#especially the love between the parents

[ennaih]

Not Every Film I Watch In 2024

32. Migration (2023)

[puppppppppy]

renaissance dogys

characters belong to @canisalbus

[quesocheeso]

Pre-concept (Subject to Change)

Both Macaque and Xiaotian (MK) live in FFM full time unless there’s a special event happening in the celestial realm that requires the royal family being there.

since FFM is a laid back type of kingdom, both Macaque and Xiaotian wear normal clothes, nothing fancy especially not the type of outfits they wear back in the celestial realm

Bonus:

Wukong misses his husband and child L

[my-name-is-apollo]

I know Ares being Zeus' least favorite child is a popular interpretation, but I think it's interesting that Callimachus' hymn says otherwise:

And thou didst not tremble before the anger of Hera, who murmured terribly against all child-bearing women that bare children to Zeus, but especially against Leto, for that she only was to bear to Zeus a son dearer even than Ares.

– Callimachus, Hymn to Delos (trans. A.W Mair)

Only Leto would bear a son who would be dearer to Zeus than Ares is. Which means that the sons that other women bore were not as dear to Zeus as Ares is, if I'm interpreting this correctly. It's honestly kinda fascinating.

[sealxraccon]

Hate being late to fandoms, because while it’s great that there is already so much written, the fandom has often slowed down considerably. The fandom is not dead, but there is maybe 2 updates a day when there used to be 20.

Also don’t like when there is a large amount of works, but nothing for a specific scenario. Not even anything really specific just like how is there next to nothing where they breakup and take 50 chapters to get back together. Where is it? Why is everything so fluffy? Even though I like the fluff, sometimes I need a good angst fic to cry my eyes out were the characters don’t die, because I also like a happy ending.

Or maybe it’s just because I mainly ship women and those ships are so often background pairings that I feel this way. Like I’m out here licking up crumbs in fics were my pairing isn’t even in every other chapter.

I know this is a problem for certain fandoms only and not fandom in general, but sometimes I really feel like that one meme with that guy poking something with a stick. Like move, shows signs of life dammit.

Also I know some people are going to think or say to just it yourself. But I’ve tried and found out that while I’m great at outlining and over all plot points, I’m bad at connecting them and my writing resembles those essays you wrote for a grade the night before in 8th grade. Aka pure and total garbage, that were at best average only because you went to a poorly funded school where your fellow students did not get a good education like I did.

[queenlucythevaliant]

Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down. 

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived. 

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out.  “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?” 

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset? 

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

 .

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him. 

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.  

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

 .

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

 .

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say. 

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

 .

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food. 

 .

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

.

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands. 

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

 .

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway. 

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say. 

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now. 

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered. 

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room. 

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters. 

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her. 

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?” 

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”  

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

.

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years. 

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl. 

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint. 

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to. 

.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet. 

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you�� can’t…say…how…much. I… know.” 

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try… 

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

[crimeronan]

kind of a tragedy that ao3 didn't exist in the 70s and 80s. i know people say it would be a horror story to find your parent's ao3 but honestly as long as you avoid anything E-rated until you're like the same age they were when they wrote it you'd be fine. my mom has an old yellowed manuscript of the extremely generic high fantasy novel she painstakingly wrote on a typewriter at age 15 and i've read it twice. her self insert was a side character tough warrior catgirl named "catchild" who had a sword and always rode on horseback and could talk to feral cats in the main character's village. are you telling me you guys would find ABSOLUTELY NO DELIGHTS in the OP deviantart OCs that your disco 'rents came up with.......

[hetagrammy]

This might be controversial, but I've never had this idea of Britannia as being a particularly warm maternal figure. Like, I think she definitely loved her kids, but she was more concerned with their survival than with letting them be children if that makes sense. Her way of showing love was trying her damndest to protect them, and to make sure they could survive on their own after she was gone. It was less explicit "I love you"'s and more compliments on their progress or stern scoldings when they'd gotten themselves into danger. The British Isles Siblings are hard pressed to remember the last time their mother hugged them or sang to them, but they remember her pressing a blade into their hands, kissing their foreheads, and telling them to be brave. They know their worth because of her, but what tenderness they gained they learned elsewhere.

