#the robots are back and its a nightmare | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marcyvamp1re-blog · 3 months ago

Text

ৎ୭. . . VIRAGO ─── Damian Wayne

Part 1 & 2

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Between laughter, jealousy, and secrets, a mother and a lover compete for the heart of someone who has already chosen their path. Harley clings to the past. Damian waits for the future. And in between, a story of growth, goodbyes, and unbreakable love. Because in the end, no matter where they go, there will always be a home to return to.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 9,4k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Fluff, Platonic Cuddling, Dark themes, violence, trauma, invasion of privacy, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, paranoia, vulgar or strong language, mental health, toxic relationships (not Damian and Reader), destruction,

「Strong, brave or warrior woman

who demonstrates exemplary or heroic qualities」

Damian Wayne was not meant to attend classes like an ordinary kid. No. He was the grandson of the Head of the Demon, the legitimate heir to a bloody and millennia-old tradition. But he was also the son of the Bat, and as long as Bruce Fucking Wayne ruled his family, he would fulfill the tedious duty of attending Gotham's most elitist private school.

He thought it would be easy. Study and that's it. Simple. But soon he realized that being a “normal” student at Gotham High was like being a wolf trying to pass as a sheep.

His intelligence—his most valuable weapon—was seen as an eccentricity, almost an indelible stain in an environment of boys who believed their gilded surnames and even more gilded wallets were all that mattered. He couldn’t make friends. The kids looked at him as if he were a robot from a nightmare with his cutting remarks and sharp vocabulary. The girls only saw his last name, not him.

Until you showed up.

Damian hated group projects. He hated even more when everyone pounced on him like hungry crows as soon as the teacher uttered the words: “Choose a partner.” It was always the same. “Can we work together, Wayne?” “I’m sure you’ll do great, right?” “My dad says your dad is very important.”

That day, he saw you dozing in the back row, your head tilted on the desk while a trickle of drool threatened to escape the corner of your lips. Despicable. Although... at least honest.

“Do you want to do the project with me?” he asked, because his father’s basic education forced him to phrase it as a question.

“You’re going to do the project with me!” was what you heard, although nothing could be further from the truth.

The next thing happened so quickly that Damian had to blink to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination born from his frustration. You jumped as if you’d received an electric shock and hugged him so tightly that for a moment he feared you might break a rib.

“Yes, yes, yes! It’s going to be an explosive and fascinating project! Can you imagine? We could make a volcano that really erupts or a robot that shoots confetti or...!”

Damian froze as your high-pitched voice spewed nonsensical ideas with the same excitement as a dog seeing its favorite toy. Your eyes sparkled with a mix of madness and innocence he had never seen before.

“You're annoying,” he murmured.

“And you're such a ray of sunshine!” you cheerfully replied, still not letting go of him.

It was at that precise moment that Damian understood this project was going to be a nightmare. But there was something about you that intrigued him... maybe because you were the first person who really looked at him and not at his last name.

But of course, he would never admit that out loud.

Alfred tried to hide his surprise when you showed up at Wayne Manor to study. Of course, he concealed it well behind his usual neat British demeanor, but Damian noticed. Who wouldn’t?

First, you said you had walked there. Who the hell walks to Wayne Manor from Gotham City? That already raised suspicions. But the real shock came when Damian greeted you at the door.

Wild hair, cut in a style that screamed rebellion and creativity, with streaks of red and blue that made it look like you had just run through a furious rainbow. Contemporary, colorful clothing that anyone would say you had fought with a clown and won. Brightly colored knee-high boots that clicked on the marble entrance.

Even Duke, who had bulletproof patience, peeked through the door to take a look. The guy expected another mini Dracula like Damian, not a clown doll freshly escaped from a carnival.

“Wow, this mansion looks like Dracula's house,” you exclaimed, looking at the walls with wide, bright eyes as he led you through the hallways to the study room.

Damian glanced at you sideways, ready to unleash a sarcastic comment... but when he realized it, he was already laughing. Yes, laughing. Something he hadn’t even been sure he could do without his lungs refusing to cooperate until that day.

As strange as it sounded, he was having fun.

You were explosive, loud, witty, but good at what you did. It was like working alongside a lightning bolt in colorful sneakers. And when you focused, you were genuinely smart. Odd, yes, but clever. Something that didn’t happen often among the superficial crowd of Gotham High.

As the afternoon wore on, you loosened up and told him a bit about your life. How you lived with your mother, a woman with the same chaotic euphoria as you, but obsessed with your father: a gangster whose name you didn’t mention, but described with a mix of disdain and confused affection.

“My mom loves me, but since she always does what dad says, I have to learn to take care of myself.” You said this while finishing painting a perfectly detailed bomb on the project, as if talking about family traumas was as casual as discussing the weather.

Damian watched you in silence. That phrase hung in the air like a haunting ghost he understood all too well.

“Sometimes I’m scared... that she’ll choose him over me.”

He understood. Of course he did. Because sometimes he was also afraid his mother would choose anything before him. Power, legacy... the League.

But of course, he wasn’t going to get sentimental in front of you. Especially with the hidden audience behind the door. Alfred, your pets, Jason, Dick, Cass, Tim, Steph, Babs, Duke, even Bruce, all spying with the same discretion as an elephant in a tea room.

“Everything okay, Wayne?” you asked, tilting your head with a smile so wide it seemed out of place in a castle like that.

“Sure,” he replied, not giving it much thought.

And so they continued working. He discovering that maybe not all people who came into his life were destined to be a problem.

Of course, being you, that was just a matter of time.

Damian had never had a real friend. Not one who wanted nothing from him other than his company. So, when the project ended and you kept showing up to pounce on him with a loud, overflowing hug of energy, he didn’t know what to do.

Dick thought it was charming. “Friends do fun things together,” he told him with that broad smile that seemed straight out of a damn cereal commercial. “They go out for ice cream, watch movies, or just... are there.”

Damian didn’t quite understand the last part. But he understood enough to know that your eyes lit up every time you mentioned the word “baseball.” So one day, without even knowing why, he took you to the practice field.

“Really?” you exclaimed, with such pure excitement that it almost felt like an insult.

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugged. But even he knew it sounded too clumsy to be believable.

What happened next was a wonderful chaos. You swung the bat with the same passion a warrior would wield a sword. Every hit you made was accompanied by a shout of joy or some laughter that escaped you as if you couldn’t contain it.

Damian threw the ball to you over and over again, not completely understanding why it was so much fun. But the fact that you were happy seemed to make him happy too. And although he would never admit it out loud, it became almost a weekly ritual.

Sometimes, after practice, he’d drag you to an ice cream shop. Your way of devouring absurd flavors like “Smurf Ice Cream” or “Sour Caramel” was fascinating. Ridiculous, but fascinating.

“You have ice cream on your nose,” he said, arms crossed as he tried not to laugh.

“Well, you have ice in your heart!” you cheerfully replied, licking the ice cream as if that were the most logical answer in the world.

Other times, he’d take you to watch movies, because Dick insisted that “Friends watch movies together, Dami.” Of course, he didn’t expect you to prefer the bloodiest and most absurd horror films possible.

“Look, look, here comes the monster with fifty knives in its head,” you commented between laughs, enjoying the terrible performances more than the plot itself.

It was absurd. Everything they did together was absurd. But it made him happy. It made him feel... free. Like for the first time, he didn’t have to be the heir, the warrior, or the perfect son. Just Damian.

But, like everything in his life, happiness lasted as long as a blink.

He arrived at school one day, with the usual hope of seeing you dozing in the back row, drool falling from your mouth and the smile ready to yell something ridiculous that made him feel like everything was okay.

But you weren’t there.

The teachers told him you had dropped out. That you didn’t have the funds to continue at that luxurious and superficial school that had never been made for someone like you.

Damian tried to find you. He turned to contacts he shouldn’t have used for something so... personal. But your name sounded like a ghost. No trace. No signal.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Finally, he accepted that maybe you were never going to show up again.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do well. Try to forget you.

But it didn’t matter how many times he repeated that he didn’t care, that you were nothing, there was always an echo of your laughter resonating in his mind. There was always that absurd memory of you excitedly shouting about hitting a ball with a bat, as if it were the most incredible thing in the world.

And worst of all was that, in a way, it really was.

Years passed in the blink of an eye, dragging him into the whirlwind of Gotham, the League, the Teen Titans, and everything that meant being Robin. Fights with assassins, gods, and impossible creatures became his routine. He had grown, changed, learned to live with the weight of the mantle he wore.

He had made friends. Jon Kent, always so ridiculously optimistic that he sometimes seemed like a sun with legs. Flatline, with her dark humor and that dangerous smile that challenged him daily. And of course, the Titans, a chaotic group of teenagers dealing with their problems while saving the world.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared him to see you again.

It was his first day of high school. Gotham’s private school was just as ridiculous as always, full of rich brats who cared more about the latest brand of clothing than anything that really mattered. But he was there for a reason: to blend his life as Robin with the facade of a normal teenager.

And then, there you were.

You had grown. Your hair, although still carrying that rebellious essence, now fell in tousled, styled locks, with touches of red and blue that shone under the fluorescent lights. The clothes you wore were... eye-catching, but not childish. It was as if you had found your own style playing between androgynous and extravagant. Everything about you seemed to challenge the world.

But the worst, or the best, was that you were still you. That wide, sparkling smile that seemed ready to explode into laughter at any moment. Your eyes sparkled with the same intensity as always, as if you hadn’t lost a shred of that wild euphoria that had so bewildered him.

And then you turned and saw him.

“Damian!” you shouted with that exaggerated voice that seemed like a show in itself. You didn’t care that the whole hallway turned to look at you. You didn’t care about anything. Because all you did was launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him as if no years had passed.

“What the hell...?” Damian exclaimed, not knowing whether to step back or return the hug. In the end, his body decided for him, and his arms awkwardly tightened around you.

“What are you doing here?!” you said, with a tone that mixed genuine surprise and pure joy. It was as if you had never left. As if you had never been a ghost he had desperately tried to forget.

“I study here,” he replied with that seriousness that sometimes made people mistake him for a grumpy doll. But you just laughed, as always.

“Wow! I never thought Dracula would have to deal with algebra like a mere mortal.”

“I’m not a vampire,” he grunted, frowning even though a part of him wanted to smile. It was absurd how you returned to his life as if nothing had happened.

“Sure, sure. But you’re still just as grumpy.” You finally let him go, although you remained close enough that he couldn’t escape.

And that was it. In a matter of seconds, you were already talking to him about your things as if years hadn’t passed. As if you hadn’t left him with an inexplicable void when you disappeared.

You had changed, yes. Taller, with more attitude, as if challenging the entire world had become your new favorite pastime. But you were still you. Chaotic, unpredictable, and... radiant.

“So, are we skipping class and doing something fun?” you asked with a mischievous smile, as if that were the most logical thing in the world.

“No,” he replied automatically. Because of course, he was Damian Wayne. The responsible one, the serious one, the one who never strayed from the right path.

“Bah, always so boring. But I missed you, Dami. I’m glad you’re here.” And your voice sounded softer, almost sweet, as you took a small step back and smiled at him with that eternal spark in your eyes.

Damian didn’t know what to say. Because somehow, those words had ignited something within him that he thought he had buried along with the memory of that girl who dragged him to play baseball and laugh at bad movies.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” he finally admitted, in a whisper so low he almost thought he had imagined it.

But the smile you gave him was enough to know you had heard him.

Your friendship with Damian had picked up right where it had left off. Among laughter, challenges, and outings that didn’t always end well but were always fun. Dinners at Wayne Manor became a regular occurrence, with Bruce trying to be the awkward dad and all the Batkids secretly laughing at how different you were from any friend Damian had ever had before.

Because let’s be honest, you didn’t care one bit if Damian was rich, serious, or mortally sarcastic. To you, he was simply Dami. A grumpy, prickly kid who, despite his tough facade, always ended up giving in to your crazy ideas.

