I Love Nonfiction That I Simply Cannot Relate To At All. "it's Easy To Get Addicted To Buying Fast Fashion!

The principal difficulty of having a Pokémon pick up your groceries for you isn’t getting it to understand the concept of a grocery list, but getting it to understand the concept of capitalism.

One might assume that Meowth is the exception, given that Meowth is literally the capitalism Pokémon; the trouble here is that, while Meowth does understand capitalism, Meowth also understands shoplifting.

[for the last time || в последний раз]

chapter warnings: n/a (damian just rambles a bit on how much he dislikes reader lol)

01. | 02. | » you are here | ... |

From the eyes of [ Robin ]

Roughly 20 hours before the events of 01.

The morning was dull and overcast, the pale light filtering through the manor’s tall windows with the insistence of a persistent fog. Damian descended the grand staircase with deliberate, measured steps, his sharp gaze sweeping over the pristine foyer before turning toward the dining room.

Breakfast was always a tedious affair, but tolerable with Alfred’s efficiency. And—most days—endurable by the girl’s silent presence. She would usually be seated already, picking at her plate with the nervousness of a bird, her eyes darting between her food and whatever book she’d brought to the table.

Today, the seat across from him was empty.

“Good Morning, Master Damian,” Alfred greeted, setting down a neatly folded napkin beside his plate. “Eggs, toast, and sliced fruit as usual. Would you prefer tea or coffee this morning?”

“Tea.” Damian slid into his seat, gaze flicking to the empty chair again. “Where’s the girl?”

“The Miss has not made an appearance yet.” Alfred’s brow furrowed as he poured the tea with steady precision. “Have you seen her this morning, sir?”

“No.”

Alfred’s fingers tightened slightly around the teapot before he resumed his usual elegance. “I shall send her a message, then. It’s unlike her to miss breakfast without a word.”

Damian scoffed, already cutting into his food. “Perhaps she finally decided to skip the unnecessary pretenses.”

Alfred’s look was a measured thing, the kind of quiet reproach Damian had grown adept at ignoring. “Very well, Master Damian.”

The room lapsed into silence, punctuated only by the soft clink of silverware against fine china. Alfred moved about with his usual efficiency, though there was a new stiffness to his movements, something Damian noted and promptly dismissed.

Minutes later, Grayson strolled in with all the gracelessness of a man who’d only just dragged himself from bed. His hair was tousled and he was already smiling, as if he expected the world to greet him with the same warmth he poured into it.

“Morning, Damian. Alfred.”

“Good morning, Master Richard,” Alfred replied, setting down another plate.

Damian didn’t bother with a greeting, his attention already straying from the room. He finished his meal quickly and rose from his seat, ignoring the curious glance Grayson shot his way.

“Going somewhere, Lil’ demon?” Dick asked around a mouthful of toast.

“My morning stroll,” Damian replied curtly, already turning toward the hallway. “Try not to do anything foolish while I’m gone.”

The hallways of Wayne Manor were vast and labyrinthine, but Damian knew them all by heart. It was a routine of sorts, to walk them every morning. Familiarity bred comfort, or perhaps it was more a matter of asserting his own existence within these elaborate, yet hollowed walls.

He passed the gallery, a corridor adorned with paintings and photographs from every era of the Wayne family. Damian rarely gave them much thought, but today his steps slowed, eyes narrowing as he studied the long line of frames.

One of the oldest photographs showed Grayson at twelve, smiling with infuriating exuberance beside his father, who looked decidedly uncomfortable with the forced cheer. Jane was there too, small and stiff at six years old, her posture awkward in a frilly dress that didn’t suit her.

Another photo showed the three of them, with Todd newly added to the lineup. Jane was probably nine, her eyes brighter with her lips curled up into something much genuine, more attuned to the cheerful energy Todd brought with him. Grayson had been fifteen then, already growing into his role as the dutiful eldest.

The progression continued down the line. Jason’s surly adolescence then absence, followed by the portraits with the appearance of Drake, Richard’ steady maturation, to then the doe-eye’s awkward transitions between childhood and whatever she was attempting to be now. And then Damian himself, glaring with unhidden suspicion in his first formal photograph, Bruce’s hand a heavy, yet not an unwelcome weight on his shoulder.

They were all there, framed and preserved like insects under glass.

But there was another photograph Damian hadn’t noticed before as it was placed far up the wall, it's dimensions small that it could easily be overlooked unless one had the stature of a person who'd gone through puberty. It was old, in black and white, the edges faded and worn with time, encased inside an intricate silver frame. It was a photograph of a woman standing alone, her hair elegantly styled, eyes alight with something Damian couldn’t quite define. Curiosity, perhaps. Or amusement.

The initials engraved in the plaque beneath the frame read.

M.W.

He frowned, tilting his head. The girl’s mother? That was unlikely. Her lineage was no secret within these walls, though it was a matter so rarely spoken of that it had taken Damian time to piece it all together. She was Bruce’s blood. His half-sister. Although he could never bring himself to call her that out loud.

