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writingjourney · 1 year

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5 types of christmas kisses with copia (+1) | cardinal copia x reader

summary: you and the cardinal have been tiptoeing around each other for a while now – it’s time to let the festive spirit do the rest.

content: ~8k words, absolute fluff, like… tooth-rotting fluff with festive sprinkles on top, fem!reader bc I used the female declinations for the Italian, it's not over the top christmassy

(And yes it’s 5 kissy kisses – on the mouth. The rest is for FREE!)

Have yourselves a merry little Christmas fic ♡

Ao3 link – Masterlist

1 The First Kiss

The abbey is empty.

Well, technically that is a lie. But it feels empty. Yuletide approached fast this year. Half the siblings have left to visit family or friends and join their loved ones in their celebrations, whatever that may look like for them. Of course there are still many people here who choose not to see their families, who don’t have safe spaces outside of the abbey or who just want to celebrate here. Nevertheless, the halls are never as empty as during this time of year.

It’s a peaceful, pensive sort of quiet and, for the most part, you adore it.

Strolling through the corridors of the old building you shiver whenever a chill draught hits you. You can’t wait to reach the reading room, plop down in front of the fireplace and continue your read of Emma. Ever since the cold set in you’re beginning to understand Mr Woodhouse – avoiding to get a cold in an old stone building seems to be an impossible feat, runny noses and scratchy throats a constant nuisance. On your way past the library you barely hear a sound. Some Siblings are still bustling about outside, setting up stalls for the upcoming Winter Market, celebrating the Solstice with music, hot drinks and sweet treats.

You open the door to your favorite reading room but instead of the usual quiet you’re met with an already crackling fire and a familiar figure perched in the old leather armchair right in front of it. The other tables and chairs in the room are deserted.

“Oh.” The sound is involuntary. You did not expect to see the Cardinal tonight and suddenly you feel not only very self-conscious but a little overwhelmed by the sudden influx of emotions his presence is causing you.

„Sister,“ he says, startled, looking up from the book in his hands.

„I’m so sorry… I didn’t think anyone would be here.“

“Oh, don’t be. There is enough room for us both in here, eh? Come sit by the fire with me. We have not seen each other today.”

As you step closer he makes to stand and you just know he’s going to offer you the armchair, the only properly comfortable reading spot in the room. You could not accept it, not when he was here first, when sitting on the floor would cause him so much more discomfort than you. “Please, stay seated, Cardinal. I will just sit down right beside you on the carpet.”

“No, no, I cannot–”

“Please,” you try again. “I actually prefer being closer to the fire and the carpet is soft.”

The reluctance doesn’t leave his face as he sits back, watches you crouching down next to him. You let the warmth of the fire seep into you as you lean against the armchair and after another few seconds you rest your head against the Cardinal’s knee.

“Are you sure this is okay, sister?”

“It’s perfectly fine, don’t worry.”

You open your book, finally start reading as you continue to slowly defrost. After a few minutes you’re completely comfortable, lost somewhere in Highbury with Emma and Harriet. You aren’t wearing your head piece today, having opted for a proper hat when you were working outside in the cold earlier. So you’re somewhat caught by surprise when you suddenly feel a hand in your hair. An ungloved hand. The Cardinal doesn’t say anything, just runs his fingers through the strands with utmost care.

You turn to him and when his eyes meet yours he looks as though he only just realised that he did it, a tinge of red crawling up his neck.

“Oh, uh… mi scusi tanto,” he says, voice slightly shaky. “I mean, I didn’t… there was a stray hair…”

You swear your cheeks are the color of his crimson cassock. “It’s… it’s okay, it felt nice.”

“It did?”

“Yes. Very.”

He nods, lips tightly pressed together but you see them trembling anyway. You force yourself to look back at your book, scared that you embarrassed him, but then his hand finds back into your hair and he continues scratching your scalp very gently. You wonder if your hair is soft, if it feels nice against his bare fingertips and, more worryingly, if he can somehow feel your rapid heartbeat. Needless to say you can’t focus on Jane Austen for the life of you, not when you have your very own romantic hero right beside you, giving you the goosebumps of a lifetime.

“Cara,” he says after a while.

“Hm?”

You look up at him, only to find him observing you with his mismatched eyes, a warm tint to both of them as they reflect the orange light of the fire. “I don’t know about you but I don’t think I can focus on reading right now. I think I would rather talk with you.”

He must have seen that you didn’t flip the page, you realise. Did he flip his? Before you can find an answer he slides down the armchair, plopping down right next to you on the floor. Your breath catches, rendering you speechless. His face is now so close to yours that you can count each individual freckle and it’s so tempting to stare. He is so very handsome, so stunningly beautiful.

“I am glad we always seem to find each other,” he says. “Even without trying.”

You smile. “I agree, Cardinal.”

“I told you to call me Copia, when we’re alone, cara mia.”

“I’m sorry, I keep forgetting.” You chuckle, trying not to stare at him too hard. “Are you looking forward to the Solstice, Copia?”

“Sì, sì, very much. Are you?”

You relish in the way he clings to your every word, the way he will always return the question, coax more words out of you just to hear you talk. This is not the first time you’re alone with him – by now you like to think of him as something of close friend, even though it’s not the right word at all. For the past few months encounters like this one have been a regular occurrence – reading together in the library, finding into easy-going conversations about your respective days, little chats in his office here and there after you dropped of some documents for him, sometimes even eating dinner together in the refectory when he was not too busy. Most of the time you just naturally gravitated towards each other, even without planning your meetings.

“I am looking forward to it very much,” you reply, barely hiding your excitement. “I can’t wait to have some mulled wine and candy and just watch everyone be happy.”

There is always this magnetic pull you feel in his proximity – every eye contact, every touch, no matter how innocent, accompanied by a vivid sense of longing for him. You can’t deny that you’re harbouring an intense crush. It’s the very reason why the word friend is such an ill fit. He is so much more.

“That is what I look forward to as well,” he agrees, just as unable to look away. “I especially hope to see you happy, cara mia.”

You’re cheeks are burning, from the fire or your blush or maybe even both. “Do you?”

He only nods, caught in a similar fluster. The ungloved hand you felt in your hair earlier now reaches for your face. You almost expect to feel a chill, but his skin is warm, soft fingertips gliding over your face, mapping it, tracing every curve like you’re a statue and he’s the sculptor.

This time you can’t fight the pull, but you get caught up in its currents. You lean in and he does the same and then your mouths meet somewhere in the middle.

It’s a little awkward at first. You go in with too little and he goes in with too much pressure and your noses bump against each other twice when you attempt to adjust. It quickly evens out, his fingers find your jaw, angling your face just right, and then suddenly it’s all warmth and whimpers. His mouth moves against yours gently, his moustache tickling your upper lip. You don’t even care that you’re losing your page as the book slides from your lap, your whole body angling towards his.

It isn’t the passionate, fiery kind of first kiss that you always imagine late at night when you’re so filled with longing for him that it hurts. It’s the kind of first kiss you imagine when you see him somewhere around the abbey, when the mere sight of him knocks the wind out of you, when you struggle to form words in his proximity, still in hopes that something might happen.

When he lets you go you take a shaky breath. You let your suddenly very heavy body fall against the armchair, covering half of your crimson face with your arm, a stupid smile on your face. Copia still looks at you, inhales deeply with a similar sort of smile on his lips. You continue to sit there, grinning at each other with not a single word uttered, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.

2 The Comforting Kiss

No matter how happy you are to be here at the abbey, to have found a home, Winter is always a particularly heavy time. Grief gnaws its way into your heart, not just for the people you lost but for long abandoned parts of yourself. It’s a weighty sense of loss for everything that you can never get back, a bittersweet melancholy that is woven through every occurring thought.

At the same time, and not less intensely, you feel grateful for the people you found here – friends and mentors. And… lovers. A lover. Perhaps, if things go well.

The Cardinal treats you like gold dust, like you’re so precious he needs to tread lightly, and you love that mindfulness about him. But it also means he’s been taking things awfully slow. Ever since your first kiss in the reading room not much has happened – at least no more kisses. You met, you spend time together, but you can’t call it dating. There has not been a proper date, no spoken agreement that this is what you’re doing. You’ve exchanged soft touches and whispered words of mutual adoration. No big words, just small, gentle affirmations – a “You look beautiful today” here, an “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day” there. They don’t blare out your affection for each other, but they whisper softly. And it makes you more in love with him every single day.

If only you knew if he felt the same way or if his hesitation stems from uncertainty.

“You are lost in thoughts today, mia bambina.”

You look up at Primo’s face, meeting his worried expression with a gentle smile. “I’m sorry, Papa. I suppose I am a little distracted.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain… Cardinale… would it?”

There is no fooling him, by now he knows you too well from working in the gardens all spring and summer. “He… may be one of the reasons.”

You’re helping Primo with decorating some of the trees today and it’s a welcome distraction from your more melancholic thoughts. Christmas, Yule, the Winter Solstice celebration – whatever you choose to call it – is kept very neutral here. Anyone is welcome to make propositions, to bring in the customs and traditions that they most cherish, and make them their own. You asked Primo about decorating the trees with lights and a few ornaments made by crafty siblings. It’s an easy way to light up the grounds for the upcoming Winter Market and make it all so much prettier.

“Speaking of your amore…”

“Oh he’s not my–“

You stop as you spot the Cardinal, trailing the familiar shape of his body all the way from the abbey to the entrance of the gardens. He’s clearly on a mission, determined movements, a brisk sort of walk, and... Oh Satan, is he looking for you?

All it takes is Primo yelling Cardinale! for him to whip around, facing your direction. He waves as he spots you, a little awkwardly, like he’s scared you won’t wave back. But of course you do and his hand gets steadier as he shakes it two more times, a timid smile on his handsome face.

“I will leave you to it,” Primo says with a knowing look and you smile as he carefully makes his way back inside. He greets the Cardinal in passing who half-bows in return and they exchange a few words in Italian that you don’t quite catch. You use the time to smooth out your hair, clean your palms on the dark wool of your coat.

When the Cardinal finally approaches, his red cassock is a bright contrast to the shiny white snow all around you. He’s wearing a matching robe on top, for more warmth.

“Hi, hello,” he says. Then he takes your hand in both of his, shaking it delicately. “Good to see you.”

