#Clear and Precise Translations

[transcriptioncity]

What is Concept Elaboration? Concept Elaboration Services

Concept Elaboration and Understanding the Importance of Clear Communication The intricacies of language often present challenges, especially when conveying complex ideas across different cultures. Concept Elaboration, a vital process in language services, ensures clear and comprehensive communication. This article delves into the origins, implementation, and significance of Concept Elaboration,…

[miihho]

THE KIND OF GUY

( squid game edition boys ) nsfw

Frontman / 001 /

— HE'S THE KIND OF GUY who’d manipulate you subtly, weaving himself so deeply into your life that you wouldn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s made himself the sole person you can rely on, the only one you can trust.

— He’s the kind of guy who rarely lets anyone get close, especially in a place like this. As the Frontman, he’s used to controlling everything with precision and cold detachment. But when it comes to you, something shifts. The games are brutal, unforgiving, but he finds ways to make sure you get a little more help—extra food to keep you going, or a quiet word to the guards to make sure they would help you. He doesn’t do this for anyone else, but for you, he bends the rules just enough to keep you alive, his actions hidden beneath the mask but speaking volumes about the care he won’t openly admit.

— The kind of guy who’d undress you with his eyes from across the room, watching you as you laugh and chat with your teammates, completely unaware of the intensity of his gaze. His stare is almost predatory, soaking in every detail, devouring you without a single word.

— The kind of guy who never shows his jealousy outright, keeping his emotions carefully concealed behind a calm exterior. But his eyes—sharp and piercing—will find the person you’re talking to, delivering a silent, bone-chilling warning. Without a word, he makes them feel exposed, unsettled, and unwelcome.

As their confidence crumbles under his unrelenting gaze, they’ll stammer some flimsy excuse, their discomfort driving them to leave in a hurry. You, sweet and oblivious, will watch them go, your mind never grasping the quiet dominance he just asserted.

And when the space between you clears, he’ll step in with perfect timing, his presence effortlessly stealing your focus. His voice will be warm, his words lighthearted, drawing you into an easy conversation as if nothing had happened.

— The kind of guy who always gets what he wants, and if he’s set his sights on you, nothing and no one will stand in his way. Anyone who tries to come between you and him is dealt with swiftly—whether it’s a rival or someone foolish enough to fall for you. If they dare challenge him, they’re as good as gone.

— In sex, he’s the kind of guy who revels in your every movement, his hands gripping your waist with just the right amount of force. “Good girl,” he’d murmur, his voice low and dripping with desire, each word sending shivers down your spine. “That’s it, attagirl,” he’d whisper, his eyes locked onto yours, dark and filled with raw admiration, as if every move you made was crafted to drive him wild.

If you’re straddling him, bouncing on his cock with desperate urgency, he’d lean back against the wall, his head tilting slightly as his eyes flutter shut, a deep, guttural moan spilling from his lips. His fingers digging into your waist, controlling your movements with a firm, possessive grip as his ragged breaths mingled with husky groans. “Fuck, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect,” he’d rasp, his voice dripping with raw hunger. The words would make your pace falter for just a heartbeat before his hands tightened on your hips, driving you down harder, faster, his need for you utterly insatiable.

But if he’s mad at you, it’s completely different. He’d have you on your stomach, your back arched as he pushes your head down into the bed, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “Such a fucking bad girl.” in a deep, rough voice that makes your body shudder. His frustration would translate into every powerful thrust, his movements unrelenting as your muffled cries echo into the pillow. The way he claims you, rough and demanding, would send you spiraling, your body surrendering completely as he makes sure you feel every inch of his cock.

— He’d absolutely be the type to let you cockwarm him while he’s busy, his focus shifting between his work and the needy little whines you make every time you shift in his lap. His hand would lazily rest on your thigh, occasionally gripping tighter when you squirm too much, a silent warning to behave.

But when you get too desperate, too needy for him to ignore, he’d smirk, shifting his hips just enough to tease you, his cock pressing against all the right spots. “Patience, baby,” he’d murmur, his voice dripping with amusement as you let out a frustrated whimper.

And when he finally indulges you, he leans back on the couch, drink in hand, watching as you take control, bouncing up and down on his cock with reckless abandon. His eyes stay locked on you, hungry and half-lidded, while he takes a slow sip of his drink. The big screen glows in the background, but his full attention is on the way you move, the way you moan his name like it’s the only word you know.

“Look at you,” he’d groan, his voice low and thick. “So fucking desperate for me, riding my cock like a good girl. Keep going, baby—show me how much you need it.” And when you finally fall apart, trembling in his lap, he’ll just chuckle, pulling you close to kiss you as if rewarding you for putting on the perfect show.

— He’s the kind of man who makes your whole body burn. His panting breaths, low grunts, and the slick sheen of sweat gliding down his chiseled abs are enough to drive you mad. His hand pushes back his messy hair, but that one strand falls stubbornly over his forehead, making him look devastatingly wrecked as his tired, lust-heavy eyes lock onto yours. Each deep thrust is accompanied by a guttural sound from deep in his chest, the intensity in his gaze leaving you utterly undone. He’d lift you like you weigh nothing, slamming you onto the bed with a feral growl. His tie is gone in seconds, ripped away and tossed aside as his jaw clenches, every move commanding your attention and submission.

You were utterly wrecked beneath him, legs spread wide on his bed, your body trembling as his fingers plunged into you, hitting every spot that made your back arch off the sheets. His smirk was downright sinful as he watched you fall apart, his voice low and teasing.

“Feel good, baby?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The way your thighs quivered and your nails dug into his back said it all. He chuckled when all you could do was nod, your breathless moans spilling out as his fingers worked you mercilessly. You’d already cum twice, your mind foggy and body pliant, but he wasn’t done with you. His dark, lust-filled eyes pinned you in place, making you feel even more exposed, more vulnerable, and it only made you crave him more.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby. Can’t have my girl getting hurt when I stretch this pretty little pussy out.” His words were sweet and filthy all at once, paired with soft kisses along your jaw and forehead that contrasted with the way his fingers fucked into you.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, leaving you aching and desperate, he unzipped himself, letting his cock spring free, already slick with precum. He stroked himself slowly, teasing you as your eyes went wide, taking in how thick and hard he was.

“See this, baby? All of it’s for you.”

As he pressed into you, inch by inch, your walls stretched to take him, the fullness almost too much to bear. You cried out, clutching at him, but he only groaned deeply, his voice husky. “Fuck… this tight little pussy was made for me,” he rasped, his hips sinking into you completely.

“You’re taking me so well, baby,” he said, his breath hot against your lips as he leaned in to kiss you deeply. His thrusts started slow, deliberate, every movement sending shockwaves through your body.

“fuck, you’re perfect… so good for me, taking every inch like the sweet little slut you are.” His praise was filthy, his tone raw, and the way his body pinned yours down left you completely at his mercy.

HI I'M BACK! also Happy new year everyone! Which person should i do next? Thanos? Salesman? Player 333? Lmk!

[moonstruckme]

could i please request best friend sirius x reader with no boundaries? <3

Hi anon! You didn't respond to this post, so I went ahead and used it for the Who's That Girl au, hope you still like it <3

cw: nonsexual nudity

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

The shower in your flat is finicky. There’s a very precise balance to be struck between the two faucets to ensure the water is neither glacial nor magmatic, and having only just dragged yourself out of bed, you’re nearly falling asleep as you fuss with them. By the time you step under the perfectly-warm spray, it makes you let out a blissful sigh. 

You get approximately two minutes of that before it suddenly turns scalding hot. 

You make a wounded yelping sound, pressing yourself against the wall. “What the hell?” 

“So’rry,” comes a garbled voice from beyond the curtain. 

Instinctively, your arms wrap around your chest. You’re so shocked it takes you a second to relocate your voice. 

“Sirius?” 

“Hm?” 

“What are you doing in here?” 

“M jus’ bru’in my tee’,” your flatmate replies in the same unruffled tone. You translate this to I’m just brushing my teeth, which explains why it sounds like he’s currently talking through a mouthful of foam. 

You stare at your audience of various shower products in bewilderment. The water hitting your knees has returned to a withstandable temperature, but you stay cowering against the far wall. It doesn’t feel like you can simply resume your shower with Sirius just on the other side of the curtain. 

“Do you have to do it right now?” 

“We’, I have to ge’ to ma’beh in tir’ty min’us to mee’ ma’ee, so whe’ else ‘m I s’pos to use my own ba’room?”

“What?” 

This time, you hear the bathroom door open. “He said,” James explains helpfully, “that he has to meet our friend Marlene at Mackbear—that’s a coffee shop in Whitechapel—in half an hour, so he doesn’t know when else he’s supposed to get in here.” 

“Oh.” You cup your slippery boobs in both hands, feeling vulnerable. “Um, thanks James.” 

Sirius also makes a toothpaste-y noise of gratitude. 

“Anytime.” 

Tentatively, you begin shampooing your hair again. You hear Sirius spit in the sink. 

“Step out of the stream,” James warns. You obey, and you hear the sink’s faucet squeak just before your water turns hot again. A few moments later it’s back to normal. “We have one of those showers that freaks out whenever someone uses the sink. Remus explained it one time—something about the flat not having pressure balancing? I don’t get it, but it’ll happen when the toilet goes too, so be careful.” 

“Thanks,” you say again, hoping with all your heart that no one ever uses the toilet while you’re in the shower. Is this a guy thing, or a Brit thing? It’s your first time living with both, so it seems plausible it could be either one. 

“I’m not convinced Rem actually knows what he’s talking about,” says Sirius, his voice now clear. “Fairly sure he just looked it up online and now pretends to be an expert. Hey, doll, I think I left my face wash in there last night. Pass it to me?” 

“Uhh.” You look at the shelf of products. “The blue tube?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“Just a second.” You rinse the rest of the shampoo from your hair, grabbing the shower curtain to ensure you’re covered before reaching out with the face wash in hand. “Here you go.” 

“Thanks.” Sirius steps away from the sink, taking it from you. 

You narrow your eyes. “Is that my shirt?” 

“Hm?” He glances down to the grey top he has on, just short enough on him to show a cheeky slice of abdomen. “Oh, yeah.” 

You wait for an apology or a do you mind?, but Sirius only goes back to his station in front of the sink. James seems similarly unphased. 

“Turning the water on again,” Sirius says, hardly giving you any warning before twisting the faucet. This time, the water hitting your bum is icy cold. 

You jolt and press closer to the curtain to escape it, nearly tripping out of the shower just as Remus comes in. 

“Oh.” His steps falter as his eyes catch on you, your torso held so tightly against the shower curtain it’s likely making an impression. He blinks and quickly moves his gaze away. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was…what are we all doing in here?” 

“Getting ready, obviously,” Sirius says, patting his face with a towel. 

“I’m waiting for the shower,” says James. “Hey, y/n, would you mind if I peed really quickly?” 

You’re too appalled for politeness. “Yes.”

James seems bemused by this, but he shrugs. “Alright. I can wait.” 

Remus is looking between the three of you, a notch forming between his brows. “Did you tell them they could come in?” he asks you, seeming to already have guessed at the answer. 

You shake your head mutely. 

He levels James with an admonishing look. “What are you two thinking? Get out of here, let’s go.” 

“What?” Sirius looks affronted. “Why?” 

“Because y/n is trying to shower.” 

“I have to be in Whitechapel in—” Sirius glances at his phone “—twenty-five minutes. She can shower just as well while I fix my hair.” 

“I don’t really need to explain this to you.” Remus temples his hands against his forehead. “You’re invading her privacy. We all are, right now.” 

“But, Moony,” James looks genuinely perplexed, “there’s only one bathroom. We share all the time.” 

“This is different.” 

“What, because she’s a girl?” Sirius shoots him an unimpressed look. “That’s sexist. You’re discriminating against her.” 

“Jar,” Remus says sternly. “Five quid.” 

“What? I’m only telling the truth! Y/n” —Sirius turns to you— “don’t you feel discriminated against?” 

What you feel is very, very warm. You probably could just turn the shower faucet to cold at this point and not worry about it. “By Remus?” you ask to be sure. “No.” 

“Do you feel invaded?” James asks curiously. 

“I mean…” You shrink. “A little?” 

He looks contrite. 

“Let’s go,” says Remus, waving them out. James goes first, Sirius following more slowly seemingly just for spite. “Sorry,” Remus mumbles, looking everywhere but at you as he shuts the bathroom door. 

Even when they’re out in the hallway, you can still hear Sirius’ grumbling. “If she’s not being discriminated against, I certainly am. I pay rent for that bathroom!” 

“That’s ten quid in the wanker jar. Now.”

[ahqkas]

Can you please write dumb/subtle/random/cute things batboys will do while they are crushing on reader?

♯ FEEL YOUR LIPS CRUSH . . .

— gn!reader, fluff

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE

becomes overly observant but awkwardly obvious

bruce wayne is a master of observation—trained to notice the smallest details in a room, a person, or a crime scene. but when it comes to you, this skill becomes more of a curse than a blessing. his crush transforms his usual precision into something downright awkward as he hyper-focuses on the tiniest parts of your life.

it starts innocently enough. you’ll be in the middle of a casual conversation when bruce interrupts, his deep voice breaking through your train of thought.

“you’ve switched your coffee order recently,” he says matter-of-factly, his piercing blue eyes locking on yours.

you blink, momentarily confused. “uh, yeah. i wanted to try something different.”

