-…And I swear if ANY of you set fire to anything again, you’ll be grounded for the next six months with NO chance of parol ok ?
Your sons nod a bit grumpily (until you glare at them and then they nod vehemently : “yes m’am”), knowing damn well how serious you are right now, and already dreading the long gala that awaits them, and how well behaved they will all have to be.
It means no flirting for Dick. It means no fighting for Jason. It means no sarcastic comments to people for Tim. It means…No talking or moving for Damian really, as he knows when he starts, he can never stop. He’d rather just stand by his parents or brothers and not talk at all (Gotham’s media thought he was mute for the longest time, until one day, he called a journalist that was asking him something rude a “troglodyte” and…of course it made every news papers’ headline…uh).
It basically means no-anything-that-could-get-them-in-trouble. And if you had to make a speech each times before a social event to keep your family out of the scandal news, then you would. Pictures of you guys buying groceries, or eating at a food truck, having fun at the local fair or you and Bruce kissing ? To be honest you know it comes with the package to be a Wayne. And you’re fine with this. But scandals ? It always upsets you too much to think anyone could think heal of your family…
Now of course, you know some people hate your family just because you’re rich and famous, but at least, it’s not because you did something that gives them an actual reason to hate you all. Besides, most of the time, it’s just misplaced jealousy.
Those people had no idea what it really was like, to actually be Mrs. Wayne. The only thing they knew, was that yes, it seemed not that easy to raise those boys of yours as they also seemed very…full of life. But other than that, they had just not a single clue what it was to be Mrs. Wayne. If they thought it was easy, that you just bathed in wealth and you’re husband was just a damn sexy and smart bastard…then they were wrong. Of course he was smart and sexy, but oh, oh being his wife wasn’t easy.
Being able to pull him away from his dark thoughts was a full time job. Cheering him up and making him smile, genuinely smile, was a constant struggle. But, of course, you wouldn’t have it any other way…And as he snakes an arm around your waist to lead you toward tonight’s gala, your boys chatting with each other in front of you, you know that yes, this is all worth it.
You’d go through Hell for Bruce Wayne. If those journalists and people who judged you and your family could also go to hell in the process…Ahem.
And oh how cute is it, that your boys try to make sure to be right in front of the cameras’ flashes so they don’t blind you ? Those kids…
You’re used to it. The silence whenever you all arrive somewhere.
It’s always the same.
Outside, it’s mayhem.
People screaming things at you, how much they all love you. Journalists yelling questions in your face, girls swooning over your husband (it doesn’t annoy you as much as it used to, as you understood long ago that Bruce was somehow completely impermeable to this attention, that he only had eyes for you, quite literally).
But when you get inside, where photographers and such are forbidden…
Complete silence for a few seconds, as people take in the “great and famous” Wayne family. As people stare at you all shamelessly.
How handsome your sons are getting (”the oldest one, Richard, he’s legal right ?” you heard more than once), how well dressed you all are (everyone is, but you guys ? You pull it off better than any other rich fucks in this town), how perfect your family is (Haha. Hahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)…There’s always a small silence, before conversations start once again, your boys go off on their own to find drinks and food, and Bruce get swarmed by tons of people that wants to talk to him.
Years ago, you used to hate this. Because they all always ignored you. But now ? Now people want to talk to you as much as they want to talk to Bruce…Though sometimes they’re a little scared of your wits. They’re very careful not to be rude around you. Just like Damian (and Hannibal Lecter actually…though you don’t eat people), rudeness is your pet peeve.
This time is just like any other time, except that the silence is way shorter than usual. It takes you a few seconds to register what’s going on, and when you go completely stiff in Bruce’s arms. Instantly, he gives you a worried look and do not understand what made you so tense all of a sudden, when, while it’s still supposed to be silent around, he hears the smuggest voice he ever heard in his entire life (and he spend his life around smug people…) :
-(Y/N) !! Oh my oh my oh my, long time no see my little fox ! It’s so gooooood to see you !
