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glowingbadger · 1 year

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Guys I basically hate everything I'm making right now, drawing, writing, etc. and it's all taking a million years to make just to be disappointed with the results SO I'm taking an indulgent and stupid break to spit out my thoughts about the FE3H lads' vices of choice (in terms of what they may imbibe to take the edge off). Also I'm tired and doing this super off-the-cuff, so if I forget someone or my takes are shit or w/e... i dunno, mea culpa I guess.

big ol' TW for drug & alcohol use so skip this one if you don't vibe with booze and/or smoking of various types (nothing too hard tho lmao no one's shooting up or anything on this post). As a disclaimer since this whole post might make me seem super pro-drugs lmao: I am into having your vices and letting them help get you through the day to a healthy and controlled extent.

Also, I guess this is sort of modern au?? FE3H's setting is wildly anachronistic, but I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have things like modern cigarettes, or edibles as we know them. Just. Roll with it ig.

Honestly this was inspired by a guy I used to hook up with before I met my husband who smoked and because of him I briefly developed a pavlovian response where I'd become aroused by the scent of cigarettes so shout-out to you, Dan- hope you're doing good somewhere you dumb, handsome bastard

Vices:

Linhardt- he's open to a lot, as a naturally curious type, but he's particularly fond of hookah. He finds the experience meditative and calming, and it's honestly best if someone keeps an eye out and makes sure he doesn't fall asleep with the coals still burning. But having a pipe in hand while reading on a quiet evening is just unmatched.

Hubert- obviously his canon vice is coffee, which he naturally takes black (at most, perhaps a splash of milk). That said, while he doesn't have an addictive streak, he will have a cigarette here and there when the stress is getting to him and he needs to stay focused. Other than that, he of course will partake in wine when it's expected of him at events, but he doesn't overly enjoy it.

Ferdinand- he enjoys wine both as a social experience, and as a true connoisseur; he's constantly scouting out which sellers have gotten ahold of something rare and exotic, and has no compunctions about paying a good deal of money for a valuable bottle. However, he dramatically overestimates his own alcohol tolerance.

Caspar- pretty much lives completely clean, unless food and over-exercise can be considered vices (which many would say they could). He tried Lin's hookah once and he coughed so much that he wrote off smoking across the board. Totally doesn't get things like "acquired tastes" when it comes to drinks, either- why bother with something you don't like right off the bat?

Dimitri- as a function of growing up at the height of society, he's of course expected to drink socially and know just enough about fine wines and liquors to serve appropriately high-quality drink to guests and dignitaries. However, he's a very dramatic and sad drunk, on the rare occasions he lets himself get that far. Frankly, he should probably just try weed.

Felix- he keeps his vices pretty under control, as lack of control makes him feel on-edge. Similar to Caspar, his 'vice' is more about drowning his anxieties in training and exercise. That said, he'll sometimes nurse a cigarette for a while, mostly to keep his mouth and hands busy- it's a fidgeting habit more than anything.

Sylvain- he's made a conscious effort to familiarize himself with and build a tolerance to just about anything that's consumed socially. Passing a joint, pouring a drink, taking shots, anything that adds to that socially-acceptable party vibes, he's ready to jump on-board. Left to his own preferences though, he likes a good whiskey, but like, the softer, smoother ones that go down easy.

Ashe- he doesn't look it, but having grown up in a rough situation and having to rub elbows with some unsavory types, he does have a respectable tolerance for most of your standard substances- though he's mostly only ever taken them to be "polite." But he knows his body and knows to keep alert.

Dedue- can appreciate coffee, but is potently aware of the disadvantages of caffeine addiction, so he keeps it moderate. He can also appreciate hookah, and similarly to Linhardt, finds it to be a soothing and calm activity that doesn't impair his judgement or cognition significantly.

Claude- pretty open minded overall, and is in support of indulging in moderate hedonism as long as it never puts you at a disadvantage. His preferred indulgence is weed, and in particular, he can really enjoy a well made edible. He's very picky about who he imbibes with, however- he doesn't trust just anyone while he may be in a slightly compromised state and more likely to say something he otherwise wouldn't.

Lorenz- he's as much a wine aficionado as any true noble would be, of course, and has memorized all the usual talking-points thereof. He considers it distasteful to become visibly inebriated, however. He also definitely owns a collection of elaborate and expensive tobacco pipes that have almost never been used.

Ignatz- he's fairly clean, and will nurse a single drink throughout an evening in social settings. He's heard that many famous artists have found inspiration in "broadening their minds," but he finds the loss of control intimidating. To be honest though, he also should probably try weed, this is a man with an anxiety disorder if I ever saw one.

Raphael- probably hasn't had many opportunities to get extremely experimental, but he does absolutely love a good beer or ale (or several beers or ales), preferably alongside a hearty meal or vast array of snacks. He considers it just part of enjoying a feast, a perfect accent to the food.

Jeralt- his love of booze is canon, of course, but he is generally open minded about such things and is willing to partake in whatever takes the edge off after a big job. He has decent tolerance, but has a habit of ignoring when he might be pushing a little too far, basically willfully ignoring his own limits.

Seteth- canonically, Nabateans have high alcohol tolerance (if Seteth's mention of it to Manuela is anything to go off of), so I imagine this extends to most foreign substances. That said, he does enjoy the earthy flavor of a well-worn tobacco pipe, and will sometimes unwind with it after a long work day.

Also on a personal note, modern au Seteth in a business suit smoking a cigarette makes horny brain go brrrrrrrrrr

Jeritza- he stays totally clean, as he deeply dislikes the sensation of losing control. He lives with the constant shadow of the thought that any lapse will trigger the Death Knight, and knows he can't risk such a thing outside of the battlefield.

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denimbex1986 · 1 month

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'Depending on who you ask, the character of Tom Ripley is a Machiavellian criminal, a mastermind of deception, or a hopelessly deluded dreamer. Patricia Highsmith’s quintet of novels centering on the tortured, talented con artist have invited several cinematic interpretations, each with a different take on his slippery essence. Some actors might hesitate to step into the protagonist’s dubiously-acquired Ferragamo loafers, but Andrew Scott, star of the new limited series Ripley, had no such qualms. “Since I’ve been associated with the role, people say ‘Oh my god, that character,’” recalls the Irish actor, known for his subtle, precisely observed performances as the magnetic Priest in Fleabag and Adam, a lonely writer batting grief in All of Us Strangers. “People have a lot of preconceptions about Tom Ripley. It’s my job in some ways to ignore all that and create our own particular version of it.”

Anchored by Scott’s mercurial performance, Ripley is a finely drawn character study of one of the most beguiling creations of twentieth-century fiction. Helmed by DGA Award-winning director and Academy Award-winning writer Steven Zaillian, the gripping psychological thriller unspools over eight episodes shot in elegant black and white by Academy Award winner Robert Elswit. From a rat-infested flophouse in 60s Manhattan to a dolce vita gone sour in Italy, Ripley’s travels — and travails — come to life in noir at its most luxurious and complex. Its cinematographic lushness is haunted by ever-present threats of deception and violence and shot through with sly wit. “It’s just the way I write, intertwining drama and in this case, suspense, with humor, because that’s what life is like,” says Zaillian. “I’m always after what’s real in behavior.”

When we first meet Ripley, he is scraping together a living in New York’s underbelly when an offer arrives that few in his position would refuse. A shipbuilding magnate practically hands Ripley a blank check to retrieve his wayward son Dickie Greenleaf (Johnny Flynn) from an extended vacation in Italy. Yet upon arrival, the mission takes on a complex and sinister edge as Ripley becomes dangerously infatuated with Dickie’s haute bohemian lifestyle and carefree cool. He grows possessive and jealous, raising the suspicions of his partner Marge Sherwood, played by Dakota Fanning. “Marge susses him out pretty quickly,” notes Fanning. “A lot of the other characters think that they’re playing Tom — and Tom is fully playing them.”

Zaillian sought out Fanning after watching her “expressive and eerie” turn as the Manson cult member Squeaky Fromme in Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood: “I thought, This is someone who can go toe to toe with Tom Ripley, who is too smart to be conned, who can threaten his schemes.”

To find the perfect setting for Dickie and Marge’s Italian idyll, Zaillian and production designer David Gropman set about the rather enviable task of location scouting on the Amalfi coast. Amid the area’s swishy modern-day hotels and luxury boutiques, they discovered Atrani, a quaint village that seemed frozen in time with its lemon tree-lined streets, tenth-century church, and stunning vistas of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The costume department meticulously recreated the period’s fashions to outfit a supporting cast that brings richness to Atrani’s pensiones and vibrant life to its bustling Roman piazzas. Filming happened to coincide with a lull in vacationers, adding to the authentic feel. “This was during COVID, so there were no tourists,” notes Zaillian. “It made it feel all the more like we’d gone back in time.”

Despite its fidelity to the 60s setting, there’s a sense that Ripley is meeting the moment, reentering popular consciousness at a time of cultural fascination with real-life scammers such as Anna Delvey and Elizabeth Holmes. Even so, Scott bristles at the idea that the series’ protagonist is a mere grifter. “I think he’s very charming and not in a manipulative way,” says Scott, who rocketed to stardom playing a true literary villain, James Moriarty in the BBC’s Sherlock. “When [Ripley] comes to Italy and he’s exposed to all this beautiful art and landscape and beauty and food, he adores it. But the people that he’s with I’m not sure have the same appreciation or humility about that stuff that he does. So in a way, he’s very like us.”

Scott adds that Ripley’s unsavory exploits are motivated by fear, specifically the FOMO-like certainty that everyone else is having a fabulous time without him. “He’s a dark character and does bad things,” says Scott. “To me, what it’s about is feeling like you are not invited to the party. It’s about feeling like you’re ‘other.’”

It’s hard to blame Ripley for longing for what he can’t have. One early scene in New York sees him gazing admiringly into the window of a refined boutique while on the way home from a dingy dive bar, transfixed — taunted — by an upper-crust lifestyle that is inaccessible to him no matter the cash in his wallet. You can’t merely buy your way into the echelons of high society, or acquire the laissez-faire attitude to wealth that comes with it: Dickie shrugs on his made-to-measure Italian suits with the same careless ease that a dock worker tosses on his overalls. “Essentially, Dickie doesn’t want to inherit the rich kid status,” says Flynn. “In his heart, he’s a bohemian artist-poet, and he’s getting to imagine he is that, living in this reclusive place in Italy.”

This nonchalantly rakish dreamer-gone-adrift casts a particular spell over Atrani’s newest arrival. “To my mind, it’s all about love,” says Scott of Ripley’s attraction to Dickie. “I think he loves Dickie. It’s not really specified as to what the nature of that love necessarily is from Tom’s point of view. Do I think that it’s in some way sexual? Possibly.” Ripley doesn’t know whether he wants to be Dickie, or wants to be with him.

Scott is no stranger to getting into the bones of characters that subvert audience expectations. He recently scored an Olivier nomination for a tour-de-force turn in the West End’s Vanya, an audacious Chekhov adaptation in which Scott played every role. His Ripley is just as multidimensional, teasing out the humanity of a man who is certainly no hero, but is also too complex to quite be a love-to-hate-’em antihero. “I always think the great works of art are or should be about who we are and not who we should be,” says Scott. “I think we contain multitudes within us and all great art reflects that, that we’re both the light and the dark.”'

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fitmanagement · 7 months

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In the fast-paced world of business, it’s often the bold who rise above the competition. In the realm of gym ownership, taking inspiration from unlikely sources can be the key to setting your fitness center apart. In this article, we explore how you can supercharge your gym business by taking a page out of the playbook of the Texas Rangers Baseball Club. Just like this iconic team, going all in on various aspects of your gym business can help you overcome obscurity and ensure a home run for your fitness venture.

Going All In on Advertising and Marketing:

The Texas Rangers didn’t become one of the most recognized baseball teams by staying in the shadows. They went all in on advertising and marketing, which allowed them to engage their fan base and expand their reach. Similarly, in the competitive fitness industry, you should never underestimate the power of a well-executed marketing strategy. Invest in online and offline marketing, create compelling content, and utilize social media platforms to engage your audience. This approach will help you break through the clutter and make your gym a household name.

Going All In on Staff Training:

A winning team is nothing without skilled players, and the Texas Rangers recognize this. Your gym staff is the backbone of your business. Invest in their training, both in terms of technical skills and customer service. Create a culture of continuous learning, ensuring your trainers are up-to-date with the latest fitness trends and are adept at motivating and supporting your members. Going all in on staff training will enhance the overall gym experience, retain members, and attract new ones through word-of-mouth referrals.

Going All In on Funding:

The Texas Rangers have made pivotal decisions, such as acquiring star players, because they had the necessary funding. Similarly, your gym business should have a robust financial plan. Ensure you have access to capital to make strategic investments when opportunities arise. This could mean expanding your gym, acquiring new equipment, or launching innovative fitness programs. Having enough funding means you won’t miss a swing when a game-changing opportunity presents itself.

Going All In on Recruiting Top Talent:

The Texas Rangers meticulously scout and recruit the best talent to build a championship team. In your gym business, the same principle applies. Rather than just filling positions, invest the time and effort to identify and hire the top talent in the fitness industry. This could include personal trainers, group fitness instructors, and customer service representatives. Building a team of exceptional individuals will set your gym apart and elevate your reputation in the industry.

Conclusion:

The Texas Rangers Baseball Club didn’t become a force to be reckoned with by playing it safe. They went all in, and their dedication to excellence can serve as a model for success in your gym business. Emulate their spirit by committing to robust advertising and marketing, investing in staff training, ensuring adequate funding, and recruiting the best talent. Going all in on these aspects will not only help you overcome obscurity but also propel your gym business to the top of the league. So, put on your cap, grab your bat, and get ready to hit it out of the park in the fitness industry!

To truly go all in and embrace the winning strategies of the Texas Rangers in your gym business, consider enlisting the expertise of Fitness Management & Consulting. With their seasoned professionals and industry-specific knowledge, they can provide invaluable guidance on optimizing your marketing strategies, enhancing staff training programs, managing finances, and sourcing top talent. Just as a baseball coach can fine-tune a player’s swing, Fitness Management & Consulting can fine-tune your gym business for peak performance, helping you hit a grand slam in the fitness industry. So, when it comes to taking your gym to the next level, don’t hesitate to call in the pros who can make sure you’re always playing at the top of your game.

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serve-update · 1 year

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Billy Beane Net Worth: As Long As He Is Physically Able, He Plans To Keep Playing Sports!

Bill Beane III, born in the United States, played for the major leagues and is now a front-office executive with the baseball team. On March 29, 1962, he was born in Orlando, Florida.

Billy Beane Net Worth

General Manager Billy Beane of the American baseball team the Oakland Athletics earns $3 million per year and has a net worth of $20 million. Billy Beane began his career as a major league baseball player and later became an influential figure in the industry from behind the scenes. He is presently the Oakland Athletics' vice president of baseball operations, vice president of front office operations, and a minority owner. He joined the Athletics as a scout and has since held the positions of general manager and executive vice president. The following articles may also pique your interest: Randall Emmett Net Worth. His professional baseball career was mostly overlooked, but he went on to achieve great success as a business leader. Statistical analysis of players is only one example of the technical breakthroughs that have facilitated Beane's unconventional approach to baseball management. A novel titled "Moneyball," written by Michael Lewis in 2003, was turned into a film starring Brad Pitt the following year. Billy used to only play baseball, but now he plays a variety of other sports, including soccer. He has recently acquired a minority share in the English Championship club Barnsley FC. In addition, he is a co-owner of the Eredivisie club AZ Alkmaar in the Dutch soccer league. Beane cares about more than simply athletics, though. In the software industry and elsewhere, he has also found great success. We hope that you enjoy this content Eric Yuan Net Worth. We got a tweet for Billy Beane Net Worth. https://twitter.com/Society_watch/status/1618998531502624771

Billy Beane The Player.

