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batmanlovesnirvana · 24 days ago

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Chapter six | cold truth & cigarettes.

masterlist

universe : reeves, the batman 2022

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!OC

words : +3K

author's note : This chapter is personal and touches on some political themes. It was originally meant to be 10k words, but I decided to post the first half on its own since it feels really important. I hope you'll stick with it until the end and share your thoughts. We dive deeper into Maryam's past and her traumas, and I'd love to know if you enjoyed it! Feel free to reblog and comment—your feedback really motivates me to keep writing. English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes in advance xx

cw : Maryam having an emotional existential crisis (part 2), political themes, mention of wars, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk

SHE HAD SWORN she would stop smoking. Promised herself, really.

But the urge was too familiar, too persistent and promises made in the quiet of her mind always crumbled in the noise of reality. With a sigh, Maryam fumbled through her pocket, feeling the familiar shape of the cigarette pack. She pulled one out, placing it between her teeth, cursing softly as her fingers scrambled to find a lighter in the depths of her bag.

She remained rooted to the spot where the Bat—or was it the drifter?—had left her, the faint echo of his departure lingering in the cold air.

The flicker of the flame caught the cigarette, and she took a deep drag, feeling the burn in her chest.

A voice broke through the silence behind her. "Boyfriend?"

She turned slightly, hazel eyes landing on a homeless man curled up on a worn mat, his face barely visible beneath the grime of the streets.

Maryam exhaled slowly, the smoke unfurling from her lips before she coughed. "Uh—what? No," she muttered, pulling the cigarette away, trying to collect herself, to straighten her thoughts along with her posture.

The man chuckled then coughed, a low, gravelly sound. "My bad then."

She took another drag, staring at the ground, fixating on a piece of gum stuck to the pavement. "Why'd you think that?" she asked, trying to sound indifferent, crossing her arms as she tapped ash from the cigarette.

He clacked his yellowing teeth together, his grin crooked. "The way you looked at him, I guess."

Maryam huffed, smoke swirling around her. "Looked at him how?"

"Like he could save you," the man said, his voice softened by the cold night air.

Her jaw tightened, irritation flaring. "Yeah, well... I don't need saving."

"Sure, sure," he replied, pulling a threadbare blanket tighter around himself. "People like you... don't need nobody, huh?"

His words hit her like a cold slap, it lingered in the air, mingling with the smoke.

Maryam's eyes drifted to him, and after a long minute, she noticed his clothes—old, worn, but unmistakable.

Veteran.

The sight made her stomach tighten.

She fucking hated US veterans. Hated everything they symbolized.

When she was younger, she'd seen the videos—those staged reunions where soldiers came back, surprising their children with hugs and tears. It happened all the time at her school, too. Soldiers, returning from some war she couldn't even place, cheered like heroes.

But what had they really come back from? Murdering Middle Eastern children? Destroying families? Cities? Entire Countries? They weren't heroes in her eyes—just puppets in some propaganda machine, painted with a patriotic brush.

"You're a soldier," she said absently, the words tasting bitter as she blew out another puff of smoke.

"Yes, miss" hesitant he added." Iraq." His voice was low, almost careful.

Her body went rigid. The cigarette wavered in her hand. "Oh." She looked anywhere but at him.

Once again, silence enveloped the space, thick and unspoken, as she fought to suppress the anger tightening her chest. It was a silence as cold as ice, unforgiving as a winter wind, suffocating in its weight.

Every breath dragged, bitter with words she couldn’t say and memories that cut deep.

The silence pressed in, forcing her to face wounds still raw and the injustices clawing just beneath her skin.

"How lovely." she says sarcasticly-- scratch that harshly.

His bloodshot eyes looked anywhere but her, as if he was ashamed. "You don't seem--"

Before he could say another word, her patience snapped. “My uncle was Iraqi,” she bit out, her eyes sharp enough to kill. “Mohamed Rajab,” she added, almost to herself, the name barely a whisper as her gaze drifted, leaving the words heavy in the air.

His name felt almost foreign, the syllables heavy on her tongue, a relic of a past she could barely grasp. It had been years since she last spoke it aloud, and now it emerged as if from the depths of a grave—another ghost haunting her sorrow and grief. Each utterance was like a whisper from a forgotten time, bringing with it a rush of memories tinged with both warmth and despair.

The man shifted slightly on his mat, but said nothing, just watching her through tired eyes.

Maryam's mind drifted back, further into memories she rarely allowed herself to visit.

Aunt Jamila's husband.

He had been in Iraq when the invasion began, a last-minute decision to return and bury his mother, unaware that fate would trap him in a storm of chaos and war.

Caught in the storm of chaos and war, his gentle soul trapped beneath the weight of bombs that fell from skies blackened by imperial greed.

Her sweet uncle had died there, under the bombs of imperialism, crushed by the same hands that wrapped themselves around countries, tearing them apart for power, for oil, for nothing at all. His life extinguished in an instant, another casualty in a conflict that cared little for the human cost.

His memory felt so distant now, like an echo from another lifetime, fading with each passing day. She could barely picture his face anymore, but she could still recall the way he always carried Turkish candies in his pockets—those delightful little treats with a gooey liquid center that melted in your mouth. They were her favorites. He would pull them out with a smile, passing them to the neighborhood children with a wink, even when times were hard. He had owned a modest market, a small shop that was the heart of their community, and somehow, it was enough.

Life had felt rich and full.

But then, the invasion happened. When the first bombs fell, he had still been in Iraq, still burying his mother, caught in the chaos with no way out.

They had clung to hope, waiting for him to return, believing against all odds that somehow he would make it back to them. But hope dwindled with each passing day, and the stark reality settled in.

He never made it back.

—In fact, none of his family made it out. All decimated. Dust.

She vividly recalled the day they received the news. How Aunt Jamila had screamed, collapsing in the kitchen, her wails piercing the air like shards of glass, as if her very soul had been ripped from her body.

Aunt Meysa had rushed to comfort her, cradling the pregnant woman as best she could, while her own heart shattered in the chaos.

Uncle Fawzi stood frozen by the window, his expression blank, eyes gazing into a world that had suddenly lost all meaning. The silence in the room felt suffocating, heavy with despair.

She had felt so small, so powerless, standing in the doorway, a mere shadow watching her family break apart yet again under the weight of another curse, another war that had ensnared them as if they were trapped in a nightmare with no escape.

It shattered Aunt Jamila. Destroyed her in ways Maryam could never fully comprehend.

Just months away from welcoming her first child, her aunt had been filled with hope despite the growing unrest. But the news of Mohamed's death, along with the obliteration of his entire family, became an unbearable burden. Soon after, she lost the baby, her first and last child, snuffed out before it ever had a chance to take a breath, a ghost that would never exist.

Maryam remembered how Aunt Meysa had told her there wasn't even a body to bury—only fragments, pieces of him scattered beneath the rubble, indistinguishable from the wreckage of their lives. The bombing had torn through their home, their neighborhood, leaving behind only silence and ash, memories mingled with dust.

But the worst part wasn't just the loss; it was the haunting loneliness that followed, a void that swallowed everything whole. The suffocating silence pressed in from all sides. There was no one to talk to, no one who would listen or care. The world had already made up its mind.

In the post-9/11 haze, everyone was too engrossed in their own lives, too willing to swallow whatever narratives their governments fed them—stories of freedom, democracy, and the relentless fight against the so-called "enemy of democracy."

To them, people like Mohamed or Fawzi weren't fathers or husbands; they were mere abstractions. They weren't human. They were branded as terrorists, Islamists, faceless bodies stripped of identity, marked for death by the sheer accident of their birthplace, by the faith they practiced, by the cultures they cherished and fought to preserve.

Their stories were reduced to statistics in a news report, their lives devalued, dismissed as collateral damage in a war that felt more like a game of chess than a human tragedy. As if their existence was a mere footnote in a narrative that never considered them worthy of remembrance.

Just dirty little Arabs.

Muslim terrorists.

Violent by nature.

Enemies of the state.

Radical extremists.

Savages in a primitive land.

Maryam exhaled slowly, the smoke burning her throat as the weight of it all pressed down on her chest, threatening to suffocate her under the collective grief, the unshed tears, the rage against a world that refused to see them as anything but monsters.

At this point, it felt like everyone had become desensitized to the images—Middle Eastern children blown to bits, their small bodies crumpled in the debris, their faces smeared across the news like they were nothing more than statistics.

It was as if the world had decided that this was their fate.

As if suffering was something they were meant to endure, something woven into their existence, to be endured without question, without grief.

When she thought about her uncle— she thought about the stories her family never fully told, but hinted at in the silences around the dinner table, in the careful way they avoided certain topics. He had been proud once, she remembered that much. Proud of his land, his people.

Until the war came.

Until everything was shattered.

She glanced back at the homeless man, her thoughts spiraling in the quiet of the early morning. He had probably seen the same horrors, lived through the same lies, though from the other side of the world.

Maybe, in some twisted way, they both knew what it was like to be used. To be broken.

But the difference was, people like him got to come home.

She never really did.

The image of her uncle, buried beneath the rubble, under a sky choked with smoke and the deafening roar of jets, felt far too vivid now. It wasn't just a memory—it was a living thing, clawing at her insides. This was the kind of war that had seeped into her bones, the kind that had stolen so much from her family.

And for what? So they could craft stories of heroism, tales of sacrifice? So soldiers could return draped in glory while the dead lay nameless in the dust, forgotten?

She glanced toward the American flag fluttering above the bank entrance just down the street, its colors stark against the gray sky.

It felt like a cruel joke.

After everything, after fighting so hard to earn a place here, to get their nationalities, to be accepted—and yet here she was, haunted by wars and destruction she couldn't escape.

Her throat tightened, and she took a drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke fill her lungs. She forced herself not to flinch, not to let the bitterness bleed into her face.

She couldn't afford to.

The man shifted on his mat, his earlier bravado gone. His eyes softened, narrowing as if he'd begun to understand something unspoken between them. "I see," he said quietly, the weight of his words pressing down on the silence between them.

There was something else now in his voice—recognition, maybe even guilt. "War's... hell for everyone, I guess."

Hell? She swallowed, her throat constricting against the rising tide of grief. Hell didn't even begin to describe it.

War wasn't just hell. War was a thief.

It stole everything that mattered—lives, homes, futures—and left behind nothing but wreckage.

Iraq hadn't felt like a war.

Srebrenica hadn't felt like a war.

It had felt like being trapped in a nightmare, watching everything you love get torn away while the world pretended to care. It wasn't just the soldiers, the so-called heroes, who suffered. It was the forgotten, the nameless, the ones like her. The ones whose stories would never make it home.

The ghosts.

She couldn't reply right away. Her voice felt fragile, like it would shatter the moment she opened her mouth. Instead, she stared at the flag, its proud flutter a mockery of everything she had lost, everything the world didn't care to remember.

Finally, she muttered, her voice low and rough, "Yeah," flicking the ash from her cigarette to the ground. "Hell for everyone."

But even as she said it, she knew hell didn't cover it. Hell didn't tear you apart in the same way; it didn't erase you from the world, didn't let history move on while you were still standing there, bleeding from the inside like a wound that refused to heal.

An agony that seeped into your bones, a gnawing ache that twisted your insides and left you gasping for breath, like drowning in the memories of those lost, memories that clung to you like shadows, haunting every moment.

Maryam's gaze stayed locked on the crumbling asphalt beneath her sneakers. The cigarette burned slowly between her fingers, but she didn't feel the heat. She didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to see whatever expression he'd try to wear—whether it was pity, guilt, or some hollow understanding.

None of it mattered.

Her thoughts drifted back to her uncle once again, the one no one spoke about anymore.

Him and her parents.

Her brother.

Her extended family.

The ones her family treated like ghosts, too painful to mention.

As if grieving them was poison.

His memory hung in the silence of family dinners, in the way they tiptoed around certain topics, like stepping on landmines. Her uncle Mohamed had been proud once. She could still see it, the way his eyes used to light up when he talked about his land, his people.

But the war had come, and with it, destruction. He had fought to hold onto something, anything, but in the end, everything was shattered.

She remembered the stories she overheard late at night, when her family thought her and her siblings were asleep. Stories about how they found him—or what was left of him and his family.

The land he had bled for, loved so fiercely, had turned to ashes, just like him.

They just didn't talk about the aftermath.

They didn't talk about the ones who didn't make it home—not really. Because once they were gone, they were gone.

Erased.

But Maryam hadn't forgotten. Couldn't bury it. Not like they had.