You smile at him. “It’s so good to see you, too. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy all day.”

“Oh no need to be sorry.” He glances around. “The… uh… the trees, they look very beautiful.”

You can’t help but beam at him. “Thank you, we spent all day decorating them.”

He smiles affectionately, hand still clasping yours, but then he suddenly frowns and takes off one of his gloves. Your heart stutters at the skin contact, at the contrast between his warmth and your cold. Not that he notices your reaction. “Your hand is freezing, cara mia.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I had gloves but I took them off because they bothered me.”

He tsks, shaking his head in mild scorn. “Where are these gloves you speak of?”

“I think I left them… ugh…” You look around. “Maybe at the entrance gate?”

“That won’t do, no.” He shakes his head again, more rapidly this time. “I can’t have your pretty hands freezing off.”

Pretty hands? You can’t dwell on his words because he’s already yanking his second glove off his hand. In contrast to these harsh movements he is so heartbreakingly gentle as he slides them onto your hands, carefully fiddling with your fingers until they’re all covered in warm leather.

“There, così va molto meglio.”

“But now your hands will be cold, Cardinal,” you argue.

“Copia,” he corrects. “And I don’t mind. I spent all day inside, you need them more. Are you very cold?”

“A little, but I like the fresh air,” you admit. “Do you want to walk with me before we go inside?”

He nods, following you down the path to the pond. Even from a distance it looks magical, covered in ice crystals and snow. The grounds look like they’re straight out of a fairytale and a few minutes into your walk it starts snowing again.

There is an easy silence between you and Copia as you take in the sight, your steps crunching in the snow covered path. The sun is already setting and you realise that yet another day has passed. The Solstice is almost upon you and then it’s almost New Year’s Eve and you’re starting to wonder how you ended up where you are now. The underlying melancholia is flaring up, all the pain you tried to push away settling in, and your heart sits heavy in your chest. The cold seeps into you, chilling you to your bones.

“Cara,” Copia says, breaking your trance.

You look at him, realise you stopped walking. “Oh.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, it’s just…”

You never finish because you’re suddenly busy fighting back tears. You’re not even sure what set it off, why you have to be overwhelmed by your feelings now, when you’re supposed to be overjoyed to be on a walk with your Cardinal. The tears decide to leave your eyes despite your best efforts, rolling down your cheeks in hot, painful trails.

Copia’s eyes widen. “Oh, no no no, non ti posso vedere in lacrime, cara mia.”

His bare hands shoot up to your cheeks and they’re freezing as he cradles your face, thumbs moving in frantic half-circles like wipers on a windshield, trying to catch them before they fall. The snow comes heavier now, thick snowflakes mixing in with your tears as they land on your burning skin.

“Sorry,” you mumble, sniffling. “It’s just a lot.”

“I understand.” He gives you a reassuring smile. “Don’t apologise.”

You let him wipe your face clean, his fingertips now not quite so cold anymore.

“Can I…”

You don’t know what he’s asking but nod anyway, desperate for any comfort he’s so eager to provide. Copia kisses your cheeks and you breathe out a sigh at how soft he is, cling to whatever piece of fabric you can reach on his chest. The kisses come in abundance, covering every inch of skin within reach. He moves from your outer cheeks to your nose, so many kisses, lasting for mere seconds while the imprints linger on your skin for way longer. Eventually, he reaches the corners of your mouth and you’re silently praying for him to properly kiss you.

And he answers your prayer. The last kiss finally lands on your lips only that he pulls away just as fast. You feel his warm breath against your skin as he lingers, silently awaits your complaints. When there aren’t any he leans in again, harder this time. Your lips are chapped from being out in the cold all day and yet he kisses them like they’re made of honey, moving his own against them in a languid, careful rhythm. And while your heart is hammering in your ribcage, harder than ever before, your mind is suddenly calm.

Maybe this time of year is not so bad if it means you get to taste snowflakes on Copia’s lips.

When he pulls away, flustered and breathless, he stammers out a whole speech. “I’ve been thinking… I know you are excited for the market, sì? I thought it was a good idea… I mean, only if you don’t have any plans, I thought we could go together?” His eyes are filled with a hesitant hope and you know he’s ready to be rejected, to be laughed at even. “I know maybe you want to go with friends. You have plans already. I understand, of course.”

“No, no.” You smile at him, running your hand up his chest. “I would love to go with you, Copia.”

His whole face lights up. His nose and ears are red from the cold, heavy snowflakes caught in his hair, melting on his lashes and eyebrows, and he looks so adorably sweet, so genuinely happy, that you move in again to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. After you let go he looks more flustered than ever and when you slide your fingers into his, hiding your joined hands in the warmth of your coat pocket, he stumbles after you without a word.

3 The Tipsy Kiss

The abbey is brimming over with mirth, the courtyard filled with festive cheer and drunk laughter – and you? You have swallowed a whole swarm of bees as it seems – caught somewhere between the great happiness and the imminent panic that come with a first date.

Is it even a date?

When the Cardinal picked you up earlier, punctual to the minute, he held a small bouquet of white heathers, some greenery and two bright red roses for you. He must have asked Primo for help because you know the roses were cut from the greenhouse, that this type of floristry is unique to the eldest Emeritus. That the Cardinal would go to such lengths just to surprise you indicates heavily that this is a date, right? The flowers are waiting in your bedroom now and you already know the whole room is going to smell so nice when you get back later.

“Do you want to have a look around?”

You turn to Copia, watch him observe the crowd of people gathered in the courtyard. The market is open for the locals as well – not that too many of them find their way here – and so it’s a busy festival, a night filled with so much potential.

Guiding you into the action, Copia takes your hand. You’re both wearing gloves, no actual skin contact, but it makes your insides tingly all the same.

You try not to freak out internally – and fail miserably.

Holding the Cardinal’s hand in public is not a small thing, it is in fact a very big thing. You already notice the curious glances of a few siblings, whispering or even just blatantly staring. When you pass by some of your friends who are vaguely aware of you infatuation with the Cardinal, one of them gives you a wink, followed by a very distinct hand gesture that you meet with a scowl.

“Are you alright?” Copia asks immediately.

“What?” You look at him, his brows knit together in worry.

“Should I… should I not… uh… hold your hand?”

“Of course you should! I’m sorry, it was just… ugh… my friends.” You’re rambling and he’s still frowning. “I like it, I don’t mind people looking. What I’m saying is – please, don’t let go of my hand.”

The confusion is written all over his face but he nods, squeezes your fingers through the layers of knitwear and leather between you. The gesture immediately calms you down. The last thing you want is for him to think you’re embarrassed or ashamed.

“We should get something to drink, sì?” he asks, perceiving your feelings. “To relax?”

“Yes!”

He smiles, pulling you to the nearest stall that sells all kinds of hot beverages – Glühwein, Glögg, cider, hot chocolate, different kinds of teas and coffee.

You get a steaming mug with the most aromatic mulled wine you ever had, the scent of cinnamon and clove almost overpowering, and then watch Copia struggle to choose for himself.

“The mulled white wine is supposed to be really good, too,” you recommend. “I think they used Italian wine.”

Copia takes your word for it and then you find a small bar table by the side, covered in fresh snowflakes. You really want to hold your mug with both hands so you won’t spill the wine all over your coat, but the prospect of letting his hand go is ghastly. Instead you choose to take the tiniest sips imaginable.

“Do you want to try?”

The words break your sharp focus on not spilling anything and you realise he means his own wine. It’s such an unexpected question, a thing that people do who are very close, proper couples, and you wonder if that is where you are headed now. If he thinks of you like that, if he wants to be that. Maybe that is why tasting his wine feels weirdly intimate – but of course you want to. Not for the taste but for the sake of drinking from the same cup, to feel closer to him in any way that you can, to share with each other.

“It’s really good,” you say, holding out your own cup for him.

It is kind of surreal to watch him take a sip from the exact side that you were drinking from earlier, not worried about germs, no hesitation. Of course you have kissed before, there is no need for this to feel so special.

And yet it does.

“You said you helped prepare, sì?” he asks. “With the food and drinks?”

“Yes, I helped out in the kitchens this morning.”

“So what did you make?”

You raise your brows. “Oh, I made the candied almonds.”

He doesn’t even wait for you to say anything else, just pulls you towards the candy stall right next to your table. The almonds come in small paper cones, still warm and smelling like a saccharine dream. Despite spending all morning preparing them you’re still not tired of their sweet aroma.

He tries them, giving a pleasured sigh that gives you goosebumps. Then he makes the gesture to show that he’s taking his hat off to you. “Dolcezza, they are exquisite.”

You giggle. “Really?”

He takes another handful. “Assoluto. They tickle my taste buds.”

“Maybe it’s because I made them with so much love.”

Copia stops for a second, gazing at you with warm adoration in his eyes. “I am starting to think that all you do is made with love.”

He’s not wrong about it, not since you started spending time with him. And today is so special. You don’t even remember when you last felt so frisky, so unbothered by anything and just happy in the moment. You continue making your round, trying out the different beverages and foods, to the point where you’re not only a little drunk but also high on sugar, laughing together, giggling over silly jokes, and never once letting go of each other’s hands.

A cold wind sets in after a while, somehow clawing its way under all the layers of your clothing. You’re tipsy, maybe even a little needy, so you press yourself into Copia’s side in a half hug, eagerly absorbing his warmth. He feels so solid against you, the smell of cologne and incense and spices lulling you in.

“Are you tired?” Copia asks, wrapping his arm around your shivering form.

“A little,” you admit.

“Let me walk you to your room, cara mia,” he whispers.

“We can stay longer if you want to.”

He shakes his head, squeezing you to his side. “I want to see you safe in your room, eh? That’s what I want.”

Reluctantly you let him lead you back inside, still safely tucked against him. You forgot how many drinks you had but you’re starting to feel their effects now. Your legs feel leaden, every step harder than the previous one all while you continuously fight the urge to giggle every few seconds. You’re not drunk, you tell yourself, you’re very sober and very normal.

Eventually, you arrive in front of your door. Suddenly you’re aware that this means goodbye and you’re not ready at all to let Copia go yet. You let your back fall against the closed door, fiddling with your gloves as you try to read his expression.

He’s tipsy as well, swaying the tiniest bit as he stands in front of you, watching you with his black-rimmed, mismatched eyes. But they’re not dark, not scary, they’re wide and questioning, anticipating your next move.

