#and then this is just... something about this character description is so... poetic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zstartrixxx · 26 days ago

Text

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 '𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐔, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍'.

ʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᵛᵃᵐᵖꜝʷᶦᶠᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: If being loved by a vampire means carrying eternity within you, what you have with Remmick is incarnate: his poison lives in your flesh, you are blood of his blood, a creature of his making. And because you are a part of him—a fragment that broke free and passed into you, sometimes even a sliver of his ancient soul trapped inside that dead body—everything you feel, he feels, and vice versa. Fleeing the imminent extinction of these lands, you and Remmick seek refuge in each other once more, bound together. Eternally, for he would never let you sever this tie—unless he were dead. Past and future memories knot inside you. Here, now—all blood and teeth—you fuse with your maker, your sacrament, your eternal groom. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: this particular piece was a deeply interesting and special writing experience for me: not only did i get to explore the hivemind concept, but i also played more freely with language and the essence of remmick as a character. so let me make one thing clear: it’s never my intention to distort the film’s canonical portrayal, but rather—through poetic license combined with the possibilities of fanfiction’s universe, PLUS the way i’ve absorbed and interpreted the character—my version of remmick (at least in my fics) might not be as literal as the original script. that said: here we have this scenario with a wife, which i initially imagine takes place before the film’s events, but the specifics of when, how, and where she was transformed are entirely up to your interpretation (before his arrival in the us in 1911? somewhere between the early or late middle ages? the modern era? europe, asia, or africa... let your imagination run wild ;) i’ve also paraphrased/incorporated certain very specific lines and moments from the film. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +16 CONTENT. i think there's a lot of angst here and reader melancholy, so keep that in mind. use of some words in gaelic, i had to resort to good old google, if there is something wrong please tell me. remmik here it's (super) protective, almost toxic; hivemind concept explored, lots of internal dialogue, some gore (explicit description of blood and bruises), vampirism (blood consummation), and a slight sexual innuendo thrown in. 𝐖𝐂: 6k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"turn to me, and love me like you lacerate; just hold me down like i don’t need air." (air, shedfromthebody)

Your skin burned like Hell itself, which was kind of funny to think about: back when you were human, you loved spending your days under the hot sun, lying on the grass in the late afternoon and gazing up at the cloudless sky, where strange shapes would form just for you. You wasted away the days at the lake, naked, floating between water and sunlight, between cold and heat, simply existing.

Now, all you could feel was the searing pain ripping through your skin, sizzling in your ears like meat in a frying pan. Weak, you tried to run, but your legs wouldn’t obey, and your feet tangled with every step across the dry land, scattered with dead corn leaves. The rustle of the leaves irritated you, but what truly drove you mad were the screams echoing from behind, drowning out any coherent thought, merging with the heavy air that entered your lungs that no longer breathed. And that felt like a death sentence: not only the sun was paralyzing you, but also the distorted sounds that confused you, like a wounded animal, utterly disoriented.

You stopped in the middle of the cornfield, glancing around, trying to stay grounded, trying to reconnect the thread of thought between the two of you, searching through the suffocating haze for Remmick’s voice, calling him with panic and urgency, desperate for him to come save you. You looked at your shoulders: raw, scorched, smelling the acrid scent of burnt flesh rising from your own body. You shut your eyes, trying to find him, your voice lethargic: “Remmick… Remmick.”

Your vision began to darken, your body no longer felt like your own—it felt like it was floating, detaching, as if your soul—or what was left of it—was slipping out of you. Just like you’d felt a piece of yourself dying the last time you glimpsed sunlight through your human eyes, maybe ceasing to exist in that land would feel the same. All you had to do was slowly close your eyes, embrace the darkness once again, surrender to the searing fire that would extinguish you—and that would be it. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the mighty sun before you: scorching, like your mother’s hugs, your grandmother’s kisses. Like Remmick’s grip when you were still human. Your entire body burned, tiny flames piercing through you, tears of blood trickling from your eyes. How long had it been since you felt even remotely human? All you had to do was give in, speak the one name that echoed in your mind, etched into your blood.

Remmick.

In poison and blood, within you. He was you and you were him. Remmick.

‘—Remmick, if you can hear me one last time, know that I—’

“Got you!” his voice came, rough and wounded, behind you. Firm hands grabbed you by the waist, your body partially covered by another, pressed against Remmick’s rigid frame. He whispered against your ear: “You’re safe, mo chroí (mu khree / my heart). Come with me.” He pulled you even tighter against his scorched body, shielding you like a protective shell, guiding you with quick steps into the heart of the cornfield. In the distance, the furious screams of some villagers echoed behind you. But despite the world turning into hell around you and everything seeming like the end, you felt safe in his arms.

Remmick looked back, staggering, using his sharp senses to search for any possible escape for the two of you. His left eye was swollen from the punch he took, combined with the sun’s deadly effect, and even with limited vision, he managed to find a way out from the horde chasing you.

You couldn’t stay upright. The sun’s weakness made it feel like your bones were nothing but dust beneath your scorched flesh. Tears of blood stung your eyes and soul, or whatever was trapped inside that immortal body, sharing a collective mind with Remmick and so many others before you. It longed desperately to escape this life and finally rest. But Remmick wouldn’t let that happen—oh no, let the pagan gods or the Christian God himself punish him with the harshest tortures if he did. You could feel that wrathful pain mixed with ancient rage flowing from him, harshly projected in flames and poisonous blood from him to you, as he nearly threw himself on top of you like a (scorched) leather jacket just to protect you. Madness. The voices grew longer, more indistinct, the hateful chorus fading, as Remmick, with his one good eye, searched for shelter.

Then, as if by magic, fate, or just the luck of some devil who still wanted to see you both wander through God's vast lands, there it was—a house beyond the edge of the cornfield. The perfect shelter. ‘Living food, darkness... —Remmick, don’t get your hopes up.—’ you thought back, replying to your creator’s voice with a sarcasm that didn’t quite match the moment. As always, he laughed—loudly, though the laugh came with dry, desperate gasps. He laughed. Even all fucked up, more than you, sizzling in pain and crying in despair to stay alive, he still found humor in his own misery.

“You’re getting real cheeky, huh, my little thing?”

“You’re the one who taught me to be like this, Remmy,” you managed to say, despite the bitter taste of blood rising in your throat—extremely unpleasant when it was your own blood boiling inside you. Remmick glanced over his shoulder, noticing for now that you were safe. He looked forward again, at what seemed like a mirage of a desolate wooden shack, dark, with the door and windows shut. It looked uninhabited to you. ‘—Love, don’t be so hopeless. Of course, there’ll be someone in there to be dinner. Or rather, lunch, given the time.—’ his voice cut through again, tugging you sideways, his hot and battered hand grabbing your forearm, where deep layers of your dermis were starting to show, making you let out a faint whimper. Remmick gave you an almost hurt look, immediately releasing his grip.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. What’s a squeeze compared to almost melting under the sun, right?”

“You’re something else...” he muttered in disbelief, though his voice was laced with distress and anguish—a soft hint of the pain he was enduring. —If he died, you’d go with him by extension, in the worst possible way.— That was what was running through his disturbed mind, making you wonder whether you’d ever have a happy ending under those conditions. Remmick quickened his pace, and you followed beside him, feeling like the path to the house was more of a road to Hell than a material refuge. You were starting to believe it was a mirage and the Devil was waiting on the other side to welcome you both into his lap. ‘—Pathetic, darling. Pathetic.—’ ‘—Just like you, sweetheart.—’

Remmick ignored your retort, dragging himself up the steps, changing his expression as he began to shout for help. A wounded animal, fatally injured, a hoarse rasp clawing out of his throat, begging for help, pounding on the door with force. The sun’s haze was poisoning him—and therefore you—draining what little strength was left, forcing your bodies to absorb the foul smell of rotting flesh; even if your lungs didn’t breathe, they still had the cursed privilege of smelling. And even as supernatural beings, defying all human logic, you were still condemned to be inside those fragile bodies, exhaling the scent of flesh, blood, bone, thick saliva, venom, and a unique perfume your walking corpses carried. Not decay, but something more… floral? And that specific scent, like night-blooming jasmine in a graveyard or a dried rose in your garden, grew stronger as the mortal flesh imprisoning your immortal soul deteriorated.

Remmick kept pounding on the door and maybe—just maybe—with a little more effort, he’d become the first vampire to break the universal law by forcing his way in without being invited. He looked at you, distressed, his expression one of real pain. You pulled away from him, walking to a window layered in thick dust, wiping it with your palm. The cold, gritty surface scratched your sensitive skin even more. You peered inside and confirmed: ‘—There’s no one. It’s empty.—’ Remmick looked at you, almost dumbfounded, hearing your inner voice. He turned to the door, where simply twisting the doorknob opened it. The air inside was cold and stagnant, dust and mold, old wood and moth-eaten fabric, with an unwelcoming scent—but still, it carried that unmistakable smell of an uninhabited place. No human warmth or familiar energy.

Remmick was so relieved he dropped to his knees, like a devout soul who, tired of resisting sin, finally accepts divine punishment in good faith—arms open, body surrendering as he let himself fall into the house. You stood beside him, watching with a mixture of mercy for the poor wretch who was suffering, and with that sharp pain—hating, in a way, to share with him the memory and the collective sense of it all, because his pain was also yours.

Remmick crawled inside. You followed him, on your feet—weak, but standing. You looked one last time outside, toward the distance beyond the cornfield, where, by some divine mercy, those who had hunted you seemed to have gone. Just above, the burning afternoon sun pulsed like a condemning god, seated upon his sky-blue throne, mercilessly casting down his punishments upon you, poor wicked creatures.

You shut the door with a long groan, echoing the moan of the vampire now lying delicately at your feet—a strange sound between a whimper and the whine of a frightened dog. His hands were stretched above his head, face pressed to the floor, writhing from side to side, somewhere between fragile and furious at being forced into such a wretched state.

Through your mind, you could feel him tearing:

‘—These monsters will pay. As soon as the sun sets, I’ll hunt them one by one, haunt them in their homes, show them my wrath and my cruelty. Blood, blood… blood.—’

Your mind was now lapsing into a time far older than you, to a moment when Remmick’s humanity had been broken by the vampire’s curse—when the strangers came and took his land, his name, his faith. His prayers were converted, and all he saw before him were silver crosses and plaster Jesuses while he was taught the Lord’s Prayer. All of it disturbed you deeply. He clung so tightly to his roots that it made you feel everything: the fire of the scorched land, the spilled blood, the faithful ones he later killed one by one, the lands devastated by plague and by gold.

You closed your eyes, trying to impose your memories over his—to interrupt the bond that was bigger than either of you. You tried to think of blooming gardens bathed in sunlight, lazy afternoons of picnics and reading under trees, nights of endless dancing and joy.

Remmick stopped thrashing. His shoulders stilled, and his whimpers faded as he was slowly filled with his own memories, gradually regaining his strength and sobriety. He propped himself up on his arms—once feeble and lethargic, with bones eroded and flesh still scorched by burns—then raised himself and looked at you, a crooked smile forming on his lips:

“You’re always taking care of me, a aingeal.” (ah ang-yal | my angel).

“I was just trying to make you stop with those nightmares disguised as memories. I’m aching all over.” Your voice was somewhat harsh, despite your weakness, as you leaned your body against the wall, between the door and the window, where dust managed to dimly filter the sunlight. You were safe from the condemnation of the light.

Remmick rested his head. A look of sadness, lit by the darkness in his pupils, stirred something in your heart that no longer beat.

“I can’t let go of who I once was… even after all these years, there are pains that scar between our flesh and our soul, binding us to them forever…”

“I know. I know—” you smiled, somewhere between honesty and levity, trying to stay upright, feeling your body pulse and bleed, crying for healing. Remmick was in considerably better shape than you, even in his sorry state—his cotton shirt filthy with mud and dust, torn and bloodied from burned flesh; his pants tattered, shoes worn through, one bruised eye set into cadaverous skin with a polished hunger. He was enduring. The dark gifts made him far stronger than you. “—I’m just not in the best condition to relive those pains with you, not when mine are a little too real right now.”

Remmick nodded, drinking in your words, staring at you with glowing, coppery-red eyes—dim yet luminous—finally seeing your pain. His face twisted with worry and a flicker of anger as he staggered closer:

“Mo ghrá geal” (muh grah gyahl | my bright love), “they really hurt you, didn’t they…”

Then, Remmick recalled the grim scene when one of the townsfolk had found your hiding place—a house just as old and decrepit as the one you now sheltered in. The two of you were lying there together, side by side, entwined like tragic lovers, waiting for death—and maybe that had been part of the attraction, for just a few more seconds in that eternal rest, and you would have had a truly tragic end. Remmick remembered the moment the light from a blocked-out window was smashed through and the burn that followed. He opened his eyes instantly. You were still locked in your unshakable sleep when they grabbed you by the arms. He had fought men wielding torches and harvest tools. Then you saw it through his eyes: your body being pulled away—a blur. And you felt his fear and desolation as he fought off the frantic villagers to try and save you.

Then the man’s voice rang out again, clear and strong, a wounded hand touching your face with surprising gentleness:

“We almost didn’t make it out of there… If it had been closer to sunset, not a single one of those bastards would’ve made it—”

“Remmick.” His name traced your lips and tongue, thorny like the man himself. “They’re not to blame for acting the way they do—just like we, flawed murderous animals, once acted. They too have the right to want to destroy us. Wasn’t it you who taught me that human truth? That’s how we lived before we perished. That’s how we’ll go on existing, as long as we do.”

“Existing.” He clicked his tongue, and a sudden shadow passed through his eyes. For a second, his mind grew too clouded for you to read, to hear—but the visceral rage boiling in his venomous blood, oh, that you felt, bitter as it burned your dry throat. Dryness began to crack your lips. It weakened your warm body even more and made you feel the dark delusions start to crawl through the corners of your mind; that’s what happened when you weren’t fed—no matter how exceptional your self-control was, and even if you could resist without the human liquor for days, when you were in that state of true death, your body nearly collapsed.

Remmick dragged his pitiful, suffering gaze across your face. Around your minds, words in ancient Gaelic spun like ancestral chants—he was thinking about something beyond you.

His hand slid up to your face, grabbing your hair from behind, gripping it as he gently pulled it back, exposing the soft, burned, but still velvety skin of your neck. The cradle of your sacred blood—from where he had once drawn your human warmth into himself and given you, in return, the venom that turned you into him. And even though your heart no longer beat as before, when he first heard it, and your blood wasn’t warm enough to quench his thirst anymore, it was the vampire’s opium.

Remmick always thought of that comparison when he grazed his fangs lightly against your skin before penetrating it to anesthetize himself in your ecstasy:

‘—Your blood was sweet and warm when your heart throbbed between your ribs. But now, with my lymph and the poison of my being, it tastes better—bittersweet, undead. Our blood.—’

It made you moan and whimper.

Your hands pressed against his chest, palms open, trying to push him away from you:

“Remmy, are you sure about this?” you looked at him uncertainly, trying to find in him the assurance for the act.

Remmick didn’t answer you with words—not the kind spoken aloud:

“As weak as we are, there’s no one here, my love. Either we drink from each other, or we die like strays in this godforsaken place. Feed on my blood before you cease to exist…”

It wasn’t a request anymore by the time he was already pulling you closer to expose your neck, pressing his rough lips and sharp teeth against you, piercing the skin like needles.

Remmick held onto this belief that he didn’t need to ask much of you, because as you were one mind, everything he wanted was what you desired too.

Your eyes closed as you felt your flesh torn by his fangs—hard against your skin, like a stiff piece of leather being pierced by a sharp knife—until it reached where the blood, crawling weakly through your body, began to emerge in thick sobs, filling his mouth with your syrupy, bloody liquor. You were consumed by the burning and the sensation of ecstasy the act gave you, your body floating in the hands of the man who groaned with primal pleasure at being nourished by your life source.

Remmick also held the belief that since you carried his seed—that divine-profane gift of eternal life within your blood—through the consummation of acts and the laws of an ancient soul, you were part of a whole that pulsed with life. His life, yours, and those who would come after you both, all connected through that cursed and blood-stained lineage.

You squirmed restlessly in his hands. His claws were already out, tangled in your hair, scratching your waist as he held you as close as possible, bound to his pleading kiss.

Remmick whispered to you in thought:

“Mine, mine, mo mhianta (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), my life, my blood…”

—like a prayer, a rosary he recited bead by bead, his body burning as he inevitably felt his venom enter you.

“Remmick—” your voice was pure wine of death, your nose the iron scent of flesh, your mind a stupor of souls that preceded you, strange voices you had learned empirically, faintly recalling the vampire Remmick who crushed you between teeth and acid; “—I think that’s enough, my love.”

Remmick let out an exasperated groan that vibrated against your mark, sucked a final portion of blood vigorously, licked the flesh slowly, then rose, revealing his face intact and free of wounds, his chin smeared with your crimson iron honey, eyes shimmering like copper pearls between iron and bloodlust. He smiled at you—there was heavy panting from paused lungs, a fresh breath, an almost spiritual renewal of his being.

“You are so delicious, blood of my blood, that it’s impossible not to want to drain your last blessed drop.”

He laughed—cursed and amused—raising his wrist to his own lips, biting it as if biting a pomegranate that exploded between his teeth, flesh and juice dripping at the corners of his mouth already stained with your blood; he extended his open wrist to you like bread to the dying, an offering to his god, waiting with generous eyes burning in the insane passion of his soul for yours.

His mouth salivated with the yearning to take it for himself, to drink from that wine that intoxicated you once and every time you drank it—in nights of lust where you feasted on the delights of the flesh, it intoxicated you.

There were sparks in your chest that burned from Remmick’s venom in your body, making you remember when he took you for himself, forever; Remmick appeared like a chorus behind you, chasing you through the darkness of forests and ancient buildings, ruins of nights wandering without meaning, inviting you to let him enter you repeatedly, giving him what he wanted, feeding the beast with your youthful joy, the beating heart—that which he had lost centuries ago, perhaps millennia. Life.

