#lazy written

[lazywriter-artist]

Chapter one

Homecoming

Finally.

The warmth of the Terran sun slowly bathed over the trio as they stepped off of the ‘Macragge’s honor’. A number of ultramarines stood tall in salute as the three Primarchs passed by. Guilliman felt as a lump formed in his throat when his gaze trailed over his sons, and up to the golden palace of Terra. By the throne. This looming sense of dread could not be shaken from the back of his mind, not helped in the slightest by the masses gathering and gawking as if this were some glorious parade, but he couldn’t turn back now. Guilliman couldn’t even begin to imagine what the masses thought of his brothers, of Magnus... He and his brothers had made it so far already, and father couldn’t be left unchecked. Not anymore. They had to do something, anything, to make father grow up and get a grip. Sigh. Such a state of mind was one Guilliman would have never thought himself capable of fabricating on his own…that was until now he supposed.

You know, it was strange to be by Magnus’s side again…much stranger to the gawking, watchful eyes of the Terran populace they walked amongst, no doubt. He was pretty sure most didn’t even know of Magnus…and even fewer expected…such a form as the one his brother undertook now. He knew even after the arduous journey aboard the ship, with time to readjust and remember his brother’s figure, it still caught him off guard at times. Guilliman was just glad Dorn seemed to be taking it well too, there had been some tensions upon the reunion that had worried Guilliman. Even now, while Magnus had agreed to help them, Guilliman could feel something was not entirely honest in the why…but he trusted Magnus. He couldn’t place why, after millennia of what felt like confirmation to the contrary of trusting Magnus’s judgment, his mind still placed faith with his brother. Maybe it was a longing for a past that never was, or something that could have been. He did not want his mind clouded by the fog of ‘what if’s. They were in the now. Though…even still, something trusted Magnus. Perhaps, he could sense a burning passion that coursed through even Dorn in their conversations of father’s ill behavior, thus forming a burning and quiet pact that they needed to make things right, even if they all had different reasons.

…

Yes. That was it, Guilliman decided. They united themselves under the trust of their quiet pact. Their pact to rectify father’s behavior. Precisely…

His thought spiral was disturbed as there came the cheers of some Terran civilians at the sight of the three- well, he supposed Dorn and himself were the main reason, but he wanted to try and think of this as merely a mission like they used to go on. Before… everything. When they were still brothers. Well- certainly they were all still brothers, it would be foolish to insinuate they weren’t still related and tied together by their father’s blood coursing through each of them. Though…even more foolish would be to deny that there wasn’t a change in the way they spoke to one another now. Thinking about it this way? The idea that they were merely returning home to the praise of dozens for their work after using each of their strengths to save some distant far off world? It made the things he was about to do feel just that little bit more honorable. Just- just don’t think about it. They were simply reporting back to Terra after a successful mission with Magnus and Roboute merely having a long itemized list to report back to father with. It was a wonderful mission, he decided, the planet had greeted them with great kindness and open arms. That is why the civilians cheered. They were merely so successful and had done such a great job making peace that all the cogs fit nicely into place, no casualties at that. Yes. Didn’t his brothers recall? Simply a check up, a peace mission. You rarely get to go on those! Father will be glad to hear about it. Yes. yes he will…

Roboute felt that lump form again in his throat at the thought, when did his armor get so tight? He didn’t recall Terra being so hot. He felt like he was cooking in a portable oven. His gaze ran over the heads of his sons once again. Over the heads of the populace. His sight shot back and forth between the towering buildings, the bustling walkways, his mind churning through all the little noises he heard. The quiet chatter. The screams of joy. The pushing and shoving. The footsteps. The gasps, the idle street conversations being halted— he felt like the world was spinning around him. Like there was nowhere to go– was he always so light headed?

Oh dear.

He couldn’t keep deluding himself like this, could he? No…The cheers being silenced by the heavy stomps of Magnus behind him told him so. The fearful gazes of horror and some semblance of disgust when they caught sight of his brother told him so. The way his body perspired and muscles contorted in ways he never thought possible for a primarch told him so. The way his gaze landed back upon those towering, glimmering pillars of gold which concealed his father, who he never in a million years thought would use that grandiose booming voice of his to echo orders down the bustling halls again, told him so. Deep down, as much as he dreaded to admit it, His own senses told him so.

Taking in this acceptance, he’d draw a deep breath, his mind shutting out the ambient noise. His eyes focused forward as he’d quickened his pace. Reminding himself as he walked:

Steel your nerves, Roboute Guilliman. There is work to be done. You have never shied away from your duties, especially duties to better your home. Finish your task, with great care as you’ve always done. Steel your nerves, Roboute Guilliman.

Master list || Chapter select || Chapter 2

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

From the Neil Gaiman: Dream Dangerously :) (you can watch it here in US or with US vpn :) <;3) (or just this bit on youtube here :))

Terry Pratchett: One day he rang me up and said, "I've started a book and, I think it's good, but I haven't the faintest idea where it goes." So, I said, "All right, well, send me the pages." And I read it and wrote him back and said, "I don't know where it goes either, but I do know what happens next."

Neil Gaiman: I was pretty much nocturnal then, so I would write my chunk of Good Omens before I went to bed, and I'd go to sleep about five o'clock in the morning and I'd get up about one o'clock in the afternoon and my answering machine would be flashing on, and I'd press the button and a voice would say, "Get up, get up you lazy bastard, I've just written a good bit."

