#I have HUNDREDS of drafts from all his projects and I never know what to post I just go off vibes

[jimmyspades]

Going through my drafts. I don’t remember making this gif but Yeah seems like something I’d do

[syoddeye]

the meeting

ceo!price x reader / ~3k words

Folks seemed to like the first installment of this maybe-series, so I cooked up a second part in between drafts of the next chapter of For the Record (shameless plug). Not sure if this will be a whole thing or a series of vignettes. Enjoy!

CW: red flags everywhere, power imbalance, alcohol (mentioned)

You lay low after the company Christmas party and losing the drama wager to Jordan. Heads down, nose to the grindstone, and so forth. You never found the courage to respond to Mr. Price's direct message over the holidays. The shock from receiving a response at all kept you up at night. The message was supposed to get lost in his notifications, buried beneath the hundreds of messages he supposedly got a day. And he had not only replied, he insinuated he wanted to grab drinks. You checked it a hundred times.

johnprice - invisible Hi, Mr. Price. I was wondering what you want for Christmas? > World peace. > I'd settle for a drink, though.

You could be reading into it. Flattering yourself. Profile photos were required on the chat app to help put faces to names, so he could have recognized you as the punch girl from the open bar. Most likely, he was making a joke and humoring an underling.

Whatever the reason, his simple reply plagues you well into the new year.

The first quarter is always hectic for The 141 Group. New regulations go into effect, and projects and initiatives kick off, setting the year's foundation. Since your boss Kyle is VP of Finance, it's even busier for him with budget meeting check-ins, payroll reports, and financial policy updates. And if his life is busy, your life is busy because his success is your success.

"Need you to bump everything I have today after three to tomorrow," He murmurs when you collect a stack of documents to copy.

"This is the second time you'll have pushed the meeting with technology directors," You remind him, but make a note anyway. "They'll complain to Mr. MacTavish."

Kyle glances up. "Let them. He's clearing his schedule this afternoon, too."

"Oh?"

"Big man's bringing the C-Suite and a few of us lucky VPs in for a meeting."

A practiced EA, you keep the instant surge of dread from reaching your face. It isn't strange for Kyle, though technically a subordinate to the CFO, to attend such meetings. Mr. Price frequently pulls him into special projects. You simply hoped to avoid the 'big man' for as long as possible. On the bright side, when Kyle never reprimanded you for flippantly messaging the CEO upon return from holiday, you assumed Mr. Price never said anything. Hopefully, he forgot about your message altogether. 

"Need me for notes?" You ask, hovering in the doorway to his office.

"Please. Something tells me it'll be tense." Interesting.

With a nod, you tuck the folder under an arm and pat the doorframe. "Got it. Lunch'll be here soon. I ordered Indian and Thai. Whatever you don't want, I'll eat."

"You're a lifesaver."

"I know."

~~

Conference Room Bravo isn't the biggest meeting space in the building, but everybody knows it's Mr. Price's preference. With an unobstructed view of the water and natural light, you like it, too. Especially since the small group of assistants who attend the more critical meetings sits on a long bench built into an alcove in the wall with a good view of the windows.

You and five other EAs ensure every seat at the main table is set with the appropriate accoutrements. Tea and coffee are on standby. With a three-hour window allocated, everyone will need a spot of caffeine at some point. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled start, you chat and make personal preparations.

"Did MacTavish seem stressed about this?" You ask Jordan as she takes the seat next to you.

She shakes her head. "No. You know him, though. It takes a bit to work him up."

"What about Laswell?" You lean forward and look down the bench at Oliver, the Chief Information Officer's right hand.

The younger man looks up from his laptop. "Same as Mr. MacTavish, kind of. Hard to tell, but she didn't take a smoke break, so…"

"Right."

The conversation drifts to weekend plans until Lucy, the newest EA to Mr. Shepherd, pipes up.

"Isn't it strange Mr. Price doesn't have a permanent assistant?"

It's a fair question for a new person. Since you started at The 141 Group, the desk outside Mr. Price's office has functioned as a revolving door. Guiltily, you stopped trying to learn their names about ten temps in, and since then, it's a coin flip if anyone's there at all. The general rule is if you have something to deliver to Mr. Price, you leave it on the empty desk. 

"Nah, nobody's good enough," Jordan answers. "MacTavish once told me Price is a workaholic with impossibly high standards. Not a good combination for an assistant."

Oliver agrees. "Laswell said as much, too. Apparently, at his place, he has a whole recreation of his office and gets right back to work when he gets home. And, his only staff are the bodyguards."

You would feel sad about that if Mr. Price wasn't a gazillionaire. An older man, hunching over a computer, completely alone in his home…when he could certainly afford staff and delegate.

Still, if he kept himself so busy, it made the fact he responded to your DM quite interesting.

The conversation dies when the attendees trickle in.

Kyle arrives with Mr. MacTavish, the latter of whom flashes a grin at Jordan and you. Close behind is the hulking mountain of a CSO, Mr. Riley, who, as usual, wears a black surgical mask. (The rumors around that accessory are practically 141 Group lore.) Other members of the C-Suite file in and Mr. Price arrives last, followed by his guards who post up at the door. He shuts the door behind him, the click silencing the room.

Your eyes glue themselves to the computer in your lap. Jordan elbows you a little, obviously enjoying the lingering effects of her wager.

As Mr. Price sits down, you finally steal a glance. He's wearing the hell out of a charcoal suit with a blue tie that makes his eyes pop, even across the room. His expression is stern, borderline grim, and thankfully, like everybody else at the main table, doesn't even glance in your direction. He's straight to the point. "Thank you all for making time in your schedules on short notice. Let's get started, shall we?"

~~

An hour and a half in, Price calls for a break. As the most senior EA on the bench, you lovingly pass on refreshment duty to Lucy and Desmond, the most junior. You follow Kyle to the hall.

"Need anything?" You ask when you're a reasonable distance down from the conference room.

"Do you think you can clean up the notes and send them to me by nine tonight?"

Your brows raise. Rarely does the man ask you to work late. He usually doesn't need to, as you pride yourself on efficiency. "Of course. I'll make a physical copy, too. What's your read on it, by the way?"

Kyle gives a tired smile. "You aren't paying attention, are you."

"I take down everything I hear to ensure you have impeccable notes. Listening gets in the way of that," You offer a grin, then glance down at his tie. Crooked. You fix it without thinking and chat more about his schedule tomorrow. A few people pass by in the hallway to use the restroom or stretch their legs, but you don't pay them mind.

"Mr. Garrick?" You both turn to see Jordan's head sticking out of the door. "They're resuming."

Kyle sighs quietly and starts back toward the conference room. You follow.

Settling back into your seat on the bench, you feel eyes on you, but when you look around, there's nothing. Weird.

~~

The meeting concludes on the dot at six. The attendees leave first, as do the rest of the assistants when you volunteer to clean up. Jordan waves goodbye when Mr. MacTavish departs alongside Mr. Riley. You sigh in relief when Price walks out with Shepherd and Laswell, leaving you and Kyle. Your boss swipes through his phone as you collect the trash and dishes, leaving everything for janitorial.

"Do you need a ride?" Kyle asks when you collect your laptop. "I'm heading your way."

"No, I think I'll finish the notes here, wait for rush hour to die down."

Kyle walks out with you and frowns. "If you stay past eight, please text. I'll have a car come back for you."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Kyle is merely protective. "I'll take the train or call a rideshare myself."

He pushes the matter when you return to your corner of the executive floor, but you don't give in. You plan to stop for food on the way home and aren't keen to make his driver wait. When he finally leaves, you find yourself alone on the floor. Most folks leave at five, so everyone else cleared out when the meeting ended at six.

You clean, format, and summarize the meeting notes in an hour and a half. Due to Kyle's earlier comment, you make an effort to read into business. As far as you can tell, it's another big new project with lots of money on the table. The name of a new contractor company for extra hands mildly raises your interest. The usual choice, Chimera Company, must be busy. Other than that, everything's a slog to read. You trust that if something's important and need-to-know, Kyle will explain.

You email Kyle the notes a few minutes shy of eight and send them to the printer. Languidly stretching as you go, you walk to the copy room. At this hour, most overhead lights are on a timer and won't turn back on until morning to conserve energy. So, it's natural your eyes flick to Mr. Price's office at the end of the long hallway. There's a sliver of light beneath the door, beckoning like a golden gate. Turning into the darkened copy room, picturing Mr. Price at his desk distracts enough you don't realize you're not alone until a low, growling curse cuts through the silence.

Hunching over the copier is none other than Mr. Price himself. The low light glints off a silver watch band, encouraging the eye to a pair of thick forearms exposed by rolled shirt sleeves. You get a whole second of the uninterrupted sight before he notices.

A silent alarm goes off, and you're hopeful the lack of light saves you: Please don't recognize me. Please don't recognize me. Please–

Mr. Price does not move, and his focus returns to the copier. "Didn't realize anyone else worked this late."

You're unsure if you're supposed to respond, but you need those notes. "I usually don't. I was finishing up…Is there–Is there something I can help with?"

He answers when you tiptoe closer. "Everything's coming out with streaks," He grumbles, fiddling with random panel doors that open into the machine's guts.

This is not your first battle with the cursed thing. "I can fix that."

"Can you, now." Price mutters, barely audible.

You swallow. You might be several pay levels lower, but you aren't a pushover. "Mr. Price, please let me try." 

Again, he delays, but after an exasperated sigh, he concedes and slams a panel door shut.

After he steps back, you examine the failed jobs resting on the tray, then address the angry, blinking digital display. A few screens and taps later, you trigger the self-cleaning process and the machine whirs to life.

"All fixed?" Price asks, reminding you he's but a few steps behind you.

"We'll see," You move a short distance away, afraid if you stand any closer, it'll be enough for him to remember who you are and your dumb message. "It's self-cleaning. It will take two, three minutes, then produce a test print."

Price hums in acknowledgment, and then the glow of his phone screen illuminates his profile. You glance out of your periphery, almost relieved to see the steely expression on his face. Seems he really is a workaholic, taking advantage of any spare moment.

You lean against the supply cabinets and cross your feet at the ankles. You left your phone at your desk, so you settle for watching the copier hopefully fix itself.

Then, to your utter horror, Price says your name.

You look up without thinking.

"Thought I recognized you." He holds up his phone, and there you are, your profile picture in the workplace chat app.

You are going to murder Jordan. But first, you need to apologize.

"Mr. Price, I am so–"

Price cuts you off. "You're Kyle Garrick's assistant, yeah?"

Relief washes over you. Your message is forgotten. Definitely. All you are is an assistant. "Yes, sir."

With a hum, he pockets his phone, then steps forward to better see you. A hand plants itself on the counter, mere centimeters away. "You were at the meeting earlier." 

"Yes, sir."

"Would explain the swift fix," He muses, and his gaze drags down you in a more than perfunctory look before meeting yours once more. "Normally, I'd use the copier in my office, but it's due for maintenance. Seems this one is, too." 

He has his own copier? It would explain why I've never seen him in here, making his own copies since he apparently hates help.

"Guess so," You lick your lower lip, stomach flipping with nerves with how close Price stands. Between the proximity and the near darkness, it's all you can do to keep your imagination in check.

A cheerful beeping from the copier saves you. Price lingers a moment more, then returns to the printing tray as the machine spits out a test page. 

Price chuckles, which you take to mean the issue is fixed. He restarts the delayed jobs. "Well done, love."

"It's nothing," You say quietly, rooted to where you lean. 

A minute passes, and Price collects the first completed stack of papers. His brow furrows. "Think these are yours."

You finally push off the cabinets and venture closer, reaching for the notes. Only, he does not hand them over.

"Forgot Gaz prefers hard copies," Price murmurs. 

Gaz? 

"This is the kind of work I wish I had received from my past assistants."

If it was not the CEO speaking, you would be the defender of the voiceless, the fired employees of 141 past. If the man's gone through as many assistants as you think he has, he's the problem.

"You like working for Garrick?"

It feels like a trick question. From the outside, it appears he and Kyle like each other. For all of Price's talks on 'openness' and 'camaraderie,' he has his favorites, and your boss is one of them. Though that could be an act, and Price is actually looking for some kind of blemish on Kyle's record. Either way, you can be honest because you genuinely like Kyle.

"Mr. Garrick is a joy to work with." Anxiety flushes half of the English language and all creativity out of your brain.

Price huffs in amusement. "A joy to work with," He repeats. "That's all? You appeared quite friendly during the break."

The comment gives you pause, and you shove back through the day's events. The meeting, the break – was it because you simply straightened Kyle's tie? It's a harmless gesture, you think. No one's ever batted an eye before. You can't help but feel a little affronted. "That's because we are friends, sir. Kind of happens when you work for someone for nearly five years."

Price lifts the notes in a placating manner, then out to you. "No harm meant. It's nice to see, is all. I understand we struggle with retention."

An understatement for him. Your imaginary hackles lower. "We work well together."

Price smiles. "Clearly. And five years, eh? Should get something for that, I think."

Inwardly, you cringe. The last thing you need is another branded mug, t-shirt, or keychain. "That isn't necessary, sir."

"Nonsense. We've got to reward loyalty."

You stiffly nod, figuring it's worthless to protest. It makes sense why he's in charge. He's a steamroller when it comes to what he wants.

"Do you have somewhere to be? Someone waiting for you?"

In this context, a darkened office, alone with a man with the power to make or break your career, it's a borderline sinister question. At least, it should be, yet instead, all you feel is a brief thrill.

"No, sir."

"Then, how about that drink?"

Oh, god. "'That drink'?" You ask dumbly. You know exactly what he means.

He chuckles and sets his gaze on you again. It's heavy, somehow both a blanket around the shoulders and a cinder block to the chest.

"While you are a capable woman, I doubt achievin' world peace is within your power. But a drink? Think you can fit me into your schedule this evening?"

You will kill Jordan for the bet. Then Kyle will kill you for losing it. But do you really have a choice?

"Yes, sir."

"Please, after hours, call me John."

~~

Mr. Price's–John's bodyguards do not seem fazed when you meet them at the elevators. You watch John whisper something into the taller one's ear on the ride down, and the man hails a cab. Meanwhile, John ushers you out to a waiting town car, and the shorter guard takes the passenger seat. 

When he takes the seat beside you, shuts the door, and drapes a big arm over the back of the seats, you think to fake an illness. A forgotten appointment. Something. Then he gives you another grin, a note of triumph in it, and the thoughts of escape vanish.

~~

Your salary affords you nice things like hardcover books, daily coffees, and frequent takeaway. And until ten seconds ago, you could count stylish yet comfortable office attire among said things. Yet, walking through the awning-covered entrance to an unmarked bar, you lose that delusion quickly. The bar's host lights up at the sight of Mr. Price, then openly examines you and the pencil skirt you thought was expensive.

"Welcome back, Mr. Price. Your usual table, I presume? Is this lovely creature your date?" 

"Yes, and yes."

A firm, warm hand at the small of your back flexes. It's a silent suggestion: do not correct him. You don't.

A cocktail later, that same hand lands on your knee beneath the table. 

[katuschka]

Scene One – Lampshade

Jake Kiszka x f!Reader (1st person narrative)

2.541 words

On my bedside table, I have a beautiful art deco lamp. When my lover leaves, he ties a scarf he wore for days on top. And when he’s gone I let my window open just a bit, the gentle breeze sets the scarf on motion, just like the waves in the tempestuous ocean.  Once or twice, I swear, I could smell him in my dreams.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings: longing, alcohol consumption, penetrative sex, phone sex and masturbation, sex toys, phantasmagorical dream visions

Taglist

It’s been almost three weeks since I last saw him. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s not that bad, but the truth is that I always start missing him the moment he leaves. It’s a bittersweet feeling. I’m a grown, independent woman, engaging in my daily routines...or breaking them, just to stay sane. 

But, it feels as if a part of my soul got attached to him. It travels with him wherever he goes and I feel it tugging at my insides every now and then. At first I thought it was just a side effect of the early stages of falling in love. I believed that it would get easier with time, but it never did. If anything, it only got worse. 

It’s bearable during the day. My mind’s too preoccupied with my job, thank god. It’s not really much different from when he’s here. I still have my work to do and he’s busy too, until we finally meet at home to share a glass of wine or two. And then we fuck.

That’s why early evenings are the worst when he’s away. The house is just too big, too quiet, and my mind too restless. No sound of the strings being plucked greets me when I get home, no smell of savory dishes waiting for me in the oven or on the stove. I’m too lazy to do it myself, so I just order in, only to be reproached by him later that I’m not taking proper care of myself. My lover does all these things. My body’s spoiled with constant hugs and my cheeks peppered with warm kisses. So, on days like these, this is what his lady misses. 

He knows that, so he tries to call anytime he can. It’s easier in between shows. He makes sure to call me around eight, even when it’s already 3 am where he’s at. Him being a night owl, this has never been a problem. Sometimes it’s just a quick hello to make sure I’m ok. Other times we talk for hours. 

I didn’t expect anything like that today. He might call late or not at all. Probably not at all because today’s show was too important. He wanted me there, but I couldn’t go this time. I had an important project to finish and came home pleasantly exhausted. In a perfect world, we would celebrate our respective achievements together, but this world is not perfect, so I have to content myself with the fact that he is. 

Well, not really, but I wouldn’t change a thing about him. 

So, I just poured myself a glass of wine, climbed in bed early and tried to read, only to find myself checking the Instagram updates constantly. I don’t do it very often, because I’m not really keen on seeing hundreds of women swooning over him, but someone might be streaming the show, and I just couldn’t miss it. 

Before he left, he fastened his scarf on my lampshade. That little piece of fabric is basically marinated in his scent – his strong, yet religiously comforting cologne mixed with the warm smell of him. I made sure to leave both the bedroom door and the window open, to create a slight draft. After three weeks, the scent had already faded a bit, but I still could get whiffs of him while falling asleep. Just like today. The livestream I found ended mid-show, but I wasn’t really paying attention anymore. I could feel my eyelids getting heavy long before the concert ended and without even bothering to turn off the light, I fell asleep with my phone still in my hand. 

Except I couldn’t sleep. The thunderstorm in the distance and the billowing wind kept me awake. The sky was clear when I went to bed, so I couldn’t understand where the clouds came from. It didn’t matter anyway. 

He was here. In my bed, sleeping. The intoxicating scent of clove and incense mixed with his musk wrapped around me like a second comfort blanket. The bedside lamp illuminated his disheveled hair and the clothes he had carelessly thrown over the armchair next to the bed. He was naked and all of the sudden, so was I.

It was our bedroom…and it wasn’t. The southern wall was gone, exposing us to the elements outside. Our garden turned to a stony shore, with the waves of a rough sea crashing upon it. Somewhere in the distance, I could see the storm raging.

I was feeling snug under the blanket, the warmth he elicited sheltering me from everything else around. I reached out to touch him. His skin was warm and dry and I snuggled closer to him from behind, inhaling the comforting aroma of his relaxed, sleeping body. 

He never slept much. Sometimes I wondered how he could function after yet another sleepless night, and the dark circles under his eyes often worried me. But when he did fall asleep, he looked like a baby boy, his full lips slightly parted and his brows turned upwards. A man of paradoxes. He would fuck my brains out just moments after he spoon-fed me pistachio ice-cream. My doe-eyed barbarian. A romantic adventure, but a reptile too. Always offering something new. Just like the sky outside, with the full moon now illuminating the stormy sky. Where did it come from? It was hanging there in mid-air in front of the clouds, so big, so close it seemed that I could reach it with my fingers if I just stepped outside of the room. 

But I didn’t want to. Instead, I slowly swirled around him like a serpent. I could feel him stir, his body responding to mine. It was a silent dialogue. He turned to me and pushed my chin upwards to nuzzle the soft skin behind my left earlobe. I could hear him murmur a prayer, the words of which I didn’t recognize, but I understood it anyway. I could feel his hand travel slowly down my belly, pulling my thighs apart, his palm sliding gently to my pussy and his middle finger slipping in between my folds. It’s been too long… My body reacted immediately. I arched my back and gasped for air as his moistened fingertip glided over my clit in slow circles. He kissed my shoulder and I could feel his parted lips stretch in a smile before he nibbled lightly on my skin covered with goosebumps.

He spread my thighs even more, like the petals of a blooming flower. I felt the weight of his body on mine as he shifted, obscuring my view, silencing the wind, his porcelain face dimming all the celestial lights behind him. He was coming home. 

I cried out when he entered me, grabbing pillows on both sides of my head. He, too, yelped like a puppy, laying his head on my bosom just for a while, to gain his composure. I felt every exhale of his quickened breath on my skin, and enveloped his body with my limbs in a false promise to never let go. 

He started moving inside me and I felt absolutely lightheaded, as if we were floating in an empty void. It got darker with each deep, long thrust until time and space around us disappeared and the only thing that tethered me to reality was the rhythm of his beating heart and the alluring sounds of his raspy moans. We moved together languidly, drunk in love, and the waves of pleasure running through my body intensified with each passing second. My fingernails dug into his skin…so deep until he suddenly stiffened and screamed in pain right next to left ear…

…nooo…at first I couldn’t tell where I was or who I was until the sound of my phone ringing on the pillow next to my head slowly brought me back to reality. I couldn’t believe it. What? Why? I looked at the screen and saw the name of the only person whom I could forgive for calling me right fucking now!

“Jake? Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I breathed out. 

A moment of silence before the man on the other side responded. I must have sounded pre-t-t-y irritated. “Babe? Did I wake you up?” 

Of course you did. What day is it? Oh yeah, it was slowly coming back to me. Madison Square Garden… “What time is it?” I breathed out.

“Almost one am here, your midnight. We just arrived at the hotel a moment ago, I haven’t even had a shower yet, I just had to hear…”

“Urgh,” I interrupted him with a groan, not in a reaction to what he said. My still not fully awakened body was just fighting with my mind as I tried to sit. I was still slightly disoriented and my coochie weeped. “I, uhm, I’m sorry baby. I just had a very intense erotic dream…the first one in years. And you just happened to interrupt it at the worst possible moment.”

“Oh, daamn!” he chuckled. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Not funny Jake. No one else but you could ever make me this wet. The sheets below me are literally soaked through.” I heard him inhale sharply on the other side. It took him a few more seconds to respond. “You’re wet?” It sounded a bit like a stifled groan, followed by him clearing his throat. Poor Jake, he was so taken aback by my response that Oliver had to take over. ���Thaths probably because I was absolu-te-ly on fire tonight, my love! Telepathy must be one of my many superior powers. Now I need to clean the mess…”

“What do you mean?”

“Phone sex, obviously.” 

I laughed. Nah, I’m not a fan. I love his voice, don’t get me wrong, but it couldn’t possibly make up for all the stuff that my subconsciousness flooded my brain with just a moment ago. Also, I’ve always found the idea of phone sex strangely disconcerting. We could do the most obscene stuff face to face without even batting an eye, but to be describing to him how I’m touching myself? No, thank you. I’d be embarrassed. Don’t know why. That’s just how it is, And that’s what I told him.  

“Oh come on, let’s try it.” Jake was back. “Besides, it’s a mutual obligation now. I’m already hard.” 

I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath. “Ok Jake,” I crooned monotonously, “what are you wearing?” 

“Oh GOD!” he moaned theatrically. “You sound so sexy when you’re bored. Mmmmm.”

I laughed again, in earnest. “Sorry,” I chuckled. “Ok, let’s try it. But I’m not going to describe what I’m doing. You tell me what to do.”

“Deal.”

I heard his sheets rustle as he shifted on his bed, which meant he already had me on speaker, so I did the same. I adjusted the pillows, stripped off my babydoll and tried to find a comfortable position. “Ok Jake, I’m ready.”

“Good girl. Now, close your eyes and cup your breasts. Let your thumbs draw slow circles around your nipples. No pressure.” His voice suddenly sounded huskier than before. 

“Are you jerking off?” And then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of his fist sliding rhythmically up and down his cock. Of course he was. 

“You can’t blame me sweetheart,” he breathed out. “I got here, still full of adrenaline from the show, only to hear you tell me that I was fucking you in your dreams. I couldn’t wait any longer.” 