And once, proving that his love for blood and pain was greater than all lust or pleasure given to you, he offered you his ultimate love: he penetrated you with teeth and curses, buried memories imposed on you, suffocating you, watching you die before him, rot like a flower once beautiful and vibrant, now dry and hardened. Watching you rise with bright eyes and his bestial thirst, laughing and dancing with him, celebrating your new self. Or was it a piece of him, while you were trapped between so many layers of the one who created you?

And yet there you were, looking at him with veneration and anguish, taking his wrist with your misshapen fingers, claws that extended in excessive knots, placing your mouth against the torn hole that poured that offering of his flesh.

Oh, Remmick had your flavor too.

Sweet death he exhaled, primal sex and poisoned wine.

Feeding you slowly, bringing through that damned mortal sap your salvation.

You felt yourself revive, whining softly against his wrist, looking with complicity as Remmick watched you with the pleasure of pleasures on his face: parted lips, arched brows, eyes sparkling with desire and ardor. You smiled back, returning that passion, a hiss escaping from his mouth, pleasure bending between the memories shared through blood. His mouth detached from the bite’s embrace, a dull snap of flesh pulling away, the vampire’s blood dripping in sticky, thick drops like a whip on the wooden floor, a small pool of that iron blood separating you both.

He tilted his head back, satisfied, with a jubilation of pearl-ruby teeth, saying full of himself:

“Now we’re better!” He laughed between his teeth, while you felt his blood slide through you, healing the stigmata on your skin, slowly and pleasurably renewing you—him crawling between your bones and flesh, burrowing deeper into you as he pierced you with those eyes.

Remmick drew closer, your hands returned to normal, fingers caressing your now-soft skin, leaning down to kiss your lips with the sweetness of his honey staining them crimson, whispering through your mind:

‘—All we need now is rest, and once night falls, we can celebrate this moment together.—’

Eternal promises. As always, typical of him.

You welcomed him with open lips, tongue caressing his, you and he merging—blood and saliva, venom and the growls from the depths of your thirsty throats, your hands tangling into each other, desperate grips of bodies that loved each other through finite eternity.

…

In your dreams — or in that cathartic state of complete darkness of rest — all you had in your mind were the outlines of dreams of humans who had wandered through the eternities beside Remmick. You were a peasant in Irish lands, an English priest with golden teeth, a mathematician in Arabia, a physician from Prussian soil, a single mother prostituting herself in the streets of Whitechapel; everything and everyone. You were a pagan elder turned faithful parish priest. A hopeful young woman turned the vilest of executioners. Everything and everyone — and him.

Him.

Emerging in red, blue, purple, and black, from the shadows, blood dripping from his chin, stealing souls and stories like a devoted collector, a historian digging through pages and pages for what might fill his own gaps. Remmick pulled you by the hand like a savior — or a beast. That blurred in the shadows and forms, as he brought you into the light.

The light of consciousness, of being awake, of knowing night had finally fallen and you could once again wander among humans.

You opened your eyes with a sharp blink, seeing through a timid penumbra lit by a single candle — who knows where the hell Remmick had found it — exhaling, while he gently caressed your face, the tip of his finger tapping lightly against your nose, a serenity on his face that, under the warm golden light, almost seemed human. You smiled, rubbed your eyes, and let out a vocal exhale — a human habit you’d kept not to feel so detached from your nature — wetted your lips, surprised by the nudity of the man sitting at your side on that old bed, hard mattress, rickety frame that had served perfectly for your rest.

At the window, beyond the drawn curtain, a few wooden planks nailed to keep sunlight out were now opened, allowing the pale-silver glow of a Full Moon to shine on you. Between the bluish-gray mingling with the candle’s yellow-red, his slender and muscular body — shaped by the years when he was just a man of the land, using his bare strength — stood naturally before you.

His face, smiling at you tenderly, was damp, drops of water clinging to his nose, ears, and chin. A scent of dried flowers and soap wafted from his pale skin. His voice was soft:

“Come with me, a aingeal,” (ah ang-yal | my angel), “let’s take a bath to wash off this infernal day.”

Laughter spilled from both your mouths — irony mixed with ease — as his hand gently pulled you up, guiding you barefoot across the wooden floor, echoing down a narrow hallway toward what must have been the bathroom. Remmick nodded toward the wooden bathtub. Beside it, atop a chair, several candles were stuck upright with their own melted wax, casting a flickering light beside the moonlight that poured silver through the window.

“I cleaned it a bit before using, fetched some water from the well, and luckily found some flowers and a dried-up bar of soap lying around. Seems like the people who lived here left in a hurry — there’s still canned food and clothes in some closets. Let me help you!”

He placed the candle on the chair and undressed you, slipping off your dress and tossing it aside, smiling at your nudity, placing his hands at your waist as if admiring a statue sculpted by his own hands — a creation of his creation.

“Sit down. I’ll bathe you...” he said in a velvet tone, guiding your body into the cold water, which wrapped around your skin as he began to rub it with water, fragrant flower petals, and diluted soap.

And there you sat, still, watching him care for you — though you knew well what he was thinking.

‘—The hunt, the revenge against those who inflicted pain on us and—’

“Remmy…”

Your hand found his, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts, gripping the hand that tended to you, “...stop, at least for now. Just think of something else.”

“What else could I possibly think about?”

“In other things, I don’t know, think about music, about dance, about me...”

“I don’t need to think about those things because they’re already in me, darling. It’s almost a pleonasm, as that old professor we ate once said, remember?”

“The one we ate? What an absurd thing to say!”

“Sweetheart, seriously?” Remmick tilted his head to the side, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips. He stopped rubbing the dried blood off his neck to look at you with cynicism. “You, of all people, who loves sinking your teeth into those juicy necks that show up for us!? You, blood of my blood, my own creation, poison of my poison who...” he paused, narrowing his eyes, his voice coming out in a thin whisper, “loves sinking those pretty little teeth of yours into the most unusual places!?”

A daring finger touched your lips, slipping between them, lightly scraping your canine with its nail. You stared at him calmly, studying him in that unashamed nakedness, amused by you. Rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away from your mouth.

“Pathetic. That’s what you are sometimes.”

“I love you too, my darlin’.” He chuckled through his teeth, returning to wiping the bloodstain from his skin, focusing on the act. Even in that silence made of voices loudly spoken, your minds were speaking through images, memories flowing back and forth in a stream of consciousness, undulating like the water that surrounded your body, tracing that eternal conversation you both had. Deep down you knew he wanted to go out hunting, to get drunk on fresh human blood, and then return to this shelter, take you in his arms and possess you in the most animalistic way possible. But on your end, you still felt his venom lingering through your body, the blood that had served as both nourishment and healing still casting a haze over your senses. Ancient blood from someone who had lived so long it carried stigmas. Strong, dense, defiled, concentrated.

Remmick finished scrubbing you, stood up from your side, and left the room, staying outside for a few minutes, leaving you immersed in the water and the moonlight. Thinking. For a moment, your mind seemed to detach from his, floating through the corridors of your own being—you saw yourself among humans, walking barefoot, feeling that burning thirst in your throat, the bile of anger tormenting you even as your melancholy made you ethereal; sucking foreign blood, capturing life stories for yourself. Remmick reached out a hand to you—a claw—with the ghastly smile of all the dead, always whispering to you: “Mo mhianta” (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), in your mother tongue. Remmick… Remmick. The one who created you and now was you too, part of your desires, part of your life, part of your soul. Would you ever be able to break away from that guiding thread? From the one who offered you both death and life? Would you be able to disconnect and be just… you?

Remmick emerged from the darkness of the house, carrying a bundle of clothes in his hands, wearing a pair of soft-fabric pants, his torso still bare. He smiled with those secrets he could hide from you between his lips:

“No, I believe that if one day you no longer belong to me, I’ll probably be dead.”

“Reading my thoughts again?”

The question was practically rhetorical, laced with a certain bitterness you couldn’t hold back. Standing before you, the vampire handed you the clothes.

“I am them. Even when you try to escape through the corners of your thoughts, I’m there.” Remmick smiled, sharp teeth glinting, a suggestion shining in his eyes like a beast ready to kill.

“Come on, love, the night is a child crying to be fed.”

“Smartass,” you hissed through your teeth, rolling your eyes. When you rose from the bathtub, your eyes suddenly caught sight of two figures approaching in the distance. Remmick didn’t even need to be warned—he was already spying from the corner of the window, his thoughts starting to hiss like a rabid wolf growling, thirsty for blood and slaughter. He turned his face toward you, a sharp smile while his eyes tiled the blood of the defeated. His tongue was a blade between needle-sharp teeth:

“We shall have a special feast, my love!”

…

The house was dark.

Its scent was of dust and stagnant wood, dry and moldy. In the background, you could catch the smell of melted wax. No noise. When that couple stepped into the house, shotguns in hand, eyes wide with fear, all they wanted was to play heroes for the little town—hunt the monsters that had been parasitizing the area and receive applause for their brave deeds. Fueled by fear and pride, they wanted to hold in their hands the heads of those two who had earlier been hunted and, for some reason, had disappeared; and there they were, in that shack abandoned for weeks—maybe months—eyeing each other with unease.

The woman said, glancing around the first room, a lantern serving as a flashlight:

“I don’t think it was a good idea to come here at night…”

“Nonsense, woman—we’ll catch those monsters before they go messing around with anyone else,” the man shrugged, walking toward the hallway, the woman right behind him—until she heard a little noise beside her, at the open door.

The man kept walking, oblivious to his wife, heading toward the back of the house, finding a side room with its door ajar—he pushed it open the rest of the way with the barrel of the shotgun, the wooden door creaking slowly, revealing a bed.

And a woman lying on it, back turned. Naked.

A shiver ran down his spine, his breath grew heavy, heart pounding against his ribs, and beyond all that, a wicked voice called him to approach her—that nest of lust and desire. Ignoring his partner, he let curiosity and depravity take over. He lowered his weapon, step by step, now close to the woman’s body, his hand trembling as it reached toward her, while the other held the lantern swaying noisily at his side, its yellow light flickering across the sleeping body.

“Have mercy on me!”

A high-pitched scream came from deeper in the house. The man startled and turned, dropping the lantern to the floor, where it shattered and sparked into flames. He raised his weapon again, spinning around—only to find a man behind him.

Eyes glowing with an inhuman red glint.

A macabre grin stained with blood painted his chin, his neck, his bare chest.

A rustle behind him made his knees weaken with fear; a cold gust of air fed the fire now licking at the wooden floor. He looked over his shoulder and saw you awake—eyes just as luminous as the monster in front of him, thick saliva dripping from your chin.

As he tried to scream, a hand clamped over his mouth—metallic blood flooded his tongue.

A tear welled up in his eye.

The vampire’s voice in front of him rasped out, bestial and raw:

“Shhhh… Shhhh… Don’t cry now. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s wrong to mess with someone else’s woman?”

And he laughed—demonic—gripping the man’s throat, nearly choking him, as you remained behind, salivating for the living blood pulsing through his arteries. Remmick looked at you from the side, tilting his head, his voice undulating between the three of you like a serpent shaking its venom:

“Darling, your wife was delicious! I hope you taste just as good for my wife!”

The man screamed with all the air in his lungs, while Remmick offered him up like an animal for ritual slaughter—offering him to you. And you took him from behind, draining him with the ease of mortality—no pity, no hesitation.

Remmick watched you with affection and admiration, something growing inside him with the euphoric pleasure of a successful hunt. When you finished draining the man, his corpse now at your feet, he held out his hand to you.

You took it, letting him lead you out of that room to the front of the house, where the open door allowed the silvery light to touch your naked body, your face covered in scarlet—just like his. Remmick cupped your face in his hands, looking at you with his soul reflected in your eyes:

“My girl, how do you feel?”

“Perfect. Just a little… overwhelmed. I think it’s the thrill of the hunt.”

“Good—” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a wet, filthy kiss—saliva and blood, soft tongue brushing pearly teeth. When he pulled away, a string of bloody spit still connected your mouths.

“—'Cause now, you’ll let me take care of you, darlin’. The way you deserve.”

You felt him penetrate you through the soul, his hands pulling you close into the kiss of the dead upon your lips, speaking to you through your minds:

‘—Let me take care of you, darling, let me take care of you, let me show you how good I can be for you…—’

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: maybe it deviated a little from the initial concept of the request (idk), but this one was by far one of the fanfics with Remmy that i enjoyed writing the most, it's side-by-side with my fanfic involving priests, religion, Christian guilt, vampirism, remmick and other little things…

#[★] zstartrixxx #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick fanfic #remmick sinners #remmick #[⋆♱⋆] zstar fanfics #jack o'connell fanfic #remmick × you #remmick × reader #[R] zstar fanfic request #[🦇] zstar jack o'connell #Spotify

945 notes · View notes

yanderenightmare · 10 months ago

Note

your vocab is really rich, what's ur secret

Vocabulary Tricks & Tips

Excellent request!

♡ Read!

And every time you stumble upon a word you've never noticed before or know but don't often use, put it in a list, write down its meanings, and try using it the next time you write!

I'll put my list at the end of the post!

♡ Read Different Things!

Different authors and different styles, especially poetry! I mean, if you're looking to fatten your vocab, reading poetry is one of the best ways to do it. Poetic writers must search far and wide for the perfect words to create rhymes and rhythms and audibly pleasing sentences---they practically do all the work for you! Honestly, I am so serious about this. One of the best things you can do is buy a fat compendium of poetry with all different authors and eras. Get you some Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, and Shakespeare if you want to hurt your head.

Also! The same goes for music! Try listening to the lyrics---you'll probably hear some words you've never thought of using in your writing.

♡ Cheap Trick for Bilinguals~

Write something in your own language and put it through Google Translate. Honestly, I've found so many words just by doing this.

♡ Synonyms!

Every time you feel you've used a word too much, or anytime a word bores you to read, search up its synonyms and try using something you've never used before---don't stop the search until you're satisfied. Sometimes, it takes me more time to find just one word than it takes to write an entire post. Not only does this enrich your vocab, but you've probably just written a whole other sentence with newer meanings and more nuance

Make your own synonym lists! Seriously! Because you can only find that many creative synonyms by searching up "word+synonyms.

Additionally! Think outside the box! Often, the best synonyms are those words that aren't actual synonyms at all. If you read poetry, you'll see poets use unorthodox words in place of something all the time---it's called a metaphor. Take flesh, for example---you can use fat, meat, muscle, brawn, beef---but you can also use cake, down, plume, pillow, softness, etc...

I find this one especially useful for writing erotica, as you have to describe a lot of the same actions and body parts over and over and still make it interesting. (I'll add my synonyms list at the end of the post)

♡ Showing vs Telling

Also! This one is trickier, but instead of using words and synonyms, try making sentences that can replace the word instead---such as longer metaphors and fuller descriptions!

This aligns with the literary device of "showing vs. telling." Of course, outright telling has its uses too and should not be disbarred entirely from writing, but often, it's showing that persuades the reader more.

For example, instead of saying nervous, make sentences that describe how the character in question showcases nervousness---does their throat close up, do they sweat, do their eyes go wide, do they stutter, do they fiddle with their fingers, pick their nails, bite their lip, kick the ground, hunch their shoulders, look away, blush, flush, cry, run away or do they feel stuck?

Describing these things helps the reader better understand the type of nervousness the character is experiencing. Hence, it makes for not only more interesting writing but also clearer writing!

♡ Focus & Expanding

A similar literary device is "focus and expanding," which slows down the reading or puts focus on certain aspects of the text by describing something to a great extent. If, say, this nervousness the example character is experiencing is of great significance, then that's what the readers' takeaway should be. But the reader won't think too much of it if the text simply states that they're nervous without underlining it.

Luckily, there are plenty of ways of doing that, firstly through showing vs. telling, such as in the examples above, then metaphorically, such as:

The ground seemed to swallow him up, down the guzzle of a monster with an appetite for disaster---darkness ensued like a storm cloud, cold and clawing with a weight heavy enough to nail him to the spot---all eyes were on him, unblinking and all-seeing, no matter what, he couldn't escape, he was stuck, glued to the ground by the soles of his shoes.

I mean, the options are truly endless.

These metaphors piled together are also a form of focusing and expanding, but you can take it even further than that by focusing on a small detail and giving it significance.

For example, say the character is sweating because he's so nervous---you might focus on a single droplet of sweat instead of everything else:

A chill ran down his back. No, not a chill--sweat. Cold and creepily tracing the rigid bones of his spine. He can't move--if he moves, then they'll see. The sweat will seep into his shirt, and everyone will know what a sweaty and pathetic wreck he is. So, he can't move. No, yes, leave it alone. The droplet continues, running down the cold skin of his clammy back, sliding undeterred until meeting the band of his boxers and disappearing in the fibers. He swallows thickly and sighs with relief--only for another to pill at his nape, tracking the same course as the former. A vicious cycle is forming. He needs to get out of there!

And that's focus and expanding, folks! Focusing on something minuscule and expanding it by using it to describe what the character is feeling. It's a way to have a fresh take on something that's been written a thousand times before, such as "he was nervous."

♡ Lastly~

Anyway, I might have gone a little above and beyond, but really, all these literary devices are ways of "expanding vocabulary" or at least giving an impression of it.

♡ NEW WORDS!

Manically---like a maniac

Despotic---like a dictator, having unlimited power over someone, often using it unfairly and cruelly

Chasm---a deep fissure, like a ravine, wound, or metaphorical rupture

Shunts---track-change basically, scoots to the side

Dearth---a scarcity or lack of something, a shortage

Raucous---making a harsh or loud noise

Innocuous---not harmful or offensive---harmless and safe, but also bland and unremarkable, maybe even a little boring

Lanyard---the woven necklace of a festival pass

Gossamer---fine spiderwebs, almost mesh

Cossetted---care for and protect in an overindulgent way

Beribboned---decorated with many ribbons

pupil-fat---cool way of saying enlarged pupils

Chitters---snickers, like a bird

Decadent---corrupt, depraved

Blotting---either soak up and absorb, or stain, or obscure

Barbell---a bar “pole” with attachments on each side

Bunting---of animals, when they butt or rub their head against you

Garnet---red

Cherubic---angelic, plump cuteness, quality of a child

Haunches---hips

Sodden---soaking

Waxing poetic---speaking in a flowery or poetical fashion

Inkwell---a container for ink---a dark well

Rend---tear in two, or more pieces

Ebb---recede, go back, like a tide wave

Webbed---like a duck's feet

Cloying---sickly sweet

Saccharine---oversweet

Apple of your cheek

Swathes---wrap, swaddle

Shroud---obscure something

Moonstone---to describe something grey and dusty, but pretty

Kinked---tangled, messy

Leaden---heavy, dull, slow or the colour of lead, grey

Stygian---devoid of light and brightness, hellish

Flaxen---of hair, champagne colored---ashy blonde

Tepid---lukewarm

♡ SYNONYMS!

