#empires transcript

[funkily]

these 10 seconds have changed my brain chemisty like nothing else

transcript:

Pix: Scott!

Scott: (distant) So I think I have - Oh! Um... hello?

Pix: Hey.

Scott: Hellooo? Hi!

Pix: Come out here. We need to talk.

Scott: Talk about what?

Pix: I think -

Scott: How are you? You look dashing today.

Pix: Uh, that's... neither here nor there.

[sunshinereani]

Zam: Everyone's different here! Everyone's different.

Pangi: Well, why don't we find a way back?

Zam: You want to find a way back? You wouldn't want to go back after everything you've been through. You love it here, don't you?

Pangi: No, I do.

Zam: Yeah exactly, so why would you go back?

Pangi: No, I do also want to go back.

Zam: Why?

Pangi: Because, like you just said, people are too nice here.

Zam: So you'd rather go back?

Pangi: Well I'm- I was already planning on it. I'm planning a big end, so I can easier go back.

Zam: How're you gonna do that?

Pangi: So, the only way to do that is, I think, destroy everything here.

Zam: You think that'll send us back?

Pangi: I think so, yeah. So- I think if we destroy what everyone loves here, destroy everything that has been built here, everything that- just destroy everything I think yeah, there is a good possibility we can go back. Back to Lifesteal. It's like, let go of everything, you know. Let go of what we've done here, let go of our past here.

What are we if not a past? If there's no past, there's no us. So if we destroy the past, I guess everything we've done doesn't exist anymore and we don't exist here anymore.

Zam: You want to destroy everything? What about Aimsey and Ros?

Pangi: Do you worry about that?

Zam: Yeah

Pangi: Well you gotta choose. I thought you said you didn't want to be here?

Zam: I mean, I didn't think that the solution would be ruining their lives. What about Lukey? You're willing to let him go?

Pangi: I don't think that will be a problem since we were both working on this machine. We might separate, we might not, but we've come to peace with that.

[arthur-lesters-right-arm]

Arthur wanting to shake John's hand (and all of the beginning of ep 24 really) is my Roman empire.

What are you talking about that never happened in Part 24, the major event there was Arthur trying to get the coldest cleanest dap with John

[willowreadsgayfanfiction]

[izzythedemigod]

The day I found hermit archives I listened so much to the point I got sick from fan-girling lol

Its so good!!!! Legitimately watched it all in a day because its that good

Grian as an archivist is just. So unhinged. He understands he's becoming inhuman and he's just like " well... what can you do :/?"

[reddstardust]

JOHN: Arthur. I don't know what to say.

ARTHUR: Just tell me the truth.

JOHN: The truth? I don't care about this. Any of this. Oscar, the farm, Scratch-

ARTHUR: The deal with Scratch?

JOHN: Was a deal you took! I told you not to-

ARTHUR: So what do you care about then?

JOHN: You! And getting to the order of The Falling Star.

ARTHUR: The fucking order. The fucking order? Who cares, John? Why is that more important to you than Scratch? I don't get you.

JOHN: Bec- you don't have to get me.

[fatehbaz]

[D]omesticated attack dogs [...] hunted those who defied the profitable Caribbean sugar regimes and North America’s later Cotton Kingdom, [...] enforced plantation regimens [...], and closed off fugitive landscapes with acute adaptability to the varied [...] terrains of sugar, cotton, coffee or tobacco plantations that they patrolled. [...] [I]n the Age of Revolutions the Cuban bloodhound spread across imperial boundaries to protect white power and suppress black ambitions in Haiti and Jamaica. [...] [Then] dog violence in the Caribbean spurred planters in the American South to import and breed slave dogs [...].

---

Spanish landowners often used dogs to execute indigenous labourers simply for disobedience. [...] Bartolomé de las Casas [...] documented attacks against Taino populations, telling of Spaniards who ‘hunted them with their hounds [...]. These dogs shed much human blood’. Many later abolitionists made comparisons with these brutal [Spanish] precedents to criticize canine violence against slaves on these same Caribbean islands. [...] Spanish officials in Santo Domingo were licensing packs of dogs to comb the forests for [...] fugitives [...]. Dogs in Panama, for instance, tracked, attacked, captured and publicly executed maroons. [...] In the 1650s [...] [o]ne [English] observer noted, ‘There is nothing in [Barbados] so useful as … Liam Hounds, to find out these Thieves’. The term ‘liam’ likely came from the French limier, meaning ‘bloodhound’. [...] In 1659 English planters in Jamaica ‘procured some blood-hounds, and hunted these blacks like wild-beasts’ [...]. By the mid eighteenth century, French planters in Martinique were also relying upon dogs to hunt fugitive slaves. [...] In French Saint-Domingue [Haiti] dogs were used against the maroon Macandal [...] and he was burned alive in 1758. [...]

