#please just let me write this fic

[sendpseuds]

Thinking about locker room kisses...

[...and trying to manifest the ability to write more Perfect Spiral]

[thursdaysyme]

what if i wrote a de-age fic but it's morgana trying to kill arthur and she messed up the spell somehow so now instead of a dead king she looks down at her five-year-old brother standing in the dirt

Morgana: what the fuck why are you so small

Arthur, sneering with gap teeth: why are you so dirty? forget bath time?

Morgana: oh my god i don't think i can go through this again

[myokk]

note-taking

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 3,6k

summary: mc loves flustering sebastian with her notes during class😇

cw: NONE this is just fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, it takes a while for them to admit their feelings, I rated it M for some language/sexual themes

a/n: I laughed a lot as I wrote this on the train, I hope you enjoy reading about these two idiots (endearing) as much as I did writing them

A beetle slowly makes its way across Sebastian Sallow's desk.

The classroom is silent - save for the scratching of quills furiously calculating the Arithmatic probability of who will be the next Minister and the quiet murmur of his professor as she helps Hobhouse (how did he even get into the N.E.W.T. level?) - and Sebastian is going absolutely mad.

He counts how many seconds it takes for the beetle to reach his abandoned quill (fifteen). But, when it takes its seventh step after making it over the quill (an auspicious sign), Sebastian slams his hand down on top of it.

The loud noise echoes through the silent classroom and Sebastian hears her snickering coming from behind him as the whole class turns to see what has happened. His ears turn red, he wishes he could jinx her somehow, and yet he is terribly curious to see what she has sent him this time. Sebastian hopes that everyone has gone back to their equations and stops staring at him, because now that it's in his hands, his fingers are itching to open it. His hands eagerly - shamefully eager, if you ask him - unravel the note he's crumpled up in his hands - almost a shame that he destroyed the beetle, it was one of her better creations - and Sebastian soon curses his haste.

His ears would be an even deeper shade of red were his blood not currently draining to a different part of his body. Sebastian shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he continues reading the note, his eyes flying across the tiny note once, twice, three times before he crumples it up and adds it to the graveyard of the other notes she has been sending him all day. The words fuck my soaking cunt flash up at him and he adjusts his schoolbag so that if anyone were to walk past and look into it, they wouldn't suspect a thing.

You see, this has been going on all week. Sebastian knew that when his seventh year started, it was going to be the culmination of their academic rivalry, but he never expected this. That witch has made taunting him her personal vendetta, and it's working.

Sebastian can't get her out of his mind.

It started in Herbology on Monday, at exactly 7.37 in the morning. Sebastian had been sitting next to Ominis, both complaining under their breaths at how early Professor Garlick had made them wake up (something about the plants blooming - Sebastian can't remember now). He had seen a little snake slither past Ominis's hands, making its way directly to him, and he does remember that he thought it was quite strange that Ominis didn't seem to react to the snake's presence. And then - he took a closer look at it - he saw that it was made of paper. Curious, Sebastian had thought as he grabbed and unfolded it. Reading it started an unfortunate chain of events.

It started out innocently enough, he supposes. Well, if you can call the most indecent thing he's ever read innocent, then it started out innocently.

Sallow - let me just say how absolutely delicious you look in your jacket this morning. I find I want to rip it off of your broad shoulders. Did you hit a growth spurt this summer?

He had flushed, briefly glanced over his shoulder - maybe he could see a face as flushed as his was, watching his reaction, but nothing - before looking back to the note, squinting at the familiar (familiar?) handwriting when Ominis had interrupted him.

"Sebastian? I think we need to start trimming the budding flowers now..."

His voice had blended in with the buzzing in Sebastian's ears as he stared intently down at the note in his hands. He had soon figured out who sent it - how could he not recognize her handwriting? - and the rest of Herbology class had been an absolute disaster. He had spent the whole rest of his time haphazardly massacring his plants and ignoring Ominis's pleas for help as he ruminated on her and what did she mean by her note? Her maddening laughter floated over the sound of tiny, precise snips as Sebastian's classmates did as they were supposed to, boring into his mind as he tried his hardest to figure out what she was up to.

Her plan's working, whatever it is. Sebastian has been frustrated to no end. She's nobody to him, just Anne's annoying best friend. Well, that's not entirely true, and Sebastian doesn't like to lie to himself. She was his closest friend last year, and the year before...ever since she arrived at Hogwarts, really. They did everything together, but something had changed when she visited that summer.

She had spent less time laughing with him, instead choosing to whisper with Anne about Merlin knows what, sometimes looking at him with an expression he couldn't place that had started to drive him crazy.

Sebastian had decided that a certain someone made no sense, that he would ignore the strange way his stomach would flip in her presence, and that he would focus all of his energy into besting her at everything. Maybe if she was embarrassed about being inferior to him, she would stop all of this. Although he would never admit it, he had started having nightmares about her gasping beneath him and needing him, that strange look from the summer flashing in dream-her's eyes, blissful fantasies that have him waking up hard and needing to cast a silencing charm around his bed before he can start his days.

Needless to say, these dreams have become infinitely worse this week.

What started out as a joke has quickly spiraled into an obsession. She soon finds herself watching Sebastian with breathless anticipation every time she sends a note over to him, relishing in the deep flush of his cheeks as he sneaks glances over his shoulder at her.

She doesn't really know what possessed her to start in the first place. A stroke of daring, she supposes as she finishes her latest note with a flourish and charms it to fold itself into a tiny swallow. And, she muses, watching the bird fly towards its victim, it's rather fun to fluster him so.

It's what he deserves, after all, after she has spent a whole year pining after him. A whole bloody year of sighing as he leaned over her shoulder in the library to point at something in her textbook, of his chin resting on top of her head, of warm breath tickling her ears, of watching him defeat every opponent in Crossed Wands, of watching him laugh despite himself at her little quips in Transfiguration. Of making sure -

She stifles a smile as she watches Sebastian eagerly grab the swallow as it flitters towards him. At first, he had tried acting nonchalant, like a cat biding its time before it pounces. Ignoring the notes she's been sending until he can't stand it and then: squashing them, smashing them, trapping them in his large hands, long fingers eager to unfold the note and see what she has to say.

Now, he has abandoned any pretense of aloofness he might have had before.

She can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders. The tension releases somewhat every time he opens a note, but quickly returns as he crumples them up and adds them to his collection. She hopes he's getting as wound up as she is, hopes that he's beginning to know an ounce of the suffering he has been putting her through.

A small voice in the back of her head tells her that she's being unfair, that maybe he's just oblivious - but then, why would he have looked at her like that all summer? And - almost the most maddening thing of all - ever since their seventh year started, he has made it a point to try and best her in every class. She couldn't move on from her silly little crush even if she wanted to, when his deep voice cuts through hers every single class to answer first, when he's always right ahead of her in Potions to get the best ingredients, when he's the one standing across from her in the mock duels in Hecat's class and as he raises his wand and her breath catches in her throat and -... Well, it's only fair, then, that she tries to distract him during class.

She's wondering what the next note should say, is lightly rubbing the edges of the quill's feather against her lips - did she go too far with the latest note? - when the scraping of a chair next to her pulls her out of her thoughts. She jumps at the jarring noise, the quill clatters on the table as it falls, and she feels her own face flush when she sees Sebastian sprawling himself out in the seat right next to hers.

