#and by regular amount I mean all the bloody time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

neutron-stars-collision · 9 months

Text

Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Epilogue - Always You

Chapter 20; Masterlist Summary: One December evening, Vengeance climbs into your apartment through the window. That's regular occurrence by now. What isn't regular, is the conversation you share. Warnings: 18+ (sorry, the gremlin in my brain insisted I describe some of that), swearing. Author's Notes: So, this is the official farewell. This epilogue turned out to be kind of an 'evening in the life of', but I think I needed that. Even if only just to say goodbye to those two. It's 6k of headcanons and fluff, so I hope you enjoy 💕 Once again, thanks for sticking around ✨ A playlist will follow bc of course I have that too. Feel free to let me know what you think? Tag list: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care, @raphaelaisabella, @itsmytimetoodream, @brightjimini, @castellandiangelo, @grunge-n-roses5

(gif credit: @1038276637)

No amount of thinking and consideration could have ever prepared you for the reality of being Bruce Wayne’s partner. Or girlfriend, a term you had sometimes relished teasing him with. If only to get that same deadpan look, complemented by a pink blush on his cheeks and one sentence reply.

Always the same: “You’re much more than that to me”. Every time the answer made you blush too, overwhelmed with love and hopefulness like never before. Because, as it quickly turned out, Bruce treated this seriously, daily putting in work to make sure whatever you had would survive.

And it did, at least until the rain showers had been replaced by snowfall, and the white coat covering most of Gotham almost made up for the plummeting temperatures. Long enough for you to get used to the idea that a solo night at your place did not mean loneliness. It did not even mean that you would be alone for that much longer, for, as it happened, Bruce’s patrol now sometimes led to your apartment instead of the Terminus. It was a substitute for the nights when you opted to stay at your place instead of perusing the Tower. All the heads-up he would give would be a quick text sent between the hours when you were likely still awake. But it was all you needed, instantly perking up at the idea.

That night was like that, as you were informed by a message on the burner phone: “I’ll come by after 2”. Easy fate to achieve - waiting for Bruce until 2 am. Although, the slow passage of time made you groan for the umpteenth time as you found it still to be only 1 am. An hour. A whole bloody hour. Your head dropped onto the table with a dull thud. The waiting for him was the worst part of it all, perhaps only next to the constant anxiety that filled your veins whenever Bruce was playing the part of Batman. Mostly because you never knew whether waiting up on him in the cave would be to get that desired kiss and help him with the amour or whether it would entail cleaning the wounds and bandaging the cuts. You already had a fair share of both. And there was no point guessing which you preferred.

Your favourite nights, by a large margin, were those when Bruce stayed home. Or at least stayed long enough to go to bed with you. Those were the nights of discoveries and enlightenment, leaving you breathless and wanting more. Always wanting more. Luckily now, you did not have to deny yourself what you had become addicted to. And the list was growing exponentially. Like the fact that after that first night when you had confessed your feelings for Bruce, the three words had only gained power. Enough so that when you whispered them at just the right time, with Bruce still buried deep inside you and inching towards his release - they were all the trigger he needed. All sense of control seemed to disappear as soon as you reminded him you loved him. And for that, the affection only grew.

You knew that was very much mutual.

The other discovery, which had led to many sleepless lonely nights, spent squirming under the covers, was that once Bruce had understood that he truly was the best you ever had, a new level of confidence was unlocked. Some might even call it smugness. But you could not possibly mind a bit of cockiness when it got you a man who would tease you with his fingers and mouth till you were a whimpering mess. And then, only then, he would lean in close, let his mouth brush your heated cheek and the shell of your ear, and whisper: “Come for me”. A request. A command even. You had no choice but to obey. Not that you didn’t want to. By now, the exact way he had spoken had become a go-to soundtrack to all your daydreams. A weak substitute for when you were apart.

It was still better than nothing.

Glancing at the watch to check the time, you were easily brought back from the pleasant recollections. It was almost 2 am. Not long now. You did not need a mirror to confirm your mouth stretched into a dumb smile. The reaction was involuntary at this point, transforming you into that type of lovesick individual you always scoffed at. The irony was infuriating. Feeling the tell-tale shiver of anticipation, you made one final lap of the flat. Smoothing out the bedsheets (even though neither of you cared about it), taking out the short-rimmed tumbler (in case he did want that whiskey you offered before Halloween) and dragging a hand through your hair to detangle any knots (even though he had seen you with bed-hair and mascara stains on your cheeks). Only then you could say you were ready.

And right on time, too, for before long, you heard the familiar light knock upon the window frame. A smile broke out on your face as you crossed the room to unlatch the window and stepped back. This part always made you laugh. You knew why Bruce deemed the window a better way of entering your apartment, but it was still a strange spectacle to witness. Using the grappling hook, he would lift himself to the level of your building and gracefully slip in. The only downside? The melting snow created puddles on your floor. This time you were prepared, a sweeping mop in hand.

The first glimpse you caught was a smile under the cowl. A look so strange for Mr Vengeance himself, yet something you had grown accustomed to. You returned the expression with ease, watching as he jumped in feet first through the window frame and landed on your floor with a quiet groan. That, too, was a sign – this night had been rough. Before you could process the realization, Bruce strengthened up and took off the cowl. As always, that first shared glance made you shiver. The smudged black makeup was smeared around his eyes, hair messy and unkempt, begging you to arrange it. There was no reason to wait.

“Hello, you” you closed the remaining gap and placed your hand on his shoulder.

The material felt cold and made you shiver as you rose on your toes to level with him. Bruce’s eyes traced your every move as he wound his arm around your waist, keeping you close and secure.

“Hey,” the whisper you got in return was the last thing you let him say before you crashed your mouth into his with a satisfied hum.

The coldness of his lips did nothing to stifle the spark of fire slowly building in your veins. As always. Carefully you let your tongue trace his bottom lip, prodding at the seam till Bruce opened his mouth, inviting you in. The familiarity of the feeling was enough to let you drop the remaining weight from your shoulders and sink into him, tasting and consuming all you could. All that he was willing to give you.

Bruce responded in kind to the tempo you had set, caressing your tongue with his and lightly nipping at your bottom lip. He felt like home. Even with the melting snow dripping onto your clothes and the hard edges of the armour digging between your ribs. The need to continue was stronger than anything else. Until neither of you could get deep enough breaths to continue.

You drew back with a quiet whine, frustration adding spikes to the warmth in your chest. The blue of Bruce’s eyes staring back at you smoothed the feeling, instantly making you notice the glimmer in his gaze. The love that was no longer a secret between you. It was impossible to escape the blush blooming on your cheeks and the pick-up in your heart rate. Ignoring the urge to hide from his perceptive stare, you returned to the task at hand.

One assessing look was enough as you raised your hand to cup his cheek and then up to comb through the hair falling into his eyes. You carefully brushed it away from his forehead, barely managing not to drown in the grateful look you got awarded. The only way of avoiding the shame of losing your mind and doing something utterly stupid like falling to your knees before Bruce, you grabbed the mop and pushed it onto his chest with a simple instruction:

“Now mop the floor” you eyed the growing puddle at your feet with a critical eye, adding, “You’ve made a mess” without waiting for a reply, you turned away towards the kitchen.

Just in time to hear the answer.

“Yes, ma’am” you did not need to see him to know he was smiling.

Approaching the counter, you opened the cupboard and eyed the contents. It was too late for a meal, but when Bruce visited, you would always share a drink before retiring to your bedroom. It was only a question of choice. What suited him better on this particular December night?

“What’s your poison tonight?” you asked and turned to face Bruce, finding him leaning the mop on the wall and the floors shiny and swept (naturally), “Coffee? Tea? Whiskey?” the first two had been staples on the menu, the last one was an inside joke.

An option you always gave him for the sake of it. And also, because you were yet to see Bruce Wayne relax with an alcoholic drink in his hand. Early on, he had told you he did not indulge in that too often, seldom, in fact, because alcohol did not exactly help the difficult thoughts springing in his mind at every possible chance. You knew the feeling too well, so you never pushed. But maybe-

“You know what?” Bruce’s question interjected your internal monologue as he eyed the tumbler you had taken out earlier, “Maybe it’s time. At last,” raising his head to meet your searching gaze, Bruce grinned.

Even now, when smiles no longer were rare, you still treasured each one. Mostly because they lit up Bruce’s beautiful face like nothing else, throwing everything into perspective. It was a point of personal pride you made him smile like that.

Without waiting for Bruce to change his mind, you took the bottle off the shelf and grabbed a second glass to fill. Two ice cubs per drink clinked in the tumblers as you poured the rich brown liquid and turned to hand it to him.

“Cheers,” raising yours to toast, you sent him another pleased smile.

You did not need to discuss the arrangement, wordlessly taking a sip from the glass and placing it back on the counter to free your hands for the next step in the routine. Bruce mirrored your moves, patiently waiting for you to start taking off the armour pieces. By now, the process was almost second nature. You did not need his directions, easily following the straps and buckles to undo them. Each plating would end up on one of your chairs, a dark heap covered with the cloak. Only once Bruce was left with the black thermals, you drifted to the sofa and fell against each other on the cushions. Multiple points of contact at every spot. Calves, knees, thighs, hips, and shoulders. At the least.

At first, you did not talk, quietly soaking in the calm. It quickly became evident that Bruce valued his peace, and each nightly escapade was enough to drain his battery. Both physically and mentally. That is why when he returned home or to your place the priority was letting him rest. Usually, you would put the tv on as background noise, but tonight as soon as you turned your head to look at Bruce, the remote control was frozen in your hand.

Suddenly it struck you. The strangeness of the moment in its entirety. It was nothing you could have foreseen, not in a million years. And yet, it made perfect sense.

You must have stared for too long because the next thing you registered was Bruce looking back at you with an incredulous glim in his eyes. He arched an eyebrow, his hand landing on your knee to gently stroke the skin beneath your pyjama pants. A question followed:

“What’s that look for?” the curiosity in his tone made you smile, barely resisting the urge to hide your face in the crook of his neck to avoid being stared at.

Especially by someone who could see through each wall you ever tried to raise. By now, you never even tried anymore, aware that it was pointless. Bruce (somehow) wanted all of you, so that is what he got. You could only hope he would never change his mind.

“It’s a lot to take in,” shrugging with one shoulder, the one not tucked against his side, you chose the safest answer.

All the while knowing Bruce would not let that be the end of that conversation. You only had to wait approximately 10 seconds for the follow-up question.

“What is?” you had to admit he was good at this.

Interrogation techniques that somehow fit right in the dynamic between you. And made it impossible for you to hide from him. While the thought had been terrifying once, it was almost easy to get used to. Almost being the keyword there.