“it’s good,” he replies, his tone completely serious, as if your new preference for caramel flavored coffee over vanilla is a critical observation.

sometimes his comments catch you so off guard that you don’t even know how to respond. like the time you came into the room wearing a pair of old sneakers. bruce, who was leaning against the kitchen counter sipping his coffee, glanced down and said, “those laces are frayed. you should replace them.”

you laughed nervously, unsure if he was joking. “uh, thanks for the tip?”

but bruce wasn’t joking. “i’ll send alfred to pick up new ones. you don’t want them snapping mid-step.”

he tries to play it cool, he really does, but his constant streak of seemingly random observations only makes his feelings more obvious. one afternoon, you find him glancing at your notebook while you jot something down. without even looking at you, he says, “you press harder with the pen when you’re tired. your handwriting’s smaller today.”

you set your pen down, giving him a skeptical look. “do you . . . keep track of my handwriting, bruce?”

his face doesn’t change, though you swear his ears flush the faintest shade of pink. “no,” he says smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee. “it’s just. . . noticeable.”

it’s the way he says it—quiet and genuine—that sends your heart fluttering. he doesn’t realize how much he’s revealing, but his small, awkward comments and laser focus on the details of your life make it abundantly clear.

the funny thing is, you’re not the only one noticing. alfred, who’s known bruce wayne longer than anyone, often raises an eyebrow or hides a knowing smirk whenever bruce starts one of his “random” observations.

( “perhaps master wayne should focus on his own handwriting.” bruce glares at alfred, but his lack of a comment only makes the butler’s smirk grow wider. )

finds excuses to be helpful

bruce’s wealth is something he wields with the subtlety of a battering ram when he’s crushing on someone. his intentions are good—he genuinely wants to help—but it often comes off as over-the-top or hilariously unnecessary. for someone as logical and composed as the bat, using his money to make your life easier feels like a no-brainer, but he doesn’t realize just how obvious it makes his feelings.

it starts small at first. you might casually mention needing to replace something—your laptop is acting up or your phone is outdated. the next day, without fail, a box will mysteriously appear at your doorstep. inside, you’ll find not just a replacement but the absolute best version of the device, meticulously selected and clearly expensive.

“bruce,” you say, holding up the latest model of a WE laptop you can’t imagine ever affording on your own. “did you do this?”

he looks up from his work, his expression calm and unbothered. “it’s practical,” he says, as if that’s a reasonable excuse for gifting you a piece of technology worth more than your rent. “your old one was slow. it’s inefficient to struggle with outdated equipment.”

when you try to protest, he waves it off, as though spending thousands of dollars on you is no more different than buying a cup of coffee.

but it doesn’t stop there. one morning, you’re sitting in the kitchen with him, absently complaining about how your car keeps breaking down. it’s an offhanded comment, something you don’t think twice about, but bruce takes it as a challenge. by the time you’ve finished your coffee, he’s already pulled out his phone to make arrangements.

“wait,” you interrupt him, narrowing your eyes as you catch him murmuring something to alfred over the phone. “what are you doing?”

“nothing,” he replies too quickly, but later that day, you’re startled to find a sleek new car parked outside your home, the keys and a handwritten note from the butler sitting on your counter.

“bruce!” you exclaim, storming into the study to confront him.

he doesn’t even look up from his computer. “your old car was unreliable. this one is safer.”

“that’s not the point!”

“it’s just a car,” he says with a small shrug, though there’s a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

despite his attitude, it’s clear he’s putting an incredible amount of thought into everything he does for you. his gestures are less about showing off his wealth and more about making sure you never have to struggle, even in the smallest ways. because to him, it’s just logical—he has the resources, so why wouldn’t he use them to make your life easier?

DICK GRAYSON

finds excuses to touch you

for someone as physically expressive as dick grayson, touch comes as naturally as breathing—but when he’s crushing on you, it’s a whole new level. he’s not even aware of how much he does it at first, but the moments start to add up. it’s little things at first: the way he always seems to find a reason to brush his hand against yours, the casual way his shoulder bumps into you when you’re walking side by side, or the way he’ll lean close when he’s explaining something, his hand ghosting over yours as he gestures.

but then, it becomes less about the accidental and more about the intentional. when you’re sitting on the couch together, he’ll sling an arm over the back of it, his fingers close enough to brush against your shoulder. he’ll offer his hand when you’re stepping out of a car or climbing over something, even if you don’t need it, the contact lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“careful,” he’ll say, his voice soft and teasing, even though the step you’re taking isn’t remotely precarious.

“you know i can walk, right?”

he grins, squeezing your hand briefly before letting it go. “just being chivalrous.”

and then, there are the moments when he gets so wrapped up in the conversation or your presence that he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. like the time you were sitting together, and he absentmindedly started playing with the hem of your sleeve. it wasn’t until you cleared your throat that he looked down, startled, his ears turning pink as he quickly let go.

“sorry,” he mumbled, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “didn’t realize i was doing that.”

but the blush on his cheeks told you everything you needed to know.

for dick, touch is a way of expressing what words sometimes fail to say. every hand on your shoulder, every playful nudge, and every lingering hug is his way of saying, i like being near you. i like you. even if he hasn’t quite found the courage to say it out loud, his actions make it impossible to miss.

teases you relentlessly (but gets flustered when you tease him back)

teasing is how dick shows affection, how he keeps things light, and, more than anything, how he tries to get your attention. when he’s crushing on you, though, his teasing takes on a new level. every little thing you do seems to give him material to poke fun at, not in a mean way, but in a way that makes it clear he’s paying attention to everything about you.

if you trip over a word while talking, he’ll immediately smirk. “careful there, shakespeare,” he’ll quip. “do we need to enroll you in a public speaking class?” or if you drop something, he’s ready with a dramatic gasp. “wow, butterfingers, do you need me to carry everything for you? i could be your personal assistant, but i charge by the hour.”

it’s playful, yes, but it’s also consistent. he’s always looking for ways to make you laugh, even if it’s at your own expense. like the time you were struggling to open a stubborn jar of jam, and he swooped in, popping the lid off with ease.

“guess i’m just the stronger one here,” he said, flexing his biceps with an exaggerated grin. “it’s okay; not everyone can have these guns.”

but if you so much as raise an eyebrow or fire back with your own jab, the tables turn in an instant. one day, after he’d spent a full five minutes teasing you about your choice of coffee ( “a triple-shot vanilla latte with almond milk? fancy. are you sure you don’t need a royal escort to carry it for you?” ), you finally snapped back.

“oh, and i suppose you’re the coffee expert, mr. regular black coffee? real creative. i bet the baristas have your order memorized.”

the grin on his face faltered for a split second, his eyes widening just slightly. then came the blush—the faint pink hue creeping up his cheeks as he tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“hey, black coffee is . . . classic,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

and that’s the thing about dick grayson: as much as he loves dishing it out, he can’t always handle it when it’s directed at him. the moment you tease him back, especially if it’s about something he’s sensitive about (like his perfectly styled hair or his need to one-up everyone), he turns into an awkward, flustered mess.

“you spend how long on your hair every morning?” you asked him once, teasingly ruffling his carefully combed locks after he made fun of the mismatched socks you were wearing.

he froze, his hand shooting up to fix the damage. “it’s not that long,” he protested, his voice defensive but light.

“oh, come on! i bet you use at least three different products. don’t tell me you don’t have a favorite brand of gel.”

his cheeks flushed crimson as he stammered, “i—you know, it’s just . . . maintenance! can’t all of us roll out of bed looking flawless, okay?”

you laughed, and he groaned, muttering something under his breath about how you were “way too good at this.”

JASON TODD

acts nonchalant but is always nearby

jason todd is many things—brash, sarcastic, sometimes even reckless—but when it comes to feelings he doesn’t fully understand, he defaults to keeping his distance . . . or at least pretending he’s keeping his distance. the truth is, when he’s crushing on you, he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, always finding an excuse to be wherever you are without making it obvious. or so he thinks.

take your quiet sunday afternoons, for instance. maybe you’ve settled on the couch with a book, enjoying the rare peace. jason walks in, all nonchalant, like he’s just passing through. he glances at you—just a quick flick of his eyes, like he’s making sure you’re still there—and then he settles in the chair across from you, a spot he never uses otherwise.

“what are you doing?” you ask, watching as he pulls out a book of his own, the same one he’s been pretending to read for weeks.

he doesn’t even look up. “reading.”

you roll your eyes but say nothing, knowing full well he’s barely getting through a page. you can feel his gaze on you every few minutes, like he’s trying to memorize the way your brow furrows in concentration or how you chew on the corner of your lip when you’re focused. and if you catch him? he quickly snaps his attention back to his book, pretending obliviousness.

“didn’t know you liked this spot so much,” you tease, gesturing to the chair.

a smirk plays on the edge of his lips, though there’s a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. “what, i can’t sit here now? thought it was a free country.”

it’s always like that—his attempts to mask how much he cares come with a side of sarcasm. but the truth slips through in the little details. like how he never actually leaves the room until you do. or how, even when you’re sitting in silence, he finds a reason to linger. maybe he’s scrolling through his phone, flipping through a magazine, or staring at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. but really, he’s just soaking in your presence.

and then there are the times when he doesn’t even bother pretending. like when you’re sitting in the kitchen, finishing up some work, and he wordlessly sits down across from you, arms crossed and chin propped in his hand.

“what?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“nothing,” he replies, though the slight curve of his lips gives him away.

it’s not that jason is afraid to admit he likes you ( although there is a possibility he is but we don’t talk about that )—it’s just that he doesn’t know how. so instead, he hovers. he sticks close enough to feel like he’s part of your world but not so close that he risks giving himself away. so while he might act nonchalant, the truth is, he’s anything but. every glance, every lingering moment, every excuse to be near you is jason’s way of saying he cares—he just hasn’t found the words yet.

fixes things you didn’t even know were broken

jason’s way of showing he cares is a little unconventional, but it’s always in the small, unspoken ways. he’s the type to notice things that no one else would—things that have been lingering for ages in the background of your life, just waiting for someone to fix them. but because it’s jason, he’ll never bring it up. he’ll just do it, no questions asked, and then act like it never happened.

it starts with the little things. your chair in the living room? it’s been squeaking for months now, but it’s not something you’ve gotten around to fixing. it’s one of those annoyances you’ve learned to ignore, a piece of background noise that doesn’t really bother you enough to take action.

until one day, it suddenly stops.

you sit down in the chair, and for the first time in ages, it’s silent. your eyes narrow. you didn’t fix this—so who did?

“jason?” you ask, glancing toward him as he lounges on the couch, pretending to be deep in whatever he’s doing.

he doesn’t even look up. “what?”

“the chair. it’s. . . quiet now.”

he pauses for just a moment, but it’s enough to catch the shift in his demeanor. he shrugs, barely concealing the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “must’ve gotten lucky. or maybe it fixed itself.”

you know it didn’t. but before you can press him on it, he’s already back to whatever he was doing, like the whole thing is no big deal. it’s almost as if he’s trying to play it off, hoping you won’t notice that he’s been quietly fixing things in your life, one at a time.

the next thing happens a few days later. you walk into the kitchen, only to find that the light above the sink, the one that flickers every time you try to use it, is now working. perfectly.

you stop, standing in the doorway and just staring at it. there’s no way you fixed it. and it certainly wasn’t broken enough to need replacing. so once again, you turn your gaze to jason, who’s now sitting at the kitchen table, eating a snack and acting entirely uninterested in your investigation.

“jason, did you—?”

“no,” he interrupts and continues watching the video essay he turns on every time he eats.

“uh-huh,” you say, narrowing your eyes, walking toward the light and testing the switch again just to make sure you’re not imagining things. it stays steady, glowing without hesitation.

he’ll never say it out loud, but each fix—each thoughtful act—speaks louder than any words could. the broken things don’t matter, because jason is here, fixing them in his own way, piece by piece.

TIM DRAKE

gets shy when you’re too close

tim drake is usually the picture of composure. he’s calm, collected, and can handle himself in just about any situation, but when you’re too close, all that confidence seems to slip away. it starts small. you’re sitting beside him, maybe sharing a space while working on something, and without thinking, you slide just a little bit closer to him. maybe your arm brushes against his, or your knee nudges his under the table.

it’s enough to throw him off, just for a second. his heart rate picks up slightly, and he tries to hide it behind the screen of his laptop, pretending to focus harder than he really is. but he knows, deep down, that he’s hyperaware of you now—of the way you’re sitting, of the way your presence seems to fill the space between the two of you.

his eyes flicker toward you, but quickly dart away, like he’s afraid you caught him staring. it’s an involuntary reaction, the nervous little shift in his posture as he tries to seem as casual as possible. he clears his throat, his voice slightly quieter than usual. “uh, sorry, was just—just making sure the laptop was charging.”

it’s obvious to you that he’s not really talking about the laptop. he’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but every time you’re too close to him, tim’s body betrays him. the way his leg shifts a little away from yours under the table, or how he tries to subtly angle his body so there’s just a little more space between you and him, even if he doesn’t want there to be.

you might not notice the subtle movements, but tim does. and every time you get close to him, whether it’s by accident or on purpose, he feels a flutter of nerves that he can’t quite explain. it’s not that he doesn’t want you near him—far from it—but the proximity messes with him in ways he doesn’t understand. his thoughts get jumbled, and his usual calmness slips, replaced by the flustered feeling he’s not used to.

if you ever catch him looking at you, his gaze quickly drops, and a soft blush creeps up his neck. “i—i didn’t mean to—uh, just making sure you’re not too cramped.” he mutters, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, anything to distract himself from the fact that he’s suddenly very aware of you being so close.

sometimes, when you get too near, tim will just freeze for a moment. it’s like his body can’t process the closeness, and the little awkward silence stretches between you two. it’s not uncomfortable—far from it—but it’s a vulnerable thing for tim, this closeness he doesn’t know how to handle.

but if you keep talking, or even just touch his arm gently when you lean over to look at something, tim’s composure slips even more. he shifts in his seat, trying to act like he’s calm, but his hand might twitch toward yours for just a second before he pulls it away like he’s afraid you’ll notice how he’s reacting.