She could still feel the weight of them—the stories that were never told, the grief no one could bear to speak of. The silence in the wake of everything they had lost.

Her uncle's pride, his dreams, had been buried along with him, forgotten by a world that kept spinning as if none of it had ever mattered.

But she was still here. Still carrying that weight, those memories that wouldn't fade. The anger that wouldn't let her rest.

She took another drag, the smoke filling her lungs, thick and bitter. She exhaled slowly, watching it curl up into the air, dissipating like the lives of the ones lost to wars no one cared to remember.

Finally, she glanced at him, her voice hollow. "You don't know the half of it."

He didn't respond right away. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, like the weight of all the unspoken things that had nowhere to go. She didn't care. She certainly didn't need his words, didn't need his sympathy or whatever hollow platitude he might offer.

There was nothing he could say that would fix it.

The doctor crushed the half-finished cigarette on a near bin, grinding it into metal of it with deliberate motion. Watching the embers fade, snuffed out like the lives lost to senseless wars.

It felt like a ritual—something small, something pointless—but it was the only control she had left.

He shifted beside her, the mat creaking beneath him as he adjusted his weight.

She could feel his eyes on her, but she refused to meet his gaze, to acknowledge his presence. What could he possibly understand? He wasn't the one standing in the rubble, watching everything he knew burn to the ground. He wasn't the one left behind, forced to sift through the ashes of a shattered life, desperately searching for remnants of hope amidst the devastation.

No, he was the one who had taken part in it all—the one who had marched into the chaos, while she remained trapped in the wreckage, haunted by the ghosts of those she had lost.

"Look..." he began, his voice hesitant now, unsure. "I didn't mean to—"

"Save it," she cut him off, the sharpness of her voice slicing through the air like a blade. "I've heard it all before." She wrapped her arms around herself, more to keep the memories from spilling over than from the chill in the air.

His silence was answer enough. He wasn't going to push, and she was grateful for that—grateful for once that someone didn't try to offer solutions to a problem that couldn't be solved.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. The air tasted like smoke and rain, thick with the scent of something burning far off in the distance.

Maybe it was just her imagination, but it felt too close, too real—like the wars were still with her, clinging to her skin and sinking into her bones, refusing to let go.

"You must have seen a lot over there," Maryam said quietly after a while, the words barely more than a murmur, as if they weren't hers to ask. Each syllable hung in the air like a fragile promise, a flicker of connection in the suffocating silence that surrounded them.

"More than I care to remember," he replied. His voice was rough, but there was something hollow behind it, as if he were speaking through a fog of memories he couldn't shake. "Lost a lot of good men. Did things... none of us should've had to do."

The confession hung heavy in the night air. Maryam's heart thudded painfully against her ribs, a flood of memories threatening to surface—the wars she fled, the ruins she walked through, the faces of people she once knew.

"And what, you think that makes it better? That you regret it now?" she asked, her voice harsher than she intended, breaking the delicate thread of understanding that had started to form.

The man sighed, a long, weary sound. "No. Regret don't fix anything, miss. But it's all I got now."

Maryam crossed her arms tightly, as if holding herself together.

The old anger still simmered, but it was tangled now with something else—something more complex, more painful. She wanted to hate him, like she hated the others. But standing there, hearing the exhaustion in his voice, it felt... harder.

After a long pause, she looked up at him for the first time, really looked.

His eyes were tired, bloodshot, bottles of alcohol laced around him but there was no defiance in them, no pride. Just a man, worn down by too many battles—some fought overseas, some right here on these streets.

She took a step back, blinking against the burning sensation creeping behind her eyes. "Doesn't change anything," she whispered, but the words sounded hollow, even to her.

"No, it doesn't," he agreed, pulling his blanket tighter around himself, retreating into the comfort of its worn fabric.

Maryam stood there for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the conversation settle deep in her bones. She wasn't sure what she'd expected—a confrontation, maybe, something explosive.

But all she felt was tired.

Tired of the anger, tired of the guilt, tired of the endless cycle of pain.

Finally, she forced herself to speak, her voice low and rough. "War doesn't end when the fighting stops. It stays with you. It eats away at everything you are, everything you thought you knew. And no one... no one cares about what it does to the ones left behind."

Her words hung in the air, thick with the weight of all the unsaid things she couldn't bring herself to explain. She had learned long ago that some wounds never healed. Some scars were too deep.

The man beside her said nothing, and for once, it was the right response. There was nothing more to say.

Finally, she turned, her gaze fixed ahead, and without looking back, she whispered, almost to herself, "They're all gone. And so am I."

She swallowed hard, surprising herself as she asked softly, "What is your name?" Her hands found their way to the pockets of her trench coat, searching for warmth or some semblance of comfort.

"Bryan Geoffray Jr.," he replied, his voice hoarse yet steady.

She nodded, her mind racing as she fished out three crumpled dollars from her pocket, placing them in his cup.

It wasn't much, but it was all she had on her, a small offering in the face of shared despair.

Tears bloomed in his already bloodshot eyes, and she quickly looked away, uncomfortable under the weight of his gratitude. He whispered a thank you, his voice thick with emotion. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what we did."

"Take care of yourself," she said quietly, flicking the ash from her cigarette to the ground. As she turned to leave, she tossed another coin into the small pot in front of him, a small token of connection before breaking away.

She walked away then, leaving the stranger, the cigarette smoke, and the weight of her past behind her. But as she disappeared into the night, the memories stayed.

They always did.

"Same to you, miss," he called after her, his voice trailing off into the cold air.

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simp2537 · 7 months ago

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John Wick Fic??

Anyone want a platonic! John wick fix x fem! Reader. Reader is a child assassin gifted to John by the high table before he retired. Any takers?

Here’s a sneak peek 👀

𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜

The scent of iron and copper stained the area around him as he lay in the ground. His dark irises looked up at the barrel of the gun in front of his head. Corpses laid around his as he breathed softly.

With every dawn a pupillus is brought home

The girl that stood before him was dressed in an all black suit, perfectly tailored to her. Her hair sleeked back in a ponytail and braided. Her eyes cold and hard, like a killers should be. She couldn’t have been older than ten.

Her face still held that childlike glow that most kids her age had. Her Glock was firmly between his eyes. The man she’d shot before, laid dead at her feet.

“Ты Баба Яга?” The girl asked, her voice that of a pure innocent child. (Are you Baba Yaga?)

With every dusk a pupillus is dead.

John stared at her and he slowly stood up. Her gun trailed him as he towered over her.

“Yeah.” The girl hummed softly. In a swift movement her gun was in a holster at her side. She let out a small sigh.

“Good, I’m your pupillus.” John froze. A pupillus? A child bought, taken, given and molded into a killer. Only the High Table could grant a person an pupillus. Never in all his life would he think that the High Table would gift him one.

With every star a pupillus conquerors

John nodded softly as he moved a corpse out of her way. She moved next to him in a flash, almost inhumanly fast.

“You got a name kid?” John pondered softly as he began to walk away from the bloody scene. The girl trailed behind him, he couldn’t even hear her steps.

“No.”

John rubbed his face as he opened the door to his car for her. She slide into the car quickly and sat quietly. As John shut the car door he groaned softly. He didn’t ask for this, he didn’t want to have to take care of a kid. But the High Table saw him fit he supposed.

“I like Y/n, think it’s pretty.” John mumbled as they drove towards the Continental. The girl didn’t answer, only furrowed her brow.

“Yes it is pretty.” The girl agreed monotoned. As John drove he would glance at her. She stared out at the city with a small spark in her eyes, liked she’d never seen so many lights before. The girl didn’t speak, she didn’t move, to John it didn’t even look like she was breathing.

She looked almost alien to him. Not that she looked strange but she acted strange. She wasn’t like any child John had ever know, and he supposed she wasn’t. Pupillus were meant to hide in plain sight, she certainly looked like a child….. just not her eyes.

With every comet a pupillus falls

John didn’t know it then but this girl would change his entire life. He would name her, he would love her, he would care for her, and she in turn…. Would destroy for him.

These are the vows of a pupillus

To serve, to die, to kill for our masters for we are pupillus

#john wick x reader #platonic John wick x reader #john wick x you #dad john wick #keanuverse #john wick x y/n #𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜

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anonymousonlyanonymoud · 11 months ago

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The Lost de Rolo Chapter Two

Scries and Answers

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After that morning's revelations and decisions, Vox Machina began preparing for their next journey.

Grog, Scanlan, Vex, and Trinket had all gone to the shopping district of Emon to stock up on healing potions, weapons, and whatever else they thought they would need before setting off. But what surprised everyone, was when Vax had declined to go with them.

They may tease him about the flirting between himself and Gilmore, but there was a genuine friendship between the rogue and sorcerer.

So, it felt a bit worrying that Vax was not jumping at the chance to see Gilmore and only gave a half-hearted reason to go to the temple.

Vex had eyed her brother, giving him a look that said 'We will talk about this later,'

Vax responded with one of his own that told her, 'I know,' as he trailed after Percy and Pike.

The three of them walked in silence, Pike's armor being the main sound as they made their way toward the Temple.

The rogue hung back at the end of their little train, his feet feeling like lead as they drew closer to the temple.

He was happy that Percy would get answers for his sister, Vax truly was. What worried the half-elf was the question he needed to ask, and the answer he may receive.

When they entered the temple, there were the usual groups of worshippers praying to Sarenrae and speaking with the clerics mingling around.

Pike weaved her way through the worshippers, stopping before the familiar elderly man dressed in the robes of Sarenrae and thinning hair on the top of his head,

"Father Tristan,"

"Pike Trickfoot. We welcome you and your friends here," The man said while giving the gnome a slight nod,

"Thank you, Father. We need your assistance on a private matter,"

Father Tristan looked between Pike and the two behind her, his eyes squinting a bit at Vax and Percy before nodding and leading them away from the main hall of the temple.

When they were separated from the rest of the groups, Father Tristan asked what they needed,

"I'm sure you've heard of the latest escapade that we went on," Percy said to which the cleric nodded,

"Yes. The tale has spread about your victory against those unholy creatures that subsequently freed our Sovereign and an entire city from their control," He said, "Many have come to pray for those recently freed. For the Everlight to assist Lady Cassandra as she leads your people through the rebuilding of Whitestone, My Lord,"

At first glance, it would seem like hearing himself being referred to as 'Lord' had little effect on Percy. But both Pike and Vax saw him make a small, jerking flinch that went unnoticed by those around them.

Percy managed to clear his throat,

"I... thank you, Father. I will be sure to inform my sister of the support we have here with the Everlight's followers," He straightened his shoulders and began their business as to why they had come.

The older Cleric listened to why they were seeking his help, a frown forming as Percy came to the end of their tale,

"We are aware that the source we got the information from is possibly the most unreliable out there," Vax said,

"That is true," Replied the Cleric, "Though, I can understand the need for truth in this matter,"

Father Tristan went silent for a long moment, deep in visible thought as he pondered the situation before saying, "I shall do what I can to assist you, My Lord. But, am I correct in assuming you have nothing that connects to your sister? No objects or clothing that would have belonged to her?"

Percy shook his head, "No. Everything that belonged to my family was destroyed years ago,"

"I see," Father Tristan hummed, "That will make scrying difficult,"

"But not impossible?" Questioned Pike, a hopeful tone lighting her voice,

"No. Not impossible," He replied.

Father Tristan continued his conversation with Pike and Percy, but Vax had distanced himself from the trio.

The rogue found himself standing before the main altar of Sarenrae and stared up at the image of the Everlight.

He was never one for prayer, especially since he and Vex'ahlia had returned to Byroden and were told that their mother had been killed. But recently... Vax has been unsure as to where to turn for answers.

Ever since the feast, since Sylas Briarwood had used him as a blood bag, Vax had been having...

Dreams? Visions?

It always happened when he was asleep, but they never felt like dreams.

Vax, when he went to sleep, would fall. However, it wasn't like falling from a cliff. It was more like... Sinking into a pit of honey.

But instead of honey, it was soft feathers that gently lowered him toward into a dark, endless void that was filled with shadows. Shadows that were illuminated by streaks of gold that flew illuminated the darkness.

There would be a gold streak circling around him, weaving up from the ground before becoming level with his chest and branching out in two directions.

The first found its way around a group of people Vax recognized easily as Vox Machina, illuminating their faces with its gold light while a small section branched off to circle tightly around Vex'ahlia.

Vax would always try to walk towards his friends, but the second streak would always pull him back, tugging him further into the darkness until his friends, his family, were no more than a small, golden light in the distance.

