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living-with-ghost · 15 days ago

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How do you plead? || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: When Rafe Cameron is arrested for the shooting of Sheriff Peterkin, he's forced to work with a sharp, no-nonsense lawyer who won’t let his arrogance or half-truths stand in the way of justice. Tensions run high as they navigate a complex defence, uncovering the blurred lines between loyalty, desperation, and the truth.

Warnings: mention of peterkin’s death, other than that nothing!!

Word count: 1,757

MASTERLIST

“Cameron, your lawyer is here,” Shoupe announces, his voice firm, though tinged with a subtle amusement as he watches Rafe closely. His eyes are cold, assessing. Rafe’s reaction is immediate—a sharp furrow of his brow and a shake of his head as he scoffs, the words barely escaping his lips in a frustrated murmur.

“I don’t have one.” His tone is dismissive, as if rejecting the notion entirely, as though this is some kind of misunderstanding he refuses to accept. Shoupe stands still, arms crossed over his chest, a slight sneer tugging at the corners of his mouth. The man’s posture is relaxed, yet there’s an undeniable edge to him.

“You do now,” he retorts, his voice flat and unamused, but his eyes show just enough mockery to let Rafe know this isn’t a negotiation. He’s not backing down. The sound of high heels echo through the room, sharp clicks punctuating the otherwise silent space. With each stride, the noise grows louder, reverberating off the walls, deliberate and calculated.

Rafe doesn’t move, his gaze sharp as he turns, eyes narrowing when he sees you walking towards him. Your presence is commanding, every inch of you radiating confidence. Rafe’s mouth twitches as his disbelief builds, his body tensing as you close the distance. He steps forward, getting closer to the bars, his voice laced with disdain and confusion.

“You’re joking,” he mutters under his breath, but it’s loud enough to carry, a scoff slipping from his lips. He takes in your appearance slowly, his eyes raking over you from head to toe, the skeptical look clear in his eyes. His gaze then flickers to Shoupe, seeking any sign that this is, in fact, some kind of cruel joke. “Is this a joke? She’s my lawyer?”

His voice rises slightly, incredulous, the words coming out like a punch to the air. You pause, stopping just short of the bars, your posture straight, composed. Your gaze is steady, unwavering. “She has a name, Rafe,” you respond, your voice smooth, cool with just the faintest hint of authority. There’s no time for games now.

“And right now, she’s the only one who can get you out of here.” Rafe falls silent, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he stares at you, his eyes flicking between you and Shoupe, as though trying to reconcile this sudden turn of events. The sharp tension in the room is palpable, as if the air itself is holding its breath.

You hold his gaze without flinching, waiting for his response. After a moment, you add, almost as an afterthought, “Daddy isn’t going to get you out this time, Rafe.” The words hang between you two, weighted with a mixture of finality and challenge. Your voice remains steady, unbothered, but there’s a quiet edge that seems to dare him to defy you.

Rafe’s eyes flash briefly with something unreadable, but it quickly morphs into a scoffing expression. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, a reflexive move as he rolls it against his cheek in frustration. He shifts his stance, leaning one shoulder against the cold steel bars as if attempting to dismiss you, but there’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he mutters, a cocky smirk playing at the corner of his lips. But despite his bravado, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—one that he quickly hides behind the shield of his arrogance. You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. Your eyes stay locked on his, unwavering. You’ve been here before.

The loud scrape of the chair against the floor echoed through the sterile room as you set your briefcase and documents down on the table with deliberate precision. The sound seemed to make Rafe shift uncomfortably in his seat, his handcuffed wrists resting in his lap, fingers twitching slightly as if yearning for freedom. You couldn’t help but notice the raw marks around his wrists, the red imprints of metal that seemed to gnaw at his composure.

You raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment, then turned your gaze toward the window. The faint outlines of officers could be seen behind the one-way glass, their eyes watching, waiting. Without missing a beat, you called out, your voice steady and commanding. “Take them off. He’s not going to do anything.”

The words were simple, but laced with authority, the kind that made the officers hesitate for only a moment before responding. The door creaked open, and one of the officers stepped in, his gaze flicking between you and Rafe before moving to unfasten the cuffs. Rafe’s eyes followed the movement, his expression flickering with the smallest hint of gratitude, though he kept his usual guarded demeanor intact.

The officer’s hands worked quickly, unclipping the cuffs and pulling them away with a faint click. Rafe’s hands immediately moved to his wrists, rubbing them gently as if trying to ease the discomfort. There was a brief, fleeting moment of relief on his face, his fingers massaging the raw skin where the cuffs had been too tight. He flexed his fingers, the action both absent and deliberate, trying to regain some sense of autonomy.

