#i really only write what would be in character for them

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hi, sorry if this is an insensitive question but I was wondering if you have books by black authors that don't center racism? It's not that I want to live a blissful life not knowing about racism, I'm dark skinned nb woc, racism is part of life. I just noticed that unless it's a romance book, every 'by black authors' book list I find will have all the books with racism being a major theme. As if being a black author means publishing will only sign if you write about racism. I want to read something different, happy and humorous, fantastical, scry, whatever. I don't want every book I read from black authors to be about race the same way I don't want every book by queer authors I read to have homophobia. I got some recommendations before and all of them were like "hilarious book where author talks about racism they faced in a funny way", I feel exhauated. I know different books have to exist but I can't find them when I google.

sorry I'm so charmed by the idea that asking a white bitch for book recs about Black people doing something other than experiencing racism might be insensitive

anyway you're right like!!! a lot of authors of color only get to crack into publishing if they're willing to write about their suffering and be lauded for that and like, cool, bless up for writing that but would be cool to pay attention to stuff that's not all pain and suffering!!

I'm going to caveat to say that some of these will contain, you know, References to racism, especially if they take place in the real world, since Black authors and Black characters are gonna acknowledge that, but I'm not gonna rec like. The Hate U Give where that's The Point, yknow? also a lot of these are still rather dark and grim as novels because of who I am as a person and what I like but I hope will still be helpful. check the content warnings for everything I recommend ever.

ANYWAYYY

gotta shill for Akwaeke Emezi right out of the gate as usual: their most recent novel, Little Rot, is a pitch black thriller that starts with a Nigerian couple breaking up in Lagos and proceeding to have the most evil and deranged weekend anyone has ever had. truly almost content warning in the book for this one, BUTTTTT racism is like. the least of anyone's worries. girl, there are hitmen.

My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite is another Nigerian novel that's more of a dark comedy about a dutiful older sister who's been cleaning up her impulsive and beautiful younger sister's dead boyfriends for YEARS. shit comes to a head when little sis sets her eyes on a man her older sister likes (who's also her boss!!! gag!!!).

Helen Oyeyemi's novel The Icarus Girl is a quietly creepy horror about a young mixed English girl who visits her mother's Nigerian family and comes back with a commanding, powerful imaginary friend that no one can see, who starts causing terrible things to occur once the family is back home. I was blown away by how well Oyeyemi wrote little Jessamine's POV; really nailed the smart, lonely, anxious child perspective.

Darknesses by Lachelle Seville is a WILD paranormal indie pub that i read earlier this year that's soooo messy and so entertaining. I think I described it as feeling like reading through someone's blog about their OC's? it was a hoot. the basic premise is that a young Black woman named Oasis, physically and mentally scarred from escaping a cult, is working at a bookstore in New York City when she meets another gorgeous Black girl who claims to be in love with her... and also to be an incarnation of Count Dracula.

if we want some high fantasy I really, really love NK Jemisin's Dreamblood Duology, which is set in a fantasy version of ancient Egypt and revolves around a class of priests who utilize the magic of dreams. political intrigue ensues!

love of my life Janelle Monáe curated a collection of short stories called The Memory Librarian, where each story is written by a different author and is inspired by the world of Monáe's album Dirty Computer. Danny Lore's story Nevermind, based on the music video for Pynk, is my #1 favorite thing.

also if we want some nonfiction I truly adore all of Samantha Irby's essay collections so much; there aren't a lot of writers who consistently make me LAUGH laugh but she gets me. her most recent, Quietly Hostile, has some top notch shenanigans re: having to go to the hospital for a very stupid allergic reaction at the height of COVID social distancing.

you may also find inspo here (I know I did!!)

and here (I'm especially intrigued by Meet Me at the Crossroads)

[unevenpatterns]

1: Do you/would you like to write professionally? I wanted to as a child, but now I'm fine just doing it for fun.

2: Which author has influenced you the most? Probably Tamora Pierce. Sooo many female protagonists being badass in different ways.

3: Any guilty pleasures (books/fics)? Does fanfic count? Because that is definitely the number 1 guilty pleasure I have.

4: What’s better (or the least bad): character over plot or plot over character? Character over plot. I've read some stories with great characters and no plot that were still wildly entertaining. I've also read books that by all means should have been great based on the plot, but where the characters were awful. It's like eating a burnt cookie. It could have been good, but it was ruined.

5: Do you think stories can change lives? Is there a story that has changed yours? Yes. I don't think there's one singular story that has changed mine, but the collective of the stories I've read have definitely affected how I think and it has given a safe space to escape to in difficult times.

6: What’s your biggest pet peeve when it comes to writing? When I can tell that the sentence is worded clumsily, but I cannot figure out how to make it smooth.

7: Do you listen to music while you write/read? No.

8: Favorite quotes?

9: If you could wish for a new book from any author, who would it be? It would be real nice if Patrick Rothfuss could finish up the King Killer Chronicles is all I'm saying.

10: What’s your favorite trope? Enemies to lovers.

11: What’s your (least) favorite overused trope? Love triangle. I'm personally of the opinion that if someone can't figure out who they want then I'm getting the hell out of there. In writing I'll just make them a throuple.

12: Which trope would you absolutely abolish? Mary Sue. I want my characters flawed and messed up. The worst offender is when a canonicly mess of a person is ✨fixed✨ and suddenly speak like they came straight out of a therapy session and has gained infinite emotional understanding and patience.

13: Are there any tropes you’re embarrassed for enjoying? Arranged marriage fics. In reality it can have some really nasty implications, but the complicated emotions and "oh no is it unrequited?" just gets to me.

14: Do you have a go-to AU? Nope.

15: What kind of character do you wish you saw portrayed more often? Competent characters that still mess up with the thing they are supposed to be good at. Perfection is boring and unrealistic.

16: What’s more frustrating: plotholes or OOC characters? OOC characters. I can "forget" that there is a plothole if the story is otherwise good enough, but I get pulled out of the story if the character portrayal is inconsistent or doesn't make sense.

17: What’s more draining: writing smut, fluff or angst? Neither one of them. I just chose only to write whichever I'm in the mood for. That's the upside of having many WIPs.

18: Are you a ‘neatly designed outline’ writer or a ‘fuck it i’ll figure it out as i go’ writer? I usually have an idea of where I want the characters to end up and then I realise I have to built a whole story to get them there. So there's a clear endgoal, but whatever happens in between to get there is "figure it out as I go".

19: Do you think major character deaths are ever necessary? Sure, just depends on the story and genre.

20: If you could ‘unkill’ any character from any story, who would it be? Jet from Avatar.

21: Would you like to write an alternative ending for any of your favorite shows/books/etc? Yup, and I already have.

22: Are you more likely to be the person who starts reading a 100k slow burn fic at midnight or the person who starts writing a drabble at 4 a.m.? Reading. I've done way more reading than writing and writing requires effort that 4 am me rarely has.

pick just one:

23: fluff or angst? Angst 100%

24: fantasy or sci-fi? Fantasy

25: fake dating AU or inpromptu babysitting AU? Fake dating. I'm not big on babysitting AU, but "Accidental Baby Aquisition" is the best shit. The potential for chaos, comedy and found family? Yes please.

26: road trip AU or high school AU? High school. I've only read one good road trip fic, but I've come across many decent high school AU's.

27: coffee shop AU or florist AU? Coffee shop.

28: stuck in an elevator AU or camping gone bad AU? I don't think I've ever read either of them.

29: 20s AU or 50s AU? 50s. I simply don't know enough about the 20s to have a good sense for what the time was like.

30: high school AU from a fantasy/sci-fi story or fantasy/sci fi AU from a realistic story? High school AU. (It's a lot of work to built a nice fantasy/sci fi world and I rarely see it done well)

31: mythological creature AU or superhero AU? Depends on the fandom.

32: meet cute or meet ugly? Meet ugly for sure.

A writing/reading ask meme!

[donvampiro]

Imagine the monster trio (separately) with a goth witchy girlfriend like completely opposite they are sunshine and she is darkness but it's a total surprise to everyone else?

hello @supernatural-hunter1 ! wahh thats a nice idea :) monster trio is so fun to write about hehe thanks for your request and hopefully these hcs will meet your expectations. Luv <3 MASTERLIST - Welcome

***

'Opposites attract'

Monster trio x (goth/witchy) fem!reader

Monkey D. Luffy

Luffy likes you because you’re you — it’s your presence, your voice, your character and your different interests as well as abilities that attract him to you. bro just likes vibing with you and won’t try to complicate things. your aesthetics would not, in my opinion, be determining factors as to the affection he can have for you. you can dress up and wear makeup as you wish, as long as you remain (y/n) "at heart", and as long as he can keep cuddling you while he wolfs down all the food around. that’s more than enough for him.

i even think that Luffy would be the type to compliment you openly, through words and comparisons that are certainly… unexpected… but always honest and well-intentioned.

‘woah nice outfit, (y/n)! you look cool. a bit like that magician who scammed Usopp last time.’

he means well i swear ;w;

that being said, it’s not hard to come across as a "dark" person next to Luffy who is basically the embodiment of a ray of sunshine most of the time. you’d never be “darkness” to him though.

he has already seen your smile that brightens his days more than any star, he knows your laughter that recharges his batteries, he knows how hugging you (something he doesn’t deprive himself of) is extraordinary. you can dress up however you want, in Luffy’s eyes you’ll always remain his radiant (y/n).

that’s why he’s surprised by the crew’s shock when he introduces you to them.

— ‘what?! Wait— pinch me, i think i’m dreaming.’

— ‘it’s like the embodiment of day and night…’

— ‘well, that’s… unexpected.’

But the big question, the one the entire crew would be asking themselves but would have kept quiet about until now, would be revealed by Nami, looking both doubtful and amazed.

‘Luffy. How did you get a girlfriend in the first place.’

Roronoa Zoro

Zoro doesn’t really care about your style and how you want to dress up; like you do what you want. however, he might be the type to only make comments when he considers that your outfit, jewelry, shoes, or whatever makes your movements more difficult and you’re clearly not completely comfortable.

‘you can’t fight dressed like that; it’ll hinder your movement. change for now and put your outfit back on later.’

yeah swordsman instinct comes first ig. Otherwise — apart from that — he’s a bit like Luffy overall when it comes to this topic: what matters to him is the sweetness of your presence and the moments spent with you. the harmony between you two.

Zoro knows better than anyone else that those we cherish can be taken away from us at any moment, so loving you is far more important and relevant than judging your aesthetic. as long as you’re yourself, he’s happy.

that doesn’t mean he’s indifferent to your style though. now that he knows you and understands your aesthetic a little better, Zoro might notice some items in stores that might match your style and appeal to you. Well— he might be a little off the mark sometimes, but he’s trying, okay?

Zoro is both a little hesitant and rather confident about introducing you to the crew; but everything would be fine. it’s true that your style doesn’t go unnoticed, it contrasts with Zoro’s, which is rather sober. reactions are flying and the swordsman wonders if he shouldn’t go to bed instead.