Although slave hounds existed throughout the Caribbean, it was common knowledge that Cuba bred and trained the best attack dogs, and when insurrections began to challenge plantocratic interests across the Americas, two rival empires, Britain and France, begged Spain to sell these notorious Cuban bloodhounds to suppress black ambitions and protect shared white power. [...] [I]n the 1790s and early 1800s [...] [i]n the Age of Revolutions a new canine breed gained widespread popularity in suppressing black populations across the Caribbean and eventually North America. Slave hounds were usually descended from more typical mastiffs or bloodhounds [...].

---

Spanish and Cuban slave hunters not only bred the Cuban bloodhound, but were midwives to an era of international anti-black co-ordination as the breed’s reputation spread rapidly among enslavers during the seven decades between the beginning of the Haitian Revolution in 1791 and the conclusion of the American Civil War in 1865. [...]

Despite the legends of Spanish cruelty, British officials bought Cuban bloodhounds when unrest erupted in Jamaica in 1795 after learning that Spanish officials in Cuba had recently sent dogs to hunt runaways and the indigenous Miskitos in Central America. [...] The island’s governor, Balcarres, later wrote that ‘Soon after the maroon rebellion broke out’ he had sent representatives ‘to Cuba in order to procure a number of large dogs of the bloodhound breed which are used to hunt down runaway negroes’ [...]. In 1803, during the final independence struggle of the Haitian Revolution, Cuban breeders again sold hundreds of hounds to the French to aid their fight against the black revolutionaries. [...] In 1819 Henri Christophe, a later leader of Haiti, told Tsar Alexander that hounds were a hallmark of French cruelty. [...]

---

The most extensively documented deployment of slave hounds [...] occurred in the antebellum American South and built upon Caribbean foundations. [...] The use of dogs increased during that decade [1830s], especially with the Second Seminole War in Florida (1835–42). The first recorded sale of Cuban dogs into the United States came with this conflict, when the US military apparently purchased three such dogs for $151.72 each [...]. [F]ierce bloodhounds reputed to be from Cuba appeared in the Mississippi valley as early as 1841 [...].

The importation of these dogs changed the business of slave catching in the region, as their deployment and reputation grew rapidly throughout the 1840s and, as in Cuba, specialized dog handlers became professionalized. Newspapers advertised slave hunters who claimed to possess the ‘Finest dogs for catching negroes’ [...]. [S]lave hunting intensified [from the 1840s until the Civil War] [...]. Indeed, tactics in the American South closely mirrored those of their Cuban predecessors as local slave catchers became suppliers of biopower indispensable to slavery’s profitability. [...] [P]rice [...] was left largely to the discretion of slave hunters, who, ‘Charging by the day and mile [...] could earn what was for them a sizeable amount - ten to fifty dollars [...]'. William Craft added that the ‘business’ of slave catching was ‘openly carried on, assisted by advertisements’. [...] The Louisiana slave owner [B.B.] portrayed his own pursuits as if he were hunting wild game [...]. The relationship between trackers and slaves became intricately systematized [...]. The short-lived republic of Texas (1836–46) even enacted specific compensation and laws for slave trackers, provisions that persisted after annexation by the United States.

---

All text above by: Tyler D. Parry and Charlton W. Yingling. "Slave Hounds and Abolition in the Americas". Past & Present, Volume 246, Issue 1, February 2020, pages 69-108. Published February 2020. At: doi dot org/10.1093/pastj/gtz020. February 2020. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[jaggedwolf]

2. Share your thoughts about Beau

Beau thoughts! Always Beau thoughts hour over here. Can you believe there are still Beau thoughts I haven't yelled at you yet? What a gal.

Don't think Beau cares much for fiction. She's canonically not much of a reader before the campaign, and once she gets into it she cares way more about the world's secrets and connections than a story. An adept, instinctive liar, it's warped truths that are her jam. She would've cared even less than we did about that long-ass cat story Caleb told Jester, except maybe as a lens through which to psychoanalyze Caleb, and I doubt she's one to go see a theatre show of her own accord. She'll dramatically read out lines from Jester's smut books though, she finds that funny. Her accidental ownership of Courting of the Crick (Jester bought it for Caleb, who didn't want it and gave it to Beau) is 50% because it was banned in the Empire, 30% lol Kryn smut, and 20% burgeoning history nerd

Beau is deeply embarrassed by how much the single incident of the monk kidnapping got to her. While I'm sure part of its lasting impact is the final parental rejection it signifies, exacerbated by the later letter she gets about TJ, I think a lot of it is the sheer helplessness of it. She had that young person's confidence in her own immortality and ability to get out of any scraps on her own merit, and gets hit by the one-two punch of needing her dad to bail her out of jail and then experienced parent-endorsed monk kidnapping which she could not escape due to a combination of emotional shock and plain physical inability. This seems quite pathetic to her, and is one of the reasons for sharded backstory strategy she employs. A Beau who left her parents of her own accord, heck, a Beau who got plain kicked out of home, would be a significantly different Beau at the start of the campaign.