“Oh, you know” feigning nonchalance, you chose to pace your answer, taking your time with the reveal, while watching him closely, “Having Vengeance in my living room” was the most obvious of hang-ups, something you did not think you could get accustomed to. Each time you saw tv coverage of Batman or had your work colleagues develop a piece on the vigilante, the thrill of realization felt like something new, something you had never experienced before. Now, you let your gaze stray to the half-empty tumbler in his hand, adding another layer to the confession, “Serving whiskey to Bruce Wayne” lifting your eyes to catch the growing smile on his face, you allowed the fondness seep into your tone. The feeling was almost drowning out the disbelief that still tinted your vowels. You never expected to get rid of that either, “Having that same Bruce Wayne as my boyfriend…” it was strange to let the term roll off your tongue this freely, but the strangeness could not contend with the happiness you could see in his eyes. It was enough to make you grin, the conclusion to the speech coming up effortlessly, “Never once saw that coming” no lies were to be found there, “I need to stare a little longer to make sure you won’t disappear on me now” the excuse was flimsy, but it had the intended effect.

Bruce smiled and pulled you closer again, your body falling against his chest like always. The warmth of the embrace kept the chill from settling in your bones. His arms tightened around your waist as he rested his chin on your head and let out a content sigh.

“I won’t” there was no need to question him, all sense of doubt disappearing like melting snow when he added, “I like you too much,”

It was both what he said and how he said it. Like it was no big deal. Like the admission did not cost him anything. Like the character evolution you had witnessed in Bruce was something he was proud of. Something he took joy in if only because it mattered to you.

That was a little difficult to get used to.

So much so that instead of facing the affectionate admissions head-on, you chose to go for a joke, using it as a protective veil:

“Damn, never imagined Bruce Wayne would be such a softie” you lightly swatted him across the chest, not expecting the delighted giggle that would erupt from your throat when he caught your hand in his and squeezed it.

“I’m not” it took one look at Bruce, registering the slight pout and the petulance in his eyes, to make you abandon the pretence.

You dove in for a kiss, pressing your mouth against his in a quick, firm peck balancing just on the right sight of not being too greedy. Or distracting for the conversation you were still hoping to have with Bruce.

“Sure, babe” you placed another kiss on the apple of his cheek, slightly tinted pink, and changed the topic, “So, how’s Gotham? Any hot goss I should know about?” you bated your eyelashes as a complimentary show of begging.

Not that Bruce would otherwise deny you the answers. He never did that, which quickly made you the second most informed individual in the city. After the Batman, of course.

Bruce shifted slightly - a sign you had come to associate with the conversation taking a more serious turn. Placing a comforting hand on his knee, you waited as he gathered his thoughts and replied:

“There’s some talk of the Penguin putting most of his resources into bringing back the drops business” you frowned, already knowing what a mess would result from such a move. Although, unfortunately, it sounded plausible, “I’ve got addresses to scout that might be their new labs” Bruce glanced at you, awaiting a comment.

And potentially wordlessly asking whether you wanted to accompany him during the recon. It was something you did together, from time to time. An unusual way of spending time and a first-hand opportunity to gather information for work. And if the pleasant side-effect were the heated kisses shared in the shadowed alleys, then it was nobody’s business but yours.

You already knew it was a yes if he asked.

“That’s probably something you should share with Gordon” instead of voicing that, you chose to offer him reasoning.

The close cooperation between them was still a surprising development. But it was getting stronger and sometimes made you wonder whether the GCPD lieutenant would not be the very next person to learn Vengeance’s identity. So far, Bruce denied it, but you knew better than to take his word for granted. After all, decisions changed.

“And I will. But once I’m sure there’s truth in what I’ve been told,” Bruce shrugged, a brief hint of petulance in his tone making you grin.

Bruce Wayne also did not seem to change. Not completely.

You could never let a chance like that pass you by. Shifting yet again to sit up on your knees and face him, you dropped your voice a notch, giving it an appropriately seductive timbre:

“Good boy” before Bruce could react, you patted his head and dragged your fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands.

That was another key phrase of your relationship. The magical two words, if used correctly, gave you complete control over Bruce. As it turned out, the Wayne heir was incredibly susceptible to praise. You could never have too much fun with that knowledge.

You watched with growing satisfaction at how he shuddered, the two words already having an impact. Bruce blushed, and his eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. To anyone else, the reactions would have been difficult to discern from the poker face he had slipped back on. But it was much harder to fool you.

Bruce knew as much. He shrugged off your hand with unnecessary care and turned to glare at you. The twitching corner of his mouth was an easy giveaway.

“Careful there,” the warning in his voice was another trick taken straight from the toolbox.

You already knew what this was. The rules of the game were familiar by now. You did not have to fake the heat blooming in your face at the tone Bruce had implemented. All you had to do was give him your brightest smile and amp the innocent flicker in your eyes to fit the intent. That was always fun.

“Or what?” enjoying the way his eyes followed your every move, you placed your hand on his chest, pressing it flat against the fabric to feel the heartbeat, “You’re going to jump me?” as the question left your lips, your fingers begun tracing their path up the length of his thigh.

More often than not, that was how those precious nights between you began. With a ridiculous conversation and increasingly risky touch, getting rid of the remaining inhibitions. Not that there were many left.

You could see Bruce ponder the assumption, using the ball you had placed in his court. The decision was strictly up to him. You liked to remind him from time to time that you both could share the control equally. And that whatever he chose did not change anything for you. You were there for the long run.

“I’d love to” he reached out to brush the stray hair from your forehead, eyes showing hints of remorse that spoiled the answer before he gave it, “Not tonight though, sorry” it was impossible to miss the subtle wince on his face as Bruce shifted on the sofa.

That told you all you needed to know. Your hand stopped all its wandering, resting atop his thigh and tracing lazy circles over the black fabric. You knew that before you both went to bed, you would need to take out the ointments bought specifically for evenings like that and ask Bruce to take off his shirt. And it was alright. Fine, even. Because seeing Bruce Wayne shirtless was a perk of every kind of evening. Full stop.

Hoping the convey the feelings through the softness of your gaze, you allowed yourself one last joke. One final tease to satisfy the need and drag that shy smile out of its confines.

“You’ll pay for your crimes soon enough” Bruce let out a breathless laugh, and you felt like the luckiest being on the planet.

Yeah, you never saw this coming.

***

It was well past 4 am when you finally turned off the ceiling lights in your bedroom and joined Bruce on the bed. Sometimes that part, the brief conversations whispered with your heads resting against the headboard, felt almost like the domestic future you never expected to have. Like the word, which began with an m and ended with an e. You were still too scared to say it out loud or even in the quiet of your mind.

Ignoring the thought now, you quietly settled against the pillows and turned to stare at Bruce. He looked as if he belonged there, nestled underneath your woollen quilt with his damp, dark hair falling in strands over his forehead. Your heart throbbed in your chest. It was almost too good to be true. Fearing another wave of feelings you could not control, you broke the silence with whatever sentence you could think of:

“You know there’s this gala Réal is hosting before Christmas…” admittedly, it was something you had wanted to bring up to Bruce.

It has been on your mind since the mayor’s announcement via press release weeks back. After the election and everything else that followed, she had taken decisive steps to fix the city. One of them was inviting the elites and the journalists to the charity gala this December. Although you were sceptical about the effects, the intents alone were admirable.

You knew Bruce had received an invite. But if that were not common knowledge, the myriad of emotions passing through his face at the reminder would have been the giveaway. You could easily discern discomfort, uncertainty, and fear among them. Without thinking about it, you took hold of his hand resting on the covers and squeezed it. That was a common way of assuring Bruce that you were there, of offering him comfort when he would not ask for it first. After what felt like hours of silence, Bruce let out a tortured sigh and replied:

“Yes, of course. It’s only every other day that Alfred reminds me I should show up” from that dejected tone alone, you could recognize that it was a touchy subject.

And that Bruce had already made up his mind about doing everything he could not to go. Unfortunately for him, with this case and with many others you were on Alfred’s side. You made a quick mental note to mention it to the butler the next time you saw him.

“Well, you should” as soon as you spoke, Bruce sent you a glare and let out another pained groan. His penchant for dramatics was something you never expected but was incredibly happy to discover, always making you laugh, “I know, I know, but… I mean, I’ll be there” once the bit of information was out, you winced. It was a stupid thing to add. While it was true, the fact was entirely unnecessary. For obvious reasons, “Obviously we can’t go together… which I don’t mind, by the way,” nervous laughter broke through the surface as you unconsciously moved away from Bruce and fixed your gaze on the swirling patterns of the duvet “I knew what I was getting myself into with you, so…”

And you did know. You never expected to ramble around Gotham’s public events holding onto Bruce’s arm. It was not even something you actively yearned for, finding the desired happiness and peace in those quiet private moments instead. It was another case of your mouth having a mind of its own and an incontrollable want to fill the gaps between reasonable sentences with bullshit. It was far from the first time that had happened.

Maybe that was why what Bruce said next did not surprise you but only made the pricks of conscience worse.

“I’m sorry” the apology was filled with enough sincerity to make your heart ache.

You knew that he meant it. In his eyes, something as silly as keeping your relationship secret was another way of letting you down. Of not being enough for you. It was another thing to nag him in the quiet of his mind when there were no distractions. You knew what that was like all too well. Before Bruce could drown in the spiral of his own making, you leaned in to cup his face and spoke:

“No, Bruce, I… I love you” the admission was an easy thing to say these days, falling from your lips like the tears you had once shed over it, “Nothing changes that. Plus, there’s an exciting potential in taking some time away from the other guests by perusing the bathroom” you wiggled your eyebrows comically, delighted to see him smile “It’s just a suggestion,”

It felt like a relief when Bruce grinned and gave you a forehead kiss.

“I’ll think about it. I promise” giving his hand another squeeze, you accepted the truce and made sure to meet his gaze. The tone Bruce used told you that was only just the beginning, “You’re not the only one who didn’t see this coming” slightly changing the grip on your hand, Bruce caressed your knuckles in broad, repetitive strokes.

The shyness in his eyes was familiar by now. Although, still, his openness could surprise you. Like just now. With an admission that he had no obligation to make yet seemed eager to anyway. You tightened the hold on his hand and asked:

“Yeah?” wincing at the wavering voice, you could hardly conceal the surprise in your gaze.

Because that was a line of conversation, you never expected him to follow. At least not tonight. But it did not make you any less curious, always happy to get another glimpse into the workings of Bruce’s mind and heart. Those were utterly precious. It was pointless to even think about getting rid of the gaping mouth and the dazed eyes.

Judging by Bruce’s smile, there was no need to try either.

“Yep,” he nodded and raised his arm in an invitation, soon followed by words, “Come here” you did not hesitate in scooting closer and letting Bruce pull you to rest with your back against his chest. You could feel him nosing along the tendons in your neck, voice slightly muffled yet still audible “You’re absolutely terrifying” you could picture his gleeful smile with your eyes closed.