With the 23rd pick in the 1980 Major League Baseball Draft, the New York Mets took Billy, making him the team's second-ever draught pick following Terry Francona. When the Mets had the first overall pick in the draught, they took Darryl Strawberry. Throughout his time in the majors, Beane had nothing but trouble. We hope you read about Lala Kent Net Worth. Billy played in 148 games throughout the course of his six-year career, hitting three home runs and driving in twenty-nine runs. His lifetime batting average of.219 combined with his lack of productivity to earn him a -1.6 WAR. We can safely claim that his move to the front desk was a life-changing event.

Billy Beane Net Worth

As Long As He Is Physically Able, He Plans To Keep Playing Sports.

Oakland, California— Billy Beane will stay with the Athletics until Oakland gets a new ballpark, which he still expects. Beane said Monday that he would stay with the A's as executive vice president of baseball operations as long as they needed him. Beane has been courted by the Boston Red Sox and New York Mets in recent years, but he has remained loyal to the low-budget A's despite financial restraints and losing star players owing to high contracts. "What makes me happy? Having a new stadium soon. Beane said, "If it's possible while my occupation," laughing. However, we will because the group and city deserve it. That'll happen." Oakland A's owner John Fisher and president Dave Kaval are designing a ballpark for Jack London Square. Beane remarked, "I know that ever since it started with Dave and John Fisher, look, they've been preoccupied with trying to secure a venue here, and it's not easy." My unique perspective lets me share this information with you. It's frustrating because groups want stability. We won't be without a new place. I'm not lazy. I've considered both sides and it's complicated. No "Who's responsible?" City or person. Nope. Both parties struggle." 102-point loss Before COVID-19, the A's home record was 29-51 and attendance was 1,662,211. In May 2021, Major League Baseball authorized Oakland's brass to contemplate relocating if no ballpark agreement could be reached. Kaval has said the club is working on "parallel courses" in Oakland and Las Vegas. The A's are Oakland's lone major league sports franchise after the Golden State Warriors and Raiders migrated to San Francisco and Las Vegas, respectively. The Oakland plan calls for a 35,000-seat waterfront ballpark, 3,000 residential units, office and retail space, hotel rooms, and an indoor performance center to be built for $1 billion with private finance. Must be checked this article Tommy Lee Net Worth. The A's lease at the decrepit Coliseum runs through 2024, and MLB has ruled out redevelopment. "I've seen it," Beane said. https://youtu.be/QCDtLvNqiu4 Final Words If you like the TV show "Billy Beane Net Worth," you'll want to check this out. Even if you don't like the term "Geeeeez," you'll find yourself saying it multiple times throughout this show about a celebrity and his finances. It also has excellent visuals and intriguing animation effects. Watch it right now if you haven't and let me know what you thought of it in the comments if you did. You may easily spend a few hours enjoying it. If you liked this article, follow our website, serveupdate.com, and don’t forget to follow our social media handles. Read the full article

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marjaystuff · 2 years

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Elise Cooper Interviews Joe Maddon

The Book of Joe by Joe Maddon with Tom Verducci is a great read. He talks about his rise to become the baseball manager of the Tampa Bay Rays and Chicago Cubs, turning both teams around including a World Series victory for the Cubs, the first in 108 years. Maddon explains his style of being part strategist, part philosopher, part sports psychologist, and part motivational coach. Any fan of baseball will also enjoy his comments on how the game has changed, some for the better and some for the worse.

EC: Why did you gravitate to baseball managing?

JM: I have managed twenty-three years including the Minors and the Majors. I tried to be a player but was told I was not good enough. Because I always wanted to get into the Big Leagues, I had to be a coach first. In 1981 I got into the scouting, coaching, and managing. I learned my craft.

EC: In the book you cover analytics. Do you agree with the quote in the book by former San Francisco Manager Bruce Bochy, who won three World Series?

“I came up with the more traditional way of managing. I made the calls. I made the lineups. The information is great, and I wanted it. It made the players better. It made the coaching better. But you still love to manage a game and have a feel for it. You need a balance. That’s what has gotten lost in the game.”

JM: I like the information. What I do not like is how the clubhouse has been infiltrated by analytical people who I believe hold more baseball power than actual coaches and managers. They are not held as accountable as a coach or manager even though they are supplying information that everyone wants us to utilize. I want it but it should be subservient to the game and not the other way around. It gets way too much credit for a victory instead of the good players.

EC: So how should it be used?

JM: When a team acquires players the information about them is important in deciding between this guy or that guy. It is wise to break down analytically what is valued in a player. It does help a lot on defense to determine where to put the players. There can be advantages with pitching in game planning. I do not think hitters benefit at all.

EC: Does the front office interfere during a game?

JM: This had not happened to me. When it comes down to analytical suggestions they do it as late as when a manager walks down to the dugout. There should be a league wide rule that analytical folks are not allowed in the clubhouse after 3 pm for a 7 pm game. Analysts should not be involved in meetings. They should give their information to the coach and then have the coaches give it to the players, not the analysts. The team should rely on a manager’s wisdom, feel, and experience. This is becoming archaic across the board in every profession.

EC: Let’s look at an example such as leftie on leftie or righty on righty?

JM: There is a lot of analytics involved with it. The third time through the batting order is a big part of it. It can be very devastating or detrimental to a guy if they take him out. What if that guy gets better in the latter part of the game. The analysts will back it up with numbers and data or argue back to front. I cannot disagree more. I believe that the analytics gets in the way of making a player great because the pitcher should be allowed to show they can pitch deep into a game. I know, just based on experience during a game, when a guy can go further, or he is at his Waterloo.

EC: What about the hitting coaches?

JM: The hitting coach has the toughest job in the game and are blamed way too much. Hitters have the greatest disadvantage regarding any part of the game. The pitchers are pro-active, while the hitters are re-active. The scouting reports can tell a pitcher exactly what the hitter is good at or not. This allows them to match up their strength against the hitter’s weakness or strength versus strength. Hitters get nothing out of this analytical world. To get better hitters then acquire, draft, and sign better hitters, with a track record of success.

EC: What is your managing style?

JM: My approach is different than anybody. I focus on different things. I like to have building blocks, relationships with the players, establish trust, and exchange ideas. I believe the greatest danger is not that our aim is too high, but it is not high enough. Simple is better. An overarching philosophy the more freedom given the better respect. I do not have rules except position players should run hard to first base and pitchers should always work on their defense. I think I am a “player’s manager.” I feel I am there to protect and defend my group. Praise publicly and criticize privately.

EC: Do you think there should be a robot umpire considering how many times they get the calling of balls and strikes wrong, including the first game of the Division series with Yu Darvish pitching?

JM: I was really impressed that Yu did not really react. I texted him to let him know how much I loved and appreciated his composure. It did not go his way, but he was able to handle the adversity. Umpires are going to make mistakes. I prefer not perfect baseball. The problem is that the umpires are analyzed more, especially with the strike zone boxes. Before umpires could do whatever they wanted. If they did not like a hitter the strike zone is going to get wide, and for a pitcher they did not like the strike zone was going to get small. This shows the human element involved. I think the scrutiny and criticism is good for the game. When I was growing up in Pennsylvania and went to a bar there were always arguments. Social media is now the latter-day bar room. I was talking to a player who had a great idea: the umpire has an earpiece, calls the balls, and strikes on his own, but is reminded that he got it wrong in real time. He gets corrected during the game just as a hitting and pitching coaches do. I prefer this to a robotic umpire.

EC: Should the ball be less lively?

JM: Yes. I am hoping it will bring the game back without the ball leaving the ballpark. The problem is with analytics everyone stills wants the home run. I prefer that guys learn to strike out less, bunting for a hit when appropriate, and have the hit and run come back. Basically, movement, action, and strategy.

EC: What about the shift?

JM: I was one of the first guys to do it. People need to identify if it will be problematic for a guy to hit the other way or bunt, before they get to the Big Leagues. It is very difficult to do on a Major League level, to make those kinds of adjustments. Left-handed pull hitters will have better numbers when the shift is removed.

EC: What about the pitch clock?

JM: I like it. It will quicken the game since pitchers will pitch quicker and hitters will be in the box quicker. The game has a better pace.

EC: What about the new rule that pitchers will be allowed to throw over to first base only twice?

JM: It does give the advantage to the runner. Remember, I had John Lester in Chicago, and he did not throw over to first base. Yet, we still controlled the running game through pitching. There are other things that can be done.

EC: What was it like managing two big Superstars, Mike Trout and Shohei Ohtani?

JM: They are both great guys. Shohei and I would meet and decide what he can do and wanted to do. Did he need a day off or to pitch and hit on the same day? He is a joy. Mike Trout could have easily grown up in my hometown. He is a real solid guy with great parents. He has small town values. At the end of the year, he fixed a couple of things and looked good hitting.

EC: What do the Angels need to do to get Mike Trout to the playoffs?

JM: They started to do it this year. They have a lot of young guys I really like, nice starting pitching.

EC: Do you think that the injuries of the Angel players hurt you when managing them?

JM: We lost twelve in a row. Guys were struggling. We also had the best start at the beginning. We had a bad run with Mike and Shohei in a slump and our pitchers struggling. It was the imperfect storm. Guys just had a hard time all at once.

EC: What was it like to win the championship in 2002 with the Angels as a coach?

JM: It was the best moment of my life. It was a tough year for me personally with my dad passing away and I was going through a divorce. I was grateful to have that victory. I always wanted to be on the first Angel team that won the World Series. I have stayed in touch with a lot of guys.

EC: What is next on the horizon for Joe Maddon?

JM: I am an “in the present” kind of guy so promoting this book. I could manage again, more involved in the media, or open a restaurant, especially since I learned how to cook a pizza on a Weber grille that is outstanding. I believe in eyes open, ears open, and mouth shut to see what happens.

THANK YOU!!

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dy-patil-institute · 2 years

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Important points to take care while choosing MBA college in pune

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neutron-stars-collision · 2 years

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Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Chapter 1 - Nocturnal Animals

Masterlist; Chapter 2

Summary: Desperate for a scoop (and a pay rise), you scout Gotham for anything of interest. When you cross paths with the mysterious Drifter, you decide to use the chance to spark up a fruitful cooperation.

Warnings: Swearing.

Author's Notes: ... Hi *waves*. Yes, that's a new series because it seems like Rob's characters tend to make themselves at home in my head. I wanted to develop Bruce a little more and this idea came to exist quite quickly. Reader is a journalist in need of a topic, Bruce is out on the streets... and the rest is history :))) Slow burn as always since that's my specialty (apparently).

I hope you'll enjoy this introduction and I'll greatly appreciate feedback!

The only pretty thing in Gotham during the fall was the way neon lights reflected in the puddles of the alleyways and street corners. The myriad of colours and slogans tinted the darkness with a sense of something bigger than the wet tarmac and slippery pavement slabs. Only, that light did not get everywhere, creating niches in the city’s fabric, where no ray of hope could ever permeate. That is where the crime skyrocketed, no matter the season. That is where scoop and intel were found. Conveniently.

Adjusting your hood for the umpteenth time, you frowned as another cold drop of rain slid inside your coat. In October, even waterproofing hardly did its job; especially one four years old and long past its prime. But it did not matter. Your eyes restlessly scanned the surroundings, mindful of anything that could be of interest. Because while murders in Gotham were hardly the breaking news type novelties, a serial killer on the loose, seemingly connected to the city’s elites, was quite the concept. A case to crack and the potential of a pay rise. Something you could not deny yourself, considering the tightness of the pockets and emptiness of the bank account. In short, you needed to find something worth writing about. Something worth covering by the GC1. Or else… No.

There was no time for that. Having made it to the docks, you stopped, hiding underneath the roof of an abandoned warehouse. The last victim had been found here, stabbed multiple times with an unidentified weapon. Potentially – a meat hook. Which did sound lovely, you had to admit. Having left the apartment that evening, you were led with the idea that maybe back at the crime scene, you could discover crucial evidence everyone had missed. Now, drenched, tired and disheartened, you realised how wrong you were. There was nothing left aside from the rain, the murky water by the docks and the foul stench of trash and urine. The police had cleared everything.

With a resigned sigh, you took a quick round of the area, taking photos with your phone. Apart from a few unidentified objects lying on the ground and rusty spots you could hope was the residual blood, there was nothing.

“Fuck,” a soft curse escaped your pursed lips, ringing out in the quiet alleyway.

Finding absolutely nothing meant another stressful debrief in the morning. And you have had enough of those already. With the mind half-focused on the idea of heading back home and drowning the sorrows in a glass of cheap red wine, the unmistakable roar of the chopper pierced the ambience and made you look up.

At the sky first, using the instinct whole of Gotham had acquired throughout the last few months. Because once the signal had been lit no one could rest easy, watching the shadows with anticipation of what came next. But tonight, the light was off. The masked vigilante, the Bat-Man, Vengeance… there’s been many names and even more theories about his identity. No one knew when he appeared or when he left the scene. Having heard rumours, you held your breath until the black motorcycle appeared on the horizon. It was not him. Or at least it did not look like it was.

Your target parked the vehicle on the opposite end of the warehouse spaces. You observed, hidden in the shadows, as the man took off the black helmet and stood up, quickly pulling up a black hood over the head. He was moving with purpose, throwing a non-descript backpack over his shoulder and heading towards the abandoned building. With curiosity, you watched as he kicked open the chained door and disappeared inside with the clank of metal. Now that was a way of investigating you had not thought of yet…

For a moment, you wanted to follow him, to satisfy the curiosity as fast as possible and (hopefully) get some answers. But then reason kicked in, with yet another sigh, you backed into the shadows, waiting for the stranger to return. After all, no one sane would leave a motorcycle like that unattended for too long. Once he appeared fifteen minutes later, you were ready. Keeping away from the light, you skirted around the area and approached him without making a sound. A handy chat-up line on the tip of your tongue:

“Visiting the crime scene, are we?” once the man looked up at you with surprise evident in the abruptness of his reaction, you grinned.

Even with the flickering streetlights, it was hard to make out his features. You could see sharp edges of the jawline, slightly crooked nose and wide eyes, their intense stare intriguing.

“Who are you?” his voice was hoarse as though he was not used to speaking.

The sharp edge to the vowels told you the stranger was not easily intimidated. Yet your appearance was unexpected. His lips were pursed as he stiffened, clearly bracing himself against what would come next.

Perhaps he was the case you could crack…

“I could ask the same question, Mr…?” leaving out the opening, you waited for a beat before adding in a faux disappointed tone, “I see. Well, I can’t blame you for snooping around this case is quite the sensation” making sure to drop the bait, you watched him closely.