Related: It was really really good for both Beau and the Nein as a whole that Beau was one of the rescuers in the Iron Shepards arc and not one of the rescued. You know how Fjord took it badly, having to be rescued at such a risk? I think Beau at that stage of the campaign would have taken it worse, in a more volatile way. Subtract the confidence boost of defeating Lorenzo's crew, add in a sense of debt of not carrying her own weight, oof, messy AU there.

IMO, the only worlds in which Beau's mom leaves Beau's dad are worlds in which Thoreau is societally condemned, which means I don't think of Clara as sooo much better than Thoreau. Only a little. I do think Beau is willing to give her way more grace because Thoreau did do worse shit, Beau has more of a complex about Thoreau, and Beau also just tends to give women more grace. (I don't think I'm making up that last bit lmao) So yeah, I can see a post-campaign Beau rebuilding her relationship with her mom or whatever, but I will be eternally judgy-eyed about the woman who sent her monk-kidnapped daughter a letter saying the Lionetts had been "granted their greatest wish and had a son". It is not a Thoreau move to tell Clara to send that letter.

Scrolling through the wiki about post-campaign canon, and while I abstractly respect all this "the Mighty Nein see each other regularly!" and "Beau has a good work-life balance" stuff...my favorite take on a post-campaign Beau will always be one who dives in full speed with Caleb into taking down the Cerberus Assembly, each of them barely pulling the other back from burnout, literal or metaphorical. An obsession that leaves them neglecting the others and themselves, yes.

I still think it would so funny for Beau to have a one-night stand with Astrid after the campaign (only once Trent's trial is complete ofc, what a professional) and then go oh shit...bro code.. Visits Caleb and go yo I slept with Astrid sorry if that wasn't cool and Caleb's immediate reaction is "are you sorry because she's my ex or because she's part of the Cerberus Assembly??" And then he goes, actually no, we will never speak of this again, because he's scared Beau will go into detail. (Beau wouldn't, Beau would only go into detail about hypothetical sex acts in front of Caleb, because it would scandalize him without revealing anything about herself, the perfect Beau troll bit.)

[blowflyfag]

WORLD WRESTLING FEDERATION MAGAZINE : FEBRUARY 1999

DM BLONDE AMBITIONS Is everybody beneath Debra McMichael?

Transcript Below!!!

How many of us are Melrose Place fans? Heather Locklear, one of the stars of the show, portrays Amanda Woodward–the beautiful but dangerous blonde who has schemed and connived her way to the top. Several seasons ago, Amanda purchased the apartment complex Melrose Place and found it an unlimited source of lovers, enemies and potential clients for her advertising business. Amanda is extremely demanding and when anyone crosses her there’s hell to pay. 

Maybe the producers of the series were thinking of Debra McMichael when they created the character of Amanda Woodward. 

A native of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Debra grew up with three brothers and a sister in what she calls an average family. Her mother was a nurse and her father worked in a foundry and in her free time the high school cheerleader liked to ride horses on their 10-acre spread. But she dreamed of a career in television and movies. 

“Growing up, my parents were very protective, and they didn’t even want me to become a cheerleader,” Debra revealed on a telephone interview. “But I snuck out and did it anyway, and there wasn’t much they could do about itt. From there, I got involved in beauty pageants because I thought it would be fun to dress up in beautiful gowns.”

Debra went on to become Miss Illinois America and Miss Texas USA. In 1985 while on a Chicago flight Debra met the mother of her future husband, then-Chicago Bears football star Steve McMichael. After meeting on a blind date, the two hit it off and eventually married. It must have been like winning the lottery for the Southern belle. In her own words, their lifestyle was like “the Super Bowl every year.” Money May not buy happiness, but it certainly helped Debra open a few doors. 

The beauty made certain that wherever Steve went, she was a star as well. As a result of their marriage, Debra was featured on ESPN and HBO, numerous sports talk  programs and Oprah Winfrey’s show on two occasions. In addition, Debra appeared in half a dozen television commercials, two of country singing star George Strait’s music videos and landed roles in films such as Texas Chainsaw Massacre IV.

