#he’s so sassy this is everything to me

[soft-cryptids]

They are just so father & daughter, your honor. 

[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 الصغي��" 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.

[kyouka-supremacy]

Again the sickness speaking but here's something that has been going through my mind since forever:

I feel like a good way to mitigate a lot of discontent with the doa arc ending and in general the whole Dazai-being-flawless issue bsd has going on is by comparing bsd to Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. Please bear with me for two minutes.

When Sherlock Holmes was being published, people were intrigued and enamoured by Holmes' brilliant and charming, crimes-solving figure. People read the stories for the pure joy of being left gaping at his superhuman wits again and again; they didn't want to see him fail, they wanted to be shocked and amazed by his genius. When Holmes died and then came back, nobody lamented it being unrealistic, because realism was not what people were reading the books for! They were reading to be impressed, to cheer for the hero and then take satisfaction in seeing him turn out victorious. That's the author-reader deal that was made there: to impress and to enjoy being impressed.

As of recently I feel like we've been asking from bsd something it never promised us in the first place. Maybe it's just not that kind of series! Maybe it's more about surprising the reader with how the hero is going to make it and less about highlighting his flaws and insecurities. And like, that's okay! That's why Dazai getting away with it isn't it him getting away with it “again”, it's just how bsd is; in a way, it's what makes bsd bsd.

I think it really clicked with me like it never did before when I watched the last episode of season 5; because the arc ending felt so shocking and unpredictable, very deus-ex-machina trope, a little underwhelming in its lowering the stakes that were there the whole time, and yet so extremely on brand with bsd, I didn't even have it in me to be disappointed. It was so similar to the Guild's arc ending and even more to the Cannibalism arc ending, and maybe it really is just a pattern, maybe it really is what bsd aspires to be, and that's okay too.

Also, I can't stretch this enough: if it's not your cup of tea, that's fine. I can't say it's mine either. But I feel like criticizing bsd now for how it's always been falls quite short, because it really feels like demanding from it what it never promised to deliver in the first place. That's just as far as my current perception of the series goes, though, so feel free to disagree with me on this.

[shuutingstar]

I still can’t get over the fact that Andrew drugged Neil so he could learn if he posed a threat towards his family or not and Neil just buys out a fucking busboy to knock him out — like my guy’s drunk as fuck but he still has enough survival instincts to BUY OFF a fucking busboy to KNOCK HIM OUT?? Just so Andrew couldn’t get any secrets from him??? When Nicky mentioned it I actually had to stop reading for a moment because that’s actually so funny?? Reason #1257 why Neil Josten is my favourite character.

[sweetyoungthingy]

elton john on the muppet show in 1978

[sylv3onpropaganda]

as much as i adore jack’s performance this season and wylans overall character, i wish they had made him snarkier. let us not forget that one of the FIRST things wylan did after being introduced was sass kaz for saying his drawing looked like a cake

[dootznbootz]

With how I'm planning my fics, since Menelaus and Agamemnon spend some years at Tyndarius' palace, I kind of have them all be childhood friends in a way before Agamemnon and Menelaus take back their kingdom (Aga is around 19, Menelaus 15 when they leave. 5-6 years later they get married.) With how their marriages work out when talking about "Old times", Odysseus is the "odd one out" as he was the only one who didn't grow up alongside them. The poor guy is left out.

Odysseus: "Wait, why is everyone laughing? What does that mean? I don't get it." Penelope: "Well you see-" Goes on about a silly story but the inside joke is dumb. "...You probably would've had to have been there to get it" Odysseus:

[milla984]

Let’s take a moment to appreciate the body language in this scene: the rest of the team (minus Rossi) has an upright posture and their hands are placed on the desk in front of them. JJ, Emily and Hotch use a hand clasp gesture while Penelope and Derek opt for the ‘one hand over the other’ variation. These gestures generally display an attempt at self-restraint of some sort - mainly a reaction to frustration, anger or anxiety, and also indicate the intention of putting more distance between oneself and the other person(s) involved. Rossi uses what is known as the ‘steeple hands’ pose, an indication that he has a confident attitude or is very confident about the outcome of the situation and may also try to convey a feeling of superiority; the lowered steeple is usually observed when the steepler is listening, rather than speaking. But what about Spencer? His expression is defiant, he’s leaning back on his chair and he’s sitting in a ‘figure four leg lock’ stance... which, according to experts, is one of the most dominant positions someone can assume without manifesting openly aggressive intentions, since it also indicates that the subject feels both argumentative and defensive at the same time.