follows you around during patrol

it’s late at night, the moon casting faint silver light across the streets, and the only sounds are the hum of city life and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. you’re out on a walk, maybe trying to clear your head or just enjoy the quiet, unaware that someone is watching you from the shadows. tim, clad in his suit, has been tailing you for a while now. it’s not that he’s trying to be creepy or intrusive, but rather, he’s just . . . concerned.

tim is the kind of person who can’t turn off his instincts, and tonight, for whatever reason, they’re telling him to stay close. he’s perched high above you on a rooftop, watching you walk along the street below, trying to remain unseen. his red robin suit blends into the darkness of the night, the shadows making him nearly invisible to anyone who might be looking.

he’s not sure why he’s doing it—it’s not like you’ve asked him to keep an eye on you—but there’s something about the quiet stillness of the night that has him on edge. maybe it’s because you’ve been a little distant lately, or maybe he’s just worried something might happen to you in the dark. either way, he’s got his eyes on you, and he won’t stop until you’re safely back where you belong.

he’s quick, agile, moving like a shadow himself. you might hear a faint creak of a fire escape ladder or the flurry of footsteps just out of your line of sight, but when you look, there’s nothing there—just the empty street, the soft glow of streetlights, and the ever-present hum of the city.

it’s when you stop for a moment, distracted by something—maybe you’re checking your phone or admiring a nearby storefront—that he’s closest. in that moment, tim takes a chance, moving closer to you, just a few feet away in the darkened alley. he’s not trying to startle you, but there’s something in his gut that tells him he can’t let you out of his sight, especially when it’s this late, and the streets feel a little emptier than usual.

he’ll hover just out of view, giving you space but never quite leaving you alone. if you keep walking, he follows, keeping his distance but staying close enough to ensure you’re safe. when you stop at a crosswalk or glance around, he’s already a few rooftops away, peering down at you from above, making sure you’re not being followed.

the closer you get to home, the more relaxed tim feels, but he never lets his guard down entirely. even when you reach the safety of your doorstep, he lingers just out of sight, making sure you get inside without any issues. he’ll remain in the shadows for a moment longer, watching as you lock the door behind you, ensuring you’re safe before finally letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

only then does he disappear into the night, his heart still racing, his mind replaying the images of your walk. he’ll retreat to his hidden vantage point, slipping into the dark corners of gotham once more, but the small weight of relief that you’re safe settles deep in his chest. even though he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s a part of him that feels content knowing you’re okay—even if you’ll never know how closely he’s watched over you.

[fromdove]

ㅤ ⁞ 𝓐ND 𝓨ET, 𝓣HE 𝓗EART ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ (𝓔VER 𝓢O 𝓕OOLISH) ㅤㅤ

ㅤ ⁞ 𝓦HISPERS 𝓨ES.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𐔌 ⋮ d.wayne x fem!reader ꒱

«لا أعلم كيف أنتمي إلى هذا العالم»، يقول، «لكنني أظن أنني قد أنتمي إليكِ».

—୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ you're on a date at a carnival with damian wayne & get caught by his bat siblings! ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

It begins on a Tuesday. Because Tuesdays are the most humiliating of days.

Damian Wayne does not do carnivals.

He does not do sticky-fingered children shrieking with laughter, cheeks streaked with frosting and dirt like war paint. He does not do the scent of frying oil clinging to every inch of breathable air, or the grotesque mascots wobbling about with their oversized foam heads and eternal grins, or the synthetic prizes that look like they’re filled with sorrow and asbestos in equal measure.

He certainly does not do funnel cake. (He doesn’t even understand funnel cake. What is it funneling? Why is it called a cake? Is it some kind of regional inside joke he’s not privy to?)

And yet— Here he is. 6:28 PM. Ankle-deep in trampled woodchips. Sweat beading beneath his glove where your hand brushed his a moment ago. Heart thudding like a war drum, idiotically hopeful.

He promised your parents he’d have you home safely before 9.

You're beside him. Smiling. Laughing at something he didn’t quite catch because he was too busy watching the way the late sunlight breaks in your hair like gold dust. You’re looking up now, head tilted toward the Ferris wheel as it turns slow and skeletal against the peach-blue dusk, and Damian thinks—sudden and uninvited—that this is the kind of moment people write poetry about. Or terrible love songs. Or die over in operas.

(Repulsive.)

But he gets it now. He hates how much he gets it. That breathless kind of ache. The quiet terror of wanting. Of hoping. That unbearable softness in his chest like something is growing there, tender and glowing and completely beyond his control.

“You good?” you ask, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

He startles slightly—just barely—and then blinks. You’re watching him with that half-smile you wear, all crooked charm and warm amusement. His gaze flickers, unsteadily, to your mouth. He looks away too fast.

He clears his throat like it might help. “Fine,” he says, stiffly. “Perfectly functional.”

You laugh. Quiet and real. Not at him, exactly—more like with him, even if he hasn't laughed yet. It’s a sound that does something catastrophic to his chest.

He prays no one is filming him. Because he’s smiling now. Actually smiling. Not the close-lipped, diplomatic expression Alfred coached into him for Wayne Foundation photo ops—but something uneven and unsure and human. The kind of smile that might belong to a boy. A person. Not a weapon honed into precision.

“Wanna do the ring toss?” you ask. “I’ll warn you, though—I’m unbeatable.”

Damian scoffs. “Unbeatable? Beloved, I was trained by the League of Assassins.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Cool. I was trained by YouTube.”

(He beats you. Three times. Of course he does. But he lets you win the fourth.)

You don’t call him out on it. Just bump your shoulder against his again and say, “Maybe you’re not totally hopeless.”

And Damian, who has faced death more times than most people have faced a dentist, feels something unfamiliar and terrifying settle in his chest like a promise.

He thinks it might be joy. Or worse—hope.

── .✦

He buys you a plush duck the size of a small planet. It’s hideous—lopsided eyes, neon yellow fuzz, a beak stitched on upside down. It looks like it lost a fight with a sewing machine.

You adore it immediately.

You squeal when he hands it to you, arms barely fitting around its squishy girth. “He’s perfect,” you declare. “I’m naming him Reginald.”

Damian feels like the stupidest, proudest person alive.

And then— It happens.

The horror movie moment. He hears it before he sees them: that voice, carried across the carnival on a gust of pure doom. Loud. Teasing. Unmistakable.

“Is that our little demon on a date?”

Damian’s soul leaves his body. No. No no no no no.

He whips around like a soldier under siege. And there they are. The Batclan. Every last catastrophic member. Lined up like a Renaissance painting done by someone high on.... something. Something illegal definitely.

Jason’s holding a pretzel in one hand and an oversized soda in the other, grinning like a man with nothing to lose. Tim’s already filming, phone tilted like he’s documenting the downfall of Rome. Stephanie’s waving with both arms like she’s flagging down aircraft. Cass is halfway to your booth already, serene and smiling like a forest spirit coming to bless your crops. And—God help him—Dick is looking at you like this is his niece-in-law and the wedding is next Thursday.

Damian takes a physical step back. “No,” he breathes. “No no no—how did they find me?”

You blink, confused but amused. “Um. Friends of yours?”

He turns to you, face pale with the betrayal of fate. “Define ‘friends.’ Then subtract about seventy percent of the dignity from that word.”

You laugh, too delighted. And then—you wave at them. With your entire hand.

Damian stares at you, betrayed. “You’re encouraging them.”

But it’s too late. Dick Grayson is already bounding over, the human embodiment of serotonin. His smile could power Gotham for a week.

“Hi!” he says, a little breathless. “You must be [Y/N]! I’m Dick. Damian’s favorite brother.”

“Objectively false,” Damian mutters, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jason saunters up next, shoving the rest of his pretzel in his mouth. “Don’t mind him. He’s just shy.”

“I’m not shy—” Damian starts, but—

“Sure, baby bat,” Jason says, eyes glinting. “That’s why you look like you want the earth to swallow you whole.”

Cass gets to you next and, without hesitation, hugs you. It’s silent and warm and grounding, the way only Cassandra Cain can manage. Damian watches with wide eyes like he’s watching a hawk land on someone’s shoulder. Cass doesn’t hug just anyone.

“Your aura’s soft,” she says simply, then steps back like that explains everything.

You beam. Stephanie shrieks, “Those shoes are so cute, oh my god.” And before Damian can react, she’s already offering you lip gloss and a scrunchie from some mysterious pocket in her jacket. You accept both like it’s perfectly natural.

Then— Tim.

Tim slides in beside Damian, not looking up from his phone as he asks, “So. Are you two, like. Dating?”

Damian short-circuits. You glance at him, expectant, curious. There's a beat of silence.

“We are in the process of engaging in a trial romantic exploration,” he blurts, hands rigid at his sides like he's about to be arrested.

Tim stops filming.

He blinks.

“So… yes?”

You burst out laughing. Damian wants to disappear into the woodchips.

There’s cotton candy in your hair. You’re grinning so hard it scrunches your nose. Your laugh is bright and uncontrollable. You’re wearing his hoodie now because it got cold, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The monstrous duck—Reginald—is tucked protectively under one arm.

And somehow— Somehow—

Damian’s not mortified anymore.

He’s just… soft. Full. Quietly radiant, in that fragile, terrible way love makes you feel. Like you’re being held even when no one’s touching you. Like you’ve opened a door in your chest and trusted someone not to slam it shut.

Tim’s still filming. Jason is genuinely stunned. Steph is saying something about a group selfie. Dick is already inviting you to the manor for family movie night. Cass is holding your hand like she’s decided you’re hers now.

And Damian Wayne, child of shadows and sharp edges, just watches you smile at all of them and thinks—

Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world to be seen. Especially if it’s like this.

── .✦

Later, after the others have (finally) dispersed into the night—chasing cotton candy and reevaluating their life choices—you and Damian settle onto a weathered bench just beyond the carousel. The lights have dimmed to a soft glow, the music now a distant lullaby mixing with the rustle of night breeze. Above you, the moon hangs low and silver, casting long, quiet shadows over the fairground.

Between you rests Reginald—the monstrous plush duck—looking somehow smug, like he owns this ridiculous moment.

You break the silence first, nudging Damian’s leg with a light elbow. “So. That was fun.”

Damian groans, the sound low and a little reluctant. “If by ‘fun,’ you mean psychologically scarring and a clear violation of personal boundaries, then yes.”

You smile, nudging him again, softer this time. “Come on. They love you. All of them.”

His gaze shifts out toward the twinkling lights of the rides, distant and impersonal. The glow reflects faintly in his dark eyes. He’s quiet for a long moment, like weighing the truth.

“…They tolerate me,” he says finally, voice rough around the edges. “Sometimes.”

You pause, then tilt your head, voice gentle but firm. “You know, love isn’t always quiet, Damian. It’s not always soft and clean. Sometimes it looks like Jason stealing your Oreos so you’ll chase him through the carnival. Or Steph sneaking embarrassing pictures just to have ammunition for blackmail. Or Dick planning your wedding after two dates and acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

Damian blinks at you, expression blank but you catch a faint twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

A beat passes. Then, quietly, with all the seriousness in the world:

“…Are we getting married?”

You laugh, the sound warm and light. “Slow down, Romeo. Let’s survive the Ferris wheel first, then we’ll talk.”

He folds his arms, but there’s no retort—just a soft exhale, like he’s letting something settle inside. The air between you thickens, charged with something fragile and unspoken. A kind of gravity you can’t quite name—like the moment right before the first kiss, when everything holds its breath.

Then, soft as a shadow:

“The world is cruel,” Damian says, voice low, almost a confession.

You glance at him, heart hitching.

“But you… you make it tolerable.”

That’s Damian’s version of a compliment—awkward and clipped, but sincere beneath the surface.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he stares up at the stars, as if sharing his truth with the indifferent sky.

His fingers twitch beside yours, restless—like he wants to reach out, but something inside holds him back.

Your heart stutters—a stupid, messy thing. Real.

You close the distance instead, your hand sliding gently into his. His fingers don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You squeeze once. Quietly.

And somewhere, just beyond the carousel’s glow, the Batfamily is definitely spying again.

But Damian doesn’t care anymore.

── .✦ 𝓐FTER 𝓣HE 𝓓ATE:

True to his word—and to the cautious trust of your parents—Damian got you home before 9 p.m.

Your room is warm.

Unreasonably warm for Gotham, where the cold usually hangs on. But tonight, in your very room, it’s lamp-lit and soft, filtered through linen curtains that ripple slightly like waves.

You’re both still marked by the evening: sugar-crusted sleeves, the scent of fried dough clinging to your hair. Damian wears the glow-in-the-dark wristband you foisted upon him at the ring toss booth. It glimmers faintly under the lamplight, absurd against the clinical precision of his wrist bones. He hasn’t taken it off. You suspect, with some quiet fondness, that he won’t.

Reginald, your plush duck, lies beneath a blanket like royalty in repose. His beady eyes peer out from a pink pillow with the blank stare of a veteran. You insisted on tucking him in. Damian had watched silently, the corners of his mouth twitching at your ceremonial fluffing of the pillow, your grave whisper: “He’s had a long night.”

Privately, Damian suspects Reginald is an elaborate surveillance device.

He leans against your desk. Arms crossed. Body honed sharp, but curiously at ease—as if, just for tonight, he’s chosen not to be a weapon.

You sit beside Reginald’s throne, cross-legged. You’re quiet. So is he.

The air between you is full of unspoken things, spun gold in the lamplight. Everything in the room is soft-edged.

You pat the space beside you. Carefully, so as not to jostle His Royal Duckness.

Damian moves slowly. As if unsure whether sitting beside you might trigger a pressure plate. As if the room might demand proof of intention.

He sits. Not touching, but close. A hairbreadth away. A choice away.

And God, you want to choose.

The silence thickens. Not tense. Not awkward. Just weighted. Like the kind that forms between people who are beginning to orbit each other without permission.

He doesn’t speak right away. His fingers twitch against his biceps.