Terry Pratchett: We did it as a kind of holiday, because if it crashed and burned, nobody would notice.

[baskeigh-ball]

posting some mind swap doodles to prove im still alive, so have a few headcanons :D

- Leo in Mikey's body is pure chaos, he has no boundaries when it comes to modifications to "his" body in order to feel more comfortable in his own skin. For example, he gave himself his old markings to cover up Mikey's spots (only around the eyes tho, the arm and leg markings would take way more time.) He loves using Mikey's mystic powers/weapons at first, but eventually feels too weird about it and switches to his own weapons/gear to cope

- Mikey reins him in whenever he gets a little too confident in using his mystic powers though. Mikey is always hovering nearby to make sure Leo doesn't decide to go overboard, fully aware of Leo's lack of awareness when it comes to his physical limits, let alone when he's in someone else's body

- Raph is on the opposite side of the spectrum as far as modifications go, only willing to give Donnie his tech back and wear arm wraps to feel more like himself.

- The only tech he has to keep is the battle shell, especially after realizing just how fragile Donnie's body really is. He becomes refuses to take it off for days at a time, and when he does finally take it off, he's extremely paranoid and puts himself in the safest spot possible: his own room, bundled up in pillows and blankets.

- He also is woefully ignorant in how the battle shell is operated, so it goes haywire pretty often in the beginning. Donnie has to be nearby and ready to be damage control for a long time before Raph becomes confident enough to operate the battle shell's most basic functions.

[beastenraged]

Back in the museum arc, Soleum doesn't appear to be a huge fan of cosmic horror overall, considering that he went "ugh, this one was a cosmic horror in the wiki, wasn't it?"

And that attitude makes perfect sense with how he approaches ghost stories. He wants to understand them, and that understanding is how he gets through them.

In the museum, it's all about figuring out what the cultural idea of the first floor would be to escape through the front door. Getting out of the Tuesday Talk Show (the first time) is about appealing to the host's feelings as a creator. He gets tagged as a friend by the blue dragon mascot for following the rules of their world.

His successful story is focused completely on seeing the monster students from their own POV.

No wonder he doesn't like cosmic horror, which is a horror focused around how you can't understand the terrible thing.

But imo, that might be what makes him more vulnerable to corruption. Corruption which is very cosmic horror mechanic, matching up to the madness that the concept usually gets called in such stories. Because not only is he putting himself more at risk by exposing himself to ghost stories in a way most of his coworkers never will, he doesn't like the concept that corruption operates off of and might be likely to ignore the risks as a result.

That is: having more knowledge of the horror is what destroys you. When having more knowledge is how Kim Soleum survives.

[anitalenia]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𝒄𝒘: sexual content ahead, husband!bale!batman, fem!reader on top, riding, some dirty talk, soft sex, not my best writing but fr fr don’t come for me im just trying to post things okay? ahhhhhhh 😔🤚🏻 maybe some typos 😚 i oughta be ashamed of myself fr fr 😔😔🤚🏻🤚🏻 ₊˚⊹♡

₊˚⊹♡ 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆; eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy.

Labels. These were all just labels Bruce never particularly cared for nor paid attention to, monickers used to try and simplify who he really was so he could be easier understood. Labels used to better classify him because rich men like him supposedly didn’t have depth or purpose beyond what the media claimed him to have.

They were just labels, words that barely scratched the surface of who he really was.

Bruce had been called many things in his life, too many awful and offensive things he had quickly learned not to pay attention to. Caring gave them meaning, he was told so early on, caring gave them significance. Now, he really couldn’t care less.

Throughout the course of his life, throughout all the tragedy and grief, Bruce had learned to ignore it all; the names, the judgments, the looks, the labels. His indifference had become second nature, an innate response to anybody trying to provoke him.

He didn’t really have a choice anyway. There were too many people praying on his downfall since his birth, too many people biting at the fruits of his labor to see if they were ripe enough for the taking. Selfish, greedy, money hungry men desperate for his demise.

Sharks lurking in untamed depths ready to snatch him up if he swam too far, hiding in the black shores with their sharp teeth bared and beady eyes hungry.

Despite what many people believed, Bruce didn’t have it so easy in the sense of work and spirit. When you were rich like he was, famous like he was, as powerful as he was, everyone believed you couldn’t possibly be burdened by anything.

That he was too spoiled by the grandness of life that it had gradually bled into a lack of work ethic, that it was his last name that gave him any status at all, that it was his reputation that gave him everything he had without him having to ask for it.

He had the money to fix any problem, the influence to hide any scandal, the face to get him out of any situation he needed to get out of.

He was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for gods sake, son to Thomas Wayne, a man that was great and beloved all in his own right. Yes, people had doubted Bruce’s ability to lead, to run a business after so long of being away from it, but then he came back and proved them all wrong as he usually did.

Being someone so honorably renowned in Gotham City, someone that carried the Wayne name at that, it came with its own barrel of familial obligation and responsibility outside of his own personal commitments. He couldn’t disappoint anyone, could never fathom disappointing his late father.

Working by day a normal man with a bullet on his back, a price on his head to any hungry buisness man willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. Then working by night as Batman with the bruises and scars to show for it. Someone every criminal and lowlife in Gotham City wanted dead.

