#THAT’S what makes the song so haunting!!!

[alyrasturnz]

ur writing is so amazing! can u write a short angsty/sad matt x reader concept for the song "anything" by adrianne lenker?

ANYTHING {{ matt sturniolo}}

summary — in a small coastal town, y/n and matt shared a profound love, their bond as deep and tumultuous as the ocean. y/n’s vibrant spirit and matt’s brooding soul intertwined beautifully, filling their days with joy and sorrow. one summer, y/n fell ill with an incurable disease, yet she clung to their dreams. on christmas eve, a confrontation with y/n’s mother and a subsequent hospital visit underscored the fragility of their situation.

warnings :: mentions of the hospital , death

— short angst

in the heart of a small coastal town, where the sea whispers secrets to the shore, lived a pair of star-crossed lovers, y/n and matt. their love was as deep and turbulent as the ocean itself, filled with moments of intense joy and profound sorrow.

y/n, a vibrant soul with a zest for life, had a penchant for making even the mundane seem magical. matt, a brooding soul, found solace in her presence, his heart beating in time with hers. they spent their days wrapped in each other's warmth, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleyways and their tears mingling with the salty sea breeze.

one fateful summer, as the bioluminescent waves danced under the moonlight, y/n began to feel an inexplicable fatigue. what started as mere exhaustion soon revealed itself to be a relentless illness, one that no doctor could cure. matt watched helplessly as the light in y/n eyes began to dim, her once vibrant spirit now shackled by the weight of her affliction.

despite the looming shadow of her illness, y/n refused to let go of their shared dreams. on christmas eve, they visited y/n’s family, a tradition filled with warmth and laughter. but this year, the air was thick with unspoken fears. a confrontation with y/n mother, fierce in her love and desperation, left matt with a gnawing sense of helplessness. that night, as they drove to the hospital after a dog bite incident, the reality of their fragile existence hit him hard.

in the days that followed, y/n’s condition worsened. matt, consumed by grief and fear, found solace in the simple moments – the sound of y/n’s breath, the touch of her hand, the way her eyes still sparkled when she looked at him. he clung to these fleeting moments, unwilling to accept a future without her.

one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, y/n passed away in matt’s arms. her final breath was a whisper of love, a promise of eternal connection. matt’s world shattered, his heart a barren wasteland without her.

in the aftermath, matt found himself wandering the places they once cherished, the memories of their love haunting every corner. the bioluminescent beach, now a place of sorrow, reminded him of the nights they spent under the stars, dreaming of a future that was never meant to be. he realized that y/n’s essence was woven into the very fabric of his being, her spirit a guiding light in his darkest moments.

their love, though brief, burned with an intensity that left an indelible mark on matt’s soul. and as he stood by the shimmering waves, he whispered a promise to y/n – to live a life worthy of the love they shared, to carry her memory in his heart forever.

[tiny-wooden-robot-fics]

Egg Fried Rice

Rating: General Audiences Pairing: Geto Suguru x Original Female Character Characters: Geto Suguru, Original Female Character of Color Additional Tags: Fluff, Mentions of food and alcohol, Flirting, Pre-established friendship, Geto and OC are roommates, There is some suggestiveness near the end, This is part of a series

Summary:

“I was,” she admits, “but I realized I didn’t feel like working out tonight and decided to make greasy food instead.” She raises an eyebrow, taking his spoon from him and helping herself to his bowl of fried rice. “And anyway, I’m allowed to eat and drink whatever I want, Suguru.”

“The point of cooking enough for both of us is so we can each have our own… is it not?” He looks pointedly at the spoon in her hand. 

“It tastes better when I take it from you,” she laughs. She holds a spoonful of rice up to his mouth. He hesitates only for a moment before letting her feed him. 

“You’re definitely different,” he chuckles once he’s done chewing. He doesn’t realize he’s said the words aloud until she goes quiet, her brown eyes wide and staring. 

Part 1: Sundane (it isn't necessary to read this one first, but it gives you some context)

A/N: What kind of writer would I be if I didn't use my personal issues as inspiration? :)

Read on AO3

He feels a little like a creep watching her this way, but he can’t help it. 

There’s something different about her. Suguru has been trying to pinpoint it for months - the change in her that’s made her seem less sweet, less timid and accommodating to the world around her. It’s almost as if there’s something that’s been lying dormant inside of her for a long time and is now finally starting to awaken.

Perhaps it’s the confidence she’s gained from the way she’s been sculpting her body. The little corner of the living room that they’ve designated as their home gym has undergone its own changes over the past half year to match her increase in strength and endurance: heavier free weights added to her personal collection, more resistance bands, a wider variety of kettlebells. She likes to say that she can’t completely change the body she was born with, but she’s trying her best to make it into the body she wants. 

He hasn’t said as much to her, but her efforts are paying off in a way that makes him look twice at her sometimes.

Or perhaps the change is because of her hair. 

After four years of letting it grow long, she’d decided she needed something different. He’d come home one day to find her in her bathroom with trimming shears in her hand. “I feel so liberated,” she’d told him, a satisfied smile on her face as she admired the haircut she’d given herself. He’d certainly been impressed that she’d had the courage to cut it at all, let alone to do such a good job of it on her own. 

He likes it. He thinks it suits her.

And while those things have brought about changes that Suguru can see, he thinks it’s probably the things he can’t see that truly make her look different. 

The sadness in her eyes is gone. He doesn’t see that wistful look in her gaze whenever certain songs come on. Suguru knows who those songs reminded her of. 

He doesn’t hear her crying in her bedroom anymore, the way she did every night for long months after the breakup. There is no longer the sound of her trying to muffle her sobs into her pillow. 

She frowns less and sleeps more.

She seems less… haunted. Suguru knows that those feelings that once pained her haven’t disappeared completely - and perhaps they never will - but he has noticed the difference in how she carries them. They no longer seem as heavy as they did before. 

He’s always liked the way she looks, but the things that are different about her now have enhanced that. 

They’ve made her more appealing. 

She hasn’t noticed him yet. She’s shimmying and shaking around the kitchen to whatever is playing through her noise-canceling headphones, chopping vegetables and combining ingredients to the beat of the song she’s listening to. 

Suguru could watch her like this forever, but he doesn’t want to get caught.

He waits until she’s turned part of the way towards the living room before raising one hand in a lazy wave to catch her attention. 

And then he promptly curses his own heart for the way its tempo increases as her eyes light up and she smiles at him. 

“Welcome home,” she calls loudly. She seems to remember that she’s wearing the headphones and pulls them off of her head to let them rest around her neck. “Sorry,” she says sheepishly, in a softer tone. “I can never really hear how loud my voice is when I’m wearing these.”

“Mm,” he grunts softly, making his way over to the bar that separates the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. He leans forward, squinting at the skillet on the stove. “What’s that? It smells good.”

“Just egg fried rice,” she answers as she stirs oyster sauce into the skillet. She looks at him over her shoulder. “Nothing as fancy as what the magnificent Geto Suguru would make for one of his clients, I’m afraid.”