“I’ve surveilled targets in crowded spaces before,” he says, clipped and serious. “But I don’t believe that qualifies.”

You blink. Then snort. “So. Yes.”

He looks at you, flatly accusatory. You raise your eyebrows.

“…Are you collecting intel?” he asks, wary. But there’s no real bite to it.

You smile down at your hands. “Maybe. I just… I want to get it right. For you.”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud. But there it is. Floating in the space between your hands and his silence.

He looks at you then—really looks. Like someone realizing a song they’ve been humming under their breath for years actually has words. Like every version of him—assassin, son, boy—has been quietly orbiting the moment your eyes met his.

“You already did,” he says, voice like thread pulled from a tapestry. Quiet. Final.

You look at him. Your throat is full of sparrows. You nod, just barely.

The city is gone. The world is nothing but your breath and his.

And then—

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

No calculation. No control. Just a boy sitting too still in the hush, asking like he might never ask again.

“…Yes,” you whisper.

Eyes wide. Doe-eyed. A little doomed.

He leans in.

He kisses like someone unsure the world will last long enough for a second try. Like your lips are a holy place and he’s trespassing with muddy hands and shoes. His mouth moves against yours slow and cautious, like he’s memorizing the shape of safety.

You tilt into him.

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s sketching the borders of a country on a map.

And in that moment, Damian Wayne is not a soldier. Not a son. Not an heir to shadows.

He is just a boy. Warm and breakable and yours.

No tactics. No retreat.

Just this. Just you.

When you part, it’s soft. Reverent. As though the kiss has weight, and letting go might shatter it.

Your foreheads touch. Breath shared. Heartbeats learning how to dance in tandem.

“I’ve killed men,” he murmurs, voice close and dangerous and infinitely tender, “for less than what I feel for you.”

You pull back, just enough to meet his eyes. “That is… hands down… the most terrifyingly romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

A smile flickers across his mouth.

Real. Brief. Crooked like a secret.

You decide—then and there—you decide that you’ll spend your whole life earning that smile again.

And again.

He stays a little longer. Close, but not clinging. You talk. Or something like it. Laughter. Stories. Accusations about Tim’s dart game. The lingering warmth of the night still glowing in your bones.

Eventually, the room feels stretched. The spell thins.

He stands. Moves to your window like it’s instinct. The night folds around him like a cloak.

You follow him, toes quiet against the carpet. He steps onto the sill, the city licking at his boots.

He glances back.

Face neutral. But eyes like firelight—alive. Human.

“Sleep well,” he says.

“You too.” Then, lighter: “Tell Reginald goodnight when you land. He’s fragile.”

Damian doesn’t laugh.

But his smile tilts—barely. A bowstring loosed, if only slightly.

And then—he’s gone.

Gotham swallows him, and you are left blinking.

You press your fingers to your lips.

You've shared your first kiss with none other than damian al ghul wayne.

[hedgehog-moss]

I was reading Marguerite Yourcenar's Le coup de grâce last night, both in French and in English because I enjoy pondering the choices made by translators—and the English translation was so bad. At one point the word "solitude" in the French original became "privacy" in English, in a sentence where the difference in meaning did matter, I think. At another point, the very simple word "les oublis" became "remembrance betrayed" which I feel gives extra precision in the translation which wasn't present in the original...?

There's also a passage in French in which the narrator wishes a woman would have had children, "who would have inherited her courage and her eyes", but decides that's a pointless regret because these decisions on how to populate the future are not ours to make ("ne nous appartiennent pas")—the English translation turns it into "Absurd, for who wants to people (...) the future?" That's different...!! And later on the narrator says that "all these misunderstandings" make him want to "steer clear of any conviction that isn't entirely personal". The English translation says "such misapprehensions were to cure me (...) of holding ready-made convictions." I'm sorry but, in this context you're saying a different thing. Again.

By this point I went looking for the name of the translator, in order to carry it in my soul in a pocket of indignation—and I found: "translated from the French by Grace Frick in collaboration with the author"! Grace Frick! Marguerite Yourcenar's life partner!

That was such a plot twist. Your wife? Your own wife wrote this inaccurate translation, with your blessing...? Well, I now have two theories: 1. After publishing this book, Yourcenar regretted some minor writing choices and asked Frick to modify some words and phrasings in her translation so they were closer to what she wanted to express. As a perfectionist who feels many regrets immediately after submitting a completed work I sympathise with this, but also that's cheating. You can't give English readers a text that's closer to what you wanted your book to be while French readers are left to wallow in the mud of your less precise first draft. I'm affronted by this possibility. 2. Grace Frick's translation was imperfect, and Yourcenar said nothing because she loved her and her imperfect linguistic choices. I also sympathise. I hope that's what happened actually—it feels less plausible than 1. but it makes me feel more at peace with this whole affair. I felt all my indignation melt away as soon as I decided to embrace this explanation.

[hiraethwrote]

Satoru is such a baby when it comes to splinters.

Just imagine you’re standing in the kitchen when you suddenly feel the energy in the room shift — turning around to face Satoru, hunched and small with his bottom lip sticking out in a pout, hand stretched out in front of him to show you his wound.

“What am I looking at?” He shakes his hand furiously, having you approach him, grabbing his wrist to keep it still, and he instantly winces in pain. You squint, noticing the tiny, red dot in the dead centre of his palm — and he won’t tell you how he got the splinter burrowed in his hand, but you suspect he ran down the stairs three steps at a time, hand gliding over the railings and brushing over the chipped patch at the bottom of it (again). “I’ll get the tweezers,” you sigh.

Coming back from the bathroom, Satoru is sat by the dining table, mentally preparing himself for the dramatic procedure you’re about to perform.

“Show me,” you speak softly, knowing he’s going to need the sympathy. He rests the back of his hand on the table, his eyes pinched together as he awaits the stinging feeling of you digging into his hand.

“That hurts!” He squeals, retracting his hand to his chest at the speed of light.

“I didn’t even touch you, baby,” you say with a low chuckle. “Give me your hand again,” and he begrudgingly puts it back in the table.

“Satoru?”

“Hmm?”

“You have to turn off your infinity.”

He peaks open one eye, taking in the scene of the tweezers hovering an inch above his hand. He flicks his attention to your face — one eyebrow quirked, a slightly taunting smirk on your lips, fighting back the laugh you were harbouring.

Clearing his throat, he shifts in his chair to settle in a more confident posture — straightening his back, wiping away his pout and flexing his muscles, all in order to seem like a tough guy.

The invisible pressure under the tweezers disappeared. You lean in closer to execute with precision, only for Satoru to cry out the second the cold metal grazes his sensitive skin, causing you to flinch away on pure instinct.

“Fiiiine,” you singsong, “we can just let the splinter disappear into your hand and travel your bloodstream.” The lie often told to children seems to work, having him chew the inside of his cheek while he thinks for a second, before he once again rests his hand in front of you. “Ready?” He nods weakly, squeezing his eyes shut again.

And with ease, you snatch a hold of the small splinter that was wedged in his flesh and pull it out.

He blinks a few times, looking at his hand, looking at you. “Thank you,” he mumbles shyly, a little embarrassed by how he acted as if it was the end of the world.

With a lighthearted laugh, you get up from your seat and place a kiss on his forehead. “Any time, darling,” you whisper against his hot skin, knowing it’ll probably only be three weeks before you’re sat at the table again, facing the same issue.

©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited

[ofbatsandballads]

Yay! I’m so glad you take requests. Feel free to decide if you want to write this or not, it’s fine either way :)

So, I was thinking about Jason dating civilian!reader, and her coming home all disheveled and horrified. Since she knows about him being Red Hood, she can confide in him. She had just killed someone for the first time, whether it was an accident, self defense or whatever, you decide.

I was just wondering how Jason would handle this situation since usually he’s the one doing the killing.

Thank you <3

oh, this is amazing food for thought. I actually think he’d be the very best person to come to in such a situation because he has experience with killing. who’s gonna understand you better than him? literally nobody. had something similar to this in my drafts but now my mind is whirling in a whole host of directions. excellent prompt, nonnie!

jason todd x f!reader. warnings include graphic depictions of violence and killing (in self defense), attempted and failed sexual assault, the aftermath of both events (reader’s in shock), hurt/comfort. this one’s got heavier subject matter so please do mind the warnings, folks. i did way too much research of the Gotham Knights map for this, but it’s my favorite depiction of the city so so be it. also reader and Jason live in the Belfry bc i said so (personal hc that i may or may not elaborate on some time). and one last thing! the romanized Arabic at the end is “حياتي ” which translates to “my life”. I love the idea that Jason picked up Arabic terms of endearment from Talia calling Bruce just about every one she could.

Jason wakes up to soft afternoon sunlight shining on his face. He grumbles out a gravelly hum and scrunches up his face in protest against being awakened when he was sleeping so nicely. He reaches out to find the comforting warmth of his beloved beside him, to pull you in and bury his face into your hair so he can hide from the morning for a bit longer.

All he finds are cold sheets and an empty pillow.

He bolts upright. Something’s wrong. You never, never wake up before him. He doesn’t even register the way that the sudden abundance of light stings his eyes. He takes stock of his surroundings, his training executing on autopilot. The open layout of the Belfry lets him get his bearings in seconds. He doesn’t see you anywhere from the bird’s eye view of your loft bedroom. There’s no smell of food in the kitchen nor any mess that would indicate you’d been working in there. The living room space, fully visible below, is empty too. The only enclosed space in your home, the bathroom that’s just around the corner from your bedroom, is dead quiet. No running water, no sweet singing, no familiar coughing from swallowed toothpaste. And without so much as leaving your bed, Jason’s already come to a conclusion that sends his heart pounding and dries his throat. You’re not here.

He’s up and grabbing the 9mm taped under your bedside table in the span of a few breaths. He moves through your home methodically, like he’s clearing one of Gotham’s criminal hideouts. There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing’s been disturbed. He’s not surprised by this—barring Wayne Manor, the Belfry is the most secure building in Gotham. That’s precisely why Jason had moved you both here once you decided to live together. He checks the coffee table and sees that your phone and wallet are gone. A different type of fear takes over now. One that makes his heart ache. What if you’ve finally had enough, finally seen that he’s not good enough for you, not worth sticking around for? It makes him sick. He swallows hard and tries to clear the blistering thought from his head. No, that’s not you. You’re not cruel. You’re kind and gentle and loving. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. And you wouldn’t hurt him.

The sight of gears turning in his periphery catches his attention. He sees the cables pulling and the security panel go green, and he’s running to the elevator doors damn near ready to pry them open. He hastily tucks the 9mm into the waistband of his pajama pants, easily within reach if he needs it. Relief floods him when the huge metal doors grind open and he sees your pretty face on the other side. Then his heart drops when he realizes that that pretty face is scraped and splattered with blood.

Your hair is tangled and wet, dripping dirty water down your neck and staining the bright red of his your favorite hoodie. Your hands, which shake as they reach blindly towards him, are stained crimson and battered too. But it’s your eyes that haunt him. You look broken.

“Jay,” you croak out, unable to summon anything but a plea for the one person who can keep you safe.

The tears fall from your eyes at the same time that you collapse into Jason’s arms. He drags you inside and locks down the Belfry. Jason wants to panic but feels a strange sense of calm about himself. As loathe as he’d be to admit it, he finds himself falling into Bruce’s habit of assessment and action.

“Baby, what happened?” he asks, voice steady and assured.

You don’t even hear him. You’re digging your hands into his shirt, clinging on to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth. He may very well be. He feels you going rigid and cold and he knows he has to get you stable before you descend further into shock.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, adding on and enunciating your name for emphasis.

That sparks some semblance of lucidity. Jason hasn’t called you by your name in months, much preferring you be his baby or his sweetheart or his doll, or simply his. If it jars you back to reality, so be it.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” he demands gently.

It all pours out of you like a flood.

You’d woken up early by chance this afternoon. Normally you’d just close your eyes and snuggle closer to Jason to catch a couple more hours of sleep, but you wanted to do something nice for him. So you’d gotten up and gone to Lemay’s Flower Emporium in Gotham Heights. You’d bought him the prettiest bouquet of red and pink roses, so big that you had to hold on to it with both arms. The taxi ride from the Heights back to Coventry Station went fine. You were almost home. So close that you could see the clock tower where your heart was sleeping peacefully.

Then you stopped at Commerce Avenue Station. You just wanted to get him some pastries from the little bakery tucked away on 3rd Street that you both love. It was a decent walk; you knew that. You also knew that Jason wouldn’t want you to go out of your way by yourself. But it was morning and you were a grown woman and you could handle yourself, right? Well, that’s what you thought until a pair of hands clamped down on your shoulders and yanked you violently into a side alley.

Jason had prepared you for something like this. You’d spent countless evenings with him teaching you self defense techniques in the training area of your home. None of it mattered because the man that had you by the shoulders slammed you so hard into the brick wall that all your thoughts went hazy. Before you could regain your footing, you were shoved to the ground. The bitter sting of your palms scraping open pierced through the fog, as did the crushing weight of the vile man on top of you. Fear shot through you as the man started tugging at his belt and you realized that this wasn’t intended to be a mugging. You tried to scream but a grimy hand clamped over your mouth, hitting your head against the ground and soaking your hair in dirty rain water and blood.

Your eyes darted around in search of someone—anyone. But no one was coming. You felt fingernails scratch against your stomach as clammy hands curled into the waistband of your sweatpants and suddenly you saw your savior. A brick from the damaged alleyway laid within reach. You didn’t even think when you grabbed it, when you swung it as hard as you could into the side of the man’s head. The corner hit his temple and he crumbled to the side. You rose to your knees and hit the man again. And again. All you could remember were Jason’s firm instructions: if someone makes it a choice of you or them, you make sure that it’s you no matter what it takes.