You both know you’re standing on the precipice, heading somewhere, but the specific destination is yet to be spoken. And you can’t jump until you know.

“So was this… a date, then?” you ask, wine-drunk and giddy and not at all concerned with your bluntness. It’s the question you’ve been mulling over all night.

His eyes widen. “Was it… a date?”

“Mhm.”

“I– ugh…” He pauses, lips pursed. “Do you want it to be?”

“Copia, what do you think?” You can’t help but smile, giggle, bite your lip to keep from full on laughing. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he mimics, staring at your mouth without even hiding it. “Our first date?”

“The very first.”

“Did you like it?” His eyes are still trained on your mouth, on your smile. “Our first date?”

“I loved it.”

“Oh.”

“Copia.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

You giggle again. “You’re so pretty.”

“I’m pretty?”

You remove your gloves, push them into your pocket so you have your hands free. Then you trace the line of his jaw, run your thumb over his left sideburn. “So pretty. Beautiful, even. I can never stop looking at you.”

He’s inching closer, not once glancing away from your lips. “I am nothing compared to you, cara. You are the stars in the sky, you are the sun shining your light on me.”

“Copia–“

Searching hands find your waist, pulling you to him. He inhales, shudders, his voice pleading. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Your heart explodes, fireworks spreading out in your body at the sheer prospect of it, only intensified by the lingering buzz of the wine. “Yes, please.”

Not a second of hesitation. He hits somewhere close to the corner of your mouth, correcting his position with a few more misplaced kisses until he fully captures your lips, kissing you with reckless abandon. You pull him in, fingers tangling in his hair, and he lets out a pleasured moan, deepening the kiss. It’s the first time you open your mouth for him, the first time he uses the chance to taste you, allowing you to taste him in return. The sweetness of the almonds still linger on his tongue. It’s intoxicating. Your mind is veiled in clouds of lust and affection, a sugary high unrivalled by any actual candy.

You lose track of time. He leans into you, basically caging you against the door, and you kiss for what feels like eternity constrained to seconds. Your dulled senses are completely captured by him and when he eventually breaks away you need a moment to reorient yourself.

“We should… uhm…” His mind clearly stumbles over his words just like yours struggles to understand what he’s saying. Eventually he licks his lips and sighs. “Merda, ti voglio così tanto.”

Still breathless, you only gape at his mouth. His lips are red, plump bottom lip wet and swollen and you’re so kiss-drunk, so desperate for more. But you’re also dizzy and you know it’s not a good idea to continue any of this while you’re both tipsy.

He’s not asking to come in, of course, he would never, not unless you were completely sober. So he pulls you in for a full hug, presses his face into the crook of your neck as he squeezes your body. You can feel him all over you, but there is too much thick, woolen fabric between you to make out the proper shape of his body.

“Good night,” he mumbles against your skin. “Sleep well, mia bella. I will see you tomorrow.”

“I had the best night, Copia. Thank you.”

“Me too, cara mia.” He breaks away, crooked smile on his lips. “You are… you are all I could ever ask for. Perfetta.”

It takes you a few more minutes to finally let go of each other and even then he waves at you as he retreats, almost falling down the stairs that lead to the sibling’s dorms. But you can’t bring yourself to close the door before he’s out of sight and once you do you already miss him.

Fifteen minutes later you’re showered and ready for bed, barely functioning anymore. Opening your bedroom door you’re hit with the scent of roses, the intensely vivid fragrance that only Primo’s flowers carry. When you pull the covers over your head, a cosy warmth blossoms in your chest, and you can’t help but let out an excited little squeal.

He makes you so incredibly happy.

4 The Mistletoe Kiss

Groaning under their weight, you carry two boxes of decorations all the way down the hall, almost stumbling around a corner. You set them down right next to the door that indicates you’ve reached your destination – Copia’s office.

You pause. There is music, the notes pouring out of the gap under the door. For a moment you press your ear to its wooden surface. It just wasn't the same, alone on Christmas day. Presents, what a beautiful sight, don′t mean a thing if you ain't holding me tight. You′re all that I need, underneath the tree. Kelly Clarkson? You realise he’s listening to Christmas music and your heart does a double take. Here’s the man you’re in love with, a Satanic Cardinal preaching the Olde One’s gospel, humming along to christmassy pop songs as he does his unholy paper work. How could you not fall for him?

The song fades out and the next thing you hear is Mariah Carey’s drawl. You decide to knock before anyone catches you eavesdropping, but you don’t get an answer. He clearly doesn’t hear you over the music, so you opt to just let yourself in, grabbing the first of the two boxes.

You kick the door open to avoid dropping it. “Good morning.”

Copia jumps in his chair, pressing the pause button faster than lightening speed.

“Oh, uh… cara.”

You smile. “Why did you turn it off?”

His face turns crimson and he clutches the crucifix on his chest. “Ugh… ehm…”

You understand his embarrassment. From a very superficial perspective he may not exactly be the type of man you’d expect to sing along to Kelly Clarkson and maybe it’s not even what he usually listens to, but it’s Christmas songs – Christmas love songs – and you’re in the perfect mood for that.

“You should never pause Mariah,” you say, walking over to his side to press the button again, turning the volume down just a little so you can still talk. His blush deepens but the up-beat music immediately draws a smile onto both of your faces. “It’s a good song.”

“It’s… it’s not bad,” he agrees. “A classic, which is… which is why I listen to it, of course. The only reason, sì.”

You hide your grin and lean against his desk. “Sooo… I didn’t come to discuss music, actually, but because I realised that we haven’t decorated your office yet.”

Copia furrows his brow, folding his hands in his lap. “Oh, yes… I am not good with these things, cara mia, I don’t know how to make it look nice.”

You take one of his hands, tracing the silver crucifix on his glove. “You spend so much time in this gloomy old room, you should have something to brighten it up during Winter.”

He smirks, lacing your fingers together. “Well, you’re here now.”

The corners of your mouth move upwards involuntarily. “Sadly I can’t be here all day.” He sighs dramatically but you ignore it. “Which is why I brought some things. Help me with the second box?”

Copia jumps up, ever helpful, and follows you to the door. You push it open and hear a sudden tinkling sound. Looking up, you find something that definitely was not there before, something someone must have taken out of your box with brushwood and garlands.

“Looks like someone just did the decorating for us…”

The mistletoe, adorned with two small bells and a bright red bow, sits right over the office door.

“Oh.” Copia caught it as well, eyes widening. “This is a…”

“Mistletoe, yes.”

He smiles. “I know what that means.”

“Do you?”

This time, you’re practiced – and sober.

Copia gently guides you into his frame right under the mistletoe, waits for you to wrap your arms around his neck before he tilts your chin just right. He leans in, kissing you gently at first before he adds more pressure. You’re enraptured by his softness, but if you’re being honest you want more. You’ve been thinking about your tipsy kiss all day yesterday, trying to conjure up his taste. At this point you need it like oxygen. It’s a desperate, overpowering urge, so before he can pull away you trap his bottom lip between your teeth.

“Cara…”

You don’t let him speak but kiss him again, taking over this time. One hand at the back of his neck you pull him in closer and he softly moans into your mouth. You suck at his bottom lip, softly lick over it before pushing your tongue inside. Copia’s grip on your waist tightens and you sigh as you taste him, caressing his tongue with yours. This time there is less sweetness and more of him, traces of coffee from earlier this morning, a hint of chocolate. It’s addicting and if it weren’t for your burning lungs you’d never stop.

When you eventually do break away, huffing out a nervous laugh, you hear a loud attempt at a whistle. Turning around you see Papa Emeritus III standing close to a nearby pillar, waving at Copia with a smirk on his painted face. He lifts two fingers in a peace sign.

“How about you get a room, Cardinale,” he teases and starts rubbing the fingers together.

Before either of you find your words again, he’s already heading off down the hall with a wink.

You remain stunned. “Does Papa know…”

“You wanted to decorate,” Copia says, deeply flustered as he gently turns you around and guides you back towards his office.

“No. I think we need to place that mistletoe somewhere else first,” you grumble, getting up on your tiptoes to remove it, “before you get any other visitors.”

You throw it back into the box, pushing it all the way down, and Copia fails to hide his smile.

5 The Thank You Kiss (+1 extra)

What do you even get a Satanic Cardinal for Christmas?

You’re not exactly sure how you end up carrying a nicely wrapped present into the wing that houses the higher ranking clergy members, wearing an actual festive outfit, hair done nicely, wearing a new perfume you hope he’s going to like. You spent over an hour after mass getting ready and now your nerves are on edge. It feels surreal to be here at all but Copia invited you over for dinner and of course you said yes. Your second date – on Christmas Eve. You both decided to spend the evening together, exchanging small presents and perhaps watch a movie. It sounds chill, you shouldn’t be nervous, and yet you’re so high on adrenaline that you’re trembling.

Approaching the door to his quarters, you notice it’s already open, light streaming into the gloomy hallway. You hear distant voices as you approach. Hesitantly glancing inside, you spy a ghoul in front of a fireplace, Copia standing right next to him.

“Can you get it to burn faster?” he asks. “It’s too cold, I want it to be warm when she gets here. Quick!”

The ghoul sighs in annoyance but you can see the fire kindling under his ministrations.

“You know she’s already here, right?” the ghoul asks.

Copia jumps, eyes flickering over to where you’re leaning in the doorframe, and the ghoul smirks, menacingly sharp teeth shining just below his mask.

“Thank you, you can go,” Copia says to him, ushering him out with rapid hand gestures. “And no comment from any of you tomorrow.”

You let the ghoul pass and close the door, turning to face the person you’re most happy to see in the whole wide world. You can’t help but smile when you notice how perplexed Copia seems by the sight of you. He stands and stares, wringing his hands nervously, eyes roaming your body.

“Oh, cara.” He swallows visibly. “You look bellissima. I can’t believe you’re real and here with me. With me! Che fortunato!”

He strides over, hands finding your shoulders as he leans in to stamp a wet kiss to your cheek.

“And you smell so nice,” he says, holding you for a second longer, nuzzling your neck.

“Thank you,” you whisper, even though it barely registers because he smells incredibly good as well. It’s the cologne you’ve noticed multiple times by now, the one that makes your whole stomach flutter.