There's a look on his face that she's never seen before and she feels as if all of the air has left her body when he leans in close to her - she could start counting his freckles if her brain hadn't gone completely empty - warm breath tickling her ear as he breathes, "What do you think you're doing?"

She hasn't thought this far ahead.

Why hadn't it occurred to her that Sebastian might confront her about the notes?

"I..." she falters, trying to get her thoughts working again, so that she can find something to say to get her out of this situation. Because she didn't actually want him to notice her, did she? And, what could she possibly say in defense of the filthy things she's been sending him all week? She can't seem to break eye contact with him: she swallows nervously: she tries again: "I -"

Her words fail her once again, when Sebastian's warm hand comes to rest on top of her thigh. Her thick wool skirt might be acting as a barrier between them, but it somehow feels like he's touching her bare skin and her whole body heats up uncontrollably. Even like this, his touch is better - more electric - than what she's been imagining this whole time.

He turns away and pulls parchment out with the hand that isn't actively caressing her thigh, and reaches across her for the quill that has fallen from her fingers. She hears scratching as he starts working on his equations - she vaguely thinks that she should be working on them too, isn't she supposed to be trying to do better than him? But -... her breathing is shallow - all of her nerve endings have seemingly migrated to the spot on her inner thigh that Sebastian's thumb is now massaging in tiny circles - maybe her brain has just packed its bags and left on holiday to Bath for all the use it's giving her now.

He doesn't even spare her a glance during the rest of the class, continues to diligently work on his equations for the first time all week, but his large hand remains on her thigh, completely obliterating any thought from her mind that doesn't have something to do with the warmth that keeps pooling deep in her stomach at his touch.

When the class is blissfully (unfortunately) over, Sebastian finally pulls his hand away and she squeaks in protest against her wishes - her thigh is now cold - that must be it (just discomfort, that's all) - she doesn't feel the relief she thought she would at his absence. He smirks down at the parchment he's rolling up, packs everything into his school bag, and leaves her behind without his eyes darting to hers even once.

Seven notes.

She has sent Sebastian seven bloody notes over the course of the last three days, and as he looks over at the crumpled up papers sitting on the desk in his dorm room, notes he tried his best to smooth out, he feels his heart race increase. He doesn't understand why she's doing this, but he does understand how it's making him feel. He could barely even think during Arithmancy, knowing how much his presence was affecting her, feeling her warm thigh under his hand. And when she protested when he removed his hand, well. He had to get out of there as fast as possible.

Maybe it's a good thing she didn't have the presence of mind to look at his arithmatic equations during class, because they are, unfortunately, incomprehensible. He had to keep up the charade by pretending to scribble for the rest of class, but now he almost regrets it - almost - because his pride won't allow him to ask Amit for his notes.

Sebastian has spent the evening poring over his textbook, trying to make sense of something that should be coming easily to him - Anne doesn't tease him about his strange obsession with numbers for no reason - and yet, his eyes keep wandering over to her notes. (Why did he even take them out of his bag in the first place?) (Why hasn't he burned those blasted things yet?) He has decided to forego studying in the library, the common room, and the Undercroft (places where he might see the object of his inner turmoil), and yet he is still getting nothing done even in the peaceful silence of his dormitory. Because her letters are shouting at him.

Well, not really, as they aren't Howlers. They might as well be, though, with how much he has reread them since he took them out of his bag. A smile spreads across his face despite himself as he puts his plaid jacket - the one he wore on Monday - on his chair to wear tomorrow. That stupid smile doesn't leave his face as he brushes his teeth next to Ominis before bed (thanking Merlin that Ominis is blind and can't pester him about what he cannot see), nor does it leave as he tries to fall asleep that night.

Suffice it to say, Sebastian does not get much sleep that night.

"...caught her snogging Prewett in the boathouse."

"Oh Merlin." A giggle. "I wonder if he's any good. Don't look at me like that, I know you've wondered the same thing..."

She blushes as she tucks her head down, trying to concentrate on the reading before her but it's difficult. First, because Sacharissa is being entirely too loud as she gossips with Grace - they might be some of the first at breakfast, but that doesn't mean they're alone - and second, because she is reading the book she filched from Sacharissa's bag. It's been charmed to look like a History of Magic textbook (nobody would ever be interested enough in one of those to filch it back) and she hopes that it's enough to make sure that no one distracts her in her research.

She has never had experience of the amorous sort before, and she has run out of things to put in the letters she's been sending to Sebastian - they were all just things she had been thinking, or things that she's overheard the boys saying when they thought they were alone. But what she's been reading in Sacharissa's novel - if it can even be called that - are enough to make her so hot and bothered that she's not sure if she should retreat back to her dorm room to read it in peace. As her eyes fly over the words, she pictures Sebastian doing those things to her, with her, and it's enough to make it so she's not even sure she can look him in the eye ever again. The feeling of his hand on her thigh the day before has imprinted itself on her body and in her brain and she barely got any sleep because of it.

"What are you reading?" asks Anne as she plops herself down on the bench, trying to look over her shoulder. She flinches and slams her book shut as fast as possible, feeling her traitorous face heat up. She knows she's making it all more suspicious, but Anne cannot find out. Anne shrugs and starts buttering her toast, stifling a yawn. "I never knew that the Vampire Treatises of the 15th century were so interesting. By the way, have you seen my brother at all? I couldn't find him last night and - Oi, Sebastian!"

Anne stands halfway up and starts waving him over, and she wishes she could vanish. Maybe, instead of researching fresh ways to torture him, she should have been learning how to most effectively vanish oneself from the face of the Earth. She's sure the heat she feels burning her cheeks as she sees him walk over to them is translating to her face being a bright, red, ugly beacon calling to him.

As he walks over to their table, looking entirely too irresistible in that plaid jacket of his, Merlin, his growth spurt really -

"Ladies," he says, nodding at them as he takes a seat across the table, "how did you sleep?"

She knows he's giving her a pointed look as he asks, but she has started to choke on the pumpkin juice she started drinking as he walked over - she is, unfortunately, picturing them doing some of the filthy things she's just read together - and could she really make more of a fool of herself than she already has at this point? But then - he grabs her book. Her heart lurches but she can't do anything due to the fact she's still spluttering over her pumpkin juice, and she watches in horrified fascination as he starts flicking through the pages. His eyebrows raise steadily higher and higher as he reads, his own face turning a shade of red she's certain matches her own. She curses herself again - vampires are so interesting, of course he would want to read about them - she should have made the cover a topic she knows Sebastian hates, like a compendium of spells to boost fingernail growth or a Duncan Hobhouse biography - but it's too late now.

Sebastian clears his throat and glances at her, and she sees uncertainty, vulnerability in his eyes as they make brief contact with hers. Finally her brain starts working - quite possibly for the first time since she started this stupid game in Herbology on Monday - and she hastily stands up, snatching the book from Sebastian's hands - he puts up no resistance - and clutches it to her chest as she blurts out in one breath: "I-slept-terribly-last-night-and-it's-all-thanks-to-you."

And now, she's fleeing the Great Hall, wondering what's gotten into her.