[tinybirbwrites]

Losing Control (batfam/reader)

this was part of that one idea i talked about a while ago. it’s unfinished, but i thought i’d share it anyway. small warning for language and mild violence, also attempted sexual assault but it’s not very detailed and doesn’t get very far.

tried keeping reader genderneutral, not sure if i missed anything.

hope you enjoy reading!

____________

The first time it happened, I got angry during training. 

Sparring with anyone from the batfamily would rarely lead to a victorious outcome—they were too experienced, too talented, too ambitious. I didn't expect to win, but a tie would be nice. And yet, I always ended up on the ground, or trapped in someone's hold. I rarely landed a hit myself, and barely managed to dodge. 

It was frustrating, and more often than not, I found myself getting angry at the guys for never giving me a chance, but mostly at myself for being so weak.

But never had I blacked out like this before.

One moment I was on the ground, pressed down by Jason's weight, the next I was standing upright and staring down at him, his chest beneath my foot. He was frantically tapping my leg, and I realized that I was pressing down on his ribs hard enough to break them.

I immediately stumbled backwards and sat down, trying to recall what had happened, while Jason groaned and sat up. He didn't seem hurt, thankfully, just out of breath and surprised.

“Well,” he said, “that one was new.”

We didn't get to talk about what happened afterwards.

It was getting late and I was on my way home when it happened again. I remember being followed and touched by three tall guys, terrified to the point of being unable to move, to defend myself. 

Next thing I knew, all three men were on the ground, knocked out with broken noses, covered in strange bite marks and scratches. I called the police and went home, scared and confused.

_

The third time it happened, Damian was yelling at me because I had made a mistake. It was on patrol, and I usually stayed back so I wouldn't get in the way, but Dick had told me I should get involved more, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to learn anything new. But of course I had made a mistake, and Damian thought it necessary to burn it into my brain. 

I loved Damian, but I hated being yelled at. The anger came easily, and next time I opened my eyes, I was being held against the wall by Bruce himself. 

“Calm down,” he said. He was using the Batman Voice, sending chills down my spine and making me go limp immediately, scared of having made him angry, and scared of what I had done this time. Was Damian okay?

Luckily, Damian was unharmed, but he looked a bit pale and kept staring at me with wide eyes. 

I told Bruce about my blackouts that night, so he took me back to the cave to run some tests.

_

“The causes are high surges of adrenaline,” Bruce stated calmly, “In other words; anger, or strong fear.”

“So I'm the Hulk now?” I scoffed, but it just turned into an exhausted sigh. Bruce had taken some of my blood and insisted on doing the tests now instead of waiting until tomorrow. I was about ready to pass out.

“I want to see the effects up close in a safe environment. Only that way will I be able to tell what's happening to your body.” Bruce was already walking towards a platform with a big cell made out of see-through, bulletproof glass. 

“Can this wait until tomorrow? Please?” He stopped and looked back at me with a frown. “I know this is important, but I really need some sleep, and I don't even know if I can make it happen on command.”

He considered me for a long moment, making me squirm under his piercing gaze, before he finally nodded. “Go.”

_

“Damian?” I whispered, lightly knocking on his door. He had been sent away to bed early, leaving before I could apologize for what had happened. “Are you awake?”

The door unlocked, so I slowly opened it. Damian was already back on his bed, lying down with his back leaning against the headrest, arms crossed. He avoided my gaze, stubbornly staring at his feet instead.

I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, unsure where I stood with him right now. Was he angry? Upset? Scared? 

“Damian,” I started cautiously, “I'm sorry. I don't know exactly what happened, but I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Wasn't scared,” he mumbled. 

I couldn't help but smile. “Okay. But it's alright to be scared, you know that, right?”

He just gave a grunt. 

“You also know I love you, yes? And that I'd never want to hurt you?”

He pulled his legs closer to his chest, turning his head away more. I could see his embarrassed pout before he could hide it. 

“Damian?” I pushed gently. He let out a breath through his nose and mumbled something incoherent.

I slowly sat down on his bed near his feet. “What did you say? I didn't catch that.”

“I said,” he sighed, talking louder and more clearly, but still not looking at me, “that it's me who keeps hurting you. I knew that, but I didn't really see how much I hurt you until earlier today.”

He looked at me then, eyes full of shame, “I do not understand how you can still care about me.”

I was taken aback by his genuine words, as I was so used to his harsh shell. He rarely showed any softness or openness to anyone, aside maybe from Richard. I lifted a hand to gently cup his cheek, and he leaned into my touch like a cat.