When he lets go, smiling, hands rubbing your upper arms, you’re practically melting from all of his attention. He radiates affection this evening.

“You look very handsome,” you try. “It’s so strange to see you without your cassock.”

He’s wearing slacks and a matching black button down with a dark woolen sweater on top, no cassock, no biretta, only the black leather gloves and shoes. It’s rare to see his shape so full on display around here, the black hugging the curves and edges of his body, not covered in layers and layers of heavy fabric. You find it hard not to stare at him.

“Ah, thank you, thank you.” He waves off. “I try, you know.”

“I do know.”

For a second you think he’s going to kiss you, neither one of you ready to move away from each other, but then he laughs nervously and takes your hand, pulling you further into the room. You can tell he’s tense by the way he rambles on and on as he shows you his quarters, keeping your hand in a vice grip. They’re small but you can tell he tidied up for you. First he shows you where he keeps his rats, then where you can find the bathroom. You end up back in front of the fire, still holding his hand.

“I made dinner,” he explains. “So I thought we would eat and then I could give you my present.”

“You made dinner?”

“Uhm… yes. I ugh… I cook. Sometimes. When I have time.” He shrugs, a little hesitant. “It’s edible, I think.”

It’s much more than that.

Dinner is incredible, most of all because he made Italian food instead of a fancy roast, and you eat more than you expect, despite your nerves, just because it’s so incredibly good. He even prepared dessert – the best tiramisu you ever had – and you’re glad you didn’t wear an extremely tight outfit because by the end of it you’re more than full.

Copia is over the moon that you enjoyed it, you can see the proud glint in his eyes as he’s refilling your wine glasses. Adequately supplied with drinks, he offers you a seat on his couch in front of the fire, ready to exchange gifts.

You had agreed on only getting each other a small present, so your options when you spent most of yesterday in town were pretty limited. Copia’s interests are still somewhat of a mystery to you. You know he has a handful of rats, so you went to the pet store to get some treats for them. You also know he likes reading, that he is devoted to his work, that he enjoys watching movies. But you need to figure out the details before you can make more educated presents. So in the end you got him a mug. It’s silly really, but it has a red Cardinal on it (the bird) and says I ❤︎ my local Cardinal. You thought it was sweet, that he might appreciate the irony.

As he unwraps it you get incredibly nervous, palms sweaty and heart racing. It’s a really stupid gift and not at all meaningful. Maybe you should have just bought him a sweater or something more useful. He probably has tons of mugs already, it’s such a common gift. But right as you want to justify yourself, he chuckles and you think hat maybe it’s a genuine reaction. It looks genuine.

Before giving any sort of comment he kisses you, deeply, holding your face in the warm palms of his hand. It doesn’t last very long but you still taste the cocoa powder from dessert on his lips.

He carefully places the mug next to the treats on his coffee table, his other hand never leaving your cheek. “Thank you, cara mia. È veramente perfetto.”

“I was at the pet store and they told me those are treats for rats, I hope it’s okay. I wasn’t sure–“

His thumb moves over your jaw, down to the corner of your mouth. “Oh, don’t worry, dolcezza, they are going to love it. And I love it, too.”

He sports a dazzling smile, one that brings out his crow’s feet, and you finally relax. This is going smoothly, you decide. A relaxed evening, delicious food, a nice short kiss, he even liked your silly little present. Nothing can make you jump out of your seat moving forward.

Or maybe there is something.

“Now, I think it’s my turn,” Copia says and gets up to retrieve your present from the mantelpiece, handing it to you with a slightly theatrical bow.

You can tell he’s nervous by all of his gesturing, by the way he hums to himself as he sits back down next to you. It’s small in size most likely wrapped by the store in fancy red paper and ribbon, glittering all over.

“It’s just a lil sumthin’ sumthin’,” he says.

For some reason you doubt that. Underneath the gift wrap you find a longish velvety box – a jewellery box. “Copia, you shouldn’t have…”

“No, no, look inside.”

The box opens smoothly, revealing a dainty bracelet with with three charms – a C, a small heart and the initial of your first name. Each of them has a tiny white gemstone set in the middle.

“Oh.” You take it out of the box, cradling it in your hand like a long lost treasure. “But… but Copia, that’s not a small present. Why? I don’t–“

He cuts you off. “Because I’m in love with you.”

The words hang heavy in the hair as your mind and heart are trying to catch on. You look at him in mild shock and he stares back, almost in horror, waiting for your reaction. It’s a nervous silence, one he can’t take, and then he just starts to spill it all out.

“I planned to tell you today, it’s why I invited you over. I just had to, cara mia, it’s been on the tip of my tongue so often and keeping it in my chest hurts too much. I want you to know, even if you don’t feel the same.” He rambles on and on, very clearly expecting you to turn him down. “It’s okay, you don’t have to reply. Io capisco, so che è molto da digerire.”

“Copia,” you say but he goes on in rapid Italian. You reach for his hand, squeeze until he stops. “Copia, I’m in love with you, too.”

He gapes at you, eyes wide and fearful, taking a shuddering breath. “Non giocare con i miei sentimenti, cara mia.”

“I would never lie to you, Copia. It’s true. I’m in love with you.”

“You’re in love with me?” He laughs but it’s not a humorous laugh, it’s an incredulous one. “But I am just an old man and you are young and beautiful and kind and smart. You can have anyone, dolcezza. Are you sure you want this? You want me?”

“I want to be with you, Copia. It’s all I want.”

He grins, the weight lifted off his chest, and pulls you into his side so he can kiss your head. “You are the greatest gift I ever received, amore.”

“Help me with the bracelet?” you ask, handing it to him with a wonky smile..

His hands are shaking just as hard as yours as he reaches for the delicate trinket. All in all it takes him five attempts until the bracelet sits snugly against your wrist, sparkling in the warm glow of the fire in front of you.

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” you whisper, trying very hard not cry. It’s a long awaited relief, unbridled happiness, mixed in with all the pent up emotions you can’t find words for just yet.

Copia doesn’t reply, you can tell he’s choked up as well and so instead of talking, you grab his face and pull him in for another kiss. It’s your sixth one, overall, but it’s the first one you exchange without any doubts about what it means. Maybe that’s why everything feels so limitless now. You pull him into the cushions, half on top of you, and let him deepen the kiss in a pace that he feels comfortable with. You taste a few salty tears on his tongue, mixing in with a hunger that has a lot to do with how perfectly heavy his body feels on top of yours.

You’re sure you won’t be able to count the kisses much longer.

I hope you're having a lovely Christmas – and maybe you'll even find a cardinal shaped present underneath the tree. Thank you for reading ♡

#:)#cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x female reader #copia x reader #ghost fanfiction #cardinal copia fanfiction #copia x fem!reader #cardinal copia #cardinal copia fluff #christmas fic #holiday fic #the band ghost fanfiction

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toomanyrobins2 · 1 month

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Master Brucie

Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires…a monthly letter of her academic progress.

Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

last part // series masterlist // next part

Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!

6.30, Saturday

Dear Batman,

We started to walk to town today, but mercy! how it poured. I like winter to be winter with snow instead of rain.

Harriet’s desirable uncle called at the college this afternoon—and brought a five-pound box of chocolates. There are advantages, you see, about rooming with Harriet Kane.

Our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited for a later train in order to take tea in the study. We had an awful lot of trouble getting permission. It's hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfathers, but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins, they are next to impossible. Harriet had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the county clerk's certificate attached. (Don't I know a lot of law?) And even then I doubt if we could have had our tea if the Dean had chanced to see how youngish and good-looking Uncle Bruce is.

Anyway, we had it, with brown bread Swiss cheese sandwiches. He helped make them and then ate four. I told him that I had spent last summer at the Kent Farm, and we had a beautiful gossipy time about the Kents, and the horses and cows and chickens. All the horses that he used to know are dead, except Grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit—and poor Grove now is so old he can just limp about the pasture.

He asked if they still kept doughnuts in a yellow crock with a blue plate over it on the bottom shelf of the pantry—and they do! He wanted to know if there was still a woodchuck's hole under the pile of rocks in the night pasture—and there is! Amasai caught a big, fat, grey one there this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one Master Brucie caught when he was a little boy.

I called him 'Master Brucie’ to his face, but he didn't appear to be insulted. Harriet says she has never seen him so amiable; he's usually pretty unapproachable. But Harriet hasn't a bit of tact; and men, I find, require a great deal. They purr if you rub them the right way and spit if you don't. (That isn't a very elegant metaphor. I mean it figuratively.)”

We're reading Marie Bashkirtseff's journal. Isn't it amazing? Listen to this:

'Last night I was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea.'

It makes me almost hope I'm not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about—and awfully destructive to the furniture.

Mercy! how it keeps Pouring. We shall have to swim to chapel tonight.

Yours ever,

Y/N

20th Jan.

Dear Batman,

Did you ever have a sweet baby girl who was stolen from the cradle in infancy?

Maybe I am she! If we were in a novel, that would be the denouement, wouldn't it?

It's really awfully queer not to know what one is—sort of exciting and romantic. There are such a lot of possibilities. Maybe I'm not American; lots of people aren't. I may be straight descended from the ancient Romans, or I may be a Viking's daughter, or I may be the child of a Russian exile and belong by rights in a Siberian prison, or maybe I'm a Gipsy—I think perhaps I am. I have a very wandering spirit, though I haven't as yet had much chance to develop it.

Do you know about that one scandalous blot in my career the time I ran away from the asylum because they punished me for stealing cookies? It's down in the books free for any Trustee to read. But really, what could you expect? When you put a hungry little “little nine-year girl in the pantry scouring knives, with the cookie jar at her elbow, and go off and leave her alone; and then suddenly pop in again, wouldn't you expect to find her a bit crumby? And then when you jerk her by the elbow and box her ears, and make her leave the table when the pudding comes, and tell all the other children that it's because she's a thief, wouldn't you expect her to run away?

I only ran four miles. They caught me and brought me back; and every day for a week I was tied, like a naughty puppy, to a stake in the backyard while the other children were out at recess.

Oh, dear! There's the chapel bell, and after chapel I have a committee meeting. I'm sorry because I meant to write you a very entertaining letter this time.

Auf wiedersehen

Cher Bats,

Pax tibi!

