#no need to rush

[tifa-simp]

Instead of doing all these interviews with the same old questions and the same old answers, have the devs considered give Cloud or Tifa or Sephiroth cameos in other games? Just a thought.

Like I know FF7 is very precious and expensive IP of SE, but time changes. Final Fantasy as a franchise needs to adapt too. I just think interview and Ever Crisis aren't enough to attract new fans anymore. The marketing for FF7RE has to take different route if they really want part 3 to reach its sale goal.

[tryingtounderstandbrainheart]

Jordin Sparks - One Step At A Time

Thank you Universe, just what I needed <3

[chetter-holmgren]

3-5 weeks until reevaluation, hope he takes all the time he needs ❤️‍🩹

[dataglitch]

Finished this piece finally! Took a while due to new base style, but I like it:'D

[viorhysealberia]

pokemon fans when they have to wait another year for the next big game with no major releases in-between

[specsthesecond]

🃏👑🃏

You were married off to the king as a young noble woman. The arrangement was rather rushed in your opinion, not that anyone asked for it. The king only needed a show queen, a quiet but present symbol for the kingdom and you suited well enough for that.

He didn’t need a wife for pleasure, he had plenty mistresses for that and he seemed to be in no rush for a successor. You suspected it was because he had no intent to hand over power to anyone else anytime soon. Although, that's just what you assumed, others never blamed him for it. You were always the target of the hushed whispers and silent accusations of infertility, unruliness or even infidelity when it came to the subject of an heir.

The people's gossip aside, it was an easy marriage. You didn’t have to share a bed with a man you didn’t love and you didn’t have to raise his children. Many more deserving women would kill for such a life, which only made you feel worse about the utter discontent you felt. It was the loneliness, mostly. Such a privileged life and yet not a single companion in the world to share it with.

The king and his advisers only speak to you when they need you to make an appearance as queen. Their orders always dripping with condescension and near mockery. They’ve made you smile and wave for hours, waltz until your feet blister and recite a holy text’s worth of pompous poetry, but this most recent ploy was particularly concerning.

You sit on your throne next to your husband, hands in your lap, staring at the colourful figure in front of you. The bells on his ridiculous hat jingle as he bows his head so low they almost touch the marble floor. Quiet chuckles emit from the nobility crowding the massive ballroom and the unease in your stomach only builds.

When the jester picks his head back up, you can’t help fiddling even more with your dress, just like your husband's advisers have scolded you not to. The jester silently stares with his sheet white face, big red grin painted across his mouth. You want to shrink under the jesters stare, the blue diamonds painted over his eyes make his gaze feel piercing.

The king grins when he catches your nervous gaze.

“Do you like your surprise, my love? I thought you could use some cheering up lately. As did my advisers.”

He chuckles, looking over at the old men in the corner of the room. They smile back, amusing in a joke you're not a part of.

You just nod your head as politely as possible. You don’t know what's happening, but whatever they have planned can’t be good.

The jester skips up to where you and the king sit. He gives an exaggerated curtsy to the king, earning a laugh from him and the various nobility.

The bells jingle as he springs back up and steps closer to you. He stretches his hand out, you stare at it and then back to your husband.

“The fool wants a dance, my dear. Give him a dance.”

You try to hide the apprehension on your face and reach for the jesters white glove-covered hand. He doesn’t squeeze or pull you up like you expected, instead he holds it gently, waiting for your next move. You rise from your throne and cast one more glance at your husband, who only offers a self-satisfied grin in return. This whole time all they've wanted from you is a perfect queen and now they want you to dance with a fool?

The jester walks you to the middle of the room, encircled by leering nobility. He places your hand on his waist before dramatically correcting the mistake and placing it on his shoulder instead, looking bashfully to the audience who snicker at the joke. He takes your other hand in his and gives you a little nod before the musicians starts playing and he guides you into step.

Now obviously you know very well how to dance, you enjoyed it quite a bit when you were little although, now it’s just become another part of your queenly duties. Did any of that even matter now? Now that it’s clear the king and his peers see you as just as much of a joke as the man you’re waltzing with.