He would then be faced with who was on the other end, but could never make out who it was.

This figure would be clouded in a black energy with an electric purple hue that reminded Vax of Delilah Briarwoods' magic.

Vax would stare at the figure, unable to make out anything other than emerald green eyes that peered at the half-elf through the magic surrounding them.

The rogue would try to catch a glimpse of the face behind the haze, but his concentration would be broken by the croaking call of ravens as a pale, masked face loomed over the both of them.

Vax would jolt awake in a cold sweat after meeting the dark holes of the mask were eyes were supposed to reside.

He'd been unable to make sense of, whatever these things were. But, Vax needed to be sure this was nothing in relation to the Briarwoods.

Delilah Briarwoods had been a damned necromancer, it didn't seem beyond the realm of reason for her to be able to reach out to the living. And if she were trying to make some kind of connection with the living world through Vax, the half-elf needed to find out how to severe it before she succeeded,

"Hey, Stringbean?" Vax tore his gaze off of the Everlights image and looked down at Pike who returned his gaze with worry, "You okay?"

He glanced back up at the altar before responding,

"Yeah, Pickle, I'm okay. Just thinking things over,"

His friend looked unconvinced, but temporarily dropped the subject and pointed to where Father Tristan and Percy stood,

"If you're sure. We're ready to start,"

The room Father Tristan led them to was dimly lit with candles as a bowl of what Vax assumed was Holy Water sat on a small table.

The older Cleric stood at one side of the table while the members of Vox Machina stood at the other,

"This may take a moment," He murmured while focusing on the water, "And as I said before, Lord de Rolo, this may not work,"

"I understand,"

Vax could see Percy's fists clench at his sides.

Father Tristan began speaking down toward the Holy Water, casting a spell that made it glow as the surface shimmered.

There was a blurred image shown that began to fade as soon as it appeared, prompting the Cleric to renew his spell with vigor. His eyes scrunched in concentration as Percy grasped the edges of the table with shaking hands.

Pike rested her hand against Percy's, and the Lord glanced down at her. The gnome offered an encouraging smile then turned toward the water, prompting Percy to the same as Vax came to stand beside them.

The water's surface was still blurred, but it slowly began to clear after a few excruciating minutes to show them the image of a young woman with striking white hair that was pulled back into a loose braid,

"Is that her, Percy?"

Percy didn't answer Pike as his gaze was fixated on the image before them.

Vax stared at the image from over his friend's shoulder, studying what was shown in the water.

The woman was walking down a crowded street that looked familiar to Vax.

He'd walked that street before, looking for the people who were after his sister.

Vax had followed a dwarf with a staff made of tongues into that building.

Vax had walked down that street, away from that building with a threat looming over his head, while the new brand on his back burned under his cloak.

The group watched the image in the water as the woman, whom Vax assumed was Percy's sister, entered a tavern that the rogue recognized.

But as Ciara stepped inside, the image flickered and blurred before fading completely, showing only their reflections in the water,

"No! No!" Percy's head shot up and his eyes landed on Father Tristan, "Bring it back! The image! That was her! Bring it back!"

The Cleric shook his head with a weary sigh, "There is something blocking my sight, My Lord. I'm afraid that I am unable to-"

"Try! Please just-"

"Percy!" Pike was now between Percy and the table. The gnome grasped his hands tightly as she said,

"Percy, for an image to be disrupted like that- Something had to have disrupted it,"

"But we didn't see anything, Pike!" He exclaimed, "We only saw her walk into a damned building! And we don't even know what or where that is!"

"I know where that is," Everyone turned toward Vax who had slunk back into the shadows of the room, "I know that place,"

Percy reached Vax in two steps and grasped the rogue's arms, "Where is she, Vax?"

The half-elf remained silent for a long time before carefully peeling Percy's fingers from his arms,

"Westruun,"

"Westruun? Are you sure?" Pike questioned, "I don't recognize where-"

"Pike," The serious tone of his voice had her cutting off, "I know that area. It's in Westruun,"

Percy stepped away from Vax, his shoulders dropping in relief, "Westruun is only a day's journey from here. Ciara is closer than I could have ever imagined,"

"There is a darkness about her, My Lord. Even through the scrying I could see it," Father Tristan added, "I'm unable to discern what caused it, but don't imagine your sister has had a good life,"

The members of Vox Machina all tensed as each of them remembered a smoking demon made of shadows that had made itself known underneath the Castle of Whitestone.

A harsh sigh left Percy as he began pacing the room while violently tugging at his hair,

"But she is alive! And we know where she is!" He whipped his gaze toward the older cleric, "And right now, that's all that matters to me!"

With those last words, Percy stormed out of the room, the door slamming against the wall as he left.

Pike sighed while gently clasping her symbol of Sarenrae before apologizing to Father Tristan,

"We do appreciate the help, Father, truly," The Cleric waved his hand in a slight dismissal,

"I can understand his frustration, Pike Trickfoot. Though I do not appreciate it being thrown at me,"

Pike apologized a second time and made to leave the room, but stopped when she saw that Vax hadn't moved,

"You go on a head, Pickle," He said, flashing her a tight smile, "I'll catch up,"

Worry was still visible on her face as she nodded and exited, leaving Vax and Father Tristan.

The Cleric tilted his head, "Is there more assistance required of me?"

Vax sighed, pushing off of the wall to stand more in the center of the room,

"Yes. I am, worried that the Briarwoods have, left some kind of mark, or, connection to me," He said, then began explaining the dreams, or visions, he'd been having.

Father Tristan listened carefully to what Vax told him and thought for a long while before agreeing to check for any dark arcane energy that maybe clinging to him.

He placed his hands on either side of Vax's head and murmured a few words as the symbol around his neck began to glow.

A divine energy began to pulse through Vax and he felt a warmth fall over him. It wasn't invasive like Sylas' charms had been, but it was more like a friend welcoming him home, a secure embrace that made him feel safe. But, despite the warm feeling, it still felt uncomfortable having someone else in his head so soon after the Briarwoods.

It lasted about five minutes, then Father Tristan let his hands fall to his side as Vax released a breath he had been unconsciously holding.

He blinked a few times and looked at the Cleric, fearing the worst as Tristan began to speak,

"I can say with absolute certainty that there is no dark magic left by those unholy creatures," The weight on Vax's shoulders immediately lifted.

But it came back crashing down on him with Father Tristan's next words,

"There is, however, someone watching you," Vax stiffened, "But there is no darkness within this gaze. I cannot say who, but there gaze is, divine, in nature,"

Feeling more confused and uneasy than before, Vax questioned,

"Why would something like that be watching me?"

"I cannot answer that, Vax'ildan. I have a feeling, that the answer will be one you must decipher for yourself,"

---

The small tavern was quiet when Ciara de Rolo entered. But what surprised her was the fact that it was empty. Even though it was about midday, there would be some signs of life roaming about.

But at first glance, it seemed like Ciara was the only one there.

However, there was a man sitting in a darkened corner, the red glass of his monocle glinting at her through the low light,

"You were almost late," He tsked, "You know how dangerous it can be, to be late,"

Ciara said nothing as Spireling Shenn stood and began making his way toward her.

The man towered over Ciara as he stepped directly before her,

"Oh, why so quiet? I do love our chats,"

She dared not move and carefully forced out,

"You called me. That means you have a job,"

Shenn's face twisted into a smile, "Down to business as usual, Little Bird. Very well, very well,"

The Spireling straightened up and motioned for her toward the table,

"Sit. Have a drink and we'll discuss what I need from you,"

Ciara pursed her lips, closed her eyes, counted to ten, then sat across from the Spireling and braced herself for the long, drawn out meeting she would be forced to sit through.

#vox machina x reader #vax'ildan x original character #vax x original character #vax x reader #legend of vox machina #vox machina #critical role #percy de rolo #percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii #vex'ahlia #vex #keyleth #pike trickfoot #grog strongjaw #scanlan shorthalt #trinket #percy de rolo x vex'ahlia

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via-the-cryptid · 1 year ago

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Fun idea:

While living in the Treehouse, Snow Queen starts to mom Finn (And probably calls him Gunther? Who knows) because he is a kid, and she and Simon live there so obviously he has to be their son right? Now they are a family and Simon its never going to leave again.

Also Simon unwittingly starts to dad Finn around because he is Simon and he cant go around wthout adopting a child.

Finn feels a little weird because, while he already had Joshua and Margaret, these two are humans (Or in case of Betty, mostly human) and he doesnt know how to feel about it. His relationship with Simon could be extra awkward depending if the events of The Citadel already happened and Martin is already going around.

sir ma’am or mx you are a genius.

I’m thinking the Sugar Snow War takes place before Finn goes on his dad quest, so at this point he’s still under the impression that he’s the only human around… except for Simon, who they pulled out of an icicle a while ago and who they haven’t seen much of since he went to the Candy Kingdom. he used to visit a lot when he was in Wizard City, but after that he sort of went quiet. now he’s back, with the Snow Queen who’s utterly doting on him and seems very clingy, and with Marceline, who’s a mix of happy that her adoptive mom got her beloved back, and absolutely pissed that her ex tried to imprison said beloved for blackmail purposes and then went on to destroy her mom’s entire kingdom. Marceline leaves shortly after making sure that SQ and Simon will be good to stay at the treehouse (Jake said yes and what Jake says goes), but that just leaves them with Snow Queen, Simon, Finn, Jake, BMO, Shelby in the walls, and also Gunther, who keeps disappearing randomly (presumably to also be in the walls).

and then Finn comes down from i go stroom for breakfast the next morning, and Snow Queen has already set a place at the table for him next to the penguin and Simon is making pancakes, which is Weird, and Jake is already eating the pancakes, which isn’t as weird but it is a little odd that he’s not the one making them. apparently these two want to contribute to the household or something? Finn doesn’t really mind, the pancakes are good and Snow Queen is being pretty civil.

then it starts to get a little weirder.

she put snacks and a couple ice knives in his backpack before he went adventuring, ‘just in case’? she asked if he remembered his sword and said to have fun in the dungeon? she’s offering him life advice that is probably very illegal but not actually that bad? y’know what, maybe he will beset a wizard with penguins the next time they try to take his stuff. Magic Man has it coming, anyways.

it sort of reminds him of his mom — Jake’s mom first, but Finn’s mom, too. she’d done this sort of thing with a little less crazy and a little more sensibleness, but it’s the same gist anyways. it’s only when Snow Queen tries to fix his hair before putting his hat on him and calls him Gunther that he realises she’s trying to parent him.

and honestly, he doesn’t know that he’s really that opposed to it. sure, it’s kinda weird, but she’s not actually hurting anything. Simon’s been following her example to some degree, helping Finn with puzzles and artifacts, telling him about human stuff from the past, suggesting new tricks and games to try, but it doesn’t really feel like Joshua’s ‘tough love’. it’s something different, something Finn doesn’t really remember experiencing before — the closest thing he’s had to this is Jake, who’s definitely never been quite so parental about his worrying.

honestly, his only questions at this point are whether it would make Marceline his older sister if Snow Queen and Simon tried to adopt him (it would), and whether Jake is getting adopted too (he is).

(side note — Finn isn’t quite so messed up about Martin in this au because as soon as the events of the Citadel have played out, he walks himself straight over to the Snow Kingdom and lays on the floor until someone asks him what’s wrong, and then he gets to have Family Therapy with his third set of parents, since the first are half-unavailable and half-terrible, and the second are no longer around. He also gets to hold a penguin the entire time which is very therapeutic and does not leave him with the desire to rip Martin’s arm off.)

#adventure time #snow queen au #betty grof #simon petrikov #petrigrof #petrigrof role swap #found family #finn the human #jake the dog #marceline abadeer #princess bubblegum #answered asks

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sl-newsie · 2 months ago

Text

Behind Masks (Dr. Jonathon Crane x OC) Ch. 21: Court's In Session

Previous: https://www.tumblr.com/sl-newsie/744620213809594368/behind-masks-dr-jonathon-crane-x-oc-masterlist?source=share

Ka-boom!

The loud noise startles me and I nearly fall off the ledge I’m sitting on. A strong rumble shakes the ground and in the distance I hear a choir of screams. What the Hell was that?

“It’s done!”

In the alley below someone sprints over to whisper to a man standing behind a dumpster.

“All the cops are buried!”

Are they serious? Gordon actually went through with that malarkey? I thought the news was joking. But no, they’ve corralled the entire police force into Gotham’s tunnels and now they’re stuck. Hm. I wonder what comes next? Any idiot can figure that out.