Y/N

The atmosphere in the dimly lit study grew tense as Bruce Wayne read the distressing details of Y/N's childhood in the letter she had sent him. The words on the page painted a vivid picture of a small child, vulnerable and mistreated, enduring punishments that were both harsh and degrading. The injustice of it all stirred a storm of anger within Bruce, fueling an impulse to intervene immediately.

"To be hit and shamed for something as simple as taking a cookie," Bruce muttered under his breath, his fists clenching involuntarily. The vivid imagery of Y/N, tied to a stake like an animal, ignited a fierce protective instinct within him.

Alfred, ever the calm and composed voice of reason, observed Bruce's reaction with concern. "Master Wayne, I understand the anger you're feeling. However, charging into the orphanage may not be the most prudent course of action. We must consider the consequences and think strategically. Do not forget that this was before your time as a Trustee and it is possible that such reaction is no longer the practice."

Bruce's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he continued to read the letter. The injustice described seemed unbearable, and he could feel the urgency building within him.

"Alfred, this is unacceptable. No child should be subjected to such treatment," Bruce declared, his voice edged with frustration.

Alfred stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I share your sentiments, sir. But you must remember that not all children get the privilege of such a life and storming in without a plan may do more harm than good. You should speak to the other Trustees. It's essential to approach this matter with a clear strategy to ensure a lasting change for all the children under her care."

Bruce looked up, meeting Alfred's steady gaze. The older man's wisdom and practicality began to quell the storm of anger within him. Taking a deep breath, Bruce nodded reluctantly. Bruce closed the letter, a steely determination replacing the initial rage. He knew that Alfred's guidance was invaluable, and together, they would navigate the path toward rectifying the injustices Y/N had endured as a child. He certainly would not continue to provide money to this home without some serious changes occurring.

4th February

Dear Batman,

Jimmie Gordon has sent me a Princeton banner as big as one end of the room; I am very grateful to him for remembering me, but I don't know what on earth to do with it. Barbara and Harriet won't let me hang it up; our room this year is furnished in red, and you can imagine what an effect we'd have if I added orange and black. But it's such nice, warm, thick felt, I hate to waste it. Would it be very improper to have it made into a bathrobe? My old one shrank when it was washed.

I've entirely omitted of late telling you what I am learning, but though you might not imagine it from my letters, my time is exclusively occupied with study. It's a very bewildering matter to get educated in five branches at once.”

“The test of true scholarship,' says Chemistry Professor, 'is a painstaking passion for detail.'

'Be careful not to keep your eyes glued to detail,' says History Professor. 'Stand far enough away to get a perspective of the whole.'

You can see with what nicety we have to trim our sails between chemistry and history. I like the historical method best. If I say that William the Conqueror came over in 1492, and Columbus discovered America in 1100 or 1066 or whenever it was, that's a mere detail that the Professor overlooks. It gives a feeling of security and restfulness to the history recitation, that is entirely lacking in chemistry.

Sixth-hour bell—I must go to the laboratory and look into a little matter of acids and salts and alkalis. I've burned a hole as big as a plate in the front of my chemistry apron, with hydrochloric acid. If the theory worked, I ought to be able to neutralize that hole with good strong ammonia, oughtn't I?

Examinations next week, but who's afraid?

Yours ever,

Y/N

5th March

Dear Batman,

There is a March wind blowing, and the sky is filled with heavy, black moving clouds. The crows in the pine trees are making such a clamour! It's an intoxicating, exhilarating, calling noise. You want to close your books and be off over the hills to race with the wind.

Wewent off and didn't get back to college till half-past six—half an hour late for dinner—and we went straight in without dressing, and with perfectly unimpaired appetites! Then we all cut evening chapel, the state of our boots being enough of an excuse.

I never told you about examinations. I passed everything with the utmost ease—I know the secret now, and am never going to fail again. I shan't be able to graduate with honours though, because of that beastly Latin prose and geometry Freshman year. But I don't care. Wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy? (That's a quotation. I've been reading the English classics.)

Speaking of classics, have you ever read Hamlet? If you haven't, do it right off. It's perfectly corking. I've been hearing about Shakespeare all my life, but I had no idea he really wrote so well; I always suspected him of going largely on his reputation.

I have a beautiful play that I invented a long time ago when I first learned to read. I put myself to sleep every night by “pretending I'm the person (the most important person) in the book I'm reading at the moment.

At present I'm Ophelia—and such a sensible Ophelia! I keep Hamlet amused all the time, and pet him and scold him and make him wrap up his throat when he has a cold. I've entirely cured him of being melancholy. The King and Queen are both dead—an accident at sea; no funeral necessary—so Hamlet and I are ruling in Denmark without any bother. We have the kingdom working beautifully. He takes care of the governing, and I look after the charities. I have just founded some first-class orphan asylums. If you or any of the other Trustees would like to visit them, I shall be pleased to show you through. I think you might find a great many helpful suggestions.

I remain, sir,

Yours most graciously,

Ophelia,

Queen of Denmark.

Bruce looked over to his bookshelf where the hole where Gulliver’s Travels used to sit made him smile before pulling Hamlet off the shelf and putting his feet on his desk, trying to read it with the same level of imagination that Y/N possessed.

#toomanyrobins #batman #batman imagine #batman x reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #battison #battison imagine #dcu #dcu imagine

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witchedwisteria · 4 months

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@xuoria wanted ‘so much angst it hurts’ so blame them again!!! x, you asked for this.

thomas sees blonde everywhere. in sonya, in the sand beneath his feet, in the pale yellow of the sunset in winter. he sees it in his dreams, newt’s hair fanned out on the pillow next to him, threaded between his fingers.

he sees red, too. in brenda’s favourite shirt, in the apples growing in the orchard (he can’t go near the gardens, he just can’t), in the blood of the sunset. he sees it seeping through newt’s shirt and dripping onto the floor, sticky and hot.

he doesn’t want to forget. he doesn’t - he wakes up sobbing every night with anguish and gratitude. because if he remembers that then he remembers the little half smile on newt’s familiar mouth before he collapsed in his arms, and that…he would take every ounce of torture to get another glimpse of newt’s happiness.

it has been five years. brenda and frypan have a little one on the way. sonya and harriet are married. minho and gally are…something.

and yet, thomas is the one most committed.

a girl came up to him, once, with dark hair and green eyes. she was all coy, gentle scheming touches, until thomas tells her no.

“i’m in love,” he tells her honestly. minho closes his eyes in pain from across the fire. “i’m waiting, until i can see him again.”

she scoffs. newt is as famous as thomas here; the wicked children they’d saved ask thomas and minho for stories of the boy with the strange accent, and minho seems determined to preserve newt’s fearlessness. she knows who the ‘him’ in question is. “it’s been years, and he didn’t look anything special-“

thomas is shoving her off, red hot fury pulsing through him. “don’t you dare,” he snarls. he relishes in feeling something other than grief. “he was everything - he is everything. i love him. he loved me, and i’ll never love again as long as i can - “ he shakes his head, hand finding the familiar metal under his shirt, and runs off. he’s always been good at running.

not anything special?

thomas slams into his tent, shaking. he doesn’t know what to do. his memories of newt are slipping, and even now he knows that newt was the most beautiful thing he will ever see, an odd juxtaposition of tenses. because newt is here and gone, present and distant. thomas wants him nearer.

there is a knock on the tree by his tent. a woman stands there - an old wckd defect, an ex scientist. she holds a faded paper copy of records. “i am sorry,” she whispers. “i kept them because i…wasn’t sure if by giving them i would do more harm than good.” she passes it over, and thomas opens it silently.

it’s records. hundreds of them, labelled ‘A2 and A5.’ thomas’ heart jumps. there are photos.

he sees newt. he doesn’t register that he’s alone again; he sinks to the floor and cradles the worn black and white security images of them as children as if they’re his last sip of water in the scorch again.

there are photos of them in the maze, the labs, in the last city. surveillance of them, grainy and terrible in quality, but thomas can make out the thin curve of newt’s mouth, the lightness of his frame, the way his body curves next to him.

how can he move on when just a photo takes his breath away?

he clings onto the pieces of newt’s memory and sobs; he’s half agony half relief, and he reaches the last page of the record and -

it’s them kissing in the last city. maybe two hours before newt died. thomas is supporting him, protecting him, but they’ve paused. newt’s fingers are soft and gentle on thomas’ jaw; thomas’ hands are protective on his waist. it was their last kiss.

he presses his mouth to the paper, and closes his eyes.

that night, he dreams of the kiss instead of newt’s body collapsing in front of him.

#newtmas #tmr #newt #the maze runner #thomas #fic #honey’s newtmas #Spotify

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beachy--head · 1 year

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Here's a little Christmas japril drabble✨ Wishing all of you a happy Christmas and a wonderful holiday season! x

___

Jackson is bouncing up and down.

Jackson doesn't bounce. He paces, and he strides, but Averys don't bounce. Well, Harriet does, but she's 6, and a Kepner-Avery, and from his experience, Kepners definitely bounce up and down.

Coming down the stairs and into the living-room after getting Harriet to bed, April soon discovers the reason for the bouncing. The space around their Christmas tree is completely filled with gifts. Lots of gifts. Waaay too many gifts for a household of three. And she was never the best at maths – biology was her star subject in high-school –, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the ratio of gifts to persons is heavily imbalanced.

"You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

He can act coy all he wants, his smile betrays him.

"This is way too much. She's six! She doesn't need that many things!"

"Okay, first of all, some of these are from my mom. Have you tried telling my mom that she can't spoil her grandchild? If so, how are you still alive?"

"Right, so your mom bought... okay, I stopped counting after twelve boxes. Are you trying to bribe Hattie because she's mad at you for not taking her to Seattle to see Catherine last month?"

"No?"

He observes her as she scans the living-room, brows furrowed, muttering under her breath, knowing she's not really mad but loving that she plays the part.

And it's not like he can fault her for being disconcerted, because just as Jackson Avery doesn't bounce up and down, he also usually doesn't really do Christmas. He'll buy presents, and dress up, and celebrate, but that's usually the extent of his contribution to the holiday season. But this year, he's gone all in and has insisted they do everything. So in the past weeks, they've taken a picture dressed in Christmas pajamas (and he would never admit it, but these things are quite comfortable), they've gone to the Christmas fair down the bloc so Harriet could see Santa, they've been to winter festivals and Christmas markets and even the Fox foundation Christmas party.

