#something i have taken a stupid pride in for my entire life

[lengthy-artery]

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[hibiscuslovecandles]

✿MY LOVE✿| BSD

Genre:Fluff,parenting,crack,GN!READER Warnings:Children,babies,not proofread,may be ooc,Let me know if there's any warning I missed! Featuring:Chuuya Nakahara, Edgar Allan Poe, Gin Akutagawa, Doppo Kunikida Note:My next headcanon post after this might come out pretty damn late, I've been a neet for 3 years and I'm being forced to get a job and get a drivers permit so it'll take awhile

🍷When you mentioned wanting to have kids while the two of you were watching a movie together cuddled up on the couch together while drinking wine nearly made him choke on his wine. You two had a good hour long conversation on the topic of kids.

🍷After waiting some time for Chuuya to be mentally prepared for the responsibilities that come with being a parent, he brought up the topic again. That's how you ended up becoming parents.

🍷When they were still a baby it was common to see Chuuya sitting on the playmat with them humoring the infants nonsense and making sure they didn't swallow anything that could kill them.

🍷Whenever the baby would cry in the middle of the night Chuuya always would insist that you stay in bed while he goes to check. 20 minutes would pass and you'd see Chuuya in the rocking chair of the nursery, baby in his arms, fast asleep.

🍷Will take so much pride if the baby says their first words in his presence. It doesn't need to be dada or anything any word and he has the most stupid smile you've ever seen on his face.

🍷Makes sure you and the baby are safe at all costs, the apartment is COMPLETELY baby proof, Chuuya is even mildly offended if you say he's doing too much.

🍷You don't know that Chuuya has a entire folder on his phone dedicated to you and the baby, you don't that these photos were even taken since they were all taken when you preoccupied with the baby like when you're giving them a bath or you building a sand castle with them at the beach, of course he has photos of the two most important people in his life.

🍷Chuuya was sadly….out on business when they took their first steps, when you two video called that night per routine you told him and Chuuya felt like shit for not being there for it….then there was the baby hitting the screen of your phone not quite understanding why Chuuya is inside a rectangle.

🍷When Chuuya returned the first thing he needed was to see his baby and when you placed the baby on the ground and he saw his baby waddle towards him, he wanted to cry, but he didn't it just holding his baby once they reached him.

🍷You are required to send him photos whenever you and the baby are doing something and he can't be there. Send him that photo of the baby on the swing set, send him the photo of the baby flipping through those baby books, send it!!!

🍷He has photos of all three of you together in his wallet. There's nothing he loves more.

🍷Was originally strongly against diaper duty but now takes it upon himself to do it.

🍷Reads all the ingredients used on the back of the baby food and makes sure nothing in the baby bottles you guys buy has any remotely harmful chemicals. He can't lose this one thing.

🍷And a baby grows into a child.

🍷Whenever he's scolding your child for doing something bad and he gets too frustrated he'll have you take the reigns since he wants to avoid taking his anger out on his child.

🍷Chuuya might not be around often due to his uh…position at work but once his kid starts developing interests he keeps those intact. His child into animals? Taking them to the zoo next week. His kid into sports? Signing them up for baseball as soon as possible.

🍷Whenever Chuuya feels like he missed out on something due to work he'll lay next to you in bed and ask you if he's a bad dad while just looking at the ceiling.

🍷Chuuya is the dad that his kid has no memory of ever seeing him cry when they get older. Mostly because he only really cries by himself and occasionally in your arms in bed.

🍷Has scared off multiple people he thinks were getting too close to his kid.

🍷You have a photo of a completely unbothered Chuuya sitting on the couch reading as your kid is practically climbing him with their blanket as a make shift cape.

🍷Chuuya is always there for whenever you need some you time and just need a break and is completely understanding. He'll take you out for a nice relaxing night out as a close friend of yours watches over your kid granted Chuuya was very hesitant to leave your kid. Not a single hair on their head will be hurt without someone dying.

🍷Whenever your kid comes home from school having a bad day they know they can tell Chuuya as he will hold them close and rub their back and whisper reassuring words as he listens.

🍷When the two of you got called by the school only you could go and pick up your kid since Chuuya was busy doing stuff. Your child got into a fight on the playground is what you told Chuuya when you got home and seeing him washing his hands of…stuff in the kitchen sink, Chuuya was proud of his kid, not for fighting that's bad, but for winning said fight.

🍷 “Did they win?”

🍷 “Not the point Chuuya.”

🍷 “I know but-”

🍷Will sit down and talk to them as to why fighting is wrong and why they shouldn't do it unless absolutely necessary his job doesn't count.

🍷Always tries his best to get your kid the best gift on their birthday. It's like a competition for you two just without any stakes.

🍷Chuuya puts your kid into private school for their entire life, only wanting the very best for your kid.

🍷You could be busy sitting with your kid helping them with their math homework at the dining table and you'll suddenly feel a pair of lips on your cheek. Chuuya returning from a uh…business trip earlier than expected and surprising the both of you!

🍷Chuuya will take a mental photo whenever he sees you and your child sleeping because your child was scared of the thunderstorm outside and wanted to sleep with you two. Seeing the way your child is curled up into your chest and you snoring away is a sight he'll cherish. He loves you two so much.

🦝When you mentioned kids to Poe you had to catch him when he fainted…..it took him quite awhile to warm up to the idea of kids mostly because he's worries if he'll be a good father, he was on board with kids after alot of time but you didn't mind, kids are alot of work and fragile so of course he's hesitant.

🦝The way it was brought up was when he cooking dinner and you were just getting home from work, he had been building up the courage all day so when he heard that front door open he yelled from the kitchen that he was ready for kids…you hadn't even taken off your shoes yet, when you entered the kitchen and asked him to repeat himself because what the fuck was that he was so embarrassed from how he mentioned the topic back up that he refused to even look at you.

🦝Poe had to be taught by you on how to hold a baby and when he looked down into his arms and he saw the warm, squishy, soft, mini human in the fluffy blanket he let out tears of joy, you couldn't really tell though since how hysterically he was crying.

🦝Despite him originally being WAY more opposed to having kids than you were he knows way more about babies than you, having read only the finest books on babies and honestly might mansplain at you about your baby.

🦝Should you leave your baby with a racoon?probably not but when you and Poe both are trying to figure out what's wrong with the bathroom sink there's Karl in the doorway giving your baby a bottle. You're so glad you got a picture of that.

🦝The first time Ranpo came face to face with your baby was when he was going to leech off you two again by crashing at your guy's place and when Poe opened the door he immediately noticed the baby crying in your arms trying to calm them down. Ranpo pushed past Poe just to poke. Poke at your baby and they stopped???

🦝Poe goes to those mommy support groups and it's honestly surreal to see him at the park with all his mom friends talking about their pediatricians.

🦝Whenever Poe makes a mistake like being too loud infront of the baby it keeps him up at night and him muttering about how your baby is going to cut him off as soon as possible and you have to put a stop to this thinking.

🦝Has a photo album dedicated to your baby's growth.

🦝Despite them being a baby and not being able to understand what's being said to them yet Poe reads them bed time stories.

🦝You were playing in the snow with your baby while Poe was inside working on his novel when they said their first words and you rushed inside, baby in arms, to get them repeat their words to Poe and when they do Poe snatched them from your arms and showered their face in so many kisses.

🦝The two of you turned your back from the baby for two seconds while adding a new wall decoration to the nursery when you guys hear Karl make a ear piercing squeal and when you two whipped around the last thing you two expected to see was your baby standing on Karl's tail- wait what. The moment was quickly over when your baby fell back on their bum and cried from how loud Karl was. The two of you were so happy for their first steps less happy about all the yelling but this'll be a fond memory in the future.

🦝Babyhood to childhood.

🦝Hes kind of a push over, if his child begs enough he will buy them whatever they want its usually up to you or Karl to slap some sense into him Karl in a more literal sense to make sure they don't grow up spoiled.

🦝Ranpo ends up being the uncle to sneak candy or a dollar to your kid whenever he sees them to which you scold him and your child. Considering how often Ranpo freeloads off you and Poe he might as well be another child.

🦝Poe is still in contact with the moms from his mom-baby classes and takes your child to play dates with the other moms children.

🦝On his desk are photos of your child on their birthday and a photo of you and him on your wedding day.

🦝Ranpo and Karl are a surprisingly good babysitting duo whenever you and Poe just want a night to yourselves because believe it or not having to make sure a fun sized human with the survival skills of a cabbage doesn't die can be stressful though you and Poe never find out all the hijinks that happen on those nights cause Ranpo bribes your kid to not say anything about the three of them getting lost in a city one hour from your home.

🦝He reads as many books and observes how you handle things whenever it comes to having to disciplining your child so that he can feel like a actually good parent, he looks up to you so much you don't even know.

🦝He still showers your child's face with kisses even if they do start getting embarrassed by it.

🦝He has taken it upon himself to homeschool your child, changing his schedule for his child, being very hands on like taking your kid outside for science lessons :)

🦝One time when Poe was busy writing he walked out his office to see you covered in scratches, you got them when you tried to get Karl to match clothes with your kid. Poe tended to your scratches.

🦝The horror that appeared on both your faces when you two noticed your child was in the bathroom for a weird amount of time so you guys went to check and they were cutting their own hair. Rest of their childhood from then on they had short hair.

🦝Multiple bags filled with clothes that your kid has grown out of that Poe refuses to get rid. Just reminds him of how tiny they used to be.

🦝Poe got into the habit of eating baby food when your kid was still a baby and only recently has stopped.

🦝Immediately hugged your child when they fell off their bike for the first time while learning.

🦝Poe likes answering questions about basic things that your child asks like why is the fridge light only on when you open it? Why can't he play right now? He just finds these questions about simple things that any adult understands amusing.

🦝Poe's heart gets all mushy whenever he sees you tucking your child in. He has it all.

🔪When you mentioned children to Gin while the two of you were making dinner together she froze in place, tears began to poke out of her eyes and it wasn't because of the onions she was cutting, she needed space and time to think it over and so you stepped back.

🔪You were suprised when months after you initially asked the question she gave a answer to your question while the two of you were on a ice skating date. You completely forgot about it so when she told you she thinks ready you were really confused. You aren't confused anymore now that you two are parents.

🔪You'll come home to a eerily silent house and just witness Gin sitting on the living room floor just watching your baby.

🔪Gin triple checks to make sure the car seat is secure before driving.

🔪Ryuunosuke has affections for your baby, after all their family and will protect them with his life, but has he ever supported the weight of the baby in his own two arms? Absolutely not. The closest he's got to holding them was using rashomon to take them when you forcibly handed the baby to him while you scrambled to turn the stove off after you realized you left it on and even them he put the baby on the ground next to him immediately.

🔪She is aware that the nature of her job might prevent her from spending time with you two so she always tries to keep things as snappy and clean as possible so she can make it home in time for dinner.

🔪Whenever you tired after taking care of the baby she'll gladly run you a nice bath and wash your back for you.

🔪You two have a entire manual prepared just in case you guys have to leave your baby with Ryuunosuke.

🔪Gin is very hesitant to give the baby any sugar but does feed them sugar every once in awhile for good behavior due to you convincing her.

🔪She gushes over your baby's first words, you were coming back from hanging out with friends and see her gently pinching your baby's cheeks and you don't even get to ask what's up when the baby repeats the word again.

🔪Prides herself in being the best mother ever.

🔪The baby was sleeping in bed with the two of you once and cried seeing Gin sleep with her eyes open. Fun memory years later, Not fun in the moment.

🔪You have a photo of her sleeping on the couch with the baby sleeping in the position as her under her arm, she'll never know you have this photo.

🔪A baby eventually turns into a child.

🔪Gin is the one who styles the kid’s hair.

🔪Has a photo of your kid on the first day of school as her lockscreen.

🔪Your kid is in public school, Gin just wants your kid to have a normal average average childhood.

🔪Takes everything her kid says very seriously, the kid could be talking about the most recent episode of their favorite show and she'll be listening intently.

🔪Please give her a head massage at the end of the day she deserves it considering her job and the kid.

🔪Whenever your kid does something bad Gin calmly sits down and explains why what the did was bad and why they shouldn't do it again ignore her job details .

🔪Your child's playdates just make Gin happy to see her child enjoy something she never did.

🔪If she gets home earlier than expected she'll help your kid with their homework.

🔪Your child has most definitely said “Eewwwww!” seeing you two slow dance together

🔪No one knows about you or your kid's existence. She stays private about it and wants to keep you two safe.

📒He was the one to mention kids to you when the two of you were getting ready for bed, he's financially and mentally ready to have a child are you? He handled the conversation with you with much care and if you ever got overwhelmed during the conversation he'd help calm you down.

📒Kunikida made sure to spend days talking about this subject with you since having a child is a life altering event. And now the life altering event is here.

📒He does those little baby leg exercises every morning before work so that your baby has enough leg strength for when they start walking.

📒Kunikida is not embarrassed to wear a baby carrier.

📒You were caught having one of the babies snacks and Kunikida snatched it away saying it was for the baby not you!

📒Doesn't mention you or the baby unless someone asks and when they do he talk about the two of you with so much pride.

📒When the day with the baby was particularly exhausting Kunikida will cup your face and tell you that you're doing a amazing job and only shower you with praise about how he admires your strength.

📒Kunikida and you were at the park having a picnic as a date together when you got a call from the family member that was baby sitting for the two of you that your baby took their first steps. Kunikida wanted to immediately get up and go see for himself but he didn't, this day was about you two celebrating your anniversary. When you guys went to pick up the baby though Kunikida cried on his knees when he saw the baby stumble on over to you two.