Your deep thoughts are broken when said man unexpectedly twirls you in a dizzying circle. You flail slightly in your surprise but you’re brought back into his arms just as quickly to continue your steps. You fully focus on him now and you wonder what his features look like under that gaudy clown makeup. Even in the bright chandelier lights of the ball room, you can’t make out the colour of his irises. Earlier, you thought they were hazel but now it seems they're an impossibly dark brown.

The dark pools look as if they could swallow all the colour from his face and your own. Actually, has he blinked even once during this dance, or at all for that matter?

You’re not sure if it was your mistake or the jester’s but you step on his foot and he suddenly pulls away from you. He clutches his foot and jumps up and down in theatrical pain. The room bursts into laughter, bellows and cackles. These elite men and women delight in the humiliating performance you’re both putting on for them. It takes everything in you not to cave right there in the middle of it.

While the jeering continues, you try your best to steel yourself, replacing the need to cry with spiteful compliance. If they want a dance, they can have a dance.

You curtsy at the jester, offering an apology and hold your hand out to him. He looks around and then points to himself. You can’t help but smile and nod your head.

He takes your hand and when the music starts back up again, you step in time to the beautiful melody. You try and put your full attention on the jester, not anyone else in the large room, which proves to be quite easy as he is by far the most interesting person present. You can just make out the small smile under the red painted grin, his relaxed eyebrows under the bright blue diamonds, the crook of his pointy nose.

While moving in sync, you become almost lost in trying to map out his face under the make-up. You look for imperfections in the face paint but can’t seem to find a single smudge or brush streak, in fact the paint looks impressively even, like it’s a second skin.

It truly does feel like its only you two and the music, for the first time in a long time you feel wanted by someone else.

But when the king grows bored he demands new entertainment.

He motions for the musicians to stop their music and you’re brought back to reality. The jester bows for the crowd, he gestures to you and you offer a little curtsy before being escorted back to your throne. Form there, you watch the rest of the strange performers routine. He juggles an impressive amount of miscellaneous items, he folds himself into ridiculous positions, walks on his hands and generally makes a fool of himself for the crowd.

You watch in delight, though your husband doesn't seem as interested as he was before your little dance.

You think about the jester all the way back to your courters that night. You think about him as you slip on your night dress and slide into bed, and you think of him as you stare up at the ceiling for possibly hours. There is too much on your mind, the fun of watching the jesters performance has subsided and thoughts of what this means for your reputation and position in the court remain constant. A sigh leaves you as you lift yourself up and open the doors to your balcony.

You lean on the balcony ledge and stare out at the starry night sky, not even the strange jester can distract from the humiliation ritual you were just a part of. He could have been in on it for all you know and you're just naive enough to think he was being kind to you during the whole thing.

A shuffling sound from behind you makes you turn your head and it takes you just a split second to register the very colourful jester standing in the corner of your balcony.

The screech you let out is smothered by your own hand. You clutch the edge of the balcony, staring at the slender man who puts his hands up, waving apologies while moving his chest as if laughing, nothing comes out of his mouth. You clutch your heart, breathing quite heavily as you stare at him bewildered. You look around trying to discern where he could have come from, and how you only now hear his bells jingle as he waves his hands, still apologising.

He steps closer and stands tall in front of you, he’s much more imposing than you remember him being. He holds up one finger and then mimics a waltz. His head bows low and he holds his hand out for you to take. He’s asking for another dance but is there really much of a choice at all? Has this also been planned? If you say no, will he just leave? Do you want him to leave? The dance you shared was the most delightful time you've had in so, so long

You stare at him for a good while, he stays with his hand outstretched, bent over at a near 90 degree angle, not straining even a little. The longer you wait, the more uncomfortable you feel in his unwavering presence.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. He curls his fingers around yours and stands upright. You let him bring your hand to his shoulder, place his hand on your waist and step closer. This time is different from the last time. Now it really does feel like his attention is only on you, not with the other guests, not with the performance. It should be frightening, but you find no malice in his eyes, no ridicule in his demeanor.

As he steps into motion, you begin a slow waltz in the small space of your balcony. It's slower than in the ballroom, it's more intimate. While you dance with this complete stranger, your thoughts run rampant, you second guess your judgement again and again. Maybe the kindness you sense from him is a ruse. Maybe he is here on behalf of the king, setting up another degrading show. He could even be an assassin, come to rid you quietly in the middle of the night.