“My clients are all rich, picky assholes with weird food preferences,” he replies. “I wouldn’t want what they eat anyway.”

She makes a little noise of agreement as she scoops fried rice into a bowl and sets it on the bar in front of him. “Beer?”

“Yeah, please.”

Rummaging in the fridge for a few seconds yields two bottles of the IPA they both favor. She smiles triumphantly and pops the caps off of them, setting one down on the bar and taking a swig from the other one.

“You allowed to have beer?” He asks the question teasingly around a mouthful of food, motioning to the clothes she’s wearing. “Thought you might be getting ready for a workout.”

“I was,” she admits, “but I realized I didn’t feel like working out tonight and decided to make greasy food instead.” She raises an eyebrow, taking his spoon from him and helping herself to his bowl of fried rice. “And anyway, I’m allowed to eat and drink whatever I want, Suguru.”

“The point of cooking enough for both of us is so we can each have our own… is it not?” He looks pointedly at the spoon in her hand. 

“It tastes better when I take it from you,” she laughs. She holds a spoonful of rice up to his mouth. He hesitates only for a moment before letting her feed him. 

“You’re definitely different,” he chuckles once he’s done chewing. He doesn’t realize he’s said the words aloud until she goes quiet, her brown eyes wide and staring. 

“Me?” She shakes her head, filching another spoonful of his rice. He lets her. “Different?”

He’s said the words now and there’s no point in trying to recall them. The question he asks himself now is how much of what he’s thinking does he want to reveal. “Different,” he repeats. 

She gives him a measured look. “Is that good or bad?”

“Isn’t that a trick question?”

Suguru doesn’t know why his rebuttal question makes her laugh, but it does. She doesn’t seem upset, so he decides to take a gamble and be honest. “I’ll say that it’s good,” he starts slowly, watching in amusement as she continues eating from the bowl of fried rice she’d fixed for him, “but I don’t want you to think it means everything about the way you were before was bad.”

“Oh?” She takes a swig of her beer. “And how was I before?” 

“Sad,” Suguru answers bluntly. “Heartbroken… insecure.”

The hand holding her bottle of beer pauses in midair, halfway to the counter. Instead of setting it down, she raises it back to her mouth, draining what’s left. “Congratulations on seeing something not many people have gotten to see,” she murmurs. “Me at my worst. How you can say that wasn’t bad is beyond me.”

“You’re still you, just different. More confident… and happier.” He picks up his neglected spoon. “You ate all my rice,” he laughs, pointing to the empty bowl in front of him.

She laughs with him. “I’m sorry. Here---” She leans over and kisses his cheek. “A kiss to make it up to you.”

He shrugs, trying to ignore the way an innocent kiss on the cheek makes him feel and hoisting himself off of the barstool to join her in the kitchen. He scoops more rice from the pan into his bowl, and she watches him. “You look good,” he tells her solemnly, his eyes still on the food. “Not just your body---”

“Oh, are you saying you’ve noticed my body?” She teases him, bumping her hip against his playfully. “In what way, if I may ask?”

Suguru actually short-circuits for a split second as his brain decides that it needs to conjure up specific images of the two of them in compromising positions. “What the fuck, Val… I’m trying to be decent here.”

His explosive words seem to catch her by surprise. “Wait… what?” 

“I said, I’m trying to be decent here.”

He expects her to laugh, to brush off what he’s saying - and what it implies - as a joke. 

She doesn’t.

“Since when have you worried about being decent?” She studies him, her head inclined to the side curiously. “You know one of the things I’ve always loved most about you is that you say what’s on your mind, no matter what it is.”

“I don’t think you want me to say what’s on my mind right now.”

She gazes at him levelly. “What makes you think I can’t guess what’s on your mind right now?” Before he can answer, she speaks again. “What makes you think what’s on your mind isn’t what’s also on my mind?”

He stands in the middle of the kitchen, a steaming bowl of food in one hand and his half-drunk beer in the other. There are a million and one thoughts racing through his mind, and somehow his brain pinpoints just one to voice. “What about… that guy?”

She takes a beat to digest his question and what it means. “He’s…” She trails off and looks briefly away from him. When she looks back, her mouth is twisted into a bitter smile. “Weren’t you there? You witnessed it firsthand - how it all blew up in my face. You saw it for yourself… I’m toxic.” She reaches out, plucking his IPA from his hand and polishing it off.

He tries - and fails - not to notice the way her lips fit around the mouth of the bottle, and the way her tongue darts out to taste the beer before she swallows it. “Toxic?” 

Her mouth twists again. This time it’s not quite a smile. “Toxic.”

“Hm. Toxic isn’t the word I would use, but that’s a conversation for another time.” Suguru moves closer to her, until he’s backed her up against the kitchen counter and there’s no space left between their bodies. “What you are is a food and drink thief,” he asserts, his voice low and quiet. “Fixing me food and giving me beer just to take it back for yourself.”

“I told you,” she whispers. “It tastes better when I take it from you.” 

His eyes are on her lips. “You realize I’m not that guy.” It isn’t a question. “He was a good guy. I’m not.”

“I know who you are, Suguru,” she laughs, a little breathlessly. “We’ve been roommates for three years now. I see how women look at you, before and after they’ve been with you.” She pauses, and her next words are pitched low and quiet. “And I know enough not to get attached. I’d be stupid to think I could ever fill that space.” 

“So you’re not looking to?” I’d let you, if you wanted. He doesn’t voice the thought.

“Why would I? I’d never be able to compare anyway.” She swallows the words she really wants to say, looking away from him again with a shrug. “Besides, aren’t you scared I’m gonna poison you?” 

Experimentally, he lowers his head and presses a kiss to her neck. He likes the sound she makes when he does that. “The new you seems like she wouldn’t give a fuck whether or not she poisoned me,” he chuckles into her skin. “Or anybody else, for that matter.” He raises his head so he can meet her eyes. “Am I right?”

“Maybe,” she assents, bottom lip caught in her teeth. She pauses, then: “I thought you were hungry.”

He casts a glance over his shoulder at his neglected bowl of fried rice. “I was.”

She reaches up, toying with the tie that his hair is gathered in. After a moment she tugs on it, letting his hair loose and recapturing his attention. “And now?”

He looks back at her. “The rice will be there. Right now, there’s something else I wanna do.”

“What a coincidence,” she laughs, raking her fingers through his newly-freed hair. “There’s something I’d like to do, too.”

Tag List: @strawberry1042 @darkfaerietails @jay220a @fattybattysblog @suguru-nugget @senseifupa @aleigant @gigiculona @rahuratna @tsukimefuku @whatshernameis

About Me | My Other Fics | AO3

End Note: This series will have an NSFW part 3. If you'd like to be tagged in it (or any of my other fics), feel free to let me know!