📒You were sitting on the bathroom sink recording Kunikida giving your baby a bath when they decided to say their first words, a shock to the both of you since they were months late to say their first words so the two of you just froze. Then you realized you got it on video and told Kunikida… he just smiled and gave your baby a kiss on the forehead and kept bathing them. This video is cherished.

📒You have all the gifts that Kunikida’s co-workers gave you guys on a shelf, some of them missed the assignment but it's the thought that counts though the crotchet stuffed cat by his co worker ‘Junichiro’ has to your favorite out the bunch.

📒You'll wake up in the middle of the night and realize Kunikida isn't there. Everytime you'll walk into the nursery and see him with the baby having fell asleep in the rocking chair.

📒Kunikida knows that his job requires him to do something life threatening things so he records his voice, talking about anything and everything talking about his schedule, how much he loves you and the baby, his time at work, just incase he doesn't end up coming home.

📒Luckily he made it to your babies childhood he still has voice messages just incase.

📒Instead of tying his kids shoes for them he decided to turn it into a lesson and teach then how to tie their own shoes.

📒Playdates are always held at your home because the other parents no for a fact that their kids are safe.

📒When your kid scraped their knee when they tripped over the pavement Kunikida was the first person on the scene.

📒You have a framed photo of your kid messily braiding Kunikida’s hair.

📒Might embarrass the kid but he doesn't care, his kid is required to bundle up as much as possible during winter.

📒Raising kid can be exhausting, he gets it, so. While your kid is being watched over at a family members house he takes the two of you to a nice planetarium date.

📒Your kid will activately be saying “Gross!” While you cover them in kisses.

📒Kunikida will take off his glasses for 000.1 seconds he'll look back and your kid took them.

📒Your kid cleans their own room and washes their own dishes.

📒…Good chance your kid had to help Ranpo get on the train before.

📒From the way you and your kid walk into the grocery store with blacked out sunglasses they probably thought you two were about to raid the place when in reality your kid just wanted to feel cool while getting their favorite snack.

📒Your kid always feels loved because every night before they close their eyes they see you and Kunikida telling them goodnight before the lights are out.

📒You feel loved. Kunikida doesn't fall asleep until he knows you two are asleep, just a safety thing.

Smoking and drinking beer with If I Die Young by The Band Perry while posting this lol

[agaypanic]

Heyyyy I love your writing sooooooooo much and I wasn’t sure if you were still writing or not so I thought I would request anyway

Could you do a Reese Wilkerson x fem!reader where she gets into a fight (she wins but still has a couple bruises and cuts) because she hears someone talking really horribly about Reese and he’s upset with her for getting in a fight but once he finds out why she did he becomes really soft. So fluffy and a little angst.

Thank youuuu ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Fighting For You (Reese Wilkerson X Reader)

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Summary: Reese gets upset when he finds out that you got into a fight. But finding out why you did it makes him feel more prideful than the fact that you won.

***

“Y/n, what’s wrong with you?” Reese scolded as he brought you into the bathroom of his house, sitting you on the edge of the tub. You were supposed to come over to hang out and help him with some homework, but you came a bit later than the agreed time. When Reese opened the door to let you in, he was met with the sight of you slightly bloodied and bruised. You had your signature smile, but it was a bit strained because of your busted lip.

“It’s not that bad.” You try to say, but winced at the ache in your face as you spoke.

“Not that bad?” Reese asked, clearly not convinced. He rummaged around in the cabinet under the sink for the first aid kit that he had used many times in his life. He sat beside you, grabbing your face and bringing it closer to assess the damage. Cut lip, bloody nose, bruised cheekbone. Not to mention your slightly bloody hands. Reese wasn’t entirely sure whose blood it was. “You look like me after a fight with my brothers, and we fight like dogs.”

Being used to cleaning Reese up after a fight instead of the other way around, you knew this was true.

“She deserved it.” You shrugged, deeply inhaling as you prepared for the discomfort that would come with Reese cleaning your wounds and patching you up.

“What even happened, Y/n?” He asked. You started to recount the event to him, staring off as you thought about it.

When school let out, you planned to go home to shower and change before going to Reese’s house. You were so close, but were stopped just before the gates by some random girl.

“Hey, Y/n.” She said. She might’ve been someone from one of your classes because she looked familiar, but you couldn’t put her face to any names.

“Hi…?” You tried not to seem annoyed.

“Sorry for bothering you. I just wanted to ask you a question.” You nodded, hoping this would be a quick conversation. “So is dating Reese, like, a bet or what?”

“Excuse me?” You were taken aback by the question.

“Well, there’s no way you actually have feelings for him. It must be a prank.” She laughed at the idea of you truly liking Reese, like it was absurd.

“Why do you say that…?”

“For one, he’s a fucking psycho. Beating people up for no reason and harassing everyone. Plus, he’s stupid. Like, really stupid. He’s too stupid to be part of his crazy family, which is a whole different story. But anyways-“

You finally cut off the girl’s tangent by decking her in the mouth. You weren’t usually one to resort to violence, but her words plus your frustrations of not being able to leave made you see red.

“I think everything else got blocked out or something…” You trail off, trying to remember any other details. You soon shrugged, looking at Reese. “But at least I won.”

At first, Reese was frustrated. He didn’t like the thought of you fighting; that was his thing. He didn’t want to think about your pretty face getting a nasty bruise or your knuckles to redden from using force. But when you told him that you punched a girl straight in the mouth because she was talking about him, his heart seemed to beat a little quicker.

After your face was as clean as he could make it, Reese gave you a gentle kiss on the corner of your lips to avoid your cut. Then he picked up one of your hands, patting it with a damp washcloth.

“Don’t do that again.” He tried to sound serious, but you could hear the pride in his voice.

***

Malcolm in the Middle Taglist: @rattilol

Reese Wilkerson Taglist: @hollymaybank

[normal-enderman]

EDIT: I GOT THE SIDES MIXED UP BECAUSE THE ARC WAS SO SHITTILY WRITTEN AND VIOLENTLY MISCHARACTERISED THAT I COULD ONLY COPE BY SCOURING THE DETAILS FROM MY MEMORY. IM STILL LEAVING THIS HERE BECAUSE I THINK MY POINT STANDS REGARDLESS.

I will never get over how bad and stupid the burger arc was, and how it was so obviously ccWilbur aggrandising his character with zero consideration for the other characters in the story, which I COULDN'T SAY AT THE TIME BECAUSE PEOPLE WOULD HAVE JUMPED ME FOR DARING TO SUGGEST CCWILBUR WAS A BAD WRITER. BUT I CAN SAY IT NOW!!!

It's so fucking stupid because cTubbo would have NEVER worked for cWilbur. His whole characterisation following Doomsday and The Final Confrontation centres around making himself powerful so that he will never have to subjugate himself to someone else again. While cTubbo doesn't have a whole lot of self-preservation or value for his life, one of his most powerful driving motivators is SHAME.

He's ashamed that he was used, he’s ashamed of himself for being so trusting and being so weak (in his eyes), and allowing people to hurt him and use him as a pawn. He's desperate for agency and to overcome his weakness, the one thing he fears most is being used as a tool again (even though the mindset of seeing himself as a weakling and an object without his own agency is so deeply entrenched that no matter how strong he gets externally, he still sees himself as a target just waiting to inevitably be taken advantage of - but that's off-topic). Point is, you can flip this on it's head: surprisingly, part of cTubbo's motivation centres around personal pride (although very fragile and isolated to very specific areas). He stays alive because he wants to PROVE he's not a tool, he keeps making himself stronger to prove he's not someone who should be messed with, he builds a big mansion and a whole island village just to prove to himself that he is strong, that he is projecting an image of strength and wealth and success, and he is FINE, thank you (he's not).

So WHY. THE FUCK. Would someone who's entire, teetering, fragile sense of identity relies on being seen as strong, powerful, independent, threatening, successful, wealthy - WHY would someone like that WORK FOR SOMEONE. Who HURT LOTS OF PEOPLE HE CARES ABOUT. In a SHITTY MINIMUM WAGE JOB. Where ANYONE can ROLL UP AND SEE CTUBBO. Being SUBJUGATED and SECOND IN COMMAND to SOMEONE ELSE. In SHITTY DEGRADING WORKING CONDITIONS.

The "I have no purpose anymore" thing is nowhere NEAR enough to justify something that runs so counter to who cTubbo is, and belies a deep lack of understanding or interest in the character on the part of ccWilbur. It's true that cTubbo is like a clockwork machine running without purpose, only still moving because he's driven by his fear and shame and anger at himself. That's why noticing that he felt purposeless was a really big moment, character-wise - it was cTubbo breaking out of his cycle of fear and anger enough to realise, "wait, this isn't actually helping anything. This isn't doing anything for me. I don't feel better". And that's SO FREAKING HUGE for a character who centres so much on denial and self-blame. Even developing enough to realise that how he feels MATTERS and is something he should be allowed to want to change is a huge step forward.

But making the jump from that to "he would turn to cWilbur to try and find purpose again" is ABSURD and ILLOGICAL and FUCKING STUPID. cTubbo barely knows cWilbur. cTubbo has a HUSBAND, who he trusted enough to talk to about his execution, and a best friend who he has grown distant from but could reach out to and reconnect with. As well as just - literally anyone else on the server who cTubbo doesn't know well, if he wanted to spend time with someone who didn't feel so painfully close. cWilbur hurt cTubbo, hurt cTubbo's friends, his actions impacted everyone negatively, and he’s still stuck in the same stupid cycles of land and borders and war while everyone else has moved on. cTubbo is motivated by shame at his weakness, which inversely means he has pride - he wouldn’t ally with someone who hurt him, and he wouldn’t subjugate himself to someone else, especially not someone weaker than him.

Sure, I expect he'd want some sort of closure from cWilbur - but that would be a conversation where cTubbo would be taking whatever steps necessary to feel like he and cWilbur were equals, and probably overcompensating in the process. He would never intentionally place himself in a role subordinate to cWilbur.

[fisherrprince]

“Ch’ari. What are you doing.”

The aetheric silhouette that is the Warrior of Light freezes in the middle of hobbling across the hallway. “I am… getting… a drink?” He says. 

“Oh?” Y’shtola raises an eyebrow. 

His aether flickers. The shape inches forward slowly, as if she were a dinosaur and couldn’t see him if he moved really slow. “I am… getting a very specific drink. From… Othard.”

“Are you now.” 

“…You are getting me a very specific drink from Othard?” Ch’ari tries. 

Y’shtola reaches behind her for her staff, and Ch’ari turns and scuttles as fast as his body will take him back into his room where he’s supposed to be. 

-

Alisaie scowls. “I am bored.”

“No kidding,” Ch’ari whines. “When are we allowed to leave?!”

“I am allowed to leave tomorrow. You will be staying here until you have resolved not to be a fool and throw your life away for a victory lap,” Alisaie snaps, and then her expression turns down. “Or at least until you can walk again.”

“Seems hypocritical to me. They’re letting you out early.”

“I’m almost healed!”

“By the loosest definition.”

“It wasn’t even a wound, Ari.”

“Hm.”

“Look—“ Alisaie says, pride in being Not Bedridden stoked by his dismissals, and pushes her way out of her bed at Dawn’s Respite to march over to Ch’ari’s bed, indignant. And still, notably, a bit shaky, after concentrated lightning magic left her too hurt to stand. Ch’ari still thinks they’re all stupid, every Scion, right back at them, for not tending to their own injuries well enough to heal themselves before pouring almost the entire Ragnarok’s worth of aether into him. Stupid, dumb, idiots. They’d already saved the universe at that point. We don’t need eight incapacitated scions when we could have had just the one. 

“You look like a baby amaro,” Ch’ari says, instead of voicing any of those thoughts. “Like a newborn foal. Damnation, looks like you’ll have to stay here and keep me company.”

Alisaie flicks him — gently, even though he’s not even got a head wound. “Ari. I promise we’re not going anywhere. And you know if you asked him to, Alphinaud would stay with you for days reading fantasy novels or textbooks at you for entertainment.”

His ears droop. “I know. But he needs to sleep.���

“And so do you.”

“And so do I,” Ch’ari grumbles in concession. “I am just not used to not moving. I want to kill something.”

Alisaie coughs out a startled laugh, and Ch’ari grins. “Gods, as do I, but we have our orders! Two weeks. No travel, no fights.”

“Sneak a coblin in here when you get out of this joint and I’ll pay for your sweets for a month.”

“Not a chance.”

-

“Not that I doubt your s-sSS-killed hands, Krile, I would never. But do bandages need changing thisoften?”

“In this specific case, yes,” Krile says, clearly not willing to entertain him while he chatters distractingly. “Might I remind you you were falling apart before we got to you with healing magics, and therefore you will be suffering the consequences for as long as a normal wound takes to heal naturally.”

“Peachy,” Ch’ari groans. He should have been better at avoiding that dumb voidsent Zenos summoned, but it always hid right out of his line of sight until it pounced. Clearly, a cheater, even if its master wouldn’t do a thing like that. Nah, he’d challenge him head-on, evening the playing ground until it was just strength against strength, no tricks, no unfair advantage. Pure, untouched adrenaline, bloodlust, the hunger for feeling alive. 

