#they’re given the status of an equal

[pluvialpoet]

how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself 

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot. 

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway.  While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.” 

 As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.” 

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory-  but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly. 

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once. 

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined. 

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?” 

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.” 

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?” 

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them. 

Not the way they used to, anyway. 

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,” 

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 

everyone who requested to be tagged: @js-favnanadoongi @kalulakunundrum @1lellykins @octodog17 @novelizt @nesta-houseofwindfantasy @corgiqween576 @whiteglovemanor @godcreatoreli @lassmich1 @consternat1on @deffnotnia @haloney @iananiko @noodlesketchbook @thescarletcryptid @obsessedwthdilfs @vanice-e @taintedmaroon @holybatflapexpert @whatismypurpos @heylookwhoitis @corpseflower6 @heavenlym0chi @lokiwannacry @boywondergrayson @tetzoro @oiztsy @naf3211

tagging a few of my favorite accounts: @becauseicantthinkwritings @dxckgrxsonx @lightwing-s @makethatelevenrings @littleredwing89 @bat-writer @wingbcrn @rebelbluerobin @idyllcy @dick-nightwing-grayson @damiansgrayson @gone-batty-fics @graysonspet @graysonswonder @angry-nightwing

Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!

buy me a ko-fi!

#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson smut #dick grayson fanfic #dick grayson fanfiction #dick grayson angst #nightwing #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine #nightwing smut #batfam #batfam smut #batfam angst #dc titans #dc imagine #dc comics imagine #dc smut #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n

[yaksha-lover]

i’m obsessed with the thought of vil falling for someone who’s ugly. especially if it’s a forced proximity trope. triple points if it’s enemies to lovers!

there’s just something about a guy obsessed with beauty is shown that beauty doesn’t equal to value that melts me

omg i actually was obsessed with this concept a few months ago and i wrote a very short unfinished drabble (set in medieval au) about knight!vil falling for ‘ugly’ knight!reader but i didn’t think anyone would want to read about an ‘ugly’ reader 😭😭

i definitely agree tho the concept is so perfect for vil imo. like the idea of this guy who’s so fixated and obsessed with beauty (especially one who’s potentially been told that much of his worth lies in his looks) who ends up falling for someone very unconventional completely unintentionally. like theres’s a whole internal struggle in him that he doesn’t want to fall in love with this person. they’re an enemy, and unattractive at that.

but then he just can’t help but falling in love with their character; when they give hope to him and represent a goodness that he’d lost. someone who is called ugly and unwanted everyday by the world and manages to keep their head held high even if tears are pouring down their cheeks.

i think that’s a quality he’d admire a lot; kindness even when the world has been unkind. he wants to be good like that too. in a way, you’re like a mirror of the kind of goodness he wants to see in himself. you’re made fun of and put down at every turn and yet you do not let that stop you from being nice. whenever someone mocks vil, he can’t let it go, he can’t let himself be kind because it hurts and that’s the only protection he’s found.

also the idea of consciously thinking someone is unattractive but unconsciously starting to notice their eyes and lips and desire settling in- help-

unfinished drabble under the cut 👉👈 (also its fem reader bc i think medieval gender roles and the idea of ‘ugly’ woman x hot man couple is kind of important to the theme lol - aka this is just jaime x brienne rewritten but anyway-)

Vil truly believed you were ugly when he first met you. He almost never truly meant the term, but in this case, it was appropriate. Most everyone you encountered agreed. He could tell by how you’d stayed stone-faced at his cruel taunts, apparently used to it. Your features were just a bit too extreme, too out of place, too different. He’d used your appearance against you, scratching at every insecurity you’d thought of and probably some you hadn’t. Still, you hadn’t gotten angry as he’d hoped. You didn’t seek to harm him, even when he knew he’d struck a sore spot.

He persevered, but you’d never given in, despite his hopes that you would become blinded enough by anger and pain to give him a chance to escape. He admired you, in a way. It seemed as though life had beaten you down long before he’d come along, but a hardened rock had emerged from the erosion.

Sometimes his words would cut too deep for you to ignore. You never did anything rash, to his dismay, but he could tell they affected you. He didn’t feel bad; why should he? He was your hostage, and you his captor. Even if you were performing your duty, you were getting in the way of his own responsibilities, his life.

Vil was surprised to learn that you were a high-born like himself. Well, not exactly born to a family of his status and wealth, but a high-born nonetheless. He’d realized that he should’ve been addressing you with your Lady title, but you’d fought at soon as he’d tried.

No matter my origin, you know that no man sees me as a lady, Sir Vil.

-

They came, and they cut off his hair. One of them taunted him for being a beautiful husk. So they’d cut a deep gash across his face. Now your outside matches your inside, ‘Sir’, they’d mocked.

Vil had wished they’d cut off his head instead.

Later, after you’d managed to convince them to let you treat his wounds, he’d bemoaned to you.

Now we’re both grotesque, he’d said, a pair of freaks.

You’re not ugly, you just have a scar, you’d replied. You turned away from your task to face him. You’ll never know what it means to be ugly.

Even with his bitter remarks, you treated his wounds all the same. When he was too afraid to face himself in the reflection of the lake, you’d been the one to peel away his bandages and force him to look.

See, you’d said, not a monster, just a man.

He’d wondered if you were an angel at that moment, a saint. Or maybe you were a witch destined to lead him astray. He hadn’t really cared either way.

#twst medieval au #twst x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit #twst #twisted wonderland #feverish-dove

[batw1nggg]

hi!! odd request could you explain why komahina isnt toxic

IVE BEEN MEANING TO MAKE A POST ABOUT THIS ANON !!!! u read my mind ….. so the reason why i dont consider komahina to be true and real toxic yaoi is because theyre intended to be mutually healing for each other.

their main, striking similarity is their upholding of danganronpa’s harmful societal values on talent. a theme throughout their interactions is komaeda explicitly stating a subconscious belief hajime has and then hajime denying that there’s any similarities in their belief system — everything komaeda says about the inferiority of the talentless is something hajime has always believed, just in a less self aware way. they both end up essentially killing themselves (komaeda in a more literal manner, hajime with the kamukura project) to become something bigger, something worth being called the ultimate hope, because they believe their talent status gives their life no meaning and they feel they have to “make up” for it. theyve always been similar; one sees the other in the things he hates about himself.

this is why, when they fall in love, it’s so groundbreaking for their respective arcs. in realizing the similarities in their belief system, hajime becomes more self aware about how stupid his insecurities are. hajime is able to break komaedas worldview by being talentless and inspiring hope/being an equal to his talented peers from 77b, and this makes komaeda realize that, because they are so similar, HE can do that too (side note makoto does this first when he kills junko, but komaeda knows hajime personally/saw hajimes development play out firsthand so its more effective). they feed into each other’s development and are able to grow from it.

they’re not really framed with much toxicity, and you can especially see this with allllll the visual parallels theyre given by the end of the anime. the juxtaposition of hajime grabbing komaedas junko arm to help him out of the pod and hajime grabbing komaedas prosthetic arm to help him onto the boat (paired with the line “let’s set off, in the name of hope”) symbolizes how interconnected hajime is to komaeda’s arc — his journey from old arm to new arm, from despair to hope to future. (and then theres the scene where hajime ditches ghost chiaki for komaeda too. and u see them eating with each other in the credits.) if they were intended to be toxic, they wouldnt have ended on that note.

and THENNNN theres also the fact that hajime’s really the only person capable of loving komaeda, in the beginning. hajime cant get struck down by komaedas luck, because hajimes the only one with ult luck powerful enough to counter komaedas. their lucks cancelling each other out is a concept stressed by the anime with the kamukoma gun scene. he’s also the only person with the guts to put in the effort to UNDERSTAND komaeda, a concept stressed in komaedas FTEs. hes the first person that physically can, and the first person thats made the effort. this is groundbreaking for komaeda.

theyre not toxic, they just go through a little angst period that ends up being resolved in the end. hajimes confusion towards komaeda and komaedas confusion towards hajime was necessary, they HAD to figure each other out because in doing that they learn something about THEMSELVES. that process comes with some angsting that is often mistaken for toxicity. of course they cant start dating mid killing game, THAT would have be pretty toxic, because a killing game is not a breeding ground for romance. this is why komahina never canonically starts dating - the time frame doesnt cover enough time for that. but they get two love confessions and the whole first fte is explicitly romantic.

#komahina #long post #i hope i collected my thoughts coherently. if i missed anything feel free 2 add on komahina nation

[ivanttakethis]

Round 7 Predictions

Since we’re only halfway through Alien Stage, I don’t think there will be a Round 7 winner.

There’s a ton of material Q and V could get into if both Till and Luka survive in some way or another. I also think there’s still a lot more left to learn about the lore of Alien Stage as a competition and how the whole system functions for the competition part to end so quickly.

I think Till will be rescued by the rebels at some point, either before or during Round 7. He’ll get to reconnect with Mizi, see how much she’s changed, and hopefully come to see her as less of a godly savior and more of a person.

Freeing Till would also force him to confront his own wants and dreams beyond escaping the competition and taking Mizi with him. What does Till want out of life now that both he and Mizi are free? How does he process all of the shit that went down in the previous rounds, especially Round 6?

As for Luka I think one of two things will happen: (1) he won’t be rescued by the rebels at all or (2) he’s offered the opportunity to leave with them but he refuses.

The second option is definitely more interesting as it will tell us more about Luka’s mindset, but also Hyuna’s if she can choose whether or not a rescue attempt is made for him. It would possibly give us insight into how they feel about each other given the current circumstances.

Either way, I don’t think Luka will leave Alien Stage or rebel against the aliens.