“My second appearance on Oprah was the best,” Debra recalls. “The topic was ‘How do you handle your mate being a sex symbol.’ Well, Steve was the NFL star, but I was the one who was the sex symbol on the show.” 

When Steve entered World Championship Wrestling, it wasn’t long before Debra accompanied him. The woman who came from Tuscaloosa with the dream of making it in show business must have fallen in love with the bright lights and the big city. After all, she was turning more heads than her husband. 

In the South is where Debra also first met Jeff Jarrett. Without much hesitation, McMichael quickly cast aside her husband for a successful business relationship with Jarrett. Her marriage to Steve deteriorated and they soon divorced. Debra followed her protege to the World Wrestling Federation within a year. 

After debuting on RAW, McMichael quickly asserted her power. Proving she was adobe the gyrations of Val Venis when she resisted his advances–something other “ladies” would jump at–Debra turned the table and played Val! While the former beauty queen pretended to be interested in him, Venus left himself wide open to an attack by Jarrett. Other women superstars are no threat to Debra either. After Terri Runnels confronted McMichael over what she had done, the business woman simply shrugged it off like a fly. Once McMichael gets a reaction out of someone–male or female–they’re little more than pawns in her game. In the big picture, the beauty knows that all who cross her will have to pay a price down the road. 

Jarrett’s recent battle with Al Snow is another example of how Debra combines intelligence and beauty. After learning that Head had an eye for the ladies–and Debra in particular–McMichael did everything to take advantage of the situation. Soon Head was completely out of the fight, thanks to a shrewd strategy and her provocative attire. Debra knows what men want and using that to her advantage is just one of her many skills. 

McMichael is equally clever in her business dealings. According to sources, proper to signing a contract with the Federation Debra made it clear that she would be the only one controlling her business dealings. Thanks to her connections in both entertainment and business, she seems to have dirt on anyone who dares to challenge her. But one wonders what might happen if this beauty queen ever hinges for more. Would she cast aside Jarrett, like her former husband, to further her own career?

After all, Amanda has no problem deceiving her long-time clients for the prospect of power and wealth on Melrose Place. Why would Debra do Otherwise?

CAREER HIGHLIGHTS

Debra McMichael debuted alongside long-time client Jeff Jarrett on the October 19 RAW from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. During Harrett’s bout with Steve Blackman, Al Snow attempted to attack the former Intercontinental Champion, but McMichael served as a beautiful distraction! With Snow and Head completely out of the fight, Debra’s protege was free to lay Al out with his guitar!

On the November 1 Sunday Night HEAT from Austin, Texas, the former beauty pageant winner turned the tables on Val Venis–feigning interest in the adult film star’s gyrations, but actually leaving him wide open to an attack by Jarrett! When Terri Runnels confronted Debra about her actions, the business woman could not have cared less about what Terri had to say! This beauty uses everyone, male and female, to get what she wants! Debra once again showed her lethal mix of brains and beauty on the November 9 RAW from Dallas, Texas during Al Snow’s match. Originally slated to be Snow vs. Tiger Ali, The rich Indian offered up Babu as Al’s opponent instead! During the bout, McMichael appeared at ringside and held Head in her arms, playing up to “their” interest in  beautiful women. Once again, with Head out of the match, Tiger Ali took advantage of the situation, sneaking back into the ring and scoring the win over the J.O.B. Squad leader.

[sunshinereani]

Pangi: You just want to go back?

Zam: Honestly, yeah I don't know. But I don't think that's even possible. All I've done is just sit here and try to rationalise with the fact that I want to go back to the place that sucked, and inflicted so much trauma on me. Isn't that insane? Isn't that an insane conclusion to come to?

Pangi: I don't think it's insane, it's what you're used to.

Zam: I think it is! I think it is insane and I can't understand why I think that. I want to get along with everyone, I want to enjoy this place but I can't, I just can't let myself and there's nothing I can do to let myself enjoy this place. I thought I enjoyed it!

That's why I went out of my way to join the yellow faction. That's why I went out of my way to get adopted, I thought it would help me fit in. I thought it would help me, you know, get along with everyone a little better but no! Because not everyone here is like me, they're not like me.

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 3: Lunar Resonance

Narrated by Jiang Xitong.

Narrator: The video is but one segment in the busy festival preparations. I soon forget clean about it.

Narrator: The most important thing is that there are now only three days left until the exhibition. I'm finally done with everything and can sit back and relax.

Narrator: I pinched my brows, exhausted. I put down my files and picked up some music scores.

Choose either "You should rest" or "Music score?"

If "rest," ...

You: Why don't you get some rest?