Related to sucking cock:

Swallow

Glug

Drink

Eat

Guzzle

Receive

Take

Suck

Suckle

Slobber

Gargle

Gurgle

Drool

Gulp

Gobble

Stuff

Glut

Choke

Gag

Lap

Lick

Kitten-lick

Slurp

Allow entry

Related to kissing:

Kiss

Lock/brush lips

Tongue-feed

Suck faces

Smooch

Peck

Snog

Canoodle

Related to biting:

Bite

Graze

Nip

Nibble

Sink teeth into

Chomp

Related to crying:

Whimpering

Mewling

Bleating

Whining

Snivel

Sniffle

Cry

Sob

Bawl

Hiccup

Spluttering

Blubbering

Coughing

Croaking

Related to pre-cum:

Ooze

Leak

Weep

Well

Drip

Dribble

Flow

Drain

Bleed

Sweat

Seep

Pill

Pearl

Cry

Related to fear and panic:

Hysterical

Wild

Manic

Uncontrolled

Unrestrained

Frantic

Frenzied

Restless

Hectic

Sporadic

Swivel-eyed

Related to screaming:

Scream

Yell

Wail

Yelp

Yip

Yammer

Squawk

Howl

Squeal

Shriek

Related to moaning:

Moan

Whine

Yelp

Purr

Hum

Croon

Related to overstimulated moaning:

Mumble

Croon

Warble

Quaver

Burble

Bumble

Hum

Slur

Ramble

Mutter

Whisper

Stammer

Stutter

Scramble

Jumble

Muddled

Babble

Blubbered

Splutter

Blurt

Related to groaning:

Groan

Grunt

Growl

Grumble

Grouch

Hiss

Guttural

Feral

Rusty

Throaty

Wet

Sloppy

Related to angry noises:

Howl

Roar

Bark

Grizzle

Grump

Related to surprise or fear:

Gasp

Gulp

Choke

Suck in a sharp breath

Flinch

Jump

Jostle

Wince

Hiss

Pull back

Related to comforting:

Coo

Fuss

Comfort

Hush

Shush

Tsk

Mollycoddle

Nurse

Cuddle

Babying

Consoling

Soothe

Loving

Smothering

Hug

Hug tight

Cocoon

Snuggling

Swaddling

Rock back and forth with

Cosseting

Petting

Overwhelm

Related to begging:

Beg

Pleading

Pray

Bargain

Related to soreness and pain:

Ache

Sore

Throb

Swollen

Fattened

Welted

Related to taking cock inside entrance:

Swallow

Receive

Take

Suck inside

Stuff

Fill

Allow entry

Submit to

Ease inside

Bully inside

Squeeze inside

Force inside

Push

Pry

Tear

Related to how the hole squeezes:

Kissing

Fluttering

Hugging

Pressing

Squishing

Squeezing

Tightening

Pulsing

Related to a wet hole:

Slush

Squelch

Squishy

Creamy

Sloppy

Wet

Soaked

Slosh

Sop

Cry

Slick

Weep

Drool

Gush

Swollen

Velvety

Gummy

Cotton

Silken

Satiny

Related to thrusting:

Squeeze into

Pound

Jam

Ram

Rut

Loll

Rock

Thrust

Stuff

Bottom out

Fill

Fit

Nestle

Cram

Prodding

Poking

Kissing

Hammering

Jack-hammer

Smack

Slap

Ream

Tear

Related to pleasure:

Ecstatic

Opium-eyed

Euphoric

Elated

Thrilled

Blissed-out

Rapturous

High

Cloudy

Numb

Related to overstimulation:

Overstimulated

Outdone

Aching

Burning

Sweating

Feverish

Delirious

Febrile

Numb

Immobile

Dazed

Dull

Related to being dumb, high, or overstimulated:

Ditzy

Dumb

Clumsy

Silly

Foolish

Giddy

Brainless

Dizzy

Fuzzy

Dopey

Whimsical

Fickle

Featherbrained

Daft

Hare-brained

Awkward

Graceless

Blundering

Bumbling

Klutzy

Clueless

Cloddish

Dense

Related to the body and the flesh:

Tender

Supple

Soft

Creamy

Plush

Doughy

Cakey

Downy

Pillowy

Malleable

Squeezable

Biteable

Pliable

Touchable

Putty

Plume

Related to cuteness:

Cute

Cherubic

Adorable

Sweet

Soft

Precious

Darling

Lovable

Endearing

Baby

Related to weak or smallness:

Breakable

Brittle

Weak

Fragile

Dainty

Delicate

Frail

Flimsy

Vulnerable

Petite

Small

Little

Tiny

Feeble

Defenseless

Powerless

Helpless

Worthless

Hopeless

Related to struggling:

Struggle

Winding

Striving

Straining

Toiling

Playing

Wriggle

Wiggle

Twist

Shake

Tremor

Shiver

Quake

Related to men:

Vulgar

Loud

Oafish

Rough

Rude

Rustic

Gruff

Gross

Doltish

Barbaric

Bearish

Beastly

Churlish

Coarse

Swinish

♡ NIGHTMARE'S HELPDESK

#nightmare's helpdesk #writing advice

498 notes · View notes

glitteryinknotes · 2 years ago

Text

There is a level of deep, bitterly poetic and cruel irony in Astarion's death and his eventual fate as a vampire spawn. Laughable, even. Lamentable.

Where do I even begin. I once posted here my thoughts on who Astarion was before Cazador took him; and all my thoughts were based on what we can assume to be canon from scraps on information in - game and interviews with Neil. That Astarion Ancunin who was laid into the ground at Baldur's Gate cementary was a corrupt magistrate, a shining example of power abuse, indulgence, hedony, existence in privilege without any service to the world around.

We also know for a fact that Astarion is not a good person in a moral sense. Again, Neil Newbon himself talked about it. He has capability to grow, mature, open himself up, soak in the positive influence and feel for others, but he never will be the default upstanding type. That is simply not at his core.

This is why (I am aware we're talking a fictional character, headcanon is free to all in whichever way they think it suits and pleases them) I cannot for the world believe in all the fanfiction based on the notion of the tragic, tortured soul unjustly attacked and turned into a vampire, because to me - it misses the entire depth and essence of Astarion's personality and arc. He was not a "worthy" persona before Cazador; in fact, the beating he got from the Gur was well - deserved and the near - death experience... Probably so as well. Maybe if anything, this would open his eyes and force him to reflect at least a bit on his choices in the position he was occupying. (But given that he mentions begging Cazador to turn him to be able to take revenge, I highly doubt that.) So yeah... The man got what was coming to him. He deserved it.

But what he got in the end once Cazador allowed him to drink his blood and had him in his hold? Two hundred years of misery and abuse beyond description, being completely stripped of any identity and personhood? No one deserves that. Such fate should not be thrust upon anyone. Ever.

It is the cruellest, most wicked twist of fate that it took that kind of ordeal to change a corrupt little elf's view of the world and force him to even acknowledge the existence of evil deeds and abuse of power - something I am quite sure he never gave any thought to before. It took being transformed into an utterly helpless victim to make him truly see that there is good and bad and perpetuating the bad leads to pain and misery for the innocents (and you can never be sure if not for you as well), and only then, at his most pathetic, most vulnerable, after centuries of torment, it took meeting, trusting, admiring, being grateful to, befriending / loving and being influenced by a genuinely good and kind person (probably the exact opposite of who he was before) to shake and cause some shift in his inner moral compass, or rather the way he was choosing to use it. The full circle, a poignant, unwilling journey from the one abusing power, to the enslaved puppet of someone with considerably more power abusing it in the most inhuman ways possible, and this time to his own woe, to the one person able to break the abusive cycle given the right influence.

Isn't that simply poetic in the most sickly sense? A tragicomedy, if you will.

Forget about Astarion Ancunin. The grave was good for lovemaking and sharing an important moment, but whoever was laid there was not anyone worthy of your time (just like "Ascended Astarion" )The one who stands by your side now is. Your Astarion. The new Astarion, the same "lovable rogue" with a taste for theatrics, drama, debauchery, beauty, murder mayhem and loose morality, but - a better person all the same.

[follow up post here

https://www.tumblr.com/glitteryinknotes/733162725841289216/a-little-follow-up-to-my-previous-post?source=share]

#astarion #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion analysis #astarion ancunin

1K notes · View notes

torawro · 6 months ago

Text

LIKE SPECKS OF SUNLIGHT IN THE EARLY MORN. ( p. a.)

portgas d. ace & marine!fem!reader.

cw ━━ ! minors, ageless and blank blogs DO NOT INTERACT. reader is written / portrayed as a black woman but you do not have to imagine it as such! everyone is welcome to read <3 reader wears glasses, and is a marine stationed on an unnamed island at a base along the grand line. ‘lazy morning’ / ‘morning after’ kind of vibes so, a bit of pillow talk (?) . references to smut & making love (it already happened). contains some angst & angsty themes throughout (i.e., ace dealing with his self esteem issues, low self worth, etc..) otherwise it’s supposed to be fluffy ( the quiet, somber kind i think ) ! descriptions of kissing & borderline making out. ace is kind of lovesick and clingy but it’s subtle-ish. lots of introspection and reflection on both him and the reader’s part. kind of based on mitski's "my love, mine all mine", definitely had that song on repeat as i wrote this. romantic and deeply poetic rhetoric but y’all already know that’s just how i write lol. told from omniscient point of view (third person). proofread this as i was feeling sleepy, so please excuse any mistakes or things that don’t make sense!

word count ━━ ! 3.9k

notes ━━ ! guess who's baaaaack.....! i know it's been a while since i have published any original work and i want to apologize for that. lately it's been difficult finding the energy to write something for more than five minutes and honestly, i think i just need to rediscover what drives me so i can tap into the zone more often. i missed it though, and hope i get to write more this year <3 anyway, first fic of 2025 and it feels right to make it about second commander of the whitebeard pirates, portgas d. ace. this fic is my late birthday 'gift' to him and something of a love letter because ohhhhh i miss my pookie bear so much :(( this entire idea started as just me thinking about kissing each of his freckles because i have the personal hc that he doesn't really like them, the reason for it is inherently tied to his distaste for his father and by extension himself :/ and then it just turned into this lmao. i hope ace doesn't behave too out of character here, as this is also my first time writing for him in any context, so pls be gentle with me. REBLOBS + COMMENTARY ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED.

IT WAS NOT THE LIGHT chirping of small birds that awoke you, nor was it the ringing of your biological clock telling you that the dawn was near. Instead it was a familiar tugging sensation within the pit of your stomach— the need to relieve yourself— that caused your eyes to peel themselves back slowly and with struggle, slumber from the previous night hasn’t been completely washed away yet.

It took your brain several more moments to dust off enough of its sleepy exhaustion before you attempted to sit up from your comfortable position in bed, but were immediately met with some light resistance.

The resistance in question was a long, muscled arm thrown around your soft torso, blackened ink of a tattoo staining the skin on its bicep. It was still too dark and you were still too tired to make out the sharp angles of the marking, but you knew what they were; your eyes have gazed upon it more times than you could count, and it has made a home in your memory.

That’s when your ears registered the rhythmic and almost nasal snores that flowed from the mouth of the man who held you so securely against his chest, and you almost smiled at how completely at ease and relaxed he seemed.

At times like this, when things were still or you had a moment to yourself, you still could not wrap your head around the fact that you had gotten yourself involved with Portgas D. Ace— willingly at that.

The first time was a fluke at best. That’s the excuse you were going to go with. You didn’t realize he was a pirate— an infamous pirate with hundreds of millions of Beri to his name— until your clothes were already halfway off and you were feverishly grinding down onto his lap like some touch-starved whore who’s been aching to feel something. That ‘fluke’ was one spurred on by alcohol, a particularly rough week at sea, and a sizable lapse in judgment, but you hadn’t felt that…… alive in a long time. But now, two years have passed since you have been seeing Ace in secret like this, and you have long since given up blaming it on a fragile emotional constitution further weakened by alcohol. You knew good and well what you were doing, and you could no longer deny the way your heart was constantly set aflutter whenever you spent any amount of time with him.

You did try your hardest to not let yourself enjoy how … domestic it all seemed: waking up next to him in the morning and falling asleep entangled with each other at night, having him hide out at your cozy apartment for days at a time, cooking him meals when you were relieved of your duties for the day. You wouldn’t— shouldn’t let yourself enjoy such content thoughts too much, because you also knew it could all be over in the blink of an eye. The world could be cruel that way if it wanted to.

But still, that didn’t mean you couldn’t be grateful for these moments. From what you could tell, Ace seemed to enjoy this arrangement as much as you did. And for now, that was enough.

Lightly wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you carefully lifted his arm from around you, moving slow so you wouldn’t wake him up. Once you’ve successfully loosened his hold, you sat upright, a muted ache shooting through your lower body as you shifted around to stand. The ache mostly resided in between your legs, and a flood of memories from just hours ago rushed over you at once, causing a tingling warmth to bloom underneath your skin. Ace had poured so much into you, it never failed to leave you equal parts stunned and breathless when you witnessed his passion overflow from the brim of his being. His hands, calloused palms that always ran hot, had been everywhere— your body could still feel the heat of where they had laid, caressed, groped, smacked, and squeezed. And you involuntarily jolted as you recalled where his fingers and lips had been, how it felt to be pressed so closely against him as he simultaneously took you apart.

After another moment of being lost in your own reverie, you pulled yourself out of it and filed those memories away in a separate corner of your mind, so that you may more fully indulge in them later. As you carefully removed the blankets and climbed over the sleeping pirate, one bare foot had hardly hit the cool wooden floor before a hand wrapped itself around your wrist.

A quiet grumbling noise vibrated from behind Ace’s lips, his eyes remained closed as he spoke, indicative that he was barely awake. “Wh…where y’goin’....?” His words were slurred and thick with sleep, his deep voice reaching the depths of your being to spark something to life in the pit of your belly. But you promptly ignored it for now.

“To the bathroom, I gotta pee.”

He replied with another mumbling sort of noise, presumably one of acknowledgment or begrudging acquiescence— you couldn’t be sure. “M’kay, just . . . hurry back t’bed, will ya? M’cold.”

You found amusement in the inherent irony of his claim that he was ‘cold’ when he always ran a little warmer than most— not to mention his devil fruit powers— but also in the fact that despite his urging you to take care of your business swiftly, he hasn't released his hold on your wrist yet. In fact, he tugged you a little closer to him, as if he was trying to pull you back into bed.

A small smile began to curl at the corners of your lips as you moved to manually pry his fingers from your arm so you can make your way out of the bedroom and down the hall.

For the next several minutes, Ace was left alone.

He stirred in his partially-awake state as he made himself comfortable again in bed, but one eye managed to pry itself open by a few millimeters. It was unfortunate he was roused from his deep sleep, but he was sure he’d doze off again soon enough.

From what he could see, the room was still dark for the most part, his surroundings washed in a rich, navy blue color, a telltale sign that the sun would rise within the next hour or so. Aside from the faint rustling coming from the bathroom, the air was occupied by a serene silence, meaning his innermost thoughts became that much more perceptible to his mind’s ear.

Sometimes, a part of Ace felt like fate had shined upon him— just a little, just this once— when his mind mulled over his…unique relationship with you, and all the events that led up to this exact moment. He too understood the implications of seeing you like this, but he couldn’t find it within himself to let go and move on. There was just…something about you, something special.

Even now, he still couldn’t quite understand why you were taking such a big risk and basically throwing your life away by getting comfortable with a pirate like him. The both of you came from two different worlds, the morals embedded within those worlds constantly pitted you against each other.

But you willingly ignored them, and so did he.

Perhaps that was the ‘special’ quality about you and this relationship that he still struggled to articulate, how pure and genuine it all felt— how you were. Either way, he was grateful that he wasn’t the only one being a little selfish. And every now and again, Ace might silently thank the universe for allowing him this one thing, even though he hasn’t, and probably never will do anything, to deserve it.

The increasing volume of footsteps pulled Ace from his thoughts, and soon enough you reappeared in the doorway, making your way back to bed– back home in Ace’s arms.

Your lips parted in a yawn, putting your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, before carefully climbing over the taller man to reclaim your spot next to him. Ace wasted no time encasing you against him once more, one arm laid lazily across your stomach and the other resting under your neck, acting somewhat as a pillow of sorts.

“...took too long,” the pirate muttered under his breath, the low, vibrating sound of his voice so close to your ear did nothing for your fiercely pulsating heart. It was the only organ in your entire body that seemed to be fully awake right now.

“I wasn’t even gone for that long, ya big baby. Prob’ly less than five minutes.” A soft sigh punctuated your reply, snuggling more into the toned front of Ace’s chest and abdomen as he adjusted the thick blankets over both of your bodies. The covers, as well as the gentle warmth radiating from his exposed skin, provided a steady stream of heat that battled against the crisp morning air, both sensations nearly enough to lull you back to sleep. You enthusiastically pushed aside the fact that you had to get up again in two and a half hours for your shift to patrol around the city.

“Shuddup, let’s go to sleep.” Ace grumbled, pulling you even closer to him so that very little space existed between both of you, and nearly nuzzling his face in the bonnet you wore on your head. A soundless chuckle rumbled within your chest, finding his sleepy and almost pouty tone both amusing and adorable.