“Thanks,” Rafe muttered quietly, his voice rough, still laced with the remnants of defiance, but with a hint of weariness. His eyes didn’t meet yours immediately, instead lingering on the floor for a moment before he shifted his gaze back to you. You gave a slight nod, your posture relaxed, yet your eyes remained sharp.

“Now we can actually talk.” Your voice was level, no trace of impatience, but your tone made it clear you were getting down to business. Rafe shifted again, his movements more at ease now that the cuffs were gone, though the tension still lingered in his posture. He stretched his arms slightly, as if the simple act of having his hands free brought him a brief moment of relief, but you knew the real weight of the situation hadn’t lifted.

He tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling as if searching for something—perhaps an escape from the mess he’s in. After a long moment of silence, he finally speaks, his voice strained but resolute. “I didn’t shoot the sheriff, you know.” His words are slow, measured, and there’s an underlying bitterness that hangs in the air.

“Rafe,” you say, your tone measured but firm, “you’re asking me to believe that everything happened in the heat of the moment, that you were acting to protect your father.” You pause, letting the silence draw out just enough to unsettle him. “But the evidence suggests a very different story.” He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, visibly agitated.

“What evidence?” he snaps, though there’s an edge of desperation beneath his bravado. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what happened.” You hold his gaze, unfazed by his outburst. “The ballistics report, Rafe. The angle of the shot, the trajectory—it places you as the one who fired the fatal bullet. And the witnesses… multiple people reported seeing your father on his knees, unarmed, when Sheriff Peterkin attempted to place him under arrest. She was not reaching for her weapon to shoot him; she was doing her job.”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, his teeth grinding audibly. “She wasn’t just doing her job,” he growls, his voice low but simmering with anger. “She had it out for him—for us. She’s been gunning for our family for years. You think I’m going to sit there and let her take him down? She was going to shoot him, I know it.” You lean forward slightly, your expression unyielding.

“You think she was going to shoot him, or you know? Because those are two very different things, and in a court of law, assumptions don’t hold up against hard evidence.” Rafe looks away, his hands clenching into fists on the table. For a moment, you think he might lash out, but instead, he exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping. “I did what I had to do,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Your eyes narrow. “Try me,” you challenge, your voice sharp. “Because right now, what I understand is that you’re facing charges for the attempted murder of a sheriff, and your story has holes big enough to sink you. If you want me to defend you, I need the truth—not some half-baked narrative you think will get you out of this.” He flinches slightly at your words but quickly recovers, the defiance returning to his face.

“Fine,” he says, his tone clipped. “She had her gun out, okay? She was yelling at him, trying to take him in. My dad… he was panicking. She wouldn’t listen. She wasn’t going to listen. And yeah, I pulled the trigger. But what else was I supposed to do? Stand there and watch her ruin everything?” The admission hangs in the air like a bomb about to go off. You keep your expression neutral, though your mind is already racing.

“So, you’re admitting to shooting her, but you’re framing it as a split-second decision to protect your father,” you say carefully, your tone unreadable. “That’s your official story?” He nods, though there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “Yeah. That’s what happened.” You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms as you study him.

“Rafe, if you want any chance of me building a viable defense, you need to understand something. Self-defense—whether it’s for yourself or someone else—requires an imminent threat. The prosecution is going to argue that Sheriff Peterkin posed no such threat, that she was simply doing her job. And unless we can poke holes in their case, your ‘split-second decision’ might look more like cold-blooded murder to a jury.”

Rafe’s eyes darken, and he leans forward, his voice a low growl. “You think I’m some cold-blooded killer? Is that what this is?” “No,” you reply evenly. “I think you’re someone who made a choice in a high-pressure situation. But the law doesn’t care about how you felt in the moment. It cares about the facts. And right now, the facts are stacked against you.” For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze fixed on the table. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost vulnerable.

“I didn’t want to kill her. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.” You let out a slow breath, your voice softening slightly. “Then help me, Rafe. Help me find a way to make a jury believe that.”

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living-with-ghost · 16 days ago

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SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using

his dyslexia;

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there.

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain;

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again.

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice.

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later:

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether.

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them.

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that.

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation.

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

Again, please, please PLEASE reblog this post instead of the one I sent originally. All the information is here, and it's driving me nuts to see the old ones are still passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much.

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living-with-ghost · 17 days ago

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living-with-ghost · 22 days ago

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Master List: Smalltown!Meta!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Art and Aesthetics

Moodboard

Sketch Dumps

Headcannons

Bat Family

Reader and Smalltown

Super Family

Obsessions

Bat Family

Conner

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Series List

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Main Taglist

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Incorrect Quotes and Trash

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

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living-with-ghost · 1 month ago

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living-with-ghost · 2 months ago

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living-with-ghost · 2 months ago

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Superman and Flamebird (Male!Reader x Clark Kent x Bucky Barnes)

General HCs for poly Clark Bucky and reader?