— ‘wow, we’d never have thought that Zoro's girlfriend would have this kind of aesthetic. that’s good, it’s a change from his style.’

— ‘what style? Zoro doesn’t have any style.’

— ‘it’s so cool, looks like (y/n) is from a coven of witches or something. like, as if she came from the darkness.’

the last remark, funny and coming out of the captain’s mouth, drew an amused smile from you.

‘yeah, that’s right. and Zoro’s my little sunshine.’

the crew fell silent at the sound of your voice as you patted Zoro’s shoulder. Sanji’s face contorts into an indescribable expression.

‘him? what the heck.’

i think you guys know what would happen next

Vinsmoke Sanji

you? “darkness”? have you seen yourself? you are the ray of sunshine in Sanji’s life.

he loves everything about you. your voice, your personality, your eyes, your smile, etc, etc, and no matter how you dress up, you will always be the most beautiful in his eyes. as long as you wear clothes that you like, there’s no reason to question it.

‘no specific aesthetic can match your breathtaking natural beauty anyway, (y/n)-chwan.’

i know i've said it several times before, but i’ll say it again: Sanji is a supportive and caring boyfriend, who seeks to share your interests as much as he wants you to discover his own. so he wouldn’t hesitate to try to learn about the meanings of your aesthetic, its history, etc. he would appreciate it even more if you’re the one to tell him about it hehe

he too would be the type to now more easily notice clothes, accessories and other items that match your aesthetic and that might please you. Sanji’s a good cook, therefore he’s an observant and precise person, and you’d never be disappointed with his gifts.

it’s with great pride that Sanji would introduce you to the crew, and no matter how surprised his crewmates might be, he’s ready to fight if anyone has anything to say about your style >:(

— ‘i didn't think you’d date someone with that style. looks cool. welcome, (y/n)!’

— ‘well, at least you two seem complementary’

— ‘how could anyone want to date this stupid cook overall.’

self-control. self-control, Sanji.

[beast3end]

A light the darkness of truth.

Summary: You, the personal disciple of the Sage of Truth, disappears so suddenly that it cannot but cause him anxiety. Fortunately, thanks to your friends, he notices your letter. But that still doesn't solve the main question: where are you? Characters: Truthless Recluse х reader (pure vanilla x reader); platonic! sage of truth x reader (shadow milk x reader). WC: 1,5k CW: fem!reader; there may be mistakes in the text because English is not my native language; the text contains original characters (your friends); A/N: The prologue can be strange and confusing, because I'm writing fanfiction inside my little AU, which I've expanded based on the official timeline of Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk costumes. I hope, despite this, you will enjoy this work! A/N 2: It was only after I wrote everything down that I realized that there was a Sable cookie in crk. But I didn't change anything.

Something's wrong.

The day went as planned: there were no classes in the morning and Shadow Milk spent most of his time in the library, studying books on the topic of a new dissertation, rechecking information already known; after lunch and until dinner, lectures; followed by a small meeting of professors of the Yogurt Academy…

Everything that was in his plans for today. Calmly. Serene. Sometimes his irritation got the better of him when he noticed students nodding off, but that's okay. There are more than one or two of them, it's even within his expectations. No one broke into his lecture or interfered with the learning process.

It's too quiet.

In the empty corridor, illuminated by the last rays of the sun, there was a nervous knock. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Lost in his thoughts, the Sage of Truth began tapping the textbook with his claw.

Why wasn't he pulled today? At least once a day, but his lecture was disrupted, and sometimes his schedule was shifted due to problems. The source of these problems was [Name], a young child who, if she could, would dry up even the sea itself for the sake of her curiosity. [Name] is not a student of the academy — [Name] is only his disciple. And, accordingly, he is responsible for her antics, otherwise it simply cannot be.

But it's so disgustingly peaceful today that Shadow Milk can't really concentrate. On the days when [Name] went to visit someone from the Sources*, she at least gave a few days' notice of her departure. Now, going over the memories of the past week, he could confidently say: that there had never been a word about anything like this.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

...Come to think of it, they didn't even manage to cross paths in the morning. Unlike him, [Name] prefers to sleep until noon, but invariably, day after day, she gets up as early as she can. Shadow Milk has a busier schedule than the rest of the academy's professors — sometimes his have to return home well after midnight. And [Name], knowing this, tried to be with him at least during a quick breakfast — with her face buried in the table, she sat next to him and slowly blinked, listening to her teacher's chatter. She used to fall asleep in this position while the Sage of Truth stroked her head.

Then he didn't bother her—there were days when [Name] ignored all her alarm clocks. It was just that later, after another lecture, she could burst into an empty classroom and start whining that he hadn't woken her up.

Probably in vain. He would need to check her room upon his return…

“Good evening!” a clear voice is heard somewhere from the side, as the Sage of Truth comes out of the academic building. He abruptly turned his head, looking in confusion at the two cookies rapidly approaching him.

What a hectic day it is. Where did they here?

"What a surprise," Shadow Milk nods, curiously surveying the group. The second cookie, standing silently behind her friend, frowned at his attention. The constant reaction, how charming. "I didn't know you were coming today, Biscotti, Sable."

Biscotti smiled awkwardly, scratching head.

“We didn't warn [Name].”

At these words, both cookies looked at him attentively. It was as if they expected their friend to jump out from behind him and pounce on them.

Shadow Milk smiled knowingly. Such a development of events unfolded before his eyes more than once and more than twice. [Name] was well aware of other people's personal boundaries, and then she was happy to break them.

“As you can see, she's not here.”

Sable sighed heavily, whispering something so softly that only Biscotti couldhear. Biscotti hissed at her friend, pushing her harder behind her back, after which she gave him a cursory glance. Shadow Milk pretended that he hadn't noticed either of them, and his friendly smile didn't waver a single gram.

"We've been looking for her all over the territory today, because she usually doesn't go outside the academy," Biscotti explained the situation as politely as possible, then added in a lower voice, muttering more into the void than to anyone in particular. "Did she really go to the city?"

No. [Name] rarely went to the city — she visited bookstores once a month, returning with at least a couple of books. Some of them were donated to the library, but especially valuable ones replenished their shelves.

“In any case, you can stay in your old room,” the Sage of Truth decided to end their conversation, having exhausted all the necessary information from this. "But I need to go to my office first."

"We'll go with you!"  Biscotti perked up, ignoring how hard Sable tugged at her clothes. “It won't be so lonely together.”

“I appreciate it.”

Well, that's just as well. The anxiety that had accumulated all day carefully faded into the background as he listened to Biscotti's chatter. Sable was reluctant to answer or correct her friend, rolling her eyes after another joke.

His office greeted them with silence. No matter how much Shadow Milk listened, he couldn't catch any ragged breathing or restrained giggles. So [Name] wasn't here either. He clicks his tongue in displeasure, putting the textbook in the only available place.

What kind of ridiculous situation is this?

Worry involuntarily swirled in his head — if something happened to her... it's impossible to hide everything forever, right? Someone found out [Name] little secret — neither a resident of Dessert Paradise, nor source subordinates, but someone from ordinary cookies. Biased, living in ignorance, hating and fearing…

It's too dangerous.

“Oh, it's a letter from [Name]!”

Fortunately, he is pulled out of the whirlpool of anxious thoughts, reminding him that he is not alone here.

Biscotti was standing by his desk, examining the contents with interest. It was cluttered with documents and hundreds of hastily writtennotes. Normally, Shadow Milk would not have liked such an intervention.

But Biscotti was only interested in the sealed letter that lay on top of the papers. To be honest, Shadow Milk was also interested in it.

"Hello, Teacher! I do not know when you will find this letter, but I hope sooner rather than later. Don't worry, I'm fine. I haven't been able to get our conversation out of my head for the last few weeks... oh, if you can't remember what kind of conversation it was, then everything is fine! Perhaps it's even for the best, I think, otherwise you would have forbidden me to leave the walls of the Yogurt Academy. I went on a little trip—I don't know for how long. Maybe I'll go back to next week, or maybe in a month! This is not another mission from Silent Salt, so please don't bother them for nothing. I'm an adult now and I can take care of myself on my own. Don't stay at work too long and don't forget to take care of yourself in my absence! And also breathing exercises — remember them too, you don't need to terrorize the unfortunate students of the academy just because they understand the material a little worse than others. See you soon! Love, you No. 1 disciple, [Name]~."

Considering how neatly the letter was written, the Sage of Truth could to conclude: his disciple had been preparing for this escape for a long time and carefully. If his looked closely, his could see faint traces on the paper. This means that this is far from the first version of the letter, although it is still impossible to parse the previous version. Given the new information, it is also possible to conclude that [Name] went either in search of someone or something.… But it doesn't really help to narrow down the range of ideas where she might have gone. He often told her about some faraway places of the Earthbread, various plants, unique holidays in different kingdom, or about new, outstanding minds! But this is something, if he had known about it, he would not have allowed to leave the walls of the house.…

“Did she say where she was going?”

The Sage of Truth blinked, coming to his senses, and looked up from the letter to Sable. Irritation tickled somewhere in his chest, unsatisfied that his stream of thoughts had been interrupted, because he was almost…

Well, no. He needs to calm down.

Breath. Exhale.

“No.”  Shadow Milk smiled, slightly clutching the paper in his hands. After looking around the room once more, he hummed thoughtfully to himself to finally add. “I have a couple of guesses, but to determine exactly, I need your help. I would be extremely grateful if you could do me a favor.”

“Oh, of co-”

"Why should we?"  Sable quickly covered Biscotti's mouth with her hand, while not taking her displeased gaze off one of the Sources.

"You don't have to," nodded Shadow Milk. "But you want to find [Name], right? Then you should accept my request."

"...Okay," Sable agreed with obvious difficulty. "What do we need to do?"

"Oh, it's nothing complicated!" The Sage of Truth assured them with exaggerated enthusiasm, hiding the letter in the inside pocket of his coat. "I need you to compare all the available maps from the academy library with the list and tell me which ones are missing and for how long."

Sable's mouth dropped open in genuine surprise. This request clearly goes beyond "nothing complicated". Shadow Milk giggled contentedly.

Unfortunately, they've already agreed.

There's no turning back.

A small note, because it is impossible to tell this in the text itself: Sources are the local name for Beast. Why are they called Sources? But that's later.