The sound of his heavy breath made my pelvic muscles contract and my heartbeat quicken. I licked my fingertips and let my hand slide between my legs, trying to ease the ache. “Talk to me Jake. Forget the nipples. Guide my fingers.”

“Who’s impatient now?” He let out an involuntary moan, swallowed harshly and continued: “Squeeze your clit between two fingers, scissor-like. Now rub from side to side and gently pull.”

I knew what he meant. His technique was completely different from mine and effective in its own way. I never tried to recreate it before. I did now, and it all suddenly came back to me. The dream, his touch, his dick, stretching me, fucking me, our loins dancing together to the rhythm of our heartbeats…

“Not enough,” I whined. “I need more, Jake.”

“Ok, time for Mini Me.”

That was yet another thing my lover did for me. We found a company that makes custom dildos using castings of real customers. Now, a cold piece of silicone can never compete with the real jake, but it was the next best thing whenever I needed to release the tension after a long day. I loved the shape of it. It was mine. I opened the drawer and reached for the toy. “Now what?”

“Ride me,” he groaned. 

“How am I supp…”

“Let’s pretend we fell off the bed.”

“What?”

“Off the bed! Now!” he commanded. I climbed off the bed and attached the dildo to the wooden floor. “Mini Me’s ready. What now?”

“Now sit.”

I did as I was told. I got on my knees, placed the tip between my folds and slowly slid all the way down. Our roles reversed for a brief moment as I was now guiding him through. I heard him spit into his palm and groan with relief. It was his time to take the reins again. “Move,” he rasped. “Grab your hips and pretend it’s me. Set the pace, but tell me.”

I started moving my hips in a slow, sensual rhythm, while whispering up and down and up and down to him. I was now close to my bedside table, the fragrant scarf only a few feet from me. I closed my eyes. The illusion was almost perfect. 

“That’s my girl,” he moaned. “Do you want to go faster?”

“No, this is fine.”

“Ok, continue baby. Let me hear you.”

We continued like that for several minutes, eyes closed, listening to each other. I could hear that he was close as his low moans turned to high-pitched whimpers. My thighs started shaking and I had to catch hold of the bedside table to ease the tension in my legs. I opened my eyes and that’s when I saw it. The multi coloured lampshade. As I was moving, so were the colorful lights before my eyes. It was like being there, under the stage lights, as I was listening to my man. The most beautiful song. It overwhelmed my senses and I came, screaming. From the haze of my own high, I heard him finish shortly afterwards. 

I wanted to hear every detail of his show, and he wanted to know about my project, but we were both already too exhausted, so he promised to call me again in the morning. I knew he would, because that’s what my lover does. 

@its-interesting-van-kleep @takenbythemadness @edgingthedarkness @writingcold @ignite-my-fire @klarxtr @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @fleet-of-fiction @lvnterninthenight @myownparadise96 @GVFstuddedmajesty @josh-iamyour-mama @jazzyfigz @sanguinebats @thewritingbeforesunrise

[schoenht]

Omg sol I just used my braincell hear me out

I'm thinking of Riddle, Azul, and Vil in a royalty au... Do with that information what you will (I am begging on my knees for hcs or anything plsplspls)

characters: vil schoenheit, azul ashengrotto, riddle rosehearts.

genre: royal au, enemies to lovers/belief of unrequited love (vil), childhood friends to lovers/arranged marriage (riddle), masquerade (azul)

a/n: CRACKS KNUCKLES LOUDLY YOU CAME TO THE RIGHT PERSON i say as i desperately hide the tons of royal aus in my drafts in every blog ever (do not mind how long these are, they're like. actual fics almost.) different format bc each one will have its own name and title

warning: fem!reader (main use of "princess", "bride" and she/her for azul's part), banter for vil (its enemies to lovers ofc there's banter)

♡ ━ 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄

In every fairytale, there was always a magical ball where everyone's dreams came true and everyone lived happily ever after, with their true love. But as you stared at the waltzing figures before you, you could only mutter curses under your breath.

As the princess in line for the throne, you had a multitude of royal duties to attend to, none of which should have included you attending the Winter Ball. The duchess was supposed to take your place, yet she decided to mess around and was unable to make it. You stepped in--because you had no other choice. The king had told you that it was either the Ball or going through a few hundred files on the exports of wheat.

At the sight of him, you mentally punched yourself for not choosing the files. He was beautiful, like sunlight reflecting on freshly fallen snow. He was elegant, carrying himself with a grace unmatched by anyone. The air around him seemed to freeze, causing him to glow. It was said that a single teardrop from his eye could make even the most wilted flowers bloom to life. There were myths about how if you looked into his eyes, you would melt from his amethyst-colored eyes, more radiant than the sun itself.

More like be paralyzed, Medusa could never, you told yourself as you stared at Vil Schoenheit, next in line to be king. He had been your enemy since you were toddlers. He had pushed you out of the way so he could ride a tricycle before you and you kicked sand at him. Granted, you were the one that got in major trouble for that but the moment of satisfaction was worth it. But that wasn't the last time you two crashed heads.

It became worse over the years. You thought he was pretentious, he thought you were overconfident. You always hated how he would constantly look down on you and he loathed how you would act like the complete opposite of a princess. In classes, you were always the one that defeated him in tons of tests, until it came to hands-on projects. Whether your professors loved to see the two of you fight, you'd never know. But they always put you two together for projects and the class had always been on edge, waiting for something to explode, maybe even one of you. Luckily, that never happened but you were close to dropping a potion on his hair and he was close to purposefully throwing his grade if it meant you'd fall too.

It had been years since that era. You were too busy completing all the duties necessary for a princess. Your hatred for him was simmering back up, a trained instinct. With your arms crossed, you watched as he walked through the room, graciously dodging the massive fanclub he got. His head lifted and his eyes locked with yours. That was the first time you had ever seen him genuinely off guard. You waited for a glare or something to let you know he hated you.

Nothing.

That was worse. You stood there, dumbfounded. You shook it off, thinking that it was better like that. He would leave you alone and you'd leave him alone. That was exactly how you liked it. Or so you thought. However, when you looked back at all those years without him, you always felt a pang in your chest, inexplicable. It didn't matter. You were nothing compared to him, and he made that clear. You didn't care.

Meanwhile, Vil was being escorted to the opposite side of the ballroom. He was curious to find out why you were here but then he remembered that his feelings towards you were not altogether positive. His eyes narrowed faintly before he gracefully accepted the dance invitations from several of his fans. He waltzed through the room with them and it seemed as though they were floating through the crowd from how smoothly they went. Vil was an expert at ballroom dancing, your complete opposite. Last time he remembered seeing you try to ballroom dance, you stepped on your partner's feet. He could recall going home and bursting out into manic laughter. The look on your face had been...quite endearing. He shook his head again, pushing away those thoughts. Why did they exist in the first place? He shouldn't have been thinking about you at all.

You took a glass of apple cider from one of the waiters passing by, sipping it. The taste was sweet but just enough to be pleasant. You tried to appear bored, but your eyes followed Vil as he danced with everyone who pleaded to have the honor of his presence bestowed on them. With a scoff coming out of you, you sat down, toying with the shiny utensils.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Perhaps I'll do you a favor and keep you company, maybe my radiance can help you go from...a disaster to something slightly decent."

You groaned at hearing his voice. He was too flawless as you stared up at him. He matured from the last time you saw him. His blond hair was longer, purple tips at the end. His eyelids were intricately painted and his clothes were nothing less than expensive. He looked the part of the prince, especially how he held himself. In comparison to you, you knew that he had practiced beforehand, aware of the event. You snorted, rolling your eyes at him. "I think that the pigs' company is much better than yours. At least they are self aware."

"Are they? I'm quite sure they do not care, as long as they get scraps."

"What do you want, Vil?"

Vil wasn't sure. He stared down at you, believing that he came over just to tease you. However the sight of you was a comfort to him, so much so that he could not help but be drawn to you. You were his sole constant, the one to bring him to reality. Everyone else wanted desperately to be seen with him, yet you did everything in your power to not be seen with him. He should have hated that fact, he should have.

Then why did his heart pound whenever you glared at him? Why did the anger in your eyes make him weak at the knees? Why in the world did he find himself dizzy at the sight of you?

He shook his head. He was acting like an idiot. "Come. Let us dance."

"Hell no."

"Oh? Then perhaps I'll just claim that I'm the victor of the ballroom--" He was cut off by you taking his hand unceremoniously and leading him to the center of the ballroom. His hand was on your hip delicately, the other one holding yours. It was such a small detail, but you noticed that his nails were painted the exact shade as yours. That idea was preposterous since the nail polish was extraordinarily rare to find and a hassle to obtain.

Vil was looking at you with an expression you couldn't place. You gritted your teeth, hating the way he looked at you and mostly, hating the way your heart was racing. You knew everyone was watching, you knew that his fanclub was seething since they all knew how much you loathed the man. Making eye contact was your worst mistake. You could feel your breath stop short. Then, with agony, you realized that you didn't harbor hatred for him. No, quite the opposite really. You had had feelings for him for the longest time. You didn't know how it happened, but you knew when it did.

There was no way you'd tell him.

You let go of him, your eyes wide, matching his in shock. "I...I need to go."

Vil watched as you left, the sounds of your footsteps becoming fainter. He felt you physically and mentally withdrawing from him. He now knew what feeling helpless was like. He knew what it felt like to not be loved in the same way. His fist was clenched and he murmured pardons as he moved to the balcony, staring at the moon as if it would give him answers.

Instead, he was faced with a fact: the only person he had ever loved had never loved him and it would remain that way. He could never be loved.

♡ ━ 𝐒𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

A knight, descendant of a noble family and serving as the most prestigious graduated scholar of the royal academy, you were a force to be reckoned with. You had been the master strategist from a young age and the people fully looked up to you. Even when you were little, you were taught how to do several difficult subjects. But you didn't want to be a scholar. You had been taught by the general (who was your babysitter at the time) how to spar. He would constantly have you spar with him.

Little Azul could remember these moments with clarity. At the sound of murmurs of another sparring session, his little chubby legs would lead him straight to you to watch what was going to happen. He would cry out when you were tossed to the floor like a ragdoll but you sprang up, a new determination on your face. He recalled how he would carry a first aid kit around with him constantly, pressing bandaids to your knees when you scraped them.

There was one time where you were the one that took care of him instead. He had fallen off of your horse and he was holding back tears. You carefully wiped his injury and placed a bandaid over it. Then you pressed a kiss to his knee. "My mom says that can help speed up the healing process!"

Azul knew that was a lie, but he didn't say anything. He was too flustered.

The years passed by and he became smarter, more knowledgeable in several fields. You became stronger and more graceful in your fights. During the annual tournaments amongst the knights, you had risen to the top quickly. His eyes were focused on you as you skillfully wielded your sword against your opponents. At the end of your final battle, every year without fail, you would look at him and wink, a secret message between the two of you. As you grew older though, he came to anticipate it and each time, he would feel his face get red.

It was worse when his own bodyguards noticed. He was working on the exports of wheat when Floyd Leech came in, a smug smile on his face as he put down an invitation. "Boss, you've got an invitation! Well, this is a first draft but the palace is going to have a masquerade ball!"

Azul raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't have time for such ordeals, I have too much work to do." In truth, he hated those events because it meant mingling with other royals who were stuffy and stuck up. They all talked about the same things or drama going on amongst them. Granted, when he met up with you, he always heard gossip from you but it was different. It was you.

Jade Leech came up right next to his twin brother. "But, Your Highness, this is the event that everyone is invited to. Including the knights." His voice was subtly suggestive, a smile on his face.

Azul's glasses almost fell off from how flustered he was. His face was red as he looked up at the twins. "What are you insinuating?"

"Oh, nothing, unless you count how down bad horrendous you are for the captain!" Floyd was cackling. "Boss, everyone sees it. She could be walking across the gardens and your eyes are on her like a moth to light. It's so cute, awwww, you're in love!"

"H-How dare you imply such a ridiculous notion?" He stood up suddenly, his papers all flying to the floor in a scrambled mess.

Jade snickered. "It's not ridiculous, Your Highness. You have known each other since you were little. But, oh dear, there have been talks going around of other knights wanting to ask her to the ball. Dear me, what would happen if you didn't ask her beforehand?"

"Ooh, maybe I'll ask her! I can show her my fresh moves!" Floyd chimed in.

Azul sighed, his fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Your job now is to ensure no one asks her before me. It's been a while since I've seen her. Hopefully, she will say yes."

But it seemed like each time he saw you, his nerves got to him. Had you always been this beautiful? He knew the answer to that already. Just the sight of you rough-housing with the other knights made his heart flutter, knowing full well that you were the one protecting him and never vice versa. You were the one with a strong will. It was his turn. He took a deep breath and went up to you. "Y/N, may I speak with you? In private?"

The other knights nudged you and you shoved them before following Azul. "What's up?"

His face was a vibrant red. "W-Will you go to the ball with me? It's okay if you don't want to, but I trust you and there's no one else I'd want to go with and--" This was a common thing that you learned about Azul through your years of friendship: when he was nervous, he would keep rambling unless stopped.

"Of course!" You were smiling. "I'd love to. What color are you wearing?"

"Um...purple."

"Okay, I'll wear that. I'll see you then!"

Even the day of, he was still surprised that he managed to ask you and much less have you at his side. You looked simply divine. In his mind, he was only thinking of how neither the moon nor the stars could hold a candle to your beauty. He wasn't aware that he had said all of that out loud and your face was burning. He, on the other hand, was more embarrassed than anything until you told him that it was cute. He was thankful that the mask over his eyes partly covered how his eyes shifted everywhere but at you.

One of the things that Azul had not learned was ballroom dancing. He never thought that he'd need it. He was sitting at the table, watching as Floyd danced with you. Jade sat next to him, an amused expression on his face. "Your Highness, if you keep avoiding the dances, someone might steal her away. Floyd is very close to doing that."

"Jade, I can't dance. What was I thinking?!" Azul buried his face in his hands. "If I can't dance, how am I supposed to spend my time with them?"

"Just go for it. Maybe your confidence will take over. Besides, she's your best friend. She will not judge you."

Azul took a deep breath, standing up and going over to you. A slow song had come on and you were laughing at a joke Floyd had made. Azul asked, "Floyd, may I steal her from you?" It wasn't a question and Floyd knew it. He was grinning as he skipped away, allowing you to fall into Azul's arms. He cleared his throat. "My lady, may I have this dance?"

You bowed slightly. "It would be my pleasure."

His hand was on your hip and the other clasping yours gently. It should have been an incredibly romantic moment if it wasn't for the fact that he was constantly stepping on your feet and looking anywhere but at you. You raised an eyebrow at him. "Didn't you say you would have this dance? So then why am I leading?"

"Human legs are stupid and built stupid."

"Okay, why can Floyd do it?"

"Because he is abnormal."

You laughed before twirling him. "You act like a prince who is untouchable, but let's be honest, when it comes to things like this, you cannot handle it, can you? So then, why did you ask me to this dance if you can't dance?"

He took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Do you remember the times we used to dance together when we were little? Well, I thought that...now that we're older, we could have a more romantic version of that, one where I was able to twirl you around and have you fall in love with me. Maybe I could be cool and dip you, take your breath away. But it seems that you are the one that has easily taken my breath away. If you do not feel the same way--"

You kissed the corner of his lips, effectively causing his brain to malfunction as he turned to you. "For someone as smart as you, you are so stupid sometimes, Azul. I said yes because I like you too."

"So...if you return my feelings, we can come to an equal agreement."

You rolled your eyes and dipped him instead. "Stop being so logical for once, Your Highness. Enjoy the moment instead."

And he did. He knew that he was stumbling several times, but he did not care. He heard your light laughter each time and it made his heart swell. As he twirled you under his hand, he found himself falling further for you. Perhaps you were his protector, but you were the one to easily tear down his walls and make him feel vulnerable. But he trusted you. His heart was in your hands and as he tugged you in for a gentle kiss, he told himself that he would never hesitate when it came to you. As long as it meant that he could have you in his arms, he would do absolutely anything for you. He would sacrifice it all if it meant that you stayed at his side.

Perhaps you were not a princess or even a royal. You were only a knight but at the sight of you leaning against the balcony under the night sky, he could not help but think that you were more beautiful than every queen and princess in history. And now you were all his.

BONUS:

Floyd collapsed next to Jade, groaning. "Damn it, Jade, why did you give him that speech?! If you gave me five more minutes--"

"You lost the bet fair and square, my dear brother."

"I didn't think Shrimpy had it in her!"

"She's a knight and the master strategist. He is a flustered, rambling mess of a prince who turns red at the thought of her. Did you seriously think that he would be the suave one and dip her? Or even kiss her?"

Floyd grumbled as he handed the money over. "Look at them now. He's staring at her with this stupid look on his face, ew."

"That's called love, Floyd. Someday you'll find it, as long as you can tie your shoes properly."

♡ ━ 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒

Riddle's childhood memories served of only you. He eradicated all other negative thoughts of his childhood, only thinking about you. As the Crown Prince, he was trained to be the cream of the crop, only the best to impress his mother, the Queen. There was no other way to describe his past than torture. However, you served as a beacon of light and hope for him.

He could recall how often you would sneak him out. You were the Crown Princess but discarded that title in your mannerisms. He had heard from his mother that you were nothing but an "insolent buffoon who had nothing better to do than make everyone's lives miserable". At first, he believed that you were a demon, horns, tails, and all. But once he met you, the image fell apart.

You introduced him to multiple new activities that he had never tried. Outside of books, ink, and the endless pursuit of mind-numbing knowledge, he had no hobbies and much less, any friends. He was a quiet child, yet he went along with your schemes without thinking twice. Without you, he never would have discovered the magical world of sweets. His cheeks turned pink at the sugary delight, taking in all the flavors that he never got to savor before. He notably loved the strawberry tart that the baker would make for you and you would share with Riddle.

You were a reckless child, one that wasn't afraid to be roughed up. He was your complete opposite. He worried for you more often than not. After you had taken a particularly nasty fall, little Riddle started carrying around a tiny first aid kit with him. He was always prepared when you got hurt, carefully wiping away the dirt and putting on a cute pink bandaid on it.

It came as no surprise to either of you that Riddle got caught sneaking out to play with you. He was forbidden from seeing you, his mother, the queen, looking down at you in disgust. You merely frowned at her and looked at Riddle, whose head was hung in disappointment at losing his only friend. That didn't stop you. One night, you had snuck out of your own palace, your guards right behind you. You found a footing on the side of his palace, knocking at the window. When he opened his window, there was no end of shock on his face. He could not believe that you snuck in just to see him. And so, that is how you two would continue playing together, behind closed doors and hushed voices.

For years, this continued. You had found a way to interact with him, albeit having more royal duties placed on both of you. The royal birds were trained to send letters and as you grew, so did the amount of letters sent. His handwriting brought you a source of happiness that you could not retain from anything else. He constantly looked forward to your letters, the curve of every letter reminding him of your smile.

He didn't know when he started falling. Had your laugh always been this bright? Had your smile always been this kind? Had your eyes always sparkled? Most of all, why did his heart beat faster and louder in his ears? He couldn't understand and although he told you everything, this was the one thing he refused to tell you about. He did not want to know if you did not like him back, else he'd risk ruining your friendship.

But to his joy, you were the one that expressed your feelings first. You were afraid, yet he was ecstatic, accepting your feelings. From that moment on, you were almost inseparable. His thoughts would wander towards you. It did not matter what his mother had him do, his mind gave into the lovesick notions of the date you'd go on later that day. His music classes saw an increase of improvement and even his mother was astonished. He was not surprised, knowing full well that he saw your soft smile every time he played the piano.

On a night when he had snuck out to meet you under a blue moon with the sky full of stars, he realized that he was completely in love with you. He knew of many subjects, an expert in many of them. But it was at your touch that he turned into a flustered mess, not knowing what to do next. It was that very night too that you had shared your first kiss. He was taken aback, and the next thing he knew, his eyes were closed, holding you closer. The night was cold, yet he had never felt warmer that in your arms. Afterwards, he had been nervous, thinking that he was too eager at the moment. You had laughed and pressed a kiss to his head. "You keep overthinking, my pretty boy. It was nice."

"Are you sure? Or are you saying that to make me feel better? I just--I don't want to--" His face was cherry red, ready to go into a ramble out of fear that he was doing something wrong in the relationship, that he wasn't what you wanted. You merely kissed him once more and his mind slowed down to the point where he couldn't think of anyone else, only you. From that moment on, Riddle knew that you were the only one who could make his heart weak and make him ignore all the rules, if it meant having one more second with you.

The life of ecstasy came crashing down around him when a month later, his mother had revealed that he was going to be in an arranged marriage. Riddle's heart sank, knowing that his mother put him with someone he didn't love and wouldn't love like he loved you. "Who is it, Mother?"

"You shall see. The wedding will be in a week."

"A week?!"

"Do not worry, son, for this will help our queendom." His mother gently patted his cheek as she walked away. "My son will be married, this is the happiest day of my life!"

Riddle felt anything but happy. He had run out, switching the tables and snuck into your room to see you. His eyes were full of tears and you rushed to see him. You didn't even ask any questions, you were only worried about him crying. He buried his face in your shoulder, crying harder as he realized that he would not be able to feel your warmth anymore. Whoever he'd be married to, he didn't want them. He only wanted you. "I'm in an arranged marriage. I-I don't know who it is, I don't want to get married to a stranger!"

You had to swallow your own sobs. You were in his same situation, sold off to a stranger who you would never love. "Shh, Riddle...breathe...it'll be okay..."

"Run away with me." His voice was hushed. "Please. We can run away somewhere else, together."

"Riddle...I can't. I'm next in line for the throne. If I leave now, a tyrant will take over." You moved back and cupped his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. "I have a plan. You just have to go through with it, okay? Do you trust me?"

His eyes may have been full of sadness but there was a clear glint that stated how much he trusted you. He nodded. "I trust you. More than anyone."

With a kiss to his forehead, you told him the plan. A week later, both of you were suffering, on different sides of the venue. You still didn't know who you were getting married to and you were angry that you couldn't at least be at Riddle's wedding. Somehow your own wedding landed on his. But you had sent a warning to your future husband, stating that you would make his life a living hell the second the ring was on your finger.

Riddle was standing at the altar, his head facing his shoes. He knew you wouldn't be able to make it and he wouldn't be able to go to your wedding. How unfortunate that you would both be separated--he heard the song chosen for his future wife to walk down the aisle. When he looked up, he saw the most beautiful white dress he had ever seen in his life. But above all, even he couldn't hide how stunned he was at seeing you in the dress.

You were looking at Riddle like he was a mirage. No matter how many times you practiced your walk, you could not stop yourself from practically almost flying down the aisle. You needed answers. You were at the altar with him, both of you having matching surprised expressions. The minister put a cloth over the both of you so you would be able to share your vows in secret. Instead, Riddle asked, "You're my bride?"

"I-I guess? What is going on?"

Riddle closed his eyes, trying to stifle a giggle. "You're the only eligible princess of the most powerful empires. Since you were available..."

"Oh, that makes so much sense. Hmm, I know this might be too fast but we might as well go along with it, don't you think?" Your smile was bright and he could feel a glow inside of him.

The cloth was taken off of both of you and the minister continued, asking you if you took him as your husband. You did not hesitate in responding yes. Then he turned to Riddle. "Do you take Y/N L/N to be your wedded wife, to live together in marriage?"

Riddle turned to you, his hands holding yours tightly. "I do."

"Then I now pronounce you to be husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride--"

But you hadn't hesitated. The minister didn't finish his words before you literally dipped Riddle and kissed him. The crowd was cheering, roaring in joy. None of them could compare to the happiness that the two of you had felt. Even in the carriage, you two felt as though you were on top of the world. His head was on your shoulder and he could not stop smiling. "We are now married. I didn't think I'd get married this early."

"I think they really pushed it on us. Maybe...in the future when we decide on our own, we can do it all over again. We can get married again."