The joy in his tone felt infectious. It was easy to say he meant it. That being called terrifying was one of the highest honours Bruce could bestow on you. You leant into the lingering kiss he pressed to the nape of your neck and breathed out the reply:

“That’s a new one, but I’ll take it” stringing together the words and ignoring the fire torched in your lower stomach from something as simple as his lips on your neck were too difficult a feat to achieve.

It became apparent as soon as you became aware of your breathless voice and heard Bruce’s low chuckle resonating through your body. It was a sound you came to like, very much. It meant he was finding you amusing and decidedly good enough. It was something to shove in the face of struggling self-confidence that could always try a little more.

“You’re terrifying because, with you, I can’t hide behind the cowl and pretend I don’t exist” the sincerity of the statement was enough to make your heart trip over itself in your chest.

Without thinking, you raised your clasped hands to your mouth and kissed his knuckles. A few days old scrapes scratched the skin of your lips. It felt real.

“Is that a good thing?” you had to ask, even if only to prolong the fragile moment.

Because no matter how much you enjoyed the loudest of nights and the blatant confessions, poignancy was something else entirely. Something you would always chase after if it stepped into your sights. Like just now.

“Yes, because you make me braver” Bruce did not hesitate, his grip around your waist tightening just a little bit as he continued, “I’m pretty sure you know this, but you’re the only person that gets to see me. The real Bruce Wayne as he’s supposed to be” you did know that which did not make the knowledge feel any less groundbreaking “It’s just that I know I’m not enough. For you-” it was once he started saying utter bullshit, that you had to interject.

That was not acceptable. Not on your watch. Gently peeling Bruce’s arms from your waist, you turned in his lap to straddle his hips and placed your hands on his shoulders. He did not expect that. You could tell as much from the hitch in his breathing and the widening eyes. Bruce still took it in his stride, steadying you with his arm around your shoulders, the other hand tracing invisible pathways along your thigh. You knew he was struck into silence, unable to do anything but wait on your next call. Something about the power you possessed over him was intoxicating if you did as much as stop and think about it.

Most days, you simply did not.

“You’re really dumb, but that’s okay” without hesitation, you cupped his cheek and carded your fingers through his unruly hair, smiling like an idiot. Because in the end, it was quite simple, you were astonished Bruce did not know it just yet. You waited for his blue eyes to meet yours and whispered, “You’re everything to me,”

It was an easy synonym to the familiar I love you, and to the less apparent I don’t want to imagine my life without you. It was the only way you could tell him the extent of his importance. The only way you could try to without dissolving into tears or doing something stupid like asking him to marry you. You did not think that would be quite the right time for it.

Bruce’s answering smile, softened by the persisting edges of disbelief, told you that you made the right call. He understood. As always. Unlike your very first kiss, you moved simultaneously, colliding somewhere in between with strangled gasps. Your tongues met in an electrizing touch, igniting the fire in your veins and making you fall against him with a whimper. Bruce swallowed the sound, his fingers buried into your hair as his tongue traced the sharper edges of your canines. As if he did not have the inside of your mouth memorized by now.

You could only step into the dance, letting him set the pace. His warmth overwhelmed your body as you kissed his lips with the hunger and thirst of a dying woman. Because that was the next best thing you could think of to show him you meant it. Because the pressure of his mouth against yours and the taste of his tongue sometimes were the only things that felt real. Real enough to make you believe hope could persist. That it had a place within your reality. With each kiss, each confession, and each day that passed with Bruce, hope slowly replaced the longing that used to fill your heart. You could only trust that one day it would be eradicated.

Your kiss stretched until it was nearly impossible to breathe. Then, and only then, you nipped at Bruce’s lower lip and softened the bite with the swipe of your tongue before parting. His eyes looked beautiful when nearly swallowed by the gaping black of his blown-out pupils. And it was all your doing. You always took pleasure in the seconds just after the kiss, the few ticks of the clock when Bruce had to forcibly shake himself awake from the spell you had put him under. You could see it in the slight shake of his head, clearing the daze in his eyes and the deep breath he took before even trying to speak.

You rested your forehead against his, the pounding heart slowing down. Until everything that was left was a pleasant hum of the passion coursing in your veins. There was no need to act on it, so you let yourself exist and bask in the warmth of Bruce’s body against yours. When he finally spoke, you were almost composed:

“See? Terrifying” happiness shone in his blue eyes as Bruce raised his hand to let his fingers trace the edges of your features.

It was impossible not to lean into his touch, greedily taking every ounce of tenderness Bruce would offer. He always took that additional second to brush the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, soothing the kiss-bruised skin. You could hardly stop the satisfied purr that rose in your throat.

Instead, you tried to focus on the sentiment. On how much it must have meant for Bruce to admit. Without needing to think about it too hard, you knew you understood the feeling. That the myriad of emotions swirling in your chest could be summarized with one response. One that Bruce would see through easily. One that would show him that you have this in common, too.

You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek and whispered the reply:

“Quite right, too,” the unspoken meaning shone through the gaps between the vowels, highlighted by the slight waver of your voice.

When Bruce tipped your chin and met your gaze, you knew you made the right choice. Another ounce of hope replaced the longing. Another heavy sigh became unanchored and took flight within the safety of his eyes.

As the snow covered the city outside, you became aware of two things. 1) It was good to be seen if the gaze that pierced through your soul was kind. 2) Bruce Wayne could be many things, but above all that, he was yours. And that was enough.

169 notes · View notes

lolhex12 · 9 months

Text

we don't talk enough abt akutagawa's cough / lung disease (chronic&terminal) yet it has so much angst potential?? anywayy

after the current arc, atsushi knows akutagawa is actively dying and he's the only one who does bc akutagawa didn't tell anyone else abt it. (altho, in all honesty, the amount this man coughs should at least hint at it. i'm honestly amazed not more ppl in the story are concerned abt it)

so, the next mission they have together, akutagawa coughs and atsushi is now aware what it really means, so he wonders out loud with nonchalance masking his concern: "hey, so like, do you think yosano's ability would help with your cough and all? would it go away then?"

akutagawa, wiping his mouth, slightly annoyed: "how would i now? i'm not well-acquainted with your coworkers, weretiger, therefore it's none of my concern. and even then, i wouldn't trust any ada members with my issues, nor my life."

atsushi finds his words a bit sus bc 'u do trust me tho', but doesn't say it out loud and they leave it at that.

somehow, it becomes a regular thing. every time they have a mission together and atsushi hears his partner cough, he presents more ideas of how they could cure a terminal lung disease, and they vary in absurdity as he runs out of inspiration.

his ideas range from mere "have you tried going to a doctor?" (<- at which akutagawa stares in disbelief: "you either think i'm an idiot, or you are the idiot. which one is it?" and atsushi pouts bc 'ok yeah, fair... but also, rude') to insanities like "maybe witchcraft would help! i could look up witches in the area and see if black magic or something has any luck." (<- at which akutagawa is so done he doesn't even entertain the idea and just keeps walking)

they never follow through with any idea tho, bc akutagawa stubbornly refuses to waste time on trying to find a cure when his time on earth already is very limited.

it should also be noted that each time the cough gets worse; louder, rougher, more persistent and even bloody, which only makes atsushi more and more worried.

so one time, akutagawa's particularly annoyed by atsushi's insane and stupid ideas. he turns to him and point-blank asks: "why do even care so much whether i succumb to my illness or not? surely, my death should only leave you overjoyed to see the world be rid of one more evil."

that makes atsushi think bc 'why? why does he care whether akutagawa lives or dies? he's right, a bad person like a mafioso dying should be a good thing.'

after lengthy contemplation he comes to the conclusion that he simply cannot have his sworn enemy/rival/partner die from something as pathetic as a disease. someone as strong as akutagawa has to die in a more memorable way - not alone, in a bed, coughing, with nothing more to be remembered by. if anything he'd have to die fighting atsushi or something. yeah that's it. that's why. (<- it's not, but they're not quite there yet)

so atsushi tells him as much. akutagawa accepts it bc 'yeah, makes sense. what else could the reason be?'

the whole routine of coughing and brainstorming a solution in vain continues as the ideas get even more insane, the cough even worse and atsushi more concerned than ever.

the next time akutagawa is annoyed enough to pose the question again, atsushi is close to tears from anxiety as he holds up akutagawa who collapsed and can't seem to subdue his cough properly.

atsushi struggles to get out the water bottle and cough drops he'd started carrying around on their missions together. he's so scared bc he's never seen akutagawa look so sick and frail before (but not weak. never weak. akutagawa could never be weak in atsushi's eyes. it's impossible, bc akutagawa being strong is a simple, unchangeable fact, constant in any possible universe).

what would he do if akutagawa actually died there? in his arms? on a mission? which would probably get cancelled. would the pm think atsushi killed him? does he bring back the body or just bury it somewhere? pretend he got killed on the mission and not by his own body that had turned on him years ago and was in reality a long time coming? he couldn't even bear to think abt it.

"why tf do u care so much??" akutagawa yells with a scratchy voice before his cough continue despite his best efforts to stop.

atsushi can barely breathe anymore. "because i don't want you to die, you idiot! we're a team! you're my partner. who will i be left with if you go?" tears stream down his face, mainly from how overwhelming his anxiety feels. or maybe bc he really doesn't want his partner to die? nah, it's the anxiety. definitely the anxiety. (<- #denial)

akutagawa, at first embarrassed how his collapse derailed their mission bc goddammit he's supposed to be a professional and not let his issues interfere with his job, pauses when he sees atsushi crying... for him? because of him? ???

he's very confused bc he's pretty sure his rival/enemy/partner should not be so concerned abt his health and impending death, but something abt atsushi's expression and that whole situation makes him rethink his outlook on life.

that's when akutagawa starts taking his health more seriously and actively looks for possible, feasible ways to cure his disease, even if there's only a small chance it'll actually work. bc seeing atsushi like that made him realize there are a handful of people who care abt him and would mourn him if he died; more than just his sister and higuchi.

it made him realize his life had a bigger impact on others than he'd previously thought, not all of it bad.

#i'm insane. i wrote this at 4am and it should not have gotten this long. i just wanted to note down the idea not write it out #fml #they're both very much idiots btw. they care but cannot come to the conclusion it could possibly be in a romantic way #only enemies bc 'grrr ure evil' and 'grr dazai likes u better'#they do eventually get over it and start dating dw trust me i can see the future😌👍#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd headcanon #headcanon #nakajima atsushi #akutagawa ryunosuke #shin soukoku #sskk #akutagawa x atsushi #i desperately need to see more chronic illness!akutagawa content bc it's such a good angst source #and best part abt it? IT'S CANON. CANON CHARACTER WITH CANON CHRONIC HEALTH ISSUES AND TERMINAL LUNG DISEASE #like cmon it's. right. there. we just gotta grab it and the magic will happen #just watched the new ep.#ngl kinda disappointed to see how akutagwa's confession abt his disease was portrayed as an off-hand comment. it needed more impact imo #then again. it's bones <- disappointed but not surprised

316 notes · View notes

ineffably-human · 8 months

Text

it's how definitive it is for me. it's how we've actually ficced and debated this for years and they wrote it so crudely and unimportant, in a way that they can't really revisit later. no chance of more thoughtful or better storytelling next year, about one of your show's central goddamn questions.

this is our arguable main character, he is our entry point into everything else. and as that entry point, Guillermo's story is about dedicating his entire life to something, finding meaning in it since he was young, finding and latching onto it when he's not even supposed to know it exists. clawing his way forward for a place at the table where he's decided he wants to sit. risking his life at least a half dozen times I can think of.