There was no apparent reaction. The man threw a nervous look towards the alley’s exit and then glanced back at you. As your eyes adjusted to the half-light, you could see more of his face. The chiselled features and fascinating eyes drew you in despite caution. Yet you still did not know who it could be. He did not look like your usual thug or a drophead, and you would bet he was not one of the Falcone’s. So… who?

“What do you mean?” your internal ruminations got cut short with a simple question.

The enticement worked. Pasting on a mysterious half-smile, you stepped closer to the stranger and lowered your tone to a confidential whisper:

“The usual… Corruption, Gotham’s finest… perhaps some revenge to trigger it all and… boom” with pleasure you noticed that the man seemed transfixed on your story “Here we are. I wonder who’s next” it was a simple deal, two people wanting something out of the conversation.

A game you were willing to play. Even if to understand more about the case and the mysterious drifter. Something shifted in his eyes, acceptance replacing the previous uncertainty. An agreement had been reached without either of you laying out the terms. Feeling an inexplicable rush of adrenaline, you awaited the question as the man thought hard. Once he looked up again, you allowed yourself to stare at him intently as he asked:

“Do you think the killer is after the people in power?” the innocence in his voice made you throw a cheeky grin to the mix.

For whatever reason, you felt like extending the conversation if he was willing. The rain and damp clothes faded into the background as you eyed him closely, thinking on the next move:

“Sure looks like it. You’ve been mapping the area from the roof, weren’t you?” it was the obvious conclusion, so you decided to run with it, “Found anything good?”

The more you observed him, the less everything made sense. The dark streetwear, muddied motorcycle, and how he moved, like a fighter, a nocturnal animal. Yet he did not seem dangerous like a criminal. Before you could run on with the ideas, the man replied:

“I’m not sure” the hint of caution made you frown.

‘Not sure’ wasn’t an applicable answer. Ignoring the pang of disappointment, you bated your eyelashes once your gazes locked and chose to voice the let-down:

“That’s a shame, I could do with some scoop” slight reveal of the identity in hopes he would follow.

But it was for nothing.

“You’re a journalist” it was his turn to measure you coolly.

Mindless of the interest burning bright, you raised an eyebrow, mirroring his judging stance with an aura of theatricality:

“That wasn’t a question,” another telling stretch of silence, making you add with the familiar tinge of bitterness “Yes, one of the hyenas, as some say” the cold had caught up, making you shiver and helping to make up your mind “Well if you don’t want to help me, I better get going” you sized him up one last time, the traitorous part of your brain hoping you could meet again.

Why? Because if there was anything you loved more than a good scoop, it was a mystery. A puzzle to crack. Something to motivate and drive you forward. He was an enigma you wanted to decode. With a parting shrug, you moved to turn away just as he spoke up:

“You shouldn’t be wandering out alone at this hour. It’s dangerous” oh.

That was new. A personal touch to an exchange of information between strangers. Turning towards him again, you noticed with a surprise that he reached up to remove the hood. As the streetlight hit his unobscured face, you tried hard to look away yet found yourself unable to. There was something hauntingly beautiful in the blue of his eyes and the tightly set jaw. Pain written onto the features that could not be wiped off with a mere smile.

But one could try. You scoffed, choosing to armour yourself in humour to deny the maelstrom in your head:

“And the sky’s blue” the repartee waiting for a punchline you delivered while looking the man point-blank “Or black,”

It could have been an illusion (or wishful thinking), but his lips twisted in the faintest of the smiles. There was no time to verify it. In a flash, he was putting on the helmet and turning the engine on, disappearing with a spray of water from the puddles.

Alone again, you grinned. There might’ve been no intel, but there was something else found tonight. A different sort of mystery.

***

Closing your umbrella with a groan, you pushed open the door leading to GC1 headquarters. The complaint was always the same – how come a leading tv channel in Gotham doesn’t even have an automatic set of doors? Funding cuts apparently.

It has not stopped raining since last night, puddles deepened, and the mood grew dense as the city descended into yet another circle of seasonal depression. As with most things, even that was extreme here, making an ordinary citizen keen to commit murder if it meant having one cloudy day without rain. Sometimes you did consider doing just that. And today was not any different. Your steps grew heavy as you neared the office, your mind unable to focus on anything that was not him. The stranger. It made no sense. But he was there every time you closed your eyes, every second you drifted away from reality. As though in a dream, you passed through the familiar maze of cubicles, knowing the path to your desk by heart. Only once you reached the spot, falling into the chair with a groan, you did acknowledge the surroundings. Sophie, an acquittance of convenience occupied the cubicle next to yours, her keyboard clicking with aggression. A scowl on her face. With curiosity, you peeked over her shoulder, an innocent question accompanying the movement:

“What are you working on?” noticing a fat pile of newspaper clippings on her desk, you frowned.

With so many current affairs and scandalous murders, barely any attention had been given to the past. Yet it seemed like that was precisely what Sophie had been assigned. She acknowledged your appearance with a nod before flipping through a couple of pages without attention:

“A column about Wayne. I know, I know, the man’s a cryptid, but-” she waved a hand dismissively as you cut right into the sentence, unable to keep the surprise from your voice.

“What? The Wayne?” the intonation that once used to make you laugh, now commonplace in your dictionary.

Because, yes, theWayne was a cryptid. And yes, writing about him was a task nearly impossible given he appeared in public once a few years.

Ignoring your paralysis, Sophie threw you a sceptical glare and picked up one of the clippings, putting the newspaper directly in the line of your eyes.

“Yeah. The boss said it’s been long since-”

As soon as your gaze landed on the black-and-white photograph on the page, everything faded into the background. He did not look the same when wearing a crisp white shirt and a tailored suit, but there were no doubts left in your mind. Even if it made no sense whatsoever. Mindless of Sophie’s protests, you tore the page out of her hand to examine the photo closely. Same features, same dark hair, same eyes. But-

“That’s Bruce Wayne?” your hand shook as you set the clipping back on her desk, aware of the waver in your voice.

“Yes, why- You look like you’ve seen a ghost” Sophie fixed her curious eyes on you, noticing how blood drained from your cheeks.

Without giving it too much thought, you got up from the chair and picked up the bag you had just set on the desk. There was only one thing you needed to do. Everything else be damned.

“I did” grinning at her puzzled look, you waved your hand, “Bye, gotta go” without waiting for an answer, you set upon the journey back through the maze.

Work had to wait. The blue eyes flashed before yours as you took out the phone and checked the next train that would take you to the Wayne Tower.

***

The initial bravado wore off when you approached the tower, gaze landing on the massive steps with apprehension. At the very top, you could see the heavy wooden doors with a brass knocker and a more modern doorbell button with a golden plaque above. As though massive letters on the top of the building weren’t enough. You took a deep breath as you eyed the fortress, unable to concoct a plan that had any chances of working out. Because another thing everyone knew about Bruce Wayne was that he never allowed any visitors. And yet you also knew that you could not give up, having joined the dots. A final long inhale. Let’s wing it. What could go wrong, eh?

As you reached the set of doors on top of the staircase (and rolled your eyes at the said plaque), you plastered on a confident smile on your lips and pressed the doorbell button. The ringing pierced the silence, making you involuntarily flinch. Maybe it’s a mistake? The doubts descended over your mind as your feet started itching, legs shuffling to fulfil the fleeing instinct best they could. With half the brain already eager to bolt, you barely registered when the door creaked open. In the newly created gap, stood an older woman in a weirdly old-school maid uniform. She eyed you closely, never losing the pleasant smile that seemed fixed to her face.

“Good morning, Miss” her smile widened as she asked the innocent question, “What brings you here?”

A good one, you had to admit. Stifling the increasing uncertainty, you beamed back, rushing out the words one after another:

“Hi… I, um- I’m here to see Mr Wayne” your tongue stumbled over the surname, unused to the sound.

Never in a million years, you would have expected it to happen. And yet there you were.

“Have you got an appointment?” her smile faltered as she increased the scrutiny, hand tightening on the handle, ready to slam the door in your face.

Only one way out of it.

“No… But he’ll know who I am” hopefully “Think he’ll be happy to see me, actually” an addition to charm the woman into letting you in.

The logical part of your brain knew that he would not be happy. Quite the contrary, probably. But that did not change the needs. So, you strengthened your back and took an experimental step forward as though already confident of the outcome.

“I’m not sure-” she hesitated, the pleasant smile nowhere to be seen anymore.

C’mon. Another step towards the door, one hand reaching out to touch the wooden surface. A likeable face expression put on like a mask. Seeing a shadow of conflict pass through her face, you added:

“Please?” the puppy eyes that had earned you a few ins when it seemed absolutely beyond the realm of possibility right on hand.

Before you had to search the arsenal for more weapons, the woman replaced the uncertainty with a weaker version of the lovely smile as she took a step back from the doorway.

“Oh, all right” she opened the doors wider for you.

A passing desire to hug the woman had to be abandoned for now.

“Thank you” instead, you gave her the brightest grin available and took the liberty of having a look around the hallway.

The interior did fit the expectations with stone pillars, a wide mahogany staircase and hand-embroidered carpets laying on the floors. But it was evident everything had long expired from its glory days. Upon closer examination, you noticed the chinks in the balustrade and the old stains on the carpet. Mr Wayne did not care much for his family’s legacy. But then, you knew better than anyone that material objects did hardly matter when contrasted with life’s tragedies.

“Here, Miss,” your thoughts had been interrupted with the woman showing you an entrance to a vintage elevator, “Mr Wayne is upstairs in the study,” she added as you stepped into the cabin.

She shut the metal crate and pressed one of the buttons on top of the list. The elevator creaked to life and began a slow ascent with the accompaniment of metallic clutter. With curiosity, you studied the floor plan, noticing how only the upmost levers seemed to be in use, for the buttons were worn out from the regular touch. The elevator could also go below the ground floor, but the levels lacked numeration, adding to the interest and occupying your mind with possibilities until the cabin came to a standstill with a groan.

Your stomach was tied in a knot before you even stepped out of the elevator. And for a good reason, as you soon understood. There was barely time to register the surroundings as your eyes got drawn to the gothic arches and large windows showing the cityscape of Gotham laid out beneath the tower.

“Dory, who is this?” the familiar voice rang out from the side, making you whip around in a flash.

Two discoveries: the woman’s name is Dory, and Bruce Wayne doesn’t enjoy having surprise guests.

You did not dare wait for her to introduce you, instead took a step closer to the man and grinned with the simplest of questions:

“Remember me?”

Sure, hope he does. Using his moment of hesitation, you let your eyes wander over Bruce, immediately noticing the dark circles underneath the bloodshot eyes and scarred forearms, revealed by the old, oversized t-shirt. He was not the man you saw in the newspaper photograph an hour ago. It was the stranger you talked to the previous night. Seeing the flash of recognition in the blue eyes made you release a shuddered breath.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me” Bruce shot you a glance before motioning for Dory to leave the room.

He seemed much less confident without the veil of anonymity and darkness, protecting him from knowing stares and judgement. The awkward movement and slouching posture nothing like the man you met less than 24 hours beforehand. But it was the assumption that got you, emitting an honest scoff you did not bother hiding.

“Oh, come on… How could I not?” you stared him down with disbelief, the head still soaking up the reality of the situation and recalibrating to fit the new needs.

With a start, you noticed a flash of surprise in his eyes before he turned away, staring at the cityscape. The wall had been put up, and there would be no more peeking. For now.

“What do you want?” Bruce’s back tensed as he asked the question, apprehension and frigidity filling every syllable.

Immediately you understood what it was – a public persona, the Bruce Wayne everyone thought he was. Cold, rich, and distant. Only, you knew that was not the whole picture. The memory of his faint smile from the previous night flashed before your eyes as you offered him a one-word response:

“Information” that simple.

You were not sure what that came from or why it became the reason for your rash decision to visit him. But it seemed to make sense. And that was better than giving up.

Because forgetting didn’t sound like a viable option.

“Isn’t that your area of expertise?” the sharp edge in his voice was accompanied by a side glance full of disregard.

As though he wanted you to surrender and leave him alone. Little did he know of stubbornness and persistence… Using the room as your stage, you quickly closed the distance to Bruce and placed yourself in the line of his sight to accentuate that he would have to listen. A sweet, knowing smile on your lips:

“It seems like it’s yours too,” you threw the remark, pushing onwards before he could think of a rebuttal, “Never in a million years I would have guessed it. The prince of Gotham scouting the streets at night and investigating the crimes. And yet” with interest you observed as his confidence wavered and he dropped the gaze to stare at the floor.

You had lied out the issues perfectly. Now was the time to reveal the terms. But before you got that far Bruce raised his head and began:

“If you want money-” the contempt in his voice did strike a chord, making you frown and drop the act for a split second.

Karma for negotiations with the rich bastards, huh? For a moment, you wanted to scoff and tell him where he can put that money in the plainest of terms. However, you still needed him to agree and cooperate. So, instead, you offered him a warning glare and replied in a measured tone:

“Don’t be a jerk, Mr Wayne. I just think it’s no coincidence we’ve stumbled upon each other, and we could use it to our advantage” noticing the glimmer of curiosity in the blue eyes, you allowed yourself another step closer, resting your hands on the back of a dark wooden chair “Here’s what I suggest: you’ll let me work with you, we’ll share the intel and whatever tips we get our hands on” it probably sounded better than it could function.

To hell with reason. There was that rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins again. Making everything brighter and sharper. Because if it worked out… You did not dare hope that it could. To keep your hands from shaking, you gripped the wooden frame tighter, awaiting the response.

“What will I get from this?” this time, Bruce’s voice was devoid of spite.

In its place, you detected genuine interest and determination. Although it was difficult to admit, you were not that different. Each driven by their own needs and ambitions, desperate to make it work, no matter the cost. Alone.

Your mind got stuck on that word, making your mouth follow its logic by saying:

“A friend?” warily, you met his gaze over the table; his walls were up yet you could still see a shadow of recognition “And a promise that I won’t pry into whatever it is that you’re doing. I won’t write anything about you or our cooperation. It’s going to be our secret” concluding the pledge breathlessly, you knew the earnestness could not be hidden from your eyes.

It was there, making your heartbeat speed up and your hands shake. You never believed in destiny or fate, yet somehow, everything that happened since last night felt like it could be one of those. Like a plan devised by someone else in charge. An opportunity you did not dare let go of easily.

“All that for information exchange?” Bruce’s question caught you by surprise as he added, eyeing you closely, “You must be desperate,”

It was his time for scrutiny, a chance to take apart the protective armour and see what you were made of. You met his inquisitive gaze, showing a degree of loneliness in your eyes and the extent of dedication. Just so he understood. And then you shrugged, letting a genuine smile bloom on your lips:

“Aren’t we both?” not expecting an answer, you allowed yourself a longer look at his face before throwing the conversation off its profound grounds “Listen… It’s not like I’m trying to bribe you into a marriage of convenience or other such bullshit” on its own accord, the thought entered your mind.

Marriage of convenience? Now that was an idea you’d rather not delve into. Where the hell did that come from? Sure, he was not a dapper gentleman you always expected him to be, but he certainly was not ugly either. Stop. Ignoring the urge to shake your head and stop the ridiculous train of thought, you found a distraction in the subject of the mess.

There it was again, the not-quite-smile from the previous night. As soon as you spotted it you grinned, feeling an inexplicable sense of triumph deep within your heart. Because it did seem like he was capable of smiling, and that discovery alone felt like a victory.

“I’m glad” Bruce rolled his eyes, evidently trying to distract you from the observation.