“Who was that guy ?” is what everyone was thinking right now. How dare he interrupt this sacred few seconds of silence while they were all admiring the Waynes ? And how dare he talk to Mrs. Wayne like that, in front of her husband who was known to be a bit…territorial sometimes with her ? (After all, they witnessed countless times him kissing you passionately because someone even remotely flirted a tiny bit with you…).
That guy…That guy was Edward Gibson.
The only man besides Bruce with whom you had a serious relationship with.
The only man (and hopefully he’ll always stay the only man) that broke your heart.
Everyone sees the world in black and white until they meet their soulmate. But James works in a coffee shop, and every time he sees colour there’s an annoying customer there too (AKA a coffee shop and soulmate au fic in one because i have no chill).
“One frozen mocha to go!”
It’s second nature to him now, as quick and easy as breathing. In one swift movement, James grabs hold of the milk carton, ready to pour it into the blender. He hears the door to the cafe open, a chilly breeze ruthlessly following a handful of students who scrabble inside as it begins to rain.
It’s then that it happens. The milk drops to the floor as he stares, perplexed, at the colour of his hand. It’s like the weight of an avalanche crumbles on top of him, an invisible weight pressing hard on his shoulders. Before he even realises, his legs are like jelly and he’s falling.
“James? Are you alright?” a voice asks.
He feels a hand pressed against his back, the sound of someone’s concerned voice muffled against his ear. He tries to say something, but all he can manage is an intense gasp for air as his legs shake once more.
He can see.
Not that he couldn’t before… but he can see.
Colours are everywhere, blinding and intense. They’re beautiful, so vibrant that it’s making his head spin.
He’s staring at white tiles, chestnut coloured cabinets. It feels like he’s on fire and, more than anything, he wishes he could stand, to just look around the place to see who is making him like this.
Of course, he’s read the stories like everyone else. Lullabies that dated back long before they even had a name. Fairy-tales of people who, like everyone else, saw the world in a lens, the colour of life squeezed out. There was only one person who could help to retrieve that colour back into your life.
James blinks, his heart now slowing to a calm, even beat. He breathes in deeply, relishing the peaceful feeling that washes over him. The owner of the hand speaks again and rubs the place between his shoulder blades tentatively, asking if he needs an ambulance.
He shakes his head, finally looking up at Remus.
“Can you stand?” Remus asks, taking hold of James’ shaking hand and pulling him to his feet. He wobbles for a split second and reaches out to grasp hold of the counter with both arms. His fingers grip onto the support for dear life.
He swallows, a nauseating bubble rippling throughout his intestines and threatening to shoot up his throat. He breathes in, counting to ten. Slow and easy, he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the wooden counter and cautiously glances around cafe.
The colours are dazzling; blues, reds, greens, all different shades and intensities. They’re all so vivid and intense that it feels like the ground’s shaking beneath him. The place is heaving with students, all wet due to the unexpected stormy April shower and James tries to look at as many as he can, searching desperately for someone who seems just as unsettled and surprised as him.
Everyone seems normal. How can that be? Colour’s just flown into every crevice of their being… and they don’t care?
There are too many voices, people ordering, grabbing their coffees and other beverages and talking aimlessly with one another. Amidst the chatter and the whirring noises from the coffee machines, the sound of the door opening reaches his ears. A freezing wind enters, the chilly kind that makes the hairs on his arms stand up on edge.
And then, just like that, his world is drained of colour.
Your asthmatic Lance fic was AMAZING and you're one of my fav voltron writers! Would you maybe be interested in writing something where the rest of the paladins leave to do a mission except for Pidge, who is at the castle to keep the defenses up, and Lance, who's protecting her (who was also left at the castle because he's got a cold). But Lance's cold turns into a really bad respiratory infection, complete with a fever-migraine, and he tries to hide it because he's protecting Pidge??
(YOOOOO THIS IS SO GOOD. WHAT AN A+ PROMPT. Also so sorry took so long! And I made this way more dramatic than I think u asked for lol! Also warning for self loathing thoughts and depression!)
Every so often Lance would have an off day.