You would deserve such a fate for giving in so easily. You slowly spin in his arms and this time you don't hear the snide laughs of the nobility, just the sounds of the night. Both of you step in time and you let him guide you to the edge of your balcony. You hold your breath as he dips you over the ledge. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out what could be your last breath ready for him to let go and let you fall.

But he doesn't let go, your grip on his shoulders never slips. You open your eyes, a bit blurry from wetness but you can make out his face, because it's right in front of you even though you're bent over the balcony far enough that your feet have left the ground. You stare back at his unrelenting gaze. In the dim light of the moon his eyes look even darker than before and something new swims in the deep black of his pupils, something sad.

They are lidded as they examine your face, your entire being. His hand on your back presses your chest further into his until you're sure he can feel your rapid heartbeat through your very flesh.

He lifts you upright again, turning you away from the ledge and out of harms way. You’re still chest to chest, he’s so close but you can’t feel him breathe. Your wide eyes stare up at him, trying to discern his expression. Your breaths are short and your grip on him hasn’t let up a bit.

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, the warm fabric of his gloves on your cold cheeks has you easing into them far too easily. His eyes examine every inch of your face while his thumbs stroke your cheeks, you can just barely see the frown on his lips behind the painted smile. He brings your face closer to his, slow and methodical, making it very clear what his next move is. You’re not sure if this was due to his own hesitation or to give you time to pull away, regardless you let him inch closer and closer until his lips grazed yours and you finally feel him breathe out one long breath.

The kiss is deep. Despite being slow and gentle, it still forces a struggled breath from you. You would’ve thought he tasted like paint but he doesn’t, he’s warm and inviting. It’s nice.

Your eyes close, surrendering all hesitation to the stranger in your arms. Fingers dig into the fabric of his puffy striped sleeves as your body melts further into his. You quickly learn to breathe through your nose, out of necessity and unwillingness to part from his affections.

You let him work your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. The feeling is so foreign, you can’t help but whine. The backs of his fingers flutter over your throat and you shiver.

His tongue fills your mouth, sliding along yours and savouring your taste. The wet muscle reaches far into your mouth, farther than you thought normal but your experience is slim and you don’t have the awareness to fully question it. It’s overwhelming. Your knees tremble and he lowers you both to the cold stone floor. His tongue reaches into your throat, a feat you know is impossible.

You’re too lost to even think of the implications of this, as you gag and convulse around the thick muscle in your throat that no longer feels like a normal tongue. He reaches so far, your eyes roll back, your lower region warms uncomfortably and you forget how to breathe. You tap his shoulders quickly, a plea for air, and he retreats from your throat. He holds you as you cough and heave, wiping the spit from your chin.

You look at him with the an expression full of shock and fear and bewilderment and every other emotion shooting through your fuzzy mind. His expression is hard to discern but he seems both amused and sad.

He stands and brings you up on shaky legs. When he starts to back away, you panic and clutch his hands tighter. You don’t know what you were hoping for. That he would stay? That he would spend the night with you?

His face is full of what you hope is longing and not pity, you know what pity looks like. He holds you close in what you know is a goodbye embrace. He presses his forehead to yours and he places one last short kiss on your lips. Its playfull and very much not what you’d consider a proper good bye kiss. You search his gaze and you’re met with rather boyish mirth, lifting your spirits slightly. Maybe this isn't goodbye then?

He winks at you and takes your hand, spinning you around once, twice and three times before he lets go. When you rebalance yourself and look around the balcony, there is no sight of the jester. It's just the pitying sounds of the night and your only other witness, the moon. Like he was never there at all.

[kianamaiart]

Aika Turnaround

[awetfrog]

happy quarantine release day to all whom celebrate can't believe they made him even more depressed

[felsicveins]

Not technically his ex cause the divorce papers were never signed...

[emurice]

!! THIS

OPERATION: KOTOHA’S BOYFRIEND!

WC 1.2k, part 1/???

SUMMARY: Umemiya knows that his precious little Kotoha-chan has a boyfriend--it’s obvious. But when he asks her, she won’t tell him anything…. So, being the good big brother he is, Ume takes it upon himself to find out just who this mystery boyfriend is, and if he’s good enough for Kotoha.