Narrator: Others might not understand, but this is actually my way of relaxing.

If "music," ...

You: Is it the score of the song you played during the filming?

Narrator: It's a collection of scores, including the song I played, which was called Crescent Moon.

--

Narrator: I copied all of them from snippets of ancient manuscripts, so a few are still incomplete.

Narrator: For example, I don't know what comes after the lyrics "winter moon by the temple, my sadness is ample."

Narrator: And I suspect that some of the notes in the latter half of Crescent Moon need revision.

Narrator: I love restoring scores to their original state. It's like unwrapping a present, starting a new story.

Colleague: Director Jiang!

Jiang Xitong: ...

Narrator: My colleague came darting in all of a sudden.

Narrator: He didn't even remember to knock.

Colleague: Director Jiang, that moon festival promotional video with you in it is out!

Jiang Xitong: Oh? And?

Colleague: Everyone's loving it!

Colleague: Especially your part. That segment has gone viral already.

Narrator: As little as I care about the film, I'm still happy to hear this.

Narrator: I'm glad people are more interested in learning more about the history of Cloudcrest.

Jiang Xitong: See, that's the true charm of traditional Cloud Empire culture.

Jiang Xitong: Can you send me the video?

Colleague: Of course!

Narrator: I soon receive the link from my colleague.

Narrator: The video's only three minutes? Hm, guess it doesn't need to be that long anyway.

Narrator: The video opened with a lady dancing in a gown under the moon while holding a mystic artifact.

Narrator: Her willowy form dissipated into sparks of light and eventually scattered all over the land.

Narrator: The camera panned to a moon festival celebration held in bustling Cloudcrest.

Narrator: The streets are crowded. Happy families gaze into the sky at the full moon, enjoying the atmosphere.

Narrator: In the background, a flute melody plays. The scene changes, and I see myself playing the flute in the study.

Narrator: "Many songs were themed on the Lunar Goddess. Crescent Moon, the one I just played, for example..."

Narrator: The video ends as soon as I finish the sentence.

Narrator: That's all?

Narrator: ...It's ...lacking.

Narrator: No ancient myths are mentioned, nor our profound and charming traditional culture.

Narrator: As for the reason my segment went viral...

Narrator: "Comment: So gorgeous!"

Narrator: "Repost: Pleeeeease release the full version of the flute performance!"

Jiang Xitong: ...

Choose "That's not what you wanted."

You: That's not what you wanted.

Narrator: Eh, whatever.

Narrator: At least they didn't mention the Lunar Goddess falling in love with a rabbit and stuff like that.

Narrator: I closed the page and meditated for a moment. Then, I opened up the folder for moon festival activities.

Narrator: The editing of the promotional video is certainly problematic, but there are some redeeming parts, too.

Narrator: The music, for example. Perhaps we can hold a seminar on ancient music theory. I can work on that.

Narrator: History is very much like a dream. Only a few pages of records and fragmented songs remain.

Narrator: But with these tunes, the people of a thousand years later may still relive history.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[sam120684]

[thepencilnerd]

Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you. 

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked. 

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

[that-bat]

Exploding them with my mind

Transcript:

Impulse: "Did you see you and Skizz by the fire out there?"

Tango: "No"

Skizz: "What's up?"

Tango: "Oh"

Impulse and Tango: *laughs*

Tango: "Ehh looking good, look at that physique, yeah!"

Skizz: "So, is it- I get all the static from Grian and Gem when we're playing Guess the Build for not putting clothes on people, why would they do this to me and Tango? What kind of camping trip do they think Tango and I go on?"

Tango: *laughing* "Camping trip"

Impulse: "Think? Oh, they've heard the stories"

Tango: "Oh yeah"

Scar: "What stories about naked camping with Skizz and Tango?"

Skizz: "There's no such thing and don't say that stuff out loud on the internet!"

Impulse: "They like to reenact the show Naked and Afraid so they go in the wilderness buck naked for 21 days to see if they can survive it"

Tango: (overlapping) "Absolutely, it's so good"

Scar: "Oh my god"

Tango: "Just hanging around the campfire, roast our chestnuts on the open fire"

Impulse: (overlapping) "I heard they made it like 8 days last time which is pretty impressive"

Skizz: "Tango's always the one- he's always the one who's like "I'm cold, we have to- we have to, you know, we have to- our body heat"

Tango: (overlapping) "We have to skadoodle, yeah"

Skizz: ""We have to skadoodle" and I'm like "we're not even out of the car yet, bro""

Scar: "Together we're strong"

Impulse: "It is kind of odd that he always calls big spoon considering he's the smaller one between you two, but whatever"

Tango: *laughs* "It's not about how tall you are, I mean"

Skizz: "It just looks like I'm wearing a backpack"

Impulse and Tango: *laughs*

Tango: "It's like Luke Skywalker when he was carrying Yoda in Empire Strikes Back"

Scar: "Did you guys see Andor?"

