#also if the 'i am standing' line seems out of place its bc it was supposed to be followed by something but i decided against it

[sunshinetrinket]

i've been missing virginia (i drove through it once on the way to another state)

tags: @thinkingaboutctommy @qjaiden

#wanted to experiment with styles a little. i usually do complete free form but this ones 4 lines a stanza and 4 syllables a line #also if the 'i am standing' line seems out of place its bc it was supposed to be followed by something but i decided against it #im also really into cinematography and so is one of my best friends which is nice and i pass things all the time that are so pretty #poetry #also if my other mutuals or even my followers want added to the tag list please tell me !! i am just so so scared to ask anyone else 🙏 #sunny.txt

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟒 (𝟏/𝟐)   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   THE DEN, AUGUST 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

   ❛  Leonor relished the daytime emptiness of The Den almost as much as the bustling nights she spent within it. Unlike most of Nakawe’s bars, it didn’t open until the sun went down, and it didn’t close as long as someone with the keys was willing to stick around. The first time Renzo asked her to stop by in the middle of the day, Leonor expected to find the place occupied but robbed of its liveliness. If not catering to the needs of drunks, daytime bars in her imagination were for desperate lunchtime breaks and closing business deals, neither of which Renzo’s private hideaway seemed to welcome. She was surprised to find him lingering on the sidewalk, waiting for her with a cigarette in one hand and a set of keys in the other. He pushed the door open and revealed The Den as she had yet to imagine it: empty, silent, still. 

❧ goes without saying but, if you're not reading the prose, you're missing half the story !!! part two soon ... (i am also proud bc i made many poses, pls clap)

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

Renzo laughed at her, breaking the quiet. “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” he said, mimicking a voice in perfectly unaccented Simerican that Leonor didn’t recognize. She had been standing, unmoving, while she soaked in the surreality. 

He was going behind the bar, hitting lights as he went, but knew to clarify, “You look like you’re in outer space. New planet. New dimension.” 

That was, in a way, how it felt. The soundproofing was impeccable. She couldn’t hear the boulevard just outside the door. Renzo began messing with bottles and humming to himself, but the few seconds after the door had shut were enough to make an impression. She liked being there during the day. She liked this version of the place, one that looked like a true escape from the world, where she could feel the residual good vibes of the previous night with the perfect clarity of a new day. She liked fanning her work out across the bar or on a couch. She liked pretending to be occupied with it while Renzo sat on the stage with a pencil behind his ear or colored block letters on handmade posters or laid, completely unmoving, on the dirty floor. Sometimes he worked, too. Leonor liked those instances best, and she allowed herself to be distracted by his miming of scenes and murmuring dialogue and tuning guitars across the room. 

“Why is no one else here?” she asked him one day, once this had become something of a once-a-week routine. 

They were curled up together like cats but were each engrossed in their own work. Renzo was reading a script, muttering words silently to himself. Leonor had a stack of policy briefs and a red pen. He took the pen from her after she spoke and began scribbling it against the flesh of her palm, gentle at first but then hard enough to draw out the ink in streaked lines.  

“You keep coming,” he said, enunciating each word. On her palm’s heel, he drew the glyph of his name. It was faint, so he traced and retraced the details. “I keep asking.” Then, looking up, he posed his own question. “Who else do you want here?” 

She shrugged, and he nodded. 

“If you’re worried this means something,” Here, he paused and angled the pen with purpose, tilting one end toward himself before pointing it toward her. “It doesn’t.” 

Renzo continued, sitting up, “Besides, I don’t wanna be around everyone all the time.” He said it as if the mere thought was an affront unable to be stomached. “God. Some of the people who come in here sometimes? Fuck.” 

“Why do you let them?”

Renzo reacted as if it were a question he had never pondered, and Leonor quirked an eyebrow as he sat there considering it. How foolish, she thought, if he hadn’t. She decided it was possible he was a fool, but she also decided that she should wait for his answer to really know—and, even if he was, that she would probably think it was endearing. He was the kind of famous that meant he had to be talented, not wise. Although he preferred providing a stage on which others might perform, she had seen enough to know he had talent. He made use of it. She already knew, too, that he wasn’t wise. She’d seen that when he’d said rude things to cameramen outside the bar or, on a different night, when he’d shoved another so hard he dropped his camera. That was inadvisable. It was even more inadvisable than Leonor having been there, at his side, walking slow to avoid stumbling, when it happened. At the time, she laughed. She could practically hear herself in the memory, giggling while a scuffle threatened to break out. 

Enough time passed for her to wince at the recollection before Renzo spoke. When he did, it was definitive. “I’m cool,” he explained. “I’m a cool guy. I have to be cool. You can’t be yourself if you aren’t cool, you know?”

She did know. That was one of the key distinctions between royalty and celebrity. 

Renzo elaborated further, “I start policing the door, that’s not cool. People make it into a problem. It’s just not the kind of problem you can have—not with people who are, as it were, your peers.” He sneered that word, and Leonor could picture who he meant. If she had come through that door with Kore during any other year of her life, she would have been one of them. “The more famous you are, the more you’re in rooms with fucking assholes. It’s just,” He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes the assholes want to come into your room.” 

He gestured around with a grand flourish, and Leonor snickered. “Gotta let ‘em,” he sighed. 

She nodded, quipping, “You let me.” Immediately, she regretted voicing the thought, but Renzo found it amusing. 

“Not the same,” he responded, shaking his head.

With some success, she played an earnest question off as a tease. “Why not?” 

He shrugged, “You’re not a problem, Leonor. Nice girl, that’s what everyone said. I was, uh, excited you were here.”

“Were you?”

“Yeah.” He grinned, adding, “Squeaky clean and incorruptible—they said that, too. Excitement, anticipation, same thing.” 

“Sure, okay,” Leonor chuckled. “I’m a real good-time girl now, aren’t I?” 

Renzo regarded her thoughtfully, and Leonor resisted the urge to squirm away. Their conversations always teetered on the edge of confessional, whether because Renzo spoke with such bluntness or because his openness encouraged her to respond in kind. Leonor never allowed herself to speak so freely as to admit everything, but she made honest admissions that Renzo accepted without judgment. He wasn’t wise, but he had, in some ways, lived more lives than she had. Usually, he just knew what to say. She took that as solid in some essential way, as a support to lean against. 

“You’re happier that way,” was his ultimate reply. 

Leonor sat with that thesis for a moment, debating whether it was true—or, for that matter, if the veracity of it mattered at all. She wanted it to be true. That had to be enough and, in that moment, it was. 

Now it was August. Months had passed since that conversation, but Leonor still felt the same way. She felt the same way, too, about the quiet of The Den on a weekday afternoon, which is how she found it now. She let herself in through the unlocked front door, knowing she would find Renzo somewhere inside. There were big plans looming. He might be stringing lights, or testing microphones, or standing with his legs wide apart and a hand pensively cupping his chin. On the phone earlier, he had sounded busy. He was instead at the bar, hunched over with a pen in his hand. Whatever he was working on demanded great concentration. Leonor allowed the big, heavy door to close slowly and gave herself a few extra moments. Partly, she wanted to delay the conversation. Another reason was to observe him. If he’d heard her enter, which she doubted, he made no indication. Through the dim lighting, she could see him chewing his lip. He tapped his fingers in a simple rhythm against his thigh.

“Writing?” she called, emerging from the shadowy entryway. The last sliver of sunlight disappeared as the door finally closed, hard but muffled, behind her.

Renzo didn’t look up as he replied, “Wrote. Done now.” 

“Is it for the reading tonight?”

“Did you write anything?”

Leonor wasn’t feeling light enough to laugh, so she made an approximate noise instead. “Why would you ask that?” 

Now, he eyed her with a look of provocation. “You’re an artist, Nora,” he said. “Everyone has their medium, sure—I’ve seen yours, very nice—but I think you should take the written word more seriously. It doesn’t have to be an endpoint, really. Maybe a translation.”

At this bit of persuasion, Leonor scoffed. “I can be creative; I am not an artist. Besides,” She paused, settling in on a stool beside him. “Everything for everyone is not the kind of world I want to live in.”

Renzo scoffed now, but he was smirking as he said, “Well, fuck, if that isn’t the most hereditary monarchist thing I’ve ever heard. Alright, my princess, if you say so.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she protested, but he waved her off. 

Solemn, he admitted, “It’s true. I’m jobless in that world.” Renzo held up his paper and inspected it. “Can’t host private poetry readings with free booze for my friends if I’m as poor as I was in ‘87, that’s for sure.” 

“Wouldn’t know me,” she said, lowering her head. It was meant as a gesture of mock sadness but, in this moment, she did find the notion disquieting. 

“You don’t know any poor people?”

Leonor’s rueful smile faltered as she considered that. “I don’t think so?”

Instead of laughing, Renzo looked at her with an expression that was neither quite amused nor fully bemused. She waited for a joke that never came. Instead, he turned back to looking at his paper. Tension mounted within while he sat there looking focused once more but otherwise relaxed. Finally, as if remembering they were in the middle of a conversation, he said simply, “I’m glad I know you, yeah.”

Leonor shifted on her stool. It was a motion of discomfort, something she could do while she thought of something else to say. In the process, she caught a good look at the words on the page. Her lips parted to pose the question—‘Will you read it to me?’—but she stopped herself. Renzo had gotten caught up in this occupation, it seemed. He must have forgotten why she called. She had half-expected him to be waiting, face toward the door, for her arrival. Usually, he was curious when she indicated she had something to share, not nosy or greedy for insight but possessed with sincere interest. He was a listener. He enjoyed it as much as whatever conversation ensued. Once, she decided to imitate his way of jabbing people with questions—incisive and direct, not pointed. His questions flowed without pretense. They were bare inquiries, genuine as his interest. Her question was just so: did he think himself trustworthy—did he want to be a confidante? 

His answer surprised her, and she had felt a kind of awe as he’d replied, ‘Honestly, no, that would be a bad idea. I know myself, so I don’t stop others from knowing me. User beware.’

Now, she leaned against the bar and heaved a sigh. Renzo looked over at her and let the paper slide unceremoniously back onto the surface. 

“What is it?”

Leonor snapped back to earlier that day. No longer sitting on a barstool beside Renzo, she found herself at a table that abruptly felt too small. Her father sat across from her, his hands folded on top, the thick band of his favorite watch visible under his sleeve’s cuff. It matched his wedding band. It was almost afternoon, and he arrived late to the early lunch he had requested of her. For twenty minutes, she sat at the table with her bare arm pressed against the warm glass window. She could have left at any point. It wouldn’t have been rude; better still, she could have imagined no reason to regret it. Yet, she didn’t. She sat and waited, staring out of the window or across the restaurant’s bustling dining area with an expression so forlorn that it compelled the server to stop by for a check-in several more times than was necessary. Each time, Leonor glanced up at her with a forced smile. ‘No, thank you,’ she would say. ‘It’s fine. I’m waiting.’

“Do you remember, I told you I was meeting with my father today?”

Renzo thought for a moment, then nodded. “Right, yeah, breakfast.”

“Lunch,” she corrected, before laying her head on the bar. It was cool, if sticky, and the embrace of her forearms easily blacked out the low light. “It went awfully.” 

“You said it was going to be weird,” Renzo responded. “Did he tell you what you wanted to hear—I mean, what he said he needed to talk about, was it worth it?”

Leonor closed her eyes. For a moment, she wished she could just drift off into a deep, unbreakable slumber, right then and there. She imagined herself slumped over on the bar as evening began, a curiosity rudely ignoring the raw, vulnerable poetry that a string of performers offered. Someone would try to shake her awake when the night’s end came. ‘Leave her,’ Renzo would say. ‘She’ll be okay here.’ And, she would be. Night after night, day after day, she would rest there. She would become more than just a fixture—she would be a unique decoration, a conversation-starter, really and truly part of the bar’s collection of interesting things. Becoming a thing wouldn’t be so bad. People would tell stories about her even after she had rotted away and crumbled to dust. ‘A sleeping princess sat here,’ they would say. ‘Her prince never came along, I guess.’

That didn’t happen, and Leonor lifted her head. “It was kind of hard to follow, honestly,” she said. “He was late, and he kept trying to rehash—well, he wanted to tell me about it again, you know, what happened?” Leonor sighed. “I wanted to cry. It was so embarrassing. It wasn’t even new information.”

“None of it?” Renzo asked. He had angled himself toward her, leaning against the bar while he gazed at her perturbed face.

Leonor, feeling pitiful, shrugged. “I didn’t really want to listen,” she admitted. “I kept thinking about Mother Beatriz the whole time.” 

Renzo’s heavy-lidded eyes ordinarily conveyed one of two sharply contrasting states. At times, he looked bored out of his mind—entirely removed from whatever was happening, on another planet even when his pupils weren’t giving away a convenient reason why. He had an almost unsettling kind of attentiveness other times. When they first met, Leonor found the way he had looked at her from beneath long, dark eyelashes alluring. She felt looked upon or looked through most of the time; with his heady stare, Renzo looked at her. She hadn’t fully appreciated the distinction until their regular conversations. Now, as she waited for him to respond to her admission, she appreciated it more. 

Finally, Renzo posed another question. “Do you think he was responsible?”

TRANSCRIPT:

LEONOR | Writing? RENZO | Wrote. Done now.

LEONOR | Is it for the reading tonight? RENZO | Did you write anything? LEONOR | Why would you ask that?

RENZO | You're an artist, Nora. Everyone has their medium, sure—I've seen yours, very nice—but I think you shoudl take the written word more seriously. It doesnt' have to be an endpoint, really. Maybe a translation.

LEONOR | I can be creative; I am not an artist.

LEONOR | Besides, everything for everyone is not the kind of world I want to live in. RENZO | Well, fuck, if that isn't the most hereditary monarchist thing I've ever heard. Alright, my princess, if you say so.

LEONOR | I didn't mean it that way. RENZO | It's true. I'm jobless in that world.

RENZO | Can't host private poetry readings with free booze for my friends if I'm as poor as I was in '87, that's for sure. LEONOR | Wouldn't know me … RENZO | You don't know any poor people?

LEONOR | I don't think so?

RENZO | I'm glad I know you, yeah.

[Leonor sighs] RENZO | What is it?

LEONOR | Do you remember, I told you I was meeting with my father today?

RENZO | Right, yeah, breakfast. LEONOR | Lunch. It went awfully. RENZO | You said it was going to be weird. Did he tell you what you wanted to hear—I mean, what he said he needed to talk about, was it worth it?

LEONOR | It was kind of hard to follow, honestly. He was late, and he kept trying to rehash—well, he wanted to tell me about it again, you know, what happened [sighs] I wanted to cry. It was so embarrassing. It wasn't even new information.

RENZO | None of it? LEONOR | I didn't really want to listen. I kept thinking about Mother Beatriz the whole time. RENZO | Do you think he was responsible?

[schrijverr]

The Hearts of Gotham 3

Chapter 3 out of 7

Bruce makes the Justice League believe he has two hearts and is a manifestation of Gotham’s night to throw them off his secret identity, not trusting them. When the sound system breaks, he doesn’t come clean, but lies instead that he split into two to make Robin. From there it spirals as all the Robins make the lies grow and twist it in their own ways, until the truth comes out.