Bucky never thought he'd enjoy snow ever again.

But here he is, in the Fortress of Solitude, fully at ease.

"Hey, Kelex? Is the farmboy ready yet? We gotta hurry if we wanna pick up Y/N."

"He is finalizing his present, Bucky."

Bucky nodded. "Of course. He's such a sweetheart, eh?"

"I am not qualified to make that judgement."

"Go ahead and feel free to add "Sweetheart" to the list of designations you can refer to Kal-El as."

"Why do you always have to mess with my fancy Kryptonian robot?"

Bucky bursts into laughter.

In some ways, you have often felt unworthy of two such exceptional partners.

And those two exceptional souls agree that you are the most precious to them.

Bucky is a really great partner to Clark. He is someone who does not underestimate Clark's intelligence, capability, or capacity for compassion, but perhaps more importantly, never overestimates Clark's strength and ability to weather things.

Bucky is protective of the man Clark truly is - not the mild-mannered anxious and nervous reporter nor the confident alien savior, but the kindhearted and dorky and slightly unconfident man he really is.

Clark loves Bucky for his resilience, his good humor, and his protectiveness.

He is supportive of Bucky, and wants to care for him so much. Whatever he wants to be, however he wishes to go, Clark wants to help.

And Clark's support, Bucky's protection - the two of them provide you no less than they do to each other.

They are a communicative duo. Bucky doesn't like to let anyone in, but he is desperate for connection, so he is more than happy to bring you in to discuss things.

Clark's kindness and willingness to be himself allows Bucky to feel safe to talk.

Bucky refuses to let Clark bear burdens alone anymore - if Clark goes out as Superman, Bucky goes out as well, and Clark offers him a piece of his heritage. Dick Grayson took on the name of the old Kryptonian myth of the Nightwing, and he offers Bucky Barnes the mantle of the Flamebird, and Bucky takes it well.

Gadgets build for him allow him to glide across rooftops, to more easily climb and run and keep up with Superman, and he handily is well suited to taking care of the enemies that often give Clark trouble. Those overspecialized to Kryptonians, those of magic and bioengineering and Kryptonite.

With rubber bullets, with specially made weapons, he can dismantle and disarm and neutralize - his skills in assassination turned to the use of protection of something precious.

Together, they keep each other able to return to you.

Bucky and Clark each have their challenges - Clark sometimes suffers from sensory overload, and Bucky has trouble dealing with crowds when not on a mission.

But with each other and you, with support and family found with you all, they can endure and move on. You can all visit the Kents and find family. You can all talk solutions and problems, safely together, not fearing that you will be rejected or have your vulnerability used against you.

"I got the rings. What's so important you delayed so long?" Bucky chuckles, showing Clark the three black bands he had had made. Black as night, durable and smooth, with a small glossy ring in the center that shone with fragments of precious stone. In the right light, the three black bands shine as though an entire nebula of color is contained within them.

Clark holds out a crystal, and shining from it is his own face, as he calmly recites something, as all the other crystals with his biological mother and father do, of history and heritage and lineage.

Clark stands not in Kryptonian robes but in simple flannel and jeans. "Kal-El, Last Son of Krypton, who was also Clark Jerome Kent of Earth, married James Buchanan Barnes and Y/N, his truest loves, and kept them near his heart for all his days. And Krypton lived in within them all, for the truest legacy of Krypton is love."

Bucky smiles softly. "I think he'll love that. Gee, you sure know how to tug a man's heartstrings, farmboy."

Clark kisses him. "Will you come with me to propose to our sweetheart?"

"Nothing would please me more."

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living-with-ghost · 2 months ago

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#justagirl #dream

I actually need a part two to Yandere sugar daddy or I will die

Yandere sugar daddy who loves to spoil his baby.

MDNI!

Tw. Yandere, power imbalance, isolation, captivity, NSFW themes

What do you want honey? A new pair of pretty shoes? A designer bag? A car that costs more than your left leg? He'll give it to you with a snap of his fingers.

Yandere sugar daddy who loves becoming your main source of income. You shouldn't have to trouble yourself with anything hard like boring paperwork or stupid board meetings. That's for him to worry about. No, the only thing you should be concerned about is spreading your legs and murmuring understanding words when he comes home from a stressful day at work.

And sure, you've been kind of whiny and bratty ever since he started to limit the time you spent outside, but can you blame him? Yandere sugar daddy hates even thinking about you wandering through the big scary world without him there to guide and protect you. You're supposed to be his responsibility, so don't go thinking you can just run around without his explicit permission.

Yandere sugar daddy who likes to hide little gifts for you around the penthouse. It's like a little game. He likes sending you messages randomly throughout the day. Go check the third drawer in the study. It's a good way to make sure you haven't snuck out on him, but he also just loves it when he finds you with a new pretty gem settled on the column of your throat.