I slip off the ledge and down into the streets, making a beeline for Selina’s place. Please be home please be home-!

Knock knock.

“Keith, if that’s you I’ll break your other wrist,” Catwoman drawls from behind the door.

“Sadly I’m not him. It’s Calico.”

The door pulls open and Selina tugs me in before she slams it shut. Is it just me or is she packing? What’s the suitcase for?

“You’re leaving before it’s complete anarchy,” I put together. “This was the storm, wasn’t it?”

“Yes and I don’t have time for questions,” Selina speaks quickly. “You can have my apartment. Use whatever you want. I’m leaving. Sorry but I only have one ticket.”

The old me would be sad and appalled that she’s practically abandoning us in this mess. But the new me is surprisingly cool about this upcoming fate.

“The Reaper thrives in chaos.”

And so chaos arrives. It’s been a week since that explosion buried the cops. Turns out that wasn’t the only explosion. Several others destroyed all but one bridge to prevent us from leaving. Queensboro Bridge is the only one left to provide supplies and act as a false beacon of escape. Word is that an armed nuclear bomb is hidden within the city, ready to detonate if one of us tries to leave. Tanks patrol the streets to ‘upkeep order’ but it’s really just the League abusing their power over Gotham’s citizens. Oh, the citizens. Selina was right. Utter chaos. The poor are rich, the rich are poor. A fight against equality has broken out.

Only a few leftovers of law enforcement are still trying to help. Every few days I see Blake, Gordon, and a few others trying to maintain peace. I want to join them but it’s out of my hands. They’ll only see me as a hooded villain adding fuel to the fire.

Speaking of fire, another fun tidbit of information came my way yesterday. Turns out the League wasn’t the cause of my apartment’s destruction. It was Harley Quinn. Before Bane’s robbery she broke in and trashed it. Don’t ask me why. I’ve been unable to track down the lunatic and interrogate her.

If any other villains remain in Gotham they’ve kept low. Honestly this must seem like candyland for some of them. No cops? That’s every villain’s dream. And, as usual, the only itching question is what’s become of my favorite doctor…

General POV

Dr. Crane didn’t know what to make of the mess when it unfolded. Does he flee? Does he stay and prey on the rising fear? That is a reasonable perk.

Now, hidden in the Gotham library with Nigma, the fear doctor is starting to reconsider. Spreading fear is one thing but when you’re fighting tooth-and-nail for a roll of toilet paper then it gets less intriguing. And, as usual, the itching question is what’s happened to the lovely Dr. Prentiss- Um, favorite test subject.

“New riddle! The more there is, the less you see. What am I?”

Crane hardly hears the Riddler’s question. He’s too busy staring out the window half-hoping to see a hooded figure pass by.

“Answer: Darkness, which is what we’ll be in if you don’t get more batteries,” Nigma scolds and holds up a flashlight. When Crane still doesn’t respond he rolls his eyes. “Calico isn’t here.”

“Huh?” Crane looks over.

The Riddler cackles. “You can’t let her go, can you?”

Dr. Crane resumes his stern expression and looks away. “If she's still here she’s acting on her own accord. I’m not keeping her here.” A few seconds go by and he thinks out loud: “How can someone so stunning be so aggravating?”

Riddler, contrasting to Ivy, has never seen a reason why these two can’t be together. They’re both intellectual and attractive. Yes Callie’s a coldblooded killer and Crane is, well, Crane. But all the more reason why they might need each other to bring a sense of sanity to their lives. A complex social riddle if Nigma ever saw one.

“You miss her. Don’t you?”

Dr. Crane dismisses himself to end the conversation, but not before Nigma overhears him mutter: “Somehow she makes up a part of me I didn’t even know I was missing.”

That’s the trigger. If the apocalypse is going to transpire then at least it should tie up some very needed loose ends.

“Dr. Crane?”

A new voice from the doorway shocks the villains. Riddler pulls out a gun and Crane prepares to throw a toxin bomb. A brutish man in a bulletproof vest steps in with his hands in the air.

“No threats, gentlemen. Dr. Crane, we’ve got quite the offer for you.”

“Oh really?” The doctor asks apprehensively, still poised to strike.

“I promise it will be well worth your talent.”

Calico’s POV

Gotta say, outsmarting the League’s goons is fun! All day I’ve been swiping food and equipment from under their noses and they have no clue! I give the supplies to the citizens, a gesture that I hope will make up for a fraction of my sins. And right now I’m watching the sunset across the frozen bay on top of what’s left of the bank. If it weren’t for the tank driving by this would be a touching moment.

Screeee!

A new siren wails through the city. Ugh. I shouldn’t investigate. But I have nothing else to do at the moment. I slide down to the icy pavement and walk towards the courthouse. What- What the Hell is going on?

“Justice!”

“Come witness our law!”

People are yelling all down the street. Curious. I try to get a better look but the crowd is making it impossible. I slip on my hood and sneak behind a distracted lady.

“What’s going on?” I ask her.

“Oh! Bane’s establishing a people’s court!” she answers happily.

People’s court? Run by these people? We mine as well elect Arkham patients for government too. Bang up job, League of Shadows. You’re going to have a human zoo in a concrete cage.

“...Judge Crane is sentencing.”

My head jerks up. “Did you say Crane? As in Dr. Crane?”

The man speaking shakes his head. “It’s Judge Crane now. He’s been chosen to sentence the guilty.”

I have to see this.

After fighting my way through I finally reach the large doors. It’s even more crowded inside. Lord, how many trials are they running? I mean there’s plenty of charges to deal with but this is overdoing it. I turn the corner and- Oh my.

“I leave for a few weeks and you turn into a judicial puppet,” I taunt. “Had me worried for a second.”

There, right in front of me, stands Dr. Crane wearing a judge’s robe. How the tables have turned.

He flinches at my voice and whips his head around. My eyes look up to meet his familiar crystal blue ones. He’s just as astonished to see me.

“How are you still here?”

“I’m stuck here the same as everyone else, Dr. Crane. Talk about a dead end. Though not literally of course, because I am still breathing.”

He looks… good? As far as it goes in today’s world, I mean. His suit is tattered and stained but he makes it work. His unkempt hair looks decent. As for his face there’s no mistaking the stubble that’s starting to grow. Despite this Dr. Crane still manages to pull off making rugged look sexy.

“How have Bane’s plans been treating you?”

Crane’s jaw tightens. “Most poorly. And you?”

I shrug and remove my mask to get a better look at him. “Any day I can breathe is a gift. Discovered any new fears?”

He steps closer, shaking his head. “All ordinary. Any new methods of death?”

“Aside from those who already offed themselves with a gun? No. I’m not killing anymore.”

“Really?” He asks, intrigued.

“There’s enough despair spreading without me helping,” I mutter. “I thought you’d be the one gaining something from it.”

Crane chuckles at my small joke. “I think the fear of death is most popular.”

In the background we hear a guard groan. “If this is how you guys flirt then I never want to see it again.”

Uhhh…

Oh thank God he’s walking away. Jeez. I thought Harley was the romantic! From the way Dr. Crane cringes I can tell he’s fazed too. Hm. I go from all-out fearing love to gagging at it like a child.

Crane changes the subject. “So you’re retiring from being a vigilante?”

I nod. “I’m through with that. It’s every man for himself now. Bane hasn’t figured out who I am and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Crane smirks. “What happened to helping others?”

“It got boring and pointless,” I drone darkly. “I do my good deed for the day and then I clock out. If you’d like to taunt me with my past failures then I’m afraid I must take a raincheck.”

As good as it is to know Dr. Crane’s alright, our shambles of a social relationship aren’t exactly set in stone. For all I know he’s planning to poison me again. And with all the disorder raging about that would not be the craziest way to die.

“Are you going back to Ms. Kyle’s?” Crane asks when I start to leave.

“It’s mine now. She left to get on a plane the second Bane took over.”

“Left? Without you?”

I turn around to face him again. Do I detect a hint of concern? Jonathan knows I can survive perfectly fine on my own. Why the sudden interest?

“I don’t have anything waiting for me elsewhere,” I reply. “I got an offer for a job in Central City, but it didn’t seem right.”

“And now you’re stuck here,” he says, trying to look away but is still staring at me.

“Now I’m stuck here.” I gesture to his new ‘uniform.’ “What’s your pay here?”

He scoffs. “Gotham’s been plunged into complete anarchy. It’s practically the apocalypse, and you’re asking that?”

I tilt my head in consideration. “At least you’re not dead.”

Crane looks to the floor and busies himself with fiddling with a spray bottle of fear toxin. “That might be a better option.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I try to encourage him. “From what I hear you’ve got an important job, Judge Crane. That means you’re protected.”

Crane meets my eyes again. “It means I’m under constant surveillance,” he whispers.

Oh. I didn’t think of that. They must have been watching Crane to select him for this position. Does that mean I’m on a list too?

“I should leave while I still can,” I murmur as I discreetly look around for cameras.

“You should,” Crane agrees, still adjusting his sleeves. “It will be less stressful without you.”

Despite my efforts to ignore him my heart is still tugged by his cold words. “Gee. It’s nice to feel wanted. Goodbye-”

“Don’t go!” he blurts.

“Why?!” I fire back, feeling very confused.

His icy blue eyes flash a sudden mix of panic and despair. “I don’t know! Just- don’t go.”

“You can’t order me around!” I hiss.

“Crane! Is this bitch giving you trouble?”

Too late to keep things quiet. Now I have another guard staring me down!

“Hey! You got a name, tootz? If you ain’t one of us then you aren’t allowed here.” When I don’t flinch away he leans in closer with a malicious grin. “You don’t fear death.”

My eyes remain cold and unblinking. “Death is unavoidable. In a twisted place like Gotham, it’s bred constantly. Death would be a welcomed friend.”

Just then another guard with a beard walks over and touches my hood. “Ah, I recognize this! You’re the Raven?”

Seriously? “Reaper,” I grunt.

The guard waves it off. “Right, right. Well Reaper, we’ll let ya slide once you sit in for this next hearing.”

I’m pushed away towards the hallway. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” the guy answers. “C’mon, move it along.”

Oh my God. This is far from a normal courtroom. A giant section for citizens is off to the left while a giant pile of furniture covered in trash and toilet paper stands at the end of the room. A single chair is placed in the center. Maybe it’s my twisted humor but it’s going to be hilarious to watch this play out.

“Coming through! Next client coming through!”

I slip over to stand near the back as somebody makes room for a slimy-looking rich guy. He’s shoved into the chair and waits for the procedure to begin. Across the giant room a familiar face appears on top of the makeshift judges bench. Dr. Crane is obviously enjoying this. As if his ego can't grow any bigger. Crane bangs a gavel to signal for silence.

“Take me to Bane! Where is Bane?” The client asks.

“There’s been no mistake, Mr. Striver. You are Phillip Striver, Executive Vice President of-” Crane takes another look at a document. “Daggett Industries? Who for years has been living off the blood and sweat of people less powerful than him.”

Did I hear that right? The rich are getting sentenced to what they deserve? This is exactly what I’ve been waiting for! Who knew it had to come to this for my dream to be granted?

“I, I am one of you-” Striver tries to convince Crane.

“Bane has no authority here. This is merely a sentencing hearing.”

Um, I’m not caught up with too much, but Bane is literally standing in the same room. Right over there. Wow Crane, you’ve got guts.

“Now, the choice is yours. Exile, or death?” Dr. Crane asks with bored glee.

The crowd erupts into roars of name-calling and Crane has to make them quiet down again. Striver isn’t looking so well.

“Ex-Exile.”

“Sold!” Crane bangs the gavel and the crowd cheers. “To the old man in the cold sweat.”

Always the lover of fear. Striver is pulled out of the chair and pushed through the crowd once more. After all this I might have to tip my hat to Crane for accepting such a role.

“New clients coming through!”

Who will it be now? Mr. Garold? Judith Lexington? It’s- Commissioner Gordon? And his small gang of rebels? Striver I understand but why them?

“Gordon’s arrested?” I ask a man next to me. “On what charges?”

“The people of Gotham have taken action,” he says.

“To do what? He’s trying to help us!”

“No lawyer. No witnesses. What sort of due process is this?” the gruff Commissioner demands.

“Your guilt has been determined. This is merely a sentencing hearing,” Crane explains nonchalantly. “Now what will it be: death, or… exile?”

This is how they execute? All because some people disagree with how bad things are? This isn’t anarchy and this isn’t a people’s court. It’s a dictatorship!