This fic is based on this post and inspired by Bouncing Baby Bat, or so the Justice League is led to believe... by EmpressGeek.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: ends on a bit of a sad note bc it's Jason's Robin

~~~~

Chapter 3: How Jason Made It his Own

Bruce will never forget Jason’s face when he finally gave in and said they can go meet the Justice League. It’s so happy and thrilled, excited and full of life. Jason is such a happy kid, who is grateful for where he is now.

He will also never forget Jason’s reply when he explains that they have a cover to maintain towards the Justice League and what that cover is. Despite knowing that it is mostly because he is too embarrassed to admit he lied, he goes on a little spiel about the safety of their identities that Jason has heard a thousand times before.

Jason doesn’t really believe him, clear by the way he looks at him while he talks. But when he is done, Jason looks around to see if anyone is there (obviously there isn’t, they’re in the Batcave), then he leans in conspiratorially and whispers: “Are we- Are we pranking the Justice League?”

For a second, Bruce is silent, then he laughs, because framing it like that doesn’t exactly make it better, but it does make him feel better about lying. “Yeah,” he chuckles, “yeah, we’re pranking the Justice League.”

“I need to prepare for this,” Jason says excitedly. “I am going to be a master performer. They’ll never know. This is great.”

Thus, there is a pep in his step as he excitedly trails after B into the Watchtower for the first time, grin in place and lines practiced with Alfred.

They enter a big room with a table, around which all the Justice League members are sitting. A few start to greet Batman, but the room falls silent, much like it had done when Dick came around, when they spot Jason, who peeks out from behind Bruce with an impish grin.

“Hi,” he waves at them excitedly. “I’m Robin, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Hello, Robin,” Diana replies, the first to recover from having a new boy show up as Bruce’s shadow- or, uh, light.

Now that he has Jason’s lens, it’s quite amusing to watch the others try to rhyme it in their heads, especially Clark, who can definitely hear that there is a different heartbeat inside Jason’s chest.

As expected with Wonder Woman greeting him, Jason is a little starstruck, shaking her hand as he stares with big eyes. Though he manages: “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wonder Woman. You are an inspiration.”

Diana is obviously quite taken by this young admirer and she smiles kindly at him. “That is a high compliment coming from a Robin.”

Jason blushes slightly, then seems to remember himself, because he squares his scrawny little shoulders and states: “I am not a Robin, I am the Robin. But you are welcome, Ms. Wonder Woman.”

“I don’t know, you don’t look like the little twerp we’ve met before,” Hal says, leaning over Jason as he inspects him, Barry looking over his shoulder.

“Of course not,” Jason exclaims dramatically. “Robin is a concept, a manifestation. It would be unbecoming for Robin not to embody what he stands for. We manifestations can grow and evolve, not that you would get that, one bound to that form.”

At that moment, Bruce is reminded that Jason is going through his Shakespeare phase, enabled by Alfred. He wonders if he should step in, but he is more amused to see how it plays out. It’s a prank after all

“The Robin you knew, is no more. Blüdhaven called for its own protector and took the one, you knew as Robin as her own,” Jason continues to monologue. “She needed someone capable and trained, not freshly formed. So the hero now known as Nightwing, gave back that which made him Robin and took on his new mantle to serve her. While, I formed with what he gave back and that what is new.”

Barry leans in and whispers: “It’s beginning to sound a little a villain monologue, are you sure we shouldn’t step in or something?”

“No,” Bruce grunts.

However, Jason has heard as well and he points to Barry, who yelps a little. Jason says: “Do you believe the night to be static? Do you believe its light cannot evolve? Why? The moon waxes and wanes. A spotlight calls us now. Why should I remain the same?”

Now Barry decides to whisper to Hal, instead of Bruce. “Is he a werewolf? Is that what he’s implying?”

“I thought they were vampires. Or demons,” Hal replies.

This time, Jason pretends not to hear them, though Bruce knows he has. There is a small uptick in the corner of his mouth, a satisfied tilt to his stance. He’s enjoying winding the League up and scaring them a little. He’s enjoying the prank.

“Are you going to change too, Batman?” Clark suddenly asks. “Just so that we know what to expect, of course. I don’t mean to pry.”

“No,” is all he says to that, because that is truly all they need to know. And he hasn’t prepared to come up with something and he doesn’t want to bother with it now. He knows these people well enough by now that he knows they mean it when they say they don’t mean to pry.

Jason, naturally, has another idea. He gasps loudly and dramatically: “Let us hope he never does. Something grave must happened for the night to change.”

Now the Justice League is looking concerned. Bruce remains quiet, not sure where Jason is going, but more than happy to let him go ahead. He can update the files when they get home to reflect the new knowledge Jason shares. Maybe it will give him some ideas.

“The night is not like the light in it,” Jason informs everyone there, looking quite solemn. “The light in it can be manipulated and changed, but the night? That’s darkness. That’s stable. You can’t easily add darkness, just subtract light. And I’m the light. No, if Batman changes, that’s- Oef, something happened in Gotham if that happens.”

It’s silent.

Bruce thinks that it is very dramatic and adds to his persona. He quite likes the yarn Jason is spinning, though it would make it harder to ever step down. Not that he’s planning on that now, but a contingency to consider.

Then Jason breaks the silence with a smile. “Of course it will happen at some point, but don’t worry about that.”

“Okay, small child, please tell us more than that,” Barry pleads, super speeding over to shake Jason’s shoulders.

Jason is definitely enjoying this as he says: “Not a child.” And for once Bruce can’t correct him. The little shit knows what he is doing.

Barry doesn’t care and willingly goes along. For him it’s the truth. “Okay, then, well of information, do tell us more, please.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Jason says, looking over to Bruce. It’s the closest he’ll likely ever come to asking for permission.

Following his gaze, Barry’s eyes land on Bruce as well, hands still on Jason’s shoulders. Cautiously, he asks: “But you could, right? You both know what’s happening?”

“Of course,” Jason huffs.

Clark jumps in. “It would makes us all feel a little better if we know a little more in the event it should happen.”

Bruce nods his assent to Jason, curious to see what answer he has, because Bruce certainly doesn’t have any.

Jason grins and frees himself from Barry’s grasp, then dusts himself off as he explains: “We grow, get stronger. As long as Gotham has need for us, we will be here. Batman grows. You’ve all seen it. He seems to age like any person would. But Gotham will need us longer than a human can bear the burden.”

He is pretty sure Jason is a natural with how he has everyone hanging from his lips. He hasn’t looked at them yet, busy straightening himself out. But now he does look up, making sure he’s looked all of them in the eyes.

“There will come a day when he gets too old, then one of the parts of him that has been or is Robin will merge with him again, but this time they will not leave their old parts behind to reform. This time, they’ll remain merged and become Batman, growing until a new Robin can be formed, if there isn’t a Robin in existence yet at the time,” Jason says. “They will become Batman and this Batman will fade out of existence.”

“The new one will know some things the old Batman knew, but not everything. It won’t be him anymore,” Jason tells them. “The new form will grow and Batman and Robin will continue to patrol Gotham as they have always done.”

It’s a smart move on Jason’s part to allow for a Robin to be able to take over the mantle, the most likely option. He has also explained why Bruce ages and how he will one day will have to stop, but Batman will continue if he is needed.

He truly is a natural.

However, he has left the room in a quite sullen mood. He seems to realize that and he grins again: “Don’t look like that. Everyone has a cycle they’re a part of. And I for one, am delighted to be at the start of mine.”

The rest of the League now seem to realize that they’ve been so busy with all Jason’s been saying, they haven’t welcomed him like they usually would. So, they quickly rectify that and Jason spends the rest of the day, wrapping the League around his fingers, much like he has Bruce.

At the end, when they’ve returned to the Batcave, Jason quietly asks: “Did I go overboard?” in that uncertain way he still sometimes falls into where he convinces himself Bruce will throw him back on the streets.

“No, you were great,” Bruce smiles, happy when Jason puffs up with pride. “There is an improv theater club if you want to join. You have talent.”

“Can I, dad?” Jason asks, sparks in his eyes at the suggestion.

“Of course.” Bruce ruffles his hair.

Much later, after many tragedies, Jason will return to Gotham and do things his own way. He would have forgotten about it, were it not for the rumors still circulating. And he knows that this is between him and Bruce.

So, he sows a sound system into his own costume and picks a second heartbeat that is aggressively loud and strong. A fighter’s heartbeat. And when Superman catches him in Metropolis, he spits: “You can’t hold me. I’m Crime Alley incarnated. I am not bound by your reality, you motherfucker, so let me go.”

And Superman will frown and say: “You have the second Robin’s first heartbeat, but a new second one.”

In turn, Jason will angrily snap: “Well, yeah, the second Robin died. And there was no Batman to absorb me. This is who I became. This is the justice Crime Alley needs. Think you know better, Boy Scout?”

And Superman will let him go in shock, ready to ask Batman more questions about this new part of Gotham that has become a manifestation.

~~

A/N:

This went from ‘haha funny’ to ‘sad’ very quickly and I am afraid this is what the vibes are now, because we all know what happened to Jason and that is pretty unavoidable. Hopefully the good vibes will return in chapter five…

(also this chapter not being his POV’s but Bruce’s until the end, because it no longer feels like he experienced it and instead it is mostly Bruce, who holds these memories now ahhhasjfdgsdf, I wanna turn into an oyster and live on the ocean floor forever)

#rr writing #bruce wayne #batman #jason todd #robin #batman and robin #jl #jla #justice league #dc #dc comics #superman #clark kent #wonder woman #diana prince #barry allen #flash #green lantern #hal jordan #the hearts of gotham au #batfamily #batfam #red hood

[thedreadvampy]

btw about Neil Gaiman I periodically agree with the 'Neil Gaiman is annoying' stuff bc I feel like both he and Amanda Palmer seem like people who I would go insane stuck in a room with bc we have very different ideas about art and suchlike. and I also do think that the career trajectory he's on lately is cynically redoing his greatest hits and pretending that was the dream all along when it clearly was not. which is at best meh.

having said which

as far as I can tell by far the most common complaint about Neil Gaiman is "Snow, Glass, Apples is problematic/gross/it's got incest and rape and frames the child as the aggressor"

which strikes me as a weird complaint to pull out of a 40 year body of work tbh when that short story is pretty clearly coming from a place of 'how far can I push this'. like you don't have to like the story. I don't really like the story. but it is. a horror story.

like and this is the thing with particularly 90s alt horror right? a lot of the interest is in transgression and sitting in the worst possible perspective and seeing what happens if you pull those strings. like I really like Clive Barker for example but there's a good chunk of his short stories that I'm like I'm not picking up what you're putting down Clive this seems Kinda Off. but that willingness to write some trite or Bad Message horror fiction that doesn't land is imo a side effect of being willing to try writing uncomfortable and unpleasant fiction at all. which is what horror is for, among other things, it's for creating discomfort as a form of catharsis or engagement.

like I am not a huge fan of the type of sex-horror that pops up in a lot of Gaiman's work and other contemporary horror writers - to me I don't find it upsetting or horny it just ends up feeling kind of edgy and tryhard - but I'm also a bit like. it does seem like a lot of people's beef with Neil Gaiman is that In The 90s He Was A Horror Writer

and this approach to Problematic Horror in Snow, Glass, Apples I find kind of microcosmic of how The Discourse often approaches art in this kind of 1:1 way. if you write a story which seems to line up with rape apologia it can only be because you agree with it. if you write a story about transphobia you're a transphobe. if you write a story that makes me genuinely uncomfortable you're attacking me.

but artwork, especially art like horror that's not necessarily trying to provoke enjoyment as its main response, is necessarily hit and miss. and if what you're shooting for is discomfort then whether it works, falls flat or goes too far incredibly depends on your audience. and making good art - as in art that makes its audience think, art that opens the audience up to discomfort and catharsis and sticks with them and changes them - requires the space to experiment and tbh the space to fuck up. like they aren't all going to be winners and they certainly aren't all going to work for you as a singular audience.

personally I don't see the appeal of Snow, Glass, Apples, less cause it's nasty and more cause it's hack. ooh an edgy monstrous version of a fairy tale where there's lots of rape and cannibalism? you're soooo original Neil. but like. that's fine. I don't really vibe with like 70% of Neil Gaiman stuff I've read but I still like Neil Gaiman because the stuff that works for me really works for me.

idk I think there's a lot of folk on this website who shouldn't interact with horror cause they clearly aren't interested in being horrified. that's not everyone who dislikes Snow, Glass, Apples, but it's a real undercurrent to a lot of the criticism and tbh this kinda vibe is shit for art. making standout art What Is Good also requires being ready to make art which stands out for the wrong reasons. sometimes they'll be the same art to different people.

#red said #not to Cancel Culture this but isabelle fall springs to mind in a lot of how folks talk about stuff like this #like she wrote a transgressive piece exploring her own negative feelings about transness and her anger around a transphobic trope #and she made something which i found really resonant and interesting #and she got torn apart for it because it Might From Some Angles Agree With Transphobia #and I'm not making a direct comparison. because i think attack helicopter is a really GOOD story and i think SGA is gratuitous and hack #but that's the thing right? transgression and discomfort and speaking about unpleasant things in an openended way are KEY #to making art that engages directly with your own pains and angers and discomforts #and that's hard to mediate tbh. but it's also very necessary. #i think as well thinking about Gaiman this is also a thought I've often had about Amanda Palmer #who over the years has written a lot of songs about things i find genuinely uncomfortable or offensive. #and i can engage with 'it's fucked up to tell your ex they transed their gender At You' or 'your partner's suicide is not about you' bc yeah #but #you can't celebrate someone for making confessional music then get mad because you don't like everything they confess #if you only take about your socially acceptable thoughts it's not really confessional is it? #if you only talk about discomforting things that people are comfortable hearing about its not really discomforting #and you can only really discern what's Good Transgressive and what's Damaging Transgressive through doing i think #so if you want challenging art you are going to have to get some art which challenges you and you go hmm no i still disagree #is what i think #so yeah you can hate the artwork but when an artist is specifically setting out to make challenging art it's weird to hate them #for making 50 pieces of art you like and 1 you hate

[romanarose]

Life update if anyone cares.

I only post this bc i was posting my depressing shit for months and a lot of people were reaching out in concern <3

cw sever depression, self harm, suicide, csa, SA, all the bad. but also lots of good <3

TLDR: Despite a god-awful semester, i got all a's and b's

Everyone thats been following me the last few months has seem my personal posts about how fucking awful things have been for me.

I've dealt with fact I can no longer deny that what happened to me was CSA, despite being on a milder side of things. That sparked an absolutely spiral. I didnt sleep for months which made things worse. School, I got an F on a midterm and i NEVER get F's on writing assignments.

Work had its complications and i quit and then rescinded that quit two days later. I was so constantly depressed in my dorm my roommate literally told me i needed to go to the basketball game with them bc i was sitting in a depression hovel none stop. I only went to services twice this whole time, one shabbat and once for Rosh Hoshannah.

I burned the ever living fuck out of my fingers, yall remember that one? lol.

In novemeber i had relapsed so severely on self harm i thought i had accidentally killed myself. I should've called 911. I thought I was bleeding out and/or going into shock. I then worked myself up more by going down pages of the internet about medical shook and people dying from it. that did not help my heart rate. I couldn't stand, I couldnt see straight for a while.

I could not afford an ambulance or a hospital stay as i am uninsured and only ork 25 hours a week. not a lot of money.

All this happened and I didn't miss work. This is not a brag, this is me not being able to makegood choices for myself.

Finally, thanksgiving break hit. Thank fucking god. I WANTED to use those 4 days of absolutely nothing to get to my TWO BIG RESEARCH PAPERS I HADNT STRTED YET but alas, I was SICK. I was so sick, in fact, and so hoped up on cough medicine for 3 days i was incomprehensible.

I was so physically ill, i couldnt even think about how mentally ill i was. I slept and slept and slept. And by the time sunday hit, I felt so recharged.

My failed midterm was so bad and so not me my professsor reached out to me. Im close with him (in a v appropriate way lol, hes a bruce springsteen fan too) and i felt comfortable telling him essentially that for a few months there things were severe, and I really should've gone in for a 72 hour hold multiple times and i was not safe. through a few lines of resources, I ended up back in therapy bc my school added a new therapist that is a woman (i stopped going last year bc i didnt like seeing a man)

I like my new therapist.

Anway, in about 2 weeks I wrote 2 12 page research papers, 2 book report papers, 1 science paper did 2 presentations, took 2 finals, wrote 2 more finals with essay questions, and at the end of it all, not only did I not fail any classes...

I GOT ALL A'S AND B'S! Which means my gpa is still high enough to renew my scholarship for my last year

I am so fucking proud of myself for accomplishing all this despite suffering so fucking badly. I havnt felt pain like that in years, just agony.

I had a down turn again over christmas bc my siblings were literally ass, upto and including making fun of me for not ating (i am multiple accounts of sexual trauma from several people, so im scared of dating), making fun of my eating, and my sister slapping me and my older brother hitting me. Was a bad time. But for right now, im in the place im staying for break (all january) im back at my old day care and they love me, and olive garden at this store has been going great

Im hoping next semester to be better, im hopful at least

Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who has supported my writing has supported me through these times. It makes me happy that i came her to share my silly little moon knight x reader series, not really intending on writing a whole lot, but next thing i know, i have friends and a lil community. so thank you <3

#romana personal posts #cw suicide #cw self harm #cw csa #cw sa

[idsb]

I know your boyfriend has family in the States and that’s a big part of why he can’t see himself moving to Australia but…has he even been there? It’s been your dream for forever, you fought so hard to make it good for yourself…it just seems weird that he hasn’t even seen this place that holds part of your heart if he also has part of it. I’m probably biased though because I was very much team cut him loose when all the shit went down before and I’m still genuinely unclear on why you took him back. Wish I had some advice on a good place to land in the US but DC is my favorite city (well, Arlington/Alexandria) and it doesn’t do it for you, so…I guess I’ll second Chicago…it’s my next favorite. Good luck bestie, whatever comes next you deserve to be happy.

Hi okay I am getting a lot of anons addressing this topic so I do want to explain bc like, I get this line of questioning.

So, I broke up with him while I was on tour with a band, the tour ended in New York and I stayed on the tour bus and headed to California with the band, because I didn’t want to get dropped off back to our apartment in NYC (as per the original tour plan) under those circumstances. On the way back to San Francisco, we stopped in Chicago for 2 days and I’m standing around in a concert venue while we’re there and who walks up to me but my boyfriend. Once he saw where we were he flew there immediately, and he took me outside and had a very, like, Betty moment and he just poured his heart out and sang me a song he’d written and apologized so profusely and begged me to give him a second chance. Albeit reluctantly at first, I did.

I think the person I am with now is almost a completely different human being than the one I was in a relationship with before, in the best way. You know how Chase Stokes is just so obsessed with and all-in and one of the girlies and biggest cheerleader ever ever ever for Kelsea Ballerini? Or how, a bit less so, Travis is for Taylor? That’s how it is and that’s how it’s been. He’s been so supportive of my every dream and every want and just would bend over backwards to make me smile and is so intentional and clear about those things. To the extent where he’d been paying my rent the first 5 months I’ve been here so that I could be here and be less stressed because he wanted me to have this, at like, extreme financial detriment to himself. And it’s not like my love is something someone can purchase, its more about the gesture and willingness to do that. He is so receptive to critique and is always trying to be better for me. I’ve never imagined being so loved or so supported by someone, genuinely. In my first 5 year relationship I would look at girls with supportive boyfriends like this and think about how that kind of thing was just not something that was in the cards for me. I look back now at how fulfilled I am with this relationship and can’t believe I used to feel that way.

