Look, look. It's not my fault I wrote 998 words on Wayne comfort. Or I'm giving it to you anonymously. Just think of me as the neighborhood feral cat giving you a dead bird for all the nice head scratches. I don't have enough guts to post my writing on my blog since I'm new to Tumblr. So please enjoy this comfort, slight nsfw fic at the end. Your writing has been inspiring me, so you deserve this. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭👍
You had just been laying on the couch that was undoubtedly worth more than anything you ever owned in your previous life. Anyone rich can buy a uncomfortable and presumptuous piece of high quality furniture, but finding one that looks this nice and feels great too is a special skill. The nice buttery leather was encasing you like a hug that you sunk into as you struggled with being awake. To make matters worse, you had grabbed one of the bloated pieces of Victorian literature off the shelf in the library. You fully intended to give it up at first sign it got hard. Then Todd challenged you on whether you could read and gather it's plot without help. He wasn't saying you were stupid, but you still heard it hanging in the air after he shuffled out of the room. You really hate being called stupid.
That's how Damian found you, lounging on the couch and half dozing as the sun and fireplace chased away the chill. Damian was also tired for another reason, he had spent all night on watch and was finally showing signs of tiring like a normal human. And there you were, all nice and cozy in silk pajamas, even though it was cold outside, you had long discarded your sweater and changed into shorts. Ever since you complained about the cold in the Manor, Bruce had raised the heating to a nice summer day.
It didn't bother Damian at all, especially when he got to see the way your pajama shirt rode up in your tossing and turning on the couch.
The sudden weight made your breath wheeze out and you lifted the book off your chest to peer down at Damian. In no time he settled himself between your open and splayed legs, hooking his massive arms underneath your knees and slightly under your bum so that he can wiggle closer to your navel. Your eyes widen and you almost squealed at him. Especially as his warm breath started warming your stomach.
Then you saw how his eyes dropped, and he slightly nuzzled into you before going slack. Your eyes traced the planes of his face as they slowly smoothed out from sleepiness.
"What are you reading", Damian slurs out, his voice heavy and deep from contentment.
"Some meaningless Victorian novel, everyone is so emotionally stunted it's hilarious" you hum out.
He doesn't respond and you cautiously close the book and rest it on your chest. His breaths were coming in deep now, having finally lost the battle when you started ranting about your arch nemesis book.
You take another moment to appreciate the softness that was missing from his face usually. Brows slack, not furrowed in rage or disgust. Nose not scrunched up from sneering. Cheeks puffed out slightly from sleep as his mouth pops open to let out the softest snore. This was Damian, the version you longed for. And ever so softly and gently, you run your hands through the silky but forbidden hair.
That's how Dick found you two hours later. Only your shirt had crept up more as you settled into sleep. Most importantly, Damian had slid down as he stretched slightly in his sleep, one of his hands crawling up underneath your ass and to fan out across the side of your ribs. This movement unconsciously moved you more in your sleep as you curled protectively around the weight on you. Your hands still buried in his hair.
Now though, Damian's face was buried in your pelvis, way too close to the goal for Dick. Older brother slapping younger brother in the calf to get the rotten bastard to wake up. Which he succeeded in.
Just for Damian to give Dick a shit-eating smirk as you mumbled in your sleep from the jostling. To rub his position in his brother's face even more, Damian leans over to give the lightest kiss to your inner upper thigh that was so tantalizingly close. Cue both Dick and Tim who just walked in having a collective mind blown explosion.
Needless to say there were a lot of harsh slaps and pathetic "ow"s as they wrenched him out from you as best they could without waking you. It didn't really work as Damian's stray hand slid back down as both held your ass for dear life. He buried himself even closer to you as your thighs clenched around him and you let out the littlest of moans in your sleep. Something that had both brothers dropping Damians legs and scurrying away with beet red faces while Damian flicked them off.
When you woke, Damian was sitting up in the chair with your legs on his lap and your discarded book being held precariously in his long calloused fingers. He looks down at you as you let out a delicious sounding moan as you stretch the sleep off. It wasn't as good as the one you let out earlier though, he needs that one again. Soon.