“I don’t r-remember anything else,” you sob into his chest. “There was so much blood, Jason. And his head—oh, God.”

Jason shushes you gently. He holds you tight in his arms like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even slightly, you’ll fade away on him.

“Don’t think about it, baby. You did what you needed to do. You protected yourself. I’m so proud of you.”

“I killed someone, Jason. I killed someone.”

You look at him wide eyed—afraid, horrified, guilty. No. Jason won’t have that. You will not feel guilty over some lowlife scumbag who wanted to hurt you, who probably would have killed you. Jason can’t even stomach the thought. He wants to put a bullet into whatever’s left of that predator’s head. No, the only shame in you killing that man is that you got to him before Jason could.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says, repeats your name again for emphasis. “You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.”

“Someone’s dead because of me, Jay,” you argue, gripping him tighter as your panic rises.

“Baby, do you know how many people are dead because of me?” he asks. “Far, far more than I’d ever want you to know. Do you think I’m a monster, honey? That I did something wrong?”

He knows it’s an apples to oranges comparison. But you’ve used this same tactic on him so many times that he also knows it’s effective. Every time he demeans himself for something, you ask if he’d treat you the way he treats himself for the same thing. The answer is always no.

“No!” you reply emphatically. “You protect people. You do it to keep people safe.”

“You did it to keep yourself safe.”

“But—”

“No buts. Or ifs. No ands, either, just in case you get any ideas,” he says lightly, brushing a speck of blood off your cheekbone.

You smile at his stupid little comment and he feels the tension in his body release just slightly. As long as there’s light back in your eyes for even a moment, he knows that you’ll be okay. He picks you up, lets you cling your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest as he carries you to the bathroom upstairs. He runs you a bath and, after asking repeatedly if you were okay with it, undresses you and washes the blood and grime from your body. He wraps you in a big fluffy towel, dries and brushes your hair, and tends to your injuries before he bundles you up in his comfiest hoodie and pajama pants. He soothes you when your tears make their return and never leaves your line of sight because he knows he makes you feel safe.

The thought gnaws at him throughout the day. It outright scalds him as he lies in bed with you after deciding to skip patrol. He’s failed you. Failed to protect you, failed to ensure nothing harms a hair on your head. He’s failed at taking care of you, the one thing that matters more to him than anything else. He’s seconds away from spiraling into self hatred when your sweet voice comes calling, soft and pleading.

“Jay…please stay with me,” you say softly.

Your eyes are clear and focused again. You squeeze his waist tight where your arms are wrapped around him, like you’re physically trying to anchor him in place in your bed. The look on your face says that you know exactly where his mind was headed. You see right through him. It makes him feel more vulnerable than anything else, and it surprises him how much he loves the feeling. And Jason, as always and for eternity, can’t bring himself to deny you. So he pulls himself together and shoves all his self loathing down. He can deal with it later—you need him more right now.

“I’m right here, hayati. Not goin’ anywhere, I promise.”

He kisses you gently and feels some of that self hatred wash away when you chase after him for more goodnight kisses. He feels it dissipate even more when you fall asleep in his arms with a soft smile on your face. It’s all but forgotten as he drifts off too, safe in the knowledge that you’re here with him, that he can feel your heart beating pressed tight against his own.

[arixella]

You get hurt and don't tell them pt.3 ' ft. shanks, kid, killer

wc: 355 requested 😋 luffy, zoro, sanji law, ace, sabo crocodile, mihawk, buggy

Shanks

-Shanks notices something’s off almost immediately—he’s surprisingly sharp when it comes to you.

“Oi, what’s this? You’re hurt?” His tone is lighthearted, but there’s genuine concern in his eyes as he inspects you.

-He chuckles and ruffles your hair. “You thought you could hide this from me? Come on, don’t you trust me?”

-Shanks takes a laid-back approach, gently tending to your injury while cracking jokes to keep you smiling. “You know, you’re lucky I’ve got steady hands for this. Imagine if I was drinking.” (He definitely was drinking.)

-Afterward, he pulls you into a warm hug, wrapping you in his coat as if to shield you from the world. “Next time, just tell me, alright? I can’t have you getting hurt on my watch.”

-If the injury was caused by someone else, Shanks’ smile turns razor-sharp, and you know he’ll be having a “talk” with them.

-Later, he keeps you close, pouring you a drink (or some tea if you’re not feeling up to it) and teasing you to lighten the mood.

“You’ve got to look after yourself better. Who else is going to keep me entertained, huh?” His words are playful, but the way he lingers by your side shows how much he genuinely cares.

-You might catch him glancing at you more often than usual, as if making sure you’re really okay. But, in true Shanks fashion, he plays it cool—effortlessly balancing concern with his carefree charm.

Eustass Kid

-Kid finds out you’re hurt, and let’s just say he’s not happy about it. “The hell? Why didn’t you say anything?!”

-He’s rough around the edges, so his frustration comes out in angry words, but it’s clear he’s worried.

-He’s surprisingly gentle when he checks your injury, muttering things like, “Idiot… You could’ve made it worse.”

-If someone else caused your injury, Kid is ready to hunt them down immediately—he doesn’t let anyone mess with what’s his.

-After cooling off, he sits beside you with a gruff, “Don’t hide stuff like this again. I mean it.” His tone softens just enough to show he cares.

Killer

-Killer is the silent but observant type, so he notices your injury even if you try to hide it.

“You’re hurt,” he states plainly, no room for argument. He’s calm but firm as he insists on treating you.

-His movements are careful and precise, and though he doesn’t say much, his actions speak volumes about how much he cares.

-Killer’s worry is subtle, but you can hear it in his voice when he says, “You need to be more careful.”

-Later, he sits with you in comfortable silence, keeping you close and making sure you know he’s there if you need him.

♡♡♡

© 2024 arixella | please do not plagiarize or translate any of my work without my consent.

[thunderbolt-ing]

"I Can't Do It Alone."

PART TWO PART THREE Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: Who would've thought that you tearing panelists apart with merely your sharp words would land you a job? Or, better yet, here's how you became Congressman Barnes' legislative aide. Warnings: no warnings (or maybe use of Y/N?), just you being a political baddie and Bucky lowkey being down bad. A/N: lol this is my first fic on here and I'm so sorry in advance. this wasn't supposed to be an x reader fanfic because i had an original character in mind but idk if yall vibe with that. anyways, I'm in my bucky brainrot era I fear. no beta readers we die like taskmaster. Word count: 1703 words. She's short and sweet.

Brooklyn Veterans Policy Forum — Community Hall

“—Our proposal for enhanced persons is voluntary oversight programs, supplemented with community mental health partners, pending federal clearance…”

The panelist’s voice droned on, measured, thoroughly rehearsed, and bureaucratic.  Amongst the seated crowd, you stood abruptly, the screech of your chair cutting through the hushed murmurs of the audience. Your brows were furrowed, your expression tinged in irritation as your eyes flickered from your notes to the table of panelists onstage. 

“Which basically translates to a surveillance leash dressed up with a nicer PR team,” you said, voice steady but edged with frustration. “Is that about right?” The room stilled. The moderator blinked at you, seemingly at a loss for words as they were thrown off-script and unsure of how to respond. You didn’t care, nor did you wait. “Tell me, how many of you up there have actually sat across someone who’s reliving battlefield trauma every time they close their eyes?” you asked, voice rising slightly. “Because I have. Dozens of times. And they’re not worried about policy language. They’re worried about making it through the night.” Silence filled the room, and you swore you could hear a pin drop. Finally, the moderator found their voice and cleared their throat. “Thank you for your input, Miss…?” “Y/N L/N,” you replied crisply as you offered a tight-lipped smile, then continued with a practiced calm that came from too many ignored voices. 

“I work in veteran reintegration,” you continued. “So unlike most people,” you cast a pointed glance at the panelist who had spoken, “I actually talk to the people your bills affect.” 

Murmurs rose from the audience, a few heads nodded while others looked away. 

From a seat near the back wall, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes, sharp and steady, were fixed directly on you. There was no judgment in his expression, just deep, quiet intrigue. He watched as you, armed with nothing but a voice and unabashed conviction, dismantled a room full of sanitized policy with surgical precision. You didn’t know it yet, but you had just made an impression on a man who rarely let anyone in and seldom let anyone surprise him. Not until now.  Later That Evening Outside the Community Hall's brick steps. You tugged your coat tighter around yourself as you emerged into the cool evening air. The sky was painted in muted hues of blue and pink as the sun slowly sank into the horizon. The last remnants of adrenaline from the forum still buzzed in your blood like static, and though the subway beckoned you home, your feet had something different in mind. You needed air and time to let your thoughts breathe. You hadn't expected a familiar voice behind you. "You've got a sharp mouth, L/N." You turned instinctively, your guard up, but it dropped quickly when you recognized him. James Buchanan Barnes, or rather, Congressman Barnes. The former Winter Soldier turned unlikely lawmaker. What a pipeline, you thought with a sarcastic internal chuckle. He looked nothing like the suited representatives who spoke from podiums inside. He had no tie, sleeves rolled up beneath a plain navy coat, the two buttons of his white shirt undone like he hadn't bothered to play the part today. Still, there was no mistaking him. It was the way people moved around him without realizing it, the way silence followed him like a second shadow. "So I've been told," you replied, your brow arching as you gave him the same look you'd served to the panelists earlier. "Didn't think I'd get feedback from someone sitting in the cheap seats." He smirked at that, just barely, "I wasn't cheap. I just didn't want to be seen." A beat passed as you let the tension simmer in the air. It wasn't hostile, it was electric. Curious even. "You meant what you said back there?" He asked, his voice quiet and almost unreadable, "About talking to people the bills affect?"

A breeze rustled past, and you reached up to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. You studied him, your eyes sharp and unreadable. "I don't grandstand. I sit across from them every week." He nodded slowly as if each of your words carried weight, "I don't trust most policy people," he admitted. "They talk like they've never bled for anything." "And you're assuming I have?" You asked, not defensively but curious as to where he was going. "I think you've seen enough to stop pretending things are neat." You were quiet for a second, his words lingering like smoke. "You always vet people like this?" "Only the ones I'm considering hiring." You blinked at him for a few moments, unable to process his words as quickly as you wanted. "Excuse me?" He gestured toward the street with a tilt of his head. "Come walk with me. I want to talk about something." "Very subtle," you muttered, your tone dipped in sarcasm, yet your feet moved on their own accord, falling into step beside him. He let out a laugh, low and dry, more of a huff than anything. "Just trying a new thing called being direct." For the first time that day, you laughed. Not the polite kind that you often gave to people. The genuine one. It caught you off guard. "So... James Barnes—" "—Bucky." He interrupted gently. "Right, Bucky," You corrected yourself, testing the name on your tongue as you walked with him, your expression thoughtful. "What are you trying to hire me for exactly...?" "I want you to rewrite the rules with me," he said plainly, "From the inside." "You're serious." "Deadly." You fell into contemplative silence. You wanted to say yes immediately. Who wouldn't? But you had a life. A job. People who relied on you on a daily basis. Change wasn't something you embraced easily, and he could tell. He didn't try to push or pitch, instead, he simply reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small business card. It was plain, black text on white cardstock. No logo. No frills. Just his name and phone number. It looked like something someone made in a rush, probably on Microsoft Word. He handed you the card, his blue eyes piercing into yours, tired and almost pleading. "Why me?" You asked, unsure whether it was skepticism or hope in your voice. "Because this city, this country, needs someone who gives a damn." He paused, his gaze unflinching. "And because I can't do it alone." A Few Days Later Brooklyn — Your apartment.

After a long, tiring, yet undeniably fulfilling day at work, you trudged up the steps of your apartment building with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep within your bones. Your bag slipped down your shoulder, and your eyes blinked against the hallway's dim lighting as you shuffled toward your door. All you could think about was kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto your couch for five minutes of stillness.

But then you stopped.

There, lying at the foot of your door, was a bouquet.

You blinked again, slower this time, as if you weren't entirely sure that what you were seeing was real. The flowers sat neatly against the well-worn doormat, delicate, beautiful, and completely unexpected. You examined the bouquet further; it was a soft arrangement of baby's breath, pink tulips, pink roses, and subtle touches of eucalyptus leaves wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It was elegant, but understated, like whoever sent them wanted to make a point without fussing too much.

You crouched down carefully, the weight of your day momentarily forgotten as you picked them up. As you shifted the bouquet in your hands, a small folded piece of paper slipped free and fluttered softly to the floor.

Frowning in confusion, you bent to retrieve it while carefully cradling the bouquet in the crook of one arm.

It was a simple note, no envelope, no dramatics. Just a few lines written in unfamiliar handwriting.

Policy means nothing without people who stand behind it unflinchingly. You speak the truth, even when it's uncomfortable, and I couldn't look away. I don't believe in perfect timing, only in showing up. So, this is me, showing up. Let me know if you'll meet me halfway. —Bucky Barnes

You stared at the words, your thumb brushing over the dried ink as if it might somehow help you make sense of them. The edges of your mouth curled up as if caught somewhere between disbelief and something that felt dangerously like hope and possibility. How he'd found your address, you weren't sure. You suppose you shouldn't be surprised, given his history. If Bucky Barnes wanted to find you, he would. Not in a threatening way, but in that quiet, purposeful way he did everything, like he wasn't going to wait for the world to make sense before acting. You leaned against your front door, flowers still in hand, as you reread the note several times.

He wasn't trying to charm you. He was offering a seat at the table. A voice in the room where things actually changed. Not just to be near the fire, but to help decide how and where it burned. You stuck the note carefully inside your pocket, the corners of your lips tugging into a soft, unguarded smile. The bouquet was still cradled in your arm, but your thoughts were already sprinting ahead of you. You stood there for a moment in the quiet hallway, his words still ringing in your head. Then, taking a small breath out, you shifted the flowers to one side and rummaged through your bag, fingers searching until they closed around your phone. With a steady hand, you tapped his number on the screen, the same one that was printed in that boring business card he'd given you. You brought the phone to your ear. It only rang twice. "Hello?" His voice was low, familiar, and uncharacteristically careful, like he didn't want to hope too much. "Hey," you said softly, "It's me." There was a moment suspended between you. "About time." He replied, and you could almost envision his smile through the phone.