@shinning-stars, you asked me to tag you! <3

[prettyboykatsuki]

the lads guys being "too perfect" is actually a critique ive had of it for a while. not everyone is going to agree and thats okay. but Personally, i think flaws are what makes a character charming.

like. mystic messenger was the last otome that was this mainstream and each of the guys had their own list of flaws. jumin was a somewhat pompous ass who was actually gentle and sensitive. zen was self obsessed but incredibly charismatic. 707 was incredibly fun but in reality very closed off and required coaxing etc etc.

and those characters were LOVED. popular. i truly thing the games writing would be so much stronger if each of the lads guys had those kinds of flaws. or were more allowed to have them. and i think itd really add the longetivity of it too because the attachment would run a lot deeper. i respect that some people Only want the wish fulfillment though

[evilkitten3]

hm.... i see what you mean, i think (tho i'll point out that there's been at least one transfer of power in-series during wartime, from tobirama to hiruzen, which actually worked out phenomenally well bc the first war ended and then there was peace for like a good two decades)

also. i know it's a typo but someone do me a favor and draw an isobu-sanji roleswap. make that turtle thing a pirate

anyway concerning yagura the brief momet we meet him is somewhat odd bc prior to that all the info we really had on him was the bloody mist stuff and we really don't know what the timeline was there. what we know for sure is that his reign was just as bad if not worse than the third mizukage's. how he behaved in the jinchuuriki-bijuu chat may just be evidence that he was under obito's control even before that

as much as i adore obito, most of the plot points that delve into his time as puppet master make very little sense (i find it's significantly better to leave details like that as ambiguous as possible, especially if you're a writer writing a character smarter than you), and that's twice as true for everything including kiri (esp when madara gets involved. you're telling me this old man started pulling strings in kiri while being unable to move from his life support chair on the off-chance that some dipshit kid got caught in a cave-in and just so happened to also be an uchiha? no. sorry that's bs. i have never seen a single analysis of madara's recruitment of obito that made sense and wasn't basically just spur of the moment)

obito's backstory suffers a lot from poor planning and the author trying to rearrange things he'd already written so they made some sense with the context of it having been obito all along, and it. really, REALLY doesn't work that well.

anyway, obito's initial plan was just madara's plan that he at some point started tweaking, but madara's plan ever involved starting a war. he even says he's not sure why obito did it and just assumes he had a good reason (spoiler: he did not). obito decides to team up with the akatsuki and build up strength before going for the jinchuuriki (this makes perfect sense but is also something the real madara would never do bc it would require relying on people he can't pretend are him), which is why the akatsuki don't really start doing antagonist stuff until naruto is ready to face them. also bc they have to go in order. for. reasons. which is presumably why obito didn't just start with the three tails as soon as it reformed, which we can infer is also why he kept yagura under his control until it was time to yoink that thang

when did obito decide he was going for world war four? who knows. i would believe that he decided to have yagura be Even Worse in order to keep him isolated so as few people as possible noticed or gave a shit that he wasn't acting of his own volition, but ao noticed anyway and ultimately yagura was one of the most Please Kill This Cunt Holy Shit guys in all of ninjaland, which could've caused obito some inconvenience but fortunately no one in mist was strong enough to take out yagura and no one outside of mist gave a shit

the only way i've been able to make obito's involvement in the massacre make any sense at all is by a) ignoring basically any non-manga content about it and b) assuming that his motive was solely to recruit itachi and he didn't really give a shit about anything else. bc while it might make sense to want to remove potential opponents who could maybe control the bijuu to his disadvantage, but i honestly don't think any old uchiha could control the bijuu whenever bc otherwise it would've made way more sense for obito to recruit the uchiha (esp the ones who. weren't loyal to the village anymore hello????)

should also be noted that the change in kage wasn't bc everyone just decided to have a new boss now. the third raikage died in the war, hiruzen stepped down bc he was old and tired and never even wanted to be here to begin with, the third mizukage would've also been old bc he was even older than hiruzen and we know basically nothing about him, the third kazekage got murdered by sasori so suna had a new guy in charge before the war was even over, and oonoki didn't feel like retiring i guess.

tbh i wouldn't be all that surprised if kiri had periods with no leader at all bc it kinda seems like shit was just in Constant Chaos over there

tldr: no obito did not have a good reason to do what he did in kiri or to the uchiha clan. he was just kinda being a dick

what's really funny about madara being narratively the "bigger bad" in relation to obito is that. obito is worse. like a lot worse. like i love him to death but he's objectively so much worse

madara's base plan required maybe 10 deaths (the jinchuuriki + nagato, later adding rin for some reason which i don't personally believe but it's technically canon so i'll include it). obito has like. the highest bodycount in the series. like this man is directly involved in multiple state-sponsored ethnic cleansings. like idk if even black zetsu has the kind of blood on his hands that obito does, it's that bad

but he was a really great guy!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I genuinely felt that Book 7 had a strong start. I didn’t know it could go down hill so quickly once the dreams started dragging out. Its pacing issues really destroyed any hype it established during the earlier parts. I think Book 7 was the strongest up until Silver confronted his inner turmoil. Idia’s dreams were also reasonable as well. Hopefully Malleus and Lilia get more screen time to compensate for their absence during the middle bulk of book 7.

[Referencing this post!]

IT’S SUCH A SHAME 😭 The first third of book 7 (parts 1/the start to 100ish/the end of Lilia’s dream) was SO good… and then as soon as hit the dreamventure portion, we crashed and burned OTL

Sometimes I’m generous enough to extend the part of book 7 I thought was good from parts 1-100 to parts 1-115 (the end of Idia’s flashback explaining how he had been woken up). I basically only think Idia’s dream was “meh, acceptable enough” because when experiencing it for the first time, I thought Idia’s dream was the ONLY one we were seeing in this capacity. I believed that Idia’s dream was getting this “special” treatment since we had also witnessed Ortho “waking” in a unique way. Both of them are the main “villains” from the previous book, so I thought this was book 7’s way of bringing them back to take down Malleus. It… technically was that, but I wasn’t expecting Idia to announce his “recruit everyone!!!1!” plan 2 parts later 💀 I expected, now that we had reunited with both Shroud brothers, there would only be like maybe 2-3 updates left for book 7 to account for strategizing, finding a way to truly wake up in the real world, and then kicking Malleus’s tail. BOY, WAS I WRONG ON THAT FRONT 🫩 (<- deeply traumatized, this is my OB origin story/j)

The pacing problems were but one of the many factors bogging book 7 down; I also dislike the inconsistent tone between dreams, lack of stakes/urgency, lack of learning anything new and meaningful, over-explanations, focus on fanservice and contrivances, lack of focus on relevant characters, frequent in-your-face declarations of character development, and the very obvious patterns set for every dream (meaning they were mostly predictable). It sucks specially for the OB boys because their segments are the longest, involve the “I have/will become a better person”/“my past self was pathetic” speeches, and have the most contrived scenes I have ever witnessed (such as everyone in their dorm having to use their UM at least once, even if it makes little sense to). And because everything drags on for SO long, they try to make the build-up super emotional to compensate. But it gets to the point where it feels insincere or unearned by the time we finally get to the “shouting as they wake up” part because the dreams are held together with painter’s tape… 🙂‍↕️

I’m only left feeling like I’m a rag doll that was tossed onto a roller coaster and jerked everywhere. It’s fun and makes my emotions run high in the moment, sure. But once I’m off that ride (I’ve consumed the content) and sat with the experience for a while, I reflect on it and realize I did not actually enjoy it and the roller coaster was shaky (from meh writing + plot holes) and about to collapse the entire time I was on it.

Malleus really got shafted hard in his own book too??? Like this man hardly shows up 😭 and Lilia is gone for 2/3 of a book where he should be relevant?? They honestly NEED a book 8 so they both have a Mouse Mandated excuse to come back and actually do something more. Malleus especially needs that because book 7 also did us the disservice of TWO time skips after his OB (one X days, another X weeks) and completely glosses over any complicated feelings or struggles he may face in the aftermath. We immediately jump to him when Malleus is at a point where he claims he understands what he did was wrong???? When that feels inconsistent with how he has previously struggled to understand these things? Some OB boys recognized the error of their ways automatically, but I find it a little hard to believe that Malleus (who failed to learn anything about humans in the 2-3 years he has spent at NRC in his Dorm Uniform vignettes) suddenly “gets it”. It feels like an easy cop-out for Twst to write themselves out of the hole they dug with Malleus’s character and now it’s on book 8 to follow up on that and patch up all the new holes 7’s writing creates.

[snnowwpheenix]

how Jujutsu Kaisen characters would react to seeing you dressed up for no reason:

Gojo Satoru

He teleports into the room mid-rant about how boring the higher-ups are, only to stop dead in his tracks.

"Whoa-hoh~ Who died and made you the star of the red carpet?"

His blindfold slips down just enough to catch your expression. He grins, spinning you around like you’re made of stardust.

"You did this for me? Or just to remind everyone you’re the hottest one in the relationship?"

Either way, he pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures. “You're my lockscreen now. Sorry, national security.~”

Geto Suguru

He’s sipping tea with that calm, collected air when you walk in. His eyes lift — and freeze.

"...What’s the occasion?"

You shrug, "Felt like it."

The corner of his mouth lifts slowly, reverently, like watching the moon rise. He stands and walks over, eyes never leaving yours.

"You always look good," he murmurs, adjusting a stray strand of your hair. “But like this... I might fall in love all over again.”

Sukuna (in Yuji’s body)

He materializes with his usual arrogance, ready to hurl an insult—until he sees you.

"...Tch. Who said you could look this good?"

He leans against a wall, arms crossed, feigning boredom — but his eyes are glued to you like sin itself.

"Don't expect me to say thank you or anything," he growls. "But if anyone else looks at you like that, I’ll rip out their spine."

You blow him a kiss. He pretends to scoff. His blush says otherwise.

Itadori Yuji

He's munching on snacks when you walk into the room.

"Whoa—!"

His mouth is still full as he jumps to his feet. “You look... like, really good. Like, movie star good. Is there a party I forgot about?!”

You shake your head. “Just felt like it.”

He beams. “Then I’m the luckiest guy alive. Gimme a sec, I’m throwing on a dress shirt. We’re going somewhere. Even if it’s just 7-Eleven.”

Choso

You walk in, and he pauses mid-sentence, his normally stoic face unreadable.

“…You look… different,” he says carefully.

You tilt your head. “Bad different?”

He frowns. “No. You look… radiant.” His voice softens to something almost reverent. “Beautiful.”

You’re not sure if he’s about to cry or write a haiku about you. Probably both.

"Let me get my jacket. We should go look at stars. You look like you belong with them.”

Fushiguro Megumi

He blinks up from his book, confused by the sudden silence your presence brings.

“...Are you going somewhere?”

“Nope.”

His ears turn pink. His gaze darts away, then sneaks back.

“You didn’t need to do that just to sit around... but I’m not complaining.”

A beat passes, and then, under his breath:

"...You look really nice."

And then back to his book, pretending he didn’t just give you his heart.

Yuta Okkotsu

He walks in mid-text, but the second he sees you, his phone clatters to the floor.

"You look... incredible. Is it... Is it our anniversary? Oh no—did I forget something important?!"

You laugh and reassure him, and he visibly relaxes, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile.

“I-it’s just… You’re always cute, but this? This is... next level.”

He insists on taking you out. "I don't care where. I just want to be seen with you."

Hope you liked it! If you have requests please leave them down in the comments and I'll see what I can do!