He still had a lot to learn.

“Me too, sweetheart” your smile widened as he visibly froze at the nickname, “So… what’s the verdict?” there was no point in dancing around the subject.

You relaxed the pose, making it seem like you did not care, all the while holding in a breath and feeling the pulse speed up in the veins. Everything depended upon it. Or it seemed like it did. Bruce met your gaze warily, conflict visible despite the veil in how he had caught the bottom lip between the teeth, worrying the fragile skin. Despite yourself, you glanced at his mouth, feeling the warmth spread over your cheeks because of the act of looking alone. It had been too long.

You mentally slapped sense into your brain exactly when Bruce broke the silence:

“Fine,” he spared a final look at you before wandering off to gaze out of the windows.

A clear signal. Despite the cold response, you grinned, unable to process the feelings filling every corner of your mind. You would make the best out of the situation. You had to.

“Great,” letting the quip slip, you added, “I’ll talk to my sources about the docks’ case, and I shall be back” there was a promise in the sentence that you could not deny yourself.

Even when knowing that it was only you that felt excitement at the prospect.

“Fantastic,” Bruce sighed heavily, for once not hiding the myriad of feelings aroused by your suggestion.

He still had his back turned to you, expecting your imminent exit. You did not want to disappoint, so one last, selfish look had to do. Your eyes slipped over his form, the broad shoulders and the worn out clothes, looking out of place in the grand study. And yet all of it was his, the master of the house personified. A mystery to crack.

You could not deny yourself the pleasure as you turned towards the lift, aware you could not even see his reaction. It did not matter.

“Don’t worry, you’re gonna love it, darling” glee made your heart summersault as you stepped into the cabin with a final remark, “I’ll let myself out,”

For once, the rain outside did not matter.

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bigskydreaming · 3 years

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Okay, so you know “Justice League meets Batman’s kids, who they’d previously been unaware existed” AUs?

So picture that.....but this time, instead of them just having no knowledge of any of these other Gotham vigilantes at all....the Batkids all migrate to various cities as they get older and become known as their protectors - Dick in Bludhaven, Tim in San Francisco, Cass in Hong Kong, etc....

Meaning they’re all established figures, the Justice League are aware of them as solo local heroes who stick to their cities and so they just don’t interact with them much if at all, or else some are members of team lineups but are particularly vague about their histories or life outside of the team’s adventures....

So the big reveal isn’t that they become aware of all these other Gotham vigilantes all at once....its that some big conflict or whatever requires a huge team up of all available heroes, and in the aftermath, they figure out that like.....despite being known as solo heroes who work alone or loners outside of their team settings, 80% of these heroes all not only seem to already know each other, they seem to be related.

And so naturally they all turn to Batman, who has profiles on every known hero and they thus figure had researched these individuals too and just never mentioned this little detail, and they’re like, “Did you know about this?”

And then Nightwing turns to him too, arms crossed and is like, “Yeah Dad, did you know about this?”

And the infamous Red Hood is all: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have never met any of these people before in my life. Lives? Whatever.”

And then Red Robin moodily grates out “I have no siblings.” Since he’s nursing a grudge since Dick and Jason broke into his apartment the night before and replaced all his custom Red Robin gear with Darkwing Duck merchandise and his vengeance will be swift and also totally disproportionate because things escalate quickly in this family, that’s true in every universe.

Cass meanwhile has deftly skewered Jason’s lie by walking over to him and brazenly patting down the man with many many guns with no fear whatsoever. He squawks and futilely attempts to bat her hands away as she riffles through his many pockets, but he doesn’t seem shocked, just annoyed. Eventually, she pulls away and triumphantly reveals a box of Hello Kitty themed band-aids.

“So these are yours then? Just for you?” Black Bat asks smugly. Red Hood squints at the box.

“What the fuck? How long have those been in my jacket? Why are those in my jacket? Did you freaking plant them in my jacket just on the offchance you could at some point in the distant future use them at my expense?”

Black Bat frowns, puzzled. “Yes?”

“Oh come on, Dead Hood,” Spoiler says with an exaggerated toss of her head meant to convey she’s rolling her eyes beneath her own mask. She skips her way across the room to Black Bat and then drapes herself languidly all over the smaller woman. Who in turn doesn’t so much as twitch beneath the sudden added mass as Spoiler holds out her hand towards the box of band-aids.

“One please. I have a boo-boo,” she says with easy familiarity straight into the intimidating cowl of Black Bat. Only then does she deign to finish her train of thought with Red Hood.

“I mean seriously, are you saying you don’t have potential blackmail set-ups, pre-rigged releases of incriminating material, and a random assortment of traps, pratfalls and mortifying scenarios in place for the express purpose of being able to humiliate any and all of your siblings at any given moment, without any need for additional prep time?”

“Is this true, Little Wing?” Nightwing whirls on the larger Red Hood with a faux-scandalized gasp. The founder and leader of the Titans, formerly the Teen Titans, renowned for his stratagems and calm competence when directing squads of supers in the heat of battle while he keeps pace with nothing more than naturally acquired acrobatics and a utility belt that apparently uses the same technology as Wonder Woman’s invisible jet....now appears to be....staggering with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead, moaning about how he felt....faint?

What is happening right now, several dozen superheroes want to know. Is this a drill? Are they supposed to be checking for signs of a mental ambush from undetected psychic saboteurs? Did they all hit their heads at the exact same time and are now experiencing some kind of shared mass concussion?

Look, that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to ever happen on the Watchtower.

“Have I failed you so utterly?” The veteran child hero bemoans with a dramatic twirl - that when contrasted with his stern demeanor of a mere ten minutes ago - makes the fears of telepathic infiltration seem less paranoia and more....concerningly probable. “Did you learn nothing from me? Did you learn nothing from B?”

He stops and jabs a finger up at the sky. “Quick, everyone! What is the very first rule of Living While Batty?”

As if by rote, over a half a dozen voices chime in from all over the room, causing various heroes to jump. Spooked by yet more and more vigilantes joining in some kind of mass recitation like they and they alone have some kind of clue what the hell is going on and everyone else just hadn’t been invited to the party. Which is just rude, honestly. Nobody likes feeling like they weren’t invited to the party. Not even superheroes.

“If you’re not going to bother preparing for every possible contingency and at least six impossible ones, you might as well just stay in bed.”

Even the Red Hood joins in the Illuminati chant or Cub Scout pledge or demonic ritual or whatever the fuck that just was, though his slumped and exasperated posture gives away every hint of sulkiness his headgear otherwise would have kept safely hidden. He’s surprisingly more...expressive, than most who’d only known of him by reputation had expected him to be. The day continues to yield surprises.

“Of fucking course I do,” he growls out, snatching the box from Black Bat. She doesn’t even fight to hold onto it, just lets it go with a knowing smirk. “I wasn’t surprised by the idea of it, I was just surprised she bothered with such a weak effort. Like yeah whatever, actually those could be mine. I use those all the time at home. So what?”

He aggressively yanks one of the band-aids out of the box, fumbles with the peel-off strips with one hand and he roughly rolls up the sleeve of his jacket with the other. Then just slaps it on his forearm and raises said appendage high, showing it off this way and that. “See?”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Signal drawls from the other side of the room, nodding his head approvingly. “Totally convincing. Nice job walking that one back, you really showed them.”

Red Hood’s head snaps in his direction with ominous intent. “Watch it, Day-Glo.”

Signal just snorts.

“Yeah, like I’m gonna take constructive criticism on my name and costume from a dude who’s spent the last several years calling himself Red HOOD while running around in a freaking HELMET.”

“Its not meant to be literal, you fucking pedant.”

“So wait, its not literally a helmet? Huh, does it at least protect your head literally, or just like...symbolically? Like if Bane were to clock you across the head, would your concussion just be a metaphor? What’s the treatment protocol for a metaphorical concussion? Fluids, bedrest and a philosophical prescription of two chapters of Chicken Soup for the Soul as needed?”

“Laugh it up, KC and the Sunshine Band,” Red Hood bats back. “You just got yourself disinvited from Thursday night’s poker game.”

Signal just grins and folds his arms over his chest cockily. “Please. You’ve been looking for an excuse to ban me for weeks, cuz you know until you can prove I’m using my ghost vision to cheat, you can’t actually bring suit against me for it in Family Court.”

“That, and also Family Court isn’t a real thing, you toddler. Stop validating Wing-a-ding-ding’s obsession with Shitty TV Nostalgia and just call it that thing where Oracle traps us all in a room until we settle our latest fight without anyone getting stabbed.”

“Yeah, but like, say that five times fast,” Spoiler pipes up. “Its just not practical. Family Court’s way easier.”

“Says the one who’s not even in our fucking family.”

“And yet I grace you all with my sublime presence anyway,” she blows a kiss at him, beatifically unbothered. “You’re welcome.”

The Red Hood scoffs and rounds on his heel, zeroing in on Batwoman in the far corner.

“Hey Auntie B, my siblings are all dead to me and I just helped stop an alien invasion so I deserve nice things like a fun Saturday night. Can you get me into Dad’s fundraiser so I can crash it? He won’t put me back on the list until I promise not to bring any C-4 with me and I won’t promise not to bring any C-4 because he should just trust me that I won’t when I say I’m not gonna and he won’t trust me that I won’t until I admit I shouldn’t have brought any to that sting last month where three tiny little yachts blew up through barely any fault of my own, and I’m just not gonna do that ever because I have convictions and I feel I shouldn’t have to be punished for that. Y’know?”

Batwoman blinks at him. “Kid, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re my nephew and I love you, but I stopped listening three seconds into all that.”

“Ugh, fine. Can you help me crash Dad’s event tonight so I can teach him a lesson about why he should just trust me not to make a scene so I don’t have to always make a scene to make a point.”

“Tempting as you make that sound,” she says wryly, “I have a strict policy for dealing with you lot and your......everything. I only worry about tolerating one of you at a time, and there’s seven of you, and seven days in the week. You each get your own. You know perfectly well its Robin’s day today. You get me on Tuesday, just like always.”

“Auntie B, we’re not like other families, are we?” Red Robin’s delivery is sarcastically childish and his question clearly rhetorical. Most of his attention is fixated on whatever it is he’s doing with his wrist-mounted computer.

“No sweetie, we’re all severely fucked in the head and a little bit too comfortable with that.”

“Just checking. Oh hey, Hood, I just emailed you a patch for the hole in your firewall I exploited when replacing all my shit using your accounts just now.”

“You did what?”

“Used your accounts to pay to replace all my stuff that you fucked with last night?” Red Robin says slowly. “Did you not realize that I’ve been sticking within ten feet of you for the past five minutes just so I could clone your devices and do all that while BB and Spoiler kept you distracted? I gotta say, bro, I feel like that’s on you then.”

Red Hood swivels his helmeted head in the direction of the aforementioned two. Black Bat waves. Spoiler shoots him an utterly unrepentant thumbs up.

“You’d side with your ex over me? That’s what its come to?”

“My only allegiance is to chaos,” Spoiler says brightly. Black Bat shrugs.

“Plus he bribes better.”

“Hateful,” Red Hood points at Black Bat, moving on to level the same finger at Spoiler, who curtsies in acknowledgment: “Hateful-er.”

Then the finger rounds the bases to aim judgmentally at Red Robin. “Hateful-est. And that was all Nightwing’s idea anyway, not mine.”

“Oh, I assumed as much,” he says casually. “Your idea of a prank tends to have more of a Carrie vibe. Or be a literal literary reenactment.”

“Its called an homage, 4chan.”

“Whatever, plagiarist. And anyway, I couldn’t go after ‘Wing for payback on this one. He used an Immunity card. If you didn’t want me getting back at you, you should have used one too."

Red Hood looms aggressively. Red Robin ignores willfully. Round and round they go. Superheroes who can survive excessive G-Forces are getting dizzy just watching them have a largely motionless stand-off. That shouldn’t be how that works, but whatever. All the most infamously reclusive and isolated heroes in all hero-dom are apparently part of the same one big reclusive and isolated family of fucked up weirdos and they’re all officially bonkers. Nothing makes sense anymore. Reality broke. Try another stall.

“Okay, but see, in order to have an Immunity card, I would have to participate in one of you losers’ stupid Immunity challenges,” the Red Hood drags out with exaggerated patience. “And I’m just not going to do that, on account of those all being fucking stupid. You see the problem there?”

Red Robin just shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, bro. You can have principles or you can have an Immunity card. You can’t have both.”

Meanwhile, on another side of....the same room.....look, its like, an octagonal room, probably. It has a lot of sides. Robin fends off questions from an aggrieved looking Superboy.

“You never told me you had a bajillion brothers and sisters!”

“Yes but I never said I didn’t either.”

Superboy rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, so I should just assume everyone I meet has a bajillion secret brothers and sisters?”

“Well clearly it would have worked out in your favor in this instance if you had, now wouldn’t it?”

“Assuming of course that you can trust what has been said or implied here today and I am actually related to any of those numbskulls. Which I am not actually admitting to,” Robin tacks on hastily.

Superboy eyes him dubiously. “You joined in the same creepy chant all the others did and then got super self-conscious and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Which uh. I did.”

“First off, your interpretation of body language is abyssmal. I do not get self-conscious,” Robin says with a delivery that probably could have benefited from being a little less self-conscious. “And second....that proves nothing. I guessed what they were going to say.”

“Word for word,” Superboy says super-skeptically.

“I’m very good at guessing things. You know this.”

“Okay. Guess how much I believe you right now then.”

Robin glares and folds his arms grumpily across his chest.

“And what was that anyway? Was that like....you guys’ family motto or something like that?”

“Oh no,” Spoiler pipes up. “That’s much shorter.”

Superboy balks at that. “Wait, you guys actually have one of those for real?”

“Yup,” Steph says, counting out the words with her fingers. “He who laughs last....probably works for the Joker. So tranq him just to be safe. See? Only sixteen words. The first rule of Living While Batty is way longer, and what we said was just the abridged version. You should hear the original, before Black Bat put her foot down and refused to memorize it unless sizable edits were made.”

Superboy hovers between her and Robin now, both in mid-air and on the verge of taking Spoiler’s words as an invitation to hear just that. A low growl arises from Robin’s direction.

“Must you?” He asks the older vigilante, with a most put upon expression.

She looks at him pityingly. “Do you actually need me to answer that? Like, we’ve met, right? Hi, I’m Spoiler.”

“Wait, so Robin said that I just never specifically asked him if he had a bajillion brothers and sisters, and that’s why he didn’t tell me, so that means he wouldn’t have just lied and there’s not some code of secrecy that flat out forbids telling other people stuff, right?” Superboy realizes excitedly.

“Yes, excellent direction. Go on,” Spoiler says, steepling her fingers. Robin buries his face in the palm of one hand.

“Soooo, what other stuff could you tell me about Robin’s super top secret family that I wouldn’t think to ask about but that he would tell me about if I knew what questions to ask?”

She claps once, lightly but with emphasis. “Well done. You’ve passed the first barrier. Untold secrets await you behind just a few more.”

“I’ll get you for this,” Robin vows calmly. She waves a hand at him.

“Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you do it before January 1st, remember? You’ve promised retribution like ten times already this year and those don’t roll over, y’know. Rules are rules.”