Damian regarded the photograph again, his eyes narrowing as he studied the woman’s features with the meticulous scrutiny he applied to all things. The curve of her eyes felt familiar, their shape mirroring the girl’s in a way that left an uneasy knot in his chest.

But there was something wrong about them.

They were bright, yes, yet clouded—somehow. As if some unseen weight pressed upon them, shadowing the edges despite her composed smile. It was a gaze that seemed almost distracted, as though the woman were looking at something far beyond the camera’s lens.

For a moment, Damian felt something like recognition. A restlessness he couldn’t place, an unsettled thread that frayed at the seams of his thoughts. But he dismissed it as quickly as it came.

Whatever ghosts lingered in those eyes were of no consequence to him.

He scoffed, tension coiling in his shoulders. The resemblance, if it existed, was irrelevant. She was soft—fragile in a way that grated against everything he was taught to value. The others spoke of how she’d been indulged: by Grayson, occasionally by Todd before Drake took the mantle of Robin, and even by Pennyworth. Curiously, never by his father. He'd come to realize there was a void there—an absence of interest, as if the girl, his daughter, simply didn’t register.

He would not waste his thoughts on shadows.

She had never earned her place here. Not like he had.

With a huff, Damian turned away from the photograph, his brisk footsteps echoing through the empty hall. Whatever Alfred’s concerns were, they weren’t his. The girl would show herself when she decided to stop hiding away like a coward.

And if she didn’t, well—Damian couldn’t bring himself to care.

Taglist: @kneelforloki

happy valentines day

1st oc: hi im just a normal highschooler im kinda depressed but i swear im not a mary sue

30th oc:

“Hell no, I could kill you where you stand. I’m no pet, I’m a married man.”

THIS. THIS IS WHY EPIC IS GOING PLACES. THIS WHY ODYSSEUS IS THE SINGLE MOST AMAZING PROTAGONIST EVER. THIS ONE LINE. DO YOU KNOW WHY???

Alexander Hamilton, protagonist of the hit musical of the 2010’s: How could I say no to her? My wife will never know. No one has to know.

Also Alexander: This is the only way to protect my legacy. The Reynold’s Pamphlet.

Odysseus: Hell no, I could kill you where you stand. I’m no pet, I’m a married man.

Also Odysseus: You plotted to kill my son. You planned to rape my wife. All of you are going to die.

𓈒⠀݁⠀﹙ 𝓢﹚𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 ☆ ₊⠀ ៸៸៸

君を愛しすぎて、 恐ろしいくらいだ。

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓉 𝑥 𝐹𝑒𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℬ𝓇𝓊𝒸ℯ 𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃ℯ ☆ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ³

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺...

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥⚠

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺!

She could hear him pacing.

The sound of his shoes slamming against the floor.

She sat on the edge of her bed, trembling, her fingers digging into her arms.

She had been expecting this.

Ever since she threw up that morning and Alfred had seen.

Ever since Bruce’s sharp eyes had noticed the way her body had begun to change.

She should have run.

She should have come up with something, anything, to stop this moment from happening.

But there was nothing.

There was nowhere to go.

And now Bruce was here.

Pacing.

Breathing hard.

Trying to control the rage rolling off of him like a storm.

Then, suddenly—

“Who is he?”

His voice cut through the air like a whip.

She flinched.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

Her heart was hammering so loud, she could barely think.

“Who’s the father?”

He was standing in front of her now, towering over her, fists clenched at his sides.

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

She couldn’t.

Her lips parted.

Nothing came out.

“Who is that man?” Bruce growled. “Tell me.”

She shook her head, tears blurring her vision.

“I—I can’t.”

His breath came out in a sharp, furious exhale.

“You can’t?”

She shook her head again, shoulders shaking.

“I can’t tell you.”

Silence.

A silence so deep, so heavy, it felt like it was crushing her.

And then—

Something shifted.

Something in Bruce’s eyes.

His sharp, analytical mind was spinning.

Working.

Piecing things together.

She could see it.

And then—

His eyes went wide.

His breath hitched.

His fingers tensed.

“Oh my god.” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading. “Tell me it’s not Dick.”

Her eyes snapped to his in pure horror.

“What?! No! Of course not!”

His nostrils flared. His jaw clenched.

He wasn’t done.

“Then Jason.” His voice dropped to something dark, something almost begging. “He's the only one other than Dick that is close to you.”

Her stomach turned.

She felt sick.

“How—how can you even say that?!” her voice cracked. “They’re my brothers!”

Bruce’s hands ran through his hair, his breath ragged.

He turned away for a moment, as if he needed to regain control.

As if he needed to force himself to breathe.

Then, slowly, he turned back to her.

His gaze was burning, piercing, his entire body tense.

“Then who?”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

No words came.

No sound.

Nothing.

Because she couldn’t.

She couldn’t say it.

She couldn’t make the words leave her throat.

Because if she did—

It would make it real.

Bruce stared at her.

His eyes darkened.

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely more than breath.

“It’s someone I know, isn’t it?”

Her body shook.

Her fingers dug into her own arms so hard she could feel her nails breaking skin.

Bruce took a step closer.

“Isn’t it?”

A sob ripped out of her throat.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t—

“I CAN’T TELL YOU!” she screamed.