Batman, not so much a label as he was a separate being entirely. It was Bruce, but he couldn’t find any similarities between the polite buisness man wearing a suit by day and the other man wearing a blood stained mask by night. One was forced to coerce with society in the manner of business and passive aggressive smiles, another undertaking the grueling task of removing the grime from it.

Bruce Wayne was all expensive cologne and hand shake deals, money hungry tabloids and self absorbed white collars. It was a life always on display, always the center of attention, always everyone else’s focus.

Batman was purely mystery and intrigue. Hidden from sight yet found in every shadow, heard in the trembled whisper of every breath. No one knew who he was yet he had somehow gotten all of their attention. Everyone eager to know who was behind the mask but no one ready to answer for why he existed in the first place.

The only similarities they shared were the cause for conspiracy. Whether it was Bruce or Batman they stole every headline — always someone trying to figure them out, bring their true identity to light and spread more moral quandary about whether they were right or wrong for every choice they made.

Pure opposite lives he juggled in the same two hands.

No, he did not have it easy. Always more enemies than friends and more snakes than family. Every hour, every minute, every second he spent left exposed there was always someone right behind him ready to push him if he faltered.

He had to be careful; always be passive and nice, diplomatic and respectful to those he knew wanted him gone, to the people who wanted his seat at the head of the table and the money in his bank. Bruce had to be the CEO his father wanted him to be, the one he was destined to be, the one etched into his history before he was even born.

He had a reputation to uphold, a legacy to live, a job to do.

But no, it was not always easy.

Being rich and handsome like he was did have its downsides, as meager as they may seem to less fortunate individuals. Many people hated Bruce Wayne just for those simple, superficial things alone. His looks, his status, his job he was so rightfully given. Apparently this made him an asshole, arrogant, narcissist.

It was looks of hatred and envy from men he’d never even met, women he’d abandoned after a steamy two hour hookup (not that he did those anymore but women loved to hold a grudge), businessmen who cursed him to hell and back for his amount of wealth and fame he had no control over.

He didn’t care about these people anyway. These rambunctious, single minded people who preyed on the weak and ate the hopeless. They were all self centered, arrogant, narcissistic. Self absorbed scum unwilling to put in the hard work necessary to be as successful as he was.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Bruce was often regarded as someone lonely, someone lost, someone desolate and pitiful. He was a coward, hiding in his soulless black mansion under thick piles of money ever since the fatal death of his parents. So sad, an orphan, just depressing.

That was hushed whispers behind his back and somber stares, awkward, harrowing smiles from coworkers and the front pages of newspapers. Bruce Wayne back from hiding after all this time… living on his father’s name… will he fail or carry on the legacy of the great Wayne fortune… yada yada yada.

Just more words. Pointless and purposeless, written to appease the swill of Gotham with no real substance behind them. Gossip, false news, attention grabbing headlines that were purely speculation.

However, as much as he hated labels — more so his — whatever names he got called behind his back, Bruce couldn’t find it in sensible reason to argue that they weren’t pieces of who he really was. Fabrics of his character torn out thread by thread and poked and needled at by societies curious hands.

They were just pieces, stretched and torn so far from the truth but yet the original strings were still there, hanging on in remembrance of what he truly was chaotically intertwined in the lies and deception of what people thought him to be. Too shredded to be properly understood but still thriving in the undercurrents of whatever he was now being labeled as and people were now foolishly believing him to be.

Yes, they were just labels. But labels that were not so far from factual truths.

However again, none of those words mattered to him as much as this did, as much as the one label that he truly cared about.

Husband.

Your husband.

The only title he held in the same esteem as Batman and Wayne Enterprises CEO, perhaps even higher. It was one of the only labels that carried a semblance of true meaning, one he didn’t shy from.

Husband. It was the only honorific that mattered to him, one of the only sentiments that made him feel actual pride in who he was. Husband was something real, concrete, not some anonymous opinion in a paper or a cruel murmur in a hallway.

It was the label that pierced him through and through especially in moments like this, moments when your hips were rolling deeply on top of his and he was buried balls deep inside your warmth.

He couldn’t think about anything in this moment. Nothing and everything at the same time as your finger nails, freshly manicured and glittering, gripped into his shoulder blades as you rolled your hips once again.

Bruce winced pleasantly, jaw clenching as his head leaned back into the softness of his black silken pillows. Brown hair frazzled and stringy, his smooth skin alight with a soft, lovesick glow.

You rolled your hips once more in a soft soothing motion, nothing too rough and nothing too fast; the evening had called for something more sensual in the delicacy of Bruce’s touch and the softness of his words just an hour prior.

“Oh Bruce…” You sighed dreamily, hands pressing into his bulky arms as he sighed out a trembled breath from his nose.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, his heavy hands squeezing your hips but not as to pressure you, only to keep you connected to him at the hilt so he was never too far out of you.

“That’s good, sweetheart, get it just like that… mmhmm.” Bruce swallowed heavily, voice low and raw as his eyebrows furrowed over darkened hazel eyes. Fingers thrumming on your skin as you pulsed around him, wetness seeping out of your full entrance and gliding down his length until it could leave a memorable darkened patch on the sheets.

You whined quietly, voice high pitched and greedy as the length of him filled you up and pressed into every soft wall surrounding him. He was always thick, always perfect, always felt so fucking good it made your muscles tense and spasm.

You rolled your body in that delectable way he liked once more, barely moving yet every part of him felt the sparks of pleasure thrum through his skin and make his thighs lock up.