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

End Note: AAAA IM SORRY ITS SHORT BUT I CAN MAKE A PART TWO IF YOU GUYS LIKE IT ENOUGH!!!!!

Also, the flowers I chose were just random ones i thought in my head but then i remembered that language of flowers thing and so I looked it up and..... guys..... Baby's breath: everlasting love, new beginnings. Pink tulips: Affection, good wishes, and love. Pink roses: admiration, respect for someone close. Eucalyptus: strength and protection. brb I'm gonna sob <3

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

TrueForm! Sukuna a.k.a. The Master of MultitaskingOverstimulation

Synopsys: We all know he's MEAN,ok?..but I bet we can forgive him if he gives you the most head-spinning, toe-curling orgasms ever, right? *clears throat* let me introduce you to...THE FILTH™️ (inspired by that bomb of 29th manga cover)- hope you'll enjoy 🤭😏

Tags: NSFW (fem!oral-receiving, degradation kink, overstimulation,squirting...that tongue is already a warning..)

Thinking about....

Straddling Trueform! Sukuna on his throne, legs kept spread open, strongly secured around his bulky torso. Your clothes lie ripped and randomly scattered on the floor, after he theatrically tore them apart to reveal all of your willing body to his predator gaze. He forces you to keep your eyes open, threatening to stop his ministrations at any moment if you dare to interrupt eye contact. Two of his rough, veiny hands toying with your breasts for hours, rolling both of your perky nipples over and over again until they turn so hardened and sensitive that pleasure mingles with a hint of delicious pain. He relishes the sight of your desperate whimpers everytime he brings you dangerously close to your edge, just to stop abruptly, enjoying the powerful thrill of denial. His lower arms, instead, are busy pleasing your quivering pussy: two of his monstrous fingers are more than enough to stretch you open, delving deep in your walls...they curl and fold restless until he finds that spongy spot deep inside, and start tormenting it endlessly, in tandem with the maddening rhythm of the last of his hands, roughly bullying your swollen, reddened clit with frenetic small circles. You are completely at his mercy, your sticky juices overflowing out of your abused hole: lewd sounds escape from your squelching cunt and mingles with your ridiculous, high-pitched,needy moans, echoing down the royal room in an escalating scandalous symphony of wet, slippery sounds. "Look at the mess you are...the mess only I can turn you into" The King of Curses knows no mercy and teases you all along, making you feel degraded, calling you nothing but a plaything, a eager whore whose pussy -the wettest and filthiest he has ever laid eyes on in centuries- is about to give him the most satisfying of rewards...

And you grasp the meaning behind his words shortly after, as your walls start to flutter wildly around his fingers and your every muscle in your exhausted body tense, pushing a copious spray of watery liquid out of your spasmic channel: the horrid large mouth standing out on his chiseled abdomen opens without warning and greedily swallows every. single. drop of your juices, his second long, sharp tongue sneaking out to lick the remnants of your powerful orgasm from the folds of his muscles.

Your legs shake vigorously and your whole world narrows to a precise point, before your brain blacks out completely: that devilish smirk enjoying the sight of his victory over your consciousness.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated :)

Don't repost or translate my works without my consent.

[swampjawn]

What happens when you let a film nerd make an anime?

Fuuga Yamashiro (山代風我) joined Science Saru in 2017 as an Assistant Production Manager during production of "Night Is Short, Walk on Girl." He was essentially Studio Co-founder Masaaki Yuasa's secretary, but he worked his way up to assistant director on "Keep Your Hands off Eizouken" and finally got to direct his own first full Anime series, Dandadan.

Having worked so closely with one of the greatest living auteur directors, you might think he would share that overpowering individual creative influence, but as he has pointed out in interviews himself, it's much the opposite.

Instead of relying on his own creative voice, which he doesn't seem confident about in interviews, he literally collects techniques from his favorite movies, breaking them down into storyboards and adding them to his arsenal to re-contextualize later. And as you may be able to tell from watching Dandadan, his biggest influences aren't anime and manga, but live action film -- something he seems to have studied obsessively.

And when you compare the anime to the original manga (which itself is already filled with references to old movies and TV) subtle adaptation choices make the deft application of techniques borrowed from other storytellers very clear. Every choice is made for a reason and furthers the story being told in some way; nothing is there for no reason. like the simple, controlled camera pans and tilts that make the serpoian spaceship feel cold and sterile, or the crazywackysilly, un-predictable wide-angle camera movements that intrude on that cold sterile world when turbo granny shows up.

In one interview during the production of "Keep Your Hands off Eizouken" Yamashiro pulls out his notebook where he had collected all these techniques and gives an example:

"There's a technique called 'Dolly Zoom', which is a technique that changes the perspective of the background while keeping the size of the subject." […] "In 'Cult of Chucky,' which I saw recently, there is a scene in which a long passageway is filmed in telephoto, while a wheelchair moves forward. The character is 'getting closer, but the viewer feels farther away'. This is the kind of thing I collect." […] "I'd like to combine these things in various ways and do it in animation." (I took some liberties with this, the translation was pretty rough)

And sure enough, that exact same type of dolly zoom rears its head in Dandadan as Okarun sprints away from Turbo Granny and the mouth of the tunnel stretches impossibly into the distance.

It may seem counterintuitive to ascribe too much importance to the creative vision of one person who specifically talks about his own lack of strong creative vision, (and to be clear, he's far from the only person playing a major role) but I think it's precisely that encyclopedic knowledge of film techniques and that pragmatic, meticulous attitude that may have acted as a stabilizing force for Yuasa, and that also provides some needed structure to a ball of pure energy like Dandadan, while still preserving its essence and the eclectic influences that it wears on its sleeve.

Also, mad respect for using the seventh installment of the Child's Play franchise as your example of a dolly zoom instead of, like, Vertigo, Jaws, or Goodfellas.

This is just a sliver of what I talk about in this full video! A minuscule piece of the pie! Some tiny little crumbs for the peasants! So if you consider yourself worthy, go watch the whole video. I think it's good.

Uhh also reblog! I spent way too long on that intro animation, so I need it. Bad.

[yuikomorii]

// Since Cordelia is a hot topic these days, I decided answering to the “Why do many people love Yui and the triplets when they act just like Cordelia sometimes?” question.

First and foremost, we know that the person most similar to Cordelia is Yui. Just like Cordelia, Yui would go to great lengths for the man she loves, even if it meant hurting him or others in the process. She has already shown this in the endings where her obsession got the worst of her, making it clear that she shares Cordelia’s intensity. This is precisely why Yui didn’t want Cordelia to die again—she saw herself in her. She understood Cordelia’s overwhelming feelings for someone and believed they could reach a mutual understanding.

“This person… she loves Karlheinz in her own way. So much that it shakes her to the core from the bottom of her heart…”

“But I didn’t want to let you disappear. Because… I understand the feelings you have for the person you love…”

At first, Cordelia might appear redeemed, especially as she grows warmer towards Yui. However, the truth is that she actually never changed. She remained unrepentant for her abusive behavior, even if she told Yui she was fully aware of what she did.

There are two particular moments that serve as a parallel:

In the MB flashback, Ayato cried after stabbing Cordelia because he felt bad that her love for Karlheinz was not reciprocated. Yet Cordelia, instead of reflecting on the consequences of her actions and apologizing at the end, she continued to yearn for Karlheinz, completely disregarding the person she had tormented the most over the years—Ayato—who was standing right in front of her.

In DF, while we know she was resurrected for a limited time, Cordelia again failed to use her final hours to mend, or at least improve, her relationship with Ayato for her son’s peace of mind after everything she put him through. Once again, she longed for Karl, ignoring the one thing Ayato deserved to hear the most from her: a genuine apology.

Credit to dialovers-translations

Why are these two scenes so important? Because they reveal that Cordelia is meant to be irredeemable. She was given a second chance to learn from her past mistakes, but she didn’t care. Yes, Yui and the triplets did bad things too, but unlike Cordelia, they are characters who were shown feeling guilt and regret for a lot of their actions. They make an effort to change for the better, whereas Cordelia remained unwilling to feel remorse for her wrongdoings.

Of course, this doesn’t mean people can’t like Cordelia. Her fans shouldn’t be judged only because they like her, since all characters are crazy in this franchise. I also enjoy seeing Cordelia content because I find her a fascinating and stunning character!

At the same time, I completely get why some fans can’t stand her. After all, nobody is perfect, and people tend to gravitate towards characters who show growth, given that it reflects their own real-life experiences. If a character keeps being unapologetic despite the chance to fix this, it’s natural that many people won’t find them appealing.

[bbkoolkatz]

pairing: barbarian prince! katsuki bakugo x fem! reader.

content warnings: FEMALE READER! physical fighting [training] smooching, shared bath, husband undressing wife [without permission] husband cleaning wife [literally, because you we're dirty] other than that there's nothing major... yet... sigh...

completely forgot I was supposed to upload this Saturday... so here ya go! can't wait for the next chapter *evil giggle* hope ya enjoy!

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 2; 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖓 4.3𝔨+ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰

chapter 1

"he says, you are too stiff, frú mín!" ragna called, perched on a nearby boulder, "it makes you slow!" translating katsuki's barked criticisms.

he lunged forward, swinging the wooden blade at your feet, throwing you off your footing.

katsuki stood before you, as you stumbled, sweat glistening on his toned body with the harsh sunlight, beaming down on him, "hold your ground," he growled, lifting his sword to charge at you again. you took a breath, chest heaving as you gripped the handle of the wooden practice sword, raising your weapon to meet his.

the clashing of pine echoed through the clearing, the vibration rattling through your arms, into your chest and your knees buckled slightly under the force. but you grit your teeth, stubbornly refusing to fall.

you quickly adjust your stance, the muscles in your legs trembling as you tried to balance. katsuki's hot gaze narrowed, a smirk of sorts splayed on his face.

"again!" he barked, stepping forward a bit to launch an attack. the wooden sword came at you in an arch, the force of his strike sending a jolt up your arms, and your grip slipped, leaving you with barely any time to parry.

"too slow!" he spat, his voice hitting you like a whip as he struck again, aiming for your side.

your flesh rippled as the flat end of the training sword connected with your ribs, knocking the air out of your lungs. you stumble back, clutching your side as you gasped for breath.

"your enemies won't show you mercy," he circled you, pacing, like a predator stalking it's prey. forcing air back into your aching lungs, you straightened yourself, salty sweat dripping down your brow to sting your eyes.

ragna tilted her head, observing, lips twitching to form a smile on her beautifully sculpted face as she translates your husband's words for you.

"again," you rasped, voice hoarse but determined to make him falter just once.

katsuki raised a brow, eyes narrowing at your resolve as he charged forward without another word, sword swooshing through the air.

stepping aside, you doged his strike as you brought your weapon up, aiming for his shoulder. katsuki—obviously—blocked effortlessly, the impact reverberating through your bones, but you pushed forward, pressing your advantage as your heart pounded in your chest.

your strikes came faster, more fluid, as though the rhythm of the fight was finally clicking into place. your arms burned with every effort to move them, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, as you kept fighting.

your husband's eyes gleamed with a vicious light, his lips curling into a wild, feral grin as he matched your pace, his movements precise and unrelenting as ever, pushing you to your limits.

every fiber of muscle in your body screamed in protest and katsuki's blade collided with yours once more, the clash nearly sending you to your knees. you grunted, planting your feet firmly in the dirt as you pushed back with all your strength.

katsuki's grin widened as he kicked you off balance, sprawling you out on the dirt field in under two seconds... you lay there for a moment, squinting up at the endless expanse of sky until the familiar, wild tuffs of blonde hair loomed over you, casting a shadow over your exhausted frame.

"get up," he ordered, offering no hand to help... you huffed a puff of breath, rolling onto your side to push yourself to your knees, the hard cracked earth grounding you as your muscles throbbed under your skin.

gods you wanted a bath right now... a nice, cold, spring water bath... wack! and you were on the ground again. "your mind isn't focused!" ragna cackled your husbands words, holding her stomach and covering her mouth in a feeble attempt to hide her amusement.

"you're getting better, my lady," she smiled, leaning over your—once again—sprawled out body on the ground. you brought a hand up to wipe the sweat off your forehead, "i'll die before the rebels get me," you laughed, a hoarse, gravelly sound scraping it's way out of your throat.

☆.｡.:*❀.｡.:*☆ 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔡𝔞𝔶

smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of the villagers homes. the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy aroma of tilled soil as the pang of the blacksmith's hammer rang in the distance, a rhythmic pulse that echoed like a heartbeat of the clan.

"are you sure about this, my lady?" ragna queried, a little skeptical as she stepped in stride beside you. you nod, assuring her of your decision, "if i'm to be part of this clan, ragna, i can't just sit at stronghold and watch," gaze sweeping over the bustling activity as you adjust your shawl around your shoulders.

ragna's plush lips cracked little smile at your determination. your first stop was the weaving circle, where several women sat on low stools, their fingers deftly threading wool into intricate patterns. their chatter hushed as you approached them.

the women exchanged awkward glances, muttering amongst themselves, before a middle aged woman with streaks of gray in her braid, gestured to an empty stool next to her, for you to sit.

the work was meticulous, the rhythm of the loom soothing your nerves as your fingers fumbled over the threads, earning quiet murmurs of disapproval from the others... the elder woman stood behind you, gently guiding your hands to correct any mistake, until she finally nodded her approval.

after weaving a few pieces of cloth, you moved to the fields, where men and women worked side by side, their hands covered in soil as they prepared the land for planting.

you knelt beside an old, wrinkled man, his gnarled hands moving with ease as he dug rows into the soil. he glanced down at you, brows furrowing as you picked up a tool and began to mimic his movements. he said nothing, slowing his movements for you to get a better look and follow.