(aka: Kotoha is a girl kisser an and Umemiya has no idea)

CONTENTS. Kotoha x Fem!reader, Umemiya being Umemiya, lots of fluff and misunderstanding, reader is explicitly described as feminine/a girl

It was closing time at the cafe again. Nothing out of the ordinary, and for all intents and purposes it was a very normal night. Umemiya was in the back washing dishes while Kotoha straightens up the front. It was one of the only times that Umemiya could genuinely spend time with his little sister.

So why does she keep checking her phone?

As Umemiya scrubbed a particularly stubborn bit of cheese off a plate, Kotoha’s phone dinged, and even from the kitchen he could hear her drop everything to scramble over to check it.

Ume flicked the sudsy water off of his hands and wiped the rest on his apron as he peeked around the corner, careful to make sure he wasn’t noticed.

And there she was: Staring at her phone, completely absorbed, tucking her hair behind her ear, giggling and blushing-

Wait. Giggling and blushing?!

Now, contrary to what some people might assume due to his carefree, friendly nature, Umemiya was not stupid. Not that it took a genius to figure it out--he was sure, watching the scene unfold in front of him, that even someone as emotionally dense as Sakura could come to the same conclusion he did.

Kotoha was texting A Boy.

And no, not “a boy.” A Boy, capitalized. Because this boy was not just any boy, he was THE Boy.

The boy she liked.

Umemiya was able to realize this in a split second. He stepped fully out of the kitchen, not necessarily trying to be stealthy but his appearance went unknown to Kotoha either way as she eagerly types out a response on her phone, fighting (and losing to) the grin on her face. In fact, he was able to sneak up right behind her, peering over her shoulder.

“Who’re ya texting?”

Kotoha yelped and all but jumped out of her skin, immediately closing her phone and protectively pressing it screen-side into her chest. She was red in the face and if looks could kill, Ume would be six feet under.

“What the hell?! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Kotoha snapped.

Umemiya tilted his head innocently. “Huh? It’s not like I tried to--you just didn’t notice me.”

Kotoha simply growled and went back to open her phone, angling so that her brother couldn’t see who she was texting. And just that alone told Ume all he needed to know.

His face lit up. “Are you texting your boyfriend?”

Kotoha glared at him again, holding her phone even closer to her chest. But she looked flustered. “None of your business.”

‘None of your business’? That wasn’t a ‘no.’ Which must mean…..

“Aha!” he cried, pointing a finger at her. “So you do have a boyfriend!”

Kotoha’s face got even redder and she seemed to shrink in on herself. “Shut the hell up. I don’t.”

“You can’t lie to me, Kotoha-chan,” he strutted around her, leaning in close to her face as she leaned away. “I know you too well. I know what your lie-face looks like.”

Which was true. He could read her expressions like a book. And the one she had on now was the oh-shit-I’ve-been-caught one.

“Whatever,” she grumbled, stuffing her phone into her pocket as she went back to closing up the front. Her face was still red. Umemiya leaned against the counter, looking at her with the biggest grin on his face.

“So…?”

“So what?” she growled.

Umemiya threw up his hands. “So who is he, Kotoha-chan?”

Rather than answering, she simply went back to cleaning. Umemiya made a noise of distress. “C’monnn, I’m your brother-”

“No you're not.”

“-you have to tell me!” he pleaded. “I need to know who he is, what he’s like, if he’s good for you, if he’s good enough for you…. And I also need to tell him that if he breaks your heart, I’ll snap him in two.”

Kotoha scoffed, preparing a retort when there was a sudden knock on the front door. Both of them turned to see you standing there, sheepish, illuminated only by the streetlamp, and carrying a bag of something. You gave them a little wave, and Kotoha immediately scrambled to unlock the door and let you inside.

Umemiya knew you. Quite well, in fact. You and Kotoha had been friends since middle school, and even more recently, you’d been hanging out at the cafe almost every day. Kotoha seemed a lot happier, more vibrant when you were around. You were sweet, polite, and above all, his sister’s best friend. So of course he adored you!

“(Name)!” he exclaimed, bounding up to give you a bone-crushing hug. “How’ve you been? Is school going well? You should really stop by Furin sometime with Kotoha, all the guys would love to meet you!”