Yandere Sugar daddy who takes you on crazy, all expenses paid for vacations to tropical islands, different cities, and dream destinations. You'll have the best hotels, best views, best wardrobe as long as you sit pretty and snuggled up to him while you're flying first class.

Yandere Sugar daddy who shuts down any kind of arguments you might have about silly things like 'Why can't I see my friends' or 'Where is my passport and my credit card?' He just hands you stacks of cash or his own cards and tells you to go wild. Don't worry about all of that. Just go to the shopping outlet with the security guards he hired to keep an eye on you and have lot's and lot's of fun spending his money.

Yandere Sugar daddy who finds a way to blacklist you from the industry you used to work in. No one in their right mind will give you a job even if you wanted one (Not that he intends to even let you think about living life away from him). He's never, ever going to let you have even the slightest chance of being independent.

Though, he's sure that he'll feel much better when he can finally slip a ring on your finger and make this little arrangement more official.

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living-with-ghost · 2 months ago

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𝙃𝙚𝙢𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙠. || 𝘿𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝘼𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙚.

a gift for @dion-s-lawyer and @d10nsaint <3

hemlock is a poisonous plant, toxic to both humans and animals, and it means 'you will be my death.'

...aah, can you tell where i started losing motivation?

— rose.

affection — how do they show their love and affection?

dion does not know what affection is, or how to show it. he takes you with him on a 'mission' and gets confused when he gifts you a dead person's head and you start screaming. don't you like it?

blood — how messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

he's willing to bathe in a pool of blood when it comes to you (baby it isn't like you don't already do that). and he doesn't hesitate to snap off anyone's neck — be it his own family or anyone else. he's not waiting until someone proves malicious intent towards you, either. talk or reach out to anyone other than him, and that person is dead.

cruelty — how would they treat their darling once abducted?

he treats you just like he treated you before the abduction. he's a lot more.. hm, is condescending the right word? he keeps you on a leash and when he's feeling spiteful, makes you crawl. he likes it when you look up at him with pleading eyes to not put you through this humiliation. (he's still gonna do it, honey. sucks to be you <3)

darling — aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

uhm, this is dion? definitely yes. he doesn't care whether you're okay with whatever he does; he forces himself into your personal space and then expects to be taken care of. makes you sleep with him or on the floor. you're eating at his feet or not eating at all. the usual fare.

exposed — how vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

he feels like there's a knife in his side that's constantly twisting. are you okay? are you hurt? did someone try to harrass you and he has to kill them? his worries are never ending.

fight — how would they feel if their darling fought back?

amused. it's funny to see you trying to escape and act defiant. precious pet, you actually think you have a chance?

game — is this a game to them? how much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

it's.. a game at some points. he's fine with you crying, it's nice... but when you cry for him, give him that pitying look, he feels a rush of feeling like he's lost something. give him that look and he'll really give you a reason to cry. as for your escape attempts... he'd enjoy at it the beginning, but as soon as you get too audacious, he'll crush your little rebellion in absolutely no time.

hell — what would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

once, you tried to slip poison in dion's tea, unaware of his immunity.

dion locks you in the dungeons and whips you until your back is in bloody tatters. he takes a break when you fall unconscious and then starts again, making sure you're able to feel the pain.

ideals — what kind of future do they have in mind for their darling?

he doesn't care. as long as he has you, he's fine, he's not too worried about the future.. but sometime in the future, he'll marry you. not because of any loving reason. he'll just have a justification of being by your side at all times then.

jealousy — do they get jealous? how do they handle it?

if you ever give a second glance to someone else he gets jealous. and then he kills that person or gives them in as a toy. simple.

kisses — how do they act around or with their darling?

he tries to be a bit.. less frightening, but mostly he still gives you shivers with how he's surveying your body.

love letters — how would they go about approaching their darling?

he'd either get lant to arrange a meeting or he'll just abduct you straight away. it's not that deep for him. if you catch his eye.. oh, it isn't gonna be good for you. you'll most probably be knocked out, so you don't notice the pitying looks his siblings give you.

mask — are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

no. he acts with you just like he does with everyone else — stone cold, monotonous, blank. however, you two sit in the stairwell during a ball sometimes. he tells you about how he used to wait for his mother to come tuck him in as a child. she never came, of course.

naughty — how would they punish their darling?

blood. a lot of it. he'll lock you up and whip you, or he'll 'test' out a new knife on you, or he'll lace you up in a too-tight corset and enjoy watching you beg and plead for air.. the possibilities are endless. just please try not to anger him, especially on days in which he's already in a foul mood.

oppression — how many rights would they take away from their darling?

rights? is that like a thing? that you actually get?

patience — how patient are they with their darling?