Guillermo's story is about damaging his relationship with the entire rest of the world, throwing himself in with people who take years to admit they even like him. rejecting his family and his innate nature and lineage. tying his most important relationship up in it: this is the person who'll give him the thing he wants most in the world. one day Nandor will look him in the eye as an equal, as someone Like Him, who can stand next to him forever. his relationship with Nandor, at every stage, has always been a combination of 'do I want you or do I want to be you? does claiming me as one of yours mean I am yours? am I allowed to have forever with you?'

Guillermo's story, this season, is reacting to every single stage and marker of finally getting what he wants with joy, with the exceptions of 1) stepping away from a family that never seemed to understand or fulfill him in the first place, 2) having it happen in a less than ideal place and way, hurting Nandor in the process. the central problem of his turning isn't his feelings, which are extremely clear, it's how this impacts his relationship with Nandor. (answer: exactly the way you think it will. he's upset and then he gets over it. nothing else changes.)

and then suddenly we're told: Guillermo can't be trusted about what he's consistently said he wants. he hasn't given thought to a regular, inextricable piece of what it means - even though he's been next to, and engaged in, violence that's way more direct and bloody and sometimes even more senseless. the guy whose vampire entry point was Anne Rice never thought about The Horrors for some reason, because he's an idiot now. some people can Handle It and some people Can't, and he Can't because by the way when the vampires said he couldn't get what he wanted because he was lacking in some way, they were right.

suddenly, in the eleventh hour, it's off the table now. and even though every single other part of him has been tied up in it for his entire adult life, that's somehow a simple decision to make.

and more importantly, the show is going to take maybe five minutes at best to tell us that, and to make it clear it's not something that's a 'maybe' or a 'someday'. character development can't smooth it out. he can't try to fix it. it's just how it is.

yeah, of course in life you prepare for things that then swerve unexpectedly and take you in different directions. there are things you dream of that aren't how you imagine in reality, and you change gears, and you adapt.

and those are huge moments. they matter.

Guillermo doesn't get to mourn it. he doesn't get to reflect on where it places him with his loved ones. he doesn't even really get space to decide it on his own before declaring it in front of everyone he's ever met.

he has no anchor for his entire place in the world anymore, and if the amount of attention and care paid (read: very little) means anything, we're not supposed to feel very much about that at all. and we're not meant to have any indication of where he's going next. and I fucking hate it.

it's a lazy, thoughtless, botched-ass job, and I expected better.

#fandom: wwdits #wwdits #what we do in the shadows #guillermo de la cruz #i am a meta gremlin #i am very sleep-deprived and very not normal about a fictional guy #so this is more unhinged than usual

59 notes · View notes

cherienymphe · 25 days

Note

Yeah when she was with Rob and I mean kpop idols. Sorry but no amount of hate any western female gets for dating a fave compares to the hate female idols get when there's confirmed dating rumors. I don't think it's as bad as it used to be but wheeeeew those were dark times

Yeah I don’t doubt that for a second because I saw that BTS won the iheart radio music award for best fan army so that checks out. Obviously that’s just one fandom for one band and I know you’re referring to all K-pop idols in general and not just them but I feel like that award alone sums up how crazy K-pop stans are. So even when the girl they’re dating is also an idol and not just a “regular” person they get a lot of hate?

In my experience they get more hate. The thing about the idol industry is that they push for parasocial relationships. I say idol in general because jpop is guilty of this too. They push this idea that idols are your friends or boyfriends or girlfriends. They heavily feed into this notion and because of that it was very taboo (and still kind of is) for idols to publicly date. Some companies even had no dating clauses in their contracts with their idols.

So bc of this, it's very common for idols to date in secret and this is why when the partner is a female idol, they get more hate than a regular girl bc 9/10 they're not finding information on this regular girl. It's usually pretty difficult for them to stalk a non idol and get the necessary information on her vs another idol. So it's definitely not from lack of trying or care but a female idol is in the spotlight and usually has public socials and even worse, a public career. So they can and have left hate on music videos and interview videos and refused to buy music and engage with the group shes in and in some extreme cases they have to deal with sasaeng fans which are stalker fans like it gets messy over there.

To convey how serious sasaengs are I remember tae (bts) was on a live once and he was talking about some sasaeng had gotten his number and kept calling him even though he kept blocking and deleting. It was happening as he was on live and he was so casual about it bc it's so normal. Those kinds of fans aren't as bad as they used to be but there was definitely an incident in the 2000s with a 2nd Gen group who for the life of me I can't remember but I believe a sasaeng sent one of the members her bloody underwear or something and there was drama not that long ago with a jpop group where a girl tried to ask an idol out and he rejected her so she got work done and afterwards was able to weasel her way into the group through a friend who was hooking up with one and she started messing with two members of the group including the one who rejected her who was now unable to recognize her bc of her plastic surgery (all of these things are confirmed guys and not just rumors I promise😭)

#asks

4 notes · View notes

unexpectedly-haunted · 2 years

Text

Putting the Dog in Dogwarts

A Third Life SMP Renchanting crackfic that got treated slightly too seriously, but the overall tone is still ridiculous. No warnings, lots of wolves, and roughly 2600 words.

The war is in full swing and Martyn can’t find the King. It’s not like they’re under attack right this minute, but they could be any time! And they’ve got attacks planned themselves, the Red Army needs to take the offense if they’ve got any chance at winning this godforsaken game, but Ren is nowhere to be found. Martyn’s checked every room in their underground kingdom several times over, and he’s not out in the farms, and he’s not responding to messages, and he’s not with Skizz or Etho or BigB. He’s about to start tearing floorboards up, not to try and find anything, just because if he doesn’t break something soon he’s going to lose it. Instead, he decides some fresh air will do him good and if Ren isn’t here, someone’s got to look over Dogwarts.

“Become the Hand to the King, he said,” Martyn grumbles as he patrols. “I’ll be with you to the end, he said! It’s not even the end yet and he’s already left!”

“Was my beheading technique not good enough for him? I know it took a couple swings, but he asked for it! And it’s not like this is something you can practice!”

“Ooh let’s make Dogwarts a Kingdom! What a great idea that is, it’ll be so intimidating, really give us an edge! What kind of King creates a Kingdom and then just leaves?! Without telling his Hand, by which I mean bloody me! Seriously Ren, what the f-”

His throat is getting sore by the time he’s done a couple rounds. Thankfully, his position high on the kingdom’s walls means no-one’s able to hear him, but he’s this close to straight up asking their enemies if they’ve somehow captured Ren and are holding him hostage. The only reason he’s not done that is because there’s no way anyone would have kidnapped the King and not have bragged about it by now. Which means he still has no clue where Ren is.

Early on, disappearing unannounced was par the course, that’s how he’d spent the first few weeks! Perfectly fine, nothing to worry about, especially before solid alliances had formed. But suddenly disappearing amidst war preparations after appointing yourself King? Martyn’s grip on his sword is white knuckled. At least he knows Ren isn’t dead, or it would be in chat. Ren isn’t dead. He’s not. He’s just not here right now. Martyn will keep patrolling, and he’ll come home soon. Red eyed and blood stained but still Ren, and they can go back to the safety of the basements and plan how to get the Red Army through this war.

He’s shaken from his thoughts by the sound of movement. Hurried steps, something crashing through the undergrowth. To the left? Where? Doesn’t sound like a person, moving too quickly for a regular mob, could it be a one of Joel’s wolves? Is it the start of an attack, or a distraction? Martyn’s shield is up, sword swapped out for an ender pearl.

A huge brown wolf breaches the line of trees. Martyn’s shoulders drop- Joel’s wolves are grey, and it’s just the one animal. False alarm, thank goodness. But this wolf lifts its head and howls, and from the trees the sound is echoed. Not only echoed, but amplified, the sound so loud and so haunting it makes the hair on his neck stand up. Ok, not a false alarm after all- Dogwarts is surrounded, something about these wolves is not natural, and he’s in here, alone.

Arrows, splash potions, ender pearls, and the high ground is what he needs. Right now, he has all of the above, but oh man that sounded like a really unreasonable amount of wolves. He’s going to kill Joel who’s surely somehow behind this, and then whenever Ren shows up, kill him for leaving him to deal with this by himself. The wolves emerge from the woods as the brown one moves forward, and their numbers grow until a veritable sea of animals circles outside the walls. Really putting the dog in Dogwarts he thinks hysterically, and he knows the situation’s bad if that’s the best he can come up with.

The only door they have is heavily reinforced, and he runs along the top of the walls towards it. When the door eventually breaks, the animals will form a bottleneck for him to shoot. That brown wolf, clearly the largest of the lot, is pacing outside. It rears up on its hindlegs and Martyn braces for the sound of wood splintering. But what he hears instead is- the sound of scratching? He peers over the edge of the wall to see this giant wolf scrambling for purchase against the door. Its claws seem to be making indents, sure, but it’s hardly a display of brute animal force. He wants to laugh. The wolf sits back down with a whine, and lifts its head up to look at him.

Either Martyn’s losing his mind from stress, or the wolf is honest-to-god giving him puppy dog eyes.

The wolf tilts it head to the side, and one of its ears flops down. Its big blue eyes look hopefully up at him. Martyn ends up in a bizarre type of stand off, the wolf continuing to gaze imploringly up at him and him staring disbelievingly back. He could be dramatically misreading this situation, but he might not actually be in danger? This is not the behaviour of an enraged or violent animal, and if this one is the leader, surely the other wolves will mimic it. Honestly, this whole thing is super weird, and if he needs to kill these wolves, he’d like some confirmation before he takes on such a large pack. Martyn decides he can let this first one in, see if it’s aggressive and make a decision from there. Sure it might not be the brightest move, but he and Ren are roughly 80% of each other's impulse control, and guess who’s still not back yet?

He makes the jumps from the walls to Renchanting’s roof to the ground in a well practiced series of motions, landing lightly on the grass. Enderpearl at the ready, he heads to the door. The scratching had renewed in earnest as soon as he left sight, and now as he gets closer, he can hear a high keening. Martyn undoes the locks on the door, getting his shield up just in time for it to be knocked aside. The hulking mass of brown fur throws itself at him, sending them both crashing to the ground. He tries to throw the pearl, but he can’t lift his arm from where the wolf has him pinned. Martyn braces for a humiliating and painful death, but it doesn’t come. The door is still open and he can hear the other wolves as they prowl around him, but still no attack. Huh.