However, despite his own request, and the fact that his own eyes were barely open, Ace was finding it difficult to once more quiet his thoughts enough to drift back to sleep. They were still a bit too loud and knocked against his skull too much.

Such thoughts only seemed to intensify when both of his eyes managed to peel themselves open this time in order to observe your form next to him. From what he could see based on where he laid, Ace silently took note of how tranquil your expression was as your breathing began to even out, how long your eyelashes actually were without your glasses obscuring them, and the small birthmark on your cheek that he developed a habit of kissing. His dark eyes roamed across every inch of your face, and he relished in the soft flesh of your stomach underneath his fingertips, giving it a feather-light squeeze every now and again.

You were here with him— in this bed, hardly wearing anything at all, and practically clinging to the arm wrapped around your abdomen— bound together with a kiss on that fateful night two years ago. You wanted to be here, he knew that. So why was it he still had to wrestle with the phantoms of doubt in the darker sectors of his mind? Why did they haunt him so, and prevent him from just plainly accepting this for what it is? Accept that it was okay to indulge, okay to claim this one thing as his and his alone? He didn’t even claim his own father, but this— you? Oh, how he wanted to be greedy, he yearned for it. But something in him, some dark, caustic, unforgiving thing, made him feel like he shouldn’t.

But didn’t he deserve something nice too? Something that wasn’t, or could no longer be tainted by the wicked and unloving world they were born into?

Ace knew that you cared for him— quite a lot, more than you should. There was a four letter word he might have used to label the way in which you cared about him, and he about you, but he dare not say it. He dared not say it in fear that the universe would snatch it away the moment it left his lips, and reveal that it was only playing a heartless joke on him.

“Hey. Are you… okay? Okay with this, I mean.” The words left his lips without putting a real thought behind them, for his mind was preoccupied with trying to keep itself afloat above the sea of negative ones that tried to carry him off to a place he did not want to visit.

Your left eye opened, then your right, as if opening them would help you better process his sudden question. Your brows furrowed next, digging deeper into your forehead in order to figure out the hidden meaning behind his words— or if there was one to begin with. “I…this position is fine, and I’m comfortable. Unless you want to be closer to the window?” You replied with your own question, uncertainty of what he was asking about thick in your tone. And judging by the way his arm tightened around you by a fraction and the nearly inaudible sigh that left his lips, it became clear that’s not what he was truly asking.

“No, I meant…are you okay with us?” Ace’s already husky voice quieted even more, nearly tapering off into a whisper. But he was pressed close enough to you that you were still able to hear him loud and clear. Something about the way he phrased his question rang a silent alarm in your head, indicating that the forthcoming conversation was going to take a more solemn turn.

With that in mind you shifted in his arms, turning around so that you were now facing Ace directly, still so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched each other. His hold on you readjusted as a result, the tattooed arm once more staking its claim on your waist and effectively trapping you against his front. His sable tresses fell unceremoniously across his face, a few strands nearly covering one of his eyes. Your fingers didn’t miss the opportunity to brush them away.

“Yes.” Your reply was simple, and you thought it important to make that clear first because something, an emotion you were unable to categorize, flickered in his still-hooded eyes. And something about it worried you. “I am more than okay with us. There isn’t another person I’d rather be with right now.” The fingers lingering on his skin suddenly became your entire palm, as you were now cupping the side of his face.

Ace burned even warmer here compared to the rest of his body, and you found physical comfort in the sensation. His skin seemed to ignite under your touch despite his sleepiness, and the dark-haired pirate was internally grateful that it was still quite dark in your room, so you were unable to see the light flush that was beginning to form underneath his freckled cheeks.

“Why are you asking?” Your inquiry was as tender as your touch, and it made his chest ache.

It took Ace several seconds to search for his next words and arrange them in a sentence, for your straightforward reply admittedly caught him off-guard. Now he was unsure if there was a need to continue at all.

But the specters of doubt were ever persistent.

“I just…” The words faded away on his tongue before he could say them and instead, your response rang loud in his head.

‘There isn’t another person I’d rather be with right now’.

Did you mean that? Have you always felt that way? Did you just happen to say that because he asked a question, because somehow you knew that’s what something in his soul wanted to hear?

And then, Ace found his words again. “You can do better, you know.” His voice turned more gruff, rough around the edges, as if he had to forcefully tug those words from the back of his throat. As if it hurt to say that. “You could, if you wanted. You’re gorgeous. Intelligent, resourceful. You have a respectable career, and you can cook damn good.”

You released a soft chuckle at that last part, finding it comical how he always found a way to talk about how good your food was. But whatever uptick on your lips faded as soon as it came once Ace parted his lips to speak again.

“You don’t have to spend your time, money, or energy on someone like me. You didn’t have to spread those pretty legs of yours for me, either. Didn’t have to let me stay here whenever I come to town. You didn’t even have to let me sleep in this bed so close to you.”

He paused, the muscles laying against and wrapped around you tensed briefly, his eyelashes met the apples of his cheeks when he allowed his eyes to close for a moment. When he opened them again, he found it harder to look at you— if he did, he might crumble away. “You could do better than a pirate like me, who has nothing going for himself except for instability, anger and…and hate. So, why?”

The next words reverberated in the air without Ace even having to say them. Why choose me? Why risk all of that for me?

Similarly, something throbbed uncomfortably within your chest as you listened to him speak, even after he finished and silence descended upon the both of you.

You could only wonder where this line of questioning originated from. It was uncharacteristic of Ace to voice thoughts of this nature, even more so when there was no prior word or action to lure them forward. You continued to observe him in the quiet, not even realizing that you had been softly caressing his cheek all this while until your hand came to a halt.

Why? Why were you with Ace, entangled in every sense of the word and jeopardizing the life you’ve built for yourself for his sake? The answer seemed so simple, but not as much now that you had to consciously think about it; you somehow struggled to put it into words.

Ace was like the rays of sunlight that peeked through heavy drapes in the early morning— much like they would soon be in a few hours— or like the flickering flames of a small fire that offered you solace on an unkind wintery night. He was warm and intense, but mellow and tender at the same time, in his own way. He offered you comfort when you needed it, stirred up something in you when you wanted it, brightened your life when you didn’t even realize how dull and monochrome it was. Ace was…

“Allow me to offer a question of my own. Why are you taking an equally significant, if not greater risk, just to curl up in my bed with me? Why come back so often to this town, risking capture, if only to hold me close, eat the food I make, and to make love to me?”

Your inquiries seemed to tug you forward, motivating you to scoot a little closer to Ace so that there was hardly even an iota of space existing in between your faces. His breath hitched quietly in his chest at that, more so when you leaned forward and simply placed your lips on his cheek, right on top of the dozens of prominent and faded freckles that resided there. Something about the gesture felt intentional— like you did not kiss his face, but the light specks on top of it. And thinking about it like that made his taut chest twinge again in a manner he could not describe right now.

Your breaths against his flesh were soft and leveled, and successfully fanned the flames of an even pinker flush to blossom across his visage.

He struggled to give you a coherent answer to your questions because his inner thoughts seemed to reset every time your plush lips came in contact with his face— all gentle like he would break if you applied too much pressure. He never associated that word with himself before, nor had anyone else in his entire life.

So why did he do it? Why did he do any of it? Why was he so attached to you, to your existence, your presence, and everything that reminded him of you?

Ace knew the answer.

He fears he’s known it for some time now.

But would it be right— would it be okay to label it with the word that was sitting on his tongue? Did he truly have the capacity to bear the weight of it? Would this blissful reality he found himself nestled in start to unravel the moment he said it? Would the universe truly let him have this one thing to himself, forever?

A feathery, open-mouthed kiss from you onto his nose cut off his thoughts, but confirmed his answer.

A bleary sort of smile, edges softened by his affection for you, tugged the corners of Ace’s mouth upwards. The hand that encased your waist traveled further downwards to take the meat of your thigh in its grasp, and toss it over his own hips. He had slung your leg over himself in an attempt to hold your bodies inexplicably closer, the feeling of his fingers gliding lazily across your exposed skin caused your pulse to quicken.

“I understand. Thank you.”

Within another second or two, his mouth eventually met with yours. His lips and yours seamlessly molded together, like they were two carved parts of the same whole. It was a slow, saccharine thing, ultimately leading your fingertips to slide back and thread themselves through his dark locks, and the calloused, hot palm on your thigh to grip the area ever tighter— as if you’d evaporate if he didn’t do so.

Ace loved you— was in love with you. His heart thrummed against his chest when he tossed that fact around in his head, gradually accepting it to be true as he steadily deepened the kiss.

He murmured those three words into your mouth after languidly coaxing it open with his tongue so the wet muscle could slither inside and make a home there. It was barely intelligible, but somehow you knew what he’d said. Such a declaration was only reserved for you, so of course you recognized it. Ace didn’t even want the words to linger in the air, lest the universe heard what he had said. He still thanked it though, grateful to whatever deities thrusted you into his path that night so that he could have this moment with you, and build similar ones like this hereafter.

You reciprocated it, quietly sighing the words back into him and he eagerly swallowed them up, giving your thigh an affectionate squeeze in response.

Briefly, you pulled back, but only by a millimeter— not wanting the cold air of the early morning to catch you yet— and your palm ended up on Ace’s jaw. The pad of your thumb brushed over the sheet of freckles with no particular pattern or rhythm, and you absently thought about how they might be your favorite feature on his entire body. As if to emphasize this point, you pressed a lingering kiss onto its surface again, and for a moment, Ace thought he might shut down. He simply could not comprehend the loving nature behind such a simple act, or why it affected him so; all he could do was offer a small, fond grin.

Time still marched forward, but it graciously allowed the pair of lovers to bask in each other for a little while longer. The sky’s hue would slowly shift from a deep navy blue to a slightly brighter one, causing the dimness of the room to inch back into its corners for the day. The sunlight would soon come.

( # ) @icy-spicy @triangularz @pookieace @ichore @valentineluvu

#໒꒱ newborn stand ─ sosa’s filez #one piece #op #one piece fanfiction #black fem reader #op x reader #op x you #one piece x reader #one piece x black!reader #one piece x black reader #one piece portgas d ace #portgas d ace #portgas ace x reader #portgas ace x you #portgas ace fluff #portgas d ace x reader #portgas ace x black reader #portgas d ace x black reader

300 notes · View notes

fushiglow · 4 months ago

Note

glo! if you had to keep only one stsg fic for the apocalypse which one would it be?

Well, anon, the fic I would have chosen has unfortunately been removed by the author. I'm devastated, but an author's agency over their own work always comes first and foremost for me (I have controversial opinions about this, I think!). Since I can't share one fic, why not share a bunch of SatoSugu fic recs instead?

—

idolatry - pellucids

This is a fic I will keep screaming about until more people show it the love it deserves. If I could only read one E-rated SatoSugu fic for the rest of my life, I'd probably choose this one! Not only is the writing absolutely beautiful — poetic and evocative and right up my street — but the author's grasp on these characters is perfect to me.

For me, this fic is evidence that it's possible to explore depictions of gender and sexuality in nuanced and thoughtful ways while keeping characters recognisable to their canon counterparts, which is something I really value in a fanfic. I think the highest praise I can give this fic is that it feels like gender euphoria to me.

—

Born to Die - @detta-pica

I could talk at length about this fic, and I have in the comment section! Big, fat, long comments under each chapter — which speaks volumes all by itself.

You can see my thoughts in detail there, but in short, something I really enjoy about hermit's writing is that it's abundantly obvious that she has a strong grasp on the original material. Even in this really unique take on a vampire AU where there's always going to be a degree of give and take when it comes to characterisation and themes, hermit not only dissects those canon themes in a deeply satisfying way that feels true to the essence of the original work, but also sprinkles nods to the canon material into the text in simply delightful ways. As a writer, she's economical with her words in a way that's enviable to me, quite frankly!

If nothing else, read it because the fic is tagged "BAMF Geto Suguru". Suguru is unbearably cool in this, actually.

—

Crack My Ribs Open, I'll Show You My Heart - @alpha-hydra

You'll see the word "evocative" come up again and again in my descriptions of the fics I love. Perhaps this makes sense if you notice the things I focus on in my own writing, but it's something I look for in the fiction I read, too — immersive, descriptive writing that spirits you away to another world.

Alffy absolutely nails that here. They really engage all of the senses in this piece to paint a beautiful picture of the setting and the scenery. Plus, it's always delicious when a fic employs a non-linear narrative to great effect. I was dropped right into the middle of this story and instantly compelled. Ugh, I love this fic.

—

frostbitten - @neyasochi

This fic is still a work in progress, but it's already one of my favourites. Being familiar with sochi's writing already, I highly doubt the ending is going to change that. Once again, extremely evocative writing which means that, with the story taking place during a bitter winter, this one transports you away to a winter wonderland and feels magically cold to read.

I also think sochi's characterisation is just wonderful. Gojo is such a charming shit, and the name calling in this fic is delightful — "fussy little ingrate" and "bossy little peasant" are some of my favourites! Yes, it's light-hearted and fun, but there's a sizeable emotional kick to this story, with some really intense and intimate moments which sochi handles so well.

Lastly, the seasonal imagery and puppy Gojo vibes are all over this fic, so it'll come as no surprise to some of you that I'm enjoying it!

—

G.O.J.O. - yours_grubby

If you enjoyed Ex Machina, you'll enjoy this fic. It features all my favourite Gojo themes neatly bundled up into a unique AI concept that intrigued me immediately. The reason sci-fi settings are my favourite is because sci-fi is the perfect canvas for interrogating our humanity. I think many people are distracted by the technology and the sweeping world-building, but at their heart, sci-fi stories are almost always asking the question "what does it mean to be human?" in some form or another.

We make weapons out of humans, but what about when we make humans out of weapons? What does it say when our technological creations demonstrate more humanity than the humans that built them? Is it even possible for the human brain to construct a sentient artificial intelligence that won't ultimately be subject to the same unique pitfalls of the species that created it? To our unique strengths, too?

This fic had me asking all of these questions and thinking about humanity on a bigger scale. Stories that make me feel things, stories that make me question things, stories that appeal to my humanity — that's the good stuff.

—

That's all for now! The truth is, I don't read fanfic nearly as much as I used to, for a few different reasons. I am not ascribing any moral value to this statement (I can't believe I feel the need to make disclaimers like this these days), but the more time we spend in a world where Gege Akutami isn't actively developing the world and characters of Jujutsu Kaisen, the more I see fandom depictions departing from faithfulness to the original material in ways I don't personally enjoy. Related to that, I think I've also become much fussier as my preferences become more refined over time.

Plus, as many fanfic authors have said before me, reading time is writing time! For someone who published more words than are contained in the whole of The Fellowship of the Ring last year while working full time for an extremely under-resourced charity, that really doesn't leave much reading time unfortunately!

However, it means that the fics that do grab my attention tend to be absolute gems. I hope you and everyone else reading find something you enjoy in this post ♥

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #satosugu #jjk fanfic #satosugu fic #gojo satoru #geto suguru #stsg #呪術廻戦 #fic rec #ask fushiglow

91 notes · View notes

goldingwrites · 9 days ago

Text

after hours (chapter 18)

⯈ previous chapter: chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - interlude - chapter nine - chapter 10 - chapter 11 - chapter 12 - chapter 13 - chapter 14 - chapter 15 - chapter 16 - chapter 17

⯈ pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x female!reader

⯈ summary: the nights in Gotham are always unforgiving, you, you strip for money, to feed your son and to forget some of your troubles. it’s easy, it’s simple until Vengeance appears in your night.

⯈ rating: mature.

⯈ tw: violence (description of physical abuse), blood, angst, minor character death, hospital settings & medical procedure (FOR THIS CHAPTER)

⯈ chapter word count: 6.7k

⯈ note: here is the june update, please make sure you read the trigger warnings for this chapter, LOTS OF ANGST, we are picking up right where we left off! the next update will be mid july, enjoy!

“BRUCE!”

...

In hindsight, you both should have seen it coming. Because doesn’t life work like that? What goes around must come back around. Or something as poetic as that? Isn’t it the very definition of justice?

Something completely unfair?

Something cold and undiscriminating?

Maybe.

You’ve never screamed so hard and so loud in your entire life.

Even while you were in labor, surrounded by doctors and nurses, drenched in your own sweat, tears, and even some of your blood. You still felt some pain despite the medication, but you knew it was for a good reason. From the suffering, something very good emerged. From the suffering, you created a life. A whole fucking life, but not just the pain from that operation table, God no. It took months and months of so-called love and affection, years of neglect and brutality, all culminating in one moment, all resulting in something good and pure.

Because that’s justice too.

But this?

THIS?

Natasha is dead.

You saw it in front of your very eyes, and you could still see it. Bruce just apologized, and now, in front of multiple screens, in front of all of them, flames are dancing in front of your eyes. Raw fire, destructive fire, annihilating fire. One tear rolls down your right cheek as this minute and this moment seem to drag forever. And yet, you’re breathing, and yet your heart is pounding so loud you can feel the taste of your blood in your mouth, it’s wet and dry at the same time, and, and, and...

“Alfred, Alfred...” You say the name of Bruce’s guardian, breathlessly. “What’s going on... What’s going on?”

“I...” He sounds shaken, you turn to him, and the distress on his face is gone in an instant. Just like that, in a flash, it’s gone. Yes, it’s chilling the way his expression shifts and his demeanor changes, you know, just like you, Alfred is worried, except he knows the next minutes will be crucial. And he must fulfill his duty, not just to Bruce but to Vengeance as well. “Let me see if we can get anything from the police radio. we need to know exactly what’s happening, it’s important.”

You nod, seeing Alfred and hearing Alfred sound so sure of himself is comforting in a way. Internally? You want to grab his shoulders and remind him that there was a bomb next to Bruce. How can he be so sure Bruce is okay? Does Vengeance suit protect him against that? Shit, you should know those answers, how useless can you be?

The thought strikes you as Alfred seems to be playing with the buttons of a very old radio, looking for a signal. You come closer as he detects nothing but static, and just as you’re about to ask him about Bruce, a voice comes from the other side. Someone is coughing loudly, they spit next, and from experience, you know, they just spat some blood and a lot of it.

“CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME? Shit, shit... it’s a fucking set up... we’ve been played... everything is... the bank is burning, not just, the history museum and shit... Arkham... multiple squads have been hit, we lost signal... we NEED back up. Please, please... my partner isn’t moving... shit, Gary, please... PLEASE!”

There’s a sob, and it’s gut-wrenching, it shakes you in your boots, and you have to hug your own body just so you don’t end up in the same state. Whoever is on the other side, whoever is sending this message, they don’t have long and they probably know it.

“Alfred...” You put one hand over the man’s shoulder. “We... we can’t let him out there, we have to go get him.”

“Agreed,” Alfred is up on his two feet next, a firm expression on his face. “I’m sorry to ask you this, but the circumstance...”

“We’re past the point of no return, Alfred, ask away...”

“Can you use a weapon? Of any kind?”

“No, unfortunately no.”

“Then, you leave that to me, you’ll be driving.”

“I can do that.”

“Miss... If we go retrieve Master Wayne, you have to do as I say, when I tell you to do it.”

“I will.”

“We won’t be rescuing anybody else, unfortunately.”

“I get it, we get Bruce and we come back here.”

“Exactly.” Alfred nods. “Now follow me.”

You nod, and you automatically follow Alfred. You don't know if it's his tone or his confident stride as he leads you to another corner of Vengeance's base of operation. But you follow, you're ready to follow, to listen and to do anything he tells you to do, especially if it means finding and retrieving Bruce.

He has to be okay.

He just has to be.

He made a promise to you.

No, correction, they made a promise to you.

Both of them. Vengeance and Bruce, they made a promise to you. But it doesn't mean that you are going to sit idly and wait for him. No, for them, you will do the impossible. He's only human, that's something that Bruce tends to forget, and quickly at that, you don't unfortunately. How could you forget that simple and yet very important fact when you've spent so many nights cradled and shielded in his arms?

With your ear pressed right against Bruce's chest, listening to his heartbeat.

That is your favorite melody, one you could always dance to.

You should tell him next time you see him.

Alfred pushes open a heavy set of doors, and you're not even surprised or phased as you face multiple arrays of weapons: guns, rifles, knives of various sizes, and even a few swords. You're waiting for his instructions, and the first thing he does is to give you a bulletproof vest and tell you to watch what he does. He passes one too, securing it with a belt at the bottom, and you copy Alfred's movements quickly and easily.

"Good, very good."

You know he's not talking to you, Alfred still gives you a once-over, probably to make sure you are going to be protected. Once that's done, he grabs a bag and starts shoving a few weapons inside. Various firearms, a few grenades, and finally a first aid kit. You know the weapons are for him to handle, you're one hundred percent sure of it, especially when seeing the resolute look on the older man's face. He closes the back quickly, and finally, he grabs what you know is a shotgun, and finally, Alfred turns to you.

"Let's go."

Next, the butler leads the way to the familiar garage. You don't take any of Bruce's fanciest cars, no, Alfred chooses a practical car, and he hands you the key to an SUV. You nod, still silent as you slip into the driver's seat and fasten your seatbelt. You're trembling, you realize it as you grip the steering wheel, your knuckles change color, and when you turn to Alfred, you find him inputting your destination into the GPS.

Gotham National Bank, Vengeance's last known location.

When he turns to you, he offers you a soft smile.

Your mouth is so dry, part of you is scared, terrified even, are you really about to do something so risky? Yes, you think the next second, for Bruce, you will do absolutely anything.

Alfred says your name with his usual kindness, pauses, and then continues. "From now until we reach our destination, I want you to drive. And just drive. Don't stop at any sign or red lights, just drive."

"Okay." You nod once more. "What about roadblocks or potential police cars?"

"Well, this car is registered under Master Bruce's name, so we can afford a few transgressions, and honestly? I think, and I'm hoping no one notices us in the chaos."

"Good point. Okay, let's go, I don't want to waste any more time."

"Of course."

You exchange one final look with Alfred, and finally, you start the car.

This isn't your first time driving, and yet, it feels like the first time. Everything is new and daunting. You're glad for the cold and empty voice giving you directions. It's a few minutes before you will reach the center of town, and unsurprisingly, the streets are empty on this side of town, no pedestrians, no other vehicles. Peaceful and quiet. You follow Alfred's advice and you ignore the stop signs and the lights, you just drive. Foot pressed on the accelerator, you don't stop, you can't stop.

No, there's too much on the line.

After a particular sharp turn, it's been some time since you drove a vehicle this side, you see the chaos and the madness. And more importantly, you hear it. Yes, the very distinct siren of a fire truck, yes, one speeds past your vehicle, without paying any attention, and that's when the flames come into full view. Orange, red, soaring, and powerful, a couple of buildings are on fire, and there's some sort of rampant panic in the street, as people are running away from those buildings. Police officers, civilians, fire fighters, it's a slew of people moving, shouting, coughing... surviving.

"Take the next left and you will reach your destination in three minutes."

You snap out of it; Alfred gave you some precise instructions, and right now? You're so glad he did, you're just here to drive. Drive to Bruce. Drive to the one man who made you think that maybe you deserved a little bit more.

Drive to the man you love and hopefully find him in one piece.

Drive to the man you love.

Fuck... you should tell him that. Before you lose any chance to do so.

Because it has to be love... right?

Right?

You steer left, it's sloppy, and you hit the curve, but Alfred doesn't comment, and neither do you. Once the wheels of the car are straight, you push on the accelerator with renewed purpose, because it has to be less than three minutes. You have to make it now. Now or never.

"You have reached your destination, National Bank of Gotham City. Have a pleasant evening."

You refrain the urge to roll your eyes at the GPS and its disembodied voice, it doesn't know the whole situation after all, or why you're driving in the middle of the goddamn night. You stop the engine and turn to Alfred.

"Now what?"

"Now you follow me and we go get Master Bruce."

Almost in sync, you both exit the car.

Outside? it's worse, it's so much worse, the first thing that invades your senses is the very distinctive smell of burned fabric. And burnt flesh, part of the building is still on fire, but you spot two firetrucks and a slew of firefighters and police officers, one side of the building is being hosed down by a giant spray of water, and you can only pray that's wear Bruce is located.

"Follow me!" Instructs Alfred, and it's easy to do so.

Yes, amidst the confusion and the chaos, it's very easy to just enter the bank. Maybe someone shouts at you to stop, maybe someone tells you to go get checked by a doctor, but as you enter the bank and you see the broken glass everywhere, you're welcomed by a chill silence and smoke everywhere. You just focus on Alfred, the square sureness of his shoulders as he makes his way up the stairs. You're running the next second, retracing Vengeance's steps and actions. You don't have a motorcycle, so it's slower, and the higher the climb, the heavier that white foggy smoke becomes, and the more you cough. Both you and Alfred but neither of you stops, no, you don't.

"Come on, just a little bit more..."

Alfred's voice guides you and for a few minutes, it's like your anchor, you force a deep breath as you finally stop climbing the stairs, fucking, and you almost regret it when you cough the next second. But you don't stop, you keep following Alfred, and soon enough, he forces his way into a locked room. The hard shove he gives the door doesn't seem to cut it, so, almost naturally, he shoots at the handle with his powerful gun. The sound is loud, but not as loud as your heartbeat, not as hard as the rustling of the wind invading your ears as you enter this room.

There's no smoke, no, the floor-to-ceiling windows have been smashed, and there's a cold wind in the room. Some flames are still dwelling about, but they are about to disappear and...

"BRUCE!"

There he is, in the center of the room, that dark, unmoving form, it's him? Right? The shape of his suit, the shape of his mask, and that pale jaw? You know it's his, you know it's him, you've traced the contours of his face so many fucking times: in your sleep, in anger, in desperation, in a middle of a desperate embrace... it's him, you'd bet your life on it, it's fucking him.

You're faster than Alfred, you don't know how, but you are, and immediately, you rush to his side. Instantly, you're on your knees, grabbing his face. You remove the mask as gently as you can. His eyes are closed, there's blood everywhere on his face, and the contrast is so striking with his pale marble skin, you want to cry. You want to cry and go do the same to the person who hurt him, yes, you want to tear and destroy, just because of what they did to him.

Alfred is there too, and he immediately checks for a pulse; you take in his relieved sigh as he detects one.

"Please, tell me you can hear me, Bruce, we're here, open your eyes, please..." You cradle his jaw with shaky hands, you just need him to open your eyes to signal that he will, somehow, against all odds, survive this.

"His heartbeat is faint but here and... we'll have to take off the suit to see the state of his injuries and..."

"Alfred, there's so much blood on his face, why is there so much blood on his face?"

Just as you ask the question, your hands move to his head, that's when you detect a soft spongy spot, that's where the blood comes from, and Alfred groans when you show him your hands covered in blood.

"He might not come to for a while, we need to... okay, hold him like that." Alfred pulls out the first aid kit, and you watch him work as quickly as possible. He presses some sort of compress to Bruce's head to stop the bleeding and probably stop any further complications. Bruce makes a sound of that, but still, his eyes remain shut. The sound alone? It feels like a knife slicing you in half, but you ignore it, this isn't about you right now, this is about him, you need to do everything you can right now...

"I.... we need to take him to a hospital, this is beyond my expertise, and he needs proper medical attention."

"Alfred, how are we...? They can't know, nobody can know."

"You're right... But there has to be a back entrance, something, we'll head there, you bring the car around while I wait with him, and in the car, we remove his suit and go to a hospital... Okay?"

"Okay, yes, let's... let's just..."

For the next part, you have to let go of Bruce, he's safe in Alfred's arms, and if you were doubting the other man's strength, you don't anymore, not when he manages to get Bruce up to his feet, one of Bruce's arms over Alfred's shoulders. They make for a sore sight, especially with Bruce's head just falling down, the blood still on his forehead and nose, and... you gasp loudly next.

"What?" immediately asks Alfred.

"Look, his right leg, it's..." The angle isn't right, and if Bruce were awake, you are one hundred percent surer he would scream in pain, absolutely no doubt of it.

"I see... it appears to be broken. Even more reason to take him to a hospital, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, agreed."

You nod, without a single hesitation, you plant a quick kiss on Bruce's lips, and you move, ready to bring the car around and to leave this madness.

You need to; this isn't just about you now.

***

Breathing is an automatic process, a natural phenomenon. And for that, you're glad, because you're pretty sure you would have forgotten to take a breath otherwise, with all that's currently happening.

Oddly enough, it's easy to bring the car around the bank, and Alfred is right, there are multiple back entrances, probably for deliveries and such, and it's easy to meet him and Bruce back them. Outside? In the cold night air? Bruce looks even worse, but you somehow manage to lay him down in the back seat of the car as quickly as possible.

You don't need Alfred to tell you to drive you to the nearest hospital; you do it without a second thought. Once again: automatic. Driving also is, once your hands are around that steering wheel, you know exactly what to do and what direction to take. You don't need to use the GPS, you're more than familiar with the route, and you take Bruce to Gotham's general hospital. You pass a few cars, but like Alfred instructed you before, you don't stop. No, while you drive, you hear the older man strip Bruce of his suit, leaving him in loose black clothing.

Alfred doesn't find any more blood, he tells you, so Bruce is lucky in a way. But there's that spot on his head where he stopped the bleeding earlier, his broken leg, and one of his flanks has suffered some mild burning. Alfred doesn't offer you more information, and maybe that's for the best; you wouldn't be able to drive otherwise.

You're silent when you reach the hospital and the emergency room. Alfred takes the lead then. He lies so easily, as nurses and people suddenly surround Bruce. Bruce had a meeting with investors at the bank. He stayed behind to go over some files, and that's when the bank was attacked, that's when he was attacked, and the explosion occurred. It's a good story, plus, who's going to question the richest man in the city? Of course, he'd have a private meeting at the bank; it makes sense.

The doctor informs you that the urgent matter is Bruce's skull; they need to assess if it's fractured or if it's more damaged. His legs and his burning marks are secondary, according to the doctors.

"But he'll wake up, right?" You hear yourself ask the doctor, surprised to hear that you found your voice. For Bruce, you would, of course, you would.

"We'll know more after the first series of exams," the doctor offers you an impersonal reply and an empty smile. You suppose that it's just another day for him. "It's a good thing you brought him when you did... We will let you know as soon as we get the initial results.... and if anything needs to be decided and signed, you'll be notified."

You nod, it's the only thing you can do before your gaze falls on Bruce. On that hospital bed, he looks massive. He looks even paler and yet still impressive. The very picture of a fallen giant, you hate that comparison, you hate it even more when the hospital bed is pushed away and Bruce disappears from your view. You almost jump out when Alfred presses one hand to your shoulder, but still, you let him guide you away. To a waiting room.

But not the usual waiting room, this one has actual comfortable chairs, a water fountain, and the heating works. There's no one in sight, and you can't even laugh at the privilege that money brings, or roll your eyes at it. Honestly, you're glad, you don't want to be facing anyone right now. You've heard the radio signal and you know many police officers and some civilians' lives are in danger, but... You don't care. As bad as it sounds, all of that is background noise, all that matters is Bruce and Bruce only.

You find a chair easily, your feet are on it too, as you fold your legs and press your knees to your chest, just so your chin can rest on them.

"Now we wait?" You mumble, eyes on Alfred next.

He's still standing, and he nods. "Yes... I do have to leave you for a moment, some matters to take care of... I also need to check something on the police feed... I need to make sure that..." Alfred pauses, a sad expression on his face when he resumes his sentence. "They have found Natasha's body."

"Yeah, that makes sense." Your voice is miles away as you say this. She's dead, she's dead, and you're not crying, there are no tears in your eyes, if anything, you feel tired. From this night, from every other night, from the dread, and for worrying. It's horrible, but in a way, you don't have to worry about Natasha anymore, she's dead, right?

That's the final leap... isn't it?

Gosh, you're such a horrible person.

Just as you think that, your lower lip trembles and Alfred appears in your field of you. He's on his knees in front of you, and he grabs your two hands.

"I know this is hard, but believe me, the hardest part is done. He will wake up, I'm sure of it... Master Wayne has been stubborn since he said his first word."

You chuckle despite yourself, so glad for Alfred, and you squeeze his hands next.

"Okay," you manage.

"I won't be too long... I will also grab your mother and the little one and make sure they are safe at the manor."

"Oh yes, that... considering everything happening tonight... yes. Thank you."

"But of course, you're family and so are they. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Alfred leaves you with an honest smile, a miracle considering the circumstances.

***

You wait.

There's nothing else to do but wait.

Sat down on that chair, you wait, all on your own. It's quiet and strangely calm in the room, as if, a few feet away from you, the one person who made you want to change is not in a critical condition. But that's the thing, you don't know. You're no doctor, but you know blood spilling from Bruce's head? It can't be good. You do your best not to focus on that, and you wait. Your eyes are glued to the clock on the wall; your arms wrapped around yourself in some sort of pathetic attempt to warm you up.

And tic-tic-tic... the arrows move, they follow their own pace, they follow their own rules, and they move. 40 minutes pass before your phone, deep in your pocket, buzzes. It's a text from Alfred: your mother and your son are safe back at the manor, security is there, and they won't go out until it's absolutely necessary. You send a simple thank you in response, and when the phone disappears, it's back to waiting.

It's an hour before you face the same doctor you addressed earlier, and once he has confirmed your name, you are one of Bruce's emergency contacts, he gives you the news.

Bruce's right leg is indeed broken.

That's not worrying, what's worrying is that he is suffering from internal bleeding, right inside his brain, and if they don't move forward with an operation, it could lead to some dangerous consequences.

"It's early enough that if we operate now, Mr. Wayne is likely to wake up in the next 72 hours without any permanent damage. He'll have to take it easy and see a neurologist regularly, but-"

"Yes. Go ahead, whatever you need to do, do that," you interrupt the doctor, and loudly at that, without a care in the world, how could you care when there's a chance this night actually end.

He nods, you sign the piece of paper he hands you, and it's back to waiting.

Hours pass.

Hours upon hours, and at 3 am, your bladder and your stomach have decided that you have had enough. Alfred isn't back, you have no more messages from him, you did message him right after the doctor left you in the room, after all, he's the man who raised Bruce, he deserves to know about his well-being and his future. But since then, radio silence. You suppose he is busy, he's not just Bruce's family, he also looks over Vengeance's shoulder, so he has to make sure everything is okay there too.

After all, Natasha is dead.

The thought brings you back to your feet, and you venture into the hospital. Finding the toilets is easy enough; you keep venturing down until you find a vending machine. You buy a bottle of water and a Coke with crumbled dollars from the back of your pocket. The hallway is noisier than the waiting room you left, and despite yourself, you follow that noise. It's always been ingrained in you, it seems, to follow the noise, to follow the chaos. Your feet lead you into what is an emergency room. Doctors, nurses, and hospital personnel are moving about, shouting orders at each other, as they do their best to help all the people here.

By your estimate, there are at least 50 people here, mostly police officers, but not just, you see people without uniform, you see people bleeding, people crying, people praying... All crammed here, in one room. While you're in a pristine waiting room, waiting for Bruce to be treated.

The nausea is there, it's by pure chance that your stomach is almost empty, and you force yourself to swallow your saliva so you don't lose grip of reality.

Because this is unfair, isn't it?

The best doctors in the hospital are probably with Bruce.

But what about those people? They deserve the best too, they're suffering too. There is no way in hell, this is fair.

You can't stay here, you decide, you're physically fine for once, and you feel like an intruder. Or one of those visitors at the zoo, peeping through the glass windows. But this is not a fucking game, no, this is life and death.

You take a deep breath once you're back in the waiting room, and you empty half of your bottle of water, just to steady yourself.

Fuck...

You just need this night to end.

***

Bzz... Bzzzz...

It's 6 am when you move again, but only because your phone is ringing in your pocket. You slowly go for it, you're half dreading a call right now. If it's your mother, you won't be able to tell her or explain to her where you are and why.

Oh, yeah, you know Bruce that you love so much and think I should probably settle down with? He's actually a masked vigilante, the masked vigilante, he dresses up as a bat, goes out at night, and administers his own brand of justice.