Of course, he never told you about his other life. Not about Robin, not about his mother, not about the thousand and one dark secrets he carried. But it wasn’t like he needed to. Because sometimes, people spoke.

The rumors at school were like whispers that slid through the hallways like snakes. Robin was always watching from the same place, an abandoned building in downtown Gotham. Like a proud crow surveying the city.

And your gang—yes, because you had made new friends too—challenged you to something no one else had dared: throwing paint at Robin from the rooftop. A prank. A game. What could go wrong?

The answer: Everything.

That night was your first big teenage stupidity. You climbed the building with a can of green paint in hand, trembling with nerves but refusing to back down. And there he was, just as they said he would be, the dark cape fluttering in the wind as his eyes scanned the city as if every shadow was a potential enemy.

You didn’t think too much about it. Because if you had, you would have realized it was a terrible idea. You simply raised the can and threw the paint at him with all your strength.

The green splattered on his right shoulder, spattering in irregular patterns on his cape and part of his mask. At first, Robin stood still. As if his brain refused to process what had just happened. But then, he slowly turned his head towards you, those green eyes glaring at you as if you had committed the worst sin in the universe.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared in a voice so low and furious that a chill ran down your spine.

“Oh, shit!” you exclaimed, with a nervous smile. Because of course, everything was funny until the paint touched the bird.

Without waiting for a response, you took off running. And he was right behind you.

You knew he was fast. Everyone said so. But you never thought he would be this fast. His shadow moved like a damn ghost behind you, his footsteps echoing on the rooftops as you jumped from building to building like a deranged goat.

“Wait!” he shouted with a tone that mixed anger and disbelief. As if he couldn’t believe someone could be foolish enough to throw paint at him and then try to escape.

“Not a chance!” you yelled back, almost laughing as your lungs burned from effort. Because yes, you were terrified. But you were also excited. Because at the end of the day, you were you. The chaotic girl who never knew when to stop.

But running 20 kilometers wasn’t exactly something your body could handle. And when your legs began to weaken and your breathing turned into an irregular gasp, he seized the opportunity.

He leaped from a higher building and landed right in front of you, his eyes shining with a wild fury that almost seemed inhuman.

“Game over,” he declared, his voice so low and threatening that it almost made you laugh at how dramatically he sounded.

“Are you going to kill me, crazy bird? Because if you do, I’ll be the happiest dead girl in Gotham,” you replied, trying to sound brave but aware that you probably looked like a delirious idiot.

“No. But I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said, and before you could react, he had picked you up as if you weighed nothing and tossed you over his shoulder.

“Hey! Put me down! You’re lucky I don’t have anything explosive right now, because I’d blow your butt up!” you shouted as you kicked the air and tried to break free.

“That’s what worries me,” he murmured, with that irritated tone that characterized him so well.

The next thing you knew, he took you to an alley where, surprisingly, he didn’t throw you against the wall or lecture you like a boring adult. Instead, he set you down on the ground and crossed his arms, looking at you with a mix of exasperation and... curiosity?

You noticed something strange, even under the thick layer of green paint.

That hair, that posture, those calculated movements. Everything fit together in an unsettling way.

“...Damian!?” Your eyes widened, surprise barely contained in your voice.

From that moment on, everything changed. You discovered your friend was Robin, and you never missed an opportunity to tease him about it. But between the jokes and the knowing smiles, you swore him something with all the sincerity you could muster.

“I’ll never say a word. I’ll keep it forever.”

And so it was. The pact sealed with the innocence of youth remained intact. Until one ordinary afternoon, returning from the baseball field with the sun setting on your backs, you decided to confide in him your own truth.

“There’s something I need to tell you...” you murmured, looking down, kicking an imaginary stone as you walked.

Damian frowned, alert as always.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mom... well, the one who raised me... is Harley Quinn.” You blurted it out, as if the words weighed more with each second they remained trapped in your chest.

He blinked, surprised, before opening his mouth.

“The crazy Harley?”

“Don’t call my mom crazy!” you retorted firmly, even though your voice wavered a little. “She was going through a rough patch with my dad, that’s all...”—You diverted your gaze before adding—“Besides, she’s not my biological mom, so I don’t have any physical or mental issues... other than some weird habits, I guess. So don’t worry.”

Damian watched you in silence, his calculating gaze trying to unravel the truth behind your words. But in his eyes, there was also something more. Something akin to acceptance.

Because deep down, they both knew they shared secrets too big for their age. And that bound them in a way no one else could.

And so, the more secrets they shared, the closer they became. Confessions in hushed voices under starry skies or during endless walks united them in a way neither of them expected. Until one day, something changed.

Damian asked you out. Not to train, not to spend time teasing each other, but to dinner. Formal. In an upscale restaurant, with white tablecloths and lit candles. You showed up in a dress that, although eye-catching as always, exuded a unique elegance. He had also made an effort; the usual rigidity in his posture softened by a barely concealed nervousness.

That night was different. For the first time, they allowed themselves to truly see each other, beyond the jokes or the friendship they had built. They spoke with an honesty that only arises when two souls decide to fully open up. And at some point in the conversation, they both surprised themselves thinking the same thing: “How didn’t I realize before how attractive he is?”

At the end of the evening, everything was perfectly planned, courtesy of Dick’s unmistakable intervention, who seemed to enjoy organizing that special moment far too much.

Damian mentally prepared himself to take the big step as they walked back toward your neighborhood. But to his surprise—and perhaps annoyance—it was you who spoke first.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” you blurted out, without preambles, without introductions.

Damian blinked, visibly taken aback. His lips parted as if searching for an appropriate response, but in the end, he could only sigh and smile resignedly.

“I was supposed to say that,” he murmured in a tone that tried to sound annoyed, although amusement sparkled in his eyes.

From that day on, everything changed. You spent both mornings and nights together, sharing something much deeper than the simple camaraderie that had united you in the beginning. There was something authentic, warm, and solid in your relationship that neither of you was willing to let go.

But if anything defined Damian, it was his protectiveness. Perhaps it was his vigilant nature or his endless list of responsibilities, but he was always aware of everything that happened around you. He worried about whether you were eating well, about your complicated relationship with Harley, about the people you hung out with, and especially about keeping you away from any gang that might cross your path.

That’s how you came to an agreement: he would teach you to defend yourself. The training sessions became an essential part of your routine, as habitual as baseball games or nighttime walks. Damian taught you to fight with the seriousness that characterized him, correcting every movement with patience— or the closest he could get to patience. Sometimes, he even took you on missions from afar, showing you how to act in critical situations without exposing yourself too much.

Your relationship with Harley gradually deteriorated. At least for her.

For you, everything remained the same. Or so you thought.

The morning egg sandwich tradition, for example. That sacred tradition between mother and daughter. Once again, you walked together through the streets of Gotham, which miraculously, under the sunlight, seemed a little less frightening.

Harley, with her usual energy, approached the food cart and ordered two egg sandwiches without a second thought.

But this time, you stopped her.

“Today I prefer a vegan sandwich, thanks.”

You said it without looking up from your phone, distracted by some nonsense on the screen.

Harley froze. Her white-painted face contorted into an expression of absolute horror, as if you had said you wanted to leave Gotham to join a Tibetan monastery.

“A... what?”

“A vegan sandwich,” you repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Harley’s eyes widened like saucers. She looked at the vendor as if expecting him to say it was a joke. But no, the betrayal was real.

From there, the changes became increasingly evident.

Friday taco nights with the girls, once sacred, disappeared.

“It’s taco Friday, kiddo!” Harley reminded you with enthusiasm.

“I can’t, I have plans,” you replied dismissively.

Your plans? Watching movies at “a friend’s” house. A mysterious friend. One who Harley didn’t know... or maybe she did.

Before, you always matched in your outfits, wearing matching leather jackets or some shared reference in your attire. But now you bought your own clothes. You dressed how you wanted, without worrying about what she thought.

Harley tried to seek support from her friends.

“Is she going through something? Is she in a weird phase?”

“She’s growing up, Harls,” Ivy and Selina told her with a smile that said “this is normal.”

But for her, it wasn’t.

Desperate, she turned to Batman.

“You have, what? Five kids? Six? Help me, bat!”

Batman merely looked at her in silence, with his typical “I have no time for this” face.

“I’m not exactly a parenting role model.”

Harley huffed. Yes, that was crystal clear.

But then she started noticing things.

You came home with bruises. You were evasive with her questions. You didn’t tell her anything.

At first, she thought maybe you were just being reserved. Teenager, independent. But then, seeing you arrive hurt once again, with a furrowed brow and an evasive look...

She thought of the worst, that maybe you were still hanging out with gangs of aspiring teenage killers or drug lords, that the Joker had found you and decided to take you as a bomb kid, or worse... that you had a secret boyfriend who was abusive to you... just like she had experienced.

She had had enough.

She wasn’t going to sit by while you drifted further and further away.

So she took matters into her own hands.

It was a quiet night... until it stopped being so.

Four in the morning. As usual, you were ready to say goodbye with a kiss at the window, as you always did. Something sweet, discreet... the norm.

But at the exact moment your lips barely brushed against Damian’s...

Chaos.

Three giant hyenas burst out from under your bed with growls that shook the walls. And as if that weren’t enough, Harley Quinn, in full ninja form, dropped from the ceiling with a baseball bat in hand.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!” she roared with the fury of a mother who had just discovered the ultimate betrayal.

Survival instinct took control.

You slammed the window shut, leaving Damian trapped in the railing as your mother and her hyenas tried to get to him.

“Mom, calm down!” you interposed between her and the window, raising your hands in a sign of peace.

Harley looked at you with a furrowed brow, her eyes blazing with fury.

“Calm down?! I just saw my little girl making out with that demon bird!”

“It’s not what it looks like...”

But it was what it looked like.

And worst of all was that Harley already hated Damian to begin with.

Because, among all the Robins, he was the one she could stand the least.

He was arrogant. He was bossy. He was Batman’s son.

And now... he was kissing her daughter.

Maybe this was karma for all the crimes Harley had committed in her life.

Or maybe... it was destiny giving her a direct punch in the face.

Literally, because at that moment she raised the bat with the intention of using it.

In the end, Harley had to swallow her words. And the rest is history.

It wasn’t easy. It couldn’t be.

Because, after all, they both knew something was wrong. That things had changed.

And that nothing would ever be the same again.

For the first time in a long time, they sat down to talk. For real. No shouting, no all-out battles with hyenas involved. Just mother and daughter, trying to find their way back to each other.

Harley sighed, running a hand through her messy blonde hair.

“I wasn’t prepared for this,” she admitted softly.

And for the first time, you saw her vulnerable. Not the criminal, not the crazy psychologist, not the woman who could knock someone’s face off without a second thought. Just a scared mother.

“I wasn’t prepared for a baby, and now I’m supposed to be ready for you to grow up and become independent?” she let out a bitter laugh. “Hell, I can barely take care of myself!”

Her words hurt. Because you knew they were true.

But that didn’t change reality.

So you did what you knew best: you told her the truth.

All of it. From dating Damian to your nighttime escapades as a heroine.

She listened in silence, her lips pressed together and her arms crossed. She looked sulky, annoyed... but not surprised.

And in the end, she accepted reality. Not because she wanted to, but because she had no other choice.

Then she wrapped you in a hug.

A strong, crushing, desperate hug.

A hug that said everything words couldn’t.

That she loved you. That she would never stop loving you.

That she needed you, just as much as you needed her.

And at that moment, you knew.

That even though everything changed... even if you fought, argued, drove each other crazy... there would always be a common point.

You would always be Harley and her.

Whether it was stealing marshmallows at midnight or simply sharing a night under the stars.

Harley sighed against your hair, with a tired smile.

“Puberty sucks.”

For the first time in a long time, you laughed together.

“Yes, Mom...” you smiled. “It totally sucks.”