She next sees Sebastian during their Ancient Runes class. Well, she doesn't actually see him: she's made it a point to be the first to enter the class, and keeps her head down as she stares at her parchment the second everything is set up perfectly. Inkwell - parchment - her stupid replacement quill - textbook - everything is in place. After the disastrous event otherwise known as breakfast, she's decided that she's over her silly little crush, and she will never think about Sebastian Sallow again. She will never think about things she might say that will make him laugh again, she will never think of book recommendations again, she will certainly never think of his strong hands caressing her thigh again, and she will never, ever -

A tiny paper fox climbs into her hand.

I didn't get any sleep last night either, because of you. P.S. I still have your quill.

She flushes and looks over her shoulder. Sebastian flashes her a crooked smile that makes her stomach lurch in an unfamiliar way, before he ducks his head down and continues to scribble his translations with her quill. Her quill. A new flash of hatred surges through her - that's what these intense feelings must be - and she decides she needs to get it back.

Instead of translations, she hatefully scribbles down everything that she wants to do to Sebastian Sallow - she wants punch his stupid face, wait: she wants to kiss his stupid freckled face and hold his silly beautiful hands and she wants to feel the deep rumble of his laugh after her jokes as she rests her head on his shoulder and she wants to read next to him and have things be back to how they always were, and yet she wants more than that, more than just being friends, it's what she's wanted all along, isn't it? - and she marches after him when the class has finished.

Sebastian doesn't spare her a glance even though he has to know she's behind him with how much noise her frustrated huffing makes as they weave through the throngs of students in the hallways. It's lunchtime, and yet instead of heading to the Great Hall, he's leading her somewhere else.

He finally stops when they reach the top of the Astronomy Tower, and she opens her mouth to protest. She knows she's terribly flushed, her chest heaving as she glares up at him: "You are despicable! I need my quill -"

She's cut off from speaking as before she knows it, his hands are caressing her face and he is kissing her. Oh, Merlin, it's better than she could have hoped it to be, and her own traitorous body and mind have forgotten the alliance formed against him in the face of Sebastian Sallow's persistence and she's wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down closer, making sure he can't get away from her again.

Maybe later she can show him all of her notes on how much she hates him and they can have a laugh. Maybe later they can revisit some passages from the book she filched.

But right now, she doesn't let go of Sebastian.

[rosalie-starfall]

Agatha All Along

If I Can't Reach You / Let My Song Teach You

[orions-aether]

there's something about this soft spoken but fucking angry british elf mother who doesn't think she's done anything wrong that hits me right in the trauma

[keferon]

*clasps your shoulders gently and looks you straight in the eye*

Keferon. Please read Ninth by Kyn on AO3. I think you would love it very much. It has a large chapter count, but don't be intimidated, it's very easy to get into. It is currently unfinished, but is being updated regularly.

You are the seventh person that recommended this fic to me so ahahahaha yeah

I’m doing great Help I hate some parts of it but I love the other parts I’m spinning in the blender

…..I made the moodboard….

[erinwantstowrite]

what are your thoughts abot how Damian and Tim's relationship is portrayed in most fanfics?

personally, although I like the angst part of their relationship I wish there was more fanfics where they're closer and have real siblings dynamic (like u know they 'hate' eachother but they would destroy anyone who would want to hurt their brother)

oh, boy, do i have a lot to say about this one. buckle in, folks.

i feel like a lot of the time, if they're in a fic together and the fic author doesn't like one of them, the other is going to be mischaracterized to hell and back. sometimes... both are mischaracterized.

i'm all for a fanon interpretation of a character- obviously, because i have fanon interpretations in my fic too at least a wee bit- but sometimes it goes too far and it no longer feels like we're reading about the same character

let's talk about Tim.

Tim doesn't have a good view of himself or his standing in any emotional aspect. which is often misconstrued about him believing that he was Jason's replacement (neither he nor Bruce thought this, but it was Bruce's fear), or that his worth as Robin wasn't enough. that's not true at all. i'll say it again here: Jason didn't nearly kill Tim at Titan's Tower, nor did he go there to kill Tim. and Tim fought him back. he even told Jason to his face:

"you can't be that good" "I am."

he knows he's a damn good Robin! he trained with the best, he helps lead the YJ! he doesn't doubt that he was the best person for the job. but when it comes to the emotional aspect of Robin, i think this is where Tim stutters

this is because of how Tim's parents showed their affection.

i think canon neglects that aspect of his trauma, which is why so many people hang onto it. in the comics, Tim is shown to have a lot of friends both in and out of suit. he's abrasive and isn't afraid to ask the hard questions. but he is riddled with self worth issues. his parents were barely around him, they didn't know him well at all. and they loved him, but from a distance.

Tim now sees himself as someone that can receive love from a distance. he is incredibly self reliant, and has been from a young age. he sees all of his accomplishments as obligations. he does well at school because he had to. he takes care of himself because he had to. and in his mind, taking up Robin was partly another obligation. he does his job well because he has to, and he might doubt this sometimes like anyone else, but at the end of the day he is confident in his ability to get shit done.

now, the emotional part of Batman and Robin is where i believe i enjoy a fanon interpretation more. he actually does have a good relationship with Dick, but I'm not too sure about Bruce at this point. this topic is nuanced because Batman writers make him so diabolical at times to the point that i would consider it ooc. but other times they're very close and Bruce admits this. so i replace it in my head with a more stable and realistic version that i've seen written by fic authors very well.

Tim views himself as someone who is there for a job: help Batman. but there is a lot of wonder and awe there. his favorite Robin was Dick. (I'll say this again so everyone hears me: his favorite Robin was Dick. yes you are allowed to have nuance and put Jason in there as someone he looked up to as well, please do. but put some respect on Dick's name!) now that he's working with Dick Grayson, someone he admires so much, as well as getting the honor to wear the Robin suit, he feels more like himself than he has in years. he's good at this, and it's also fun. he meets so many people and he gets to make a difference in the world. yes, it's a job, but it's also very freeing

he never did this be Bruce's son, or to replace Jason. his relationship with Bruce started off extremely rocky, with Tim forcing himself into his life in some way because he believed that Batman was going to get himself killed or get someone else killed, or Batman would cross the line. and Gotham would lose the only person who had such unwavering optimism for them. he and Bruce come to an understanding of being partners but not father and son. Bruce doesn't want to open himself up to that hurt again. but we all know Bruce, and that's not what ended up happening. Bruce would never be the same person he was before, but he is not incapable of love.