Of course, they'd done some of it last year together. But last year, it had been Jackson Avery and April Kepner, separate entities, who had taken Hattie to these activities, and it had left him wanting more than that. Wanting the whole damn thing.

This year, they've been doing these things as the Kepner-Averys, family of three, and he's so grateful he had to do something. He doesn't even care he went overboard.

"She doesn't need that many things! She's going to grow up to be entitled and spoiled and expecting–"

He takes April in his arms, and the way she nestles against his chest tells him everything. That she doesn't believe a word she's saying because she knows what the presents mean. How happy he feels to have his family back. To be able to be woken up by Hattie at dawn so she can open her presents with both of her parents watching. She knows, because she shares the same sentiment.

"I guess I should be glad you didn't buy her a pony like she wanted."

"Well..."

Her glare is so April he can't help laughing.

"No pony, I swear. Didn't fit under the tree anyway."

"You know, you going all out for Christmas like this... You're becoming more and more lik–"

"Don't say I'm like my mom."

They stay embraced for a while, lightly swaying to imaginary music, and he wants to bottle up this moment, this simple, routine, absolutely wonderful moment.

"This is nice, but this is still too much."

"If you think so, then you're really going to hate me when you see how many of these are for you."

"Jackson!!"

Later that night, Harriet joins them in bed, snuggling between them. She explains she's way too excited to sleep, and as he tightens his grasp around his two girls, his grin is so wide his jaw almost hurts.

#drabble #japril #jackson avery #april kepner #merry christmas!

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dove-bronzewing · 1 year

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Rwby Season 9 Episode 5 Spoilers

People are crushed with jaunes new dilemma I personally love it. I still dunno how they'll deal with it after they leave magic land. But people are basically crushed that their ships are basically dead in the water....now hear me out.... Jaune X Winter, willow, raven, elm, Harriet, and Cinder if you want to be just plain sick. Jaune has reached official DILF status.

#jaune arc #rwby #team crdl #dove bronzewing #crdl #rwbymemes #season 9 #episode 5 #pro shipping #jaune x everyone

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juanarc-thethird · 1 year

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Beautiful! The next day Jaune and Harriet confront Winter. Jaune came to apologize for what happened and tries to explain himself. But Harriet doesn't care and instead wants Winter to join in this time for a three way. She talks about how good Jaune is and tempts her with him possibly getting Winter pregnant. Does she give in to temptation.

The New Guy Part 3

Winter's Office

*knock Knock*

Winter: Comen in.

Jaune: *Opens the door a little bit* Hello Miss Schnee.

Winter: Jaune! W-What are you doing here?

Jaune: I'm sorry for bothering you. I just wanted to talk about what happened yesterday. Is this a good time?

Winter: S-Sure, please come in.

For a moment Winter felt excited for some reason. Is it because of how strange this whole situation is that doesn't know how to feel this properly or is it because she hopes, no, she wants this conversation to lead to more? Whatever that emotion was, it died when she saw that the person was walking behind him, Harriet.

Harriet: *Smug* Hello Ma'am.

The two of them took a seat across from her and Jaune started talking.

Jaune: First of all, we want to apologize for missing the meeting. Time flew by and we didn't realize it. I also want to apologize for what you saw. It was a very shameless act on our part and we want to apologize. *Looks at Harriet*

Harriet: What? I am not going to apologize for that. It is something natural. We all do, it's her fault for entering my room without knocking.

Winter: Is ok Jaune I understand.

Jaune: Is not ok, it wasn't a decent act on our part and we both need to apologize.

Harriet: *Chuckles* Decent. Says the guy who used me as a Fleshlight the moment she left.

Winter: *Blushing* F-Fleshlight?

Jaune: Harriet!

Harriet: Oh you should have seen it Winter. This boy has talent. He put his hands under my legs and took me by the waist. He picked me up, he put his big dick in my pussy and fucked me like an animal. God damn, it felt so good! fuck! Just remembering those kisses on the neck and how you moved your hips, Fuck! I'm already getting wet.

Jaune: *Embarrassed* Harriet Please

Harriet: Sorry, anyways, after the fifth time that I came, I fainted. He was so scared that he took me to the infirmary while complete naked! *Laughs*

Winter: You went to the infirmary because of "that"?! Nobody informed me!

Harriet: Well it's because I had a deal with the nurse.

She takes out her phone and shows a very interesting photo to Winter.

Winter: *Red* Oh my god!

The photo shows the head nurse with her assistant giving Jaune a blowjob, while Harriet appears in the corner smiling and showing the peace sign with her hand.

Harriet: But this is the one I like the most.

She changes the image and in this one the same two people appear smiling, with smeared makeup, and their faces covered with cum. In the middle of them was the big jaune cock covered in lipstick.

Harriet: Hot right?

Winter: *Eyes glue to the screen* Y-Yes, Wait! No! Is not ok! You are not supposed to do that with the staff!!!!

Harriet: Hey, I didn't force them. I just told them that if they kept this emergency out the records, my dear parter would show them how grateful he can be. Oh and they did like it how grateful he was~

Winter: Grateful?

Harriet: Yep, and while we're talking about it… Jaune could share that appreciation with you if you put what you saw aside. You know, we're looking for a third person for an "activity" this weekend. Who knows, you might end up "stuffed" with bun in the oven. What do you say? *She sends her a message with both photos*

Jaune: Harriet what are you-

Harriet: *Covers his mouth* Do you want to be appreciated like them?

Winter sees the photos on her phone

Winter: *Red and smoking from the head* I...! I....!

Harriet: Yes?~

Winter: I need you to get out of my office, NOW!!

Out of nowhere Winter uses her semblance and drags the two out of her office.

Jaune: *On the floor* I think she's mad at us.

Harriet: *Sitting on top of him* Maybe.

She gets up and takes a peek out the door.

Winter: *Looking at her phone while sensually touching her chest* So big, fuck~ *Bites her lip and starts to lower her hand to her pants*

Harriet: Or maybe not~

#jaune #jaune arc #rwby jaune #rwby jaune arc #harriet #harriet bree #rwby harriet bree #rwby harriet #winter #winter schnee #rwby winter schnee #rwby winter #jaune x harriet #rwby jaune x harriet #rwby jaune arc x harriet bree #jaune arc x harriet bree #rwby #rwby smut #rwby lemon

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arc-misadventures · 2 years

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Smol Jaune MFK: Elm, Harriet, Winter

Smol Juane: MFK

Jaune: Alrighty then… If I must play this game, then I shall; To start off, I would like to marry you, Miss Winter Schnee.

Winter: R-Really? M-M-Me?! Why me?

Jaune: I am am a man of class, and I would desire to marry a woman of such equal class such as a lady as yourself my love.

Winter: O-Oh… oh my~!

Elm: Oh smooth~!

Jaune: If I must lay with a woman, it would be you, Elm.

Elm: Hell yeah you would~! Just let me get some stretches in beforehand this time.

Winter: T-This time…?

Jaune: And, I would regretfully have to slay you then, Miss Bree.

Harriet: I’d like to see you try, shorty…

Jaune: A duel to the death then? I accept! We shall fight with glory, and honour!

Harriet: Bring it you pint sized twat!

Winter: …

Elm: …

Winter: They’re going to hate fuck aren’t they?

Elm: And, it is going to be so spicy~!

#rwby #jaune arc #elm ederne #harriet bree #winter schnee #jaune x winter #winter x jaune #jaune x elm #elm x jaune #jaune x harriet #harriet x jaune #rwby winterknight

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randomestfandoms-ocs · 2 months

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Ash's Gilmore Girls OC Masterlist

Gilmore Girls OC Masterlist for @the-witching-ash (none of these ocs are mine, I only organized the list)

Name: Andrew Cartwright*

Story: Everything Changes

Faceclaim: Logan Lerman

Love Interest: Kirsty Gilmore (@randomestfandoms-ocs)

Pinterest: x

*a variation of the standard To Being An Us Verse but combined with the Gilmore Girls Delicate crossover

Name: Addie Hisenburg

Faceclaim: Rachel Hilson

Story: So Much Better

Love Interest Paris Geller

Pinterest: x

Name: Alice Hawthorn

Faceclaim: Olivia Colman

Story: Multi

Love Interest: Rupert Hawthorn

Name: Callum Zang

Faceclaim: Harry Shum Jr.

Story: Royals

Love Interest: Hana Ryu, endgame Jess Mariano

Pinterest: x

Name: Clemency Campbell

Faceclaim: Helena Boham Carter

Story: Multi

Name: Daisy Gilmore

Faceclaim: Zoe Colletti

Story: Where Do You Belong

Love Interest: Dave Rygalski & Lane Kim

Pinterest: x

Name: Eileen Bloom

Faceclaim: Maya Hawke

Story: Hazy Shades of Winter

Love Interest: TBD

Pinterest: x

Name: Everett West

Faceclaim: Jesse L. Martin

Story: Multi

Name: Evie Charleston

Faceclaim: Lucy Fry

Story: It’s Nice To Have A Friend

Love Interest: Rory Gilmore & Logan Huntzberger

Pinterest: x

Name: Floyd Bach

Faceclaim: Cole Sprouse

Story: Things You Can’t Speak About / Piece By Piece*

Love Interest: Lane Kim

Pinterest: x

*a crossover with @randomestfandoms-ocs' Kirsty Gilmore / Piece By Piece universe

Name: Floyd Bach*

Faceclaim: Cole Sprouse

Story: Delicate

Love Interest: Vicki St James

Pinterest: x

*A second variation of Floyd who exists in the Delicate crossover verse with @randomestfandoms-ocs' Kirsty, Troy, Harry, Vicki, and Lottie, sometimes combined with other crossovers