… Ch’ari will not miss him. But he will think of their encounters as long as it takes him to find something like it, if he ever does. Which is exactly what the prince wanted, drat. He should have taken Zenos to the Gold Saucer. Maybe he’d get really into chocobo racing instead of death matches. 

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by a sharp tug in his ribs. “Ow!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” Krile says, already casting a light soothing glow over the sticky mess there. Ch’ari buries his head further into the pillow with a groan. 

The door creaks. “My, someone sounds grumpy they’re being tended to,” comes a voice, and Tataru trots in with a small box in her hands. Ch’ari’s ears perk up. 

“Am not grumpy, I’m injured. What’s that?”

“Medicine,” Tataru says bluntly, and then gets a sly grin. “And a handful of pastry fish, fresh from the oven.”

“Tataru you’re my favorite. Have I ever told you you’re my favorite? You are. Hands down,” Ch’ari says, already sniffing the air to catch the smell, his tail whacking the edge of the bed. “I don’t even care that it’s bribery to get me to drink that foul tincture, I love you.”

Tataru laughs, bright and open, and even Krile huffs a bit in amusement. 

-

Alphinaud is asleep when he wanders into the main rooms, and Ch’ari considers dropping something onto the table to wake him up, but decides against it. He’s not all that sure how mana works — or mana overexertion, or… well, Lyse called it a chakra, but Ari isn’t a monk, and he’s not sure what straining or breaking one of them entails. He just knows the kid needs to sleep a bunch to get his aether back, and Ari shouldn’t be startling him so bad he breaks something again. If that’s how that works. He’d rather not risk it. 

Instead, he wanders over to Estinien, who is brooding in his Dragoon Corner. Also seemingly asleep until one eye cracks open, trained on his approach. 

“Dragoon,” Ch’ari says.

“…Cat,” Estinien replies in greeting. Ari snorts, the joke he made about having nine lives clearly amusing or at least annoying the Elezen to this day. 

“Guarding your nest, are we? I didn’t think we’d see you stick around this long.”

Estinien grunts. “Aye. Under normal circumstances I’d rather be off by now. But as long as…” he frowns. It’s always difficult for him to differentiate between draconic instincts and his own, and then subsequently translate them into human words, something he and Ch’ari have only spoken of briefly when Nidhogg’s lingering presence wanted to clash with what was left of Hraesvelgr in Ch’ari’s body. Simultaneously feral and overtly made of higher thought, the presence of the dragon is as long-lived as the beasts themselves. “As long as my ward is in need of protection, I will stay,” he settles on. And then his expression squishes, pained. “And… the pink one threatened me if I were to leave without a clean bill of health.”

Ch’ari laughs, then covers his mouth quickly to muffle it. “Ah, the jailer. No escaping that.” 

“Indeed.”

-

“Raha, you need any help with anything?”

G’raha looks up from his books, surprised. The Warrior is standing over his shoulder, swath in bandages and a simple shirt and slacks, his tail swishing. “Do I need any help with anything?”

“Yes.”

“Well, no, I don’t think so… resigned to being monitored as we are, I have no new tasks which require my attention, and so…”

“Let me rephrase,” Ch’ari interrupts. “Please do you need help with anything.”

G’raha blinks. And then splits into a smile, ears giving a quick one-two wiggle. “My friend, I am quite sure we can find something to do. Something very calm and stressless, but something nonetheless. What is your opinion on magic circles?”

[jen-with-a-pen]

ALL TIED UP - TWO

Previous ⊹ Series

summary: The start of the week that changed everything. Bucky and Sam propose something that Steve shouldn't have agreed to. A good brother is a good brother, though... right?

pairings: Art Student!Frat Brother!Steve Rogers x Film Student!Sorority Sister!Reader

word count: 1.17k

warnings: Bucky and Sam are true frat bros, Clint and Tony are somewhere I swear, annoying roommates, plot development

a/n: never thought i'd see the day again but: here's chapter two! i'm excited to keep building this world and to drag everyone along for the ride. again: mind the slowburn and plot dev, i promise i'm getting there ♥

The most specialest of special thanks to two of my loves @vonalyn and @lunarbuck for helping me flesh out this idea and enable me in my destruction ♥ i owe you both a beefy alpha soon

gif by @paliaphrodite | additional graphics + dividers by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist | all tied up masterlist Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

Last Monday.

“Rogers! Rogers! We know you’re in there!”

“Yeah, c’mon, Stevie! We need t’ talk!”

Fists bang on the flimsy wooden door to Steve’s bedroom, threatening to break it down. Steve rubs his face with the back of a (cleaner) hand as music continues to blare out of his earbuds, charcoal dust from his latest drawing assignment now caking his desk, hands, and floor. He groans. Irritation and a slew of curses beg to launch off his tongue. Pressing his lips together tightly, Steve tosses his earbuds onto his desk and shoves back his chair. The legs scrape against the old wood flooring, screeching loudly and announcing his surrender as he walks to the door. He unlocks it– undoing the deadbolt, too– and swings it open, eyes shooting sharpened daggers at the stupid, knowing grins plastered on his frat brothers’ faces. 

Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson beam at Steve, trouble and mischief brewing behind their eyes. 

As the heads of the household and leaders of the Sigma Beta Theta (ΣΘΒ) Fraternity, one of the oldest– and most infamous– frats in Richards College Greek life, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson were known campus and state-wide for their level of commitment in Greek life. Fourth years in whatever program they’re enrolled in, Steve couldn’t recall; some rumors claimed they were ‘Super Seniors’ who decided they couldn’t bear to part with their beloved frat. Others said they’ve been out of school, already graduated a year or two before, but were still allowed to run the frat since Bucky’s step-daddy was elected Dean a couple years back. The timing lined up, Steve had surmised, once he’d been pledged.

Sam and Bucky each prided themselves in their muscular, god-like statures to their own accord. Their builds were accentuated by broad shoulders, thick arms and thighs, abs hard enough to crack an egg– and each had one hell of a sex drive, Steve learned, during his first night in the house. 

He adapted rather quickly to falling asleep with his earbuds in. The risk of choking on his own headphone cord was worth a better night’s sleep than lying awake to the constant thump thump thump-ing that came clearly through the walls surrounding his room. Every. Fucking. Night. 

But, Steve had to hand it to them. Even they weren’t entirely self-centered. They still thought and cared about their frat and fellow brethren: mandating daily workouts in the morning (no matter how early your first class is), requiring frat colors to be worn to every sporting event (even chess), and everyone being forced to take a minimum of three shots at every house-held party (including ones during weekdays, midterms, finals, and holidays). 

Steve had been reluctant since the moment he signed his name on the scholarship contract. Something that day made him feel as if he’d signed his life away. He knew that joining a frat was an integral part of his full-ride– that he promised his mother ‘college was taken care of’ so she wouldn’t have to pick up even more shifts at the county hospital. What he didn’t know was which frat to join. That part was up to him. Sigma Theta Beta chose him more than he chose it.

Steve blinks.

Sam and Bucky lean against either side of the doorway, waggling their brows at Steve and glancing from one another to him. Steve rolls his eyes, sighing heavily with an annoyed edge. He swallows the curses and puts on the most neutral tone he can possibly muster. 

“What.” 

Shit.

Bucky hitches a shoulder and looks to Sam, who exaggeratedly clears his throat.

“Rogers! You gotta stop lookin’ so mean, man!”

“You made me mess up my drawing, again, man,” Steve seethes through clenched teeth. Sam waves a hand absently.

“Ah, you’ll be alright,” he scoffs, “anywho, Buck n’ I–”

“Don’t call me Buck,” Bucky growls.

“–ahem, Bucky and I heard from a lil’ birdy that it’s your birthday this weekend–”

“–and we were wondering,” Bucky chimes in, as if on cue, “if we could dedicate this weekend’s party to you!” 

Steve blanches. His brow furrows after a second, suspicion stabbing him in the gut. 

“You,” he points to both brothers, “Wanna throw a party this weekend. For me?” 

Bucky and Sam nod in unison, grins and gazes growing. 

“Yeah, man! You deserve it,” Bucky says, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Sam quickly copies him. It’s not reassuring in the slightest.

“Why?”

“Because! As an official pledge, newbies always get thrown a birthday party,” Sam drives an index finger into Steve’s chest.

Steve raises his brow, but buries it again after giving the proposal more than a millisecond of thought.

“My birthday was in July. I wasn’t even pledged yet.”

Sam huffs, smile faltering as he looks to Bucky with slight annoyance behind his eyes. 

“Uh, yeah! Yeah, it was, but,” Bucky mirrors Sam’s prodding finger digging into Steve’s sternum, “this is for your fraternity birthday. Plus, you’re the first pledge in three years, so you get an extra special celebration.”

Their grins begin to make Steve squirm. He pushes their hands off him. The whole thing feels dirtier than his own, charcoal-covered hands. He can see through their shitty façade of charisma, but can’t make out what’s on the other side. Whatever it is, it makes him feel uneasy and ungrateful at the same time.

He’s been the newbie for the last few weeks, and all he’s done is keep to himself and draw for hours in his room. He hasn’t made any real friends, aside from the exchanged niceties from a classmate or two in his gen ed courses. He should be getting out there, getting to know his housemates– his ‘brothers’– better, shouldn’t he? After all, he is an only child. He didn’t grow up with the siblings Bucky, Sam, or Clint did. Tony was an only child, sure, but Steve couldn't find another thing to even relate to the guy about. 

He should trust them, give this thing a shot.

Right?

Steve looks Bucky up and down cautiously before turning to Sam, sighing and plastering on a half-smile.

“Alright, sure. I’m game.”

Bucky and Sam erupt into fist pumps and high fives while Steve stands in the threshold with a knife in his gut jamming further and further into his innards. 

“You’re gonna have the time of your fuckin’ life, Stevie,” Bucky reassures him. His fingers dig deeper into Steve’s shoulder and he flinches at the bruising pain. For a split second, he swears he sees a glint of something dark in Bucky’s eyes. Something dangerous. He can’t help but respond with a mumbled ‘okay’ before the two leave to raid the kitchen downstairs. 

Steve turns back into his room, shutting and locking the door and before leaning back against it. His head falls back, cushioned by jackets and sweatshirts hanging from their hooks. He rubs his face, no longer caring about the gritty charcoal covering his face.

What the fuck did he agree to?

[coldshrugs]

mustering

characters: estinien varlineau; io laithe (wol) | pre-relationship word count: 900 note: i'm having a lot of feelings about siblings, accidental family, and the way men love. [divider credit]

“Have you noticed our little shadow? He's been following us since we left the city.”

Io’s ears shift a degree, but Estinien suspects she doesn’t have to apply much focus to pick out the clumsy footsteps in the brush. She grins, eyes trained forward so she doesn’t disturb their company.

“And here I was thinking you'd taken the long way round for my benefit,” she says, and his skin tingles with the shy mischief in her voice.

He turns to her, strafing sideways, then walking backward down the well-worn path that slithers beneath the canopy. He takes stock of both his companions. The boy–in shaggy hair and tattered clothes, creeping through tangled plants several feet behind them–still thinks he’s unseen. And Io–in the dappled green light, she is more beautiful than the image he’s kept in his mind these past months, and looking far more healthy–is only teasing him

Are they back here? In the place they can laugh together, or make jokes that almost touch the heart of the thing that goes unspoken between them?

Noted.

“Two birds and all that.”

That makes her eyes widen, and makes her smile. Estinien is unable to resist joining her, even if he has to look away.

He continues, “I am worried for him, though. One needn’t have a scholar’s wit to see that the merchant has the boy leashed. He’s being used.”

Her ear twitches again when their follower snaps a branch, but they are careful not to give him away.

“You do this often, you know?”

“Hm?”

“You have a knack for finding wayward souls. Little lambs.” Her laugh is a familiar melody, quiet but uncouth. Something he didn’t realize he missed. “It’s like you call to them, or they to you… Like you can’t help but care for them.”

“Hm.” He returns to her side, an arm’s length away. Both too close and too far.

Estinien thinks of his brother, as he often does. A little thing, wiry but tough. He liked to chase the sheep to try to rile them up, to rile Estinien up when it was his watch, but they would simply follow him, as sheep are wont to do. It wasn’t long before he’d made friends of the entire flock and took as much pride in their care as Estinien had. Even with so few years between them, their parents trusted Hamignant to watch over the flock, and Estinien to watch over Hamignant.

He thinks of the first time he saw Alphinaud. Never mind the ghost he saw in the lad’s face… there was something else there. He was lonely and lost, carrying the weight of a sin he could not have predicted. A haunting, and a mirror. In the end, he became a source of inspiration, though it took him far too long to realize it.

Vrtra and Aymeric, too. As alone when he met them as he has been at one point in his life or another. Wanting for company, for connection. Wanting to be chosen based on fondness and merit. Wishing for family.

Lost lambs…

Hamignant’s name hasn’t left his mouth in years.

He wonders if Io would care to learn about him. She is a shepherd too, of a kind. He thinks they might’ve liked each other, or that he would have found a way to make her laugh if nothing else.

“Hami…” he begins. The pause lasts too long. Maybe this is stupid. Why dig up the past when he is only so recently able to see a future?

Io smiles patiently.

“Your brother?”

His eyes fall to the leaf-covered ground and he nods. “He would walk our sheep into the fold from pasture. He named them all. Even if they already had one, he’d change them to something he liked better–insufferable, really. Anyway… when one went missing, he’d beg me to join him in the search, make me scour the fields and nearby forest with him until we found whichever young, or old, or lame sheep had wandered off alone, staring up at us with that look of relief. And I was a bit bigger than him, so I would carry it home while he doted on Flopsy, or Custard, or whatever the fuck he’d named them–” he feels his smile spreading as he shakes his head, and the vacuum in his heart surrounding Hamignant shrinks, just a little. “I suppose what I mean is, he still holds me accountable.”