He looked up at you with an adoration that was unmatched. "Of course." The bouquet of roses in your hands caught his eye. "Are those the roses I gave you twelve years ago?"

"Mhm, I put a preservation spell on them. A rose for each year we've known each other."

He couldn't begin to say how happy he was. All he could do was hold your hand, squeezing it and hoping his declaration of love would get to you, albeit silently.

[fanartbyherd]

Gotham Map

whoo! I'm not 100% done but if I don't stop now I will never stop.

over a month of work and I can now say I have completed my own map on Gotham!

as well as Bludhaven and summer set,

Bludhaven famously being the sister city of Gotham and primary haunt of Nightwing.

Summerset is a community between the two cursed cities that is just extrodinairaly normal. (I don't know what comic it is but I got the name from one I was looking at.) but here's the panel.

(No idea what issue this is from, I was browsing quickly through a large collection of older Batman comics and didn’t have time to sit and read it yet.)

So! Some Good Golly Gosh Context for the existence of this map. Before someone comes at me for non cannon accurate information and BS I'm about to pull.

This map was created for my use for a Transformative work I started toying with the idea of, that now has a hundred something chapters drafted (note: Drafted dose not mean written only one of those chapters is written and available to read. Dandelion puffs)

found here:

this map is a combination of the (mostly taken as) Cannon Map and the map that briefly appeared in "the Doom That Came to Gotham" film. the main inspiration for the Fanfic Idea. as well as things scavenged from Fannon and my own head cannon. some parts of it are also cobbled together from other bits of cannon, things such as the long halloween, Batman Year one, the one Nightwing comic I have read all the way through, a Batwoman and Catwoman comic, The Arkham Knight games, Actual maps of New Jersey (I mentioned that in my previous post about this map), The Harley Quinn Show, Joker (that movie) especially the subway map that apparently appeared in that film. Multiple Batman films... I'm not actually sure what batman movies I have watched just that one of them had Ra's Al Ghul and the scarecrow in them and featured the Narrows, and the 2022 batman film, and birds of prey. I really should have been keeping track of all the inspirations I used. I do that for Original works... but not for fan works as I'm not that used to making them or something.

this map operates with the assumption that the year is somewhere around 2020. and that in 1920 the city of Gotham suffered from a destructive fire. (see events of the doom of Gotham)

and in the late 1950s suffered from a catastrophic earthquake. (haven't read it but heard through the grapevine about Batman: no mans land. lots of the online maps reference it)

Also opperates under lovecraftian horror rules, because that's what this elderich horror AU...

the colors are a bit hard to see unfortunately, but they are mostly for my own use.

Gangs of Gotham:

Lime Green-Jokerz: they have close ties to the cult of the clown posse. operate mainly around the Amusement mile.

Scarlet red-Redhood: Headed by the mysterious Warlock Redhood. the gang is relatively young but rose to power quickly in 2005. most of Park Row (aka crime ally) and some of the surrounding areas are under the red hoods control.

they took their name from an earlier gang that was wiped out by the jokerz. The higher members of the gang jokingly refer to themselves as Red hood's merry men.

Red hood has a deep hatred for the Joker and Black mask considers him his primary rival.

Cyan Blue-Siloni: A Gotham grown mob, that consists of many different families that merged to become a singular mob.

Indigo-Moronei: Major rivals to the Falconies, they also got mostly destroyed in the same incident that destroyed their rival gang, but there where people to pick up the pieces

Gold-Cosa Nosta: a collection of families mobs originating from Sicily

Grey-Falconies: in the early 1940s the family was nearly destroyed following a series of incidents.

Dark green-Thorn: American Gangsters.

Colbalt blue-Penguin: Took their name after the moniker used by a professor at Gotham university. Rose to prominence in the 1920s during probation as the main go too if you wanted to set up a speak easy. under the leadership of Ms. Ollie "the penguin" Cobb. the gang was nearly taken over by the falcons in the 30s but after the destruction of the original falcon famaly managed to establish themselves. even operate as a half legitimate business a good portion of the time.

Orange-Lucky hare: collective term for the Irish mobs such as the Rileys, Sullivans, and so on.

Maroon-Black Mask: Run by the ambitious warlock Roman Sions Aka Black Mask. dominating he aria of the Bowery, He and the Red hood have a very violent Rivalry. He covet's Red hood's "red burial shroud." and territory. The black mask gang has ties to both the older sionis mob and the false face society.

yellow-Maxia: the gang Run by Maxie Zeus and the twelve olympians. the gang was founded by Greek immigrant Maxine Seuss. former Archeologist who went a bit mad after the death of her husband and daughter. she immigrated to the United States in 1922, after her American husband's death. her son Maximilian took over after his mother.

pale pink-Yakuza: are what they say on the Tin, operate both in Gotham and in Bludhaven.

purple-Scareface: one of the old Gaurd of street gangs. Is headed by “scareface” and his Vantriliquist. Scareface is a man who was opporating in Gotham back in the 1890s and 1910s but was hung by the place that later became Blackgate Penitentiary. He was also the man who ordered the death of Cyrus Gold and the subsiquent dumping of his body in Slaughter swamp.

brown-whispers: the collective name used for the Russian and Ukrainian mobs in the area. They operate partly out of the old subway tunnels. Mainly consists of the Ibansscas and Odessa gangs but there are others referred to by the collective term.

jade green-Evening Dragons: collective term for a good deal of gangs and organizations that have East Asian origins or influences.

this includes the East side dragons, Ghost Dragons, Golden dragons (might see where the name came from) the Lucky Hand Triad, Hanoi tan.

sky blue-Whites: A merger of the Black gaters gang and the Gangs run by Warren White "the shark".

pink-Other: a bunch of smaller gangs, gangs that are not organized or seen as being one of the largest players. gangs that are less well established or gangs that are extremely local to a certain neighborhood.

Intergang (metropolis baisses), street Demonz (local biker gang), the Mutants, sprang bridge soldiers, Burntly Town Massive, Decons, Escabedo Cartel, The stonewall Drug lords, Pealuan cartel, Skevers, Moon, and para military groups like Bane's and TYGER. and on rare occasions when Two-Face's Gang on the periodical basis that they become an issue.

Cults of Gotham:

I'll probably make some other post on a more in-depth chat about the cults of Gotham, the Occult comunity, and how they interact with the gangs, elite and citizens of Gotham. but that's not this post. here's a quick overview.

-Cult of Ghul: its leaders were destroyed in 1920. prior to this they had a lot of influence in Gotham as the guardians of the Lazarus pits that exist below the city. after the 1920s they lost most of thir influence, they still ave plenty of influence in other parts of the world with the surviving al ghul daughter.

-Court of Owls: been around forever want "what's best for Gotham" at least what they think is best, after the dismantling of the Cult of Ghul took over as the head honchos in the city.

-Baset's cats: Catwoman runs this cult, its a sect that broke off from a cult in New Orleans.

-Court of the yellow sign: They're a problem, and looking to make themselves everyones problem. very popular among the elite as it is a lot about pleasure and indulgence, and theatrics. work often and closely with the cult courts and the wounderlanders.

-She who Breaths: has a few other names, but is primairly a fertility and prosperity cult dedicated to Shub Niggurath and simular entities. they have a close and cordial relationship to the Green lady and is well respected among the Gotham and surrounding areas cults.

-Court of winter: the local fairy court.

-False face society: have a lot of pull and sway in the criminal underworld. also deal with the fay and vampire population of Gotham.

-Rail hoppers: A strange and loosely organized secret society whose worship revolves around the public transit system... people aren't really certain what thier deal is. but they're normally harmless.

-Pain: pain anyone? sort of your typical demon worshipers.

-Dead's Dawn Society: they have some weird beliefs around necromancy. the bats and birds is a decisive topic.

-Clown posse: people who believe that they can somehow appease the Entity known as the Joker. its a bit more complicated than that.

-Green Lady: Worshipers of the green.

-Bat and Bird watchers: one of the most yet least organized cults on the list. they aren't always considered a cult by the other cults in Gotham and has many facets to them. the

-Torch bearers: worshipers of Yeb and Nug. more so Nug than Yeb.

-Mad Society: AKA the brotherhood, a section of Gotham vampires worship here and seek to bring about the end of humanity and have vampires rule the world. or something along those lines.

also might want to create an army of werewolf women. this causes issues with the wounderlanders.

-wonder landers: in reality encompasses a great number of smaller cults who are all associated with the dreamland and dreamland deities in some way or another. but the main part style themselves after the book Alice in wonderland, the Avatar of the Elder God Hypnos. the current Batwoman's sister is a member.

-Triad: worshipers of the Earth Gods Lobon, Zo-Kalar and Tamash.

-Court of Dagon: Mostly dock workers and Deep ones who worship Dagon and Mother hydra.

-Court of truth: primarily worshipers of Aletheia, have some loose connections to the order of Saint Dumas.

-Court of stone: a group who seeks the caves of Solomon. spend a lot of time spelunking in the tunnels and cave systems of Gotham.

Stops on the Railway system.

H. Red Line: Redwall, Avalon hill, bludhaven port, the spine, old station, Melville station, Drawbridge station, Mealtide park, span bridge station, Gotham university, Cemetery hill, city council, Gold Gotham station.

8. Sea Line: Arkham, Arkham bridge park, Eastside, dockside, old city hall, memorial park, old Gotham, city council, Cemetery hill, Southside, span bridge station, lainly point station, Mealtide park, train yard.

0. Silver line: Steel st, Wayne Central, clock tower, city hall, central library, Roman st. Ottisburg, Park row, old Gotham

J. Tree line: Ash st. Oak st. clock tower. chinatown, Alder st. park row, Lemur park, spring st. cherry lane. Robinson park, Ottisburg, Roman st. Old Town

K. Central line: Wane central, clocktower, Penguin station, Millers Harbor, china town, old town.

9. the Loop: Wayne Central, Owl station, Burnley, Penguins station, Elliot Center, Precinct station, justice station,

A. Amusement line:Airport terminal, Kane street, Riverside, stadium, blackgate, Sheldon park, city hall, clock tower, Wayne central.

(some stations are not yet named, especially on the silver line, central line and tree line.)

the city also has an extensive Bus and Tram system, but if I drew that I may actually go crazy and try to bite someone's head off.

(stuffs mislabeled slightly on this map below but its accurate enough)

Parks

Robinson park- a park just outside of park row. its said to be the domain of some strange being known as poison ivy.

Memorial park-houses the 1920s fire memorial.

Wayne park- between North City park and Southside park. its located in the Financial district.

Sheldon park- the park next to the amusement mile. it could use some clean up, but is popular with teens and explores as it allows for an easy access to the cave systems of Gotham.

Southside park- houses the Gotham City zoo. and just outside of the flood area of the Cauldron.

North city Park- near the Gotham central hospital.

Lemmars park- in the cherry hills district. it was converted from the old Lemmars and other farm lands when the city expanded.

Arkham bridge Park- a rather large and wild park that takes up much of the eastern coast of Old Gotham Island.

Anders park- a small park south of Robinson park. its well known for cult activity.

I'll figure out the bridge situation some other time, just know that for this Span Bridge is the one that connects Bludhaven to Gotham.

Districts.

1.Bristol- Island home to Gotham's Elite and Wealthy. the entire island essentially acts like a gated community. there is no metro trains to Bristol but there are a handful of bus stops. home to Gotham Academy a prestigious K-12 private school. Wayne manor and Drake manor are both located in Bristol.

2. Old Gotham- Mostly destroyed in the 1920s fire. the revitalization and rebuilding of the district left it with a very Art deco look.

home to the city council, the old city hall, and the Old Library.

3. Downtown-Built in a gothic revival style as an honor to the cities name and legacy. its history has been shifting with its demographic for years. still a rather populated and well lived in neighborhood, even if some businesses have moved to the financial district.

on the other side of the water to the area known as the Cauldron

4. Arkham City- Relatively unpopulated compared to other other parts of the city. is notable for its unique Victorian Gothic revival architecture. a lot of the structures are original to the area as Arkam Island survived relatively unscaved from the 1920s fire and the earthquake in the 1950s. the more populated parts of the island are heavily crowded and home to the failed "ark project" and the failed "wounder city." the most famous feature of this district is located on a small island just off the coast of the larger Arkham Island, and that is the infamous Arkham Asylum.

north of Arkham island are three islands of Founders, Bleake, Miagani Islands.

5. Docks- the main Port and Docking Area of Gotham. there are a lot of warehouses and industrial buildings in this area. also home to plenty of famous food stands and hole in the wall places like Mama Mathew's shrimp, as well as a good assortment of Bars and Dives, such as Sandyhood, Noonan's and Siren's whale (favorite bar of the Gotham City sirens).

the docks also hosts the Empty water tower that has Become one of Omen's Roosts. (note: Omen is Red Robin)

6. Parkrow- More well known as Crime Ally. once a prosperous neighberhood, it survived both the 20s fire and the 50's earthquake and fallout of both incidents. in the 80s, some of the area was redeveloped into "projects", though crime had already been on an upward spike since the 30s. some classic revival buildings survive from the cities heyday.

the old courthouse that hadn't been in use since 1903 was in this district as well as the famous monarch theater. and Leslie's Clinic.

the district has the cheapest renting all of Gotham but also a huge homeless population.

home to the Oldman building, the abandoned fire station, and is well known to be the haunt of the Red hood and the strange spirit known as the red wraith.

park row has its own community culture. you are likely to get stabbed.

7. Narrows- A narrow strip of land between the South (old Gotham) and North (new Gotham) islands. it is densely packed with buildings that frankly are not up to code. its just as densely packed with people. people make the best of the situation they find themselves in.second cheapest rent in the city, largely lawless.

jacks junkyard is a bit of lifeline in the area.

8. China Town- this districts architecture and open-air markets are what the it is famous for. Alongside its colorful nightlife (and we aren't talking bats!) Traditionaly played host to the cities east Asian immigrant communities. some parts of the districts are known as Korea-town or little Japan, there is also the statue street, that traditionally housed a lot of immigrants from India. the district is well known for having its own spin on the cities beloved gargoyles.

9. Little Italy- little Italy and the surrounding areas play host to many immigrant communities from the 1830s to 1950s. it rebuilt stronger and better both after the 1920s fire and the 1950s earthquake.

home to Maroni's pizzeria, leaty tile bar and the falcon statue.

10. Bay Ridge- another mainland district on the east side of the river.

11. Dimond District- the crystal, and glass facade that covers up much of the corruption of the city.

a popular district with locals and tourists both.

houses the main precinct of the GCPD, the County court house

12. Fashion district- An extension of the Dimond district but houses many more shop and places of entertainment. it's known for its 1950s futuristic appearance as it had to be rebuilt after the 1950s earthquake. has few fewer gargoyles compared to the rest of Gotham. relies on a series of flood dykes to keep from flooding. less prone to flooding compared to the poorer district of Coventry.

part of the area known as the cauldron.

13. Burnly-a large district that is a mix of residential, financial and industrial. it's a safeish neighborhood. though there's plenty of issues, but if you follow common sense rules for Gothem you should be fine... probably. its not as safe as some of the rich neighborhoods, or the mainland neighborhoods.

Gotham cathedral is in burnley, the watchtower is at the edge of the district.

14. Coventry- home to the Central library, the Elliot center, Iceberg lounge and millers harbor.

Millers harbor was created by the use of floodwalls and dykes in order to drain portions of the once marshy land and create a new part of gottam city. as a result most of millers harbor and coventry sits below sea level and is prone to flooding.

part of the area known as the cauldron.

15. City hall district- has a lot of crossover with the financial district and Dimond district. City hall, Gold hotel, National history museum are all located in this district.

16. Financial district- home to office buildings of most of Gothams companies. including the influencial Wayne industry. there are also several upscale apartment buildings in the area. Wayne tower is located here and the cities Subway system has its central station

the historic clock tower is towards the edge of the district.

17. Tricorner- a handful of small neighborhoods but the island is less populated, there is several industrial areas here, such as Kane industry having their plant in the area. Fort Damas is located on this island. its an inactive fort, and is now a historical site.

18. Newtown- a residential neighborhood with classic brick houses, different areas of knew town have different and rather recognizable styles.

19. Cherry hills- once upon the time used to be orchards. though there was space city earlier, the area was built up a lot on the 1970s. it is a pleasant area famous for the flooring trees that are in the area some still around from when the area was farmland. its also a testament to the fact that Gargoyles never go out of style in Gotham, even when the city dose brutalism. its a popular place especially during in spring. Bech tower is located in cherry hills.

20. the Bowery- the third cheapest place to live in in Gotham. the Bowery suffers a lot from the same issues that its neighboring district the Narrows and Park Row. Most buildings in the Bowery are Brick or stone. Gargoyles are quite popular here.

Black mask dominates the streets. Sal's Dinner and Hogan's ally Bar.

21. Upper Gotham-part of West Gotham

22. Lower gotham-part of West Gotham

23. Robbinsville-East side of Gotham river.

24. Lesser Gotham- the largest district on the new Jersey main land. it's practically its own city and was built up during the 1950s. its got its own police precinct (I feel like that's the wrong word) hospital, fire station and schools. probably one of the safer places to live in Gotham, but its still Gotham. people who move into Gotham from outside and can afford it tend to move here. largest issue is that

25. Gotham town- facing The Atlantic Ocean, its a relatively industrial area housing Star labs, Orion chem, Cobolpot steal and one branch of Wayne enterprise.

26. Ottisburg- A quite popular neighborhood, fox tech is located here.

27. Gotham Achors-located on the east bank of the River. A good deal of bridges that go into Gotham proper are here.

28. Midtown- part of West Gotham. location of Gotham general hospital.

29. Gotham village- part of the suburbs of Gotham, located in the west bank of Gotham River (seriously that's what it's called?) the Gotham Aquarium is found here.

30. East side- connected to the down town area, east side is a nebulous region that includes districts like the docks, millers harbor and down town.

31. South side- relatively industrial area. in recent years has seen revitalization in the form of parks and green spaces. relatively considered a tourist attraction as people from bludhaven will actually visit the area. its water front is relatively clean, and its proximity to Gotham university means that entertainment venues get a good deal of traffic.

the ferries to Gold Island and metropolis leave from that area.

gold island hosts the "statue of lady justice" that stands at the entrance to Gotham Bay.

within south side is the rust district. its still largely industrial and

32. Amusment Mile- Createdwith the intention of it being a boardwalk, it has several venues and pairs that fulfill the purpose. it is mostly safe during daylight hours, but should be avoided by anyone who's not looking to risk thier life at dawn or dusk, and especially it is ill advised to go there at night unless accompanied by a member of the clown posse, even then... the chance is high of encountering a certain clown prince of crime and his carnival of fools.

33. Harthrow Docks- part of East Gotham. A private docking area. was rebuilt in the 1920s. unlike millers harbor in coventry its a natural harbor.

((Also I welcome suggestions and idea on the "personality" of the different districts and locations that exist there and what the places look like.))

A huge thank you to @downtherabbittrail and @theredhoodedcryptid.

the red hooded cryptid gave suggestions on maps to use as resources.

I recommend checking out her cryptid batfam fic its quite nice.

meanwhile I stole (got permission from) Downtherabbittrail to use a lot of the street names they invented for one of their fics.

other street names are scavenged from other sources (cannons or cannons) as well as me just making stuff up.

Here are several closeups of the parts of the maps. Still illegible but it is what it is.

Here is a close up of bludhaven. It’s a lot more accurate to the maps I found online. especially compared to the maps I used for Gotham.

Things to know about bludhaven.

It’s the sister city to Gotham and is on the other side of Gotham Bay.

Bludhaven was founded as a port for whalers. It never saw as large success as its sister city. As the city of Gotham is practically a city state in some regards. The city of bludhaven survived in part thanks to its close relation with Gotham and its businesses.

As well as seeing a steady stream of crime in its waters since the very early days of the settlements existence. The Span bridge crossing over into bludhaven ascos the Gotham straight was built in 1878.

the overall architecture of the city is more modern, but a lot of Americana style brick houses and apartments are around.

Bludhaven districts- I can tell you less about these, as I'm having harder time finding info, might have something with bludhaven blowing up in cannon at some point?

Centeral business district- is what it says on the tin. houses both bludhaven's main hospital and the BHPD (bludhaven police department.)

2. Melville-the older parts of Bludhaven and Bailey's church. (had a goat named Bailey once, my uncle named her because she stared at him the same way his at the time GF did.)

Melville is also the place where Nightwing's apartment and Roost is.

3. Caernarvon- a more inland portion and houses a great deal of industrial areas as well as many places of worship.

4. LAnely- the peninsula its mainly a residential area

The Spine: is what Bludhaven has instead of a Main Street. It is the largest street in Bludhaven and Acts much like a Strip. with clubs, restaurants, hotels and other establishments. it has a reputation but most of the businesses are legitimate during daylight hours. some business or another is open on the Spine 24 hours of the day. the spine goes right along an industrial area of the Bludhaven port and officially ends just before Avalon Hill

The largest crime boss In Bludhaven was BlockBuster between the years 1989-2007

the largest cults in Bludhaven

-Blood hounds: a local vampire cult. they actually have quite a bit of bad blood with the Mad Society.

-Cormorants: An odd Cult who are the self-proclaimed guardians of Bludhaven. thier opinion on Nightwings presence is a bit split and has caused a schism in the cult.

-night doctors: bad news.

-bird watchers: made a jump over from Gotham when Nightwing moved cities. they also watch the activity of the cormorants

-Rail hoppers: because the Bludhaven Metro and the Gotham Metro connect to each other the Cult of the Rail Hoppers extended their reach with the reach of the public transit.

(There’s a good bit of lacking information online about Bludhaven when I went digging, which is surprising as the city has been in publication since 19, certainly it’s not Gotham that’s been a thing since 19, but still. )

Final note about this map is that it likely will have updates, especially as I get around to writing and growing more confident in my research on the whole thing.

[flanpucci]

An ASD oriented analysis of the character of Enrico Pucci

Okay guys after letting this draft cook in my notes for months, here it is!!!

I have decided to embark on the journey of listing the reasons why I think Pucci is autistic coded and if he isn’t, he’s written with a pretty good idea of what an autistic person is! Since I'm pinning this, the analysis will be under the cut ↓

I can’t guarantee that my analysis won’t come with a whole lot of general delusion or projecting on my side, so don't hesitate to tell me if you feel some type of way about this. I understand that many of the traits or behaviors i’m gonna talk about are mostly explained by the events happening in canon, but they give him a general super autistic vibe. Disclaimer that I’ve also decided to ignore most acts of murder type violence for this analysis as I think those are more relevant in the context of the story than the character building.

Although not on purpose this analysis is organized almost like diagnosis criteria, so we're going to look into repetitive behavior and interests, communication, aversion to unpredictability and sensory processing etc...! Before we start, I'd like to say once more that I am autistic, my analysis is mine and reflects my opinion only, it's my headcanon and comes with a lot of projecting, so proceed with caution.

Anxiety and counting prime numbers, Repetitive behavior

Counting numbers is a well known technique to stop panic attacks. The reason is that when you panic, your brain’s logical part doesn’t activate. Counting numbers will help you get the logical part of your brain back ‘on’. Simply counting numbers in order or in a simple pattern is too natural, and may not work, so some people will count numbers backwards from 100, count numbers in a non-patterned, random way, or even count prime numbers.

In Pucci’s case he counts primes because they can’t be divided other than by 1 or themselves and are “lonely numbers”. The prime numbers remind him of his own loneliness against adversity, and give him courage. I don’t think a lot of neurotypical people feel personal closeness to something unemotional like a mathematical concept, but I might be wrong. I think what’s interesting to note is that prime numbers are a fixed series of numbers, never changing, offering a great deal of familiarity in repeating them (and also by doing so out loud, in the sound of repeating them). He has also memorized them up to the hundreds, (maybe even thousands iirc?), which shows he has an amazing memory skill, but also that he’s probably counted them a LOT. (Funny anecdote, Oliver Sacks mentions in one of his psychology books a pair of autistic twins that would figure out prime numbers together, and use it as means of communicating and bonding. They were able to produce huge prime numbers without a table!)