Bruce groaned hotly at the action, eyes flickering down to the wet mess of where your pussy was sucking him in. It was messy, glistening, shared arousal in white strings of mutual attraction. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass from where it sat perched on his strong thighs.

“Mm, fuck, honey.” Bruce breathed out gruffly more to himself than you when the sight of your wetness smeared all over him made his heart spike.

You didn’t respond, chin down to your chest and eyes closed as you focused on the pleasure in your own lower regions, the fullness and heaviness that filled you up and refused to part.

“Ohhh, feels so good-“ You gasped as a heavy spurt of pure pleasure sparked up your tummy, hole clenching around him tightly as an obscene gush of wetness leaked down his cock and onto his thighs.

Bruce licked his dry lips, eyes staring up at you heatedly; at the tightness of your shut eyes, the sweet moans gasping out of parted lips — lips, lips that were glossy and plush from all the needy kisses you shared with him just a mere moments ago.

He was enraptured by you, by your naked physique all soft and sweaty on top of him but he didn’t care. You were just so beautiful, pussy so perfect wrapped around him, squeezing his cock so good it made his mind fog up with indescribable pleasure.

“Yes, sweetheart, god, yesss…” Bruce agreed huskily, his head resting back on his pillow once more as you bucked your hips. His thighs tensed, toes curled, a grunt sounding in his throat as his hips rose to further dig himself inside you.

He couldn’t help it; like a soul to a light he sought you out, your warmth and tightness so snug and comforting around him he didn’t ever want to be apart from you.

You whimpered at the intrusion, nails digging into his skin in a painful sting that Bruce was too fucked out to really notice.

He swallowed hazily below you, eyes closing then opening to look down at the way your pussy molded into one with his hard cock as you rocked gently against him. Deep inside you where he was meant to be, stomach and pelvis and thick thighs soaked with your gushing arousal.

Fire shooting down his legs and tummy with every soft bounce back down on him, illicit wet noises sounding in the room with every desperate grind.

He loved that sound, your wetness mashing with his thick base. But not nearly as much as your melodic sounds gasping out every so often because his cock made you feel that good.

His mouth was terribly dry from his own grunts and moans, handsome face and muscular chest flushed pink, the air so so hot he could feel his own dark hair sticking to the dew on his fevered head.

His hands, big and clammy, dug into the soft fat of your hips to help you dig into him in that way you both liked, the one that had you both gasping hotly into each others mouths as you leaned down to give him another sloppy kiss.

You couldn’t quite get it right though, too distracted by the feel of him so deep inside you that your lips stuttered on his. Moving messily against him as you whined into his mouth once more, the tip of his cock so high up inside you it almost hurt.

He was always so big, so round and tall that the stretch alone always seemed to ache pleasurably with every short thrust he made inside you.

“That’s good, sweetheart… that’s it… just how you know I like it…”

Bruce breathed heavily against your lips from where you were leaned on top of him, naked breasts mashed to his chiseled chest and hands gripping onto the headboard now.

You needed something sturdy, something unbreakable to tether you back to him when you felt the pleasure making you float too far.

His breath was hot against your sore lips, mingled with your low moans and spoken just above the subtle creaks of the bed; sounding every time you moved above him in a sensually quickened pace that had your toes curling and thighs tensing.

“So beautiful, sweetheart, so good…”

Bruce couldn’t help but compliment you even in the most nasty of times, voice clenched yet breathy, spoken through hot breaths and pressed teeth as your wetness dripped down his length once more.

You moaned sweetly at his doting words, his voice cracked and low in that gravelly salacious tone you loved so much.

You clenched around him in response, his fingers tightening on you as he let out a handsome groan from the feeling. You watched as his head sunk into the pillow beneath him, eyes clenched shut and a heavy grunt leaving his chest.

The sight was attractive, seeing him so wrecked from just a few simple back and forth motions you were carefully orchestrating.

You felt a wave of stinging pleasure spike up your thighs and down your legs, up your tummy and into your head until your whole body was tingling. Your eyes brimming with unshed tears as sweat prickled at your skin and your legs burned from sitting for so long.

You didn’t care about the pain, too drunk on the sensations of his thickness rubbing inside the most intimate part of you, your hips rolling in desperate circular motions so he was never completely apart from you. You liked keeping him inside as much as possible, to feel that fullness and that dull burn to remind you of just how big he was.

Bruce loved it too, resting inside your warmth, comfortable, letting you take him however you wanted in whatever way you needed. He was always a giver, always a good husband when you needed him to be.

“F-fuck, Bruce, you feel so good.” You gasped wantonly, voice quiet yet fragmented, needy and breathless as your nails dug into his skin.

“Yeah, honey? It feels good?” Bruce replied just as quietly, being sure to thrust up into you just a little bit harder so you’d gasp some more for him.

It was lewd, lovely, his dirty words spoken onto your quivering lips and his meaty hands gripping your thighs to help aid in your eager movements.

It felt so good, so right, being there with him in the darkness of his room with only the sound of your shared panting and moans filling the silence.

It was hot and perfect; his hands on your thighs gripping hard enough to show you he doesn’t want you to stop, your mouths ever so often pecking together in a sweet kiss you couldn’t continue, fond gazes in darkened irises.