“Enough!” Thunders a voice then, from the front of the room. Well one of the fronts anyway. Like sides, it has a lot of them, but this is the one where Batman’s standing. All eyes snap to him. Which is kinda just what eyes do when Batman says stuff like that. Its like his superpower, except he doesn’t actually have superpowers, which is what makes it scary. But where the snapping of the eyes (directional) is usually followed by Batman saying something else besides just “hey look at me,” here he pauses in the wake of his own call to attention’s waning reverberations. Uncharacteristically silent.

Not that, y’know, he’s normally Mr. Talkity Talk, but usually his silences feel like he has the words to fill them, he’s just withholding them. This though, this feels more like he doesn’t have any words at all. And he’s as confused by it as any of them, and most everyone else is confused by Batman being confused, and its this whole trickle down economy of confusion and its wrecking havoc on the value of the golden silence standard.

Of course, not everyone present is rendered spellbound with confusion.

“C’mon B,” Nightwing cajoles, leaning forward and practically radiating delight. “I think you know what you have to do now. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Its not likely to come around again.”

Red Hood snickers beneath his helmet and chimes in. “Yeah Pops, go ahead. You do this and you’ll actually have my respect for a whole twenty four hours. No, wait. Sixteen. No! Eight. Yeah, eight. Still a good deal.”

“Carpe diem, B,” Red Robin grins, leaning back as if to enjoy the show.

“Hey! Infringe on my trademark one more time, dude,” Signal throws a faux-glare at the former. Red Robin just quirks an eyebrow.

“And what, you’ll start saying Yum every time you eat a burger? Oh no. I’m hoist by my own petard.”

Signal flips him off with a grin and then redirects his attention back to Batman. “Yeah seriously though B, you kinda gotta do it now. Because if you don’t do it, then you’ll forever be the guy who didn’t do it, and you don’t want to be that guy, do you?”

“Yeah you really don’t want to be that guy,” Spoiler shouts out. “Nobody likes that guy. He’s the worst.”

“Do it, do it,” Black Bat starts chanting beside her, steadily picking up speed and volume. Several others start joining in. Even Robin appears to be slightly anticipatory, albeit trying very hard to hide it.

Batman sighs, and somehow everyone manages to hear it. Stills. Waits for....something? Nobody but them seems to have any clue what, but the air is thick and heavy with portentiousness. Something is about to happen, and all most of the heroes present could say for sure is it was something they never would have in a million years seen coming.

Finally, Batman straightens with the resigned air of a man about to have oh so many regrets. He crosses his arms, shakes his head, and in an absolute deadpan monotone, says:

“You are awful children. You know you’re killing me. You’re killing your father.”

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lunarianillusion · 3 years

Text

a change in fate

a maribat fanfic

Chapter 03

Timothy really wanted to know who thought it was a good idea to put Guy Gardner on monitor duty, because this was clearly not a prank.

Let’s backtrack a bit, the young alpha had gone out after having put all his stuff at his new loft, to go and gather information. He had done some research beforehand on the internet but the blog that had started out decently had turned into nothing but a gossip site. He had not been as thorough as he normally was since he was still a bit skeptical of the situation. He also needed to get a coffee machine.

He had just walked through a few blocks when a loud explosion penetrated the air and made his ears ring like a train conductor was whistling directly into his ears. It took a minute to stop but that did not stop him from scouting the surroundings for the source of the explosion.

He found it in the form of a horrendously colour coordinated person with a large neon orange helmet on top of a circle form glider a few streets away. An akuma. It was real.

He pulled up his hood before slipping into the shadows, like he was trained to and pulled out his hidden utility belt. The Bat pack ways will not be leaving him anytime soon. He then quickly took to the rooftops, applying a scent blocker and ear plugs along the way, towards the danger zone.

Upon arriving on the danger zone another explosion rung loudly through the air making Tim very grateful for the special function earplugs he put in. He took to perch on one of the higher rooftops to observe the situation. By the looks of it the two Parisian heroes had already arrived, but he was not impressed by what he saw. Rather disappointed if not disgusted.

First the akuma; The male threw golden balls, that he got from a metal backpack, that exploded upon impact. Though the explosions them self were small and would only leave any physical damage if they exploded a foot away from you. They had already destroyed some parts of the surrounding buildings though. The explosions were however very loud, as he found out himself and it would be a miracle if the bystanders weren’t deaf by the end of it.

Then came the heroes, if you could even call them that.

Chat Noir was acting like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum over not getting his favourite toy. He kept on trying to trip the new ladybug up while screaming and whining at her to tell were the real ladybug was. Or he was taunting the akuma, who in turn threw more bombs that the mangy cat dodged but then those bombs got dangerously close to the civilians that were still in the area. Did he not realize that his actions could get people killed like that? Was this a game to him and did not like the rules of?

Then there was the new ladybug at first, she had his sympathies for chat trying to trip her up on every possible occasion. That changed when he saw how she subtly led the akuma to the bystanders, bringing them into danger, only to ‘save’ them at the last moment. Oh, how that made Timothy’s blood boil.

He made these observations within a few seconds and he quickly sprang from his perch and into the action. He was not going to let the innocent bystanders become unnecessarily injured by their ‘heroes’ reckless actions, if he could help it.

The moment he safely hit the ground he bolted to a small group of civilians, that were desperately clutching their ears. He placed his hand on the back of the smallest of the group and gaining the attention of the surrounding people. They looked at him with utterly confused and scared looks. Likely they were tourists given by their attire. He motioned for them to follow him, since they would not be able to hear him over the explosions and ringing, and swiftly guided them away from the danger.

Once he got them far enough from the danger zone, picking some more bystanders along the way, he motioned for them to book it out of dodge. Then went to get any left behind stragglers out. There was only one left and the child had gone to hide behind some of the rubble. Looking around frantically and calling out for help as tears run down their cheeks.

He began to run towards the young pup, only to watch in horror as one of the bombs exploded at the base of the rubble. The bomb having been intended for Chat noir who had dodged to the side without a care and allowed the rubble to crush the scared pup underneath. The terrified look would be haunting Tim’s nightmares to come, as blood pooled from underneath the rock. A small hand was sticking out as if desperately reaching out for safety.

Chat noir should be eternally grateful that hawkmoth is only capable of akumatizing one person at a time without aid. Otherwise they would have a super-powered ex-robin on his tail.

It was time to stop this madness. His secrecy might become compromised but so be it. Taking out his grappling gun he took to get a better vantage and knock the immediate danger of his glider. Then he had to destroy the backpack to keep the Akuma from getting or making any more bombs. Grabbing several explosive birdarangs he took aim.

“IN COMING!!!”

A blue blur of a person slammed feet first into the akuma’s back. Knocking the akuma off their glider and crashing onto the ground, creating a spiderweb patterning on the ground. A loud crack rang through the air as the metal backpack shattered.

The person clad in blue rolled upon impact over the akuma and then flipped backward creating some distance between the two of them, then taking on a battle stance and giving Tim the chance to examine them.

The female was clad in a dark blue tunic and matching leggings with thigh high boots. Around her waist she wore a silver cloth belt and light blue faded skirt that was open in the front and had a peacock motif, given by the fuchsia eyes at the tips of the skirt. Her blue tipped hair was pulled into a messy braided ponytail with two feathers sticking out. Her weapon, a fan, was poised and ready to attack.

The akuma stands back up and lets out a fierce snarl but the unknown female was unfazed by it. She only narrowed her rose coloured eyes into an ice-cold glare, that sent shivers down the spines of all who were watching. The akuma sent their glider to attack the blue clad female, but she easily jumped over it and used their fan too slice through the glider itself. Then she sprinted to her target with great speed. He tried to defend themselves but with their atrocious combat abilities, blue easily throws them over her shoulder before slamming the bud of her fan onto the helmet splitting it in two. Final someone competent has shown up.

A sickly looking black butterfly flew out of the helmet and the peacock themed person turned to the new L.B. “Ladybug! Purify it!” she commanded shocking said ‘hero’ into action. The spotted girl stumbled a bit and had to throw her yoyo out for a second time before being able to catch the butterfly and then letting it go, now as a healthy-looking white butterfly. She only then then summoned her lucky charm, a bow, and threw it into the air calling out to her power. The bow transformed into a large swarm of ladybugs that went around restoring the wreckage back to its original state and brought back those that lost their life. Like in the videos from the tabloid blog.

Seeing the young child, that had just been crushed, alive and look around absolutely confused brought the Gothamite a certain feeling of wonder and overwhelming dread. Because if these heroes could reverse death how many had already died.

A strange black and purple goop surrounded the akuma bringing the hidden alpha’s attention back to him and the blue clad female. Once the goop receded in the place of the akuma now sat a teenage boy with mousy hair and a pair of round glasses on their face and was looking around completely confused. The peacock theme hero sat infront of the boy and began to talk to him. She seemed to be comforting the boy, but Timothy was too far away to hear what she was saying.

As he saw Chat and LB advance on the two however, he decided it to be best to listen in and gain some first-hand information. He also had a prominent theory running through his head upon having observed unknown hero’s combative skills and actions and needed to see if he was correct.

As the akuma victim was taking away to a therapist, hopefully, the blue clad hero turned to the so-called heroes of Paris. Before she could get a word out however Chat Noir lunged at her with a yell to call out his own power. Luckily though the peafowl easily grabbed the cat boy’s wrist and redirected him into destroying a nearby café chair. Before hurling him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him, but not letting go of his wrist.

“Are you going to attack every person that is not ‘your’ ladybug and is trying to help,” she spoke in a voice that sounded so done with the world. Chat let out a hiss. “I am not going to fall for your lies Mayura,” the blond snapped.

“Do not ever align me with the likes of Mayura,” the bluenette hissed in return, voice filled with a cold malice that made the boy feel a shiver. “I do not expect you to trust me right now, but at least give me a chance to prove myself,” She spoke more calmly now as she helped Chat noir back on his feet, before taking a few steps back.

“How did you even acquire the peacock miraculous?” Ladybug asked skeptically, her eyes glaring into the other girl. Who did not seem to care.

“It was intrusted to me and I was told to use it for the good of Paris. Which I intend to do, no matter what. Paris is my home and Hawkmoth has been tormenting it for too long,” She spoke with conviction her own rose-coloured eyes alight with fire. “Now I belief I should introduce myself. You may call me Blue Royal” She said while placing here fan over her heart and bow her head ever so slightly.

The other heroes wanted to interrogate her more, but a beeping sound stopped them. A timer. “A month trial period, for both of you, at the end we will meet on Saturday at midnight on the top of the Eifel tower. We will decide how to proceed afterwards,” Chat Noir stated. Gaining an affronted gasp from ladybug.

“Why am I being put on a trial period!” She exclaimed.

“Because you refuse to tell us any information about what happened and where the real Ladybug is! If she were here, we would have no need for you or this hero wannabe,” Chat Noir yelled back in frustration. Tim’s eye twitched in annoyance. ‘You did not do much to help the situation either.’ Timothy thought bitterly and the sentiment seemed to resonate with Royal, given by the way she glared at the two when they weren’t looking.

The two children wanted to argue some more but the beeping sound interrupted them once more. Good they might have turned into an akuma themselves if they continued. Just as the news crew, along with miss tabloid, entered the area the ladybug and cat ‘heroes’ left the scene. They immediately tried to swarm to Blue Royal, but to everyone slight surprise her skirt unfurled from her waist into two large wings. The wings beet down as she jumped into the air leaving gobsmacked reporters and curious Gothamite in her wake.

Though Timothy could have gone in pursue, he decided it best to lay contact at a later time. He got some information to process and work on.

He also really needed coffee.

taglist:

@moonlightstar64, @iloontjeboontje, @mickylikesstuff, @scribblinggraveyard, @faunrasthewinterelf, @myazael, @incredulous-reader

Authors note: special thank you to @moonlightstar64 for helping me with how to tag people. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and happy holidays.

#maribat #timari #timinette #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous ladybug #peacock miraculous #chat noir salt #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #timothy drake #kwami swap

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sword-dad-fukuzawa · 3 years

Note

Requests? If it won't bother you I would like a small bungo stray dogs drabble preferably with found family? I'll make you a wallpaper in return. -raven

(hope you're having a great day)

Hiya, Raven! My day's been aight so far. And it's no bother! You don't have to make a wallpaper if you're busy either, but I've got FukuMori on the brain...so if you have time ;) Oh gosh, this got long.

Death Be Not the Glory of Men

-- in that time between becoming an Agency member and the troubles that followed --

When Atsushi became the tiger (or was he the tiger already, and it was merely a part of him that he only embodied on occasion, or was it another entity entirely that took him over when he changed?), the world seemed to slow down. Bullet time lasted for seconds instead of milliseconds. Humans (because he was not human, he knew this for fact) moved and Atsushi could watch, bat them out of position like dolls, because they were slow and he was not.

But when he was not the tiger, and instead was in the fragile human body that had nevertheless borne him through too much suffering than he could bother to remember, the world was perhaps too fast. People moved like they knew where they wanted to go instead of drifting along with the tide. Atsushi envied that a little. It felt a bit like he was always running to catch up, or to flee, and that sort of exertion becomes tiring after a while.

Even a tiger cannot run forever.

He was stuck on a park bench, actually, when the thought struck him that he may always be running, and it quickly became too overwhelming to think about. So he was watching the ducks instead. There was a fat mother duck leading her babies into the water. He wished, momentarily, that he had bread crumbs to toss their way.

"I didn't know you came to watch the ducks too, Atsushi," said the familiar voice of Tanizaki. Atsushi turned his head to see his coworker leaning over the back of the bench, placing a paper bag next to him. He was uncharacteristically Naomi-less.

"Just today," admitted Atsushi. "I didn't know there was a duck pond until I wandered by."

"Mind if I sit with you?" Tanizaki asked, and Atsushi said of course not, of course he could sit with him, it wasn't as if he was waiting for anyone, and scooted over in extreme shame about the flow of words that had tumbled out of his mouth.

Tanizaki only chuckled softly, because he was rather kind like that, and vaulted over the back of the bench to sit. He reached inside the bag and pulled out bread crumbs, tossing a handful at the ducks. He offered it to Atsushi.

"Thank you," he said, reaching in, and pulled out a handful of his own to scatter.

The baby ducks all went for the crumbs immediately, but the mother duck rushed forward to block their access. She pecked at a crumb first, considered it, and then allowed her children forward.

Tanizaki laughed. "Reminds me of Kunikida," he said. "Always scouting ahead for the others."

Atsushi let out a surprised laugh of his own. He pointed at one of the ducklings, still sulking in the water. "That one's Dazai," he replied.

Tanizaki watched as the duckling somehow managed to flip upside down in the water. "You must be right," he said. "And that one is Ranpo." He was gesturing at the duckling greedily snapping up all the crumbs on the ground it could find.

Atsushi had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing too loudly and scaring the ducks away. "Kyouka," he said, nodding at a duck half-concealed in the reeds, as if waiting for its chance to strike.

"Kenji," pointed out Tanizaki, noting the duck that had somehow managed to acquire an entire chunk of bread and was holding it aloft.

"Dr. Yosano," said Atsushi, and gestured at a duck that had a snapped reed in its beak and was prodding at one of its siblings with the pointed end. He shivered to think of what the good doctor would say if she were there.

Tanizaki covered his mouth with his hand, muffling his laughter. "Atsushi, I think I've found the president," he said, and pointed across the pond to a stray cat napping in the sunshine.