Gordon isn’t impressed either. “Crane, if you think that we’re going onto that ice willingly, you have another thing coming.”

Dr. Crane nods in a sarcastic way. “Death, then.”

“Looks that way,” Gordon clarifies.

What? No! Not Gordon! He’s one of the only good cops left!

“Very well. Death!” Crane orders, then smiles blankly down at him. “By exile.”

Son of a bitch.

The group is led out just like Striver. All I can do is restrain from jumping in. I’m no match for all the brute muscle here. If I was going to intervene it would have to be an inside job. I should have known Crane would exercise loopholes. He’s probably had it out for Gordon ever since he was fired from Arkham. A compassionate city meets the special needs of its citizens. Gotham does nothing. At this point I wonder if there’s anything I can do at all to fix this mess.

“So this is how liberty dies,” I murmur as everyone around me leaves to watch Gordon’s guilt walk. “With thunderous applause.”

As much as I want to look up to Crane in his new role it still feels wrong. He is a high-authority figure, but a psycho figure nonetheless. The rioting crowd dies down and now only Crane and a few guards are left. He walks closer and the mere sight of him is making my heart fight my brain.

“Well? What did you think?” The devilish judge asks.

Bastard! Hero? Psycho! Genius? I don’t know anymore!

Suddenly a brutish man in a hoodie stomps up and roughly taps Crane’s shoulder, giving me a stern glare.

“Hey, miss. We need to talk about the next case.” He looks between Crane and I. “Alone. So can ya scram?”

My legs agree but my mind’s still spinning. What? We aren’t finished!

Jonathan leans in quickly and whispers: “Meet me in the back alley.”

Oh dear.

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esther-dot · 1 year ago

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Daenerys destroy everything she touches. It’s just INSANE just how much damage and chaos her incompetence, stupidity and entitlement has done to Astapor.

She took the city’s entire defense force, the Unsullied, with her when she left, with no real thought as to what will happen when you leave a power vacuum, and set up a council to govern the city that had absolutely no means to enforce its will or its laws. One of the men on the council is specified as being a “priest,” but since the clergy of the Ghiscari Harpy religion are only ever described as female (the Graces), it seems quite likely, if not outright definite, that she appointed someone to govern a city wherein he had zero cultural, social, religious or political authority.

She doesn’t leave military support to the council she leaves behind to rule and it was overthrown very quickly after she left, and the new king, Cleon, a tyrant, promptly reinstated slavery, kidnapping noble children and attempting to turn them into new Unsullied (this didn’t work, for obvious reasons).

Astapor ends up ridden with disease and famine the minute it falls under siege of the slavery-restoration alliance led by Yunkai, with competing claimants killing each other and trading power until they’re subsequently replaced. Daenerys learns about this once she’s set up in Meereen but doesn’t commit any forces to help, fearing that she’ll lose Meereen if she goes back to Astapor. Meanwhile, the Astapori practice cannibalism by lots and many eventually commit mass suicide. The pale mare plague wipes out a huge number of people (even refugees who make it to Meereen die of it in camps outside the city), and most of the rest are displaced refugees, killed when Yunkai eventually sacks the city, or re-enslaved. By the time Quentyn Martell arrives, it’s functionally ceased to exist. (A lot of people skip over Quentyn’s chapters in the fifth book, and in so doing miss how APPALLING the Astapor situation is.)

Astapor is a ghost town except for dead and dying people and enemy soldiers. A total blood bath. It’s absolutely obliterated, just on a longer timeline than a one-off firebombing.

The criticism of Daenerys’s actions in Astapor is not that she freed the slaves, it’s that after freeing the slaves she just left and abandoned them to their bloody fate. You cannot destroy a city’s government and economy and then walk away. Even if it is a terrible government, with an economy built on slavery, you have to stabilize things afterwards. Daenerys have a responsibility in kickstarting new industries and find a new form of PAID work for these people. And there’s also the fact that Daenerys herself is a slaver but that’s a discussion for another day.

(I know that GRRM has said that his books are not allegories for the Iraq war but the parallels and similarities are truly unsettling.)

Yeah, I’m gonna have to forbid talk about Quentyn. I just got teary eyed at the mere mention of him. 😂 I got attached quick and was horrified by his death. But yes, I agree, it was meant to show us how horrible the situation is. Absolute hell.

I actually thought Martin had compared it to Iraq because I've seen people say that, but you're right. This is the quote I found:

Q: A Dance With Dragons spends quite a lot of time in Essos, which is kind of the analog to Asia and the Middle East in the world the story takes place in, as opposed to Westeros, which seems to owe a lot to Western Europe. When I was reading about Dany, who has become a light-skinned, foreign ruler of an exotic land, it reminded me of The Man Who Would Be King, the Sean Connery and Michael Caine movie that is based on a Rudyard Kipling story. Do you think about these parallels — colonialism, the "white man's burden" — when you're writing? A: I've said many times I don't like thinly disguised allegory, but certain scenes do resonate over time. Other people have made the argument, which is more more contemporary, that it might have resonances with our current misadventures in Afghanistan and Iraq. I'm aware of the parallels, but I'm not trying to slap a coat of paint on the Iraq War and call it fantasy. (link)

I'm not sure how reliable this source is, but I also found this:

Finally, in a stunning revelation, when an audience member put the ridiculous question, “JRR Tolkien strenuously denied that his books were in any way an allegory for World War II, have you ever been accused of writing about climate change by proxy? You know, it being a bit of a thing in your works, the long Winter?” George replied, “No, I haven’t, not until now,” and continued, “Like Tolkien I do not write allegory, at least not intentionally. Obviously you live in the world and you’re affected by the world around you, so some things sink in on some level, but, if I really wanted to write about climate change in the 21st century I’d write a novel about climate change in the 21st century. Sometimes things happen that are hard to believe. You have to remember I’ve been writing these since 1991, in a couple of the recent books Daenerys Targaryen wielding the massive military superiority offered to her by three dragons has taken over a part of the world where the culture and ethos, and the very people are completely alien to her, and she’s having difficulty ruling this land once she conquered it. It did dawn on me when George W Bush started doing the same thing that some people might say, ‘Hmmm, George is commenting on the Iraq War’, but I swear to you I planned Dany’s thing long before George Bush planned the Iraq War, but I think both military adventures may come to the same end, but it’s not allegory.” (link)

This isn't about ASOIAF, but it feels relevant to this ask and some of the other anti Dany asks I've been getting. He said this after he saw Spielberg's War of the Worlds:

I kept thinking of the story as a metaphor for our invasion of Iraq… regular people trying to live their lives and survive as a technologically superior invader comes in and smashes their world all to hell. (That metaphor is very much implicit in the novel. H.G. was talking about the British imperialism of the Victorian Age, of course, not the American imperialism of the 21st century, but one of the strengths of science fiction is its ability to transcend the specifics of time and place and culture and assume new meanings for new audiences). (link)

So, I think just because he didn't have a specific invasion in mind, doesn't mean he wasn't criticizing the result of these actions or the ideology behind it. He writes a lot of material to showcase the horror of war, each generation has one that looms large in their minds, so we naturally relate it to that. He knows this, other writers do this, he as an audience member does it!

#dot chat #anti daenerys

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brunossan · 7 months ago

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MORE BRAZILIAN LEGENDS FOR YOU TO ADD IN YOUR HISTORIES

Lets start with Pai do Mato

Pai do Mato, or Wild Father in a rough translation, is a giant entity that protects The nature around The center of Brazil. He has The size of a Hill and a body made of Dirt and Woods, with a blue nose. He is so big that He has a forest around its body. To make friends with him, you must give him Cachaça, or Beer. His piss smells like Vinegar.

BOITATÁ

Also called M'boitatá or just Boitatá, this is a Giant Snake made of fire, with eyes covering its body, who is also a guardian of nature, being against Wildfires in the Woods. Boitatá eyes can shoot fire beams, and looking directly at his eyes can either blind or kill you.

CRAMUNHÃO

Cramunhão, or The Devil in the bottle, is the name given to a demon who made a powerful deal with a human.

The Deal is simple: The Demon will stay inside a bottle and give to the human everything he desires during a certain amount of time. Then when The time is over, The Demon will take The soul of the human straight down to hell. To summon a Cramunhão, you must take care of a Rooster Egg (Yes, you heard me. A ROOSTER egg) under your armpit until it hatches. During this time, you are forbidden to do anything related with God or the Church. Also, dont following these rules can make the Demon attack, curse or even kill you in response. Also, the true appearence of the Devil in The Bottle is a Mistery, as no one except the human who made the deal can see it.

Cobra Norato e Maria Caninana

Cobra Norato and his sister Maria Caninan are 2 demigods from Brazilian Mythology, who are The son and daughter of Boiuna, The Giant Snake. Both of them are very powerful entities, and both are very known in Brazil.

They are both twins, but are also very different themselves. Cobra Norato is described as being Kind, gentle and romantic, also a friend of humanity. As for his sister, Maria Caninana is explosive, violent and does not hesitate in eating or poison humans if she wants to. Both of them have incredible powers, but Cobra Norato have also The Power of turning into a man, but only at night. His sister does not hold The same Power.

According to the legend, both of them had a fight once because Maria Caninana wanted to destroy an entire human City by waking up one of their Half-Brothers, a Church Snake. Cobra Norato stopped her and their fight caused a thunderstorm, wich ended with Maria Caninana being defeated. After that, Cobra Norato became The protector of everyone who would get closer to rivers, and his sister became his enemy, causing Whirlpools to drag People directly into her mouth.

And to finish this list, we have Boiúna

Boiúna, also known as Cobra Grande or The Giant Snake, is an ancient God who have The form of a Giant Snake. His size is unprecise, but he is supposed to be as big as The Amazon River itself in some versions. He is The God of all Water Courses and father of all Snakes and Cobras in Brazil.

Boiúna have a huge amount of Power, being capable of causing floods, Thunderstorms and even Earthquakes, sometimes by accident by just moving his Huge Body. Boiuna created all rivers and water courses just by moving his body around Brazil.

As being the father of all Snakes and Cobras, Boiúna had a bunch of powerful kids, known as Church Snakes. They are as big as their father, and are also very powerful. They are called Church Snakes because of a thing: Because of their size and Might, they spend a lot of time sleeping. Churches were built above their heads and tails, and they cant get up because they feel The presence of God and The Virgin Mary, wich makes them not get in mood to wake up. In Nazaré, a Brazilian City on The North, there is a religious ritual called Círio de Nazaré, where its believed by some natives to not only be a Catholic Party but also a way to prevent The Church Snake who sleeps under The City from Waking up, as they believe Holy Mary herself steps on The snake Head and keeps it asleep. There are registers of at least 10 Church Snakes around The Country, but there may be more.

The legend also says that when all Church Snakes wake up, they will cause an Earthquake so big that The entire country of Brazil will sink in the Ocean. A small Earthquake who happened in Nazaré was blamed by some locals as The Sleeping Church Snake "moving her tail while sleeping.".

I HOPE YOU LIKED. IF YOU WANT MORE BRAZILIAN LEGENDS, COMMENT OR ASK ME. IM HERE.

#writing tips #writing tag #writers on tumblr #writing #brazilian mythology #mythology and folklore #ideia #curiosity

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got-into-worm-by-mistake · 5 months ago

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Gestation 1.6 Live Reactions

(This is me, writing reactions as I read, because why the fuck not. They're not complete, mature thoughts taken after I sit back and evaluate what I've read. Consider them as such)

I didn’t want to be seen fleeing the scene of a fight, and risk being labeled one of the bad guys by yet another person,

Ooof. Again I say. Oof.

All this girl wants is a purpose. She tries for that to be hero, and it ends up not working out for her.

If you’d asked me just a few hours ago about how I thought I would feel meeting a big name superhero, I would have used words like excited and giddy. The reality was that I was almost too exhausted to care.

I do like this touch, both for the character, and because of how it sets the tone for this universe. Who cares who you're meeting? The world's falling apart, and you're fucking tired. Taylor is about to get virtually no rest in the next two years.

When the core group of the top Protectorate members from around Canada and the States assembled in that classic ‘v’ formation for the photo shoots, Armsmaster was one of the guys in the wings. This was a guy who had his own action figures. Poseable Armsmaster with interchangeable Halberd parts.

I like how... practical, Worm worldbuilds the existence of superheroes? Like, yes, it's not as if Wildbow invented the superheroes in-universe being commodified like this, but there's something about this phrasing of it here that really works for me in painting the picture.