To answer your question, he has been here! We came together in 2018 when we were just friends (he is the ONLY person in my whole life who has met The Australian, ha) and he was just visiting me 6 weeks ago. Unfortunately he didn’t get to be in Melbourne very long (we traveled a lot which I now regret) so I couldn’t really like, broadcast my love of it here onto him, but he has visited and he thinks it’s a great place. He just doesn’t feel any kind of emotional calling to it (other than me obv but I am physically capable of moving) that justifies being away from everything he’s ever worked for and loved in his whole life and every family member and friend he cares about (he’s relatively well adjusted with 90% of his family and fears them getting older, cannot relate at all). Which is, I suppose understandable even though I don’t like it or agree: I’d be giving up my dream if I left. He’d be giving up his dream and his life and his family and every friend he’s ever had.

#sorry for this novel I just really feel like it’s important to set this record straight!

[cafeinthemoon]

More Myself Than I Am - Chapter V

Chapter 5/?

Wordcount 2,9k

Title Rashomon

Fandom Bungo Stray Dogs

Pairing Ryuunosuke Akutagawa X reader

Previous chapters

1 . 2 . 3 . 4

Symbols ⭕ . ➕ . 💛

Warnings: implied violent death

Tagging @lasidollily @darling-imobsessed @samyayaya  (if you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just send an ask or a message 😉)

N. A.: So finally, after several months and with a bunch of other projects to occupy my time, I managed to finish this chapter! I'm so happy! I was a bit hard to work on it bc there were details I've completely forgot about, given the time I've spent away from this story, but it's finally here. In this one, we will have the direct continuation of the previous chapter, and great revelations to reader...

Hope you enjoy it and I'm sorry for all ths time without updates XD

You had no time to turn and look at him.

Something fast, sharp made its way toward you with the power of a lightning and wrapped itself around you before you could think of pushing or stopping it. You looked down and saw what reminded you of a black stripe on your waist; it pulled you behind, and in a split second you found yourself breathless, trembling in your friend’s arms, your ability deactivating by the startle and the exhaustion.

The next thing you remembered was Akutagawa summoning more of those shadows against the men, the stripes widening to block your peripheral sight. The vivid sound of flesh being pierced and sliced was heard, followed by suffocated screams of fear and despair. The stripes came back to their place with a swoosh and disappeared, and then there was silence.

You were still unable to move, only standing thanks to his grip. You didn’t dare look at your adversaries now – or what was left of them – and were satisfied in just imagining what might happened. At least you no longer had to worry.

Now, you needed to focus on the things you just found out.

First, your brother-in-law was a terrible person, involved in activities with high probability of being illegal. Second, your family was now in danger, and you couldn’t do anything for them when you yourself were in a much worse situation. Finally, the man with whom you were about to have a date was an esper just like you. You didn’t know if you should be relieved or desperate: Arthur also had special abilities, but that didn’t bring you any safeness. However, Akutagawa has always been gentle with you; and, when you found yourself in the most dangerous situation of your life since the incident with Virginia, he just came to protect you. Should you expect things to be different?

There wasn’t much time to think about this, though: once the work was done and your survival was assured, the next thing to do was to provide an escape route, something that wasn’t really hard since your partner summoned the shadows again and took you with him to the nearest rooftop, perhaps the same he used to access the alley. You held your breath and shut your eyes tight with the sudden change of place, only opening them again when you sensed a ground under your feet.

Akutagawa still had an arm around you, but with his free hand he grabbed his phone to make a call.

This was what he said when the person answered:

– It’s done. Take your men to the place and clean it.

He turned it off and typed a second number. This time, the conversation lasted a bit longer, and the imperative note in his voice wasn’t present, an indicative of the superiority of the person to whom he talked that time.

– Sir, the mission was accomplished. The men are taking care of the rest.

The person on the other side of the line seemed to ask something, but you weren’t able to hear it.

– No problem – Akutagawa replied – We’re on our way.

There was no need to explain to whom the we was referring to. When the call ended, you had the nerve to ask where he was going to take you.

– To the only place where you can stay safe for now – he looked around and below, as to make sure you didn’t have unwanted eyes watching anything.

No other explanation was given after this. He left that rooftop and took you to the ground of another alley, where there was a black car at its entry, maybe the same you saw him entering in the day he walked you home.

You didn’t question his intentions or hesitate to approach the vehicle: your legs, still able to walk, led you to it, and when the door was opened, your body just found its way inside it. Akutagawa took the place by your side and closed the door.

Once you sat down, your head was so heavy that you had to hold your forehead to not fall on the front seat’s back. An order was whispered to the driver by your friend, and the car started moving fast and silent. The last thing you remembered was trying to lean your back on the seat when a dizziness took over your senses and your sight went completely dark.

***

Your eyes were heavy when you tried to open them for the first time, but you did it after a few attempts. You blinked to get used to the light and, when your sight cleared, you took the next moment to understand your position and surroundings.

Your back was leaning on the softness of an armchair, your head inclined to the side, your hands resting on your lap. You moved on the chair and sensed a numbness on your limbs, typical of a fainting; you searched through your memories and recollected the moment you entered the car and were followed by Akutagawa.

You straightened up on your spot and shivered: your skin was cold despite the regular temperature of the room. You passed your arms around yourself and observed the place…

And were impressed by the sophistication and beauty you found.

It was a large apartment with modest yet fine decoration, with dark, grayish walls and a black, polished floor, covered with carpets. At your right, you sensed there was natural light, as if entering through glass; you turned toward it and discovered a pair of transparent doors, wide open. There was no wind coming in, but that explained the cold air around. You also sensed a slight, mixed smell of camphor and tea.

Quiet steps were heard near your spot, and you found out weren’t left alone in that room. You raised your eyes and saw Akutagawa approaching and stopping in front of your chair. Suddenly, the memory of the fight in the alley, when he activated his powers, came back and you flinched. Ignoring your reaction, he just did what he intended: with his right hand, he touched your ear with his fingertips, the same ear hit by the metal bead controlled by the man of the scars; when you felt the touch, you noticed your skin was covered with a bandage. With the contact, it burned a little: it was when you realized the metal hit hard.

Akutagawa was the first to speak.

– It stopped bleeding, then – and, moving his hand away, – Good.

You touched your ear in the same spot he did.

– Did you make this bandage?

He nodded in confirmation.

– Thank you.

Instead of replying, he went back to the kitchen, then returned with two cups of tea in hands, one of which he offered to you. You murmured a “thank you” and he took a seat on a chair identical to yours, placed near it, crossing his legs in a what might be the most informal manners he was able to assume.

You took the tea in tense silence, except for the moment you complimented him for the good work in preparing the drink.

– I do it the same way almost every day – he justified – It’s a simple recipe, which makes things easier for me, especially in the busy days.

You found it strange that he gave you all this explanation about his relationship with the process of making tea instead of just accepting your compliment, but you didn’t question it, limiting yourself to an “I see” before the silence was again established between you.

When you finished your tea, you kept your eyes in the cup’s bottom, observing the wet leaves inside it while warming your hands with the remaining heat of the porcelain.

Akutagawa, whose practical manners wouldn’t be left aside by the tensions of earlier, was the one who started the conversation.

– I suppose you want to know where you are.

You raised your eyes to him as soon as you heard those words.

– This apartment is mine – he explained – At the moment, we are in a building that belongs to the organization I work for.

You swallowed. After everything you’ve experienced that day, the word organization was starting to acquire a suspicious meaning.

– What kind of... organization is this one?

The young man in front of you didn’t spare your ears nor your nerves with his answer.

– One that serves as a pillar for the city you came to live in: The Port Mafia.

You felt your entire body tensing up, and your hands tightened around the empty cup. You opened your mouth, but closed it again, not knowing what to say to this.

So… I was about to have a date with a member of a criminal organization?

None of this represented a problem to Akutagawa, who seemed to have anticipated it.

– Revealing this to you in the current circumstances wasn’t in my plans, y/n-san – he continued, the same composed tone as before – But we have nor the choice nor the time to make things different. So, let me explain the situation first, then you will have the chance to decide what to do. As you already noticed, I myself am an esper too. My ability is called Rashomon. To summarize, it is a fabric that devours anything that enters its reach, which includes the space itself. I’ve been working for the Mafia since I was a kid, and for all these years it served me well. There are others like us in our organization, as much as there are common people. We are present in all possible segments of society, and this is how it came to our knowledge that a woman with non documented powers has arrived in Yokohama.

You swallowed.

So, I’ve been observed for all this time.

Suddenly, it came to your memory that night when you sensed a strange presence near your building and went to check it out. Since you couldn’t find anything, you forgot about the episode, supposing that it was just an impression. Now, you weren’t so sure of this.

But Akutagawa hasn’t finished yet.

– However, the Port Mafia is not the only group that knows about you: a foreigner organization, involved with international traffic of espers and counting on native agents to maintain its activities, has been surrounding our city for months and discovered your existence by the same time as us. That man Arthur was one of their agents. He was using your sister to approach you. I was designated to follow his steps, and I suppose he was well informed about me, for he recognized me that day when we met.

The image of Arthur cheering up in the company of your sisters in that occasion, then the one of his body falling and crashing down in your living room returned to you, and your hands trembled.

– It’s a shame that I only found about him when it was too late – you whispered.

– And this is what I wanted to ask you about – your friend continued, unaffected – What happened in your apartment?

You took a deep breath and recalled the disturbing events. It was curious that, instead of the expected shame or fear, speaking about the things you heard and saw – and especially what you did about them – brought a deep sensation of relief; it might have been because you had someone like you to hear the story, or because you finally accepted all of that as real, and not a nightmare, once you talked, or even something between these two. Besides, the fact that Akutagawa didn’t interrupt you and showed no signs of shock or disgust with your actions contributed with this sense of comfort: somehow, his view on what happened to you – and about you – had deep importance.

– And now I don’t know what to do – you concluded, your voice beginning to crack – I can’t go back to my house and see how my sisters are doing, neither I can go to the police without exposing myself... I’m trapped...

No verbal response came from your listener, as he gave you a moment to regain sobriety. When he finally opened his mouth, was to make you an offer.

– Now you understand why I said this is the safest place for you now? – and, when you gave him a nod, – But you can’t stay here forever. And, about this, our head wants to have a conversation with you.

You gasped. The head of the Port Mafia – whoever they were – was interested in you and your powers? Well, you wouldn’t have been taken there for any other reason.

– I don’t know how much you’ve heard about this, but we, bearers of special abilities living in this country, are under an inconvenient bureaucracy – Akutagawa continued – This means that our condition needs to be documented and cataloged by the government, or else our lives might become difficult, whether we are involved with an organization that utilizes our powers or not. Since you don’t have such documentation, no support from the regular authorities must be expected in your case. So, as you can see, things are harder for you than for your family at this moment.

Well, good. As if it wasn’t enough for you to go through all the terrible things involving Arthur and his partners, now you had to worry about documentation.

You sighed.

– If my situation is as complicated as you’re saying, what difference my choice would make to you? As far as I can see, I’ve only been a problem for anyone who surrounds me. What does the Port Mafia expect to gain with this case?

Akutagawa uncrossed his legs and stood up, taking the cup from your hands.

– This is exactly what our head wants to discuss with you – he explained – My role was assure your integrity and bring you to our quarters. Any other information you need to know, you will have from him.

Before you had the chance to continue the conversation, two knocks were heard at the front door. Akutagawa extended a stripe of his Rashomon to unlock it, making you flinch: despite having witnessed it in action before, it was just unsettling to watch him use his power in a casual place such as a living room.

The door was open and there you saw a short, young man with vibrant, ginger hair under a hat and a black coat hanging upon his shoulders. He had his hands on his waist, in an informal position that made him stand out of the environment.

For a moment, he didn’t open his mouth, staring at Akutagawa, then at you, then back to the first, as if not knowing if he should say what he came to say or if he arrived at the wrong time.

With a sigh, he finally decided to speak.

– Ah, you’re here at last – and, with a gesture of his thumb that indicated some place behind him – Boss is impatient to see you. He’s waiting in his office.

Akutagawa nodded in concordance.

– We’re on our way.

He looked at you without a word, but you were quick to understand: you were going to see his superior – “the boss”, as his partner said – in the next moments. You stood up too, looking at the ginger, then back to your friend.

– I’m ready.

***

At first, you thought that you would have your eyes covered or you would be knocked out to wake up only when you were in front of the said Mafia’s leader – since you weren’t part of the organization, possessed special abilities and were desperate, every measure must be taken, so that you would never reveal the smallest information to the outside world. However, none of this happened: Akutagawa didn’t even hold your arm during the walk; he just led you to an elevator at his apartment’s floor and, after a few seconds of lifting, its doors opened to reveal a large corridor surrounded by black walls that, according to him, would lead to your destination. He was the first to step into it, and you just followed him.

It was when the reason why you were allowed to see the path became clear.

This is the quarters of the city’s underworld. The closer I get to its head, the harder would be for me to leave and reveal anything.

By the end of the corridor, a tall pair of doors were visible.

– It’s here – his voice echoed through the liminal space, despite his low tone.

He pushed them with little effort, and you saw them move in synchrony, revealing a wide room that would be as dark as its outsides if it wasn’t for the wall entirely made of glass at the observer’s left, just like the one at Akutagawa’s apartment; thanks to them, you were able to analyze your surroundings in precious details.

The room would seem empty with a lighter color palette, but the one chosen for it did an excellent work in using the extra space, from the decorated ceiling lining to the dark green wallpaper, and the intricate patterns of the large, wine-shaded carpet. At the opposite side of the room, at least meters ahead of your spot, there was a woody work-table, a black chair and three shelves full of books, placed on both of the table’s sides and behind it; a second chair, modest if compared with the first one, was before the table, as if it wasn’t part of the room and it was only brought there moments before you arrived.

You and Akutagawa weren’t the only ones at that place: standing at the side of the glass wall, with his hands behind his back, a man with black coat and a red scarf upon his shoulders was observing the outsides. He turned to you as soon as the doors were closed, and greeted you both with a composed smile.

You approached as he went to take a place close to the table, and once you put your eyes on his face, you froze. Yes, he was different from how you used to see him – his hair was properly combed, his beard has been shaved and his entire apparel was dark – but there was no way for you to be deceived.

There you had the head of Port Mafia, though you knew him by another name.

– Dr. Ougai?

#bungou stray dogs fanfiction #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs akutagawa #bsd akutagawa #akutagawa ryuunosuke x reader #akutagawa x reader #akutagawa ryuunosuke #bsd x reader #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #bsd akutagawa ryunosuke #bungo stray dogs fanfic #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd chuuya #bungo stray dogs chuuya #bsd mori #bungo stray dogs mori #mori ougai

[canonicallyanxious]

Some quick and dirty gay chicken thoughts before I go into work:

I am loving the discussion of class issues so far, the nuance of the conversation and Wen's relative privilege (different levels of privilege though, esp with the focus on Heart's family home as a setting this ep), the way this presents a perpetually present undercurrent of conflict and realism that really sets the tone of the show and its themes well, I'm super looking forward to seeing how that thread develops!

Love the relationship developing bw Wen and Li Ming, I think it's so sweet that Li Ming can find someone who can listen to him without judgment and basically act as a calm mentor figure (did cringe when Wen tried to relate to his situation with his experience changing majors but I think you're supposed to, again that undercurrent of socioeconomic inequality is always present in the relationships of these characters) when he has such a contentious relationship with the other adult figures in his life, and you know I'm always a hoe for an older queer mentor/younger queer mentee relationship, even if so far the queerness doesn't explicitly factor into this particular relationship I do very much think that subtext is still there esp with the implications of how out of place Li Ming feels as a queer teenager versus how assured Wen is with his sexuality

As well I like that having this relationship develop gives Jim more reason to trust and like Wen - idk I just think Jim sees how sweet Wen is to his cat and his nephew and the things that are important to his life and how he seems to understand how they're important to Jim and like there's no way he's immune to that u know

Don't have much intelligent to say about Heart and Li Ming's relationship I just think it's very sweet and refreshing to have this relatively uncomplicated young love blooming in the face of all the drama brewing up, and Fourth and Gemini are totally nailing that tone of first love so far! My one nitpick about the storyline is I wish they had subtitles for Heart's signing esp now that Li Ming is sort of able to pick up what he means better now - I know you can kind of sus out meanings through Li Ming's responses but I just think it's a bit of a baffling choice not to make a storyline focusing on deafness more accessible

Jim's tragic backstory of his ex partner cheating on him is a very interesting choice in light of I still have no fuckin clue what is happening with Wen and Alan. I'm scared of this storyline and already have my reservations honestly lol but I will wait and see before passing judgment bc I've been really into the writing of the rest of the show so far (also the actual flashback really had me in my feelings... Uncle Jim you deserve all the happiness in the world.......)

(like it's weird that both Wen's father and close friend seem super nonchalant about him obviously having chemistry with this man when they also know about his relationship with Alan right. It's weird that Wen's dad who he has a close relationship with doesn't seem to know if Wen and Alan still together or not but also had that very foreboding line about needing to be unattached when you come together with a new lover. Whatever the fuck is going on there.)

I will never not find it funny that Jim is really out here like "okay this is strictly sex, purely physical, we won't kiss on the mouth or even learn each other's names and there will be absolutely no strings attached" and then still somehow managed to have the most tender one night stand sex I have ever seen. Like Uncle Jim idk what purely physical no feelings or strings attached sex looks like to you but somehow I have the feeling that reverently caressing your lips over every inch of another man's body while tenderly clasping his hand long into the night isn't it

#sarah.txt #moonlight chicken #i have more i can say but i really need to start my shift shdkdhdjdj #if i do a more thorough rewatch later i might jot down more thoughts we'll see #mlc meta #story meta

[imunbreakabledude]

I've been on a Elena/Maeve mood today and while on the bus I started thinking about many things but I wanted to ask you about one in particular, especially because I don't know how these things works in USA.

So, I assume Maeve had money. I don't know how much but if they're meant to be like very popular celebrities I assume she had a considerable amount. What do you think happened to that, if she's "dead"?