not very patient. he'll let you defy him for a month. a week more if he's feeling generous. then you better prepare yourself. any more further disobedience will not go down well for you.

quiet — if their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

sort of? he just feels more hollow than ever. throws all your belongings in a fire and never speaks of you again. as far as anyone else is concerned, you never existed.

lant finds him a replacement girl who cannot for the life of her understand why her husband refuses to talk of you or why her husband almost strangled her to death for touching the picture he keeps of you.

regret — would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling?

just a tiny little bit. maybe this wasn't the amazing thing he thought it was because you're just crying and crying and — then it's swallowed up by justification. he believes a pet's rightful place is by their master's side — exactly where you are right now.

stigma — what brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

a neglectful father who views him as a weapon, and an insane mother who dissects people on an hourly basis, and a crazy family. blame maria and lant if you want, but they're both unhinged and mental so they don't really care 🤷‍♀️

tears — how do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

he will make you sob and then wonder why it doesn't feel good. isn't he supposed to feel delighted at the sight of your tears dripping down the bridge of your nose? why does he feel an urge to cuddle you until you stop weeping?

unique — would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

yes. he can't live without you yet he acts like you're absolutely nothing. makes you feel pathetic and worthless so you don't see that you're the one thing he can't live without, ever.

vice — what weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

none. no visible weakness. if you want a chance to escape, take a leaf out of roxana's book and patiently, subtly manipulate him. don't overdo it, though. he's not an idiot, he'll see through you in an instant.

wit’s end — would they ever hurt their darling?

with pleasure <33

xoanon — how much would they revere their darling?

sometimes, when he sees you asleep or in his clothes.. he feels his heartbeat speed up and something constricting his throat. he doesn't know how to express it or what even is it. just mutters a rushed 'you've got clothes of your own' before walking away.

yearn — how long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

he doesn't pine after you. he sees you, observes you for a week or two, and then kidnaps you if you grab his interest. he's not the waiting type of person. and either way you'll end up with him, so what's the point of delaying?

zenith — would they ever break their darling?

yes. dion often leaves poisons outside; he's immune so he doesn't necessarily need to fear. that being said, you are neither immune nor illiterate. you heard once how soldiers used to take suicide pills to save themselves from torture and imprisonment.. isn't that exactly what dion is doing to you?

the pills are in your hand before you can think about what you're doing.

—

taglist ; @hmerus, @dxmoness, @giyuus0nlywife, @parkykwho, @lady-navier0357, @sidra-29, @mysticmeena, @loekas, @hevaenly, @ylxntis / @ykassu, @that-one-pretty-bitch, and @elychee. (ely, jacqueline, i know you hate dion but i just. i couldn't not tag u i'm really sorry 😭)

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living-with-ghost · 2 months ago

Text

Reblog or your mom will die in 928 seconds.

I love my mom.

I am risking nothing

I AM SORRY FOLLOWERS, I LOVE MY MOMMY

Will not risk.

sorry followers :(

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living-with-ghost · 2 months ago

Text

Dillon and Kitty

Summary: You take Dick home to the farm for a breath of fresh air. It's perfect, but there's something weighing on his mind. (Dick Grayson x fem! reader)

Word Count: 3.5K

Notes: A little self indulgent, I'm homesick and got hooked listening to country again so this popped out. I loved writing country reader (but that might be the self indulgence hehe) I might make some others in the same theme. Reader wears a dress and is alluded as female, no other warnings tonight.~ Second to last post of this challenge, I didn't think I'd even get this far. Thank you for your support so far. 🥺🥺

Also for anyone wondering- the title is a reference from Gunsmoke, an old western. I got reminded of it while listening to Toby Keith and in the show Dillon and Ms. Kitty have this 'will-they-won't-they' relationship that tugged at my heart so I put a bit of that ache in there too. 🫣🫣

Enjoy Sweethearts~! xx

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You loved being out of the city. You loved being back in the sky for once, and the fact that you could walk away to a quiet spot in your house and not be bombarded with the sounds of cars and arguments on the city streets. You'd gladly trade your heels for a pair of work boots if you could, give your father another pair of hands on the farm. You could take your coffee under the big oak tree by the back porch that had seen you and your siblings break bones and scrape skin, instead of the cramped fire escape that was covered in rain more often than not.

You might have only gone back for a small holiday, but you couldn’t help the thoughts that wondered just 'what if' you did come back. You know that your mother would fuss over it happily, and your father would grumble but not protest. They had sent you away to have a better chance at life, so that you could go wherever your dream wanted to take you. You weren't sure how dream like Gotham could be, with its bleak skies, crime, and constant bustle. Your friends who still lived out by here laughed at you, but you knew that if you had never left, you never would have made your dream come true.

More accurately, you would have never met the man of your dreams, Dick Grayson.