Days where he didn’t feel right. Where he’d feel like he didn’t belong, feel lost. He’d feel worthless, and insecure. Days where he’d question his place in the universe, and every answer he’d come to terrified him. There were days he’d feel so small and minuscule, so insignificant. Days where he just felt..blue.
Sometimes they wouldn’t come for months, and sometimes they would happen every week. Sometimes they lasted a day, and the next morning he’d be his bright, bubbly self, but sometimes they lasted weeks and he’d be stuck in that dark place trapped for what seemed to be an eternity.
But for the past while, they’d come a lot more frequently and he’d have them for longer. They’d happen so often that it became easier and easier for Lance to conceal them.
He wasn’t quite sure why they happened, but he had a hunch. Lance wasn’t completely sure, but he theorised it might have been the pressure of having the entire universe’s fate in his hands. Or maybe the fact that the universe was a lot bigger than he expected, and that he felt so small in retrospect. Or maybe even simpler; being constantly surrounded by people better than him, stronger than him, more talented than him.
He wasn’t sure, but he’d felt down for quite a while now.
Lance’s friends were supportive, of course, they were the best friends in the entire world and he genuinely did not deserve them. But they made him feel so small. To no fault of their own; it’s just that everyone had their thing, and they were all damn good at their thing. And Lance was just your average joe. He just wished he could be more.
So Lance tried. He really did. He’d spent all his free time training, trying to be faster, stronger, more precise with his shoots. He’d try without rest. Until he was exhausted, drained of all energy. Until his bones were weak and fatigue seeped into his being. He would never stop until he was good enough.
But eventually his body went against him in a desperate plea to save itself, and forced him to stop when he had caught a cold that did not go unnoticed amongst his teammates.
Do you know anything about grief? If so, my character Vivian spent 6 months with a group of friends and fell in love with another character. The character he fell in love with head over heels for dies the night after they kiss. How would this grief affect active fighting ?
My grandmother on my mother’s side died when I was eleven, my father died when I was thirteen (the day after my birthday), my dog died a day before my college graduation, and my grandfather on my father’s side died from Alzheimer’s a few years ago. That’s not counting the friends and non-blood related family members who’ve died over the years.
So, yeah, I’ve got a little experience with grief, and grief counseling, and therapy, and… well, other people who’ve also lost friends and family.
I will say upfront that experience with grief can’t be faked when translating it into a fiction. You’ve either lost someone or you haven’t. You will never truly understand until you’ve experienced it yourself. And, if you haven’t, honestly, I hope you don’t join this unhappy club for a very long time.
Grief happens in stages, we consider them as five to be exact. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. There is no one size fits all here, or rules, no guidelines for the amount of time it takes because we work through it in our own time. You can and often do go through all five just to accept the physical truth someone you love has died, then all over again with the emotional fallout in the months even years afterward. It’s possible to go forward and back between the stages, and it isn’t a steady process. I’ve come to terms with a lot of the deaths in my life, but some took around a decade to reach the acceptance stage.
In initial the months after my father died, I waited to hear his car coming up the driveway at the time he usually arrived home from work (around 5:30). Anytime the doorknob turned, I’d feel a small bit of hope that it’d be him walking in. I still hope, sometimes, nearly twenty years later, that he’ll come through the door.
I tried to hold on to what he sounded like when I realized a month later I was forgetting. I managed a single word, the name of a friend’s father.
The problem with writing grief if you’ve never experienced it is this: you will over focus on the emotion and forget the detail.
Grief is not being able to remember where you live when you dial 911 for the ambulance. It’s the adrenaline leaving your hands shaking when you reach for the body, and the cold stiffness beneath your hands. The chalky white skin, and one eyelid half open. A frozen, milky, blue-white pupil pointed nowhere. The faint, sour smell in the air.
The way you shake it, and shake it, and shake it like that’ll bring the body back to life.
The way you still describe it as the body years later instead of referring to it as him and in second person instead of first.
Grief is never being able to watch Oliver and Company again.
This detail is part of why it’s so difficult to describe or write grief
if you’ve never experienced the loss of a loved one first hand.