[grandline-fics]

Not My Job Description

DESCRIPTION: You’re Marine!Doffy’s long-suffering second in command

WARNINGS: none

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 1,362

A/N: Saw some Marine! Doffy fan art and the brainworms took over. I regret nothing, I had to write something to get it out of my system in someway. Now I'm also thinking of other scenarios for Marine!Doffy and Second In Command! Reader. Title might change? Hope you all enjoy this rambling

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

———————

You’d heard countless stories of the famous Donquixote siblings for as long as you’d joined the Marine Academy. The younger brother was rumoured to be highly skilled in infiltration missions, gentle and on the shy side. It just confused you to hear the higher ups praise the man for his exceptional work but also complain about the amount of expenses being filed on Rosinante’s behalf. Uniform repairs, entire ships that needed more maintenance than normal because of accidental explosions, fires, general accidents and breakages seemed to follow this brother wherever he went. 

The elder brother, Doflamingo? He was a liability to both the public and his fellow Marines as well as the pirates he was pursuing. Any destruction caused on his hand was entirely intentional. Had either of them been reprimanded you new knew, you doubted it given how as you climbed the ranks they too were already way ahead. Besides when they got results? Could the higher ups really argue with it. Part of you doubted either of them- Doflamingo especially- would take any criticism to heart. Truthfully the brothers had always left you curious, hoping to one day see them for yourselves. Careful what you wish for right?

The day you’d been given your promotion and told you were transferring to an entirely new base had been a strange one. You and your friends celebrated but those issuing the papers? They seemed hesitant, almost nervous. At first you’d assumed they weren’t happy you were moving to an entirely new location and didn’t want to lose you but then when one of them muttered a hollow ‘good luck’ it made you uneasy. Had it been said with ice or resentment in their voice you would have understood but now it only furthered your confusion. Because of the whirlwind of emotions, packing, saying your goodbyes and celebrating you hadn’t given your new transfer papers a proper read until you were on the ship. All you’d known before had was that you were given the rank of Captain and would be serving directly under a Vice-Admiral. Out on the open water you went to your quarters and grabbed the papers, pulling them out to finally see who it was. The shock had been so sharp that you had to blink rapidly a few times to ensure you weren’t misreading the name Vice-Admiral Doflamingo. Just like that your life was thrown sideways and you soon realised what those looks had meant but through it all you dealt with it even though most of the time you were only there to babysit the man who by all accounts was your superior.

At first you suspected he did it on purpose. Now you just truly believed he was hopeless at doing anything that wasn’t hunting down criminals and causing chaos. So on top of your own work, making sure Doflamingo was in some way in line and looking after himself fell to you. Even on your days off you found yourself having to tend to him in some capacity. It’d been some time since your transfer that you’d managed to get back home and according to Doflamingo you’d earned the time off so you took it, heading back to your hometown to visit friends and family.

You were roused rudely and suddenly from your sleep to the sound of your personal den-den mushi ringing. Disoriented you jolted awake and tried to force your heavy eyes open only to feel them sting in protest. With more effort than you’d wanted to exert so late at night you managed to crack your eyes open enough and fumble your hand and search clumsily in the dark. Your fingers knocked against the receiver and you let out a sleep-thick curse to hear it hit the floor. Rolling onto your side you managed to grip the cable connecting the lost receiver to the snail on your nightstand and pull it off the floor. With a long yawn you tucked the receiver securely beside your face and pillow. “‘Lo?”

“Don’t tell me you’re still in bed Captain…” the deep voice drifted to you with the signature chuckle you’d gone a few days without hearing. Only now did you realise how strange it was to have gone so long without it echoing from somewhere. 

“Vice-Admiral?” You mumbled in confusion. “It’s nighttime…Timezones remember?”

“Ah yes, yes. My mistake.” Doflamigo chuckled from his end. In the background you could hear the usual morning activity drifting from his open office window. 

“What do you need Vice-Admiral?” You question was sighed into the receiver and Doflamingo chuckled to hear how much effort it was taking for you to sound coherent enough for him to understand your sleepy words. 

“Who says I need anything?” Doflamingo asked kicking his feet up onto his desk surface, his polished shoes crumpling untouched files and reports. His question and the crisp sound irked you enough to waken slightly.

“You always need something.” You grumbled, pressing the back of your hand against your mouth to stifle a heavy yawn. “You also need to do your reports. ‘M not coming back to see your desk hidden by papers again.”

“So harsh to threaten me with not coming back.” Doflamingo tutted you. “Remember I know where you are, I’ll come get you myself.”

“Mhm.” You hummed softly, too tired to fully commit to acknowledging his threat. “Still have to do your paperwork. You still haven’t told me what you need.”

“My gloves.” Your eyebrow twitched slightly. “Not my usual ones, the spare ones.”

“What happened your usual ones?”

“Took them off for five minutes and Rosi managed to get them too when he set himself on fire.” Doflamingo explained, his grin growing when your sleepy laugh drifted through the air. 

“They were fraying anyway…” You told him gently, probably trying to ensure he wasn’t too mad at his clumsy little brother. “Spares are in your desk. Left hand side, second drawer. You were using them to hide that bottle of whisky you thought I didn’t know about.”

You listened to the muffled sound of the drawer sliding open and laugh, your own lips curving into a smug smile. Even half-asleep you were more aware of anything to do with Doflamingo.

“What would I do without you, Captain?”

“You’d manage.” You said with another yawn. “Everyone else would be devastated if I wasn’t there.”

“Good thing that’s purely hypothetical. You’re not going anywhere Captain.”

“Says the man who said I’d only last a week as your Captain…” You teased as yet another heavy yawn filled your chest. It was getting harder to stay awake, Doflamingo’s deep voice being a comfort to listen to. “How time’s changed…”

“I know, it’s been what two years now? We forgot to celebrate our anniversary!”

“We’ll share that whisky when I get back.”

“Deal.”

“But only if you have your reports done…” You warned with a small smile when you could hear Doflamingo scowl. “Need anything else, sir?”

“No, you can go back to sleep now.” Doflamingo grinned before suddenly realising there was something else. “Wait, what else am I forgetting?”

“Breakfast. You need to eat.” You mumbled, heavily lifting the receiver towards the snail. “Oh and Admiral Akainu’s visiting the base tomorrow. Night, night.” 

“Wait what?!” Doflamingo called after you only to see the call had ended. Quickly he pushed the papers out of the way on the desk to find the calendar you’d left for him. Sure enough tomorrow’s date was circled twice and your reminder of the visit written in your handwriting. Three days after that you’d noted would be your return. Quickly Doflamingo got to his feet and with strong purposeful strides he made his way outside. There was no way he was going to endure a boring visit on his own. There was also no way he was lasting the long wait until you got back. Unleashing his strings he pulled himself into the sky and disappeared from sight, ignoring his subordinates uselessly shouting after him. He was only going out for a quick fly was what he told himself but if he happened to stop by and see you then that was purely coincidence. 

——————————————-

TAG LIST (If I’ve missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @fiery-captain-spider-santa, @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @cloudysunset04 , @chillerkiller , @sin-namonroll , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil , @destynelseclipsa , @dreamcastgirl99 , @my-name-is-heartache , @iamn1ya ,  @yunho-leeknow , @hinata7346 , @h0oouwlss , @missrandomdreamer , @sleepykittycx , @ddawn111 , @jaygrl22 , @sylum , @acehyacinth , @resident-cryptid , @treelogirl , @maellem , @thulhu , @appalost , @dindjarins1ut , @irumawife , @laidenbreecatchall , @redwolfxx , @jevoislesbrasdemer , @schanwow , @pao198391 , @glitchtricks94 , @nina-ya , @48daisies , @rosemary-lungs , @sagyunaro , @artemis162534 , @thecraftywriter , @rorozorolover

[jessmalia]

(Originally wrote all this in the tags but I ran out so I'm writing it in the reblog, I hope I'm not being imposing)

Yeah, I mean, Walker was a really good and interesting secondary antagonist, but what the Thunderbolts* writers failed to realize, is that you can't make him into a sympathetic protagonist (I specify sympathetic because writing him in an actual anti-hero role would work) without doing some serious redemptive work first. That shot of him standing with the bloody Captain America shield is by many fucking miles the single best shot in the entire MCU — it is such a powerful image rich with symbolism that I was thinking about it for weeks after I first saw it — but it is totally undermined by what Thunderbolts* did with him. In TFATWS, Walker was clearly supposed to be a case study in what would happen if a "perfect soldier" was picked to be Captain America instead of a "good man", like Steve. And the conclusion to that case study was that it could only end badly. All that talk Zemo did about how the desire to take the super serum is inherently tied to supremacist ideals and that whoever takes it will inevitably be going down the road of radicalisation (with a clear few exceptions) and then showing Walker doing just that, only for him to become an official Avenger before Sam in Thunderbolts*, is not only insulting and racist, but just bad storytelling. It shows a terrible understanding of what role the character has played previously and what role the character is suited to play in the future. I mean, are we forgetting about his dismissal of of Karli's cause? His perpetuating of the military's propaganda? His micro-aggressions against the Dora Milaje?

I mean, just in comparing him to the other Thunderbolts, he stands out like a sore fucking thumb! Bucky, Yelena and Ava are all victims of human experimentation and were used as weapons against their will. Bucky and Yelena were both mind-controlled and Ava is a disabled woman of color who was neglected by her country. Bob is a depressed addict who grew up with abusive alcoholic parents. Alexei is the only other one who wasn't an exploited victim, but he had his redemption in Black Widow when he helped take down the Red Room (and no, Walker giving up on his revenge to help Sam and Bucky in the final episode of TFATWS does not work as redemption in the same way, both cause it's a way smaller act, and cause it does not address any of his key underlying flaws, like the ones listed at the end of the previous paragraph). And in Thunderbolts*, Alexei is actively taking a father role in Yelena's life while Walker lost his son because he neglected him.

It's exemplified in the scene where Walker brags about his high school football days and Yelena brings up her own failed football team (I'm European so don't tell me I'm calling the sport by the wrong name) and calls his story pointless. John Walker is a white and athletic American man who grew up with a perfect life as the popular star football player of his "back-to-back-to-back champions" high school football team. A stark contrast to Steve Rogers, who was a short and skinny son of Irish immigrants in 1940s Brooklyn who no girl ever gave the time of day. The boy who had asthma and a million other health problems, but still never backed down from a fight even though he lost every single one of them, simply because he didn't like bullies. The perfect moment to compare the difference between these two men is, in my opinion, this one:

Bucky: Just cause you carry that shield, it doesn't mean you're Captain America. Walker: Look, I've done the work, okay? Bucky: You ever jump on top of a grenade? Walker: Yeah. Actually, I have. Four times. It's a thing I do with a helmet. It's a reinforced helmet. It's a long story, but any–

John Walker jumped on top of a grenade because he knew how to stop it without getting hurt, shielding it with a reinforced helmet. Steve Rogers jumped on top of a grenade despite fully believing he would get hurt, shielding it with his own body. John Walker exercised military training and Steve Rogers didn't hesitate to sacrifice his own life so that others wouldn't be hurt. That is what makes Walker the perfect soldier and Steve a good man.