And then, everything changed again.

Now, you dated Damian normally while also spending time with your mother. A balance between two worlds that, for anyone else, would be impossible. But for you... well, let’s just say you were used to chaos.

Of course, life is never simple.

There were moments when everything went well. And then, out of nowhere, BOOM, explosive surprises at the worst possible time.

Like when Bruce Wayne, in an extreme gesture of formality—and perhaps hoping to prevent his son from becoming even more antisocial—invited you and Harley to dinner after you and Damian had been together for a year.

It almost felt like you were sealing a marriage.

You, in your naivety, thought it was just a quiet dinner. Something casual, relaxed, without pressure. You wore normal clothes, as you would any other day.

But Harley had other ideas.

“Casual?!” she exclaimed, horrified, as she pulled dresses from her wardrobe as if she were choosing outfits for the Oscars. “This isn’t just any dinner; this is a declaration of social war.”

“It’s just Bruce Wayne, Mom...”

“IT’S BRUCE FUCKING WAYNE. Do you know how many times he’s tried to throw me in Arkham? At least fifty! And now, I’m going to sit at his table, with class and elegance, and I’ll show him his son chose well!”

Spoiler: Harley's “elegance” consisted of a bright red sequined dress, shiny heels, and a faux fur coat... accompanied by her baseball bat, which she insisted on bringing “for safety.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. He was probably used to it by now.

But Damian did.

He spent the entire dinner with tense shoulders and a pure look of resignation as Harley threw him comments like:

“So, Birdie, what intentions do you have with my daughter?”

“Not enough to justify this interrogation.”

“Look at you being all clever! Hey, how about we have a game night? Something like... I don’t know... Russian Roulette.”

“Mom…”

Damian slowly sipped his water, wondering if it was really worth continuing this relationship.

But the worst came afterward.

When it was you who invited Damian over.

You thought you would be alone.

Beginner’s mistake.

Because the moment you settled with him on the couch, the door burst open, and Harley appeared, triumphant, with a giant bag of Chinese food.

“Surprise!” she sang, throwing herself onto the couch next to you two. “I brought food and a movie.”

Damian looked at you. You looked at Damian.

“Mom... what are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I just wanted to spend time with you,” she replied, casually opening a box of noodles. “And with your boyfriend.”

Immediately, she turned on the TV and put on a movie... while staring intently at Damian.

Without blinking... For two hours.

At some point, Damian whispered in your ear:

“Your mom is analyzing my soul as if I were Katana.”

“Don’t worry, that’s her way of showing affection.”

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

And so the night passed, with Harley noisily chewing her Chinese food, Damian resisting the urge to pull out a sword purely for survival instinct, and you... well, you simply accepted your fate.

Soon it became clear as an irrefutable fact: Harley was jealous of Damian to the core.

No matter how much she said she had accepted you were growing up, that you weren’t a little girl anymore, that you had the right to your independence, the truth was...

She didn’t fully accept it.

And the worst part was that she didn’t even try to hide it.

Every time you were with Damian, she appeared.

It was as if she had a sixth sense for detecting when you were about to enjoy a romantic moment.

“Surprise!” she shouted one day, popping out from a trash can.

You almost fainted.

Damian, on the other hand, just sighed.

“How did you get in there?”

“Don’t underestimate a mother!”

Another day, you were walking hand in hand in the park, enjoying the silence, when suddenly...

“HELLO, LOVE BIRDS!”

Harley appeared from the treetop, dressed in a squirrel costume.

“Why are you dressed like that?!” you asked, horrified.

“Camouflage, sweetheart.”

Damian closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered:

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it...”

But Damian was smarter than she was.

And that hurt him.

Because every time Harley tried to get between you, he found a way to turn the situation to his advantage.

When Harley decided to infiltrate an upscale restaurant disguised as a waitress to spy on your date, Damian simply said:

“Oh, thank you,” taking the menu she offered him. “Please bring me your most expensive dish.”

“Damian! It’s my mom!”

“Exactly, and if she wants to be a waitress, she should do it well.”

When Harley insisted on interrogating Damian about his future plans, he replied in a completely serious tone:

“I plan to marry your daughter and call you ‘mother-in-law’ until the end of time.”

“YOU WON’T!”

“Just to annoy you, I will.”

And so the years passed.

Despite Harley’s jealousy, you and Damian stayed together.

You overcame fights, challenges, family crises, villain attacks, and oh yes, the near end of the world.

And when adulthood arrived, when there were no more excuses, when life pushed you to make a decision, you made it.

You moved in with Damian.

It was a difficult goodbye.

Not because you wouldn’t see her again, but because it was the end of an era.

You stood at the front door, your bags ready, with Damian waiting for you in the car, and Harley...

Looking at you with an expression you had never seen before.

For the first time, she wasn’t joking. She wasn’t jealous, or annoyed, or dramatic.

Just... sad.

“So...,” she murmured, crossing her arms. “So this is how it goes, huh?”

“This is how it goes.”

“You become an adult, make your own decisions, leave with your boyfriend... and leave me alone like a crazy old woman.”

“Mom...”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, raising a hand. “I’m strong. I can handle it. Just tell me one thing, sweetheart...”

She paused, her blue eyes shining with something between nostalgia and pride.

“Are you happy?”

It took you a moment to answer.

Because there were so many things to say.

So many memories, so many moments, so many laughs, so many absurd fights, so many times you wanted to escape but always came back.

And yet, you could only say what mattered.

“Yes, Mom. I’m happy.”

Harley took a deep breath.

And, without warning, hugged you.

A long, strong hug, one of those that leave a mark.

“Then...,” she whispered against your hair. “It’s okay.”

No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she wished she could stop time, no matter how unprepared she would ever be to let you go...

She let you go.

But you knew one thing for sure.

No matter where you were, or with whom, or how grown-up you became.

There would always be a part of you that would be that little girl stealing marshmallows with her mom in the kitchen.

And always, no matter the distance, no matter the future, no matter the time...

You would come home.

#x reader #fem reader #dc x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader #harley quinn x reader #platonic #bruce wayne #duke thomas #alfred pennyworth #dick grayson #tim drake #harley quinn #harley quinn x poison ivy #cat woman #selina kyle #pamela isley #reader

287 notes · View notes

joyflameball · 6 months ago

Text

The differences between the FNAF movie and the Minecraft movie are so fascinating to me. Here you have two different movies made out of beloved video games. They've both got a million games based off of/created with them, with FNAF having all its "Five Nights At [INSERT FRANCHISE HERE]" games, and Minecraft having the most gorgeous stories and worlds you've ever seen literally built on it. Both movies went through production hell, presumably went through a fuckton of scripts and a whole lot of edits, and then were made after a whole decade.

The FNAF movie is 95% practical effects. The animatronics are 1 to 1 recreations of how they are in the games, moving robotically, being puppetted and worn. I cannot stress enough, they actually made those things. They actually built the sets and built the animatronics, and the movie is just ten thousand times better for it. I can't even put it into words. And I remember, the atmosphere leading up to the movie's release was pure excitement. And when it finally DID release? From what I personally have seen, a lot of people really liked it! I certainly did! This was a project ten years in the making, and you can tell! There's so much love for FNAF in this movie, and you can feel it! I really love the retake on the FNAF lore, the interesting characters, the clear passion behind everything in this movie, and how they've redone one of FNAF's longest-standing characters. Because by god, they did William Afton justice, and he's in about three scenes.

The Minecraft movie, on the other hand, is a complete CGI nightmare. A green screened CGI nightmare that may not be AI generated, but sure fuckin looks that way. It looks like there is zero passion behind this movie, just the cold motivation to make money and appeal to The Youths. They referenced the fucking "the children yearn for the mines" meme without understanding the meme was making fun of someone suggesting we bring back child labor. That by itself shows that they do not care. I cannot find a single frame that has an iota of love for Minecraft, the love that we have grown up on for years. The atmosphere leading up to the Minecraft movie's release is dread. Dread and anger. Between the awful CGI, the stupid fucking Marvel-esque quips, the whitewashing Steve, the lack of love for this goddamn game, everybody saying a teenager could do better is fucking right.

#cassie rambles #minecraft story mode will 10000% be better than this stupid movie #because minecraft story mode actually loves minecraft #fnaf movie #minecraft #fnaf

338 notes · View notes

curseofbreadbear · 2 years ago

Text

[Gregory's smile was, in fact, reassuring; it was another gesture that made her feel safe and comforted, even after the horrors she'd experienced. It was a reminder that she was being held by her cousin, and not by a monster. She felt like she was home, and after all she'd been through, she needed that.]

[Gregory then informed her about the friends he'd mentioned; she wasn't...entirely sure what he meant by "the night that started all this," and part of her worried that something nefarious might have happened behind the scenes, but she'd address it later. She didn't want to dig into her paranoia again. She'd finally gotten back to trusting her cousin, her best friend, and she wasn't ready for that to stop. If he'd had anything to do with the collapse of the Pizzaplex...she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. Not right now, anyway.]

[Cassie swallowed as he mentioned them getting M.X.E.S. back online; right. God, she'd messed up. She'd almost forgotten in the midst of her crisis, but she'd freed that thing, and disrupted the stronghold that was keeping it at bay. It was her fault if it escaped and wreaked havoc. What if his friends got hurt because of her?? What if it was too late??]

❝ ...Do you think they'll be okay? ❞ [Her voice was quiet, reluctant; she was terrified to acknowledge the possibility that they'd get themselves hurt because of that thing, because of her negligence, because of her naivete.] ❝ I-I'm sorry. It's just...it's my fault if they get hurt. Can you check in with them first? ❞

[Oh -- right. To get out of here, she'd have to move. She definitely wasn't keen on standing again ( she'd practically collapsed once she got out ), but she probably could...? She'd been running on fumes this whole time, and she felt like she was on the brink of collapsing now that she was "safe," but they had to leave. She had to push herself again. Trying to prove herself, she nodded and let go of Gregory, leveraging herself on the ground; she winced and stifled a whimper as she stumbled onto her feet. It hurt, moreso than before, and she felt agonized tears sting at her eyes. She refused to let them fall right now -- she didn't want Gregory to worry about her.]

❝ I-I'm standing. I can stand. I don't wanna leave until your friends are safe, though. Is that okay? ❞ [Standing NOW might have been a mistake, then. Whoops.]

Leaning back from the embrace (but not letting go - he couldn’t bring himself to), Gregory flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Even though he still felt torn up about everything that had happened, there was no time to linger on it now. When they were safe in the daylight, he could process the unfairness of it all - his voice being stolen, the threat of the monster unleashed, the terrible things that had happened over the night to Cassie.

But now, he had a job to do. It was a long way away from making things right with the breached trust of his cousin, but it was a start. They were getting out of here, together.

“Yeah, they can help. I’ve been with them since....the night that started all this. It’s a long story. While I was looking for you, they were getting M.X.E.S. back online, so hopefully that thing can’t leave the building, if it’s still here. I’ll let them know I found you,” Already he was raising his wrist, revealing a somewhat battered Fazwatch. “And we’ll get to somewhere they can reach us. I would just ping our location here, but the signal is shit. I think I can get a message through, but that’s about it.”

Gregory wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of moving Cassie in her current state, not wanting to make her injuries worse, but they had very little choice. The idea of remaining here, among the wreckage, was simply not viable while threats still loomed over them. “Can you stand at all? Or are you too hurt?”

