#could have made that confession...passable

[twistedwonderflan]

How Many Synonyms Are There for the Word "Pest"?

seeing all the posts of jade's newest ssr made me go back through some twst wips i have saved. this one's short. can't remember what inspired it. i had it titled: how many synonyms are there for the word "pest"?

---

info: SFW; Jade Leech x Prefect/Reader (gender neutral); Jade's POV snippet: His eyes narrowed, focusing on a boy who was getting egged on by his friends. That annoyance got up, puffed out his chest, and began to approach your table. Ah. These pests were really getting on Jade's nerves.

---

With you being quite the popular and infamous student in this school, the amount of confessions you received from desperate schoolboys was both sad and unsurprising. Jade already tolerated the ones you called "friends," especially since they did a passable job keeping the more unsavory characters away from you when he wasn't around. But to see some no-name student approaching you with the intent of getting a date... It irritated Jade to no end.

What was more annoying was when these worms had the gall to approach you during your visits to Mostro Lounge by his invitation. The purpose for inviting you in the first place was so that even during his busy schedule, he could still squeeze in some time to spend with you. Yet these people still tried to interfere.

He was beginning to reconsider keeping the relationship you two had a secret. Should he just be more forthright with it?

...no. He wasn't going to let his decision-making be affected by scum that barely reached his ankles. If and when the romantic relationship he had with you was put out in the open, it was because you were ready to make it public, not because some nuisances forced either his or your hand.

Floyd was currently sitting with you at your table, grinning broadly as he told you something he found funny. You raised a brow as you tried to keep a straight face. The tremble in your lips as you fought back a laugh made Jade quietly chuckle to himself.

Floyd begrudgingly got up when he was called for help at another table. Jade watched as you waved goodbye to him before focusing back on your study guide. It was only when his brother was nowhere near your vicinity did Jade fix his gaze on a rowdy little group sitting at another table. His eyes narrowed, focusing on a boy who was getting egged on by his friends. That annoyance got up, puffed out his chest, and began to approach your table.

Ah. These pests were really getting on Jade's nerves.

He swiftly left his station behind the bar counter and, before the boy could get anywhere near your table, Jade smoothly slipped into the booth beside you.

You jumped in surprise, not having seen him coming. Jade smiled pleasantly and leaned over your shoulder to peer at your notes.

"Is everything going well?" he asked as he reached up and tucked a loose lock of hair behind your ear. A feeling of satisfaction welled up in his chest when you averted your gaze, looking shy but pleased.

"Um, yeah," you stammered, awkwardly reaching for your half-empty drink. "What's up?"

"Your drink's almost empty. Would you like to join me at the bar counter so I can refill it?" He spotted the reluctance in your eyes, perhaps thinking you would be a bother if you were seated so close to his work station, but Jade was already plucking up the cup. He smiled and stood up from the booth, giving you way to accompany him. "Perhaps I can also tutor you when I'm not needed."

A small huff of a laugh escaped you. You took hold of his proffered hand and stood up, making sure to grab your study guide. "Sure. What’ll I owe you?"

"Merely your pleasant company." Jade glanced back at the boy from earlier. He was facing the other way and standing stiff, as if he had abruptly turned around to fool Jade into thinking he wasn't about to bother you. Even his friends in the background had fallen quiet, most likely not wanting to risk incurring any more of Jade's ire. Jade smirked to himself and escorted you to the bar counter.

"Did you just leave bar unmanned?" you whispered as you took a seat at the last stool. You glanced around warily. "Azul's gonna get upset if he found out."

"It was for but a minute. I'm sure no one here would be so heartless as to squeal on me," he chuckled, eyes roving over the few other customers sitting at the counter. They nervously averted their gaze from his sharp smile. He refilled your drink and placed it beside your notes. "I have to fill a few orders but don't be shy to ask any questions."

You beamed, and Jade's smile turned into something softer. "Thanks," you piped before going back to sipping your drink and going over your notes.

Jade did a quick glance around the room, sensing some of the other customers' tension. Now that you were under his watchful eye, he'd like to see who among them would have the audacity to bother his favorite customer. Other than the occasional Floyd, perhaps the only person he didn't mind getting cozy with you, no one dared to come close to you for the rest of your time in the Lounge. Just as he hoped when he invited you here in the first place, he had your company all to himself.

[noonaishere]

Online/Offline [C.S] - eighty-six | give him the ol’ UwU

He turned around and stood. “Y/n, hi.”

You remembered his face from the picture, and now in three dimensions, he looked exactly as you thought he would: passably attractive like any rando you might walk past on the street. The kind of face someone could consider being really good looking if his personality was funny or kind or both... but instead he was a harasser, deciding to be the worst kind of man. It permeated his features, in your mind at least, giving him an unsettling undercurrent that gave you the fucking creeps. To think that someone could look so normal and be doing anything but.

You could feel the microphone shift against your body and you found yourself wishing you had taped it to your skin like a police informant in a mob movie. You hoped the fabric moving didn’t obscure any speech. 

You smiled. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not that long.”

You gestured to the bench he had been sitting on. “Shall we sit?”

He nodded awkwardly and sat. You sat next to him, but a few inches away.

“I’m glad we could meet up like this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re actually talking to me.” You smiled.

He smiled a small smile and looked away.

“So… was getting here difficult for you?”

He turned back. “No, I drove.”

“Oh. I took the bus.”

He nodded.

“Um… are you nervous to meet me?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“I… never thought I could talk to you.”

“You talked to me in the café a few times.”

He nodded.

“So why is this different?”

He shrugged.

“You were able to talk to me then.”

He was quiet for a few minutes. You didn’t want to force him and possibly scare him off, so you sat and waited.

“Your boyfriend told me to leave.”

“Well… we had just started dating and you were making me nervous by coming in and just looking at me--”

“I was making you nervous?” There was a slight edge to the question.

“You-- you kept coming in to look at me and didn’t say anything at first.”

He looked at you.

“Don’t you think it’d make you nervous if someone did that to you?”

“Maybe.”

His body language indicated that you might have been turning him off.

“But… we’re talking now. So thank you for fixing it.”

He looked at you again. 

You smiled

“You’re really thanking me?”

You had to try and crack him. You knew you had a few cards you could pull. Card Number One: you did your best try at acting like a demure anime girl. You looked surprised at first before nodding with a shy smile.

“Why?”

“Well…If you want to be friends, this is how to be friends, right?”

He watched you quietly.

“You have to… actually talk to someone to be friends with them… right?”

He looked away and considered this.

You weren’t sure when to push for the confession, but you felt you had to take this slow.

“Then why don’t you talk to me when I talk in chat?”

“But I have before.”

“Before,” he emphasized. “But not lately.”

“Well, that’s because--”

“Because you had a boyfriend.”

“Well, yeah, I couldn’t talk to you if I was with him. What would he think?”

He frowned and looked away again. “You still could have talked to me.”

“Would you rather I be disloyal?”

He turned back to you.

“Should I be the kind of woman who dates one man and talks to others?”

He was silent.

Card Number Two: manipulation. You hated doing it, but the Terror Triplets were your teachers all through school and you would use what you learned from them now.

“If I were your girlfriend, would you want me to talk to other men?”

He shook his head quickly. “No.”

You’d have to send them a fruit basket when this was all over.

You smiled. “See?”

He nodded slowly. “But… it would have been okay if you only talked to me.”

Hypocrite. Fine, Card Number Two again, if that’s what he wants, he can have it.

You smiled. “Well, I guess I could have… because it’s you.”

“Because it’s me?”

“Because you’ve been following me for so long.”

“I have…”

“I… I should have realized and made you a mod.”

His eyes lit up.

“I’m sorry for not realizing that.”

“You should have.” 

Card Number Three: agree with everything he says. You averted your eyes to your lap and faked sadness.

“I know, I should have.”

He nodded, confidence from the café seemingly returning. “I wouldn’t have had to find out who you were if you just talked to me.”

This is it. “How did you find out?--”

His eyebrows raised. Too far, you’re going too far. You combined all three cards into an attack you hoped would devastate him. 

“--I… I thought I hid myself so well from everyone.” You giggled. “I was just so… impressed.”

He looked at you.

You blinked demurely before pretending to be shy and turning away. Send his ass to the Shadow Realm.

You could hear him shift on the bench as he moved closer.

“I… I found an old account you had and it had a picture.”

BINGO. 

“You were beautiful.”

You did not care what he was saying at this point. 

“I fell in love with you.”

Never mind, maybe you did because: EW. If it was an old account that meant you were like, seventeen in the pictures; that’s fucking disgusting. You hid your displeasure and turned around.

“Really?” You asked with your best anime innocence.

“Mhm,” he nodded.

“How did you find me here in Seoul?”

“I used the geodata on the picture of Morn’s cat.”

“Wow, you’re so smart.” You smiled.

In your brain you were screaming internally. You hated that you hadn’t thought to scrub the data in the file itself. You wanted to lunge at him and strangle him with your bare hands, but you couldn’t. Not just because you needed the full confession - of which you realistically figured you had about 75% of - but because he was a lot bigger than you. Realistically, you didn’t know if you could.

You looked away again before looking back. He seemed to enjoy the drama. “But…”

“Can I ask you something?”

If he asked you out…

“Will you please go out with me?”

You blinked. You screamed internally. You blinked again. You had to back up. Plan B. Which you didn’t have.

“O-Oh.” You stammered.

His expression changed. Confusion.

“I don’t know if I can…”

“Why not?”

His voice sounded slightly dangerous, like he wanted you to think about your choice carefully before answering.

You looked at him blankly for a moment before smiling. 

“Because…” You let your voice drop back to its normal register, “How could I Iove a man who would do such things to me?”

“What?” 

He looked across your features before his expression took on one of anger. His hand found your forearm and gripped you there.

“What do you mean?”

“Ow…”

“What do you mean?”

   previous | main cast | masterlist | next

a/n: Ahh! What’s going to happen? Is anyone going to help?

Send an ask or leave a comment if you want to be added to the tag list! 🧋 Any comments, reblogs, or asks are appreciated! I love talking with you guys and seeing what you’re saying about the chapters, it keeps me going 🥰

@rachs-words • @stayatinykatsy • @dinossaurz​​ • @conwunder​ • @tinyelfperson​​ • @anythingrelatingtojinyoung​ •

[thebluewizardlives]

The Well

Summary: In the beginning of the Second Age, well before the rings were forged, a woman saves a Half-Elf and his party traveling to Lindon. She is rewarded with her destiny, and he, his.

Tags: a smidgen of agoraphobia

Chapter III: Tour

Ch: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

While awaiting Coirëamár’s call, Morinë began her work in the palace gardens, finding the Elven tools and facilities satisfactory. An attempt at focus was made but thwarted shortly thereafter by the presence looming in the doorway.

Standing at the garden’s threshold, Elrond stopped to behold her. Sat upon one of the marbled benches, her long cobalt robe draped across it. Thick tresses cascaded down her back in intricate braids and curls resembling the dark sea; crashing waves adorned with flits of gold. She appeared singularly focused on the small tome she was inscribing, eyes like pools of night scanning the page. Her features were regal yet poetic, the sunlight further kissing deep bronze skin and soft curves of her face. One could not deny there was a disarming air about her, recalling how peaceful it felt to even sit at her bedside as she’d recovered though worry crept in the moment he left.

“May I help you, my lord?” she asked with a twinge of annoyance, gaze remaining focused on her notes. After speaking with the High King, Morinë had already concluded it to be a matter of when Elrond might overstep in her work, not if. They had barely spoken, but he was an Elf, What more could be expected? Morinë thought matter-of-factly. They seemed a proud people.

After no response, she looked up to see him receive the greeting with a slight sting. With a small sigh, he turned, walking back towards the doorway. Just as she was about to speak, he reached down to grab a box she hadn’t noticed before but immediately recognized. Approaching, he placed it on the bench to her side,” As we began making our way back to Lindon, my company passed through what I believe was your worksite. The emblem on your cloak matched the emblem on this rather large valise. I presume it has your tools?”

“Yes— yes, it does. Thank you.” Morinë replied, relief and remorse tinting her voice as she met his softening gaze.

“Also, I am not a lord. Elrond is perfectly acceptable.”

“Oh, I see.” she replied with a hint of pleasant surprise. “Then thank you, Elrond.”

“You’re quite welcome. Though, I confess I did not come simply to return your tools,” he spoke after a beat. “I came to assure you that, while this may not be your ideal circumstance, I am grateful you chose it. Your aid saved lives that day, thus I owe you a great debt, Lady Morinë.”

Such sincerity or gratitude was unexpected, her brow furrowing for a moment. “I cannot claim to have saved you if I needed to be slung over horseback immediately afterwards,” she remarked with a scoff, a bit of embarrassment causing her to glance away. “And technically, I am not a lady—Morinë is quite passable.”

At this he seemed slightly offended,” If that is what you wish, Morinë, but I assure you we do not sling our allies over horseback, you were sat quite upright with me during our journey home. I would provide evidence, but it has been weeks since the stain from your rather sound nap was wiped from my chest plate.”

“Are you implying I was some drooling damsel?” she balked, turning to find the expression on his face was entirely unserious. Morinë rolled her eyes, attempting to maintain her cool countenance. “Besides, as you stated, there is no evidence to substantiate your dubious claims anyway.”

“Are you certain? If you do not trust my account, there are five other Elves who could certainly verify—”

“That is unnecessary.” her interjection betrayed by the noticeably lighter tone. A small smile graced his features, and she found herself reflexively focusing elsewhere. “So, now that that’s out of the way, I presume have you come to monitor me?”

“No, I have come to escort you, if you would allow it.”

Her eyes narrowed, “To where exactly?”

His smile remained, undeterred by her apprehension, “Lindon. While the palace gardens are magnificent, you have yet to see the kingdom you will be studying. It would be impossible to show its entirety to you today, but a brief tour to start might be helpful, don’t you agree? “He explained, extending a hand to help her up.

She paused for a moment at the gesture, before gracefully gathering the train of her robe, rising on her own. “I cannot disagree,” she replied, her chin held high as she regarded him,” let us survey your realm, briefly.”

He let out a small huff, a twinkle of amusement in his eye, “Of course, briefly.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though her guard did not lower, Morine listened intently as her guide lectured in poetry, finding the city and his rather commentary captivating. In truth, she could scarcely believe its beauty, its glow. Few of the kingdoms she’d visited on her journey could compare; the landscape and structures married perfectly together, every creature seeming in constant bloom. Even in a crowd, the air felt pure and light, the sounds of nature mingling with the chatter of the city. Yet through its noise, the sound of their feet stepping in time and the furtive glances of passersby fought for her focus. In what she convinced herself was an unrelated gesture, she offhandedly untucked a few curls, obscuring the roundness of her ears.

Elrond stopped talking for a moment, distracted by whatever she had been dutifully inscribing. Feeling eyes on her, Morinë instinctively shielded it from view shooting him an incredulous look. Though he had indeed been snooping, his brow raised anyway, “Forgive me for prying, but you are not accustomed to working with others, are you?”

“I am entitled to my own thoughts. I would like to see another try putting down roots when they live in a house that rarely returns to the same place,” she replied simply, her pen continuing to wick across the page.