You had both run into each other at a charity event, something you had gotten to attend through your degree in place of your professor. You felt out of place in the ballroom, filled with the rich and elite. You were no stranger to the upturned noses and lingering stares of city folk when you came in to shop with no time to change, still in your work clothes and with dust covered skin. However, being regarded like you were tracking mud across the polished floors when you were in your finest, was new. You knew these events were a big deal, everyone trying to get a ticket to the famous Bruce Wayne's extravagant gala, to taste the high life for a night.

You would be lying if you said that you hadn't been interested in the concept, the high-class events that seemed to be something out of a fairytale. No one would’ve blamed you for wanting to look inside, except the other party guests it seemed. You weren't dressed in anything racy, renting out a modest dress that matched the jewellery you had. Your roommate had done your makeup for you, and you did your hair yourself. You knew that you cleaned up nice, but it appeared that the country air clung to you still.

Socialising had become a nightmare, with people hesitant to even talk to you. The ones that did wavered in confidence when you said that you were still a student, your professors name doing little to ease their worries. You had no family name to shield you, no massive corporation at your back. You quickly realised that they weren't talking to you, because you couldn't do something for them. Even though you had no intent on working with rich assholes like them, the feeling of being useless quickly crept into the back of your mind. So much so, that you were stuck in that thought until you roughly collided with someone, and felt the barely sipped glass of champagne you cradled spill all the way down the front of your dress.

"I'm so sorry," are the first words that come out of your mouth, hands flying to the other person. You look up, hearing a soft chuckle and the blood drains from your face. Dick Grayson, the first adopted son of tonight’s host. He must recognise the panic on your face, because he laughs quietly and wraps a large palm around the crook of your elbow and pull you to the side. You expect to get scolded, but he takes you to a corner away from prying eyes and pulls out his pocket square.

"Here, use this." he says softly, smile on his lips. You take it after an apprehensive second, beginning to dry the fabric the best you can. "I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, that's completely on me." he says, eyes crinkling with worry. You shake your head in protest, swallowing hard.

"No, no, I wasn't either. Did I get your suit?"

He holds his hands up, "No, no, you're fine. Didn't get a drop on me." he smiles. "So don't worry." his eyes flit back down to the stain creeping across your front. He winces studying the wet patch. "Can I replace the dress for you?" he offers. "Get you a new one as an apology."

You shake your head violently, mind racing. He said is so casually, as if it was loose change to him.

"Oh, no. This isn't even my dress, it's a rental." you wave him off. "I'll just get it dry cleaned, and if that doesn't work, I'll just pay the fee. It's nothing for you to worry about."

His head tilts slightly to the side, strands of ebony hair tickling his forehead.

"You don't own the dress?" he asks, and your shoulders slump. You nod, expecting him to turn up his nose. The wealth in this single room made your head spin, and you watched his face. he was going to shrug you off and take his pocket square back, re-emerge into the sea of glittering people with silk lined pockets.

"It looks like it was made for you."

That makes your eyes widen and your cheeks burn with heat. He lets a pearly grin slip forward, making little lights dance in his eyes mischievously.

"Thank you." you stutter out, hands smoothing down the fabric.

"At least give me your details," he persists. "I'll pay for the dry cleaner and the fee if it comes to that. It was my fault, don't worry."

You smile hesitantly, mind wandering. Was he going to hold this over your head? Make you pay him back with favours that cost you more than you could afford?

"But I do have a favour to ask."

There it was.

He must have sensed the tension in your shoulders and the flicker of fear that ran across your face, because he raised his hands and softened his expression. "Feel free to say no of course."

You make your mouth move, tone hesitant. "What is it?"

"You wear it on our first date."

Your jaw drops open a little wider in shock, and a shit eating grin spreads across his face. You give a single, stunned nod and he beams wider. "Excellent. I'll be in touch. I'd stay longer, but Bruce will be insufferable if I disappear and make him handle all those vultures alone. I hope you can understand." he sends you a sympathetic and sheepish gaze, keeping eye contact with you as he drifts away into the crowd.

Two days later when you went to pick up the dress from the drycleaners, it was gone. You had panicked, calling the store to apologise, but oddly enough they couldn't find the dress in their system anymore. Tired from a long day of chasing, you found a tied package at your apartment door. Unwrapping the paper on your bed, you couldn't help but smile pulling out the dress you wore to the gala, freshly cleaned. Alongside it was a navy jewellery box, carrying a matching necklace. The piece of paper inside was written in a hastily scrawled handwriting, messier than you'd have expected from his pedigree.

I told you the dress was made for you. Call me to make plans.

-Dick

That had started the beginning of your relationship with the man who cheered you on relentlessly while you chased your dream. You called home so often that your mother had fallen in love with him too without even meeting him, while your father grew continually irritated with the way Dick's name became a household one without ever setting foot on the property. So, after a year of dating and having gone to meet his family multiple times (where upon meeting Bruce, you could tell where Dick had adopted many of his mannerisms) he was finally coming to see the place where you had grown up.