Could she have a will? Do you think she left everything to her father? Or maybe even to Elena since she, presumably, didn't have anyone else and still loved her? Or she found a way to get it somehow before going into hiding?

I don't know, just a random thought but I was really curious to hear your take...

oh boy. i HAVE thought about this a bunch, though not for a long time, so let me think back and also do some more quick googling to get together a way too detailed pitch that basically boils down to "celebrities are rich" (i am procrastinating at work lol).

disclaimer that i am not very smart about money shit and just going from casual knowledge and guesses

so, yeah, Maeve certainly has a lot of money. but to try to get a better idea, i'm guessing her net worth in the hundreds of millions range, definitely not billionaire because a billion dollars is a stupid amount and most of the richest entertainers don't even come that close.

I don't think the show gives solid numbers very often but one reference point we have is in the pilot, Madelyn offers the mayor of Baltimore a contract with Nubian Prince for $300 million per year. Even if we assume Vought is taking the majority of that for themselves, that suggests that a Supe like him is getting at least $50-100mil per year as payment. Which makes me think the Seven are probably all getting over $100 mil per year through some combination of salary and other compensation. That's not even getting into how much they might get in terms of merchandising or image rights, etc. And Maeve, I would GUESS is one of the higher paid in the Seven? but then again, maybe not, because of how women are usually paid less in general... but also in episode 1, when Translucent mentions they've all got "four points" (i believe this means 4% stake in merchandising? which tbh would be LARGE for each of them) - then A-Train says "the fuck, you got four points?" (a nice nod to him getting a worse contract as a newer member or bc of racism...) and Maeve adds, "and clearly, better lawyers." which, doing my thing where I take one line of hers and wildly extrapolate from it, says to me she feels good about whatever her contract is so talk about it so glibly, like she knows she has good lawyers & got hers... and she doesn't chime in with what % she gets but seems like its 4 or higher but she's smart enough to keep her mouth shut about it, ANYWAYS none of that matters...

tbh, some of those numbers sound ridiculously high, so idk, but this is a fuckin fictional show about superpowers, so it doesn't matter--

the point is, Maeve probably has a net worth in the nine digits.

I imagine her good lawyers would not allow her to NOT have a proper will laid out for what happens to her money. so there's gotta be some plan in place. I like to believe she explicitly left nothing to her father, just to spite him. idk if he could try legal action to get a piece of it (i dont know much about the law around this stuff) as her next of kin... but I imagine if she had a proper signed will saying he got none, that would stand. I don't know that she would include Elena in her will because that would kinda out her, but maybe if she trusts her lawyer and doesn't care about people knowing after she dies, she would. Or maybe she'd do it secretly, more on that later. given that we don't know anyone else significant in her life, I bet that she specified the majority of her money would go to charity. not out of goodness of her heart, exactly, just that she has nowhere else to give it and that's an easy lazy answer, yknow?

but then idk what happens to the rights to her image, or her profit shares in merchandise/movies after she dies. again, not a lawyer, but when celebs die their rights usually go to their "estate", so maybe her dad would have a say? but also idk if an "estate" is automatically granted to next of kin or if that's something that has to be specified ahead of time in a will (in which case she could deny it to him)... but the most likely outcome in either case seems to be that Vought would own her likeness forever, especially given the comments in the show when A-Train is on the verge of being replaced by Shockwave, that Vought owns his name and will put Shockwave in his costume. (which is a weird thought to me, though, bc A-Train replaced a guy with a different name and costume, why wouldn't they let Shockwave be Shockwave in the Seven? lmfao. maybe that dude was just trying to get A-Train scared.).

All that to say I think the majority of her money would be inaccessible to her after her "death". BUT. I think Maeve being a smart person who clearly wanted out from Vought for a long time probably had an emergency fund set up somehow, whether it was stashing actual physical cash in case she went on the run, or some secret account under a different name she could access in the future (or elena could access). i don't know how people actually do this, but you know who would know? ELENA, who is a banker. and since Maeve and Elena did at some point talk about running away from the Seven together, I bet she told Maeve exactly whatever is the smartest way to hide some of her money so she could take it in an emergency, and Maeve probably implemented that for several years leaving them a sizable amount to live off of post-season-3... even if it's a tiny fraction of Maeve's former wealth.

sorry that was way too many words for vague speculation but as I said I'm procrastinating HAHAHA

#supemaeve #ask #the boys #queen maeve #again i'm not smart about legal or financial stuff i only know snippets from occasional news stories and fiction lol #but tbh the idea that nubian prince could be earning that much #and that the seven could all be getting potentially 100mil per YEAR in salary #seems a little ridiculous to me #especially if there are a lot of famous supes to choose from #if they were the ONLY popular ones i might get it #but if every supe who works in a medium city like baltimore commands that much... #i dont know that that much money exists in the economy #it feels sus #when top actors are mostly in the mid-100 mils #but idk i guess it's plausible #they're on the tier of like the richest athletes and entertainers #i just dont know how many other B-tier supes could possibly be earning that much #or on the other hand maybe nubian prince is getting totally ripped off and he gets like 10mil while vought takes 290 mil

[lexa-griffins]

Are you sure we're not sharing the single brain cell? Cuz I am really digging the concubine x senator one. Like have lexa be a competent princess, whose smart, knows politics, athletic, knows how to fight etc. She aids Clarke in a lot of things for her senator work. But bc Roman society is extremely sexist (might need to fact check that jic) Clarke's getting all the credit. Clarke always tries to elevate her wifey-in-all-but-name when she could.

I think the story could be like this: At first Lexa is not vibing at all with clarke. But clarke is really gentle and not classist/sexist/etc like she expected. Maybe they have the same goal (like idk, equality? Abolishing a certain dogma? Taking down a political opposition?) Lexa realizes that she could get what she wants by going along/working with clarke. And somewhere along the lines, she discovers things about clarke and falls in love and fuck nasty.

Damn am I doing a great job of not nudging this not-au along. Yeah it would be a lot of work to write. But! It is fun to fantasize and talk about it❤️❤️❤️ So thanks for indulging in my babbling? 😂

Lexa is the daughter of a merchant, she has big dreams but knows she cannot accomplish them from her social standing, and much less being a woman. But she learns how to read and write as best she can, very much pushed by her father to do as such as Gustus wants a better life for Lexa. He also taught her to spar with a sword, and although she is no gladiator, she can fight pretty well. And when she becomes Clarke's concubine - im thinking Gustus is killed for something and being unmarried Lexa has to fight to her a life og her own - she has the opportunity to read and learn even more, and the more she learns the more passionate she becomes about helping Clarke change certain rules in place. And yes, Clarke definitely takes all the credit and although Lexa dislikes it, she knows its necessary as Lexa herself would never be taken seriously, but Clarke never once pretends she did it all herself and every small win will bring Clarke running home to puck up Lexa and tell Lexa "You did! It worked!", like absolutely giving Lexa all the credit!

If we go in a direction of Lexa meeting Clarke when she's preventing as a man, who clearly finds Lexa attractive, I can see Lexa playing with that, knowing Clarke is a senator if she manages to get "him" to fall for her maybe she can try and persuade "him" to try out her ideas, even if Lexa doesn't like man at all. And Lexa manipulates Clarke in a way really, she is looking for an end goal but when Clarke confesses to her that she is a woman and feels like a woman, Lexa softens towards her. She clearly wants what Lexa wants and she's a sweetheart really. Still Lexa has in her mind to use Clarke's "secret" against her of all goes wrong but with the way Clarke respects her so fully and is trying hard to change things around, Lexa definitely starts to fall for her and Clarke can tell because Lexa has always been cold and rather distant and while Clarke does like her, she was primarily interested in Lexa's smarts and how she could help her achieve a goal that no matter how hard she tries, Clarke cant seem to fully get into action. And the more Clarke reveals about herself the more Lexa seems to soften around her and the more their arrangement starts to resemble a marriage. And Clarke loves coming home and being treated as her true self and seeing Lexa let her walls down more and more, she smiles more and just seems happier both because she is visibly falling for Clarke and because its working, they are making advances to change things!

You sure are making a great case for no nudging me in the way of this non-au 😂 i am always here to indullge your guys' babbling, lord knows ya'll indulge mine 😂🩷

#letter opened #i think Clarke's a senador because her dad was one #its not really what she wanted #she isnt good at philosophy or law or any of those things #she can argue for them but creating the ideas and the plans gor such isnt her forte #and thats what Lexa does #she has all of these ideas and the passion for change if she could she would have reformed the impire entirely

[psychewritesbs]

even though I do not mind the weekly or bi weekly chapter releases and enjoy them, I kind of wish I would wake up one day and the final chapter of jjk would be here lol

I mean this as like the time left with the series is fast forwarded. I don't like rushing in any context, but I feel like I want to know the ending before I fall out of love with the series. I've enjoyed what gege has given in the story so far, but there is plenty of choices I would say I do not agree with imo. He seems like he has a vision of how things need to go, but getting there seems to have some issues. I also kind of hate it when authors say they want to end the story especially when it feels like it will be rushed, and is JJK's case it's sometimes hard to enjoy the story after its been said bc I'm just wondering if we're spending too much time on one thing before we need to move to the next point, but I'll still try to see the story's good and the bad and enjoy what I can. I'm going to reread the culling game arc soon, but I feel like those first fights were about gaining allies, but I can say I wasn't expecting it to go like that if that was the intention. I don't mind kenjaku having secret plans bc it's obvious when it comes to them, but I feel as though that plan overshadowed the point of the cg?? I thought there would be more focus of to kill or not, etc and I see that the most for megumi and yuji (they had my fav colony battles), and I get it somewhat with yuta, but I dont see it too importantly with hakari or maki. I'm going to reread the arc regardless because I can always be confused or a bit slower in catching on so forgive me if my insight is lackluster. I liked the running themes during yuki vs kenjaku, but her "death" felt very unnecessary because she seemed really important in achieving a curse free world and idk about you but that seems like an important goal imo and yeah someone else could lead that charge but what was wrong with yuki doing that? I don't know, but I can only hope the remaining part of the story alongside its ending is something not only we can gain some satisfaction with, but the author too can look back and say, "hey it was pretty good at least"

Gege doesn't seem to drop the ball too much with Yuji or at least megumi too, and I'm not too worried since they're my characters of interest currently, but I want to reread this story and actually believe it when I say I thought all the cast was good and I believe the writing can be better or can get worse (idk) but time will tell it all. I'm a recurring anon, so I'm sorry if the apologies are constant and sound like emails at the end 😅

Dear Recurring Anon,

HOLA! Thanks for being my recurring anon and reaching out again!

Ok but listen... I’ve been sitting on your ask for a while thinking of what I wanted to say and how to say it. I’ve probably started 3 different drafts for my response. So thanks for your patience!

Truth of the matter is that when I read your words, what it comes down to is that, even though you don’t like the recent direction the manga has taken, Jujutsu Kaisen still holds an important place in your heart. 

So I think the most important question to keep in mind is that, in a story like JJK where the strongest sorcerers have the most overwhelming sense of self... where does your sense of self stand in all of this?

What do you want to take with you from JJK? 

The stuff you didn’t like because it didn’t live up to your expectations? 

Or the stuff you loved even though JJK was incredibly flawed?

Of course there’s more word vomit under the cut lol... you know how I roll.

I’ll start by asking you to forgive me if I’m wrong and you just really needed a container where your thoughts on the current state of JJK would be honored and acknowledged. The truth is that I totally get where you’re coming from. 

I do. 

I hear you.

It’s just that it’s in my perhaps annoying nature to be stupidly optimistic even when I am being a realist. There’s always a silver lining to everything if you are willing to make the effort to find it. 

So, yes, I agree, and I’m also going to challenge you to find a way to continue loving JJK if that’s what you want for yourself.

That said... lets get on with the bitching lol.

Problems with JJK, problems everywhere!

Your concern regarding the pacing in the story is something that I share with you. Most especially the concern that, moving forward, Gege is going to cut corners. I’d also say that at this point this “concern” is factually canon lol. 

I also agree so much with the sentiment of “is he taking too much time on this when he should be addressing this other plot point?” And I think nothing captures that dilemma quite like the Culling Game arc does--ESPECIALLY with the way he handled the chosoyuki ordeal.

Like we got pages upon pages of all of these characters and exposition and dialogue and like... wait, what was the point of the Culling Game again? 

Why has no one died yet?! 

Why is Yuta kissing a cockroach and why are Kashi-chan and Kin-chan trying to see who has the biggest ego (pun intended)? 

Like I swear for weeks I've been like “ok it’s going down!!!! yeah here comes the angst and the deaths aaaaaaand ok never mind then.... maybe next chapter? ok.... next chapter? ok next chapter for sure. no? next chapter?”

FOR WEEKS! It’s all recorded in my chapter liveblogs lol.

Truth is, to me, the Culling Game is a weird arc because I am still trying to understand its significance within the larger Jujutsu scheme of things.

Perhaps he bit more than he could chew with the Culling Game? And as a writer myself I find this kind of relatable. I’m actually seeing what is happening with JJK and taking note of how having too many themes and plot lines can ultimately be detrimental to a story if you can’t, or are unable to execute them all to a satisfying conclusion.

So to your point about re-reading the Culling Game arc... let’s hope that Gege manages to bring it all full circle. But as things stand right now, we’re in the middle of whatever Gege has in mind so it’s hard to see the forest for the trees.

What I’ll say is that I have enjoyed parts of it with reckless abandon...

Literal picture of me reading through the absolutely ridiculous battle between Kashi-chan and Kin-chan:

I also think that, at best, we have gotten in-depth character studies (because Gege is harping on the idea about the sense of self being at the core of power in JJK) and needed exposition. 

For example, even though Naoya coming back was soooooo cringe to me, I can still see the purpose it served in the narrative. Did I enjoy the journey? Not really. Same for Maki’s development.

The thing is that even if I agree with you on everything I just mentioned... I can’t unsee the story written between the lines even if the execution of the panels falls short, because I am always reading at a meta level.

I am passionate about story telling and how stories move humans, so to me, now that I’ve seen and acknowledge these flaws in the work, reading JJK is less about what’s on the panels, and more about the story he is trying to tell on a meta level through the panels.

My chosoyuki meta is a great example of me recognizing the story being told between the lines. And once I went down all of the rabbit holes I went down, even though I agree wholeheartedly that the execution fell short, the story told in the symbols was amazing to me. It honestly made me wish that Gege would have had the patience, time, energy, and space to birth that side story into the world the way it deserved to be told.

To me, I want Gege to be able to ground his vision onto the page, but if he is not able to, I’m still there for the “story” told between the lines because there’s so few mangaka whose imagination has captivated me.

In the end, as you say, it does feel like Gege is struggling to ground his vision into the page. And it kind of does suck because we, as an audience, have to work that much harder to understand the story he is trying to tell.

But the story being told is still there... so now it’s up to you to decide what you want to focus on: the flop, the bad execution, the failed attempt, JJK not living up to your expectations, or Gege, the flawed human behind the manga, trying and showing up.

What is good enough for you? That’s something for you to decide. 

I’m not saying to ignore the execution. 

I’m saying to remember that this is Gege’s first manga and that JJK is not what it started as--but not because it’s gotten worse, but rather because JJK is now more like Gege than it has ever been... because in a story like JJK where the strongest sorcerers have the strongest sense of self... yadda yadda yadda.

Trust the process: life is a journey, not a destination

I think your concern that you want to experience the ending makes a lot of sense and feels very relatable even at this point in my life. 

But the truth is... 

Foregoing the journey in favor of the destination is a recipe for perpetual dissatisfaction. Look at what happened to Denji after he finally got to touch boobs!

Ok yeah, there’s a lot more to it than that in this particular case but the concept still applies.

It also applies to JJK. Again, right now we can’t see the forest for the trees because Gege is executing a complex arc.

The timeline is confusing af, and I think it’s because he may be trying to pull a similar literary trick to what happened in Westworld’s season 1 and 2 where the timeline is scrambled out of order to purposely confuse and mislead the audience. 

Perhaps the timeline is out of order for another grand purpose. Perhaps he just thought it would be fun and wanted to try to execute a fun literary trick.

But we won’t know until he delivers--and delivering is a process, not a destination.

And you know what... if you still get to the end and realize that you didn’t like JJK and the latter part of the story ruined your love for JJK, well...

It’s personal

Dude like... I respect that people LOVE Chainsaw Man, and I also think Chainsaw Man is ridiculously overhyped. I’ve seen countless of videos with people hyping it as the all end be all of manga and that Fujimoto is a genius and...

I. 

just. 

don’t. 

get. 

it.

I am just not a fan of Fujimoto’s brand of navel-gazing existentialism. It feels so anti-climatic to me.

Does that mean that CSM objectively sucks and is bad?! No. It’s personal.

Similarly, I overhype the hell out of CLAMP manga, and I am also aware that people might read CLAMP manga and not like it. 

Even so, to me, the four women behind CLAMP are genius story-tellers.

Shameless Subaru and CLAMP plug because this is one of my favorite Tokyo Babylon panels.

It comes back to personal taste, right?

For me, I love JJK despite the flaws because I still love the story being told between the lines, I find Gege’s brand of ironic humor funny, and I like how the story has progressed. 

Say goodbye to mainstream, Gege’s work might become a cult classic moving forward

Now... I bring up Fujimoto and CLAMP to illustrate the idea that there are people who are going to be dedicated fans of a mangaka and their work, people who enjoy and appreciate their work but don’t necessarily love it,  people who are in it for the hype, and people who don’t like their work.

CLAMP’s Cardcaptor Sakura is mainstream hype. Tokyo Babylon and Clover are what you read when you’re a hardcore fan.

Fujimoto’s CSM is mainstream hype. Fire dude punch something something and Goodbye Eri is what you read when you’re a hardcore fan. 

Watanabe’s Cowboy Bebop is mainstream hype. Zankyou no Terror and Carole and Tuesday are what you watch when you’re a hardcore fan.

Akutami’s Jujutsu Kaisen is mainstream hype. 

Gege followed the Battle Shonen recipe, added his own twists, and created an accidental mega hit. In fact, oddly enough, JJK has always been known as a story that defies expectations and uses tropes in new and unexpected ways.

So what happened? Why are people not liking Gege’s current execution?

To me, there’s something about how JJK is written that has changed, and it has nothing to do with Gege’s ability to write, and everything to do with his sense of self, who he has become in the process of writing JJK, and what he wants to express through his work.

In other words, JJK is more like Gege than it has ever been. Some people are going to like that, and some are not. 

Truth is that Gege is one of the VERY few mangaka who can write beautiful, multidimensional, engaging and extremely human characters who are true to their nature and aspirations.

He also writes on a very meta level and you don’t see that very often... like at all. 

All this to say that I think this is why you see such vastly different reactions in fandom right now. 

Some people still think he’s a fantastic writer and that he’s writing a unique work that has transcended generic Shonen tropes (like yours truly), and some people think that the way JJK is right now is generic Shonen. I don’t understand this last take but...

Who is right?

Who holds THE ultimate truth?

It doesn’t really matter because it’s personal.

All I know is that I am going to keep up with anything Gege publishes moving forward because I like the story he is telling through JJK.