Stepping closer to me, he tilted his head, “You don’t look like one.” That stung, especially coming from him. It was like Michael Jordan saying you sucked at basketball. “That’s… not intentional,” I responded, not a little defensively, “I was more than halfway done putting the costume together when I realized it was already looking more edgy than I’d intended, and I couldn’t do anything about it by then.”

Ooof, Armsmaster. Man. Foot. Mouth.

On the other hand, I think Taylor is just overreacting a bit. It's less 'Michael Jordan saying you suck at basketball' and more 'Michael jordan saying your uniform sucks'. And Armsy isn't exactly wrong, is he?

I had considered applying to join, but the notion of escaping the stresses of high school by flinging myself into a mess of teenage drama, adult oversight and schedules seemed self-defeating.

You know, one thing I see in the fandom is to what extent Taylor going the villain/Independent route was actually essential. Some people think it was vital, some people seem to think not so much, in the end the same effect could be achieved if she'd joined the Wards...

We'll see what I think when we get that far.

But I do understand the impulse for some fanfics that want to explore some what-ifs to feel like Scion is actually an inhibitor to storytelling freedom. Because whatever AU they write, no matter the changes they explore, sooner or later, the golden idiot is gonna try to destroy the world.

Then again, what happened in canon wasn't the only way to beat him, and yet... no one else was coming up with anything that worked by the time Taylor pulled a Khepri, so... who knows.

“I’ll try to look at it that way,” I said, struck by how he easily he was able to employ the whole ‘take a negative and turn it into a positive’ mindset I’d been trying to maintain. I envied that.

Easy to do from his position. I don't know what his trigger was, or if it's ever given, but it was presumably some time ago. I gather from some commentary that there's at least some notion one never moves entirely past their trigger event, but age and distance has to play some role in it.

Taylor is 15. Everything seems like the end of the world at that age.

Really, who the fuck authorized teenagers to be given this sort of power? :P

“Lung has an extensive gang throughout Brockton Bay and neighboring cities.

Really? That's never come up in fics, though it's always made sense. But then, it did make sense that something like E88 wouldn't only be in Brockton Bay, and yet, it never seems to have figured into things.

Granted, everything I know about superhero media is that it does tend to make 'the city' where the action happens seem both incredibly small and incredibly large, and weirdly isolated from the rest of the world.

I gather Worm averts some of that, but probably not all of that. It is still trapped by certain conventions of the genre.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t take the credit,” I said. “I’m saying you have two options. Option one is to join the Wards, where you’ll have support and protection in the event of an altercation. Option two is to keep your head down. Don’t take the credit. Fly under the radar.”

The wikipedia summary (and large chunks of the fandom) presents this as Armsmaster stealing credit out of being like, a glory-hound, and he's sure being... not ideal in how he presents this whole thing, but equally, again, he's not wrong.

And he's not being that bad. Doesn't come off as glory hound. But I suppose this, paired with some of the other stuff coming down the pipeline for him really colors his perception.

“Please keep my involvement in Lung’s capture secret,” I told him, painfully disappointed to have to say it, even as I knew it made the most sense.

Again, I think Armsmaster has a point, but honestly, I think he forgot what it was like to be a teenage hero, assuming he was one. He really should have considered how much the recognition would have mattered to her.

It could have gone worse. Strange as it sounds, those words were a security blanket I wrapped around myself to keep myself from dwelling on the fact that tomorrow was a school day.

In this scene alone, Armsmaster doesn't come off that bad. Yet. We'll see how he comes off when Taylor calls him about trying to go undercover. I've heard he's a bigger ass then. But then, he was supposed to be a huge ass here, and he's just not.

#worm #worm web serial #wormblr #worm parahumans #worm wildbow #kylia reads worm #Gestation 1.6 #Taylor Hebert #I keep wanting to call it 'Herbert' which is what I've been doing for a while honestly #Armsmaster

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mysticstarlightduck · 6 months ago

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Protagonist and antagonist

Are there moments of respect or admiration between them?

Thank you so much for the ask, @kaylinalexanderbooks!!!

I'll answer for Supernova Initiative, Of Starlight and Beasts, Song of Thorns, and Enchanted Illusions!

Supernova Initiative

One of the main antagonists of this story - especially in Jack Tithus' arc in the book - is a man known as The Director, whose real name is, as of yet in the story, unknown. He is responsible for the Junction's entire subdivision of sciences (which is a great deal) - to the public, he is considered an upstanding and philanthropic scientist who is incredibly respected by his peers. In reality, behind closed doors, he is a sadistic, immoral, and incredibly brutal man who is willing to commit atrocities - including numerous illegal experiments on human patients - in the name of what he calls "progress". Jack Tithus, the main protagonist of the story and an intergalactic thief, becomes trapped in the Director's schemes after he and his crew get arrested by the Junction in a heist gone wrong and ends up accepting to become one of the Director's test subjects in order to protect his younger sister from a facing a similar fate.

As an answer to the question: I don't think there are any moments of respect or admiration between them, at least none that are mutual. Jack very much resents, despises, and fears the Director and for a lot of good reasons. Meanwhile, I don't really think The Director is capable of feeling respect or compassion for another human being - he views people, especially his test subjects, as specimens to be studied, like animals in a zoo, and considers himself somehow superior to his fellow human beings. He is capable of feeling a certain sense of "curious admiration/fascination" but more in a sense like a bully holding a magnifying glass over a burning ant. He has a very twisted scientific mindset.

Of Starlight and Beasts

The main antagonist of this series is the Crimson Queen, a dark sorcerer and ruthless ruler who intends to conquer all the kingdoms in the continent and "snuff out the Light" in her neverending quest for revenge against the magic of the people responsible for the deaths of her husband and child centuries ago. The main protagonist of this story is Corah Stormryder, a brave knight-in-training from the capital city of Tirawen, who embarks on a quest to prevent the advance of the Crimson Queen's army and save the kingdom and everyone she loves.

Surprisingly, yes, there are moments of respect and admiration between them, especially after they get to know and understand each other a bit more. Meira, the Crimson Queen, is primarily a woman who has had her hopes and dreams destroyed by the people she trusted in one of the most brutal ways possible - the terrible deaths suffered by her husband and innocent child as a result of this. Corah also knows what it is like to be betrayed and abandoned, having been forced to face those feelings at a very young age when her mother walked out on Corah and her father. Both of them also know that there is something fundamentally wrong with the magic system of their world and that know that the truth has been terribly twisted to the benefit of the corrupt nobility. I think that, in a sense, they understand each other - Meira does see a bit of her younger, more naive self, in Corah's pursuit of valor, while Corah occasionally understands Meira's blind rage and grief, in some cases. But where they fundamentally diverge is that Meira has allowed herself to become so blinded by revenge and her wish to take down a corrupt system, that she is doing to countless others what was done to her centuries ago, meanwhile, Corah would never hurt someone innocent for the mistakes of another and is actively looking for a way to halt the system of lies their kingdom is built upon without losing herself or hurting others in the process.

Song of Thorns

This book has two main protagonists, Roselyn Lethia, a young village girl who discovers a corrupt scheme involving the nobility after her older brother goes missing, and Renn Atrius, a young dhampir who became a thief and is seeking a way to avenge the brutal murder of his father. The main antagonists of this story are most members of the Royal Family of Hyghsummit, who are almost cultish in their ways - especially when it comes to the practice of the elusive Sanguinex, or blood magic, which was a type of magical art that humans... weren't exactly supposed to be able to cast. Out of all these villains, the most important one, story-wise, is King Larkin of Hyghsummit, who is the head of the Royal family and a master of the Sanguinex arts. He is also quite possibly the villain who is most invested in hunting down the protagonists, and who really does not want to lose his current status quo.

No, I don't think this book has any moments like that. While King Larkin often gets "amused by the thrill of the hunt" when it comes to his pursuit of the main protagonists, he definitely does not respect them. He views them more as a petty nuisance that must be eliminated, two pebbles in his path to continue his family's legacy, and he will not have his wish denied. Meanwhile, Roselyn mostly fears the royals in the same amount she despises them - mostly, in her eyes, they are an evil that needs to be exposed and an obstacle in her path to saving her older brother, especially since the Royal family is behind his kidnapping. As for Renn, he holds a strong hatred towards human royalty - when he was five years old, Renn watched his father (an innocent young man who only wanted to find a way for vampires like them to live in peace) be brutally murdered by a vampire hunter who was friends with the human nobility. It's no surprise Renn hates human royals as much as he does. So, the King views them as a nuisance, and both of the protagonists have very personal reasons to hate the nobles - not a very good mix to create "respect and admiration" lmao.

Enchanted Illusions

The villains of this series are the members of the elusive Hemlock Society, who seek to banish Myths and cause a civil war between humans and magical creatures. The main protagonists of each POV in this story are Augustus & Harriet, Cailean & Agatha, Evangeline + Thaddeus & Ambrose.

Strangely, it depends. Some of the protagonists and antagonists in this book have very strong, personal grudges against each other and despise one another tremendously, but some of the more "morally grey" protagonists (such as Augustus and Thaddeus) enjoy the "cat and mouse" game they play with the villains throughout the story, and due to their sometimes more extreme way of handling things, sometimes even the villains feel a sense of admiration of these heroes' wit and occasional ruthlessness. The leader of the Hemlock Society, Abernathy Calsen, is very much a "Moriarty" type of evil mastermind, and often feels amusement out of toying with the main cast - he at the same time admires and despises them, but in a very distant, chess-player sort of way. He admires how they think outside of the box, and how they do everything in their power to thwart the plans he's set in motion, even when that's a foolish effort in his eyes. An interesting dynamic, to say the least.

#wip supernova initiative #wip song of thorns #wip of starlight and beasts #wip enchanted illusions #creative writing #writeblr #writing #writers #character writing #my characters #my writing #my wips #asked and answered #writerblr #writers on tumblr #ask games writeblr

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jreed3842 · 3 months ago

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Guys!! Check it out!! Excited to show off the next character in my D&D Characters inspired by Disney Princesses! Introducing Memphis! He will be a Leonin Order of the Scribes Wizard! Art done by the always incredible @/cniska. (Backstory and more art in the after "Read More")

Memphis is from a little town, a quiet village. Every day like the one before? Why, yes. Because unfortunately his village is fated to be destroyed by some catastrophic disaster. In a desperate plea to save themselves, the villagers called out for help.

Their prayers were heard and answers by ... someone. A Goddess? A Powerful Enchantress? Whoever it was, the only way she could think to save them was to trap the town in a protective bubble that would have them relive the same day over and over again.

Memphis goes into town every day, exchanges a book, and is proposed to by Cordelia Thorne. She is the best hunter in the village. Popular with the village, and incredibly wealthy. Memphis is the outcast in his village. More interested in reading, and day dreaming of adventure...

But he is the most beautiful man in the village. It's no wonder that his name means beauty. His looks have got no parallel. As such, Cordelia sees him as a prize. She's so full of herself, she never excepts Memphis to say no her marriage proposal.

And she's right... Memphis doesn't say no. This isn't what he wants. He wants much more than this provincial life. But it's just him and his mom. After his father passed away, Memphis works as hard as he can to keep the farm going for him and his mom...

Marrying Cordelia would mean him and his family would be well off and his mother would never have to worry about a thing. He talks to his mom, and she tells him to follow his heart no matter what that means. After thinking on it ... he decides. Yes. He will marry Cordelia.

Cordelia, already expecting this outcome, has a huge feast prepared that the entire town attends to celebrate her marriage to Memphis. At the end of the dinner, the disaster strikes.... Time reverses... The day is relived again... and again... and again...

Now one day, after God knows how long, trapped in an endless time loop, Memphis goes into town. Exchanges his book like normal, but one book in particular calls out to him. A book about adventure, far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells...

He takes this book and is filled with a sense of power. Then the day proceeds as normal. Cordelia proposes. Memphis goes to his mom, and she tells him to follow his heart. He decides. No... He can't do this.... He runs out to the outskirts of town and sits and reflects...

As he sits down, the seeds from a nearby dandelion drift in the wind, he sees a strange ripple of magical energy reflecting in the air. As he investigates, he pushes through... He exits the influence of the Goddesses' magic. He escapes the time loop.

He turns around. His village is gone. Destroyed by whatever cataclysmic event originally destroyed them. Years... maybe even thousands of years have passed. The area is nothing but a crater, now covered by a pasture of grass. Everyone he has known is gone. And he cannot go back.