A sympathetic look flashed across his face as they continued to walk in silence for another moment or so. Letting out a sigh, she turned toward him, an expectant look in her eye as she presented her work. “Ah,” he began with a small smile, gently taking it to inspect the rendering more closely, “The Fount of Erandir. You’ve captured its grandeur quite well. It was built shortly after we settled here in honor of one of our ancestors who sailed West—you can guess his name.” Morinë suppressed a chuckle as he continued, “It pulls from deep beneath the earth, far beyond any aquifers we’ve since discovered. Though its water is the purest of our wells, what it actually provides is something far more valuable.”

“And what is that?”

“Belonging. It reminds us of our connection to Middle Earth, though Valinor’s shores forever call.” He said, his mind going elsewhere before quickly returning to the conversation.

“Hm. Well, thank you. I suppose now I have a perfect caption for the figure in my notes then.” she responded, the warmth in her expression catching him off guard.

“Oh, of course, I’m happy to have helped, my la—Morinë”, he answered, wishing to continue their conversation but finding himself strangely flustered. Before he was able to investigate the feeling further, her tense air returned, catching his notice; shoulders tense and gaze set rigidly forward walking silently beside him. After a moment of confusion, Elrond quickly detected the cause of her sudden regression: they were walking through what must have seemed to her like a sea of Elven strangers; some staring in her direction, speaking in hushed voices as they passed. Now feeling scrutinized, Morinë chewed her lip, attempting to steel her expression. They had arrived in the city’s center, midday— it was the busiest time, in one of the busiest places and someone who lived a largely solitary life for years had been thrust into its watchful heart. Elrond knew those stares. He had felt them much of his life. Even now, after choosing to be counted amongst them, he remembered the way they lingered. He could only imagine how they felt to her now. “Could I show you someplace?”

“Are you not already doing that?” She countered coolly, though her eyes darted around warily.

“Someplace else.”

Anywhere else. She thought, though “If you insist,” is what she spoke aloud.

Tags: @valar-did-me-wrong

[batbux]

Alfred's Act of Love

Every Robin is at least a passable marksman.

Bruce hates the fact and fights it every time a new bird dons the uniform.

And every time, Alfred Pennyworth looks him in the eye and tells him, "I am not losing any more of you than I have to."

What defense could there be against that?

So a few months into each Robin's training, Bruce will look at them and tell them they have the weekend off... From him.

Alfred steps in at that point. They don't use the bat cave - Alfred knows the echoing gunshots (even muffled) will trigger his oldest charge. No, Alfred belongs to a respectable club and they have ranges for use. He kits his charges up in passably high quality clothes and packs a lunch.

His charges are spoiled little rich things to most of the world and he doesn't care to change that impression now. He chats with his fellows and talks up the Wayne brood's carelessness, ensuring that he'll have plenty of space. He takes them to the farthest end of the range and everyone else will spread the story of silly rich kids and they'll have peace.

It is an act of love when he carefully demonstrates how to disassemble and reassemble each hand gun he's brought.

(For the bigger guns he will manufacturer an emergency to take Bruce away from the house so they may make use of some of the sprawling Wayne property.)

Only when each child can field strip a gun in under a minute can they move onto firing the things.

Dick's only experience with guns came from trick shooters he met travelling around America with Haly's - they usually didn't last long because archers generally made better showmen.

Jason had mostly negative experience with guns, but he'd at least fired one before. Bashfully he explained that guns were a common commodity and as a younger lad he'd gotten one and went shooting cans down near the train yard.

Tim had actually been shooting with his father, but only with rifles because they went hunting with a client of his father's one year. Tim confessed that he cried when they actually bagged a deer, but Tim's aim was very good regardless of his misgivings.

Stephanie hadn't been allowed to come to the manor, much less spend idle time with Alfred when she was Robin. Nonetheless, when she stepped back onto the vigilante scene, Barbara made sure to send her his way. She was a good student and learned just as fast as any of his other charges.

Damian came to be Robin with the skills of a marksman already. Alfred had not thought he would be called upon to instruct him, but Dick surprised him by mandating that Damian's skills be validated by Alfred.

"It's tradition," Dick said later, after Damian had retired to his own quarters. "And one day he'll appreciate it."

There was no arguing with Batman, Bruce's or Dick's. So the very next weekend, Alfred packed a lunch while Dick and Barbara stressed to Damian that he behave around civilians and listen to every direction he was given.

Damian still complained the whole time, but years later he would recall the weekend with fondness. In time he would learn that everyone participated in Alfred's training and each of them valued it just as much as any lesson from Bruce.

Alfred couldn't follow them and keep them safe. Teaching them what he knew was the next best thing.

Every time a Robin, past or present, took aim, Alfred was there guiding their hand.

[danvolodar]

Pathologic and the Town's Russianness: 4

This part will deal with a relatively major topic in Pathologic - religion. Or, well, with the major discrepancy between religion in the Town and in historical Russian Empire.

Most of this post will be about the denizens of the Town, but let's briefly mention the Kin. They have a pretty clear-cut pagan religion, with multiple personified deities: Bos Turokh, Boddho, Suok (the difference with historical religions, of course, being the fact that the magic actually works in the Steppe). The state's apparent non-interference with them practicing their religion fits well enough into the Imperial policies of the early XX century. What doesn't is the lack of control. The Empire was very much a bureaucratic behemoth, it sought to control anyone who influenced the minds of its citizens. The Interiour Ministry had a Department of Spiritual Affairs, and its officials had their fingers in every pie, demanding the right to veto religious leader assignments in the local communities, paying state wages to those of these leaders who played nice, etcetera. However, apparently, the historical Department was chronically understaffed (to the point of its aforementioned veto rights being unenforceable), and the game is very reductive when it comes to the official state apparatus in general, so all in all, the way the Capital-based civilization treats the Kin religion is a passable fit for the Russian Empire.

Quite a different story with the majority religion. In the Russian Empire, Orthodoxy was de-facto a state religion. While ethnic minorities were allowed to practice their religions undisturbed (by early XX century, mind, that hadn't exactly been that way throughout the entire Imperial history), ethnic Russians were mandated by law to be Orthodox Christians. Not being a practicing Orthodox was literally a felony.

Historical precedent showed that even for a scion of one of the Empire's most noble families a single religious misstep could lead to fatal consequences: in the 1730ies, Mikhail Alekseyevich Golitsyn was forced to become a court jester for secretly converting to Catholicism to marry a German, his marriage was dissolved and he was ordered to remarry another jester.

Of course, quite some time had passed since that incident, yet the Church remained intimately intertwined with the state. The semi-independent Patriarchate was replaced as its governing body with the Most Holy Synod, a state organ with mixed clergy and layman membership, during Peter I's reforms, which factually made the Church a part of the state apparatus. Ever since then, caesaropapism remained the norm. The Church had multiple functions that nowadays would only be expected of the state, such as birth registrations or running primary schools. A church was an essential part of any settlement, the presence of one differentiating a small hamlet (деревня, derevnya) from a village (село, selo). Vital events such as marriages or burials could only be done through the Church (and since the Old Believers could not participate in the Nikonian rituals, bribes from them sometimes formed a large part of parish incomes). The Church as an institution - much like the other parts of the Imperial state machine, - was facing a crisis of confidence by the early XX century, but common folk were still expected to regularly come to service, confess and receive communion. The faith became so ingrained into the language that even the Soviet militant atheists could not remove all the "thank god"s and "help god"s on every occasion from it (starting right with thanking someone: the word for "thanks" in Russian is spasibo - спасибо, literally means "god sav[e you]") .

None of that is present in Pathologic. There is not a single church in the Town, apparently - not even family chapels. References are sometimes made to religion, and that implied baseline seems to be Orthodox Christianity, but nothing indicates anyone in the Town is an active, practicing believer. The game actually takes it to a hilarious degree: in the Diurnal ending, when Saburov tells Artemy that Katherina is going to bring Cathedral back to life, he shoots back: "Just tell me she's not religious. Anything's better. Even a second plague".

To be fair, the educated class being fashionably atheist matches the late Empire well enough - both because of the aforementioned crisis of confidence in the Church, and because of the general naïve positivism of the era. Dankovsky is pretty stereotypical in that regard (and his talk of angels does not really contradict that atheism, or even hints at him being brought up a Christian, to begin with, given that there are of course angels in Judaism).

However, just like the Soviets, IPL apparently haven't been able to get rid of Orthodox sentiments altogether. A remarkable example is a dialog snippet with Big Vlad, when he's in the Termitary and Capella is dead (if memory serves). The only thing he says to Artemy, essentially, is "forgive me if I have ever wronged you": a very Christian repentance before death. One of Artemy's dialog options then is even more so. In the English translation it's "God is merciful", the Russian original is literally "God will forgive": a characteristic non-answer which sounds like a blessing, but actually means something like "God will forgive [you, but I will not, despite you asking, because Lord's mercy is without limit, while mine isn't]".

Finally, time to mention the elephant... well, animal... steppe creature... in the room - Clara and her sainthood. Ironically, that is the most Orthodox plotline in the game. Just like the other Christian denominations, Orthodoxy recognizes multiple modalities of sainthood, which of course has to do with it being, like Catholicism also, two different religious practices in one coat: one for the monks, the other for the laymen and the clergy who have not taken up the vows. Saints can come from both parts of the divide, they just need a feat for the betterment of the faith and the humanity at large: a martyrdom, or converting a large number of non-believers, or protecting the Orthodox flock from depredations... The Changeling, however, can be understood as a yurodivy - an Orthodox saint that is a fool for Christ, that is, operates outside the usual societal norms on direct divine inspiration. Usually coming from laymen stock, such saints don't earn their veneration by following the canons of monastic or even layman life, but rather, submit themselves to God immediately. Clara's "God reveals himself to people by my hands" is a 100% hit on that modality: it's not her performing miracles by God, but God revealing himself to the world through her. It is, in a way, like the Sufi mystics seeking to suppress the nafs (ego) to reach communion with God.

Then, of course, comes the blood sacrifice. Well, I don't think there's a long explanation needed here on why this is not an Orthodox Christian idea. Yes, the sacrifice of Jesus redeemed the Original sin, but Jesus is God. One cannot be saved by another man's sacrifice in Orthodoxy, much less by turning another man into blood sausage. Yes, repentance is commendable (based on Luke 15:7), and sacrificing yourself for others' sake, too (John 15:13) - so the Humbles themselves can be seen as repentant sinners; but there can be no justification for these who slaughter them. Worse still, establish a process of slaughtering them, requiring ever more victims. That, naturally, runs against the foundations of Orthodox Christianity (the sixth commandment).

So, to sum this part up. The way the Capital treats the religion of the Kin passably resembles what the Russian Empire could've done; the atheist educated class also fits the mold. But the rest of the game's setting, particularly the lack of day-to-day organized Church presence in the Town, could not be any further from the historic Imperial society. Similarly, Clara's sainthood in itself fits into the religious life of the Empire well enough; but the Humbles ending absolutely destroys it.

[sim-ply-lilacs]

My dearest friend Irene,

In the months that have passed since my wedding, I have been surprised time and again by what it is to be a wife.

To my unending delight, I have discovered that what the bitter old gossips said is not true. My husband not only tolerates, but actively enjoys my company. Dear Josef would be outraged, I think, to hear I'd once been told that I would do well to find a deaf husband, so I could chatter on without driving him to distraction. Many days, we find ourselves distracted from work in the fields by our own good humor. I must confess—I find a great deal of enjoyment in making him laugh!

Lest you think us to be a lazy bunch, I must tell you we work quite hard on the farm! Mother and I have set ourselves to learning many new skills, so we might be useful to the running of things. There is no room for the lazy here! After all, when most of one's income is dependent on infrequent harvests, one must find ways to supplement one's income in the interim.

Josef has taken to helping the local fishermen with their catch in exchange for a few coins to keep us in ribbons and shoe polish, and I am proudly selling some of our milk and eggs every day to the general store. The grocer is kind enough to charge less interest on our account in exchange, and his wife and I get on nicely.

Mother, however, has made the most surprising shift of all! She has always done her little fancy things—she used to win those blue ribbons for her embroidery, you know. Lately, however, she has become a student of woodworking! Her knife blocks and little figures take in tidy sums at the market we travel to in neighboring Henford once a week to sell our wares, and I'm thrilled to see her getting recognition. At the least, it keeps her mind off of Father's passing. That is hard to do most days.

As for me, you'll be pleased to know that I am no longer the sad little wretch who could not boil an egg that I was when we met on Papa's business trip to San Myshuno. I am learning to cook! I have baked bread without poisoning Mother and Josef several times now, scrambled eggs without dropping in their shells, and stumbled my way through a passable stew or two that my dear man ate without complaint.

He never intended to be a farmer, my Josef. Before his father died, he'd intended to be a professor of music in Austria, but to care for his mother and brother, he took over farming the land from his father. When his mother also passed, he came here. As I understand it, an uncle of his and his brother Franz operate the property now. He still regrets not finishing his education, but he is a marvelous farmer. As if it were knowledge granted to him from God, he plants things together that grow better than they would apart. Some may say it's because we are blessed to have good soil, but I know it's more than that.

I am impressed watching his keen mind at work most especially in the quiet moments. Sometimes, we fish together in Henford when we go to market, and he tells me all about the composers he studied.

Papa took me to the opera, once. Did I ever tell you that? I thought there could be nothing more beautiful this side of heaven. Nothing was—until I listened to my love tell me about Schubert, about Bach, and of Mozart. Sometimes, he will sing to me. Josef has a beautiful baritone. It is rich like the honey our bees make and just as sweet. I am convinced I must cajole him to join the church choir, but for now I am content to keep him to myself. Perhaps that is selfish of me, but is it not a wife's prerogative to keep her husband to herself?

Even more than our fishing and our singing, I enjoy our time alone in the evenings—not in that way, you cad (though I do now enjoy that quite a lot, thank you very much. Your advice on the subject was invaluable).

Every night, we sit by the fire in our little parlor area after we eat a dinner whose quality varies by the day, and talk about any and everything we desire. Mother retires early in her grief. I am saddened by this, but choose to be optimistic. You see, friend o' mine, this means we are free to be true newlyweds and sigh and dream over the future, whispering our sweet nothings, or merely gazing at each other like cow-eyed courting youths at the parish picnic. Having done so little of that in my own schooldays, I like to think I'm making up for lost time. It is so much more delicious to be silly and love struck when one no longer requires a chaperone!

Oh, how I love this man! He loves every bit of me, even the absurd little bits that I should discard as the respectable matron of Idyllwind Farm (the fanciful name I have christened our patch of earth with), and together we love this life of ours. Do write back, and tell me you and your family will move out here to Brindleton. You must! Leave that horrid city behind and come work this good land. I swear to you, I have never been so happy in my whole life as I am right now. You and yours must come and share in my joy. Only one, small blessing could make me any happier.

(I pray we shall be blessed with one soon.)

Yours, Mrs. Beatrice Moody

Prev ~ Next ~ Beginning

[meet-me-at-our-place]

@jaehyunite

Oh my...

Je suis tellement timide que je commence en français.

Avant tout, merci. J'aimerais aussi être ton ami, et je suis désolée de ne pas t'avoir envoyé de message privé, mais j'étais si timide. Tu as l'air d'être un homme parfait 😙 J'essaie de rester calme, mais Jaehyun a toujours les meilleurs admirateurs.