What would be his reason to? He’s the face of the whole competition. His status within the alien society has provided him with a lot of access that he could possibly not be able to live without, given his chronic illnesses.

But more than that, I think he’ll stay for personal reasons. Fame? Accolades? Ego? Maybe a mix of all three? Or perhaps some long buried guilt or remorse? There’s still a lot we don’t know about his feelings and motivations.

Personally I think he’s too interesting of a character to kill off so soon (a.k.a. I want to study him under a microscope).

Now this next part is me being delusional, so I’m putting it under the cut.

So,

If Till is rescued before Round 7 starts, that leaves Luka as the winner by default. But that’d probably be pretty boring as a finale for the audience.

How do they spice things up? By healing/reviving Ivan and putting him up against Luka.

Think about it: they’re both insanely popular in-universe, they’re somewhat equally matched in terms of singing ability, and they’re both considered pretty boys.

Think of the fashion! Think of the theatrics!! The material is LITERALLY. RIGHT. THERE.

In my opinion they’re two of the most complex characters in the cast, but they haven’t had much (if any) direct interaction with one another. I’d like to see how their similarities and differences stack up once they’re side by side, and what that tells us about each of them.

They’re also both weirdos (in their own ways), so putting them head to head would be the ultimate Freak (derogatory) vs. Freak (affectionate) final showdown.

And if Ivan were to win, he would essentially take over Luka’s role as the face of Alien Stage. How would that affect him personally? What would he do with his life after?

If he learns that Till managed to escape with the rebels, would Ivan still want to escape on his own? Or would he be content to stay put with the knowledge that Till is free?

Similar to Till with Mizi, who is Ivan beyond helping and supporting Till? What are his hopes and dreams?

I went more in depth about how Ivan could potentially be brought back and what ramifications it could have on the story depending on how it’s done in this post, if anyone wants to read that.

#*writes predictions that could possibly happen* #“okay here’s how ivan is alive truthers can still win—’’ #at this point i need ivan alive for purely selfish reasons #but also luka and ivan having a cunt-off would have me foaming at the mouth #think of the potential #alien stage #alien stage round 7 #alien stage ivan #alien stage till #alien stage mizi #alien stage luka #alien stage hyuna #alnst #alnst round 7 #alnst mizi #alnst till #alnst luka #alnst hyuna #alnst ivan #ivanttakethis talks too much

[kaialone]

All Fanny Win & Lose Quotes Translated (Guilty Gear Petit)

As the title says, this will be a translations of all* Win & Lose quotes involving Fanny from Guilty Petit and Guilty Gear Petit 2.

(*Except for the mirror match quote, if one exists, because it looks like you can’t get a proper mirror match in single player.)

I thought these would be interesting to know about, since they’re pretty much the only characterization Fanny gets outside of the Petit 1&2 story modes, plus getting to see a bit of how the other characters react to her.

--

Some more things to note before we get started:

Characters who appear in both Petit 1 and 2 have identical Win and Loss quotes in both games.

The final roster also includes four “GG” characters: GG Sol Badguy, GG May, GG Millia Rage, and GG Ky Kiske.

These four characters are essentially their base form counterparts, but with an alternate moveset inspired by the first Guilty Gear game. They are given different color schemes to differentiate them in gameplay, but they are effectively treated like they are the same characters, even though they have separate quotes and story modes.

The only exception is GG Ky Kiske, who is actually Robo-Ky!

Finally, in terms of status-quo, the characters are roughly plucked from around the Guilty Gear X era - for example Dizzy is part of the Jellyfish Pirates, but Zato-1 hasn’t fully passed away yet (but is still controlled by Eddie.)

Though the stories of these games are really more on the humorous side.

Now, onto the actual translations!

--

Fanny Win Quotes

(These are the quotes Fanny herself says when defeating these characters.)

Sol Badguy: せんせいは、かんじゃさんに リラックス してもらおうと おもっているからこそ あんなにユーモアにあふれているのです。 The doctor wants to help his patients relax, that's why he's so full of humor.

Ky Kiske: すみません、せのたかくてスマートで ウィットにとんだせかいさいこうのめいい、 ごぞんじないですか？ Excuse me? Do you happen to know about the tall, suave, witty, and overall greatest doctor in the entire world?

May: せんせいはえいせいてきにかんがえて、 あたまをそっていらっしゃるのです。 …たぶん。 The doctor shaves his head for hygienic purposes. …I think.

Millia Rage: ねんのため くすり だしておきますね。 I'm giving you some medicine, just in case.

Potemkin: わたしのオデコのほうが かたかったみたいです。 Looks like my forehead is harder.

Kuradoberi Jam: せんせいのようしですか？ あしがながくて くびもながい ひかりかがやいているかたですわ。 What does the doctor look like? He has long legs, and a long neck, and he's just a positively radiant person.

Mito Anji: せんせいもあなたのように ステキなめがねをしてらしたのよ。 The doctor was also wearing lovely glasses, just like you.

Johnny: ステキなけんさばきでしたわ、 でも せんせいにはかないませんわね。 That was some fine swordplay, but you still can't hold a candle to the doctor.

Faust: ああっ、せんせい… どこにいってしまわれたのでしょうか？ Oh, Doctor… Where could you have gone?

Chipp Zanuff: ぜひ けんけつをおねがいします。 きっと ちが おおすぎるのですわ。 Please consider donating blood. I'm sure you have too much of it.

Axl Low: ごめんなさい、わたしは「はくいのてんし」 わたしのあいは みなさんびょうどうですの。 I'm sorry, but I'm a "white angel"- I love everyone equally.

(Translator's Note: “はくいのてんし/hakui no tenshi”, meaning “white angel” is a non-official term sometimes used for nurses in Japanese, as far as I can tell. As far as I’ve heard, this term might’ve come from the legacy of Florence Nightingale, particularly the 1937 movie based around her life called “The White Angel”. Obviously likening nurses to angels is a thing in English too, but I still wanted to explain the details here.)

Zato-1 (Eddie): あなたぜひ せんせいのオペを うけるべきですわ！ You should absolutely get surgery from the doctor!

Testament: せいしんあんていざいを うっておきました。 もうだいじょうぶ！ I have given you sedatives. Everything will be fine now!

GG Sol Badguy: せんせいのすばらしさがわからないんですか？ おきのどくに。 Don't you know just how wonderful the doctor is? How unfortunate.

GG May: せんせいは「ハゲ」ではありません！ 「ボウズ」ですわ！！ The doctor is NOT bald! He just shaves!!

GG Millia Rage: あなたのこころのキズ、はやく せんせいに みてもらったほうがいいと おもいますわ。 I think you'd better let the doctor take a look at your broken heart as soon as possible.

GG Ky Kiske (Robo-Ky): あなた すぐにせんせいに みていただいたほうがいいわ！ せんせい！！きゅうかんです！！ You should go see the doctor right away! Doctor!! It's an emergency!!

--

Fanny Defeated Quotes

(These are the quotes these characters say to Fanny when they defeat her.)

Sol Badguy: かんごふってのは、みな、こうだったか？ Are all nurses like this?

Ky Kiske: かんごふ というのもまた からだをはる しごとなのですね。 I suppose being a nurse, too, is quite the physically demanding line of work.

May: ボクもずっと すきなひと さがしてたからわかるよ。そのきもち。 I'm always chasing after someone I like, too. So I get how you feel.

Millia Rage: さいきん えだげが ひどいのよね。 いいくすりしらない？ I've been having awful split ends lately. Do you know any remedy for that?

Potemkin: ずいぶん かわった たたかいだったな… That sure was a strange battle…

Kuradoberi Jam: ちょっと、やりすぎたアル…って ねてるアルか？ Whoops, I think I overdid it… Wait- Are you asleep?

Mito Anji: 「まてば かいろのひよりあり」ってね がんばって さがしな "Good things come to those who wait", you know. So hang in there and keep on searching, alright?

(Translator's Note: What Anji says in the first line is a Japanese idiom that would literally translate to “waiting for fair weather at a sea route”, in case you’re curious. But it does essentially mean “Good things come to those who can wait.”)

Johnny: とう「ジェリーフィッシュかいぞくだん」では チャーミングなナース ぼしゅうちゅうだ むかしのおとこ わすれさせてやるぜ？ The Jellyfish Pirates are looking to hire a charming nurse right now, so what d'ya say? I'll make you forget all about that other guy.

Faust: 「いりょうのみちは いちにちしてならず。」 かんじゃへの あいのみに いきるべきです。 "The path of medicine isn't forged in a day." You should live only for your love towards your patients.

Chipp Zanuff: へんなねーちゃんだな？ おれはどこもけがしちゃいねーけどな。 What's with this chick? I wasn't even hurt anywhere.

Axl Low: 「はくいのてんし」はすきだけど もうちょっと おとなしいほうがすきだぜ？ I do like "white angels", but… I'd like it even better if you were a bit more gentle, eh?

Zato-1 (Eddie): モウオソイワ コイツトオレハキリハナセンヨ。 YOU ARE TOO LATE. HE AND I CANNOT BE SEPERATED.

Testament: わたしに いりょうなど ひつようない。 I have no need for medical care.

GG Sol Badguy: かんごふがくるとこじゃねぇぜ、ここは。 This is no place for a nurse.

GG May: さいきんのかんごふって ずいぶん つよいのね？ Nurses are pretty tough these days, huh?

GG Millia Rage: ボーっとしてるから…。 That's what you get for spacing out…

GG Ky Kiske (Robo-Ky): カカカンゴフ トトトトイウノモモモマタ カカカラダヲハル ㇱ、シゴトナノデスネネ。 I- I- I SUPPOSE BEING A- A- A- A- A NURSE, T-T-TOO, IS QUITE T-T-T-THE PHYSICALLY D-DEMANDING LINE OF WORK-K.