They walk on in silence–Io looking faraway and wistful, and himself feeling lighter having breathed life into the memory–until the trees spread out and give way to the Perfumed Rise. A mile away, the jewel-green sea meets the pink shore, but the wind carries its roar up the hill.

Io’s steps bring her closer. Out of interest in his story, perhaps. “What will you do with this lamb, then? I presume he intends to follow us to Akyaali… We can’t expect him to find his way back to the city alone.”

Estinien sighs. He already knows how this will play out.

You see, being a brother is much like being a shepherd: watch the horizon for danger, be willing to fight it off, carry home the lost and the hurt. The roles are inseparable for him, because he learned them at the same time, with the same person.

“Focus on convincing Matsya to put in a good word with the locals for our boat. Leave the boy to me.”

[dollypopup]

no but like. . .it really is just so fucking depressing. it's *so* fucking depressing walking into the tags and the archives and seeing post and after post and narrative after narrative of the same damn Pen stan power fantasy of Colin on hands and knees for forgiveness. of how stupid he is. of how we want other people to swoop in for Penelope.

I love this character. That feels like a rarity in this fandom, but fuck it, I do. I love him. I love Colin. I love Colin's recklessness and his silliness and his honor and his hero complex. I love that he doesn't say the right thing and that he's all but howling for someone to hear him. I love how he makes friends with all the unconventional people and I love how he doesn't subscribe to the same narrative as all the other couples. I love him for all he is. For his mess ups and his triumphs.

And forget what the show will have happen, but what is *wrong* with us, that we can't muster up ANY empathy for him at all? Don't you remember being 20 and with no idea what you'll do with your life? Don't you remember being young and aimless and unsure? Are you always perfect with what you say? With knowing when other people are interested in you? Have you never hurt someone's feelings without meaning to? Have you never said something about someone behind their back who means so much to you in a moment of poor judgement?

Don't you deserve tenderness and understanding, too? Why are we so punitive with him? I understand angst, I understand drama, but I don't know how we can be here for any period of time and not hate what we've done to him? Hate what we've done to *them*?

Is anyone listening? Is anyone there?

Do you know? Do you even *understand* how shitty it is? To pour so much love into this couple and see nothing but us hating on him? To have him as a favorite and see people calling him stupid, useless, hoping other people make him feel like shit? Nowhere is safe for us. Even his own SHIP isn't safe for us. It's just wanting him to grovel and be humiliated and jealous and sad. Where's her pride in him? Their support for each other? Where's the encouragement? The tenderness? Why have we taken their love story, that was meant to be about being messy, making mistakes, and being loved regardless, through it all, and turned it into a 'You have to suffer to deserve love' narrative, instead? Into having to be on hands and knees begging for care? Why is it everywhere? Why is there nowhere to go that isn't permeated with it? And why are WE the weirdos for loving him? Why are we the ones who need to suck it up and shut up? Why are we the ones getting bullied by other members of our ship? IT'S HIS SHIP.

What have we turned them into?

Colin is one of the best love leads in the entire series. THE best male love lead. No, I will not change my mind. And yes, I wholeheartedly believe it. Because I LOVE this couple. I love this couple so damn much. And every time I walk into these archives, I feel like some weirdo because everyone is salivating over the same Puritanical 'MAKE HIM SUFFER' shit and there's NOWHERE to go. There is never anywhere to go.

Why don't we love him more? Colin is fantastic. And doesn't Penelope deserve a fantastic partner? Doesn't Colin deserve a partner who strives to understand him?

Is the shape of our ultimate love story really one that's drawn facedown in the dirt?

[falkendreamsxxx]

Do you ever think about how terrible Malfoy Manor was for Draco while Voldemort lived there?

“Windows.

The windows of my family's home had once been my favorite aspect of the architecture. Despite the dark walls, Gothic moldings, and ominous faces of Malfoys long since dead...the windows had been the Manor's saving grace, letting light shine in. It had been said by many that there were more windows than wall, more glass than stone, and I'd taken pride in that. The way the sun illuminated every room made up for the eerie shadows cast by clouds on stormy days.

At least, it used to.

Now, it was darkness. Always.

Despair and dread seeped from the walls as long black curtains blocked out any trace of natural light, as was the Dark Lord's preference, of course.

If there were shadows, they could barely be seen as one walked from room to room, as if night had taken over. Not even my bedroom was safe. What was once my sanctuary was becoming a dungeon, as the blackout curtains turned my canopy bed into a cell. Gone was the beauty that came with having arguably the best view of the entire estate.

From the east wing of the fourth floor, I had once been able to see the sunrise over it all: the maze, the gardens, the pond, the orchard, the vineyard, the stables, and countless trails leading into the surrounding forest... How cocky I'd been to think I'd be able to keep such a pleasant view; how idiotic I'd been to believe I'd be able to maintain any sort of pleasantry while living with and serving the Dark Lord. This was his home now. His fortress.

Like a fool, I escaped the confines of my room, traveled through the dark halls, down the stairs, and out the back doors...desperate to find peace in the daylight. Instead, I was greeted by a sun so obstructed that it could hardly be considered day. I'd been stupid to think the horror that came with the Dark Lord's presence was restricted to the interior.

Determined to make my escapade worthwhile, I walked between the excessively tall hedges that divided each section of the estate towards the stables. Stepping through the rose garden and around the pond, I knew something was off. Something was missing. Pressing forward, I walked past the herb garden and the maze across the pasture, with a great unease building in the pit of my stomach. Upon entering the stables, I knew.

Noise, that's what was missing. Movement, there had been none. I had not seen a single creature.

Gone were the peacocks that loved to wander through the rose beds; absent were the swans from the pond, and empty were the stalls of the stable that had once been filled with thoroughbreds. I didn't need to walk to the small owlery on the west end to know that it would also be devoid of life.

My thoughts of finding refuge among the Manor's various creatures were futile, and dead were my beloved pets; murdered by the Dark Lord's hand, I had no doubt.

Withdrawing beneath my walls and burying my sorrows, I looked up across it all, finding the windows of my bedroom. I thanked Salazar for one thing.

I had not been able to see through the windows.”

Light & Dark on AO3 and FFN

[argentumcor]

A flare-up of Arkham Trilogy fandom has been triggered, and so I spent entirely too much money on the Arkham Knight Genesis comic. Art is nice, writing is pretty good. I'm not a comic person, and find most comics to have ugly art these days, but this one (and Soulfinder from Iconic Comics) impressed me.

I always liked this version of Jason coming back best since I heard of the character. A plot device like a Lazarus Pit needs to be kept to a minimum because otherwise it just breaks everything and the Arkham version where the Pits are nearly exhausted and restricted to the Ra's plots is the best way to approach them. Jason being crazy because of torture and not mystical woo-woo side effects offers more interesting directions to go in to me, problems that can't be easily solved because they are choices he made while at least somewhat in possession of his faculties.

Man, I thought the backstory I cooked up for Arkham's Jason was dark but the canon one is darker. I had it where he never knew his dad and his mom was an addict who OD'd when he was young, but in the comic both parents are meth addicts who tried to sell him to the mob to pay their debts, which didn't work because that's nuts even in Gotham, and so abused him until he was thirteen, when Jason sold them out to the mob and watched them get killed in exchange for getting a small bit of turf where he was left alone to do small time crime.

I always liked the version of him meeting Batman by trying and semi-succeeding at stealing the wheels off the Batmobile, but the Arkham version where he saves Batman's life during a tussle with the Joker is a better fit for this universe.

There's conflict between the game City Stories version of how he got caught and the comic one. The game one is much darker, from what drove Jason after Joker (horrible murder and mutilation of children at a school in the game vs. pride I think in the comic) to the actual getting caught (Jason's hubris and sense of righteousness making him very stupid in the game vs. purely a trap the Joker laid in the comic). The game lore version of events is better, though harder to depict I think in the pages the comic had for various reasons.

One thing stands out about Arkham Jason: everyone in his life had given up on him from the moment he was born...except Bruce and the family. Bruce met him for only a few minutes at most and saw that Jason could be more than just another doomed rat in the dirty alleys of the city, wanted in some way to be more (Arkham Knight Jason disputes this in narration but it's clear from what happened that's the case). But a lifetime of being given up on doesn't just vanish in a year-ish of being really valued- and Joker brilliantly weaponized it against Jason and in doing so against Batman.

The comic is from Jason's bitter angry broken pre-Arkham Knight POV but there are hints that the darkness hasn't consumed him. I think Dick naming Tim as his brother in a fight hurt him- because I think they would have had that bond before Jason was taken and 'Tim as my replacement' is a big thing for Jason. He's ruthless, yes, and apathetic to the world around him but he sees that Bruce has a memorial to him in the Batcave and it triggers really intense emotions- anger because that's almost all he has anymore and then something else he can't and refuses to even try to process.

That's why, I think, Bruce extending a hand to Jason at the end of the boss fight destroyed the Arkham Knight. I also think that getting Gotham to evacuate civilians was Jason's idea. There's no logic to it from Scarecrow's POV; more people in the city would mean more fear to, uh, imbibe. It's not that Jason is worried about collateral damage, exactly, it's that he isn't totally gone. You can see that in the game audio logs. I wish we would have gotten an encounter with him and Dick, either as the Knight or as Red Hood. I think the rivalry there with Tim is built in as a matter of history and personality but with Dick there's a brotherhood that got broken through no fault of their own.

The Red Hood smart-assery is also present in the narration in the comic. I think it was there with the Arkham Knight, too, here and there, but he's on the furious hunt in most of what you hear from him so there isn't a lot of room for it.

[natalynsie]

Ugly Doll (Heather Focus Oneshot)

The razor buzzed in Heather’s hand. She turned it off. And on. And off again.

She dropped the razor into the sink and sobbed into her hands. Again.

Her eyes were already puffy and red enough. The more she cried the more she looked like shit. The more like shit, the less she could bear to actually bring the razor to her hair and get rid of the final bits. What remained of her hair was uneven and uncomfortable, not to mention incredibly tangled, but she wanted to hold onto what was left so bad.

She ran her hands through what was left, but the action just made her cry harder. Her teeth were clenched and eyebrows furrowed as she looked in the mirror. Mascara ran down her face, and her lipstick was smeared. She should’ve taken care of her makeup earlier.

She was an ugly doll with pretty hair. But she didn��t have that pretty hair anymore.

She wanted to hide in a hole forever.

Knock.

“Go away,” Heather croaked. Her voice was cracked and it was very evident that she had been crying. Well, as if the entire resort hadn’t heard her crying anyways.

“Heather, your crying is keeping everyone up,” Leshawna’s voice was heard through the door.

“I said go away!” Heather raised her voice, now knowing that the girl she called her enemy for the entire season was the girl at the door. Maybe if it was like, Cody or something, she wouldn’t be as harsh. Out of pity. But Leshawna? Telling her to shut up no less.

A long and loud sigh was exhaled. “Heather. Let me in.”

“No.”

“I promise I won’t make fun of you.”

“No.”

“Heather! If you want to feel like shit for the finale, I’ll let you. I thought maybe you would want the energy when we watched it tomorrow.”

Heather perked up, and opened the door of the bathroom. However, she didn’t venture to the door of her bedroom. “We’re watching the finale?”

“Yeah. Live. We got the news earlier today. We’re going to watch Gwen and Owen compete tomorrow.”

Heather put her hand on the doorknob of her bedroom door.

“I know you’re at the door, Heather.”

Heather retracted her hand. “I’m still not letting you in.”

“Look, girl,” Leshawna said, a relaxed, calmer tone sneaking into her voice. “I don’t want you crying all night. Whatever’s going on with you, I’ll help.”

Heather sighed. “Fine. You can come in.”

She couldn’t believe she was giving in. Leshawna was probably just there to make fun of her once she saw her. She had every reason to. Heather was a bitch to her all summer. And she just lost her hair. And the competition. All for nothing. Because of some dumbass loophole Chris came up with to fuck her over. She guessed it was karma. Maybe a bit of what she did was uncalled for. But in her defense, the first interaction she really had with Leshawna was a fight and getting thrown off a cliff. Things could only go downhill from there. It wasn’t her fault.

Heather opened the door.

Leshawna looked Heather up and down, and Heather regretted opening the door. She was stupid.

“You seriously haven’t shaved the rest of your hair yet?” Leshawna asked, arms folded.

“Just come inside,” Heather demanded. She couldn’t wait to shut the door so no one else had the possibility of seeing her like this.

Leshawna stepped inside and Heather closed the door. She walked to the bathroom, and Leshawna followed closely behind.

“I can’t do it,” Heather sighed in defeat. “I can’t cut my hair.”

“You cannot tell me you plan on walking around like this.” Leshawna picked a piece of her hair and swung it.

“I know, but my hair…” Heather began. “It’s my life. I’ve always had long hair. And now I don’t have any? I lost it all for nothing.”

“Look, Heather.” Leshawna turned towards Heather. Heather noticed this in the mirror and looked at Leshawna. “It sucks that this happened. I know you take pride in your looks. And hair means a lot to girls. But your hair isn’t everything. It’s just stuff that keeps your brain warm, or something like that. Harold told me that.”