...

A great conversation, you're one hundred percent sure of that.

Thankfully, it's Alfred, and you're glad for it. He's calling you and not texting, meaning it must be important, and after a deep breath, you pick up.

"Yes?"

"Sorry for the early call..."

"No need to apologize."

"Any news on Master Wayne?"

"No, I'm guessing the surgery is still ongoing, no doctor or nurse came back to talk to me, so..."

"So, for now, you're waiting."

"Yes," you sigh as you let out the simple word. You're more on edge than at any other time in your life. Maybe in a few days, you'll be able to look back on this moment, to this very moment, and find that you overreacted a little bit. Or maybe underreacted? You have no way to tell for the moment.

"Hang in there, I'm sure Master Wayne is in very capable hands." Alfred pauses, and you nod. "I wanted to update you on our situation..."

"Go on."

"They've found Natasha's body, and her family has been informed."

"Oh, that's good."

"Yes, she was married, the police have informed her husband." A husband? Natasha never mentioned anything of the sort, you suppose that all the info that she gave you at the club, about her crazy life, and her need for money? That was completely fake, just a way to gain your trust and see if you could give her some intel in return.

"Is there a TV in the waiting room?" Alfred asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Hmm..." You look around and finally spot the lifeless black box. "Oh yes, there is."'

"You might want to turn it on soon, the mayor will make an address, from what I have heard."

"Is she?"

"Yes, it's... well, it's worse than we thought. There were multiple explosions, you see, at the same time, at the bank, the museum, but not just. There was also an explosion at the Arkham Asylum."

"You're joking, right?" You hear yourself.

"Oh, I wish I were, but there was, and turns out about 40 percent of the prisoners were able to escape and hide amongst the chaos. So, it wasn't random, it was..."

"A trap." You finish for Alfred, a tired expression on your face. "Just a trap. You heard what Domi... what he said before everything went down." You stop yourself from revealing too much in here. Who says the hospital is safe? No one, absolutely no one. "That he was the one pulling the strings, he knew about Natasha, he knew where we would be tonight, and everything was timed? And well executed? And they didn't take anything from the bank or the museum, I bet?"

"You are correct," drily confirms Alfred.

"No surprise there. Natasha did say someone in the asylum was being a supplier; it's almost as if it was their goal from the beginning. That as well as weaken the police department and... Vengeance."

"Hmm... as much as I hate to admit it, I believe you are right in this instance." Alfred sighs, you can still sense the irritation and frustration in his voice, two emotions that you share. "We've been played and expertly at that."

"Yeah, we have..."

"I.... I have some matters to look at. Are you okay on your own?"

"Of course, you do what you have to do. We both know, the moment Bruce opens his eyes, he'll want some answers, and as fast as possible."

"Yes... Please text me if you need anything, I can send Orlando over."

"Will do, thank you."

"Don't mention it."

You hang up. Soon after, you grab the remote lying on top of a stack of untouched magazines, turning up the TV. You don't have to wait too long before a BREAKING NEWS logo appears on the screen. Just as the camera zooms out and focuses on Bella Reál, the mayor of Gotham, you find your seat again. The black woman is at the police station, and you can tell after one glance that a couple of microphones are in front of her, and a few flashes are going on at once. After a brief pause, she speaks.

"My fellow Gothamites, it is with a heavy heart that I speak to you today. As many of you are already aware, several buildings in the city have been attacked by a criminal organization and its leader, Domino. Most of the victims have been police officers and their fellow colleagues. For those who are hurt and seeking medical help, please make your way to the nearest hospital where we will take care of you, regardless of your status." She pauses, you are focused on her face, how could you not? She sounds the part, and she looks the part. "I now declare the city of Gotham to be in a state of emergency. over the next few hours and days, several measures will take effect to ensure the protection of all the citizens of Gotham. The first one will be to close the city off, with the help of the national guard, no one is to come in and out of the city until this matter is resolved." She sounds so sure that you shiver in your seat. This feels too familiar, it's almost been three years since the flood and that nightmare.

Is the city back to square one?

Was nothing done? Was nothing changed?

"I urge every citizen to limit their trips outside, remain at home safe, and to report any suspicious behavior to the police." Your mother and your son are safe at the Wayne Manor, this is probably the safest place in town right now, most likely.

"Now, to the criminals and any person with ill intent watching this... let me be clear: none of this is tolerated. You will be apprehended, you will be arrested, and you will be prosecuted with the full extent of the law." Bella now sounds downright vicious. She takes this personally; there is no doubt in your mind. “There are tough times ahead of us. The next hours and the next days will determine who can roam our streets freely or not. But make no mistake... Justice will prevail." With that, the mayor's address ends, and it's replaced with a journalist reminding people of the helpful numbers and all the hospitals they can get access to in town.

This is... chilling.

This is another crisis, and there is no escaping this.

You need Bruce.

****

"Miss? Miss?"

By some fucking miracle, you did fall sleep and that hand over your shoulder wakes you up. More importantly, it startles you awake, and you have a full-body shiver as you move your eyelids. The lights are bright, your mouth is completely dry, and judging by the clock on the wall... It's going to be 9 am in exactly 10 minutes.

Oh, there, you got your wish.

The night did end.

Your gaze falls on the doctor next, he's still wearing scrubs you wear for an operation, you know this much, minus the mask and the gloves.

"Sorry, I did not mean to scare you," he says in a tired voice, but you nod negatively. Out of the two of you, he's probably more tired than you are. He's probably completely exhausted; he just had someone's life in his hands, and what did you do? You fucking fell asleep.

"It's fine... any news?"

"Yes, the operation went smoothly, and we were able to stop the bleeding. Mister Wayne is being placed in a room right now. I'm assuming you want to see him?"

"Yes."

You've never answered so fast in your life. You spring to your feet, probably too quickly. Yes, there are stars in front of your eyes, clouding your vision, as well as your unruly curly hair, you push it to one side of your face. You use all of your strength to follow the doctor. He leads you up, you realize, there's another elevator, and you know, for sure, you've never seen this wing of the hospital. You're even more convinced than before as the door slides open, once again, it's too pristine and too clean for a hospital.

"This way," the doctor leads you away, and after a brief pause where he talks to a nurse, you finally have a door number. 713. You follow him to the room, and you freeze in place once you can finally see Bruce.

...

This is not what you were expecting, yes, it is foolish to expect him to be smiling that one smile of his, the one that makes him look a bit dangerous, it's more of a smirk than anything else, and it's usually a private expression he has for himself, when his blue eyes are not focused on you.

It's even stupider to expect him to look as peaceful and as calm as he does when he is asleep, when the night has properly settled in, so much so that morning is about to arrive, so much so that Bruce looks pass out, exhausted, but happy, his face buried in your neck because that's his favorite spot to be in.

To your eyes? Bruce looks worse than the man you found at the bank. No mask, no armor, no nothing, just him, pale and frail, in a hospital gown and on that bed. His right leg is in a cast and it's raised in a sling; he won't be able to move it for a while, you figure. There's a tube going to his left hand, liquid going through, clear and slowly moving, and finally that face... his eyes are closed and he's bruised all over, his eyes are slightly swollen, and yeah, he looks like he took two heavy and painful punches straight to his face.

"... and he'll need some physical therapy regardless, but as I mentioned earlier with this type of surgery, he will need to see a neurologist regularly. We'll have to keep him for a few days once he wakes up and..." The doctor's voice is distant as he reads from the chart.

"But he will wake up, right?" Once again, you interrupt the doctor, without a single hesitation or even guilt, you need to know. This isn't just anybody in that hospital bed. As you ask, you finally step into the room, and that's when you take in all the machines beeping and moving about, monitoring Bruce's health.

"Yes, everything indicates that he will, despite it being a routine procedure for us, it is a heavy surgery for the body. We can't rush this, so he'll have to wake up on his own..."

"I see."

"There is no reason not to be optimistic, as I say, from a surgical point of view, it was a success, but it could take days for Mr. Wayne to wake up, weeks even."

Weeks even.

You nod, the doctor is trying to manage your expectations and to ultimately do his job. You fully understand and you resist the urge to inform him that no, you're not fucking optimistic. At all. You've seen life, you've had life beating deep into your skin, into your bones even, you've even had life growing in your guts and you screamed as you fucking pushed life outside of you, bringing you onto the verge of death. So, you know, you don't need to be told that it's cold, that it's fucking cruel, that it's downright brutal at times, you know.

"I see," you repeat, and finally, you pull up the chair next to Bruce's bed. "Thank you for... everything." You mumble, and again, the doctor gives you that professional, chill, and impeccable smile.

"I'll leave you to it."

When it's just you in the room, you fall into the chair without any finesse, your two hands finding one of Bruce's much larger and rougher ones. He's cold to the touch, which is a major difference. You remember warm embraces, you remember those very hands trying to carve imprints into your skin... It's not the case anymore, and as you look at his unmoving and marked face, you can't help yourself. The night is done and gone, the results are in: no one fucking won, no one at all, and now, there are tears silently rolling down your cheeks. Those are warm and hard to ignore, even more so when you have a full body sob the next second.

"Hey Bruce?"

You have so much to tell him.

He promised, he can't leave you like this, he has to fucking wake up, he has to wake up and make whoever did this to him pay. He has to, Bruce, Vengeance, whoever comes back to you, whoever, whatever, you'll take him, you'll accept him, kiss him, and make a life with him.

Whoever and whatever comes back.

"I love you."

It's barely louder than a whisper, it's half muffled by your tears and the bip bip of his heart rate monitor.

But fuck... It's the truth.

#batman x reader #the batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #battinson x you #story: after hours

40 notes · View notes

luna-azzurra · 4 months ago

Note

Hello Darl' 🩷

I just started writing and am facing an issue w the description. Like the books I read describe things, emotions, and like everything so well. They're so well written. Whereas I just can't . It's so hard to actually describe such elements and that bothers me a lot. I can read but I still feel inadequate. Could you please guide me?

Thankyouuu 🫂

Oh, my dear, first of all... Welcome to the Writers World! And second, please, please, please don’t be so hard on yourself. The fact that you’re even noticing and caring about description means you’re already a step ahead of so many writers.

Every writer struggles with this at first. Every single one. The books you read, the ones that feel so effortlessly beautiful? The authors didn’t just wake up and pour out perfect words on the first try. They rewrote, revised, and sculpted those descriptions until they felt right. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do too.

I get it, you feel like you can’t describe things the way you want to. But I promise, you can. You just haven’t figured out how your voice works yet, and that’s okay. In fact you don’t have to write long, poetic descriptions right away. Start with the basics and layer in details as you go. Instead of trying to describe an entire scene perfectly in one go, think about one sense at a time, what does the character see? Hear? Feel? Smell? Taste?

Instead of: The rain poured heavily, making everything look dark and depressing.

Try: Raindrops snaked down the window, blurring the city lights into a watercolor mess. The air smelled sharp, like wet pavement and cold wind.

Ande one of the best ways to make descriptions more vivid is to compare things to something familiar. Your brain already does this naturally... when you see a new color, you don’t think “Oh, that’s a mix of blue and green with a slight yellow tint”, no, you think “Oh, that looks like seafoam”. Use that in your writing!

Instead of: She was nervous.

Try: Her stomach twisted like a phone cord, all tangled and knotted.

And if you’re struggling to describe emotions, think about times you’ve felt them yourself. What did anxiety feel like last time you had it? What does happiness physically do to you? Does your chest feel lighter? Does your breath come easier? These tiny details will make your descriptions feel more authentic. For Example something like that...

Instead of: He was furious.

Try: His jaw locked so tight it ached. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms, but still, he swallowed the words burning at the back of his throat.

Writing is a skill. Just like playing an instrument or painting, it takes time. The fact that it feels hard right now, just means you’re learning. And I promise, if you keep going, if you let yourself practice without expecting perfection, it will get easier.

So please, don’t let this frustration stop you. The only difference between you and the authors you admire is they kept writing. And you’re already on your way. 💛✨

#character development #writer tumblr #writing advice #writing #writerscommunity #writer on tumblr #writing tips #oc character #writing help #writblr #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #creative writing #female writers #writer community #writer stuff #writer things #writing community #writeblr

97 notes · View notes

imawholeassmood · 1 year ago

Text

Read Between the Lines

read it on ao3

Lena reads the review, rubs her temples a few times, then reads it again. There is no way Super_Girl has rated this book five stars and then wrote multiple paragraphs waxing poetic about how fantastic it was. Lena already submitted her own one-star review which included her breakdown of the writing, the characters, and the plot, of which this book had none.

For months, Lena has been seeing Super_Girl reviews pop up on the same books Lena recently finished. She wondered at this point if Super_Girl might be doing this on purpose – reading the same books just so she could rate the book the opposite of whatever Lena did. At first, it was simple - “Loved it!” or “Couldn’t get into this one,” but as of late, the reviews had gotten longer and more descriptive.

Lena herself always used the same formula for reviewing books: overall star rating with a breakdown of her thoughts on the characters, the plot, and the writing. Books, like most things in life, are easy to rate when you understand the evaluation system. Books follow formulas and rules for a reason – it’s what makes them good. A romance novel, for instance, requires a “happily ever after.” Without it, it cannot be considered a romance, and it certainly wouldn’t be a good one.

So, as Lena reads the latest review by Super_Girl, Lena can’t help but leave a comment. Maybe this person simply needs an education on the book rating system.

“What criteria do you use when rating a book?”

It’s a good starting place for this conversation. Lena has amassed quite the following with people interested in her book reviews and the last thing she wants to do is stir up internet drama to damage her good reputation. She knows how easy it is for people to take something out of context.

The reply comes almost immediately.

“Vibes!”

Lena blinks a few times, then closes the browser and leaves her laptop for the night.

Super_Girl does it again with another five-star rating for a book that made Lena seriously consider contacting the literary award agencies to complain about their selection. The book sounded like it was AI generated and had zero plot. And the characters? Don’t even get her started.

“How can you consider this a masterpiece?” she writes under the review. “There is zero substance in this book. It’s just a bunch of flowery words that mean nothing and make no sense. If this is your idea of romance, then I’d hate to be your girlfriend.”

Her phone rings and Lena spends the next hour talking with her assistant, Jess, about the priorities for the week and when they can finalize some presentations. Later, as she lays in bed scrolling on her phone, Lena thinks to check her goodreads account. There, under her latest comment, is a reply from Super_Girl.

“Amidst the turmoil of the crumbling world around them, two people take the time to write love letters to each other. What’s more romantic than that?

I want to meet you in every place I have loved.

I want to be in contact with you.

Swoon.”

Speaking of taking things out of context.

While Lena can see Super_Girl’s point, that’s not enough to change her mind about the book. Especially not in the context of it being a sci-fi fantasy that relegated war to a backdrop in much the same way Hollywood did with Pearl Harbor. Don’t get her started. She types out a response before closing the webpage and going to sleep.

“Relationships develop over time. Even if I agreed with your assessment, this book still lacked any real narrative and there’s zero reason to believe these two people would fall in love. They don’t know anything about each other except that they can write a decent letter.”

Oh, no, Lena thinks. Her latest read has her questioning her entire belief system about books. She liked the book. Not because it had a great plot. Not because she was rooting for the characters. She liked the book because…it gave her good vibes. She genuinely had a good time reading it, despite it being a complete shitshow. This never happened to her before.

She opens her goodreads page to leave her review and finds that Super_Girl hasn’t read this one yet. She feels the slightest pang of disappointment but pushes through to her review. At the end of her standard format, she adds a new category: vibes.

It takes a few days, and Lena finds herself checking her account every few hours. She’s sitting at her desk and scrolling on her phone when she gets a notification that Super_Girl commented on her review.

“Vibes?!?! I’m SUPER proud of you! And we agree the characters were awful and the plot was weak, but it was well-written.”

She doesn’t even realize she’s smiling until Jess comments about it.

“Oh, nothing,” she says and waves her hand. “Just a literary rival.”

Jess looks at her. “You’re smiling because of…a rival?”

Is that what they were? The word didn’t really feel like a good fit, but Lena goes with it.

“Agreed with me on a point. Can we please stay focused?”

And they do. Lena and Jess go over the latest reports and prepare for an upcoming meeting with one of their international partners. Lena doesn’t think about Super_Girl again until she’s lying in bed and that damn smile creeps backs onto her face.

Her next review is not a good one. It makes Lena question the romance genre as a whole. Has the world become so used to being treated like garbage, people can’t even tell the difference between healthy and toxic love?

She’s barely hit submit when Super_Girl comments on her review.

“They were flirting the whole time!”

Lena is still sour enough she doesn’t bother to hold back on her response.

“Flirting where? Being in each other’s orbit is not flirting. Why can’t people just say, ‘I like you and I’d like to go on a date with you?’ instead of whatever BS was happening in this book. Honestly, I’m worried for your love life if you think this is a healthy way to approach communication.”

Super_Girl goes silent for a long while after that.

Lena worries something may have happened and questions whether she should reach out. They haven’t gone this long without a reciprocal review since they started this little dance of theirs almost a year ago. She finds herself rereading their reviews and wondering about who Super_Girl might be behind the screen name. There’s no profile photo, no personal information at all. Just a single word.

Golly.

Lena smiles at that. In fact, she smiles at everything Super_Girl has written. While they may not agree on books, Lena can’t deny that whoever is behind the reviews is a wordsmith who comes across as the sweetest human on the planet.

It surprises her when she receives a notification that she has been selected to read a new release ahead of publication in exchange for an honest review. Lena doesn’t usually agree because she doesn’t want to give people any reason to think her reviews are biased or influenced in any way. She’s about to deny the request, but the cover art depicts two women, one blonde, the other brunette, and Lena never turns down a sapphic story. She accepts the request without another thought.

When Lena finishes The Write Stuff, she starts it over and reads it again, cover to cover. The writing, the pacing, and the storytelling are superb. It’s as if the author has studied every article about how a romance novel should be written. The characters are so well written, she has clear images of who each of these women are. She understands their desires, their fears, and their motives. Not only does she care about these people as a couple, but she also cares about them individually in a way she hasn’t cared about a character in a long time. As for the plot itself? It’s perfectly cheesy and still somehow realistic enough to be believable that it could happen in real life.