Name: Grace Kim

Faceclaim: Lana Condor

Story: How Girls Should Behave

Love Interest: Regina Gilmore

Pinterest: x

Name: Hana Ryu

Faceclaim: Jenna Ushkowitz

Story: Royals

Love Interest: Callum Zang, endgame Lindsay Lister

Pinterest: x

Name: Harriet Stiles

Faceclaim: Caroline Goodall

Story: Mean

Name: Imogen Flemming

Faceclaim: Anne Hathaway

Story: Mean

Love Interest: Jess Mariano

Pinterest: x

Name: Liberty Danes

Faceclaim: Jennifer Love Hewitt

Story: There She Goes

Pinterest: x

Name: Lily Lister

Faceclaim: Lili Reinhart

Story: Fearless

Love Interest: Rory Gilmore

Pinterest: x

Name: Lydia Danes

Faceclaim: Ginnifer Goodwin

Story: My Little Corner Of The World, Multi

Love Interest: Lulu Kuschner

Pinterest: x

Name: Mario Medina

Faceclaim: John Barrowman

Story: May God Have Mercy, Multi

Name: Mercy Medina

Faceclaim: Michelle Trachtenberg

Story: May God Have Mercy

Love Interest: Logan Huntzberger

Pinterest: x

Name: Richie Gilmore

Faceclaim: Grant Gustin

Story: Things You Can’t Speak About

Love Interest: N/A

Pinterest: x

Name: Richie Gilmore*

Story: Piece By Piece/Multi

Love interest: Multi

*a variant of Richie that exists in multiple crossovers, always with @randomestfandoms-ocs' Kirsty Gilmore

Name: Richie Gilmore / Richie Donahue-Callisto*

Story: Delicate

Love Interest: Troy Donahue-Callisto & Harry Bechtel ( @randomestfandoms-ocs )

*A second variation of Richie who exists in the Delicate crossover verse with @randomestfandoms-ocs' Kirsty, Troy, Harry, Vicki, and Lottie, sometimes combined with other crossovers

Name: Regina Gilmore

Story: How Girls Should Behave

Faceclaim: Leighton Meester

Love Interests: Vance Hawthorn, Grace Kim

Pinterest: x

Name: Rupert Hawthorn

Faceclaim: Tom Cavanagh

Story: Multi

Love Interest: Alice Hawthorn

Name: Vance Hawthorn

Faceclaim: Ed Westwick

Story: Multi

Love Interest: Regina Gilmore, Colin McCrae & Finn

Pinterest: x

#gilmoregirlsocs #gilmore girls oc #for a friend #friend's oc #the witching ash #agb tag

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dreamypqulson · 2 years

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— counting stars

summary: you get stuck on the rooftop with none other than harriet hayes. perhaps she's not bad as you think she is. or perhaps she just looks really pretty under the moonlight.

pairing: harriet hayes x reader

word count: 2200

When back luck decided to stuck, it hit at the worst possible time. You not only felt as if you had an awful show, but now you were stuck on the root top with none other than Harriet's Hayes.

It was silly, really.

You were enjoying the after party when Matt sent you up to the roof to turn the lights on after the power had suddenly went out.

It was simple, you just had to flip the backup switch on.

But of course Harriet had to follow you up. She was bored, is what she had said. She simply wanted to get fresh air. But when she's your shadow nine out of ten times, you find her excuses somewhat hard to believe.

She always had to be around you. But she hated you. And you despised her too.

She didn't like that you were gay, and you didn't like that she tried to push her beliefs on you. Harriet's Haye's stupidly pretty face pissed you off to no end. And you hated that stupidly pretty dress that she was wearing tonight; it hugged her small curves in the best ways, and you just wanted to rip it off.

You wanted her to stop making you feel like this, like the only way you would only be able to feel her skin, and taste her lips would be in your dreams. Like you had to fight wars with her to keep your feelings down within.

"There's no cell service" Harriet had said.

"Could've told you that one" was your piqued response, and you banged on the door one last time before giving up.

"Maybe we can climb down."

"Harriet, I hate to break it to you, but we aren't in one of your silly little movies" you told her plainly, without even making an effort to look at her.

You sat down on the concrete block, and pulled your coat tighter around your frame.

"Okay well calm down. At least i'm trying to think of ways to get out of here."

"Yes, because your ideas have been so helpful" you replied sarcastically, and could see that you were getting a rise out of Harriet.

She took a seat beside you, and you moved your leg when her knee hit yours. You hated that a single touch caused shivers down your spine. "You don't have to be so mean to me. I just trying to help, okay?"

You looked away, you wanted to cry, really. Her voice slightly quavered, and you wanted to take it all back. But, you refused to falter your demeanor around her, so, you provided an act of kindness instead. "Harriet, take my jacket. Your freezing," because you could feel her ice cold arm against yours.

"What?" she turned her head to the side, and now her face was incredibly close to yours. All you had to do was lean a little further, if you were to have the courage. "No. It's freezing out. I don't want you to be cold."

"Well you're the one who has to film for a movie soon, so I don't want you to get a cold. My dress sleeves are longer than yours anyways."

You took your jacket off, and placed it over Harriet's shoulders, where she then put her arms through it. It was cold out. Freezing. But you would let yourself get hypothermia if it was the punishment for making Harriet comfortable.

She was still looking at you, you could feel it on the side of your face. You could hear her soft breaths in your ear, over the millions of cars down below you. "Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?"

"I just don't want you to be cold, okay? Just forget about it."

"Fine." She turned her head back to face the view of the city.

"Fine."

Silence spoke for a few moments before- "Okay but why don't you want me to be cold. You hate me."

"Harriet!" you sighed "I don't hate you. That's the thing, I don't hate you as a person, I hate the way you ridicule my life choices."

"Well-"

"Can we just try to find a way out of here? Please? I seriously can't take this right now. First a terrible show, now this" you said, and was sure that if the party was going to hear anything, it would've been that.

You stood up and the blonde then replied with, "A terrible show? I thought you were great tonight."

You looked her dead in the eye, and she saw something in them, a sort of softness that you have never offered her before, and then she continued, "I thought you were amazing, actually. Better than me."

"Then I must've been good if the Harriet Hayes is saying this."

"You know, you don't have to act like i'm this big bad celebrity all the time. I think we're equals. You're outstanding" Harriet told you, matter of factly.

"You are in a million different movies. Everyone always wants to see Harriet Hayes on their tv. If it wasn't for you, Studio 60 wouldn’t have been as popular as it is."

She stood up and held you hand. Her’s was warm, as she had been warming them up in the pockets of your jacket. "I think that they just aren't looking hard enough into you because they know you'll take off further than they can reach. They're assholes, but if they just payed attention for a moment, they would understand what i'm saying."

"I- Wow. Thank you, Harriet." You titled your head down to conceal the blush that had taken ahold of your cheeks, and then you cleared your throat. "Uh- um...maybe we should figure out a way out of here."

"Definitely. I don't want to be spending the rest of the party up here."

And there it was again. She didn't want to be up here with you, she was simply being nice to put the tension and awkwardness on a halt for the time being. You knew who she really wanted to go spend her time with.

"Yeah, you would rather spend it with Matt. I know" you scoffed, dramatically.

"Well yes, because Matt was going to talk to me about my new skit" she said, and you felt as if the conversation previously, suddenly didn't happen. It was like she was an entirely different person whenever the thought of Matt would occur.

"Of course. It's always Matt."

“What is your problem with Matt? You know, you wouldn't be on the show if it wasn't for him."

"Oh would you look at that, Matt's my little fucking hero, getting me on this show, huh?"

"Gosh, it's like you're jealous" she slapped her hands to her side, and then lifted them up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"Maybe I am."

"Then why are you even still here?"

“Because of you, Harriet, goddamn! It's like I can't get enough of you. Over Christmas break, all I could think about was you! I can’t go a single day without seeing your beautiful face, because I go absolutely insane. I need to hear you yelling at me over something stupid that I said, or to just feel you roll your eyes when I flip you off. I need that Harriet. I need you!"

She walked closer to you, her hand meeting your cheek. You flinched, figuring that she was going to slap you. You would deserve it, you thought.

She didn't. She didn't slap you. Her hand rested on the pink tinted flesh of your cheek. The warmth, mixing with the coldness of your skin. It felt nice. It felt like getting under a blanket with a cup of hot chocolate after playing in the snow as a kid. It felt like home.

"I'm in a new hell every time you get back with Matt. I can't stand it anymore, Harriet" you whispered, enough for her to hear. The moonlight made Harriet’s skin glisten, and you noticed that she, as well, was crying.

"You don't have to worry about that anymore."

"What-"

It was rare, the feeling. Something you've never felt once before. Something past that euphoric feeling that you get when you finally get to the top of the hill.

Harriet's lips felt soft against yours, and you felt greedy. You could taste the red wine on her lips, though she wasn't a single bit tipsy. This was Harriet's real decision.

And she wasn't very good at making decisions either. Never with Matt, nor with anyone she been with the time before that. She had always picked out the wrong ones. And they had never felt right to her anyways. This, this felt right.

However, greedy was an understatement. You were covering yourself in Harriet, and taking every piece of her to your grave. She was yours, for now, at least.

Withdrawing from her was quick, because you needed to breathe, and you hadn't even thought of it, as your brain had shut down and replaced it with everything Harriet.

"I don't wanna watch the Matt and Harriet show anymore. I wanna be one of the stars." She knew exactly what you meant, because she had felt the same way when you brought in your new girlfriend a while back. She was long gone now though, because all you could ever see in her eyes was a glimpse of Harriet.

Harriet, with her forehead still against yours, said, "We can make our own show. Together."

"Then you have to promise you won't cancel it on me."

"I wouldn't dare" she breathed against you "I don't think I ever want that door to open now, though."

You laughed, "Yes, if it didn't feel like it was below zero degrees out."

"Then let my body heat warm you up." She sat down, and then put her arms out for you.

You laid against her, not worrying that your hair would be messed up, because Harriet made everything feel a bit okay. "Do you think anyone is ever going to find us up here?"

You shifted against her so you could lay on her chest, used as a pillow. And for her arms, as a blanket would, covered you tightly.

"No, because sometimes it feels like it's just you and I in this world” she said.

"Even when I'm mean to you?"

"Even when you're mean to me. But I don't think that's going to be a problem anymore."

"It never should've been. I'm sorry. I feel terrible, and if I knew that this was the ending, then I never would've acted like that" you said, sympathetically.

"I threw my belief’s in your face, and made you feel awful about yourself, just to suppress my feelings for you."

"Sometimes people do crazy things when they're in love."

"They do."

Overtime, you ended up falling asleep on Harriet. She stayed awake to make sure you would be okay in the coldness, and to see if someone would come to the rescue.

Though by now, she figured the after party was just about ended.