-Val 💙

[bestworstcase]

What are your thoughts on the use of rose symbolism across the show? (Ruby, Adam, Summer, the songs)

ough.

ok broadly speaking there are three different but intertwining Rose Motifs, to wit,

the burning rose (summer + ruby)

the withered rose (adam)

roses that rot or die (salem)

but the third motif is complicated because salem herself is not symbolically identified as a rose but rather with the broken moon, most overtly in sacrifice ("the moon will sadly watch the roses die/in vain").

so. the very first few images in rwby are 1. the full unbroken moon, with a single red rose petal floating up into the frame; 2. ruby, cloaked and shedding rose petals, standing before a gravestone with the moon at her back; and 3. the gravestone, with the burning rose engraved upon it, and below that the name Summer Rose and the epitaph Thus Kindly I Scatter. note also that the grimm in the red trailer bleed rose petals.

it is possible that the key aesthetics weren’t decided yet, but: 1. the moon is broken and a normal size in the white trailer, and 2. "red like roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest"—the red trailer is the dream. that ruby keeps having about her mom. RLR2 playing under the nevermore fight (and the burst of rose petals when ruby decapitates it—something that doesn’t happen with any other defeated grimm) underscore this point. ruby is looking for her mother inside the grimm.

(that’s why she jumps to the specific conclusion she does when she sees the guy in the hound, incidentally. cutting open a grimm and finding what’s left of her mom is the nightmare that has been haunting her subconscious ever since she learnt that summer wasn’t coming back.)

anyway, because the red trailer depicts a dream it goes extra ham with the symbolism. (and it makes a very neat implication about who ruby is that where her teammates are all introduced to us in these active moments of striving for what they want, ruby’s pain is buried so deep that she can only find it in her dreams—see also her arc in the ever after.) 

so the red trailer provides something of an interpretive guide—the burning rose is a symbol of death, we first see it on a gravestone, and the red rose petals suggest grief but they are also, explicitly, associated with blood and violence. and then there’s this huge moon looming on the horizon. on a second viewing you realize that ruby’s dream is lit by either a whole moon that never broke or that the broken face is rotated away, hidden, and because dreams are non-literal it can be both of these things at the same time. 

then on top of this we have the grave of summer rose—in this dream of a bleak, colorless winter—and that epitaph, "thus kindly i scatter," which if you know the poem (or take the time to look it up) is immediately a curveball because it’s…

'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one. To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

an interesting allusion to follow this:

"red like roses fills my dreams"—ruby turns around here to walks away from the grave, toward the moon—"and brings me to the place you rest." and then her departure reveals that summer’s epitaph is this moment when the poem’s speaker plucks a rose and scatters its petals upon the ground to express sorrow for its loss and loneliness; "oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?"

the rose in the poem is not summer, in other words. summer’s epitaph identifies her with the speaker who scatters the rose, and the red petals "bleeding" from ruby’s cloak insinuate her as the scattered rose.

keeping that in mind, consider the lyrics of RLR1 in relation to the accompanying imagery in the red trailer; yes the song is a thematic statement about the four main characters, but it’s also illustrated in a very deliberate way.

"red like roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest"—in this dream, the redness comes from ruby. she is carrying it with her, around herself, and it leads her from the grave to the grimm, whom she breaks opens to reveal the red of her own pain… beneath this white unbroken moon, which,

hi. (ruby can’t see summer in her dreams when the moon is at her back, but in the moonlight she sees the ghost of her mother, shedding white…? she imagines rose petals, finding herself in summer’s reflection. but in the red trailer it’s snowing.)

"white is cold and always yearning, burdened by a royal test"—journey through a bleak, snow-bound forest toward an open field. aside from the obvious grief metaphor: the warrior in the woods, the white witch in the woods, the grimm child… and the indecisive king, in which a silver crown torments a king with haunting visions of an impossible crossroads that leave him "pale as the moon."

and then: "black the beast descends from shadows," as she looks up to find herself surrounded by grimm. the imagery of descent from shadows has also always interested me because it’s ordinarily reversed; one rises up from shadows, as in 'this time', but rwby turns it upside-down in a specific way; the descent from shadow precipitates a new flame rising from the ashes, here as in 'from shadows' and (more poetically) elsewhere, which is also why the line runs into "yellow beauty burns…"

with "gold" being the shot of ruby suspended in midair before the moon, which in just this one shot glows golden like the sun.

burning rose. burning rose. gold, the song about yang picking up the pieces and trying to comfort ruby after summer’s death, goes like this:

If the stars all fall When there’s no more light And the moon should crumble It will be alright Don’t you worry about the dark I will light up the night with the love in my heart I will burn like the sun I will keep you safe and warm Like the smell of a rose on a summer’s day I will be there to take all your fears away With a touch of my hand I’ll turn your life to gold

notice the mirrored imagery with sacrifice:

Born an angel, heaven-sent Falls from grace are never elegant Stars will drop out of the sky The moon will sadly watch the roses die In vain Lost, no gain But you’re not taking me.

as well as the imagery in sacrifice ("all your faith in ancient ways/leaves you trapped inside a maze/take the lives of those you need/sow the death and reap the seed"), reversed in rising ("a rose will grow to be a seed/from every life, another leads/born the way were meant to be"), both rhymed in for every life ("some roses will never bloom/some dreams will rot on the vine/some lives will end much too soon/some evil will never ever die/some wars will not end in peace/some heroes choose the wrong side/sometimes it’s worth it all/to risk the fall").

there is a pattern here.

the burning rose is a symbol of death. the withered or decaying rose suggests, not death, but slow corruption: adam’s is "just the story of a boy who lost his way/into shadows strayed," descending into a darkness too deep to rekindle as flame—and it is through juxtaposition with the withering rose that the burning rose also becomes a symbol for revival, as new fire blossoming from ashes.

and then both of these symbols are adjacent to the broken moon, which represents 1. the death and resurrection of humanity (thence its symbolic association with silver eyes), and 2. salem herself.

in volume one, summer appears only in the light of the moon and the grimm in the red trailer ignite the (seemingly unbroken) moon—this evokes the in-universe folklore about the broken moon having been the sun, once upon a time when there was no light in the sky at all during the night, so there’s burning-moon phoenix imagery hiding in plain sight here. when summer left, she left the burning rose behind. (which i’d call a smoking gun for summer not being dead if that weren’t already so obvious. but she unburdened herself of the death-symbol before confronting salem. lol.)

summer herself is also pointedly not the rose but one who scatters it, which puts her in juxtaposition to the way salem associates ozma with roses in sacrifice. (HE is the roses that salem, the moon, sadly watches: this becomes quite clear once you grasp that withering/decaying roses symbolize corruption, spiritual death. this is why sacrifice and nevermore rhyme, btw:

— "born an angel, heaven-sent/falls from grace are never elegant" -> "you think you’re someone’s hero/you’re hiding more than your eyes"

— "back when it started/i thought that justice was your goal/then in the darkness/you lost your mind/i lost my soul/that’s in the past and i won’t be controlled" -> "stars will drop out of the sky/the moon will sadly watch the roses die/in vain/lost, no gain/but you’re not taking me"

— "you can’t have my life/i’m not your sacrifice/you can try, but i’m free/and you won’t conquer me/i won’t crawl/most of all/i won’t fall/for you" -> "you may have taken the lead/but i’ll even the score/you won the battle, you won’t win the war" and "i won’t stay a martyr/it’s my turn to take back what you stole"