"keep your back straight, my lady," ragna instructed, crouching beside you as she translated the old man's quiet words of advice.

sweat beaded on your brow as soil clung to your skin with each swing and dig, that sent a dull ache through your arms and back. the work was grueling, but with every row completed, you were closer to finishing and getting in your bath...

when night came, you found yourself in the kitchens, where women bustled about, preparing meals for the workers. the aroma of herbs and roasted meat overwhelmed your nostrils, as the heat of the ovens welcome you inside.

"hæ! þú ert hér! loksins hér!" a young girl beamed, running over as she saw you enter. "she says, hello, you finally made it," ragna chuckled, patting the girl on her back. "ég er celeste," the young girl introduced herself, gently taking your hand in hers to guide you over to the bubbling cauldrons. "it seems she's excited to see you, my lady."

"it seems so," you giggle softly, at the girls eagerness.

-

"don't stir too much, or you'll ruin it," one of the cooks muttered, correcting your technique as she leaned over your shoulder.

ragna smirked, her translation tinged with amusement as she leaned closer. "you've been given a passable teacher, my lady," nudging your shoulder with her elbow as you playfully rolled your eyes.

the women around you began to soften their guarded expressions as they watched you work. they shared stories of past harvests, of children born and loved ones lost, their words painting a picture of a people as complex and enduring as the mountains that sheltered them.

by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violets, you were exhausted. the day's labour lingered in your body, but the tension that had once filled the air around you, felt lighter.

upon your return to the stronghold, you saw katsuki waiting at the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest as he glanced at the little dirt, smudged on your face and clothes, and the weariness in your steps. an almost imperceptible smirk crawled over his thin lips as you walked up to him leaning against the stronghold's walls.

ragna stepped forward, translating his words, "you look like someone buried you alive," he snickered, his tone gruff, minus the usual edge to them. you shy away, looking at the ground.

he lifted your head by your chin to look at him, eyes drifting down to your chapped lips then back up to your tired eyes.

he kneeled down in front of you and you turn to ragna, "what is he- woah!" his fingers sink into the back of your thighs as your hip bones pressed into his beefy shoulder, with your ass on display—next to his face—you prop yourself up, your hands pushing against his flexing back muscles, as he walked with you through the giant wooden doors and up the stairs to your chambers.

his eyes flickered with something as he threw you over his shoulder—pride, perhaps, or respect?—adjusting your weight with a low grunt.

katsuki shoved the heavy doors of your chambers open with his free arm, carrying you inside without so much as a struggle. he set you down on your feet with surprising gentleness, with warm palms resting comfortably on your hips, his narrow crimson eyes scanned over your dirt-smeared frame.

"þú ert skítug..." he muttered under his breath, his voice deep and laced with something you couldn't quite place. his expression was... unreadable as he motioned for you to stay put.

"what?" you whisper, softly shaking your head in confusion. he didn't respond, simply moving toward a small chest tucked away in the corner of your room. he rifled through it briefly before pulling out a clean linen cloth.

you watched him with a mix of curiosity and wariness as he stepped toward you again. he gestured at your dirtied clothing, the meaning clear even if his language wasn't.

"oh, i can do it myself," you insist, raising your hands defensively, though exhaustion made your movements sluggish. katsuki narrowed his eyes even more, with pinched brows. his patience visibly thinning...

"sitja kyrr," he commanded, firm as he gestured for you to stop resisting.

you huffed, crossing your arms in protest, legs trembling slightly under your weight, which didn't go unnoticed, his sharp gaze flicking to your unsteady stance before letting out a low grunt. without waiting for your permission, he stepped closer and began unfastening the ties of your shawl and outer layer.

"hey! i'm perfectly capable o—" you started to argue, but he silenced you with a sharp glance and growled, "kyrr."

his fingers worked quickly but carefully, his rough hands brushing against your skin as he peeled away the layers of dirt-streaked fabric. you felt your cheeks heat as he removed the last of your garments, leaving you exposed to his unwavering gaze. he didn't leer or linger, though; his movements were efficient, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

once you were bare, he reached for the cloth and dipped it into the warm water waiting in the tub. he wrung it out, motioning for you to step closer. he brought the damp cloth up to your face, carefully rubbing the dirt stains off, he moved down your arms, to your chest—where your heart pounded against your ribs—rubbing down your torso, to your soft legs all the way down to your aching calves. it felt like he was scared he'd hurt you with the softness he used to clean you off.

"farðu," he said, gesturing to the stone tub, impatiently.

you hesitated for a moment, the language barrier making his commands more intimidating than they probably were. but the promise of warm water was too tempting to resist, and you eased yourself into the tub with a sigh of relief.

the heat soothed your aching muscles immediately, and you leaned back against the smooth stone, letting your eyes flutter shut. that peace was short-lived, however, as katsuki shed his clothing and stepped into the tub with you.

"wait—what are you doing?" you stammered, your face flushing as you quickly averted your gaze.

he ignored your meaningless words, his expression neutral as he settled in behind you. his hands found your shoulders, rough palms gliding over your smooth skin.

"katsuki, i—" you started to protest, but his fingers pressed into a knot of tension in your shoulder, and you couldn't stop the sigh that escaped your lips. his hands were firm but careful, his touch surprisingly soothing as he continued his task.

"þar," he murmured, his voice low and steady as if explaining something to you. you didn't understand the words, but the tone carried a strange reassurance, as though he was telling you to let him handle this.

you relaxed slightly under his touch, the tension in your body melting away with each pass of his hands. he moved methodically, scrubbing away whatever dirt that'd been clinging to your skin and hair. when his hands found their way to your back, you leaned forward, giving him better access.

it wasn't until his fingers brushed over the curve of your waist that the atmosphere in the bath... changed... his touch lingered just a moment too long, his fingers pressing lightly against your skin as though testing your reaction.

you turned your head to glance at him over your shoulder, your breath catching when you caught the intensity in his gaze, his vermilion eyes burning with a heat that matched the warmth of the water surrounding you both.

"is something wrong?" you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

he didn't reply—not with words, at least. instead, he leaned closer, his hand moving to cup your jaw as his lips brushed against yours in a tentative but firm kiss.

your initial surprise melted away as the kiss deepened, the heat between you both growing as his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. the water lapped gently against the edges of the tub, the only sound in the quiet chamber besides your mingled breaths.

when you finally pulled away, your heart was racing, as your face flushed from more than just the warmth of the bath. katsuki's lips parted as if to speak, but the words never came. instead, he rested his forehead against yours, his breaths coming slow and steady as if grounding himself.

"ég hef eitthvað handa þér." he rasped as you leaned into him again. what on earth did he just say? you have absolutely no idea... but you'll ask ragna after your bath.

☆.｡.:*❀.｡.:*☆

katsuki had dragged you out of bed at the crack of dawn and brought you out into the forest, in the outskirts of the stronghold, which was eerily quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional snaps of twigs underfoot. katsuki walked ahead, his broad frame cutting through the bramble with ease. you followed cautiously, your breath visible in the crisp morning air. he hadn't spoken much—if at all—since dragging you out of bed and motioning for you to come with.

now, the towering trees gave way to the dark mouth of a cave. its yawning entrance loomed before you, cold air seeping out like a ghostly warning. you hesitated, turning to katsuki by your side.

"komdu," he barked over his shoulder, the command abrupt but not by any means harsh.

still, unease prickled at your skin. you stepped into the cave, following him into the deepening darkness. the light from the entrance grew faint as you moved further in, swallowed by shadows that seemed to press against you.

"katsuki?" you whisper, but he offered no reply, only a grunt as he suddenly stopped, causing you to bump into his back with a mphf.

before you could question him, the ground vibrated beneath your feet, a low rumble echoing through the cavern, resonating in your chest. then, two massive orbs of glowing crimson pierced the darkness ahead, locking onto you with a huff.

your breath caught in your throat, as the rumbling grew louder, accompanied by the sound of scales shifting against each other. a massive head emerged from the shadows, scales shimmering faintly in the dim light. the dragon's maw opened, revealing rows of sharp teeth as it let out a deep, guttural growl.

"þetta er hann," katsuki said, gesturing to the creature with an almost casual wave.

you gaped at him, words escaping your brain. a dragon? you weren't sure what you had expected, but it certainly wasn't a fucking dragon.

"what is that?" your voice came out as a weak murmur, tinged with both awe and terror. you had to make sure you weren't seeing or hearing things...

"drengr minn," katsuki replied, based on the look on your face, stepping closer to the dragon and placing a hand against its massive snout, the beast huffed, as if in acknowledgment.

your legs threatened to give out as katsuki turned to you, motioning for you to come closer. you shook your head, frozen in place.

"komdu hingað," he called, his voice firm.

reluctantly, you stepped forward, your pulse thundering in your ears. the dragon's gaze followed you, unblinking and intense. when you were close enough, katsuki grabbed your hand and placed it against the warm, rough scales of the dragon's snout.

the beast rumbled again. it was almost... a purr.

"ekki hrædd," katsuki muttered, his voice softer now, though it still carried their usual edge.

katsuki pulled himself up onto the dragon's back, his movements sure and practiced. he extended a hand to you, waiting. you hesitated, but the weight of his expectation—and the dragon's unyielding stare—left you with little choice. with a deep breath, you grasped his hand and allowed him to pull you up and plop you down in front of him.

the dragon shifted beneath you, its massive body uncoiling as it prepared to take off. your hands instinctively grip katsuki's forearms, your heart hammering in your chest.

without warning, the dragon launched itself out of the cave and into the sky with an ear piercing roar, as you screamed your lungs out.

the ground fell away beneath you, the wind tearing at your hair and clothes as the beast's wings beat powerfully. for a moment, fear threatened to consume you. but then the view unfolded around you—the sprawling forest below, the endless expanse of sky above, and the distant peaks of mountains on the horizon.

your grip on katsuki tightened as the dragon banked to the left, the motion sending a thrilling jolt through your body. he turned your head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he barked something over the wind. though you didn't understand him, his tone was definitely teasing, almost amused by the expression on your face.

slowly, the fear ebbed, replaced by a tentative awe. the dragon's movements were surprisingly smooth, its powerful wings carrying you effortlessly through the sky.

"oh my gods," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the wind.

he glanced down, raising an eyebrow in question.

"this is..." you trailed off, searching for the words. "unbelievable," you grin, your mouth drying out with the wind.

he didn't reply, but his smirk widened, his chest puffing slightly with pride as though he understood you.

as the dragon soared higher, you found yourself loosening your grip just enough to look around, as katsuki snakes a strong arm around your waist to keep you from falling over. the world seemed smaller from this height, a patchwork of green and brown stitched together by rivers of silver. for a brief moment, you forgot your fear, your uncertainty, and the weight of everything that had brought you here.

when the dragon began its descent, the rush of air grew fiercer, and your grip on katsuki returned. he muttered something under his breath, seemily reassuring you of something.

by the time you landed, your legs felt like jelly, and your heart hadn't yet stopped racing. katsuki dismounted first, extending a hand to help you down.

you took it, your knees wobbling as your feet touched the ground. "þú stóðst þig vel," katsuki rasped, low and seemingly approving.

-

your body vibrated with excitement as you stood outside the stronghold, feeling the cool breeze brushing against your skin. today, is the beginning of your journey back to your kingdom.

katsuki, stoic as ever, walked with his dragon, its massive form thumping its way around. the beast moved like molten lava, each muscle rippling under crimson scales as it emerged fully into the sunlight, its fiery red eyes scanned the clearing as it's massive body cast a long shadow on the ground.

katsuki turned to you, his intense gaze holding a question.

"farðu upp," he urged, gesturing to the dragon's massive back.

you hesitated, your stomach knotting at the memory of the flight earlier. while breathtaking, it had also been utterly terrifying.

"i'm not sure i can do that again," you confessed, nervously laughing as you shook your head in refusal, "i'll stick with the tetsugami."

he frowned, his brows knitting together in mild frustration. "ekki vera veik," he snapped, though the edge in his tone softened slightly as he stepped closer. "þú lifðir það áður."

"you do know that i have not the faintest idea of what you're saying..." you counter, looking him up and down, crossing your arms.

he stared at you for a brief second, his lips fixing into a scowl. after a moment, he let out an irritated breath and muttered something to himself.

he motioned for the dragon to stay put, his sharp whistle echoing through the clearing. the beast settled onto its haunches, its wings furling tightly against its sides as it let out a snort. katsuki didn't argue further, instead taking a few purposeful steps towards you.

"ég mun horfa ofan frá." he grumbled, the words curt but resigned.

you furrowed your brow, piecing together his meaning. he wasn't thrilled, but he accepted your refusal.

hours later, preparations for the journey were complete. you stood at the edge of the stronghold, the weight of the coming trip settling over you.

in the thick of the tall trees, a sound of heavy, slow and deliberate footsteps, accompanied by a metallic scrape that sent delightful shivers up your spine, echoed.

you avert your gaze from your husband, and toward the noise coming from behind them. your eyes widened as the tetsugami emerged into view. it's rust-red carapace glinting in the sunlight like aged armor. it's body was crab-like in shape with a wide, flat shell that curved protectively over it's back.

it's seven remaining legs, each the width of a tree trunk, moved with surprising grace despite the size and weight of the creature. the absence of its front right leg didn't seem to hinder it's movements; it's gait was steady, with powerful legs sinking into the soil with each step, leaving deep impressions behind. its pinchers clacked excitedly as it shifted its weight, the sound reverberating like distant thunder as its antennae twitched, scanninng the air for potential threats, while it's small, bead-like eyes glimmered with an eerie intelligence.

strapped to it's surface were supplies for the journey—barrels of provisions, rolled up tents, and neatly stacked crates secured with thick leather straps.