You simply chuckled and patted his back, but Kotoha was quick to wrestle you out of his grip.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you replied as Kotoha pulled you away, giving you some breathing room. “What about you?”

“I’ve been good!” Umemiya started to talk about the recent goings-on in Furin, but Kotoha cut him off.

“Shut up, she’s not here for you,” she snapped, making Umemiya pout. She fully ignored him as her face softened and she turned to look at you fully.

“I’m happy to see you, but I didn’t know you were stopping by. I thought you had plans,” she said, reaching out to rub your shoulder. Almost automatically, you brought your free hand up to touch hers, gently holding it.

Meanwhile, Umemiya was shocked by the complete 180 her tone did when talking to you versus him. She’s so…. soft.

“I do, so I can’t stay for too long, but I wanted to drop this off,” you explained. You held out the tote bag you’d been carrying, and Umemiya immediately recognized its contents to be one of Kotoha’s favorite sweaters. The red one she’s had since middle school with holes in the sleeves.

“You left it at my place the other day,” you continued. Kotoha blushed, not meeting your eyes as she took the bag from your hands, and you chuckled.

“You didn’t need to come all the way out here. You could’ve just waited till tomorrow,” she grumbled, still not meeting your gaze.

“It’s no big deal, love,” you replied, smiling at her so warmly and genuinely that Ume realized how happy he really was that you were Kotoha’s best friend. “Wanted to see you before I left, anyhow.”

Umemiya watched as the two of you bid your farewells, heart warming at the tight hug that she gave you before you left.

After the door closed behind you and you walked out of sight, it was quiet. Kotoha hadn’t even turned.

“Ah, she’s so great,” Ume sighed gratefully after a moment. “I’m really glad the two of you are friends. She’s so good to you.”

“...Yeah,” she replied flatly, shuffling past him to finish up closing.

She didn’t look Umemiya in the eye for the rest of the night.

A/N: to be continued! this fic absolutely took over my brain and i had to remove it like a tumor. let me know if u want to be tagged in part 2!!

[robotbeetle]

i don't think it'd be realistic for wyll to be given wings but could you imagine?

[xxplastic-cubexx]

waiting for him to come home i cant stand this game chat

[isjasz]

one eye open

day 3 - prompt list by @definitelynotshouting

[willthespy]

this trend bc i promised i would and bc nobody can convince me will doesn’t at least have a sleeper build after carrying the entirety of chb

[pinkanonhopes]

tomorrow i'll have to go to school for a stupid project. school hasn't even started yet. i feel very murdery tonight.

[yandere-wishes]

Okay idea for your Batwoman!fam

Okay so you know how Cassandra Cain was raised in the League of Assassins to essentially be the bodyguard of Ra’s Al Ghul, what if Damian’s darling was raised in the League of Assassins as well but she was raised with a different purpose, to be the future wife of the heir, aka Damian.

Just some food for thought

⋆ ˚｡⋆Damian Wayne x Superhero! Reader ⋆˚｡⋆

જ⁀➴Notes: DARLING, YOU HAVE THE BIGGEST GALAXY BRAIN OUT THERE!!!!!!!!! THE THINGS I COULD WRITE FOR THIS. I'M FROTHING AT THE MOUTH!!!!

No cause like now, I'm thinking of Talia and Ra's selecting the best assassins out of the league and making them get married. They are told that their firstborn daughter is destined to become the bride of the Demon's hair. (Kinda like Dune's breeding program)

Talia practically raises you, an aunt/older sister/second mother/mentor whatever you'd like to call her. She raises you in the ways of the League. Trains you alongside her son. She dictates everything for you. Your clothes, personality, preferences. She molds you to be perfect. And while her tactics are dictatorial at best she does truly utterly love you. You are destined to be her daughter, to be her precious Damian's wife. You will continue her legacy. Thus she must raise you to be flawless…

In many ways, Damian likes to think that he knows you better than he knows himself. He tells himself that he's memorized every alcove and aperture of your ethereal soul. That your essence is as familiar to him as the dawn orisons. Damian al Ghul likes to think he knows his future bride-to-be.

And can you blame him? Can you really blame a boy for believing so earnestly, so passionately in a beautiful tale he's been told since birth?