— "you promised hope, salvation/gave me a place to be/but your vision of liberation/was all about you/it could never apply to me" -> "show them gods and deities/blind and keep the people on their knees/pierce the sky, escape your fate/the more you try, the more you’ll just breed hate/and lies/truth will rise/revealed by mirrored eyes" -> "i challenge your weak manifesto/the goal of a savior is not to be lionized" -> "what if all the plans you made/were not worth the price they paid?"

it’s the SAME SONG. you stalked me across anima / he had to destroy salem.)

this is part of why i think rising is a salem + summer song, the mirrored (ha ha) rose imagery; ozma the rose who never bloomed and rotted on the vine, summer the rose who burned and regrew from the ashes to rise like the moon. ozma who sows death and reaps the seeds, summer who flowered and planted new seeds. (the other part is that rising is a paean to cyclical change—destruction—death and resurrection. it doesn’t express the perspectives of the main characters, it exhorts them to learn the lessons the blacksmith eventually teaches them and it is a direct rebuke to miracle, which plays first.)

[macfrog]

have you ever shared a list of your favorite books? if not, i’d love to hear about what you’re into!

i don't think i have! let's get into it (i'm quite boring, sorry in advance)

i love coming of age stuff, books written for or by women, bonus points if it's weird and twisty and ugly. i like to be haunted by a story after i've finished it, for one reason or another. some that fit into those categories are ;

➵ fen and sisters, both by daisy johnson. this woman is my god. i could (and will) scream about her all day long do not get me started i will become insufferable :)

➵ salt slow by julia armfield. a petting zoo of women who bite. magical realism in all its juicy, icky glory. shout out to formerly feral, but the entire thing is theeee shittttt

➵ chlorine by jade song. menacing, addictive, brutal. couldn't bring myself to love nor hate the main character and that's what made her so brilliant.

➵ normal people by sally rooney. just some real, heart-splitting writing that makes it hurt to be human. what's funny is the show didn't do it for me, but i found the book devastating

➵ slug by hollie mcnish. different vibe to the others on this list, but never fails to make me cry. grief, girlhood, grandmothers and good humor and what's not to love there!!!!

➵ to kill a mockingbird by harper lee. because sometimes i just wanna throw on my overalls and hang from a tire swing in maycomb, ok? it's healing. it's who i am. (comfort book of all time)

i have a reading list as long as my arm, but feel free to stop by with recs, or scream about your own favorites anytime. i love hearing what y’all think .xx

[ashfordlabs]

SWAN SONG.

oh look, attempt at a comic sans powerpoint presentation in the wrong font.

SLIDE 2: FIRST THINGS FIRST, WHAT IS SWAN LAKE?

disclaimer, there’s various versions of swan lake, this is the one i based swan song off.   we start with princess odette rejecting rothbart and ends up getting cursed by him and has to turn into a swan during the day and is human by night. she ends up living by a lake to one day hope that she’d find someone that would pledge their undying love to her. a hunter ends up coming along and almost kills the princess as a swan but seeing her transform, he doesn’t. some dances happen because this is a ballet. when the hunter, prince siegfried falls in love with odette, rothbart doesn’t take that lightly. turning his into daughter into the splitting image of odette, he and odile attended the prince’s ball. believing that odile was odette, he danced with her and during it, siegfried proclaims his love for odile. in doing so, siegfried forced odette to remain a swan forever. upon realising he goes to her to beg her forgiveness. but regardless, the two lovers can’t be together with rothbart around, so they drown, knowing the only way to be together is in death.

SLIDE 3: BUT THAT ISN’T REALLY SWAN SONG.

you’ve still got rothbart cursing odette, can’t really have a swan lake retelling without the swan you know? there’s a woman who haunts a cursed forest, killing anyone who dares hunt her down, and someone who has a vendetta against the queen, sending a swan to wreak havoc against her (i wonder who that swan could possibly be?). and a hunter (not siegfried) practically sent on a death sentence to reclaim the glory his family lost after his father decided to try to kill the queen in her sleep. to do so, he must kill the lady. but it’s never that simple. the more time he spends with her, struggling to find the perfect opportunity to kill her, the more he finds out, the more he just can’t do it. will their story end in tragedy? no idea (kidding, i do know). will odette’s curse be broken? depends on if she can stop pushing sebastian away like he has cooties. doesn’t help that like, he was sent to kill her, seb brought it on himself. but you’ll just have to wait and see.

SLIDE 4: MAIN CHARACTERS.

SEBASTIAN VARLEY.  knight that everyone hates because he’s too opinionated. the sacrificial lamb sent out to kill the lady because he’s the expendable knight with too much to prove. his plan is a bit shit, but he somehow manages to make it work. too bad he takes too long to kill her because after she tells him the truth about everything, it changes everything. THE LADY. let’s be honest, we all can figure out who this is. a folktale that one can question how much is truthful about her. does she actually kill people? did she manipulate derek varley into killing the queen? why does she look like the queen? all things i won’t answer. but she’s kind of a menace and talks to animals a lot; unknown if they can actually understand her and talk back.

SLIDE 5: OTHERS OF NOTE.

HOLLIS. number one sebastian and odette shipper. constantly trying to play matchmaker to two stubborn people is hard. like really, she should get paid for it. ODILE. i literally can’t say much about her but i feel like if you look closely you’ll be able to figure it out. that is all i will say. AMITA SIEGFRIED. oh look, another character i can��t say much about. but her last name says a lot. she’s a princess of another kingdom who went missing.

SLIDE 6: THE END.

i could add some world building information but i barely have anything. so that’s it, i guess. thanks for reading.

[that-angry-noldo]

@russingon-week || day 2: darkness

Helcaraxë's cold pierces through flesh, and its darkness settles in soul; turns even the brightest thought into its most foul, most filthy counterpart.

Fingon's soul is full of spiteful, bubbling anger. Ice eats into his skin, hunger growls in his stomach; blood from cuts and frostbites stains the snow beneath his feet. Long is gone a youthful summer-prince, twisted instead into something dark, something vengeful and furious. His song clashes with that of Helcaraxë; meets it, growls at it; ultimately becomes it.

Anger is what drives him forward, vengeance is what boils in his blood. Even in hours of rest it does not leave him; eats into him while he sleeps, twists and turns and cracks him from inside out. Were he younger, he would be scared of it; were he wiser, he would be wary of it; but he welcomes the ice inside him eagerly, masters it into a thing of guilt and hatred and malice.

He does not think about his eldest cousin in his waking hours; does not think about the vile, cruel betrayal from someone he used to love so. That he believes to be rotten; a dead thing better cut away and left behind before it poisons the rest of the flesh. Yet it slips into his sleep, unwanted, unmastered.

He dreams of the fields of Valinor, warm and soft, light spreading as far as eye could see; bright, clear, unmarred. How he smiles, in his dreams; letting Laurelin caress his face, opening his eyes to see a pair gaze lovingly at him in return. How he laughs, chasing the touch; how sweet is the kiss that follows, how soft, how tender.