“Feels so good, Bruce, I can’t—“ You whimpered out all cutely, sliding up from his chest until you were sitting straight up once more. You could feel him shift inside of you, hardness still prominent and throbbing. He pressed against your walls, invading every nerve point as your clit rubbed against his naval in the new position.

Bruce gripped the flesh of your ass between his hands, helping your soft rocking motions against him as he spoke, “Yes you can, pretty girl, you always do for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart, you have no idea…”

The praise made you smile brokenly. Your skin so hot it felt burning yet every grind against your husbands hard cock made your legs go numb. You whined and bucked above him as a tightness started to stretch in your tummy.

“Always for you, baby…” You managed to mumble shakily, lovingly, hands sliding over the abs on his stomach as you sat back on his lap so not a single inch of him wasn’t inside you.

Bruce clenched his jaw at that, hands digging into your hips as he thrust his own up to meet your soft grinds. Sparks, electricity, all of the cliche metaphors for how good he was feeling shooting down his cock and into his legs as his knees tensed up.

He felt lightheaded yet completely grounded, here to his mattress. Floating in the skies yet simultaneously stuck on earth with you, his gorgeous wife who always made him feel sane and normal.

Your hair was tangled around your shoulders and falling over your flushed cheeks as you stared down at him with a fond glimmer in your eyes, bright and burning under the lust so boldly wanting.

The stretch of him inside you was so good, his gravelly moans so good, the way he was making you feel so so good.

You exhaled as you settled your weight down on his pelvis, pussy sore yet eager as you squeezed around him once more. Love struck eyes looking down at him passionately as the moon cascaded a light gray glow behind you.

Bruce felt the air escape his lungs, lips parted as he stared up at you in utter devotion; you were so beautiful, so sweet, felt so fucking good around him he couldn’t even think straight. Brain numb and thoughtless, only you and your perfect pussy, you, you, you.

You took a moment to stare back at him. Unspoken love was whispered in the shadows of your eyes bright and glittering as your movements picked up into polite, subtle bounces that had Bruce digging his hands into you, breathy sounds escaping his lips.

“Ah, Bruce…” You mumbled weakly, voice soft and needy as you tossed your head back and moved your hips up and down so his cock was hitting that sweet spot inside you he usually loved to tease.

“Such a good job, sweetheart, so beautiful like this…” Bruce spoke huskily, staring at your heaving breasts as they jiggled and beckoned him forth, beautiful and pure as you rode him to high heaven in your most organic form.

You hummed into a delicate moan, a smile quirked on your lips at his praise as you felt his hands slowly start crawling up the exposed expanse of your waist.

Warm and big and tender as they moved up, up, gentle fingers tracing over your ribcage as your flesh prickled at the touch. He was delicate, always intent on your pleasure over his as he admired your form above him, the feel of your skin under his textured hands that had hurt so many.

You trusted him, your husband, enough to see you like this. Trusted him enough to have you like this, to allow his bloodstained hands to wash over you like he himself was something pure and untainted, bestowing him your presence like a merciful deity to their promised worshipper.

You bit your lip as his palms enveloped the fat of your breasts into them, molded perfectly into his larger hands as he squeezed and admired them in a fashion so familiar for him; he always loved your breasts, enamored with the softness and weight of them in his greedy hands.

You stared down at him with a heated tenderness, the look of a wife irrevocably in love with their husband as he stared up at you with the same fervor.

When he was here, with you, there were no labels, no obligations and no judgments. With you he was just yours, another body made of flesh and blood and bone melded to yours in the conjunction of where his body ended and yours began.

He was no one but he was your everything, hands on skin and lips on collarbones, sweat amongst sweat and heady moans breathed in the gasps of kisses shared between two lovesick spouses.

In this space, in this moment, with you on top of him and his hands all over you any remnants of shame and Wayne inspired obligation was vacant. All he needed to do was sit and let you take him, sit there and be of use when you wanted to use him.

He was a good husband, the best husband to you, his perfect and lovely wife who never addressed him as anything more than yours. He wasn’t this, he wasn’t that, he was just everything and more in the confines of silken sheets under the safety of his mansion.

No cameras, no gossip, no press and no watchful eyes. Serene, tranquil, just you and him and the great love you shared that transcended any label or common sense humanity could fathom.

Yes, he was Bruce Wayne. Eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy. But those things did not define him, did not set his reality in stone so easily as your love did. He was all those things but he was so much more.

You never judged him, looked at him as anything more than the most important thing. You regarded him with love no matter his past, his present, and hopefully and most likely your shared future.

You didn’t care for labels or surface value lies like everyone else did. You ripped him at his seams, tore him apart to see what was inside and he was ever so grateful for it, for that loving animosity that bared his soul to yours. You were straightforward, heart to heart or nothing at all because then what was the point?

There was no purpose without pain, without pleasure, without love. You suffered, you loved, and you were most definitely bringing him pleasure. All blunt and raw emotions too passionate and loud to ever try and hide or make lies about. No secrets, no deception, no labels.

This night, every night just like this one — nights spent in your arms deep inside where he needed to be most, were nights where his mind was bare and he was just yours. Nights when he didn’t have to put up a face or make up a lie or tell a tall tale.

He was Bruce, he was yours, he was just this. And most importantly, he was just your husband. The only label that really mattered and the only one he ever really cared about. ₊˚⊹♡

tagging , @little-miss-chaoss , @ghostslillady , @boobaeri , @prayingal

[warpedpuppeteer]

It's interesting how Buck's love interests are all written in a way that ends because of the reason they meet/happen in the first place and then of course, we have Eddie.