Above all, I’m curious to see what other stories want to be born through him into this world.

Now, I HIGHLY recommend you listen to this 20 minute Ted talk by Elizabeth Gilbert to understand what I mean when I say that Gege is giving birth to stories. Her talk is a mind-opening take on what happens to your sense of self when you accidentally write a mega hit, and how that in turn affects your creative process.

I don’t know that this is how Gege sees his work as a mangaka, but I have to wonder about the possibility that Gege, someone who has very clearly studied the psychology of Carl Jung, sees JJK as an exercise in creative imagination, and/or as a story he’s been handed from the collective unconscious.

His job as a mangaka is to show up and write, to play, to express himself creatively.

That means that sometimes what he writes is going to be magnificent in the eyes of others, and sometimes it’s going to fall short of everybody’s expectations.

And that’s what it comes down to... 

Expectations

I see a lot of people complain about JJK failing to live up to their expectations without acknowledging that their expectations are simply that, expectations.

There’s nothing wrong with having expectations per se, and it is also important to realize when expectations are defining what we think is and isn’t good enough. 

And let’s not forget that you too probably don’t live up to other’s expectations. Does that mean that your effort too isn’t good enough? Gosh now I sound like Lacus.

Again... who holds the ultimate truth?

In the end, Gege is the one telling the Jujutsu Kaisen story. 

I also cannot emphasize enough that Gege is also a mangaka in the very early stages of his writing career. 

I don’t buy that his writing was better in the beginning of JJK. 

Quite the opposite, I see his writing AND art in the beginning of JJK as having followed a recipe: the three man team, found family, the strong mentor figure, etc... all the tropes are there executed in fresh and unexpected ways. 

But that was 5 years ago. Again... in a story like JJK where the strongest sorcerers have the strongest sense of self... what does that mean for Gege?

That said, Gege isn’t following the same recipe anymore, he’s coming up with his own recipe and he’s learning how to write his own recipe.

This is not to make excuses for him, it’s just something to think about because most people aren’t born naturally talented at anything that requires mastery, and writing is a craft that requires mastery through execution. 

As a quick side note, if you read Tokyo Babylon and Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle by CLAMP, the 10+ year gap between both manga shows a marked improvement in the writing. AND EVEN THEN CLAMP MANAGED TO FUCK UP THE TSUBASA PLOT!

In other words, Gege has to fail to get better. 

Now add to that the pressure of a weekly publishing schedule that dampens the creative process with tight deadlines, and then on top of that having to draw the whole thing. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Gosh, if I had to guess, I would have to say Gege is ready for an extended vacation. 

But, as you say, I also just want for him to be satisfied with his story. 

As for us being satisfied with his story... well, it depends on what we choose to focus on.

Will you focus on how he failed at executing his vision?

Will you focus on the beautiful story he told between the lines?

Or will you focus on how how he managed to tell a beautiful story despite failing at the execution?

Can you hold the tension of opposites?

Ok SO SORRY this took me so long to get back to you my dear recurring anon. I just had so many thoughts because, like I said before, I agree with you, and I also wanted to challenge you to see things a little differently without being patronizing.

In the end, you want to continue to love JJK, right? 

So love JJK! 

Acknowledge its flaws and be at peace with them for the sake of that love. Nothing is perfect.

Anyways, I love that we can be in conversation about this and that you have come to me to share your thoughts on jjk. 

Merci beaucoup. 

#for anyone who thinks the writing in jjk sucks right now #and is worried about it #god I love jujutsu kaisen #ask the mental gymnastics anime girl

[pcrtgasdace]

..

the line between being islamophobic and trying to support women in iran is very thin. hear me out. i am wholeheartedly supporting every woman's and muslim woman's decision to freely choose how to express herself and how to practice her belief. in my book, it's everyone's individual decision and many muslims would agree. i am a muslim woman too. however, the problem lies in western media. i read articles, i see the news about the issues in iran and it's 90% of the time borderline islamophobic.

a german article just yesterday talked about the abolishment of the morality police. we know that it's just a symbolic thing of the iranian government to do to keep people quiet and think they won with their protests. it's no reason to stop raising attention to the issue. but the issue doesn't lie in islam.

the german article immediately talked about islam in a bad light, making islam the problem instead of talking about the real problem. not drawing a clear line and that's sadly intentionally done by western media. because the article emphasized how oppressive and backwards islam is. not really drawing a line between islam in itself and an oppressive system telling women what to do. it's a double edged sword these days, people using this news to further spread their islamophobia in the world.

still. it is not religion but a political, conservatist power in every society that uses religion as its legitimising device.

in every religion there are these two trends which express socio-political forces: one defending stability, which is the state, and the other defending social change, which is the political opposition.

and sometimes i am not too sure people who read these articles actually care to differentiate. or actually care about muslim women. each time a white person tries to talk to me or talks in general about this issue they seem to think the problem is islam itself.

of course, muslims like me support the women and that they can freely choose to wear hijab or not. i am muslim too and i don't wear a hijab, it's not a measurement of who's being more muslim or not.

law involving matters of faith should not be subject to the state’s intervention. This is a matter between allah and each believer. No human being should intervene between allah and a believer or pretend to judge in allah's place whether the believer is sincere or not. the qur’an specifically says that there should be no compulsion in matters of religion.

my main point is: media is still so islamophobic that they don't even try to make a distinction between those women's rights and fueling their hatred for islam. it's just so sickening to see that each time a white person talks to me about this issue i have to make sure they are actually not islamophobic bc they got fed these islamophobic news and western propaganda regularly and usually don't bother to inform themselves more than reading two or three lines in an article. it's incredibly frustrating to watch.

we can find better words than secularism and liberalism within islam itself. such as the priority of reality on the text, the priority of public welfare and that islamic law is based essentially to defend life, reason, honour, dignity, and public wealth. then secularism is already built in islam without any need to inject it from the outside, from the west or the east. those are major intentions of islam which are secular, without using the word secularism.

external intervention is an unlikely means for advancing democracy. we saw how american and european "efforts" to this resulted in afghanistan. while there is every reason to hope for movement toward democracy, you should also be wary of those who tell you, with excessive optimism and no small dose of hubris, that democracy will readily be brought to the region by tanks and weapons.

we can stand with muslim women while also recognizing that we don’t stand against a specific religion from which a billion people derive their personal identity.

#sorry to rant like this #i am just so tired #i don't like to go into politics and religious matters too much on here but yeah. needed to let it out. might delete later. #zira.txt

[stitchthesewords]

Finally had time to sit down and red The Royals Quests, and oh boy did I love it.

A few thoughts and theories I had along the way:

I love how Mumbo and Scar bicker in this AU. You can tell that they have known each other forever, and that they 1) care about each other 2) know exactly how annoying (affectionate) the other can be. They are like an old married couple and I love that for them so so much.

Special shoutout to Mumbo's ears reacting to his emotions. It's just so good. I can't decide if I hope he knows about it, or if I hope he is completely oblivious.

Having a lot of fun trying to piece together the mystery of Grian's past. The references to him feeling fresh air under his wings for the first time and not being able to fly nearly as much as he would have liked in the cave seems self-explanatory, but there being several references to him keeping his wings tugged closely to his back makes me wonder if there might be more to it.

The reveal that Grian isn't a "proper" Avian has me even more curious. Could it be a Watcher!Grian thing where he is from a colony of Watchers pretending to be/believing themselves to be Avians? Or is he perhaps from a parallel universe? I am eyeing all of this very much.

The fact that no one seemed to notice before Impulse pointed it out too. I wonder if it's some kind of misdirection magic that is keeping people from paying too close attention to him? And in that case, what makes Impulse immune to it? In short: worldbuilding good, brain go brrrrrr.

"Grian had come to learn that Scar kept that shelving unit there for the sole purpose of creating a shadowy space for Mumbo to retreat to" Also? I adore this line. Obviously, it's for vampire reasons, but I also love that Scar was like "Gotta get my husband bestie a dark corner to stand in and look menacing. It'll add to the aesthetic of the place, and the dramatics of our not-so-secret resistance meetings." Just. Gotta love him.

I love how it's like. Here is a fantasy world of magic and mystery. And also there's guns.

14/10 A++ highly recommend. Really, really enjoying the Rift AU a lot :D

Thank you for reading royal quests!! It’s nice that the king arc has wrapped up so now I don’t have to worry about them doing something and contradicting what I had planned lol.

I too love how Scar and Mumbo bicker in this. What’s funny is I honestly don’t think they bicker super often – its just that there is a lot to bicker about rn for them lol. But also yeeees – given how long they’ve been on HC together, I wanted to reflect that by having their relationship be pretty long [Relatedly, Bdubs and Etho have had a VERY long relationship]. They ARE like an old married couple and frankly everyone who sees them is shocked they aren’t married – I know Grian is sort of dealing with that confusion now.

ALSO!!!! I *LOVE* WIGGLING EARS DSKLAGSDKL. I think Mumbo’s ears are longer and swivel around and THAT is left over from my skyrim fanfiction days bc I headcanon that the skyrim elves can move their ears around. Scar's ears are much shorter so they don’t move. I also definitely think Mumbo USED to be oblivious to it but unfortunately the man’s been alive for centuries and I can’t imagine no one has pointed it out to him. Unless.

Hehehehehehehehehehe. Obviously I can’t reveal too too much about Grian’s past since, you know, spoilers, but I will tell you this – you are on the right track. I will tell you this in relation to the watcher thing – its NOT the watchers, actually. 👀👀I used to have rift AU tagged as Watcher Grian but I changed it early on because I decided to do something…different. With it. Hehehe. I definitely will be doing something with the watchers at SOME point, but not necessarily in this au – I think they’re more like an ancient religion no one really follows anymore. BUT you do have me thinking about Watchers-Pretending-To-Be-Human hm hm hm that WOULD work for one of my AU ideas hehehehe

Is it misdirection or is it obliviousness? Who knows. But also Impulse has some interesting stuff going on with himself too so he could totally be immune to it 👀 Or is it just that Scar and Mumbo have been too busy with bigger fish to fry to notice their new avian friend looks decidedly different from how Avians are supposed to. Hm hm hm.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEES Scar being like ‘Mumbo needs Shadows for his magic to work obviously regular shadows are boring I need to give my vampire bestie the best shadows” feels like such a Scar thing to do tbh. The aesthetics, the menace factor, the dramatics of it all. But also the fact that he thought about Mumbo and designed a part of his office with Mumbo in mind sfkjgfj I love them. There’s definitely like a light aimed at making the shadow be really strong.

You know the old joke of like ‘harry potter would’ve been shorter if he had a gun’ I disagree. It would have made things EVEN MORE COMPLICATED LGFKWDFH think about it. Magic evolving to deal with guns. Bullet Time/matrix-y bullet things. Magic infused bullets. But also I think the guns in rift au aren’t proper modern guns. They’re slow, a little clunky – think like guns of the late 1800s. Cowboy guns. Bullets are expensive, a little hard to come by, and King Ren is limiting the supply of them in an attempt to bottleneck Scar and Mumbo on top of that. I love fantasy guns.

Thank yoooooooooooooou!!! It means the world to me that people like rift au.

#Rift Asks #Rift AU #Mumscarian Rift AU #I really need to change the main tag dlakgds #Asks

[modkatisbacc]

I posted 677 times in 2022

That's 309 more posts than 2021!

117 posts created (17%)

560 posts reblogged (83%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@modkatisbacc

@memories

@strawbebbynya

@gen-incorrect

@jaakkola

I tagged 387 of my posts in 2022

Only 43% of my posts had no tags

#ninjago - 122 posts

#cool art - 54 posts

#warcraft - 32 posts

#rwby - 26 posts

#world of warcraft - 20 posts

#signal boost - 18 posts

#pixal borg - 14 posts

#lloyd garmadon - 14 posts

#gen:lock - 12 posts

#yeah - 12 posts

Longest Tag: 131 characters

#also if u have kids and they happen to find a version of cooking mama on a random website please verify that it's not petas version

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

More Fair Maidens AU!

Pyrrha: So, we are in a mutual agreement!

Penny: Oh, of course!

Jaune, walking into the room: Pyrrha, what were you and Penny talking about in here?

Pyrrha, trying to cover a giggle: Oh you know, just girly things.

Penny, raising her voice excitedly: Like murder!

50 notes - Posted March 30, 2022

#4

“And you cheated your way into Beacon!” Love that line, gotta be one of my favorite lines now. Not because of its direct context, though.

We learn a few things about this line:

1: The rest of team JNPR were told about Jaune cheating to get into Beacon (They were chill with it tho,, means he’s just as chaotic as the rest of his team)

2: While Yang seemed surprised at Rens outburst, she wasn’t at the information, meaning team RWBY was also told at some point (They r bestie teams that is all)

3: The hidden context behind this,, Ren doesn’t think Jaune is terrible or anything obviously,, but something tells me JNR never sat down and even TALKED about Pyrrhas death. They never dealt with it, and just pushed past it. All Three of them pause for a moment, Jaune doesn’t even argue back, BECAUSE GUESS WHO THE FIRST PERSON WAS THAT KNEW HE CHEATED HIS WAY INTO BEACON?

If he would have said anything else on the subject they would’ve just shut down.

I’ve been THINKING of this for MONTHS, actually. They’re SCARED, Ren has so far gone along with everything just FINE but he’s literally the “We need an adult” meme at that point.

They should be in CLASS, not saving the literal world from an immortal Grimm witch!!!

Jaune just deflates afterwards, and Yang gets angry, it’s just,,, TALK.

51 notes - Posted April 1, 2022

#3

I don’t think they’re getting rid of Pixal. They are deliberately keeping her out of the trailers for a REASON. And that’s because she has this EPIC COOL SIDE PLOT ALL FOR HERSELF. BOOM PROBLEM SOLVED. I CRACKED THE CASE.

53 notes - Posted June 20, 2022

#2

That moment in season 3 when Garmadon and Lloyd come across a nest with some kinda bird baby inside and Lloyd picks it up and Garmadon said “It’s going to know someone has touched its young”

And the when Lloyd asks who IT is, he says “Daddy” and yes people in the comments were laughing bc of how he said it, but WHO other than Garmadon would know that feeling more than anyone else in the show? When he was trying to turn Ninjago into his own image, and when the serpentine suggested getting rid of Lloyd he snapped at them and threw them off the ship/locked them up. The only reason the venom didn’t take him over entirely was because the love for his son was THAT strong. It took Ninjgos first and greatest evil to truly corrupt him.

LISTEN I JUST HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT HIM AND THE BIRD

99 notes - Posted May 13, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

In the intro of TLOVM, there’s this snowy place they’re apparently going to in the future, and I am super excited to see whatever it is because the lighting and just how the background looks for it?? BEAUTIFUL?? It’ll probably be a ways off, with them being arrested and all.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, Is the King still under control? How are they gonna Roll themselves outta this mess? (See what I did there?)

Also I love that when the guards get there, after already shooting the driver, Percy just stands there getting surrounded by guards, and honestly its a cool shot but he is gonna have some EXPLAINING to do to EVERYONE. Considering the others look mighty surprised by what’s happening, he hasn’t done THIS before. Also did I mention I really like his plague Doctor mask? Super cool.

116 notes - Posted February 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[lesbiancarat]

Oohhh nicee!! I know March, ash, don are major fan favorites from what I have seen? But it flip flops alot because then we have about you and shadow sometimes popping up at the top bside wise and I think its just fun to see what fans like and enjoy from bsides! Especially with how sometimes different they can sound and it fits peoples tastes and such. For me I'm leaning towards ash and March along with shadow but hot? Omg my most overplayed song rn like YouTube is very much side eyeing me with how many times I watched the mv, dance, 8d version, everything lol xD it is a fun song and yes, I cannot help but do the body roll while humming the song and doing the dishes lolol. I believe the comeback was short? Sorry am a bit behind with svt news as I'm all over the place personally which is a shame but also I do know they have their tour so maybe that could be why as well? Despite it being short promotion wise, I am happy with it because of all the praise this album got and as mention, jun, hao and seungkwan are all getting alot of attention!! Don't get me wrong, I think everyone very much owned this era and everyone is chefs kiss but those 3 to me are the most stand outs if you will? Like their aura on stage is just SOOO fun to watch and I always hold my breath as cliche as that sounds xD (funny about the no showing with seungkwan jdjwjdjsj he showed a lil bit according to boo fans so he has joined the dark side lol) especially since like for seungkwan and jun they aren't always like, shared outside of their bubble of being performers more like the funny people with the memes ya know what I mean? (Idk if I am explaining this correctly fnsndjsj) people are being drawn into their performance and its so nice to see people going 'why hello there who is this!?' And I get all giddy and happy because its nice to see them being praised as performers! Like you said, jun's fancams are getting alot of love and as he should! Its cute to see him get flustered about the praise but I hope he feels proud of the hard work ya know? (Also jun being a fboy!?! Jesus i never knew this was a thing nd I joined the fandom during DWC lolol. Maybe I wasn't deep in the fandom and thats why? I always saw fans calling him handsome but the funny quirky guy? Which fits him i mean he is attractive but this guy just lives his life peacefully and with a hot dog machine while giving heart eyes to seventeen members but I am a baby jun bias so correct me of course!)

I saw you got tickets and so happy for ya!! Congrats to everyone that got tickets and to those that didn't, don't feel bad!! You can get them resale or its also ok if not! Doesnt make you less of a fan and they are holding an online concert as well I believe so you can try that as well! To everyone seeing svt the first time, super fun and hopefully this time we get luck with a full svt again this tour jfjsjdjs. As for me, we got tickets!! We checked both ticketmaster and vividseats on the day of general and we got better pricing for vivid so we got those there! Granted idk when my friend will get them so if anyone has advice do share! I hope we get them because I will feel bad if she paid and we don't get them. But interesting? I know from my experience at ode in Chicago when we got the day on the time they open doors, we went to our seats and got in line and lightsticks were instantly gone and sold out so I guess the best thing is to either arrive super early OR instantly go in line? I bought mine before so I'm good there!

lol i also do the point choreo whenever i'm listening to it and i'm by myself, it's just too addicting dfkjhg yeah the promotion period was a bit short most bc of concert preparation, their seoul concert is in like a week believe it or not. but it also it seems like their last several comebacks have had shorter promotional periods, which i'm guessing is a combination of them being an older/well known group + focusing more on western/international promotions in recent years

yeah i mean not everyone was explicitly calling him a fuckboy all the time. tbf i also joined the fandom in 2017, but from what i've gathered predebut through 2016 was when the worst of that kind of stuff was going on in the fandom (including other just... bad jokes lmao). but his image even back in 2017 was definitely more along the lines of "handsome guy who's really confident/narcissistic" than it was "funny goofy guy". like it's not to say that ppl didn't talk about him being goofy back then but it just wasn't his main image if that makes sense. and even if he was seen as goofy he definitely wasn't seen as innocent by the majority of the fandom back then lol

thank you! i'm not familiar with vividseats but yes hopefully it works out and you're able to go! and yeah if you want a lightstick you have to rush straight to the merch booth as soon as the doors open, no time to go to your seats first lol! but me and my friend did manage to each get one. we were near the doors when they opened but not like the first ones to go in and we went directly to the merch booth. i think there were like ~8 lines at the one booth we went to and maybe 10 or so people in each line before we got there? i was with 3 other people and only me and one other friend wanted a lightstick but all 4 of us each got in separate lines to placehold in case one moved faster. my two friends that weren't buying anything got out of line once we all started getting closer to the front. but it ended up working out and me and my friend both got lightsticks!