"You know it's not the Brontë sisters fault you're stupi-" he didn't get to finish as your foot slams the book into the side of his stupid gorgeous asshole face.
Took me a while to answer this because I didn't even know what to say. It's perfect it's fantastic it's amazing and I'm genuinely begging you to write more. The assholishness. The clingy desperation. The way both reader and Damian are so obviously in love with eachother but can only manage to get along long enough to touch. The little hints to the other relationships. The TENSION. All of it. All of it is amazing and wonderful and gorgeous and I'm dying on the floor. AAAAAAAA
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im very normal about fuuta in general but i dont think im ever going to emotionally recover from his fire motif and what it represents for his character and how he reflects the greater theme of justice so that means i must rant about it
(more under the cut because this got longer than i expected whoopsies)
so anyway fire is pretty obviously supposed to be symbolic of his passion for justice right? that fire is all over the place in bring it on. he's wielding it to take down enemies, his signature weapon is a flaming sword. it's what he uses to lead the campaign against the people he's after, the people he's deemed in the wrong.
it's a fucking flaming sword, it's badass as hell!!!! it's what a hero of justice, a knight, would use!!!! it's cool as shit, it's his symbol of justice.
that's how he sees his justice in trial 1.
he's righteous, he wants so badly to believe he was a hero, he was doing it all for a good cause, for justice. his passion for justice was a tool he used to meet those ends, to be a hero, to wave it valiantly in the face of enemies.
the fire, however, is conspicuously absent once he's noticed the blood on his hands
interestingly, despite backdraft as a song title being much more related to his fire motif than bring it on, fire is actually surprisingly absent from the mv's visuals. fire, as in actual orange burning fire, doesn't show up much at all in backdraft except for when both fuuta and his victim begin turning to ashes, and a short bit near the end right after the last chorus when the spraycan explodes in fuuta's face. you know what the mv does show a lot of though?
smoke. and ash. the byproducts of a fire, the byproducts of fuuta's passion for justice.
bringing it back to firefighting for a moment: as many people have already pointed out, backdraft as a firefighting term refers to when a fire that has consumed all available oxygen suddenly explodes when more oxygen is made available, such as when a window or door breaks. the thing about fire hazards, though, is if the fire and the heat don't do someone in, usually it's the smoke. the smoke inhalation causes breathing difficulties and suffocation, making it even more difficult for a person to escape the fire.
in backdraft, instead of fire itself, what we're shown is these byproducts of a fire. the smoke is damaging to human health, and the ash shows that the fire has burned things up and caused destruction, in this case killing someone. all we're shown is the negative results of a fire, in sharp contrast to its badass, positive portrayal in bring it on.
hell, even fuuta himself starts turning to ashes and the spraycan explodes in his face, showing how even he is experiencing the negative results of a fire that has gotten out of his control, how even he has gotten burned by his passion for justice. or, is it es' desire for justice?
translation of fuuta's t2 vd by onigiriico
Me, too! I was like that, too! I also didn't think it'd turn out that way!
You and I are exactly the same breed! The only difference between us is the clothes we're wearing.
fuuta's justice and es' justice, it's all the same in his head now, he directly tells es that they're the same, that we're the same. it's all the same hunger for justice that ends up causing harm even if that wasn't the intention.
you know that saying that fire is a good servant but a bad master? i think that's pretty applicable to fuuta's situation. his passion for the pursuit of justice was great when it was still a tool, a sword he could wield, after all he did manage to shed light on some people's wrongs and bring them to justice. but once it exploded, when it became a backdraft that even he could no longer control, it did more damage than he intended.
it burned even him, it killed a middle schooler. and he recognizes that in backdraft. he only shows us the ways fire that becomes a hazard can go wrong.
translation of fuuta's t2 vd by onigiriico
What did I do? All I did was say that what's wrong is wrong! I was just going off at a bad person online!