“Harold is stupid. And you don’t even know how much my hair matters to me. You get to wear weaves and braids and wigs. I haven’t even seen your real hair. Whatever Harold said might be what it is to you, but that’s not how it is to me.”

“My hair does mean a lot to me,” Leshawna stated. “I take a lot of pride in it. I think it’s beautiful. There’s been a lot of points in my life when I wore it natural. Losing it would definitely hurt a lot. I get why you’re so upset.” She put a hand on Heather’s shoulder. “But the damage has been done. Your hair isn’t here now. And you have to learn how to love yourself without it.”

“Like you’ve ever had to do that.”

“I haven’t. I never lost my hair. But I had to learn to love myself with my hair.” Leshawna twirled her ponytail around in circles. “There’s a reason I wore a weave when I came here. People are ruthless. Especially straight-hair beauty queens like you. We’re in the same boat, just in opposite directions.”

Heather remained silent. She was going to be honest- she wasn’t innocent when it came to coming for the way other peoples’ hair looked. In elementary school, she knew a lot of girls with thick curly hair that they didn’t know how to take care of yet. She knew a lot of girls who had oily hair that they couldn’t wash enough. And girls with afros were no exception from her wrath.

“Plus,” Leshawna turned back to the mirror and Heather did the same, “you had this coming all summer.”

Heather sighed. “I did.”

Leshawna smirked. “I’m glad you’re taking accountability for your actions. Now, you have a choice.”

A look of confusion appeared on Heather’s face. She looked at Leshawna again.

“You can either look fear in the eyes, take your life into your own hands, say fuck you, and shave your hair off,” Leshawna began. Heather looked at the razor sitting on the opposite side of the bathroom counter. “Or, you can let fear take over you and let someone else do it for you. It’s your choice.”

Heather stared at the razor. She had to do it. She couldn’t let fear win. She worked so hard this entire season, and right now, she had nothing to show for it. Now she did. Now, she had the ability to give a giant middle finger to the people who made her younger self feel so horrible about the way she looked. She could give everything up right now. She could shave her hair, she could stop wearing makeup, she could wear whatever she wanted to. And she could learn to love herself whether she was an ugly doll or not.

What did it matter, anyways? Leshawna came to terms with the way she looked a long time ago. She learned to think she was beautiful no matter what anyone else said. And she was right. Leshawna was beautiful.

Heather was beautiful. Hair or no hair, she was beautiful.

She picked up the razor. Leshawna smiled.

“You got this, girl.”

Heather turned on the razor, and brought it to her scalp.

Ching.

A large piece of her hair fell to the floor.

Ching.

And another.

Ching.

And another.

The more hair that fell from her head and onto the white tiled floor, the more Leshawna’s smile grew. Heather couldn’t help but smile herself. This was her life. She was in charge. And right now, she was about to rock a clean-shaven head like God intended. And anyone who had anything to say about it, well, Heather had plans for them.

“Hell yes,” Leshawna grinned as the last of Heather’s hair fell to the ground.

Heather smiled back. “I think I can do this. It’s a fresh start.”

“Oh, and the lord knows we need it after this hell of a show.”

Heather was quiet for a moment, before diving in to give Leshawna a hug. She scrunched her eyes shut and tried to hold back the rest of her tears.

“Um…”

“Thanks, Leshawna,” Heather whispered. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without you.”

Heather pulled back, and Leshawna had a smaller, but warm smile on her face. “Of course.”

“This doesn’t change anything, right?” Heather asked.

“Nope,” Leshawna grinned. “You’re still Ms. Cheated her way to a Hundred-Thousand and Failed to me.”

“Good,” Heather wiped a singular tear from her eye. “You’re still the girl who threw me off a cliff on my first day of this show.”

“Great. Now, can you promise me to not cry tonight? I want to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Heather whispered. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

[dingdongdoodilydoodilydoo]

Despite what people think, your mom is a raging Karen - nothing ever pleases her, nothing is to her standards, no one could ever make her happy. Molly was a bitter woman, to put it shortly - the burnt out husk of a once vibrant and proud woman.

She once had pride. In herself, her husband. In you.

There was a time when you remember her smiling. She smiled at you, and she smiled at your dad, and she smiled gladly. She possessed such a great fire and spirit that you missed on your rare moments of sobriety.

That stupid fire took everything from you.

The world spun on without blinking an eye as the family now in serious debt for a manmade fire that consumed the garage and slowly destroyed your parents, their marriage, your life and your self worth. It's the reason you hated - maybe still blame him even - Seth and his shitty smirk. While you took on the brunt of the blame for the accident that broke the family, he was placed on a pedestal and made the impossible standard you would never meet.

Because of that fire, Molly lost hers.

A drunkard for a husband years after the fire, a son who refused to live within her standards, and the laughingstock of her community because everyone but her saw Seth for what he was, she became the bitter thorn she is today.

You tell yourself that the reason you still keep in touch with a 49½ foot pole from the human equivalent of the Elephant's Foot is because she seems to only spark to life when she's meeting you head on. Verbal abuse or not, she lights up when you are around - whether because she's got a twisted way of showing her pride via Tiger Mom parenting tactics that would break anyone or because she genuinely only knows hatred, it's the only time anyone sees that spark of the old Molly.

"Pickles? I specifically asked you to get my special pinot noir! All I'm getting is thet terrible pop equivalent of a kid's grape juice! Ope, excuse me -!" She yanks on one of the Klokateers arms as she's getting her luggage brought in again, because the first set was confiscated - something about cheese and wine she had brought for the other ladies. Local stuff from the wineries south of the Illinois-Wisconsin border, cheeses made and aged locally.

She threw such a loud and abusive screaming fit when it was confiscated that she destroyed half a room, her clothes somehow, and made one or 2 Klokateers puncture their own ears than to continue hearing her that you got called to calm her down.

Which did happen, oddly enough. She saw you and completely forgot she had her 'mom night charcuterie goods' taken from her possession. She asked why you hadn't seen her right away, and made to tidy the room she tried to pretend was in that state already.

You look at her as she gives an earful to another poor Gear, feeling small again as sobriety drags you back to the reality that she was here, she was calmed, and she was not chewing you out ... yet.

"And make sure it's wine!" She yells at the poor Klokateer she just let go - no one else present now while she grumbles about the lack of liquor, you wonder why you even bother. Without anyone else nearby, you would be her next target.

"Did you hear Amber is setting up a school? I'm so happy Seth found such a bright you woman to marry -- when are ya gonna settle, kiddo? This rockstar life isn't gonna keep your lights on forever..." she says, grabbing what looks like a dress and places into a pile she designated as 'not Molly's taste'.

You fight the urge to tell her you're richer than entire countries, but bite your tongue. She's just rambling while she goes through the pre-assorted clothes some Gear had brought up for her, as she picks her selection for the long weekend ahead. She's not berating you, not entirely.

"So, Pickles. Are ya listenin' to your mother? You're zoning out again - are you high? Jesus, Pickles, I can't even talk to you without you having some kind of drug in you."

It's hard to think about.

Well, that is if he can even think at all.

Its nice for a moment, to remember that there was a time where she was happy, when your family was happy, when you were happy.

But that's gone now.

Now all of those moments are an internal purgatory, replaying in the back of his head while he tries to forget all of the bad times. A reminder that it could've been better, that he could've been better. A reminder that he could be worth something, that he wouldn't be a failure in his mother's eyes.

But, he isn't. He isn't good enough, he'll never be good enough.

It only worsens when she visits, when her presence alone makes him remember all the bad times.

The garage.

All the failed classes, all of the alcohol poisoning, all of the overdoses.

The reason he keeps his sweatbands on, all the scars he inflicted because of the constant torment he was subjected to. He tried so hard to forget.

But, now, here she was. To make him remember again. He wasn't even able to register that she had asked why he hadn't talked to her soon enough, only snapping back to reality the moment she went off about the wine.

"Yeah I-...I know, I forgaht, okey? They're jest givin' you what we have here—" The drummer had tried to explain before she had cut him off, opting to talk to a Gear instead.

Watching her mouth the poor Klokateer off was pure hell for him.

He was embarrassed.

It's not the first time she'd done it, no, the first time was when she had argued with the whole neighborhood about how Seth deserved to join a birthday party.

He tried to block it out, fidgeting with his sweatbands, tapping his fingertips against his thighs, anything to just...slip away, just for a little while.

This would be better drunk.

At least when he was drunk, he didn't have to think about his mom again.

He could be with his band right now, he could be with the rhythm guitarist who had issues of his own, he could be there to help, but he's here.

Why did he have to be here.

It could be worse though, she could be yelling at him, hitting and punching him, but...she isn't. Maybe she had a drink on the way here? He wouldn't be surprised.

Fuck, she's talking about Seth and Amber. He had forgotten about them for a while.

Oh, right, he gave them money...for...what again? He forgot, he blocked out most memories with his family anyway...fuck, the school...he said he'd do it for his nephew.

"That's- that's good for them, mom. Uh- y-you know, I'm the one who gave them the money to start the um...the school, y'know?" Pickles said desperately, almost begging for Molly to recognize he could do something to get her attention.

And...she doesn't care, of course, she never does.

Why does she always have to do this? Make him feel like he's worth nothing, make him feel like all of his accomplishments have done nothing. He's the seventh top financial power, and somehow, she can make him feel like a man with a dime to his name.

Why is she asking about tying himself down? What did- what did- why does that matter? She knows it's always been a sensitive subject, why did she have to bring it up now?

It could be worse.

Oh, wait, she's talking again.

Why wouldn't he be listening? There's nothing he could fucking do to distract himself anymore. He'd do it all to be high, drunk, anything.

Why did she have to remind him that he's just a junkie in her eyes.

Fuck it, talking back won't do anything, he isn't a child anymore. She can't hit him, she can't lock him under the stairs, she can't, she won't.

"I don't- I don't need to settle, I don't do commitment. You know that...remember what happened with— oh whatever..."

Oh well, so much for hoping.

She's gonna yell, she's gonna scratch, pinch, slap, oh god all he had to do was bite his fucking tongue.

The razor under his mattress is calling his name.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"In straggling, disorderly ranks we would march to the shops: the shoe shop, the print shop, the plate shop: whatever shop it might happen to be...

Some of us might wonder about the values involved. What about trades? Who the hell wants to be a shoemaker when he gets out? Where can you find a job making automobile plates in the free world, when they're all made in prison? This business of classification and segregation; they make us sleep in separate cell blocks, according to the provisions of some scheme they have in mind; but during the day, we're all thrown together in the shop. Classification versus profit-making! In a country whose predominant codes are personal aggrandizement and private enrichment what would the answer be?

I sit down at my machine in the tailor shop. I have never done any of this work before. I am naturally inept, having no mechanical skill whatever. "Paddy" comes along. He is the instructor. An Irishman. "Ah," he said, "ye're wan of me own kind." And throws a pile of work in front of me. Pants, overalls, shirts, whatnot. He tries to tell me a funny and obscene story. I don't feel like listening to it. I do not like him, knowing him to be a convict-hater at heart. My mind is on other things: grave things: the implications of imprisonment.

"Listen," I say, "you get to hell out of here, Paddy. If you have anything to say to me about the work, all right, say it. But the judge didn't say that I had to sit here and listen to your bum jokes. That wasn't in the sentence at all." Paddy very naturally resents my attitude, as I resent his. He feels, too, that in some way I am his superior. I have a certain intellectual dominance over him. He hates that, as I hate his brute power over me (if I do not complete my daily task, Paddy can have me sent to solitary confinement as a malingerer). It is a Mexican stand-off. He would like to punish me not because he cares very much about the work itself, but because he hates a certain overt and unconcealed superiority which I have taken great delight in making him aware of.

That is my revenge. But since I've actually kept myself apparently busy all day, although I have not completed the task, Paddy is powerless to punish me. That is, he cannot send me to the "block." He can, however, and does punish me in more effective ways. Whether or not I complete my task for the day, Paddy each morning throws a fresh bundle of work on my bench. This means that I shall never be caught up; that I shall never have a moment of leisure. Other men can complete their task during the morning and loaf the rest of the day. I simply have not the mechanical skill to cope with the daily task. Paddy, therefore, wins. In spite of what I feel is my superiority, I cannot score off Paddy. He is brute stupidity rampant and successful. He is prison work.

It is noontime. The hateful shop morning is ended. We march to our cells for the noon meal and an hour of rest. Rest!

How rest the tired, rebellious, imprisoned mind? One cannot rest. One can merely escape from the existing drabness. One can merely lie down on the bed and drift off into the dream world; into memories of the past, visions of the future; neither of which is satisfactory except in retrospect or anticipation. One lies in a stupor, shutting out the undignified, unappetizing dullness; deliberately or unconsciously running away from life. This is a bad habit to get into, this flying from reality; but it is a habit into which practically all of us get, mildly or terribly, depending entirely on the length of our sentences, our ages, our intensities of awareness.

One o'clock. Back to work again. The same stuffy shops, the same tiresome work. It is absolute industrial masturbation! Merely working men in order to keep them busy, with no pride in the finished product, no care about inculcating habits of craftsmanship, no thought except to make us do something we don't like to do. The guards on their elevated benches become lazy-minded, unpremeditated sadists, and take a senseless delight in giving each man the job he most heartily hates to do. This comes from natural stupidity, prejudices racial and religious, and the fierce desire of the average man to savor power when he gets a chance to use it. Lo, the poor guard! In his mind's eye he can see us as we were in the free world; with money, ravishing women, all the sensual delights which must be forever unattainable to him. We have had this. He has never had it, never will have it. Therefore, enviously, gloatingly, he exacts vengeance upon us for the unalterable deficiencies in his own life.