He watches as you tend to the newborn goats on the farm. Run your fingers through the fawn's snowy coat. "Damian!" you call out waving to him excitedly. "Come see the new billys. We must commence in naming them at once." Your face is so serious as you look up at him. Eyes sparkling brighter than any star. He dares to wonder if you'll look at him with the same expression while you cradle your firstborn. Demanding that their father pick an adequate name immediately. Damian can't help the blush that ghosts across his cheeks.

Fairy tales are real. This is the conclusion Damian has come to. Dragons do exist, and they serve their purpose of stealing away hopeless damsels in the dead of night. Only now Damian doesn't know if he's truly fit to be the prince that comes and saves you…

Weeks prior the League's fortress had the misfortune of welcoming a guest from Gotham. 'A red-haired woman with a crazed bloody smile' as some of the members had described her. He had been training with his grandfather and was ordered to remain in the training rooms and practice while Ra's went to entertain this guest. You had been with Talia at the time and had the misfortune of meeting this monster too. Or at least that's how Damian believes the story goes.

"Master Damian" you greet. He can't help but shudder at the frosty smile you offer him. Day to day he feels your soul wander away never truly present. He reaches out, desperate to feel your warm skin grace his, to cradle your cheek as if it were the whole world. But he's only met with the silky wisp of your hair as you walk away. He doesn't like the way his heart aches, doesn't like the phantoms that occupy your mind.

Damian remembers the day you disappeared in shambles. Fragments of a nightmare that haunts him all through the night. There had been an alert in the middle of the night. Someone had broken in, taken out the guards. By the time the furor settles Damian and his mother notice what the thief had taken.

Not precious gems or priceless treasures.

Not the countless documents on every important figure in the world.

Not the tomes of endless knowledge his grandfather stores in his personal study.

No…

The thief had simply taken one thing.

You.

And in the process, Damian's heart as well.

The nightmare still haunts him. Even if only a mere few days later, the League had been attacked again. He was forced to be separated from his mother and his home. Fleeing to a foreign land to live with a father he's never known. Throughout all of this, Damian's heart still longs for you. He promises he'll find you again no matter where in the world he is.

It's been a long miserable year before Damian sees you again. His father is hosting a gala. An excuse of some sort to gather all of the Wayne enterprises under one roof. Damian cares little for the reason and cares less about the people. Too preoccupied with the inconvenience of having to be here in the first place.

"Damian, you've met my cousin Kate Kane before, right?" Bruce walks over to him, and the rest of his brothers approach too. Bruce has that look in his eyes. Something important is about to be said, Damian knows it. His adrenaline spikes, hope bubbling in his throat. Has there been a breakout in Arkham? A rogue attack somewhere? He'll take just about anything right now to get out of this dull gathering.

Kate clears her throat. Mentions that about a year ago she adopted a new daughter. She makes excuses for why it's taken her so long to formally introduce this new addition to her family. Damian only half listens. Bored once more. Until he notices an all too familiar face. And that familiar ache blooms in his chest once more.

He sees you hiding behind that wretched woman. You beam at her the way you used to do to his mother. Have you replaced the woman who raised and cherished you so easily? Have you replaced him too? You greet Damian with a court nob and avert your eyes. Desperate not to look at him, not to be reminded of your past.

Damian watches as the new hero, Batwoman's new sidekick, Corvid as she's taken to calling you. Swings across the city skyline. Intercepting one of Two-Face's hists. "She was my bethrode back during our time in the league." Bruce is sitting next to him, listening in the somber way he always does."Do you miss her?" he finally asks. "More than air, should it be robbed from my lungs." Bruce laughs, a short dark noise. His large palm pats Damian's shoulder before he marches into the darkness. It takes an endless moment for Damian to understand what that means, to understand the blessing the Dark Knight has bestowed upon his blood son.

Damian watches as you hug your new "mother". Feels the betrayal slither across his throat. He suffocates on the pain, the jealousy. Suffocates as he swears he'll take you back no matter the cost. You will be his once more, you will fulfill your destiny. As it has been written.

Damian heads home, he needs to contact his mother. Needs to tell her that you are safe. It'll calm her restless heart to know her beloved little girl has been found…

Okay I am going to have total nerd moment. Cause like what if this was kinda mixed with the original assassins?