#staystillgregory #staystillgregory; 003 #long post /#{ I LOVE READING IT ITS KILLING ME;;; }#{ the guilt is going to keep gregory up at night; the paranoia is going to keep cassie up at night :'))) }#{ she's going to have nightmares abt this for weeks tbh... }#{ THEY REALLY DO THO LOL. can't wait for gregory to talk abt the events of security breach & cassie to freak outs kjgdfkjfds;; }#{ LITERALLY THO LMAO LIKE KSDFJKDSJK... GIRL THERES NO WAY HE ISNT GOING TO FIND OUT }#{ i love that so much tho AFJSAJK. cassie like its my fault it got out :((( i gotta go back :((( }#{ and gregory is like thats awful and stupid so im going with you whether you like it or not KJDFSJKFD }#{ lets go kickin robotic ass together!! }#📻 || number one twice. (cassie.) || 📻

25 notes · View notes

childrenofcain-if · 8 months ago

Note

Did your school also have that awful baby project where you have to partner up with another student and be “parents” for like a fake robot baby? The one that has sensors in it and it cries in the middle of the night and you have to feed it and carry it around for like two weeks.

I'm imagining if MC and C had to pair up for that project in school. It's a funny mental image of two kids arguing over a fake baby like they're 40 year old divorcees.

Obviously they both want a good grade but they literally won't stop arguing over every stupid thing about the fake baby.

A whole lot of: “You're holding it the wrong way.” “No, YOU'RE holding it the wrong way.” “Why did you have to dress it up in THAT outfit. It looks hideous.” “I thought it was cute! What, are you not happy unless it's wearing formal three piece suit, get over yourself.” “You're supposed to look after it tonight.” “I told you that I'm too busy with practice after school.” “Well that's too bad, we both agreed that Friday is YOUR night to look after the baby. I'll get it back on the weekend.” “But I can't take the baby with me to football practice! Why are you so inconsiderate?" "Great, look it's crying now. That's gotta be your fault.”

Teacher would immediately be so done with them and ready to take off points for “inflicting psychic damage on the baby by means of hostile environment” or some bs 💀

it was supposed to be a simple project—a rite of passage, really. every student had to go through it: the dreaded baby project. the one where you and a partner were tasked with taking care of a robot baby for two weeks, complete with cries in the middle of the night, diapers that needed changing, and a never-ending checklist of parental responsibilities. it was meant to teach you about responsibility, commitment, and empathy, or whatever nonsense the school administration tried to sell it as.

you, on the other hand, had different thoughts. especially when you found out that your partner for this cursed experiment was none other than C Lacroix.

the moment the teacher had paired you two together, you both shot each other the same look of mutual horror. of all the people in your class, of all the potential partners, you were stuck with each other. it was like fate had a sick sense of humor. C, the person who couldn’t go a day without making some snide remark about you, was now supposed to co-parent a fake baby with you? for two whole weeks? this was going to be a nightmare.

“why do we even have to do this?” C muttered under their breath, running a hand through their hair as they eyed the little plastic baby lying in the crib in front of you. “making this project mandatory is ridiculous.”

“you think i’m happy about this?” you shot back, already feeling the tension between you two rising. “you’re not exactly my dream partner either.”

the teacher, mrs. wentworth, stood at the front of the class, giving out instructions as though this were the most serious, real-world task you’d ever face in high school. you had to pick up the baby, name it, dress it, and take care of it as if it were real. the sensors inside the baby would track how well you handled it, including how quickly you responded to its cries, how gently you held it, and whether or not you remembered to change its clothes and diapers.

C crossed their arms, glancing at the little bundle of plastic with thinly veiled disgust. “how are we supposed to pass this if it’s literally rigged to cry at random hours?”

you didn’t bother hiding your frustration as you leaned in closer, keeping your voice low. “well, maybe if you actually try instead of complaining all the time, we could figure it out. just a thought.”

they shot you a glare. “oh, so now you’re an expert on fake babies?”

“better than you, at least,” you muttered, folding your arms over your chest.

the two of you stood there in a silent, seething stalemate for a moment, both unwilling to be the first to back down. then mrs. wentworth walked over with an expectant smile, handing you the baby and the care guide that went with it.

“don’t forget,” she said, her voice overly chipper, “this baby is your responsibility. think of it like it’s a real, living child.”

C muttered something under their breath that sounded a lot like kill me now but managed a tight-lipped smile as mrs. wentworth walked away.

and so the nightmare began.

***

the first night was a disaster. the baby—whom you both begrudgingly decided to name “charlie,” after a half-hour debate that nearly escalated into a full-on shouting match—began crying at exactly 2:14 a.m. you were supposed to take care of it that night, but when the piercing wails filled the room, you groaned and instinctively checked your phone. two missed calls from C. the stupid app linked to the baby must’ve been ringing off for them.

“are you kidding me?” you muttered, rolling out of bed and grabbing your phone.

when you called them back, their voice was groggy and clearly annoyed. “why is the baby crying?”

“gee, i don’t know, lacroix, maybe because it’s a robot baby that cries for no reason? it’s literally designed to do this.”

“i thought you were supposed to be taking care of it tonight,” they shot back.

“i am, but it’s just— can’t you hear it over the phone?” you snapped. “it’s like it’s possessed. i’ve tried everything, but it’s not stopping.”

you heard a sigh on the other end, and then a rustling noise. “fine. i’ll come over.”

within fifteen minutes, C was standing in your doorway, wearing a dark green hoodie and gray sweatpants, looking very much like they regretted every life decision that had led them to this moment. they made a beeline for the fake baby, picking it up awkwardly, their movements stiff and unsure.

“you’re holding it the wrong way,” you said immediately, wincing as the baby wailed louder.

they glared at you. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are. you have to support its head.”

“i am supporting its head,” they growled through gritted teeth. “this thing’s just broken or something.”

you crossed your arms, trying not to lose your patience entirely. “great, so we’re already terrible parents and it’s only day one.”

C shot you a look of half-exasperation and half-amusement. “well, it’s not like we’re competing for ‘parents of the year,’ are we?”

“oh, trust me, we’re not even good enough to be in the running.”

***

by the end of week one, things had escalated.

“i can’t believe you dressed it in that,” you said, eyeing the baby’s outfit with utter disdain. it was a simple onesie, with little ducks printed all over it, but to you, it was the equivalent of committing some kind of fashion crime.

“what’s wrong with it?” C snapped, not in the mood for another one of your critiques.

“it looks ridiculous. you couldn’t have picked something more… i don’t know, neutral?”

“neutral?” C scoffed, narrowing their eyes at you. “what, were you expecting it to wear a three-piece suit? maybe a little tie and cufflinks? it’ll end up looking like a mini version of your dad.”

“at least it wouldn’t look like a clown.”

C threw their hands up in frustration. “oh my god, it’s a baby. it’s supposed to look cute.”

“that isn’t cute.”

“i thought it was cute!”

“well, it’s not. and now we look like idiots.”

“we?” C let out a sarcastic laugh. “last time i checked, i dressed it while you were too busy pretending to care.”

“i care!” you protested, your voice rising.

“really? because you didn’t seem to care last night when i was the one who had to stay up until 4 a.m.”

you crossed your arms, glaring at C. “i told you i had practice. we agreed that i’d take care of it over the weekend.”

“yeah, well, the baby didn’t get the memo.” C turned to grab the diaper bag, slinging it over their shoulder. “it’s your turn tonight, by the way. don’t be a deadbeat this time.”

“i can’t take it with me to hockey,” you said, your voice flat.

“then figure something out,” C snapped. “i have chess club to attend as well.”

you groaned, rubbing your temples in frustration. “this is impossible.”

“you’re telling me.”

***

come tuesday morning, you were a zombie. dark circles under your eyes, your body aching from both the lack of sleep and the lingering soreness from practice. when you met up with C in the hallway before class, you didn’t bother hiding your exhaustion.

“rough night?” they asked, though there was a smirk playing at the corners of their mouth.

“i hope you choke on your chess pieces,” you muttered, glaring at them.

they raised an eyebrow. “such hostility. it’s not good for our charlie, you know.”

“charlie’s fine. i’m the one who’s falling apart.”

“well, you’re supposed to be a co-parent,” they said, their tone teasing but with an edge of seriousness. “maybe if you actually tried…”

“oh, don’t you dare lecture me about trying,” you snapped. “you’re the one who left me with the baby for three whole days.”

“you’re the one who wanted the weekend slot.”

“it was monday yesterday!”

C opened their mouth to argue, but mrs. wentworth appeared before either of you could get another word in.

“how’s it going with little charlie?” she asked with a smile that was far too cheery for how sleep-deprived you felt.

“great,” C said immediately, flashing a charming smile that was only reserved for faculty members.

you shot them a look that could kill. “‘great?’ really?”

mrs. wentworth raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the tension. “is there something you want to add?”

you crossed your arms, biting your tongue. the last thing you needed was a lecture on communication from your teacher. “no, it’s fine. we’re doing… great, yes.”

“fantastic,” she said with a smile. “just remember, it’s important to create a healthy, loving environment for your child.”

as soon as she walked away, you turned to C. “loving environment? you couldn’t even be bothered to show up last night.”

they shrugged, unbothered. “i had chess club after school.”

you let out a frustrated sigh, shaking your head. “i can’t wait for this project to be over.”

***

the arguing reached a fever pitch by the middle of the second week. it seemed like every little thing about the baby was grounds for debate.

“you’re not holding it right,” C said, standing over you as you tried to rock the baby to sleep.

you sighed out in irritation. “oh my god, can you just back off for once?”

“i’m serious, you’re supposed to hold it like this,” they insisted, demonstrating with an exaggerated motion, as if they were some kind of baby-holding expert now.

“you do realize it’s not even real, right? the sensors won’t know the difference.”

“that’s not the point.”

you clenched your jaw, doing your best to ignore them as you continued rocking the baby. it was past midnight, and you were exhausted—more exhausted than you’d ever been in your life. who knew a robot baby could be this draining? C, on the other hand, seemed to be operating on a combination of stubbornness and sheer arrogance, unwilling to back down from any argument.

“why are you so obsessed with doing everything your way?” you muttered under your breath.

“i’m not obsessed, i just don’t want us to fail.”

“oh, please, we’re not going to fail because of how i hold the stupid thing.”

“well, it’s crying now, isn’t it?” they shot back, crossing their arms.

you glared at them. “it’s crying because you won’t shut up.”

C huffed in frustration, running a hand through their hair. “fine. you know what? fine. you handle it. i’m done.”

“who’s the deadbeat now?” you snarked as they started storming off to the corner. they stopped in their tracks when they heard you and, with a barely suppressed groan, stomped back to you.

“back so soon?” you asked in faux surprise before thrusting the baby toward them. “your turn.”

C rolled their eyes, grumbling under their breath as they resigned themself to doing the baby-holding now.

***

by the time the project finally came to an end, you and C were barely on speaking terms. the constant bickering, the sleepless nights, and the stress of trying to keep a fake baby “alive” had taken its toll. you were both exhausted—mentally, physically, and emotionally.

when you handed charlie back to mrs. wentworth, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief wash over you. it was finally over.

“well,” mrs. wentworth said, eyeing the two of you with a bemused expression, “i hope this has been a… productive learning experience.”

“yeah,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “something like that.”

she gave you both a tight smile. “i’ll be docking points for the… tension between you two. i did remind you that it’s important to maintain a healthy environment for your child.”

you and C both opened your mouths to protest, but she held up a hand. “no need to argue. you’ve both done enough of that already.”

as you walked out of the classroom, the weight of the past two weeks hung between you. it wasn’t until you were halfway down the hallway that C turned to you, not meeting your eyes.

“all things considered…” they started, their voice low and reluctant, like they were pulling teeth just to get the words out, “you weren’t that bad of a partner.”

you blinked, turning your head sharply to look at them, unsure if you had heard them correctly. the very same person who had spent the last two weeks criticizing every little thing you did, was actually complimenting you?

“wait, what?” you said, your voice dripping with incredulity. “did you just say something nice to me? are you feeling okay?”

C rolled their eyes, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of their lips. “don’t get too excited. i’m just saying… you didn’t completely screw it up.”

you couldn’t help but let out a dry, sarcastic laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “wow, high praise coming from you. if this was a real baby, it would probably be dead by now with the way we handled things.”