--

#guilty gear #guilty gear petit #fanny guilty gear #my translations #guilty gear translations #tumblr changed the way its formatting works while i wasnt looking #also I hadn't seen anyone else do all of these but if this HAS been done before well #just take it as an opportunity to compare and contrast

[politemagic]

Sleep Token Living in a Haunted House

These headcanons are based on this meme I made the other night. I had a lot of thoughts on the eepies living in a haunted house, a lot of them are inspired by the show Ghosts if you've seen it. I had a lot of fun writing these so I hope you like em♡

1.45k words (she got lengthy so i added a keep reading)

➺ Thanks to a few years of communing with an ancient deity, Vessel has become quite attuned to the spirit realm. Everywhere he goes, he can sense the presence of the souls unable to move on from the mortal plane.

➺ When they first step foot in their new home, Vessel immediately feels like he’s being suffocated by the amount of activity in the house. He tries to identify the spirit, but there’s too many to even keep count, the grand foyer a whirlwind of translucent figures in various period attire.

➺ When they sit down for dinner at the end of the day, Vessel decides to tell the others about their spectral roommates. After observing them for the better part of the day, he hasn’t picked up on any signs that they’d be malicious, they honestly just seemed to carry on with their lives despite being dead.

➺ II just shrugs. From what Vessel's told him in the past, there are ghosts just about everywhere you go, and they haven't bothered him yet. He imagines it won't be much different living in a haunted house, if the spirits are as tame as Vessel seems to believe they are. 

➺ Really, II just feels bad for Vessel. He knows that he'll be able to live in peace, unable to see, hear, or even sense the ghosts, but he knows Vessel isn't afforded that same luxury. He just hopes he will be able to find some form of solace from the constant commotion Vessel was describing.

➺ III is way too excited. As a kid, he always dreamed of living in a haunted house filled with a bunch of ghost friends. He’s always secretly been a little jealous of Vessel’s gift, but if he lived in a haunted house… Maybe he could find a way to communicate with them himself.

➺ Two days later, Vessel knocks on his door only to find III seated in the middle of a ring of candles, mumbling some words he knew were just gibberish. His interruption earns him a pointed glare as III explained to Vessel that he wanted to make sure that the ghosts knew it was okay to talk to him, so he wanted to reach out first.

➺ In the long run, it might have been better for the ghosts if they had left III alone.

➺ One night, he was trying yet another method of communication with the ghosts after exhausting most of the suggestions he found online. The Ouija Board started out as a joke, a housewarming present from Espera given after they had been filled in on the house’s haunted status. But III decided it was worth a shot.

➺ He had been at it for about a week at that point, and he was starting to think that Vessel was full of shit when he said the house was haunted. That was, until he sat with his fingers resting on the planchette and asked if he should give up.

➺ The planchette drifts slowly over to the “No” and III was over the moon. Using the Ouija Board suddenly became his favorite activity.

➺ He asks them any questions he thinks of. He’ll ask for opinions on things like his outfit or if a classic novel was worth the read. “They were there when it came out, I figured they’d know!”

➺ The ghosts plead with Vessel to get him to stop (in my own personal hc the ouija board emits a sound or something that beckons the spirits and they actually find it really annoying).

➺ When Vessel tried gently suggesting III use Google instead, he insisted that he preferred “Ghoul-gle”. (i'm so sorry). Vessel knew better than to try and dissuade him any further.

➺ IV is equally as excited as III, but it’s more from a root of curiosity than a root of fantastical dreams. He’s always been fascinated by ghosts, sometimes even wondering if he might be a little “sensitive” himself, though he never experienced anything like what Vessel described.

➺ He spends a lot of his time as they’re settling into the house researching the different people who have died in the house. He’ll print out news articles and stuff to show Vessel, asking if that person still haunted the house.

➺ He has a note on his phone where he keeps track of the different ghosts and what he knows about them. He tries to keep track of where the different ghosts tend to hang out, so he can be aware of who might be around any time he’s wandering the house. (in the US version of Ghosts Jay has a note on his phone that’s all the different specifics of how ghosts work. I think he would have that too for sure)

➺ IV would never openly admit it, but sometimes, when he’s alone, he’ll talk aloud to the empty rooms. He doesn’t try as hard as III because he’s overhead Vessel tell him to ease up a few times. But he secretly wants to talk to the ghosts so badly, and thinks it just isn't fair that Ves is the only one with the ability (he doesn’t think it’s fair to him or to Vessel).

➺ The ghosts were constantly talking Vessel's ear off, excited to finally have someone who can hear them! They'll ask him to do different things for them, like open a window, turn on some music, or leave the television on while they're out of the house.

➺ Vessel is still navigating the best ways to set boundaries with the ghosts so he can, you know, live his life. He already lives in the service of Sleep, he really doesn’t need to be serving the will of these ghosts on top of that. 

➺ Sometimes he’s very receptive to their requests, and other times he can be quite crass in his denial. Slowly, they begin to work out some systems as to what they can ask for and when they can ask him about it, and for the most part they’re very respectful of his space and offer their own help when they can.

➺ Outside of Vessel, the ghosts have also taken a shine to II (probably because he’s the most chill™), taking it upon themselves to help him in any ways they saw fit. It could be anything as menial as closing the door when someone forgets to shut it all the way so that he doesn't have to get up from his seat, or once he swore he felt a sudden, cold presence engulf him when he complained about the heat while practicing his drumming.

➺ As you can imagine, III was very jealous when he walked into the kitchen one evening to see a coffee mug carefully floating down from the top shelf as II fixed himself a cup of tea. 

➺ He was pouty the rest of the day, not understanding why they would prefer II. When II tried to suggest that maybe it was because he left them be, III insisted that II just didn’t understand them the way he did. “Maybe if you bothered to talk to them, you’d learn they were real chatterboxes!” 

➺ IV expresses his silent jealousy of II's status as the ghosts' favorite non-medium in the house differently than III. Instead of moping, he pays attention to the little things Vessel did for them, and he makes a point to do them himself as well.

➺ He winds up becoming quite a talented baker after learning that the ghosts loved the smell of cookies. The aroma of his chocolate chip cookies quickly won over a few of the ghosts. (I’m just gonna say it. I think there’s a female ghost from like the 1800s in that house with a little bit of a crush on him. He’s attractive, thoughtful, and knows his way around a kitchen. That’s what dreams are made of right there)

➺ Though IV really won them over when he snuck into III’s room and threw the Ouija Board away.

➺ III decided that he didn’t like ghosts anymore when IV showed him the picture of the “Thank you ♡” left in the steam on the mirror after his shower.

Bonus bc I like the idea:

➺ One night at dinner, IV makes a playful jab at III but instead of hearing the expected laughter of his friends and bandmates, he swears he hears the laughter of a woman.

➺ Later, IV asks Vessel about it in private. He laughs and confirms that yes, he did indeed hear ghost laughter. Evidently the former lady of the house found his comment to be very amusing.

#these were just some silly ideas rattling around in my brain but i hope you enjoy them!!! #if you have thoughts please please please share them i want to read them <3 #also consider this my formal invitation to anyone to come scream with me about sleep token #this is my first time posting anything like this for sleep token im surprised it took so long? #sleep token #sleep token headcanons #worshitposting #sleep token vessel #sleep token ii #sleep token iii #sleep token iv #em's stcu #(gang pls don't let this flop)

[pinkandpurple360]

THANK YOU FOR BRINGING UP HOW STOLAS AND FIZZ HYPOTHETICALLY SWAPPING STATUS DOESNT DO SHIT FOR THE HIERARCHY IT JUST SHUFFLES THEM

and even fizz would still be seen primarily as ozzie’s “consort” and not an equal by the public even if ozzie does, if we’re being honest. unless he took active interest in any of ozzie’s duties (which i still dont totally get either like is he in charge of the ring or is he free to do whatever bc hes lust and no one cares?). like i guess he reads him his to do list and works at the club, but thats pretty much it?

likewise, stolas would still be perceived based on past history as a goetia and still have power, both magical and social. like unless you literally dismantled the entire class system, nothing will be solved if this happens. and even if they did dismantle the system, that shit takes time (see racism in the us - despite what our schools teach us, racism didn’t end after mlk)

Yeah I have no idea what it would change at all or if it would. I feel like their relationship is fine the way it is, and they’re happy, getting married would make him a consort in the monarchy, he wouldn’t be the one figure between two worlds—the one between the royals and the common folk he wouldn’t be the royal jester anymore :( that’s a really special role in the royal court.

Best not to compare it to real world racism, in this universe imps really are “inferior” beings through and through only people like fizz are right and ppl like striker blitzø and Loona are “bigoted” against blu*bl**ds (an anti rich slur!)

Also it just breaks my heart a bit more for blitz and fizz to be forever separated, fizz immortal and alone as an imp only with the royals, while blitzø grows old without him, stolas growing old without Octavia is also…really sad. Given the leaks he really is stuck with him, and without his daughter. How can he be happy with him anyway? I’m trying to view his side here. He’s with a guy he’s been eerily obsessed with his whole life, who he can’t trust, whose had him crying countless times, and he’s still friendless, unless he adopts his bfs friends (yikes, when ppl do this it makes me cringe). And I’ve spoken on blitz countless times, stolas doesn’t really make him happy either. “I find you entertaining, you make me forget my troubles, and the sex is hot” can only go so far. This is not a “soulmates” relationship. Whatsoever.

With the mortality and immortality dilemma there’s no real easy answer or all around happy ending. And no, getting rid of immortality altogether is also not a happy end nor does it make sense.