Tim would not understand that change. I'd get more into this but i don't want this post too long and i wanna save it for when i'm not supposed to be sleeping and when i'm writing one of my Tim fics for once. all we really need to know is that Tim's emotional intelligence is dogshit, and him coming to see Bruce as a father, and Bruce seeing him as a son, would baffle him. because his parents love him... at a distance. and Bruce sees him every day. that's not how it's supposed to work, right?

so.

sometimes, Tim is treated like a porcelain doll who can do no wrong. many aspects of his canon has been altered by fanon to be "worse" than it is. his neglect by his parents did, indeed, happen, and it affects him deeply. but his parents weren't like. beating him, or leaving him without food or shelter or supervision. Tim was clever enough to get around that supervision all on his own. which is why they should have been there in the first place. (they should have been there regardless). and emotional neglect is still a very real issue??? no one has to make it "worse" by making the Drakes out to be monsters. i think Jack often emotionally manipulated Tim when he was around, and I don't know if Jack was even aware that he did so. (which is why i can see some people delving into that nonexistent relationship that DC gave us, and finally giving those implications more depth. there are a lot of good fics that go over this)

often it's hard to read a fic for Tim because they go too hard into making Tim an anxious shy ball of sunshine. Tim is weird, and he stalked the Bats, he stalked Nightwing, he broke into Titan's Tower before he even became Robin. he's a weirdo. he fits right in with the Bats for that reason. some people make him out to be the victim or some kind of damsel in distress, and sometimes we get to see a phenomena where other characters talk like a book about emotional intelligence that their therapist gave them. which is... fine, if you're just writing to write it, maybe helping yourself. but let's take a step back and see Tim is not like that. he is a very capable person, and his not some "uwu, woe is me, i'm so shitty at everything and if you even look at me wrong i'll cry." i honestly believe that Tim is the type of character to hate crying in front of someone and even if he was actively dying he'd be holding back those tears.

whereas Damian? gets the opposite treatment??

granted, i don't actually know too much about Damian, but i at least try to understand him and his background

he's the youngest of them, and i think many people forget that Damian isn't a reader of the comics like we are. he wasn't going into that family with the emotional connections to these characters and their backstories like we did. he was taught about these people, the idea of them. like how we could be taught in class about people from a long time ago. and i can ensure you that Damian was not taught proper emotional intelligence, nor would he have the best grasp of it himself when he was younger than 9 years old. imagine all of your teachers and also your mother told you about these people and their accomplishments, and then told you that the person all of them look up to is your father. the person that you want nothing more than to know, to see, because the people around you talk about him so highly. someone you haven't gotten to meet yet, because you aren't "worthy." can you imagine being told all your life that you are not worthy to see your father yet? and not knowing if he believes that too?

but one day, you are going to be by his side as his son. i don't want to get too into the culture of the Al Ghul family because i don't actually know that much (i'm sure someone would know more about this, feel free to add on if you want to), but this is important to Damian. it's important to his mom. it's important to his grandfather, the leader of an extensive organization that stretches hundreds of years.

then he gets dropped off in a different country, culture, language, and family and he finds that things are not as he had been told his entire life. his father has many flaws, they do not believe the same importance of a blood tie as his family back home does. they question his entire upbringing to his face many times, they question his mother who he loves deeply. he's nine years old. imagine yourself in that position. you don't know yet what role you're playing in an adult's life, but you want to. desperately. you want to know where you stand. you want a hug. not to mention that Damian actually is a very emotional kid. he was taught to shove that deep, deep down, and not let that out.

too many people write Damian as if he was a "feral" kid which is kind of not something to put on him? i don't like it both because he wasn't feral, he was an asshole. there's a difference. and because it feels like a microaggression?? at times?? because once again... the culture that he is from... is important.

they have been racially profiled for many many years... and yes, everything that you read is political whether you want it to be or not. the act of reading is political. you should definitely be aware of what a writer's goal is when they were giving something to you. you should be reading deeper. again, i'm not from his culture and i can't say if it is an insult/insensitive joke or not, nor am i saying everyone who's made the joke before is a bad person. i have made jokes about Tim being a feral kid before and whatnot. i'm saying that no matter who you are, it is your responsibility to think critically about your media and kindly about other people. it feels uncomfortable to me because i know how wrongly the Al Ghuls (specifically Talia) have been treated by writers in the past. and Damian is an extension of that bias. just look at how many times they try to push Ian Wayne on us. or how they'll pull back on Damian's character development when talking about the Al Ghul family.

this probably isn't my topic to write about, at least not before i learn more about it. but since i get a fair amount of viewership, maybe someone will listen to me that won't listen to someone of color that has already pointed this out many times. with the comics fandom, and Batman fandom specifically sometimes, people don't care to think further about why the characters of color are so often and conveniently left out or forced into an archetype. take that as you will

so! he has spent his entire life believing he had to live up to two great legacies, both of which are VERY different. the intricacies of the Al Ghul family are often boiled down to pure evil by both fanon and canon writers, which dulls Damian's resolve and reasoning for what he had done, or makes it hard to connect to him. he has since learned more about who he wants to be and has come to respect his family in many ways. excuse me if i'm wrong, but i think part of why Damian came so hard for Tim was because Tim had everything Damian wanted. he had a place by Batman's side as both his son and his partner, and was very well respected by Batman and Nightwing both. he's older, more mature, he has stature in both this society Damian now has to fit into and within the family dynamic. considering Damian grew up in an assassin cult that solved threats to their dynamics or positions in power by murder, it wasn't a far leap for a child from that environment to make. he was modelling what he had been taught his entire life.

think about the mistakes that you made as a kid. and i don't mean something silly or funny now, i'm talking something that makes you feel ashamed. embarrassed. hurt. something that perhaps now as an adult, you reflect on as being totally uncool. and i want you to think about if maybe your environment had a role to play in that. maybe you made an insensitive joke that your mom or dad would have found funny, and someone pointed it out and reasonably made you feel like a jerk. shit happens. but you hopefully grew from that.

now imagine that mistake was you hurting someone.

yes, he was annoying. he was bratty, at times. he could be a little calculating shit. he hurt people with both his words and his weapons. Tim obviously had many many many reasons to be upset about his treatment- but I fear that most of his anger ended up directed at the older people in their lives that were supposed to be the ones to do something about it!

and though i hate that Tim went back to being Robin (it feels redundant), i have seen panels that show that the two of them working side by side after Damian and Tim both went through some life and perspective altering events both together and alone, has made Tim see Damian as his little brother, and vice versa. Damian has grown so much and many people just... don't care. no matter their reasoning for hating Damian, it's unfair to not look further than those cutting words written decades ago, or to bring up his mistakes every time you want to be mad at him. and i think it does a disservice to Tim to make him a bleeding heart about this when he has clearly forgiven Damian and cares about him. he rags on Damian like any older brother would, and Damian makes remarks like a younger brother would. personally, i think the two of them are doing pretty good right now

the development of their characters is actually so interesting within the canon aspect, even if they can fumble the ball every now and then. and the mischaracterization takes away the value that their canon relationship has. i personally love reading fics that have Damian and Tim teaming up. in aus where one thing changes and Tim and Damian become brothers later, i think it's actually so silly and fun when Damian respects Tim or thinks he's cool. or even without the au aspect! just like, a fic where the two of them are working together and it's either silly or serious, Damian having a begrudging respect for Tim and Tim being protective over Damian, etc etc, is sooooo much fun

[dukeofthomas]

I hate the insistence in pushing Jason into the batfamily.

If he doesn't wanna go to dinner, he doesn't have to. If he doesn't wanna hang out with them, he doesn't have to. If he doesn't want to see them, he doesn't have to. If he doesn't even want to contact them, he doesn't have to.

It's so annoying to read fic and always see it presented as his Family Knows Better. Jason is just being silly by not realizing how much they love him and he just needs to let them break into his home and comms and life because they want him there.