The second your car had rolled through the gates and hit park; your younger siblings were running towards you at full pelt. Correction, Lacey, your pocket rocket ten-year-old sister threw herself at Dick for a hug, while your quieter teen brother, Marcus watched from the porch.

"Are you Dickie?" Lacey had all but shouted at him, making him look at you. You stifled giggles behind your hand as he looked down at her, gently pulling her off before crouching. "You must be Lacey?" he asked with the soft smile he reserved for kids. She giggled and grinned at you, beaming.

"He knows my name!" she squeals, before giving you a big hug herself.

You laugh and send her back to your brother who was keeping his distance, sending a shrug to Dick as you go to unload the car. You can hear the fly screen rattle and the voices of your parents, signalling the start of a very active dinner. "Welcome, city boy." you smirk at him, leaning over to give him a peck on the lips. He pulls you close and kisses you back, hand cradling your neck before he parts.

"Good to be here." he smiles.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The week had flown by and he had settled in well, while your body fell back into your old routine like clockwork. Your father had been sceptical of Dick at the beginning, but Dick had proven himself rather quickly, offering to help out. He wasn't afraid to get dirty, he didn't tear up or complain when he got a scrape or a bruise. Often times it was your mother that would fuss over him when he came into the kitchen sporting a new bump or injury, and he'd look down with surprise like he hadn’t even felt it. He was good with Lacey and even quiet Marcus warmed up to him, spending his afternoons in the stables with Dick showing him how to care for the horses. The horses were the animals Marcus had loved ever since he was a child, and when Marcus let Dick saddle up one of his to take a small ride around the paddock, you knew he was part of your family now.

You couldn’t deny that he looked good in work gear, it was like a weight was off his shoulders. His eyes seemed clearer; soul less burdened. It was only when he came out to meet your family that you realised he his lips naturally curved downwards in Gotham, his eyes blue as the sky but lost in someplace further than the horizon he stared out at. He looked good in denim and with reigns in his hand, gentle with the horse as he caught your gaze and steered her over to you. He was in a spare pair of work boots your quickly growing brother no longer fit, and a sweat broken work hat on his head. You had to stop the tingle in your hand and cheeks catching sight of him like that. When he looked at you, you finally felt like his eyes were looking at you.

"Hey, handsome." you call, pushing off from the paddock fence. "I see you've made a good impression on Marcus."

He grins down at you, dismounting swiftly like he had been riding all his life. "He's a good kid." he smiles, and you kiss his cheek.

"Come on, dinner's almost ready." you say sweetly before turning to your younger brother, still on his horse. "And that goes for you too, mister!" you holler, making Marcus flip you off in the distance.

"Teens." you grumble, making Dick laugh as you head to the stables.

You help Dick unsaddle, making sure the tack is put away properly. You look over at him, frowning softly as you see the expression on his face. It's the same shadow he wears in Gotham, the weight of something invisible constantly pressing down on him. "Hey, you okay?" you call with a kind smile, making him look up quickly. You don't see the phone in his hand that he slips back into his pocket, only the tight grin he sends back to you.

"Yeah, fine."

You walk back to the house in silence, and your mother already has dinner waiting for you. Everyone proceeds as usual, but you can't help looking at Dick seated across from you, with a soft frown on your face. He seems out of it, and when he meets your eyes it's guilty. The tension is thankfully not felt by other members of your family, allowing you to follow him when he slips out.

You find him in your childhood bedroom, where you've both been sleeping. "Hey, you okay?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe. he has his back to you, fiddling with something in his pocket. What he says next steals the breath from your lungs.

"I can't do this."

It's like the rug has fallen out from beneath your feet you and you straighten yourself quickly, closing the door behind you so no one can hear your conversation. "Dick?" you ask, softly, heart racing. "What do you mean?"

He sighs and turns to you, eyes normally so bright now swirling with emotion. "I think...I think we should break up." he says, voice barely pushing the words out.

"You don’t mean that." you shake your head, hand coming to your temple. This has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. "Why? what's wrong?"

"I just...I have something I need to do back in Gotham. I can't...I can't give you the life you want. I don't think we'll work out." he sends you an apologetic smile like your eyes aren't filling with tears, lip wobbling.

"What made you think that?" you ask, trying to hold it together. To not let your emotions control you and push him further away. "Was it...Was it my family? This life?"

"No, no, nothing like that." he says hurriedly. "I just think, god-" he runs a hand through his hair, sucking his teeth. "I just don't think we're compatible."

"And it took you until meeting my family for you to say that, huh?" you say, arms crossed and unable to hide the hurt tone. He winces, wringing his hands.