#melia.ask #📖 anon

[haruhey]

Mind If I Join You?

check out my masterlist!

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Word count: 13k (i am SO SORRY i got carried away and this fic turned out SO FILTHY but i hit 300 followers so consider this a gift??)

Established Relationship Fluff | Smut

There’s only one bed shower, and Daryl Dixon is an opportunist.

the request:

every single fic of yours is seriously amazing. ur a great writer!! can i request a daryl shower smut bc wooweeeee

There’s always a giddiness inside Daryl when he returns from runs. No more sleeping in the RV for nights on end, no more eating cold canned chicken soup and - as much as he liked Aaron - no more hearing him talk about how much he missed Eric and making him miss you, too. He’s exhausted, his muscles sore from overuse, but the fact that you’re probably curled up in bed makes him so damn excited that all the ailments of his aging body are swiftly forgotten with each step he takes.

Houses fly by in a blur as he ramps up into a jog, his feet taking him to the dim light of a moving lantern in your shared bedroom window. By Daryl’s estimate, it couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11pm, but time meant little in the apocalypse - it was either dark out, or light and with the days getting shorter, he noticed you using the lantern more and more frequently. Just a few days ago, you had fallen asleep curled up on his chest, the soft orange light filling the room before he strained his body trying to turn it off without waking you. The next morning he had a terrible cramp running from his rib up to his bicep, but he never complained. Not even a wince in your presence since he thought the soreness was worth it. He would rather die several times over than lose the image he saw - of your pillowy lips taking soft, steady breaths of air while you slept against his bare skin.

Smiling, he lets himself remember the way you looked when he first gifted it to you, a grin that spread to the apples of your cheeks and crinkled at your eyes plastered on your face. It wasn’t a perfect replica, but it looked close enough to the one you would both light on nightwatches in the prison - which he thinks was when he first realized he loved you. Daryl also remembers the first night he saw you use it, the memory so vivid in his mind that he felt like if he reached out, the soft fabric of your pajamas would welcome his touch.

He could picture it now, your back against the headboard, reading one of the books that littered the shelves he never touches. Your face bathed in the lantern’s hue while your eyes scanned the pages and drinking in every word of whatever you were holding. He plucked that book right out of your hands that night and pulled you onto his lap, kissing the pout off your face until you weren’t annoyed at him anymore, rendered down to just laughing against his lips.

Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get home and see you again.

Daryl curses under his breath as he fumbles a little with the doorknob, but the profanities are quickly replaced with a huff of accomplishment as he practically sprints to the bedroom, boots shucked off haphazardly at the front door. He skips every other stair with long strides, desperate to feel you in his arms. When he enters the bedroom, he places his crossbow on the dresser and is surprised to see the room as dark as it is, the only source of illumination being the moon as it streams through the windows. The bed is empty and the blankets are strewn to your side, but neither you nor your pajamas are anywhere in sight. Panic flies through him before he registers the unmistakable sounds of the shower running, and he scoffs at himself when he sees the dim orange light peeking from beneath the bathroom door.

Had you known how worried he was for a second, you would have laughed at him. He was already so protective of you before the two of you got together, but it was another level entirely when you both made it official. It wasn’t just losing you to the dead anymore - it was also losing you to other people. Daryl knew you could take care of yourself, he had seen you hold your own on runs in the prison and trips outside the Alexandrian gates, but, God, if anything happened to you he wouldn’t know what to do. Being apart from you once when the Governor attacked was already almost too much for him to handle, but the thought of losing you and having to be okay with the fact you were never going to love him again? That was something he never wanted to experience.

Leaning against the wall, he pulls off his belt and places it next to his crossbow, his vest following not long after. The mattress squeaks slightly when he makes his way over to it and lies down, his body feeling almost instant comfort at the feeling of something other than the hard leather of his bike’s seat. Days like this made him think that maybe you were right in jokingly telling him that his motorcycle was a dumb choice for long runs - his tailbone was probably shaped like a rectangle from how long he’d been sitting on his ass.

A few moments pass as he allows himself to indulge in some rest, eyes closing and already in the first stages of a slumber before he shoots up, pushing himself to the edge of the mattress and sitting straight. Fuck, he needed to shower. He had given you his word that he would. Each time before he fell asleep after a run, he’d said; and Daryl Dixon was not one to break promises. Especially not to you.

Getting off the bed, he sheds his shirt and throws the old fabric onto the dresser, grimacing at the knowledge he would have to scrub at the dried walker blood come morning. His socks are next, pulled off by impatient hands and left on the floor, not even given a second glance as he then pulls open a drawer and grabs a pair of boxers from his meager pile. The only thought in his mind being the feeling of smooth sheets and your body against his skin. He’d pick up his clothes after his shower - if he could even muster up enough energy to.

Step by step, he makes it a good few feet out of the bedroom before he realizes the other second floor bathroom doesn’t work. If his memory served him correct, there were some plumbing issues and, before anyone could buy replacements, the world became, well, what it is now. After all, it was the only reason you and Daryl even took this house - nobody else wanted to have only one shower and, after becoming a couple, sharing one between two people didn’t seem all that bad. At least, that’s what he thought until now. Groaning, he rubs his eyes in an attempt to rub out the fatigue in them before his whole body lights up with an idea. Maybe he could have some fun with this. And if you asked, he could always blame the missing pipe or whatever it was that the Alexandrians couldn’t fix.

Practically thrilled, he mentally pats himself on the back and rushes back to the bedroom. Tired? Not anymore. Daryl can’t be if he wants to fulfill what just popped into his mind. Years of hunting leave his footsteps nearly silent when he enters the bathroom, but he’s not exactly at a disadvantage in terms of noise. The rhythmic beating of water against the tiled floor drowns out the slight squeak of the door as well as the hitching of his breath when he notices the gap. With how the room was designed, just standing at the door led his gaze in a nearly direct line of sight to you, the shower curtain lying an inch or two from the wall and offering him a vision which he doesn’t hesitate to indulge in.

It’s not like he's never seen your body - far from it, actually - but there was something about you that made him hesitate when it came to stuff like this. You deserved sweet and soft, affectionate with declarations of love between his kisses, and while he enjoyed giving that to you, sometimes he wanted something different. Sometimes Daryl wanted to act on impulse - to feel a different type of desperation - and tonight, he wanted to act out one of his long-hidden fantasies. One that involved you on many, many occasions.

Truthfully, he couldn’t fucking stop thinking about it since Merle and his buddies showed him that damn VHS as a hormonal high schooler. He never really had a committed girlfriend or anything like that to ever even pluck up the courage to ask, but that fantasy remained like a phantom in the back of his mind, lying just outside his finger’s reach. One that haunts him late at night and renders him withering in his own palm. At least, that was the case. Because he has you now and how he managed that? He didn't know. But he felt confident enough around you and trusted you enough to pursue the desire in him.

A shiver courses through him, running along the tip of his spine when he considers the possibility you might like it as much as him - and if you did, maybe he would divulge to you more of these secrets he’s always kept hidden so well.

With silent movements, Daryl unbuttons and unzips his jeans as he leans against the door of the bathroom, just barely suppressing a groan when his fingers graze the zipper. He curses himself, chastising his sensitivity at the mere image of you doing something as mundane as taking a shower, but he knew it was an inevitable consequence. Ever since the prison, anything you did got him riled up - even just seeing you sitting on his motorcycle made his skin light up with goosebumps. Left in only his boxers, he steps out of the denim pooling at his feet and picks it up, throwing it haphazardly onto the cream coloured counter as he waits for you to take notice of his presence. The metal button clashes against the smooth marble of the vanity, and its noises sound across the room, your eyes opening and your fingers catching the edge of the plastic curtain as you dart your head out, searching for the source.

Your body tenses up, no doubt the experience of living out on the road for so long, but the fighting instinct drains from you the moment you see the affectionate boyish grin playing on Daryl’s lips. It’s barely visible as he stands so far from the meager light source, but it sends an eager smile onto your face. Like all those times he’s returned to you, you want to run to him, feel his arms wrap around you and inhale his scent as you plant those incessant kisses he ‘hated’ everywhere on his face, but that urge only serves to remind you that you’re standing naked in a shower and he’s just staring at you.

“Daryl! What the- I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

Embarrassed, you speak, voice pitched higher than normal from the shock and excitement coursing through your body. However, he stays put, leaning against the door as he drags his eyes up the expanses of skin afforded to him; that is, until you pull the plastic curtain to cover yourself and run your free hand through your hair, tilting your head ever so slightly in order to urge his eyes to meet yours. You wait for his response as you brush the wet strands back from your face, but it never comes, him instead choosing to stride towards you and send you a pout before pulling petulantly at the shower curtain, trying to coax you to let go of it. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, your grip loosens and he can barely hold back his excitement when you really do let go, tongue peeking out for just a second before he hooks his lip between his teeth.

Throughout your relationship with Daryl, you learned he loved looking at you, gawking at and admiring each angle, birthmark and curve until you felt heat flush through your body. Even before the two of you got together, his gaze stuck on you, longing and soft when you weren’t looking, only hardening if your eyes ever met his. Each time he saw you it was like he was still in disbelief that you were his, forever suspended in the wide look he had when you first confessed to him, hence why you didn’t pay much attention to his stare as you moved to pump out some shampoo. You didn’t really know why he was in the bathroom and he made no effort to tell you, but you were here to clean yourself. So that’s what you’ll do. He’ll probably leave sooner or later after making sure you weren’t hurt anywhere, anyways.

The way the light from the lantern bounced off your glistening skin made you look like some sort of goddess. Like an otherworldly being he shouldn’t be looking at. Or like a succubus, sinfully tantalizing, except you didn’t know what you were doing to him as you raked your hands through your hair again, bubbles forming already between your fingers as you scrubbed. Shit, this was way better than he expected, and he’s gladly taking in everything it was offering. Shifting his weight, he clenches and unclenches his fists - commanding himself to keep them at his sides - but then you turn around, allowing the water to rush down your back and his resolve withers away as he tries not to envy the path along which it’s falling.

Soon, the little space between the shower curtain and the ceramic tiling isn’t enough for him. He needs to feel you against him, his trembling hands and suffocating boxers egging him on like this was the first time he’s ever seen you naked. Clearing his throat, he urges himself to move, building his confidence which had seemed to dissipate nearly immediately as you locked eyes with him. What he wanted to do wasn’t sweet or affectionate, and even though he knew you would tell him if you didn’t like it, he just didn’t really want to risk even doing something you didn’t like in the first place.

“Sorry I, uh, I’ll go rinse out my hair somewhere else. Here, I’ll get out so you can-”

This was it. He had to act now or he’ll lose the opportunity. Running his thumb across his bottom lip, he watches as your hand reaches for the shower valve, but your movements and voice stop when Daryl shoots his dominant hand out, the calloused skin wrapping around your wrist in a warmth that makes you snap your gaze to his. While firm, he never applies enough force to hurt you - he knows what kind of men there were in this world, and he didn’t know what he would do if you ever thought of him like that. On the contrary, the feeling of his fingers around you is welcome, especially after what felt like years away from him. Giving him that same inquisitive look, except this time laced with a small smile, you can tell by the way he’s gnawing at his lip that he has something to say. Something that has him hesitating in a way you’ve never really seen him hesitate before, well, besides the first time you both kissed.

“Actually, mind if I join ya? ‘Cause ya see, the other shower don’t work and there’s this girl - my girl - she’s amazin’, but she doesn’t let me into our bed ‘til I shower and I’m damn tired.”

Oh.

Noticing the way you tense up slightly at his suggestion, he offers more, another reason to sway you into accepting as if the pursuit of his little fantasy would both begin and end with what drops from his lips. This definitely felt more daunting, like a much larger leap than him asking for permission to kiss you.

“I also heard showerin’ in pairs saves water.”

Oh.

Yeah, you get why he was hesitating now.

Honestly, Daryl really couldn’t give a fuck about the water he was talking about. What he had in his running mind had little to do with his environmental footprint and more to do with feeling your skin on his and the image of you coming undone for him. He hasn’t been home - been with you - in what felt like weeks, and he thought the generator could stand to work a little harder after running for one person for a few days. With a slight upwards twitch of his eyebrow, you can feel what little apprehension you had leave your body and his heart pounds in his ribcage with the anxiety of what’s to come. At least, he thinks that’s why its beating at 100 miles per hour.

It surely can’t be the residual hormonal anticipation or excitement from his youth.

“And who exactly did you hear that from?”

The slight joking edge to your voice causes him to smile, but it’s a mischievous one, one that holds promises and sends a shiver through your body. Daryl really had no clue what he did to you when he looked at you like that, his piercing blue gaze hitting you as his head tilts down almost sheepishly to the grip he has on you.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a glint residing in them that draws you to look at nothing but him as he runs his thumb along the bone of your wrist. With a tilt of his head, he speaks, muttered as he gnaws once more at his lips and lets go of his hold.

“It matter?”

So nobody, probably.

The amusing thought sends you shaking your head ‘no’ as you smile, pulling open the plastic curtain in invitation while trying to suppress the idea that just popped into your head. Daryl just wants to shower and the only reason he wants to shower with you is to fulfill that promise he had made. Because he just wants to go to sleep. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, he’s hopeful that you would be watching him - and he’s fully prepared to make a show of stripping his last piece of fabric - but he’s sorely disappointed when he sees your eyes closed in an attempt to keep the bubbling shampoo from burning at them.

Why weren’t you looking at him? Was he not overt enough?

Wow, he really wasn’t very good with… whatever it is he’s trying to do, huh?

You shuffle forward from the steady stream and he takes that as his cue to step in, gladly placing his body just a few inches from yours and sighing in relief when the water hits his sore muscles. The sounds don’t go unnoticed by you, and your heart sinks a little with each suppressed groan of pain Daryl lets out. He always worked so hard for Alexandria, and they still treated him like somewhat of an outsider, questioning his true intentions with harsh looks when he even so much as walked too close to them. But they didn’t seem to mind him much when they were eating the animals he hunted, though, and that sent your blood boiling.

Turning around, you try not to let your gaze drop too low as you place your hands on his shoulders, frowning when you feel the stiff knots that have burrowed their way underneath his skin. Almost immediately, Daryl submits to your touch, an all too familiar warmth bubbling in his heart as he, too, turns and exposes his scar ridden skin to you, allowing your thumbs to rub circles into his upper back. He always loved this - the domesticity of these moments, the wordless communications, your love and affection directed solely at him - and he’s starting to forget the real reason he crashed your shower in the first place, lulled into relaxation under your nimble fingers and the water beating down on his overworked muscles.

“Does that feel better?”

Your question warrants a response landing somewhere between a grunt and a groan, but then you laugh and he swears his heart swells tenfold. He missed hearing that. Even if you got embarrassed of it sometimes, or hid it muffled behind the palms of your hands, he loved hearing it. Because you glowed when you did, your eyes crinkling up at the corners with a smile that almost always brought him to his knees, and perhaps almost selfishly, the knowledge that he doesn’t want to be away from you any longer dawns on him - as well as the knowledge that it’s inevitable that he has to leave again soon. Whether it be with Aaron or Rick, or some of the poor bastards that piss their pants whenever they see him.

When you stop your ministrations, he feels himself frowning as you tap him once with your thumbs, but he elates almost immediately when you speak promise of a better massage come morning. He’s slightly ashamed of the way his whole body lights up in goosebumps in anticipation, but it’s not unwarranted. Spending late mornings with you was something Daryl never knew how the hell he had lived so long without, and they were his favourite types of mornings by a long shot. Especially when it ended up more often than not with you on him or him on you, the both of you thankful for the misfit house you had all to yourselves and away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.

“You’re too damn good to me.”

But he deserves it, you think to yourself, He deserved to be cared for like this.

His praise drips with a softness he didn’t even know he was capable of until you came along and Daryl turns back around to face you, smirking lopsided when he sees a shy smile worm its way onto your face. He had to have known what he was doing when he said stuff like that - especially when he used a voice like that. Seriously, how long had the two of you been together? It felt like an eternity already, but he could still make you flustered from a simple compliment. Shaking your head, you rest your wrists at the nape of his neck and use the leverage to pull his lips to yours, thumb swiping at the blood dried at his cheek and hoping the distraction of your tongue on his will keep him from teasing the warmth crawling up your neck.

A ‘hm?’ noise falls from him, small and surprised as his eyebrows raise for just a moment before his hands loop around your waist by instinct. When you pull away, another noise falls from Daryl, but this time it’s more disappointed than anything, and he chases your lips with his bottom one jutted out, taking full advantage of the strong arms he has wrapped around you. Holding you in place, his eyes plead with the now perfected ‘one more’ look you’re all too familiar with and you can’t bring yourself to deny him - he knows you can’t. Closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he waits patiently, he hums when you finally kiss him again, his satisfaction vibrating down to the hollow center of your collarbones before begrudgingly letting you go when you pull away again.

The water runs a brownish red from the dried walker blood being washed off his body and he scrubs furiously at his arms, trying to gauge the right move that will get your thighs shaking and your moans bouncing off the ceramic tiles he’s seen less than he’s willing to admit. Should he just… go for it? Just pull you against him and push you up against the walls he wants your noises to echo off of? No, he should come up with a better idea. You deserved a better idea.

Running his thumb along his jaw, Daryl sneaks furtive glances at your body - who the hell he was hiding them from, he didn’t know - and picks even more skin off his chapped lips as he watches you twist at your waist ever so slightly to comb through your hair. Swallowing down his spit like some teenager, he watches your shoulder blades protrude and disappear, intently following the droplets of water as they fall along your neck and down the muscles you’ve developed. He had to hand it to the sorry rich prick who had designed this house because, all things considered, they did a pretty good job; there was just enough spread of it between the two of you to pass as a decent shower. Even if you or him had to oddly angle yourselves to warm a cool patch of skin.

Reaching towards the shampoo bottle, his arm brushes against your waist almost feather-light, but it sends a shiver through you, rattling your ribs and making your cheeks flush all the same. Daryl lingers for a moment longer than you expect, his body leaning as he stretches over and you think he’s going to step forward - wrap you up in him - but dutifully, respectfully, anxiously he stays put. You want his touch, especially after nights alone with only the scent of him on his side of the bed to keep you company, and, having caught a quick glance at his straining boxers before he joined, there’s little room for doubt in your mind that he wants you. But still, it exists.