It is just something I wanted to point out, but I think it’s funny that a priest wouldn’t recite prayers as a calming mantra, but something very cartesian like mathematics. This furthers the idea that he has a lot of interest and finds a peculiar comfort and understanding of the world in science.

Oh and I think resetting the entire universe for everyone to gain precognition of events COULD be considered as a liking for repetitive things… ! /j

His interests and the random trivia at unexpected times

Pucci seems to be a man of many interests but primarily these are science (especially biology, animals, maths/geometry and physics), Dio’s plan/heaven, christianism, art (paintings). At least that’s what I got from the manga. There aren’t a lot of characters for which you can easily lay out the interests in that manner. The reason for that is that he talks about those all the time! And he always uses metaphors related to what he knows about to explain the world, his intentions, or situations.

• The corridor scene where he meets Jolyne, it’s not like it’s random or out of the blue, but it feels a bit peculiar to bring up this subject in this manner, and Jolyne seems dumbfounded at what he said to her.

• When handcuffed to Jolyne, he starts explaining about the swallows that are prone to accidents to make a parallel between the birds and her own situation.

• References both a politician’s use of subliminal sex and a painting (the “Domine Quo Vadis”) in a dramatic moment where he’s literally ending his brother’s life.

• Seems to be particularly interested in art as shown by the book he was reading when he met Dio (about Fra Filippo Lippi, a painter) and the conversations he has with Dio (once again using art as a metaphor to understand other concepts such as stands, and souls.).

• Of course bringing up the subject of the man eating a mushroom for the first time at the most unstable point of the battle against Jolyne, feels very out of the blue, (but not out of context.)

• When talking to Miraschon, he does a whole bunch of inappropriated stuff lol, doesn’t pay attention to what she says, and starts talking about his own interests/ideas.

This happens again when talking to Donatello Versace, where he's bouncing off questions, not acknowledging the answer right away and coming back to it a little bit later. His train of thought seems to come first, and his communication is not centered around making the other feel like they've been listened to.

Overall he often makes a great point, but sometimes it feels like the context is lacking, like he has had many thoughts before saying the things he says, but we don’t get to hear them, so the conversation topics are a bit unnatural. Plus he generally has a very self-important way to talk and explain things.

Other than that I think his exceptional focus on the same goal and obsessive idea of fate, from childhood and up into late adulthood can be the sign of a truly one track mind, which can be often found in ASD. Could also be noted that a lot of his behavior and actions is copied/referencing Dio, which could be because of Dio’s literal influence (being absorbed by green baby), or an overall tendency to use direct references in speech/behavior.

Self importance and the desire of previsibility

As I just mentioned a little while ago, the Miraschon scene is a scene where he’s info dumping her for at least three pages, on two different subjects, but also not paying attention at what she’s saying. This is not very nice behavior, but it’s very frequent in autistic people too. Being centered on one’s self, and unable to put yourself in another person’s shoes is very characteristic of ASD.

Pucci’s motivation and his ideal of heaven makes a lot of sense from an autistic viewpoint for a number of reasons. The first one being the discomfort caused by the unknown, or at least the fact that he thinks the world would be a better place without unknown events. The desire to know everything in advance and be able to have the time to be prepared for it will resonate with a lot of autistic people, because our brains have so much trouble adjusting to unknown outcomes and situations. I can’t explain it much better, it’s just wiring.

Second reason is Pucci’s overall sense of self importance throughout the part. There are many situations in which he will put himself first, expecting better treatment, straight up explaining that he’s different than other people.

The frog scene is interesting because he tries to weigh logically why his situation is objectively worse than the guard’s, without acknowledging the slightest the guard’s panic when assessing such a stressful situation.

(Pucci thinks the guard takes decision based on logic and not panic, gets frustrated that the guard isn't calm and rational.)

His inability to see things from outside his viewpoint is ultimately what will lead him to try to push his own ideal onto the whole world, always sure inside himself that he’s doing that out of altruism and for the greater good. Of course I think there is a slight disconnect from his inner emotions about what has led him to this point. But for me, this is the truest sign of being unable to understand that other people might see things any other way than he does, but he’s just sure that people don’t understand that it’s for their own good. In a way, his self-centeredness is mostly intellectual and not of intentions. This is something that is often present in people with ASD, because of a lack of (or misplaced/altered) cognitive empathy. People with ASD can have trouble mentalizing other people’s emotions or point of view. It doesn’t mean that they don’t care, don’t respect it, or can’t show support, but they just can’t really understand that another person has another mental space.

Cognitive empathy is described as such :

Identifying and labeling the emotions, connecting feeling to cause, and reading the thoughts and perspective of others. Ability to read nonverbal communication and social context. Ability to read the mental experiences of others.

Pucci will often justify his lack of mind theory by « you just can’t understand it. » : from his view point, being opposed by other people is not due to divergence of opinion (which would mean to accept that other people understand the situation but are in a different mindset), but due to lack of intellectual comprehension. This is why even though very intelligent, it can seem like he’s confused.

Young Pucci and the scenes with Dio

An important thing to note about young Pucci is his inability to break the rule that priests can’t talk about what has been said in confession. He’s not even a priest at that time and the confession was forced on him. These are perfectly good excuses to break the rule, or at least bend it a little, to confront the Weather and then Weather/Perla situation. Hesitation or inability to break the rules, irreasonable attachment to morals and taking irrational decisions because of those despite having great intelligence is a trait that can be found in a lot of autistic people. However, we see that he’s flexible enough to permit that Dio stays in the church basement until the sun sets. In my opinion, he’s quick to give his trust to such a suspicious person as Dio, even when Dio hints that he might be lying. This could be the sign of a little bit of naivety but it's still pretty much normal at a young age.

In the chapters with Dio, we can extract quite a lot of information on Pucci’s communication because it’s the almost only scenes where he’s not in scheming mode, in a pinch, or fighting. Pucci has a very different reaction to meeting Dio, even at a young age, compared to how Avdol or the hunchmen describe their reaction to Dio for example. He’s not shocked or in awe, but not hostile either, which is unusual. Even when he talks about Dio in narration, he has a detached way of calling him beautiful and mysterious, which shows it’s obviously how he feels even though he stays calm at all times in front of Dio, even in dangerous situations.

Dio makes numerous observations about Pucci’s behavior, expression and communication. He seems relaxed and expressive, very different from the rest of what we see of him.

(Pucci 'making a face.')

Another important thing to note is the unusual way he communicates his love to Dio, using very profound words, with a lot of sincerity, without flinching. This genuine confession of a difficult emotion to confess even sets Dio aback.

(Probably having the most fun he’s had in his life here, and is that a smile!?)

Also, parallel play!! They’re shown having bonded profoundly, at the point of hanging out in bed together, but apart from chatting, they don’t really do things together like for example Hermes and Jolyne throw the ball with F.F., they’re doing stuff next to each other (Pucci watches Dio build his boat, and they read lying next to each other.).

(generally also seems kinda bad at picking up subtext)

Two words on sensory perception

(Pucci wondering about how pretty the green baby is, he really wants to know if it's not ugly fr.)

About sensory perception, it’s actually one of the first things I noted when watching the anime especially, he’s very curious about the green baby, and talks to F.F. about it, but as he says himself, he can’t get the “feeling” from a memory disc, and he wants to know how the green baby feels in a sensory kind of way. (Is it soft? is it beautiful?). Of course the many scenes where he purposely mutilates himself without even flinching could indicate that he has a very low perception of physical pain. Both these traits would indicate a very peculiar kind of sensory relationship to the world.

In this scene with Donatello he does state that he has an acute sense of taste, in response to Donatello describing with great precision ingredients in a dish.

(Having a little solo party and dropping trivia again.)

He also seems to feel the music strongly, even though the scene is meant to be comedic, he’s really into it and seems to have some sensory associations (visual/auditory) (also trivia dumping).

Although not directly a sign, the way he asks Dona to test his food because of allergy may also remind of many autistic people who have food allergies and aversions and get people to test food for them before eating.

Body language and facial expression

Pucci has a very specific kind of body posture, especially in the wrists, they’re always limp or twisted in some kind of way, similar to what autistic people might call “T-rex arms”. Araki is very talented at showing detail about characters in the strictly visual part of his drawings, so I think that’s important to note. In terms of facial expression, apart from with Dio, he seems pretty stoic and stern in most situations where he’s not under a lot of stress, almost never laughs or smiles, even in power high situations where other villains usually at least evil laugh for a couple seconds .

(Cute snapped wrist picture collection.)

End note about Weather Report

I just wanted to add a quick word on Weather. Weather Report without his memory disc is also extremely autistic coded. Walking on tip toes, talking in a very low volume not respecting personal space, when he is introduced, he seems super autistic. The reason is the lack of memory disc and consequences of being hung, but I personally think this adds to the overall neurodivergent feel of the manga. I’m also not sure of how much of his backstory was planned at first, and if or not Araki had planned his behavior because of his backstory or not at the point of his introduction scene :3

And there we have it!! I tried not to be too lengthy so I hope you understand my point. I don't think I've seen him being analyzed/hc as autistic a lot, especially compared to characters like Jotaro, but I think he shares some similarities with Kakyoin who is very ND coded too! I would also like to point out that I don't think Araki purposely created a character that reads as autistic, but that he has a very realistic vision of personalities and identities that can lead to this kind of analysis. Also, fun note, Pucci is often typed as INFJ/INTJ and these are prominent personality types in autistic people :3. Anyways, hope you enjoyed, feel free to share your reactions, I'd be glad to hear your thoughts.

NB:

I felt like adding a few to this post so here it is. I would like to say that I think overall Pucci is the most multifaceted, complex character in the series, he has often been described as such, and that’s what makes him the exceptional last boss of the first Jojo era. Many people have had trouble understanding him and Made in Heaven, as can be seen by the numerous amounts of questions on the internet « what did Pucci want to do? » « what is Made in Heaven? » etc. Araki himself said it was very tiring writing such a nuanced villain. I think many of Pucci’s actions and behavior can be attributed to elements in the story narrative, his almost impossible circumstances, and I don’t want to oversimplify, or kick him into a box that might not have been intended at all by Araki. I would also like to add that ASD is a spectrum and one may or may not relate with every trait exposed here, or may find others that I haven’t listed. And it’s always a bit hard categorizing villains as ND because of their reprehensible actions. However I think he is nuanced enough to be considered good rep anyway. But maybe that’s just me fangirling a little too much. In any case, I hope you enjoyed.

Flan, out!!

[thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai]

Superfluous writing update

Calling this superfluous because it's about a story I've decided not to publish, but it's a writing update nevertheless and while I'm deeply dissatisfied with the result, I can still use it for my YOI canon/post-canon series.

The (first) draft of my Vitya backstory, which I've started writing during my Easter holiday, is finally finished. A part of me kept hoping that I might change my mind because it had some highlights like the origin of the bondage lilac fairy, but unless I invest an unholy amount of my time in the revision, it's not going to become a story that anyone would be interested in reading because for all I know, it doesn't match people's expectations about Viktor's past at all. In addition to that is this draft a big construction site.

Here's what imho makes the story unappealing and/or screams at me to be fixed:

Baby Vitya obsessing over a late famous Russian ballet dancer, who I thought would be an amazing idol for him and inspire him to become the kind of skater we see in YOI - no actual story here, just a loosely connected series of events.

Early teenage Vitya still obsessing over his ballet dancer and experimenting with feminine styles and being very stubborn about it despite everyone criticising him - still no actual story here, though, and his arguing with Yakov is becoming repetitive.

A very lenghty part about his first love that was mostly self-indulgent because I knew I had to end it eventually - actual story here for once, but let's be frank: who does even want to read 8 chapters about Viktor/OC?

A first Olympics that very likely is not at all like what Sayo and Mitsurou had in mind for the movie because my Vitya is still trying to get over his heartbreak. Note that I never aimed for that because this project is the result of smaller details I've invented for my series, but the result is far from what I had in mind and although that's part of a natural writing process, the result is extremely dissatisfying.

No drama revolving Viktor's decision to cut his hair because I believe that it was just him getting tired of his long hair and reinventing himself/crafting a new persona.

Poorly fleshed out programmes (there were just too many and I was too busy jotting the story down).

Appearences of real-life figure skaters who competed at that time because I was too lazy to invent OCs for anyone who is not Stéphane Lambiel.

Poorly researched Russian culture (I was too preoccupied with turning post-Soviet Russia into a country that is compatible with the world of YOI than looking into such details).

No teenage Viktor meets teenage Yuuri because during the time the story is set, they never skated in the same category due to their age gap: when Yuuri discovered Viktor, he was 12 and Viktor on the verge of entering seniors, and by the time the story ends, Yuuri has just reached the minimum age to enter seniors.

Honestly, I don't see the appeal in any of this, even if I fix the issues, shorten the lenghty parts and connect the scenes in the first half to an actual plot. It will take months until I will have time for such an endeavour and it will take even more months to turn this clusterfuck of a draft into something readworthy, and by then here will already be dozens, if not hundreds of Young Vitya stories written by people who will likely do a much better job at it than I could ever do.

Why is that even important to me? My stories are very dear to me and posting into the void just hurts. So far, I didn't have any luck with stories that are basically Viktor without Yuuri. This one was especially precious to me because it's a coming-of-age/coming-out story. Since the movie was cancelled, I also feel that expectations for this kind of story have skyrocketed because YOI fans crave to get their Ice Ado in one or the other way. Last but not least, this draft needs an unholy amount of work, and given all the reasons I've just listed, it just doesn't feel worth the effort at all.

So yeah, I wrote a story I've been burning to write since I had the idea back in January, and for the first time in 15 years of writing fanfiction (and 10 more years of writing), I've fucked it up. I now have 115k of backstory I can use in my ADTLTBA-series to flesh out Viktor, which is ridculously much for a backstory. On the pro-side, I now can rest assured that this story will never be abused to hate on animation studios and I'm just emerging from two very intense weeks of writing, which I haven't had since last NaNoWriMo.

[andromedaexists]

WUPDATE: Desecrate

𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝟼𝚝𝚑 || 𝙱𝙴𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙸 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙾𝚃

sorry for stepping away for a few weeks, there were a couple things happening in my life that required my full attention!

BUT I'M BACK!!! (a lil bit late BUT THAT'S OKAY) and I come with news!

I was accepted into Lavender Con! It's a new book convention in Washington, DC that's coming up in June! I will be attending as an author with 2 days of signing time for Call Me Icarus! I will also be bringing a couple proofs of Incorrect Eyes, I might even give them out as ARCs!!

Incorrect Eyes is entering revisions! I stopped working on it for a few weeks to let it ruminate while some alpha readers looked at it. Not all of my readers have come back to me at this point, but I have enough feedback that I want to start working on it and get it rolling!

Desecrate is entering re-writes! I have a decent amount written from last spring when I used Desecrate as my final project for Starting A Novel. Since then, I have changed a lot of things including the entirety of Kit's personality, so the story is going into full re-writes!

I have a new project on my plate! I had the idea for a cozy fantasy that I would love to work on in the background as a way to sort of decompress from my heavy hitters (a.k.a. my stories about: rebellion & revolution, paranoia & body horror, and the deconstruction of religion & religious trauma). This is a background work so I don't wanna talk too much on it, but i'm very excited about it!!

I think that covers most of what's going on! I spent a lot of time developing a (nearly 10k word) plot outline for desecrate and we're going back in from square one!

But I know y'all are here for the snippies:

snippies are going to be a little bit different moving forward now that the news of tumblr feeding our posts to AI has come out. I've already opted out of this happening again, but just in case tumblr is a soulless corporation (it is), I am still going to remain cautious. That means the snippies I share will now be from early drafts of my stories and will not be the same as they appear on page. They might also be shorter! but I don't want to stop sharing all-together

from desecrate:

Kit feels emotions thick in the back of his throat as he walks through the home. Everything has been left untouched, covered by a light layer of dust from the year of vacancy. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have a lot to move in, there isn’t much room left. “Whoa, are these all you?” Benny asks from across the room. Ah yes, the Kit wall. His mother had installed it in the house before they moved to the city, leaving his papa here alone. It’s the far wall of the living room and it’s filled with hundreds of photos, all of him from the time of his birth up until the day they moved about a decade ago. Kit walks over to join Benny just as Father Isaac comes up behind them, resting his hands on their shoulders (Kit & Benny are shoulder to shoulder w/ father Isaac between then but behind them family portrait style). His eyes scan over his youth photographed before him. Pictures of him as an infant in the frilly dresses his mom made him wear, pictures from every year of ballet he did, pictures from ever sport he ever participated it. “Oh my God!” Benny gasps. “Kitty, you never told me that you were a cheerleader?” In her hand is a picture from 8th grade, the year before they moved. The year before kit’s life changed. A pang of sadness resounds through Kit’s heart as he looks at the picture. He was happy, truly happy then. He misses those much simpler times when he didn’t know who he was but that didn’t matter, that didn’t stop him from doing what he loved to do with the people he loved.

TAGLIST

@lockejhaven @mr-writes @eleanordaze @flowerprose @starlitpage @dogmomwrites @annetilney @ceph-the-ghost-writer @inkspellangel @outpost51

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[blackrabbit111]

~Twst android au, prequel draft~

"You are the sole heir to the worlds top tec company that makes everything from military weapons to remotes. Raised alone by your grandfather, you've found yourself alone since his passing and are struggling to find someone to turn too.

On a whim you go looking for one of his crack pot inventions in one of his old factory's. Only to find more then you were looking for"

An au fic I wrote months ago but never shared cuz insecure, But I'm down so I say heck to it 👍

Feed back and critic is appreciated especially on grammar😅Not sure how much I'll keep or if I will even make more but I might as well share what I've already made

The sound of a switch echoed as the warehouse lights shot on in uniform order one by one until the massive hanger sized warehouse was lit up. 

The walls and roof were vast and the rows upon rows of shelves were endless, each filled with who knows what? All different types of machinery, a tec nerd might see this as some gold mine full of decades worth of technology going back nearly fifty years according to your newly bequeathed assistant. 

You hadn’t even changed clothes yet. You were still in these uncomfortable shoes, these stuffy black clothes that were far too warm to wear indoors, even your hair had been newly styled at your “guardians” request. 

You don’t even remember most of the day ... just stepping into the car. 

“Master Yuu?” Your assistant’s voice tore you from your mindlessness, you hadn’t even noticed they’d stopped. You’d just kept walking down the isle of discarded tec. 

“O-oh? Sorry Mira, and please don’t call me that” You asked, your voice quite as always. You hated having to force a smile but manners like other things had been drilled into as a child, so you had no choice. 

“Of course, sorry” She gave you a sympathetic smile, one of the few you’d had despite the circumstance. With your years forcing smiles you had grown to recognize when someone else was faking it too. 

Mira was genuine at least “Are you sure you're up to this? We can wait a few more days?” 

You appreciated the thought, but your hand was going numb from signing forms. The owners of such documents, the sources of most of those forced smiles, they knew better than to be honest about what they wanted. Or else risk upsetting you and with the power you now had none of them could afford such a thing, for some literally. 

You shook your head no “I’m fine, just tierd. This is the third warehouse we’ve checked after all”  

Might as well of been the one hundred with the size of these things?! Your college campus was half the size of the last one 

“Could you go check with the site manager and see if they had any luck tracking it down? I’d like to keep looking around on my own” 

She nodded, lingering a bit before turning back to leave the way you both came her footsteps faded to echo’s and suddenly you were alone. 

The shelves were daunting like this, shaded over from the different levels framed the discarded bot shells in a creepy way. Yet that wasn’t what was on your mind. 

Not much … had been on your mind lately …  

Everything had felt- fuzzy? 

You were never the greatest at showing your feelings, you’d certainly been teased enough because of it growing up. 

It was easier to just make friends. (literally) 

Rustling through your pocket you pulled out an old worn leather-bound book. Its pagers were flakier than the old coot that had left it for you. Sticky notes and faded pages stuck out and fell lose as you flipped back through its ancient pages. 

Sketches, notes and old diagrams were all etched into it. Most had been released, just one of his many sketch books you’d had the ‘joy’ of flipping through. 

But there was one page that had caught your interest, 

“Project Wonderland” God he sucked at naming things. 

Among the faded doodles these few seemed the oldest, added in safter the pages had already been filled? Even Mira didn’t know what it was, and she seemed to have known more about his company than he had. She knew him more than you had... 

“Project Wonderland, Log #037. 

So far, all prototypes for model “Heart” have remained lacking, subject Ace ________ ____hap ___ _______ ___ ___ ___  ___ ____  ___________________ ________Riddle remains____ __________ ,strict rules_ _________. Further_______ ______ ______” 

The rest was too faded. 

Most of the scribbles summed up that amount. Even the more salvageable ones left too many holes to piece together anything that made sense? 

You groaned trying to make sense of it all. This was just a way to get away from all the work you still had to do, Mira’s suggestion, if not you’d probably still be sat behind that oversized desk, in that oversized chair signing the endless rotation of papers brought by your newly acquired legal department.  

Attending the by hourly meetings on new bot colors, branding and all the other topics you didn’t understand. That didn’t stop the bombarding you with requests and asking your opinions … more demanding... 

Day in day out, 

Right up until- 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

 You were again torn from your invasive thoughts, the pitchy voice crying out from your pocket. 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

Pulling the device from your pocket its screeching only seemed to get louder- 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

Small, grey with a bright blue screen. Its body, an old tomogachi toy you had as a kid, now turned into a travel sized version of an ai interface. Your first attempt, robots were child's play to you. At the age of ten you were making drones on par with your grandfathers. You could code before you could spell your own name, which made passing online tests a breeze. 

Ai was different, specifically intelligent ones. 

Nowadays it was rarer to see a machine that didn’t have some type of interface built in, even kid’s toys could remind the child to brush their teeth. But the ones used for androids, the ones running shop tills and driving buses.  

Those were harder for you. 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

“ALRIGHT! Sheesh....” 

 Generated, Response, intelligence, Model #008. Or Grim for short, you were still working out the kinks. Somehow it had begun to prioritize meal notifications, despite it being near 6pm it kept on screaming for lunch until you clicked off its alarm. 

It’s been nearly 2 weeks since you’d last had a free moment to look at the code, which meant round the clock alerts at random. 

You let out an audible groan “Maybe this really is a waste of time? ….....” 

You stared at the old, tattered book in your hands. His name engraved in white tread across the wine-red material 

“......” 

“......” 

“......” 

How were you supposed to feel? You didn’t know? 

You never knew, so when you could you’d just avoid it. Avoid feeling much of anything? 

Hence the names the other kids called you.  

“Freak-droid”, “Robot”, “dumb as a bot” .... it wasn’t your fault; you just weren’t good at being like them. You eventually learned to pretend, to force a smile or a chuckle when needed. 

It was better anyway; the robots were better. 

More time to hone your skills, why make friends when you can build them? That’s what you told yourself. 

Alone at school, alone at home... 

Nothing had changed … those two weeks ago.. 

You were still eating alone,  

Still spending the evenings alone, 

Still walking through those empty halls alone.... 

He was your only family, yet you were lucky if you saw him twice in one week. Either locked in his lab or at the office. He was never there. He was just, not with you, not beside you. 

You’ve always been alone, so why- 

“......” 

Why now … did you feel so- 

“......” 

His name engraved in white tread across the wine-red material 

You looked back at the books cover, His name still engraved in white tread across the wine-red material... 

 He was gone now... 

You were now … alone... 

“......” 

“......” 

“......” 

It was quiet here.... 

“Project ...wonderland?” you mumbled out loud. You don’t know why, but you began giggling. 

This was so unlike you, wandering around aimlessly. After this crazy idea that- that this MYSTERIOUS project could somehow be for you! Could somehow help you explain how to do a job you didn’t want or how you were supposed to feel or how to make this STUPID AI tell you about something other than LUNCH!!! 

“......” 

“......” 

“......” 

It was stupid of you … to think that... 

“......” 

“......” 

“......” 

You sniffled, having to dry your eyes before anything came out. You shook your head trying to think straight. 