[minimallycreative]

me: *opens a doc*

my brain: hey, wouldn't it be a perfect time to catch up on all your missing sleep?

me:

my brain:

me

my brain:

me:

my brain: hey so—

me: FOR GODS' SAKE, LET ME LIVE

[ecoustsaintmein]

covet, part ii of ???

part i here | part iii here | part iv here | part v here

pairing: paddy x eoin; rating T (so far), slow burn. hurt/comfort. angst. unreliable narrator (paddy i'm looking at you)

based on this tumblr post by @cloudyfacewithjam:

"Canon Divergence AU: Paddy gave the Claddagh ring to Eoin as a friendship gift back in Ireland, and Eoin kept it during and after the war despite their falling out (because they were both stupid and emotionally compromised). They eventually reconcile, but after a while, Paddy notices that the ring has changed its placement - and he promptly loses his mind, while Eoin is stoically silent about it."

--

he returns to ireland with some fanfare. his name is in the press. in public, his sisters tell their neighbours that paddy's never been better. their lives in mount pleasant have never been better. in private, paddy tells them that he's coping. just. in private, his sisters tell him that there's something wrong with their mam. she's more forgetful, they say. she's more withdrawn. she's different.

come home soon, they'd pleaded. if not for us, then for her.

then paddy thinks of eoin, who hasn't followed him to antarctica, because his mam's asked him to.

so maybe he does, understand, after all.

maybe.

--

he did reply to eoin's letter, eventually, though it is dry and crisp and has none of the lyrical quality of their usual conversations. he doesn't talk of poems or songs, because such things remind him of siobhan, the pretty little thing that ambrose keeps writing about. funny, eoin never talk about her in his own letters to paddy. he wonders why that is.

it's as if they have pieces of their souls they're attempting to hide, between the smudged ink and the squiggly lines of their scrawny handwriting.

eoin's in dublin and paddy's in belfast. south is south and north is north and never the twain shall meet.

he's got things to worry about. his sisters and his mam need taking care of. the war at home begins and paddy thinks, i don't have the situational awareness for this. he's the man of the house and it's nothing like herding an unruly regiment.

he's got nothing to kill here but time.

--

his mam told him that he needs to stop moping. strings were pulled and paddy's got a respectable job, which, yes, it does mean that he'll likely marinate behind a desk and a towering pile of paperwork. who in their right minds would've given him a job as a secretary?

the incorporated law society of northern ireland.

now that's a mouthful.

as one wise man once said, well i am cock-a-doodle-fucking-do that they are cock-a-hoop.

well, close enough.

--

congratulations, eoin writes.

and then: does this mean that if i'm admitted to the bar in belfast, you'll be keeping an eye on me?

and later on, towards the end of the letter: i'm coming up to see ambrose. i'd like to see you too.

i miss you.

--

i miss you, eoin's written.

paddy doesn't reply.

--

paddy doesn't reply, not because he doesn't want to. no, he'd been giddy with excitement. maybe even did a jig when no one's looking. there's something in eoin's tone in the last letter that's different, cheeky, hopeful. paddy's wanted to write back. he's just struggling to find the words. he's a poet, but not today.

not for things like this.

there are no words for this. not even to say, i miss you too.

because then the pain overwhelms him, after that brief moment of elation, a little dance, a jig. paddy doubles over, screaming, and his sisters find him in the study writhing on the floor. almost choking on his own dry boak from the severity and the sharpness of it. he thought he'd been shot in the back with a mortar. his legs cramping and shaking. even the drink and the morphine won't touch it.

that night, he's back in the hospital in belfast to revise the botched first op.

eoin's last letter remains on paddy's writing desk, untouched.

--

paddy wakes up in july, to bright fluorescent lights, and a tube shoved down his throat. he coughs in panic, tries to move but he feels paralysed. being half-awake, knowing that he could see and hear everything moving around him, but he couldn’t move a muscle. he thrashes about the bed, until the alarm goes off and a group of nurses and doctors come running by his side.

he remembers little else until the next time he wakes up.

--

there are at least four or five ‘get well soon’ cards on the bedside table, and a vase of fresh carnations that must have only been changed either yesterday or today. paddy looks to his right. francie is sleeping on the chair, head tilted to the left, a tattered copy of elizabeth gaskell's north and south lying askew between her fingers.

there is a sharp ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his physical injuries. he feels like he’s missed something, or someone.

he remembers his first jump, and eoin was there, and the wind was in his eyes, and --

a makeshift grave, holding eoin's limp, dead, hand.

then he mumbles something about pianos and graves and the desert and fucking reg and fucking stirling and eoin, dead, dead, dead, raving like a madman. the doctors and the nurses had to pin him down. injected him with barbiturates.

then he sleeps a dreamless sleep.

--

so quickly does sleep take him that paddy barely remembers why he's gone mad. something about eoin. dying? but eoin's alive. isn't he?

paddy wakes up again and his mam is by his side. he thinks he sees the doctors in white, then his sisters.

mouth cottony. his memory is foggy.

dazed, he thinks, ah, i see you too, eoin.

you're here too.

you're alive.

--

this is not how he wants his reunion with eoin to be.

not like this, when he wakes up and he sees eoin in his civvies and a girl by his side. 'paddy?' he hears eoin call out his name, but he's not sure if this is eoin or a vision of eoin and who is this girl that he's never seen before?

she's pretty, with the strawberry-blond hair and the blue dress that brings out her eyes. soft, demure. she's the kind of gal that eoin often writes about.

this is not how he wants his reunion with eoin to be.

--

when he's able to hold a coherent conversation, paddy says to eoin: ambrose always writes about you and siobhan.

does he now? eoin asks.

aye, but you never really write about her.

eoin breathes sharply, then, and looks at paddy. rests his elbow on the railing of paddy's hospital bed, chin on hands. eoin's wearing his claddagh ring, the same ring that paddy's gifted him when they were boys in ballymena.

the position's still the same as paddy's remembered it. with the heart pointing out.

so your heart's still free, eh, eoin? paddy wonders.

i do, eoin says. oblivious that paddy's staring at his ring, and not at him. i do, eoin says, write about her. just not to you.

paddy glares at eoin. why not? he asks.

because, paddy, eoin blinks, i know you're going to react like this.

react like what paddy wants to ask, but he bites his tongue because -- yes, he sees what eoin is trying to say. instead, he asks, so, when's the wedding?

eoin throws his head back and laughs, really, really laughs. oh, paddy. she's just a friend.

uh uh, paddy narrows his eyes. he chuckles, too, though it's humourless. tries to make light of the situation, because eoin is easy and light and bright.

but paddy's heart lies heavy.

still, he carries it with him. the darkness of it. even if it's torture.

--

eoin's staying in belfast for his summer holidays, while paddy is recuperating from his back operation. he visits mount pleasant often, and his sisters fuss over him more than they fuss over paddy. over tea, they ask him:

so how's siobhan?

why isn't siobhan here?

will we be hearing wedding bells soon?

eoin says, she's good, aye. she's back in dublin, with her family. and no, we're only friends. he's sheepish, coy. the same way he's acted when paddy posed a similar question, when he was still in hospital and eoin came to visit. paddy watches this interaction with some disgusted interest.

he grunts loudly in the background, for extra effect. his sisters roll their eyes at him, though not out of malice.

eoin, the ever-serene, continues smiling like a wise sage. unflappable.

it annoys the hell out of paddy. so he grunts again. louder.

eoin lets out a gentle laugh, then, though not quite meeting his eyes.

as if to say, oh, paddy. oh, blair. what do i do with you?