Je n'ai jamais été aussi audacieux, alors je vais me calmer, mais j'accepte toujours ton offre d'amitié.

Now back to English, thank you so much for requesting sweetheart and I hope this ship made it to you at the right time and that you like it! And I haven't spoken French in a hot minute so I hope it's passable haha. I promise I will actively talk to you and be a friend or mutual, I just wanted to use this ship as a way to ask if we could be friends. I was actually spending so much time trying to word this in a way where I wouldn't seem like a simp.

I'll stop rambling so enjoy and I hope you're having a good day!

There is something so right about shipping you with Minho. Sometimes love lacks its loud and boisterous ways yet it’s still the truest type of love you could ever feel when looking at someone.

This is the case for you and Minho, so much could be said in a look and Minho’s deep brown eyes hold all the answers to your questions. What I’m saying is that there is such confidence in your relationship, you both know that you are each other’s ideal and that no one would be able to change how you feel about each other.

It started as a deep relationship, one born from mutual soul searching and it only got deeper overtime. Minho was all too prepared for this to be a ride or die situation, he just knew that he would want to stay with you for what could be the rest of his life.

Since this is an overall ship, I definitely took into consideration how amazing you would look with Minho by your side (you don’t need him to look attractive, but you do look good as a couple if you get what I mean).  

Both of you possess this air of confidence, a knowing smirk, and while it could seem obnoxious it isn’t in this case. Both of you have what could only be labelled as charm.

While there are some mutual features that make you both seem mature and well beyond your years in personality and intelligence there is still such a pretty contrast between you. We all know Minho has such cold, ice prince-like visuals but somehow you make him look so young, wide-eyed, and youthful.

It’s literally so crazy how you make him look like the naïve princess of the relationship. Again, he isn’t but it is just so amazing pretty both of your visuals are.

You on the other hand look like the definition of the handsome boy next door, this might sound odd, but your visuals seem humbler? Quieter almost? Then the average person. You’re mysteriously pretty and your visuals alone say so much about your personality. Combine this with Minho and you have a match made in heaven.

Now back to the more wholesome written part of your ship.

Everything you said about your personality and your hobbies lines up with Minho’s energy, he may not have the exact same interests but everything that you are, everything you like, creates a sense of stability for Minho.

The combination of your love of vintage or classical things and your love of the commonalities of life creates such a nice atmosphere for you to share what you like or dislike about life. This also relates to the fact that Minho absolutely adores your critical nature. Minho is also a pretty blunt and honest person, and he feels so comfortable in a relationship where you can both speak your minds without any extra judgement. He actually encourages you to just let it all out, because amongst everything you say there might be a confession of love.

Another thing to add to the wholesomeness meter is the way you spend time with each other.

Minho really feels like he is living his best domestic life when you go out to a café and have a coffee, or better yet sitting at an airport with you when you’re resting between travelling with a hot coffee or tea and the ambience of people going about their lives.

Somehow overhearing the lives of strangers helps to ground you and reminds you that amongst the millions of people in the world you were able to find each other.

It was so hard to ship you with just one person so I just wanted to say I also really ship you with Baekhyun (EXO), Taeyang (SF9) and Kihyun (Monsta X).

[psychewritesbs]

Hello, so far do you feel satisfied with how Gege handled the 10S technique? Like, there's so much abilities in this series that's really cool in concept that's just being thrown away before we get much showcases of it but I always thought Gege at least had better things in mind with 10S.

This is not even about whether or not Megumi is coming back to showcase it. It's the fact that there's a possibility what we'll get are only half of the shikigamis left in his arsenal. Like forget Mahoraga, but we didn't even see Mourning Tiger, what it looks like or what its abilities are. It just got namedropped and got destroyed alongside Agito. Not to mention the rather underwhelming showcase of this technique in the Gojo vs Sukuna fight. I know Sukuna focused on Mahoraga's adaptation that's why he was purposely tanking hits and mostly used Maho. But what was even the point of Agito? Was it made only to serve as a distraction? If so, was it worth sacrificing Madoka Deer, a shikigami that could have helped him heal much faster? He couldn't think of another way to distract Gojo while he copies Maho's slash? Like say, summoning a huge Nue that rains lightning bolts the same way he did before while he recuperates in the shadows?

There's also the problem with how vague Gege had been with the 10S. We aren't clear with its rules cause apparently even the passing of a shikigami's abilities works differently. Can certain shikigamis only pass their abilities on a particular shikigami? Is Maho's adaptation passable then?Why doesn't Mahoraga spam its adaptation-acquired abilities? Why didn't Mahoraga go for Gojo's head the two times it bypassed his infinity? Does it retain all of its attacks/quickly forgets it after it throws it out? Does it need to be told what to do? What happens when all shikigamis are destroyed? Does the technique reset? Or does Megumi get left with only his shadow abilities?

Idk, maybe Gege is cooking something. But depending on how he proceeds with the 10S in particular I'd be sorely disappointed.

And I'm sorry if you're not interested as much in this topic. If so, pls feel free to ignore my ask. It's just, for me personally, I've always noticed a callous handling with Megumi's character (if you disagree it's fine), but this one has been particularly infuriating.

anon.

I love your ask.

Welcome to jjk confession Sunday, not on a Sunday.

Today we ave a case of "anon, you're too smart for your own good!" because these are all fair points 🤣. I don't even know what to say lol.

Honestly, I just loved all of your questions so much because you had me nodding right along with you lol. You had me feeling like I should burst out with a pen and paper and start a formal letter of complaint to send to the cat--the letter would obviously start with "monsieur, please bring Megumi back or there will be consequences". where consequences is just me screaming into the void about it on the internet.

There are really good quotes that I've recently ran into that I thought were super relevant to how much more untapped creative potential 10 shadows has as a technique, to the point that it is bound only by the imagination of the caster (starting with Gege). I'll look for the quotes another time and will share them.

Thanks for the thoughts anon!

[vierandancer]

lucia \ o /

Send me the name of a canon character from a fandom I associate with (or know) and I'll try to write them!

What made a home a home?

Lucia goe Junius could barely remember her parents' faces, and even Livia's had become little more than a blur of features similar to her own. But what was the fate of a Garlean child if they did not wholly dedicate themselves to the Empire? To their country. To their homeland.

She had been sent away on a mission, having proved herself a capable spy: to travel across the sea to the land of eikon-worshipping savages, to infiltrate the sacred Vault of the Holy See and seek relics that would aid Garlemald's conquest. She did not know what said relics would look like or even what they were for, but of course she knew better than to question.

Everything fell into place. Amidst the chaos of Dalamund's fall and the ongoing fight against Nidhogg's horde, the proud knights of Ishgard were not as choosy with their recruits as they would like others to believe. They needed bodies to throw at their enemies. Lucia barely had to do more than say she volunteered for service, making up a passable background for herself as a child of the Brume seeking glory.

How could she have known that that lowly background would have put her Aymeric de Borel's command? That being labeled as unwanted fodder meant being handed off to an infamous bastard son, as most did not believe him fit to lead a command? It did not take long for her to hear whispers of his infamous reputation, and she had pondered what kind of man he would turn out to be. Surely the pressure placed upon him, the unfairness of it all, would cause him to snap one day. And when he did, she could take advantage of his weakness if need be.

That was what drove her to present herself the perfect, supportive little soldier to her commander. To do whatever he asked, to 'trust' in him completely, and even to mutter in his 'defense' when others were particularly snide. But never did he do more than express appreciation for her, never did he take the bait and wish harm on others. Lucia could not comprehend why. So, in order to help achieve her mission, she made an effort to better understand him.

In doing so, however, she found herself unable to find reasons beyond the fact that he was simply a good man. A man of honor and dedication whose ideals guided him above his unfortunate circumstances. She tried to imagine what it would have been like for him in the Garlean army, but could not. And after a few years, Ser Aymeric was granted the title of Lord Commander -- and she found herself genuinely happy for his accomplishment. Proud, even.

"I would prefer no other at my side as my second-in-command, Lucia. Please take your time to consider the offer."

It felt like she had been run through with a sword. Mainly because she desperately wanted to accept that offer. But what right did she have? She was a spy. A liar. And yet there was something about how Ser Aymeric led and spoke to his troops that made her feel like she had been raised in Ishgard, was a citizen, and dedicated to the Holy See as if it were her own.

She was conflicted for a time, but finally came to a conclusion. No matter the result, she would come clean to her Commander, and clear her conscience.

"Lord Commander."

"Lucia. Have you come to a decision?"

"I have," she hesitated. "But before I give you my answer, Ser Aymeric, I must also provide you with a confession." This was it. No matter his reaction, she would accept his sentencing without resistance.

She removed the circlet she wore to hide her Garlean third eye and set it on his desk across from him with a slow, shaky exhale. He tensed, but otherwise did not react.

"My true name is Lucia goe Junius. I was sent to Ishgard as a spy for the Garlean Empire with the intent to infiltrate the Vault." Which she had had a few opportunities to do in the past, and yet always found a reason not to. Ser Aymeric would know this. Would it matter? "I slipped into your ranks and aimed to grow close to you over the years so that I could betray your trust."

She dropped her chin and closed her eyes. Shame. She felt ashamed to admit all of this. Truly, her love for Garlemald had dwindled to nothing but memory.

"But in my efforts, I found myself inspired and drawn to your leadership. I found myself warming to Ishgard not at as an enemy's country, but as a place I could call home. And although I do not agree with how the Holy See is always run, I can recognize that your people are simply that. People. People with equal capacity for both good and evil, and not the vicious savages that Garlemald would have me believe." She was shaking. She curled her fists tighter to still herself. "I would very much like to accept the position of Second-in-Command at your side, Ser Aymeric. But I am your enemy and -- and more than anything," Years of suffocated emotion dared to break free in this moment, her voice wavering. She was frightened and dejected and desperate for forgiveness that he had no need to grant her. "If I did, and -- and my identity were to be discovered, I realize how poorly that would reflect on you, so..."

She offered up her wrists.

"If you would rather I be arrested and tried as a criminal, I understand. But please believe me when I say that I have not wished harm upon you or Ishgard or even Eorzea in a very long time."

[sincerelystuggling]

Andrew basically embodies all the things Aaron couldn't do for himself. He couldn't get away from his mom, that's his mom, he was a child, what he knew was that she was supposed to love him, he should have been cared for but he wasn't. Then he meets Andrew thinking, maybe, maybe my brother will be better. Instead, he is told to fuck off and doesn't understand why. Doesn't think he can accept the answer when he tries, and when he doesn't get an answer at all, lashes out about it.

Aaron too, high off his ass, not wanting to be, is forced into rehab speedrun by his dead faced unbothered jailbird twin, who by idk sheer will refuses full inebriation despite all the alcohol and drugs, who knows his limits, who Aaron now keeps seeing drugged beyond the heavens by court order and still seemingly, according to Aaron, is entirely unbothered.

Not to mention, Andrew, criminology major for the bit, who may or may not have perfect test grades (I doubt that man does homework his overall grade may be just passable), without ever paying attention to anything, who could recite every rant Aaron has ever made about whatever medical text he is despairing over, who may have even taken one of his tests for him as a bet or because Aaron was passed out from a night before and still got a better score than Aaron would have.

Plus, who knows (I forgot), was Aaron headed to college before Andrew made the deal to join the foxes? Does he feel like Andrew got him into college overall? They fit the Fox criteria sure, they weren't bad players, but it had been said Aaron and Nicky were kind of just add ons to Andrew's deal. Andrew, greatest goalkeeper in colligate class I exy, chosen for the fantasy Olympic team fresh out of juvie and his add on relatives.

Aaron has to see him as a monster. Aaron cannot take being less worthy than a murderer. Cannot fathom killing someone out of necessity to love until it happens. Until he tantrums his way into a confession from the brother who he wants desperately to have been there for him as he thinks a twin should have been.

Aaron sees himself as less than his brother in every major aspect except for simply being human. So yes, Andrew has to be a monster to him. He is a heartless self-sabotaging unsalvageable drug addicted murderer, up until Aaron has no choice but to think that description fits them both and that maybe, except that last one, that description was wrong.

just making things up rn—but I'm intrigued by Aaron having a ton of self loathing. I know growing up with a mom like Tilda and an absent father is BREWING grounds for that type of mentality. And I also wonder how (if it exists) it plays into his relationship with Andrew.— likeee Aaron misinterpreted the reason Andrew killed Tilda, not even considering he only did it because he was keeping his end of the deal. and using the fact Andrew is such a monster to feel superior while also justifying his self hatred, because he might be bad but Andrew is worse. YK, just Aaron constantly seeing the worst in Andrew because that's what he sees in himself.

pls add on , i need content

[byliever]

🥀?

Finally decided to go through my asks after FAR too long and came across this.

**Cue me having to scroll back on my page until I could find the context for this**

And then I found it and...

🥀-favorite angst quote from a published work.

...Y'all, I'm a fluff writer. To quote a severely overrated movie, "we don't do that here." I don't do angst. Combine that fact with the confession that my writing skills are passable at best, and I'm lucky if my stories make people feel anything beyond "aw, that's cute!"

I guess if I had to pick one...

"'Will, it was s-so horrible! Every d-doubt and bad thought I've ever had about myself and it was all coming from you!'"

This is from Doubts, one of my older stories in which Mike has a nightmare where he reimagines the shed scene from Season 2, Episode 8, "The Mind Flayer."

It made me tear up when I was writing it, so I'm including it. I hope this satisfies whoever sent me this (assuming they're still following/watching my blog).

[adrunkgiraffe]

I have been through this journey before, so I get to be actually frustrated about it.

IUnder a read more because im not subjecting y’all to this. Also: I should caveat I haven’t watched the episode cause I’m waiting till its on Netflix but I have watched way too many other episodes of Supernatural so I have a right to say these things. 

TL;DR: I mean you all knew Cas’ confession was fucking bullshit and that SPN is...hm. But I’d like to actually express my genuine frustration, for a moment? I’m going to say things you already know, but I have too much knowledge of this show and too much stupid meta in my brain about a series I haven’t genuinely enjoyed for at least 5 years which makes this not just blandly bad but disgustingly insulting to me not even as a gay just as like. A writer?

Or, even shorter: Cas’ confession is just a Charlie Bradbury Speedrun 

So. As some of you may know if, for some reason, you followed me back in 2013 (and till...okay fine 2015), I used to be, uh. Really into SPN. Really, I was into Destiel. Like, as in, I slogged through seasons 1-3 to get to Cas and am also really vulnerable to the Sunk Cost Fallacy and projecting onto characters. (I was in 8th grade in 2013, okay? Get off my back)

Also, because I monopolised use of the TV, I kind of...also got my parents into it? In a “this is silly but fun” kind of way.

Over time, critiques of the show from viewers, learning what queerbaiting is at all, fatigue with how long it was going, and also fatigue from how characters I enjoyed, like Rufus, or Crowley, or Ellen, or Jo, or Kevin, or Charlie, or Cas a few times, kept getting killed off. As time went on, it didn’t escape my notice that, aside from Cas, all of these characters fit one or more of the following criteria:

They were a woman

They were a person of color

Were Queer or Queer-coded in some way (listen Crowley was bad rep but at least Mark Sheppard actually kissed a man on screen)

I also just...generally got tired of the way the show treats women and sidelines people of color. 