In Thunderbolts*, Walker is in the same situation as Ava and Yelena, but he did not get there in the same way as Ava and Yelena. As perviously stated, they are both victims, outsiders their whole lives because of who they are. John Walker is the epitome of privilege who lost his status because of his own actions, because of a murder that, let's be honest, would've 100% been covered up by the US government had it happened while stationed out in war, not out on the street where dozens of civilians recorded it. This is his worst action that, unlike the rest of the Thunderbolts, he was 100% responsible for. It was then his own ego and inability to let go of the past that lost him his wife and son. Bucky even said something along the lines of "You made your choices" when it's brought up. So you simply cannot put him in the same story and give him the same treatment as all these other characters whose circumstances are so incredibly different from his.

All this said, it's not like I think Walker is evil. There's a reason I called him an antagonist and not a villain earlier. I think it's important to read his sentiment in the first gif as genuine. There was definitely a way to incorporate his character into further instalments and even redeem him if they wanted to. But I also believe that the MCU isn't capable of or allowed the kind of nuanced writing that would require.

THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER 1.02 - The Star Spangled Man, 1.04 - The Whole World is Watching, 1.05 - Truth

[pomefioredove]

Hi yes good morning can i get uhhhhhh chocolate cookie n1 with frosting snd sprinkles? Thank you so much

*tips 5 euros*

I'm pretty sure I've gotten every possible combination with rollo at this point 😭

order #1, chocolate with frosting, sprinkles

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ burnout

summary: a break from finals with rollo tropes: hurt/comfort, only one bed chair characters: rollo additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is not specified to be yuu, not long, not proofread

"I can't think of anything to write,"

You tap the head of your pen on your paper, the blank page that had been tormenting you for hours.

Rollo, comfortably sat at an armchair by the fire, scoffs.

"I doubt that. You never tire of things to talk of,"

"It's not the same!"

He gives you a look that you take to mean impatience- his eyes twitch, as if he aches to roll them, but he restrains himself out of politeness- or of pity.

"You spent the whole of this morning rambling about the windows in the lecture hall, and now that you're asked to write a paper on them, you can't think of anything?"

"...Yes,"

Rollo sighs and beckons you forward with a flick of his finger. You obey, standing beside him like the loyal lapdog you are.

"See here," he says, showing you the book he had been reading (for fun, not for homework). "You can start on page three-hundred and twelve. There's a riveting description of medieval glasswork."

You rest against the arm of the chair, head over his, pretending to follow along as he flips from page to page.

"And here is a series of letters from the blacksmith and the baker, if you need a primary source. I surely have some academic journals on the subject, as well..."

You slump over the armchair, already dreading whatever Rollo was smiling about- you could tell it would be hours of dutiful studying, until dawn, if he could help it.

"You look as if I'm torturing you," he says dryly. You attempt to sit straight, but in vain. The armchair is too comfy, warmed by the flickering fire...

"I don't know how you take all these classes," you say to him. "I'm barely in three and I'm loaded with coursework all week."

He hmphs, closing his book with a heavy thud. "I quite enjoy my classes, thank you,"

"Don't you ever get burnt out?"

"Burnt... out?"

Rollo narrows his eyes at you- he looks into the sweat on your warm face, and then the dancing flames of the fire, and then into your face once more.

"I cannot say I'm familiar with the term,"

You sigh, slipping into his lap and laying across him like a spoiled cat. "Like you just exhaust yourself doing too much, and you can't even think right,"

Rollo makes a face of contempt at your boldness, but does nothing about it.

"I have never felt that way,"

"Really? Not once, you've bitten off more than you can chew?"

"I'm sure you'll find that I eat everything on my plate with no complications,"

You can only see his neck and the underside of his head from where you are. He won't look at you.

You sigh. "You really are perfect, then..."

"Hardly," he says, looking at you again, green eyes flickering with something as greedy and consuming as the fire. His hand rests on your forehead, as if feeling for fever, and it stays there. "I do only what is asked of me. It's my duty, after all."

"You're being humble,"

"I assure you, I am not,"

His fingers dance over your forehead, down your face, mimicking the fluttering movements of the flames. You frown.

"Then maybe you've been burnt out your whole life, and you just don't know it,"

He grinds his teeth; he thinks you can't tell, but you can. "I do wish you'd stop saying that,"

"What? I'm only pointing out the obvious,"

"Not that. That terrible term,"

You blink. "Burnt out?"

His hand goes limp under your chin, resting around your neck like a noose.

"Yes, that," Rollo mutters. "I dislike it. It's... unfitting. If we must continue this terrible conversation, can you not say I'm..."

"Altruistic?"

"No," he scolds, flicking your forehead. "Dutiful."

"Dutiful..." you repeat the word in a reverent whisper. "...Not quite what I had in mind, but if you prefer it..."

"I do,"

"Then, alright. Dutiful,"

"Good," he sighs, slouching in the chair. You'd never seen him so... not... like him.

He's limp, like a wet rag left to dry under the kitchen window. Tired.

"How long have you been awake?" you ask, softer.

"That's none of your concern," and then: "A day."

A day... you raise a hand from perdition and pluck the book out of his pale hands, letting it tumble beneath the chair with another thud. Rollo instinctively tries to stand, but stops himself- he dare not disturb you on his lap.

"I'm not in the mood for your games," he warns, hands tightly curled around the arms of the chair, indenting the cushions.

"I'm not playing," you say. "You're half-asleep. You should rest while the room's still warm."

"Nonsense,"

He scolds, eyes darting towards the teasing dance of the fire.

"Who will put that out? Not you, you know. you'll fall asleep before I even think of it,"

"It'll put itself out,"

"Doubtful,"

He hisses, though he knows you've got him pinned. He can't stand from the seat without pushing you further from him, from his arms and lap, which he refuses to do.

"I have work," he complains. He doesn't move. "Essays to write, exams to study for. You as well. I've not got any less sleep than you..."

"Sleep," you shush him.

"Only if you do, first,"

"Deal,"

He doesn't take kindly to the humorous way you respond to his complaining, but there's nothing more can he do.

He won't move.

You both fall asleep together, his light reading abandoned on the fire-lit floor.

[leggybein-sfw]

leggybein dash simulator

🏒 mutual1

here is a post that is only understandable if you follow hockey

🌅 mutual2

extremely upsetting real life news

📈 polls-blog

🛟 mutual3

post so long you can't believe anyone will read it but then you do or at least you skim it because it's just one run on sentence vent post about something that happened to op today and!! AND!!! that one douche they work with who thy have detailed fantasies of feeding to a paper shredder and how would they feed them tona paper shredder you ask?? well first you have to makw them paper size so imagine doing that okay you know like in that one episode of hannibal with the dissection kill that almost made me stop watching the show because i didnt want that character to get killed. ANYWAY i imagine they write these posts absolutely hammering away at their keyboard or their phone i guess because writing this way does feel kind of nice now that ive tried it. this isnt even long enough though like the rant should be two to three times longer than this post and yet i habe nothing else to say i suppose. BITE BITE BITE

💽 mutual4

old lady hands 🤤

🎆 mutual5

Now that I've accepted no one will love me I have a lot of free time to do what I want. It's actually really freeing.

#Could go hiking this weekend

🌉 mutual6

#OUUUUUGH

🌫 mutual7

im ggoing. to do it

🌅 mutual2 again

im the poopinator

[rainrot4me]

Yo I've been a fan of your art/writing for a while now and I am really excited to see more of your work!

So I was wondering (for I am a slut for angst/hurt with comfort) how you imagine the characters like Jeff (my fav), Toby, Jack, etc. to be when they hit that breaking point? Like tears, snot, can't breathe, can't talk, kind of breaking point. And how they would act once comforted (or on their own)?

P.s. What animal, alive or extinct, would you want to be and why?

WOOO, I’ve never really been the best at writing angst, but I’ve always loved consuming it letting it rip my soul apart, so here’s my take:

P.S. I’d love to be a timber wolf! They’re gorgeous, and I’ve always had a serious love for them!!

✦ . jeff the killer

Breaking Point: It’s not loud, it’s violent, toward others and himself. Blood under his fingernails from clawing at his scalp, his mouth twitching in a broken grin he can’t stop. He laughs hysterically, wet and ugly as tears track down his scarred cheeks. But eventually, it cuts off. Just silence and trembling. He curls in on himself like a wounded animal, too proud to ask for help, too exhausted to push it away.

Response to Comfort: If you touch him, really touch him, gently, it short-circuits him. He jerks like he’s been struck. But if you don’t back off? If you just hold him? He breaks all over again, but softer this time. Barely whispers out,

“Don’t look at me.”

But he doesn’t move away.

✦ . ticci toby

Breaking Point: It starts with the stuttering, then the twitching worsens, hands shaking uncontrollably, gasping breaths like he’s choking on air. His mind overloads and the tics spiral into chaos. He’ll collapse into a corner, pounding fists into his legs or slamming his head back into the wall. He wants to scream but can’t form words. Just sobs through gritted teeth. He’s virtually seizing, absolutely at the mercy of his overworked body finally taking its toll on him.

Response to Comfort: He doesn’t know how to accept it. If you try, he’ll resist at first, flinch away, say,

“I’m fine! I’m fine, I’m—”

But if you stay, if you’re calm and quiet and real, he’ll eventually melt into you. He doesn’t speak, just grabs onto your sleeve like a lifeline and holds until his body is finally too tired to hurt itself any more.

✦ . eyeless jack

Breaking Point: It’s rare. But when it happens, it’s silent devastation. He hides it at first, locks himself away, curls up in the dark with blood on his hands and nothing left to justify it. There are no eyes to cry, but the tremor in his breath and the stillness of his body tell the story. Sometimes he tears off his mask, clutching it like a broken relic, like it’s the only thing left of his long-gone humanity.

“I’m not even human anymore…”

Response to Comfort: He won’t ask for it. But if you offer, not with pity, but with understanding and compassion, he’ll sit beside you in silence. Eventually, he’ll lean his head against your shoulder, and it’s the first time in years he lets himself believe someone might not flinch.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Breaking Point: Explosive. Rage masks the grief. He yells, throws things, punches walls, and then just collapses, chest heaving, vision blurred. His mind loops between past trauma and the present until he hits the floor, crying so hard he can’t breathe. Hyperventilating. Only The Operator himself could handle the devastation he’d cause if he got around other people.

“Make it stop. Just make it—make it STOP.”

Response to Comfort: Physical touch works, but only if it’s steady. Too fast and he’ll lash out. He needs you to ground him, press a hand to his chest and say his name firmly (if you can derive which one is fronting at the time). If you can keep him from spiraling, he’ll eventually grip your wrist tight and fall apart in your arms like he’s got nothing to be ashamed about the next day.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Breaking Point: Doesn’t allow people to see it. If he hits rock bottom, it’s behind a locked door. Tears are silent, shoulders shaking, fists clenched, rocking back and forth like a man trying to hold his insides together. He talks to himself under his breath, trying to reason his way out of a mind that’s far too loud to be heard in.

“It’s fine. You’re fine. No one has to know. You can fix this.”