"I have to go." he says softly.

"Why?" you demand again, voice raising. "God damn it, Grayson, you can't just tell me you want to break up suddenly. That's not fair. Tell me. Tell me if it's something I did. You've been distracted on your phone, just tell me if it's work or another woman-" you cut yourself off when you see him grimace and your breath stops in your throat. You hadn’t been serious when you said that. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

He raises his hands in defence, making you scoff. "Please, listen." he pleads, making your blood rush to your head.

"You've actually been talking to another woman? Are you kidding-"

"It's just Babs, I swear-"

"Barbara Gordon?" your voice shrilly rings at the mentions of his ex. "Oh yes, because texting your ex-girlfriend makes me feel so much better." you spit, holding your hand out. "Be honest for once. S how me." You seethe, and after a hesitant moment he unlocks his phone and places it in your hand with a defeated sigh. You swipe to his messages, heart shattering as you read her contact’s name still with an orange heart beside it.

"There's something I need help with. You need to come home."

You hate reading how readily he replied, running back to his ex the second that she says she needed him. the way she called him home, like he hadn't been with you so naturally you even had the audacity to think that maybe he could find a life here too. A home. Somewhere peaceful, away from the hustle and bustle and having to constantly be on his guard. To be able to steal kisses under the shine of the stars instead of the invasive flash of the paparazzi.

He takes the phone from you, unable to meet your eyes. Dick doesn't feel like he deserves to.

His heart breaks as he walks past you, shoving his things back into the bag he packed. He can feel the hurt radiating off you, making his own heart break. He wants to tell you that he hasn't been talking to Barbara, not that way at least. That he did love you, with every part of him. He loved your family. He loved the gruffness of your dad and the way he'd check in on Dick periodically, grumbling about him being a city kid but still making sure he didn't get too banged up. He loved your mothers cooking and let Lacey play with his hair. He loved Marcus and his passion for his animals. He loved you.

He loved you in finery he bought you and he loved you with dust in your hair and callouses on your hands. He loved you in jewellery and he loved you in chaps, loved you in heels and the dirt caked work boots. That's what he told himself, but if he was breaking your heart this way, he wasn't sure if he was ever truly able to love you.

If he loved you as much as he fooled himself, he wouldn't be leaving with no explanation, wouldn't be breaking your heart at your parents’ house, your safe place. If he loved you, he would tell you that he was Nightwing, and he would never be able to come out to the countryside with you. That he had a duty in Gotham that had him risking his life every night.

He wished he could tell you who he was, and he yearned to. When he looked into those heartbroken eyes of yours, he wanted to take you into his arms and spill his heart out and kiss you stupid. He wanted to tell you everything, about him, his family, about Bruce. But he couldn't, his own lips freezing in fear. His throat bobs as he swallows harshly, looking down in guilt. "Alfred is bringing the car. He'll be here soon." he says softly.

The words he really wants to say is:

Please love me. Please don’t hate me. Please forgive me.

He grabs the last of his things and pushes past you before the burning to comfort you overtakes his logical mind. He knows he has to go back. Indulging himself in you and your sunlight was something that he couldn't afford. He couldn't afford you to get hurt, to get wrapped up in his world. It was a first for him dating a civilian, and he was terrified. That fear built up over in his mind, and he knew it. He knew he should give you a chance, but it was the safer option, the lesser of two evils. He could suffer the pain of losing you, or he could suffer the pain of you finding out who he was and hating him.

His heart shatters as he hears the sob of you, beginning to break down as he leaves.

He passes the faces of your family, curious but silent. He feels their eyes follow him, a brand of shame tracing him and his path out. The cold is biting, nipping at his skin but he doesn't feel it. All he can see in his mind's eye is you undoubtably being comforted by the worried hands of your mother, crying out in heartbreak and not even getting to know why.

By the time that Alfred arrives, he can see the silhouette of your family on the porch, Marcus and your father. He can hear your father yell at him as he gets into the car, but he can't make out the words as he shuts the door and Alfred begins to roll away. He slouches against the door, head in his hands. Alfred looks back, studying him.

"Did you tell her, sir?" Alfred asks softly, the older man's fingers tightening on the steering wheel. Dick had promised that he'd tell you, let you make your own decision before continuing to be involved with him. Alfred liked you and had reassured Dick countlessly that you would likely be nothing but accepting is he did reveal his secret identity. yet as he stares at the slumped man in the rearview mirror, a pang of disappointment shoots through his heart as he pieces together what's happened. Dick tries his best to stop the tears, but they prickly to the forefront anyway.

"No. But there's nothing left to tell her." Dick mumbles defeatedly, staring out the window with dull eyes.

but there was, three little points he never got out of his mouth.

I'm Nightwing.

I'm sorry.

I love you.

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