The final straw really came with Charlie’s death. It got us all excited, because she hadn’t been back in a bit! And it was interesting to see how reuniting with her dark side from Oz had changed her! (yeah remember the fucking Wizard of Oz storyline? The writers sure don’t!) And maybe she’d get developed! Because at this point, Charlie and the fairly good writing of her character was a major upside for the series! Charlie was cool, fun, gay, and morally complex in a way...none of the female characters had been before her, in large part because by definition, her relationship with the boys would always be platonic.

And then. Offscreen. She is violently murdered. For no damn good reason. Like, literally, her being brought back in this episode after fucking off to europe after having returned from fucking off to Oz seems to have filled two purposes in total. 

The codex is solved (but Sam doesn’t know till next episode)

Charlie is dead, which means Dean can be angry, specifically at Sam, and kill more people because he’s the big bad this season. 

That’s it. Two things. Twooooo whole reasons to do this episode. Whoopee. 

But you didn’t come here for this, you came here for me to rip this reveal to shreds. Don’t worry, I’ll get there. What I want in your minds is that Supernatural already had a really good anddynamic queer character. And then they killed her off to make Dean angry. No, it doesn’t matter that they brought her back in season 13 or whatever. They made that decision. 

After the rage this incited, I started realizing general flaws in the writing (I had probably already noticed them but now I was angry enough to complain.) Every conflict is born of Sam and Dean not communicating/taking on burdens and Dean being angry at Cas for reasons that ranged from good to ridiculous, but in a way that always went way too fucking long, (which...yes, does make the “you do it for love” gifs fucking hilarious). It didn’t help that seasons 11 and 12 were next, which meant Demon Dean and GOD’S FUCKING SISTER, plus the decision to resurrect Mary, which, while I do like her later scenes, as a season 12 finale it...well I’ll be honest it kinda sucked. It undercut the majority of the Winchester’s’ arcs and their slow and painful journey out of their father’s toxic vengeance quest and knowing Mary as a person when it’s too late to know her was one of the last semi-compelling grounders of the narrative. 

By this point it was a hate-watch for my parents and I.

So then, I’m at college, and I’m not watching anymore cause I don’t have the motivation or access to Hulu to continue, and SPN is bad. I watch the Scooby Doo crossover when it comes out and my friend and I make fun of it, and we also continue making jokes about Dean and Cas and queerbaiting because we’re queer, but I don’t keep up. My Dad does though, so when I return, I watch some with the fam and lads. It’s even more tiring without context. 

So flash forward to Quarantine, my sister, the only one with taste, has left, and we have run out of netflix to watch. So we return to the well, and seasons 13-14 are. I’m gonna say it. Bad. Really fucking bad. The cycle of bad communication continues, season 14 has like seven antagonists and the way it’s structured makes it so I literally cannot remember the timeline of a season I watched 3 months ago. Oh also, they have a queer coded cannibal snake monster for...well I guess Jack’s snake bud was cool but like. Huh wow it’s almost like these writers don’t handle queers well. 

Our one saving grace is Cas, but he’s barely in any episodes, though I did note that his deal with the empty, being happy completely for one moment killing him, that struck me as “this has potential and I know they’re gonna half-ass it somehow.” Also Jack and Mary, but then oh...plot….The most compelling it gets is literally the finale.

But then, 3 days later, the first half of season 15 comes out on Netflix and it’s...actually kind of acceptable. The new character they give Jack’s actor is fun to watch him play until they make him evil. Exploring just how toxic Chuck can be gave the series direction again. The alternate future was genuinely scarring, and Eileen’s return was genuinely moving. Most of all, though, Cas got the opportunity to tell Dean no, that Dean was being unfair to him, had always been unfair to him, and he was sick of it. I had no illusions, I knew Destiel was never gonna happen, and Cas was gonna die, but giving him that bit of agency, letting Cas grow and be self-sufficient, and be angry with Dean not for existential reasons but interpersonal ones, was such a good sign for me, and Dean grew too! Dean fucking apologized for being horrible and Jensen Ackles had a...yknow what, ill give it to him, he had a good acting moment. 

But the thing. About. The “I love you.” 

Let’s take it in parts.

What was good: I’m gonna admit it, lads, “Wanting what I can’t have” - AS A LINE - is good, and, structurally, there is something to the Empty Deal that could have been an interesting aspect of Cas’ arc when it comes to self actualization and being on even footing with Dean. The problem is, this is Supernatural, and that arc only comes up when I bring it up because character study, even in bad media, is fun for me. 

What was bad:

I mean. Like. All of it? All of it. 

Okay. Fine. I’ll be specific. 

Cas dies immediately when - possibly because- he is revealed as having feelings for Dean. They kill him as they queer him, that’s a Bury Your Gays Speedrun right there.

Like the least they could have done is have him mention it to someone in another scene or something to establish some romantic feelings on the part of canon a full episode beforehand. That would have been the literal bare minimum. 

When Cas starts praising Dean, for some reason both the writing and Misha’s acting take a bit of a downswing (from...where it already was). Cas, whose most powerful moment this season was acknowledging that Dean’s anger at him is cruel and unfair, flatly praises him for doing everything out of love and it reads with a misunderstanding of both Dean as a character and Cas’ understanding of Dean. Dean is angry! VERY ANGRY! And it’s a problem he needs to work on and rarely does. 

Talking out of my ass, a better speech would have been about how Dean is angry because of his love for Sam, family, and the people around him, how, for better or for worse, he can’t help but be angry on behalf of others, and that his journey of moving that tendency towards the better is what made Cas care so much. Guys this alteration to the metaphor took 2 minutes to write tops I am an Art History student and these are TV WRITERS WITH YEARS OF EXPERIENCE CAN YOU TELL THEYRE NOT TRYING YET? 

A better speech would, of course, have come out of a better series. My point: this part was half-assed. Poorly written. Wow it’s almost like the series is also poorly written. 

 Also, Misha is the better actor of the three(***OF THE THREE), but his choices in that scene are jarringly out of character which. Makes the bad writing worse. It doesn’t help that they cut to the same fucking shot of Dean 3 times. The chemistry in that scene makes it feel so fucking hackneyed. Because it is. 

This combines lead me to the point: (wait there was a point to this?)

As someone who does not have the luxury of watching this capsized ship fall into boiling seas from a distance, it is less insulting to me that they did this so last minute and then sent Cas to the Void than it is how they did it. They had ingredients for something that could have been compelling enough to me as a former fan of the show to think that they had put effort into it, that they had decided months, perhaps even years ago to do this, and had crafted a storyline around it. That this was an intentional decision they cared about. It wasn’t. It was barely even pandering, because it’s almost insultingly blatant. 

SPN kinda proved to me that it didn’t care about queers when Charlie was killed off. It proved it to me again when Cas, not only died in confessing his love for Dean but did it in the weakest result of what could have been a surprisingly strong story.

[solarwonux]

Business Proposal || knj (sneak peak)

pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au 

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love 

Warnings: slow burn, angst, namjoon is pretty much not the nicest dude lol (will add more as it progresses), kinda sugar daddy au but not really. It will make sense I promise.

w.c: 799

Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.” 

Release date: TBD

a/n: I’ve had this idea for a while, but I wasn’t sure if anyone would be interested in it so I decided to upload a little part to see if it sparks some interest. Let me know if you are interested in reading more. Thank you and Enjoy!

It was a stupid pact.

One that was created on a whim after five cups of coffee and two broken hearts.

“If we aren’t married in ten years time, let’s just marry each other.” You suggested; like it was the greatest idea ever. Your hands were shaking from all the caffeine you had consumed and your eyes were red rimmed and wide from all the crying you had done. It matched his own as well.

The problem was that he agreed, assuming that by the time he was thirty he’d be settled down with a beautiful partner, a dog or a cat and his first child on its way.

Except it hadn’t played out that way and the two of you had lost touch years ago because of a stupid fight that shouldn’t have escalated the way it did in the first place. All because you had confessed your feelings to him, and he didn’t feel the same. He thought your sudden outburst was uncalled for.

So what if he didn’t feel the same way? He was there for you, more than the people you went to high school with. He tutored you in biology and college algebra. While you edited his philosophy papers in exchange for a nice cup of coffee and dinner every Friday night.

But it was his lack of emotion that made you burst. And he couldn’t understand why you had accused him of leading you on for years. He always thought of you as a little sister being the same age as his step brother–Jungkook. Yet, you had read all the signs wrong and he couldn’t seem to understand that. From your point of view he had led you on. Made you catch feelings while playing into them every chance he got. He confided in you, the way lovers did. Never physically but always emotionally. Yet, after the argument and the many tears that you had shed, it was like you fell off the Earth’s surface.

Occasionally he would hear about you through Jungkook whenever the two of them went home to visit their parents on the weekend or during the holidays. And sometimes Taehyung and Jimin posted pictures of the three of you together. Pictures he knew were taken by Jungkook. But you were still the same. Plain and pretty enough to be considered passable but nothing special. Nothing that would make him feel attracted to you. But other than those few instances he didn’t really care enough to ask about you either. The less he knew the better. Sure, you were once his best friend. A person he trusted a lot, but that all flew out the window when you walked out of his life.

It’s funny because now he needs you. His parents are breathing down his neck, begging for him to settle down. And if he doesn’t bring someone home for the holidays. Then he’s fucked. His father is on his last lifeline. His lifelong dream is to have his first and biological son live a fulfilling life with someone by his side, seems less like a possibility as the days go by.

Namjoon is living on borrowed time and if he doesn’t at least show signs of settling down any time soon. He can kiss the large inheritance and his job at the private university his father has shares in–goodbye.

Which is why he’s here in Taehyung’s living room, staring at you from across the room as you laugh at something Jungkook has said. For a split second he wonders what could have you on the brink of rolling on the floor laughing. But he doesn’t care enough. You're his last resort and he needs a way to get you alone in order to bring up the deal the two of you made.

Afterall he’s turning thirty-two and you’re in your late twenties. It's absolutely the perfect time to cash in.

The only problem is that ever since he walked through the door of Taehyung’s apartment you’ve been avoiding him at all costs. Never straying away from the familiar air of your childhood friends Jimin and Taehyung. And when they’re not around Jungkook takes their place.

But Namjoon is desperate. And sometimes disparity makes you do things you least expect. Like considering you to be a placeholder until he finds the right one. Like planning to offer you a big sum of money to just come and act like the perfect little wife to be. And as an added bonus a guaranteed job at the university of your dreams.

One that will help you pay out the loan you took to attend the said university. It’s a win-win situation.

No matter what, by the end of the night you will be his. At least just to pretend.

[hollybell51]

ok i know you said requests are backlogged but i also read your sam winchester fic (oh my god???? so good!!!!!) and i noticed that you put dean on your tag list form and i am literally in love with him so if you get time could you do like a hurt/confort fic for him where the reader gets like seriously injured and tells him she loves him because she thinks she's dying and doesn't wanna die without saying it?

Anon you are in luck, the supernatural brainrot is still going strong. Also if you wanna be tagged in stuff make sure you submit responses to that form otherwise I don't know what usernames to put xx

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Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

Supernatural (2005)

Word count: 5.8K

Summary: hunting a ghost that only seems to attack young women, you volunteer yourself as bait. The plan doesn't exactly go to plan, leading to some confessions being made.

Content: ANGST. Angst, besties. Hurt/comfort, mainly hurt but there is some comfort there, whump (sorta), mostly Dean's perspective but still second person narrative voice (loml), probably bad characterisation but I think it's passable???? Sam is like the no. 1 Dean/you shipper, A+ wingman. Badly written emotional vulnerability but I tried I promise. Kissing, first kisses, "I love you"s, bit of blood but not too explicit, hospitals, etc. etc. Dean is a warning on his own but yknow what I love him. I may have missed some stuff so please don't hesitate to catch me on it!

Notes: ft. my freaking awful titles lmaoooo. This isn't really set during any actual episode, but I'm sorta working off only having watched the first two seasons so just assume it takes place somewhere around then. Also the more I watch this the more I just wanna grab him and put him in my pocket or something, it's so bizarre. He's so pretty. I love his cockiness, I love the little eyebrow thing he does, I love the little jaw thing he does. Sorry if I messed up any lore or anything, writing this was a fever dream but tbh I had fun, it's nice to just sorta write you know? Thanks for the suggestion Anon

“Guys, can you hurry up?” 

Dean glanced over his shoulder, frantically sprinkling fuel over the exposed corpse below. He couldn’t see all that much in the darkness, but it didn’t exactly look like you had the upper hand. None of them had realised how big the ghost was until now, and with the machete it was currently slashing at you…

“Almost there!” Sam shouted, striking a match and casting it into the grave. The remains went up with a “whoomp!”, the ghost howled and stumbled back. It was difficult to really know what happened in those few moments as the light from the burning remains glinted off the metal of the machete and the ghost shimmered and began to disappear, but what was clear was that something had happened to you. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, dropping your own weapon with a dull thud. You staggered, catching yourself on a headstone before your knees gave out and you sank to the ground. You were hunched over awkwardly, your shoulders heaving, hands clutched tight to your stomach. 

“(Y/N)?” Dean asked, frowning. Were you hurt? Just out of breath? 

“I’m alright,” you called. “Just… give me a second.” 

“Shit,” Sam muttered, dropping the salt and packet of matches and running towards you. “Dean!” he yelled as he knelt down, stripping off his jacket and balling it up, pressing it to your stomach. 

No, Dean thought. No, no, no, no. He was frozen, the can of fuel dangling limply from his fingers. He’d known using you as bait for a psychotic ghost murderer was a bad idea, even when you’d insisted that you’d be fine. It wasn't that he didn’t think you could handle it – he’d seen you in action enough times to know you were a force to be reckoned with – but he’d had a horrible feeling something was going to go wrong from the moment you’d laid out your plan. 

“He goes after girls, right?” You’d had an uncomfortable light in your eyes, all steely determination that Dean simultaneously loved and hated. Loved because, well, it was so you and it meant you were getting shit done, hated because more often than not you were putting yourself in danger. And yes, he was aware of the hypocrisy. 

He’d tried to talk you out of it, Sam had too. But once your mind was set – and set it was – no amount of convincing on anyone’s part could do anything about it. The second the idea had begun to form in your brain, the path was laid and there was no point trying to change that. 

“You better get over here man, quick!” Sam’s voice dropped, but wasn’t quiet enough that Dean couldn’t hear his next words, addressed to you. “Just hold on, Dean’s coming. Keep breathing, ok?” 

Fuck, that didn’t sound good. Dean’s limbs jerked back to life. He didn’t waste another second, sprinting the few metres through the forest of tombstones to where his brother was bent over you. 

“Don’t just stand there!” Sam yelled, one hand pressing his jacket to your stomach. “Help me!” 

It was like his body was moving on autopilot, kneeling beside you and taking over from Sam without any input from Dean himself. Dully, he noticed that there was already a warm, damp patch on the jacket, as well as a dark spot glistening darkly over your side. Shit. 

“I’ll be fine,” you’d insisted when he'd raised his doubts. “I’ve got you guys. You just burn the bones fast, I reckon I can hold him off for a few minutes.” Then you’d shrugged, grinning. “And if it all goes to hell, I know you’ve got my back.”