Work, work, work; day in and day out; hateful, stupefying work, to which we bring nothing but resentment and from which we take nothing but hatred. Thus we spend eight hours each day one third of our lives. We read the prison books: Tully, Lowry, Maynard, Booth, John Boyle O'Reilly, Jack London, Ed Morrell, Al Jennings; but especially Jim Tully. One finds in them nothing but excitement, glamour, danger, brilliance. (Tasker's "Grimhaven," however, is a fine piece of work.) Well, not nothing but excitement; but at any rate chiefly excitement. We know that nothing could be further from the truth. Day after day we find that proneness, inertia, stolidity, weariness and dejection are the prevailing qualities of our lives. The escapes and murders - the exciting things are so infrequent as to be practically nonexistent. Every minute of the day, all the year round, the most dominant tone is one of monotony.

Four o'clock. Yard time. Recreation. We go from the stuffy shop to the colorless yard. In it is no blade of grass, no tree, no bit of freshness or brilliance. Gray walls, dusty gravel, dirt and asphalt hardness.

We walk about, or during our first few months or years manage to throw a ball back and forth and in some degree exercise our bodies. The longer we stay here, the less we do. At last we merely walk at a funeral pace, or lean against a wall and talk.

We always talk. During the working hours, but even more so during the cell hours, we store up facts, reflections, broodings, so that our minds are overflowing. And every chance we get to unburden them, we avail ourselves of it. We talk at each other. We do not converse; we deliver monologues in which we get rid of the stored-up bubblings. We try to live through words and self-dramatization. Our essential need is for actual tangible living, which we cannot have; so we try to live by pretending to live in tall stories based on how we'd like to live, how we long to live.

Four-thirty. Yard time is over. We march to our cells, taking with us the evening meal. The shop has been so enervating, so weakening, so downright devitalizing, that we are glad to go to our cells. We think, "Well, here's another day done. Another day nearer home. God, but it's good to get back to the cell!" In our hearts, however, we know that the cell is even worse than the shop; and that in the morning we'll be saying, "God, but it's good to get out of that damned cell!"" - Victor F. Nelson, Prison Days and Nights. Second edition. With an introduction by Abraham Myerson, M.D. Garden City: Garden City Publishing Co., 1936. p. 12-16

[lostinfantasyworlds]

For the writers truth and dare game 😁

🪲,🍄,🪐

Hi Liz!!! Thank you so much for the asks!!! ❤️ 😁 🥰

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

I'm so bad at coming up with stuff on the spot so I'm going to cheat a little and use something I jotted down last night (which is probably more than 50 words 😆). This is for my main WIP, which I have talked about before but am not going to name so I can be all secretive and mysterious🤣: ------- "Do you have any informants in Hawaii?" Inuyasha asked.

Miroku seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Actually, yes. One of my oldest confidants, Hachi, spends most of his time island-hopping. Why?"

"Could you -- Is there any chance he could -- Or you could ask --"

"Aw, are you trying to ask me for a favor?" His stupid blue eyes lit up like a child, and Inuyasha's hands balled into fists. "This must be important. You can do it, use your words."

Fuming, Inuyasha's cheeks burned, which he covered up by punching his annoying partner in the arm. He so badly wanted to tell him to forget it, since Miroku was pretty much insufferable when gloating. But since this was likely his only shot to help Kagome while they were gone, he took a deep breath and swallowed his pride.

"Do you think you could ask him to keep an eye on someone for me?"

"Stalking, huh? I didn't take you as the type."

"Fucking what -- no! I just...need to know she's safe. Alive. Nothing more than that."

"Oooh...she? This keeps getting better!"

Inuyasha's eye twitched, calling on every last bit of restraint he possessed not to knock the shit-eating grin off of Miroku's stupid face.

"Can you do that for me or not?" he ground out.

Miroku seemed to realize just how close he was to getting his ass beat, because his expression turned serious. "You just want a visual confirmation of safety?" Inuyasha nodded. "How often?"

"Whenever he can manage it...once a week, every few days, whatever."

"I believe that can be arranged. I'll ask him...on one condition."

"For fuck's sake, what?"

"That you tell me what the deal is with you and this woman."

Inuyasha rolled his eyes. "Why are you like this?"

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

I feel like Inuyasha and Kagome would probably move pretty fast in their relationship once she returned through the well. I imagine them being engaged and making out all over the place within the first few weeks. After all that time apart thinking they'd never see each other again, and since Kagome's decision to return is the ultimate show of commitment anyways, I think they'd want to make up for lost time and just go for it. That being said, I don't imagine them having sex the same day she comes through the well or anything like that. But I also don't think it'd take them a really long time to cross all of those milestones off their list. Somewhere in the middle, like a few weeks to maybe a couple months. I love reading fics that explore all of the different possibilities though, and can get behind almost any explanation/head canon.

🪐 ⇢ name three good things going on in your life right now

Work is slower than it's ever been at the moment, to the point where I have had days and days of absolutely nothing to do while working at home and still getting paid (I'm salaried). My bosses have shockingly not tried to give me any busy work (there really isn't much else to do since our work is entirely project-based), so I've had a lot of time to catch up on my life and do fun things lately. It is the ultimate luxury and very rare, so I'm soaking it up while I can because once things get busy again my entire life will go back to revolving around my stupid job.

My mental health has finally reached a stable place, and I've been feeling pretty good overall. After years of depression and anxiety, it's a huge relief to feel back on solid ground again.

Our house is coming together slowly but surely. We are just about to paint the room we're currently renovating, and then just have to do flooring and we'll have another space finished and ready to use!

I have a lot to be grateful for right now, things are good 🥰

Thank you again for the asks!

From the Writer's Truth & Dare Ask Game

[ssplague]

Announcement 📢

Just in case you were worried… 

I have not jumped ship 🛳 and abandoned my stories!

Now let me explain:

So there will be only two more chapters left of Prized Posession (Which are COMPLETE & ready to upload)…That being said; THIS IS NOT THE END OF THE SERIES!

I just thought it would be a good idea to split the series into two pieces because some people get intimidated by a 40+ chapter story for some reason (I don’t understand it either, but 🤷🏼‍♀️)

So the second part of this story will focus on your life as Mrs.Bakugou, and it’s going to be absolutely fucking TOXIC, & so much more fucked up. The first part was all about luring you in, getting immersed in that false sense of security, getting used to the subject matter, now that you are good n’ locked 🔒 down…

Don’t say I didn’t warn you 🫥

The yandere and narcissistic family aspects of this story will be on full display throughout the entire second half.

The rest of this series is going to be so much darker, what you’ve read so far has been tame compared to what I have planned! You guys won’t have long to wait either, I’ve already got a fair amount written!As an added SURPRISE I’m including excerpts from the new story, check below the cut👇🏼

Please leave me at least a ❤️‍🔥 comment, if you want to be/remain on the TAG LIST

 

If Prized isn’t your cup of tea, don’t abandon me, I GOT YOU 😉 

I’m going to be updating older stories, posting the Re-write of Late Bloomer, and I also have some brand new stand alone pieces (just say one shots stupid 🙄) that I hope you will all enjoy!

Without further ado, I bring you

Prized Posession: Till death do us part ☠️

Love’s gonna get you killed

But prides gonna be the death

Of you &

you & me

Then you began to scream.

You howled with sorrow, desperate to release these all too painful feelings.

Who knows how long you did this, thin lines of blue light illuminated your curtains, the moon was high in the sky.

Choking on tears, snot, and the undeniable truth that you were a fucking fool; So easy to deceive, your whole life has been a lie…Only a weak person could be taken in by such pretty words, and calculated actions.

You had buried your memories in attempts to make life with him bearable easier, because you knew you wouldn’t be able to fight him off. You knew you could never truly escape or be free from him.

It was all just for the best…

The lunacy in his eyes that you too,  have now begun to mirror back at him during your intimate moments makes you I’ll. You made him into your savior, believed that he was to thank for your new chance at a life worth living.

A chance to be happy.

To really love and be loved.

Living proof that you were worth something.

It was you who allowed all of this.

So desperate to prove wrong the belief that you weren’t worthy of attention, affection, that you always have been and always will be nothing short of a disappointment.

Katsuki should be home by now…

He’ll pick up your broken pieces; Sand down the jagged edges, rebuild them over and over again, so you won’t have to.

This man is the one who destroyed you; He broke you open, and wore you down to the point you had no choice but death or accepting defeat. Defiance hardly ever crossed your mind these days.

Your soul was crying out in anguish, your spirit darkened and distorted.

❣️A/N❣️So what do you think? I couldn’t include everything and spoil the surprises I have for all of you. I low key feel this reads like an Ellen Hopkins book? I’m unsure why I tend to write yandere this way but I really like it.

[storm-leviosa-fanfics]

We have finally reached the end! Hope you have enjoyed this wild ride (lol). Massive thanks to @enchantingruinscandy for beta reading this monstrosity.

Chapter 3 - because my life, because my joys, today that starts with you

Damian thought about Ruth and her words and the things she had taught him so hard that he broke his arm. The two were directly correlated, he was sure. One minute, he was debating the merits of her slow and methodical approach to instruction, where one did not move on to the next step until the step before was thoroughly mastered; the next, his heel was hitting a patch of slime on a fire escape and down he went. It was a stupid stupid mistake, one his many years of training should have made easily avoidable, and yet here he was.

He was becoming soft, he thought, when the pain abated enough for thoughts to come in words that weren’t ‘ow’ and unfinished curses.

In any case, he slipped when he should not have, and had a broken arm when he should not have, and all he could tell the rest of Father’s idiots was the truth: he slipped and fell. When Todd stopped cackling like a hyena, he told Damian he’d seen it with his own two eyes. He had, supposedly, resembled a Loony Tunes character slipping on a banana peel. Damian did not know what ‘Loony Tunes’ was and at this point he did not dare ask, but he knew enough that the comparison made him rue the day he left the League behind.

Pennyworth applied a cast after an x-ray revealed no complications to the break. It was an entirely normal greenstick fracture, requiring only gentle manipulation back to straightness and the usual immobilisation. He did not tell Pennyworth or Father about the bruised ribs he was nursing any more than he informed them of his wounded pride. It was not worth their time, or his, to dwell on.

Sleeping was painful, but the pain was a lesson. In future, he would be more careful. This, he had been told more times than he could count.

It did not occur to him that his dressage training would be affected until after he arrived for his lesson. Robin had been out and about for three days after his injury: broken wrist casted and wrapped and carefully hidden under his uniform, the patrol route chosen specifically with his incapacitation in mind. He and Father had faked an argument that half the Bowery must have heard - a strategy stolen shamelessly from Grayson and Drake - before parting ways. Damian had stayed home and Drake had taken over as Father’s partner in (stopping) crime. Nonetheless, he pulled Goliath’s bridle over his noble head, and Ruth immediately noticed the cast.

“No,” She told him, sharply. “We do not ride with injuries; put the tack away.” She seemed upset. Damian did not like the way it felt on the air, the way upset looked on her face. He did as she said. Slowly, the bridle came off, and the saddle, and both were put away on their racks. Then, he joined her on the step. It was not cold yet, but would be soon, and he tried not to think about how he had dressed for exercise, not for sitting and chatting. He would start to shiver, probably, as the sun went down.

“Would you ride Goliath if he was in pain?” she asked, and it was so abrupt, so direct, that Damian actually stopped before he answered.

“Of course not. I would never dream of causing him harm.” It was hard not to take offense at the accusation, veiled and vague as it may be, but Damian tried anyway. He did not want to fight, not over his own stupidity.

“Good. Why should I believe you?” Damian blinked. That was not what he’d expected her to say, and it was not something he was prepared to answer. He paused to think, brain whirring like the batcomputer when it needed an update. He realised he may have misinterpreted the question, and thought some more. By then he had waited too long. “All I have seen so far suggests a willingness to work through pain rather than rest when it is needed. You objected to rest days initially, do you remember? And now I find you trying to train through injury, too. If you ignore your own pain, why should I believe you wouldn’t do the same to Goliath?”

It was a good question. Over the years, Pennyworth had tried tirelessly and fruitlessly to make them all stop hiding injuries, both from himself and from each other in the field. Father was an expert at it; Drake, disgracefully, was even better. Time after time, Pennyworth had prostrated himself before them and begged them to consider the strain it put on them all, to know that someone might be injured but was refusing to say, how they would be less effective if they patrolled while injured, and, to Father alone, what kind of example he was setting to his children, behaving in such an unconscionable way. Damian had never understood it really. To admit to injury was to admit weakness. Injury was a sign of failure, the pain a warning to never make such a mistake again, and the lingering troubles something to be exploited by enemies. Damian only offered up his injuries to be treated when they were severe enough that they could not be hidden, when he could not manage them alone. Such was the way it should be, he had thought. Now, though, he was brought up short by this question, this opposing view of the world, and he had contemplation to do.

If he fought through injury, hid it from the world, derided pain as weakness in himself, would he do the same to others? He could imagine it. He had done it, he realised abruptly. Once upon a time, many months ago, he had seen a child, crying from a sprained wrist and had scoffed, had proclaimed it weak. He had believed that the child did not need help, had refused to comfort them, even when Father had dropped down next to them and offered a hug. Did Damian want to be that kind of person? There was strength in it, the kind that Mother and Grandfather wanted him to have, but weakness too. Father was trusted, Grayson was trusted, because they helped people and cared for them more than words could say, not just because they were proficient fighters or strong or smart. There were plenty of strong and smart fighters in the ranks of heroes. There were fewer who were kind, always, to everyone. 