--

But truly, what does one do with someone like Blair 'Paddy' Mayne? Eoin wonders this all the time that they've been apart.

He searches for answers in the letters that Paddy never sent him.

They never come.

--

An Interlude:

“Why are you here, Eoin?”

Eoin grits his teeth. He continues serving soup in their bowls like he hasn’t heard the question, but he’s aware that Paddy is watching him curiously. Paddy's sisters are far away, on the other side of the house, and they now have only themselves to themselves.

“I just wanted to see you. It's been -- a while. Since the end of the war and you going to Antarctica," Eoin replies, careful, lest Paddy will bite. "I was coming up anyway, and when I didn't get a reply from the last letter I asked Ambrose how you've been. He told me that you were in the hospital. I didn’t want to barge in uninvited, and if I’d known what you've been through I would’ve—,” he trails off, before his shoulders fall into a defeated posture.

“What could you have done, Eoin? There's nothing you could do for me. I'm just a sad old grizzled dog,” Paddy offers to finish Eoin's sentence, sounding hurt in the process.

“It’s your choice, Paddy. To let me into your personal life or not,” Eoin replies, before he realizes how sharp the words sound. He shakes his head. “If I’d known, I would have come sooner," he says, lips curving into a soft smile, now. Tries to soothe Paddy's wounds a little.

“Sorry,” Paddy says, then. Still without maintaining eye-contact, his gaze fallen upon his lap. “I should’ve told you. I just--don't want you to see me like this.”

“I know how you are now,” Eoin softly replies. “Doesn’t really matter, Paddy. I've seen you at your worse. This is not it. And I’m here now anyway.”

They finish their lunch quietly. Eoin helps to wash the dishes while Paddy stays at the table, gulping down cold water. “Thanks for today. You must want to get home soon,” he says.

Something inside Eoin snaps again. “What makes you think that I’m leaving so soon?"

Paddy looks at him blankly, dark circles around his eyes making him appear as if he’s decaying from inside. Eoin knows the answer without Paddy having to say it.

Because the rest of them always do.

They've always been good at this sort of thing, though it's a bit rusty now and Eoin thinks, he needs more time to practice. He needs to spend more time with Paddy, to relearn him, to recalibrate.

To communicate.

I speak dog, Paddy's once said.

Paddy's old friends who have visited Mount Pleasant must have been uncomfortable; must have been afraid of the changes they’ve witnessed. Paddy has always been wild, untamed, free -- some may say violent, aggressive, volatile. The volatility is still there, Eoin could taste it. Feel it in the air -- it's one of the reasons why he's drawn to Paddy. Eoin's mostly average on a lot of things, but one thing he's actually excels in, is to be the unfettered vessel that contains Paddy. His chaos and his rage. The one to hold him there, his quintessence. Keep him still, in one place.

But the Paddy in front of him now is a hollow shell of what he once were, in the post-war world. As if life has been zapped out of him.

His bark has no bite.

Instead of offering sincere help, some of them may have decided to distance themselves. All while saying that they care. Some folk at the Law Society has been supportive, but it's difficult when they've not been through the things that Paddy's been through.

The things that Eoin and the SAS have been through.

Eoin gradually begins to understand why Paddy hasn’t reached out for him for help – even if that has always been the most natural thing for Paddy to do during the war; in the heat of battle. Eoin's always been next to Paddy for advice and support, even when GHQ made them execute idiotic orders that could have cost them their lives.

Paddy didn’t tell him about this, because he’d been afraid that Eoin would notice the change.

Feared that Eoin would shun him like everyone else did.

--

That night, Eoin decides to stay at Paddy's family home, because Francie's asked him to. She says, 'There's something you should know about Paddy. I know that you know, but I think you should see. He's-- different, now. And I don't know what to do.'

In the ornate reading room, Paddy lies on a chaise longue that wouldn't have probably helped with his back pain. A book of AE Housman poems limply held in one hand, mouth muttering the words on the page, again and again. They listen to 'Whiskey in the Jar' like the good old days when they were preparing for D-Day. Eoin's rereading Dickens, just for the sake of it.

Then, Eoin hears a thump. Paddy's fallen asleep. The book he held has fallen to the floor.

Paddy’s crouched in a foetal position; knees to chest – arms positioned as if he’s holding something against his chest – a rifle, Eoin realizes, only that there is no rifle.

And then, the grouches start.

--

tbc

part iii here

[0rczy]

The nym tree scene from chapter 21 of Varian's Tangled Trials

(heey Vat7k nation on Tumblr, this is my first post wohoo)

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

me stubbornly forcing myself to drink green tea and rest from my THIRD COLD THIS MONTH

[luna-loveboop]

It's all "links meet aus" and "zeldas meet aus", but where's my "companions meet aus"?

I wanna see midna bash fi and navis heads together for annoying her

I mean can you imagine the sheer chaos of all the Zelda companions meeting and going on a journey together? They're all companions/guides! One of thems a talking hat for hylias sake how are they supposed to take initiative?

I think it'd be like Lu where they all just meet up, but can you imagine the chain just somehow finds out this happened (and twilight is just like guys I am so sorry about midna) (but they're also really oddly touched that all their friends met each other too)

Pretty sure midna would be the sort of leader, since the last time she was in a foreign world she just found the nearest dude and started ordering him around. By like halfway through twilight princess she was literally asking LINK to accompany her to get what she needed.

But like. 90% of the group would be fairies. Which can't heal. One is a talking hat who just needs a head? He can't go on midnas cause she throws him off with her magic hair, poor ezlo is just trying to keep up.

They also have these weird green shadows who come around? They don't talk, but there's a rock, a fish, a bird, and a lady who just appear and stab things and shoot wind water fire and lightning.

Also midnas really confused why wolf link just shows up and kills things every now and then (from botw amibo)

Fi is the one who can talk to Hylia and awaken memories and get guidance and information or whatever, but she only does this by ballerina dancing and the others are always pissed at her anyways "WE DONT KNOW WHAT BATTERIES ARE OR A WII REMOTE WILL YOU PLEASE GO BACK IN SWORD FORM ALREADY" "I detect there is a 90% chance you need a key to open this door" "wow. Your perception is unparalleled fi."

Also there's a boat. A boat. Who is also good at taking charging since he's a king, which causes some friction between him and midna, since she has to grab him by her hair to move him half the time.

And with the fairies. Again. They all offer advice mainly. And with the fairies a lot of their main role is speaking and getting attention and pitching in? They come on an intersection and there's a chorus of bells all shouting the same directions. Ezlo is trying to cover the kings ears from his place on the boats head

Also there's this ghost/spirit of Zelda that everyone just feels REALLY strong loyalty to. But she's just like this kid who wants her body back?! They try to protect her but she can turn into a purple knight and stab things so there's that. I think there's also some animal companions from ooa/oos so.