*more laughing*

Tango: *Yoda impression* "Oh, to the naked forest we will go"

[livingund3ad]

[for the last time || в последний раз]

warnings: depictions of drowning, mentions of murder, suicide and death. read with discretion

» you are here | 02. | 03. | ... |

From the eyes of [ ? ]

Transcript of Gotham Gazette’s Breaking Report - July 26th, 20XX

4:12 AM:

A tip-off was received from an anonymous source regarding unusual activity at Gotham’s Westriver district. Police vehicles and ambulances were spotted converging near the secluded edges of Gotham River—an area notorious for its dense forestry and dark history.

4:45 AM:

Journalists began arriving at the scene, their vehicles halted by police barricades and vigilant security guards. Under the waning moonlight, the air was thick with dread, murmurs building as scattered information trickled down to the press like blood seeping from a fresh wound.

5:03 AM:

The first confirmation: It was a recovery mission. A body had been pulled from the lake.

Witnesses reported seeing Bruce Wayne himself, dripping wet, his clothes clinging to him like the weight of his own name. Beside him, Richard “Dick” Grayson, his adopted son, equally drenched and disheveled, his eyes wide and haunted.

The two had been escorted away from the lake by paramedics, refusing medical attention despite the chill in their bones. The urgency of their movements was eclipsed only by the sheer devastation etched into their faces.

5:18 AM:

Timothy Drake and Damian Wayne emerged from the thick of the woods. Neither of them bore the dampness of the lake but their expressions spoke of something far worse. Something hollow and undone.

Photographs capture Timothy hunched over his phone, his fingers shaking against the screen, his lips moving but producing no sound. Damian, the youngest of the Wayne family, wore a scowl so vicious and desperate. Belongings that appeared not his held tightly in his hands.

5:35 AM:

Paramedics wheeled a gurney draped in white cloth towards the ambulance. Flashes of cameras ignited the darkness, stuttering against the crisp material of the sheet. The body beneath was small. Fragile.

The public’s fixation shifted from the family to the figure hidden beneath the shroud. The rumors were relentless, each theory more grisly than the last. But the truth was far simpler. And perhaps far more tragic.

It was J*** “Doe” Wayne.

A name only whispered in tabloid columns and murmured through charity event speeches. Another ward of Bruce Wayne, adopted into the sprawling empire with little fanfare or spectacle. The papers had only touched upon her existence over the years—a young girl hidden from the public eye, shielded by the iron gates of Wayne Manor and the shadows of Gotham’s elite.

6:00 AM:

Questions splintered through the media like glass. What was she doing at the river in the middle of the night? Was it an accident? Foul play? A desperate attempt to escape the crushing weight of the Wayne legacy?

The officials refused to give statements, urging the press to maintain their distance. No confirmation. No denial. Just the lingering, oppressive silence of unanswered questions.

But the most damning piece of evidence came from the Waynes themselves.

Photographs circulated of Bruce Wayne’s face, pale and slack, eyes unfocused as he sat slumped on the hood of his car. Beside him, Dick Grayson, fists clenched at his sides, tears smudged into his cheeks like war paint.

For a family so used to presenting perfection to the public, their grief was painfully, brutally exposed.

6:45 AM:

The ambulance departed, sirens off. A grim omen. The kind reporters recognize all too well.

Rumors sparked like wildfire—J*** had drowned. But was it her own doing, or had someone pushed her? Had the burden of living under the Wayne name finally cracked her fragile frame, or was there something darker at play?

Theories were exchanged in frantic whispers, reporters scrambling to piece together fragments of truth from the ashes of tragedy.

7:30 AM:

Police issued a statement confirming the body belonged to J*** “Doe” Wayne. Age eighteen. Probable cause of Death—Asphyxiation by Submersion. No further details were provided.

Bruce Wayne and his sons were escorted away from the scene shortly after. Their silence a fortress built of agony and guilt.

Now, in the wake of her death, the public demands answers.

Was it murder? Suicide? An accident? Or something far more sinister lurking beneath Gotham’s glittering surface?

What had exactly happened to J*** “Doe” Wayne?