Yeah, fat lot of help they’d been. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“He got me on his way out,” you laughed bitterly. “Can you believe that? Halfway gone and he just–” You broke off, making a vague slashing gesture with your free hand. “God, I’m an idiot.” 

“No, no you did fine. We shoulda been quicker.” Dean assured you, pressing harder. “Sorry,” he muttered as you let out a pained whimper.

“‘Salright,” you grimaced. “My fault. Dean, I gotta–” 

“Shh, no, it’s fine. It’s ok, you’ll be ok.” 

You shook your head, tears mixing with the sweat on your face. He watched one trace a path through the dirt caked on your skin. “It’s important, please.” 

He shook his head. “The only thing that’s important right now is keeping your eyes open, yeah? Just… just do that.” 

“I’m calling 911,” Sam said. “Just stay there, don’t move.” 

“I’m not planning on taking off, don’t worry.” You smiled tightly, then your face twisted in what Dean thought was fear, panic even. It was like a punch to his stomach, he hadn’t seen you look that scared since… Well, ever. Your hand fumbled over his, trying to find something to grab. 

“It’s alright,” he told you, pressing on the jacked one-handed as the fingers of the other one twined with your own. “It’s alright, (Y/N).” 

“No, no Dean, you have to burn me. Make sure you salt me, uh… Sage, use sage too.” 

He felt the blood drain from his face, cold rushing through him. “What?”

“Please,” you begged, your voice breaking. “I don’t wanna hurt anyone. You have to get rid of me, ok?” 

Oh God. Oh God. Dean looked up, searching frantically for Sam. He was watching you while he talked to the emergency operator, his fist pressed against his mouth and his hand shaking where he held the phone. He met Dean’s eyes, shaking his head. 

“You’re not gonna hurt anyone because you’re not going anywhere.” Dean’s voice was blessedly steady, despite the uncomfortable lump in his throat. 

“Promise me,” you whispered, then shouted when he didn’t respond. “Promise me, Dean!” 

He gripped your hand tighter, your own fingers digging harshly into his flesh. “I promise you will be ok,” he said. 

You sobbed, your body heaving under the rapidly dampening jacket. That was way too much blood for Dean’s liking, and judging by the increasing urgency of Sam’s quiet conversation on the phone, he felt the same. 

Your panicked gaze locked on Dean’s face, tears coursing down your cheeks. “I don’t wanna go,” you choked. “I didn’t tell you. I can’t go.” 

Didn’t tell him what? It didn’t matter. He squeezed your hand in what he hoped was a more reassuring than painful way. “It’s ok, you’re not going anywhere, alright? You’re staying right here, I’ve got you.” 

“You’ve gotta listen to me, Dean–” 

“No, tell me later. Just hold on, save your energy.” 

“Dean–” 

“(Y/N) hold on!” 

“Dean!” 

“Dean, listen to her.” Sam had finished on the phone, the screen shining eerily on his face. At Dean’s raised eyebrow he gave a tiny nod. Yeah, there was an ambulance on the way. 

“Sam, she is not gonna die.” He shook his head, turning back to you. “We’ve got all the time in the world, ok sweetheart?” He searched frantically for something to say, anything to keep your attention. He was no doctor, but he knew it would be bad if you passed out. Very bad. 

“Uh… fuck.” He broke off, floundering. What would keep you awake? What could he possibly say after you’d just made him promise to get rid of your spirit once you were dead, which was not going to happen.

“It’s actually not a bad night,” he started, already kicking himself mentally. “Bit of a breeze. I guess it’s sheltered down there, you’ve got a nice, uh, headstone blocking it. Ground’s not too bad either, not too hard. Glad it’s not gravel, my knees’re killing me.” 

A watery laugh clawed its way from you before another sob wracked your body. “Dean, I gotta tell you…” 

“Can you see the stars from down there?” he asked, cutting you off. “I bet they’re bright out here. No light pollution.” He grabbed your hand as your fingers loosened their grip, dread settling like a stone in his stomach. 

Your eyes wandered away from his face, sweeping over the space behind him. You nodded, but the haziness that had slid over your face didn’t do anything to help Dean’s panic, especially now that you weren’t holding his hand nearly as tightly as you had been. 

“Wait,” he said, squeezing your fingers. “Just focus on me, keep looking at me.” 

Your eyes swung back to his. “Please,” you whispered. “Please Dean, listen to me” 

Sam’s hand settled on his shoulder, large and heavy. He nodded to your face when Dean glanced at him, and to his horror he realised there were specks of blood on your lips. 

He swallowed hard. He hadn’t realised, but this was probably one of the worst moments of his life. He’d entirely ignored even the possibility of you being injured, let alone dying – just thinking the word felt wrong – since you’d joined him and Sam, doggedly refusing to acknowledge the near physical ache the idea of your absence caused. Now it was happening, right in front of him. Heat prickled behind his eyes. 

He took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “Yeah, alright sweetheart. You tell me, I’m listening.” 

Relief washed over your face. “I wanted to say it,” you whispered, “before. I didn’t want it like this.” 

“It’s ok. Sh, it’s ok.” 

Your body convulsed under his hand with another sob, more blood leaking from the corners of your mouth. “I love you,” you choked. “I love you so much. I don’t wanna get stuck because I never told you.” 

Oh. Oh. Dean’s mind went blank, then crashed right back into his skull. It was like swinging on a swing, at the peak of the arc where you floated a little before you started going down again. Yeah, that was his brain in that moment. Of course you’d have the guts to say it when he didn’t, even if it was out of fear of becoming an angry ghost. He cursed the universe and its cruel sense of humour. He faced horrors beyond most people’s imaginations almost every day, but still couldn’t say three simple words when he wanted to more than anything, and now you’d taken the first step for him and it was because you thought you were about to die. Someone up there must have hated his guts.  

“I know,” he said finally, nodding. “I know you do. Hold on, ok? There’s an ambulance, it’s gonna get here any minute” It wasn’t what he wanted to tell you, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t make his mouth cooperate. 

You smiled, your grip on his hand all but nonexistent now. Your breathing was getting shallower by the second, your eyes unfocussed and no longer trained on his face. It was like now that you’d said your piece, you weren’t even trying to stay awake. He didn’t like to be too dramatic, but he was almost convinced that he was the one who’d been stabbed, not you. 

“No,” he whispered. “No, (Y/N), not you. Please, not you.” 

A wailing siren sounded in the distance, blue and red lights flashing rapidly brighter as the ambulance drew closer. 

“Just a few more minutes,” Sam said, pacing. His eyes never left your face. “Come on, (Y/N), any second now.” 

You were perfectly still, too still. Dean leant over, careful to keep applying pressure to your stomach as he listened for breath. The faintest hint of it brushed his cheek, not enough. He blinked hard, holding you against his chest, his face pressed into your hair. It still smelled like the cheap shampoo from the most recent motel, mixed with blood and dirt and sweat. It should have been disgusting, but to Dean it smelled so right. He wondered what that said about his lifestyle choices. 

“Please,” he whispered, his voice choked. “(Y/N)...” 

Your hand slipped from his, and it was like a damn breaking. He felt his shoulders jerk, something between a sob and a grunt torn from him. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, clinging so tightly to you he was half scared he was going to hurt you. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, (Y/N), I love you.” 

The siren was deafening as the ambulance skidded to a stop, Sam waving frantically to the paramedics swarming the graveyard. Someone pulled Dean back despite his protests. Cold stung his cheeks, the breeze from earlier having turned into a wind. It vaguely occurred to him that the reason it was so cold on his face was because he was crying. 

Everything was a blur as you were engulfed by uniformed paramedics, your limp form lifted onto a stretcher and born away into the vehicle. Someone tried to talk to him before Sam, uncannily put together and coherent, spoke to them and explained. There was a lot of nodding and “thankyou”s, then Dean was being loaded into the Impala like a little kid and Sam was driving like you were in the back seat instead of in the ambulance.  

All he was aware of at the hospital was Sam’s hand gripping his arm, muttering that he needed to pull it together “for her, man.” The harsh, clinical lights and the rush that everyone seemed to be in wasn’t helping Dean’s panic, every prone body he glimpsed taking on your face until he blinked and it was a complete stranger. What if the unthinkable really happened? What if you died, and he hadn’t been able to save you, keep you safe like you’d been so sure he would? What if you really did linger as a tormented spirit, what if he and Sam had to hunt you, get rid of you like you’d said? He didn’t know if he’d be able to do that. 

Finally, a serious looking man with a clipboard and a badge approached them. “Are you with the young woman–” he glanced at the clipboard, “(Y/N), who just came in?” 

“Yes,” Sam said quickly. “Yeah, how is she? Is she alright?” 

“She’s damn lucky someone put as much pressure as they did on that cut,” he sighed. “She’s lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable.” 

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking. 

“Thankyou,” Sam smiled. “Thank you, doctor. When can we see her?” 

He frowned at the clipboard again, tapping his fingers on the plastic. “Well she’s unconscious, I daresay she will be for a while yet.” 

“Please,” Dean interrupted. “I– we just need to see her.” 

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “You boys family?” 

“Brothers,” Sam lied at the same time as Dean said “husband.” 

“I’m her husband,” he went on, ignoring the little flip his stomach did. Somehow, the familiar lie felt different now that he’d told you how he felt, even if you hadn’t heard. “He’s my brother in law.” 

“Ok,” he shrugged, “but she won’t… Well, she was stabbed. There’s a lot of tubes, bandages, and she’s out cold. It might be…” He stopped, sighing. “Some people find it confronting, seeing their loved ones like this.” 

Dean felt Sam glance at him, but he ignored it. “Trust me,” he said with a tight smile, “I’ve seen worse.” 

He had not, as it turned out, seen worse. You were completely still apart from the gentle rise and fall of your chest, a thin cotton blanket pulled up and tucked in with clinical precision around your ribs. You had a little cut on your forehead that Dean hadn’t noticed at the graveyard. A drip trailed from the back of your hand to a cluster of bags suspended above you, a thin plastic tube wrapped around your head just under your nose. Oxygen, he assumed. If he ignored all that, you could have been sleeping. 

Sam pushed the door open softly, as if he was afraid he’d wake you up. Dean hesitated a moment, then followed him inside. Up close, he could see the light sheen of sweat on your forehead, the darkness under your eyes, the pallor of your lips and cheeks. He reached out to touch you, maybe lay his hand on your forehead or smooth your hair away from your face, but drew his hand back at the last moment. He didn’t want to somehow unbalance you from whatever tightrope you were walking right now, even though he knew that was illogical. Still, even breathing the same air felt somehow dangerous for you. 

“Did she tell you?” he asked Sam eventually. 

“That she loves you?” He didn’t give Dean a chance to explain that he hadn’t meant that, that he’d been talking about your fear of not-quite-death. “She never said it outright, but I sort of worked it out, y’know? You guys weren’t really that subtle.” 

Dean frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just…” He shrugged, gesturing vaguely between your prone form and Dean. “You’re always looking at her, when you think she can’t see you. She does the same. Always just sorta… doing little things for each other. And you’re always touching her, I don’t know if you realised.” 

“Huh. I didn’t.” It was true, although it didn’t really surprise him. He liked the little smile you gave him whenever he picked something up from a store for you – a favourite candy, something you’d mentioned you felt like – and he’d just assumed when you did similar things for him it was because you were, well, you. But now that he thought about it, he couldn’t name half as many times when you’d taken the same care and effort for Sam. Not that you’d neglected his brother, it was just… slightly less personal, less specially catered. He felt a surge of warmth for you, then a pang as his eyes landed again on your too-pale face. 

As for touching you, well, he wanted to. All the time. He wanted to put his hand on your shoulder, wrap his arms around your waist, hold you close and feel your heartbeat against his. Every brief half-hug or brush of your skin against his was something precious to him, so of course he’d want more. His mind flashed back to the tightness of your hand in his at the graveyard, the warm slick of your blood as you’d clung to him. Even that had been almost euphoric, past the raw terror and sickening dread. He was going to hold you like that again – under better circumstances – if it killed him. 

“Yeah,” Sam went on. “She’s the same, actually.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I remember this one time, Illinois, I think. We got a motel room with the longest couch you've ever seen. You sat down in the corner, and she comes and sits right next to you! When she’s got, like, another two metres of space to choose from.” 

Dean did remember that, actually. He remembered the rush he’d gotten as you’d squished up against his side, complaining that you were cold even though your skin had been warm to the touch. He still thought about it, sometimes. “Huh,” he said again. 

“Yeah.” It was silent apart from the beeping of your monitor and the normal hospital sounds outside the room, then Sam turned and faced him. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Dean shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have let her put herself out there like that in the first place.” 

“No, I was supposed to have her back. I shouldn’t have taken so long with the salt.” 

He wasn’t wrong, Dean knew that, but it had been him who’d agreed to your plan. You’d put your faith in him just as much as you had in Sam, and he’d let you down. He hadn’t liked the whole thing from the start, but still he’d gone ahead with it. And now here you were, lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and Sam was beating himself up about it. It was all so wrong, and Dean could have stopped it so easily. But as he looked at you, he swore he could hear you snorting derisively at him, crossing your arms with a firm “bullshit!” 

“It’s my choice,” you’d say. “You’re really gonna try to steal my credit?”

“She’d call bullshit on you, you know,” he said. 

His brother shrugged, nodding. “Yeah, you too probably. She’d poke you, right here.” He reached around and stuck his finger firmly in the middle of Dean’s chest, right where you’d done countless times. 

Despite himself, Dean smiled. Then your drip beeped and he was jerked painfully back to the present, and the problem at hand. 

“Did you know she was so scared?” he asked. “Of, y’know…” Dying. Haunting someone. Getting stuck here, not being able to move on. 

Sam didn’t answer for a moment, then he sighed, still looking at you. “She mentioned it.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Why didn’t she tell me? 

“She didn’t want me to. She thought you’d think… I don’t know, that she wouldn’t be able to do the job. She really didn’t want you to know she was scared, she was so worried about what you thought of her. She said you were…” He swallowed, cleared his throat, continued. “She said you were never scared, and she didn’t want you to think she was. Even when I told her we were all terrified.” 

“Damn right,” Dean muttered. You’d done a great job at putting on such a brave front, he’d sometimes wondered if there was actually something wrong with you. Or maybe not wrong, but different. He’d never known anyone who could handle the things they did so well, not even his dad. It was something of a relief to know that there was more to it. 

“She was convinced she’d be the type of person to get stuck,” he continued. “Kept saying she wouldn’t be able to move on, that she had too much that she was holding onto and she didn’t know how to let go.” He finally raised his head, looking at Dean with what he thought was pity. Any other time, that would have annoyed him. 

“That’s why she said it,” he muttered, the uncomfortable lump back in his throat. When you woke up, he was going to give you a serious talk about timing. 

Sam nodded. 

“And she didn’t–” His voice broke, and he turned away. He wanted to punch something, put his fist through the wall or slam his hand down on the table, but he was too scared it would somehow disturb you. “I didn’t say it back.”

“Woah, hey.” Sam’s hand was firm on his shoulder, steadying him. “You did, man. You did.” 

“I was too late! She was out!” 

“Yeah, and you can tell her again when she wakes up.” 