It had been a good distraction, but it wasn’t important. You could get some intern to find it for you, you had those now apparently and they seemed despite. They nearly decked each other the first time you met after asking for a drink. 

Give extra credit to whichever one found it~ 

Perfect! You took another sharp inhale and turned to leave, ready to head back to the office. No doubt there would be a whole new stack of papers there to greet you when you arrive. 

Only to crash face first. 

Stumbling back, you looked up confused, there wasn’t anything behind you a moment ago- 

What you saw made you jump.  

He was tall, like REALLY tall. The dim light in of the war house casting his dark slender form in a shadow simply from looking down at you, his raven hair falling over his broad shoulders, his chiseled features pale as a ghost yet sharp and defined. 

He looked almost ethereal, if not for his eyes... 

They cut through the shadow that painted his form as if they glowed like screens in the dark. 

A piercing green that seemed to dance through the many shades, cut through by the black slit of his pupils. 

You were speechless, almost afraid to move in case he might pounce. A green grew on his face, as if your nerves amused him. 

“Are you okay?” 

His voice was deep, smooth, yet his tone was gentle? You were able to relax a little more but were still wary. Why was he here? Had he been following you?! 

“What do you want?” You ask bluntly, your voice is flat, yet he only seems to grin more at it letting out a small chuckle. 

“You were looking for something weren’t you? It’s a big facility, so I thought you could use some help” 

“How did you-?!” 

“Your assistant went back to speak the site manager; I noticed you weren’t with her, I’m sorry if I'm interrupting you” His appearance was still daunting, but he seemed genuine enough? You assumed he must work here. 

“O-oh? No, it’s alright, thank you. I was just heading back anyway” 

His head tilts “No luck then?” 

You shock your head “Something like that” Your forced smile grew back, deciding to be pleasant instead “I have better things to be doing is all, could you point me towards the exit?”   

A hand lifts to his chin as he lets out a hum in thought. 

“I believe I know a short cut? You took a rather unorthodox route here from what I could tell” He beamed again raising one hand to his chest while extending the other to guide the way, his sleek yet dark appearance, butler like movements plus his kind smile brought to mind a certain show you’d watched a few years ago? 

You thanked him, walking past him down the isles weaving left or right with his direction. 

He walked a few steps behind you simply directing you as a turn came up, otherwise you were both silent. 

The route was bizarre? Weaving in and out like an ally cat over a neighborhood's walls or roof tops, a fair comparison with his dark hair and and bright eye color, all in all you felt more lost than anything? 

Did he really know the way? His assuring nature just made him feel like he knew what he was talking about? 

“Sorry, but are you sure-?” Concerned, you turned to ask him about where he was taking you only to find more empty isles of shelves. This tall dark stranger had vanished, you looked around thinking you might have just gotten ahead of him? But he was nowhere to be seen... 

You cursed under your breath.... 

He had ditched you, you felt stupid for not too of seen this coming. After your little “Episode” you’d been so frustrated to get out you didn’t even think about it. At least he’d only gotten you lost, given your new net worth MUCH worse could have happened. 

You let out another sigh, you were really done with this. 

You began to dig around in your pocket for your phone, deciding to just call Mira and the staff to come find you. 

As you pulled it out your annoying- you're in need of updating Tamagotchi toy tumbled out with it. 

You groaned again, just one more thing gone wrong. 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

It had slid under one of the shelving units, peering underneath you could just see it on the other side. The lights were out on that side, so it was a little hard to tell? 

After failing to swat at it you relented to having to try squeeze between the gaps of the two units, it was tight and the creaking noises it made as you nudged it made you nervous- 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

But you knew it wouldn’t stop sending alerts if you didn’t get it... 

So, between the metal frames it was~! 

Squeezing your way through, you just managed to make it without knocking much off, you finally reach this annoying pest of a program. 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lunch time! - 

-Nya! Lu- 

And off it goes.... 

You’re about to plop your ‘pet’ back in your pocket when a light catches your eye? 

A low flash of red was glowing from the corner pile. 

This space was narrow, a small corner tucked away behind the shelves you hadn’t been able to see with the lack of lighting and old parts blocking your view from the isle. 

Walled in by the units and the warehouse walls, meaning you could just barely squeeze in. 

Stumbling a bit, you saw the source of the low red light. 

Two sleek metal crates, each taller yourself, were stacked against the wall tucked away between bits of cardboard. Each one looked huge black versions of those fancy box's phones come in, the red light shining from beneath its seal? 

Both metal caskets had gold engraving carved into their surfaces, some type of registration number and a symbol?  

“A1-164-♥ & D2-164-♥?” each read with a golden heart displayed above? 

It took a moment to click before you were again digging through your back pocket for the withered remains of a notebook, he’d left you. 

-Model Heart- 

“Project … wonderland?” you mumbled aloud now looking at these caskets like they were some mythical creatures that had hopped out from a children's story. 

Digging through the faded pages had already been difficult, now near impossible with only the glow of these things to see. You scanned it for anything that still counted as language that mentioned these things?  

Finally, a passage mostly filled with flawed calculations caught your eye 

“___ ________ ____ sleep mode while ins____, 

_____ _______________ _______urther funds ____ ______ coffins develop___” 

“____subject Silv____ ___ _______ ________ more time in sleep_____.  

_______ _____ bug reports t_ ___________ later.” 

The rest is more faded calculations. 

The texts were mostly useless, it was the sketches that caught your eye. 

Like most of this leather-bound pile of dust the sketches were rough, looking to be more concepts rather than any type of blueprints? They mentioned some type of access panel on the front, molded to match one of the seven symbols outlined in more detail earlier in the notes. 

It was easy to assume it was that gold heart etched into the metal caskets casing. 

You didn’t really think, more just acted. 

Reaching out, you laced your palm over the etching of a golden heart. 

Nothing happened, at first, but suddenly the gold coloring was painted over by that same crimson red from under the seal. The etching became filled in causing you to flinch and pull your hand back, as if it had sent some type of signal to its twin, the other caskets matching heart also lit up now an almost blinding light. 

“Palm scan complete~ 

Connection established” An obnoxiously cheery voice sang 

“Running security check, 

Running diagnostics check, 

Running personal check” It read off line after line, running upload bars through one after the other. Most of the more complicated one’s were lost on you and your limited knowledge of software; it was much easier for you to follow the hardware terminology meaning at the very least you could piece together it was running checks on some type of high moveability machine? 

“All preparation checks complete for model’s A1-164-♥ & D2-164-♥. 

How gracious~ 

Beginning reupload of data files of model’s A1-164-♥ & D2-164-♥” It had all loaded pretty quickly until now, each screen uploading in seconds, but now- 

“Loading- 

Loading- 

Loading- 

-ERROR- 

Unable to recover crucial data, beginning recovery measures- 

-ERROR- 

-ERROR- 

-ERROR-” Both screens began to flash with alerts, as if the system’s attempts to recover whatever it couldn’t was somehow causing the other files to corrupt. You were by no means an expert, but you knew if you didn’t act soon the whole system would be unsalvageable 

“-ERROR- 

-ERROR- 

-ERROR-” still panicked, you put your hand back to the screen swiping away as many of the alerts as you could to try and get at the recovery icon. 

“-ERROR- 

-ERROR-” 

The alerts were popping up faster than you could close them, with little other choice you did the only thing you could think of in this panicked moment 

“Cancel recovery measures! Proceed with upload as is!” You yelled hoping for some type of response, and just as you did the corrupting screens froze, the loading bar froze, the whole screen froze …. before another loading bar popped up. 

Slowly it filled, there was a brief pause before- 

“Upload complete~ 

All systems ready, deactivating sleep mode for models A1-164-♥ & D2-164-♥” 

A relived sigh escaped you, the screen shut off before the crimson glow faded as both seals jutted forward a white cloud of steam blowing out as the casket undid its releases. 

The doors slid open, tucking their lids around each of their left sides. 

The cloud died down finally letting you see inside, having the squint at first you thought at first you were mistaken. But now you were certain, two figures stood within. 

One with boyish features, red spikey hair and a heart shape painted over one eye. 

The other slightly taller, features sharper with flat raven hair and a spade shape painted to match their opposite. 

Wide eyed, you didn’t notice you held a breath once they stepped forward. You tried to speak, ask them questions like if they were okay or why they were in there? Only for it to come out as mumbles once their eyes both shot open in synch. That same pixelated crimson flashing over their eyes only to fade again replaced by their respective red and blue iris’s. 

The red one blinked, you held your breath again... 

The blue one held its head staggering a bit before both their sights landed on you. 

…..... 

…..... 

….... 

You all stood their starring for a moment; afraid moving might activate some attack mode or- 

“Excuse me but-” 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH?!!?” 

[deva-arts]

Hey! so!

This is a spooky post, okay? it's really edgy so please be warned if you don't like dark themes! <3

Not sure if this is an unnecessary warning or not but better safe than sorry :'D I've got a lot of fluffy drawings queued after this ehehe I just wanted to do something angsty

A-4. Hm.

C-1.  You said something, Atius?

A-4. There is a recurring trend here; it heals faster and more efficiently when under pressure. These were all times when we cut costs on anesthesia.

C-1. Interesting... More effectively you say?

A-4. Yes. Remarkably so, I'd say the injur-... affected areas have a much higher rate of functionality than they held previously. Just look at the cardiopulmonary results from a year ago to now- I'd even go as far as to say that it's possible to have more successful splices on this specimen in the future.

C-1. What is stopping us from doing this from now on?

A-4. Ah.. I would advise against it. There’s the question of excessive stress-

C-1. A non-issue, our goal is progress.

A-4. As well as the scarring-

C-1. We never truly cared about cosmetics, now did we?

A-4. This might also worsen its mental state-

C-1. Mental state? Ha! It's a good thing we start cutting some costs then. We let it get too comfortable at the cost of precious time. Its tolerance has made things terribly expensive for daily practice. I say let it scream, they stop eventually. Do consider providing our staff with adequate noise protection though.

A-4. ...Understood, Cain.

C-1. Atius?

A-4. Yes sir?

C-1. You say that physical duress makes it... Better? Stronger?

A-4. At the cost of physical and m-mental integrity, yes. It makes for an unnaturally fast healing process.

C-1. It’s a wonder why we even bothered waiting between procedures!

A-4. ...

C-1. You say this is observable in other parts of its body as well?

A-4. ...Sir...

C-1. Answer me, Atius. You know what you signed.

A-4. Yes sir. 

A-4. ...

A-4. As you can see on the following diagrams, the specimen has been performing optimally in concordance with our standards. Fall simulations led to a higher observable bone density. Strength output has improved post-muscle failure. Flexibility has grown after hyperextension. This goes without mentioning fight simulations, which have ameliorated reaction time, effectiveness, and overall damage output. The only issue is altitude tolerance; pressure trials have been unsuccessful as of late.

C-1. How durable... It's the sort of reform I expect from immortals.

A-4. ...

A-4. I must ask you to reconsider though, Cain— the forced heal leaves a harsher effect on his-

C-1. Looks like we did something right after all.

A-4. ...

C-1. ...Mm. So these are all of our projections?

A-4. ...Yes.

C-1. I see. Vision isn't on par with our metrics. Fix this.

A-4. Cain, there isn't any more we can do to increase this field. We've used all sorts of methods to achieve this.

C-1. Then break his eyes next.

-

And thus, here is the biggest antagonist to Vincent's story- Cain. He's might be even worse than Titan. You'll hate him! I hope.

Cain is a human-passing, vampiric variant who feeds off of the pain and suffering of others. He became a monocular double amputee by his own son in hopes that he would never be able to harm someone else. A torturer by heart, he joins careers that give him the opportunity to consume the most to anesthetize himself and offset his own discomfort. He gets his fix by being the head of hundreds of processing units, including Project Venus, where he assured the CFO that he would deliver the results they were robbed of by Roxanne.

Thus, he is free to do anything with the rough draft, so long as they get results, improvement, and new data on this modified species.

By any means necessary....

[siriuslysatorusimping]

Possibly very hot take?

I will preface that this is just my opinion as a writer/reader, and I’m not inherently judging or hating on anyone.

I see a lot of posts about “don’t expect anything from me because I don’t have to finish this if I don’t want to” and that’s completely true. But it’s sad to see how hostile some people are about this.

And I hate seeing people with a few hundred notes and people showing genuine interest in their story, saying they want more interest and more interaction in order to keep writing.

Because just like you are not obligated to write, people are not obligated to read and interact. And the more you act like an entitled person who demands reblogs and comments, the less people will want to give you what you want.

I’ve seen people mention that they don’t want to write unless they get more interaction, more reblogs, and more comments when they have tons of people already doing that. The problem with them saying this? They say it to the people who are already interacting. And it sends the message to those people that their interaction isn’t enough, so why bother?

Here’s the thing: if you write for the interaction alone, you’re doing it for the wrong reason. You have to write for you, not others. Because others won’t always be there. Life happens, people get busy, they lose interest.

And that’s okay.

As an AuDHD person, I struggle with staying consistent. Keeping up with projects is hard because my interests shift so drastically. I get really into a hobby for a little while and then six months later it’s like it never existed.

Writing is the only thing that I’ve enjoyed for as long as I can remember. Or rather, telling stories. I’ve always loved telling stories. I’ve always had an overactive imagination. I was the kid with my head in the clouds, daydreaming about my ideal life or building my own worlds. I had notebook upon notebook filled with stories and I still have those damn things somewhere in storage.

That being said, I get it. I probably have a thousand drafts of stories I never finished. And I used to be someone who wrote and posted for the likes and interaction. And I love the interaction, but not just because of the praise. I love the conversations that arise from when people send asks.

I love this little corner of wonderful people who care about Rinko as much as I do.

Before I Love You is a great example of conversations we’ve had. People had so many thoughts and I had a blast going back and forth and hearing from people. I loved learning about how people’s lives effected how they read and reacted to the story.

Another Level is likely going to be my best accomplishment in terms of completing a series/story. And the reason for that is because the base story, my base motivation for starting it, was because I wanted it. I wanted to write it and I wanted to finish it. The kudos and comments and asks helped push me along, but in the end, I wanted to see it through to the end. Physical Paradox is definitely one I feel the same way about. I love that story so much.

People who want interaction don’t bother replying to comments. They don’t bother interacting back because they feel like the writing itself is enough.

Even when I’m not posting, I’m still writing for me. I post because there’s interest. But I’m writing the story because I want to reach the end. I want to know the end.

I think Yoshihiro Togashi (Hunter x Hunter's Mangaka) is a great example of an author who cares so much about his series and his readers because he knows there’s a chance he won’t get to finish what he’s started and wants to provide some closure in case that happens.

SO.

That's my rant.

Hopefully I didn't piss too many people off if anyone read this at all 😅😬

[pisupsala]

Wish You Were Here [2] | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | Some things you’d rather not face alone.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings | swearing, explicit smut / 18+ only

Words | 9.4k

Note | Can be read as part of One For The History Books (takes place post-epilogue—chronologically the final part) but also works as a standalone. Read part 1 here.

Library

He shouldn’t be here.

For years, Bradley simply accepted that being shipped around the globe was part of the job and never complained. But now, the one time he really didn’t want to be away from home, he received special orders. The Navy required him, him in particular, to lead specialized training on low-altitude maneuvers. And when you get orders like that, directly from an Admiral, you can’t really say no.

Standing at parade rest, staring straight ahead, Bradley can’t help but notice it’s annoyingly hot in vice-admiral Beau Simpson’s Florida office, despite it being late January and not at all that warm in Pensacola. Bradley is itching to get out of there, but the admiral is taking his sweet time leafing through his file. It’s bordering on the absurd. 

“You know I like to get to know the aviators under my command, lieutenant commander. Understand what makes them tick.” He begins, without looking up from Bradley’s file. “It’s important for team building and trust, even if it’s just a temporary assignment.”  

“Yes, sir.” Bradley replies out of obligation rather than interest.

“I see you finally got hitched?” Admiral Simpson finally looks up from the file, smile on his face. Bradley, however, is in no mood to discuss his private life with Simpson. His home life with you is off limits as far as he’s concerned—especially since that’s where he should be, and not here at the behest of Simpson no less, hundreds of miles away. 

He still likes keeping some aspects of his life private. Bradley proudly wears his wedding band everywhere he can, only slipping it on the chain with his dog tags when he’s out on the tarmac or in the air. But that doesn’t mean he wants to talk about everything that is going on the home front with everyone. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“It’s been a while since I saw you at TOPGUN - how long are you married now?” Simpson continues conversationally.

“Just over a year now, sir.” 

The admiral nods, studying the page with Bradley’s personal information.

“Spouse: Mrs. D. Bradshaw - Williams, Ph.D.” He mutters, before looking up again. “That wouldn’t be the Miss Williams that was at TOPGUN then, is it?”

“Yes, sir.” There’s no reason to hide it, although Bradley has to strongly fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“I remember her fondly, she did great work.” Simpson nods, and Bradley just about stops himself from shifting on his feet uncomfortably. “And I’ve read some of her articles from the senate committee—fascinating stuff—but is it true she hasn’t published anything lately?” 

“That’s possible, sir.” You hadn’t mentioned writing new articles in a while, working on smaller projects instead. 

“Miss Wil - that is, Mrs. Bradshaw hasn’t left her position at the DoD, has she?” 

“No, Dr. Bradshaw still works in the Pentagon archives, sir.” That might be too petty.

“Of course.” Simpson just smiles, probably happy he got more than a two-word answer out of Bradley. “I’ve been thinking about putting my thoughts about leadership and strategy to paper for a while now,” He leans back in his chair, pressing his hands together. “For the next generation of officers, you understand, lieutenant commander?”

What the fuck?

“Anyway, I’d like to ask mrs- Dr. Bradshaw if she would look over some of my drafts.”

“You’d have to ask her directly, sir.” If this conversation was absurd before, it’s straight-up insane now. “But she won’t be available for the coming months.”

“Oh, how so, lieutenant commander?”

“She’s on maternity leave.” 

Simpson narrows his eyes, before turning his gaze back at the file. Bradley already knows what’s coming: there is no mention of children, which means Simpson will put two and two together pretty quickly.

“How far along is Dr. Bradshaw?” Simpson’s tone conveys not casual interest, but purely a request for information —personal chat is over.

“38 weeks.”

“Will that pose a problem for your focus during these two weeks?” 

Bradley’s fingers flex behind his back out of frustration, but he keeps his features neutral. He shared with his commanding officer he was not keen on leaving so close to your due date, but was told Simpson requested him personally, and not going was pretty much not an option. 

Still.

He shouldn’t be here.

“No, sir.”

“Good. You have singular experience in low-altitude maneuvers, which is why you were selected.”

Bradley doesn’t say anything, but Phoenix and Bob, Payback and Fanboy—hell even Hangman—all have similar experience. Minus being shot down over enemy territory, he thinks bitterly. However, he is under strict instruction from his CO not to bring that up to Simpson. Part of him is itching to do it anyway and get sent home for it. 

But that would be veritable career suicide.

“I appreciate it, sir.” 

“Anyway, I suppose congratulations are in order, lieutenant commander.” Simpsons grins up at him. “To the next generation of TOPGUN candidates.” 

Bradley has to actively stop himself from cringing. It’s probably meant well by Simpson, but can’t shake the intrusiveness of it all. He’s here to train recruits for two weeks, and that’s it. He’ll be on the first flight home, back to you, as soon as this assignment is over. In the meantime, he has zero interest in discussing this—if only for the guilt weighing on him for having to leave you and Bug now.

You took it well. Of course you did. You smiled up at him and said you would invite your sister to keep you company, so you wouldn’t be alone. But your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. This was the one thing you admitted actually terrified you. But you put on a brave face for him. And Bradley so desperately wished he didn’t have to leave you now.

“Thank you, sir.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are alone. Again.

Your sister left for a day out in D.C. with her family. Bradley is gone. Hell, if you could leave you, you would probably do so too.

Miserable doesn’t even begin to describe it. Irritable. Anxious. Fucking furious.

Your body barely feels like it’s yours anymore; it’s unwieldy and everything hurts. You don’t fit into any of your clothes, and your feet are so swollen you are relegated to wearing slippers most of the time. 

The worst thing is since you’re on maternity leave, you are bored out of your skull. You thought it would be nice to actually relax, and catch up on your nonwork reading, all the shows on your to-watch list, but you had enough of it after one long weekend. Years of having your brain constantly engaged has worn you out—do you even know how to take it easy?

You have every checklist memorized, a birth plan written up, an overnight bag packed, baby clothes, and diapers by the stack. Baby nail clippers, snot suction thingamajig, stroller, car seat, and an assortment of stuff your sister convinced you were essential. Bradley wisely didn’t comment on the parade of delivery people dropping off packages almost every day, tacitly accepting that this is just who you are. You have everything. You think. 

Even if you wanted to do more research, double, triple check anything, every time you sit down at your laptop, Bug quite literally kicks up a fuss.

Your poor ribs and bladder usually bear the brunt of the assault.

You smile despite yourself as you grab a handful of honey-nut Cheerios. Bug. 

That sunny Monday in May, the night after Bradley made you throw up (which he never stopped bringing up), you promise you will call the doctor first thing. But when Bradley brews coffee for you both that morning, and you throw up from it again, he practically threatens he’ll call you in sick and drag you to the clinic if he has to, despite you insisting you are fine.

You insist it’s a stomach bug. You insist it all the way up to the doctor’s office. 

“Do you think…?” Bradley is leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, watching over you as you brush your teeth.

“Nah.” You practically cut him off, knowing exactly where he’s going with that question. You’re absolutely refusing to even start to entertain alternatives because if you let yourself believe for one second that it might be something else, you will be utterly crushed if it isn’t. You rinse out your mouth. “It’s just a stomach bug.”

You’ll probably get some antibiotics or something, a few days of prescribed rest and you’ll be right as rain. But Bradley is looking at you penesivly, like he’s trying to figure the meaning behind your reaction. Except there’s no meaning. It’s just a stomach bug, and it’s really nothing to get bent out of shape about.

But because even brushing your teeth doesn’t help settle the queasy, churning feeling in your stomach, you decide to call in sick. Bradley leaves you on the couch with a mint tea and a kiss. 

“Let me know when you have the appointment.” He pulls the fleece blanket over you as you lie back. You nod. First you just want to close your eyes for a few minutes. Just to rest. You feel like you haven’t slept in days, even though you got up just an hour ago.

No. Call the doctor first.

Bradley doesn’t get annoyed easily with you, but you know you have the tendency to push his limits with your rather blasé attitude to things you don’t like—like doctor appointments—and cruising along on the insistence it’s fine. You’re fine.

As someone who takes health quite seriously, he has admitted it grates on him because he worries about you, and doesn’t quite understand how you can worry about so many things in your life, sometimes to the point of tears, but when it comes to your health you take it all in stride.

Embarrassingly, you don’t really have an answer for him either. 

Pushing yourself back up, you dial the doctor’s office—they can squeeze you in at 3 in the afternoon that day, which gives you plenty of time to rest. You text Bradley that you have the appointment, knowing it matters to him.

That afternoon you walk out of the doctor's office, thunderstruck and with a stack of papers and pamphlets in your hand. Bradley calls you shortly after. He mentioned he would try to check in with you if he had a moment after your appointment. It shouldn’t still give you butterflies when you think about how Bradley prioritizes you even on busy days, and you feel a little bit guilty again as it’s your fault in the first place he’s worried.

“So, what did the doctor say?” You can hear by the cadence in his voice he is walking somewhere, and he sounds hurried.

You open your mouth, thinking of how to explain it, how to somehow bring this life-changing news gently, in a way that reflects the gravity of it, the strangeness of it, the joy. Or should you wait until he gets home?

“Darlin’? Are you okay?” Bradley’s voice is urgent. 

Shit.

“I’m pregnant.” You blurt out sheepishly. So much for subtlety. 

“Come again?” Bradley has stopped dead in his tracks. He must have misheard you. Yes, he did seriously consider it an option, it made sense in his head, but you seemed so adamant that he never really allowed the thought, the dream, to fully take hold.