“You're complicated to get along with, I'll give you that,” I said, “But I can see your heart, Damian. And I want to keep it safe. I know you don't always mean what you say, and no matter how much some things hurt, I will always care about you.”

He frowned, giving a thoughtful hum. “So you're just going to take the beating?”

I sighed. “Well, I don't want to, but what am I supposed to do? Yell at you? Besides, you don't always want me getting all emotional like right now. If I don't want to lose you, I'll just have to roll with the punches and deal with it and not take it personally.”

Damian gave a huff, then started shuffling around and pulling at my arm until I was lying down with him, letting him curl up in my arms and press his face against my collarbone.

“I will… try… to be less… harsh,” he muttered into my shirt. “I... don't want to lose you, either.”

_

“High adrenaline surge caused by anger is the initial trigger. It seems a part of their brain falls asleep, but the rest stays active, controlled by an unknown force that has yet to be understood. Physical changes are getting more apparent the longer they stay in that state. Increased length and sharpness of teeth, especially the canines. Aggressive behavior, borderline animalistic. No usage of vocabulary, only hissing, growling and snarling. The skin on both hands and arms starts turning dark black after one minute, and after three, the same happens to the eye whites, gums and tongue. It’s like tar slowly seeping out from every pore, covering what’s underneath.”

Bruce's notes were highly concerning, to say the least. He had kept a close eye on me the whole week, until, inevitably, I got angry during training yet again. He put me inside the cell and observed for twenty minutes, before getting me to calm down.

‘Getting me to calm down’ meant he sent Dick to make cooing noises at me until he got close enough to give me a hug. Miraculously, it worked wonders.

_

“You guys want me to listen to ASMR the whole day? So I won't get angry anymore? You do know that's not how it works, right?”

Bruce had invented a device that could comfortably be worn on my person, monitoring my vitals and sending a distress signal to the closest member of the batfamily in case my adrenaline got to critical levels again. Meanwhile, the boys had apparently unanimously agreed on a strategy on how to keep me calm, meaning they had put together a playlist with ASMR and calming ambience videos for me to listen to whenever I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise. 

It was really sweet, but whether it was actually going to work was a whole nother question entirely. 

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Jason shrugged, then grimaced at his own words. “Fuck’s sake, I sound like Alfred.”

_

Dick and I were on an undercover mission. It was a small one, just for one night, in which we'd have to do our best to get some information out of Subject A, a thirty year old rich woman in a red dress and big red hat, and Subject B, the owner of a big company and the husband of Subject A. 

Both were insufferable, absolutely the worst. Dick was a natural at being charming and disarming, so he had no problems with talking to either subject, though I could tell by the way he would clench his jaw whenever he smiled that he was just as annoyed as I was.

Me, on the other hand, could not stand another minute in the same room as either of those two. So I told Dick I would be getting some fresh air.

And because I had the best luck in the world, some lonely rich guy followed me outside and kept talking to me, and kept creeping closer to me until he was fully in my personal bubble, completely unprompted. 

“Oh, you look cold,” he said, and because apparently he thought he had the right to touch me, wrapped an arm around my waist to press me closer to his side, “Maybe we should go back inside? Or maybe I could bring you home, hmm? You seem lonely, like me.”

Everything about this guy was creeping me out. He smelled so heavily of cologne that I wanted to gag, and he kept breathing into my face. 

“I would very much like to be alone, to be honest,” I pressed out between clenched teeth, already feeling the familiar pounding in my head. “I did not give you any permission to touch me like this, so please, kindly back off, sir—now.”

He was murmuring something about reading my body language and subtext and getting clear signals of sexual interest, but I could hardly even hear him anymore over the pounding in my ears, my vision already fading more and more into black, as my adrenaline started to rise. 

Then, suddenly, the man was being pulled away. Then I was being maneuvered to a more secluded part of the outside area, somewhere out of sight, and Dick was standing in front of me. He was holding me by the shoulders, gently squeezing and closely watching my eyes. 

He was saying something, but I couldn't hear him. I could feel my teeth sharpen, a growl rising from my throat, hands clenching and nails slowly growing into claws. 