Atsushi choked on a laugh of his own. "Tanizaki," he said, almost admonishingly, and the other boy laughed again. "Am I wrong?" he teased.

"...No," he admitted, and Tanizaki nudged him with his elbow. "I wish I had a camera," he said, a little mournfully. "Naomi wold get a kick out of them."

Atsushi's eyebrows shot up and he fumbled for his pocket, nearly falling off the bench in his quest to get his phone out. "Here," he said, opening the camera function and passing it to Tanizaki.

"Oh, thanks," he said, and twisted slightly in his seat.

"What are you-"

"It's a selfie," said Tanizaki, already grinning into the camera. "C'mon, smile!"

And Atsushi, despite himself, smiled as Tanizaki took a picture of the ducks and them both.

Maybe he wouldn't always be running, he thought.

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd #atsushi #tanizaki #the armed detective agency #bsd fanfiction #found family #ahhhh i hope this was enough found family!!#i was gonna include everyone but #tanizaki swooped in #as he does T-T #raven raven raven

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thevindicativevordan · 3 years

Text

Metallo

I wanted to talk about one of my favorite DC villains, a guy who I’ve always thought was incredibly cool. A guy who I’ve thought makes a really awesome contrast for Superman. A guy who has never been in stories that have utilized his potential in my eyes:

Let’s talk about Metallo.

Metallo’s Background

He’s one of Superman’s oldest Rogues, and also one of the Rogues who has gone through the most revamps. The Golden Age Superman fought a guy called Metalo aka George Grant who created a suit of armor made out of the strongest metal on Earth (something that would resurface in the Grant Morrison revamp during the New 52) and a super strength serum that made him Superman’s physical equal. In an odd way he was an evil proto-Iron Man/Post Crisis Lex Luthor:

The John Corben take wouldn’t show up until the 1950s, created by Robert Bernstein and Al Plastino. This was the foundation for the modern conception of Metallo:

Right off the bat Corben was positioned as an Anti-Superman, predating Bizarro who wouldn’t show up until later. Corben worked as a journalist to cover up his real activities as a murderer and thief. An accident that nearly killed him and crippled his human body, forced him to accept a deal with a scientist to transfer his mind to a new artificial body. The scientist transferred his mind into an android body covered in synthetic bulletproof skin, gifting Corben with super strength. The synthetic skin idea would be used in Byrne’s revamp and the DCAU incarnation. He was initially powered by uranium, but was told he would need Kryptonite to fuel himself permanently. Corben would also act as a romantic rival for Clark via wooing Lois with his pretense of being Superman’s secret identity.

Ultimately John Corben would die in his debut issue, after mistaking a museum prop for the actual Kryptonite he needed to power himself. I often wonder if the character might have been better off if he had not been killed off in his debut, similarly to how the Joker was saved from dying in his debut by editorial. There were many intriguing ideas present in Corben’s creation: He was a romantic rival for Clark Kent, he used his journalism in a similar if villainous way as Superman did, and he was powered by the very thing that could kill Superman while still possessing enough raw strength to stand on equal terms with the Man of Steel. If they had kept him around, fleshed him out more, might Metallo have enjoyed more long term respect?

Regardless, Corben’s death paved the way for the third Metallo: His brother Roger Corben.

Roger likewise had a lot of interesting ideas that would eventually get folded into the modern Metallo. He was not a petty thief, but had a personal vendetta with Superman over the death of his brother. Superman accidentally caused the very accident that crippled Roger, adding to the man’s feud. Roger was also a leader within the Skull organization, rather than the small time criminal his brother was. This Metallo’s design would form the basis for the Geoff Johns/Gary Frank revamp during Secret Origin, and I suspect the Johns conception of Metallo as a member of a wider organization and whose transformation was caused by Superman has it’s roots here.

Sadly the take on a more fleshed out Metallo would not last. The Roger Corben version of Metallo would meet his end with the rest of the Pre-Crisis Superman Rogues Gallery in the seminal Alan Moore story Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?

Enter John Byrne:

During his Post-Crisis revamp of the Supermythos, Byrne returned to the John Corben take of a petty thief injured in an accident, who is rebuilt by a mad scientist Professor Vale. Byrne added his own twist though, with the scientist believing Superman to be the first scout in a full blown Kryptonian takeover of Earth, and specifically crafted Metallo to be an Anti-Superman weapon powered by Kryptonite. Metallo was to be humanity’s defense against the threat of Superman, an idea that would be revisited in Johns’ and Morrison’s revamps. Unfortunately petty thieves don’t make for great heroes, and Metallo killed Vale, ultimately coming into conflict with Superman not over any desire to protect humanity, but to simply eliminate a thorn in his side.

This incarnation of Metallo has basically served as the basis for his appearance in outside media, with a design that blatantly draws on the popular Terminator films.

This version of Metallo would also acquire a variety of powers thanks to making a deal with Neron that included the ability to transform parts of his body into weapons, transfer his consciousness into any technological or mechanical device, and manipulate his size:

Personally I’ve always loved that powerset upgrade, and think it’s crucial it sticks. It let him kick the shit out of Superman AND Batman in Loeb Superman/Batman, which basically solidified for me that this dude was a badass you didn’t want to mess with. Shame he’s never come close to matching that initial impression since.

The DCAU mostly used the Byrne revamp’s take, but they did change a few aspects which would end up carrying over to the mainline version. Most important was the replacing of Vale with Lex Luthor as the mind behind Metallo’s creation, something that would be incorporated in both Johns and Morrison’s later revamps.

One aspect that they introduced that didn’t carry over, that was still utilized to great effectiveness in the show, was that Corbyn’s transformation had robbed him of most physical sensation. He couldn’t taste, smell, touch, all the little things that made us human, and that drove him nuts. Ultimately he would learn that Lex was responsible for what happened to him, and he would swear a grudge against both Lex and Superman. Malcom McDowell was a fantastic choice to play Metallo, and is still the guy I “hear” when I read Metallo’s dialogue.

Now we come to the guy who crafted the next big revamp of Metallo: Geoff Johns.

This version of Metallo incorporated a ton of aspects from the multiple revamps that had preceded it, in much the same way Secret Origin did to Superman as a whole, while also adding a few new twists that I consider essential to the character now.

Like the DCAU, Luthor was the one who transformed Corben into Metallo. Like the Roger Corben take, this John Corben was accidentally crippled in a fight with Superman that gave him a personal vendetta against the Man of Steel. Similar to Byrne, this Metallo was created to be an Anti-Superman weapon. Corben and Lois had had a brief romantic relationship, similar to the original debut of Corben. Johns even incorporated some of the Golden Age Metallo by having Corben suit up in a mech suit made of “Metallo”, the strongest metal on Earth to fight Superman before the accident. Johns also added a key bit of lore that I love, that Corben served as a soldier under General Sam Lane, and became the man’s surrogate son, the child he always wanted as opposed to Lois and Lucy. Here Corben is motivated to fight Kal-El by a mix of xenophobia, need to impress his father figure, desire to impress Lois, and a simple dose of blood lust.

The last major revamp came from Grant Morrison during the New 52:

Morrison kept a lot of the Johns revamp: Corben was a soldier serving under Sam Lane, he had a brief romantic relationship with Lois, he was distrustful of Superman’s heroics, and his transformation into Metallo was connected to Lex. However Corben was a much more sympathetic figure under Morrison than under Johns, genuinely believing Superman to be a threat, he volunteered to be merged with the Metal-0 superweapon (another callback to the original Metalo) to defend humanity, but Brainiac hijacked his cybernetics and turned him into a weapon.

While Metallo would get another visual revamp for Rebirth, posted in the first image, Corben has more or less stayed within the confines that Byrne/Johns/Morrison established.

How I would use Metallo

I said earlier that Metallo is a guy I loved that I’ve never thought has lived up to his potential. He’s a villain with a lot of cool ideas, he’s a villain who has been continuously used by a lot of my favorite writers, but he’s never lived up to the Anti-Superman characterization that’s baked into him. Too often he’s just been a glorified henchman, or a petty thug, rarely if ever challenging Superman except in the most basic physical sense. I think that’s a great disservice to the ability of the character to be a much more important Rogue. That writers so often refuse to focus on him or any of the Rogues beyond Lex also hasn’t done him any favors. Instead of creating countless new OCs that are tossed aside by the next writer, someone needs to come on board with a passion for revamping the classics.

A lot of Superman’s Rogues suck not because they aren’t cool or don’t bring any interesting ideas, but because the ideas don’t do a good job in contrasting with Superman’s attributes. Metallo is a great example of this, look at all the interesting ideas creators have crafted around him, yet none of them have really been able to push those ideas as a way to explore and contrast Superman, so we get basic “Metallo tries to kill Superman, fails, Superman sends him back to jail” stories. That’s a failure of creativity in my eyes. I think that by choosing from some of the revamps listed above, a better, cooler, more interesting Metallo can be crafted.

The basics as established by Byrne/Johns/Morrison are great! The essential ideas that should be incorporated from all of the revamps listed above are:

1. Corben needs to have a military background as in Johns/Morrison. The petty thief origin is too dull, there’s nothing really to be mined there from a characterization standpoint. As a soldier Corben can serve as an interesting critique and contrast of Superman as an icon of America. The “American Way” has always been a dicey add-on to the original “Truth and Justice” motto. Often it’s been used to cast Superman as an obedient stooge of the government, as he was in The Dark Knight Returns, a characterization that has dogged him ever since. I think Corben can serve as an interesting character to explore Superman’s relationship with the American military-industrial complex. I would have Corben be what said complex wants Superman to be, at least in the beginning: A human WMD they can aim and fire, who will always follow orders no matter how reprehensible they are, who has a firm “America First” mindset. That way you can contrast the mainline Superman, and show that Superman is not that while also establishing what “The American Way” means in his eyes. Or you can have Superman drop that aspect of his motto in-universe, out of disgust for how his government perverts it. Either option is fine with me, I didn’t mind when Superman renounced his American citizenship.

2. If Lois often has to end up working with Clark’s exes, whether it’s Lana, Diana, or whoever, I think it’s only fair that Clark has to end up facing down an ex from Lois’ past. It’s important to show that Lois had a life before Clark showed up, and I think Corben is a good way to explore some of that. He’s the possessive ex-boyfriend who doesn’t respect Lois’ personal space and is convinced he can “win her back” via sheer determination. You can also compare and contrast the way Clark courted Lois, did Clark occasionally make the same pigheaded assumptions as Corben did? Corben debuted as a romantic rival for Superman, and I think that aspect still has merit. I also like his status as Sam’s surrogate son, it adds for some nice tension with Clark’s father-in-law that the guy he actually wanted to marry Lois was transformed into a weapon to kill the guy who ended up being his son-in-law.

3. Corben is a true believer in the threat Superman poses, and is willing to take on the transformation into Metallo to protect humanity. It’s xenophobia yes, but with all the Evil Superman stories going around, it’s hard not to sympathize at least a little bit with Corben’s viewpoint, which tie into a deeper attribute of Corben’s I think needs to be brought up: Corben should be a sympathetic villain. I wouldn’t make him a bloodthirsty psycho, Superman has plenty of those. Corben should have villainous valor, willing to tackle on whatever threats to humanity are out there, whether Superman or others. I would make Corben instead someone who has the genuine desire to protect humanity, but lacks Superman’s concern for collateral damage. In that way you could contrast the two’s brand of “heroics”, Superman’s loyalty to humanity as a whole over one nation, and concern with protecting lives first and foremost, Corben’s desire to protect humanity’s future for the “greater good” even if it costs a few lives in the here and now and loyalty to America above all else.

4. I like the idea of Superman being inadvertently responsible for the accident that cripples Corben and mandates his transformation. It adds to his sympathy, helps justify why Superman might continue to believe Corben could find redemption (he wants Corben to change and also wants to find a way to earn Corben’s forgiveness one day), and provides a good personal reason for why Corben would hate Superman, blaming Supes for his current state. I would also have him blame Sam and Lex as well, but he would subdue those resentments for as long as he remained working for the military. Only after he finally snaps would he target those two.

5. Finally I would keep the ability to shapeshift his body into weapons, and to manipulate technology. I would have Corben emulating Adam Jensen from Deus Ex, able to “hack” tech around him for his own purpose, armed with a variety of weapons that make him a huge threat not just to Superman but to everyone. Finally I would get rid of the Kryptonite heart. I’m tired of every battle with Metallo going the same way: He shows up, blasts Superman with kryptonite radiation, Superman lies on the ground gasping in pain, Metallo stands around gloating like a moron instead of finishing Supes off, Supes beats him by tricking him or by someone else intervening. I want to see Metallo as an Anti-Superman weapon realized beyond jus the Kryptonite. How about incorporating the DCAU version’s lack of feeling, so that Metallo doesn’t feel pain from Superman’s blows or his powers? How about giving him an internal temperature controller, so he can’t be melted by heat vision or frozen by arctic breath? How about an invisibility cloak that hides him from Superman’s vision, sound mufflers that let him sneak up on Supes even with his hearing, basically go WILD with his Anti-Superman status, let us see a real fight between someone who can counter each of Superman’s powers! You have Kryptonite Man and Lex for the villains who mainly make use of Kryptonite against Superman, I think Metallo should go in a different direction. Morrison making it so that “Metal-0″ was already powerful enough to hurt Superman is all the justification you need as to why he still poses a threat in my opinion.

I’ll go over the basic arc I’d want to see him undergo and the kinds of stories I think he’s positioned to tell in another post.

#superman #metallo #Lois Lane #sam lane #lex luthor #kryptonite #revamp

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themonstrousarchives · 3 years

Text

Hunt: Party Pack

Description: A motley crew of fellow monster hunters, but with a twist about them. They're just a little too monstrous. A quartet of roadtripping werewolves* seized by the Hunt, given an insatiable desire to track down and destroy other avatars primarily. They hunger for the PC that has done the most collateral damage, ready for revenge.

Hook, Session goals: Time for the most dangerous game, as we risk NPCs that the players have come across, along with any other monsters in the world- Bigfoot, an avatar of the Stranger, others capitalizing on the fears

Monster Type: Executioner (motivation: to punish the guilty) Powers: All of them have supernatural speed and strength, and can shapeshift into humanoid lycanthrope-esque beings for more effective predation. One of them is adept at using “magic,” mostly in a supportive way like a bard- helping to direct the others and prime their attacks. They try to lure monsters out, one of them faking weakness or taking on some aspect that the target might find appealing, then the bait leads them into an ambush. When hunting a group, they try to split everyone up so that they can gang up on whoever gets left behind. Attacks: Detailed below Weaknesses: The Dark, The Stranger, and the Spiral can either blind or misdirect the wolves, though actually killing them will be difficult- they have to be made into quarry to make them “vulnerable.” It’s a farfetched pull, but calling upon the owner of Lobos Ltd. (See the Deer Man adventure) and acquiring some of his cages would be effective in removing them as threats.