Lena hasn’t felt this…satisfied by a book since well, since she can’t remember.

So, that’s exactly what she writes in her review.

“I especially loved this line:

I would rewrite history if it meant a chance for a happy future with you.”

When she’s done, she looks up the author and finds that she’s written one other book.

Lena doesn’t recall reading it, but when she clicks on the title, she finds her review posted with a few hundred likes and several dozen comments. One star and zero positive things to say about it. Lena can’t help but think how far the author has come from this first book to the most recent one. It’s an impressive improvement, and Lena Luthor isn’t easily impressed.

Supergirl leaves a comment on her review a few days later.

“It looks like the author has been paying attention to your feedback.”

The following week, Lena is staring at the meeting invitation with furrowed brows and a healthy dose of confusion. She presses the call button on the speaker on her desk.

“Yes, Miss Luthor?” Jess says.

“Jess, why do I have a meeting with Supergirl on my calendar?”

Jess is quiet for a moment. She’s quiet so long, in fact, that Lena’s door opens and a blond woman with thick-rimmed glasses wearing chinos and a tucked-in button down steps just inside. She has a nervous smile and fidgets with her glasses.

Lena recognizes her from the photo bio she still has pulled up on her web browser and stands to greet her.

“Miss Danvers,” she says, “please, come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Kara Danvers, author of The Write Stuff, who Lena has been internet stalking for the past week shifts in the doorway. Lena comes around the front of her desk. They stare at each other in silence for a moment before Lena hears a faint “go” from Jess in the reception area. That makes Kara shake out of her stupor.

She brings her hand out from behind her back and holds her arm at full length with a bouquet of…plumerias. Lena can’t believe what she’s seeing. Her favorite flowers which represent love and new beginnings are being offered to her by this stunning woman who wrote one of her favorite books of the year. Lena looks from the flowers back to Kara’s face.

“I like you, Lena Reads” Kara says, “and I would like to go on a date with you.”

#supercorp #supercorp fic #kara danvers and lena luthor #supergirl #kara x lena #not a writer

258 notes · View notes

verysium · 2 years ago

Text

『01』呪術廻戦: jujutsu kaisen recs

五条悟: gojo satoru

i know you still think about the times we had by @saetoru

satoru will always comes when you call him, he just never thought you’d stop calling. notes: satoru is so desperate and pathetic here it is just delicious; has the right amount of angst to cause tension but a good ending to soothe my poor heart; traditional rich boy and disapproving mother/father scenario but implemented relatively well; miscommunication and feelings of inadequacy; reader realizing the extent to which satoru loves them

pretty eyes by @quirklessidiot

in which the right eye is mine and the left eye is yours and when we meet for the first time, you see your own eyes staring back at you. notes: takes tragic star-crossed lovers to a whole new level; riddled with parallels and symbolism; idea of illness and loving someone at their worst; right person, wrong time at its finest; fate being unnecessarily cruel; surprising moments of humor

minazuki by @quirklessidiot

In which Y/N L/N is placed under a union she has no choice but to partake for the sake of her survival. notes: this series needs to be scientifically studied; it is just that good; halfway in and i fell in love with the reader instead of gojo; strong and somewhat morally grey characters; dark themes around femininity in a patriarchal society but concept was executed flawlessly

21: only by @tenjiiku

“What do you want, Satoru?” You do not use his last name or any honorific to address him despite his age. He was older than you by a few years — but certainly did not act the part — so you do not think he deserves your respect. Your host father told you he does — something about his being from a prominent private school as an educator, which you cannot possibly fathom being the truth — but only in front of you is Satoru Gojo an inane, odd man with a need for clean, dry-cleaned clothes that, for some strange reason he has conjectured in his equally baffling mind, that only you can provide. He smiles at you, placing his cheek in his hand. “You.” notes: this fic embodies the duality between gojo and satoru; he is easy-going until he isn’t and you realize he actually has a considerable amount of depth; the plot twist did it for me; satoru being a loud-mouthed tease but secretly harboring feelings

soulswap by @orphxus (impxria)

this is where the evening splits in half, love or death. grab an end, pull hard, & make a wish. notes: short but realistically describes everything wrong with jujutsu society; poetic voice; gojo being serious for once; disillusionment and tragic hero archetype; being the strongest yet being unable to save anybody; geto would read this fic and feel seen

両面宿儺: ryomen sukuna

nocuous by @quirklessidiot

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? I knew how this was going to end but I’m still terribly hurt by it.” notes: the heian era setting is so complex and established even through dialogue and subtle description; reader strikes me as older and able to deal with sukuna’s chaotic nature; sukuna being an absolute menace is sending me; tragic angst but almost didn’t notice it due to how beautifully the images are presented

avīci by @rotpeach

Several years ago, Satoru Gojo was involved in the exorcism of a uniquely stubborn curse. The official report states that one of Ryomen Sukuna's fingers was recovered from the scene, and nothing else. Only the two of you know the truth. notes: gore, gore, and even more gore; boy was this fic a wild ride; imagine a work that condenses the ugliest and most revolting parts of human nature yet presents them so elegantly you start questioning the blurred lines of morality; cannibalism, violence, and love triangles; japanese mythology & folklore; heian period references; cursed spirit reader tries to grapple with the idea of self after being created for the sole purpose of serving others; themes of existentialism, identity crisis, obsession

#fic recs #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader

522 notes · View notes

writingquestionsanswered · 2 years ago

Note

Not sure if you've answered something like this before, but how do I write "prettier" sentences? I know one thing that will help would be expanding my vocabulary, but a thesaurus only seems to get me so far. I feel like when I write, especially when I'm describing things, my sentences are so basic. Idk if this makes sense, if it doesn't I can try and find examples from other writers to help describe what I'm talking about!

How to Write "Prettier" Sentences

Pretty prose is something many writers aspire to, however, it's not as easy to achieve as looking up words in a thesaurus. It's something you have to train yourself to do through both learning and practice.

Learn By Reading/Listening

First and foremost, making sure you're reading/listening to a variety of books and stories is essential if you want to learn how to craft prettier prose. Reading and listening to stories helps train your brain to: recognize the cadence of pretty prose, understand the structuring of pretty prose, understand how to craft meaningful imagery, and fills your head with vocabulary.

Expanding Your Vocabulary

Vocabulary is also an important component of crafting pretty prose. Following web sites, pages, and apps that have a "word of the day" (like the Merriam-Webster website) is a great way to learn new words. You can also purchase a word-of-the-day desk calendar for 2024. Some writers like to flip open the thesaurus every day on a random page and read a few random words. You can also read creative articles in newspapers, magazines, websites, etc. to learn new words. You can also look up the specific vocabulary for something you're describing, like if you're describing a house, you can look up the architectural style and general architectural terms to learn how to describe specific things like the style of home, the trim, the windows, etc. Finally, in addition to the thesaurus as a source of new words, you can add other word references to your collection, such as The Describer's Dictionary, the Random House Word Menu, The Writer's Lexicon, etc.

Learning Poetic Cadence and Imagery

Listening to music/reading song lyrics, and reading/listening to poetry are great ways to teach your brain how to craft descriptive imagery. Poetry has to say a lot with few words, so it helps you understand the power of using just the right words in just the right way.

Effective Description is Important

Effective description is of course another piece of the puzzle. Not all writing is description, but a lot of pretty prose is descriptive. So, when you're describing things in your story, make sure to consider the senses--what can be seen, heard, tasted, smelled, felt/touched? You don't want to incorporate all of that into the description of one thing, obviously, but if your character is walking into a forest, considering all of those things can help you come up with a vivid, beautiful description. Sometimes, looking for photos or videos of the thing you want to describe can be helpful, too.

Practice Makes Perfect

And last but not least: practice. Once you've started to train your brain using the methods above, when you go through a draft to revise it and come to a sentence that needs sprucing up, try out different things that you've learned. Don't go overboard with the thesaurus, but perhaps your sentence describes twinkling stars... is there another word you could use instead of twinkling that's more surprising and vivid? The thesaurus suggests: glimmering, shimmering, sparkling, blinking... cross-checking each of these in the dictionary shows they're all appropriate choices for describing the twinkle of a star. You can also read the sentence out loud to listen to the cadence... are there longer or shorter (yet appropriate) words you can use instead to make the sentence more lyrical? Improving your sentences in editing helps you learn to craft pretty sentences as you're writing them the first time.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

LEARN MORE about WQA

SEE MY ask policies

VISIT MY Master List of Top Posts

COFFEE & FEEDBACK COMMISSIONS ko-fi.com/wqa

#writing tips #writing help #wqaadvice

469 notes · View notes

kyogre-blue · 30 days ago

Note

Yeah I haven't trusted Dainsleif pov since the first time he took a look at Mondstadt's statue and cathedral and got on the soapbox, all "the people clearly spent many resources on it, does the anemo archon even notice and what has he given the people in exchange" and like.......the cathedral is a mansion from the aristocracy that was repurposed. You know, the aristocracy which *the anemo archon helped overthrow*? Well gee, I sure wonder what the archon did for it... Pick up a history book sometime, Dain.

Then again, the map description also takes this tone about the cathedral, which I kinda hate, bc I personally like it a lot. I can't think of anything more poetic than a palatial state being returned to the people and the people making it a place dedicated to their god in thanks. I do wonder who funded the recreation of the statue though... probably the gunnhildrs.

Or maybe I'm just petty. Out of all the gods to pick a bone with over what exactly they give to the people, you pick the god who's leading champion of helping people disinterestedly...

In general, I think it can get awkward when you have gods that are actual individuals within the world but then religion kind of... still works how it works in the real world. People seem to like having religion, maybe just let them do it, or something. If they build a cathedral, isn't that just something humans do? Whether for church corruption reasons or whatever, that's just a human thing, it doesn't have anything to do with the god who is actually a character here...

I have a somewhat similar issue whenever things that people do in real life already inexplicably get reinterpreted as somehow the fault of gods in a fictional work that has the actual gods. Like, why does Venti get shit for the aristocracy? Mondstadt people walked into that one on their own, why is it at all his business? He said they should make their own choices, and sometimes those choices are Bad(tm). That's freedom! That's an actual complex look at freedom, not some fake "what is freedom if it's dictated by a god (pondering emoji)" nonsense!

Dain as a whole is this obviously barely repressed well of resentment toward the divine as a whole, and it's hard to tell how much of anything he says is trustworthy. Not even to say he's lying intentionally, but he comes across as massively biased (understandably so, but still). I still remember how he's mad at Andrius for, checks notes, cooperating with Venti, I guess? Very "if you're powerful, why aren't you rebelling against Celestia? ...but definitely never rebel against Celestia because they'll ruin you and everything you love" pick a direction, dude

#playing genshin

29 notes · View notes

skaruresonic · 2 years ago

Text

The common rebuttal to "this reads like fanfic (derogatory)" is "read better fanfic," which is true in certain cases, but on the other hand, there is some grain of truth to the idea that you can tell when someone's primary mode of literary analysis is fanfic instead of... well... literally anything else. It's okay to like or even prefer fanfic, but if you want to take your craft seriously you also need to read books, dude. Published books will teach you a lot of stuff fanfic doesn't, like proper dialogue formatting and how to introduce your reader to unfamiliar characters. Even the crappiest book (well, if it's not After or 50 Shades, which started off as fanfic to begin with lol) will have been subjected to some sort of editing process to ensure at least the appearance of proper grammar. That's not a guarantee with your average fanfic, and hence why you can't always take all your writing cues from fanfic because it's "so much better" than commercially published original fiction or whatever. Frankly, fic writers tend to peddle some absolutist and downright bad takes sometimes. "Said is dead" is a terrible rule, though not because said is invisible and a perfectly serviceable tag; that's just part of it. Dialogue tags are a garnish, not a main dish that can be swapped out for more ostentatious words. If your characters murmur and mutter instead of simply saying stuff, your readers are going to wonder why nobody speaks up. "'I'm explaining some very plot-important shit right now lol,' she elaborated," likewise, is a form of telling. Instead of letting the reader extrapolate that "she elaborated" via the contents of the dialogue itself, you're telling them what to think about it. And that's why it's distracting: your authorial hand is showing. Writing is an act of camouflage. You, as the writer, need to make your presence as invisible as possible so as to not intrude on the reader's suspension of disbelief. That's the driving reason behind "show, don't tell." And overall, everyone could stand to cut down on the frequency of their dialogue tags anyway. Not every exchange needs "he said" or "she whispered" attached as long as you establish who is doing the talking before the exchange. Some people will complain of confusion if you go on for too long without a dialogue tag, and that definitely is a risk, but at some point you also need to resist the temptation of holding the reader's hand. If they can't follow a conversation between two people, chances are they weren't meeting you halfway and paying that much attention in the first place. In fact, you don't even necessarily need action beats in between every piece of dialogue, as Tumblr writing advice posts will often suggest as a fix. Pruning things often cleans them up just fine.

Another fanfic-influenced trend in writing is, I guess, beige prose? A heavy focus on internal narration with lots of telling. It's not a style I can concretely describe, but every time I click on a non-mutual's writing, I feel like it always has, like. This "samey" voice to it. There's no real attempt to experiment and use unique or provocative language, or even imagery half the time. It's almost a dry recital of narration that doesn't leave much room for subtext. I see this style most often in fanfic where you can meander and wax poetic about how the characters feel without ever really getting around to the plot. And it's like. DO something.

Other tells that the author is taking their cues from fanfic mores rather than books: >>too much minute description of eyes, especially their color and their movement >>doesn't leave much room for subtext (has a character speak their every thought aloud instead of letting the reader infer what they're thinking via action or implication) >>too much stage action ("X looked at Y. Y moved to push their seat in. X took a deep breath and stepped toward Y with a determined look on his face. 'We need to talk,' he said.") >>tells instead of shows, even when the example is about showing instead of telling ("he clenched his teeth in agony" instead of just "he clenched his teeth") >>has improper dialogue tag formatting, especially with putting full stops where there should be commas ("'Lol and lmao.' she said" instead of "'Lol and lmao,' she said." This one drives me up a wall) >>uses too many dialogue tags >>"em dashes, semi-colons and commas, my beloved" - I get the appeal but full stops are your friends. Too much alternate punctuation makes your writing seem stilted and choppy. >>"he's all tousled brown hair and hard muscle" and "she's all smiles and long legs." This turn of phrase is so cliche, it drives me up a wall. Find less trite ways of describing your characters pls. >>"X released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding" >>every fucking Hot Guy ever is described as lean and sinewy >>sobbing. why is everyone sobbing. some restraint, pls >>Tumblr in general tends to think a truism counts as good writing if you make the most melodramatic statement possible (bonus: if it's written in a faux-archaic way), garnish it with a hint of egotism, and toss in allusions to the Christian God, afterlife, or death. ("I will stare God in the face and walk backwards into hell," "What is a god to a nonbeliever?") It's indicative of emotional immaturity imo, that every emotional truth need be expressed That Intensely in order to resonate with people. >>pushes the "Oh." moment as the pinnacle of Romantic Epiphany >>Therapy Speak dialogue. why is this emotionally constipated forty-something man who drinks himself stupid every morning to escape gruesome war memories speaking about his trauma like a clinical psychologist >>"this well-established kuudere should Show More Emoshun. I want him to break down crying on his love interest's shoulder from all his repressed trauma" - I am begging u. stop >>"why don't the characters just talk to each other?" "why can't we have healthy relationships?" I don't know, maybe because fiction is not supposed to be a model for reality and perfect communication makes for boring drama?

>>improperly using actions as dialogue tags ("'Looks like we're going hunting,' he grinned") >>why is everyone muttering and murmuring. speak up >>too many adverbs, especially "weakly" and "shakily." use stronger verbs. ("trembled" instead of "shook weakly") >>too many epithets ("the younger man" or "the brunette detective") >>too many filter words ("he felt," "she thought," "I remembered")

>>no, Tumblr, first-person POV is not the devil; you're just using way too many filter words (see above) and not enough sentence variation to make it flow well enough. First-person POV is an actually pretty good POV (not just for unreliable and self-aware narrators) if you know what you're doing and a lot of fun crafting an engaging character voice. Tumblr's hatred of first-person baffles me, and all I can think is you would only hate it if your only frame of reference was, like, My Immortal. Have you tried reading A Book? First-person POV is just another tool in your toolbox, and like all tools, it can be used properly or improperly. But it's not inherently a marker of bad writing. The disdain surrounding it strikes me as about as sensical as making fun of the concept of characters. Oh, your work has characters in it? Ew, I automatically click off a fic if it has characters in it. like what.

#writing #obligatory disclaimer that I am speaking broadly and this is in no way intended to make anyone feel self-conscious

420 notes · View notes

atreeinthemoonlight · 1 month ago

Note

when R/L stans get delusional, they really get delusional. pointing to 70 x 40 blurry pixels in unfinished fanart as canon proof for your ship being romantic is wild.

"in the rough sketch, they were all sitting down like family!" this is a commission, babe. if the thumbnail sketch has a different pose than the final, it's because either the client didn't like it and wanted to see something else, or the artist didn't like it and wanted to do something else. and the client here was Elio and Linda, whose admitted headcanon is that Ashara was hanging out with Rhaegar and Lyanna and the Kingsguard at Summerhall. Evidently even in their fanfic, them all sitting down together "like family" isn't a thing.

I’ve already spoken about how Lyanna stans are obsessed with making Ashara her best friend.Honestly, why not just commission some Twitter or Tumblr artists to create a few original female companions for her?Karstark, Mormont, Bolton, Reed, Flint—literally anyone from the North.

They don’t look for friends in the North,no, they go straight to Dorne. Anyone who’s even skimmed the books would know Ashara was Elia’s lady in waiting.Classic mistress behavior—trying to pull all the wife’s friends to her own side.The wife’s close friend inexplicably growing closer to the mistress,drifting away from the woman she stood beside from the start.Lyanna stans are never getting out of that mistress mindset,not in this lifetime.