You’ve also got to describe that loss through the eyes of your character, re-imagine it so the experience is not only tailored to their experiences but laser specific to those exact moments when they learned or came to the realization someone they loved died. One of the first things to understand about death in fiction is that it won’t do the work for you.
My father died a week before my first degree black belt test, and I’d just turned thirteen. I honestly can’t remember much about that week. It was Spring Break, so I didn’t have to go to school. My days were mostly filled with martial arts and emptiness. There were moments I’d remember, then grow sad or try to avoid it by focusing on what was coming ahead of me. People told me how brave I was, clapped when I came back to training a day later, but the truth is that doing that was easier than remembering what happened. I was in the shock stage all the way through the test. Numb to the world, I didn’t feel anything. Not pride, not happiness, not “oh good we’re done now”, nothing at all. It wasn’t bravery, so much as it just was. The world moved around me and the rest of it was gray.
In that moment, I became “the Girl Whose Father Died The Week Before Her Test” in the organization and everyone knew who I was for years afterwards.
However, the moment I really broke down was when I returned to class afterwards and began to cry when one of my classmates pushed a crossword onto my desk that read “Father”. I cried so hard, then I went out into the hallway and cried through the rest of the class that day.
That’s one experience, though. Like I said, there’s no one size fits all and every experience is unique. If you’ve got a character whose lost a lot of people over the years, then it does get easier.
However, if you’re writing a character who experiences death on the regular then their experience is going to be different. You could get someone who numbs themselves out to the world, defers the loss until later, and deals with it then. A person for whom “doing things” is them showing their grief. They could crumple up into a ball, give up and just cry. They could get angry to the point they want to kill the person who took their loved one and want to kill them. They could be compromised to the point of they are incapable performing their job, and need to be scrubbed from a mission for their safety and their teammates.
They could get triggered by the violence to the point where they lock up and can’t mentally face it anymore, where it becomes too much for them to handle. Sometimes, they break all the furniture in their apartment. Sometimes, they don’t clean out the other side of the closet for six years. They may get angry and lash out at those close to them who aren’t experiencing this death as keenly as they are. Or the might do it just because, without reason. They might close themselves off from everyone they know and love. Wall up out of fear of losing another person, find it difficult to build new connections. Become a different person.
Or, rarely, they could be completely fine. Or, seem like they’re fine on the surface. Others who are suffering will get pissed at them if they’re fine. When it seems like you’re fine, others will call you a monster. How dare they.
Grief is not guaranteed to get you killed in combat, but it can. It leads to stupid mistakes because you’re mentally compromised, even when you don’t realize it. We run from it sometimes. It’s so big, and heavy, and dark, crashing down all at once with no easy answers. No platitude satisfies. Numb, angry, stricken, despairing, you can move through these states so rapidly that it’s almost impossible to follow. Grief just is.
In a situation where you need to be able to focus or your life and those around you are at risk, then grief becomes detrimental. If you’re mentally compromised and refuse to recognize it then it will only put others at risk. Many people will insist they are “fine”. That it doesn’t affect them, that they can still work. It does though. It will. As a result, events can be disastrous in the fallout.
Even if they can fight, revenge isn’t satisfying. It’s empty. Grief-fueled rampages will only lead to more sadness and more emptiness and a re-experiencing of the loss all over again. Usually, it causes more tragedy.
How will your character react? I don’t know.
How does grief affect fighting, even years afterward? It can be really bad, my friend. Really goddamn bad.
You’ve got to find an equilibrium in your mind and acceptance, real acceptance too. You can’t just tell yourself you’ve accepted it, and that difference can be difficult to grasp.
Understand loss is not the cause of grief, and not death itself. We will
grieve lost relationships and broken down friendships, when what we
love disappears from our grasp. Don’t assume it’s in the death, look at
the loss and how they feel about them being gone.
As a writer, your answer is they need to find a way to come to terms with this loss and that is a journey without an easily defined destination. I mean “come to terms” and not “get over”. Loss is with you forever, but whether we accept it or it continues to haunt us will be up to the person in question.
From me to you, here are some ways I dealt with my father’s death in my teenage years:
1) I went to counseling.