The Wolves: (Attacks ordered by preference)

Greg (Armor: 1) [][][][][][][] (Shapeshifts quickly)

Bite- 3-harm intimate

Claw- 2-harm ignore armor hand

9mm- 2-harm close loud

Johnny Hobo (Armor: 2) [][][][][][][] (Bait)

Claw- 2-harm close ignore armor

Bite- 3-harm intimate

Baseball bat- 1-harm hand

Elsa (Armor: 0) [][][][][][][] (Stays hidden/protected)

Magic Snare- 0-harm close restraining

Enchant- adds 1-harm to damage dealt

Shotgun- 3-harm close messy

Bite- 3-harm intimate

Pat (Armor 1) [][][][][][][] (Fastest chaser)

Knife- 2-harm hand

Claw- 2-harm ignore armor hand

Bite- 3-harm intimate

Greg (Hotheaded and rash. Eager to feel powerful.)

Johnny Hobo (Patient. Durable. The methodical pursuit, often tempering Greg or supporting the others.)

Elsa (The brains of the operation. Puts on a cool air.)

Pat (Jumpy, a pure manifestation of id. The fastest, but also the easiest to fool.)

Countdown:

Burgers on the Coast gets accosted by a brash customer. After they finish eating, they will leave and the table can be investigated.

The Pack arrives in town, a PC sees Johnny outside their window (if they doubletake, or run to get equipment, he will be gone).

If the PCs have convinced any “monsters” to only hunt “bad guys” or otherwise change their ways, the reformed monster gets ambushed. Depending on the monster, the Pack might kill them.

Shiro violently cuts back a mass of vines, which fight back, whipping around his arm and leg. As he pulls to get away, thorns tear into him, and the vines start to dig into him.

The Pack tracks down Bigfoot, and kills her after she menaces some campers.

The Pack finds Shiro restrained, spider lilies growing out of his mouth and stomach. They kill him.

They will start the next hunt, if not found, or if not given the primary focus during the hunt. They are essentially competition for the PCs.

Bystanders:

Susan- (Gossip, Victim) Burgers on the Coast waitress. She’s worked at this same restaurant for 30 years and as a result knows all the regulars. Greg will accost her, then Johnny Hobo will smack him upside the head. Only these two are at the diner.

Anuset- (Victim, Gossip) The mask is out pursuing someone it has targeted in the past week. As it falls upon this person and begin to unpeel, Johnny Hobo will appear behind it with a baseball bat. The morning after, a hunter will see a destroyed clay mask left discarded. Further inspection will discern that a couple fragments were taken.

Shiro- (Helper, Victim) Shiro has been plagued by vines overgrowing his orange tree. While he cuts them back, the vines fight back and restrain him, as impossible amounts of blood issue from his person. Where blood spills, spider lilies start to grow... after a few days he is still restrained, but the Party Pack finds him, and will kill him.

Bigfoot (Victim) (Stranger Avatar)- aka Isadora Vila Quintana, a hiker who got too lost in the woods and now menaces other hikers. She doesn’t quite need to kill the hikers, but often puts them into precarious positions after she is finished with them.

Francesca Lopez (Victim) (Stranger Monster) sells secondhand items. She has ties to Charlotte and her trade market, wherein Frannie goes around flea markets and digital marketplaces. Having recently finished a transaction, or at least would have if she hadn’t gotten caught by the Pack.

Minnie Taylor (Witness, Innocent) a resident who had gotten lost trying to find her own home. The Pack has promised to help her once the danger is cleared, and if they don’t return for her she will try to free herself from the place they sealed her into, inevitably getting lost and becoming a spiral avatar. She trusts the Pack to help her, and if the Players come across her, will not trust them if they don’t seem to have a good reason to kill them.

Isadora, the Lonely avatar Bigfoot

Shiro Kamada, the Slaughter avatar

Minnie Taylor, a woman about 29 years of age, who recently moved into the Strange Suburb (before it was strange)

Locations:

Burgers on the Coast (and Parking Lot)- the diner that the PCs have taken a liking to, their repeated presence dooms it to become a hub of Interesting Persons.

The table that Greg and Johnny sat at will have some traces that can be discovered- some gum under the table, a deep cut into the particle board table, a dropped receipt (Ammo- 9mm and shells).

Camping Grounds

In the forest, far from the sounds of the city, a hiking trail opens up to a small clearing where hikers can put down tents and keep a campfire. This is Isadora’s favorite haunt, because of it’s isolation and the sheer ability to disorient people in these woods. She can be tracked, sometimes.

Parked by the beach, one of many RVs. Once the right one is sussed out, it can be broken into. It is likely that at least one of the Pack is there, keeping watch. As soon as the PCs head there, the other members of the Pack will be notified, and they will circle the party, trying to make sure that they don’t leave with anything important.

Inside the RV is a mess. Clothes in one or two piles strewn over one of the seats or in a receptacle. Projects lay unfinished- Someone’s trying to patch their jacket, someone else is growing seed starters. Plastic dishes lay in the mini sink. One bed looks like it’s been used as an operating table on more than one occasion, a big antique chest sits in the corner undisturbed, and some hefty power tools poke out of a footlocker pushed out of the way. Treat this as a Haven for the Pack, with an Infirmary, an Armory, and a Workshop.

They also have many “trophies” from previous kills in an upper cabinet- everything sealed with an eye sigil. Some Tallow. A mushroom. A long, preserved beak. A lock of inky black hair. These hunters have been traveling the US, fighting monsters and leaving a wake of supernatural power vacuum.

Shiro’s home

Vines stretch, having grown a strong base on the telephone pole near Shiro’s home. Runners stretch from the pole to the lines and then to the houses. They have sprouted purple flowers, and are now growing green fruit- not yet ripened, though that may change quickly.

The vines are attempting to peel under the shingles of Shiro’s home to anchor themselves, though he has managed to beat back the majority. It’s harder for him to keep up with the vines currently suffocating the orange tree, though.

Him using his ultraviolent powers to destroy the vines has attracted the attention of the Party Pack.

The Strange Suburb

An entire suburb has fallen into unreality and is distorting- building extensions without rime or reason, warping through various decades and shapes. Think McMansions but worse and more terrible and insufferably generic. Very easy to get lost in, very easy to separate people and confine them in terrible, bland, almost claustrophobic (make sure everyone is okay about this if you use it) spaces. There is no real branding on anything, and looking through the house will find very little personal effects if any.

One house is holding Minnie Taylor. Elsa had set up wards which will keep the spiralizing at bay (The door containing her room is unlocked, but there are multiple and they shift around. A golden seal distinguishes this door if the players look for it with supernatural means).

The largest, most cancerous McMansion house is wavering in the most volatile sense. The house goes through waves of eras- wallpapered walls, then painted, then cheap drywall, then wood paneling. The rooms are labyrinthine, measurements all feel wrong- hallways too narrow, rooms too big or small. Pat is the scout of the group, and will be ready for anyone entering the house conventionally, sprinting away as soon as they come in. As the Players follow him (if they do), the rooms stretch and expand, making pursuit difficult. At the top of the house is a large, undefinable room with elements of any kind of room in the house. A little bit of a kitchen, a showerhead, photo frames on the walls and ceiling. In the center of the room lies Francesca, with Johnny Hobo holding her down as Elsa prepares Greg to execute her. Behind them all hangs a painting on the wall, from which a malevolent energy exudes.

Artefact: A Francis Bacon painting which is the source of the reality warping in the first place. Disrupting Elsa’s preparations will make the manifestation worse. The Players are able to either try to finish the Ritual Elsa was performing (containment, some reversal of the manifestation, at the cost of Francesca’s life), or find their own solution to destroy it.

Cold Open: A beat up RV speeds up Highway 101 under the light of a waxing moon. A folkpunk song plays through the speakers as a rowdy quartet sings along. Street lights illuminate a messy dashboard with all sorts of little tchotchkes- batteries, flashlights, pocketknives, that kinda stuff. The song ends and the next one opens with a death growl, and as they roar along, their voices get loud, feral, deeper. The RV hits a bump and the knick knacks on the dashboard shift, the riders laughing with the chaos. The next time the streetlights flicker to the dash, a mugshot of [PC] has made it to the top.

#the magnus archives #tma motw #pbta #monster of the week #the monstrous archives #Hunt module Party Pack #my work #needless to say. theyre all gay #mcmansion

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chaoswillfallrpg · 3 years

Photo

ORLAITH MACMILLAN is TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD and a MAKEUP ARTIST AND BEAUTY ADVISER for the FASHION AND EVENTS COLUMN at WITCH WEEKLY. She looks remarkably like JOSEFINE FRIDA PETTERSEN and considers herself NEUTRAL. She is currently OPEN.

→ OVERVIEW:

Strong willed yet naive, Orlaith MacMillan is the brash brush of paint scrawling across a canvas, girlish giggles echoing down a chandelier lit marble corridor and the crackle of a sparkler in the dim of the night; beautiful yet longing for attention. With a name meaning ‘golden princess’, Orla fittingly lives up to the title. Born to PATRICK MACMILLAN and FIONA O’HARE on the coast of Ireland in County Wicklow, Orla grew with primroses adorning her hair chasing fire flies that whispered tales of romance. Longing to be a princess of her own happily ever after, creativity exuding from her fingers. Primping dolls with her mother’s beauty potions, to scrawling hearts of fuchsia lipstick across walls and tying ribbons into the stray cats tail, everyday she decorated the world to make it just as beautiful as she dreamed. While members of the Sacred Twenty Eight, the MacMillans were deemed blood traitors by many in Wizarding society due to Fiona’s liberal views. A reputation salvaged only by the lingering respect gained from the union of MELANIA MACMILLAN to ARCTURUS BLACK. Today, the MacMillan name lingers in fields rather than the grand manors Orla’s grandmother KATHLEEN spoke of that their ancestors once frolloced. Money dwindling in comparison to many other Pure-Blood families with their father abroad studying magical creatures, the family secluded themselves to a quaint cottage with crawling vines. Living a charmed life, there was never a moment that the home wasn’t filled with laughter, warmth and starlight found not from magic but in the love that they all shared.

Adored as the baby of the family, Orla grew spoiled. Attention seeking, she graved affection like oxygen; leaving sunken features and wails of tears for those that didn’t comply. Batting eyelashes and pouting lips gained sympathy from her mother and siblings MARIANNE and FIONN who were quick to smother the girl in adoration. Equally as stubborn as her sister SAOIRSE, while her family dotted around her, Sersh was left exasperated at how easily people fell to Orla’s feet. Similar in more ways than one, the sisters were equally passionate and hardheaded. While Sersh dreamed in ink swirls, Orla longed for a spotlight; pleading to play fairies dressed in shimmering golds in Sersh’s tales that they performed. While the two girls fought, Fionn and Marianne grew exasperated from pulling their siblings aside to make amends. Despite their differences, the four loved each other dearly. From rolling down hills to whispering secrets under blanket forts, they shared a golden childhood. While content in their little group, none knew they were waiting for the last missing piece. Handsome with a boyish charm, the day she caught the boy next door AUGUSTUS ABBOTT’S eyes Oralith swore her heart skipped a beat. Falling deeply, she’d spend nights scribbling their names in locked hearts with her pink feathered quill and hiding scarlet blushes of embarrassment behind soft giggles. Eventually it became difficult to remember life before Gus’ laughter and music filled their lives. An honorary MacMillan, the five dreamed in childhood nostalgia of ghost stories around campfires, ice skating on frozen lakes and whispering dreams to fireflies.

When it came Oralith’s time to join Hogwarts, it was of surprise to none that as the sorting hat graced her blonde locks, she’d too find a home amongst intellectuals joining her sister Marianne. Akin souls and the sibling she was closest to, Orla was overwhelmed with relief to share the experience with Maria who was more a secondary mother figure in many ways. Though it wasn’t long before she found chosen family. A charismatic girl, HEATHER BROWN was a fellow Ravenclaw with starry eyes, an affection for rabbits and natural gift for divination. Dorm mates since their first year, the pair joined arms and quickly became best friends. Whispering over boys, adorning their nails in glitter and gossiping about the latest Hogwarts love stories, Orlaith confided in Heather as she pined after Augustus who only grew more captivated by her sister daily. Left with fleeting jealousy, as she watched forlorn as Gus’ grew captivated by Saoirse, Orla grew green with envy at being second yet again; particularly when Sersh showed such little interest in the notion of love. Left aching in the knowledge she was begging for attention from someone who could not return it, instead of growing sour in her misplaced affection Orla turned her hand to playing popular politics longing to bask in the same glory as the elder witches she admired. Aspirational and powerful, GENEVIEVE AVERY, ANASTASIA DUPONT, ANDRESSA PARKINSON and CAMILLE ROWLE were renowned fashion icons all who easily commanded a room with a poised beauty and grace. Watching with astonishment, Orla dreamed of shining in the same light as the magnetic women; knowing even then that she was destined to befall the same glory.

Attentive when it suited her, while Orla held great intellect, she instead spent her time swooning over the handsome features behind THE WEIRD SISTERS with MARY MACDONALD. Paying little mind to PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL who scorned them both, warnings that boys would hold little value if they held no convictions. While most professors deemed her gossiping a bother, one teacher who took a shine to Orla was PROFESSOR SLUGHORN who eagerly welcomed her into Slug Club for her renowned excellence in potions. While a sought after talent; it was her skills outside of the classroom that set her apart. Brewing beauty potions that outshined those on the commercial market, Orla became known for her craftsmanship of colour, shimmer and pigment. Once the protesgue of FLORENCE JONES, the older witch had acted as a mentor, showing with a gentle hand how to achieve the perfect potion that shined like star light. Highlight that sparkled like the sun, lipsticks that never faded unless willed and eye shadow changing according to mood, sorcerers begged Orla for her secrets and paid in sums for even a glimmer of the beauty she bottled. While her business had started small, it wasn’t long before her name was praised around the school for her creative hand not seen since the likes of SACHARISSA TUGWOOD. Decorating features with a golden shine, Orlaith basked in the praise she received as lines of witches pleaded with her to decorate their features to attend infamous parties hosted by the Marauders; JAMES, SIRIUS, REMUS and PETER. Twirling hand in hand with Heather, Mary and MAREN LINWOOD, Orla danced into the night decorated in tulle and shining like a rare gem with the rest of those adored in her makeup.

A rare beauty, Orla’s delicate features and warmth wasn’t lost by the likes of best friend DEMETRIUS MCLAGGEN who looked upon with a longing wishful eye unbeknownst to her. A ravenclaw who held a similar need for attention as she, GILDEROY LOCKHEART was a handsome charismatic boy who had an affinity for the ladies. Free with his compliments of others and himself, while at first his flirtatious advances were met with dismissal, over time his propositions began to get her attention. Catching Orlaith’s eyes following Gus, he teased that getting under someone was the best medicine to get over a broken heart. While she sneered at first, a drunken night led to interlocked lips. While popularity hindered their love affair a secret, they quickly became the aspirational couple; leaving them both basking in the attention they acquired. Though nothing was ever so simple for the MacMillan women. A wealthy ambitious widow, Orla’s grandmother, while once wished Marianne would become the adored actress she’d once dreamed, she knew the likelihood of that was slim and with Sersh a lost cause entirely, she turned to Orla; looking upon her to raise the family name high. Explaining how she’d seen the MacMillan name turn to disarray at her mother’s hand, Kathleen praised Orla as the last hope for the MacMillan name; a responsibility she took onto delicate shoulders driven by need to protect her family like they had her for so many years. Growing to believe she holds power over who she loves, marriage is more of an economic proposition than ever before in Orla’s eyes. With Kathleen insisting there would be little the family could do if Orlaith is unable to secure herself highly within society and establish strong connections.