I didn't think they would die! I just thought that wrong things are wrong, and that a crime is a crime! You get that, don't you? See? Aren't we the same?
it's just. fire is such a good metaphor for the message of fuuta's character and his arc. it's an amazing illustration of how dangerous it is when you feed a desire for justice too much, when you forget to put a boundary on how you handle that fire. eventually the fire spreads just like how passion for justice becomes zealotry, until more and more things fall under what you consider to be 'punishable' by your standards and goes out of control to hurt people that probably didn't deserve it. it's a warning to set proper boundaries on our own definition and desire for justice and what's 'right' so the good intentions doesn't spiral into harm. it's a reflection of our attitudes towards milgram as the audience responsible for their justice and forgiveness. it's amazing i love it i love fuuta's fire symbolism i love fuuta's character arc and i love milgram's writing so so so much
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I'm being given the opportunity to transfer to a college in Japan, and because it accepts FASFA and also offers merit-based scholarships, on top of japanese currency being ¥150 to the USdollar, it's basically VERY affordable for me to go. It also has dormitories and homestay opportunities. Also I've been wanting to go to Japan for the past few years, so this is a dream for me.
But the problems are,
A: I'm a coward and suddenly transferring to Japan and being alone there when I'm not super confident in my Japanese speaking & reading skills yet is terrifying. I don't know the basic 2,500 kanji that are deemed essential in Japan. I don't even know 100 kanji. I know like. 30 at best right now.
B: I will have to leave my job to go there, for a few months at the very least (if I only go for one semester) or 3 years at most (the max amount the program offers, I believe) and finding work in Japan as a foreigner and a college student could be very tricky. To make it worse, I almost have a full sleeve of tattoos on my arm. Tattoos are frowned upon in Japan for the most part, and even though it's not a big deal as a foreigner, what japanese company would want to hire a butch female foreigner with tattoos?? Very few.
C: My cat is old and I won't be able to take her with me to Japan, and leaving her behind will be stressful for me (both because she might kick the bucket while I'm in Japan and because I will be completely alone in Japan without her)
D: I have one semester left to finish my associates degree, so if I DO go then it'll be after I finish my associates, because it will be easier that way instead of finishing my credits in another country (if they even offer all the courses I will need to finish my degree requirements in the first place)
E: They don't offer any biological science majors (that I can see so far, I still need to look more) so if I DO go it'll be for some sort of language or literature course because that seems to be what they specialize in.
F: Covid. Sickness. International travel struggles. I am so so scared of getting lost and sick in a foreign country especially after a global fuckign plague. Not to mention, I lose my voice at high altitudes, so plane rides essentially make me mute (with a horribly dry and sore throat) which will make my fear of sickness even worse & maybe make others uncomfortable given recent events. Also will I need a visa? How do I go about getting one for Japan?
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Blood and Bones- Whispers of a Spirit oneshot
This is a oneshot for my ghost april au fic, Whispers of a Spirit, and if you haven't read that you might be a wee bit confused, so I recommend reading chapter 1 of that first. ( Whispers of a Spirit - Chapter 1 - Sundere - Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018) [Archive of Our Own] )
Warning: This oneshot is pretty dark, so tw for implied death (twice) not super graphic, implied death by gunshot and implied death by hanging. Also descriptions of blood. And one of the people who dies is a five year old girl, so. It's also really sad.
This was inspired by the songs Funeral Bell (PHILDEL) Curses (Crane Wives) and Spirit (Amarante) (YES i did take lyrics directly from that last song im lazy)
(This is a dream sequence from the pov of donnie and then a little convo with him and ghost april irl)
Donnie was standing in a forest.
He's dreaming, he thinks. There's no forest in the New York sewers.
It's dark, but his eyes start to adjust more as he walks around, trying to figure out where he was.
It was chilly, and he shivered in the breeze, stepping into an open clearing. It was brighter here, a full moon shining through the gap in the trees.
He stopped walking when he heard leaves crunching, and saw two black girls wearing 17th-century-style running frantically out of the woods.
One of them looked around his age, and he felt like he recognized her vaguely. She was leading the other by the hand, who was about 5 or 6 years old.