Side quests are nonexistent they don't care about a village or gathering frogs for a kid they are there to save the world on a mission linear plot it is

And it's interesting because you have so many of them who just vanish and then appear to give loud advice. All at once. And the fighting skills basically fall to those weird green shadows that shoot various elements and fight and randomly disappear. Midna and spirit Zelda can fight, and Fi can too (kind of like how she fights as a sword in hyrule warriors). Also up to you if midna is drop dead gorgeous or devilish imp.

By the end they find whatever enemy so they can go back and midna is so pissed by this point that she hears the word "batteries" from Fi and goes full on fused shadow and just obliterates the jerk

***I have not played all the games so do not know or understand all of the companions and probably got some stuff wrong

Bonus: there is a child in a village named Link who does not have the spirit of the hero. He is stalked for three days until Fi decides his vibes are off and they all stop telling him he's the chosen one

[spaceorphan18]

X-Men Fic (Rogue/Gambit) : Toys

A/N: Yes, this was inspired by that clip that's been going around of Gambit's VA for XM97 playing with action figures. I cannot believe this is what I'm writing for my first real fic for this fandom. Dear lord, forgive me for the shenanigans... also, unbeta'd. I just wanted to get it out into the world and be done with it.

I'll post this tomorrow on Ao3

Rated: T for suggestiveness

Summary: Rogue catches Remy playing with toy action figures of the X-Men. Shenanigans. Set in the 616 comic verse, but some fun meta-y references to XM97

****

Toys

Upon arriving home, Rogue comes in through the open kitchen window because why bother with stairs when you can fly? It’s been a long day, a long week, a long life… All she wants to do is curl up on the couch with the cats and a trashy book and hopefully Remy’s home so she can get a back massage.  Hell, forget the book, she’ll gamble for the massage first.  Save the trashy for later.  

She grins, thinking about her husband’s warm hands on her skin.  

Remy is, indeed, home; standing at the kitchen island, his back turned towards the window, so engrossed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t hear her come in.  And what he’s doing takes her by surprise.  

The kitchen counter is covered in half open boxes, plastic containers, cardboard, and little zip ties.  There are a good, half-dozen or so action figures all lined up in a semicircle; each one of them a well detailed, classically designed replica of, well… the X-Men.  Oh, dear god, what did she walk into? 

“I’ll take ya down in one slice, bub,” Remy says, holding the Wolverine figurine in one hand, his voice low as he attempts Logan’s gruff voice.  Remy LeBeau is good at a lot of things, Rogue would be first to give you a list, but doing impressions is not one of them.  She bites her lip, fascinated to see how this plays out.  Remy grabs the Magento figurine as his voice shifts to imitate Erik.  “You incels!” Remy screams; loud, exaggerated, and carefully enunciated.  “How dare you try to take down me; the questionably dressed, ego too big for my helmet, Master of Magnetism?” 

Rogue puts a hand up to her lips, holding back an amused snort.  Oh, Remy… 

Remy loses the impression as he lunges the Wolverine figurine at the Magneto one.  The Magneto one floats away.  “You fools! Don’ you remember I control the metal?”  Shaking the Wolverine figurine violently, Remy lets out a feral scream and the figure is flung to the side, landing with a clatter in the sink.  

Magneto is discarded for a moment as Remy picks up the Scott and Jean figurines.  Scott has his hand to his visor while Jean has both her hands on the sides of her head.  “Jean! I seem to have made a tactical error,” Remy cries in Scott’s no-nonsense voice.  His voice then slides higher as he mimics Jean.  “Scott, my telepathy.  It out o’ whack!  Oh, Scott!... Jean!… SCOTT!.... JEAN!!”

Rogue is dying inside.  She holds herself tightly, trying as hard as she can not to burst out laughing.  

Scott and Jean are shuffled into one hand as Remy picks up the Magneto figurine again.  “Enough of this!” Remy says, back in the Magneto voice.  He then lets out another dramatic scream as he tosses the Scott and Jean figurines onto the pile of boxes, scaring Oliver, who had been inspecting one of the twist ties.  

He picks up the Storm figurine next, raising her arms to the ceiling.  “An’ now you deal with Stormy, who will smite you with her lightning blasts.” He jolts the Storm hands into Magneto, making little sound effect lightning blasts as he does so.  “Fool, I am impervious to lightning…  How dat possible? Lightning an’ magnetism are not the same thing!... I can control static electricity!... Dat…still don’ make any sense!... Begone, weather witch!”  

Rogue has tears in her eyes. She’s biting her lip so hard, it’s beginning to hurt.  Thankfully, Remy is so lost in his make believe world that he can’t hear her snickering.  

The Storm figurine is placed gently face down on the counter as Remy picks up the Gambit figurine.  Rogue’s eyes grow wide, intensely waiting to see how this will play out… 

“Ohh, you goin’ down now, mon ami,” Remy’s voice grows low and serious.  He starts making explosion sound effects, as if the Gambit figurine is throwing little playing cards at the Magneto one.  Remy then throws his head back in a villainous laugh as he goes back to the Magneto voice.  “You seriously think a few mild explosions could ever touch me?”  

Remy stops, and grins that cocky, beautiful grin of his.  “Non, but it enough to keep you distracted.”  He starts turning the Magneto figurine around, as if it’s confused.  “See, I always gotta ace up my sleeve.”  

In a quick second, he drops the Gambit figurine, and grabs the Rogue one.  Her arm is out, one leg up, poised to fly.  Remy slams the fist of the Rogue figurine into the Magneto one’s head.  “Howdy, sugah.” 

Rogue tilts her head, amused.  Remy’s imitation of her own voice is so comically off, and yet incredibly endearing.  

“How ‘bout you leave my family alone!” The Rogue figurine crashes into the Magneto one again.  This time, Remy charges the Magneto figurine, causing it to glow purple.  He tosses the charged Magneto figurine up, letting it explode in mid-air with a bang.  The charred remains drop to the counter with a clang before it bounces into the trash next to the counter.  

Remy then picks up the Gambit figurine and brings it in close to the Rogue one.  “Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are when you’re punching people, chere?...Why don’t you shut up and kiss me, Remy…” Remy starts clicking the faces of the two figurines together, making little kiss-y noises and ‘mwa’ sounds as the action figures ‘make out’.  

Rogue grins wildly, expecting nothing less.  She crosses her arms across her chest, casually walking forward to let her presence be known. “Whatcha doing, sugah?” 

Remy gives a startled jump, the figurines dropping out of his hand with a clatter.  He’s not the least bit sorry he’s been caught, however, a devilish grin quickly sliding onto his lips.  “Jus’ havin’ a bit of fun testing some of these toys that show sent us.”  Rogue picks the destroyed Magneto figurine out of the trash.  “Some of dem defective,” he says slyly. 

“Defective huh?” She drops the figurine unceremoniously back into the trash and comes in close, wrapping her arms around his neck.  She knows the show is a sore spot, no matter how much free merch they’ve gotten from it lately.   “You still salty about all that?”

He lets out a grumble, but still wraps himself around her, just the way she likes.  “Don’ act like you wouldn’t be, too, if they killed you off like dat.   Middle of the first season, too.  What’d I do to deserve dat?” 

“They just knew you were the best one.” She runs her fingers through his hair.  “Who else gonna go out in a fiery blaze of heroism like that?” 

He smirks, though she can still see a hint of sadness in his eyes.  “It was pretty epic, non?” 