“What if–” 

“No.” Sam shook his head firmly, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder, anchoring him to the spot. “She’s waking up, and when she does you’re gonna ask her out on a proper date, she’s gonna say yes, and you’re gonna sort yourselves out like adults. Ok?” 

Dean looked away. The prospect of asking you out suddenly felt enormous. Of course he’d taken girls on dates before, he knew what he was doing, but that had been more along the lines of “I think you’re cute and you’re clearly into me, let’s get dinner and then we can hook up.” He’d never faced “I’ve been pining over you for months and I was too scared to do anything about it but you almost died and told me you loved me – love, not like – and I have no idea where this is gonna go but Sam’s right and asking you out is probably the best next step even if it’s absolutely terrifying”. He was a total mess, and he knew it. 

“Ok?” Sam asked again, insistent. 

“Ok,” he agreed. “Ok.” 

“Good.” 

You didn’t wake up until a day later. Well, that was according to the time and date displayed on the clock opposite your bed. Dean didn’t really have any recollection of time actually passing. 

He was slumped in the chair beside your bed, your hand held gently in his own as he dozed. He hadn’t let himself fully sleep since you’d been brought in, too afraid that something would happen while he was out, despite all Sam’s urging. Eventually he’d just sent his brother back to the motel, assuring him that he’d be fine on his own and that he wanted to be there for you when you came around. 

He jerked out of his half-nap when your fingers twitched, cursing when his pain stabbed through his neck. Snoozing in hospital chairs was never a good idea. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, frowning at the ceiling. 

Dean cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. “(Y/N)?” 

You turned, your face clearing when you saw him. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart skip a beat. “Dean,” you whispered. “What’re you doing here?” 

He shrugged, making to withdraw his hand, but your grip tightened. “I’m the ‘welcome back’ committee.” 

“Oh.” You nodded, smiling softly. You ran your free hand over the bandage circling your waist, studying the IV embedded in your skin. “We got him, didn’t we?” you asked. 

Right, the ghost. “Uh, yeah, he’s gone. Your plan worked,” he added, almost as an afterthought. 

“It was a pretty good plan,” you grinned. 

He shook his head. “It almost got you killed.” 

“But it worked,” you insisted, your eyes shining. “He’s gone, Dean. Who knows how many people we saved?” 

“And what about you, huh?” 

You shrugged. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

He took a deep breath, bending his head so you wouldn’t see the moisture he was sure he could feel gathering in his eyes. How were you so casual about it? It had been your life on the line, you who’d gotten stabbed, who’d been bleeding out, terrified of not dying properly and becoming a ghost yourself. 

“Hey,” you said gently, your hand slipping from his, sliding up over his arm to rest hesitantly on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” 

“You almost died, (Y/N). Sam told me, what you said about getting stuck, being unable to move on.” 

You were silent for a moment, then you sighed. “Well it’s just awkward now that I’m still here.” 

Despite himself, Dean laughed. He raised his head, placing his hand over yours, rubbing his thumb in a circle over it. Your skin was warm as ever, dry to the touch. It was such a contrast from the graveyard, one he was glad of. You smiled, some of the colour already returning to your face. 

“I’ve always got your back,” he said, “no matter what. Why didn’t you just tell me?” 

“I wanted to, I really wanted to. But I just… I don’t know, I just couldn’t. Every time I tried it was like this brick wall went up in my brain.” You shrugged, drawing your hand back as you shifted to sit more upright. Dean missed its warmth instantly. “You’re always so… unfazed, you know? It felt kinda stupid.” 

He snorted. Sure, Sam had already told him what you’d said, but it was different coming from you. 

You folded your arms, as if you’d just won an argument. “See?” 

“Shit, (Y/N),” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not – what’d you say? – unfazed. This shit gets to me too, I just…” He thought, unsure how to phrase it. “I didn’t wanna scare you,” he finally settled for. “Didn’t want you to worry.” 

“Oh.” You picked at a loose thread in the blanket, biting your lip. “And the other thing?” 

“Yeah, the other thing.” He’d known this was coming, he’d tried to find the words as he’d sat beside you, waiting for you to wake up. He’d almost had it, he told himself. How hard could it be, after all? 

“I didn’t wanna die with, like, unfinished business. That’s the main reason people stick around. It felt like if I didn’t get it out there, I wouldn’t ever be able to… keep going. Move on.” You swallowed, not meeting his eyes. “It’s ok,” you went on, “if you don’t, y’know, feel the same. I’d understand.” 

So you hadn’t heard him. Dean wasn’t surprised, but some part of him had been clinging to the hope that somehow his words had gotten through to you even as you were bundled into the back of the ambulance. 

He shook his head. “I just wish you’d said something before.” 

You looked up, hope chasing confusion across your face. “What?” 

“I wish you’d said something before,” he repeated. “It would’ve saved us both a lotta trouble.” 

“I don’t…” You frowned. “What’re you…?” 

He shrugged, his heart beating a million mph. “I love you too,” he said simply.

You blinked, opening your mouth to say something, closing it again. Slowly, a smile crept across your features. “Alright,” you grinned, way too smug for Dean’s liking. “Alright then.” 

“Don’t push it,” he warned, but the threat was empty and you both knew it. 

You shifted again, leaning towards him. “Come here,” you said softly. 

He stood, ignoring the ache in his back from the bloody uncomfortable chair. 

Impatiently, you beckoned him closer. 

He raised an eyebrow, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “Do I get to kiss you?” 

“That’s the goal, yeah.” You rolled your eyes, tilting your face against his hand. Dean wasn’t fond of the whole “butterflies in your stomach” thing, but he had no idea how else to describe the feeling that tiny gesture conjured. It really was like someone had released a swarm of the things inside him, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. 

You were watching him expectantly, almost like you were challenging him. “Go on,” your eyes seemed to be saying, “try it.” 

He did. Your lips were softer than he’d expected, and just as warm as your hands. You made a sound somewhere in the realm of a sigh as his hand slid down to rest on your shoulder, pushing gently towards him, your own fingers running over his jaw to brush along the back of his neck. He couldn’t believe he’d waited this long to kiss you, and now that he’d finally taken the plunge, he never wanted to stop. 

But he had to breathe, unfortunately, and so did you. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” you whispered. You were still close enough that he could feel the words against his skin. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he replied. 

You laughed, a soft, breathy sound, and closed the tiny gap once more. “I love you,” you murmured between kisses, “and I’m sorry it took me almost dying to say it.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that too.”

The door handle clicked, the hinges squealing. “Ok, so I ran into the doctor on the way in— woah.” 

Dean stood up so fast he almost overbalanced. 

Sam was standing in the doorway with a disposable coffee cup in each hand, his mouth hanging open as he stared from you to Dean and back again. 

You cleared your throat. “Hi, Sam.” 

He shut his mouth, shoving the cups into Dean’s hands as he crossed the room and bent to hug you with a muttered “thank God.” 

“Watch it,” you warned, “I’m injured.” But your arms snaked around his back anyway, your voice muffled as you pressed your face into his neck. 

“You’re never allowed to scare us like that again,” Sam said firmly. 

Your eyes found Dean’s over Sam’s shoulder, and you smiled. “I’m not really planning on it, don’t worry.” 

Sam just laughed. “How’re you feeling?” he asked when he finally let you go. 

“Ok,” you nodded, then frowned. “Hungry.” 

Sam glanced at Dean, who shrugged. He’d gotten bored some time in the morning, and the packet of pudding that had been left on your bedside table along with a bottle of water had been practically begging to be tasted. He’d wondered if you’d wake up before they brought a replacement, he’d even felt a little bad eating your food, but he was hungry, dammit, and when Sam had left he’d said he would come back “later” which meant “tonight”. And that was too long for Dean to wait. He also didn’t have any money on him, and wouldn’t have left your side for the cafeteria when the pudding was right there. 

“What?” you asked. 

“He ate the pudding they left you,” Sam said. Dean never should have mentioned it, but he’d been desperate to get Sam to bring him something and it had felt convincing over the phone.

Dean glared at his brother and the coffees – which were very noticeably not the fast food he’d had in mind. “You try living in that chair for a day, see how long you can go without.” Then he turned to you. “You didn’t miss much, don’t worry.” 

“Well, I’m hungry!” you protested, crossing your arms and looking for all the world like a petulant toddler. 

Sam’s words about asking you out echoed in his mind.

“I’ll buy you dinner,” he said. “At an actual restaurant, not a fast food place. As soon as they let you outta here, alright? In the meantime…” He reached for the bottle of water, handing it to you with an apologetic shrug. It was better than nothing. 

You wrinkled your nose at him. “This is a pretty shit first date.” 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said. Then, on second thoughts, “It’s not a first date, Sam’s here.” 

“Geez,” Sam muttered, “sorry. And after I got you a coffee too.” 

“Did you get me one?” you asked hopefully. 

“No,” he said slowly. “But you can have mine if you want?” 

You sighed. “I don’t like it how you do. But thanks,” you added with a smile. 

“Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to be awake.” 

“Have a little faith, Sam.” 

He smiled, glancing between you and Dean. 

“You owe me a coffee, and you owe me a dinner,” you continued before he could say anything. Dean thanked you silently. He didn’t really want a shovel talk from his own brother right now, which he could see Sam was just dying to dish out. He wondered if you’d be getting one. Probably, but he had no doubts that it would be less “shovel” more “talk”. 

“Soon as you’re fixed up,” he said. “I promise.” 

“And it’ll be a date?” 

“Sweetheart, it’ll be the best first date you’ve ever been on. Trust me.” 

You just grinned, ignoring Sam’s fake-disgusted sigh. “Ok.” 

[bragganhyl]

38. “i’m not scared but if you are, you can hold my hand.” fluff prompt with Aloth and Guara. Bonus points if Aloth is scared :D

Thank you, Anon, here you go 😊 It's not quite as tooth-rottingly fluffy as I planned, but it's still soft. It takes place at the beginning of Act 3 of PoE 1 so after a certain reveal

Word count: about 1630 words

There were nights when Caed Nua felt like a realm of its own: a strange pocket of space and memory somewhere midway to the In-Between. The night sky was clear and the full moon shone so brightly, that it’s gentle light managed to burst through even the thick, drawn curtains concealing the windows to Gaura’s room. The moonlight mingled with and clashed against the light of the Watcher’s face in the otherwise dark room and as her ears were filled with the voices of long dead souls still lingering by her home, she couldn’t help but feel like she was looking at a reflection.

She hasn’t heard any recent news about the riots since she fled Defiance Bay. For all she knew, it might have been still happening in that very moment, deep in the night. It was late, too late, to have such thoughts on her mind, to have such worries plaguing her. If she allowed them to linger within her, she wouldn’t sleep that night at all. She got out of bed and put on her boots. She made a silly sight wearing the finely made leather footwear and her ill fitting nightgown, but it was a passable attire for a late night stroll.

The Watcher quietly left her room and sneaked downstairs, but just as she was about to leave Brighthollow, she noticed light coming from one of the rooms – based on her familiarity, she assumed the hearth was lit by the reading corner she had set up. She cautiously approached the source of the light, only to find Aloth sitting by the fire, arms wrapped around his knees, seemingly doing nothing, watching the logs burning deep in thought. He looked up as she slowly made her way to his side. He only seemed surprised by her for a fraction of a moment, and even then his reaction was dulled by his exhaustion.

‘Can’t sleep either?’ Gaura sat beside him. Aloth took note of her proximity and seemingly shrunk where he sat.

‘I can’t stop thinking about Defiance Bay,’ he spoke quietly as anguish flashed in his eyes, then just as quickly as it appeared, his expression was replaced by one of guilt. For a moment, silence filled the small space between the two of them. Only the shadows moved, dancing on the walls to the soft crackling of the hearth.

‘Yeah, me neither.’

The Watcher wasn’t sure what else she could say. They haven’t had a chance to talk, alone, just the two of them, since the riots began and Aloth confessed about his affiliations. He was a member of the Leaden Key. The group behind the riots, behind the murder of Lady Webb, behind Waidwen’s Legacy. The group that marked her and Kana for death.

And yet, when Gaura found their hideout under First Fires, she could walk right in there and walk out without anyone noticing the infiltration. It seemed to her, no one knew more than the least amount of information they needed to complete their missions. Not even the higher ranking members asked more questions from their underlings than what they absolutely needed answered. Chances are none of them even knew about the kill orders Thaos placed on her and Kana.

None of them, except for Aloth.

She has given him so many opportunities to turn on her. He could have given her identity away when she entered the Temple of Woedica. He could have helped those of his fellows that waited for her and her companions by the entrance of the Endless Paths, after they recovered the pieces of the Tanvii Ora Toha. He could have just pretended a spell of his went astray, during any of the battles they fought together. During any battle where she took it upon herself to keep him safe and in turn he watched her back. He could have struck her down in her sleep in the home she shared with him.

Now he sat beside her, tense, as if it took every last bit of his strength to avoid looking at her, to stop himself from asking for the comfort she was more than willing to give.

‘Do you want to talk?’ The Watcher broke the silence. Aloth gave her a look that she couldn’t quite read.

‘If… If you want to learn more about the Leaden Key, I’m not sure if I can help,’ he said. His gaze slightly drifted away, and lingered on a spot by her shoulder. ‘I feel like I learned more about their motivations following you, than I did working for them,’ there was a hint of gratitude hiding in the tone of his admission. ‘And you have seen how they operate, I’m not quite sure what else I could add about that.’ Aloth’s gaze met hers again. His look was apologetic and tired.

The Watcher shrugged hesitantly. ‘We can just talk. About anything. It doesn’t have to be about the Leaden Key,’ to give her words some weight, she moved closer to him. She half-expected that he would keep his distance, that maybe he would move even farther away from her than their original distance. But Aloth stayed where he was, seemingly taken aback by the offer, then a moment later a shy smile tugged at his lips and he turned away.

‘Forgive me, I’m… not really accustomed to…’ as he was trying to find the right word, something seemed to have occurred to him. A short laugh bubbled up from him that seemed to have removed an enormous weight from his shoulders. Gaura was almost convinced Iselmyr came forward, but Aloth continued. ‘You, I suppose. And to the kind of acceptance you have been showing me.’ He sighed as he looked towards the hearth, reminiscing. ‘I don’t think you realize what this means to me.’

The Watcher felt her hair flutter. ‘Don’t mention it,’ she hastily smoothed down a mischievous flame, ‘I… I meant what I said on the bridge.’ She averted her gaze from him as she took a deep breath. ‘I need you by my side.’

Aloth didn’t answer at first. When the silence started to grow uncomfortable, Gaura risked a glimpse, only to see the wizard shift, moving to sit on his trembling hands.

‘And I needed to hear that,’ he responded eventually, ‘more than I realized. Truth be told, I was terrified coming forward about my allegiance to the Leaden Key and… even the best case I had in mind didn’t involve… being treated as a friend.’ The wizard shook his head. He flinched at a thought and Gaura knew, it was best not to ask what the worst case he thought was. ‘All my life I have been following the paths people more powerful than I laid out ahead of me,’ he continued. ‘Whether it was my father, the erl he worked for,’ he let out a bitter, rueful chuckle, ‘even joining the Leaden Key was a desperate attempt to free myself from them. I remember those days… it felt like the world was closing in around me, until there was nothing left but the path I never wanted to take. So I… to use your words… exchanged one master for another,’ he sighed. ‘I was somewhat aware of the danger of doing so but I didn’t realize the true cost that I would have to pay, until I met you. I… I apologize for thinking you wouldn’t be any different from them. It was unfair of me to think so, you’ve never given me a reason to think that way, I just…’

Unable to explain himself, Aloth shrugged. The movement looked stiff with tension, however.