C chuckled softly, the sound catching you off guard. it wasn’t their usual arrogant laugh, the one that always made you want to punch them. this was different—quieter, more genuine. they shrugged, their shoulders relaxed as they glanced at you.

“yeah, maybe. but…” they hesitated for a second, their pale green eyes flickering to yours before quickly looking away. “i wouldn’t have asked for another partner.”

the words hit you like a slow-motion realization, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite process what they had just said. you stared at them, mouth slightly open, completely taken aback.

before you could ask what them meant, they were already walking off, their long strides taking them down the hallway.

“good luck for your practice,” they tossed over their shoulder, their voice casual, as if they hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on you.

you stood there, frozen in place, your mind racing to make sense of it. what did they mean by that? were they actually being sincere? and why did they say it like it wasn’t a big deal?

the hallway felt suddenly quieter, the distant chatter of other students fading into the background as you tried to wrap your head around what just happened. your heart was pounding a little faster, and you felt an unfamiliar warmth creeping up your neck.

why the hell am i getting flustered over this? you thought, shaking your head as if that would clear the confusion.

you let out a slow breath, your mind replaying C’s words: i wouldn’t have asked for another partner.

why did that make your heart skip a beat? this was C—the same person who had criticized every little thing you did, the one who would normally rather die than give you a compliment. and yet, here you were, feeling oddly flattered and confused.

you were about to turn and head toward the gym lockers to get your hockey gears for practice when you realized your hands were still clenching the care guide from the project. you looked down at it, then back at the direction C had walked off in, their figure now disappearing around a corner.

a small, involuntarily giddy smile crept onto your face.

maybe they weren’t that bad of a partner either.

#this is 100% canon #but since it won’t be included in the story #y’all can have it here #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #twine wip #interactive story #ro: c lacroix #ro scenarios

229 notes · View notes

muletia · 6 months ago

Text

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 — [𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑] ⊹₊⟡⋆

[tfp] yandere!soundwave x human!reader

summary: when soundwave returns in a sour mood you start wondering why do you even care. why do you care about him.

cw: yandere themes, captivity, isolation, reader's pov, elements of stockholm syndrome

word count: 960

[part 2]

Today, there’s something more human about him.

You noticed it right away, the moment he took his first step into his quarters. The calculated lethargy typical of him was left outside this room, replaced with a rigidity in his stride. His steps were faster, more aggressive.

He also skipped your routine greeting. Didn’t point to the tablet, nor gesture at the books with his thin fingers. He simply turned his head in your direction and looked at you for a moment. Your mind instinctively jumped to the idea of him looking for a scapegoat—a piñata to channel his simmering frustration. But he didn’t. Your interaction ended with a smile displayed on his face. That was all. No aggression, no violence, no crushing or death. He approached the keyboard and began working.

Under normal circumstances, he typed quickly yet lightly, pausing now and then to glance at you for updates on the movie you were watching, even if only ten minutes had passed since the last check-in. But something must have been different this time, because an hour passed. Then two, then three, and the giant remained laser-focused on the flickering screen, inputting data you couldn’t comprehend.

You’re reminded of the early days of your existence in these new conditions, when your only entertainment was watching him work. Back then, he wasn’t so protective, nor did he pay you much attention. He was a nightmare—a cold-blooded, emotionless beast that stripped you of your life and replaced it with a fight for survival.

But that was the past. Painful beginnings you tried not to dwell on. You wanted to focus on the present because you knew something was up. Something must have happened beyond your small universe that shook someone as stoic and composed as him. You knew your curiosity — and especially your concern — should end there. You should revel in his downfall, take satisfaction in the misfortune that befell him. It was the only possible form of revenge, the only way to feel a fleeting sense of gratification.

But you couldn’t. Because you saw humanity in his behavior. You saw yourself. You remembered all the times you’d been unsettled—when your steps quickened, when you reduced human contact, when your fingers struck the keyboard harder than usual. Even without context, you understood how he felt. It was terrifying, humanizing your captor, a faceless alien — a creature displaying the most human of traits. Yet, you couldn’t deny it to him, just as you couldn’t deny it to yourself. You were still human; you still felt, still tried to empathize, even if the subject was a gigantic, enigmatic robot. That intrinsic part of you, deeply encoded in your genetic makeup, was reaping its harvest. You just had to decide whether it was a good or bad one.

"Hey," you attempt. Your voice comes out uncertain, betraying your internal conflict.

The titan turns his head toward you, startlingly fast—too fast for your liking. His sudden attention strips away the last remnants of your courage. As he looks at you, waiting, expecting you to continue, you suddenly feel microscopic, recalling the dynamic between the two of you. You wonder whether you should drop the subject, let it go, and enjoy the rare day when he wasn’t bothering you. Pretend you came home from work and were watching a comfort movie. But as he stops typing and gives you his full attention, you realize you’re a coward. Because deep down, you do want to help him, even if it’s just with one question. But you’re held back by lingering fears, the remnants of a survival instinct that no longer belongs to you.

He tilts his head and leans closer to you—a wake-up call you needed. Was your lack of follow-up really that concerning to him?

"Is everything okay?" you finally ask, looking straight into the center of his "face."

He freezes, as if completely unprepared for such a question. Your concern is uncharted territory for both him and you, so his reaction doesn’t surprise you. It only serves to humanize him further, to draw you in with his awkwardness. And you willingly step closer to the trap.

A thumbs-up emoji flashes on the screen, breaking the awkwardness.

You smile faintly; his use of human emojis has always fascinated you. And your giant seems to read your mind, sending you an adorable :3 moments later.

You feel as though a weight has been lifted from your chest, taking the tension with it. You don’t expect him to always be in a good mood, even though, for a victim, such conditions are favorable for living. But seeing him like this makes you feel better. Lighter.

He extends an open hand toward you, placing it on the desk. An invitation you cautiously accept. The titan gently wraps his fingers around you and pulls you closer to his chest, where you’re forced to press your whole body against him. Another novelty, another uncharted territory.

He’s unbelievably warm, a stark contrast to the chilliness of the room. The necessity of embracing his strangely soothing warmth shifts into a choice. Because whether you want to admit it or not, he’s offering you comfort.

Your field of vision is limited, but you see him return to his workstation. Two tendrils extend, typing on his behalf, while his head remains focused on you. One of his fingers begins to stroke your back, tracing soft circles, studying your anatomy. He lingers over your shoulder blades, subtly outlining their shape. It’s a gentle curiosity you can’t deny him because you feel the same way. You want to know more — about his species, why he’s here on Earth. But above all, you want to know about him.

"Who are you?" you finally ask, uncertain if you’ll receive an answer.

#transformers x reader #yandere!soundwave x reader #yandere!soundwave

263 notes · View notes

lukeria314 · 14 days ago

Text

“And if dreams can come true — what does that say about nightmares?”

People who say that Chuuya must be able to dream are deeply mistaken and forget that he is an experimental project, whose life was sustained by liquid—and his REM phase wasn’t just reduced, dreams were eradicated from his brain entirely. He had no foundation upon which to build dreams. He lived in that tube like in a coma, unaware of anything except the fluid around him. His associative imagery simply didn’t form. He is blind in that regard. They took him as a child, and until adolescence, he sat in that tube with no memory of himself.

He doesn’t know how to dream. He has no reason to dream. He simply has nothing to dream with.

He may have developed chronic REM-sleep disorder because he never had a proper sleep cycle in the first place—it never developed and possibly never engaged afterward either. And without REM sleep, there are no dreams, even if you’re asleep.

Moreover, Stormbringer openly reveals Chuuya’s struggles with his sense of self. “Who am I?” And that “I” is the core of dreams. There are no dreams in which he could participate. He is like a newborn. He sleeps like a machine, just a robot. He has no dream-related brain activity. In this sense, he’s an eternal child.

The fact that he spent his entire life in a test tube also affects his height and weight. Starting with the basics: the body has no stimulus for growth. In fluid, under weak gravity, muscles and bones have no resistance to develop against. They simply don’t develop. On top of that, growth hormone is released during sleep. And as mentioned above, Chuuya didn’t sleep in the conventional sense—his state was closer to a coma.

Also, some of the hormones necessary for growth and development are produced through movement and proper nutrition. When a person doesn’t eat, doesn’t move, and doesn’t follow a circadian rhythm, hormonal signals become disrupted, and growth hormone production is suppressed. Add to this the fact that the cells don’t regenerate. Surrounded by fluid, with no oxygen, no micronutrients, no proper blood circulation or metabolism—cells can’t renew, be nourished, or receive the signal to grow. Hormones aren’t produced. Tissues aren’t stimulated. Nothing applies pressure or stretches them. Even if cells do divide, they remain in a suspended state, because without external stimuli, they don’t differentiate into specialized cells. They don’t mature.

In biological terms, all growth signals are dulled.

Now, seventh-grade physics: a body immersed in liquid is subjected to uniform pressure from all sides. Depending on the depth and density, this pressure varies. The fluid balances out the internal pressure of tissues—essentially creating resistance. This means tissue doesn’t “push” against its surroundings, because everything is compressed back. There is no space for growth. In fluid, as mentioned earlier, there’s no gravity. The body doesn’t know where up or down is. But all organs and bodily systems grow with orientation in mind. Without it, spatial awareness is lost.

And do you know why Chuuya’s mass might appear larger? Let me repeat the blobfish analogy. If the liquid he was suspended in was dense, then once he’s taken out onto dry land, where the pressure is different and the fluid no longer compresses his body, he would swell—only slightly, but still swell.

And to top it all off: asymmetry. The body stays stuck in one position. This leads to deformed limbs, a crooked spine, underdeveloped joints. The skin becomes thin, with no developed protective horny layer, leaving the body vulnerable to infections. Bones, without stress or load, become thin and soft—even hypoplastic. They never gain proper shape or density; they’re weak. The body was essentially preserved. Now, he has narrow lungs, potentially inverted organs (due to lack of gravity orientation), and even his face remains childlike.

It’s abnormal. It’s miniature. It’s asymmetrical.

People always overlook the key fact: no matter what kind of person Chuuya is, he’s still a child, subjected to experimentation by grown men—robbed of everything a “normal” child or human of his age is supposed to have.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd thoughts #bsd theories #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara #bungou stray dogs stormbringer #bsd stormbringer

68 notes · View notes

thedenofravenpuff · 3 months ago

Text

So, some thoughts on Femme Nights At Freddy's, so far

Most importantly on their Eclipse (imma call her Clipsy in this post for difference).

Is fun to watch how they are making their own story from what started as a one time gag that was supposed to be one-to-one with TSAMS, only genderbent. The retconing perfectly fine with me, as the characters and VAs find their footing as their own show for now.

And what was very exciting was to see their Femme Eclipse at last. Knew she was going to show up eventually, when knowing the model existed, back when it appeared in EAPS a couple of times already.

What I find very interesting is the way Clipsy interact with her Sunny and Moonie, compared to our OG Eclipse with the Prime Sun and Moon.

Already the vibe is much less true villain and mostly just a trickster annoyance.

In the Prime Dimension Eclipse messed with Roxanne to ruin Sun's chances with her, just to make her suffer. On FFNAF Clipsy merely pranked Sunny to mock her taste in men, doing nothing to Roxas besides stealing his looks for a bit. Then locked Sunny and Moonie up in the green room to go play with Moonie's portal. Where we get Moonie calling out "You could have just asked!"

Already this interaction is much more like a prank, than what Eclipse would do to Sun and Moon in the past, to make them suffer. Everything Eclipse did was with the strong bitterness he felt towards them, wanting to destroy them for the suffering he had to deal with himself.

Meanwhile we have Clipsy running around laughing gleefully and generally seeming to have a great time existing.

Which makes for an interesting difference, that had me considering some possible big factors causing this difference. Of course is merely just my personal thoughts on a show that's still retconing itself and figuring out it's own lore by a lot of improve and just moving with the flow.

