpxdc#dcxdp#Danny is a clone#green lantern#the flash#time travel#speed force
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The “Ba” in “Baja”
Rise Ramblings #628
Mikey and Leo. Baja Blast. The Tide Pod Duo. Although this duo has limited dedicated screen time, they are an absolute joy to watch.
First and foremost, you can’t help but notice how Leo does nothing but try to protect the little bean.
He’ll bend over backwards just to keep his baby brother safe.
Leo will also offer emotional support in very dire times.
It’s just so nice to see them together. Plus, you can tell that Leo loves Mikey to pieces.
Even when Leo’s being annoying.
All of these traits are expected from big brother Leo. However, it’s the other side of this relationship that I find intriguing.
Let’s discuss Mikey and how he interacts with the blue one.
I’ve summarized my thoughts about Mikey’s half of their relationship into two parts: “Emulate” & “Outdo.”
As the youngest of the four, it’s natural for Michelangelo to look up to his older brothers. Yet, throughout the show, I believe that Mikey seems to emulate Leo the most.
This thought leads directly into the “Outdo” portion of my hypothesis.
I've noticed that a competitive streak emerges in Mikey when Leo is in the picture, a streak that I cannot say I’ve seen him express with any of his other brothers, April, or even their rivals. It’s unique just to Leo.
It’s almost as if there is some driving force within Mikey that wants to prove something to Leon.
When it comes to Leo, Mikey is suddenly determined to see who’s the strongest, best, or fastest between them.
(I compiled all of the Air Hockey scenes from the episode, “Mrs. Cuddles”)
The most compelling aspect of their relationship is that this competitive streak seems to be one-sided, at least initially. It's almost as if Leo feels like he doesn't have to prove anything to Angelo.
Eventually, though, Mikey goads Leo into competing with him, and Leo gives in if not but to defend his title, satiate Orange, and give his antagonizer what he’s looking for. (It’s a “you mess with the bull, you get the horns” type of thing.)
Why does this dynamic exist? Who’s to say. But I believe that the dissonance between these two comes from Leo seeing their relationship as “Protector – Protectee” while Mikey sees Leo as a rival, or more specifically, Leo is the goalpost that Michelangelo has tasked himself with surpassing.
In my opinion, the concept of Mikey seeing Leo’s accomplishments as something he needs to “Emulate” & “Outdo” is a compliment in it’s simplest form. Mikey thinks that Leo is so great and awesome that he wants to be just as awesome, and even better than the brother he respects and looks up to so much.
…Or maybe Mikey just wants to knock Leo down a peg or two.
I can’t say that I’d blame him.
Also, do you know why Mikey is the “Ba” in “Baja?”
Because Leo is the "Jajajajajajaja" *laughs in Spanish*
All right. I’m done.
#starkiss ramblings#rise analysis#rottmnt analysis#character analysis#Michelangelo Ramblings#rise mikey#rise michelangelo#mikey#michelangelo#rottmnt michelangelo#michelangelo hamato#rise leo#rise leonardo#leonardo#rottmnt leonardo#rottmnt#tmnt#teenage mutant ninja turtles#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rise of the tmnt#tmnt2018#tmnt 2k18#tmnt 2018#save rottmnt#unpause rottmnt#unpause rise of the tmnt#save rise of the tmnt#save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles
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