"þetta er tetsugami," mitsuki stood proud, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. you turned toward her, recognizing the words enough to know she was introducing the creature. her expression softened as she gestured to the beast, inviting you to approach.

you hesitated, glancing back at katsuki, who was already climbing onto his dragon's back. his crimson eyes met yours briefly before he turned his focus to his mount, silently leaving you to make your own choice.

you stepped closer to the tetsugami, its sheer size making you feel small in comparison—as if the huge people you now live with weren't enough... its mandibles clicked rhythmically, a surprisingly soothing sound as you placed a tentative hand on the edge of its shell. the surface was rough and cool, like weathered stone, but it radiated a subtle warmth from the sunlight it absorbed.

"he's beautiful," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

the tetsugami let out a low, resonant hum—a sound that rumbled deep in its body, vibrating through your fingertips, like a contented purr, and it made you smile.

ragna approached from the side, her brows arching in surprise as she took in the sight of the beast. "quite the creature, isn't it?" she said, though her tone carried an air of caution.

you turned to her with a grin, "ride with me," you offered, gesturing to the sturdy harness slung across the tetsugami's shell.

ragna hesitated, her gaze flicking between you and the creature. "the tetsugami is only brought out for important people, my lady-"

"you are important," you insisted, taking her hands in yours, your voice soft and earnest, "it's a long journey, and i'd feel better having you by my side."

ragna's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression conflicted for a moment before she nodded, "v-very well," she gave in, sighing as you clapped to yourself.

with mitsuki's help, you climbed onto the tetsugami's back, settling into the cushioned saddle fastened securely near the center. the saddle was surprisingly comfortable, with a wide padded seat, designed for stability. ragna joined you, careful as she adjusted her position beside you.

the tetsugami let out another hum, chittering as it adjusted to the added weight. its antennae twitched again, and it began to move, its legs carrying it forward with a deliberate, swaying rhythm.

as the caravan set off, the sounds of boots crunching against dirt and the occasional clang of weapons accompanied the steady thuds of the giant crab's steps, broke the silence. the missing leg added an uneven cadence to its movements, a faint scrape with every third step that served as a reminder of its battle-scarred history.

katsuki's dragon took to the skies with a powerful leap, its wings slicing through the air as it ascended, leaving the rest of you to follow below.

the journey had begun.

»»————> 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘! <————««

"frú mín" - my lady

"hæ! þú ert hér! loksins hér!" - Hello! You're here! Finally here!

"ég er celeste" - I am Celeste

"þú ert skítug" - You're dirty

"sitja kyrr" - Stay still

"kyrr" - Still

"farðu" - Go

"þar" - There

"ég hef eitthvað handa þér" - I have something for you

"komdu" - come

"þetta er hann" - this is him

"drengr minn" - my boy

"komdu hingað" - come here

"ekki hrædd" - don't be afraid

"þú stóðst þig vel" - you did well

"farðu upp" - get up

"ekki vera veik" - don’t be weak

"þú lifðir það áður" - you survived it before

"ég mun horfa ofan frá" - I will watch from above

"þetta er tetsugami" - this is tetsugami

if you've already asked to be in the tag list and you're not there then please check your settings and fix it accordingly or ensure that you have at least one post on your blog and ask again.

»»————> 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙!

@twoplayergaymers @ch3rryjampi3 @lxdystxrdustt @selfishgucci @sleepyfxce @depressed-waffle-time @abinformyobsessions @kodzubaby @cottagedumpling @msjaeger @condy-wants-a-cookie @who-xo @naiomiwinchester @your-mum3000 @weebperson2003 @koigeidi @lanadelgarf @misaki-kira8 @lightsinmycity @kit-katsukii @the2ndl @kalulakunundrum

mlist!

[haveihitanerve]

batman has trouble telling his family how he feels. So he decides he can write it down in a journal or leave them notes. It's easy to write down the words than say them because the words he wants to say always get lost in translation when he opens his mouth. Dickie when he was robin has a whole box filled with notes from Bruce. Turns out batman can be funny when he writes his thoughts down. Jason writes back to Bruce just as sassy.

i love this

With Dick, the first note appeared after the first fight. A nasty fight, where Dick had screamed

"YOU'RE NOT MY DAD, WHY DO YOU EVEN CARE, I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU!!!!"

Bruce had gone quiet after the words, and isolated himself away. Dick had felt crummy afterwards, but there wasn't much to do about it, Bruce wasn't around to apologize to and... well, it was true. The screams had just been... inner thoughts he hadn't voiced.

Bruce knew it too. And, it shouldn't have to be up to Dick to make amends. So he withdrew to his office, locked it tight, so that he wouldn't say words he'd regret and make things worse with Dick.

The first few drafts... were hard. But Bruce found his rhythm, and it was so much better. He could erase and start again, and reword, and clear up any parts that weren't clear. He could be concise, precise, honest and literate, he didn't have to stumble and rip his way through an uncomfortable conversation where he'd make things worse.

Dick found the note later that night, laying on his pillow, three pages worth of words that told him he was loved, whether or not he wanted Bruce to be his dad, he could just remain a friend, a brother if he wanted, and that he cared, even if it wasn't always shown, even if it wasn't as a father.

Bruce established boundaries, and apologized too, because it was needed, and it was so much easier to say what he needed to through written words, instead of admitting them aloud. Maybe it made him a coward, it made him a coward, but the next morning Dick hugged him and apologized back, so it worked.

The notes became frequent from then on, usually after fights, or misunderstandings, and Dick understood the need, knew that Bruce wasn't as able to concisely share his thoughts and formulate them as well on the spot aloud, so he let it happen, but soon they became more commonplace, left on chimneys on patrol for Dick to find, little love notes and encouraging words that Bruce became better at saying aloud too.

Dick kept each one, tucking them safely into his belt, and kept them in a box in his closet, one he had made at school with Bruce during a parent-child fun day, and pulled them out to read every so often, when things between them got hard.

The box moved with him, stuffed in the closet at Bludhaven, and postage was expensive, travel even more so, but Bruce still sent him letters, apologies Dick didn't open, notes taped to his window he tossed away (still into a pile he never threw out, but never read either).

When things got better, Dick would read the notes, but he never touched the letters from before, because for once he needed the words from Bruce's lips, and he had liked Bruce's stumbling, his faltering and chagrin, and did not want to read his well thought out, thorough one instead. He still kept the notes, of course.

With Barbara.... Bruce didn't have a claim to her. She wasn't his daughter. She wasn't looking for a father. She wasn't, quite honestly, even looking for a mentor. But she found one in him anyway, whether either of them liked it or not.

But Bruce still sent her notes. Little letters, facts, information, telling her through a note was easier than in person. Because then he could lay it all out, and maybe she'd see something he'd missed. Because she always did. She completed him, in a way none of the other did. In a way even Dick didn't. But, then again, they all completed him in different ways. Hers was just more noticeable.

After Joker... every day he wrote to her, flooding her phone with messages, her laptop with emails, her room with cards and flowers and notes.

And when she moved to the Clock Tower it didn't stop, maybe slowed a little, became smaller in quantity, but he always sent her something. Let her check over his work, proofread anything and everything. His fresh set of eyes.

She wrote back, sometimes. But she was more like Dick in that regard, choosing to answer his messages verbally rather than write back. She did have the perfect time to do it too, and she always had something to say.

Barbara never struggled with her words the way he did. And he appreciated it. Loved it, even. Even if it usually didn't mean anything good for him...

With Jason... Bruce hadn't done it, originally, because Jason was just so bright, and understood, and didn't need the words because he heard them because Bruce was better, all the mistakes he'd made with Dick cleaned up a bit.

But Jason needed the words, and he had such a spark, so Bruce began writing again, sliding notes under his son's door and leaving them taped around the house, or on patrol. And Jason, Jason wrote back.

Little witty notes, marked up Bruce letters with grammar corrections, book recommendations, questions about what they were eating for dinner, or little stories, scrawled in the margins of notebook paper, stuck to Bruce's cape, or on his pillow, or taped to his mirror.

Bruce still wrote the letters, left them in Jason's room, after his death. Red Hood never mentioned it, but after a trip to the manor to "haunt" them, he became a little less violent.

With Tim, Bruce was ashamed to admit, he just didn't care. He didn't care that Tim winced at his words, he didn't care if he was misunderstood, he didn't care if he neglected the boy.

And it hurt, Bruce knew it hurt him, but he just didn't care, couldn't bring himself to, not when Tim was so much like the boy he'd lost, not when Tim was so different.

But Tim started writing letters, originally just for himself, begging for affection, begging for his parents to love him, begging for Bruce to notice him. Then the notes got angry, rants, screaming, slashes across the page, pencil marks that tore paper and dug groves into the table.

He kept them all to himself, waded up in the corner of his room, but Bruce found them, found them all, and he hated himself, hated the Drakes, but he couldn't even fault them because he, oh he was much worse. (no he wasn't the Drakes owed Tim love and affection those were his parents and a child deserves that from his parents Bruce tech didn't owe him anything but shiii he was awful and-)

So Bruce started writing again, answering all of Tim's pleas, cataloging every single movement and jump and case and file and everything Tim had ever done right and congratulating him, giving him pride Bruce wasn't even sure he was allowed to give anymore, and he apologized, begged for forgiveness, for a chance to start over, because he was better now, Tim had made him better, and he wanted... he wanted to be better. For Tim.

In the end the note was twenty three pages long, and ended with the simple phrase, "I love you, you are my Robin, and I'm so sorry"

Tim was at school, so Bruce left it on his bed, and shut himself away in the cave until he got home. He always stopped by his room first, tidying everything up, because he was only a "guest" and all, before heading down to the cave.

Bruce waited for two hours. When Tim finally came into the cave, his eyes were red, tears still falling down his face.

"Oh Timmy," Bruce breathed. "I'm so so sorry." Tim walked to him, and collapsed in his arms.

And from then on, things were better. Not perfect, nothing to do with Bruce's personal life was perfect, but it was better. It was good. And Bruce started sending notes. Slowly, they turned from letters into emails, into texts and shared google docs. So Tim would have evidence in his favored form, of Bruce's love.

With Stephanie... things were different. She didn't live at the manor. She had a father, albeit a bad one, and Bruce didn't want to give her another one of those.

But he still left her notes, information, or clues, things that gave her autonomy for a bit, let her work still "alone" as Spoiler, but kept her connected to him. To Robin. And when she died...

Bruce gave every letter to Leslie. Not because he knew, exactly, but because he knew she was closer to Stephanie, and he couldn't have them at home. Couldn't look at them.

Leslie gave every one to Steph. Who read them. Sometimes. Enough times that when she came back, she wasn't as hard on Bruce. Enough times that she let him hug her. And came over for dinner. And never regretted being Robin. Enough times to admit she loved him too. And that he would never be her father. Because at his core, he was a good person, and Arthur Brown was not that.

With Cassandra, Bruce didn't write letters. Not only because Cass couldn't read, but because she could read him. And no words were necessary. For once, he could love someone in silence.

With Damian, words came easier, somehow. Maybe because Damian needed words, needed the commands to be spoken aloud, needed the reprimand or the praise. He needed the tone, couldn't weed it out of what Bruce had written like the others, needed the verbal confirmation or denial.

Bruce needed the words to. To tell his son it was alright to mess up, to make mistakes. He needed to words to reassure his son that harsh language was the extent of what he was going to get. That punishment wasn't physical in their world. In his home.

He wrote Damian letters too, of course, in the case his youngest might feel excluded, but usually only at special occasions, a card for his birthday, or a quick poem to brighten his day.

And words... words came easier now. After so many. It was easier to tell Damian what he needed, aloud as well as on paper. It was easier to speak, to not stumble over his words, to praise and apologize. A good thing too, because Damian needed it. And maybe... maybe Bruce did too.

[22ayla21]

Language of the Heart

German seems like a rough language, but in love, it is not inferior to French.

From the Author: I can't describe how much I love the German language, I even tried to learn it myself, but because I am not predisposed to memorizing languages, I was never able to learn it.

Vil didn't often allow himself to be surprised. He was used to the fact that everything around him had to be under control - even his own emotions. But the moment his beloved pronounced a phrase in German flawlessly, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

He knew that she was not from this world. She had told him about her origins, about the differences between their worlds, about how her native language was different. But she knew German? That was unexpected.

- Wo hast du Deutsch gelernt? (Where did you learn German?) - he asked, not so much demanding an answer, but simply voicing his own surprise.

She only grinned, seeing how a barely noticeable interest flashed in his gaze. Vil knew how to hide his emotions, but now he looked as if he had just discovered a new shade in the palette of the world.

From that day on, their conversations sometimes switched to German - smoothly, naturally, as if it had always been a part of their relationship. Vil appreciated the precision and expressiveness of this language, its firmness and beauty hidden behind its strict forms. She enjoyed the way German sounded on his lips - perfectly clear, as if he was born with this language.

Sometimes, when they were alone, he could allow himself to speak a little softer, to use words that he would never say in public. Mein Schatz, Liebes, Sternchen - he said them with such a warm tone that she couldn't help but smile.

There were also moments of a different kind. When he was irritated or dissatisfied with something, his German speech became sharp, almost caustic. Even if he said something neutral, it sounded as if he was casting a spell that was about to turn someone into dust.

But most of all, he loved to watch her reactions. When she answered him in German without thinking, when her intonations became naturally smooth, when she chose the right words without fail. It was a rare pleasure to see how a person understood not only your words, but also the very essence of the language you spoke. For the two of them, German became something more than just a way of communicating. It was their secret language in a world full of alien views. It was a language that could say more than words.

Translation: Mein Schatz, Liebes, Sternchen - My darling, my love, my little star