#helluva boss critical

[dearbraus]

—Skins

Starring; Tartaglia

Warnings; 18+ minors dni + gn!reader + both reader and tartaglia are battlesexual + mentions of sparring + mentions of injury + blood kink + blood consumption + premature ejaculation. 

Word count; 1.1k

Note; I wrote this two weeks ago and shared it only to my ao3 and decided why not share it here. Please heed the warnings.

❝Tartaglia has never been one to back down from a fight but after a plethora of crushing defeats, you begin to wonder why he insists on sparring with you every other week.❞

Or, reader discovers they too are a bit battlesexual after a particularly satisfying spar.

These sparring sessions have gotten out of hand.

They’re less friendly than Tartaglia proclaims them to be, the good natured spirit of a causal brawl beneath the guise of a simple get-together is lost to you the longer this arrangement goes on. The faux friendly smile that Tartaglia sports no longer graces his cherubic features, instead he glowers at you, brows stitched together and his lips pressed tightly into a line. He’s grown frustrated, each loss chipping away at his resolve and yet he can never seem to stay away from you.

You think it’s the head rush he gets from an opponent of equal strength— that’s what is enough to keep him crawling back after each gruelling defeat despite the bruised ego he sports. At least, you think that’s what it is but as you straddle his feeble body, sweat dripping down your temple and muscles sore with exhaustion you wonder if it’s something else. There must be because you think if you were him, you’d have given up trying to best him long ago.

Tartaglia stares up at you with pupils blown so wide they engulf the pallid blue you had become so thoroughly acquainted with. His pecs bulge out from beneath the leather harness strapped around his chest and he struggles to catch his breath for a moment from the constriction, slivers of his freckled skin are exposed through the tears in his crimson dress shirt but he does not look disgruntled as he lays pliant beneath you. The sword he had used against you lay several feet away, his nose bloodied and his lip split in the middle and yet he still smiles at you with a boyish delight that should terrify you.

It doesn’t.

The swirl of emotion that settles deep within your belly is closer to a sickening desire than it is anything else.

You feel disgusted, ashamed and guilt ridden that it's not the swell of pride for yet another victory that makes you dizzy but something entirely different. The soft earth gives away beneath your hands as you lean over Tartaglia’s body, your arms caging him in and holding his high above his head in some chauvinistic display of superiority. You can’t find it in yourself to let him go even though he’s stopped struggling against your vice like grip but you know you should. The pungent, repulsive smell of blood has made your stomach churn violently as it wafts through the thick summer air and yet you press his wrists deeper into the ground and bring your face dangerously close to his.

“Another crushing defeat,” you rasp against the shell of his ear as if it needs saying at all. He’s been held within your grasp for the better part of an hour but neither of you had it in you to move any further— you just sat like statues melting beneath the beaming summer sun until one of you had the gall to speak up.

It was you of course, it was always you.

Tartaglia had given up witty quips and quick retorts to sooth his wounds. Now he’s rendered utterly speechless as your body is laid flush against his. There was no reason you had to be chest to chest with him, it wasn’t in the rules of the game but you couldn’t tear yourself away from his body.

His natural musk blends with whatever overly decadent crap the Fatui Harbingers lavish themselves in, your nose pressed against his jugular before you can even stop yourself and you inhale deeply. The strikingly satisfied sigh you release makes your blood run cold but it doesn’t stop the heat that whips across your skin and sinks deep into your core.

“You must have trained hard for this win, comrade!”

The mirth that simmers beneath his words is as cheap as the toys he carries around when undercover— plastic and poorly crafted but the shiver that zips through him is not.

Though he tries to hide it, his body trembles with something similar to excitement, maybe even desire and the way he swallows back the whine edging at the back of his throat tells you he feels whatever beast is festering inside you because it lives within him too. Your teeth graze against his pulse point, your tongue darting out to catch the bead of sweat that rolls down his throat. It’s salty, the lingering remains of soap and the dirt that mixes with it making your mouth feel dirty. Your head grows heavy as you reel back to gaze at his face, his cheeks are flushed pink and for the first time you think he looks cute— cute enough to eat.

“Not really,” you say, drawing out the syllable of the last word,“Say, what’s in it for me the next time I kick your ass, comrade?”

Tartaglia tenses when you mock him but he licks his lips and allows his hips to twitch up into yours, “Whatever you wish,” he groans, his eyes rolling back when you grind your crotch against his, “Anything you can name and it’s yours.”

You think him a fool for such a bold proclamation, the curse of a lust addled brain that fogs whatever ounce of logic he may possess. Releasing your hold on his wrists, you seize his face, the fat of his cheeks squishing between your fingers. Your tongue lolls out to lap at the blood that’s begun to crust beneath his nostril, the taste heavy and grating. You almost gag on it but the whimper that slips between Tartaglia’s clenched teeth has you revelling in the taste of blood on your tongue.

And suddenly you understand why, despite the humiliation, Tartaglia always comes back to you.

It’s the allure of such raw emotion and the taste of blood and sweat dappled on your tongue. There is something that’s inherently charged about watching your opponent whimper in defeat just as there is something so tantalizing as watching your opponent gloat in victory. As his cock strains against his slacks beneath you, you can’t help but smile, dipping your head down for another lick at his bloodied skin.

The disgust that once tainted you is replaced by a dangerous rapture that you should be wary of but you don't because of him. Tartaglia gets off on the way you suckle the blood off his skin and ruins his pants embarrassingly quickly; he finds pleasure in your twisted desire just as you find pleasure in his.

You almost hate him for keeping such a pleasure all to himself but it’s quickly overshadowed when Tartaglia decides to bite back, his hold on his never ending bloodlust finally snapping.

And you suppose it’s as good a consolation prize as any.

© all content belongs to dearbraus. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.  

#tartaglia x reader #tartaglia smut #childe x reader #childe smut #ajax x reader #ajax smut #genshin impact x reader #gi x reader #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact smut #gi smut

[beautifulpersonpeach]

Hi BPP

that fandom implosion you talked about previously, will happen sooner rather than later. JK is getting full on radio from day 1 apparently. On one hand wow, great, on the other, Like crazy could have and SHOULD have been the song of the summer.

There are so many moving parts beind the scenes, which we do not see that decide the kind of promo a song will get...Not negligible being the producer who is working with JK is a big deal in the industry,

anyway I would be very interested to read your take on this.

a radio DJ confirming the news https://twitter.com/JJRyanOnAir/status/1677384733989433344?s=20

***

Hi @atlantis315

Your link.

I’ve replied to your question here. Also copy-pasted the main gist of my views here:

“I think BangPD still fully values each and every member of BTS, and I don't think any member is being mistreated, abused, or grossly mismanaged. But BangPD is not their father, and his motivation to produce profit is more agnostic/cynical than a lot of ARMYs want to admit. But at the same time, you either trust BTS to handle their business as capable adults, or you don't. It's really that simple for me. More than anybody else, they know their own situation, and are certainly capable of handling themselves.”

*

Also, given that all D2C sales are now rendered moot for US charts, I’m very happy Jungkook’s song will be sent to radio, to make up for not having the tool that other releases have had to some degree. And it seems Scooter has a hand to do with that anyway, so while I find Scooter to be kind of a creep, I’m glad Seven gets the chance with radio to leave a mark of his own.

This doesn’t mean I think Like Crazy couldn’t have benefitted from being sent to radio. Without Scooter involved it’s unlikely to have gotten many spins (BTS with Dynamite/Butter peaked at ~80M AUD+ in radioplay, Miley Cyrus does 100M AUD+ on average with Flowers), but radio still would’ve been a boon for Jimin. Just as I think it would have been for Hobi, Joon, and the others. But also, a big part of me is okay with them not all having equal promotion tools. Not every solo release has had CDs, Tiny Desk performances, tours, festivals, remixes, multiple versions, and now radio. In Chapter 2, expecting them all to receive “equal treatment” in the outcome of promotion tools during their initial solo projects, isn’t something I think is worth losing sleep over. Because as I’ve said, I cannot want more for the rapline/Jimin/BTS’s career than BTS themselves, I cannot love them more than they love themselves, and I certainly don’t know more about their circumstances than they know themselves. If Jimin, Jungkook, Hobi, or anyone needs to handle BigHit because they believe their career is being mismanaged, they’re the last people who would hesitate to do something about it, especially at this point in their careers.

Also, far as I’m concerned, any member who gets achievements and records no matter how it compares to my biases, deserves it.

I agree with you that there’s a lot of moving parts behind the scenes. But. The hysteria over Ryan simply saying Seven is getting serviced to radio, (not even that it’s expected to impact radio - which is a very different thing), was due 100% to how fully solo and manti sentiment has permeated into the fandom. In my humble opinion. A few things fuelled the reaction to that announcement:

- First the chaos started as backlash from PJMs to the insults and ridicule Jimin suffered from other solos (JJKs, KTHs, MYGs, Blinks, Barbs, etc) when his promotion tools (mult versions/remixes etc) were announced, all while ARMYs pretended that abuse wasn’t happening to him or were oblivious to it. It would be infuriating for PJMs to see JJKs having access to a tool that in theory should make it easier to rack up achievements for the song.

- Then there’s the anger from many people who love Jimin and have had to deal with an unpredictable roll-out environment, between BB randomly deleting sales in the 10s of thousands (when for previous BTS releases they’ve only tried to delete a few thousand sales at most), and no immediate clarity from BigHit. Having radio as a tool would’ve made handling that disastrous handicap significantly less stressful for ARMYs, and overall would’ve helped Jimin. There’s a strong case for why BigHit should factor radio in for Jimin and other members especially now going forward, even if it might not be really played. But again, if they don’t, it’s not something I see as my personal wahala.