2) I read all the books of his on the shelf that I could scrounge from my parent’s bedroom, even when I didn’t like them. I still have a few of his fantasy hardbacks squirreled away.
3) I tried to play Star Wars: Tie Fighter.
4) I cried when I tried to tackle the Walkers in Rogue Squadron 2, because I’d always run to him and beg him to help me pass the level.
5) I’d go smell the shirts my mom left when she refused to clean out his side of the closet until they didn’t smell like him anymore. Then, I felt sad all over again.
6) I dedicated my open form during my second degree test to him, and picked a really sappy country song.
7) I read and re-read L.E. Modesitt Jr’s entire “Saga of Recluse” over and over again because Colors of Chaos was the first fantasy book my dad handed me to read.
8) I named my Sovereign Class ship in Star Trek Online after him.
I once sat with another student at college and we commiserated over our shared bond as members of the “Dead Parents Club”, telling stories about how our parents died and laughing about where we were now. To another student, who’d never experienced what we had, this seemed incredibly insensitive, they were confused, and they said so.
We said, “Dead Parents Club”. Then another student who’d recently lost their aunt asked if they could join us, and we expanded to members of the “Dead Relatives Club”.
It’s not all sadness and pain, misery and angst. In fact, if you go this route then it’s not really real. Much as it might seem like it on the surface, grief isn’t the same as literary angst. You need to show, not tell and that begins with actions. Start figuring
out how this loss affects your character before you take a stab at how
it’s affecting their ability to fight. Grief is about individuals, and
there are no easy answers. Only actions, decisions, and struggle for
good or ill.
hey! please may you write a simon imagine where your cuddle buddies and one night you can feel his boner pressed against you
I lay my head to the pillow, feeling the air bed shake a little underneath me. It had been a long night at the halo tower. There had been a party, and since Simon and I were both filming here tomorrow, it made sense just to sleep over. Since the flat was somewhat smaller than the sidemen house - and the one spare room was preoccupied - we had been left to resort to an air mattress on the floor.
It wasn’t an issue. I wasn’t a particularly high demanding type of girl, and would make do with what I was given. As for sleeping in a bed with Simon, this was no issue either; we were close friends, and not a lot was awkward between us. We were comfortable with each other.
Throughout the living room there was a draft, presumably from where the balcony was in front of us, the slight unchangeable gap leaving a draft. I pulled the duvet further up my body and pushed myself more towards Simon, who lay behind me.
“Y/n? What are you doing?”
His voice was thick with sleep and intoxication, and I smiled slightly as I responded.
“It’s cold,” I stated matter of factly. “Come closer to me, it generates body heat.”
He did not oblige, or speak at all, only moving closer and wrapping an arm around my midsection. His breath was warm and comforting on my back, and I placed my arm over his. However, it took a while for the cold to decline, and so I still could not control the shivering running through me. Simon pulled me in even closer so that my back was flat to his chest, his fingers running subconsciously up and down my goosebump covered skin.
“Oh god,” he spoke suddenly, startling me. I was not sure whether he was dreaming or not.
“Simon? What’s wrong?”
“Y/n…I think I can feel your nipples on my arm.”
I struggled to control the laughter, not wanting to wake the other boys. “I told you it was cold Simon!”
In an attempt to control the situation I began to wriggle slightly, however he grabbed my hips suddenly, his forehead pressed against my back.
“Y/n stop moving.”
He spoke desperately, almost groaning, and I turned to face him.
“What why- oh…”
As our eyes met mine trailed down, and I came face to face with Simon’s fastly growing bulge in his basketball shorts. I bit my lip to avoid nervous laughter as my face heated. We hadn’t faced this situation before.
“For fucks sake.”
When Simon cursed I couldn’t stop the giggles that fell from my mouth and he pressed a hand over my face to shut me up, his head falling into my neck out of embarrassment. I wrapped both my arms around his neck and brought him into me to reassure him, keeping my hips slightly further away.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured and I giggled into him.
“It’s alright Simon, I get it. Was it the nipples or the movement?”