With no other choice to move on, Memphis travels to a nearby city. Vastly different than his small town. And yet he still doesn't fit in here either. People laugh at his accent. They don't expect a man of his stature to be studious and into casting spells.

One night, alone in his room, Memphis discovers the book that traveled with him out of the time loop is actually a spell book left behind by the Goddess savior. Memphis teaches himself magic from this spell book. And even accidentally summons a familiar! A sentient pocket watch!

Now determined to find his way back home, and to his mom. Memphis seeks to understand the magics of time control. Maybe, just maybe, he can return and rescue his village.

And that's the backstory! :D And now here is some additional art, also done by @/cniska! First is Miss Cordelia Thorne. Boorish, Brainless. The biggest bitch in town, and everyone loves her.

And here is Memphis' mother! Margaret (named after my own grandmother hehe) She is kind of the village crazy lady. I like to think she smokes pot. Hah. But she always speaks from the heart and is wise beyond her years.

It might be quite awhile before I can get around to playing Memphis, but very excited to have the art work completed! Can't wait to get around to playing him! Any guesses which Disney Princess he is inspired by? ;) (I told the artists I needed Memphis to be DROP DEAD Sexy. Mission accomplished cause here are some live Testimonials!) "Shit Girl. He's sexy as hell!" - Devery- "I want him to choke me." - My favorite coworker, Celina-

"Why does his hair look like mine?" -Warren-

#D&D #Memphis #Commissions

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possumsandprose · 9 months ago

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The Threads that Bind Us Part 3

@siriusleee It's here! Part 3 has arrived, and Elain and Azriel have officially met. Hope you love it!

TW: none

The sound of music filled the air, and the party was in full swing. Despite their apparent hostility towards the king, most of the kingdom had shown up for the party, wearing whatever the nicest thing they owned was. As such, there was a range from formal suits to overalls with only a few mud stains.

Azriel’s doulon had quickly briefed him on the course of the evening: all the guests would arrive, then would come the king and Princess Elain, dancing would occur, and then would come the banquet for the nobles and important personnel. Small trays piled high with small snacks were dotted around the edges of the room already, but apparently an entire feast had been planned afterwards, though only for the wealthy, at which point the king would give a speech in honour of his daughter, and then the guests were free to mingle as they pleased.

As honoured guests of the king, Azriel and the other men were provided with the formal attire they would need, as well as permissions to attend the banquet and afterparty. Dancing couples floated around the room, spinning and swaying to the sound of the violins playing a classic dancing song.

Azriel knew how to dance, given that his profession often required him to infiltrate very elegant settings, though he did not prefer to, and as such, he was hanging around the sides of the room, seeing if he could pick up on any important fragments of conversation.

So far his efforts had yielded nothing promising, only some vague palace gossip from the wealthy folk and complaints about harvest from the lower classes.

Azriel took a few steps backwards, intending to make another sweep, when he walked directly into someone behind him.

The person stumbled, and Azriel quickly reached out his hand to steady her. A noble, based on the dress she was wearing, though which one he couldn’t place until-

As the young woman looked up into his eyes, he realized he had accidentally crashed into Princess Elain, whom he presumed had been trying to escape the ball without being caught.

“My lady,” he said, bowing slightly, “my deepest apologies. I didn’t see you there.”

“Not at all,” she responded with a smile, accepting his proffered hand, “in fact, you were just the man I was hoping to speak with.”

Not trying to escape, then. Though why on earth was she speaking to him?

“What may I do for you, my lady?” he said, polite but with an air of confusion.

“You are aware of the monster that has been ravaging our cities?” she asked him.

“I am, lady. I was under the impression that our task would be to defeat this monster.”

“Yes. So far, all whom my father has sent to destroy it have failed. However, the gods have spoken to me. I believe it is you who will be able to lift my curse, and be able to defeat the Archetaur. However, you will not be able to do it without my help.”

Azriel’s mind was spinning. This was not at all what he had anticipated when he came down here into the ball. But the princess was offering him aid, and from all he could calculate, her offer was genuine. The part that stuck out to him was the part about a curse.

Stories of Princess Elain had of course floated around all the islands, most claiming her a shy, beautiful girl who kept largely to herself. Azriel was beginning to realize that there was a lot more to her than met the eye. So he decided to take a chance.

“You honour me, princess, with your confident words. Perhaps you would honour me further with a dance? I wish to know more about your curse, and about what it is that I must do,” he said, with a stoke of boldness. He hadn’t planned on asking her to dance, but as a smile graced her beautiful mouth, some tiny, irrational part of him would die to see her smile like that again.

“I would be delighted,” she said, and he led her out to the dance floor.

—---------------

Elain was very satisfied with herself. Having attracted the attention of the man-Azriel, she had learned- and having successfully said her piece, she was delighted that he was at least considering her help.

As she had rested before the ball, a dream had come to her. A man with dark skin, dark hair, and dressed in a white toga had spoken to her. His face was regal, but he spoke kindly to her.

“Elain,” he had said, “Elain my child. You have suffered much for a crime that you did not commit. Take heart, girl, for the favour of the gods is with you. There is a way your curse may be broken. The man that you have seen shall break your curse, if he should choose to accept your help. Trap the creature within its lair, and give him this. He will know what to do with it when the time is right.”

As soon as he finished, he pulled out of thin air a ball of what appeared to be soft yarn, golden in colour. She took it hesitantly.

“Good luck, child. Flee this island if your curse is broken. Flee, and do not look back.”

With all that said, the man in white vanished, and Elain awoke, confused about her dream. In her hand rested the yarn that had been given to her.

She took this as confirmation that whomever it was that she had spoken with, the man really was a god, and Elain know firsthand the consequences of angering a god. Besides, it wasn’t like she had much other option than to trust him.

With Azriel’s hand in hers, they swept out onto the dance floor, and for once the princess felt completely unbothered by the eyes that tracked her every movement. No longer were they foxes chasing a young dove. Elain was strong, and if everyone in this palace was too useless to break the curse, then she would just have to do it herself.

A/N: Thus concludes Part 3. Next chapter will be dance scene, and some more information on how exactly Azriel will be fighting this monster. Let me know what you think, I love comments from everyone!

#elriel fanfiction #elriel #theanonymousopossum #the threads that bind us #elain x azriel #pro elriel

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simp2537 · 6 months ago

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𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜

John Wick x child!fem! Reader.

Series Trigger Warnings: Child abuse, abandonment issues, self harm, self hatred, depression, religious trauma, murder, gore,

Chapter One

With every dawn a pupillus is brought home

Her face still held that childlike glow that most kids her age had. Her Glock was firmly between his eyes. The man she’d shot before, laid dead at her feet.

“Ты Баба Яга?” The girl asked, her voice that of a pure innocent child. (Are you Baba Yaga?)

With every dusk a pupillus is dead.

John stared at her and he slowly stood up. Her gun trailed him as he towered over her.

“Yeah.” The girl hummed softly. In a swift movement her gun was in a holster at her side. She let out a small sigh.

With every star a pupillus conquerors

John nodded softly as he moved a corpse out of her way. She moved next to him in a flash, almost inhumanly fast.

“You got a name kid?” John pondered softly as he began to walk away from the bloody scene. The girl trailed behind him, he couldn’t even hear her steps.

“No.”

“I like Y/n, think it’s pretty.” John mumbled as they drove towards the Continental. The girl didn’t answer, only furrowed her brow.

With every comet a pupillus falls

John didn’t know it then but this girl would change his entire life. He would name her, he would love her, he would care for her, and she in turn…. Would destroy for him.

…………………..

The wind howled as rain poured down onto Helen’s coffin. Many red roses fell on top of the lowered coffin. Held in a delicate hand was a white rose.

The white rose fell on top of the coffin. Y/n’s e/c eyes were glassed over but no tears fell. Her eyes red and her cheeks flushed. Her body was drown in rain, she hoped that the rain would wash her sorrow away.

Never had she felt like this, this loss, this pain. She didn’t like it. She’d lost many people, many of her fellow pupillus, she mourned, she pleaded with god to send them back.

But this pain was different, this pain grew and grew, not into hatred like it normally would, it just grew more painful. Her black dress was soaked, clinging to her like a second skin.

A large hand landed on her shoulder, gently guiding her away from the coffin. A shadow fell over her, he held his umbrella over her. His dark eyes full of sadness as he looked all away.

“Y/n?” John whispered, his forming towering over the seventeen year old.

“Все хорошее умрет.” Y/n mumbled hopelessly (All good things will die). John froze as he lead her away. Her face was masked by with a blank look. The rain poured down into the pair as they walked together in sync.

Y/n’s irises were planted on the ground as John walked her over to their car. John looked up and saw and old friend of his. He bent down planting kiss her cheek. Y/n didn’t react, she didn’t move, hell John couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.

John signed softly as he closed her door and walked over to Marcus. He didn’t know how to help her, she’d never been so closed off with him. As a pupillus emotions other than rage weren’t allowed.

Their pain was molded to hate, their love turned to despair, their happiness vanished and they became pupillus. A child made to kill and only to kill. John could remember all the times that Y/n held not mercy for her opponents. Her ruthlessness knew no bounds, her mind didn’t know what to do now.

.…………………

John hit the ground with a thud. He coughed up blood as he pushed himself up. He looked back at the man he was trying to kill.

His eyes were wide, his body covered in his own and others blood. This job would pay a million so John was determined to kill him.

The man charged at him, John slammed into the wall, it cracked under him. The man’s hand went around his throat lifting him off his feet.

“Not so dangerous now are you. Baba Yaga?” He taunted. John couldn’t move, he was pinned. The air began to leave his lungs, he didn’t stop trying to get the man off himself.

Suddenly he was ripped away, John fell right to the ground. The man staggered to his feet from the ground. His eyes stared right into the cold ones of Y/n as she stood in front of John.

“I told you to stay in the car.” John rasped. Y/n shrugged annoyed as she charged at him. The man was fast enough to catch her. Her legs wrapped around his, pulling the larger man to the ground.

“Вам нужна была помощь.” Y/n voiced getting in the man’s chest. (You needed help.)

Y/n’s smaller first pummeled into the man face over and over. John looked away coughing softly.

“English, Y/n.” He muttered as he stood. The man struggled under Y/n, but her fist kept going. Her knuckles began to bleed and bruise. John walked over to her with a limp.

“Enough Y/n.” She didn’t stop. “Y/n enough.”

By the time John caught her fist the man was dead. John sighed uneasily as he pulled Y/n away. Blood was splattered over her face, hair, clothes and her hands. The man’s face was punched in, it looked unnatural.

“I told you to wait in the car.” She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t look at him, he could tell she was upset.

“Y/n? Won’t you look at me?” John asked gently. He knelt down to her height, for a ten year old she was rather short. He took the side of her bloody face and guided her to look at him. Her eyes didn’t move from the floor.

It had been months of back and forth with Y/n. She didn’t have any moral compass. She didn’t know what to do in any situation that wasn’t murder.

“Умная девушка? Please look at me.” John smile softly as she brought her e/c eyes to his. (Smart girl.)

“I don’t understand why you’re always so upset when I help you.” She mumbled bitterly. John sighed softly, truthfully he didn’t either. In the Ruska Roma he would do the same. Watching Y/n kill didn’t seem right to John.

In the few months that Y/n was under his care he’d grown to love her. The way her eyes would light up when she’d see something new. Slowly he guided her away from the blood scene, her head was cast down.

By the time they entered the car Y/n hadn’t looked at him once. As they left John glanced over at her, she was curled up into herself. A permanent glare plastered on her innocent face. Her eyes held anything but innocence.

Y/n grabbed the rager that John held out to her with a small sigh. She wiped the blood from her hands before throwing the rag in the glove box. John roll his eyes and pull the rag back out, wiping her face.

“You’re driving!” Y/n protested. John rolled his eyes as he finished.

“You’re covered in blood.” He mumbled as they continued to sit in silence. She turned from him, not caring for all the blood. As they pulled up to the Continental, Y/n hopped out before John even cut the gas.

“Shit! Y/n!” John yelled but Y/n just pulled her back out for the trunk and walked into the building. She wouldn’t go much further than the front entrance, still believing she’d be punished. No matter how much John would try and convince Y/n she wouldn’t be punished for simply needed space.

As John handed his keys to the man standing there, grabbed his bag and followed after her. Y/n stood near the entrance to the pupils training arena. A boy around her age with tanned skin, black curls, and brown eyes talked softly to her.

Her eyes shoot in to John’s and sighed softly as she made her way back over to him. The boy she was with glared sharply at him.