She kissed the top of your head when she felt you begin to shift, and then you stretched out your limbs.

"Still up here?"

"Still up here." She confirmed, and your body shivered harder. You weren't properly dressed for this, but in your defensive, you were expecting to get stuck on the roof.

"Honey, your shaking so badly. Take your coat back."

As much as you were concerned for Harriet, you still listened because you were too exhausted to argue.

While you put your jacket back on and buttoned it up, you breathed in deeply. Harriet's scent had already consumed this jacket, and made it feel much cozier than before.

While you did this, Harriet banged on the door a few more times. If nobody were to hear you both now, then you would be here until the morning.

It was when you were dozing off again, that you heard you name being called. In a rather aggravated tone.

"Yeah?" You said, not giving much to open your eyes and look at her.

"Did you ever try pushing the door?"

"No...why?"

"Because, y/n, it's a fucking push door. Not a pull door. It's been open this entire time!"

With that, your eyes shot open, and you raced over to Harriet. The door, was in fact, open. But if you were being honest, you didn't regret any of this. Even if you were going to wake up with a cold tomorrow morning.

"Oh..."

"Oh my god" she laugh breathily. "I can't even be mad at you with that face, either."

You smiled harder, your eyes squinting though the sleepiness to look at her. "Let's go, you goof. How about you just stay at my place tonight?"

"Would love nothing more, baby."

You walked right past her, feeling her beam brightly, and stare at you with heart eyes bigger than the moon.

If it weren't for your forgetfulness, you wouldn't be going home with her. So really, neither of you could actually be mad. You would take a cold over having to spend another day without kissing Harriet.

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kob131 · 2 years

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"The writers aren't going to listen to their fans, because they can't even be bothered to listen to their own staff, because they "learned their lesson" to "listen to their gut" and "stick to their guns," and to ignore anybody who tries to educate their CisHet White Male selves on the matters of positive and accurate representation. Not just queer, but with everything. It happened with Jaune>Ruby, it happened with the White Fang, it happened with Emerald, it happened with Flynt Coal, it happened with Jaune>Ruby again, it happened with Yang, it happened with Cinder, it happened with Tyrian, it happened with Jaune>Ruby again, it happened with Pilot Boi, it happened with Ghira, it happened with Blake, it happened with Leo, it happened with Ilia, it happened with Sienna, it happened with Adam, it happened with Oz, it happened with Salem, it happened with Jaune>Ruby again, it happened with Terra Cotta, it happened with Ironwood, it happened with Marrow, it happened with Elm, it happened with Vine, it happened with Harriet, it happened with Clover, it happened with Qrow, it happened with Winter, it happened with Penny, it happened with Jaune>Ruby again - over and over and over and over and over, the fans have spent the past ten years explaining exactly how and why [X problem] was actually a real, tangible problem, with the writers either blatantly ignoring it, or hand-waving it away with vague and empty promises to "be better about it," only to pull the exact same shit all over again.

Ten years of hundredth chances, ten years of patient (or in some cases, not so patient, which is why we get villainized) adherence to the "Just Wait" rule, ten years of practically begging to see even tiny improvements only to be left hanging (or worse, to be directly baited as Eddy admitted happened with Fair Game, and then to be attacked directly by crwby itself and treated as if we were "just imagining things" and that we were "just horny salty fanboys" and that "it's not bait if we never intended to canonize the worm in the first place" and that it's our fault we were foolish enough to think Rooster Teeth would include queer rep and tentatively bit down on the hook) ten years of having it be PROVEN to us that the people who do most of the writing for RWBY write it specifically with a White Straight Male audience in mind, because at the time of RWBY's creation, data shows that Rooster Teeth's fanbase was 93% Male identified and 7% Female identified, and the separate demographic that was attracted solely to RWBY itself was just basically bonus income on top of that."

I saw this and I think it's a good showcase of an older RWBY critics. So let this be a lesson to the RWBY stans who not so coincidentally sound exactly the same.

For those who don't know what they're referring to, an old RWBY AMA on Reddit had this from Miles-

"-Boi howdy, did that take us by surprise. There's always a background character that gets super popular. Last season it was the Waitress. This season it was Pilot Boi and Cute Faunus Guard. Interesting story, we originally had a line for the Pilot that subtly told the audience he had a boyfriend back in Atlas (this was done in our attempt to get better about having more LGBTQ+ representation). However, when scripts went out to the team, a number of crew members were concerned that our first homosexual character with a line of dialogue addressing his sexuality was going to die in the very next episode and was "also kind of a selfish jerk". Soooo, we scrapped the line. Next thing we know, he's the most popular character of the volume and we're kicking ourselves for not sticking to our guns."

And the whole spiel is about how they wanted to keep Pilot as LGBT due to his popularity even though he's bAd rEP. Except that what makes bad representation (being stereotypical, being one dimensional ect.) makes a bad character IN GENERAL. It's why bad writers, no matter their subgroup, can't write good representation- You have to be a good writer. And given that Pilot Guy was so prevelant in Volume 5, he clearly resonated with/entertained so many people. So making him LGBT would have made a fan favorite LGBT, making it far more likely he'd be accepted. That's what happened with Illa. It's what happened with May.

But then, they don't care about the writing. Read it again- they care that the people don't have the right fucking genitals or melatonin content. Or rather, they don't get what they want EXACTLY when they want it. So they lash out like selfish children, crying about how thy don't get their cookie until after dinner. Except they DID get their cookie and they're being a greedy shithead.

Example? OP's own fucking examples.

Jaune>Ruby? Only happened in Volume 1...in the most shallow way possible (given that Ruby herself was a big part of JAUNE'S OWN ARC). Volume 2 gave her the involvement with the actual plot as well as her moment with Penny, Volume 3 gave her Penny's death, Pyrrha's death and being the driving force behind THE REST OF THE SHOW and Jaune got...a half baked arc that was made about Ruby in the only Volume where it got more than a episode (Volume 4).

The White Fang? Basically just "FUCK YOU FOR NO SUPPORING MY POLITICS!" With said politics being "Let me be as racist as a person from the 1920's.'

Emerald? Basically 'HOW DARE YOU MAKE A VILLAIN DARK SKINNED?!' while ignoring that she was a better person than her white cohorts (Roman, Mercury, Cinder).

Flynt Coal? Calling racism over a name (because 'black black')...while ignoring the German 'White White' girl.

Yang? That they skipped over her character arc...then gave her the lion's share of Volume 5 which they ignored because Jaune got mad at the woman who murdered his best friend for nothing was right there.

Cinder? Talking about her being a bland villain...which got shot and killed in Volumes 7 and 8.

Tyrian? Something something 'psychopath is offensive to people with mental disorders'. Completely ignoring LEGITIMATE PSYCHOPATHS..

Pilot Boy? See above.

Ghira? Something about him not being allowed to be seen as competent. ... Even though they accept Sienna being competent despite doing ACTIVE harm because Blake said so...in the same monologue saying Ghira was just as effective and more stable, just slower.

Blake? Her acting 'like a bitch' in Volume 4 despite the very clear reason of 'I just went through tramuatic events and am going through an arc.'

Leo? That having a Fanaus headmaster be a villain was racist. Even though he was still better than every other villain not named 'Emerald' present. He even got a shot in against Raven.

Illa? Psycho Lesbian...right in front of Adam 'Wannabe Racial Supremacist' Taurus. Also got redeemed and everyone went mysteriously quiet, almost like no one wanted to own up to their bullshit.

Sienna? See the WF section and add in racism accusations because Indonesians can't handle a fictional character dying apparently.

Adam? See WF section AGAIN.

Ozpin? Calling out the CRWBY for having the leader of the good guys preaching trust keeping VERY IMPORTANT secrets because 'uwu sad backstory'...after spending three years calling him the true secret bad guy.

Salem? Something about her not being a good villain because generic, cookie cutter complaints that really mean 'You will never appease us, slave.'

Terra Arc-Cotta? 'Racism' 'Why?' 'Fuck you!!!'

Ironwood? Some bullshit excuse about prosthetics that fails when you look at everyone with prosthetics which is just a cover for 'Gimmie my husbando or else.'

Elm, Harriet, Vine, Marrow? See above because no one talks about them outside of being an extension of James.

Clover and Qrow? 'We decided they were gay which not even half of the LGBT fanbase saw so you did a bad.'

20 swings, all misses.

This is not some grand outlier either. I have seen HUNDREDS, if not a THOUSAND criticisms. I have seen about a couple dozen stragglers and a half dozen consistent producers of good criticism...of which only THREE (Faboover, that Whitely Blog and Dual) are still around.

It's all just entitlement. 'You dared to ascertain your ownership over something you made so now I will bully you into compliance.'

As OP would say, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Tens of thousands of chances on hitting a fucking t-ball. They always miss, split their head open on the bat and then try suing for damages after proclaiming themselves so much better than the coach.

Fair Game is a perfect example. Nothing was explictly romantic...or even implictedly. It was just some guys bonding. I have seen actual ship baiting (Amorshipping from Pokemon) and Fair Game does not fit. People picked up on some flirty animation that the WRITERS didn't intend for, used a character for their purpose and people shat themselves. Blaming them for YOUR immaturity is fucking disgusting.

But hey, this is how the crowd has ALWAYS worked. Don't give them what they want immediately? 'Kill yourself, Monty hates you.' Give them a background couple? 'Give us a major character, kill yourself.' Give them a tragic villain with a defined personality? 'Psycho Lesbian, kill yourself.' Give them a couple with a child? 'Doesn't count, kill yourself.'

Time after time after time after time after time- They demand shit by using their DEAD FRIEND as a soapbox and bludgeon and then move the goalposts so they can threaten and attack them.

We know this for a fact- the Camp Camp blog incident provided the psychos.

Oh did you think I forgot? Silly little fragile hypocrite- I will never forget.

You fucks are some of the most psychotic pieces of shit I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. I also remember how the very SECOND you got push back, that you had to eat your own shit for once, you cried foul.

No matter what you fucks try, I will not forget. And you will NEVER escape your bullshit.

You don't deserve to be listen to. You deserve every little bit of pettiness and disdain...times a hundred.

P.S. They do mention the Glassdoor incident...for half a paragraph.

"ACTUAL LIVING PEOPLE got hurt? Eh...BU WHAT ABOUT MY EGO?!"

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