My man is basically throwing a tantrum during a Senate Committee hearing.

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[vikingpoteto]

I love that MK1 is basically Liu Kang's fix-it fic

[only-one-brain-cell]

I will not apologize for the type of person I will become when Be Prepared from the Lion King plays.

[mrs-kelly]

it's always charlie (11/150)

[riverscuomohhh]

“Fuck those guys”

[bumpscosity]

so a couple months ago i passed on a mother goose bc even tho she was a good price ($40) she was missing an eyelid and i just didn't rly have the money. she was gone by the next time i went in and i've been regretting it every since but today i went back and

SHE SO PRETTY SHE HAS A STAIN ON HER BACK AREA BUT ITS MOSTLY COVERED BY HER WING HER EYES ARE STILL RLY WHITE AND THE BEST PART IS

5 BUCKS!!!!! SHES AN ANGEL MY BELOVED MY EVERYTHING

[sassenach082]

Really love your whole story! And I love how we can see like small funny conversations after reading each chapter. I gotta know how you plan this all out. Do you plan it all out from the get-go, how much of an actual outline do you have for all of this? I'd really love to hear about your process!

Also good luck with chapter 18, I can feel that it is being a bitch to work with, carry on soldier🫡

Oh boy nonnie! If only I knew how to explain this in a way that doesn't make me sound like I'm completely and entirely out of my mind.

I'll try and explain it in a somewhat coherent fashion!

I have a doc that I use where I organize by chapter more or less what I want to do. It doesn't usually end up being that in the final draft but it helps me to get where I need to go by putting in the key scenes that link the narrative together.

A while ago I took a creative writing class and the teacher said something that stuck with me. "If you get stuck, just put in brackets of what you want to happen and keep going. Come back later!"

This ended up being really helpful! I don't do brackets but I'll put in something like this: / and then something cool happens with these characters regarding xyz! OR this character says:

this character says:

this character does this:

/ and I just keep going with whatever the scene is. It helps a lot! I also will frequently go back and re-read my own stuff while checking my outline, and my brain kind of makes connections of extra scenes I can add. Sometimes I get a wild hair and just go "oh this would be perfect" but I don't know how to write it or what I want to say, so I'll put in the placeholder to remind me even if I'm not ready to write it at the time.

This of course leads to an outline that is a hot-freaking-mess, but it works for me. I have an outline doc and I kind of just highlight as I go. Sometimes scenes I wanted don't fit in that chapter (I tend to have REALLY LONG chapters) so I'll just keep it where it is and go back and add it in later, or I'll move it into the box for the next chapter.

When I'm writing I tend to focus on one character at a time, since I do third person POVs mostly. So on chapters where it's two character POVs alternating, I usually do one character first and then check my outline to go back and plug in the rest of the stuff for the other character. It can get confusing/frustrating at times, and sometimes I go completely off my rails and do something entirely different (thanks brain) but knowing a general outline of what I'm doing really helps. Once I have a general outline I can go in and write the scenes as I get inspired to write them. I'm very much not a start at the beginning author considering I wrote this entire beast with the final scene completed first which I've had written almost a year now.

I hope that was coherent enough to understand! My google drive is a hot mess of documents called Untitled with numbers after them and then drabbles and a whole bunch of other stuff. Currently the i'll ride au outline doc is 15+ pages and has the series loosely mapped out with bullet points of what I want to happen.