With a growing obstinate desire to be great or nothing, Orlaith is evolving out of her once foolish ways to become a valued member amongst the elite. A sought after witch, her talents were quickly scouted by founding editor of Witch Weekly TOBIAS MISSLETHORPE who’d seen her artist hand adored the features of none other than famed actress RUBY GOLDSTEIN. An esteemed makeup artist, Orla takes deep pride in her work and excels across the covers of her favourite magazine. Approached by the famed Tugwood family to launch her very own line of beauty products to run alongside her once idol Sacharissa, Orla is working tirelessly to secure her name in shining lights. Booked solidly by sorcerers as they prepare for the parties of the season, though her name isn’t the only thing people are whispering about as her relationships reigns public gossip thanks to RITA SKEETER’S column. While Orlaith and Gilderoy play the adoring couple to the masses, behind closed doors tell a different tale. With her widely adored boyfriend’s fleeting attention, their ‘relationship’ has come under large public speculation; claiming they are simply using their love as a means to fame. Aware that the rumor could tarnish what she’s so diligently built, Orlaith is trying earnestly to tame a free willed male with little success. Openly scorned with boiled anger by Demetrius for her frivolous love, he pronounced claims that she deserved better than someone who holds such fleeting disinterest. Followed by - to her shock - frustrated harboured words of love. Caught between Demetrius and Gilderoy, Orla is left desperately trying to find an answer to what matters most; a legacy, family security and her dream or the possibility of happily ever after if only she let it in.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Blood Status → Pure-Blood

Pronouns → She/Her

Identification → Cis Female

Sexuality → Sexually Fluid (closeted/yet to understand in self)

Relationship Status → In a relationship with Gilderoy Lockheart

Previous Education → Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Ravenclaw)

Family → Fiona MacMillan (mother), Patrick MacMillan (father), Marianne MacMillan (sister), Fionn MacMillan (brother) Saoirse MacMillan (sister), Kathleen MacMillan (grandmother)

Connections → Heather Brown (best friend/room-mate/potential love interest), Demetrius McLaggen (best friend/potential love interest), Augustus Abbott (close friend/past object of affection), Mary MacDonald (close friend), Kirley Duke (object of affection), Camille Rowle (idol/work colleague), Florence Jones (close friend/past mentor), Felicitania Tugwood (friend/work colleague), Maren Linwood (friend), Gilderoy Lockheart (close friend/romantic liaison/potential love interest), Sacharissa Tugwood (idol), Cassiopeia Kim (friend), Emilia Grey (friend), Cressida Abercrombie (friend)

Future Information → Aunt of Ernest MacMillan, adopted mother of Lavender Brown (subject to change), Wife of Heather Brown (subject to change)

ORLAITH MACMILLAN IS A LEVEL 5 WITCH.

#orlaith macmillan #josefine frida pettersen #marauders rp #marauders rpg #hp rpg #open #open neutral #neutral #open witch #witch weekly #magic #open lgbtqia+

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winchester90210 · 4 years

Text

The BH 90210 Rewrite. 1x20: Spring Training.

Rewrite Masterlist

Read the previous chapter here!

Chapter Summary: Alongside Brandon, you take a dive into the world of little league.

Word count: 2,000

Warnings: Swearing, brief mention of violence. Also... I know nothing about baseball.

A/N: Hi everyone! Hope you enjoy this week’s episode! Took an extra week off to focus on my mental health and am feeling much better with everything now. I hope you guys are as excited as the next chapter as I am! It’s almost time for the spring dance :)

My work is to not be reposted/republished, and/or edited without my expressed written consent. (Reblogging is great and encouraged!!)

Feedback is very appreciated and encouraged!! :)

"With my dad laid up, we need all the help we can get. We’re practicing today if either of you want to join in on the festivities," Brandon persuades the two of you as you round the corner of the Peach Pit to sit at your usual booth. The familiar scent of pie crust and burgers fills the air, instantly putting your soul at ease.

"Thanks… but no thanks, slim," Dylan rejects him, sliding into the seat opposite of you while Brandon follows suit.

"Dylan, I thought you were a total baseball freak!" You tell him.

"I am, but listening to these parents berate their kids from the sidelines all day long," he shakes his head, cringing, "Brings back a whole slew of bad memories."

"But it shouldn't be about the parents!" Brandon protests, "It should be about being on a team, learning fundamentals, having a good time!"

"That's very noble, Brandon. But when I was playing? It was about winning at any cost necessary.” Dylan argues. Brandon sighs in defeat, looking to you.

"What about you, Y/N/N?"

"Not a chance,” you laugh.

"What? Why not?"

"Brandon… me and 20 kids, in an extremely competitive state? Did you learn nothing from the summer of '85?" You jest. Brandon chuckles at your extreme rejection, sliding a laminated menu your way.

"Wait… what happened in '85?" Dylan's eyes flicker cluelessly between the two of you, awaiting an explanation.

"Look, it was no big deal. Things got a little heated during one of Eric's little league games," you shrug dismissively, flipping through the Peach Pit's menu as if you didn't get the same thing every time.

"She beat up a nine-year-old,” Brandon quips.

“I didn’t beat up a—“ you pause, taking in a breath. “To put it simply I… put a kid back in his rightful place. He was picking on my brother, nothing happened that he didn't deserve."

“What’d you do, tackle him out on the field?” Dylan lifts his eyebrows, amused smile on his face.

“No, of course not!” You duck your head back into your menu, mumbling, “I went out there and hit him in the groin with his bat.”

The kids run out into the field, taking their positions with their needed equipment in hand. You lean back onto the warm metal fence, slipping a pair of sunglasses over your eyes to get a better look at Nat’s team. Without the glaring sun in your eyes.

“This is pathetic!” A young boy, adorned in a bright yellow Dukes uniform comes hurdling out from behind the fence to join Brandon and Steve. “They’re not even wearing uniforms!”

“So what?” Brandon shrugs, voice hardened, “It’s a practice game.” Steve leans into Brandon to whisper something to him, but since he lacks the levels of common decency that most people acquire by the age of five, he talks loud enough for the whole team to hear.

“They don’t look so good, Brandon.”

“It’s okay. They came to play, that’s the important thing.” Man… sometimes Brandon felt too good to be true. You’re convinced there has to be a catch at this point. Gorgeous, smart, great with kids. What’s next? He opens up an animal sanctuary for underprivileged strays? Buys a soup kitchen? “Listen up, you guys. The way you treat your competition is a direct comment on how you play the game. Good sportsmanship counts big time with me and my old man…” as he continues to ramble on, your thoughts begin to shift elsewhere. Like how good he looks. It’s purely criminal for anyone to look so hot in yellow. It’s an inherently unattractive color. Yet, there he is—coaching children in the blazing heat, instilling them with good sportsmanship, and all you want to do is to get him to yourself. That bastard. You shake it off, chalking it up to teenage hormones, and try to focus on the game.

“Hey doofus! You really eat toads!” The same kid whining about uniforms earlier is now directing all of his pent up privilege and ten-year-old angst towards the poor, sweet, small child from Nat's team, the Pitts, further solidifying your desire to never procreate.

“You’ll throw it better next time, Manny!” Nat encourages the little boy wholeheartedly, clapping for him as loudly as he can.

“Hey Corey! Throw it to the doofus, he’s a real toad!” Does this kid only know two insults? The smaller brunette, the less athletically gifted child hangs his head, kicking sand around the base plate in frustration. Brandon takes note of it, immediately bounding out into the middle of the game.

“Time out! Crawford, get in the game for Noah!” His voice is stern, and as he approaches the boy he’s in total coach mode. It’s kinda hot... Well, it’s not your fault baseball’s boring. Gotta keep yourself entertained somehow.

Steve stops Randy Crawford from going out from the fence with the back of his hand, and going after Brandon himself, sand slipping from under his shoes. You can’t hear what they're saying but you know it’s not the happiest conversation. Knowing them, you know exactly how this is playing out. You don’t even need to hear them. You can see Steve furrow his brows from the sidelines, and Brandon’s gesticulating with his hands wildly as they talk but can’t make out any words that are flying from their mouths. Brandon, the moral center of Los Angeles wants Noah out for being a little jerk. Steve, being Steve, would probably rather keep the better player in than save the self esteem of a little boy before it’s too late and it no longer exists. It’s not long until Brandon pats Steve hard on the shoulder, storming off the field in a blur of sand and sweat.

Well, that’s your cue to leave, isn't it? You go to follow Brandon out, but Steve stops you short.

“That boyfriend of yours is a total Boy Scout,” he spits.

“Well, someone’s gotta be," You scoff, eyes rolling, ”They’re just kids, Steve! This isn’t Major League Baseball. There’s no trophy, there’s no prize. There’s absolutely nothing at stake here. What they need to be doing is having fun, and while that snot-nosed little jerk is out there on the field, they’re all gonna be miserable.”

You flop down onto Dylan's couch, feet up on the armrest as he grabs a soda from the fridge and parks himself on the ottoman beside you. You exhale, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

"Rough day out with the little leaguers?"

"Rough day out with Steve," you snort. “I’m so used to being around Brandon I forget that people like Steve Sanders even exist.”

“Come on, Steve isn't that bad."

"Dylan, you're talking about the guy that got carjacked by a girl he was trying to hook up with, and still bailed her out of jail--despite the fact she robbed him justminutes before--in the hopes of getting laid, only for her to steal his wallet." Dylan's face screws in a mix of amusement and total disbelief.

"Okay, so he's that bad," Dylan laughs. "Sorry to break it to you, Y/N/N, but not everyone is a part of the illustrious Walsh family."

"Not everyone can be," you tease. He gently tosses you a throw pillow from the chair across the room, and you use it to prop up your head. "It’s a tragedy.”

“See, what did I tell you? Isn’t he sweet? Isn’t he great?” Brenda watches as you comb through the stray dog’s long gray fur. He really is cute… wet black nose, shaggy gray hair, big puppy dog eyes. But you can’t keep him. “I think he likes you!”

“Bren, as much as I’d love to take this puppy home, my parents would kill me!"

“Just take him for a trial run, and if you like him, keep him!”

“Bren—“

“Please?”

“Bren—“

“Come on!” She pleads.

“Fine! Okay, okay. I’ll see if we can take him in tomorrow night,” you concede, giving the dog one last pat on the head. Brenda squeals happily, a grin on her face as she wraps her arms around you.

“He’s great! You’ll love him!”

"Fine. See you later... Wally."

The four of you watch silently, perched up at the counter of the Peach Pit as Nat's baseball team chows down on slices of pepperoni pizza. We've got Nat to your far left, wondering how the hell they're going to survive against the team from Beverly Hills, then we've got Dylan to your left debating on whether to finally help Nat and shack up with the struggling team, Brandon to your right who hasn't lifted his hand from your upper thigh this whole time which is seriously distracting, and you, wondering how such little boys could devour so much pizza in so little time.

"You know the improvement from one week to the next is remarkable." You mumble.

"Oh yeah… the kids are showing a lot of promise." Brandon nods absentmindedly, bringing his cup to his lips.

"But…" Dylan begins, "you still need a pitcher that can put the ball over the plate."

"Yeah," Nat sighs, "but win or lose, the most important thing is how good the kids feel about themselves." He's trying to convince you, but the more he talks the more you know he's trying to convince himself.

"Absolutely." You agree.

"Totally." Brandon nods.

"Yeah, I mean, in the long run that's all that counts," Dylan shrugs, his voice coated with scepticism.

"Absolutely." Brandon concurs.

"Totally…” You say. “Y’know, I was talking to Andrea about this and she knows a pretty great player from the valley."

They all turn their heads, slowly, with Nat glancing from you to the phone. You roll your eyes at the boys, making your way over to the payphone. The group watches with bated breath behind you as you slip in the quarters and dial her number, waiting for her to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Andrea, hi! Listen, uh, do you remember the other day? You told me you knew some kid in the valley who was a major blue-chip little leaguer?"

"Oh, yeah! Avery?"

"Yeah… Avery." You twist your head back, giving them a smile and a thumbs up.

"What's Dylan doing? Bringing in a ringer?" Steve scoffs, twisting the metal bat in his hand as he cleans it. You exchange knowing smirks with Brandon as Dylan helps Avery get ready on the sidelines. She takes off her ball cap, releasing the foot of long brunette pony-tailed hair. Gasps are heard from center field, seemingly originating from Noah. Shocker.

"Oh my god! Dude, it's a girl!" He laughs out, adjusting his cap against the wind.

"Poor Dylan, he's really scraping the bottom of the barrel, huh?" Oh, if only you and that misogynistic head of yours knew, Steve-O. And surprise, surprise—Every pitch she's involved in ends up in a home run for the Pitts.

And little by little, much to your joy, Steve is getting progressively more aggravated— tapping feet, flaring nostrils, bugged-out eyes. You’re beginning to like baseball.

Eventually you make your way over to Brenda, off by the sidelines. You watch as they send Davey from the Dukes out, and Manny, the small, athletically challenged boy from the Pitts, isn’t far behind. Brandon perks up, calling a timeout to give what you can only assume is another one of his infamous Brandon talks to his team. After a moment the team breaks up, moving into their correct positions and as Manny chokes up on his bat ready to pitch. You cringe, hiding your face in your hand.

But it's nothing short of a miracle as Davey throws the ball. It makes contact with Manny's bat, soaring across the field as he jets off across the bases. The catcher from the Dukes runs for the ball, tripping over his own foot and skidding across the grass. The whole team erupts into ecstatic cheers, rushing out and lifting Manny onto their shoulders. You know that Davey blew the pitch for him, you’ve seen him pitch a hundred times. But seeing the joy on that little boy's face, you knew that it didn't matter.

"Poor kid," Brenda sighs, looking out to the opposite direction to Randy Crawford, the catcher that landed face-first into the grass. "I mean, he really gave it his best-- Wally!"

"Wally? Bren, what're you-- oh my god! That is Wally!" Off in the distance, you can see the gray ball of hair hurdling towards the baseball diamond.

"That's not Wally! That's Rupert! It's my dog, he's back!" Randy gasps, watching in amazement as his shaggy mutt runs across the crowds and into his open arms.

"Hey uh," Brandon comes to greet you, but is looking out into the field as well, "isn't that supposed to be your dog, Y/N/N?"

"No, Brandon," Brenda shakes her head, light smile lacing her lips. "I guess that's Randy's dog…" You sigh, but seeing the little boy giggle with glee as Wally-- er, Rupert, laps at his cheek, there's no troubling emotions to be found.

"I'm sorry, Y/N/N," Brandon laces his fingers with yours, grabbing your attention with a soft kiss to your temple.

"I'm not," you assure him. You smile, the sight of the boy reuniting with his long lost dog something straight out of a movie scene. One last look and you turn away from the boy, eyes meeting your boyfriend’s. “Hey, Brandon... have a date for that dance yet?”

Taglist: @be-patient-be-good @mpmarypoppins @bevelyhills90210 @blueoz @princess-ghost-alien @hueycat2004 @l4life @keepcalm-and-beyou @isthatabutterfly @rosy-pugs @thewalshess

#beverly hills 90210 #bh90210 #90210 #brandon walsh x reader #jason priestley x reader #beverly hills 90210 imagine #90210 imagine #brandon walsh #jason priestley #steve sanders #ian ziering #gif is mine #dylan mckay #luke perry #90s fanfiction #90s x reader

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