However, he is being severely squashed.

“Scuse me,” he gasps, trying to shove the animal off him, “Kind of needing to breathe here?”

The wolf looks down at him, before its eyes widen and it stands up, giving Martyn some room.

“Thanks,” he wheezes, propping himself up with one arm, the other clutching his chest. Forget being outright killed by a wolf, dying to suffocation like that would have been so much more embarrassing.

Speaking of being killed, he really should lock their door again. He stands, somewhat shakily, and fumbles his way through all the deadbolts. The brown wolf follows and keeps trying to push its nose into Martyn’s hands, which does not help with the locks but is surprisingly endearing. Once the entrance to Dogwarts is again secure, he gives it a tentative pat. He’s rewarded by the wolf shoving its whole face at his hand, its tail wagging furiously. Right. So, very much not a threat then. This wolf seems way more like a dog honestly, what a big softie.

Martyn sighs in relief as he continues to pet it. This random attack of wolves wasn’t an attack after all, and if he can tame some of this lot, that might give Dogwarts an edge in battle. Joel’s tried to get a monopoly on wolves, but he’s not going to be the only one with an army of dogs for much longer. He looks down at the animal with a grin.

“Who’s a good wolf?” he says, “Who’s going to kill for us? Yes, yes it’s you!”

The wolf is seemingly delighted.

“You’re ready to kill, aren’t you? Ready to destroy and conquer the server in the name of our king? Yes you are!”

The wolf rolls over, and sort of wriggles around in the grass.

“You might need some training, but I’m loving this enthusiasm.”

He busies himself collecting bones from their storage underground, and does his best to tame the pack. He watches their eyes soften, and one by one they dip their heads to allow him to collar them. The red fabric, the same wool as the banners, is stark against their grey fur. The brown wolf stays by his side throughout this process, sometimes almost knocking him over. Martyn doesn’t think this wolf realises quite how large it is, despite it almost reaching his shoulders.

After successfully wrangling a good thirty or so wolves, he’s ready to call it a day. The sun is starting to sink below the horizon, and Ren still isn’t back. There’s been nothing in chat, no death message or hostage negotiation. Martyn runs a hand through his hair, putting his communicator away. The brown wolf nudges at his hand again, and he smiles faintly as he scratches its ears. He’s already tried taming it, but nothing seems to change and it won’t let him collar it. Still, it’s undeniably friendly and he appreciates the company.

Martyn spends the rest of the evening trading with villagers, after stationing several wolves at different watchpoints atop their walls. There’s only so much a person can do at once, so hopefully Dogwart’s new wolves will prove good guard dogs while he’s busy below ground.

The brown wolf refuses to leave him alone, apparently wanting to stick with him over the pack, and Martyn lets it follow him into their makeshift trading hall. Wheat, emeralds, and books slip through his fingers like sand, and the villagers faces blur together as time drags on. His communicator, still silent, weighs heavy in his pocket.

Back and forth from the fields, moving along the rows of villagers, slowly filling chests and bookshelves. The work is monotonous and his mind is blissfully quiet. His wolf begins to slow down, following him more calmly, and they fall into a comfortable rhythm walking together. Eventually when Martyn makes his way up the steps to the wheat fields, the sky is dark enough for him to see the stars. The humming of cicadas sounds from the surrounding woods, and the night air is cool on his face. He stands still in the fields, wheat stalks swaying around him. Martyn stares up at a full moon, and for a moment, the breeze carries with it a faint whispering. There’s rustling behind him, and then the brown wolf is nudging him back towards the stairs. The whispers at the back of his mind vanish, and he shakes his head to clear it, following the wolf to the warmth of the basement. He’s tired, it’s been an awfully long day.

He does one final round of trading before calling it a night. The result of his efforts is over a stack of emeralds, and four fully-stocked bookshelves. Not bad at all for one evening’s work, and they’ll be able to trade those emeralds for more weapons and armour tomorrow. He checks his communicator, and barely feels anything when he’s greeted by a blank screen. Ren will be back by morning. He has to be.

Martyn’s ready to head to his room, but realises the wolf isn’t following him. Turning around, he sees it curled up on Ren’s bed, nestled in the corner of the trading hall by the furnaces. Is it disrespectful to let a random wolf sleep on his King’s bed? He toys with the question for a moment, but somewhat vindictively decides that if Ren did care, he should be here to do something about it. Anyway, he can’t blame the wolf, must be nice and cosy for it with that heating nearby. He pauses. Actually, it would be quite a good place to sleep. He’s been a little jealous of the warmth, especially in the new Red Winter, but hasn’t had the time to put a furnace in his own quarters. It’s not like Ren’s using the bed at the moment, plus it’s hardly disrespectful if he doesn’t know about it, right?

If you’re going to abandon your Hand in the middle of a war, Martyn thinks, said Hand is at least entitled to steal your bed while you’re gone. It’s his last thought before he falls asleep to the crackling of furnaces and his wolf’s soft snoring.

_______

The next morning, he wakes up to find the wolf missing from the end of the bed. Instead, Ren is clinging to him in his sleep, tail curled around one of Martyn’s legs. He lies there in disbelief, tired mind barely comprehending the reality of the situation. If Ren thinks he can just disappear for a full day, and then come back and cuddle with him like nothing happened, he’s got another thing coming!

Martyn’s not going to move right away, though. It’s cold in the mornings.

Thoughts still clouded by the remnants of sleep, he lets himself hold Ren a little closer. He’s honest enough to admit he was worried, badly, but he hadn’t realised quite how much it would mean to have Ren back safe and with him again. Still, he is definitely going to give him a piece of his mind when he wakes up! Inconsiderate bastard, he thinks, running a hand tenderly through his King’s hair.

When Ren eventually stirs, he’s met with Martyn glaring at him.

“M’Hand?” he says, words slurring slightly, “What’re you doing here?”

Martyn all but bristles in indignation.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?! Or, more importantly, what were you doing not here!”

“Whuh-”

“You were gone all day, and now you just show up like nothing happened?”

“What?” Ren sits up, Martyn’s tone snapping him awake. “I left to go steal Joel’s wolves in the morning, but I came right back! I helped you tame them, and then we did some trading- “

That is absolutely not what happened yesterday- wait. Martyn’s eyes flick to the fluffy brown ears poking through Ren’s hair.

“Hold on,” he interrupts. “I’m going to ask you a question, and you are going to answer it seriously.”

“Sure?”

“You won’t laugh.”

He shakes his head.

“Okay. Are you honestly implying you spent yesterday as a wolf?”

“Uh, yeah?” He gestures to his ears. “Dude, my name’s literally Renthedog, I thought it was obvious?”

Martyn blinks at him.

“Did- did you not know I could do that?”

Martyn lies back down and covers his face with his hands.

“So there was this big brown dog helping out yesterday, and you didn’t question it?” Ren asks, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice. Martyn reaches up and whacks him in retaliation.

“I thought you were missing, you prick! I was busy freaking out!”

“Okay, that’s fair-”

“I thought you’d left me.”

The furnaces next to them had run out of coal partway through the night. The air feels colder than it should.

“I’m sorry,” Ren takes both Martyn’s hands in his own. “I really thought you knew it was me, I didn’t mean to make you think you’d been abandoned like that.”

Martyn looks up at him, and sees nothing but sincerity in red eyes.

“It’s you and me until the end.”

“Until the end,” he repeats, and Ren pulls him up into a hug.

#ghost writing #third life smp #3rd life smp #rendog #inthelittlewood #renchanting duo

173 notes · View notes

dracolichbitch · 1 year

Text

The Fallacy of the Damned: Chapter 01

The reason death is so petrifying is because no one is ever prepared for it, and when the reaper comes knocking at the door, everyone fights it with all their strength. Vinari knew this because she had seen it happen, over and over again. After all, as the heir apparent to the legendary clan of assassins, the Vidrus, often was she the knife in the dark, the poison in the cup, the ghost of dashed hopes and the honey sweet taste of vengeance. Even if she abandoned her family and the dreams they thrust upon her shoulders, killing was all she knew how to do. It was the only thing she was good at. Thus it was how she made her coin.

Today was different though. Today’s mark wasn’t bestowed upon her by a slighted woman, a grieving father, or an ambitious steward. Today was personal.

The bloody body slumped against the tree at her feet meant nothing to Vinari. The woman’s soulless eyes gazing up at her, the face she wore in death twisted into a tearful plea for mercy struck no chord within her soul. She wasn’t the original target. Vinari just needed her armor.

As soon as the polished ivory enamel plate was strapped securely to her body, her cloak stuffed inside as extra padding between her delicate flesh and the radiant aura seeking to rip her to pieces even at this distance from its caster, Vinari made her way to the castle’s front gates, leaving the body for the crows.

The gate guards gave her a respectful bow as she approached.

“Hail Juno! Welcome back! How was your trip?”

Vinari hoped that by donning the armor, she would be able to walk right in no questions asked, but while all of the Fyros guards armor looked the same to her, it seemed there were distinguishing features she had not noticed.

Well of course it’s distinct from other guards. You did target the prince’s fiance solely out of spite. Nocturne, her better half, spoke directly into mhery mind, a feat that would require significant effort on his part were it not for the fact they’d joined their souls together. Try to avoid killing everyone to get inside. This will require stealth, and I don’t mean the massacre kind.

No one can find the bodies if every soul dwelling within this castle is dead on the floor. Vinari pointed out even as she waved a greeting to the guards before feigning a cough into her shoulder.

“It went well though I fear I may have caught something while out and about.” She made her voice sound as hoarse and raspy as possible, while doing her best to mimic the voice she heard while that woman pleaded for her life.

The other guard offered her a sympathetic smile. “You should have some tea with honey in it. It should help your throat a little. Nicholas and his family should already be at the dining hall. I’m sure they’ll be delighted you’re home.”

Vinari nodded to the man, rolling her eyes as she did so. “I will be sure to join them, thank you.”

You hear that, Nocturne. He recommends tea with honey. Do you think that will resurrect her corpse?

Perhaps if it was of your creation. Nocturne’s chuckle reverberated through her mind. Although tis more likely it would merely kill her a second time.

It is most likely that you are correct.

Vinari noticed the radiant aura of magical light as soon as she walked in the front doors of the palace. It filled it to the brim, like water in a pot about to boil over the rim. It was just waiting to burst.

As a child of the Void, Vinari was sensitive to all light, and while this light wouldn’t be noticeable to any regular human, she was far from ordinary.

Vinari, show caution here. If the situation takes a turn for the worse, I will not be able to penetrate this aura to assist you. Nocturne’s warning flowed through her mind, the tension, and concern, in his voice so thick it could almost be cut with a knife. It was unlike him to sound so soft.