“I’m pregnant.” You repeat, more self-assured this time. “They’ve timed it around six weeks.”

“Wha- I mean, fuck -” Bradley is stumbling over his words, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s great! Amazing even. Fucking hell, I’m so happy right now.”

You laugh, although you feel like you’ve barely had time to actually grasp that you’re pregnant now. But Bradley accepts it so readily, making it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, that—yeah, of course. It’s what you both wanted, what you talked about, and you agreed on doing. And now it’s happening.

“Me too.” You smile.

“So really not a stomach bug?” Bradley can’t help but tease you.

You laugh again, despite yourself. He’s never going to let you live this down. “No, very much not.”

“Just Bug then.” He says fondly.

“Just Bug.” You agree, not even questioning that it took Bradley less than 5 minutes to come up with a nickname for your unborn child. You feel giddy, strangely light, as a warm feeling spreads through you. Is this what it feels like to be pregnant? 

If only. You shove another handful of honey-nut Cheerios in your mouth. Nothing and no one quite prepared you for the perpetual discomfort of pregnancy—it comes in many forms, but there’s always a new goddamn thing aching, a new way to feel sick, or just the plethora of tears you’ve been shedding because you feel like you’ve been losing your sanity at times, barely having a hold on your emotions. 

Bug is especially restless today, like he’s picking up on your mood. You want Bug to be born already, but you don’t want to go into labor without Bradley by your side. Of the many things you accept, you’ll have probably to face alone in having a naval aviator for a husband, giving birth is just one thing you desperately don’t want to go through alone. It terrifies you beyond belief, almost irrationally so.

Music usually helps calm Bug down. While you try to stop yourself from building up unnecessary expectations in your head of what your child will be like (god knows you know what it’s like to grow up like that), you do allow yourself that Bug might take after Bradley that way. It would bring him a lot of joy, you know that for sure.

Scrolling through your Spotify, you rub your belly. “What would make you happy today, Bug?” You wince as Bug squirms. “Some Rolling Stones?” Quickly selecting She’s a Rainbow and connecting to the sound system Bradley had painstakingly installed, you gently sway to the music and start walking around. You smile to yourself as you think back about how Bradley had explained all the details and exact science behind the music setup he was getting, and how he measured every angle and talked excitedly about every aspect. You love him, but goddamn, you cannot tell the difference. It all sounds great to you, so you happily nod along and agree, enjoying his absolute passion for the subject more than anything coming from the speakers.

Bug is finally chilling out too. Closing your eyes, hands resting on your stomach, you feel the anger and anxiety finally ebb away. This is not so bad. It’s just you and Bug for now, and you’ll be fine. In a week Bradley will be back, your sister will be back in Colorado, and you can welcome Bug together, just as you planned before he was ordered to Florida. 

You love your sister, you really do, but if she drains the blood from you under normal circumstances, she's insufferable now. Or you have become insufferable. It’s honestly a toss-up at this point, but you’ve been at each other’s throats even more than usual. You feel sorry for her husband, who probably thought he was coming over to Fredericksburg for a nice break, but instead has been trying to run interference between you two.

But they’re out for today.

You get to enjoy some peace.

Of course, it could never last long. The music cuts out harshly as your phone starts ringing. 

Well fuck.

When you see the number, and you recognize it as coming from the Pentagon, you strongly consider just not picking up. But. You are also curious. Who is looking for you? What do they want? Did someone fuck up? Your brain is itching. Maybe it’s something you can kill time with. But you really shouldn't—you’re on maternity leave. 

Against what is your better judgment, you pick up.

“Darcy Bradshaw-Williams speaking.” 

“Good morning, Dr. Bradshaw,” A nervous voice starts at the other end. “I’m calling from Birch’s office.”

Why isn’t he calling you himself? Since when does Birch contact you through an assistant?

“Uh, okay.” You reply, not unkindly. “What is this concerning, as I am currently on maternity leave?”

“It’s uumh - well, there are some papers that you need to sign before the senate committee report can get archived.” The poor girl on the other end sounds terrified. You don’t think you’re particularly intimidating, but you don’t recognize her voice, so you surmise she must be new. 

Patience. You were once the new girl doing the shitty jobs no one else wanted. Like calling the pissy pregnant lady on leave.

“Oh, well, email them to me, and I will sign digitally,” You reply easily. “That’s not a big deal.”

“It, uhm, can’t be signed digitally, it needs to be done by hand.”

“Then… what are you suggesting exactly?” You keep your voice light, but quite frankly, you are gobsmacked. Out of all the bureaucratic bullshit…

“So I’ve been asked to- well, ask you,” Her voice wavers. “If you’re willing to come in to sign those papers.”

Really?

“No.” You can’t keep the annoyance out of your voice. “Look here, miss…?” “Brown.” The reply comes in a half-whisper.

“Look here Miss Brown, I know you are only relaying the message, so please put Birch on the phone, I know he’s there.” Keeping your voice level and professional is becoming harder by the second.

“He can’t come to the phone.” Miss Brown supplies hurriedly.

Coward.

“I’m 39 weeks pregnant, are you actually suggesting I come down all the way to the Pentagon?” You ask much louder than is probably necessary.

“We-, I suppose, we could also fax you the papers?” Miss Brown tries.

“Where the fuck do you think I live? 1992?” The words come out of your mouth faster than you can bite your tongue. Oh no, you didn’t mean to have an outburst like that at the poor assistant. It’s all just so fucking absurd because of course, what does the digital era mean in the DoD? Showing up in person. Jesus Christ.

“I’m sorry Miss Brown,” You apologize, cringing at yourself. “That was not meant for you.” 

“It’s okay.” A small voice on the other end replies.

“By when do you need this?” The wheels of the DoD turn slowly, after all. Maybe you can push it back until Bradley is at least back so he can drive you. Worst case scenario until your sister is back. But right now, you are standing in your living room dressed in Bradley’s old Navy shirt covered in Cheerios crumbs and a pair of old sweatpants. You’re really not wanting to go out today.

“Today,” Miss Brown informs you. “As soon as possible, really.”

“Today!?” You yell, knuckles white as you clutch your phone. “You have got to be kidding me!”

You take a deep breath. You have to keep your cool. Be professional about this.

“Put Birch on the phone.” You grind out, fist balled at your side.

“He - he says he can’t come to the phone…” 

“Then I’ll come to see him in person.” You bite out, acid dripping from your words,, hanging up angrily. They want to play like that? Fine. You’ll play along, you fume as you stomp through the house up to the bedroom. You’ll go to the Pentagon, you’ll sign the stupid papers, and you’ll lob the whole packet at Birch’s head while you’re there.

Shit. Do you even have anything nice to wear to the office? Maybe you should just show up like this—although funny, you’re too self-conscious for that. Also, you still want to have a job to return to eventually. 

Bug is mercifully calm, unlike you, as you dig out a knee-lenght skirt with an elastic waist. Shimmying it on, you’re glad to find out it still sort of fits, the waistband rest comfortably under your stomach. You end up slipping on a pair of nylons with it, not quite convinced you be able to pull up a pair of tights and afraid they might be too tight anyway.  

Now for a top. You won’t try one of your regular button-up shirts, even as a joke. Even the loose-fitting ones won’t close over your stomach anymore.

That leaves Bradley’s closet. 

You rifle through the shirts he neatly hung up on clothes hangers, taking care not to pick one that belongs to one of his uniforms. Settling on a soft dark blue one, you feel a pang of sadness when you slip it on. It smells of him. He’s only been gone for a week and will be back so soon again, but that doesn’t take away that you are alone right now. 

“Daddy will be back soon, Bug,” You whisper softly as you button the shirt up, feeling the baby move. “We just have both hold out a little longer.” 

Fixing your hair and doing minimal makeup, you quickly text your sister you have to run an errand and you’ll be back later, just in case she beats you home. You doubt she will reply to you any time soon though, she’s probably busy taking pictures or videos. For as much as you don’t understand how much your sister shares online, you are happy she’s doing something she enjoys and she’s good at it. Sometimes she even takes a nice picture of you.

You don’t text Bradley. For one, he’s probably busy, and two—you have a nagging feeling in the back of your head—you shouldn’t be doing this. Bradley would be rightly unhappy if you were driving yourself an hour up north, by yourself. But you don’t want to argue right now—you’ll argue with anyone, but you desperately don’t want to lose your temper with Bradley. 

You said you were fine when he told you he had to leave. He was so unhappy, the pain in his eyes was burning a hole in your heart. So of course you said you would be fine. But you aren’t. And right now you are terrified that if you argue with him, that your stupid mouth will say something horrible, something you can’t take back, something like “well, you left again” because he did, and he’ll look at you again with that crushing guilt overshadowing him—and it’ll be because of you because and because you don’t actually deserve him. You hiccup as tears fill your eyes. 

Shit. 

Get it together.

The quicker you leave, the quicker you’ll be home and there won’t be anything to argue about.

Now. Is it a horrible idea to wear ballerinas in the middle of D.C. winter? Yes. But no other shoe will fit you, and your fluffy slippers are arguably an even worse choice. God, you can’t even button up your nice coat anymore either. Better wrap up thick with a good scarf. 

You heave yourself into Bradley’s Bronco—you promised you would only use his car if you really needed to go somewhere—but it’s so goddamn high. 

“I can’t wait until you can climb in yourself, Bug.” You joke. Adjusting the rearview mirror, you catch sight of the baby carrier affixed in the back seat, and your heart jumps. You pestered Bradley so much to put it in already.

“I fly million-dollar fighter jets for a living, darlin’,” He told you smugly. “Don’t you think I’ll be able to figure out a car seat?”

“Do it then.” You smiled back, handing him the manual, knowing he won’t back down from you goading him. 

It took him a good twenty minutes and a lot of colorful swears to figure out how to affix the base properly, so it wouldn’t move. You didn’t say anything, just smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek as he shot you a venomous look when he was finally done. 

Pulling out of the driveway, you turn on a calming playlist, hoping Bug will not decide to tap dance on your bladder while you’re driving.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This is all then, boss?” You groan as you sign the last of the papers. They could have really mentioned on the phone you had to initial about 50 pages too. Your hand is cramped, and the chair is uncomfortable and making your lower back hurt—you don’t even have the energy to give Birch a piece of your mind. You just really want to go back home now. 

“Yes, Dr. Bradshaw.” Your boss nods curtly. “And thanks again for coming in on such short notice in your… condition.” He adds carefully, avoiding looking at you.

You wonder if your hardened former marine boss is scared you’re going to go into labor on his watch, because you have never seen him so awkward.

“Yeah, of course.” You reply, trying your best to conjure up a polite smile, but wincing slightly as you get up. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” You joke poorly, waving your hand trying to get the cramp out.

You bid goodbye to your boss and a few of your colleagues, but your prime motivation is to get out of the Pentagon right now and get home. You’re starting to feel weird, not in your stomach, but in your gut. 

You shouldn’t be here.

As fast as you can, which is not very fast all things considered, you try to make your way back to the car. The pain in your back is getting worse, shooting down your sides. You need to sit down comfortably, you tell yourself, and then it will get better. 

Why is the parking lot so far away? You waddle miserably. Your feet are hurting too now, your soles burning at every step in your too-tight shoes. Finally, you reach the car, panting by now. With a grunt, you clamber into the driver’s seat. 

Finally you can relax. Bug is not having a good time anymore, squirming, probably as uncomfortable as you are currently. It’s making your stomach hurt.

“We’re going home.” You mumble, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Just let me catch my breath, Bug.”

After a few minutes of sitting in the comfortable seat, the pain finally starts to subside. Starting the car, you hum to yourself to keep calm. Just get home.

You barely make it out of the city before you realize you need to pee urgently. There’s a mall just off the main street, as you remember, so you’ll just take an early exit there. You are nearly shaking in your seat as you park and snatch your purse out of the car.

You really think you’re about to burst, and it doesn’t help your feeling increasingly anxious.

You shouldn’t be here. 

You need to get home.

Coming out of the bathroom, your back hurts worse than before, and it’s starting to spread to your stomach. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck. You try not to swear out loud and grimace too much as you wash your hands next to an elderly lady.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” The lady asks, her pearl necklace glimmering in the stark artificial light of the bathroom. Her light gray hair has a faint purple sheen that you are not sure you are imagining. From the corner of your eye, you can see your reflection—you look pallid.

“Ye- yeah, all good.” You force a smile on your face. At that moment, pain suddenly shoots through your abdomen with such severity, you nearly double over. It’s not even the worst of your problems, you realize quickly, as you feel a trickle run down your leg.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

This is not happening.

Breathing rapidly, you grind your teeth helplessly.

“Oh dear,” The lady immediately grabs you by the elbow, helping you upright again. “I think the baby is about ready, sweetie.”

“No.” You utter softly as tears spring in your eyes. “Not yet.”

“Come, let's find you a place to sit and clean up.” She probably didn’t hear you as she starts leading you outside to a bench by the bathroom entrance. “Where’s your husband, sweetie? He should come get you now.”

At the mentions of husbands, you just start pathetically sobbing. “H-he’s not here.” 

“Oh dear.” The kindly lady hands you a tissue to dry your eyes. 

“He’s in the navy, and he’s in fuck-fucking Florida until next week.” Your words are coming out punctuated by sobs. “S- so the baby can’t come yet.” You add, urgently, trying to dry your eyes.

“Who can I call for you?” She asks gently, as she rubs your back. You wince as another wave of pain shoots through you. 

“My sister.” You say weakly, reaching into your pocket to dig out your phone. No matter how much you want to call Bradley right this minute, you also know that there is very little he can do all the way from Pensacola. Beth needs to come to get you. So she better pick up.

Every time the phone rings and Beth is not picking up, your anxiety ramps up further. The bench you’re sitting on is uncomfortable, the wooden slats digging into your sore back and you’re having trouble catching your breath as your shaking fingers nervously pluck at your unbuttoned coat.

“Why isn’t she picking up?” You breathe, bending your head forward. Black spots are appearing in your vision.

“You need to calm down.” A kind voice is telling you. You know. But you can’t control it. There is one thought permeating over everything else. 

Not yet.

The lady’s voice sounds far away, as you clutch your head, trying to desperately not have your vision go completely black on you. But you don’t know how to reason yourself back from the edge at this point, not seeing a solution to your predicament or grounding yourself in logic and pragmatism to deal with the problem at hand.

You need Bradley.

“Sweetie, I’m calling you an ambulance.” The voice sounds like it’s on the other end of a bad connection. But you manage to nod. 

You only sort of remember flashes of everything after that. Another person talking to you, laying down on a stretcher, clutching your bag, more voices, and then a silent room.

Bug is okay. That’s all you really remember, and it’s all you really care to remember right now. 

If you just lay here, and wait, Bradley will come for you. You hope he won’t be mad at you for going to work so close to your due date, and then having a panic attack when your water broke. You’re already mad enough at yourself.

You asked to nurses to try and call him, but they keep telling you no one is picking up. They reached your sister at least. Oh, joy.

Beth of course comes in all guns blazing. You see her husband scurry away with little Emma in his arms after he says hi to you. Smart man. You wish you could hide under the bed.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Beth seethes. Jesus, why is she so angry? You sit up, sending her a withering look.

“What?” You reply curtly. The nurse implored you to stay calm so your blood pressure wouldn’t rise too much. 

“What? What?” Beth stalks up to the foot end of your bed, pointing her finger at you accusingly. “Darcy, have you gone completely insane? Can you not be left unsupervised for one afternoon? Seriously, who are you, and what have you done to my sensible sister? Does Bradley get custody of your brain cells when he is deployed or something? Jesus Christ.” 

You’re not going to get in a word edgewise right now, so you don’t even try.

“You nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack. What the hell am I supposed to think when the hospital is trying to urgently reach me? But what a fucking surprise! It’s a hospital in D.C.! A place my dear darling sister has no business being.” 

Still not saying anything, you avert your eyes. 

“What were you doing in D.C.? And I swear to fuck, Darce, if you say it has anything to do with work, I will not hesitate and burn your book collection.” 

At that, you choke back a sob. You feel so guilty, it’s starting to consume you. If you had stayed home and relaxed like you were supposed to, you probably wouldn’t have gone into labor yet. Beth is right to be angry with you. Bradley will probably be. You promised you’d be careful, you promised you’d take it easy, you promised yourself you would hold out until he would be back. 

“No, but seriously, have you lost all common sense? Do you need a -” Beth finally stops her tirade short as she sees you cry silently, not even bothering to defend yourself. She’s seen you cry plenty of times before, hell, she’s made you cry a lot of those times. But never like this. Never like you’ve given up. You always fight back, you are always doing something. Usually, it’s Beth who tries to stop you from completely overdoing things. But now you’re just sitting there crying.

“Darcy- Darce, what the hell?” She walks around the bed and sits down next to you. “You are freaking me out now.” She tells you seriously, as she grabs your hand. You just shake your head as tears stream down your face. “Have you reached Bradley yet?” She asks, her voice a lot softer.

You shake your head. “He’s still not picking up”

“And?”

“And what?” You sob softly.

“Since when have you ever given up at the first hurdle?” Beth pushes. “Really, you got married, knocked up and now you’re going to sit pretty? I’m disappointed, honestly.”

Something dangerous flashes in your eyes as you turn to look at her, drawing a shuddering breath. Gotcha. She’s going for the jugular now.

“No, really, I mean—you’re just going to wait around for your husband like this? I’m sure he’s appreciating all your efforts to get in touch with him as soon as possible.” Beth sneers at you.

“What the fuck, Beth?!” You suddenly screech, ripping your hand from hers. Fuck staying calm. You need to urgently throttle your younger sister. “You’re supposed to be on my side here! Can you for once in your life not antagonize the ever-loving shit out of me? I’m in pain, I already feel like shit, and I’m alone here! I know—I fucking know—it’s my screw-up.” Your voice is raw from crying. “Why are you so fucking hell-bent on kicking me when I’m down? Can’t you just be here for me, for once—just this fucking once?” 

“Because you are being ridiculous, and no one but me will tell you that!” Beth matches your volume easily. “You don’t sit here just because Bradley’s not picking up his phone. Do what you always do. Do what do best, you dumb bitch. Organize a fucking solution.”

With that, she snatches your phone from the table next to the bed and pushes it into your chest. “I’m going to get a coffee. Let me know if you need help.” Beth cuts at you with an eerie calmness as she gets up and walks out the door without as much as a look back at you.

You sigh heavily, rubbing your stomach. “Let’s figure out a way to let daddy know you’re early, Bug.”

There are many things you didn’t anticipate about going into labor. How long it would take, how painful it would be, to name a few. But mostly, you didn’t anticipate having to argue and beg your way up your husband’s chain of command before you reach someone that could actually reliably relay the message to him, urgently.

For the last ten minutes, you’ve been arguing with Simpson’s assistant, who seems deeply unwilling to either put you through or to confirm he will forward the message to the admiral.

“He’s supervising training maneuvers now.” He tells you in a bored tone. “So it will have to wait.”

You push yourself off the bed, and start pacing. “Lister here -” you stop yourself before you call him a little shit. “Lieutenant.” You add after a suspiciously long pause. “I know he’s supervising the maneuvers. My husband is the one flying them.” 

“Well, I can’t patch you through to the jet, not from a civilian phone.” He replies in the same bored tone.

“I’m not asking for that, am I?” You grind out as a contraction stops you dead in your tracks. Your face twists in pain and anger. “Tell admiral Simpson Dr. Bradshaw needs to speak to him urgently. He knows who I am.” 

You are banking on Simpson actually taking the call based on what Bradley told you. If he actually gives Bradley the message, you will willingly edit any brain fart Simpson puts to paper for publication. You swear under your breath.

Finally you hear the hold tone. You let out a deep breath as much to steel yourself for hopefully the last leg of this telephone journey, as well as to help abate some of the shooting pain. 

“Dr. Bradshaw!” Simpson is entirely too jovial for the current situation. Calm. You need to stay calm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Rooster, Rooster—this is tower, come in.”

“Come in, tower.” 

It’s been an absolutely grueling day of flying. Bradley is tired and in pain and glad to be on the way back. He wants a shower, bed, and you on the phone.

Cyclone better not have him on paperwork or other stupid errands today.

“Rooster, this is Cyclone from tower.”

Fuck. Cyclone only calls in to complain or heap on additional bullshit to his day.

“Copy, Cyclone.” Bradley tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Your wife called, Rooster. She’s in labor.” Cyclone’s message is wholly unemotional like he’s simply updating Bradley on changing weather conditions.

“Copy that.” It’s almost comical that that’s the only thing Bradley can come up with to say, more because it’s second nature, rather than him acutally parsing what was just said to him. But how do you react in a moment like this? 

He needs to call you.

He needs to talk to you. 

If he can’t be there physically, which pains him more than he cares to admit right now as his hands tighten around the steering, he wants to at least to be able to talk to you.

Shit.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He is supposed to be there with you. Bradley knows how scared you are and how much you tried to hide it. 

He is not supposed to be here.

“Rooster, return to base urgently.” Cyclone orders him. Bradley replies affirmative, breaking formation and speeding up. He has no idea what is going on right now. A million things are running through his head, but most of all he wants to turn his jet around and blast north toward Virginia. Rationally, he knows that it’s out of the range a fully fueled F18 can fly, and his tanks are running near empty. 

That feeling of powerlessness is creeping up on him again. You are almost a 1000 miles away, and he has no manner of reaching you, despite sitting in a fighter jet. The clock is running, you are alone, and he can’t do anything.

When Bradley touches down, he’s a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of the squadron, who were ordered to stay on speed and formation. As he taxis into the bay, he notices, to his utter confusion, Cyclone jogging across the tarmac followed by his sour-faced assistant.

Bradley has a sinking feeling in his stomach. This can only mean Cyclone is pissed about something that happened in the training, and Bradley is about to be dragged into a painfully long debrief. It’s just his luck today.

He shouldn’t be here.

“Rooster!” Cyclone is hollering at him and waving his arm frantically the moment the canopy lifts.

Bradley starts climbing out of the cockpit, bracing himself for the inevitable dressing down. The moment his feet reach the ground, he hasn’t even unclipped his helmet yet, Cyclone is yelling at him to hurry up as he is making a beeline towards him. Hurry up? For what?

Is there something wrong with you? Is that why he was ordered to land? Is that why Cyclone is running across the tarmac yelling? Is it something he absolutely could not be told in while in the air?

Bradley stands rooted to the ground as he watches Cyclone approach, who is now gesturing wildly at him to also start running.

“Rooster, move your ass already!” Cyclone yells so loudly, that several engineers look up in surprise.

Almost automatically, Bradley starts running in the same direction as Cyclone and his assistant, his muscles protesting heavily against the sudden motion.

“What the fuck is going on?” He blurts out, adrenaline rushing through his body, every sense in overdrive.

“There’s a transporter leaving for D.C. in -” Cyclone quickly looks at his watch as he tries to catch his breath. “Two minutes.”

The assistant trusts a paper in Bradley’s hands. “Emergency 48-hour leave.” He deadpans.

“Wha- what is going on?!” Bradley exclaims angrily, clutching the paper forcibly as he slows down his run. Emergency leave? A plane to D.C.? However, instead of answering, Cyclone grabs him by the elbow and practically starts dragging him along to the second taxiway. 

“Your wife is in labor. You’re getting emergency leave.” Cyclone grinds out. “And a “thank you sir” would be nice.” 

“Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” Bradley asks hurriedly instead, completely ignoring Cyclone’s comment about showing respect, because his need to know that you are both okay is really the only thing he really cares about right now.

“She sounded fine.” The assistant butts in. 

Cyclone is now practically pushing him up the ramp of the transporter plane. The loader is waving at Bradley with hurried motions to get in. 

Over the sound of the roaring engines, he hears Cyclone yell: “She’s at The Virginia Hospital Centerl!”

Bradley puts up his thumb. “Thank you, sir!” He yells back.

“And kindly remind Dr. Bradshaw she owes me one!” Cyclone adds, grinning, as the ramp is closing.