Damian had come to Gotham to learn from Father, and what had he learnt? He had always been a strong fighter, had always been clever, had always been tenacious and stubborn and viciously protective. What had he learnt? Not how to fight better - the lowest ranked assassins would be able to take him on and last more than ten seconds - and not how to solve cases. What had he learnt? How not to kill? He had thought that a weakness before, but not so much now. There was much more skill in knowing when to hold back than when to strike to kill. And Damian had always… struggled with the killing part of his previous role. Mother had known it, and had sent him away before Grandfather could pay close enough attention to find out. Damian, she had always said, had his mother’s brain, calculating and sly, but his father’s heart. He had failed, time and again, when his tests involved making others suffer. He wondered when he had lost that part of himself.

He wanted to be that person his mother had seen: someone both clever and kind.

Not having an answer for Ruth, he stayed silent. Ruth didn’t seem to mind the quiet at all, just let him sit and think and fall apart and bring himself back together. Then, when his quiet was less tumultuous and more for lack of anything to say, she continued.

“There are things you can do that will help you, even if you can’t ride. You can watch videos, old clinics, step-by-step guides. You could come along to one of my clinics - I’m running one next month - and watch from the ground or be my assistant. You could make a freestyle routine from scratch, design the floorplan, pick the music, all of that. Of course, I’d rather you rest, but I know you well enough by now to know you’ll be bored by the end of week two.” She chuckled at that, and Damian let a sliver of a smile form on his face too. She did know him well after all.

He did as she said for a while. He watched a few videos she emailed Pennyworth on his behalf, went to her clinic and watched. They had a very enjoyable discussion afterwards about what he had learnt from watching others, what he might be able to bring to his own practice when he was back in the saddle. She always phrased it like that: when you’re back in the saddle . It was a definitive, not merely a possibility, and that gave Damian a modicum of hope. 

By week four, however, he was beyond bored and the clinics and videos had only made matters worse. He wanted to try out all those new ideas now, not in some nebulous future time, wanted to be learning and improving like he had been before. He was afraid of the opposite happening. So, he got on board. It was just for ten minutes, while Father was at work and Pennyworth running errands. Goliath was reluctant, confused, unused to exercise after almost a month off, but Damian was willing to push him. They walked, trotted, circled, spiralled, and it was…fine. It was okay. There was nothing special about it and Damian despaired, in the deepest corners of his mind that no one could see. The magic was gone. He did not know how to get it back.

He did not ride again for a while. The cast came off at the end of week five and, while Damian had been to the stables every day, had seen to Goliath’s care and keeping with all the diligence and love in his heart, he did not try to ride. Better, he thought, to proceed under the assumption that that last ride was a fluke. Once he was properly back, everything would be perfect, then he'd get back on board and prove that assumption correct. 

Robin returned to the skies and streets and rooftops of Gotham. On a restricted and careful patrol route, of course - Father was nothing if not protective of his children - but returned nonetheless. He stayed out of trouble, though it irked him to hold back from a fight, but let himself be spotted multiple times, in multiple spots. Let a child see him fly, and waved to them. The most dramatic rescue of his first night back was retrieving a cat from a tree, but that was not so bad. Grayson took him for frozen yoghurt from the shop he liked, and they sat to eat it on the balcony of an office building far too tall to safely have one. He went home with a feeling in his chest that, surprisingly, was not frustration at being so restricted. 

The day before Damian’s first lesson in ages saw him lying on his back in Goliath’s field. The afternoon was surprisingly warm, and Damian had brought out his sketchbook but wasn’t using it. Instead, he let the world pass him by and listened to Goliath snuffling nearby. The breeze ruffled his hair and teased the odd seed free from the wild grass. When Titus barked from beyond the treeline, Damian sat up, and it was only this action that let him see what came next.

In a spray of feathers and squawking, a bird flew from the bushes - a pheasant, he thought, with a ringed neck - and Goliath, previously swishing his tail relaxedly in the sun, startled. Across the field he flew, not with his wings, but in a floating, extravagant trot. It was the kind Damian had dreamed of riding, with feet that barely touched the ground and such power that it seemed effortless. And he remembered, then, that it was not just a dream, that he had ridden a trot like that, and that even then it did not have to be in the past tense. He could ride it again, with practice.

The magic was back.

Ruth wouldn’t let him trot. She wouldn’t let him canter. Once he was on Goliath’s back, she explained that, after so long out of work, both he and Goliath would be unfit and unable to perform as they had before. Damian did not tell her that he was just as fit as he had been before the broken arm, that Robin had been on patrol for over a week didn’t she know? He wasn’t so stupid as to reveal their deepest secret over his slighted pride, so he seethed quietly and did as he was told. It wasn’t like they were remotely ready to consider competition yet anyway. He may as well acquiesce. He walked, reacclimated himself with the feel of Goliath’s mouth down the reins, the swing of his movement. He reminded himself how to turn, when to ask for it, how far to twist and how much to squeeze and what angle to tilt his head to see both where he was going and the side of Goliath’s face. They practiced halting: steadying carefully first, gathering Goliath up so he bounced a step or two before stopping, making sure he did not hollow or toss his head, and that he had halted square. 

Ruth, in recognition of his frustration, taught him and Goliath rein back, which was hard because Goliath did not like being unable to see where he was going. Twice, Damian had to give in and let him go forwards before Goliath lost all composure and took himself skyward. The third time, however, they managed two steps back. The time after that, five. 

They ended the lesson with a promise to practice, and a promise from Ruth that if they did so, she would let them trot and maybe canter next time. It was a hard won victory.

Wiping sweat off his brow, Damian returned to the manor, returned to his dog and his sketchbooks and Robin. It was a perfectly orderly, perfectly Damian kind of life, he thought. A fleeting kind of thought, at first, but then it got stuck. Then Damian realised it was true, and after that it would not leave him alone. He had become himself. At some point, had made a little corner of existence for himself in which almost no part of him belonged to Mother or Grandfather or the League. He did not know how to feel about that. So, he put the thought away in a little box, just like the others said they did, and put the box away somewhere he would not look at it. He had better things to worry about.

Over the next month, Damian practiced with a fervour that he had not had before. Of course, he had always had the enthusiasm, the drive to succeed, but it had been shallow and insubstantial. He had wanted to learn so he could win, so he could be proud and scornful of those who thought they could do better than him. Now he wanted to learn so he could be better. Now he trained for the love of Goliath, not for the taste of victory on his tongue or the adrenaline-fueled thump of his heart in his ears.

Ruth allowed him to trot again, to canter, and they used the intervening period between moving up the paces to practice the minute details of each one. Medium, working and collected trot. Leg yield, shoulder- and quarters-in. Circles and serpentines and loops and all the complicated parts that would come up quickly in tests. It was better to practice these things early, when they had the time, rather than stressing about them if — when — Damian was about to start competing. This was a thought Damian had to carefully poke and prod back into the corners of his brain whenever it resurfaced, until Ruth would allow him to consider competing again.

And allow to him to consider competing, she did. After two months of hard training in which Damian had learnt more about himself and Goliath than he had ever thought there was to know, she asked him if he still wanted to compete. Damian thought to himself long and hard; thought about the training they had been doing, how he enjoyed learning with no strings attached; thought about the taste of victory, still faint on his tongue from riding a perfect ten-metre circle; thought about the thrill of competition, how similar it was to the thrill of being Robin, of fighting the good fight. Did he want to compete? 

“Not yet,” he said finally. It was the truth. Ruth’s lips twitched upwards and Damian felt that same fizz that he felt when he beat a level of Cheese Vikings, when he won rooftop tag, when Father put an approving hand on his shoulder after a fight well fought.

“What do you want to work on next, then?” was all she said, but it felt like success. It felt like grasping that final stone on his childhood mountain climb.

They didn’t consider competition again for another month and a half, until the winter season was long over and the summer season well under way. Crime had been ramping up in Gotham - as it often did as the damp, pervasive chill of winter gave way to the equally damp, equally pervasive warmth of spring - and Damian was tired. He told Ruth no, again, but it did not give him the same satisfaction as before. He could feel Gotham sinking into his bones, feel Robin consuming him. He put on the mask at night and put dressage away; sometimes it was hard to bring dressage back out again. Nonetheless, he trained just as hard, and learnt just as much. Goliath was going well — better than he ever had before — and Damian knew that soon he would be ready to show the world that dragon-bats can do dressage just as well as fancy warmbloods and sports horses. Perfectly balanced between energised and amenable, Goliath was almost ready. Damian was not. Damian wanted to sleep. 

Damian slept in until 10am every day of Easter break. He felt so much better that he agreed to compete again. 

Two weeks later, he thought he had made a mistake. Ruth wanted to take him to venues to have lessons, rather than teach him at home, which meant waking up earlier and going to new places and asking Father or Pennyworth to take time out of their schedule to accompany him and then half the time the lessons went abysmally because either him or Goliath or the both of them were stressed. Ruth told him this would happen. Damian had not believed her. It had not happened before: the last time they had competed, Damian had been calm and Goliath had been tense only for a little while. Now, they could barely trot without spooking at something, and their free walk was near non-existent. Damian was…ashamed? Perhaps? He felt something sour and unpleasant, something that curdled and made him ill to think on. He should be better than this. What were all those months of training for if not to make him better than this? The doubt and frustration and shame coalesced, sat like a rock in his belly. He and Goliath got worse.

Ruth did not enter him into any shows.

What she did instead was offer him a place at one of her clinics, as a rider. Initially, he refused, too embarrassed by the prospect of outside eyes on him while he struggled, but she reiterated that it would help others, not just him, and that there would be more eyes on him at competitions anyway. He refused then on the grounds that Father or Pennyworth would need to accompany him, and they were already doing too much. So she spoke with them without him and got their permission before he could tell them to say no. He was not sure why it was so crucial to him that he not ride in the clinic, but it seemed like a form of impending doom, no matter Ruth’s reassurances that all would be well. 

The clinic was on a Saturday. It was not sunny, but no day in Gotham is as sunny as the dawn in the desert. It wasn’t raining either, which was more important. Damian wrapped Goliath’s legs, tossed a fleece over his back to keep out any residual chill in the air and cushion his wings should he bump the walls of the truck while in transport. Ruth came rattling down the driveway and Goliath grew a few inches in height out of stress. Damian ran a hand down his neck, smoothing his fur and soothing his tensed muscles. 

Goliath bounded off the truck when they arrived, fur bristled and nostrils flared. It took a fair few minutes of walking before he was calm enough to tack up, and even after that, Damian wasn’t sure how he could possibly be expected to ride Goliath in a way that promoted Ruth and her techniques. Ruth, however, did not seem phased, and beckoned him over to the arena. Beyond the fence were clusters of people in twos or threes. There was a group of six in the far corner who were most likely from the same stables, but they were outliers. All of them had expressions of horror and confusion upon seeing Goliath emerge. It made Damian want to bare his teeth and clench his fists, but he stayed calm. Goliath needed him more than he needed his indignation, however righteous it was. It was not until he reached the middle that he realised Ruth had been speaking.

“Now Damian came to me with Goliath a few months ago. They have had to work harder than most because Goliath is, as you can see, not built for dressage. But they have put the work in, and now they’re ready for the next step. They want to start competing soon, but Goliath is not the bravest, is he Damian?” He started at the direct address, but shook his head obediently.

“No,” he said, as clearly as he could, “He is rather tense at the moment.” At that precise moment, a bird squawked from somewhere in the distance and Goliath spun, then stood stock-still and snorted. The crowd tittered, and Damian’s face burned with shame.

“He is very typical of an inexperienced horse and so perfect for what we are focussing on today,” Ruth told them and Damian started to see some nods.

From there, they went through the process of preparing a horse for competition. Damian understood, finally, why they had been travelling to so many different locations for their lessons recently, why the clinic would do them good. After a while, having followed all of Ruth’s instructions to the letter, Goliath began to relax, and when he did? Well, that was his time to shine. Everything Damian asked for, he gave, and by the end of the session, he was grinning ear to ear. Goliath, too, seemed happy: his tail swinging loosely and his wings no longer half-raised and tight. This had, of course, been the whole point of the clinic—to show people how to make their horses show-ready—but it was still a victory in Damian’s eyes. Now he just needed to carry it forward to real competitions.

There was a show in a month that Damian had seen on the noticeboard in the tack store when Pennyworth had dragged him along. Normally, shopping of all kinds was beneath Damian, but they hadn’t been able to deliver Goliath’s normal bedding and Pennyworth insisted he was not knowledgeable enough to find an alternative without Damian’s assistance. And so he came along and was largely useless while Pennyworth and the manager hashed out the variations between different brands of the same type of bedding and came to an agreement on price that was acceptable even though he was pretty sure stores did not normally negotiate price. The noticeboard was full of various flyers and ads: hunting dogs and barn cats and quadbikes to rake arenas and landscaping and building companies. There were ads for horses—mostly ex-racers—and the occasional outgrown children’s pony. There were ads for instructors and clinics, and there were ads for shows. Most of them were not of any interest to him: equitation and hunter-jumpers and one breed show that was blatantly copying the UK showing crowd, but there was one dressage show. It was on a Saturday, which was convenient because it was a longer drive than he’d like and he’d have Sunday to sleep before school, but it was far more official than the last show he’d attended. Regardless, he kept the date and the schedule in his mind, and waited.