Abby, who changes Buck's view of a healthy relationship but then turns around and ghosts him, making him wait for months on end and letting him realize she's not coming back on his own.

Ali, who meets Buck during a dangerous situation in his line of work and then leaves him for how dangerous his work is.

Taylor, who lashes out at Buck for using her as a fake date and saying she thought she could trust Buck to be a friend who then ends up using him for her career and chose to put his friends in danger.

Natalia, who's there to help him embrace and deal with his temporary death but it leads to their break up because of the constant talk surrounding death when Buck's not comfortable with it.

We can't confirm for Tommy till it ends but it's important to note how he offers to get Buck into his interests like flying and muay thai yet doesn't show effort with Buck's interests like dressing up according to the bachelor party theme despite Buck being stressed about it. And we also have the fact that the entire reason they got together was due to Buck's jealousy for Eddie which he then claims to be was for Tommy. Makes me think they are either going to end because of differing interests OR because of the jealousy issue popping up again.

Funnily enough, every scene above has an Eddie parallel:

Eddie co-parents with Buck and not only does this not stop after a dangerous event but Eddie also has Buck down as a legal guardian (healthy relationship - Abby).

Eddie is in the same dangerous line of work and they have each other's backs. This happens right off the bat too.(dangerous job - Ali).

The Lawsuit era and The Dispatch era - both where they "betray" each other but manage to work through it (betrayal/lie - Taylor).

Eddie doesn't pressure Buck to talk about his temporary death until Buck's ready and is more focused about him living than in his death (death doula - Natalia).

Eddie who has different interests than Buck (poker, basketball and UFC/MMA) but also manages to show interest and actively takes part in whatever Buck comes up with; he suggests their outfit for the themed party AND ends up staying there for Buck even when others leave (different hobbies & showing interest/taking part - Tommy).

Absolutely fascinating when you start noticing that Buck's relationships keep failing for one reason or another and then we have him and Eddie who face the same sort of situations but they still come out of it stronger together.

It's clear that there's a reason Buck is able to overcome anything when it comes to Eddie (that conversation with Maddie about being there for each other even at their worst 👀) and we've already established that everything Eddie looks for in a partner is already something he has found in Buck. So really, all that's left is for them to realize that hey, the one I'm looking for is right in front of me! 🤷🏽

And yes, it's been said to death (hah) but you don't find it son you make it. And Buck and Eddie have already made it.

[lazywriter-artist]

Oh jeez have I been there. I remember when my folks still had their ultramarine pair I was going over for a visit and the neighbors had just recently gotten a new statue for their front porch- it took me and dad to wrestle down one while my mom and brother kept the other inside the first time they saw it

Ultramarines are a very popular first-time breed, and for good reason. They are tidy, efficient, easily trained, naturally obedient, and are one of the friendlier breeds. Unfortunately, they are also one of the more expensive breeds to keep due to their deep-seated need for bling.

Ultramarines LOVE bling. Wild Ultramarines will decorate their nests with statues of their pack leaders and scavenge for shiny metal to gild their armor. You may recall the Siege of '92 when a park's ornate railings, broad pavilions, and equestrian statues attracted a whole company of feral Ultramarines, who claimed it "for Ultramar" and drove off the visitors so they could build a nest. Astartes experts theorize that Ultramarines use bling to establish status and attract mates.

New owners should be prepared to purchase at least one marble sculpture and several gilded items for their Ultramarine's enclosure. They should also award him with medals and other decorations for his armor and weaponry. Upkeep is easy--as long as the owner provides their Ultramarine with sufficient supplies, he will clean and maintain his bling without prompting. Indeed, some Ultramarines find bling cleaning to be a calming activity.

Failing to invest in bling will cause a rapid downturn in mood. Initially, the blingless Ultramarine will vocalize frequently about "shame" and "dishonor" to express his distress. If the situation is not amended, he can become lethargic and withdrawn and may even grow a beard. Alternatively, he may become increasingly aggressive as he seeks to find or earn more bling. If an Ultramarine begins showing these signs, it is highly imperative for an owner to purchase more decorations for his enclosure, and to frequently assure him of his honor.

[motherearthlovesus]

staying at theo nott’s over the summer

you’ve been staying at theo’s parents’ estate over the summer holidays for a few weeks now, it’s a huge house with not enough people to fill it. you don’t mind though since it gives you plenty of peace and privacy with your boyfriend. you knew he was rich but you had never known how rich until you arrived here. everyday had been almost the exact same routine, not that it bothered you. this was the most relaxed you’d been all year. the mornings were quiet and often spent picking fruit in their orchard or picking out the days book & matching bikini. his parents were gone most of the time, leaving theo cocky enough to try and fuck you in every corner of the house, inside and out. the tennis court, the pool, the couch, the sauna, the kitchen, the terrace, the garden and the kitchen. while you admired his (constant) efforts, all you could really muster up the energy to do was sunbathe by the pool with pansy. it was supposed to be your holiday too after all. the italian sun was giving you a gorgeous golden glow that made theo drool all over his dinner each night- which, luckily, his parents were too self-absorbed to ever notice. most nights after dessert you and theo go out to the pool house, where pansy and draco were staying, to share a joint or two. you giggle and laugh for hours into the night with smoke hanging thickly in the still summer air, until theo starts to see your red eyes droop - that’s when he knows it’s time to call it a night. he walks with you, hand in hand, up to the bedroom you’ve been sharing. he tucks you in, kisses you on the forehead and walks to the bathroom to brush his teeth before bed. as he turns the tap on, the sound of steadily flowing water sends you off to a peaceful sleep, content to do it all again tomorrow.