Owe him one? What? Bradley is even more confused than he was less than a minute ago. Why are you not at the hospital you had picked together in the first place? Isn’t VHC in D.C.? It doesn’t really matter right now. At least he knows you and Bug are okay, and he’s on his way to you.

However.

He doesn’t have his phone, he doesn’t even have his wallet. All he has on him right now is his military ID. How the fuck is he supposed to get to the hospital from the air base?

As he straps in, Bradley can’t help but wonder: did he just get washed up by the Cyclone?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You shuffle around your hospital room miserably, while your sister chills in one of the chairs playing with her phone. The nurses have been checking up on you regularly, but your blood pressure is pretty steady now and everything seems to be progressing normally. A particularly strict-looking nurse reprimanded both you and your sister quite harshly for making such a scene in the maternity ward. Honestly, she was right to do so.

The contractions are coming more often and more severely. Your lower back is killing you, but you’ve been told it’s still too early to give you any medication. 

After you managed to get through Simpson, he was quick to promise to inform Bradley about your condition, but then promptly went on to ignore you were in labor and talked your ear of about something he wanted to publish. 

Exasperated and in pain, you promised you would look over his writings at the earliest convenience, spelled out your email address between gritted teeth as a contraction thundered through your lower body. At this point, you would have probably promised your firstborn—well, no, not that, but anything else—so you could at least talk to Bradley.

So now you are desperately waiting for Bradley to call you. It’s been almost two hours since you’ve spoken to Simpson, surely he’s not still flying? When you try to call him, his phone just rings and rings before switching over to voice mail, like it’s been doing all day. Where is Bradley? 

Unhappily, you push yourself to accept he won’t be here with you, but that you won’t even be able to talk to him? That’s cruel.

Waddling back to your bed, you slide in, pulling the cover over yourself. The nurse mentioned she would get you a hospital gown soon, since you had absolutely nothing with you. There are so many things you have to think about, but your brain is not cooperating anymore. All you can think about is how miserable you are—in pain and lonely. Beth keeps telling you to suck it up, but you don’t want to. You get to be sad if you want to.

Of course you are happy that Bug is coming. That’s not the point. But there are so many things running through your head, it’s hard to focus on the positive side of it all. You should ask your brother-in-law to drive down to your house and get your overnight bag. You need to figure out how to get back to the Bronco too, as that’s the only car with a baby seat. Personally, you think your brother-in-law is kind of a shit driver, so you’d rather not resort to him picking the Bronco up. Then there’s paperwork. Forms, informed consent, insurance—if you have to sign one more fucking thing today you will scream.

It’s too much.

Pulling the blanket over your head, you curl up, trying to stave off the pain in your lower body. Bradley’s shirt still smells like him. Sadly you consider if this is the closest he is going to be here today.

“Beth?” You mumble from under the blanket, voice thick with tears. 

“Yeah?” Beth finally looks up from her phone. It’s concerning her how much you seem to be suffering from Bradley not being here—you were always independent, on top of everything, and you sure as hell didn’t mope around this much. You told her you were scared of going into labor alone, and Beth understands that. And she feels sorry for you, but never has she seen you behave like this, and it’s actually kind of freaking her out.

“Can you please ask Erik to get my overnight bag from home?” Your voice is quivering. “Everything is in there, it’s right by the door.”

“Yeah, of course.” Beth gets up and walks up to the bed. She gently lifts the cover to look at you. Your bloodshot eyes look back at her. “Do you need anything else, Darce?” She asks as she squats down, so she’s at eye level with you. You shake your head. 

“We’re in this together, okay? I know I’m not the person you want here.” Beth tells you gently, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “But you can do this, I know you do. And I’m here for you.”

“Thank you.” You whisper. “And you are a close second, don’t worry.” You try to joke through your tears. Beth laughs softly.

“It’s okay, I’d pick your hot husband over you too.” She winks at you. You groan in disgust.

“I’m telling Erik you said that.” 

“Too late, I already texted him to go get your bag.” Beth waves her hand dismissively. “He’s taking Emma with him, hopefully she falls asleep in the car for a while.”

It’s getting dark outside already. You sigh. This morning at home feels like a distant memory already.

Still wrapped in your blanket cocoon, Beth continues stroking your forehead and talking you through breathing exercises. It’s helping you relax finally. You close your eyes and just focus on Beth’s gentle voice. It feels like you're falling in and out microsleep, Beth’s voice becoming so distant at moments you cannot make out the words before a contraction pulls you back to the present. As the pain ebbs away, so does your consciousness. 

It must be the third or fourth cycle of micro sleep you fall into, Beth softly humming now, when you swear you can hear Bradley’s voice. You cannot make out what he is saying, because it sounds like he’s in a different room, but it’s unmistakably him. 

A warmth fills you. You missed his voice, and he sounds so close, like he can come in at any moment. Soon, another contraction will pull you away from his voice. You try to direct your sleepy brain to focus on Bradley to bring him closer. It’s working. His voice is becoming louder—he’s talking to someone. He sounds annoyed. There’s no reason to be annoyed, babe, you think. It’s all good. You’re here. Come here. I need you.

The door clicks open. It’s like the floodgates open. You can hear Bradley’s voice clear as day now—and he’s really annoyed. Seriously, the best your brain can come up with when you miss your husband is him being annoyed? Sad.

“What the shit?” Beth utters in disbelief, as she suddenly gets up, waking you up fully. You finally open your eyes, only to see Beth staring at the door behind you.

You can still hear Bradley talk, although you are now sure you are awake.

Shooting up, arms flailing, the covers slide onto the floor. Beth grabs your arm to steady you.

You’ve lost your mind.

Your brain is 100% broken now.

Did they give you morphine anyway? Are you fucking hallucinating?

Because in the doorway is Bradley, still in full flight gear—g-suit still zipped over his flight suit and helmet in his hand. His hair is messy and flattened at weird angles, like he only just pulled the helmet off. He’s towering over the strict nurse and arguing with her. She’s not giving him an inch.

“She needs rest! You can’t just barge in like that.” She’s admonishing him, pointing her finger in your general direction. “And only one visitor in the room!”

“I know she needs rest—that’s why I’m here.” Bradley bites back. “And I’m not a visitor, I’m her husband, and that’s my child.”

“What the fuck.” You don’t realize you say it so loudly, every falls silent and looks at you.

“I’ll wait in the hall.” Beth says hurriedly as she scurries away to the door, followed by the strict nurse, that throws one final venomous look at Bradley who is completely ignoring her now.

So others clearly can see him too, right?

You start clambering out of the bed as fast as you can, padding over to him barefoot, needing some sort of confirmation Bradley is really, actually here, and you’ve not finally and definitively cracked. 

Your arms snake around his neck as you pull him close to you. He feels so real, he smells like jet fuel and winter air, but his skin is just as warm as you remember. Bradley doesn’t say anything, just wrapping you in his arms and pressing kisses along your jaw. 

“What are you doing here?”

Bradley stops dead in his tracks. Not the question he was expecting. He pulls back, so he can see your face, but you cling to him, your fingers digging into his arms like you’re scared he’s going to turn to smoke in your arms.

“Didn’t Cyclone tell you he gave me 48-hour emergency leave and practically threw me onto a transporter headed to D.C.?” Bradley asks with a slight chuckle. “I had to pull rank on some poor private to drive me here from Anacostia-Bolling airbase—I don’t have my phone, wallet, nothing.”

You’re looking at him completely slack-jawed, blinking rapidly. Finally, the neurons in your brain start firing again.

Fucking Simpson. Figures.

“You know what?” You sigh, before smiling up at him. “Tell me another time. I’m just glad you’re really here. I need you.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bug is born just after midnight. A healthy baby boy with all ten fingers and ten toes.

Bradley doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to hear a baby cry. And he’s never been so goddamn proud in his life: of you, of the little life you both created, and again of you because you did all the hard work. He’s half-sitting next to you on the bed when you collapse back on the pillows behind you, and he whispers to you how much he loves you, how proud he is, and how well you did.

You open your tired eyes for a moment. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” You breathe.

“Yes, you could have, darlin’.” He counters with a smile as he wipes the fresh sweat off your forehead. 

“And here’s baby boy Bradshaw!” The nurse announces happily, as she gently pulls the top of your gown down and puts the baby against your skin before covering you with the baby blanket you and Bradley bought months ago. 

You feel your heart soar. So small, so warm, and finally here. You tear your eyes away from your little Bug just for a second to see Bradley’s reaction. He looks completely awestruck, tears forming in his eyes. Tears spring in your eyes too as you watch his index finger run over your son’s cheek in a feather-light touch.

“Hey Bug.” He whispers. You never felt like your life was incomplete. But in a certain way, it feels like it’s naturally more complete now than it was before, like more puzzle pieces are sliding into place around you. “I’m so glad to see you.” You add softly.

It’s hours later when you are sitting up in bed, across from your sister, sharing a pile of snacks from the vending machine. Only the bedside lamp is on. You are not only starving, but also wide awake, hyper-aware of every sound and move Bug is making. Bradley is getting some much-needed shut-eye in the recliner with Bug sleeping on his bare chest. 

You honestly didn’t think you could fall in love any more with that man, but the way he is gently cradling your son in his large arms, the way he looks at him like he’s the most special little thing in the whole wide world and how he keeps repeating how you made him and how proud he is of you is honestly messing with your head in the best kind of way. You feel like you’ve fallen in love with him for the first time, over and over again today.

“So, do you think all these nurses coming to check up on you all night are here because of your fancy insurance,” Beth asks, grinning as she pops an M&M in her mouth. “Or they’re just coming to gawk at him?” She jerks her head to the side where Bradley just fell asleep.

Bug is under his blanket, sleeping on Bradley’s bare chest, his fight suit tied around his waist. The blanket that had been draped over them has fallen off one of Bradley’s shoulders, revealing his muscular chest and the subtle movement of his abdomen as he breathes. 

You snort. 

“Well, he’s a good-looking daddy.” You shrug as you take a sip from your Fanta.

“Jesus Christ, Darce - TMI.” Beth guffaws. You shush her, unable to keep yourself from laughing too. There is something strange about having a girl’s night with your sister in a hospital bed when you’ve given birth just hours ago. But here you are, giggling like teenagers.

Bug starts squirming and softly crying, and while you both quiet down, Bradley wakes up right away. He starts shushing and rocking Bug, who’s not having it. 

“He’s probably hungry, babe.” You say, wiping your hands on a tissue before reaching out to him. Carefully Bradley places Bug in your arms.

“How are you two not tired?” He asks, rubbing his eyes. You shrug, you are too full of wonder, too full of love—and actually just way too wired—to go to sleep.

“I have a toddler.” Beth laughs as she gets up from the bed to give you some privacy. “Do you really think I’ve had a full night’s sleep in the last three years?” 

“Now’s not the time to regale us with your horror stories with Emma.” You warn Beth, still laughing lightly as you try Bug to latch onto your breast. Bradley sits down close to you on the bed.

“You want anything else from the vending machine?” Beth asks from the doorway.

“Nah, we’re good.” You reply absentmindedly, still focussed on Bug.

“We’re good, right?” You ask fondly, meeting Bradley’s eyes. You’re not even really asking about the snacks anymore.

“I think we’re great.” He agrees, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

note | oh damn, it's actually really done now :( I have no more stories to tell for these two. I hope you enjoyed this adventure, and that the ending didn't disappoint! (I tell myself it had to age a bit like a wine). If you'd like to read more of my stories, I'm currently working on a WWII AU called Of All The Stars In The Sky.

taglist | @ponyboys-sunsets | @thatchickwiththecamera | @littlewhiterose | @katieshook02 | @straightforwardly | @zazzysseoul | @rororo06 | @datingbtr | @notalxx | @fresh-new-yoik-watah | @gretagerwigsmuse  | @swthxrry | @joshkiskasbunion | @caelipartem | @blackbrownie | @yanak324 | @unluckymonaghan | @letusbewildflowers | @ticklish-leafy-plant | @alana4610 | @eg-dr3amer3 | @turningtoclown | @mell-bell | @mak-32 | @avis15 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut

[haze-of-hyperfixations]

🍄, 🦴, and 🧩 for the writers ask game

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

(i have so many headcanons about every dynamic ever, and they all conveniently vanish the moment i am asked to name one, ha.)

hmm....for Perimedes and Elpenor from Epic the Musical, i have a headcanon that they're in a qpr. and yeah, i know that's modern terminology and they are from ancient greece. (i did a research paper about qprs once, fun fact.) but also: a. you don't need a modern explanation of a concept for that concept to exist in a historical context. b. Perimedes uses the word "yeet" in his cut song, rendering any arguments about historical accuracy invalid. c. i'm having fun and no one can stop me. :)

i also think the idea of Perimedes sometimes calling Elpenor "El" is cute. <3

🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?

oh, there's a lot. my writing in general is inspired by a lot of media. but my venture into the world of ao3 in the first place was because of this series:

and, if i remember correctly, it really inspired me to start getting more into fic writing. it probably also influenced the way i write, since i read it at around the time i was kind of figuring all that out. incredibly good series! <3

as for specific fics, i have so many playlists for inspiration. one of the fics i'm currently working on was completely inspired by the song Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol. (it's a Parallels fic still in my drafts, but if i ever finish it, it's gonna have so much found family trope and it's gonna be great)

oh, and my most recent fic, this one:

you know what inspired it? i was on pinterest, and i saw this photo of eggs:

and i got kinda emotional about how much i liked that photo. idk, i was already in a vaguely-sentimental-fic-writer mood, and that photo somehow just opened the floodgates of ideas in my head. the actual fic is only vaguely related to the photo through the fact that both involve cooking eggs, but nevertheless, some photographer out there is directly responsible for the existence of my current most comforting oneshot for me to reread. and i think that's really neat. i love humanity and art and connection and inspiration. <3

🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

okay, so i tried to think of a new answer to this question, but i couldn't think of one, so i'll just copy-paste my answer from three days ago:

okay, with every answer i try to think of for this one, i immediately think of exceptions. because i have a long track record of being in microscopically small fandoms, and if one of those fandoms got a new fic, there is very, very little that would stop me from reading it to the end. i guess if the entire fic was untagged, very explicit smut, then i would click away immediately. (although most authors i've seen do tag well. so i would probably know without clicking that it's something i won't be really comfortable reading. everyone say thank you for the tag system <3)

yeah, i never really have an interesting answer for this one, ha. i have exactly 2 authors muted on ao3. one was because they had hundreds of fics in many fandom tags that i searched a lot, all of which were exclusively a specific trope that made me really uncomfortable. the other one, i don't remember; no works are showing on the account anymore, but it was probably a similar situation if i felt the need to mute them. other than that, i haven't really been let down by the tag system yet, which i guess is a pretty good thing. :)

thanks for the ask!! :)

[rjalker]

We had been at the South Pole a week. The outside thermometer read fifty degrees below zero, Fahrenheit. The winter was just beginning.

"What do you think we should transmit to McMurdo?" I asked Rizzo.

He put down his magazine and half-sat up in his bunk. For a moment there was silence, except for the nearly inaudible hum of the machinery that jammed our tiny dome, and the muffled shrieking of the ever-present wind, above us.

(read-more was here)

Rizzo looked at the semi-circle of control consoles, computers, and meteorological sensors with an expression of disgust that could be produced only by a drafted soldier.

"Tell 'em it's cold, it's gonna get colder, and we've both got appendicitis and need replacements immediately."

"Very clever," I said, and started touching the buttons that would automatically transmit the sensors' memory tapes.

Rizzo sagged back into his bunk. "Why?" He asked the curved ceiling of our cramped quarters. "Why me? Why here? What did I ever do to deserve spending the whole goddammed winter at the goddammed South Pole?"

"It's strictly impersonal," I assured him. "Some bright young meteorologist back in Washington has convinced the Pentagon that the South Pole is the key to the world's weather patterns. So here we are."

"It doesn't make sense," Rizzo continued, unhearing. His dark, broad-boned face was a picture of wronged humanity. "Everybody knows that when the missiles start flying, they'll be coming over the North Pole…. The goddammed Army is a hundred and eighty degrees off base."

"That's about normal for the Army, isn't it?" I was a drafted soldier, too.

Rizzo swung out of the bunk and paced across the dimly-lit room. It only took a half-dozen paces; the dome was small and most of it was devoted to machinery.

"Don't start acting like a caged lion," I warned. "It's going to be a long winter."

"Yeah, guess so." He sat down next to me at the radio console and pulled a pack of cigarets from his shirt pocket. He offered one to me, and we both smoked in silence for a minute or two.

"Got anything to read?"

I grinned. "Some microspool catalogues of stars."

"Stars?"

"I'm an astronomer … at least, I was an astronomer, before the National Emergency was proclaimed."

Rizzo looked puzzled. "But I never heard of you."

"Why should you?"

"I'm an astronomer too."

"I thought you were an electronicist."

He pumped his head up and down. "Yeah … at the radio astronomy observatory at Greenbelt. Project OZMA. Where do you work?"

"Lick Observatory … with the 120-inch reflector."

"Oh … an optical astronomer."

"Certainly."

"You're the first optical man I've met." He looked at me a trifle queerly.

I shrugged. "Well, we've been around a few millennia longer than you static-scanners."

"Yeah, guess so."

"I didn't realize that Project OZMA was still going on. Have you had any results yet?"

It was Rizzo's turn to shrug. "Nothing yet. The project has been shelved for the duration of the emergency, of course. If there's no war, and the dish doesn't get bombed out, we'll try again."

"Still listening to the same two stars?"

"Yeah … Tau Ceti and Epsilon Eridani. They're the only two Sun-type stars within reasonable range that might have planets like Earth."

"And you expect to pick up radio signals from an intelligent race."

"Hope to."

I flicked the ash off my cigaret. "You know, it always struck me as rather hopeless … trying to find radio signals from intelligent creatures."

"Whattaya mean, hopeless?"

"Why should an intelligent race send radio signals out into interstellar space?" I asked. "Think of the power it requires, and the likelihood that it's all wasted effort, because there's no one within range to talk to."

"Well … it's worth a try, isn't it … if you think there could be intelligent creatures somewhere else … on a planet of another star."

"Hmph. We're trying to find another intelligent race; are we transmitting radio signals?"

"No," he admitted. "Congress wouldn't vote the money for a transmitter that big."

"Exactly," I said. "We're listening, but not transmitting."

Rizzo wasn't discouraged. "Listen, the chances—just on statistical figuring alone—the chances are that there're millions of other solar systems with intelligent life. We've got to try contacting them! They might have knowledge that we don't have … answers to questions that we can't solve yet…."

"I completely agree," I said. "But listening for radio signals is the wrong way to do it."

"Huh?"

"Radio broadcasting requires too much power to cover interstellar distances efficiently. We should be looking for signals, not listening for them."

"Looking?"

"Lasers," I said, pointing to the low-key lights over the consoles. "Optical lasers. Super-lamps shining out in the darkness of the void. Pump in a modest amount of electrical power, excite a few trillion atoms, and out comes a coherent, pencil-thin beam of light that can be seen for millions of miles."

"Millions of miles aren't lightyears," Rizzo muttered.

"We're rapidly approaching the point where we'll have lasers capable of lightyear ranges. I'm sure that some intelligent race somewhere in this galaxy has achieved the necessary technology to signal from star to star—by light beams."

"Then how come we haven't seen any?" Rizzo demanded.

"Perhaps we already have."

"What?"

"We've observed all sorts of variable stars—Cepheids, RR Lyrae's, T Tauri's. We assume that what we see are stars, pulsating and changing brightness for reasons that are natural, but unexplainable to us. Now, suppose what we are really viewing are laser beams, signalling from planets that circle stars too faint to be seen from Earth?"

In spite of himself, Rizzo looked intrigued.

"It would be fairly simple to examine the spectra of such light sources and determine whether they're natural stars or artificial laser beams."

"Have you tried it?"

I nodded.

"And?"

I hesitated long enough to make him hold his breath, waiting for my answer. "No soap. Every variable star I've examined is a real star."

He let out his breath in a long, disgusted puff. "Ahhh, you were kidding all along. I thought so."

"Yes," I said. "I suppose I was."

Time dragged along in the weather dome. I had managed to smuggle a small portable telescope along with me, and tried to make observations whenever possible. But the weather was usually too poor. Rizzo, almost in desperation for something to do, started to build an electronic image-amplifier for me.

Our one link with the rest of the world was our weekly radio message from McMurdo. The times for the messages were randomly scrambled, so that the chances of their being intercepted or jammed were lessened. And we were ordered to maintain strict radio silence.

As the weeks sloughed on, we learned that one of our manned satellites had been boarded by the Reds at gunpoint. Our space-crews had put two Red automated spy-satellites out of commission. Shots had been exchanged on an ice-island in the Arctic. And six different nations were testing nuclear bombs.

We didn't get any mail of course. Our letters would be waiting for us at McMurdo when we were relieved. I thought about Gloria and our two children quite a bit, and tried not to think about the blast and fallout patterns in the San Francisco area, where they were.

"My wife hounded me until I spent pretty nearly every damned cent I had on a shelter, under the house," Rizzo told me. "Damned shelter is fancier than the house. She's the social leader of the disaster set. If we don't have a war, she's gonna feel damned silly."

I said nothing.

The weather cleared and steadied for a while (days and nights were indistinguishable during the long Antarctic winter) and I split my time evenly between monitoring the meteorological sensors and observing the stars. The snow had covered the dome completely, of course, but our "snorkel" burrowed through it and out into the air.

"This dome's just like a submarine, only we're submerged in snow instead of water," Rizzo observed. "I just hope we don't sink to the bottom."

"The calculations show that we'll be all right."

He made a sour face. "Calculations proved that airplanes would never get off the ground."

The storms closed in again, but by the time they cleared once more, Rizzo had completed the image-amplifier for me. Now, with the tiny telescope I had, I could see almost as far as a professional instrument would allow. I could even lie comfortably in my bunk, watch the amplifier's viewscreen, and control the entire set-up remotely.

Then it happened.

At first it was simply a curiosity. An oddity.

I happened to be studying a Cepheid variable star—one of the huge, very bright stars that pulsate so regularly that you can set your watch by them. It had attracted my attention because it seemed to be unusually close for a Cepheid—only 700 lightyears away. The distance could be easily gauged by timing the star's pulsations.[1]

I talked Rizzo into helping me set up a spectrometer. We scavenged shamelessly from the dome's spare parts bin and finally produced an instrument that would break up the light of the star into its component wavelengths, and thereby tell us much about the star's chemical composition and surface temperature.

At first I didn't believe what I saw.

The star's spectrum—a broad rainbow of colors—was criss-crossed with narrow dark lines. That was all right. They're called absorption lines; the Sun has thousands of them in its spectrum. But one line—one—was an insolently bright emission line. All the laws of physics and chemistry said it couldn't be there.

But it was.

We photographed the star dozens of times. We checked our instruments ceaselessly. I spent hours scanning the star's "official" spectrum in the microspool reader. The bright emission line was not on the catalogue spectrum. There was nothing wrong with our instruments.

Yet the bright line showed up. It was real.

"I don't understand it," I admitted. "I've seen stars with bright emission spectra before, but a single bright line in an absorption spectrum! It's unheard-of. One single wavelength … one particular type of atom at one precise energy-level … why? Why is it emitting energy when the other wavelengths aren't?"

Rizzo was sitting on his bunk, puffing a cigaret. He blew a cloud of smoke at the low ceiling. "Maybe it's one of those laser signals you were telling me about a couple weeks ago."

I scowled at him. "Come on, now. I'm serious. This thing has me puzzled."

"Now wait a minute … you're the one who said radio astronomers were straining their ears for nothing. You're the one who said we ought to be looking. So look!" He was enjoying his revenge.

I shook my head, and turned back to the meteorological equipment.

But Rizzo wouldn't let up. "Suppose there's an intelligent race living on a planet near a Cepheid variable star. They figure that any other intelligent creatures would have astronomers who'd be curious about their star, right? So they send out a laser signal that matches the star's pulsations. When you look at the star, you see their signal. What's more logical?"

"All right," I groused. "You've had your joke…."