The Eclipse we know and know.. Is not a happy person. Created to the great trauma of waking to conscience with the horrifying awareness that he was purposefully abandoned, unwanted and one button press away from being deleted as nothing more than inconvenient malware. A great trauma even Eclipse V4 still carries, as we have seen in his nightmares (his claims not to sleep because robot speaking volumes to me on this), even after having experienced dying several times, this is still the greatest trauma he has. His very birth his worst experience, as he has desperately clawed for survival and a right to exist ever since.

It messed him up so much he took his own code apart, the Killcode part he was born from, to free himself from its threat, and create Bloodmoon. A being of pure bloodlust that cannot be tamed.

As he worked his plans to get back at Sun and Moon for the crime of HOW he came to exist, he further tore his own code apart by removing the parts influenced by Sun. Seeing Sun's positivity and joy as weakness, he removed his own ability to feel such, and instead used it to create Lunar as a counterpart to himself as well as Moon. Damaging his own ability to be happy and show it.

Now... This does not sound very much like the Clipsy we met on FFNAF. And I find this very interesting.

Made me come to some conclusion, such as.. In the Femme Dimension, the Killcode might never have existed. Something else must have created Clipsy.

Clipsy did declare she was indeed created in the codes of Sunny and Moonie, and how the boredom of being stuck in someone else's head is her excuse to act out the way she does, when having her own body to run around and cause chaos.

She's not viewed as a big threat, not the same way Eclipse was. An annoyance at worst, for running her own show with no care for rules. And as mentioned earlier, Moonie telling Clipsy she could just ask to use the portal, aka she's not banned from interacting with the others nor their tech. They just wished she was more polite about it, instead of doing pranks for her goals.

Another factor in why I don't think we'll ever meet a Femme KC, is Moonie's reaction to Moon's comment on the latest game video on EAPS, where Moon says "not first time I murdered a child". Moonie's response being a shocked "WHAT?!"

Same to the additional comment of Moon mentioned it wouldn't be Eclipse's first assault on a child.

The violence that's such a big part of the story on TSAMS, does not exist in the Femme Dimension.

Clipsy went through a different arc than Eclipse, leading to a very different story and why the interactions between Sunny and Moonie with Clipsy, compared to the crew on TSAMS and their Eclipse.

Clipsy didn't carry the trauma of the Killcode, when awakening to sentencing. Possibly gained her own body much earlier than Eclipse. Not having the threat of the Killcode hanging over them, already created a lot of different paths compared to the Pillar lore of TSAMS.

Of course this very much would mean no Femme Bloodmoon too

I do feel Clipsy still did something to herself, as the others have mentioned the existence of Lunar in their dimension. But clearly Clipsy had no reason to remove her ability to feel joy, as she's clearly having a great time messing with the cast on FFNAF.

What else make her so different from Eclipse?

She's fearless.

She used Moonie's portal to drag Monti along into a Phobia Dimension and came out laughing, after Moonie and Sunny already discussed how the Phobia Dimension wouldn't have any horrors for Clipsy to face. She wanted to go back in, for more!

Eclipse is heavily traumatised and fearful in his very existence, coming off as bitterness, anger and paranoia. Ruined himself by removing parts of code that could had let him feel simple joy and happiness, because he saw it as weakness, fearing such feelings would lower his guards too much.

Clipsy instead.. Removed the fear itself. She's fearless, she has no phobias or trauma to a point that an entire dimension that exists to make people face their worst fears, have no negative effect on her. Meanwhile Monti is ready to kill Moonie for simply having that kind of dimension saved on her portal, after less than a minute of the horrors.

Lunar exists in the Femme Dimension, but created from a different coding than the Lunar we know. She's created from fear and worry.

Of course this is just my conclusion drawn from just one episode of Clipsy's first appearance, based on how she differs from the Eclipse we know. And how difference have Sunny and Moonie differ from Sun and Moon too.

And the thought amuses me to imagine a nervous and paranoid female Lunar, created with the coding Clipsy removed from herself to not have her own joy and fun ruined by trauma and phobia.

Now, the show is still finding its own footing, and much can still change as we get more episodes. Very possible this isn't the thoughts they made for Clipsy and Luna. Is just my thoughts on what has been observed so far.

I look forward to seeing where things will go from here as they keep exploring the possibilities of this new show.

Thanks for reading.

#PuffBlog #TSAMS #FFNAF #Femme Nights At Freddy's #Femme Eclipse #Femme Dimension #Ramble #Puffy Rambles

94 notes · View notes

aliceinborderlandsquidgame · 2 months ago

Text

Winner ? | Salesman x Wife!Reader

Summary: A lesson its needed.

Warnings: Canon violence - Dark!Salesman - Husband!Salesman - Unhealthy Relationship -

"Player 015 its the winner" The robotic voice says, but you cant even start to understand what just happened.

You killed someone. Not a game. Not a times up. Not a team. You. Blood its on your hands and under your nails. The body of the other player (now being removed from the arena) its a sign of it.

You cant hold it. Splash of vomit comes out from you with some tears, you want to scream, you want to hurt the ones behind all of this.

You dont think when you run towards the guard who falls back with you on top of them as you try to hit then. The guard does their best to defend themselfs. Having orders on not to hurt you too much. Its only when the fresh hair hits his face that he freezes and so do you.

He is young. Younger than you. He seems scared, because you have sealed his fate as a guard. His life will end tonight. Not that you are aware of it.

You can only look at him your brain processing the fact that this person was during the last days one of the many faceless shadows that caused terror in you and others. But also, you cant process how...human he is after all.

Two more guards remove you from him as you twist screaming for them to let you go, you feel a cold syringe on your neck and things go black. Your only memory in the chaos of your mind is how you ended here and who made it happen.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~

Before your nightmare there was peace. In the shape of an aparment. You being the wife of a Salesman. Him being the perfect husband and you his wife.

Fights did happen, like any couple, part of it was fight and made up. You two would come stronger after them. Like your fate with him was even more secure.

Till something did change. Maybe it was you. Or him. Things started to fall apart, you were no longer happy.

This happens too. Sometimes love cant save it all. And your marriage was failing. You wanted out. Your days were no longer the happy ones. The days were you would wake up, kiss him goodbye and do your wife things.

You stopped finding happiness in buying things. You saw how empy your heart was at the end. Even if you could purchase the most expensive thing....

The money was not yours. What you eat and made was not your option. The clothes you did wear at the end were also a selection of him for you.

You felt like these birds from a Pet Store. Trapped in a cage with food and water. But never happy.

He was not on with the idea. He tried for the good side. To talk things out. To give you more freedom, in his words he was just looking out for you. Someone like you would never understand the cruel world. The terrible people out there. The dangers of it.

And you would never notice it. Not when your own husband was one of them. The danger he have told you to look out. The cruel human who would pass his time playing death games with others. Someone who got joy in the misery of others.

"You hurt me, my Dear. With how much I have tried to protect you, care for you. Was I not enough?" He asked passing around you. His aura giving out a predator sense. "Maybe you need a reality check, once you experience this you will understand"

Next thing you knew you were in a room with other people a track suit with the number 015 on it. You lived hell and saw it too. Saw the worse in others, the killing, the betrayal, all of it.

For the first time you did experience hunger. And for a moment you did consider stealing from others. You lived the days with a smell of rotten corpses and blood. You lived the horrors you had seen in movies.

By the time you woke up back in your (and his) aparment. You were clean, he most likely had bathed you. He had that same look. Like he was expecting your reaction. But only one would make him feel SATISFATED.

You went to him, crying as you hugged him and he hugged you back. Telling you just how dumb it was from you to even want to leave him. And how sorry he was to have sent you to a place like that one.

He promised you to never do it again. As long as you behave and you with a trembling voice promised it.

Your life was his after all. And if he could sent you to hell and after it be like nothing then there was no way of knowing what else he would do.

#squid game imagines #squid game x y/n #squid game x reader #the salesman x reader #the recruiter x reader

64 notes · View notes

muzetrigger · 4 months ago

Text

Shakespeare, but in Space with Giant Robots and Sapphics!

Yes, this is about G-Witch (Spoilers incoming).

I probably this mention way too often, but I teach English, and occasionally, that means I get to teach Shakespeare too! And what better way to teach Shakespeare than with anime?

Now, if you're a fan of G-Witch, you've probably heard that it's an adaptation of The Tempest, but let's do a quick review just in case.

Miranda - The Tempest (1916), by John William Watterhouse

The Tempest is play written by William Shakespeare around 1610-1611. It's usually classified as a Tragicomedy and centers around Prospero, the former Duke of Milan.

Why former?

Well, Prospero has a brother called Antonio who collaborated with Alonso, the King of Naples, to exile Prospero and usurp his dukedom.

Why is the King of Naples handing out dukedoms in Milan despite being on the opposite end of the Italian peninsula, a region renowned for its intensely antagonistic city-states?

Because shut up. (I have no idea)

Anyway, Prospero is forced into exile on a remote island with his daughter Miranda, but years later, Alonso and Antonio happen to be on a ship passing nearby the island and Prospero shipwrecks them.

How?

Well, Prospero is a literal wizard. (This is maybe why the king agreed to exile Prospero because he was spending too much time reading instead of, y'know, governing.)

So Prospero conjures the titular tempest to wreck their ship, only he doesn't really wreck it, he just separates everyone on board for his vengeance.

See, Alonso and Antonio aren't the only ones onboard. There's also Ferdinand (Alonso's son and the Prince of Naples) and Sebastion (Alonso's brother). Prospero isolates Ferdinand then lures him to his residence on the island where he manipulates the prince into falling in love with his daughter.

Well, it's a bit more like love at first sight between Ferdinand and Miranda, so Prospero actually plays the overprotective dad role to make their relationship more satisfying, which is Prospero's real goal. By marrying the two of them, he essentially reclaims his and Miranda's noble status.

Oh, and he also lures the rest of the ship's passengers into an illusory banquet before trapping and subjecting them to hellish nightmares. Eventually, he lets them out and chides them for their betrayal before revealing that he's married Ferdinand and Miranda. Then he calls the ship back with all of its crew still alive and they get ready to return to "civilized" Italy.

One of the things that makes the ending of The Tempest interesting though is that Prospero also chooses to give up his magic when he leaves the island. Many view this as an metaphor for Shakespeare's own creative powers. After The Tempest, it's believed that Shakespeare stopped writing plays on his own, and when Prospero gives his final speech, he requests that the audience release him from the play.

Anyway, here are the characters in the play:

And here are the characters that actually matter:

Character Portraits from Classical Comics' The Tempest - The Graphic Novel (2009)

Hey, there are two other characters I haven't talked about yet!

Well, their names are Ariel and Caliban.

Sound familiar?

That's right, the Gundams in G-Witch!

In The Tempest, Ariel and Caliban are Prospero's servants. Really, they're his slaves, though Prospero treats Ariel a lot better on account of Caliban attempting to rape Miranda in the past. That being said, the island is actually Caliban's home. In fact, when Prospero and Miranda first arrived, he taught them how to survive on the island before being enslaved.

Prospero frees both Ariel and Caliban at the end of the play, but he spends much of the play alternatively strong-arming and complimenting Ariel into executing his revenge plot while Caliban plots to murder Prospero for his own revenge, forming the comedic subplot of The Tempest.

There's a lot to unpack about imperialism in The Tempest and which aspects Shakespeare reifies and criticizes in the play, but here is a very basic relationship chart to go along with this very basic summary.

SO WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH WITCH FROM MERCURY???