Authors note: Yes, it's a Yan! Batfam. Whodunnit. Erm there's a likely possibility that this will end up in the unfinished yan! batfam fics archive. I will attempt to write this I promise, cuz like I've been reading some Yan!Batfam fics and I haven't seen one yet that's been finished so why not write one that starts at the ending(?). Lol I'm just a dumbass who's a sucker for angst idk what's happening tbh. Also yes, I will be using she/her pronouns, and the reader darling is going to be called J*** or "Doe" in this cuz I have a reason for that. It's a secret for now. Or maybe you guys already do know from the theme I suck at being subtle.

[takumiraine]

Once Upon A Time Chapter 2

<prev> <next>

So Danny? 100% has PTSD. I do have a vague plan for this. And most of the next chap written. The Fentons may or may not be terrible parents. You’ll have to wait and see. I do have plans to break everyone’s hearts at least once. Anyways. This is considered my like…. Audience test before Ao3. Things may change. As a reminder all I know about dc is from fandom and wiki and everything I remember about dp is prob poorly remembered.

—

Once upon a time, there had been a young boy who was happy. Once upon a time, there was a young boy who had dreams and a future. Once upon a time, there was a boy who had been alive in every sense of the word. Once upon a time, everything shattered. Once upon a time, there was a man who was filled with anger. Once upon a time, there was a man just as alive as he was dead. Once upon a time, there was a man who was haunted and hunted.

As the stabbed kid shuffled off, leaving Jason baffled, he grabbed the guy who he had slammed into the wall. His head was bleeding but his breathing was steady and Jason huffed. He knew he definitely cracked the guy’s skull, but he had survived worse.

“O, what do we know on this guy?” He asked the woman in his ear. Oracle’s answer would determine whether he took the guy in to the ER or let him roll the dice of fate.

“Rap sheet about a mile long. Pretty basic stuff. Armed robbery, possession with intent, B&Es, assault and battery, the usual.”

Jason shrugged then and dropped the guy against the wall. Rolling the dice it was. He turned away, looking towards where the kid disappeared around the corner “and what about the guy he was mugging?”

“That’s where it gets weird.” Oracle’s typing was coming through loud and clear. “It’s hard to get a clear picture of him. He has some sort of distortion on the feed. Everything else comes out clear but…. He’s a mess of pixels. Voice too. Scrambled. It’ll take time.”

“Think he’s a meta?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, considering he got knifed and just…. Walked off with it. Wonder what his issue with B is though.”

“Couldn’t tell you. Think it might be time to update my armor if I’m being lumped in with people B and the bird brains have pissed off.” Jason took an evidence kit out of his pocket and swiped at the blood on his chest. Old habits and all. “Got a sample of the kid’s blood though.”

“Good thinking. Wonder if he’s in any databases. I’ve got a cleaned up picture now. Enough that it’s pinging in GU’s database. Dan Nightingale, Mechanical engineering major. It says he’s 19, it’s his freshman year and he’s in like every remedial class he can take, high school transcripts are mediocre at best. No other information about him really. Rogue in the making that one.” Oracle reported. Jason groaned, grapneling up to the rooftops to follow where the kid went off to.

“Someone should keep an eye on him. Ugh. This’ll be a conversation for B and the birds won’t it? Kid won’t like having a bunch of birds following him.” Jason flicked through the different visual modes on his visor, finding…. Cold moving through one of the apartment buildings. It was human shaped, but where he expected to find heat…. “Weird…. You seeing this?”

“Very weird,” Barbara agreed, tapping into his visor’s feed. “And hey, you could just…. Not tell him. You wanted a Lit degree right? Go to class, befriend him. Do some recon.” Jason knew Babs always walked the fine line between what Bruce needed to know about the rest of them and what she had to keep secret to keep helping them. He didn’t envy her position. Jason still wanted Bruce to hurt sometimes. Not as much as he used to, something about the sins of the father and all that. He just wanted Bruce to be aware that everything he had ever hoped for his boy to be was… out of both of their reaches forever.

“That sounds annoying.” He was 23. He didn’t have any interest in taking on a degree on top of his full time crime fighting and criminal empire running jobs.

“Yeah, but what other choice do you have? It’s go back to school, tell B, or wait for him to become a rogue.”

“I hate you sometimes.” He muttered, unsure of what made him suddenly so interested in that angry guy.

“Feeling’s mutual Hood,” She replied with what was definitely a fond tone. He grimaced.

—-

In the apartment, Danny was less than thrilled. That was his favorite shirt! Now not only was it covered in blood, it had a huge hole in it. His core still thrummed with the urge to fight, but he tamped it down. Slowly, as he pulled the knife out, he sealed the wound with a layer of ice, pulling his shirt off and throwing it into the bathroom sink. The knife was dropped into the kitchen sink. His keys and phone in his bedroom on the battered nightstand next to the bed.