“The best…”  She draws him in for a kiss, sweet and gentle and comforting.  “Forget that show, Remy.  That ain’t our life.  This is.” She kisses him again, a little bit harder, grounding herself in his embrace.  He had tortured himself wanting to keep watching that show, but she couldn’t.  She wouldn’t.  She didn’t want to imagine herself going down a path she would never recover from.  “Besides…” she says, trying to keep it light.  “I’m sure season two will have me pulling your pretty ass back from the dead one way or the other.  And if it doesn’t, you best bet I’ll get those writers fired and write it myself.”  

“I ever tell you how sexy you are when pulling me back from the dead?” 

“Shut up and kiss me, Remy.”  He does and they do.  Forget the massage tonight, they’re going straight to the trashy.  She’s hungry to feel him everywhere tonight.  

They break apart once again, breathing heavily as Rogue leans her forehead against his.  “Hey, Remy?” 

“Oui?” 

“Why don’t we leave this mess for later and go play with some of the toys we’ve already got.”

He laughs into another kiss.  “You always have de best ideas, chere…” 

****

Later… 

In the stillness of the night, long after Remy’s fallen asleep, Rogue gets up for a glass of water.  

The kitchen is how they left it hours ago, a mess of trash and action figures scattered around the room.  The cats had gotten into some of it.  Poor Scott had fallen to the ground.  She picks him up, placing him next to Jean, giving him a little pat as she does so.  

She wants to ignore the others.  Wants to ignore the strange sensation it is to have your likeness in toy form.  Still, she’s drawn to the little action figure her. She picks it up, inspecting it.  It’s her old green and yellow uniform, one she hasn’t worn in years. She doesn’t even know where it is, probably having been trashed in some long ago fight.  Unsurprisingly, the boobs are a little too big, the waist a little too small, and the hair a bit ridiculous.  But it’s oddly still her.  A little version her.  

She looks down to the Gambit figurine and smiles.  The trench coat, the staff, the ridiculously abbed pink breast plate.  The cocky little grin.  They got his likeness perfectly.  And yet it doesn’t even hold a candle to the real thing.  

“Love ya, Remy,” she says softly, as she takes the Rogue figurine and gives the Gambit figurine a kiss with it.  She laughs at her own silliness, but still takes a moment to place the figurines together, resting against each other, as they should be.  

She grabs her water and turns off the light and heads back to the bedroom, where she’ll soon curl up against her husband and fall asleep.  

[gallawitchxx]

day two • gallavich kinktober 2024

↳ 31 days of kinks & cards in 3 sentences

AFTERCARE x PAGE OF SWORDS

“Drink up, baby,” Ian coos, lifting the water bottle to Mickey’s lips. He drinks, unable to protest, but also unable to ignore where Ian’s still thick and hard against his come-covered hip—the tangible results of three mind bending orgasms on Ian’s tongue, his fingers, and his perfect cock. When he’s back from the stratosphere, Mickey promises to get right to work adding Ian’s to the mix.

@gallavichthings

[guiltyonsundays]

In defence of Will Ladislaw

George Eliot's characterisation of Will Ladislaw is one of the few aspects of Middlemarch that is not universally praised, with no less a person than Henry James commenting in 1873 that he lacked “sharpness of outline and depth of color��, making him the novel’s “only eminent failure.” And while Will's character is certainly not as clearly defined as some of the other characters in the novel, I believe that this was absolutely intentional on Eliot's part. Middlemarch is full to the brim of characters who believe they know exactly what they want—not least among them, our two protagonists, Dorothea Brooke and Tertius Lydgate, whose ardent ambitions and inflexible attitudes lead them into catastrophic errors of judgement and unhappy marriages.

By contrast, Will's lack of strongly defined goals and his changeability are almost his defining character traits. He's aimless and pliable, prone to rapid mood swings and drastic career changes, with even his physical features seeming to "chang[e] their form; his jaw looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light."

Will’s inscrutability is closely tied to his ambiguous status within the rigid class structure and xenophobic society of Victorian England, with his Polish ancestry and “rebellious blood on both sides” making him a target for suspicion. He is repeatedly aligned (and aligns himself) with oppressed, marginalised, and outcast populations—Jewish people, artists, and the poor.

He serves as a narrative foil for characters like Lydgate and Edward Casaubon, who prioritise specialist expertise above all and are consequently incapable of broad knowledge synthesis. He critiques Casaubon's life's work as being "thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world." By contrast, Will serves as Eliot's defence of the value of a liberal education. One of the first things that we learn about him is that he declines to choose a vocation, and instead seeks to travel widely, experiencing diverse cultures and ways of life. He has broad tastes and interests, trying his hand at poetry and painting before eventually pursuing a career in politics.

He also functions as a narrative foil for Dorothea. Will is initially apathetic to politics, whereas Dorothea initially professes herself to be disinterested in art and beauty. This is perfectly encapsulated in their exchange in Rome, when Dorothea declares, "I should like to make life beautiful—I mean everybody's life. And then all this immense expense of art, that seems somehow to lie outside life and make it no better for the world, pains one", to which Will replies, "You might say the same of landscape, of poetry, of all refinement [...] The best piety is to enjoy—when you can [...] I suspect that you have some false belief in the virtues of misery, and want to make your life a martyrdom.”

By the end of the novel, Dorothea unlearns some of her puritanical suspicion of sensual pleasure, whereas Will becomes more serious, compassionate, and politically engaged, dedicating his life to the accomplishment of humane political reforms. They are both flawed individuals, who ultimately become more well rounded through their relationship with each other. Admittedly, Dorothea's influence on Will is more significant than his on her—and once again, I believe that this was intentional on Eliot's part.

In my opinion, the negative response to Will Ladislaw at the time of Middlemarch's publication (and in the centuries since) was and is profoundly informed by gendered expectations of masculine dominance in romantic relationships. Will's marriage to Dorothea has often been described as disappointing, with many readers and critics viewing the ambitious Lydgate as the embodiment of the ideal husband that Dorothea outlines at the beginning of the novel—a talented man engaged in important work for the betterment of humanity, to whom she can devote herself.

However, one of the central themes of the novel is that people are often mistaken in their beliefs about what they want, and Dorothea's marriage to Edward Casaubon certainly demonstrates that she would not in fact be happy living her life in submission to a man who does not respect her opinions. I firmly believe that Lydgate's misogynistic attitudes and expectations would have made it impossible for him to be happy in a marriage of equals with a woman like Dorothea. He is explicitly drawn to Rosamond Vincy because she has "just the kind of intelligence one would desire in a woman—polished, refined, docile."

By contrast, George Eliot made a deliberate choice to pair Dorothea with a man who is not ashamed to be influenced by her, and indeed looks up to her as his moral superior. Through Dorothea's influence, Will discovers his life's work. In turn, by marrying Will, Dorothea is able to pursue her true passion. As a result of their influence on each other, these come to mean the same thing—reform. Thus, George Eliot grants Dorothea Brooke a subversively feminist, politically progressive, and profoundly cathartic ending: a life of companionate marriage, sensual pleasure, and meaningful work, in which Dorothea can devote herself (within the limited means available to her as a woman in the 19th century) to the achievement of just and compassionate reforms that "make life beautiful" for everybody—herself included.