‘No need to apologize. You said it yourself, you… didn’t know how to expect better.’

Aloth turned to her. He watched her intently, as if he wanted to etch that moment deep into his memory. He watched her as if he discovered something rare and… awe-inspiring.

‘The world feels a lot bigger right now,’ goosebumps formed on the wizard’s arms as he came to the realization. ‘I admit, I’m a little terrified of it.’

Gaura smiled at him. ‘You sound like a novice expeditioner,’ she chuckled as she thought of her homeland, ‘the fear will go away, once you’ve done a little exploration and developed a taste for it.’ The Watcher then stood up and reached down towards Aloth. ‘Until then, if you’re scared you can hold my hand.’

Aloth blinked up at her. Then he looked at the hand she extended towards him. Gaura could’ve sworn she saw a faint blush color his cheeks as he placed a hand in hers. She pulled him up with a light tug and guided him away from the hearth, up the stairs, to his room.

‘Get some sleep, we have long days ahead,’ the Watcher said good night, only to find that the wizard wasn’t ready to let her go. He slightly raised their clasped hands and placed his free hand on top of them. He let his eyes close as he took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, he looked like he gained whatever comfort he needed.

‘Thank you,’ he ran a thumb along her knuckles as he spoke, ‘for everything.’ He let her go reluctantly and entered his room. He looked back at her, half-hidden by the door to wish her a good night.

Gaura was alone again. As she made her way to her room, the warmth of Aloth’s hand lingering on her palm, she remembered his words and she agreed: the world felt much bigger in that moment. She couldn’t afford to be afraid when Defiance Bay needed her to set things right. She had no reason to be afraid when she was safe in Caed Nua, surrounded by people she could trust. With her life.

[neutron-stars-collision]

Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Chapter 8 - Started slow, started late

Masterlist; Chapter 7 Summary: Reckless decisions and miscommunication shake up the foundations. Warnings: Angst (sadly the time has come), violence (non-graphic descriptions), swearing. Author's Notes: Remember the intensity I mentioned? Well, here is some of that. Apologies for whatever you find here, though I assure you it was necessary. Idiots need idiot-proofed methods, after all. And it does get better. With that said, this chapter is sort of an introduction for the next one aka the one where we get up to speed. And I do hope it makes sense 🙈 Thank you to everyone reading, leaving comments and reblogs - it really means more than I can express! 💕 Hope you'll enjoy and tell me what you think? #singleblueberryclub Taglist: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki

(Gif source: @1038276637)

Sometimes when waking up, especially after a peculiarly realistic dream, you have no idea where you are even though nothing has changed. The walls seem different. The shapes of the furniture and the shadows falling on the floor too. Then it all fades. Only sometimes it does not.

Your eyes flew open as the body registered the softness of the thick quilt and the strangeness of the mattress. It was certainly not the shabby bedroom of your apartment. And then it clicked. Your gaze wandered over the guest room at the Wayne Tower. The heavy curtains were drawn over the window, the coat of dust on the mahogany furniture, the large postered-bed with pristinely white bedding. Despite the evident years of neglect in the air, the grandeur was easily noticeable. And even a little overwhelming.

With a sigh, you rolled over to pick up your phone, noticing the late hour. It took another moment of gathering strength to throw away the covers and get up. The coldness of the floorboards acted like a sharp wake-up call, making you quickly scuttle towards the window and draw back the curtains to reveal the view. A gasp was the natural reaction when your eyes landed on the cityscape spreading outside. With the clouds hanging low over the horizon and no rainfall in sight Gotham could be almost pretty. Almost.

Once the ice-cold water splashed your face over the bathroom sink in the ensuite, the coherence returned fully. And along with it, the memories of what you said and did. The confession. Everything that followed. Fuck. Although a devoted advocate for never crying over the spilt milk, you strayed dangerously close to doing just that. Only the scalding shower stopped you. And the unknown of what lay beyond the door to your borrowed room.

After making sure you looked passably normal (except for the rumpled clothes), you braved the outside. The corridor was almost eerily quiet. With all the doors closed and no sign of a living soul. Following the logic, you silently made your way down the staircase, listening in on any clues. Suddenly your ears perked up upon hearing the distant sound of the television. You traced your steps along the unfamiliar route, past the study and the kitchen, until you found an open door to what looked like a dining room. The tv was on, and the table was set for breakfast. Shyly, you peered inside only to see Alfred sitting by the table, staring at the tv with a porcelain cup in hand. He did not give you time to back away and pretend you never found him in the first place.

“Good morning” the warm smile greeted you with a welcomed dose of familiarity.

“Morning” raising your hand in a half-wave, you slowly entered the room, taking in the surroundings.

Like every other room, the dining room, too, was furnished with grandeur, which had now faded. Although dusted and frequently cleaned, the cupboards and decorations all needed a new coat of lacquer. The table was large, yet only a half of it seemed in use and covered by a smaller tablecloth. Alfred was sat at its head, over the breakfast spread consisting of coffee, toasts, butter, and jam.

“Do you want to grab some breakfast?” interrupting your study of the room, Alfred glanced at you expectantly.

As if responding to the question, your stomach rumbled quietly, making you frown with embarrassment.

“I- Sure, though I don’t want to steal your food” with your cheeks tinted pink, you took one of the empty chairs and eyed the spread with curiosity.

Because it did look inviting. And you were hungry. Without a doubt, Alfred did not need to hear your thoughts to understand your qualms.

“Don’t worry, I’ve already prepared the meal for two,” another encouraging smile paired with the man passing you a plate with toasted bread, “Bruce is still asleep. He’s rather… nocturnal,” he answered the unasked question without a hitch, busy with preparing the cup of coffee to hand you.

It was impossible to stop your heart from springing back up from the dead upon the mention of Wayne. It seemed that no matter how hard you could have tried to pretend that nothing was happening, you were bound to fail. Because something was happening. And it had nothing to do with logic and everything with feelings.

“I see” you washed away the fear with a sip of cappuccino and pasted a grateful smile you’re your face, “Thank you,”

No need to be dramatic. You got as far as spreading butter over the toast when the news jingle caught your attention, and you raised your head to watch the tv. On the screen, a well-known face of the GC1 presenter greeted you, only without the usual bright smile:

“Good morning, Gotham. It’s Saturday, November the 2nd, and we must pass you the terrible news from the previous night. Another high-profile murder happened last night. Commissioner Pete Savage has been found dead inside the Police Athletic League facilities in the Tricorner area. This time, the killer has come forward to claim the credit via a video posted on social media. We must warn you; the footage is very disturbing…” you barely registered what happened next, watching dumbfounded as the terrifying show commenced.

This is the Riddler speaking… The sentence rang out in your head as you placed the cup back on the saucer with a rattle and glanced at Alfred. Judging by his shocked expression, the information was news to him as well. Ignoring the dread raising the hair on the back of your neck, you mused dryly:

“Well, that looks much more serious than a desperate cop trying to wipe his name clean…” it was difficult to pretend you were not bothered.

That you were not scared by the prospect. Because if there were a serial killer lurking in the city and ready to let loose, you would need both courage and confidence.

“The Riddler, is it?” Alfred met your gaze with a cautious look of his own “What are you thinking?” the glimmer in his eye told you he meant it.

The feeling of being at ease in his company helped to do the talking. As a preamble, you shrugged and took another toast from the plate, taking the time to piece together an answer.

“He’s after the powerful and the mighty, so it seems like perhaps he’s got dirt on them, only instead of blackmail, he’s into more… final solutions” frowning at the choice of words, you offered the butler a knowing look “It looks like both Mitchell and Savage were corrupted, but they were good at keeping it under wraps” making a mental note to ask fellow journalists about the rumours concerning the late commissioner, you added “He’s aiming to change that drastically” a grimace painted itself on your face at the memory of the recently watched video.

A cage and a rat trapped inside it, waiting to scratch at the face of the victim sounded elaborate. And unbelievably cruel.

Before you could think of a thing to say, footsteps echoed in the corridor, stopping at the dining room’s doorway. Bruce peeked inside with strange uncertainty, eyebrows drawing up once they saw you at the breakfast table next to Alfred. As usual, your gaze slipped over him without a rush, lingering at the shape of his face and the forearms revealed by the oversized t-shirt. It was once he caught your stare that you looked away. You could feel Pennyworth’s gaze boring into the side of your skull, undoubtedly watching the scene with curiosity. He was the one to save you the pain.

“Good morning, Bruce” Alfred offered his protégé a warm smile as he gestured towards the table, “Do you want to join?”

The look of utter bewilderment at the question appearing on Bruce’s face made you choke back a chuckle. As if he was a vampire who did not need food to survive, and the idea alone made him cower back with revulsion.

“No” Bruce shook his head once and directed the intense look to you, asking, “Do you know what happened?”

There was no doubt about the meaning. You nodded and replied with the voice even:

“Yeah, it was on tv just now…” trailing off, you tried to search his face for clues.

It was difficult to shake off the residual awkwardness. As if the nightly happenings have caught up with both of you and were not letting you forget should you want to. Only, you didn’t.

In Bruce’s eyes, you found the shadow of the conflict reflected as he made up his mind and offered an answer:

“I have something to show you” with that, he was halfway out the door.

Confident you would follow. With an incentive like that, you had to. You threw a regretful look at the food left on the table.

“Now?” just to be sure.

“Yes” judging by the sound, he was already halfway down the corridor.

You downed the cappuccino and drew the chair back with a defeated sigh. Grabbing another toast and quickly spreading a thin coat of butter over the surface, you muttered to yourself:

“Alright,” you could feel Alfred watching you with a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth as you met his searching look and grinned, bowing mockingly, toast in hand, “Thanks for the company,”

Without waiting for his response, you bolted through the door and down the corridor towards the disappearing Bruce Wayne. Once you caught up with him, you threw an arm over his shoulder to make him slow down the steps. One look full of confusion was enough to pass him the buttered toast and press a quick kiss to his cheek. You did not wait for his reaction, passing him in the corridor and confidently striding towards the library. He would follow. You knew that already.

***

Not long after, you found yourself staring at a series of printed photographs, all grainy and dark, with the confusion etched deep in the crease between your eyebrows. Bruce had placed the photos on the table and took a step back, expecting you to study them, so you did just that. But you did not know what you were looking at; the faces all seemed foreign or too obscured to remind you of anyone particular. Picking up one of the photographs, you inspected it closely, eyes taking a long moment to look at everyone pictured. There was an expensive car in the background, and the location seemed similar to the front entrance of the Iceberg Lounge, Falcone’s realm. At the centre, you could see a woman with a tear-streaked face, held in an iron grip by a smartly dressed man. When your gaze landed on the stranger, it clicked. Don Mitchell Jr. himself. And a woman, who was certainly not Mrs Mitchell.

“Where did you get those?” glancing over your shoulder at Bruce, you noticed a passing annoyance, immediately triggering a chuckle; no questions “Oh, alright, I get it” grinning, you finished the half-pirouette and faced him properly, resting your back over the table edge “So I was right” the smug note was undeniable.

Bruce returned your triumphant look with a pained sigh before he closed the gap and collected the photos, explaining:

“Yes, seems like Mitchell had a lover. She’s gone missing, by the way” he gestured towards the woman accompanying the late mayor and continued, “Both him and Savage were often seen in the 44 Below. It’s a-”

Uh huh.

“I know what that is,” interrupting Bruce with a dismissal wave, you strode over to the armchair, arching your eyebrow with curiosity piqued, “How do you know all this?”

That is the question.

He did not seem thrown off guard, leisurely sinking into another armchair and addressing you with a measured tone:

“Through an informant. I found her when I was doing some digging last night. She’s working in that club and knows who’s a frequent client” your reaction upon hearing the information was everything but measured.

It was hard to pinpoint which one stung the most. Whether it was the fact that you were not the only one working with him. Or whether that last night, when you went to bed and promptly stared at the ceiling for hours, he kept on working. Outside and not alone. And there was absolutely no reason to be jealous. Only your heart didn’t get the memo.

Biting hard into your lip to focus the brain, you asked:

“She?” because clarification could only be beneficial.

And because you did not trust yourself to say anything more than a single word.

“Yes, why?” it was his turn to look at you with palpable disorientation.

Whatever was going on in your head must have remained on the inside, for Bruce seemed clueless. Which could only work in your favour, right?

“Nothing,” you tried to rouse the flatness of your tone with a faux smile, eager to change the subject, “So… what’s the plan?”

There. Perfect distraction. Bruce caught it without a hitch, opening a laptop and slipping into your usual mode of work:

“We could try to find any common threads between the two victims, people they both could have known” you could see the metaphorical cogs turning in his head as he pulled up documents and websites.

It was almost too effortless to understand his intent and get pulled along for the ride. Almost. A frown painted itself on your lips even before the words got out.

“To foresee who’s next? The Riddler seems to punish the corrupt, and if that’s the only requirement… half the Gotham falls under the criteria” you shrugged, sensing the dejection take hold.

It was nothing, merely the dread from before settling in your heart and hoping to make its home there. You knew your sentiment was shared when you met Bruce’s weary gaze across the space. He looked tired, dark shadows underneath his eyes highlighting the blue of the irises. Yet there seemed to be a spark of eagerness buried deep underneath the regrets and the worries. It was that feeling you heard in his voice when he spoke next:

“Maybe it will narrow the scope” the look he shared with you said something else.

It was enough to curl your mouth into a smirk and offer a quip:

“Or you’re just that desperate to work with me” your grin widened upon seeing the hint of blush on his cheeks.

Bingo. The glare you received all but confirmed it as Bruce made sure to move further away from you, muttering under his nose:

“No comment” you could have told him that saying it never worked the way they showed in the movies.

But instead, you only hid the fond smile behind a laptop screen and began the research. As he said – maybe it would do something. And something was always better than nothing. Or so the tired brain told you.

It turned out that mapping the shared relationships between the mayor and commissioner was not that easy. Not for the lack of similarities but rather for the abundance of them. Before long, you both realised that there likely was a whole web interwoven between the victims. Bruce took it upon himself to go through the names in common, identifying the potential targets and drawing up a map of connections between them. Your job was to dig in the past of the dead figures, find out their sins and transgressions, to decipher why they had been chosen. Which also proved harder than expected.

So, when the clock had chimed two in the afternoon, and you heard your stomach rumble loudly, it was impossible not to let out a loud groan, catching the attention of your companion. Bruce raised his head slowly, peeking at you from the distance, visibly perplexed. You had half the mind to get up and go to the kitchen to fetch a sandwich before he stood up with a graceful stretch and placed the laptop on the side.

“What-” before you could finish the intended question, Bruce interrupted you with a glance.

“Stay here” the command fell from his mouth without a second thought, and he marched out of the room with confidence in his step.

What indeed? To say that the object of your interest was confusing seemed like an understatement. There was nothing else to do but sigh heavily, curse your preference for males and bury yourself in the newspaper archives. Which you did, once again forgetting about the passage of time or the need to eat. After all, what was more interesting than the love life of Gotham prosecutors and wanna-be politicians?