🌞🍸🍊🌊 (moodboard link)

[lazywriter-artist]

Chapter Two

Remembrance

The palace was just as sound as the day it was first built. Even with the stains of candle wax and more Aquilas and skulls than he recalled embedding into the walls, Dorn was simply glad that whatever fools had done so hadn’t even broken past his first layer of safety precautions. After all, this was the reason the palace felt much smaller on the inside than the outside! To the trained eye anyway, accommodations for his brothers’ and father’s size and rowdiness meant the palace was still very large in spite of the many structural layers he had included to account for any misflung punches or brothers, and random zealotry induced remodeling it seemed.

Dorn would frequently fall behind his brothers to examine new carvings made into the walls he was sure he had built solid many eons ago, he knew such carvings never used to be there! His hand reached forward to put out the candle in a small shrine burrowed into the wall, the wax was staining the floors something unsightly but before he could follow through with his plans to extinguish it he was grabbed by the back of his uniform and dragged onward. Sigh, damnit Magnus. Frustrated or not, Dorn supposed it would be for the better, he found since his return he would often get into squabbles with many ecclesiastical figureheads. He could only imagine the dogmatic hysteria at him putting out the sacred ‘keep the palace upright’ candles, that if ever put out would cause the walls to crumble! He grunted gruffly, what foolishness many had chosen to believe in their absence. Candles do not keep buildings upright! Proper fortifications and structure do so. Dorn slouched with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, only his thumbs resting freely, tapping his biceps impatiently. So many stains across the once beautiful palace! Frustrating, but Magnus had fallen back to keep him moving forward so he would not begin any impromptu remodeling in the wake of all of this religious dribble.

All because father had become a god. Tch, a god. Who could take father for a saint, let alone a god? Perfect as an adjective to describe father was laughable. Father made mistakes all the time, they all did, demigod-like powers be damned, they were still human deep down. After all, they all fell to the same pitfalls they were alleged to rise above, if not to demigod proportions. What was the saying the old hero always chirped? “The bigger they are, the harder they fall”? Fall hard indeed. Placing improper reinforcements that don’t allow some room to squirm for larger structures was a sure way for them to fall! Tch. Any fool would know that, any fool not blinded by their own hubris. Of course father’s failings were really just what made him human, Dorn had come to terms with these little isms of his father. What else was one supposed to do when endlessly lost to the dizzying sameness of space? The slipping that time seems to commit itself to when you no longer have standardization leads you to ponder what had gotten you to this point? Father had been distant ever since Dorn could recall, oft treating them more like soldiers than sons. Dorn had heard a time or two whispers of these ideas that this was how father felt deep to his core, Dorn had learned otherwise early on. His father had always been a pompous overconfident bull charging forward, no doubt, but he was not indifferent to his sons. It’s what made Dorn always harp on his father’s humanity in the back of his mind, father was no more a god than any other warmonger. He simply had a few enhancements his unusual nature had gifted him and an obnoxious way of showing it. Father was no fool, not entirely, but he did often let his own thoughts and showy nature overtake logic. The palace was, after all, coated in gold at father’s behest. One of the weaker metals unless alloyed with other metals to strengthen it. Father likely didn’t ponder this idea too often that he, much like his metal of choice, could not stand alone no matter how brightly he shimmered. He needed allies to strengthen him.

Dorn grunted some as he was pulled from his thoughts, their little exhibition had been halted. Guilliman was heading their menagerie, he did the best with the zeal and dogma after all. Currently, they had been stopped by a slightly dazed commissar asking a few questions of them. The man seemed as though he’d just woken from slumber, dizzy and struggling to form his questions and thoughts. A lesser man might assume it demonic possession, Dorn however parsed that the man had likely just been slumbering at his post and was trying to cover it up. After all, he barely comprehended whom he was speaking to at first, before his eyes got big and wide as he began to process what was going on. Picking out two of his heroes of legend. Dorn could see the man’s gaze fall upon Magnus and felt a grunt of displeasure already boiling in his chest. He knew what would be the next question and implications. HE was nipping it in the bud. Pushing past his brothers, he glared down at the man— with no great malice or much aggression mind you, Dorn simply held an aura about him and he wished to move things along— clearing his throat as he spoke in that booming voice. “He is with us. We are on official business, the Emperor's work. Why don’t you run along, and rest during allotted hours?”

The man’s face reddened, either with the final realization of whom he was talking to, or the fact that Dorn had caught on to what he had been doing. The man fumbled over a few more words before he finally deemed it would be best to just offer a humble salute of submission and scamper away with his tail between his legs. Dorn snorted with displeasure as he turned back to his brothers, Guilliman held his usual nervously thoughtful look masked by his signature expression of “mature exhaustion” on his face and Magnus seemed to be processing Dorn’s actions. Dorn felt some sort of question that would be too much of a pain to parse answers for bubbling up in Magnus’s chest, thus he quickly dismissed any urges by brushing past the two brothers and taking up a spot leading the group. Most he offered them in some sense of closure was a grunt of ‘onward’ slurred and buried under Dorn’s thick drawl as he pressed forward. No time for foolish questions, just work to be done to aid his brothers’ concerns and hopefully give father some semblance of a “wake up call”, even if they wouldn’t actually be awakening father, this was merely proverbial.