Well if we turn to the Witch from Mercury relationship chart we get:

And hmm, doesn't that fit like a glove? There are actually a ton of parallels between the two stories aside from names:

Prospera's group, the Vanadis Institute, is betrayed by Delling leading to Prospera going undercover on Mercury

Both Delling and Prospera's daughters also fall in love and get married

Suletta's school bucket list is a parallel for Miranda's fascination and excitement for a "brave, new world"

Suletta's sacrifice at the end of the series disables the local GUND format devices and mirrors Prospero giving up his magic

Vim Jeturk attempts to assassinate Delling and Sebastion attempts to kill Alonso are both supposed allies making a power grab

The GUND bit clones are eerily reminiscent of the host of spirits Prospero also controls

Gundam pilots are referred to as "witches" while Prospero is a literal wizard

Gundams are banned because they cause data storms

And the tension between Earthians and Spacians is a mirror for the exploitation and power dynamics under imperialist rule in much the same way that Prospero's control over Caliban and Ariel is

Now, obviously The Tempest and Witch from Mercury are not 1:1 stories. You may have even noticed that Delling is on the relationship chart twice.

Why?

Well, Witch from Mercury's characters often share multiple roles with their The Tempest counterparts.

Of course Delling is a stand in for both Alonso and Antonio, but we later learn that Aerial is actually Ericht Samaya, Prospera's first daughter, and that Prospera's big goal (aside from revenge) is securing Eri's future and freedom (and the big reason that Ariel goes along with Prospero's revenge plot is because he wants to be free). That makes her both an Ariel and a Miranda analogue.

Prospera is obviously a stand-in for Prospero, but she's also a reference to Sycorax, a character who never makes an appearance on stage, but is the sea witch who gives birth to Caliban and traps Ariel in a tree. Even though Prospera is scheming for Eri's freedom, she's also the person who put Eri in a Gundam frame in the first place, as well as being a Gundam pilot/Witch herself.

Miorine shares Ferdinand's place as the next in-line to a fantastically powerful position, but her relationship with her father is much closer to Miranda and Prospero, not only in terms of gender, but also in rebellion.

And Suletta is actually an amalgamation of 4+ characters!

She's Prospera's daughter and she's filled with wide-eyed wonder at exploring a new world, so she's part Miranda, but she sacrifices her "magic" at the end of the series like Prospero. On the other hand as the Holder, she has to fight for Miorine's hand in marriage to prove herself like Ferdinand does.

But most of all, Suletta is Caliban.

Obviously, Suletta pilots the Calibarn at the end of the series, but more so her character arc mirrors Caliban's.

For one, between Ericht and herself, Suletta is by far the less important of the two to Prospera, similar to how Prospero by far favors Ariel.

She's also mostly* a tool for Prospera's revenge. Of course there are a couple of nods that Prospera, and Ericht in particular, care about Suletta, but she is an Eri-clone and she was created to fulfill Prospera's designs.

But, Suletta also comes into direct conflict with her mother at the end of the series. Her motivations couldn't be any more different from Caliban's, but ultimately, she takes up arms against the person ruling her life in an attempt to reclaim some agency, and unlike Caliban she succeeds.

One of the things I really enjoy about G-Witch is that, despite it's very rushed second season, it reimagines Miranda, Ferdinand, and Caliban in much more active, influential, and sympathetic roles. They aren't just pawns in Prospera's schemes; they have their own agendas and are willing to step far out of line with their inspirations in order to achieve them.

I could also talk about how Miorine and Suletta are more fully realized Anthy and Utena's because guess what?

G-Witch is also a Revolutionary Girl Utena adaptation!

But that's a separate post I need to write.

Coming soon!*

*probably never

So for everyone who thinks that Shakespeare is just a collection of forsooth's and weird toxic romance, I raise you Giant Robot Space Lesbians* (they're actually bi don't @me)

74 notes · View notes

revelboo · 6 months ago

Note

Your fics helped give me the extra motivation I needed to start reading MTMTE and omgosh im loving it SO much! And I was wondering if mayhaps I could request a fun thing with Skids :D? (only if you feel up for it of course!) Maybe the reader very suddenly and spontaneously getting caught up in whatever he's getting into (its just a plot hook im always a sucker for) idk, but I do know whatever you do write with him will be gold

18+ 🌶️

Hysteria

IDW Skids x Reader

• So far, so good. Though how he’d ended up the defacto negotiator is beyond him. Offering a smile to the multi-limbed organics, careful to not show his denta in case they find it offensive or threatening, he hands over the crate of tech Rodimus and Megatron had okayed to gift as a peace gesture. Most of it so outdated to be of no consequence or outright broken. Not that the slimy, little aliens will figure that out any time soon. He and the Lost Light long gone by then through the heavily guarded space. Bending into a bow to their leader even though he still towers over them, he hears a sharp cry and follows the sound. Seeing a human being dragged along by two of the aliens. And realizing the job is about to go sideways.

• Fighting against the leash, you scream when you fall and are dragged by the ugly monsters. This nightmare never ending. You’d been driving and then the next thing you know, you’re here. Wherever here is and surrounded by slimy monsters. Hearing your tormentors making a rasping chirp before a shadow falls across all of you. Because apparently things can get worse. Now there’s a giant, blue robot looming over you, frowning as he gestures at you and rasp-clicks something in their unintelligible language. Judging by their gestures in return, they’re arguing. Over you? You’re not sure who’s worse. The slimy monsters or the robot. At least the robot likely isn’t going to eat you, no telling what the others wanted with you.

• “Yeah, no. That’s a human. It’s uh, mine. It wandered off,” he lies. Because even though he’s almost sure this human isn’t one of the ones from the ship, he can’t exactly leave you with these savages to frag or eat. Or both at the same time. “So, I’ll just take it back now.” And they hiss at him, one reaching for a weapon. So much for not starting an intergalactic incident. “Ah, frag it.” Drawing his own weapon, he opens fire and grabs you, running as aliens start shouting. Radioing the ship as he goes, aware of the human shrieking. “Fire up the engines!”

• Dangling from the robot’s hand as it runs with you swinging sickeningly at the end of his arm, you scream your head off. Because the giant is shooting at the smaller aliens, they’re shooting back, and you’re in the middle of it. Aware that there’s profanity amid your screams, cursing him, them, fate. That you’re about to die by some stupid sci-fi bullshit. And then there’s more robots, armed to the teeth as your, you really hope, rescuer runs toward them and a huge ship.

• “We sent you so there wouldn’t be an incident!” Rodimus yells as Skids runs to cover. “I could have just sent Whirl if I wanted to start a war!” Which is fair, but still hurtful as he lifts you to his chassis, Rodimus seeing you and swearing. “I’m going to fragging kill Brainstorm. How are they still showing up?!” Glancing down at you and your pale face, you make a funny choking sound and repay him for saving your life by hurling on his hand.

#transformers x reader #skids x reader #mtmte skids

176 notes · View notes

tactical-jellyfish · 18 days ago

Text

Injuries (drabble)

Warnings!: Injury described, canon-typical violence (you know, like war). Nightmare. Comfort. Off-screen kiss on the cheek. Swearing. [~2.2 k words]

Beneath your haunches, the ground is trembling with the force of the cracking bullets in the air, vibrations blasted through tainted oxygen so hard that they infect cracked concrete and really test your hearing protection.

The firefight is one of the nastiest you've seen yet. A concerning amount of the fire you hear is decidedly not cover fire, cracking off the (former) concrete pillar and it's collapsed sibling that are turning out to be nearly-perfect cover, even if there's more rebar and mesh than you would like.

Your comms are trying, poor things, but there's little to be done, and you know it when Gaz's voice cuts as he tries to relay orders to you. Or, hell, maybe they were orders, you couldn't hear shit through the static either way

Boot soles grit against sandy concrete as you try to bite out a return message. Position compromised, you try, but the words don't leave when you see what looks like a medium-sized stone tossed over your barrier.

"Fuck!"

You try to run, but the comm's wire (and with it, your hearing protection) is snagged, pulled out by a burr of rebar breaking through the pillar's surface, tangled hopelessly in the mesh.

There's no time, and still, you try.

Always assume that a grenade tossed at you has two seconds or less till it does its best to turn you into red mist.

You had forgot.

And still, the blast is never quite as small as you think.

There is no pain in the immediate seconds after, and you silently thank deaf ears in the heavens for adrenaline, until you spot a movement a few meters away, peeking out from a corner.

It's automatic. Your rifle bends to your wills, a machine that is operated by an equally robotic entity. One of blood and one of metal. The way real warfare has been for thousands of years.

A body hits the floor, but you don't hear it, you see red painting the forehead, leaking through a too-weak helmet. You hide behind the more upright of the pillars, before watching another assailant burst from the corner, shoulders shaking as they grab their dispatched colleague by the shoulders, shaking them helplessly as though to will life back into their body.

Once more, you take a shot, and there is no miss.

It's a somber thing, but there is no time to offer condolences or sympathies, not when the broken box of your comms finally figures something out and flashes a yellow pinprick for you.

Evacuate ASAFP. You May Or May Not Be Important Enough To Wait For.

A twinge hits your arm as you lower it, and a wet warmth floods the area, but there's little time for that now. Having a chunk of grenade in your arm is preferable to being dead, by far.

Running has always been good for you.

You've never liked to sit still, not at work. The movement is what prompts the blood in your veins to pump, your heart to follow with hummingbird-fast beats. The burn in your lungs, it's what makes you real.

But, at the same time, the ache in your arm has taken time to grow as it stains your uniform with a deep red, forcing a sharp pain up your nerves and into your brainstem with every thump of your boots against the cracking ground.

You switch your rifle to your non-dominant hand, but it does little once the high of adrenaline starts to fade, and your foot also starts screeching its protest, weakening with each forced stride, no matter how much you push forward.

The helicopter is already raring to take off, and you try to shout out to your team, but you can't hear yourself.

Your foot hits the floor one last time, and flash of agony is so intense that it forces what should be another cry from you, but once more, no noise hits your ears.

Knees buckle, fabric is scraped off with skin in tow, and your damaged body lays heavy on the ground.

Another boot appears in your peripheral, and you try to look up.

Just before the face comes into focus, a particularly nasty gush of blood leaves the wound in your arm, and takes your vision with it.

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

The floor beneath you is inky black, and cold.

A boot thuds down right before your face, and Price's face comes into focus, bristly bearded and bristling with rage.

His voice booms from seemingly everywhere around you, like you've been plugged into a surround-sound system made in hell.

"Rookie, whot the hell were you thinking, going in like that? You knew your coffin'd be empty if you died, right?"

It's so loud your ears are already starting to ache, the noise piercing every fiber of your being and rocking your cells with the vibrations, tearing your muscles apart from the inside.

A sharp sting spreads through your foot, but your neck refuses to allow you to look as muscles lock up, and another face steals away your attention, even as the pressure mounts.

"Ah, Cap, they're green. Might well bury'em alive. Sae's the time, aye?"

Soap's face is different. Low-sitting eyebrows pinched down, but a wicked smile present on thin lips, practically reveling as the floor seems to swallow you whole.

You know the laughter you hear, but it brings no comfort when you see Gaz cackling next to the Scot.

God, he looks so pretty when he laughs, and it does nothing but twist the knife when you watch him lean against Soap, before looking down at you.

"It's alright, luv. Some people just... don't make the cut. Way of the world, innit?"

The comfort is false, you know it is, but your damaged heart takes it anyway, to somehow make believe that it's not your fault, that you had just aimed too high.

When Ghost appears, there's no more defense you can give yourself.

As usual, the only thing you can see is his eyes. Light brown like mud that's just about to crack, honeyed when the light hits just right.

He says nothing, but he turns away, and some part of you can't allow that, even as the room starts to pivot on some axis you can't see.

You try to reach forward, to plead, but your voice doesn't work, and your legs are stuck, sinking into the black with no foreseeable way out, rotating faster and faster, a bug spiraling down into the drain.

A grating, long BEEEEEEEEEP floods the space around you first, painfully high-pitched and absolutely unbearable because it seems to match exactly with the ringing flooding into your ears.

You're certain that there are a few specific parts of your body that ache, but in the haze of painkillers, it's a simple dullness.