The older girl looked haggard, her hair was loose around her shoulders and tangled, and she had dirt smudged on her cheeks and her dress, as well as scratches on her arms.
The little one wailed and tugged on the older one's hand, making her turn around and make desperate shushing noises, looking around fearfully while holding the little one's shoulders.
"Hey, baby, it's okay! What's wrong?"
The little one sniffed.
"I'm tired, April. Why are we runnin'?"
Donnie stiffened. April. But this isn't the April he knows.
Is it?
"I know you're tired, honey. We have to keep running. They're after both of us."
The little girl sniffed. "I wanna go home. Wheres Ma and Pa?"
April looked like she was trying not to cry as she stroked her cheek, voice wobbling as she reassured the girl. Maybe her little sister? "They're gone, baby. They went to visit Firash. It's just us now."
The little girl looked up, her eyes sparkling. "They went to find Bro?"
April nodded, lips tight as if she said anything else she'd break down.
"WITCH!!! FREEZE!!" A voice bellowed out from the woods.
April sprung up, grabbing the hand of the little girl again and starting to run.
A loud gunshot echoed through the trees and Donnie flinched and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the gruesome scene.
There was silence for a few seconds before the most agonizing, heartbroken scream Donnie has ever heard in his life rings out.
The sound fades, and the next time he opens his eyes, he's in a different place, a small town next to the woods.
There's a cheering crowd behind him and in front of him...
Gallows.
He watched in horror as a man dressed in all black led a handcuffed April up the stairs and onto the platform. She had a blank look on her face and her beautiful dark brown dress had a bright red splatter of blood on the torso, right where her little sister's head would've reached if they were both standing.
"Any last words?" The executioner asked in a gruff voice as he placed the noose.
April took a deep breath and her expression melted from blankness to pure rage.
"This is for Estellina."
She started chanting in a melodic voice;
"Here, in the great forest, there are traces of the old
Melodies of the past that we have buried in our souls
Deep in the dark unknown, there's a place we call our home
The past in our bones
The path will be shown."
She repeated it, over and over again, sometimes in English, sometimes in Afrikaans, and sometimes in a language he couldn't recognize at all. It didn't even sound like a language that could be spoken by humans. Everytime she said it, her voice got louder and louder.
The crowd and the executioner stood still, confused, until houses started erupting in bright green fire, roaring flames licking the sky.
People started screaming, running around in a panic, and the executioner bumped the lever on the gallows as he ran off.
Donnie heard a crunch and-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Donnie bolted up in bed, heart racing as his brain tried to comprehend the nightmare he just had.
Blood. Fire. Bones. Screams.
April-the April he knows, his best friend- peeks around the doorway at him, concern etched into her transparent features.
"Donnie? You okay?" She asked, floating into the room.
"April; Oh my god, April, I'm so sorry."
"What?" She asked, concern switching to confusion.
He got up shakily and reached for her, but pulled his hand back when he remembered she wasn't solid.
"Your- your sister. I saw it."
April's face dropped. Donnie didn't miss the badly disguised hope in her eyes.
"Estellina? You saw her?"
"I saw... I saw her death.
April frowned, the hope in her eyes melting away.
She floated off and Donnie decided to give her a minute.
He walked over and sat at his desk, turning on a lamp and powering up the computer.
He started typing.
'Witch hunting 1750'
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Sometimes, when my family is talking about my future there's this dreading thought in my mind.
Do they actually care about what I want rather than what they want me to be?
My mom told me that I'm allowed to be whoever I want to be but when I talked about my possible attraction to the same sex, she immediately said that I'll go to hell and I shouldn't be joking about it.
Tell me... Is that something a living mother who wants her child to be happy would say?
Or when I came out as asexual, my mother was telling me that I'll find a love one day and that it's in nature to have a partner.
Or when my aunt jokingly calls me sexy despite me saying time and time that I hate getting called like that.
Maybe the voices are right, maybe they don't love me, they only love the standards they expect me to fulfill.
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