The dragon, much like herself, was a natural denizen of the Void and like her, boasted a certain amount of resistance to the light of Noxus. Most creatures of the Void couldn’t handle even the slightest scraps of starlight in the middle of midnight here in Noxus, but just because they could survive the incessant natural light of this realm did not mean it was in any way pleasant.

I know. I will refrain from foolishness. It was an easy thing to assure him of this, but making reality reflect the words was far more difficult. I will make do, do I not always?

Perhaps thus far, however, I dislike your propensity towards, how do the mortals refer to it? Close calls. In the back of her mind, she could visualize him circling the glowing dome of light surrounding the castle. Forget not that as you live and die, so do I.

I have yet to forget. Vinari assured him as she passed by a statue of a praying saint, pausing mid-step before taking steps backwards. Fear not, for I value your life above all else. The snap of teeth and the growl echoing through her mind was a clear indication he didn’t appreciate the sentiment.

A clear indication you do not value your own as you should! He snarled before severing the connection between their minds. In the presence of his absence, her mind felt empty and hollow, like a freshly dug grave waiting to be filled.

To distract herself, Vinari focused on the statue. It was of a kneeling saint, hands folded in prayer with a crown of chains adorning his brow, to trail down his body and loop around both wrists as well.

A symbol of the burden of leadership, is it? What does that man know of burdens? She bit back a snarl as she pulled the blade out from hersleeve.

She could feel the magic pouring off the statue, clearly an amplifier extending the reach of the aura, and upon pinpointing the source in the statue, Vinari stabbed into its golden eyes.

Once. Twice. Thrice. The light flickered before blowing out.

Good. Nocturne hummed his approval. You should destroy as many of those as possible, but do not forget your purpose in the pleasure of destruction.

Vinari could only imagine what a nightmare it must be for the servants to keep the polished white marble floor clean, but she rather enjoyed dirtying it as she trekked deeper into the castle, trailing a mixture of blood and mud with every footstep. She didn’t so much as glance at the trail she left behind though, not when her destination laid beyond the doors in front of her.

Vinari could tell.

The source of the aura was behind these doors.

The doors swung open silently on well oiled hinges, and from the doorway, she could see only five people in the hall meant for many.

The two men, one of which the source of this Void accursed aura, paid her no mind as they continued to chat at the end of the table. The two guards flanking the man she assumed to be the king, however, did look her way when she stepped inside.

Time stopped as they stared at her. She fought to keep her fingers from twitching as they said nothing.

Have they already realized? No, that shouldn’t be possible.

Desperately, Vinari wished she could summon her blades, but in the face of this wretched aura, there was no darkness around her to answer her call. The only weapons she had at her disposal were the blade she’d hidden in her bracer and the agonizing, light infused blade she’d taken off that woman’s corpse.

Well, and her tongue. Words were always her greatest weapon.

Even still, she knew it was better to flee than to fight, though the thought of leaving without a single head to call her own made her blood boil, but she was considering it when one of the guards beckoned for her to come inside.

Well, that was concerning.

Nocturne silently agreed.

She took a moment to observe where everyone was sitting before going to stand behind the woman’s chair. It was only once she was by the table that the prince looked up at her and smiled warmly, his whole face lightening up as he looked at her. Or rather, who he thought she was.

Vinari gave him a mere nod in acknowledgment but focused on the set up before her, silently bemoaning how unfortunate it was as she popped her knuckles on both hands, one by one.

The princess sitting quietly at the table, barely picking at her plate, gave her a polite but curious smile as she tilted her head at the sound.

Wordlessly, Vinari shook her head.

How sweet of her to be so concerned for this dead woman. It is almost a shame I will be killing her and the rest of her cursed blood.

The girl’s furrowed brow softened and she nodded at her slowly before returning to the overfilled platter of food before her.

Vinari could barely contain her ever growing disgust. What a fool. She hissed to no one but herself, though the huff of air passing through her lips may have been heard by the woman before me. You are no younger than me, yet you trust so easily. With no hesitation, and with reckless abandon. How have you never had to worry for a single moment in your life? Has the safety you have basked in throughout your life been at the expense of mine? Her blood boiled in her veins. Pitiful. Pathetic. Princess.

That word alone was more vulgar, more insulting, than any of the curses she’d ever uttered in any of the three languages she knew.

Vinari quickly distracted herself with the unfortunate setup in how the royals were sitting. On one side of the dining table, sitting at the middle of the table by herself, was the princess, Inara, if she recalled correctly. On the other side, by the end, sat her brother, though she couldn’t recall his name, though the woman she killed for this armor cried for him, begging for him to help her, before she died. And beside the prince, the king of Kanith sat at the end of the dining table, radiating light too bright for her to look at him or his son straight, on what had to be the most gaudy and hideous throne she’d ever seen.

Your target is right in front of you and your focus is on his throne?

The Fyros line has gone back centuries! They should have a higher standard for their family throne! Vinari retorted, stifling the laugh in her throat as she accepted the reality of the situation, shifting her weight from her bad leg as the numb nerves began to burn with pain from the exertion of merely standing up straight.

Without her magic, there wasn’t any way for her to take all three of them out.

Vinari glared at the king from the corner of her eye as he casually laughed at a joke his son told. Rage blossomed like the most beautiful rose in her chest. She hated it. She hated him. She hated that smile. She hated that laugh. But most of all, She hated the love in his eyes as he gazed at his children.

No, the king shall not die. Not today. I want him to hurt. I want him to suffer… But more than anything, I want him to watch, powerless, while I strip away everything he ever loved until he has nothing left save for the damning knowledge he brought this upon himself.

With that decided, there was only one move to make. With a flick of her wrist, Vinari whipped out the blade hidden in her bracer, and held it to the girl’s neck. As tempting as it was to do so, she didn’t make that decisive cut. Not yet. First, she wanted to see the look on that bastard’s face. Vinari wanted him to beg for mercy.

The girl gasped, the slight motion of her throat pressing the delicate porcelain skin deeper into the blade, drawing a line of blood across the edge. A whimper left her throat, and she sank deeper into the back of her chair.

Both the king and prince leapt to their feet when they saw the knife, and the guards readjusted their grips on their weapons, but none of them made a move towards her. Instead, they exchanged uncertain gazes with each other, clearly silently debating what to do.

“J-Juno?” The girl was the one who spoke up, her voice quiet and timid like a mouse startled into scurrying out of its hiding hole by the baying of dogs. “Why… Why are you… Doing this?”

“It behooves me to inform you of this, but your dearly beloved Juno no longer dwells among the living.” Despite the words, she could barely contain her glee as she wrenched that ugly fucking helmet from her head before tossing it at the prince with her free hand. It only flew halfway across the table before landing, though it did manage to roll the rest of the way over to him, clattering unpleasantly as it did so. “Clearly you did not care for her as much as she thought you did, seeming as you did not realize I was not she.”

The prince’s hands trembled as he slowly picked the helm up, disbelief etching sorrow across his face even as a choked sob slipping past his lips as he clutched it, hugging it to his chest. He shook his head slowly.

“No… It can’t be… She can’t be gone…”

“On the contrary, I am certain the wolves are most appreciative for the easy meal.” How could she help her wicked smile at his despair? How could she not rub more salt into the wound? “But I would most like to see you dispel the reality of her demise by declaring such a thing to her corpse.”

“Why you…” He snarled as he tore his eyes from the helm he clutched as if it were his last tie to this world. “Who are you?!”

Vinari twisted her lips into a mirthless smile that would’ve been almost dazzling if it weren’t for the pearly white, pointed canines. Clearly the kind of teeth meant for ripping out throats. “Ask your father. He ought to know what I am.”

The blood drained from the king’s face as realization visibly dawned on him.

“No… You can’t be…”

“No? Funny thing that. Turns out reality does not seem to care what any mortal believes should be.” Vinari smiled brighter. “As is the fact that most people opt to overlook the fangs if one shows no other visible signs of being Voidborne. I am quite fortunate in that regard. With common dark hair and eyes, I can pass for human.”

The king stared at her with wide eyes, gritted teeth, and a tremble in his hands.

“Who are you?”

“Your majesty, it does not seem as though you have noticed this, but you are not in the position to demand anything from me. Certainly not answers.” There was a calmness she didn’t feel as she pressed the knife harder against the girl’s throat. “Now sit. Behave like good dogs.”

The blinding aura surrounding the king sputtered and gasped in unsteady waves, like a candle buffeting in the wind, but it’s radius crumbled in on the king, dying down to a faint glow outlining his body.

Vinari could see him…!

A vein throbbed in the king’s temple, and though his body shook and a soundless snarl crossed his lips, he slowly lowered himself down into his seat, his son following suit.

Now that she could see straight, Vinari couldn’t possibly help the sadistic smile at the royalty bowing to her whims. Despite that though, it would take much more than simple obedience to satisfy her rage. Nothing could after all, because there was nothing she could take from this man that could equal what he took from her.

“I must say you make a most impressive dog, Your Majesty.” Vinari never was the type to resist rubbing salt into the wound, and fake praise was always a good way to do it. “Truly, it warms the heart to see you considering the consequences of your actions for once. Even if I find it surprising, considering you have always done whatever thought had the ill fortune to pop into your head at any time.”

Surprisingly, it was the girl who spoke up next.

“Why are you doing this…? What did I… Did I ever do… to you?”

As the girl’s amber eyes stared up at her, a wave of emotion Vinari couldn’t quite identify struck her. She mulled it over for a mere moment before discarding it as useless. Whatever that feeling was, it was irrelevant.

Vinari’s hatred had long since become her master and with every beat of her cold, dead heart, it gave her the same order. Take from him what he took from me while it is still mine for the taking.

Still Vinari didn’t make that decisive cut. Not yet.

No one should die ignorant after all.

Besides, was it not for the best that she knew where to direct her hatred in her dying moments?

“Nothing. You have committed no slight, neither real nor imagined against me.”

Vinari had no doubt she was as ignorant as she seemed to be. No mortal would tear their chest open and expose the deep, rotten sins within to the world if they had no reason to, and despite his actions, Kallen Fyros was indeed no monster, just a terrible, mortal man. And as such, Vinari had no doubt he’d sooner tear the sky asunder before confessing to his children what he’d done.

Such is the way of mortals.

“You have done nothing.” Vinari repeated as she gazed down at those eyes that brought back memories best left buried. Then again, wasn’t it always best for the past to stay as memories? For the dead to stay dead? Despite that, like a grave, here she was, digging it up for she could not bear to allow the past to remain unanswered for. For the bodies to stay still and lifeless.

“No, you are as pure and innocent as fresh fallen snow.” Vinari’s voice grew bitter as poison, even as she smiled, grim and hateful. “In fact, this has nothing to do with you at all. If you must hate me for my actions, I do not blame you. However, be sure to hate your father as well, because it is his actions that I am the consequence for.”

“This is about Duskhollow, isn’t it?”