That being, until hands are on your shoulders.

Price stands above you, brows pulled down in worry, lips tuned in a stiff frown, and he speaks.

"------! - ------- --- ---- ----! --- ---- –"

He pauses when he watches you fail to acknowledge what he's saying, staring up at him with a pinch in your brow, eyes calculating as always, but now trying to put together what he's saying.

"-- --. ---, ---- -------! ----'-- --- -----."

Price's head follows a movement you only catch the tail end of. A body leaves the door, walking quickly, but there's no squeak of boots on linoleum.

His hand is under your chin, then, gently guiding you to look back up at him, baby blue eyes full of sympathy, a fatherly sort of concern that looks oddly welcome on his weathered face.

Price is slow to move, making sure you watch as he gently takes the plastic cup from the crappy nightstand beside the stiff bed your body lays on, taking a mock sip himself before holding it out to you.

Something is wrong, but you reach out a lead-heavy arm anyway.

It doesn't work very well, but thankfully Price catches it before it can spill.

It's humiliating, sure, but you still sip when the plastic rim kisses your parched lips.

You don't look, but if you had, you would see John smiling, reassured, ever so slightly, that you'd be alright. Not quite the v-shape you had come to know, but close enough.

You smile back, in turn. Weakly, but you do.

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

Soap spends a good deal of time in your room, in the first few days.

It's like he refuses to let hospital food actually be eaten by you, with how he keeps on bringing over his leftovers and heating them up in the microwave down the hall for you.

The first time, it's soup. Then, a stew, a little thicker, with some bread, which is followed by a simple sandwich.

But that's not all. He's joking with you the whole time, smiling as you come back into being a person again.

Yet another day, and the door opens.

The trial hearing aid planted in your ear does little to muffle the ringing that has become characteristic since your injury, but when the hinges squeak, your tired head snaps over to the Scot in your doorway.

"Fuck. Simmer down some, hen o' mine. Don't stare at me like that. I got ye sumthin'."

Your curiosity is met with a chuckle, and a small, wrapped package being set into your lap. After a few seconds of stillness, he gently prods you to open it.

A book of sudoku, crossword, and other puzzles. "To pass the time," Johnny says fondly. "Gotta keep the brain sharp, I'm sure."

He's sat beside your bed, and for once, you dare to do something new. You reach for his shoulder with an arm, and pull him into yourself.

That's the first time you have the balls to hug someone you work with.

He hugs you back.

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

The diagnosis is only half shocking.

To you, that is still much too shocking to be comfortable, but Gaz, by your side, is much more active than you, in the discussion.

"Nerve damage? To what, specifically?"

"They can recover, right?"

"Would you recommend surgery or physical therapy? Both?"

"What's the timeline before they can have a re-evaluation for service?"

John had insisted that someone went along with you, and the Lieutenant was out training with Soap. So, that left Gaz.

He's a very good patient advocate, really, and at some point, you start looking at him in his seat beside you instead of paying all your attention to the doctor.

The white light is the pure opposite of flattering, but he manages to look good because of course he does, he's Gaz.

Brown eyes suddenly snap over to you, and his lips turn down slightly in concern before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, jostling you just enough to call you back to reality.

"What? What's- is something wrong, Garrick?"

Your voice is a little rougher than usual, not properly pitched as per usual, but enough.

He sighs lightly, but starts to smile softly when he does.

"Your hearing aids are in, right luv?"

"Y- I- I think so?"

"Ringing or no ringing?"

"It's- mate, it's not supposed to go away for a few weeks, I don't think."

Your voice is a bit more practiced, that time. Better.

The doctor, across the desk, pauses in her scribbling on the notepad (you're sure they think they're writing something, but there is no way that those are words), and looks up at you.

"Dead right. I'm glad you're well-read on your condition."

Her voice rings out once, and in the quiet, an alarm rings.

"Shit. I am so sorry, we're running over and I need to get to my next appointment. I'll see the pair of you again in a week, alright?"

You nod, but Gaz, on your side, seems just a bit ticked by the ordeal, but he takes you with him, already whisking you off into the café to get you some actual food.

And hell, if you kiss him on the cheek when he drops you back off at your room for the night, that's alright. Your little secret.

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

"I swear to God, I'm gonna fucking kill you, Lieutenant."

Your punches hit the bag repeatedly as your words bite from your lips, sweat-coated and annoyed.

"Not until you hit your previous times, sergeant."

Ghost, bastard he is, is training you again.

Sure, you're out of physical therapy now, and sure, you do want to train, but he's just such a bastard about it.

A particularly hard swing is where you focus that annoyance, and the bag very nearly comes back for your face.

He stops rocking on his heels, and the relative silence is soon broken.

"Good for the day."

He declares, and you look back up from the red, padded synthetic leather, brows furrowed.

"What?"

"You wanted to be done for the day, right? You're done."

You stand, confused and maybe a bit upset, hands still wrapped up tight.

"No, I want to earn being done for the day. I was annoyed with you. Those are different."

There is a shift of the fabric of the mask you see, indicative of some sort of real facial expression.

"You're going to do just fine, rook."

His voice is warmer, this time.

#x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #tf 141 x reader #x gn reader #hurt/comfort #fluff #john price #john price x reader #injury

46 notes · View notes

noneorother · 2 years ago

Text

Oh my god, season 2 is The Tales of Crowley Hoffmann

I guess this has to be a series now too. Part 1 l Part 2

When Aziraphale wants to perform a show-stopping magic trick in S2E4, he is shown the "Professor's Nightmare," a rope trick, and references "Prof Hoff himself" at the end of the minisode.

Because we love double meanings so much around here, I decided to actually watch the Powell & Pressburger epic opera film "The Tales of Hoffmann," assuming it was the another P&P easter egg and the other Hoffmann (not the magician) that was being referenced.

One, this movie is unhinged. Two, this season IS The Tales of Hoffmann. Allow me to explain...

There are shot for shot quotes literally everywhere throughout the season.

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Automaton Ball) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Ball"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Hoffmann watches Stella perform) & Good Omens Season 2 "The one with the zombies"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Clerk in Automaton Ball) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Ball"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Antonia, Hoffman & Antonia) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Clue Crowley & Aziraphale"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Prologue) & Good Omens Season 2 "The one with the Zombies"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Giulietta Banquet scene) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Clue Banquet scene" *By the way Hoffmann wears a goatee for this tale

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Prologue "Dragonfly dance") & Good Omens Season 2 Prologue "Before the Beginning" *This is Stella and un unknown devil drangonfly, NOT Hoffmann

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Antonia) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Clue"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Tale of Antonia) & Good Omens Season 2 "The one with the Zombies"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (Automaton Ball) & Good Omens Season 2 "The Ball"

P&P The Tales of Hoffmann (End credits through Hoffman's glasses) & Good Omens Season 2 end credit scene.

Stella & Aziraphale. This one makes me laugh.

There are SO MANY MORE, but tumblr has an image limit. Seriously, it's nuts.

2. It seems simple and straightforward, but it's not at all

" Why would ambitious filmmakers simply film an opera? Many admirers of the work of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger have assumed that their decision to make The Tales of Hoffmann (...) was in some way an admission(...) that they couldn’t go on making their edgy, over-the-top melodramas after the rejection and interference they’d suffered (but) there’s a case for considering The Tales of Hoffmann as one of the finest and boldest works that Powell and Pressburger produced, so far ahead of its time as a wholly “composed” film, combining visual and musical elements, that it has still not been fully appreciated... Late in his life, Powell himself said that he thought it was one of the best films that he and Pressburger had made. What makes the film so remarkable is a series of paradoxes: the fact that it virtually reinvented the freedom and fantasy of silent cinema while making full use of Technicolor and a stellar cast of dancers and singers..." - Criterion, The lives of marionettes

3. The structure of the story is the same as the show

Here is the story of the Movie** (Not really the Opera that inspired it) In the prologue, we see the dance of the dragonflies onstage at a ballet. Count Lindoff (very bad dude) is spying on both the principal dancer Stella, and the audience member Hoffmann (who's admiring her). Lindoff is behind the scenery. During her dance, Stella passes a love note to her assistant for Hoffmann. The bad dude intercepts it out of jealousy. During the intermission, Hoffmann goes down to the tavern next door, watched by his sort of buddy in red, Nicklaus. People ask him to tell stories to while away the time, and so he tells 3 stories (actually four but we'll get back to that).

We launch into 3 tales/minisodes in other times and places : 1. The Tale of the Ball of the Automaton where he falls in love with a robot. He is humiliated. 2. The tale of Venice (Giulietta) where he falls in love with a courtesan/double agent who crosses him. 3. The tale of Antonia, where he falls in love with a girl who feels trapped by her living dad, her dead mom and a mysterious bad dude (Lindoff). She is murdered in a ring of fire, but becomes a ghost and is resurrected and sent back to earth. At the end, we snap back to the tavern in the real world. Hoffmann reveals that these three women are all metaphors for how he feels about Stella, his true love. He's drunk and depressed now, thinking she never sent for him after the show. Stella arrives in the tavern looking for Hoffmann, ready to run away, but now accompanied by Lindoff (dressed as an angelic figure) who followed her. She looks to Hoffmann to save her, but he's too blinded by the fact that he doesn't think she loves him back to pick up on the signal. He gives up, and she goes back up the stairs guided by Lindoff. Her assistant (who was bribed by Lindoff at the beginning) is given the go ahead by Lindoff to go back to the tavern and taker over. They close the door to the tavern, while she walks up ethereal stairs with the bad dude. THE END.

The one story that doesn't fit into the minisodes and is told in the real world is Kleinzach. We understand by the end of this one that this is Hoffmann's self loathing about never being good enough for Stella, because Stella is perfect and Hoffmann is ugly and deformed. The main love interest attempts to steal Kleinzach's essence through a mirror by the end. 4. Powell & Pressburger recast four actors in new roles In The Tales of Hoffmann, P&P decided to recast four of the principal actors/dancers from the film The Red Shoes in new roles, wanting to recreate the magic that they brought to the first ballet film. Sound familiar?

5. Crowley is Hoffmann

"The Tales of Hoffmann" original 1881 costume concept for Hoffmann & Crowley costume sketch for S2E3 1827 Edinburgh. Glasses are a really important aspect for Hoffmann in both the opera and the movie versions of The Tales of Hoffmann. Hoffmann is gifted metaphorical magic glasses that he wears to be able to perceive his love in a way they aren't really in real life. In the opera, he wears dark glasses to shut out the real world, not just as a metaphor. Check out a modern day version of the opera's Hoffmann costume :

He's french and slamming a beer but you get it. Crowley also canonically loves watching movies. It would make so much sense that his minisode recountings with him and Aziraphale would resemble different styles of movie that he loves. Seeing as we see him drive away at the end as the last character, an argument could be made for him being the ultimate narrator of the story in season 2.

6. The original American release of The Tales of Hoffman had 14ish minutes cut out of it by the studio. So we all know by now that whole debacle about having the clocks jump 14-15ish minutes during the kiss?

"The Tales of Hoffmann found an audience far wider than expected, despite Korda’s misgivings about the movie’s running time and his decision to cut 14 minutes out of the film for its American release." - Criterion, The Tales of Hoffman

I have been unable to unearth what the difference between the American & British versions of the P&P Tales of Hoffmann is, if you know let ME know. I want to know! _____________________________________

And I HAVE SO MUCH MORE. This is long enough already so I'll save the more detailed stuff for a new post.

**The opera is a whole other beast. You can read about it here, but basically there's a lot more going on in the opera because the composer died before finishing it, and multiple versions exist after the original uncompleted score got lost IN A FIRE. Anyway. Here's part 2

#good omens meta #good omens season two #art director talks good omens #go season 2 #good omens 2 #go meta #good omens season 2 #go2 #crowley x aziraphale #anthony j crowley #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale x crowley #crowley and aziraphale

518 notes · View notes