I wanted to find that disgusting piece of shit and rip his eyes out. I wanted to cut off his prick and feed it to him until he would choke to death—

Then Dick was holding my face with both hands, leaning closer until our noses were almost touching. I could hear him now, gently shushing me like a parent would to calm their crying baby. His familiar scent surrounded me, filling my senses, calming me. I relaxed a little. My anger was not directed at Dick. I knew I was safe with him.

Then he let go of me to search his pockets, quickly pulling out his phone and putting his earbuds in my ears. A few seconds later, the sounds of rain droned out the rising violence in my mind, making the back of my head tingle and the hot anger boiling in my chest die down until my physical transformation went away as well.

I sagged against Dick's chest, feeling tired all of a sudden. I waited a little longer, relinquishing the feel of relief and calm washing over me, while Dick wrapped his arms around me to stroke one hand over my back, the other holding me closer to his chest by my neck. 

Eventually, I pulled the earbuds out and gave them back to him. I sighed, “I hate that I'm a ticking time bomb. You can't always be there to make sure I don't go off.”

“I don’t mind,” Dick said, helping me stand up. “That’s what family’s for, right? We got your back. With B’s device, there will always be someone there to help you out. If not, you can always call, no matter what time it is or where you are. If all else fails, you know what to do to help yourself.”

I let myself lean against him for a few moments longer, enjoying the comfort he brought, before straightening myself up with a sigh. “Thanks, Dick. I guess… let’s finish up here, huh?”

He grinned. “That’s the spirit!”

[riverrunscold]

favorite thing about dbd Fandom is seeing people's headcanons of killers hanging out between trials. They're a family to me :,)

[wildflowercryptid]

the daughter of the king, xerneas's beloved child... she loved all pokémon, but floettes were undoubtedly her favorite...

[altschmerzes]

If Roy and Ted start sharing a bed when Roy stays over, is there an instance where Jamie ends up in the middle after like a bad dream or something? Or maybe that’s weird for like a 16 year old… idk now I’m just thinking out loud

first off i dont think that’s weird at all! we never really grow out of needing to be supported and comforted by the people who are important to us, and i know people who’ve done this sort of thing seeking comfort from their parents during times of extreme stress and trauma into their twenties. it’s one of the things that’s been interesting about writing this fic and characterizing jamie particularly once he’s gotten close to this new support system in his life - how to balance that he’s 15, 16, 17 years old and seeks independence and self sufficiency and also has a lot of reasons to be ashamed of a desire to seek comfort or a rejection of anything he sees as making him weak or childish and at the same time he’s a kid who’s been chronically starved of care and affection and that’s. a vital need for kids, even teenagers. sometimes especially teenagers. (i may or may not have spent quite a bit of time online reading psych and sociology and like. Parenting And Family Resources to get a handle on some stuff and verify if my hunches are accurate or not XD)

which is to say yes absolutely that’s on the horizon. not often, but sometimes, when things are bad and his need to be a kid taken care of and protected by his parents overrides his fear of being seen as a baby or bothering them. he remembers one of his friends getting broken up with via text while he was over for a sleepover and going and watching them leave the kidgang to go to their parents room bc they’re upset and want their parents. and if that’s okay, maybe this is okay for him to do too.

(ted and roy thoroughly encourage it any time jamie will admit to needing or wanting something. moments where he comes to them when he’s scared or upset, voluntarily seems out comfort are absolutely everything to both of them, especially given how hard it is for him to do)

[deus-ex-mona]

the constant emphasis on the can of alcohol though… it’s like it’s telling us that yuko’s too deep in her vices/self-indulgence that she’s completely oblivious to how much her younger son loves and cares for her…

[inkykeiji]

.

[russell-crowe]

And I know if I come up with an idea in the moment when the cameras are rolling, he's watching me and he will see where I'm going and he will get on that radio and say: [imitates Ridley] "Camera four, right, move right, get that, get back, get that. Push in, push in, push in. Right, thank you." And I know he'll do that because he's on it all the time. So there's that sort of thing which is just simply a trust. But he hasn't asked me to do any other movies after this one. So it may well be five it is and five it stays.

Russell Crowe on working together with Ridley Scott

[goldendoodlerlockerlove]

Absolutely obsessed with the fact that Gene looks just like Bob when Bob was younger. A lil’ mini Bob!!

That’s just so adorable to me 🥺❣️

I like to think that he’ll look very similar to Bob when he gets older, but they then, won’t even mind!! He’ll actually enjoy looking like his balding old man 😌