Her eyes snapped over to the king when he spoke, and a bark of laughter slipped out. “Well, I am utterly astonished you even knew the name of the innocent village you reduced to ashes.”

“Innocent? Scions of the Void and the ilk who create them are never innocent. You and the foul magic that created you exist for only one reason: to destroy the innocent.” The king smiled bitterly, shaking his head. “But of course, you don’t realize that. Your ignorance betrays you. However, that said, I always think my actions through. Just because an inhuman creature of the Void like yourself isn’t capable of comprehending my reasons does not make that false.” His jaw clenched like he was restraining himself from leaping across the table and mauling her like a rabid dog. “I don’t make foolish decisions.”

Vinari laughed. The sound was cold, like the flow of a river during winter, deep beneath the ice.

“On the contrary, you have made plenty. Otherwise I would not be standing before you now.” She raised a brow at him. “I would offer some advice, yours to heed or ignore as you so choose.”

“And what would that be?”

“The next time you choose to burn a city to the ground, I would recommend insuring there are no survivors.”

The king stared at her hard, for a long moment that seemed to last eternity, before uttering words Vinari did not expect.

“What do you want?”

“Elaborate?”

After all, wasn’t it fairly obvious what she wanted?

His life. His death. Everything he ever loved or cherished, so broken and bloody that not even the greatest necromancer could ever return it to a facsimile of life.

“Anything. Anything you ask for.” The king declared, though he grimaced as the words left his lips, and he shifted in his chair as if the chair maker had a sense of humor and lined the bottom with spikes rather than a cushion, and the face he made was probably the same kind of expression he’d make if he walked into an unsavory scene, or if he stepped into something disgusting like dog shit barefoot. “Money. Fame. Status. Anything. I’ll give you anything you ask if you spare her.”

“Do you truly think so little of me to bargain for your child’s life, offering trinkets as worthless and inconsequential as status as recompense?” Vinari snarled, her grip on the blade tightening until her knuckles turned white. “Do you think mere coin is enough to repay what you have taken from me? What do you think I would do with gold?”

Absurd.

“You may be Voidborne, but as far as I’m aware, you are still mortal.” The admission almost seemed to pain the king as he spat out the words. “You still need to eat, do you not?”

While it was no lie she was a prisoner to the chains that mortality wrapped tightly around all humans like a noose, she wasn’t about to admit that to him.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice, nothing I wouldn’t give to protect my children.” The king continued, his voice falling into the depths of hollow desperation as he rose to his feet, his palms planted flat against the table top. “If you let her go, I will give you anything you ask for.”

Don’t you dare. Nocturne’s voice was angry now, a guttural growl reverberating through her mind, and Vinari could feel her own heart start pounding as his fury at the offer flooded into her soul. Don’t you even consider it.

The girl relaxed under her grip as it loosened on her shoulder, and despite Nocturne’s black rage pulsing through her veins like necrofire, Vinari smiled at the king. It wasn’t a malevolent smile either. It was warm, kind, and gentle. All things she had not been for a very long time.

“You want to know what I want, Your Majesty?”

“Tell me.”

“I want my people back, you bastard.”

Vinari slit Inara’s throat.

#The Fallacy of the Damned #writblr #writeblr #writing #lgbt writers

19 notes · View notes

undisputed-queer-a · 9 months

Text

In my opinion the number one thing AEW can do to improve the Women's division

Put her on TV every damn week.

Did you know that the AEW Women's Champion wasn't on the latest episode of Dynamite? Did you know that she wasn't on last week's episode? (and that the amount of women's wrestling on that show was a cool 1 minute 6 seconds (according to cagematch)) Did you know that her only role the week before was as Ruby Soho's second? The same is true of the week before that. Because they had the women's Owen on maybe in AEW's eyes there were enough/too many women's matches on. The week before that she seconded Ruby in match that went 2 minutes and 6 seconds (according to cagematch). The week before, the go home show for Forbidden Door she didn't feature at all. The week before that Toni Storm had her most recent televised match on Dynamite (as of Thursday the 27th of July 2023), a seven minute title defence against Skye Blue. She's been on Collision only once.

And hey if that bit was boring then, good. Good because it shows how far I had to go to find the last time that Toni had a televised AEW singles match. Over a f*cking month. I think the topics I choose are making harder to refrain from swearing in these. Yes this is like technically the second one. I said what I said. And hey that might not be true because I believe she's been on Rampage during that time, I didn't bother to check. I didn't check because I have a suspicion that when I did that whole speech no one stood up and said "Actually you missed this specific episode of Rampage" because, and it feels rude to say but I don't think people care about Rampage that much. But you know who has never fought on Rampage, MJF. You wanna check? I did. In the references section should be a link to a cagmatch search showing every MJF AEW match, none of them occur on Rampage I even combed through the matches from before Rampage began for some reason. I don't know why but I had to be 100% sure.

The reason I bring up Max is that he is the AEW World Champion and Toni is the AEW Women's World Champion. And while theoretically those belts should be on an equal standing the women's belt is lesser, for no other reason than that the company presents it as such. I could now use maths to tell you the amount of TV time each has had since Toni become champion. But I don't need to because You and I probably can't remember much that Toni has done on TV since winning the belt because it's not much. Theoretically Toni should be presented as as much of a star as MJF is, and she's not even presented as being on the same level as FTW Champion Jack Jungle Perry Boy.

So the biggest change I would make to AEW's women's division is to prominently feature their f*cking champion. Call me a bloody booking genius. This is an elementary concept of give your champion TV time (especially more than Britt why do I see Britt more than Toni why has Britt been more protected than every champion since she lost the belt?) and make your champion a centre point for the division and make them a star.

Also you know what I saw when wading through AEW shows looking for Toni? Loads of talented women in dark matches. No I don't mean matches on AEW Dark just regular dark matches seen only by the live crowd. Riho and Nyla Rose and Emi Sakura and Abadon and Mei Suruga. They are hiding these women in dark matches. Mei Suruga has only ever had dark matches and matches on YouTube in AEW. That to me, a ChoccoPro fan, is really sad because they have this amazing talent but they won't use her because have they're weekly women's match booked so they don't need anything else. (Also the irony of me complaining that AEW only ever featured Mei on YouTube is not lost on me.)

In conclusion I want AEW to be better but we're still waiting, and we shouldn't be. So give Impact a go. Or become a Joshi fan, you're immediate thought on that will most likely be Stardom and they're great but TJPW (Tokyo Joshi Pro-Wrestling) is also a great shout. They are incredible and they have English commentary if you want it.

This has been Undisputed Queer-a.

Slay The System, Shock The Cis-tem, and see you Monday this was out of schedule but I really wanted to talk about it. Shout out to Toni 'The Bicon' Storm.

#wrestling #wrasslin #professional wrestling #aew #aew dynamite #aew rampage #aew women #aew women's world championship #aew women's division #book the women's division better #undisputed queer a #blog

8 notes · View notes

nizar-dreams · 4 months

Text

If Only You Believe in Miracles So Would I Summary

"The Department of Magical Education has twisted Albus Dumbledore's arm and have required the Headmaster to get a second teacher for each core subjects at Hogwarts. Severus Snape almost weeps with relief at the news. But the school year is not without other far interesting events. With young Harry Potter starting his first year at Hogwarts, new (surprisingly competent) teachers, a suspicious Albus, and a rare and powerful artifact hidden inside the school, Severus wonders if he ends up trading less homework for even more stresses in his life."

Okay listen, this story was birthed for many reasons. My continued obsession with Severus Snape, my anger at Albus fucking Dumbledore, and the incompetency of (Wizarding) Government. But the biggest one, which bamboozles me the most, is the lack of teachers for Hogwarts.

Think. About. It.

If you have gone to a school of around 400 students, you and I are aware that at this many students, you still have at least two to three teachers per core subject. Why? Because it is a foolish notion to believe that 1 (one) teacher can even handle teaching all 400 students in one week without seriously sacrificing student education and how much you actually teach them and what they have to self study. Which, as someone who's already graduated high school nearly two years ago, self study was not my strongest suits at all unless I liked the class and teacher.

As someone who observed my own teachers and how they handled various class sizes (choir was the easiest to see as Jazz was the smallest, but we'd easily have 25+ students for regular choir and that was... ridiculous for my teacher to handle somedays.) I can confidently say, that teaching two Hogwart Houses that are easily 20-30 students per house, which means a classroom of 40-60 students, is absolutely bat shit insane.

And then you have to be a Head of House as well? Or if you're McGonagall, you're also Deputy Headmistress and having to cover for Albus bloody Dumbledore because the Headmaster has a second job as a politician and the current Minister Of Magic is an idiot? I would be sobbing and burnt out by the end of the first month. I would need a Time-Turner just to have some sleep and me time.

Or if you're Snape, you're trying to save a child from getting himself killed, while playing spy, while playing evil teacher who favours his snakes, while also having to deal with children trying to blow themselves or their classmates up in his classroom. Because potions is a dangerous art, and children, especially the first and second years, are idiots. And especially whoever decided that Gryffindors and Slytherins get to spend potions in the same classroom. Together.

Whoever makes that schedule is an idiot, or horribly optimisitc.

But as you can see that is such a ridiculous amount of pressure to put on a single teacher that teaches the core subjects at Hogwarts for virtually all 7 years. So. This story was created. The Department of Magical Education finally got the memo and were like "wow are kids are kinda... fucking stupid compared to Ilvermorny, Beauxbaton, and Durmstrang... that's mad embarassing" and told Albus that he had to get more teachers and that was not negotiable. Except for history. They don't exactly care about history it seems. (I also lowkey forgot about it, but I think it makes sense that they already have a 'nonpayed' teacher so why bother with an actual one? Don't worry some parent will make a fuss about it or something, and a good portion of the teachers are good with history anyway so its all finnneee)

Well. Here we are. I have thus 'hired' 6 additional teachers besides Quirrel. 6 competent adults who take their jobs pretty seriously. I actually love all of them, they have their quirks, and I tried diversifying the staff as much as I could without it being forced.

For instance, our new transfiguration teacher is an older gentleman, 61 years old, who studied at Beauxbaton, and from Denmark. Our Herbology teacher is a young Scottish woman, barely 28 with a boyish charm, and is subtley bisexual. Our charms teacher is 35, and they use neutral pronouns and have an otherworldly appearance with big eyes and bronzed skin. My main character, our additional potions teacher, is 41, Salvadoran-American, and gay. Our astronomy teacher is a striking Irish woman who learned at Ireland's school, Erehnoll. And lastly our other DADA teacher is a woman born in El Salvador, 37, and has lived a very interesting life since.

We're branching out, alright. Like yeah I could branch further, but already some of the canon characters who could be considered as simply 'British White' will probs not be just that. And this is just the first year with new teachers. Maybe another year if results are good, I could introduce more. (It's so many characters to jugle but I think I am doing admirably. But I think for now, the current cast is already better then years prior. If I do add more teachers, it'll be for history for sure.)