Your own arms begin to sore when he finally pulls away, his hands now raking through the hair he seemingly never wants to cut. Clearing your throat, you turn around, eyes screwed shut as you face Daryl, fearing for both the shampoo you’re washing out stinging at your eyes and the fact that if you looked at him, your gaze would probably drop. God, was all it took just a few days without him to have you craving him like this? The close proximity coupled with the knowledge he’s standing next to you naked makes you tense up before a shiver runs up your spine, your thoughts causing your breath to hitch for barely a second. Despite your efforts to suppress it, your subconscious prays that he picks up on the little noise. Please let him pick up on it.

And he does, ever observant as he connects the dots, the initially surprised look on his face melting into a small anticipatory smirk before he all but races to lather his hair in the coconut - or was it grapefruit? - scent. This was good. This was damn good.

He dares take a step forward, tentative, testing out the waters as if he was unsure of your desire, but he knows he can read you, and that he can do it well. This was when he should do something, right? The subtle confirmations - a tense, a shiver, a hitching breath - beg him to. Under the streaming shower, Daryl impatiently scrubs at his scalp, teeth hooked permanently atop his lip as he watches the rivulets of watered-down shampoo catch along your skin, his fingers and mouth itching to replicate its path down your neck to your chest. He knows that path well, and perhaps that’s what makes him even more envious.

Thank God for the fact you’ve closed your eyes because if anybody saw Daryl right now, they would take a step back, maybe even several thinking he was angry. How could they not when he was glaring at you as if you had done something horrible? It’s a surprise to him, the fact that it seemed like you really could not feel the burn of his stare, but then a thought pops into his lust-fogged brain. Maybe you did know. And maybe you were toying with him, playing coy and pushing him to a teetering edge, letting him taste the tension on his tongue until he could hold back no more.

To say he’s impatient is an understatement. He isn’t simply impatient, no, he’s impatient. He wants to do something. He wants you to do something, to initiate the flurry of hands and lips he’s craving so desperately and, seemingly blind to that triad of signals, he scrubs frantic at his hair in an attempt to control himself. As he rinses out the shampoo, he manages to cling onto what little restraint he had over his body until you turn back around. It was like the universe was egging him on, trying to break his resolve by showing him those dimples on your lower back, reminding him of the way he gripped them when he took you that night before he left - and it works. Jesus fucking Christ does it work.

Daryl’s body crowds you then, muscular arms wrapped around either side of your waist and rough hands palming at your chest before sliding down to your stomach, pulling you flush into him while he grinds his hips experimentally against your body. The feeling catches you off-guard, eyes widening in surprise as you let out a gasp into the steam of hot water and you grip harshly at his forearm, attempting to steady yourself from the sensations blossoming from your thighs. He can feel them tense and begin to snap closed against him, but you hear the corners of his mouth twitch upwards with satisfaction.

“What- what are you doing?”

Restless, his fingers travel downwards, hooking a strong thigh between your two legs as he ignores your question, them parting immediately to accommodate him. Daryl’s veins thrum with adrenaline, feeling the all too familiar effects of your warm skin when he realizes you’re letting him do this - enjoying him, even - your hands pawing at his to beg him to speed up, to bring you that nirvana he loves to be the reason for. Heat flushes your body, knowing full well what he’s capable of, but despite it, your skin erupts into goosebumps under his touch, desperate for more.

“What’s it look like ‘m doin’?”

Your neck comes under his affection next, his lips meeting it as he mumbles the words against your pulse point, tongue darting out when he feels it speed up. Almost methodically, Daryl finds the marks he’d left days prior, darkening them with unadulterated determination and rolling his hips against you once more. The heavy motion draws a whine from you, short and needy as your nails dig into his wrist and he all but basks in it. God, this felt good. How the hell had he spent so long without you? Without your skin under his? Everything about you feels like a fucking drug to him.

“D-Daryl- what would your girl say.”

He smiles against your neck, a warm pride bubbling in his chest when he hears the slight shake in your voice. It always got like this when he was touching you, and he liked to think it was the anticipation raking through your body. All the possibilities he could bring to you. He loved listening to your voice as it was, but hearing it quaver as it bounced off the ceramic walls, mingled perfectly with the rhythmic thrum of water crashing against the two of you? It was almost alarming how quickly it made his head spin.

Submitting to your urging, he lets you slide his hands down to the apex of your thighs, groaning guttural into your ear when he feels your hips lift and rut into his touch, unintentionally grinding your ass onto his cock when you push yourself back onto him. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, you hear his breaths as he digs his palm an inch below your pelvis, thick fingers gripping harsh at your inner thighs as he nudges his further between them. It feels like fucking magic, whatever he’s doing, and a plea tingles at your lips before you bite it down. Daryl’s never been this bold, and this is new territory for the two of you. Very new. So you were going to let him take his time - let him explore every inch of your skin as if he didn’t already have it memorized - despite the fact every cell in your body screams for you to sink down on him right here and now.

His grip disappears too quickly for your taste, but before you can even register the decadent sear that marks his blunt fingernails and calluses, his palm makes home just below your stomach and he swipes two fingers against you, spreading you for him but avoiding that bundle of nerves you want so desperately for him to touch. An expletive drops from Daryl’s lips as he gathers evidence of your arousal, and the sound of him makes you claw at his wrist, your hands still blanketing his as you try to angle him to do something other than coat his fingers and smear you across your inner thighs. Amused, his middle finger curls, breaching you just until his first joint before pulling away, relishing in the way you clench as if trying to keep him in you.

“Hm, I dunno. What do ya think she’d say? I think she likes it.”

You can hear the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he feels your body react and you can practically see it behind your closed eyelids. Daryl knows all your buttons, every single movement that renders you down to a puddle of mush, but he’s avoiding them. His jaw clenches and unclenches as you buck your hips up to try and meet the talented fingers only getting further and further and further from you. Skin warm from the streaming water and the sheer amount of lust coursing through him, his left arm snakes upward, resting just under your breasts before pulling your shoulders flush against him. His teeth sneak out from behind his lips, grazing against that spot that made your thighs shake the first time you slept with him, and you become putty in his hands.

A gasp of Daryl’s name falls before a staggered whimper erupts from your throat, his hands moving so fast and sure along your body as if he had molded you to his perfection. Everything hits you at the same time, his sharp canines right below your jaw bone before they melt into the caress of slightly chapped lips, the hand at your chest palming and tweaking and toying like there was no tomorrow, his fingers swirling, nudging at that tiny bundle of nerves you’ve been silently begging him to touch just once, and you can’t stop the noises falling from your lips. No matter how much you try, they escape.

“Or d’ya think she’s too busy moanin’ for me to tell me?”

Oh, that fucking prick.

To make it worse, you can’t even bring yourself to be angry for that long because his voice drops into that low, husky whisper that makes your knees go weak. Had Daryl not essentially smothered you against his body, you just know you would be a puddle, pliable and aching after just a few days away from him. A jolt of pleasure rockets through you the moment you realize what he wants - to make you as desperate as he is for this - and you know he knows exactly how to get it. Biting your lip, you trap your sounds in your throat just to spite him and you dig your fingers into his forearm, seeking in any way to find another outlet for all the compounding stimulation he just keeps giving you.

Your heartbeat drums through your ears and you can barely register the growl against your skin, but the vibration of it is inescapable. He feels the crescent shapes already forming from your nails on his tan skin and he pulls his face from you, breath fanning your ear in preparation to express how disappointed he is at you robbing him of your noises, but you beat him to it, freeing the words that burn at your tongue to knock him off his high-horse. Daryl was never a very confident man, but fuck if it does not make your skin tingle.

“I think she’d tell you to- to shut up.”

The rebuke is futile, a stutter brought on by the push and pull of his deft fingers and he laughs. Daryl chuckles into your skin before everything from him detaches, only for him to grab at your waist and spin you around to face him, adjusting his hold to crowd you once more. Your back hits the ceramic tiles, a sharp whine escaping you at the contrasting cold, and you can see that smirk you had envisioned on his face when you open your eyes, taking in every inch of the swept back hair now falling into his face as he tilts his forehead slowly to yours. Running your non-dominant hand up from his arm to his face, you push the strands back, smiling slightly at the way he melts as his eyelids flutter shut for just a second. As much as he said he hated how damn soft you made him, he sought after your touch, your hands much too intoxicating for him to deny them.

You glow a ring of delicate orange from the lantern shining behind him, the light bouncing off your glistening skin and those sparkling damn eyes that shine with unguarded affection despite your ‘annoyance’ from just moments ago. Creating shadows over your body with his broad figure as he blankets you, Daryl nearly groans with delight at the image - the realization that you look impossibly better with the warm hue making his head spin. And when he remembers that you’re his to love? He tries to hide just how much it makes his mind run, but his voice comes spilling out without much thought, everything about you shrinking the filter between his brain and mouth that he so tenaciously keeps on during the day.

“That so? ‘Cause if I do then I can’t tell ‘er how much I missed her. Or what I was thinkin’ when I thought about ‘er at night.”

Daryl was already so worked up at the thought of doing this to you, you didn’t even need to actually do anything to him to have him throbbing against your stomach, begging to be touched after days of only imagined scenarios to keep him company. So you indulge him, tracing your dominant hand down the V-line of his pelvis and biting your tongue when his hips snap into your grasp, his grip at your waist tightening as he tries to still himself. He wants you to touch him, to let you give him what you want to give him and he tries his damndest to control himself, instead using his words to try and rile you up.

“Nothin’ I do feels as good as her. Nothin’ I’ve tried’s ever been close.”

Your whole body shivers at the insinuation, the ceramic sandwiching you to Daryl ceasing to feel as cold as it did when he first pushed you against it. He feels like centuries have passed when your hand finally wraps around him, running your fingers in a stroke that has him groaning and nearly keeling over you with how much that simple damn action makes heat pool in the pit of his stomach. Everything about this feels heightened, the steam of the shower failing in comparison to the heat pinging between the two of you. His eyes seek yours, cock twitching and catapulting him much farther to his climax than he would like to admit when he sees you watching your grasp, lips parted ever so slightly, pleading with him to lay his on them.

Heart thrumming in his chest, another groan of an expletive followed by your name drops from Daryl before his hips jerk forward, stuttering into your grip with no real rhythm as he pushes a rough kiss onto your mouth. When you let out a little surprised squeal, he pulls himself back immediately, as if shocked by his own lack of self-control, but your hand never stops, and your face leans closer towards his, the feeling of his ruined sounds vibrating along your tongue making you chase him. This must have been how he felt when he had you whimpering for him on those late nights and early mornings. No wonder you both loved them so much.

Twisting your other hand from the side of his neck to his nape, you pull him to you with equal fervor, the stroking of his cock forgotten in favour of his chapped lips turning into something more sinful with each movement of his talented mouth. His fingers begin to wander now, eagerly grasping at the two dimples at your lower back before his palms find all too familiar territory kneading and massaging your ass. Knees nearly buckling, you remember the leaking heaviness twitching in your grip and you nudge him between your thighs, your legs spreading just a bit wider as you inch him closer and closer and closer to where you need it most.

“N-no, wait- I gotta-“

His hands shoot downwards to still yours and he pulls his hips from you, his statement stuttered through a sharp, shaky breath. Whining, you nearly beg for him before you realize he succeeded in what he set out to do - and he was only gone four days, your subconscious chastises. Your head is swimming in desperation for him as you shake it, hair whipping into your face and onto the wall while you vehemently disagree with both his words and your own internal mocking. All coherent thoughts leave your mind, washed away in the stream of water running down your body and you come to the conclusion that you don’t fucking care if he would poke fun at you come morning, you need to feel him.

“Daryl you don’t need to- you can just- I can-“

You don’t need to keep-

You can just-

I can-

God, you sounded pathetic, your voice barely breaking above breathy through the heavy beating of water, and he loves it, it’s enticing him; he could die right now and he would feel nothing but satisfaction. Daryl was never a very confident man - well, with people at least - but around you, he felt wanted. Not just in moments like this when you craved him so debaucherously, but in moments when you would pull close to him while you were sleeping or hug him from the back. Just giving him your affection so freely and not expecting any back. It made his heart damn near break everytime he had to leave. Adjusting his grip on you, he digs his knee into the wall, perching you on either side of him and leaning closer and closer to your burning skin.

“Gotta get ya ready. Jus’- jus’ be a good girl an’ be patient. Don’t want ya limpin’ tomorrow ”

Despite his words, Daryl can’t help but think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t be so bad to linger beside you the whole day, a constant reminder of the real reason you needed him to get you things, or why you would grip his arm as a piss poor substitute for a crutch when the two of you walked along the street. Nobody else would know - at least, neither of you would ever tell - but the satisfied puff of his chest and the fact he stands just a little bit prouder might make them connect the dots. That, and the lovebites that creep out from underneath the neckline of your shirt which, coincidentally, only seemed to darken after he came back. Nah, he thinks to himself, it wouldn’t be so damn bad.

“I thought you were tired.”

There’s a hint of concern in your voice, peeking out from between the teasing and he grunts, acknowledging your words before his hands wrap around your wrists and urges them to loop around his neck. He knows he needs to do this, the action a silent beg for you to just relax and let him treat you right in the way you know he always will. With his neck flush in the crooks of your elbows, you tug him, pulling his face to yours and raking your fingers through his wet hair.

“Never too tired for you.”

His stubble scrapes against your nose as he mumbles his confession between kisses down from your forehead, a delicious burn leaving a trail that makes your heart beat impossibly faster between your ribs. Grip falling to your waist, Daryl’s rough fingers inch towards the apex of your thighs, but he moves them so fucking slow you're tempted to just reach down and push them into you like you intended to do with his cock. Before you can entertain the idea any longer, he catches your lips in a clash of tongue and teeth and knowingly smirks against your lips. He’s dedicated, attentive, and what kind of man would have the heart to deny you? He would do anything for you, all you had to do was ask.

Daryl eagerly swallows the moan you let out against his lips when his middle finger curls into you, the vibrations spreading along his tongue and consuming him from the inside out. Your thighs spread wider for him, welcoming him - no, begging him - for more and it riles him up almost comically well. Whether it was intentional or not, he would never know. He pulls his face away just inches, breath heavy against your parted lips before he sends you a small smile, an underlying mischief peeking out from the tiniest sliver of teeth he exposes. Leaning more of his weight onto his knee, his left hand travels around your waist to your ass, digging his dull fingernails into the flesh and pulling towards him, bringing your hips off the cold ceramic and snaking that arm into the curve he’s just created.

Before you can even brace yourself, he pushes a second finger in, curling languid with accelerating speed, revelling in the heat you bring him with an audible groan that reverberates off the shower walls. Already so desperate, the feeling nearly makes your legs shake under your own weight, but Daryl’s prepared - he could keep you up with the hand he has splayed across your upper back and he’s secretly proud of it. His mouth returns to you again, tongue surging to meet yours as if just the taste of your kiss would satisfy his desire to taste what’s beginning to coat down his palm.

It doesn’t, but it’s a damn good substitute.

Nails scratching pathetically at his scalp, your lungs beg for oxygen, but you ignore your body’s pleading for as long as you can. You need Daryl. Just him. Just him. His fingers are ardent, all of them pushing and pulling and toying and touching you in a way that skyrockets you into an overwhelming nirvana and it feels good. It feels so good to be with him again, surrounded by his scent and his heat, that you start to entertain the thought of begging for him. You try to do just that, but every sound coming from your lips is only absorbed greedily by his before you pull him away by his hair, taking large gulps of oxygen as he does the same.

Not even a second passes before you’re grinding down into his palm with pleas falling into the steam of the shower, all your words going straight down to his cock. Gritting his teeth, he growls at your desperation, lips shooting down along your collarbone before catching the skin between teeth. He has your whole body memorized, proof of that fact littered across your body in the form of lovebites, memories seared into your mind of his everything and it’s almost too much to handle. Almost. But you need more. And Daryl knows, much too perceptive in all senses of the word.

His left arm snakes up to your neck, the nape of it secured in a grip firm enough to pull your hips down onto his muscular thigh, spreading you and rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves with his rough skin. Something between a swear and Daryl’s name chokes through your throat and he curls his two fingers just enough for you to repeat the sound, the movement perhaps pulling your hips forwards toward him. With the way you grind down so readily on him, it wasn’t easy to tell whether the roll of your lower body was from his fingers or the lust running through your veins. A satisfied smirk worms its way onto his face that you want to kiss off, but your head is stuck against the ceramic tiling by his hand tugging securely on your hair. Not enough to hurt you. Never enough to hurt you.

He can feel it now, the fact that you’re close, and it only makes him work harder. Maybe it was selfish of him, expediting your pleasure so he can finally seek out his, but he’s damn near shaking with the thought of finally being able to be with you in one of the ways he always wants to be. Sometimes Daryl felt like a teenager with all this certain enthusiasm he can’t seem to control with you around, but you had never complained - you made him feel alive in all the best ways - and he thanked whoever was pulling the strings in his favour for bringing him to you. Circling his thigh, he pushes everything he can up into you, the pressure making you feel like you’re floating. Fingers carding through his hair, your whole body tightens around him in a silent plea, and he's pretty sure he would have to be just about the biggest idiot in existence to ever deny you.

“Give it to me. C’mon, give it to me. Ya wanted my cock didn’t ya? Jus’ give it to me an’ I’ll make ya feel even better.”

Give it to me.

Give it to me.

Give it to me.

Daryl’s voice makes your mind swim, the growl rough and dangerous like everyone always tends to think he is, and incoherence drops from your lips, echoing against the confines of the walls as his breath fans your ear. Rutting your hips up to his hand, the knot in your abdomen snaps, the proclamation of it escaping you in a broken moan of his name. He can feel your body’s reactions before you start to get those familiar sparking waves of pleasure, the clench of you around him growing sporadic as he continues to unravel you with his teeth gritted, the unrelenting precision of his fingers sending you clawing and tugging at his scalp with no regard of your strength for just a moment.

His groan at the sensations edges out the haze of your climax and you immediately detach from him, pulling your body back from his so abruptly that he slips from you. Scrunching his nose in disappointment, his large hands cling at the back of your thighs, bringing your chest and forehead to his as if he couldn’t stand being apart from you for even just a few seconds.

“Sorry- sorry if that hurt I didn’t mean to-”

Face inches from yours, he shakes his head and cuts you off with a series of hungry pecks. One to your sinfully soft lips, then to the corner of your mouth, then one to your jawbone, devouring your apology right then and there as he overtakes your senses.

“‘S alright. It felt good.”