- The akgae theory of preferential treatment and company favourites for jikook has been almost fully absorbed not just in solo spaces, but also in ARMY spaces primarily through shippers - and that’s how it always happens. The reason taekookers are the only people alongside Tae solo stans claiming that Beyond The Story is a HYBE psyop, is because they’re the only groups of people who have drank the koolaid about Tae’s neglect at the hands BangPD for the other members’ benefit. A lot of jikookers now believe the same for Jimin, and PJMs hold that belief as a canon creed anyway. Which is a bit funny IMO when you hear how JJKs see the whole thing. Because the similarities in narratives are so uncanny lol.

- Nobody asked but I personally think BangPD is out of touch. He seems to have really fanciful ideas that sometimes make me wonder how solid is his grasp of the situation he’s in. He strikes me as a bit complacent, but again, that’s just me looking from the outside in and it’s ultimately BTS’s business to deal with their boss and manager of ~13 years. Not mine.

There’s a few more factors that influenced why shit blew up a couple days ago IMO, even before the song is released, but anyway, I saw your ask earlier but didn’t care to involve myself in the hysteria on Tumblr/Twitter right away. So please see the above as a summary of what I think if you’re still curious.

Like Crazy is still stable because a lot of ARMYs are streaming it. Solos and locals too, because it’s just a very good song that’s easy to listen to and catchy as hell. FACE is not the only solo project we’ll see in Jimin’s career. I doubt it’s even going to be a significantly defining album outside of being his debut. I need a lot of people to breathe deeply and think about what exactly is happening here in this team of seven men, not just in the universe of maknae-line narratives and myths.

Or you know, just do whatever you like. My opinion is unpopular, and so I think the implosion is pretty much on track for 2024. Hopefully I’m very wrong lol.

#jimin #park jimin #Jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts #bangtan #K-pop #kpop #Hybe #BigHit #jikook #bts army #bts fandom #fandom behaviour

[tater-th0t13]

Pokemon game where you start off the in the hardest town.

You didn’t move there, you’ve been surrounded by the regions best pokemon trainers and toughest wild pokemon your whole life. Even your mom is a super strong trainer, better yet shes the local gym leader.

And everyone is just. So. Mean. To you specifically. They don’t care that you’re 10 and you can’t catch a local pokemon, and even if you did they wouldn’t hesitate to one-hit K.O. your ass. Your mom doesn’t believe in gifting strong pokemon to weak trainers and her own child is no exception. You’re the laughing stock of the town and no one is going to be the one to throw you a bone, lest they be seen as weak themselves.

But you hear about a small, quaint village, and a pokemon professor that has previously given new trainers good starting pokemon and helpful advice. You decide that if you’re going to live up to the standards set by your hometown you can’t stay there. Everyone including your mom is excited to see you leave, half because they’re glad you’re finally starting your journey to living up to your family/town name and half because your presence is just embarrassing.

Your rival is your older sibling whom your mom demands accompany you to the small town and keep an eye on you. They’re equally if not the most embarrassed of you and your weak status and laughs at your pokemon. And unlike the regular games, they do not start off as your equal. You *will* lose to your older sibling. Not just the first encounter, but many times after. True to form, they will always be ahead of you and find all your challenges to be a breeze, followed by an ass-whooping.

The clear goal is to build the ultimate team that will show to everyone back home that they were all wrong about you. To return home with 7 badges and force your mom to award you your 8th and final badge. To at some point in your journey have a team that beats your sibling’s and leave them dumbfounded, and maybe even proud?

But your journey along the way will be filled with characters and challenges that make you question your idea of what it means to be a pokemon trainer thats been engrained into since birth. Trainers who know fuck-all about stats. Towns that have banned competitive poke-sports. The idea that the relationship between trainer and pokemon is not just using them as a tool to earn prominence and money. Everything that flies in the face of what your mom and town have told you about pokemon.

And at one point, you’ll have completed the journey you’ve set out to accomplish. You are *the* pokemon champion. Nobody at home can call you a weakling, you’ve put everyone in their place, including and especially your family.

But after everything you will still be faced with a choice: to be everything your town and family expect of you and wield power using your pokemon OR abandon everything you’ve ever known in favor of the vast and varying possibilities of the wider pokemon world?

Do you return to your roots, hardened and cold from the years of belittling comments and unfair, brutal battles? Do you wield your championship title over your mother and sibling, making them feel the inferiority that you felt? Do you actively shove the words fed to you down the throats of those who used them against you? Become the mirror and hold yourself to the town that made you this way, but worse?

Or do you walk away? Do you return to the towns that taught you the importance of friendship and hard work that has no pay off? Return to the professor who taught you the value of having varied experiences? Join your friends on their endeavors, because through your journey you all became closer than you are to your own family? Give up the title of champion and your birthright to power?

Choosing option one condemns your file to competitive play for the rest of the post-story game lol.

#pokemon #original post #starters are all animals that can be both feral or domesticated #and all wild pokemon start in a ‘wild’ form that can either become domesticated or stay feral #trying to think of a title that implies rigidity vs fluidity #so far all i can think of is: #pokemon solid/liquid #lmaoo #bplease get this post out of containment

[doomalade]

Hazbin Episode 2 Review

As usual, here is the swear count:

Fuck - 25

Shit - 9

Bitch/ Hoe/ Whore/ Slut/ Bimbo - 12

Damn - 1

Ass - 1

Cock/Dick - 1

Porn/Sex - 1

Tits/Boobs - 0

Pussy/Vagina/ Cunt - 0

Piss - 2

Now onto spoilers under the break!

The Good:

We got a lot more Alastor this episode and I love him so much. Getting to see how he uses his dark magic, completely wiping the floor with Pentius and not even paying him the time of day to acknowledge him. Alastor’s cruel side coming out on display as he toys with Pentius before ultimately tossing him away like nothing. Really helped show that Alastor has that power like none other, like we saw in the pilot.

One thing I especially love about the scenes of Alastor and Pentius is how petty Alastor can get. How even the smallest rip of his suit coat got him so mad he let out a deer noise (which I think was a neat touch.)

This episode ultimately is just an introduction to the V’s but Alastor steals the spotlight. How you really can tell that he hates the V’s, and especially Vox.

Speaking of who had hypnotic powers (and so does Pentius seemingly) and it would be interesting to explore that more.

Ultimately you really get the sense that the V’s are the outcasts of the Overlords because they’re just total jerks all together, and not so much that they’re powerful like Alastor is. Also Status Quo had a good song transition both start and finish and is a pretty alright song.

Seeing how creepy Alastor got at the end was also a blessing.

Other than that?

I still love Nifty and how she got upset at Pentius trying to be a better person and also we got to see Fat Nuggets. So hurray!

Okay now onto

The Bad:

The overall pacing of this episode was kinda weird? Like it starts off with Pentius, then moves onto the V’s, and then back to Pentius and for the V introduction episode, it felt like that they didn’t get much screen time.

A few minutes on their own, Velvette barely getting any, Val being there only like 3 times, and Vox basically gets his butt kicked around by Alastor without much tension.

I really do wish that there was more of a power balance thing going on and I know that’s kinda weird to say given how Helluva arguably was pretty forward on the pecking order. Imagine three Overlords all having powers near equal to Alastor, that would raise the stakes as it leaves Charlie and Alastor basically being the two between the V’s and the destruction of the hotel.

Ultimately the V’s feel like Overlords only by title and not by actuality. The bark is there but no bite.

As for Pentius? Meh. His little story was alright I guess, but ultimately it more served as a way to start up Angel character development. I know I’ve thrown around the term “- is the Jaune Arc of this show” before and I want to explain that.

You know how James Gunn made Rocket the secret protagonist of the Guardian films? Take that idea and make it bad and add in a dash of misogyny if called for.

I am deeply afraid that Angel will be taking up more screen time than Charlie and will ultimately take over her spot as the protagonist. Which begs the question, why wasn’t Angel just made the protagonist up right?

Charlie is being woobified as is the case with most Viv characters, and now Angel’s focus is increasing. I got the same vibe from Fizz taking the protagonist role from Bitzø in Helluva.

Other than that? It becomes very apparent that this episode was written by Viv given the 25 fucks said during this episode, the most this far in the series. (Spoilers: E4 takes the cake for the most with 35.) Most of those fucks are spoken by Val’s brief first appearance before Status Quo. To call it excessive would be accurate.

Also let me not forget that I only count the spoken swears, and not the ones only shown. If I did, 25 would have become 30 in one frame during Vox’s news segment during the song.

Also during said segment, there is another Blitzø style drawing, which might only be irking me and no one else.

As for the song itself? I think the only downsides would be that Alastor singing about how older technology and ways of doing things are better than the new, uses terms such as “clout”, “podcast”, and “that’s the tea.”

Is this a nitpick? Sure. Does it only slightly exist out of the reasonability of Alastor’s character and how he acts and thinks? Sure. Does it still bother me like mad and make me point to it as a casual example of Viv not really knowing what she is doing with characters? Yes.

So ultimately this episode was like a 5/10. Idk, it exists I guess.