Response to Comfort: He doesn’t want comfort, would much rather ride out whatever anguish he’s in than have someone he knows see him in that state. But if you refuse to leave, he’ll try to hide his face in your shoulder and quietly say,

“Don’t… don’t say anything. Just stay.”

It’s not trust, not yet, but it’s close.

✦ . laughing jack

Breaking Point: Utter meltdown. Laughter turning into hysterical sobs mid-sentence, his colors flicker, his body glitches, and he crumbles into a heap of striped limbs and smeared makeup.

“Why won’t they love me? Why do they scream when I try?!”

His clown exterior is shattered, and underneath is someone aching.

Response to Comfort: If you reach out with genuine affection, he doesn’t understand it at first. He cries harder, buries his face in your chest and sobs like a lost child. The moment is short-lived, but real. He’ll pretend it didn’t happen, but part of him remembers.

✦ . clockwork

Breaking Point: Hers is quiet devastation. She’ll try to act normal until she’s alone, then she just sinks. Slumped against a wall, fingernails biting into her thighs, eyes wide but seeing nothing. The tick of the clock embedded in her face becomes the only sound. Her tears are angry, full of shame, and inconsolable.

“You’re weak. You’re weak. Stop it.”

Response to Comfort: She fights it at first, tries to joke, to deflect. But if you sit beside her and just say “You don’t have to do this alone,” something in her breaks. She might whisper,

“I don’t know how to stop.”

If you stay, she’ll finally let herself cry with someone.

✦ . ben drowned

Breaking Point: Like a glitching program, he paces in circles, muttering code and fragmented memories, tearing at his hair. He doesn’t cry, he screams, digital distortion cracking through his voice.

“They deleted me. I was never real to them.”

He spirals into identity collapse, unsure what’s code, what’s emotion.

Response to Comfort: At first, he thinks it’s a trick. But if you show real warmth, like holding his hand or telling him he matters, his entire demeanor flickers. He softens, cries like a corrupted file: broken audio and blinking static, but it’s still a cry.

✦ . slenderman

Breaking Point: Almost incomprehensible. He doesn’t sob, he trembles. His tentacles writhe uncontrollably, psychic static screaming through the air like a storm. If he’s hurt enough to break, reality around him starts to fracture, trees bend, clocks melt, and time warps. Every person within a mile radius has a splintering headache worthy of tears.

Response to Comfort: No one would dare comfort him… but if someone did—touched his arm, whispered they weren’t afraid, the static would dim. He’d pull them into his arms, not for violence, but to hide the quaking of his form. He wouldn’t speak. Just hold them in an impossible silence, grateful but never saying a word.

꩜ .ᐟ

[ilianasbruce]

“The man on the altar.”

word count: 3,400

summary: Bruce understands what religion meant

warnings: full +18 content with some religious themes. minors do not interact, please.

notes: hello, hello!!! i’m back with a piece that had been rounding around my head for a long time. it’s actually a small one that i dreamed about when i thought of ‘what would Bruce think of sex if he was young and in love with his wife?’. i highly believe that young lover Bruce’d be obsessed with his wife; he’d be following her until the end of the world, she’d mean too much to him. and he’d mirror her actions, her love, and learn about the physical intimacy. this piece will be exploring the thought as i did in my previous works but i plan to sweeten and enrich my vision in my future pieces.

i must say that Bruce that i am writing and analyzing based on my views; i heavily try to write and create him based on his experiences, thoughts, and views of the world through my own reading and listening to comics. i had seen enough content about Bruce’s terrible representation, both as a father and lover and it is so heartbreaking to see them constantly. Anyone who portrays him in that way, specifically comic writers and fiction writers, either way, do not want to know about him or they just do not know him — just writing him out of his character. i’m not here to judge, i’m a writer here, too but i wish people could write based on what they really saw in him, not the constant circling of his constant representation. i am very open to your ideas, notions, and views, beautiful strangers!! please, if you have any of them, come to my ask-aways and let’s discuss them!! thank you so much for your reading and support of my fiction. i love you!!! happy reading!! ♡

Bruce was nearly a virgin before you. There was no shame in that. He had been bruised, stained with a tragedy throughout his life; unable to escape from the haunting echoes. He had no time or chance for it.

Bruce had been crumbled with his own wrath. His rage had him in the situations that resulted in the person who was today. His initial catalysts weren't coming from No man’s land. It had a name. Tragedy was a mere word for someone or people who only knew the paper meaning of the word. No one knew the exact meaning, sense, or form of tragedy, except the ones who had lived through it. The ones who had seen, felt, maddened by its unmistakable seconds of it.

Bruce knew that very well.

Tragedy bent Bruce in a way that could not be remedied. It gave him some traits, woke the early thoughts in his small mind without his comprehension of their meaning. The blood-covered concrete under his ricocheting gaze, in the middle of his beloved parents’ freshly warm corpses and his mother’s beautiful eyes — all created a bunch of sentiments, views of the world. And they shaped him in the ways.

Anger and justice — those were the ones rooted in Bruce since the tragedy, the first beliefs craved in his mind, those he couldn't breathe the air without. They were in a sense opposite of each other. How could an outraged person know what justice was from their chaotic vision? To know and understand justice?

Justice could be done with an open mind. Fairness and proper judgment must be the main characteristics of the man who sought justice. Not the anger. Not the wrath. Not the rage.

Bruce was painted with anger, that was why he never understood the need. He was blinded by the darkness of his tragedy. He chose wrath as a lamp and reached the destination he desperately searched for.

And there he was. Tall and ready when he hit his destination.

But an unfamiliar ache started in him when you came into his life; when you became his. Bruce felt it, the ache, as he felt anger for the first time, the meaning of it truly after the tragedy. And he felt the exact, familiar sense when he discovered something new, just as wrath itself before.

The ache formed itself into a need as he felt deeper. Need had started to consume him day by day when you were flourishing in this stormy life. Oh, how it burned him, left him confused but aware at the same time. He wanted you to be his desperately, the sense too intense as he laid his eyes on you every single time. He knew what it represented, what it threatened and he did not feel any shame about it. So, when you became his wife, he got what he scorched for — you.

You two had your first time on your honeymoon, away from Gotham for a few days. You were both young and in love, inexperienced and eager for each other. Bruce was your first in many things and physical intimacy was one of them. Sex was something that you did not engage in before him, partially making you equal to him. It was him with whom you learned about the intimacy between the lovers.

Two lovers — one belonged to the Sun and the other to the darkness. But Bruce refused to belong to anything, except you.

His loveliest, prettiest lover girl.

You tasted so sweet, melted in his mouth every time he kissed you. Or you dripped on his tongue delightfully when his handsome face was between your soft thighs feasting on you, which became the explicit definition of ‘heavenly’ in his terminology. You spun in Bruce’s mind ferociously — unconscious of your vision in him. You got him on his knees, got him obsessed with you.

He could not stand any chance against your love. He could not dare to leave your warmth. He altered his angles to the opposite directions, to the ones that he did not heed what they meant. He was blinded by you — his precious Sun in the dusk-covered life of his. And only Alfred did see his obsessive devotion to you.

Alfred, who brought Bruce up like his own blood son and raised him after the tragedy until Bruce left him for twelve years to come back with the unimaginable idea. Alfred, who sometimes riled Bruce up with his persistent worries about his safety and his recklessness about his own body, was stunned for the first time by how Bruce was towards you. How Bruce’s sharp and keen eyes were glinting when he heard your voice. He saw Bruce’s almost unhealthy love for you with his bare eyes.

He saw Bruce in different forms. He saw the silent delight in Bruce’s spirit when you were at Manor, doing something trivial. He saw his eased shoulders or the quiet excitement in his posture when he was with you. He saw how he appreciated and lavished you. He saw how he followed you as the Northstar. He saw, he heard and he was never expecting his son to be smitten like this.

So, when Bruce gave you his last name, his consumerism started, too.

Oh, after your first-ever sex, you nearly started to doing it once a week for the whole month. Him being tired? No worries, he had you under him with languid, deeper thrusts. Him being still energetic after being beaten up by thugs and your gorgeous eyes filled with sleep? He got you, ‘baby’. He circled around and came back to you. Again and again, with obsession and devotion.

You gave Bruce something he lacked and ached — peace. Peace meant everything to him in every sense, including the bed. Once the cold sheets he slept for the recovery or he flinched from them with nightmares, now were the real bed. The bed he had once heard the meaning of, but never knew until you slept in. His expensive, crispy sheets now were marked by your scent. Or the nightstand had your book. Anything in that damned room that he did not cross until his body couldn't handle the insomnia now belonged to you, too.

Oh, that room had seen Bruce’s lovemaking to you as the whole witness. It had absorbed your sweet sounds when he thrust into you. Your soft ‘Bruce’s, or his hushed curse words echoed through the room.

You taught Bruce many things during your marriage, even though you were just as young as him. In fact, you were a few years younger than him. If you did marry when Bruce was twenty-six or almost twenty-seven, you were just twenty-two or twenty-three.

Young and free, new romantics.

Your love taught physical intimacy to him. You were sweetly affectionate and loving — his lovely girl who also looked so good on him. The first time he let you ride him was when it was a rainy afternoon and he was at Manor. He did have nothing to do so at the moment, it was either early for the Batman or the city was quiet that Bruce wasn't in the cave. Must of been something that got you two worked up and you ended up making out with him on his lap.

It was you and him on the armchair, in the reading room of Wayne Manor. He kissed you like he was feasting on you. It started slow, dragging his fingers under your white tight-covered legs while his lips honored you. Then, he gave you the kisses one by one instead of taking your breath away with one. You couldn't get enough of him; you never did. So, you pulled him over and over again when he broke the kiss for another peck on your sweet lips.

You were pulling him by his dark hair, now messy between your fingers while trying to mend the craving under between your legs. He must have sensed that to offer you ride his thigh first. When he put you in the right position, he murmured ‘Ride it, baby.’ to your lips before capturing you in the next kiss. But when you whispered a confused ‘But,’ to the broken kiss, he knew what he had to do.

That afternoon he carried you to your bedroom and stripped you until your delicate set, you sitting on his hips. You looked so adorable in your matching set, looking into his eyes with a flushed face and reddish lips from his kisses. His fingers wandered through your soft skin, over the silky material of your panties, so warm under his fingertips while you reached for another kiss.

Bruce had to teach you how to be on top since you were a virgin to the experience. Oh, how he gladly enjoyed being your tutor, but in fact, he hadn't done this sufficiently, either.

That one afternoon could be one of the best of times in Bruce’s life. All your softest sounds from your lips, your flustered cheek against his shoulder, and your scorching, viscous walls around his cock could be the death of him in the sweetest way. Your hands were on his bare biceps, nails digging into his pale skin from the sensation of the new angle you two were trying. He was ushering you with sweet words of ‘That’s my girl.’, ‘It’s all yours, baby, ride it.’ and you were glowing with his thickness.

His hands were around your thighs, helping for you the first time — not that he minded to have his hands on you. His eyes were half-lidded with the pleasure your pussy gave him, head rested against the headboard of his bed.