You did not notice when the silence was interrupted by footsteps. Or when Bruce stepped close, soundlessly placing a plate with a sandwich on the table in front of you. The first thing you registered was a gentle touch on your chin, fingers tipping your face up. With your mouth agape and eyes wide, you looked up to see Bruce staring at you with a soft smile. There was no time to react when he leant forward and pressed his lips to yours in a tender kiss, easily stealing the breath from your lungs and the coherence from your mind. His mouth glided over yours with familiar zeal, yet there was no hint of desperation. As if now that he knew how you felt, he was willing to be braver. To risk more in exchange for whatever you could give him. The brief kiss was over before it began, but the taste lingered as Bruce took a step back and glanced at the plate on the table as if expecting a question. You sure did not want to disappoint:

“What’s all this?” with an eyebrow raised, you allowed yourself a quick swipe of tongue over the lips.

Just enough to collect the remains of the sensation. And to make Bruce blush, again.

“Thought you were hungry” he only shrugged; a strange sense of lightness in his eyes.

It seemed different, new in a way. But you would not be the one to argue with the turn of events, accepting the meal with a grateful grin and no complaints. If it was a truce for the mention of Bruce’s informant earlier, you sure did not mind.

The research lasted for another few hours, leaving you both drained and resigned, bathed by the shadows of the fading day. After the kiss, Bruce moved closer, seemingly unafraid of your proximity or the sharp teeth of your jokes, often aimed at him to lighten the mood or distract him from work. Even the silence felt companionable, lulling you deep into that blissful state of ignorance. Only to shatter soon after.

Checking the watch to find that it was long after six in the afternoon, you stood up and stretched, instantly catching Bruce’s attention. Whatever comment was waiting in the roof of your mouth was forgotten when he spoke:

“I’m busy tonight, so… You’re free to do whatever you want” the casual statement caught you off guard, forcing the brain to pick it apart and find meaning.

What you began to understand turned the taste on your tongue sour and tightened the invisible rope around your heart. It sounded like a rejection, not a straightforward one but the meaning was the same. Ignoring the pain shooting through your body, you measured him with a steady gaze and asked:

“What?” because once more, a single word was just enough to get through the constricted throat.

Anything more could have broken the illusion Bruce seemed to hold. The illusion that this did not bother you. That jealousy was a foreign emotion. And perhaps to him, it was.

“I’m doing recon at the club…” the hint of puzzlement in his eyes was enough for you to backtrack, enforcing the wall and strengthening the foundations.

If he did not understand, it was not your job to tell him. Because maybe it was simply not meant to be.

“With her?” forcing out another question, you put an end to the eye contact and walked over to the window.

The city did not look as pretty as it did in the morning. Or maybe it is you who changed the outlook throughout the day.

“Yes,” when Bruce replied, you allowed yourself a quiet sigh and pressed your forehead to the cold window.

Not long after, you heard him leave the room. Undoubtedly off to disappear in the rooms you had no access to until he would have to meet her. Her. The pronoun rang strangely in the quiet of your mind, tinting everything with envy and regret. Perhaps it was a mistake to let him in. Perhaps you really should have known better.

***

If asked to say exactly when the idea bloomed to life in your head, you were not sure. Maybe it was during the train ride home, legs hugged to your chest, unseeing gaze fixed on the dirty railing of the cart. Maybe, it was when you stepped inside the apartment, noticing the dust covering the furniture and the darkness lurking in the rooms, waiting for you to disappear inside it. Maybe it was when you sat on the chair by the table, and the only thing you could think of was that night when Bruce was sitting in front of you. His hand held in yours, a tender yet strangely solid connection. Only you were wrong. Destined to pay for the naivety with heartache and shame burning in your blood.

Just once, you wanted to stop feeling useless. To do something and show them they were wrong. They, him, it didn’t matter. Someone. Using the research you wasted the day on, you knew that apart from the 44 Below, there was another club often attended by those in power. Going by the catchy name of Inferno, the venue was famous for its bad reputation, easily beating the Iceberg Lounge and its secret club-within-a-club. And since that first place was a no-go for the fear of getting your broken heart shattered, the choice was made for you. Your recon mission, and where better than in a place directly controlled by Carmine Falcone. Right?

Sure, it did sound… risky. But, sometimes, it was better to be sorry than safe. Or so someone told you. Ignoring the anxious thoughts, you made sure to get dressed to the nines, pulling out a skimpy skirt from the bottom of the closet and fishing out a sequin top to match. It was hard to say which voice told you to drop the key for the Wayne Tower into the purse as you exited the flat. But thinking could only bring harm, so you brushed it aside, focusing on the determination that had sprung from pain. The determination to be something more than you were. To be enough. For him. For them. For you.

Getting past the bouncer was easy. You flashed him a confident smile and waved your hand as you passed, doing your best to create an impenetrable veil of certainty that you did not feel at all. It was all a question of the right smile, the sureness in the stride, never-waning eye contact with whoever was eager to look at you. As you descended the metal staircase into the underground venue, the red lights hit you in the face, making you squint in the harsh glare of the reflectors. Unsurprisingly for a Saturday night, Inferno was packed. It was impossible to tell where the dancefloor began, for the space between the entrance and the booths was crowded with strangers. The deafening, blaring music filled your chest with subwoofer vibrations and filled the blood with a daze. But you had to stay vigilant, quickly creating a plan in your head as you pushed through the people, locating the bathroom, bar, and potential targets of the reconnaissance. The best strategy on paper was to loiter, listen to the partiers, have a drink, and mix in with the crowd while searching for familiar faces.

Ordering a margarita at the bar, you scanned the surroundings, waiting with your back pressed against the counter. Here, too, the space was cramped, voices interweaving in a barely comprehensible mess, but you listened in anyway. All it took was a little period of adaption, getting accustomed to the rhythm of the music and tuning it out. You took a deep breath and focused your mind on the people around you, slipping between them like a ghost. Soon enough, the voices were there for you to hear them:

“That Riddler guy? Fucking hell, and here I thought that the Bat was the worst this city has to offer” a heavy sigh accompanied the sentence as the man downed a shot of vodka, flinching comedically.

“Maybe Riddler is the good guy, helping us get rid of the rats in the sewers” his companion had a slurred speech, offering counterarguments with the wisdom of a drunkard.

“Nah, we’re all fucked. No one can save us from this shithole,” another shot, glass hitting the bar counter with a clink.

That was certainly not what you were looking for. You picked up the drink and waded through the crowd, nearing a circle of chirpy women buzzing with gossip. Resting by the wall close by, you tuned into their conversation:

“Have you heard? Vengeance showed up at the Iceberg Lounge last night” the young blonde leant close to her companions, excitement clear in her voice and the sparks in her gaze.

Interesting… very interesting. Because Bruce was there too last night.

“Secret deals with the Penguin?” the one who replied wiggled her eyebrows suggestively while taking a long sip of the drink.

“I dunno… maybe he was just looking for company” third woman chimed in with a smirk gracing her face.

You did not like the sound of that, turning away with a strange sense of unease. Because it was a fact that Bruce ventured into the club and found company, in some meaning of the word. What Mr Vengeance had to do with all of that you were not sure if you wanted to know. You took a swig from the glass, feeling the pleasant burn of the alcohol in your throat. Mixing in with the crowd felt good, quite like being anonymous. Lost in solo dance, you did your best to look around, spotting familiar faces from the research. Cops, lawyers, lower-rank city officials. All supposedly not fitting in yet looking perfectly at home.

As your gaze landed on a group occupying one of the more intimate booths distanced from the dancefloor, you spotted a GCPD investigator, Clint Johnson. The man surfaced on the few lists you went over earlier, both as the acquittance of the murdered and a notable sinner. Hoping to look as natural as possible, you slowly drifted towards the table he occupied, catching the conversation:

“So, Clint… you worried about our dear Pete?” the man seated opposite your target leant into his space, cheeky expression on his face.

From your vantage point, the whole party looked wasted, either thanks to the drops or the alcohol. It did not matter.

“It’s a god-awful tragedy, but… I mean… pretty sure he had it coming” Johnson stumbled over his words, tongue-tied by the intricate lies and half-truths, “Man was practically best pals with Falcone, spending every weekend at the club” he shrugged as if wanting to shrug off the guilt he had been burdened with.

“Not worried you’ll be next?” his companion had no intention of giving up.

“Why?” another shrug though you had a feeling those were not going to work, “I’m as innocent as they come” the blatant lie fell with a hitch of a drunken hiccup.

You frowned with disgust, burying the expression in another sip of the margarita.

“I think the prosecutor would disagree with that” the stranger leaned back in the booth, leisurely letting his eyes wander over the people.

Including you.

“About the Maroni case? Come on, that’s gone now. We all did what we had to do” there was a growing sense of defence in his tone as though desperate to fight for his name right here, “Including-”

But you never got to hear the end of that sentence. The other man had stood up from the table, the ruthless gaze set on you entirely:

“What’s your problem, babe? Are you lost?” the questions were dropped with a venomous edge.

Fuck. You felt the adrenaline surge to the head, mind lost in a chaotic daze, wanting nothing but to find an escape from the situation.

“No, I was just-” the denial died on your tongue as he leapt from the booth, forcefully taking hold of your arm.

“I saw you, eavesdropping” he tightened the grip, the other hand waving at the bouncer for attention, “Hey, can you throw her out? She’s ruining our evening,”

Fuck. It took one look at the bouncer to know there was no chance of getting out of this unscathed. The fear seemed like a permanent fixture in your chest when the man started leading you away, the iron grip bruising your skin mercilessly. Putting up a fight could only make everything worse, so you let the man lead you towards the exit with your eyes fixed on the floor to avoid meeting anyone’s curious gaze. The shame and panic were stronger than the need to keep up the act. There was no point anymore, you had already lost. Now it was just the question of paying the price.

When he led you outside through the open doors and into a dark and empty alley you knew it was bad. The bouncer was followed by another one, both have barred their teeth, grinning at you like demonic incarnations of the Cheshire cat. The grip on your arm loosened as your captor spoke:

“Let me show you why pretty girls like you should never disobey our guests” you did not need a warning, already cowering back as far as he would let you.

But it was never far enough. He released you when his colleague raised his hand, palm open, to slap you across the face. The sting of the hit reverberated through your cheek and over the split lip, making you wince. It was not the first time, but the pain was just as bad. If not worse. The next punch was not a surprise, yet when a fist hit you in the side, you doubled down with a sharp gasp, eliciting a malicious laugh from your executioners. Another hit, deepening the bruise over your rib. Second blow across the chest, the pain shooting through your body. The tears began streaking down your face as the only sign of torture you were eager to offer. The whimpers were all kept behind a façade, in the teeth biting into your split lip and tasting of copper. It took three more punches to make you fall to your knee, the impact sending a sharp sting through the right knee and immediately toppling you to the ground. Another salve of laughter as you covered your head, instinctively curling into a fetal position. But it was not enough. A kick to the back was all it took to break the dam. Only just enough to make you sob quietly, the tears flowing freely down your face and onto the damp tarmac.

“That will show you” the voice pierced the silence, followed by heavy steps retreating from where you were lying.

When you heard the metal doors close, you allowed yourself to move. First, slowly sitting up, feeling the bolts of pain shooting through your whole system at every move, no matter how small. But the pain was not the worst. The worst was the feeling of knowing that you failed. That you made a mistake. That you were not good enough. For anything, for anyone. The sky opened as you stood up. The raindrops fell on your face and mixed with tears until it was impossible to tell one from another.

A fuck-up, a mistake. That’s all you were.

***

Maybe it was fate that made you rummage in the purse then, desperate to find at least a half-used tissue to wipe away the blood and the tears from your face. Instead, your hand encountered the cold metal of a keyset; fingers clutched it tightly as the overwhelmed brain scrambled to remember. The keys to the Wayne Tower, of course. You breathed a sigh of relief, legs carrying you towards the train station as if acting on their own accord. For once, there was no strength in you to argue. Because you did not want to limp back home, destined to survive the night alone, without a shred of comfort or hope.

No one batted an eyelid when you stepped aboard the train drenched by the rain, with the tears streaking down your face and a bloody cut on the knee. But then, nothing of this sort was an unusual sight in Gotham. Least of all, on a Saturday night. You took the seat close to the door of the cart and fixed your gaze on the floor, urging the mind and the heart to keep it together just a little longer. Once you were in the tower, there was no point trying. Alfred and Dory would sure be asleep, and Bruce might as well still be outside. Or so you tried to tell yourself as the train carried you through the city towards your stop.

There was a part of you that wanted to find him. The part that wanted Bruce to see you like this and not take pity but feel something else entirely. Anger, hurt, and worry, to name a few. But that part was too dangerous, so you kept it locked up, letting yourself drown in the overcoming emptiness, numbing away the pain throbbing underneath the skin. When the train pulled to your stop, you were the last to step off the cart, walking along the platform and down the stairs. You did not even realise when the legs had carried you to the tower as you gingerly climbed the steps towards the front door, the keys clutched in hand tightly as if they were a lifeline. Following the habit, you made sure to check whether there were no spectators before turning the key in the lock and quietly opening the door. Another rule was broken. Once upon a time, you would have never allowed yourself to enter Bruce’s house at night. Even if only because of common sense. But that was long gone. As your eyes adjusted to the lighting change, you were struck by how different the space looked without the daylight falling through the stained-glass windows. With the doors closed and locked, you felt the adrenaline plummet. Along with it, the numbness dialled down, making you realise a few things at once. Everything was aching; the whole body felt as if you had been beaten and slammed into the concrete ten times over. With the continuous rain pouring down from the moment you left that alley by the Inferno, your clothes were soaked, making you shiver and tremble from the cold autumn wind outside. Before you had to decide what is the next reasonable step, the noise from the elevator caught your attention.

Slowly, you turned to face whoever had stepped into the foyer. You froze, motionless when your eyes met the familiar blue gaze, staring at you across the space. A frown etched between the dark eyebrows, mouth agape in mild surprise. Bruce looked almost too ordinary, dressed in the same old jeans and a black t-shirt he had on earlier. With your eyes fixed on his face, it was easy to tell when he registered every detail regarding your state. The frown deepened. A strange flash of darkness clouded his eyes as he desperately looked for something to say. You found it before him, taking a shaky step closer as if pulled by an invisible wire towards Bruce:

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you choked out the sentence, grimacing at the coarseness of your voice and the pitiful excuse.

How pathetic. He had every right to turn you away, to make you leave and tell you how worthless you are. And, for a minute, you expected him to. The pain and misery rose in your chest until there was no air to breathe, and the sobs shook your frame with force. Tears welled up, falling down your face without a care of being watched. Of causing a scene. In the final moment of self-consciousness, you covered your face with your hands, hiding away from Bruce and his intense gaze. At least the broken whimpers and cries were muffled now.

You had no sense of how long you stood there, lost in your tragedy. Or whether Bruce was still there. Then you registered slow, cautious steps on the carpet, stopping close and warm, gentle touch, fingers curling around your wrists and peeling away the hands to make you look at him. When your eyes met his, Bruce entangled your fingers together in a careful hold. There were many questions in his gaze, but he asked none.

For now. A grateful sigh was all you could manage as he started leading you towards the elevator with certainty in each step.