Tears poured down her face.

Bruce’s expression twisted, something between anger and devastation.

He turned away from her, hands clenched into fists, breathing hard.

His shoulders were shaking.

He knew.

Maybe not the name.

But he knew.

Of course he knew.

The air was crisp, cutting through the night with the kind of sharpness only Gotham could hold. The city stretched before them, endless and dark, its heartbeat pulsing in the distant hum of traffic and the flickering of streetlights below.

Clark stood next to Bruce, arms crossed, staring into the skyline. He didn’t dare look at him.

He couldn’t.

Not after what he had done.

Not after that night.

Bruce was quiet. Too quiet.

They had just finished a League meeting, the usual endless war against an ever-growing darkness. But none of it mattered to Clark. Not now. Not after what he had taken.

And then—

Bruce spoke.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I'm going to be a grandfather, you know?"

Clark's breath hitched.

What?

His fingers clenched against his arms as he forced himself to stay still.

Bruce never talked about personal things. Never.

But now—

Clark could hear the weight in his voice.

The way it pressed down like a slow, creeping tide.

He tried to smile, forced out a laugh, something light, something normal.

“That’s great, Bruce.” He swallowed. His throat was dry. “I’m sure Dick will be a great father.”

Silence.

A silence so deep, so suffocating, it froze the city.

Clark finally turned his head—

And saw it.

Bruce was smiling.

Smiling.

But it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right.

It was wrong. Twisted. Something that should never be on his face.

A chill ran down Clark’s spine.

And then Bruce spoke again, and his words gutted him.

“Dick?”

He shook his head, slowly.

And then, still smiling, still mocking, he said—

“No, Y/N is pregnant.”

His daughter.

Clark stopped breathing.

The world stopped turning.

Everything—everything—crashed.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

His face went white.

His mouth opened—

Nothing came out.

His ears were ringing.

This wasn’t real.

This couldn’t be real.

Bruce knew.

He knew.

Oh god. Oh god.

Clark felt his whole body lock up, every muscle going stiff as a corpse.

He tried—he tried so hard to find words.

To say something.

To fix this, to pull back, to undo—

But then—

Bruce’s smile fell.

It was gone.

And what replaced it—

Was worse.

His face darkened, the lines of his expression turning sharp, his eyes sinking into shadows.

He said nothing.

Nothing.

Because he didn’t need to.

Clark knew exactly what was happening.

What this was.

There was no need for screaming, no fists being thrown, no explosion of rage.

That would have been better.

But Bruce didn’t work that way.

Clark could feel it.

Bruce knew what he did.

It was only a matter of time.

Clark barely made it through the door.

His hands were trembling. His legs felt weak. His chest was tight, too tight—like something was crushing him from the inside. His breath came short, quick, shallow gasps that weren’t enough, weren’t nearly enough.

He staggered forward, gripping the nearest wall as he pull at his suit, fingers fumbling, desperate.

He couldn’t breathe.

God—he couldn’t breathe.

His mind was spinning, drowning in a black fog of guilt and disgust, thick and suffocating.

Bruce knew.

Bruce fucking knew.

He ripped his suit off, throwing it to the ground like it burned him. His chest rose and fell in erratic, panicked movements, sweat breaking along his skin as his stomach twisted violently.

He felt sick.

God—he was sick.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor, fingers gripping at his scalp as a sharp buzzing filled his ears, loud, deafening—

He deserved this.

He deserved so much worse.

God, how did this happen?

How did he let this happen?

How did he ruin her?

A young girl. An angel. Someone who had looked up to him with wide, trusting eyes, a girl who had spent her childhood watching him, admiring him.

She had been just a child.

And now—now she was ruined.

Because of him.

His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited, heaving up nothing but acid and self-loathing, his body rejecting itself.

A knock at the door.

Soft at first.

Then urgent.

"Clark?" Lois.

God. Lois.

His hands gripped the edges of the sink as he tried to steady himself, his breath still coming in rapid, uneven gulps. His vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut.

What would she say if she knew?

What would she do?

The thought alone was unbearable.

He sucked in another broken breath, forcing his shaking hands under the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. It did nothing.

It wouldn’t wash this away.

Nothing would.

Another knock.

Louder this time.

"Clark, open the door. What's wrong? You're scaring me."

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the mirror.

I love you, Lois.

The words almost slipped out, almost choked him.

She deserved better.

She deserved a husband who wasn’t—who wasn’t—

He sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath, but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

His chest was too tight. His throat too dry.

He gripped the sink harder.

His reflection stared back at him, empty.

He wanted to smash it.

He wanted to shatter himself into a thousand pieces.

But it wouldn’t change anything.

It wouldn’t erase what he had done.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ PART 1. PART 2.

— © stxrkiss ☆ don't copy, translate or use my works here or any other websites.

remember kids

Artist 🎨: @vhsdogs

I think my favorite moment in all of solo leveling is where when Jinwoo is fighting Igris for the first time, and realizes his dagger isn't doing anything so he puts it away and Igris is just like "Oh we doing straight hands?" Drops his buster sword and cape and just smacks Jinwoo into a wall.