For now, this is why I made this story. That it was absurd to leave the 6 out of 7 of the core subjects to a singular teacher. I would be in tears, really. I do go more in details on the ridiculousness of this all in the story, but here I am giving you a sneak preview at a lot of my thoughts on the subject that get dramatic and also distorted through character POVs. I think it'll be fun to read it from one of the characters, it makes me smile. They seem the type to be sarcastic and dramatic in their thoughts while exasperated to the 10th power.

I can't wait for Janurary 1st. I'm so excited for you all to see the chaos.

2 notes · View notes

mavians-harem · 2 years

Text

Side Case: Quest for Love - Ch.1

Fandom: Judge Eyes ¦ Judgment

Pairing: platonic friendships <3

Summary: You have seen all kinds of shit since starting work at the Yagami Detective Agency, but finding yourself the victim in the midst of a stalker case still caught you off guard.

Warnings: stalking, paranoia

Credit to that one anon and @ann-is-amazing-person who inspired me to write this! Thank you :)

The phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID and the twitch of an eyelid followed. You let it ring and continued filing the paperwork for a new case. After a few more ignored rings, the office fell back into silence.

Relieved, you huffed through your nose, only to break off into a groan when that maddening sound started up once more.

"Why don't you just pick up?" Kaito sauntered into the room, glowing cigarette loosely hanging from between his lips. The plastic of the shopping bags he was carrying rustled as he set them down onto the coffee table. "You know it's not gonna get better if you keep ignoring it."

You shot him a glare before stretching out your arm, open palm facing the ceiling. Dutifully, Kaito put a freshly bought ice-cold matcha latte into your hand.

"Because, Kaito-san", you took a sip of your drink and nearly moaned at the taste, "My boss explicitly asked me not to do so. If this keeps on for much longer, though, I might have to get Hoshino-kun to bail me out after murdering Yagami-san."

Kaito scoffed, "Don't be too hard on him. You know how much shit he has to put up with on the regular."

As much as you hated to admit it, Kaito was right. Being stuck at a desk in a detective office for hours on end sucked at the best of times, but compared to Yagami running around Kamurocho and getting into scuffles with all sorts of people day-in, day-out, it was a piece of cake. Of course, you'd been involved in a few street fights as well over the course of the last months but apart from a bruised cheek and split lip, you had nothing to complain about. Unlike the rest of your co-workers who came in with bruised knuckles and bloody noses more often than you could count. The amount of money you'd spent on refilling first aid-kits was more than you earned in a month. Not that that was anything to go by, given how Yagami couldn't always afford to pay you.

"I know... but if you had to sit here and get blasted by this stupid thing, you'd be just as salty."

"It can't be that bad."

You pulled up the list of missed calls and began to rattle off every single timestamp within the last hour. Kaito stopped you at around number 25, which had been made at exactly 15:33.

"See what I mean? I'm going nuts here, Kaito-san. Please tell me you got work for me outside."

The way he tilted his head and the downward twitch of his lips were all you needed to see. You slumped face first onto the desk as the phone's ringtone went off again. Yagami was going to die tonight and there was nothing Kaito could say or do to appease you. Although the opened can of beer he put down in front of you as gently as possible was a decent try. Too bad you had to finish your latte first.

Continue

#rgg #ryu ga gotoku #judge eyes #judgment #judgmentfanfic #takayuki yagami #yakuza #fanfic #fanfiction #fumiya sugiura #kaito masaharu #toru higashi #reader insert #reader #reader insert fanfic

35 notes · View notes

esthermitchell-author · 6 months

Text

Someone asked me why the Good Omens fanfic I write is predominantly fluffy. Two reasons:

I think my poor boys are being tortured enough by their creator (ie, Neil Gaiman et al). I want to give them a little happiness.

I write Romantic Suspense on the regular, and when I say "suspense" I mean it. I need a break, and a chance to write something just soft and happy. To give you an example, THIS is the scene I just finished editing for my futuristic/military Romantic Suspense series Underground: Mole (If you have any self-harm triggers please don't read any further):

Jen leaned her head back against the wall across from Matt's door and breathed sobbing gasps of air, unsure what to do next. One thing she knew -- the man she ran from in there wasn't the Matt Clipper she knew. He was always a bit of a maverick and very definitely skating the thin edge of sanity, but she was never afraid for her life, before. She always knew he wouldn't hurt her.

Now, she wasn't so sure.

A series of loud, stumbling crashes from inside Matt's quarters yanked her attention back, and fear for him pushed aside her sense of self-preservation. Those weren't normal sounds of movement, and they meant the man she loved was in trouble.

She needed to help him. What did she care if he hurt her in the process?

Jen slapped her hand over the door pad and breathed a sigh of relief to find it wasn't locked against her. She wouldn't put it past Matt to lock her out, after what went down in Comms. As she stepped inside -- and around the puddle of vomit to one side of the door -- the thought fled, along with her relief, and a cry of distress tore from her lips.

A small table and its contents lay scattered in the middle of Matt's living room floor. The man himself was sprawled face-down and shirtless in the bedroom doorway. Blood trailed along the floor and soaked one area on the back of the sofa. Crimson handprints smeared the unpainted concrete wall beside the bedroom doorway. Matt's bloody switchblade lay haphazardly on the blood-spattered and stained sofa.

Jen's heart dropped straight through her stomach.

"Matt!" She lunged across the room, dropping to her knees to roll him over onto his back. More blood covered his dark arms and torso, and she blanched at the ragged slice that grooved his left forearm in a jagged line from his wrist to just below his elbow.

"Goddammit." She ripped her own shirt, tearing it from her body in strips to fashion a makeshift tourniquet and bandage around his left arm with quick precision.

"'Ayyy, bay...bee," Matt slurred. His eyelids fluttered, and he tried to raise his head and then let it fall back, laughing brokenly. Clearly, the blood loss was making him giddy, which meant she didn't have much time left if she wanted to save him.

There was never a question she was saving him.

"Don't 'hey, baby' me, Matthew James Clipper," she snapped as she examined the self-inflicted wound quickly. Her throat closed as her examination confirmed her fear. That wound required sealing, and fast. Matt was going to need a BRU, too. He'd lost a dangerous amount of blood.

"Damn it, Matt," she hissed through tears as she checked the tourniquet's tightness and stood. "You promised. I thought we were finally out of the woods."

With that, she turned on her heel and dashed down the corridors to the infirmary to retrieve her medical kit, unconcerned about her lack of shirt. She had more important things than her modesty to worry about, right now. Being the team physician and psychologist left her in the awkward position of knowing way too much people didn't usually want their doctors to know. That applied doubly to Matt, who didn't want her, as his lover, to know any of the stuff her position as team doctor and shrink left her -- unfortunately -- all too aware of.

She knew Matt battled with cutting. Cutting was his mechanism of self-control, though he refused to explain what he was controlling. When they first met, he cut himself to deal with every pain, disappointment, or stress he encountered. It got so bad, during the Divide, Rick ordered Matt into therapy, which dropped him straight into Jen's care.

Only problem was, Matt wouldn't tell her what led to his self-mutilation. After they became lovers, she noticed he'd go months at a time without a single cut. Then, when they broke up the first time, he showed up next morning muster looking like a human blade sharpener. It took her years to convince him to lock his knife up when he didn't need it for work. He didn't give in to the urge as much when the switchblade wasn't in plain sight. And it seemed to work. In the three years since the end of the Divide, she only caught him cutting once, and those wounds were superficial. She worried, but let it go.

Not this time. Matt just escalated from cutting to attempted suicide. Her gut twisted with guilt, aware something she said or did must have triggered him. She just didn't know enough to know what she did.

She picked up her pace as the sick feeling Matt was a real danger to himself, right now, built. It took less than two minutes to make the round trip to the infirmary, but Jen breathed a thankful sigh when she found Matt still breathing and semi-alert when she returned to his side.

"Jen?" His query slurred with blood loss and confusion as she helped him up from the floor and settled him onto the bed, where she could work easier. Sheets could be washed. She wasn't about to treat a patient on the floor if she didn't have to.

She glanced up and saw the pain in his dark eyes. "Yeah?"

"I... I'm sorry, baby girl."

In the process of removing the sealant gel from her kit, Jen froze. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes at his words. It was the first time she ever heard a sincere apology from Matt. Until this moment, she never realized just how badly she needed to hear those words -- and more -- from him. Trembling, she drew deep breaths and fought for calm as she removed the gel and gauze bandages from her kit. She moved around the edge of the bed and crawled across the wide expanse of mattress to reach his wounded arm. Probably should have moved him to the other side of the bed, but there wasn't time, and the right side had been the easiest to help him up onto.

Breathing exercise completed and firmly centered again, she unwrapped his wound and eased the pressure of the tourniquet just a fraction. Unsealing the cap of the pre-loaded syringe, she depressed the plunger and watched the thick, clear wound sealant gel fill the gash on his arm. The gel had replaced stitches and disinfectant swabs back before the Polar Wars and made emergency medicine a hundred times more efficient. Before her eyes, the gel crusted and drew inward, pulling the edges of the wound together until what was once a gaping slash became little more than a thin red line on his dark skin. Tossing the spent syringe into the bedside waste receptacle, she picked up the bandage and began wrapping his forearm. With the wound sealant, the bandage wasn't strictly necessary, but she never took chances with her team.

Especially not Matt.

Besides, bandaging up his arm gave her something to focus on, to keep her mind from spinning away with questions.

"Why did you do it?" She focused on her task, determined to keep her tone steady and professional, even if her heart and brain screamed otherwise.

"I..." His mouth moved for a moment. She lifted her gaze, watching him struggle for explanation. Then his expression shuttered again. "I don't know."

"That's a crock. You know exactly why you did this. You just don't want to tell me." She finished with the bandage and sat back on the bed beside him, kicking off her high heels as she did. "Bet you'd tell Tamia, though."

"Fuck. Not this shit again. Okay, you want the truth?" His gaze followed her motions lazily, but he wasn't fooling her. His mocha eyes were clear and glittering with anger. Almost as if he was offended she saved his life.

Jen sighed in exasperation. "Of course I do."

"It's you." He reached out, captured her hand, and brought it to his lips, where he nibbled the inside of her wrist.

She froze, stunned beyond words by his flip in personality, yet again. He'd just gone from pissed-off, to crazed, to suicidal, and now he was being soft and romantic -- or whatever passed for romantic in Matt's blood-loss addled brain, right now.

On days like today, she seriously worried for Matt's mental health.

#good omens fandom #good omens fanfiction #fanfic #Why I write fluffy fanfic #You wanted to know -- there it is #Is it any wonder I write fluff fanfic?#This is why nothing we've seen so far in Good Omens has totally destroyed me. I understand the inclination to torture characters.#writing fiction #writers on tumblr

1 note · View note