But the Ice howls with ever-present reminder, twists the scene, burns the edges of the dream. Anger and hatred and grief in between; how foolish it was, to believe a doomed thing! Maedhros stumbles towards him, and Fingon reels back; Maedhros' eyes are haunted, his frame is thin—Fingon barely recognizes him. It makes it easier, to strike him.

Fingon drinks into him, his blood, his fear. Their teeth clash, a raw and angry thing, and Fingon takes, and takes, and takes; tears run down his face, grief and hatred coming together. Through it all Maedhros barely resists, barely struggles.

It makes Fingon feel terribly empty. Maedhros, bloody and beaten, lies before him; Fingon has no strength to land a final strike.

[void-tiger]

How can I pick up “weird” choral parts that aren’t a lazy “just singing a third below at all times”? Well, for one I got tossed into the deep end in college with the second soprano part being “whatever’s leftover ‘cause y’all can actually read. Now have fun or you’re getting kicked out, ya expendable surplus soprano!” (no really. weeks of that. the director didn’t Shut Up until I ended up having a public nervous breakdown, especially since he spent years taking my name off the audition list but letting freshman sopranos in after telling me I WAS good enough when I first enrolled years ago) in addition to my actual music theory and ear training classes (and accepting it’s NOT a “sour note”, the chord’s just dissonant. That’s the point!)

But in my own time? I just think of harmonies like counter melodies weaving a tapestry, and listening for whatever’s playing in the base, root, or main melody and making a “grab bag” of notes in the chord. Experimentation. What’s smooth or crunchy. (And when in doubt, droning the root is almost never wrong, but Not Every Chord Has A Third, Altos!! Music can have more texture than that!)

[bixels]

The idea that uni protesters are "elitist ivy-league rich kids larping as revolutionaries" on Twitter and Reddit and even here is so fucking funny to me if you actually know anything about the student bodies at these unis. Take it from someone who's going to one of the biggest private unis in the US, 80% of the peers I know are either from the suburbs or an apartment somewhere in America, children of immigrants, or here on a student visa. I've heard about one-percenter students, but I've never met one in person. Like, don't get me wrong, the institution as a whole is still very privileged and white. I've talked with friends and classmates about feeling weird or dissonant being here and coming from such a different background. But in my art program, I see BIPOC, disabled, queer, lower-income students and faculty trying to deconstruct and tear that down and make space every day. So to take a cursory glance at a crowd of student protesters in coalitions that are led by BIPOC & 1st/2nd-gen immigrant students and HQ'd in ethnic housings and student organizations and say, "ah. children of the elite." Get real.

[wouldntbehim]

mix: firstprince (taylor's version)

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 3

Again, the timing is icky but pretty much everything about it is icky.

——

Bruce wondered when Talia al Ghul would stop upheaving his life.

He loves Damian, but one surprise child was a lot, considering the cult deprogramming they’d had to do.

A second, older, surprise child? That was a bit overkill.

At least this time, the conception was consensual.

Bruce cradled his head in his hands, still-gloved fingers gripping onto sweat-soaked hair. The glow of the bat computer shone on his lone figure, sat huddled before endless screens of investigations and the unraveling threads of Bruce’s sanity.

How was he to cope with the knowledge that a child- his child, like Dick and Damian and Tim and Jason and- suffered so at the man he thought he had beaten so soundly?

It was his fault, Bruce thought, that Ra’s al Ghul tortured his… Bruce’s… daughter so brutally. It was no doubt, a way to assuage his anger at Bruce’s denial of being his heir.

His mistakes always came back to haunt him, but it never laid its furious eyes and hands on his own person. No, when Bruce made mistakes, his loved ones paid for it.

He tried his best, pushed harder as Batman, in penance. But this… his unknown daughter, trapped in the shadows of the league where it is cold and cruel and brutally painful…

How could he repent for the sin of letting his daughter suffer and chained at the hands of Ra’s al Ghul? How could he show her that the shadows could be kind? That he would rather break his own spine and get lost in the time stream again before he could even fathom hurting her? He found himself stuck in the same loop of thoughts that plagued him when Damian first came into his orbit.

The screens turned black, and Oracle’s call sign flashed onto the dark pixels.

“Oracle. I hadn’t finished looking at the cases.”

“Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“No, there is still work to be-” his voice, dipping into the growl, died a quick death when Barbara cut him off.

“Your daughter is coming tomorrow. So, unless you want to look like a disheveled grease racoon when you meet her, go shower and get some actual sleep.”

Bruce paused, feeling oddly offended. His eye bags weren’t that bad.

Bruce caught sight of his reflection in one of the blacked out monitors.

…Nevermind.

He sighed. “…Thank you, Barbara.”

“Anytime, Bruce. I’m always here to kick your ass into gear.”

Bruce huffed, but obligingly got up to change and shower. Alfred silently appeared at the elevators, polished shoes tapping against the stone floor as he raised an imperious eyebrow at Bruce.

“I see Miss Barbara has managed to persuade you to retire at an hour common to regular man, Master Bruce.”

“Ah, yes, she… did.” Bruce felt the urge to apologize, because if Alfred’s up because of him, it’ll wear down harsher on the older man’s health. If there was one thing he took seriously, it would be the health of his loved ones. “Sorry, Alfred. I’ll head up to bed soon.”

“See to it that you do, Master Bruce. I will warm dinner that you had missed by many hours and bring it to your room.”

Bruce lingered as the butler turned around and began making his way back to the main house.

Alfred paused and turned around once more. “If I may offer you some advice?”

“Please. Always.”

Alfred sniffed delicately, most definitely thinking of the times Bruce decided not to take his very well reasoned and seasoned advice. “You have done well with Young Master Damian.”

“Most of that was Dick,” Bruce interrupted, man enough to admit that he wasn’t a present or a particularly good father figure before his jaunt through time and space. Alfred shot him a chiding look, reprimanding him for interrupting. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Perhaps, but you have put in effort towards all of your children in a way that I have yet to see since Master Jason had… gone.”

“I’ll never make that period of time up to Tim.” Bruce whispered. Another thing he was guilty of. Tim still avoided some spaces in the manor, even when Bruce had-

“That is because you sit here, wallowing in your guilt,” Alfred returned. He added a belated “Master Bruce,” and it sounded like ‘you utter buffoon.’

“But…”

“You must take the first step, Master Bruce.”

“What if she hates me? What if I’m not ready- what if I can’t help her?”

“You will try. She deserves that, at the very least. You must try. Even if you are not ready for the day, Master Bruce, it can not always be night.”

“… You’re right.” Bruce straightened his shoulders. Time doesn’t wait. He, of all people, knew that.

“You will find that I am hardly ever wrong.” Alfred primly rested his hands atop each other.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course. It was also meant literally, Master Bruce, for the sun shall try its best to peek out of Gotham’s smog in approximately three hours and fourteen minutes.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Bruce grouched.

——

Her mother gave her a slow, cautious hug, akin to approaching a wild animal.

She huffed, and pulled her mother into a crushing hug. She allowed herself, for the first time in a long time, to linger and cling onto her mother’s shirt. Another tendency that Ra’s had thought he’d beaten out of her.