If they think Elia doesn’t count as a real character, then what about Ashara?She has even less description, no surviving children, barely any narrative presence—does that make her not a character too?How did she magically become the chosen one—handpicked by Lyanna stans to be her new best friend?

Why, exactly?Because Arthur Dayne was her brother,so the sister automatically follows the brother?Or because she was supposedly carrying a Stark’s child, she’s obligated to bond with Lyanna?Or is it because they think Dornish culture doesn’t care about elopement? About bastards?So the Dornish suddenly have no standards, just there to play supporting roles in someone else’s love story?Or they believed Lyanna desperately needed a close female friend, and Ashara was conveniently available.

They never consider Ashara’s perspective or circumstances—they just turn every character into a prop orbiting around Rhaegar and Lyanna.If fans actually did the math, they’d realize Ashara either have been in late pregnancy at that point,or she’d already given birth to a stillborn, in mourning.And Brandon, the man fans want to believe is the child’s father—was already dead,wasn't he?Who’s got the heart to join some glamorous elopement squad under those conditions?Her mental and physical health alone would’ve made such a long, exhausting journey to Summerhall impossible.

If Lyanna stans insist it could have happened,the only way it works is if Ashara sets aside her own grief—just to enable this so-called “possibility.”She has to shrink herself to make their story fit.

And do they not know Summerhall is in the Stormlands? They’re telling the whole world this loud, bold affair went down on Baratheon turf and no one noticed?Is it the classic “big boy takes his crush to his favorite hangout spot,” or what?Are we watching The Rustic Romance of Tom and Mary now?

Honestly, I kind of wish Lyanna had a few female companions.If she’d had even a handful of close friends to talk to—would she really have run off with some brooding, poetic guy who already had a wife and kids?

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #anti rhaegar stans #anti rhaelya #anti lyanna stans #anti rhaegar x lyanna #ashara dayne #elia martell #house martell #house dayne #rhaegar targaryen #house stark

25 notes · View notes

internet1girl · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 0: Rebirth.

Summary: After an arduous day of work, you come home to find someone in your home. Someone who should not be here.

Word count: 3.5k Warnings/Notices: named!reader, major angst, long-needed exposition, mentions of death, violence, a few curse words here and there

First Chapter

A/N: i figured some origins of my favourite character were in order 🫠 this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, i finally locked in and pulled this out of development hell, enjoy ^^

It had been a long day.

From sunrise to sunset, you had been out there. Working. Working in the sense of collecting dried-up debts, enforcing edicts of men twice your age, delivering packages that you’d long since stopped questioning and, if need be, removing people from the mortal plane. You were popular for the latter reason. 緑の死神 (Midori no Shinigami) was the name most commonly associated with you. There were others, but The Green Reaper - or just simply your full name - was enough to strike fear into the hearts of most around Japan. Clean, seamless and efficient. A perfect description of your services.

Anything you had to do to survive.

Jade Houzuki always survives. It had been a decade since the death of your parents. A decade since the news of your mother’s death hit you like a truck. A decade since you saw the light in your father’s eyes fade like the credits to the world’s most heartwrenching film a few months later, his body failing with his mind. A decade since the worst morning any child could ever experience. You could still remember it with clarity, that realization that you were an orphan dropping on you like a weight as you woke up. Just a fourteen-year-old girl. You wouldn’t be able to forget it, nor would you be able to forget that look on young Hiroshi’s face. So solemn. Face devoid of emotion in a way that would haunt you forever. No eight-year-old should ever look that empty.

It’s not like he was here, though. No. Your younger brother was gone, he had walked out on you during that fateful argument that you both had a few months ago. His whereabouts now were lost to you, just like the last real connection you had to a human in this cruel world. Words were exchanged that couldn’t be taken back. Actions were committed that couldn’t be excused. The scars from that encounter, both physical and mental, would last forever.

Entering the new year alone was probably one of the worst times of your life to date. If the 2010s were bad, then you didn’t even want to imagine what the 2020s would entail. More dark work, blood-stained errands and sacrilegious slaughter? The prying prayer that was the hope that this year would be your last was present, it lingered in the back of your mind. Maybe it would be, you don’t know. The future is uncertain, but it’s not looking good. And the present looked worse. Because, despite everything, despite all of your efforts, it was just you.

It was just you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Right now, you were walking the stairs of the apartment complex that you currently lived in. A shitty, run-down block of buildings on the edge of Kōchi, a city in the very prefecture you once called home. There was something poetic about it all, though now wasn’t the correct time for that query to weigh on your mind. You didn’t have homes anymore. Not really. Apartments and townhouses rented out with blood money don’t deserve to be called a home. The sound of boots on wet stone bounced off of the walls. You were tired, your body ached with both fatigue and the bruises of today. You reached your door, a cracked slab of wood that was the only thing between you and retirement for the night. Your keys were pulled out with a soft jingle, the sound barely cutting through the lunar silence. With a click, you opened the door, walking inside with your head held low and your shoulders tense. The day’s events weren’t anything out of the ordinary, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t physically taxing. It’s not like that mattered, though. Today was routine, a droplet in the trail of blood that was your current life. Now, it was time for rest. You weren’t scheduled to work tomorrow, your current employer had made Saturday an off day for you. A small smile appeared on your face at the knowledge that you could sleep in. Yes, a chance to just… recuperate. After training, maybe you’ll try out that cafe a few blocks away that you’d been eyeing up. Maybe you’ll go for a walk in Kagamino Park, and allow yourself to pretend that everything is fine, just for a bit. Maybe you’ll be a little rat and just do nothing at all. Maybe-

“Jade Houzuki.” Wait, what the fuck? “I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”

You spun around to the sound of your full name being recited, literally slamming the door behind you with your whole body as you stared in the noise’s direction. A… man stood there. Big deal, you’d seen plenty of men before. You’d come across some that were even foolish enough to try shit like showing up in one of your places of residence. But this one was… different.

Tall. Broad. Well-built. Long hair and a stance of discipline, hands knitted together as he stood in the centre of the apartment. Objectively Asian but dressed in a Chinese sense of style rather than a Japanese one. A neighbour flying in just for you? How kind. Oh yeah, and just one more thing; his fucking eyes were white.

Stunned. That would be the perfect word to describe you right now. Everything in you right now was on edge. Every instinct you possessed was dialled up to ten. Your own eyes were as wide as they could be, your pupils shrunk out of fear unease. A whole minute passed, both parties in complete silence. Your brain barely handled its reboot, the only thing you could eventually muster up was a:

“…What in the actual fu-”

“I am Liu Kang. Protector of Earthrealm.” The man bowed, clasping a fist and an open palm together as he tilted his body. A gesture of respect, though a gesture that did nothing to ease the spikes of tension pulsing through your body. “I come in peace.”

You didn’t believe him. To be fair to you, this was all a bit much. A part of you was deadset on this being some sort of weird dream. You did tank that particularly nasty hit to your head last week. Maybe the symptoms of potential brain damage are choosing to manifest now? You looked around, checking to see if anything was out of place. From where you were, you didn’t have visual access to all of the rooms here, but you could see the main area, the lounge and the kitchen. Everything was where it was supposed to be, so he didn’t rob you or anything. An admittedly silly thought, given that burglars don’t usually stick around after committing their crime. But you couldn’t be blamed for not thinking straight.

“…Who else is here?” You mustered up again, shifting your key between your knuckles, your body starting to listen to its defensive sector and move on instinct.

“Nobody, I come alone.” Liu Kang took a step forward, halting in his stride when he saw you flinch. His hands raised, open palms a few inches away from his chest. “Forgive me for my intrusion, Jade. But I must speak with you.”

“How did you get into my apartment?” You shot back. You stood up properly, a hand hovering over your bō strapped to your hip.

“I-“ “What do you want?” You shot back again, cutting him off. Your panic slowly started to shift into something more aggressive, evident in the way you spoke and reacted to his words.

“I am here because-“

“Have you been stalking me?”

He sighed. Though he tried to hide it, you could tell he was getting a little annoyed. Not that you cared though. Anyone else and you would’ve been the only person alive by now. But, there was something about this man that made you… pause. You couldn’t explain it. It was weird, just like everything else about tonight.

Liu Kang waited for a bit, both for you to calm down slightly and to gather back his own patience. When the mild ire on his face dissipated, he felt free to speak again.

“I know you, Jade. You are a tragic figure with a noble cause.” He started to walk, steps slow as he looked around your space of living. His fingers wandered, lightly brushing over your worn furniture, tips running across the faded fabric. “This is not how your life was intended to span out this time.”

“This time?” You perked up at that, because, huh? This time?

Shit.

“Forgive me, I misspoke.” He spoke after a beat, stopping his ministrations and turning to face you. He did an excellent job of snuffing out his budding dread, so good of a job that you didn’t even clock any signs of worry. He spoke again after another beat, white eyes looking at you, into you, in a way that you really didn’t like.

“I am here to offer you a path forward.”

“Is that a threat?” You took a step forward, moving like a hunter would to a bear. Your eyebrows were raised, any fear that you possessed now morphed into something territorial, akin to a cornered animal. “No, a promise. I offer you a chance to be a part of something bigger than yourself, to follow a higher power.” Liu Kang walked towards you, hands behind his back, everything about him respectful or at least attempting to be. Maybe if he appealed to you using more divine reasoning, you would calm down, he figured.

“Higher power?” Yeah, that didn’t work at all. You laughed, the sound cuttingly mocking rather than sweetly jovial. “Don’t make me laugh!"

You sighed. “You know, I have to say… I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my time, but whatever this is,” You made a gesture at him as you moved away from the door, face scrunched up, not even bothering to hide your disdain. “Really takes the cake.”

He looked taken aback, maybe even a little hurt at your response. This… wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This encounter, and the course of your years. Though a total stranger to you, the same couldn’t be said otherwise. Not really. Jaded was an attribute he always knew you carried, but this… was disheartening.

Have I really failed you that badly?

“I’m not interested in your employment, Mr. Kang.” You stopped in front of him, arms-length. Your own were folded, your hips tilted. You sported an expression on your face that could only be described as pure defiance.

“Leave my apartment.”

“I… I cannot.” He recuperated, withdrawing as you advanced, the dynamic of control now flipped.

“That wasn’t a request.” With a clank, you withdrew your staff. The pole of metal stuck out, twirled expertly in your hands. The tip of your bō was repositioned to point directly at his chest, threatening to jab at the centre of the space. Your eyes burned into his, brown fury boring into white unease.

“Please.” His voice was soft, contrasting your own. He raised his hands again, backing up slowly. “We don’t have to do this. This isn’t how I wanted to-“

SMACK.

You struck before he could finish his sentence. A clean hit to the jaw, the end of your bō staff slamming into the side of his face. You moved as you always did, quicker than your opponent could register. The intent to kill wasn’t present, but you didn’t dare to hold back any inch of your strength.

Surprisingly, he took that like a champ. His head snapped to the side. His legs staggered backwards, struggling to keep his body upright. No blood was drawn, no teeth were knocked out, but a few seconds of disorientation was enforced. If you weren’t so locked in, you admittedly would be a little shocked, maybe even impressed. Lesser men had fallen to weaker hits.

Liu Kang snapped back, his vision flashing white for a split second. A grunt of pain slipped out, you actually managed to hurt him. Even as a human, you were still a force to be reckoned with. His hand found the back of a nearby chair, he used the frame to steady himself. He blinked, readjusting from that very sudden assault. He didn’t even get another word of plea or protest in, before:

SMACK.

Another blow was dealt. A strike to the ribs, one wound up by a spin. Your staff struck him hard enough for the brief exchange of iron and cloth to produce a sound; a reverberating thud. Another groan of pain was beaten from him at the advance. You raised your bō high above your head, bringing it down with a sickening:

SMA-

This time, Liu Kang caught your attack before it could make contact. His palm wrapped around your weapon, one hand encompassing the tip of your staff. A beat passed. He could’ve counter-attacked. He could’ve brought the bō down to the floor, leaving you open for an uppercut or another brutal reversal. But he didn’t. That’s not how he’s going to do this. Instead, he opted to push you back, enough force behind the counter to send you away, but not toppling over.

This did not go over well with you. At all. First, this intruder dares to show up in your residence - unannounced and unwelcomed - and then he dares to shove you away? Like he’s the victim? No. That’s not how this is going to work.

“Jade… calm do-“

You rushed him before he could complete his sentence, running up with a yell. You were fast, but not fast enough to strike him again. Liu Kang dodged just before your staff came for the side of his head, the sound of the metal ringing through the air like a shing of death.

A fight ensued.

You went at him mercilessly. Fists, feet, and staff. Your bō cleaved through the air in grey blurs, occasionally smacking the wall and any other stray objects that had the misfortune of being in your path. Your opponent didn’t do much in response. Didn’t, not couldn’t. Instead of countering, Liu Kang opted to either dodge, block and/or weave your manic flurry. He wasn’t going to harm you, not any more than you already had been. That’s not how this is going to work.

“Please, Jade! I-“ You shut him up with a swift kick at his leg. He folded at the impact, kneeling onto the floor momentarily to re-gather his bearings. Another action you didn’t respond to well, if the second kick aimed at his face was anything to go by. “Stand and face me! Coward!”

This carried on. You attacking and him evading. Liu Kang tried again to talk you down, to either calm you or disarm you of your weapon. One or both. You’ll have to excuse the fact that he couldn’t exactly think clearly right now.

You fought exactly how he remembered. It had been eons, but he recalled your kombat vividly. The elegance of bōjutsu, with an undeniable twist of brutality. Though, your sample in this encounter had too much of the latter. Hiroshi’s departure had thrown the balance out of wack, every negative emotion that you once kept at bay now flooded the village that was your emotional state. This was one of those times where you let the rage and grief consume you.

It all eventually came to a head. A peak. A few too many hits were dealt, this soured encounter had gone on for far too long. The thread that was his patience was burning like a fuse, and now it had hit its end. Something in Liu Kang just snapped.

“ENOUGH!”

You were just about to land your umpteenth hit when he erupted. Literally. His form ignited. No, I’m not kidding. A burst of orange and blue flame knocked you back, the sudden heat managing to singe a few loose strands of your hair.

What the fuck?

You rushed at again him, for the third time. A cry rang through the apartment as you threw yourself at the intruder, staff raised high into the air. Liu Kang caught your bō with both hands this time. Four hands on your staff, two pairs of matching snarls. He moved, forcing you backwards. Your back hit the wall with a thud. Your head snapped against the plaster, your vision slightly blurring only to refocus on Liu Kang’s face inches away from your own.

You struggled, of course you did. You attempted to fight back, to push him off and away from you, but damn it he had you pinned with strength that you just couldn’t overpower. You attempted to sweep his feet out from beneath him, another futile effort. You even attempted to go for a headbutt, though something in this man’s facial fury advised you otherwise.

Your body stilled. Maybe this was it.

“…Do it.” You spat the words out, your voice drenched in bitterness, a similar emotion darkening your eyes. Being bested in your own house was too much of a humiliation for you to bear. If this is how you were to die, if this is how you were to rejoin Mother and Father, then so be it. “Go ahead. Kill me.”

“No.” The word was uttered with a weight of certainty, delivered like an Emperor declaring war. Or peace, in your case.

“No?” You gasped out. His response shocked you, evident in the way your eyes widened.

“You will not fall by my hand, Jade Houzuki.” He loosened the hold he had on you, not enough for you to slip out, but enough that there was now breathing room between your bodies. “Please. Listen.”

“I am here to offer you something more. Something more than the ritualistic murder you commit for survival.”

“Something more?” You questioned, now no longer resisting subjugation. The logistics of… everything about this stranger came into mind. “Are you a yōkai?”

“A mortal description that is by all means fitting but inaccurate.” There was a pause before he spoke again. “I am the God of Fire.”

Well… that explained that little flaming outburst. This little tidbit of information did little to calm the storm of questions in your mind. You opened your mouth to speak again but the words died in your throat as soon as Liu Kang held a hand up, a command of silence that you obeyed. For now.

“All will be explained.” He fully let go of you, taking a few steps back, giving you some breathing room. “For now, what is important is that you have been chosen to be a part of something greater than yourself, a cause of peace rather than survival.”

“…I don’t need your redemption.” You muttered, lowering your bō.

“You misunderstand.” He replied calmly. “I offer you purpose, not forgiveness.”

“I already have purpose.” You responded with certainty, the kind of half-truth that would fool anyone normal. “Do you?” He stepped closer, head slightly tilted. “You bleed for people who would trade you for mere coin. You have been alone in this world for years. You sleep in your futon with a knife under your pillow.” He stopped just in front of you. “Is that the life you desire for yourself?” “…It’s the life I need to survive.” Your voice was quiet, akin to a child after being reprimanded. Your eyes left his, diverted onto the wooden planks below, one part embarrassment and another part shame. His words had hit you harder than any physical blow could. The truth spoken aloud affected you in a way that made you feel… small. Weak. Pathetic. Embarrassed.

“It is a life that you don’t deserve.”

You felt the weight of his response in a way that you never wished to feel again. That sentence was like a knife at your seams, ripping at the fragile fabric holding you together. Your eyes glossed over. The urge to cry was the second opponent you fought tonight.

This is a life I don’t deserve.

“There is a place.” Liu Kang’s voice broke through your sorrow. “An academy in China. A school that welcomes those like you. The Wu Shi.”

There was another pause before he next spoke.

“I will not force your hand, Jade. You are free to reject my offer and continue on your path. But know that it will not lead you anywhere righteous.”

“…I don’t trust you, Fire God.” You finally spoke after some passing time, your voice raw.

“Good.” He nodded, wearing a tiny smile. “I do not seek your trust. Just the acceptance of your elevation.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder, his palm on you surprisingly comforting. “I have faith that you will rise to the challenge. Your display of kombat and determination tonight has already proved you worthy of the path to championship.”

Your eyes met his as you looked up, broken despair looking into quiet aspiration. Liu Kang’s smile widened.

“Your service will change the arc of your life.”

A/N: thank you for reading <3

#mortal kombat #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #mk1 2023 #liu kang #jade houzuki #jade mortal kombat #jade mk #johnny and jade

23 notes · View notes