#doom.txt #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin spoilers #hazbin hotel critique #hazbin hotel spoilers

[sleepingdeath-light]

Favouritism Headcanons | Dragon Cookies

requested by anon

reader is assumed as gender neutral and as the dragon cookies’ spouse

Ananas Dragon Cookie

being ananas dragon’s partner means that you’re going to be bragged to and about at every given opportunity - i mean, you are their partner so you signed up for this treatment in their eyes.

expects their followers to worship you as well as them - as their partner and equal, in their eyes, they should revere you for your superiority over them just as they do them

brags a lot more in your presence, emphasising their strength and prowess to impress you and earn your reverence

has their followers build a shrine dedicated to the two of you - one that emphasises your beauty, strength and devotion to them

will brag about you to the other dragons on the rare occasion that they meet; all smug smirks and long winding stories about how amazing of a partner you are to them

covers you in gold and jewels to show others that you’re taken and have a powerful spouse beside you - avoiding unnecessary confrontation and allowing them to spend as much time as possible being worshipped and revered by lesser beings

makes sure that you know that you’re superior to others of your kind however they can

Lotus Dragon Cookie

lotus dragon is a very calm and perceptive lover who will make use of their status and reputation to give you whatever you want, always answering with a smile and nod before calling on their servants.

insists on hydrangea and her fellow servants waiting on you hand and foot, pampering you at any given opportunity and discouraging them from denying any request from you

spoils you with the finest of luxuries one can afford: jewellery, lingerie, clothes, accessories and more

never leaves your side, having you lounge with them in their palace; constantly on display like a show pony or trophy spouse

they’re most often seen laying on their side with you beside them, their arms around you and their lips pressed gently against your temple

has art and stories made to emphasise your talents and beauty - commemorating you in the eyes of their servants and those under their control

constantly praises you and encourages you to pursue your talents

knows your dreams and emotions like the back of their hand and is extremely good at comforting you however you need them to

calls you their “beloved” and their “darling”, rarely ever using your name as you’re “above such mortal things now”

Lychee Dragon Cookie

lychee is very open about their fondness for you and will gladly brag about their relationship with you to anyone in reach - even doing so when using the “mangosteen cookie” identity by constantly calling back to their “dearest love” with a sickening sweetness that those around them found endearing.

has the monsters tend to and protect you, keeping you under constant surveillance to ensure your safety (and that you don’t leave them)

doesn’t let any of the “lower beings” near you and almost views them as a disease on the island that they’re protecting you from - talking them down whilst praising you to the heavens

very affectionate with you and can’t seem to keep their hands off of you in private/anywhere that people that they don’t want to see can’t

keeps you in their cave away from the rest of the island, in a lush room built especially to your tastes (the safest area of the cave by a long shot)

does have a habit of guilt tripping you if they feel your relationship is threatened, exaggerating their innocence and upset to keep you with them - though they’d never outright use their powers on you unless they were truly desperate

has murals and statues made in your honour so that they can have part of you with them after you’re gone

can be very dramatic and even manic, but you calm them down - so they can be very reliant on you at times

Pitaya Dragon Cookie

pitaya is an incredibly prideful spouse who will treat you like a god amongst men, coveting you like you’re a precious treasure and yet expecting all cookies to worship you as they did them.

very warm, even compared to their fellow dragons, and will hold you close whenever you feel cold or if heat soothes your pains

always has a hand on you, keeping you flush against their body so you know they’re there and will protect you - their grip getting harsher if there’s another cookie nearby

carries you when they fly and enjoys showing you the world - telling you that you’re above it all now, that you deserve it all and more

purrs when you touch or play with their hair but if anyone else gets close to them, they’ll lash out at them violently

has you sleep on their chest so they can protect you even in their sleep

sees you as their most valuable treasure and tells you as such often

doesn’t brag about you per-say, but anyone that sees you will know who you belong to because they have you wear their colours and the treasures they’ve collected

will ask for your input on any of their schemes, valuing your input above even their own at times - but will violently shut down anyone else that tries to interject into your conversation

openly territorial over you as their “dear mortal”

#gender neutral reader #cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run headcanons #cr x reader #cr ananas dragon cookie #cr lotus dragon cookie #cr lychee dragon cookie #cr pitaya dragon cookie #pitaya dragon cookie #pitaya dragon cookie x reader #lychee dragon cookie #lychee dragon cookie x reader #ananas dragon cookie #ananas dragon cookie x reader #lotus dragon cookie #lotus dragon cookie x reader #headcanons #hcs #sleepingdeath

[thestylesindependent]

We haven’t seen an artist like him since David Bowie

I’ve always considered myself to be somewhat of a music purist.

I still listen to albums from front to back, usually on an old record player I keep next to a collection of EPs that produces a lovely scratchy sound as original masterpieces from Revolver to The Queen Is Dead turn on its table.

Those albums aren’t just important because they are musical triumphs, they’re important because they had a profound impact on the industry and influenced cultural movements that impacted society as a whole.

Without the Beatles there is no Pixies, Nirvana or Oasis. Without The Smiths there is no Stone Roses, Radiohead or The Libertines. But what those bands did for women’s liberation, gay liberation, environmentalism and working class movements is equally profound. Both are bands whose popularity was supplanted by their artistry, giving them a unique position in the annals of music history.

For me, ever since the X Factor aired on our screens, fronted by Simon Cowell with his pearly white teeth, pristine T and Twickers jeans and shoes combination, it has been the absolute antithesis of all that.

The public flogging of people out to chase their dreams has seen huge audiences flock to the show over the years as they crown acts who manage to not butcher classic covers. As Michael Rosenberg (AKA Passenger) once put it, the show “murdered music” at the altar of a few “money-grabbing pricks”. It robbed us of an original Christmas Number 1 for decades until a countermovement propelled Rage Against The Machine to the top spot. And quite right, too.

But the show has, quite miraculously, given birth to a musician who, in my view, belongs in the same category as The Beatles, The Smiths and, pertainantly, David Bowie in status.

Harry Styles, formerly of One Direction fame, is quite obviously a popular bloke. He is about to perform in front of 90,000 people at Wembley for the fourth night after completing the highest selling Scottish stadium tour ever. He has 48.9 million followers on Instagram and his 2022 hit ‘As It Was’ was the most streamed Spotify song that year.

But his popularity should not be confused with his artistry.

Styles is more than just the hoards of screaming teenage fans and strings of celebrity endorsements we’ve come to know him for. He’s actually an icon both in music and in style, and increasingly an icon in modern movements of inclusiveness and self-worth.

During a concert in Houston, Texas, in 2018, he interacted with a ten-year-old boy in the crowd who had become overcome with emotion. Styles assured the young boy, “Crying is very manly. Being vulnerable is manly”. That is fucking classy, man.

His debut album artwork, which depicts the least tattooed area of his naked body half-submerged in a pastel pink bath, similarly conveys vulnerability, femininity, reflection, and intimacy, all of which are buzzwords for new youth movements that will only grow in acceptance and popularity.

When I look at his Love on Tour show I don’t see a teenage heartthrob. I see the Beatles. I look at his fashion and I see Bowie. I look at the messages he’s sending out to kids and I see Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation. And I see the fact that nobody is talking about him in those terms as proof that he is actually woefully underrated.

Now bring on the hate…

#harry styles #june 2023

[ladiemars]

OMG UR DND CHARACTER IM LOVE

plsplspls say more about her i am so interested and she looks so funky

aha thank you! lish is my character for my friend’s homebrew d&d campaign, the dawn of solaire. messy sketch + lore dump below the cut:

lish goes by “lish” because it’s easier to say “my name is lish like fish,” than it is to say “i’m lorelai melara ishalath of house malagath.” she’s a triton noblewoman from the underwater empire of tyria.

she’s an only child who wanted for very little growing up except affection and attention. she’d always dreamed of being a trophy wife, but became infatuated with bards when she visited the surface as a child with her father and saw how they commanded the room when they performed and were showered with applause.

lish learned the bardic arts as a hobby, but as a tyrian noblewoman, her main priority was securing a husband of equal or higher status. when lish was around fifteen years old, she became deeply infatuated with a twenty year old nobleman, zahras malagath. he had little interest in her, but saw the value in marrying her as a status symbol, so he married her when she came of age.

their marriage is not a good one (to say the least) and also very one-sided. lish’s feelings of love are not reciprocated, and zahras is cold and controlling even by tyrian standards. lish is in complete denial about this, though.

things got worse between them, and lish, in typical lish fashion, she decided to run off to the surface, hoping to punish zahras with her absence, because what can be worse than that? she thinks he’ll come find her, tell her how much he needs her and misses her, and bring her home.

but it’s been months now, and she’s still waiting for that to happen. she hasn’t given up hope, though—but in the meantime, she has to find a way to support herself on the surface (the horror).

she joins up with a guild to make money and get her name out there, hoping that word will reach tyria about her activities and whereabouts on the surface, and someone, anyone will come for her.

(she also has a magical soulmate, beefs with her best friend’s triton girlfriend like they’re two betta fish in the same bowl, and is fighting an evil cult trying to bring stuff back from the dead. but uhhh that’s a whole other story.)

#asks #mars talks #lorelai ishalath #lish #the dawn of solaire #i made her name lish for a trisha paytas joke then built everything around it #dungeons and dragons #dnd #dnd triton #dnd homebrew #dnd oc #triton #mars draws

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Frederick R. Prete

Published: Feb 11, 2024

About the Author

Frederick Prete is a biopsychologist in the Dept. of Biology at Northeastern Illinois University. He teaches courses in neurobiology, and human and animal physiology. He has also served as an associate editor for the International Journal of Comparative Psychology. Prete writes about how people use and misuse biology to support their social and political points of view. 

Other essays by Prete can be found on his Substack Everything Is Biology.

--

The contemporary “debate” (if one can call it that) surrounding the biology of sex suffers from a lack of intellectual seriousness on one side. The arguments forwarded by those insisting on the non-binary nature of sex often demonstrate a rudimentary understanding of basic biology, or are so comically nonsensical that one wonders whether they’re even worth responding to. Academic biologists engaging with gender activists’ arguments for the so-called “sex spectrum” are like mathematicians engaging with numerologists (individuals who believe in a mystical relationship between numbers and coinciding events) or geologists debating Flat Earthers. However, given that sex pseudoscience has somehow taken over academia, serious scholars now find themselves compelled to engage with the absurd.