“Be careful,” the reincarnation whispered.

“You as well, my beloved daughter.”

‘You do not have to remind me that I am beloved, mother. I know.’

Talia al Ghul tucked a strand of the reincarnation’s curled hair behind her ear. “No, I do not believe that you do. But that is… my own fault. I will tell you and remind you that you are beloved to me as long as I can. I have two decades of it to make up to you, habibti.”

The flight attendant- a League operative- returned from placing her bags onto the private plane.

——

A sleek car made its way up Wayne Manor’s winding driveway. She’d declined the offer to pick her up from the airport. She had wanted a vehicle of her own, and some time before she met every one else. No doubt, knowing what she knew of her brother and Bruce Wayne, not to mention the little photographer, they were most likely tracing her path to Wayne manor obsessively.

She tapped her nails on the wheel as she drove towards her brother. Brothers. And… Bruce Wayne. On one hand, she’s kept them safe. On the other, she’d sacrificed years of getting to know them. It was odd, to feel this intensely awkward and nervous after years of intense hatred or apathy sprinkled by the the occasional love and fondness for Damian and her mother.

“Hmmm.” She hummed, slight smile spreading a bit more as the sound came out without pain. Two weeks, and the novelty of freedom had not worn off. She thinks that it would never wear off. She cherished it.

The gate had opened without needing a code, so they most definitely knew she was here. It’s a good thing she had prepared gifts in advance. Dodging Gothamites as they drove and jaywalked had been a rather unforeseen ordeal that she was not looking forward to repeating.

She rolled to a smooth stop at the front doors, giving the intricately carved oak doors a passing glance. She huffed a laugh as she saw Damian, flanked by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, staring proudly outside at the front door. They’re anticipatory of her arrival. Warmth spread through her heart, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the heat of rage.

She opened the doors with a quiet click and hiss, stepping out onto the heated paved driveway, and closed the door. At the steps, the two older men had frozen but Damian had come walking quickly towards her.

“Damian,” she whispered as he came near her, suffusing as much fondness as she could into his name. Her little brother all but sprinted towards her, screeching to a stop in front of her with excited eyes.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, ukhti.” He said formally. Her eyes softened and she pulled him into a hug.

(yā waṭawāṭī alṣṣḡīr is the phonetic spelling.) ("وطواطي الصغير" is the actual spelling. I think.)

“I have missed you, ya wat-wat alssgirr,” she whispered. The familiar endearment, “my little bat,” rung warmly like a warm crease ruffling his hair. The silks of her clothes and the ever present warm sand and candle scent wrapped around him like a hug… like the hug she was currently giving him.

(Her clothes were in blues and silvers. It suited her, she who had been forced in green and golds and cuts of black.)

“I still can not believe you all but told me who father was and I still could not figure it out until mother told me.”

She pulled back. ‘Damian, you were five.’

“I have little doubt you were smarter at my age, ukhti, so do not lie to me.” Damian grumbled. Nevertheless, he stepped back.

‘No, you were smarter.’

And to her, he was. It’s not like Damian had the edge she did, and he wasn’t the one trapped for twenty something years. She had foolishly thought that Ra’s wouldn’t dare to harm her too much, seeing as she was his blood, but Damian knew from day 1. She made sure he did. If she was half as smart as Damian, she would have bent her knee and obeyed, no matter how she felt about killing. She would have taken warning Ra’s issued and soaked in the poisonous praise to bide her time to escape. She could not- she did not- do what Damian found effortless, and paid the price for it.

“Unlikely,” Damian said, turning around fully, but she could see the tips of her brother’s ears burning. Ah, perhaps she had been to stingy with compliments if he was shy hearing a mild one, sincere as it might have been. “This is Alfred Pennyworth. He is the butler, and an integral part of the family.”

Damian glanced at her, taking in her suddenly impassive face, and nods. Good. His attitude towards Pennyworth when he first arrived was… mildly shameful. His ukhti was smart enough to know that and therefore he won the argument.

On her part, the reincarnation followed along like she hadn’t mildly stalked this family for decades. It was nice to see excitement rearing on her brother’s face. It was rare in the league and Gotham’s gloom had ironically cheered him up far more than the suns of desserts ever did. She nodded at Alfred Pennyworth, who had admirably recovered from his earlier shock.

“And this is… Bruce Wayne. Our father.”

She tucked a strand of curled hair back, impassive blue eyes meeting her… father’s.

She offered him a short nod.

——

“My word,” Alfred Pennyworth muttered as his charge’s (his son’s) daughter step out of the car. Her steps were silent, graceful, and lighter than a gazelle.

The way she moved, even as she hugged young master Damian, whispered of leashed lethality and treacherous waters. She moved like if grace had a form and Alfred was willing to bet his entire career that not an iota of air got close to her without her knowledge of it, and it reminded the aging man of the young Miss Cassandra. He knew then, that she could have pretended to be unassuming and that he would have had a hard time equating her with danger. That she showed them her potential for death was a sign of trust.

But it was not the way she claimed death as her own name that caught the former spy’s attention.

No.

It was her blue eyes and the way they ever so slightly crinkled fondly as she laid eyes upon her younger brother. It was the way her hair, curled in a nostalgic style, that curtained her face as she spoke to the young Wayne heir, though he could not hear her voice. It was the way that she tucked Damian against her side, protective but encouraging.

It was the way that she, despite Talia al Ghul’s features, resembled his dearest friend, Martha Wayne, in her every movement.

Alfred Pennyworth felt like he was decades younger, standing before Martha as she fondly tucked Bruce against her side and successfully needled Thomas into going to see Bruce’s favorite movie.

It felt like he had his best friend once more, just a little.

From the way Master Bruce stared, it seemed as though he thought the same.

Alfred straightened when young master Damian introduced him. He was the Wayne Family Butler. And she was definitely a Wayne.

Master Bruce stood there like a lout as his daughter greeted him. Alfred shot him a scathing look- he had taught Master Bruce much better manners than to gape, the nerve!- before smoothly directing the attention away. His hands moved as he spoke.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, Miss-”

She made a sharp motion to cut him off and signed something. Alfred might be a tad rusty in Arabic sign language (like he and the rest of the family hadn’t spent the last two weeks frantically memorizing and brushing up on their sign language) but he knew a name sign when he saw one.

“al Ghul.” Damian recognized. He did not use regular Arabic Sign Language with her often, vastly preferring their own established sign, but that did not mean he slacked. “You may call her al-Ghul.”

‘Or nothing at all,’ Damian’s sister signed. She looked at him like she was waiting. A test, Alfred realized.

Alfred pushed the slight twinge of disheartening disappointment away. He had wanted to call her Miss Wayne, to perhaps indulge in a bit of nostalgia for a while longer. But he shan’t do it at the expense of his charge.

“Miss al Ghul,” he continued, not missing a beat, imitating the name sign with pin point accuracy. She lifted her chin. Alfred sighed in relief. He passed. And now, perhaps he should revive Ra’s al Ghul and have a nice, entirely civil conversation about Miss al Ghul’s expectation that her wishes would go ignored.