He returned to the bathroom and turned the water on cold. He let it spray full blast before working on scrubbing the blood from his shirt. He looked up to eye himself critically in the mirror before noticing the waistband of his jeans were saturated with blood too. Damn it. He kicked off his shoes and pulled his pants off, throwing them into the now overfilled sink. The bathtub would probably be a better choice. Turning off the sink and turning on the tub Danny picked up the sopping clothes and dropped them with a wet thump into the basin of the tub. Carefully he lowered himself onto the floor, wincing at the way pain clawed through him.

He would need to actually eat food to heal from this at any reasonable speed. He thought of the two dollars he had, then the emergency stash of….he racked his brain to remember how much of the emergency cash he was left with once he got to Gotham…right. Twenty bucks…. That was all he had in the wall.

He missed the days when Sam would just throw money at him whenever his parents forgot to do things like pay rent or put food in the fridge.

As if agreeing his stomach rumbled loudly, demanding actual food to sate the expense of energy healing his injury would take. He thought about calling Sam. Seeing if she could arrange a prepaid card for him. He knew she would in a heartbeat.

Even cut off from family money she seemed to be doing better than he was. Wracking his brain, Danny thought she was working in Bludhaven as some sort of personal assistant. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion that came from sustaining a human body on nothing but ecto or if he had been too distracted in the moment to pay proper attention, but he couldn’t remember if that was right. Getting the blood out of his clothes he wiped at the remaining blood on his body, getting most of it off. He grabbed the clothes and turned off the water.

Slowly, Danny pushed himself to his feet. He had survived worse, multiple times. But pain never seemed to stop being painful. It lanced through his side and he almost fell back to his knees with the way it stole his breath and doubled him over. He wished he could go back to the Zone and just… wait it out. But in order to do that without drawing attention he’d need a portal. The only ones he knew of were either destroyed or…. Compromised.

Maybe he should call Vlad. Danny shook that thought away almost immediately as he realized how silly it was. Vlad spent most of his teen years antagonizing him. Besides the GIW had probably gotten to Vlad too. If he wasn’t captured he would likely be compromised. Memories of Amity Park flooded in before Danny could stop them. Of asking for help. Over and over. Of the GIW storming in and locking everything down. Of Danny frantically telling his parents, only for their eyes to dart to the kitchen before they could stop it. Of the sound of energy. The smell of his flesh burning. Of pain.

Danny forced himself to take a breath. He focused on the wet clothes in his hands. On the tiles beneath his feet. Of the too harsh fluorescents in the bathroom that buzzed. The sounds of the people above him arguing over bills and needing better jobs.

Slowly he banished the memories back where they belonged. He’d… figure it out. He had to. Somehow. For now, sleep. Danny hung up the wet clothes over the shower bar, made sure there was a towel on the floor and shuffled into the bedroom. Double checking that his alarm was set, even though his class wasn’t until early afternoon, he didn’t want to miss it, he slid into his bed and pulled the pile of blankets up over him.

Almost instantly, he was out.

—-

“B,” Jason said in lieu of a proper greeting as he stepped into the Batcave, hood tucked under his arm.

“Jason,” Bruce looked up and turned the surprised expression into something more fond. “To what do I owe the visit?”

Jason leaned against the rock. Foot braced against the wall. “I know semester’s already started, but something came up. How hard would it be to start at GU?”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment and Jason knew it was his way of trying to figure out what buttons to press. Then he tilted his head and turned back to the computer screen. “Not too hard. It is early yet. Anything I should know?”

“Babs was lonely.” It was an out and out lie, but it seemed to soften things in Bruce further, reminding him of the two children that failed him within months of each other.

“Hm.” Bruce was silent at his computer for a long moment. Convinced that was the end of the conversation, Jason tightened his grip on the helmet he had tucked under his arm. “Either way. It is a good choice. Literature?”

The comment and question rankled Jason, the thing from the pit scratching at his carefully contained emotions. Pushing for any crack. Bruce was trying he reminded himself. Too little too late, but trying.

“Yeah. Going in in the morning.”

“Should I call ahead?”

“No. I can handle it. If not I have no business being there.”

“You will do fine.” The ‘you are a Wayne’ was left unspoken.

Jason snorted. “Right. Good talk.”

“Are you staying the night?” An olive branch. Jason wanted to burn it. He tempered the impulse to a spark.

“I have my own place.”

“Your room is still yours when you want it.”

“Yeah. The room of the worst Robin in history. Pass.” Jason turned and walked stiffly back up the steps. Hearing the soft growl of Batman behind him. The start of an argument.

He considered it a victory that he didn’t run into any of his siblings or Alfred on the way out.