“Am I permitted to go to the training arena?” John nodded his head softly as he checked the pair in. John took her bag and pulled out her training clothes out.

“Here.” Y/n knew that meant her wanted her to change. She nodded softly as left to changed. The boy with her watched every move like a hawk, John didn’t like that.

Y/n was by his side before he could blink, she was changed, hair pulled out of her face and still covered in blood. John sighed taking her dirty clothes and cleaned the side of her face.

Y/n jerked away slightly, not used to such dangerous hands being so kind to her. The boy shot off the wall, hatred in his eyes. John wanted to laugh at him.

“Here it’s your room key. When will you be back?” Y/n shrugged.

“Later.”

“Eat someone before you get back please.” She nodded at his request and turned away. The boy pulled her close the second her got and pull her into the training arena.

“How goes re-raising a child?” John sent a glare to Winston as he approached him.

“I’m not re-raising her.” Winston raised his brow.

“So you’re not trying to pull her away from her nature?”

“Being a killing machine is not her nature.” Winston smirked softly as he nodded his head. John glared and turned away.

………………………

Y/n stared out the window as people avoided her like a plague. Maybe she was a plague, maybe she this was all her fault. Maybe if she hadn’t stayed Helen would still be here. Maybe this was gods way of punishing her for disobeying her life’s purpose.

Thinking she could have a mundane life after all the bloodshed she’d caused. The pain, the heartache she must have caused her people. A hand on her shoulder pulled her away. John stood over her holding her shoulder.

“He’s here to see you.” Y/n’s blank eyes held his gaze for a while before pulling away. He stood away from very one and sent her a small smile.

“Atlas.”

“Ares.”

“Y/n.”

He smirked softly at her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her close.

“You’re my Ares.”

#platonic john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick x reader #𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜 #dad john wick #keanuverse

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genderlesshades · 1 year ago

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okokok so I know I meme on the radiance and the pale king a lot, but I'm also kinda going "god damn what a terrible situation to be in" at all parties. Mb its just cause I haven't read the lore in a hot minute, time span? I'm having 4 am thoughts don't mind me. This may not even make sense in the morning lmao. just enjoy the ramblings if ya want yall

anyways, To have an entire group of people completely abandon one god in favor of another in such a short timespan? well usually that happens cause of stuff like genocide or cultural genocide. And maybe I just happened to miss it, but I don't think that happened in hallownest. But maybe it did and maybe thats why radiance got so fuckin mad. Or maybe the moths just slowly drifted away towards PK, which can happen over generations. But it also sort of seems like. self destructive ig. Radi destroying the people of any neighboring kingdom because she's *furious* man. so upset, and angry, and lonely even. Like, imagine being a very powerful individual with a very loyal fan base only for some weird ass fork looking thing to steal that fan base away from you. Well, more like a kingdom but ig fanbase may be the online equivalent. But here comes some fuckoff weird fork lookin man, steals your look, steals your people, and then fucks off. AND. Also stole folk away from some other nearby local gods? the fucks up with that?? fuck you actually PK. I'm gonna idk, wipe out ur cities. that's pretty reasonable for a god's reaction right?

"hold on hades, she also targeted others who weren't aligned with PK. Why would radi target them? weren't they hurt by the PK's actions?" Yes great question invisible audience. But here's the thing, people don't react reasonably all the time. Radi basically lost everything. Her people started drifting away from her until there was one singular old moth left who still seemed to care about her still. And they were alone. Her and her singular moth follower were oh so painfully alone, with nothing but ghosts to keep them company.

So she lashes out. Ignoring the fact that causing a massive plague is generally extreme cause she's a god, we can still recognize that she is very deeply hurt, upset, and angry. And normal people when hurt, upset, and angry, don't usually think clearly. They tend to say things that hurt people, or sound agressive, or even be agressive. Some people may isolate even, though different people do different things. Radi's reaction was to lash out in a way that hurt anyone around them.

"ok, but what does this have to do with places like Greenpath or Deepnest?" GREAT question invisible audience. Sometimes people react to things that are associated with a certain topic with the same reaction as the certain topic. There are certain songs I disliked until I saw a really cool video go along with it, which made me like the song. The brain is weird like that, and likes to categorize things (even if we don't recognize it as categorizing). Add in a "me vs them" mentality and it only gets worse. That is likely what happened here. Radi gets pissed off at PK, and likely also at the white lady. Well, the white lady has control over greenpath now, unlike Unn, so fuck the greenpath too cause that's technically part of PK's domain. WELL he *also* has an alliance with the mantis tribe, and control over the mushroom tribe. So fuck them too.

Maybe Deepnest would have been safe if Herrah and PK didn't have their deal, but they did, and now Deepnest is terrible too for siding with PK. Maybe the hive or outer edges would have been safe, but the colluseum houses itself in a wyrm's body. And maybe at that point, radi was certain that it was her vs the world, so she *had* to protect herself/defend her honor.

"well didn't the PK deserve all that?" I mean, if you look at it from Radi's perspective sure! but what about PK's perspective? He starts up a pretty cool kingdom, has a lovely wife, is well loved by his subjects, and Radi's followers stsrt deciding to follow him. He can't control that, though he could certainly try to discourage it. He tried being friendly, though perhaps it is in his nature to want to consume all he can. To control as much as possible, to become the bigger enemy. Perhaps he and radi just fuckin. Poofed up at each other like chickens do and instead of anyone going "hey man, whats goin on? maybe we can figure this out with our words" they just keep poofing up at each other, mad at the other for different reasons.

So his people start getting sick with this religious disease caused by what's clearly a rival God. So he tries to figure out the source, and to find solutions with the least drastic measures. But it slowly builds to more and more desperate attempts until he discovers the void, something very opposite of what he and the radiance is. So he casts the children of him and WL into the void, and waits. Because *surely* this will work. a container to hold this fucker in. Trains up this container so they're really good at being a container. Well, the container is leaky and he doesn't realize until it's too late. The infection comes back, and he loses everything he once had, just like Radi did.

I think messing with the void might have led to his death, just like it does with Radi, just maybe less aggressively. Both were so desperate to try and maintain something that was never going to last, only to be consumed by what's nearly a literal definition of an end.

Maybe if they would've just talked, they would still be around with thriving communities. Maybe they would have been friends, or akin to siblings maybe. Perhaps PK and WL would have had children, and deepnest may have slowly crumbled apart from not having an heir of royal blood. Maybe Unn would regain their strength and join the other gods. Who knows what the possibilities could have been.

It's a shame, though, knowing such a connection could never happen.

#hollow knight #the radiance #pale king

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o-kaythislooksbad · 1 month ago

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ailesswhumptober day 10: self-worth issues / pushing away a loved one / "you don't need to earn this"

chapter 3 / 7 of i miss the way that i felt (nothing) | not rated, chose not to warn

"again!" the ringmaster's booming voice filled the tent. he didn't need to shout so loudly, not with the performers each sitting within a meter of him, but the ringmaster insisted on always making his presence and his role known to everyone.

dick sighed as he straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and ascended the ladder to his platform. his parents remained on the ground, talking with the ringmaster; the combination of his sonorous voice and dick's above-average hearing ability made it easy for him to follow along.

"i tolerated it when he was little," the large man said, "when he could fit in the strongman's palm or stuck in the bearded lady's shirt where her breasts should be. he was a good prop before he could walk, but now…" he paused to point at the ladder. "we don't have much use for him."

"are you serious?"

"mary, please, the men are talking."

"john," mom's voice hardened, "you take his side, and you're sharing the lion's cage tonight."

the ringmaster held up a hand to cover dad's mouth. "the flying graysons work as a duo, and the crowds love when you add in something to juggle while you work the trapeze, gives 'em more things to cheer for and gawk at when they don't shatter to the ground, but the kid - look, simply put, you've got what it takes to be here, and he don't."

dick remained on his perch, his eyes glued to the clowns on the opposite side of the tent and not on the net beneath him.

the net, as well as the angry ringmaster, was all dick's fault. he's right, the flying graysons are a well-oiled machine of two, and a baby only mucks up the gears. the flying graysons are fearless, proud of their act and the distinct lack of safety measures in place, but dick is nothing but a frightened little kid.

he practiced day and night, pushing his little body to its limit, and all of his hard work eventually paid off. dick even made it to the promo posters for the entire circus, not just the flyers of the flying graysons, and their family's success landed haly's circus a gig in gotham city.

"you better not be gettin' cold feet, kid," the human cannonball muttered. "we can't have you fuckin' this up for us."

mom pushed him away from dick before he could cause any more damage. "there's no point in telling you that this is the biggest show of the year," she said with her arms around his shoulders. "we all know that already. you're more than ready for this, aren't you, my little robin?"

"yes," dick mumbled in response, slowly believing it. mom never lied, and if she said he was ready, then he would be.

dick had been so worried about the potential of hitting the ground, of losing his grip and making a mockery out of everyone, that he never considered the trapeze and ropes themselves to be a problem. he was so focused on the tightly packed dirt on the ground and the distance his legs would travel to hit it, if he couldn't hook his legs properly, that the possibility of anything else going wrong in the air never crossed his mind.

"again!" the bat's deep voice echoed off the cave's walls. he didn't need to raise his voice, not with the ways the rock formations provided natural amplification, but the batman insisted on always making his presence and his role known to anyone who may be lurking in the shadows.

dick sighed as he stood up from his crouch. he did a few toe raises and stretched his arms before returning to the start of the obstacle course. it would be pointless to protest that he already ran the damn thing four times and only got hit once, because one mistake was enough to destroy everything.

the thought caught him off guard, causing dick to stumble before he made it past the first set of knives - why anyone would need to learn how to dodge multiple sets of knives in between stopping carjackers, dick would never know - and fall face-first into the edge of a tractor tire.

"again! back to the start, rob-"

"sir, if i may be so bold," alfred's sharp voice interrupted the bat's.

dick held his breath, frozen in place. had he been so distracted that he didn't notice alfred's arrival? rule number one of living with batman was that the cave belonged to the bat, while the rest of the grounds belonged to bruce and were maintained by alfred. the butler who wore a thousand hats had sighed deeply upon his master returning from the circus with a child in tow, set down a firm boundary that while the young master may be, as an extension of bruce, alfred's charge in the manor, what the bat chose to do with the fledgling was his own business. alfred in the batcave was a bad sign; alfred speaking over batman in the batcave could only mean one thing.

"please," dick whispered. "i'll do better, i'll be better, i promise."

alfred's sharp steps quickly crossed the room, but dick didn't dare to look up. he could handle being berated and dismissed by the bat or by bruce - neither of them, despite saying they wanted him, seemed to know how to translate those desires into concrete actions - but not by the butler. alfred never wasted his words and was much too kind to sugarcoat anything, and dick would absolutely break if the man calmly kicked him out with the same tone he would use to inform him of the night's dinner menu.

"up you get, master richard," alfred said, extending a perfectly manicured hand. "you have spent rather too much time in this musty room."

there was no way dick could accept alfred's hand, not with the motor oil and sweat sticking to his fingers. there was no way dick could accept alfred's words, not with the way batman's glare burned the back of his head.

"master bruce is not foolish enough to try challenging me." alfred's confidence, unlike bruce's, genuinely affected dick. physically, bruce had the advantage, but alfred's words rang true; the younger man wouldn't dare raise a hand or his voice against his adoptive father. "you may not realize it, but the two of you missed supper as well as lunch, and that is unacceptable."

that night, tucked into a bed much too large for him, after a bath in an equally large tub, dick replayed the day's events in his mind over and over again. he had to know where he'd misstepped - literally, during the training course, as well as socially, cutting in between alfred and bruce's tense relationship - and where to course-correct. he couldn't afford to make yet another mistake without another safety net beneath him.

"all right, take fifteen!" dick's steady voice fills the main gym. he has no need to yell, not when the kids are all within earshot, but he's always mindful of the ways his tone may be interpreted. he lets himself smile and let out a small sigh of relief at the way the kids enthusiastically remove their boxing gloves without complaint, already turning the conversation towards whether they should have a video game competition or movie night after training.

"we'd better go with them," kory says, nudging dick, "before fifteen minutes turns into thirty and they're glued to the couches."

"would that be so bad?" dick surprises himself, turning to press himself closer to kory. "let them have their fun; they've certainly earned it."

kory's eyes sparkle. "and we can make our own fun here. you don't need to earn this," she whispers into his ear.

#word stuff #fanfic #hbo titans #dick grayson #whumptober #ailesswhumptober

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