Alfred will bring his shotguns and most likely would abandon pretenses as soon as that old goat got into his crosshairs. Old as he might be, he was still a very good shot, and civility was reserved for those with honor.

“Please head inside. I am sure young master Damian would love to guide you on a tour,” Alfred continued like he didn’t think of violent second deaths for Ra’s al Ghul. “Perhaps Master Bruce will join you, if you are amendable, once he has managed to stop imitating the rather life like form of a smooth brained sloth.”

Alfred congratulated himself on the small crinkle of humor that graced Miss al Ghul’s otherwise expressionless face. Well, expressionless to those that did not know where to look. Fortunately, Alfred and the rest of the family were used to stoic caveman micro expressions, courtesy of Bruce, and therefore it would not be much of a problem.

“I will bring your bags up to your room.”

She scrutinized him and then dipped her head.

‘Be careful. There are dangerous things in there.’

“I assure you the utmost privacy in regards to your belongings,” Alfred said.

“Pennyworth will not peruse your belongings, ukhti. He has more honor and respect than that.”

Alfred would like to interrogate Talia al Ghul to see who he must introduce some lead to, that clearly disrespected Miss al Ghul’s privacy like so. But for now, he will bask in the warmth of young master Damian’s implicit trust.

Miss al Ghul nodded. She opened the trunk of the car- the interior of which Alfred could now perceive to be entirely customized and of extremely quality material. She handed the keys and gave him access to her luggage. Then, placing her hand at young master Damian’s shoulder, followed the young master into the halls where she ought to have been raised. Or, at the very least, ought to have taken a step in at least once before today.

Master Bruce lingered at the doorway, torn between following the siblings and helping Alfred with the luggage (read: running away.)

“The daylight is wasting, Master Bruce.”

Master Bruce skittered in behind them like a newborn colt, wobbling and anxious.

Well, it’s time for Alfred to do his job. There was only a single duffle bag.

Hm. He’ll have to tell Master Bruce to take her out for necessities. He hardly doubted that a single bag could last her very long. And Alfred Pennyworth was hellbent on convincing his granddaughter to stay, may the gods have mercy on whichever poor soul that tried to convince her otherwise for he won’t.

——

She followed Damian as he led her deeper within the walls of a home she knew by heart from afar. She was like the little photographer in that way. Bruce Wayne trailed behind them like a particularly awkward ghoul, and she found it amusing to equate this turtle necked man was the illustrious Dark Knight. How dangerous.

“This is the first parlor. It is for guests of the… regular persuasion.”

Ah, for the civilians. She nodded.

“Ah, the silverware was selected by Alfred.” Bruce interjected, gesturing to the display silverware by the door. Their cabinets were intricate without taking away from the paintings upon the delicate ceramic.

She looked at him, wondering why he was following before giving up and nodding. It was his house.

(Bruce, for his part, felt like his daughter had laid judgement upon him… and found him lacking.)

‘It is… adequate.’ She sighed to Damian. Damian tutted.

“It’s fine to say quaint, sister. It could hardly compare to the palace.”

Bruce jolted, plans for converting the manor into a palace already in the making.

No, he couldn’t. Alfred would murder him with his favorite dish.

‘I like it, even if it is smaller.’

“….you do?”

‘You are happy here. It is warm to you. I like it.’ She repeated.

Damian latched onto her sleeve. “I- I shall show you my art. And then introduce you to the rest of the bumbling fools we have for brothers-”

She tilted her head. Bruce paused as well when Damian’s words cut off.

“If… you want them as brothers. It would be… helpful, to integrate.”

She waited.

“But… I am the first. Your blood. And-”

‘I will make room in my heart for them, if you wish it. I already know some of them.’ She allowed a small smile to show. ‘But that does not mean you will ever lose your place, little bat.’

Damian felt extremely thankful that father had not managed to pick up their version of sign language yet.

“Well… as long as you’re aware.” He marched further into the manor. She followed, once more, a look of fond indulgence gleaming in her eyes.

——

She stood in front of a painting her younger brother had done.

‘I made it two weeks ago,’ he’d told her, fingers curled into her palm.

It was green. She hated green. And gold. And ominous. Rage. Harsh, bold strokes and spots where the texture of the canvas were either globbed over or painfully showing through.

Her hands traced the single stroke of blue amidst the turbulence of green.

She tucked Damian against her side and realized that perhaps he understood after all, what it felt like. Perhaps not all of it, but enough.

——

“Here is your room, ukhti.” Damian stood watch as his sister scanned the room. She quickly removed three listening devices as Damian sighed.

‘You’ve gotten better.’ She crossed the room and plucked the listening bug from its place on the door frame.

“Clearly not good enough.” Damian huffed. “But I have beaten your knife game record. What do you think of the room?”

His sister rolled her eyes and handed him a blade she pulled from somewhere on her person.

An implicit challenge.

“No cutting your fingers off, please.” Father interceded.

“Begone, father. We are doing sibling bonding, something I remember you insisting that I participate in.”

Damian shut the door on his stupefied face, matching his sister’s sharp smirk as he splayed his hand on the dresser and raised the blade.

——

Alfred walked in with a covered plate and paused at the sight of the dresser.

Then, he looked on as Damian sat at the desk, rapidly signing to his sister in their own version of the language as said sister pulled out an entire wardrobe and a half to fill in the walk-in closet.

Alfred made a note to study some more magic.

“Miss al-Ghul. I bring you a snack that young master Damian made and to inform you that the others will be arrive en masse, within an hour.” Alfred paused. “Might I interest you in a mat before the two of you decide to… take a gander at furniture redecoration in the future?”

“Of course, Pennyworth. Apologies.”

“I’ll try to make sure they won’t overwhelm you. They can be a lot, at once.” Bruce said from the doorway. Miss al Ghul glanced at him and dipped her head in thanks. Her eyes wandered right back to the dessert.

Alfred made another note.

‘You made this for me?’ She asked, switching to standard.

Damian grumbled. “Do not eat it. I could not get the spice quite right, no matter how many variations…”

‘I am sure it will be good.’ She took the plate from Alfred’s hand and uncovered it.

They all had the fortune of witnessing a true, genuine wide eyed smile from a stoic face.

Alfred inhaled sharply. He had thought Master Bruce and young master Damian had inherited Thomas’ dimples. But she had inherited his entire smile.

‘Bstilla!’ She turned to Damian. ‘My favorite! You made this?’

“I know that. I am not incompetent as to not notice when you snuck three of them from the palace kitchens. You must give me the recipe from the cooks. I could not get it to taste like the spices they used. I even imported spices!”

Miss al-Ghul, like she had forgotten he and Master Bruce were there, stabbed a fork into the pie and put it into her mouth.

“Ukhti! Don’t- do not eat that! Spit it out! The pastry is too thick and-”

She held up her hand. ‘It’s good. I know what it is missing.’

She strode to her magic bag and pulled out a bottle.

She sprinkled flakes on top and offered a forkful of b’stilla to the young master who, shockingly, did not insist on his own utensil.