He could be doing that for the whole day if he could and he would not be drunk on you enough. But you were still sensitive to your inexperience and his stamina since Bruce had you on your back against the sheets every week. And he did not want his pretty girl unable to enjoy sex as much as he did.

Speaking of the devil, Bruce unquestionably had insane stamina for his age. Both on the streets and in bed; he could fuck you for hours without sweat on his forehead. All you had to do was lay prettily for him, your legs and arms around him— a habit of yours, to feel him closer as much as you could — as he thrust you.

Or he could eat you out, no, devour you to the point you’d be whimpering about how ‘it was too much’. It was never too much for him, not when he had you all to himself forevermore. Your legs around his head, probably on his broad shoulders, as he rolled his tongue between your folds. Sometimes he’d just eat you fully, with no fingers involved — just to see how much you could go. Or sometimes, his fingers would be diving into you in and out while his tongue worked in your pussy. You were a mess every time, fingers gripping the hem of your pillow or in his messy, inky hair with no chance against him.

He one time ate you out just because you were irritated with him due to his reckless driving and jumping from the Batmobile through the Gotham Bridge. You and Alfred were having almost a heart attack on the comms, just looking at each other in a dead silence. And Bruce? He shut you up that whole night with his lips and fingers in your core. You were too dizzy and sensitive to stay mad at him, and he was nuzzling you like a puppy with exhaustion, making you two fall asleep as soon as your heads hit the pillow.

He knew you so well, your character and your body as if he was your husband for ten years, instead of months. He was overly good at analyzing; he could be into the detective arc for a year but when you were in his bed every night, he had learned you as the back of his hand.

Bruce loved to come back to you and nuzzle you — he had been mirroring your affection and giving you what you gave him every day. He’d come back, straight to the shower after his patrols. And he’d glimpse at your sleeping form under the quilts. Or barely awake with a relieved smile on your lips that he came back in one piece. You’d find him holding you tightly or cuddling you. Cuddling most of the time led to his favorite position.

Missionary.

Any version of that position was you two’s favorite.

Bruce thrived for you when you were looking up at him with your prettiest eyes, your hair slightly messy on your pillow creating a vision for him, and your hands on his shoulders to keep him close to you? Whispering or moaning into his mouth when he kissed you as well as dived in between your warm thighs? Letting him show you how much he loved the bed you were in? You made his head spin with your intoxicating love.

Bruce had you in that position every single time. You loved it, too, there was no lie in that. You loved him so much that you were aching and wanting him to be close to you. And it was the only position you had him as you wished.

You wanted to be with your Bruce skin-to-skin, face-to-face as much as you could as if he’d disappear suddenly. You made it clear whenever he was buried inside you so sweetly, so thickly and your legs around his waist, calling his name with love. Or your arms around his neck or your nails scratching his back muscles as he fucked you. You both were touch-starved for each other and you were fixing that in sex.

Bruce knew your clinginess all too well and he’d reassure you during sex every time. When he could see how tight you held him, he’d murmur ‘I am here, baby.” or “Not going anywhere, my love.”. You were just so sweet, wanting him as much as he wanted you.

Bruce made love to you. That was undeniable. He did not thrive in sex for some stupid time-wasting activity or weird position trying. Sex wasn't something that crossed his mind heavily during his twelve years of wandering. But if it came to his head, the idea of it was too intimate for him. Bruce was a lover. And he’d adore his beloved in the most intimate way.

And when he was in Gotham after twelve years, twenty-five years old, and being perceived by the Gothamites as the ‘handsome bachelor’ or in the next year trying to work out on his playboy act, known as ‘sex appeal’, ‘player’ or ‘definition of sex’, he despised it. He loathed it because that was not who he was but he had to be for the sake of his dual identity. He had been touched by people, gazed at by people and it disgusted him. They treated him as a mystery and dream, tried to touch their repulsive hands on his body; even a hand on his arm became an invasion of him. But people did not care and he started to learn to set it aside.

However, when he became your lover, your husband, he was at peace and the only person he wanted to be touching him was you. And Bruce loved to be intimate with you. Thus, sex became his favorite act.

What was the meaning of sex when he couldn't see your beautiful face when he was inside you with his deep, languid pace for both of you to see you were the one he belonged to? What was the meaning of it if your soft skin wasn't under his rough fingers, his lips to worship you? To mark you with his lips like a devoted prayer as his offering at your altar? Kissing every inch, every curve of your body, knowing it, and owning it as a map as his great treasure. Marking you with his burgundy-colored stains to show who loved you.

What was the meaning of it if he did not find his peace? He had found it truthfully, in many aspects. One of them was that there were the nights he was irritated and when he moved in and out of your core, you bestowed him an idea unconsciously. He was silent on the tongue, only his breathing — he was always silent when he was frustrated — just focused absentmindedly. You noticed him since he came home, slided under the covers without uttering a word. Your hushed voice pulled him out of his vexation, your ‘Baby, w-what’s wrong?’ altered his senses. He realized that he had someone who could listen to him. Why not try? Now, he was talking to you about his anger — only his anger —as he made love to you.

“I,” he muttered through his breath one night after his patrol. It was four in the morning and he was furious. “I almost lost it, baby.” he thrust his hips at a slightly rough pace, having you with whimpers and clutched hands on his shoulders.

“Fuck, he almost killed that small girl before I did something. Gonna lose my mind.”

He’d fuck his anger out himself, try to escape from the constant adrenaline of his rage. And you were so loving towards him to watch him with fluttering lashes and flustered cheeks under him. Offering your small words or worries to him with your sigh of pleasure.

He’d speak about what itched his brain. Sometimes either how he was terrible that night or he didn't know if he could keep up and you were there under him, kissing his lips as he confessed. Uttering words of ‘It’s okay.’, ‘M-My hero.” or ‘I love you so much.’ on his lips. What was the meaning of sex if this was not the thing he had during it?

And there were the times he was beaten up.

Truly.

His muscles were aching in the shower at three thirty-five one night after he made it home, to you. He had bruises on his skin, his jaw, and arms, all reddish and burgundy. You caught his gloomy eyes in the dim light of your bed lamp with the sleep in your posture. You’d wait for him sometimes, he’d not let you stay awake for him, but you did. How could you not?

He’d look haunted on those nights as if he was back in that alley again as if he was reliving the exact moments. You’d never know what made those memories revive in his mind again, but you knew when he slipped under the covers, to your arms. He’d do what he knew was right because he knew what you should do. And you did.

He’d slip in you with no protection — just bare and him. As if he was testing you if you’d let him, his real self to love, to have you. It was a trick of his mind. He’d play with his pace; sometimes rough, sometimes gentle. He would be lost mentally but there in your arms, in skin and bones. You’d pull him for many breathless kisses as much as you could, to ease and reassure him that he was there in your arms, not alone, not scared anymore. Your husband and safe in your arms.

He’d press his forehead against you until he came with a repressed groan in his throat, his seed dripping between your folds, his breath hot against your lips. You’d stay there for a long time, just like that. Pressed up to each other, breathing and intertwined in love. He loved the feeling of you; the scent of yours as a reminder for him that you were there with him, wrapped around him as he was nuzzling you. He’d feel better, so much better than before he made it home.

So, if sex did not involve you, he was not interested. As if sex was created just because of you, for him to consume and love you. You made his bed a shrine. For both confessing and worshiping you. Bruce was never a religious man, he was the man of science. But for you, he became the one.

He now understood the essentials of someone’s religion. How those people were strict and at the same time, safe with their religious beliefs. How they felt the connection, the yearning to be close to their deity. How they thought highly, how they envisioned them as remarkable. He saw that, felt that, and had that in his own house, in his own bed.

thank you so much for reading! ♡

[strzxrin]

What would the characters react when the reader got into an accident (car accident or any really lmao)?

thought of calling you, but you won't pick up !

synopsis. ┆  you got into an accident and they found out through an external source. what do they do?

tags/warnings. ┆  gn!reader, established relationships, hurt/no comfort.

characters. ┆  deimos ( mafia boss . demon character ) . zeidan ( actor . demon character ) . taeral ( lecturer . demon character ) . celaena ( model . demon character )

a/n. ┆ guys i love writing angst it's actually insane, please give me more angst or fluff requests, i'm begging at this point- *gets shot*

masterlist ┆ character wiki

ᯓᡣ𐭩 DEIMOS — he sat in the back of a candle-lit trattoria, half-listening to the low hum of conversation around him. a tumbler of untouched scotch sat beside his phone, glowing with unread messages.

he was waiting for your text.

you always sent one when you got home. just a simple “made it :)” or a blurry photo of your shoes kicked off. he didn’t need much. just the signal. the anchor.

he looked down. still nothing.

that’s when the call came. and he answered without thinking. “hello?”

the voice on the line spoke quickly, clinically. something about an accident. a driver who ran a light. an ambulance. the words icu and head trauma stood out like bullet holes in the air.

he didn’t speak. didn’t ask questions. didn’t hang up.

he simply stood, left a stack of bills on the table, and walked out into the night without a word.

ar the hospital, everything was too bright. too clean. he hated it instantly.

he walked with purpose, his coat still smelling of smoke and rain. the woman at the reception desk gave him a nervous glance. he recognized it. the look people give when they feel a quiet danger in the air.

“( name ),” he said flatly. “they were brought in tonight.”

her fingers hovered over the keyboard. “are you—”

“i’m here for them,” he said. not loudly. but it landed like a blade against the tile floor. he stood outside your room for a long time before going in.

he could hear the machines. the beeping. the hiss of oxygen. his heart thudded once. hard. like it was warning him.

and then he stepped inside.

there you were. laid out under fluorescent lights. pale, bruised. a tiny cut on your lip. your hand limp on the sheets.

deimos didn’t touch you.

he sat in the chair and just stared.

there was a sound inside him — a low roar. the kind that usually ended in broken bones and blood on concrete.

but not this time. he buried it. for you.

“i’ve put men in the ground for less than what happened to you,” he said quietly, staring at the iv in your arm. “but what good would that do now?”

his voice wavered.

“you’re the only person who ever made me try to be gentle.”

he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“i can’t burn the world down this time. not if it means i’m not there when you wake up.”

he looked up again. his eyes were glassy, but no tears fell. his pride wouldn’t allow it.

“you always said i needed to learn patience,” he murmured. “well... here i am. trying. for you.”

he finally reached out, his hand trembling as it took yours, ever so gently.

“i’ll sit here all night,” he whispered. “and when you open your eyes... i’ll pretend i didn’t almost lose my mind.”

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ZEIDAN — the backstage lights buzzed softly as zeidan peeled off his mic, grinning lazily at the crew. fans were still screaming his name outside the theater, flashes of cameras bouncing off alley walls like lightning.

he winked at the assistant who handed him water. “t llthem to scream a little louder next time,” he said with that ever-present smile, tossing his hair back. “i can’t hear my ego over the silence.”

but before she could reply, another assistant rushed in — pale, breathless, phone in hand.

“xieran.. you need to see this.”

he didn’t blink as he read the message.