My poor beta is the best for putting up with me!

[babisawyer]

finally got to watch scream 5 since 6 is now up for streaming worst experience of my life.

[dontjudgemeimawriter]

Find the Word Tag

Tagged by @diphthongsfordays ty!

Succeed (flashback)

I add chips to the center—calling or raising, I don’t remember, but it leads into us revealing our hands, and I watch his cards flip over, and my heart sinks. A face card that elevates his hand above mine, and he pulls the pile close to him, but instead of taking my cards to redeal, he leans forward and taps mine. I lean back in my chair—it’s lesson time. 

“Just because you have a hand that could win doesn’t mean it will,” he says. “You can’t just be thinking about how you can succeed. Look at the cards that are out, think about my actions.”

“I don’t know your bluffs. You don’t have bluffs,” I insist, wanting to move on, wanting to win back the pile of chips he has in front of him. 

“Don’t consider bluffs,” he says. “Decoding my behavior is good, but you can’t rely on it. Think about the deck,” he taps the stock pile, “think about my cards,” he taps his upturned cards, “and think about the actions, how often I raise. Think about what I’ve done in the past. Think I just win out of luck?”

Fail

“Yes, I understand how a hostage negotiation works, Abigail,” Raymond snapped. He looked at Jodi again, but didn’t say anything for a second, like he was looking her over for injuries. I didn't know if he could tell her legs couldn’t move. It might be more obvious on me, but the ropes made it look more due to restraints. “Terran?” He said, his voice full of concern and no, don’t be concerned for me, I failed you and I was trying to get you out of this and now it’s my own fault I’m stuck here.

Purpose

She crossed her arms. “Find anything in Jodi’s dorm?”

Your brother. “No.”

“You know, I didn't think you were like, completely trustworthy after our talk. But I thought you’d at least play it for more than five seconds.”

I could not do this right now. I could not navigate Mika right now. I had to evade Zachary for long enough to save Raymond. I needed my gun— it was in my desk drawer. She’d gotten in the room enough to block it. I tried to reach around her— she didn't move. Stubbornly. 

She continued. “Like really, what purpose did that serve? You could’ve played your game, strung me along for a while, gotten me to really give you something.”

“Mika, move,” I said. 

She didn’t. “Why did you go in my room?”

There wasn’t much use in denying it and that would take way too much effort right then. “I needed something. And I need something now, move.”

Numb

(Okay. So I'm really surprised that I don't have "numb" given the following scene being part of something major happening. I could give you a scene with "number" but instead I'm giving this snippet that says everything but "numb")

And then, in an instant, it was gone.

My muscles stopped twitching, relaxing in the binds, and almost as soon as they did, it was as if my limbs weren’t there. When I’d flinched I’d closed my eyes, but now I opened them again. My limbs were still there, I could see them, but all awareness was gone. I couldn’t feel them. Not my arms, my hands, my legs, my feet. Not even my chest. Everything above was still here— I was moving my head, I could feel my heart racing through the skin of my face and the air being drawn through my nose and down my throat, the pain in my face from Mika’s punch still radiated, and the caffeine headache was going strong. But everything below it was gone.

Even lacking awareness of my limbs, I tried to move. Nothing, even when staring straight at my legs. The way I was tied I could hardly see much of my body, so I can’t say for sure my fingers and toes didn’t respond, but I doubted it.

Protect

She was, as much as she tried to assert herself as better, part of a world that, like Zachary had, saw love as the only excuse for resisting their authority, and killing anyone who threatened them. I wasn’t even that much better, as I’d be happy, in that moment, to take my gun from her belt and pull the trigger right on her chest if it meant Raymond would be safe. But Raymond was better than that, and that was why I protected him. Abigail would never understand that.

Tagging @drippingmoon @calicojackofficial @oh-no-another-idea and anyone else who wants to (feel free to say I tagged you!)

Your words are: Safe, Strain, Stuck, Sink, Stare