Ruth didn’t bring it up at their lesson, but he didn’t mind. There was a tension between them, now that he knew what she was aiming him at, that hadn’t been there before, but that was also fine. He wasn’t going to mention it if she didn’t. He didn’t want to have to ask. What he wanted was for her to say that he was ready and she thought he should go to this show, not for him to mention it, or for her to ask if he thought he was ready. It seemed like a silly thing really, but he stayed stubbornly silent anyway. He trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him to wait until she said he was ready.

He trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him to leap into the fray when Batman told him to wait, they told him when to swing his katana, or when to throw a batarang, or when to duck out of the way. His instincts had kept him alive this long, and he was grateful to them, and to the training that had honed them. So, when Hatter escaped, and Father told him to stay home, or else, Damian listened to his instincts. He pulled on his Robin uniform, slipped on a mask, and flew.

The fight was not hard, and he kept telling people this, but they didn’t believe him. He had nothing but a split lip and a twisted shoulder, while the alternative was no more Batman, no more Father, and, by association, no more Robin. It had been worth the minor injury, worth the lecture, worth the rush of adrenaline that tilted just on the edge of fear, to ensure the safety of his city and his family. There was no question about it, no need for approval before he dived in, no waiting for confirmation that he was good enough. Robin could act like that, on instinct and with full trust that he could do it. Whatever it may be.

The next week, Ruth asked him if he was ready for a competition. It was not quite what he’d wanted, and he didn’t have an answer ready. He looked at her without expression. It hadn’t been an amazing lesson—not a terrible one either, just a lesson that had not gone well but had not gone badly—and he did not want to seem overconfident. He also did not want to seem like a coward. When he stared at her, Ruth stared back and waited. She was good at that in a way that Damian was not and had never been. He was never anyone’s first choice on a stakeout for a reason.

Of course, he broke first. He shrugged and turned his gaze away.

“That’s a no, then,” she said, with no judgement in her tone. Damian bristled anyway. 

“It’s not a no,” he snapped. 

“What is it, then?”

And what was he meant to say to that? That it wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes either? That he was waiting for her opinion before committing so he could give the correct answer? That he wanted to be more than ready, so he would win by so much that it would be unmistakable? It was all of these things. It was more than these things. 

“I have been here before,” he said, instead of any of those things. “I thought I was ready, and I was not. I did not even realise it until recently. I will not make the same mistake again.” Ruth studied him with her sharp, intelligent eyes.

“You’ve been ready for a while, actually,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to see if you notice, or if you brought it up.” Damian blinked at her for a moment, then leant forward and buried his face in Goliath’s shaggy neck. He was sure his face was burning with embarrassment.

“We are all morons,” he groaned, but it was muffled by his mouthful of hair.

Ruth handled the show entry. Father handed over the money without complaint, as he had for all Damian’s lessons and clinics and transport costs. He sat Damian down and reiterated how proud he was of him, how he’d matured and grown so far. No matter what happened, he had told him, he was proud. On the steps while waiting for Ruth to arrive, he helped Damian tie his stock, and pinned it with a gold hunting pin. It had, supposedly, belonged to Father’s grandfather, before being lost somewhere in the old billiards room that no one entered. The smell of cigarettes and old liquor pervaded long after the room fell out of use at galas. It had no other purpose and so nobody had explored it for as long as Damian had been resident at the manor. Father had been convinced he remembered his grandfather losing a pin in the billiards room before a gala when he was very small, he had explained, and had gone searching for it. It had been found lodged in the gap between a cabinet and the wall panel, a glint of gold against brass hinges. He was glad to give it to Damian now, to pass on this legacy. 

Father meant well, but Damian had been carrying the weight of too many legacies for too many years of his short life. He did not want another. The stock felt like a noose around his throat.

By the time they arrived, the last of the low-lying clouds had burnt away. Outside of Gotham, the whole sky was visible, and the air felt crisp and clear. It was warm enough that several people were warming up in shirt-sleeves, but not so warm that they would be permitted to enter the ring in such a state of undress. Damian buttoned up his jacket correctly, and prepared to sweat. 

Goliath looked wonderfully handsome, with his tack gleaming and the longest parts of his hair braided. His coat had been brushed smooth and his hooves coated with oil. It had taken the better part of three hours to prepare him for this, but Goliath had enjoyed the pampering, especially when Damian had put on some music. He could only hope that he remained so relaxed now that he had arrived at the showground. Ruth, ever helpful, made her way to the secretary’s tent to collect his number, to be tied around his back, and check his time once more. Meanwhile, he stroked Goliath’s nose and muttered soothing nothings in his ear. Damian had turned into such an insufferable sap, he decided, but he could not deny that it had results: Goliath seemed calm still, where before he would tense up as soon as the door to the truck opened.

By the time they had tacked up, all that relaxation was gone. As he swung a leg over Goliath’s broad back, Damian felt all the coiled, tight muscle beneath him, felt the tremble in his legs and the twitching in his wings, could see the way his ears flicked anxiously and hear how his breaths came in rushed snorts. It was not how he would have liked to start his day, but he had learnt, as everyone eventually did, that one had to work with what one had—and what Damian had was a very stressed Goliath. Thankfully, he was prepared for this eventuality, and immediately began the slow process of calming him down, walking him on a long rein and letting him look around and snort at things he thought were scary. 

He had plenty of time. They had planned for this.

Of course, just when Damian thought Goliath was calm enough to begin warming up properly, he spotted something new. Flag? Terrifying. Drain cover? Worst nightmare (and to be fair to poor Goliath, in Gotham, it could be). A darker patch of sand? Portent of doom. For all that they had allowed plenty of time, they could not stay in walk forever. They were running out of time before their test despite their best efforts, and still Goliath felt like a coiled spring beneath him. He had tried so hard all this time to ignore everyone around him, but looking around now, he saw only perfection. There were sleek, shining dressage horses flying across the ring in medium canter, polished ponies halting totally square. Meanwhile, Damian’s snorting, quivering mess of a mount had yet to get out of walk. 

He looked over at Ruth worriedly. She did not appear to share his apprehension. Instead, she levelled him with a stare and, when he passed by, said in her usual solid voice, “you’re fine. Do what you need to do.”

It was easier said than done.

Twenty minutes flew by like Robin after a villain’s goons. Damian’s start time arrived, and he had barely managed more than a slow and very tentative trot. Despite this, he found he did not feel unprepared. What he had done felt good. Ruth still appeared calm on the sidelines. Goliath felt as relaxed as he was ever going to get. They were, in spite of all their difficulties and strangeness, ready. 

Into the ring they went, and Damian once again heard the mutters of onlookers turn to utter silence. Once again, he felt the judges’ eyes on him and the ripple of unease that emanated from their box. Would they disqualify him before he even tried? Would they demand documentation like the last judges?  Would they dare to accept things at face value, and let him compete unquestioned? He walked Goliath around the ring, allowing him to acclimate himself and doing exactly what Ruth had instructed him to. Ignore the judges and the crowd, she had said, just focus on you and Goliath. Damian intended to do just that. If the judges wanted to question him, they could demand it of him themselves. He would do nothing unprompted. As Goliath walked past the judges’ box, Damian nodded politely to them, allowed Goliath to sniff a flower box, then continued. They did not leave to demand anything of him, and a few minutes later the bell rang. 

He went down the centre line in a trot that felt good: bouncy and forward and soft. He could feel Goliath’s mouth at the end of his reins, accepting his spongey contact, just like Ruth liked it. At X, he halted, and it was square - even though that had always been a struggle. He picked up the same trot again, and ignored Goliath’s tremulous blowing at a wayward leaf in favour of a rub at the base of his neck. At the top of the arena, Damian turned left, and promptly stopped thinking. Instead, he simply rode.

Half an hour later, having ridden and cooled down and untacked and washed Goliath off and even eaten a light snack with Ruth, Damian made the mistake of wandering vaguely past the secretary’s tent while his class was still on-going. Ruth had warned him on more than one occasion that it did no good to watch other competitors in a class, But Damian’s eye had been drawn to a flash of bright red chestnut, and that was his first mistake. They were moving so gracefully: all exuberant extravagance as they floated across the ground. Damian could not help the flash of jealousy, the inadequacy, that ripped through him. Goliath would never move like that, and in the face of it, Damian could admit to himself that they had never stood a chance. 

And then the secretary’s tent had the early scores up—predictably high—and Damian’s fledgling hope dwindled further. Last time they had competed they had just about broken the mid-60s and now they had scores in the 70% bracket to beat? It was untenable, a hopeless dream, like fairy wings and lamp-bound djinn. Dejected, he slumped back to Ruth’s truck, back to Goliath who he loved more than a ribbon but not so much that this would not be a disappointment. 

Ruth, as predictable as the high scores, knew immediately that Damian had seen something he shouldn’t have. While he groomed Goliath and offered him yet another bucket he wouldn’t drink from, she prodded gently at his thorny defenses until they gave way. He admitted to his fault, to his lapse in judgement, and she did not hate him for it. She did not even chastise him overmuch, merely sighed and asked if he had gained anything from the experience.

“Sometimes watching others can be beneficial,” she said, in spite of her earlier assertion that doing so would do no good for Damian.

“Goliath and I do not stand a chance,” Damian ground out miserably, “do we?”

Ruth sat, and gestured for him to do the same, although the grass would surely stain his white breeches. He followed her direction regardless. Pennyworth would complain, no doubt, but even he could not argue with Ruth.

“Remind me, Damian, why you wanted to compete again?” she asked, and it would have felt like a sarcastic question if it weren’t coming from her mouth.

“Because I wanted to prove I could,” he replied. “Because I was ready; because I worked hard for it.”

“Did you want to compete because you wanted to win?” 

Damian was halfway to saying ‘yes, of course I want to win. There is no point otherwise,’ before he stopped and realised that in all the months of training and preparing and fretting and growing, he had not once thought about winning as a victory. He had not truly thought about anything beyond riding the test itself, beyond doing his and Goliath’s best and seeing a score that reflected that. 

“Not really,” he said instead, when his words returned to him, and Ruth nodded as if that was exactly what she had expected him to say. “It would be nice though, wouldn’t it? To get lucky and have someone on our side who appreciates Goliath like we do.” The smile on Ruth’s face was sad as she replied.

“Many riders have said the same over the years,” she told him gently. “And I feel for them, but ultimately they are wrong. In dressage, the only person you’re competing against is yourself. There’s no luck involved, no one you can win over or whose favour you can buy, just your own relationship with your mount, your own skill, your own dedication. And every time, you get a little better, and learn a little more. The other people don’t matter, Damian, they’re doing just the same as you - testing themselves and trying their best.” 

The words took a while to sink in, but in the meantime they sat and watched the bustle of the showground, listening to Goliath munch on something indescribable behind them. 

“I know that, really,” Damian said finally. “And I want to improve more than I want a blue ribbon, really , but still…” his knees curled up to his chest, and his chin rested upon them, eyes half closed against the glare of the sun. 

“It would be nice,” Ruth admitted, “wouldn’t it?” Damian squeezed his eyes tight shut in response.

“I see so much good in Goliath. No one else ever has, even when he was small. I want other people to see it too.”

Ruth asked no more questions of him. She let him sit with his sadness and left only to go to the bathroom. Shortly after lunchtime, Father called to ask how everything was going. Damian was short with him, but not so short as to cause concern. He did not want Father to witness his failure. 

In the height of the afternoon, when Damian had, against all propriety, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, there was a call for those in Damian’s morning class to collect scores and ribbons from the secretary’s tent. Damian did not want to see, and dragged his feet about it, first checking on Goliath, then emptying the water he still wouldn’t drink, then brushing some non-existent grime off his saddle. Finally, Ruth bodily grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him in the required direction, and pushed until he started walking himself. She was a traitor of the highest order, he decided, mulishly, and should not be allowed within ten feet of him again.

The results were written in small enough font that he had to get far closer than he’d have liked to see the scoreboard. There were people around who he did not know or wish to know. His maudlin mood from earlier had him looking straight to the bottom of the scoreboard and, when he did not see his name there, his first thought was that it was a mistake. His eyes trailed upwards to the mid-range scores of between sixty-five and sixty-seven percent, and he did not find his name there either. Had his score been missed off entirely? Had he been disqualified without being informed? 

Against his better judgement, his eyes drifted further up the board, to the low seventies, the scores on the cusp of lofty goals like championship qualification and national leagues. And there, in black ink on white paper, Damian Wayne, Goliath, fourth place . 

In a class of over twenty-five people, all of whom Damian had judged as the kind of dressage snob who won every class they entered, this was inconceivable. And yet after blinking and pinching himself hard on the thigh, the letters did not change. As if in a dream, he passed through the entrance to the tent, and found a sheet bearing his name and his number beneath a white ribbon. He picked it up, and his hands did not tremble. An elderly lady who must have been the secretary looked up when she heard the paper rustle and gave a grim little snort of laughter.

“They liked you a lot. Your guts anyway. Fourth place qualifies you for the local USEF league—that’s what the card is for—so congratulations. If it’s all the same to you, I’d recommend not coming back here next year. We’ve had enough chaos for the foreseeable future, thank you very much.” Damian did not hold it against her. Partially, he supposed, because he was still in shock. He nodded vaguely, still staring at the sheet without really seeing it, and left without saying another word.

The USEF league. He’d show them, too.