( name ) was hit. icu. they’re not conscious.

his expression didn’t change. not immediately.

then his smile disappeared, utterly and completely, like it had never belonged to him in the first place.

he left without a word. no makeup wiped off, no press photos, no afterparty. no theatrics.

just quiet steps through the exit, down an alley still echoing with cheers that now sounded hollow.

he drove himself to the hospital. he always had drivers, but tonight — he needed to grip the wheel. he needed to be doing something with his hands other than shaking.

when he arrived, the nurses recognized him instantly.

“it’s xieran—!” but the glimmer in their voice died when they saw his face.

he wasn't smiling. not even a flicker.

“i’m here for ( name ),” he said. not flirtatious, not smooth, just direct. sharp. his tone was flat like glass before it shatters.

“are you family?” the nurse asked gently.

he stared her down, voice hushed. “i’m their lover.”

you looked so… still.

zeidan walked in like the room was a stage he wasn’t sure he wanted to stand on. no lights, no makeup, no lines.

just you. unmoving.

he sat beside you, fingers folding and unfolding in his lap. he didn’t touch you yet.

“i flirt with people to pass the time,” he said quietly. “to taste their moods. it’s easy. It’s cheap. and it keeps me from looking too long at the things i actually want.”

his voice cracked.

“i wanted you. still do.” he finally reached out, brushing his thumb along your hand, as if convincing himself you were real.

“when i saw you in the crowd that first night, i couldn’t sense anything about you. you were quiet, whole, unreadable. it drove me crazy.” a faint, broken laugh left him.

“i always thought lust was about desire. but now i know — it’s about need. they way your absence feels like hunger i can’t feed.” he exhaled shakily, gaze locked on you.

“if you wake up, i’ll stop playing. i’ll stop pretending. i’ll say everything i tried to mask with a smile.”

he leaned in close, whispering like a vow:

“just give me one more night. no lights. no cameras. just you and me. off-script.”

ᯓᡣ𐭩 TAERAL —  they were midway through a lecture on human behavioral patterns — pacing slowly, voice smooth but exact, eyes tracking the room like a hawk through glass.

"people rarely understand the sin of gluttony. they reduce it to consumption," they said, chalk brushing neatly across the board. "but the truth is; gluttony is about fixation. it’s not about pleasure. it’s about the inability to stop needing."

the classroom sat silent, soaking up their every word.

then their phone buzzed on the podium. once. twice. they glanced at it. a message preview blinked up from the screen:

they’ve been in a car crash. icu. not conscious.

taeral stared. they didn’t blink. didn’t react.

they placed the chalk on the podium gently, their tone still calm:

“class is dismissed. indefinitely.” no further explanation. no one stopped them as they walked out.

the air outside the lecture hall was thick with early evening heat. they moved like a shadow — calm, measured — but inside, their mind screamed.

they didn’t run to the hospital. taeral never ran. but every step was a battle between their intellect and something ancient in them that ached.

they had mastered restraint. they knew how to control themselves, their needs, their voice, even their smile.

but not this. not you.

when they arrived at the hospital, they gave your name with clinical clarity.

the nurse asked, “what’s your relation?”

taeral paused. not out of confusion — but because the truth felt too sharp to say out loud.

“i’m.. their lover.” they said softly. “that should count for something.”

the room was quiet. you were quieter.

they stepped in and stood beside your bed without a sound. they scanned the wires, the machines, the bruises.

details. they were always good with details. but this wasn’t a puzzle. this wasn’t something they could solve. it was just you. stil, broken, and not speaking.

they sat beside you, folding their coat across their lap. their voice was barely a whisper. “i thought i had time.” their fingers brushed yours lightly.

“i’ve spent so long.. studying people. picking them apart, judging, watching their sin manifest like rot under skin.” they exhaled. “but you.. your sin never made sense to me.”

taeral’s throat tightened. “you were the only variable i couldn’t categorize. and i kept..  wanting more. just a little more time, a little more conversation, a little more of you.” they leaned forward, resting their forehead lightly against your hand.

“i don’t think i’m capable of loving the way humans do. but i feel something for you that frightens even me. and i’ve never once known how to name it.” a pause. one that ached with everything unspoken.

“so.. please. come back. before this hunger turns into something i can’t carry.” their hand stayed in yours. and for the first time in a long while, taeral allowed themselves to hope without logic.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 CELAENA —  celaena was draped across a velvet chaise, sunlight slipping through sheer curtains like lazy fingers. a tabloid lay unread beside her. her phone vibrated on the coffee table, but she didn’t reach for it. Not at first.

she stared at the screen, watching it flash like a stubborn thought she didn’t want to entertain.

finallt, with a sigh like the start of a storm, she moved. slowly. elegantly.

she read the message once.

they were hit by a car. critical condition. icu.

the phone slid from her hand and hit the floor with a soft clatter. her world stayed quiet, but not peaceful.

celaena was the kind of woman people thought didn’t feel much. detached. languid. distant even when you were close enough to touch her skin.

she wasn’t lazy. she simply conserved energy, always observing. she let the world try to impress her, and mostly, it failed.

but you had never failed.

and now you were lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere, and for the first time in years, celaena moved with purpose.

the hospital lights were too harsh. her boots echoed as she walked through sterile hallways, drawing looks she didn’t acknowledge.

she didn't announce herself. she didn’t need to. her presence felt like fog drifting in through a locked window — slow, sudden, and impossible to stop.

at the front desk, she finally spoke. “i’m here to see ( name ).”

the nurse blinked. “and you are…?” her voice was like a stretch of silk being torn. soft, but final.

“i’m their lover, let me through”

she stood at the doorway, staring at your unconscious form.

pale. wounded. still.

still like her — but not in the way she liked.

she stepped into the room. every move she made seemed slow, reverent, heavy with unspoken dread.

“i should’ve texted you back,” she murmured. “but i didn’t want to say anything too fast. i thought i had time. we always think we do.”

she sank into the chair beside your bed and rested her chin in her hand, watching you like you were a painting too precious to touch.

“you know, everyone thinks i’m lazy,” she said softly, “but really… i’m waiting. always waiting to see who quits first. who gives up. who lets themselves rust.”

a pause. the machines beeped. “but you didn’t. you always tried. even when i gave you nothing but half-lidded eyes and silence.”

celaena reached for your hand, not dramatically, not desperately, but like she was choosing to show effort for the first time in a long, long while.

her voice softened to a whisper. “so i’m here now. and i’ll stay. i won’t drift away this time.”

her thumb brushed across your knuckles.

“and when you wake up… i’ll finally say the things i’ve been holding in between yawns and silences.” she leaned closer.

“don’t make me try without you. that’s too heavy a thing to carry alone.”

[seilnakyle]

Ok you refer to selina as the matriarch of the batfam, and that makes me curious what are her relationships with each of them? I know her an jason def have a good relationship, but besides that i know nothing

Please enlighten me

Dick - Selina has known Dick since he was 8, and at first Dick didn’t really understand her and Bruce’s relationship, or what it was about this specific woman that caused his new father figure to fall over like a Skyrim character

Batman #1 / Batman #3 / Batman #15

But Dick also got to see Selina’s good side, she saves him from the Joker in Batman #2, and saves Batman at risk to her own life in Batman #62, Dick starts to realize she’s more complicated than just “villain”

Dick goes to Selina when seeking help against Talia during the Lazarus affair. Catwoman helps him and the family during Battle for the Cowl and continues to Support Dick as Batman even when they have disagreements

Gotham City Sirens (2010) #7

Nowadays they’re still very close and Dick pretty much considers her his stepmom in all but legal writing. They’re both very protective of each other, and have a real family relationship. Here is another post of some of my fave moments -> X

Babs - I love the dynamic between Babs and Selina sooo much. I have a post on my fave moments here and here

Selina serves as a kind of role model, not just to Barbara, but to pretty much every young female vigilante. And as Selina is a complicated woman, a character you can’t fit into the box of “good” or “bad”, she challenges them world view of characters like Barbara, the daughter of a cop who certainly needs her worldview challenged occasionally.

Birds of Prey: Catwoman/Oracle

Nowadays Catwoman is someone Oracle can count on to help out when the city or family needs her. Oracle has helped out Catwoman plenty of times, and sided with her in Gotham War. Selina even gave the Honeymoon suite that would have been for the batcat wedding to Dick and Babs when it didn’t happen. I love them :)

You said you already knew abt Jason but here and here are posts about him and Selina for anybody curious, and here is one for Helena B :)

Tim - Selina meets him during the 90s and they’re an underrated duo! At first Selina is annoyed by this kid trying to get in her way, but eventually becomes protective and caring to him. She finds him adorable tbh

Robin #28

”He’s a goody two-shoes but I like the kid”

Catwoman (1993) #31

Steph & Cass - Steph and Selina first meet during War games after Bruce has fired Steph and she’s accidentally started a gang war. Selina is one of the only people to show Steph some empathy during this time.

Catwoman (2002) #34

Even though New 52 was bad, I do miss Steph being a recurring Catwoman character, and I think Selina is a great mentor character for her, and Steph is terribly underused anyway.

Steph, like Babs and most female Gotham vigilantes, undoubtedly saw a role model in Catwoman even if she wasn’t completely hero oriented. She was Batman’s equal, and confident enough to not need or care about having his approval or not, but good enough to get it anyway, of Course Steph seeks her out for training!

Batman Eternal (2015) #43

But unfortunately DC was making Selina do crime boss things instead of being Catwoman so Steph was briefly trained by Eiko who was running a training school. Selina recognized a lot of potential in Steph, and later “deputized” her by using her detective skills for a case

Catwoman (2011) #42 / #44

Later on, Eiko was planning on killing several heads of crime families, and Steph immediately tells Selina. And tearfully confesses to killing Bill Turner as well. Selina lies to make Steph feel better, not wanting her to become another lost soul

Catwoman (2011) #46

As for Cass, Selina is VERY impressed with her Immediately

Selina enjoys hanging out with her even if she’s the strong silent type <3

Batman: Gotham Secret Files and Origins (2000)

And one thing for sure, Selina will ALWAYS be there to help the girls if they need her :’)

Catwoman (2018) #45

Birds of Prey (2023) #14

Damian - Selina and Damian technically met during his time under Dick’s guardianship, but don’t really have an interaction till much later. During Bruce and Selina’s engagement, Damian asks if he’s going to have to call her “mom” Selina would never expect this of course, and assured him that he never needed to call her that, but she would always have his back as long as he has her’s. It reminds me of the way she assured Jason that he never had to replace Nocturna as a mother figure in his heart…she is just the sweetest

Batman Prelude to the Wedding #1

And of course, they bond over love of cats! Selina helped rescue Alfred the Cat in New Showcase (2018), and donated 3 million to an animal sanctuary in the East End in Damian’s name. Damian rescued Selina’s cat Otto in Legends of The Dark Knight (2013) #48

Duke - They haven’t interacted much but Selina has been part of his training!

New Talent Showcase (2017)

Batman: Wayne Family Adventures - (s2) Ep. 62 Live From New York