One such example is the bizarre suggestion that because some fish can literally change sex during their lifetime, then perhaps humans can too. This idea, while absurd on its face, is far from fringe. It has been given credence by popular science outlets like Scientific American, which highlighted the sex-changing abilities of clown fish “to emphasize the diversity of ways in which sexual beings move through the world.” Even the United Kingdom’s national library posted (and later deleted) a thread on X during Pride Month last year about the sex-changing abilities of the Māori wrasse, and Greenpeace made a similar move in 2021.

What relevance does LGBTQ+ Pride Month have to sex-changing fish unless there’s an intention to suggest that these examples illuminate the potential for sex changes in humans? But if activists insist on making such far-fetched comparisons, they should be challenged to follow their logic to its ultimate conclusion.

Let’s be honest, animals do a lot of weird things. They enslave other animals, eat their offspring, cannibalize their lovers, kill their newborn twin sisters, and devour their siblings in the womb. Do any of these activists want to justify slavery or embryonic cannibalism because animals do it? Probably not. But it’s equally silly to claim that we can derive grand lessons about human biology and sexual behavior from animals. Male octopuses, for instance, grab a packet of their own sperm with one of their tentacles, shove inside a female’s mantle cavity, and drop it next to her oviduct. This hardly seems like a behavior humans should try to emulate. Are there any objections? Why, then, would we think that fish sexual biology is a better model for us humans than that of octopuses?

What’s more, it frustrates me that those who continuously discuss sex changes in fish don’t get the fish-sex story straight in the first place. In reality, sex changes among the roughly 20 families and seven orders of teleost fish are driven by physiological and hormonal events that are triggered—depending on the species—by factors such as body size, perceived social status, or (in the monogamous clown fish Amphiprioninae) the disappearance of the large, breeding female. It’s also the case that those big, newly minted, dominant female clown fish are viciously aggressive to any fish they do not recognize as part of their group. So, if we’re taking our cues from clown fish, let’s not be hypocritical—let’s go all the way and demand that only extremely large, dominant, hyper-monogamous people who are particularly xenophobic should consider a sex change, and only after all the other females in the neighborhood have vanished. Does that sound reasonable? (I trust you realize I am being facetious here)

It should go without saying, but it appears that some still need a reminder: people are not fish. Fish live in the water. People live on land. When it comes to sex and reproduction, this makes all the difference in the world. In aquatic environments, you can simply release your gametes (eggs and sperm) into the water and let them drift around until they hook up. That’s because, in water, they won’t dry out and die. And neither will your embryos because they’ll be in the water, too. This is why so many fish can produce eggs or sperm at different times in their lives. It doesn’t take any specialized external organs to squirt gametes into the water, just a gonad for gamete production and an orifice for release.

However, the whole situation changes if you live on dry land. As mammals evolved for terrestrial life, they had to acquire adaptations—both structural and behavioral—to prevent their gametes and embryos from drying out. You can’t simply drop your sperms and eggs on the ground and hope for the best. So, male terrestrial animals evolved specialized external body parts for transferring sperm directly into females, who, in turn, have evolved body parts designed for receiving sperm and a chamber for nurturing the developing embryo until it is ready for life on dry land. Additionally—and equally important—both males and females evolved complementary neuromuscular behavioral patterns that allow them to court and mate successfully.

That’s why terrestrial mammals can’t change sex like some fish do. Such a transformation would require females to spontaneously sprout some kind of tube for internal sperm delivery, and males would need to somehow develop a complementary orifice. Moreover—and more importantly—both males and females would need to develop all the necessary internal parts and “plumbing” to make these external structures functional. It’s insufficient to merely alter the appearance of external structures, which can be done surgically (even on pets). A terrestrial animal transitioning from a female to a male would also require developing a complex duct system linking the gonads to the external tube, along with glands to secrete a carrying fluid and nutrients for the sperm (i.e., the Wolffian duct system, prostate, and bulbourethral glands). Going from male to female would involve developing some kind of organ to catch the eggs when they get released into the abdominal cavity, retain them until they encounter sperm, and then house the resulting embryo while it develops (these are derivatives of the Müllerian duct system).

Obviously, none of this could happen. When it comes to mammals, the die is cast prenatally. So, whatever fish do is their business and has absolutely nothing to do with terrestrial mammals. So, let’s drop the clown fish and Asian sheepshead wrasse analogies. Anybody who brings them up simply doesn’t understand evolutionary biology. It is futile to engage in discussions based on such analogies unless, of course, you’re one of those people who think that because some animals reproduce parthenogenically, humans should simply stop having sex altogether and hope for the best.

I want to make it clear that I have a deep understanding and empathy for those of us, including myself, who do not fit the popular stereotypes of any category or group. Throughout my life, I have received what seems to be an unrelenting stream of criticism for the fact that I was never (and still am not) perceived as representative of the norm (whatever that is). Consequently, I grew up defending those who were similarly targeted, and I believe that each of us should be continually mindful and accepting of the rich diversity of the human condition. Each of us should actively and consciously strive to be as compassionate, accepting, supportive, and inclusive as possible.

However, doing so does not require us to abandon reason, turn our backs on biology, or unhinge ourselves from reality.

#Frederick R. Prete #Frederick R Prete #people are not fish #sequential hermaphroditism #sex change #clownfish #human biology #human reproduction #evolutionary biology #reproduction #biology #biology lesson #gender ideology #queer theory #gender identity ideology #science #religion is a mental illness

[phantomram-b00]

To Hell with you

So, I was listening to songs. And then an epiphany hit me hit me harder than this fixation of the show; what if…the roles were reversed? Like what if Azirapahle first said no to the promotion yet Crowley said yes instead? I think I saw a fanfic that did this (I don’t remember) but I wanted to take a crack at this, and I feel like I want to cry myself so imma do a fanfic of it, hope you enjoy. And if you still haven’t seen good omens season too, this will contain that so uh spoiler warning ahead. Have fun!

Aziraphale was just done talking with Nina and Maggie just a while ago whilst Crowley walk away; while profusely apologizing for the whole ordeal both for last night and overall, they did give him advice on his love life. Something he never thought he could describe it given their status from their opposing side, but he’ve been in love with Crowley since 1941, so the label wasn’t exactly far off. But nothing official, and thanks to their advice, he though maybe they can? Why not? To hell with both parties that been trying to separate them for millennia now they’re on their own side.

“Right! Let me at least tidy this up before he comes” he spoke to himself while he put some books in their respective spots as well covered the symbol on the floor and make sure nothing was out of the ordinary. Oh ironic given their day to day life on earth. As he does so, he start preparing for the talk as he turn the sign on the front to “very closed”

“Okay, so Crowley!” He chuckled as he talks to himself yet again. “There something I must tell you about, I think it been long overdue for the past 6000 years at this point. And I know I’ve told you you go to fast but-“

He shook his head throwing away that thought like a piece of crumbled paper. That won’t do at all.

“Crowley! Wily serpent! I believe there are thing to be discussed about if that all the same to you…” he said as he put the Jane Austen book in order since Gabriel- err Jim decided to put them away separate by the first sentence they start it. Oh how problematic that organization was it nearly discorperated him the second time. “So we’ve known each other for quite a long time, at this point in time we can even guess each other sentences or predict other moves like Agnes Nutter.” He laughs. “W-well, what I’ve been meaning to say is, w-well, remember when I told you you go to fast? Well, I think I want to retract that statement since I think we can go fast, faster than a rollercoaster as Buddy Holly said-“

He again shook his head, and threw that idea away. But he blushes just thinking about Crowley, how he does want them to make it happen finally, been waiting since 1941 or maybe even longer; his mind begin to wonder around, become a habit for him at this point. He began to think about their life, all the time they’ve been together. Always a risk to be together but deep down, Aziraphale would take that risk all day to see Crowley, the one person that didn’t treat him like an annoyance or dare judge him but instead treated him like an equal, the one person that he would rather dine at the ritz and go on many restaurants with, the one person that he would maybe one day want to live with for all eternity. That feel more like heaven in his eyes than the actual place. In retrospect, he wished if it wasn’t for their side that maybe they could been more braver. Or at least he could’ve been. But he had a smile, maybe they can be now? And they can make up for lost time? And maybe one day, they can move into a cottage? Oh he can never be bored of living with him for all eternity. It make him more giddy just thinking about that possibility.

“Crowley!” He started again. “We need to talk, but I think maybe, this would be best suited if we go to St. James park? You’ve always love that place with the ducks. We can get frozen peas. And we can talk as we sit? Or if you prefer, we can dine at the ritz? I can feel an reservation was just open for two” he giggles while hugging the first edition Jane Erye by Charlotte Brontë. “Or maybe, we can talk here, and have drinks? I’ve got an expensive—“

Ding

Aziraphale look at the door and see Crowley back, couldn’t content his smile even if he tries.

“Crowley!” He said putting the book down and walking over to him.

“Angel” said giving him a smile back in return. He take off his glasses to reveal his Sunny eyes. “Listen angel, there something I need to talk to you about.”

“So do I!” He chuckled lovingly whilst look at his sun. “funny how two minds think alike, but I think first I would like to ask you if-“

“Hold that thought for just a moment angel,” Crowley said as aziraphale stopped his laughter. “Listen, Shax and I talked.”

“I’m quite aware, seen you guys had much to talk about despite what the stunt she pulled.” Aziraphale spoke. “Nearly started a war.”