Master post || Chapter Select || Chapter Three

[wistfullywaiting2]

The biggest misconception in the bsd fandom ever to me is people constantly portraying Atsushi as someone who trauma dumps excessively when he canonically barely talks about it at all.

The entire point is that Atsushi does not talk about his trauma he’s just constantly reliving it. He can’t escape the memories of his past so he tries not to acknowledge them.

He only mentions it when asked, either directly or when someone asks him to explain himself.

Atsushi doesn’t even give a cohesive explanation for what he saw while under Dogra Magra, he just apologizes to Haruno and Naomi.

If Lucy hadn’t had her whole “you’ve never suffered the way I have” spiel then I doubt even the audience would’ve gotten to find out about his scars

If Akutagawa never asked him how it felt for the orphanage headmaster to die Atsushi would have never told him that he’s been hallucinating.

In the omake where Kyoka asks him why his hair is like that it’s clear he wouldn’t have told her that unless she had asked.

In 55 minutes Atsushi very briefly mentions sleeping on a dirty floor somewhere to Kunikida because he was trying to explain and justify his behavior.

And the thing is there are scenes that implies the other characters see Atsushi behaving strangely and are visibly confused because they do not understand what’s wrong with him.

Remember, we as an audience get to see things about characters that the main cast doesn’t. Just because we see into Atsushi’s mind doesn’t mean the other characters know what’s going on in there.

[palskippah]

Hi! Drew this based over this drawing!

Also some other drawings and thoughts under the cut :]

-While I was drawing this I got reminded of this fic I wrote where Nimona was like, Boss, get a paternity test, this baby looks nothing like you 🧍 while Ballister was resting on the bed after giving birth dhdjd

>I haven't re-read it in a long while but I'm sure that Nimona did mention the nine months and Baby coming out looking nothing like Ballister, and Ballister going 'Nine months and some weeks, but who's counting' 🧍

-Baby looks a lot like Ambrosius and all that, and even if he copies all of their mannerisms, he copies Ballister the most (he finds him the coolest), even when he's much older

-Also Baby keeps calling Nimona 'Mimona' until he's like six and can say her name correctly, he just likes to call her that (the day he starts calling her Nimona she's like D: It was the end of an era shdjdh)

>Baby tried to call Ambrosius dad (instead of daddy) once and Ambrosius stopped him right then and there shdjdh

>Also Ballister leaning against a wall was based from memory on this image and if you look at the reference you'll realize they kindaa look like each other

(from the Nimona Concept art book whehe)

-Also here's random drawings of them based on TikToks or memes I've seen djdjd

-Also I drew this thing based over the three of them imagining how Baby would look, Ballister thinking of Ambrosius' baby pictures (he was the closest to how Baby actually looked), saying that Baby will look like Ambrosius.

>Ambrosius and Nimona thought that he'd come out looking more like Ballister, so there's Ambrosius trying to imagine Ballister as a Baby, and Nimona going whatever and imagining a very small Ballister just because.

>Also I had a comic somewhere of Nimona shapeshifting into many Goldenheart kids and the guys going yeah or no I don't think he'll look like that, and I sneaked some other artist's fankids in there shjdhd I should look for it and actually finish it pipipi

Anyways that's it!

[crybaby-bkg]

Bakugou who is clingier than he’d like to admit. Not because he’s insecure or doesn’t trust you or whatever bullshit some might think, no. He just loves your presence, your aura, the sweetness that always surrounds you. It’s always just a reminder for him to chill out, to be vulnerable, to love you open and honestly.

Pouts a little when he asks you to go somewhere with him, but you tell him you can’t right now, you’re busy. He’s grumbling under his breath the whole time, and returns sooner than he usually would.

But the moments where you do follow him—he loves it. Convinces you to join him in you guys’ home gym, and just loves it when you’re there beside him. You guys don’t even have to talk half the time, he just wants to be near you. Sometimes you’re corny and kiss him every time he does a sit up or push up, but a lot of the times, you just sit there quietly beside him. Pull out a blanket and book, lay on the floor next to him while he does his reps, sit on the bench beside him and blast your music. He feels more at peace during those moments.

Or, he wants to cook you something (because that’s his very own love language). He sets you on the counter beside him, talking to himself and to you occasionally. You bump him with your toes and he bites at your hands when they reach for the still hot food. He feeds you a little once it cools down, but after that, he goes back to cooking. Only this time, he presses his side as much as he can to your legs, kissing you when too much time passes by.

also!!! when he comes home after a long day and wants to shower. He doesn’t necessarily need you to do anything for him, besides provide the comfort you always do with just your presence. You talk to him quietly about your day, doing your skincare routine when he brushes his teeth after he gets out.

He just really loves being near you, even if it’s spent mostly in silence, because you’re the only thing he needs in order to function.

[shinotail]

so the ending updates am i right ahaha

[asoundofastar]

my thoughts on some don egos

[swhhdr-wthhr]

i know i haven't uploaded a new chapter for this fic in over half a year... and i probably won't any time soon... but here's some lore explained w/ virgil

[zylphiacrowley]

and I'm in love with you too.