Then he kisses you again, urgent all the same, but he only pushes a firm brush of his mouth against yours. The movement is like a signature, as if it were his name scribbled easily along at the bottom of a letter - a soft possession that you wear along the tingles of your lips. It makes you claw at him again, tugging on the sides of his hips to pull him flush against you, fingernails digging crescent shapes he wants to see come morning, and your apprehension all but dissolves into the hot water of the shower. You were his, he was yours and in his mind, there was nothing he wanted more than for you to show him just what he does to you.

“Anythin’ ya do feels good.”

It’s stupid, how you could be in the middle of something so intimate and a simple compliment from him could leave you flushed from the neck upwards, but he loves it. He loves the little whimper you let out at his words and he smiles that lopsided boyish grin that makes your heart skip a beat. When he smiles at you like that, it makes you feel like the only person in the entire world. No walkers, no Alexandrians, no runs or patients at the infirmary to steal you or him away from the other. There was no one except you and Daryl - and it’s been too damn long since it was like this.

Body flush against yours, he snakes a hand down between his legs and the other grips at your thigh, hooking it around his torso and begging with a roll of his hips for you to rest your leg there. Each breath he takes sends a jolt of pleasure blossoming against your ribs, his skin rubbing against your chest so deliciously it makes your mouth fall open in silent pants of air. You don’t know when you closed your eyes, but they open when Daryl says your name, broken by a curse that falls somewhere after the first letter. He looks good like this - eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched.

Gritting his teeth, his mouth can barely form a coherent sentence with how much excitement is coursing through him, and he’s trying his fucking best to hold back from slamming into you until you give him a nod or a pull or anything, but then something in him breaks. The feeling of just having you so damn close worms its way into his brain and he takes himself in his fist, dragging along to gather the remnants of your climax and notches himself, all the while groaning from the heat emanating off you.

“‘S this okay? Need t’know if this’s okay.”

Slurred speech. It was so uncharacteristic of the Daryl everyone else knew - the Daryl who was so sure of himself, the Daryl who wore a permanent scowl on his face, the Daryl who was so mysterious, never speaking anything above a growl - and you think you could have laughed had it not been for the fact the words themselves dig up memories of all the times he had said them to you before. Every cell in your body lights up, high alert now that he’s in you, but he’s not moving. He’s not inching into you or filling you in the only way he can and you push your hips towards him, greedy movements making you swallow more of him. Taking a sharp breath, he lets you rut against him, but still, he doesn’t fucking move.

“God, Daryl- yes. Yes, it’s okay. More- more than okay.”

Sometimes you hated him, and then hated how stupid you felt for hating him.

He waits for your words. He always does. Without fail he checks on you before he slides into you. He never wants to take because he always wants to be good for you, but sometimes you wish he would. Sometimes you wish he would just take from you - take everything you have. There is nothing in this world that is not shared between the two of you. Daryl’s wholly yours as you are wholly his.

Curses drop from his lips, your name thrown in once or twice as if he’s reminding himself you’re real as he feels you around him. They fly out of his mouth like the bolts from his crossbow and ricochet off every wall as he begins to move, slow at first, experimental maybe with his hand secure against your thigh, then he starts building and building into a heavy, sinful rhythm. Shakily, Daryl groans, the breath he lets out tendrilling at your chin before he sucks frantically at your bottom lip, your noises meeting his as they hit the ceramic wall.

He wants to live in this moment forever; immortalize the way you look and sound on one of those VHSes, write the damn date on it, and hide it away for his and your eyes only so it’s rewatchable and revisitable and reliveable. It's not enough to just sear you into his memory like he’s done so many times before because you’re damn near perfect. Like you were made for him - for him to give you everything he wants to give to you.

“Fuck- fuck- you feel better’n I remembered. How’s‘at possible?”

The words escape him, rushing out as if you’ve put a spell on him, and they almost escape you, too, your pulse beating in your ears. But he’s so close to you, growling out through gritted teeth into your ear and pushing his lips to the curve of your jawbone like they need to be on your skin. He pulls his body away, chest leaving yours, and you pull at his waist to bring him back, whining lewd for him and only him, shameless and betraying the blush you feel as you register his stutters, but he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl smiles, that same damn grin with his teeth hooked along his bottom lip and eyes hooded as he watches every change in expression. You groan, half in the way he rolls his pelvis just enough to rub against that small bundle of nerves that beg for him, and half in annoyance at the way that lascivious expression seems to make every electron in you buzz.

“Shut- shut up.”

He lets out a sharp breath, a singular amused ‘ha’ following it, cock hardening and twitching even more at the fact he’s making you blush like that first night he had lavished every inch of your body with his lips - like you didn’t deserve every single damn word escaping from him. Leaning his weight against his left forearm that lies on the side of your head, Daryl brings his face to yours, nipping at your lips and seeking your tongue before he starts speaking.

“You should see yourself like this, y’know. Fuckin’ perfect for me.”

For a man who only ever growls and mutters, he certainly liked to talk a lot when he was pounding into you the way only he knows how and you’re just so damn unbelievable for him. For him. You’re his to love and it sparks something within in him that makes his tongue fucking run and his hips speed up involuntarily. Hell, you probably heard more of his voice in this shower tryst than the whole first nightwatch you had with him. You’re not even sure the water is beating down onto you anymore because the heat of your body makes the shower pale in comparison.

The sweat accumulating on his back and chest and everywhere is washed away almost immediately as it forms and you’re grasping for something to hold onto. Clawing, you wrap both your arms under and around his shoulders and scratch desperately at his back, grinding up against him and making jumbled noises of moans and Daryl’s name when he drags against that spot he knows so well. It’s skin on skin, the ceramic wall ceasing to feel cold as you screw your eyes shut and let yourself mount and mount with each roll of his hips. You hear a nearly feral growl, feeling your leg being hiked up higher by the elbow hooked underneath your thigh, and a loud noise breaks from your throat when his thumb swipes where his cock meets you.

“C’mon, we ain’t got all night.”

You’re close and he knows it. It was like he was rubbing it in your face, the fact he could make you like this - how quickly he could reduce you into the incoherent, ruined state you always seemed to become for him. Attentive. He’s always attentive. You can tell by the way he’s memorized everything that makes you shake and capitalizes on them, thrusts coupled with the tight circles pulling you closer and closer to that precipice of pleasure, but he says those words anyways, hoping to get a reaction from you. Daryl’s not an impatient lover - he would spend hours buried in you if you let him - but he’s so damn close and perhaps almost selfishly, he wants to watch you succumb first. He wants to watch the water race down your body as you writhe for him against the wall, and he wants that to send him over the edge.

“Then- then do better, Daryl.”

You bite back, your breath grazing against his neck and a wet heat rushes through him, making him groan nearly wrecked as his hair tickles your cheek. Reaching behind his muscular body to his shoulder blades, one of his large hands is more than enough to wrap around both of your wrists and he takes them in his grasp, moving them until they’re secure against the ceramic wall behind you. You’re warm for him. Pliable for him despite the veil of distaste in your voice and he can’t get enough of it.

Daryl’s so fucking happy you bite back.

His hips stop and you let out an almost childish cry, but he stays buried deep, filling you up to the brim as the water beats down on the both of you and holding you against the tiles by the weight he’s pressing from where you meld to him. His face is so close to your ear now. So much so that you can feel the breath when he speaks, a dangerous growl resounding through your body before his teeth graze along your neck.

“Hm? I ain’t never heard a complaint from you be- before. That a- fuck- are ya challengin’ me?”

An expletive drops from Daryl’s lips when you clench around him, no doubt from the sudden crash of your mounting pleasure, and he pushes impossibly further into you, firmly pinning you down until he knows you won’t be able to move anymore. He wants to show you he can stop at any moment, that he can make you work for it, but you both know he’ll give in. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of which you have him wrapped around your finger, but if you even knew half of it, you would know he would never stop. Not when he was so desperate for you he can barely think of anything except the way you look and feel. At least, not unless you wanted him to.

“Are you g-gonna take it up?”

Although your mouth ceases there, your brain runs, pleas tickling at the tip of your tongue, but you can barely manage to form the meager few syllables that have already escaped you. Eyebrows knotted at your forehead, you try desperately to coax more movement from him - a whine, a whimper, a thrash of your pinned hands flattened by his strong grip - but Daryl’s so damn still and it’s driving you crazy. When your body settles for only ragged breathing and shaking thighs, he takes it as his cue to lean down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s so affectionate you forget that, just moments ago, he was relentlessly pounding into you.

“Don’t know. Seems like you might be wantin’ it more’n me.”

Smiling against your mouth, he pulls away just enough to speak. A challenge in his words so obvious to you that you try in vain to buck your hips to his. If he didn’t sound so good and look so good and feel so damn good, you would have denied it, but you’re strung so taut, so close to the peak, that you can barely form a retort. A stupid, handsome smirk rests on his lips as he waits. Patient. Like it wasn’t affecting him, being buried in you. He’s just waiting for your words - goading you as he watches from underneath his lashes.

“Daryl, I swear to God if you stop right-“

The insincere threat is enough to spur him into action. Partly due to the fact you sound so desperate and ruined for him, and partly because he just needs to feel you again - he would lay you down and take you the way you deserved on the bed come morning, but right now was a different matter entirely. Swearing, his smirk drops in favour of a scowl, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he snaps up into you in quick succession. The hand at your thigh is roaming now, massaging and palming wherever his nimble fingers can worm their way onto before it splays across your ass, using the grip to pull your body impossibly closer to his. Daryl would have made you beg for him - he wanted to - but he can’t stop himself. Not when you look so pretty up against the wall and you’re taking his cock so well.

“Been gone four days an’ you’re already so damn needy.”

Whether that statement was directed at you or himself, you would never know.

An abashed whimper escapes through you and you want to deny it, perhaps just to see what would happen, but you can’t. You can’t because Daryl’s right. He knows he is, and you know he is. You thrash your arms so you can touch him, feel his skin underneath your fingers, but his grip around your wrists keeps you firm against the ceramic tiling - just enough to keep you pinned so he can admire the way you squirm for him. Grunts and groans of your name escape from him with each thrust, the feeling of your body melded to his much too intoxicating for him to keep his mouth shut.

“What, you embarrassed now? Wanna cover your mouth? Keep them noises from me when you’re soundin’ so damn pretty? Ya better not be thinkin’ about it. ‘Cause ya damn well ain’t gotta.”

Daryl tilts his head, eyes squinting in faux-concern and mocking you as his hips relentlessly hit up into yours, pushing out the breath from your lungs which escape in tantalizing gasps with each roll. You’re so close, and the only thing you can do is moan at the sound of his rough voice, the coil tightening in your abdomen because of his determined thrusts. You just need a little more - just a little more - and he reads you like a book.

Without warning, the hand pinning your wrists frees itself, his finger pinpointing back between your thighs with an unadulterated eagerness to pull your climax from you and you damn near cry out Daryl’s name as you claw at his back. It’s like second nature to him, the way he can touch you and make you crumble for him. Practice does make perfect, and he’s always been a persistent man.

“Ya sure as hell weren’t when you were bein’ a brat.”

Everything he’s doing to you is almost effortless. It makes your legs shake and without warning, your thighs tense up, a white hot surge of pleasure erupting from the base of your stomach and you gasp a broken moan of Daryl’s name as you clutch at his neck in an effort to keep yourself from collapsing onto him. He holds you close, chest pushed up to yours and breathing ruined into your ear as he works you through your climax with dextrous fingers, chasing his own as his rhythm begins to falter. Sporadic thrusts meet each flutter of your clenching warmth. until he can’t hold out anymore.

Screwing his eyes shut, a stuttered chanting of profanities mixed in perfectly with pleads of your name fan out from his mouth and he pulls out, rubbing himself harsh against your thigh before your fingers wrap around his cock. Fuck, Daryl nearly crumbles right then and there, a ragged groan rushing from him before his hips jerk upwards to your touch - nothing could even compare to it and he thinks nothing could ever come close. Nothing except you. Pulsing in your grasp, both of his rough hands dig into either of your thighs and he stills, teeth gritted as the evidence of his pleasure hits your stomach before being washed away in the steady stream of water.

Satisfied, you smile and lean towards him, your head coming off the ceramic wall, and he parts his lips immediately for your tongue, but you pull away after giving him a quick peck. Scrunching his nose, Daryl pats lightly at your thigh for your attention and seeks your lips once more, moving his with the same amount of overwhelming love and affection he always does. It makes you feel warm inside, like you were the only one in the world for him. And you were. At least, in his mind you were.

He releases the grip he has on your thigh and slowly lowers it, his hand still ghosting close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Both legs still shaking slightly, your foot hits the floor of the shower and you lean your weight on it, tentative and experimentally at first before you overestimate its security and half-fall-half-stumble into him. Daryl notices, of course he does, and he swallows down the pride welling in his chest as his sure grasp steadies you against his body.  

“Hey, hey, I got ya. Jus’- jus’- I got ya.”

By instinct, he speaks, the rumble of his chest against yours making your heart well up with the familiar fondness you always experience when it comes to him. Daryl wasn’t a man of many words even though you had managed to break him out of his shell a little - at least with you - but there was no doubt in your mind that he genuinely and wholeheartedly cared about you. In his eyes, you had strung the stars into the sky and he always treated you with a softness he never thought himself capable of.

With one hand on his waist and one on his shoulder, you use Daryl as a crutch, continuing to lean your weight on your legs until they cease to shake. When you can stand on your own, albeit with wobbly legs, you link your fingers in both of his and meet his protective gaze - alert as if prepared to catch you again if your body gave any type of signal. He smiles when he sees the expression on your face and brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a firm kiss onto the back of each of your hands before letting go and reaching for the bar of soap you two had ignored in exchange for something more riveting.

“Here, let me- I’ll help ya wash up.”

It meets your shoulder and it’s cold as he trails it down, lathering your right arm before moving across your chest and to your left. Smiling at his concern, you hum, nodding your head and content at the feeling of his tenderness as he continues to dutifully run the suds down along your body. Daryl unabashedly goes about copping a feel or two when his hand just so happens to fall onto your chest or your ass, a boyish grin meeting your quirked eyebrow when you question his intentions with a look. If you actually, truly cared to ask him, he would say he was helping you wash your body and making sure he was doing it to the best of his ability - quality assurance or some shit like that.

He helps you lather, too, calloused fingers rubbing off dead skin much better than yours could as he focuses the showerhead on him. You laugh when he pulls you into him, water streaming down your body along with his hands as the bubbles wash off your body and you run the bar of soap along the broad expanse of his shoulders, doing your fair share of subtle… touching too. Daryl all but melts into your caring hands, revelling in the way your attention is solely focused on him before he grunts, as if signalling you to look at him. When you do, his hands loop around your waist, head tilted to one side as he gingerly rubs those little shapes he always love to draw onto your skin.

“Y’alright? Was, uh, was that alright, I mean.”

Allowing you to maneuver him under the shower, he begrudgingly lets go of you to rinse off all the soap and feels genuinely clean for the first time in what felt like days. Smiling, you respond, saluting playfully and laying a small peck onto the corner of his lips before you spin around, pulling the curtain open just enough to reach for the towel lying just a few inches away on the towel rack but still keeping the warmth from the water in.  

“Yes, sir!”

His cock twitches at the name, betraying the slur of fatigue in his voice and he sighs at himself, turning the shower knob off and opening the curtain fully, reaching for his own towel that hangs next to yours. He always did feel like a teenager when it came to you, and usually he didn’t mind it, but he really was tired before this and his back is killing him, so maybe another time.

Drying your body, you turn your head towards him and smile before making quick work of your wet hair and stepping out, pulling your underwear on from where you left it on the bathroom counter. It’s a small smile, one fully innocent and only ever reserved for him, but that look makes your words replay in his mind. A shudder runs through him as he tries to ease a smile onto his face too, admiring the scene of you for a moment. It’s domesticity, showing him a homelife he could actually feel loved and safe in; reminding Daryl something like that actually existed for him.

He imagines meeting you in a different world, wooing you like you deserved through coffee dates and Radiohead concerts, not through killing reanimated corpses or guarding Alexandria’s walls together, and his whole body calms down.

But then you pull on a shirt that’s much too big for you - one of his shirts that you said you liked wearing because it smelled like him - and he swallows his spit as if he hadn’t seen you naked just moments ago, a familiar shudder running through him again. Definitely another time. Near future, preferably.

Hopefully.

“You coming?”

Your voice breaks Daryl out of his daydream and he grunts an answer, smirking at the joke that just popped into his head as he replies with a curt ‘I just did’ and catches the pair of boxers you throw at him in response. Rolling your eyes, you comb your fingers through your hair and try to dry it as much as you can with the towel before reaching for your toothbrush. He follows suit, dressed in only his boxers as he brushes his teeth and shakes his wet hair at you like a dog, causing you to whip water at him off your fingertips after you wash off the excess toothpaste dribbling at the corners of your mouth. Smiling internally, he spits, tasting mint on his tongue that he'd much rather replace with the taste of your lips, even though he knows full well you’re just as minty as he is.

“Thank you.”

Meeting his eye in the mirror, you give him a confused look, eyebrows raised in an expression he thought was much too cute on your face for your own good. Your hands don’t still as you continue to rub out the water in your hair, determined not to go to bed with it too wet and risking it to clump up and dry tangled.

“For lettin’ me, uh, do that.”

His naturally gravelly voice clears up, turning slightly more timid than you were used to and you notice the shift in his behaviour. He avoids your gaze, waiting for your response as he fiddles with the lantern he now has in his grasp, unsure of what you would say and you decide your hair is dry enough. Hanging your towel back onto the rack next to his, you grab his free hand and lead the two of you back towards the bed, smiling affectionately as you turn off the lightsource and place it onto the nightstand. Wide-eyed, Daryl stares at you, as if waiting for you to tell him to leave - that you hated what he had done - but you break him from that train of thought as you slip under the covers and welcome him to join you.

Relief washes over him and he happily climbs in, groaning at the feeling of your body next to his and he succumbs to the comfort of the mattress. Pushing yourself into his side, his arms automatically open for you and he swears he could cry when you brush your thumb against his cheekbone and lean up to him.

“Anything for you.”

He feels the words as you whisper them just inches away from his lips, and he relishes in them when you pull away from the quick peck and dig your face into your pillow, closing your eyes and just looking so at peace. You’re so close to him Daryl’s in awe and he can’t help but stare. Wanting to hold onto the feeling of his skin a little longer, your finger draws a little heart over where his beats in his chest and you speak again, voice so warm and sincere.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Home. That’s what it is to him now, too.

“Glad ‘m home too.”

With a final kiss laid on your forehead, Daryl echoes your statement and pulls your body closer into his. A small smile tugs at his lips and his arm slings lazily at your waist before he, too, closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the lull of sleep.

It was good to be back.

Back to a home he had made with you.

──── ⋙ 

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