His expression lightened. “This is it. What is it? You know of the chefs’ methods?”

She sprinkled the mysterious spice on the food. ‘You’ve never eaten anything the chefs have made. I made your food by hand to prevent assassinations and inoculate you against toxins. Also, this is poison.’

Alfred stiffened.

“It’s what?!” Bruce spoke up, rushing into the room, finally to try and look Damian over.

‘It is fine. He has been immune since he was three.’

Miss al Ghul placed a piece of poisoned b’stilla in her mouth and ate. Young master Damian batted his father off, saying that poison inoculation was hardly a surprise. What was a surprise, though, was something else.

“That is- you- you’re the one who made my meals?” Young Master Damian demanded, looking guilty. “But- I- why did you not tell me? I made all of those demands in the middle of the night- what about the time I sent back the knafe fifteen times?”

She nodded.

“Why would you- why did you not tell me?”

‘You knew what grandfather thought of women. And besides, it was the only time I was allowed sweets. He did not want me to ruin my figure as it would lower my marketability.’

Alfred itched for his gun.

“You are not a commodity,” Master Bruce stated, intense as he tended to be. Miss al Ghul blinked at him.

‘… I am aware. But… thank you.’

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” And there went the emotionally intelligent Master Bruce. May he rest in peace until the next time he decides to make an appearance.

“I believe today is a chocolate chip cookie day, do you not, young master Damian?”

“Yes, Pennyworth, I believe it is.”

‘I have never tried it before.’

“You will love it. Pennyworth’s cookies are the best in the world, as is expected.”

Alfred watched as young master Damian tugged his sister out and marveled. The sides of his grandson they rarely get to see was so easily pulled out by his older sister.

——

Y’all I wanted to write her meeting the siblings but Alfred came out of no where and went haha nope feel the angst of a man who lost his best friend and had to raise her vigilante child.

Alfred, seeing Bruce put on the bat cowl for the first time: martha, why have you forsaken me

——

Me: what would baby assassins play as a binding game?

Me, remembering my past as a kid: I Spy, but with trackers and bugs. oh wait… THE KNIFE GOES CHOP CHOP CHOP

——

Also, I think B’stilla was food meant only for royalty and was probably rooted in slavery, so I thought it would be a meaningful nod to her position of privilege and how she are like a king but was treated as a… bed warmer and a slave. Yeah. If anyone knowledgeable on food history wants to school me on b’stilla, feel free to do so. I did like, a cursory research at best.

[hum--hallelujah]

me trying to explain to literally anyone why the song Millions by Gerard Way makes me lose my everloving mind no matter where I am or what I'm doing when I hear it

[hella1975]

girl who got hit with one of those super well-known overplayed songs that lost their punch over time until you listen to it one day and they just fucking bulldoze you

[doom-dreaming]

Cheerful Oblivion

Thought that I was hungry for love… Maybe I was just hungry for blood. **********

I met a woman in a club once. Years ago. Can’t get her out of my head. If I didn’t still have the napkin with her number on it… Well. Would’ve been easy to assume I dreamed the whole thing up.

It was a miserable night to be out. Rain was coming down in buckets, flooding the streets. Could almost hear it over the music, pelting the roof. But there she was. Filling the entire doorway. No coat. No umbrella. Nothing but a black tank top and jeans that looked too tight to be comfortable. Soaked to the bone, dripping wet, faded blue-raspberry-bright hair plastered to her neck. She looked like she’d dragged herself straight out of the ocean. In hindsight, maybe she had.

********** England is only ever gray or green. The girls glitter, Striding glorious and coatless in the rain. I remember falling through these streets, Somewhat out of place, if not for the drunkenness… It makes my chest hurt to think of it, Not of regret, but of missing that… …cheerful oblivion… **********

I remember the way she stood there, caught under spotlight rays of blue and green, the rain on her face sparkling like diamonds… She looked like an angel. Could’ve been. Probably wasn’t. More than likely…something else.

She didn't belong there. In the club. I don’t mean that in a judgmental way. Maybe philosophical. She didn't really seem like she belonged anywhere. But I could see it in her eyes, almost fluorescent blue under the lights. To her, it didn’t matter where she belonged. What mattered was where she wanted to be. And she wanted to be there. In that club. On that night.

I’d never been afraid of being noticed by a beautiful woman. I craved it. Don’t we all? This was different. She was different. Never felt my blood run colder than the second our eyes locked. It felt like being hunted.

********** It was not all pain and pavement slick with rain, And shining under lights from shitty clubs, And doing shitty drugs, And hugging girls that smelled like Britney Spears and…coconuts… **********

She flowed through the crowd like water, parting the proverbial sea, leaving a wake of awestruck stares. If she knew she was the center of attention, she didn’t care. She was a full head taller than anyone else, a titan amongst mere mortals. Muscles rippled when she moved. Wet skin shimmered. I tried not to stare, I really did. Couldn’t help myself. I could’ve watched her for days.

She swept ashore at the bar, smelling like petrichor and oil slicks. Ordered a drink. Smiled down at me, sitting so small a million miles beneath her. There was nothing human about that razor-sharp flash of teeth.

She asked if I wanted another drink. Hadn’t realized I’d finished the one in my hand. I nodded. Couldn’t find my voice. Tab’s on me, she’d said. Not here for long, least I can do. After tonight, you’ll never see me again.

********** And with your mermaid hair and your teeth so sharp, You crawled from the sea to break that sailor’s heart. You only get one night upon the shore, So dance like you’ve never danced before. And the dance floor is filling up with blood, But, oh Lord, you’ve never been so in love… **********

I asked her where she was from. She laughed, a harsh bark of a thing that ripped out of her throat like it hurt. Nowhere. I asked for her name. She didn’t answer. But that animal grin flashed back, a bright white scar across her face. For no reason, I thought about moths. And flames.

We stopped talking. Kept drinking. Started dancing. God, the way she moved. Like a machine. Like a predator. Like a ballerina. Equal parts precision, power, beauty.

I couldn’t keep up. She didn’t seem to care. I was a prop. A plaything. An entertaining little toy, something to keep her distracted. From what, I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. It felt like an honor.

********** And the mermaids they come once a year, They climb the struts of Brighton Pier, They come to drink, they come to dance, To sacrifice a human heart. And the world is so much wilder than you think. You haven’t seen nothin’ ‘til you seen an English girl drink… **********

I do still see her. Sometimes. In my dreams. In those hazy amber-clad memories. It’s hard to know what was real. Don’t know who she was. Or what she was.

Never did call that number. Not sure she’d really wanted me to. Probably for the best. I get the feeling that if we’d been in that club alone together… She would’ve eaten me alive.

And I think I would've let her.

[iceinherheart-kissonherlips]

you'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you  🎶

[fizzlehead]

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this house is full of M-M-MADNESS!

(betty cooper / get out of my house - youtube)

[theworldisabrokenbonebutitishome]

Kang Yo Han is the walking embodiment of I'm Not Okay (I Promise) and relates to Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge far more than is healthy. In this essay I will-