“Right yeah, uh, so, during the talk, she granted me something. And, well, okay cutting to the chase here angel, she want me to be Duke of hell.”

“Oh.” He said taken aback. “Surely you said no didn’t you? I mean you always complained about how they’re the worst and not to mention that they even have a sign on not licking walls? Frankly you saying…”

He stop to look at Crowley face, reading it carefully like it was one of his books. Only this time he does not appreciate this sudden twist.

“Crowley please tell me…” he choked out. “Please..”

“Angel, maybe I can make this right. If I’m Duke of hell-“

“Oh Crowley” he look away running his finger through his white hair. He then lightly laugh. “Please tell me this is one of your devilish jokes you wily serpent!”

“Shax said…she said I can even bring you down to hell with me. We can make hell nicer, no, we can make hell a better. We can even maybe prevent whatever is happening—“

“Ohhhhhh! Crowley I thought you were better than this.” Aziraphale said choking back the tears. “You should be better than that Crowley!”

“Angel—“

“If I didn’t need heaven then it fairly certain that I don’t need hell neither!” He paced around trying to calm himself but avoiding his eyes. “You know Heaven told me to come back to them with a promotion to be supreme angel before this whole Gabriel and I said “no I will certainly not go back to you” and you shouldn’t neither.”

“Well of course you said no angel, heaven are a bunch of self-righteous arseholes and certainly no better than hell I’ll tell you that much.” Aziraphale face continues to be horrified. “But hell, I know hell isn’t the best neither but angel, if you’re by my side, we can make it better.”

“Crowley are you realizing that if hell ends life here on earth it be just as dead as if heaven ended it.” Azirapahle said this time he open the flood gates and tears are streaming down with his voice cracking. “Crowley… tell me you said no.”

Crowley tries his best to choke back his tears too. Seeing his angel distraught was the last thing to see. The last thing he ever wanted to do. He look away from aziraphale feeling his heart growing heavier the more this conversation prolongs.

“Crowley…?” Aziraphale said not even trying to wipe his golden tears away.

“Angel. Maybe I can make an actual difference. I can try to stop it.”

Aziraphale shook his head, he was too shocked yet to upset to form any form of a sentence. His glossy eyes was enough for Crowley to start his water works, he look away once more. Aziraphale turn around and let out a sigh.

“Right guess you got everything out then, it my turn to say my piece—“ despite this, Crowley waited patiently. “We’ve known one another for quite a long time. We’ve been on this planet more than the human that roam on earth. We can always rely on one another and we can or at least I had hoped we trusted each other. We’re on our own side as you said even four years ago at the ritz. To hear those words was more heavenly than what heaven could’ve ever offered to me.” He feel his heart growing heavier. “And I would love it if we—“ he stop again as he feel his tear roll down his cheeks once more. “Crowley, how is it that Beelzebub and Gabriel can go off to Alpha Centauri, the place you yourself have been dying to run off, then we could too right? Just the two of us.” Crowley wanted to smile, but he was too distraught himself to bring himself to do so. “You’ve always said, that we don’t need heaven or hell, they’re toxic Crowley! We can still run like you always said, we can even go to Alpha Centauri with them” Crowley shook his head repeatedly. “We can— what why are you saying what is it?” He said showing curiosity and concern.

“Angel then come with me. I can run it and you can be right by my side. We can make a different please.” Crowley said pleading now. He want to cup his hand on his face wiping away those golden tears, but even when he toke a step, aziraphale toke a step back shaking his head.

“You can’t leave—“ me. “You can’t leave this bookshop.”

Crowley would never want to leave him alone. He would do anything to stop time just to stay in this bookshop for all eternity with him, basking in their love they been so desperately trying to achieve. To listen to angel’s ramble of a book he know he read for the millionth time. To have quality time with him whether it just them drinking wine or even just them holding each other in their embrace while they listen to classical music to bebop as azirapahle would call his taste. But that not what he said did he?

“Oh Aziraphale..” Crowley said giving a sadden smile. “Nothing last forever.” He wanted to kick himself just for saying those fatal words. The words that finally push azirapahle over the edge as now he can’t hold back. He hold his hand in his face as he let it out, just for a moment. Even in that moment, Crowley want to hug him. But he stopped after a moment, as to try to revert back to his calm demeanor.

“No.” He said grabbing his glasses and giving it back to Crowley. “I suppose you’re right about that one.” Crowley look as he see the glasses. Trying to process what he was even doing. “I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.”

He proceed to walk out of his own bookshop.

“Best of luck..” then it hits him. “Angel!” He doesn’t stop walking away. “Aziraphale come back!” Aziraphale turn around, he was completely drained. His angelic happiness is no where to be found in his hazel blue eyes. “Work with me.” He still pleads, even aziraphale let out a sigh as he continues. “To hell..we can be on our side even down there. Doing our own things down there.” Aziraphale wince from that sentence as he look away to avoid his eyes. “I-I need you aziraphale!” He finally said which prompted him to finally look at him. Both their watery eyes met. It felt like time stopped again. Maybe Crowley finally convinced him. Maybe they can be in their side even in hell. Maybe they could make things better. Him and Aziraphale against them—“you have to understand what I’m trying to offer here Angel..”

“Oh I think I know quiet well. Maybe even more than you can Crowley.” He said. But he realize it wasn’t his usual tone. He sounded apathetic. Is this really it? This shouldn’t be. Why does it feel…

“Well. If that the case, is there really anything else to say at this point?” Crowley said as he put on his glasses as his tears starts to appear yet again.

“Listen.” Aziraphale said pointing up. “Can you hear anything?”

“No. Angel what are you trying to…”

“That’s exactly my point. No nightingale.” He said, that was it for him. He feel he can’t hold it back any longer. “You stupid snake. We could have been us.” Aziraphale said emphasizing on the term us. Crowley looked away to let tears run, even closing his eyes to hope it be all over. But then he felt his lapel of his blazer being pull and the feeling of soft lips pressed again his own. His eyes shock open as he see aziraphale. Principality. Angel of the eastern gate. Kiss him. This wasn’t what he expected their first to be, not one where tears are mixing with each others. He wanted it to be more romantic, more on a happier note. One that both can enjoy. Not this. Not when his angel is obviously hurt. Oh Satan, what have he done. He lift his hands couple times but he was able to place his hand behind Aziraphale’s back and kiss back. He felt his head spin around like all the planets he created, can feel like he seeing stars he help create. And here he is, kissing the biggest star he’ve every laid his eyes on.

Soon they pull away from each other, Crowley having to catch his breath, not hiding his cries anymore. Aziraphale just stand there in hope, can this finally convince him? Crowley look at Azirapahle, many emotion can be battling each other, anger, lament, happiness, shocked? Maybe all above.

“I…I…” love you. Do it again. “TO HELL WITH YOU” he wanted to cover his mouth. Why did he let them escape. Where the soap when you need it. Aziraphale let out a silent gasp as golden tears escape him once more.

“I forgive you.” Aziraphale said walking out of the bookshop.

“Wait angel!”

He walks out of the bookshop, he almost push people down, forget for a moment that London can get busy. He look around to try to find him. “Aziraphale! Please, come back!”

No avail. He can’t find him anywhere, no white haired tartan wearing angel. He feel down to his knees.

“What have I done?” He said to himself. His scales emerged feeling intense emotions, he wanted to scream as he feel smoke coming out of him.

“Crowley?” He look up and see Shax. “Right, I take it he didn’t take it well.”

“What do you think?” Shax was gonna talk again before he stop her. He stands up “Right don’t answer that. Let just go.” He said drained. Feeling empty. Betrayed.

“Jolly good. Now I will say, I’ve heard word from upstairs.” Shax said as they walk, Crowley look at her but not in interest but he had to know.

“And what do the holier than thou angel say?”

“Well. Something about ahhh. The second coming as they like to call it. We got a role in this too, so best get a move on” Shax chuckled as she walked as she talked more about this role. Crowley stopped. He turn around just for a moment and see Aziraphale, he was far away about to turn the corner. But he can easily see that he left enough room for him to come with him to walk, the finale plead. He can’t make out what his expression was but it didn’t matter, he look at him one last time. Before he start walking backward and turning back to Shax. Completely disappearing from the crowd. “You know. Pity your boyfriend didn’t come. Me and Furfur were betting on it, guess no matter. We got work to do.” He stopped listen as she went on. He wanted more than anything to just run back to him. He wished he didn’t take this. But part of him felt that maybe he can still try. If not fro earth, for aziraphale. To keep him safe as he try to stop this plan. To stop armageddon from happening once more. Even if that meant he can’t see Aziraphale ever again.

Meanwhile Aziraphale just nodded. Understand this was it. It truly was over. He saw Maggie and Nina walk away holding hands as if God was rubbing salt in his wound. He then see Muriel waving at him in glee. He would’ve wave back in mutual respect but not now. Not today. He just walked away leaving them feeling concern. Aziraphale walked, unsure where exactly he walking to but his feet keep moving so he might as well walk wherever his shattered heart take him. He then heard a radio from one of the stores singing the song. That song meant for them.

Snap

Just like that the song stopped. He continues to walk. Walk as far as he can. As golden tears fall once more.

(Reference for the golden tears and Sunny eyes)

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #hope you like angst #I felt like crying today #stop because I had to watch that scene for reference again and I almost cried all over again aaaah #good omens fandom #good omens 2 #good omens fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #good omens season 2 #anthony j crowley #aziraphale good omens #good omens aziraphale #good omens aziracrow #good omens ineffable husbands #ineffable fandom #ineffable spouses #ineffable soulmates #they ineffable your honor #to hell with you