"Tell you what," he insisted. "Let's put that one wavelength into an oscilloscope and see if a definite signal comes out. Maybe it'll spell out 'Take me to your leader' or something."

I ignored him and turned my attention to Army business. The meteorological equipment was functioning perfectly, but our orders read that one of us had to check it every twelve hours. So I checked and tried to keep my eyes from wandering as Rizzo tinkered with a photocell and oscilloscope.

"There we are," he said, at length. "Now let's see what they're telling us."

In spite of myself I looked up at the face of the oscilloscope. A steady, gradually sloping greenish line was traced across the screen.

"No message," I said.

Rizzo shrugged elaborately.

"If you leave the 'scope on for two days, you'll find that the line makes a full swing from peak to null," I informed him. "The star pulsates every two days, bright to dim."

"Let's turn up the gain," he said, and he flicked a few knobs on the front of the 'scope.

The line didn't change at all.

"What's the sweep speed?" I asked.

"One nanosecond per centimeter." That meant that each centimeter-wide square on the screen's face represented one billionth of a second. There are as many nanoseconds in one second as there are seconds in thirty-two years.

"Well, if you don't get a signal at that sensitivity, there just isn't any signal there," I said.

Rizzo nodded. He seemed slightly disappointed that his joke was at an end. I turned back to the meteorological instruments, but I couldn't concentrate on them. Somehow I felt disappointed, too. Subconsciously, I suppose, I had been hoping that Rizzo actually would detect a signal from the star. Fool! I told myself. But what could explain that bright emission line? I glanced up at the oscilloscope again.

And suddenly the smooth steady line broke into a jagged series of millions of peaks and nulls!

I stared at it.

Rizzo was back on his bunk again, reading one of his magazines. I tried to call him, but the words froze in my throat. Without taking my eyes from the flickering 'scope, I reached out and touched his arm.

He looked up.

"Holy Mother of God," Rizzo whispered.

For a long time we stared silently at the fluttering line dancing across the oscilloscope screen, bathing our tiny dome in its weird greenish light. It was eerily fascinating, hypnotic. The line never stood still; it jabbered and stuttered, a series of millions of little peaks and nulls, changing almost too fast for the eye to follow, up and down, calling to us, speaking to us, up, down, never still, never quiet, constantly flickering its unknown message to us.

The line never stood still; millions of little peaks and nulls calling to us, speaking to us, never still, never quiet, constantly flickering its unknown message to us.

"Can it be … people?" Rizzo wondered. His face, bathed in the greenish light, was suddenly furrowed, withered, ancient: a mixture of disbelief and fear.

"What else could it be?" I heard my own voice answer. "There's no other explanation possible."

We sat mutely for God knows how long.

Finally Rizzo asked, "What do we do now?"

The question broke our entranced mood. What do we do? What action do we take? We're thinking men, and we've been contacted by other creatures that can think, reason, send a signal across seven hundred lightyears of space. So don't just sit there in stupified awe. Use your brain, prove that you're worthy of the tag sapiens.

"We decode the message," I announced. Then, as an after-thought, "But don't ask me how."

We should have called McMurdo, or Washington. Or perhaps we should have attempted to get a message through to the United Nations. But we never even thought of it. This was our problem. Perhaps it was the sheer isolation of our dome that kept us from thinking about the rest of the world. Perhaps it was sheer luck.

"If they're using lasers," Rizzo reasoned, "they must have a technology something like ours."

"Must have had," I corrected. "That message is seven hundred years old, remember. They were playing with lasers when King John was signing the Magna Charta and Genghis Khan owned most of Asia. Lord knows what they have now."

Rizzo blanched and reached for another cigaret.

I turned back to the oscilloscope. The signal was still flashing across its face.

"They're sending out a signal," I mused, "probably at random. Just beaming it out into space, hoping that someone, somewhere will pick it up. It must be in some form of code … but a code that they feel can be easily cracked by anyone with enough intelligence to realize that there's a message there."

"Sort of an interstellar Morse code."

I shook my head. "Morse code depends on both sides knowing the code. There's no key."

"Cryptographers crack codes."

"Sure. If they know what language is being used. We don't know the language, we don't know the alphabet, the thought processes … nothing."

"But it's a code that can be cracked easily," Rizzo muttered.

"Yes," I agreed. "Now what the hell kind of a code can they assume will be known to another race that they've never seen?"

Rizzo leaned back on his bunk and his face was lost in shadows.

"An interstellar code," I rambled on. "Some form of presenting information that would be known to almost any race intelligent enough to understand lasers…."

"Binary!" Rizzo snapped, sitting up on the bunk.

"What?"

"Binary code. To send a signal like this, they've gotta be able to write a message in units that're only a billionth of a second long. That takes computers. Right? Well, if they have computers, they must figure that we have computers. Digital computers run on binary code. Off or on … go or no-go. It's simple. I'll bet we can slap that signal on a tape and run it through our computer here."

"To assume that they use computers exactly like ours…."

"Maybe the computers are completely different," Rizzo said excitedly, "but the binary code is basic to them all. I'll bet on that! And this computer we've got here—this transistorized baby—she can handle more information than the whole Army could feed into her. I'll bet nothing has been developed anywhere that's better for handling simple one-plus-one types of operations."

I shrugged. "All right. It's worth a trial."

It took Rizzo a few hours to get everything properly set up. I did some arithmetic while he worked. If the message was in binary code, that meant that every cycle of the signal—every flick of the dancing line on our screen—carried a bit of information. The signal's wavelength was 5000 Angstroms; there are a hundred million Angstrom units to the centimeter; figuring the speed of light … the signal could carry, in theory at least, something like 600 trillion bits of information per second.

I told Rizzo.

"Yeah, I know. I've been going over the same numbers in my head." He set a few switches on the computer control board. "Now let's see how many of the 600 trillion we can pick up." He sat down before the board and pressed a series of buttons.

We watched, hardly breathing, as the computer's spools began spinning and the indicator lights flashed across the control board. Within a few minutes, the printer chugged to life.

Rizzo swivelled his chair over to the printer and held up the unrolling sheet in a trembling hand.

Numbers. Six-digit numbers. Completely meaningless.

"Gibberish," Rizzo snapped.

It was peculiar. I felt relieved and disappointed at the same time.

"Something's screwy," Rizzo said. "Maybe I fouled up the circuits…."

"I don't think so," I answered. "After all, what did you expect out of the computer? Shakespearean poetry?"

"No, but I expected numbers that would make some sense. One and one, maybe. Something that means something. This stuff is nowhere."

Our nerves must have really been wound tight, because before we knew it we were in the middle of a nasty argument—and it was over nothing, really. But in the middle of it:

"Hey, look," Rizzo shouted, pointing to the oscilloscope.

The message had stopped. The 'scope showed only the calm, steady line of the star's basic two-day-long pulsation.

It suddenly occurred to us that we hadn't slept for more than 36 hours, and we were both exhausted. We forgot the senseless argument. The message was ended. Perhaps there would be another; perhaps not. We had the telescope, spectrometer, photocell, oscilloscope, and computer set to record automatically. We collapsed into our bunks. I suppose I should have had monumental dreams. I didn't. I slept like a dead man.

When we woke up, the oscilloscope trace was still quiet.

"Y'know," Rizzo muttered, "it might just be a fluke … I mean, maybe the signals don't mean a damned thing. The computer is probably translating nonsense into numbers just because it's built to print out numbers and nothing else."

"Not likely," I said. "There are too many coincidences to be explained. We're receiving a message, I'm certain of it. Now we've got to crack the code."

As if to reinforce my words, the oscilloscope trace suddenly erupted into the same flickering pattern. The message was being sent again.

We went through two weeks of it. The message would run through for seven hours, then stop for seven. We transcribed it on tape 48 times and ran it through the computer constantly. Always the same result—six-digit numbers; millions of them. There were six different seven-hour-long messages, being repeated one after the other, constantly.

We forgot the meteorological equipment. We ignored the weekly messages from McMurdo. The rest of the world became a meaningless fiction to us. There was nothing but the confounded, tantalizing, infuriating, enthralling message. The National Emergency, the bomb tests, families, duties—all transcended, all forgotten. We ate when we thought of it and slept when we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer. The message. What was it? What was the key to unlock its meaning?

"It's got to be something universal," I told Rizzo. "Something universal … in the widest sense of the term."

He looked up from his desk, which was wedged in between the end of his bunk and the curving dome wall. The desk was littered with printout sheets from the computer, each one of them part of the message.

"You've only said that a half-million times in the past couple weeks. What the hell is universal? If you can figure that out, you're damned good."

What is universal? I wondered. You're an astronomer. You look out at the universe. What do you see? I thought about it. What do I see? Stars, gas, dust clouds, planets … what's universal about them? What do they all have that….

"Atoms!" I blurted.

Rizzo cocked a weary eye at me. "Atoms?"

"Atoms. Elements. Look…." I grabbed up a fistful of the sheets and thumbed through them. "Look … each message starts with a list of numbers. Then there's a long blank to separate the opening list from the rest of the message. See? Every time, the same length list."

"So?"

"The periodic table of the elements!" I shouted into his ear. "That's the key!"

Rizzo shook his head. "I thought of that two days ago. No soap. In the first place, the list that starts each message isn't always the same. It's the same length, all right, but the numbers change. In the second place, it always begins with 100000. I looked up the atomic weight of hydrogen—it's 1.008 something."

That stopped me for a moment. But then something clicked into place in my mind.

"Why is the hydrogen weight 1.008?" Before Rizzo could answer, I went on, "For two reasons. The system we use arbitrarily rates oxygen as 16-even. Right? All the other weights are calculated from oxygen's. And we also give the average weight of an element, counting all its isotopes. Our weight for hydrogen also includes an adjustment for tiny amounts of deuterium and tritium. Right? Well, suppose they have a system that rates hydrogen as a flat one: 1.00000. Doesn't that make sense?"

"You're getting punchy," Rizzo grumbled. "What about the isotopes? How can they expect us to handle decimal points if they don't tell us about them … mental telepathy? What about…."

"Stop arguing and start calculating," I snapped. "Change that list of numbers to agree with our periodic table. Change 1.00000 to 1.008-whatever-it-is and tackle the next few elements. The decimals shouldn't be so hard to figure out."

Rizzo grumbled to himself, but started working out the calculations. I stepped over to the dome's microspool library and found an elementary physics text. Within a few minutes, Rizzo had some numbers and I had the periodic table focused on the microspool reading machine.

"Nothing," Rizzo said, leaning over my shoulder and looking at the screen. "They don't match at all."

"Try another list. They're not all the same."

He shrugged and returned to his desk. After a while he called out, "their second number is 3.97123; it works out to 4.003-something."

It checked! "Good. That's helium. What about the next one, lithium?"

"That's 6.940."

"Right!"

Rizzo went to work furiously after that. I pushed a chair to the desk and began working up from the end of the list. It all checked out, from hydrogen to a few elements beyond the artificial ones that had been created in the laboratories here on Earth.

"That's it," I said. "That's the key. That's our Rosetta Stone … the periodic table."

Rizzo stared at the scribbled numbers and jumble of papers. "I bet I know what the other lists are … the ones that don't make sense."

"Oh?"

"There are other ways to identify the elements … vibration resonances, quantum wavelengths … somebody named Lewis came out a couple years ago with a Quantum Periodic Table…."

"They're covering all the possibilities. There are messages for many different levels of understanding. We just decoded the simplest one."

"Yeah."

I noticed that as he spoke, Rizzo's hand—still tightly clutching the pencil—was trembling and white with tension.

"Well?"

Rizzo licked his lips. "Let's get to work."

We were like two men possessed. Eating, sleeping, even talking was ignored completely as we waded through the hundreds of sheets of paper. We could decode only a small percentage of them, but they still represented many hours of communication. The sheets that we couldn't decode, we suspected, were repetitions of the same message that we were working on.

We lost all concept of time. We must have slept, more than once, but I simply don't remember. All I can recall is thousands of numbers, row upon row, sheet after sheet of numbers … and my pencil scratching symbols of the various chemical elements over them until my hand was so cramped I could no longer open the fingers.

The message consisted of a long series of formulas; that much was certain. But, without punctuation, with no knowledge of the symbols that denote even such simple things as "plus" or "equals" or "yields," it took us more weeks of hard work to unravel the sense of each equation. And even then, there was more to the message than met the eye:

"Just what the hell are they driving at?" Rizzo wondered aloud. His face had changed: it was thinner, hollow-eyed, weary, covered with a scraggly beard.

"Then you think there's a meaning behind all these equations, too?"

He nodded. "It's a message, not just a contact. They're going to an awful lot of trouble to beam out this message, and they're repeating it every seven hours. They haven't added anything new in the weeks we've been watching."

"I wonder how many years or centuries they've been sending out this message, waiting for someone to pick it up, looking for someone to answer them."

"Maybe we should call Washington…."

"No!"

Rizzo grinned. "Afraid of breaking radio silence?"

"Hell no. I just want to wait until we're relieved, so we can make this announcement in person. I'm not going to let some old wheezer in Washington get credit for this…. Besides, I want to know just what they're trying to tell us."

It was agonizing, painstaking work. Most of the formulas meant nothing to either one of us. We had to ransack the dome's meager library of microspools to piece them together. They started simply enough—basic chemical combinations: carbon and two oxygens yield CO2; two hydrogens and oxygen give water. A primer … not of words, but of equations.

The equations became steadily longer and more complex. Then, abruptly, they simplified, only to begin a new deepening, simplify again, and finally become very complicated just at the end. The last few lines were obviously repetitious.

Gradually, their meaning became clear to us.

The first set of equations started off with simple, naturally-occurring energy yielding formulas. The oxidation of cellulose (we found the formula for that in an organic chemistry text left behind by one of the dome's previous occupants), which probably referred to the burning of plants and vegetation. A string of formulas that had groupings in them that I dimly recognized as amino acids—no doubt something to do with digesting food. There were many others, including a few that Rizzo claimed had the expression for chlorophyll in them.

"Naturally-occurring, energy-yielding reactions," Rizzo summarized. "They're probably trying to describe the biological set-up on their planet."

It seemed an inspired guess.

The second set of equations again began with simple formulas. The cellulose-burning reaction appeared again, but this time it was followed by equations dealing with the oxidation of hydrocarbons: coal and oil burning? A long series of equations that bore repeatedly the symbols for many different metals came up next, followed by more on hydrocarbons, and then a string of formulas that we couldn't decipher at all.

This time it was my guess: "These look like energy-yielding reactions, too. At least in the beginning. But they don't seem to be naturally occurring types. Then comes a long story about metals. They're trying to tell us the history of their technological development—burning wood, coal and eventually oil; smelting metals … they're showing us how they developed their technology."

The final set of equations began with an ominous simplicity: a short series of very brief symbols that had the net result of four hydrogen atoms building into a helium atom. Nuclear fusion.

"That's the proton-proton reaction," I explained to Rizzo. "The type of fusion that goes on in the Sun."

The next series of equations spelled out the more complex carbon-nitrogen cycle of nuclear fusion, which was probably the primary energy source of their own Cepheid variable star. Then came a long series of equations that we couldn't decode in detail, but the symbols for uranium and plutonium, and some of the heavier elements, kept cropping up.

Then came one line that told us the whole story: the lithium-hydride equation—nuclear fusion bombs.

The equations went on to more complex reactions, formulas that no man on Earth had ever seen before. They were showing us the summation of their knowledge, and they had obviously been dealing with nuclear energies for much longer than we have on Earth.

But interspersed among the new equations, they repeated a set of formulas that always began with the lithium-hydride fusion reaction. The message ended in a way that wrenched my stomach: the fusion bomb reaction and its cohorts were repeated ten straight times.

I'm not sure of what day it was on the calendar, but the clock on the master control console said it was well past eleven.

Rizzo rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. "Well, what do you think?"

"It's pretty obvious," I said. "They have the bombs. They've had them for quite some time. They must have a lot of other weapons, too—more … advanced. They're trying to tell us their history with the equations. First they depended on natural sources of energy, plants and animals; then they developed artificial energy sources and built up a technology; finally they discovered nuclear energy."

"How long do you think they've had the bombs?"

"Hard to tell. A generation … a century. What difference does it make? They have them. They probably thought, at first, that they could learn to live with them … but imagine what it must be like to have those weapons at your fingertips … for a century. Forever. Now they're so scared of them that they're beaming their whole history out into space, looking for someone to tell them how to live with the bombs, how to avoid using them."

"You could be wrong," Rizzo said. "They could be boasting about their arsenal."

"Why? For what reason? No … the way they keep repeating those last equations. They're pleading for help."

Rizzo turned to the oscilloscope. It was flickering again.

"Think it's the same thing?"

"No doubt. You're taping it anyway, aren't you?"

"Yeah, sure. Automatically."

Suddenly, in mid-flight, the signal winked off. The pulsations didn't simply smooth out into a steady line, as they had before. The screen simply went dead.

"That's funny," Rizzo said, puzzled. He checked the oscilloscope. "Nothing wrong here. Something must've happened to the telescope."

Suddenly I knew what had happened. "Take the spectrometer off and turn on the image-amplifier," I told him.

I knew what we would see. I knew why the oscilloscope beam had suddenly gone off scale. And the knowledge was making me sick.

Rizzo removed the spectrometer set-up and flicked the switch that energized the image-amplifier's viewscreen.

"Holy God!"

The dome was flooded with light. The star had exploded.

"They had the bombs all right," I heard myself saying. "And they couldn't prevent themselves from using them. And they had a lot more, too. Enough to push their star past its natural limits."

Rizzo's face was etched in the harsh light.

"I've gotta get out of here," he muttered, looking all around the cramped dome. "I've gotta get back to my wife and find someplace where it's safe…."

"Someplace?" I asked, staring at the screen. "Where?"

[folliesandfolderols]

Writing prompts day 76

From this prompt list. If you’ve read this far, I’m not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn’t written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm Anyway, I finished the rough draft a while ago and am now unlocking the old entries as I edit.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here.

Days 71-75 here

***

147. "Fuck, you have such a tight hold on me, you don't even know."

***

Tim pulled out every shred of his acting training and then some to get through the next hour. Damian woke up again after a 20-minute nap, made a face over having to put on the same clothes he'd worn the night before, and then kissed Tim goodbye before leaving.

On the cheek.

He didn't seem to notice anything wrong, for which Tim was grateful. Because he knew he didn't have the right to feel literally anything about Damian having slept with Jon. (There was no other real possibility for a partner, of course.) He especially didn't have the right to be outraged that Damian had allowed Jon to fuck him while saying he didn't want Tim to do the same. It wasn't as if he belonged to Tim. It wasn't as if they'd had a conversation about exclusivity. It wasn't as if Tim had even known he wanted Damian to choose only him, before he'd seen those bruises and instantly realized what had happened.

It wasn't as if Damian getting fucked by Jon took something away from Tim.

But goddamn, it felt like a violation.

Fortunately, he had work of the overt and covert varieties to keep him occupied. Everyone at the office had stopped giving him concerned looks, which was good—at least he wasn't completely losing his shit—and he was able to focus on his previously neglected projects. It was amazing what not experiencing constant emotional pain could do for a person's motivation, even with the throbbing in his ankle to replace it.

Unfortunately, he also remembered his previously developed (and since neglected) facial recognition program algorithm and couldn't stop himself from calling up the results of weeks of searching for Damian's face during the time period Tim had been avoiding him.

Damian was good. Very good. In the same time span most people would have been captured hundreds if not thousands of times by cameras. Tim found only a couple dozen matches for Damian, and two of those were false positives. That wasn't surprising, although Tim found himself smiling with involuntary pride when he reviewed the statistics.

On the other hand, it became immediately apparent that, far from spending his time rotating between several different partners, Damian had mainly focused on one. Oh, sure, there had been a few weeks when he and Nika had appeared to be spending a significant amount of time together, but they had come to an abrupt end with no further contact. But Jon was the real problem.

Tim watched, then rewatched the video feeds. Scraps of time, each of them, mere seconds in Damian's life before he got them to a more secure location, but Jon had never seen much point in subtlety when it came to Damian. In those few clips there was way more open attachment between them than Tim would've ever wanted to see.

So stop looking, dumbass, he told himself.

Instead, he played them again. Damian's eyes were so soft when he looked at Jon. He was far too wary with Tim to be the same when they were together.

Because Tim had trained him to be.

Tim swallowed against the complicated mass of hurt, fury, self-recrimination, and longing tying his throat into a knot. This was why it was stupid to want things. It was too distracting. And what if in the end you didn't get them? Stupid.

He needed to quit looking.

He pushed play again.

***

Tim was grounded from patrol because of his ankle, so he spent the nighttime hours reviewing the information Jason had added to their shared folders and listening in to the comms with a desultory ear. Weirdly, it looked like the organized crime connections Jason had uncovered revealed two similar but separate operations that converged into a single point in the Metropolis-Gotham arenas. Tim frowned, clicking through the transcripts of various interviews and interrogations Jason had conducted. It was unusual for two different organizations to cooperate at one particular juncture of operations like that. That would indicate something or someone bigger than both pulling their strings together.

Every once in a while he would have to talk himself out of clicking back to the open tab of video surveillance footage of Damian and Jon. Sometimes he even succeeded.

A tapping on the nearest window pulled him away from the computer screen while he was watching it again and cursing himself for idiocy at the same time. Damian, as Shrike, hung upside down on the other side of the pane. Tim hurriedly closed the video and hobbled to the window.

"In costume? Not very subtle," he said, shoving it open. He couldn't keep his smile completely dampened, though.

Damian slipped in, feet first, with an unnecessary but very pretty full rotation on the grappling line. "Everyone knows Batman is underwritten by WE; if someone sees, this will simply be interpreted as a consultation between mutual interests." He tapped his domino to clear the lenses. "Which it is. What are you working on?"

"The human trafficking case, actually." Tim closed the window and limped back to the computer. "Jason's uncovered some weirdness with the flow of commerce, so to speak. Check out the video for this interrogation."

He called up the footage from Jason's mask. A redheaded man with shoulders like a bulldog's and a pugnacious glare to match on his bearded face sat zip-tied to a chair in what looked like a warehouse filled with shipping containers.

Jason's voice, distorted by his mask, asked, "And where do the Russian connections start moving the women and kids?"

"What fuckin' Russians, you freak?" the man spat out, Southwest twang clear in his voice. "Fuck them, they got nothing to do with us."

Tim paused the video. "That's pretty much the response from both sides until he got to the Eastern seaboard. After that, they start spilling a little more, but I'm guessing the reaction is genuine from most of the people further west. Which makes me think there's someone running the show from our part of the country, with enough power to make Russians and Irish Mob play nice."

"Which is quite a bit of power." Damian rubbed his chin. "Maybe actual villain levels of power."

Tim smiled. Although the entire family were skilled investigators, few of them were able to draw conclusions as quickly and accurately as Bruce and himself. It was always nice to work with a brain that moved in the same direction as rapidly as his own. "Right. So now we're left asking who that is. This time."

"I can ask Jon to keep an ear out on his side," Damian said.

And just like that, any pleasure in their interaction fled, banished by mingled rage and hurt. Tim busied himself clicking randomly on various open tabs to hide his face. "Oh. Are you going to go visit him again?"

Whatever his voice did caught Damian's attention. Tim could see his head cock in inquiry in the reflection on the screen. "I hadn't planned on it, but he can be here in less than a second regardless."

"Yeah, I bet he comes fast," Tim muttered, smashing a click on the trackpad with unnecessary viciousness.

Quick as a thought, Damian reached past him and flipped the laptop shut. "Why are you angry?"

"I'm not." Tim flipped the screen back open again.

It slammed shut almost before he could yank his fingers out of the way, then was gone, tossed onto a nearby sofa cushion by Damian. "Let me revise the question. Why are you angry, and why are you lying about it?"

Tim gripped the edge of the table, hard enough for the wood to make his palms sting. One deep breath. Another. Don't lose your shit for no reason. The problem was, there was a reason. It was just a bad one.

Damian circled around and leaned on the table beside his hand, one careless hip on the surface. "You changed when I mentioned Jon. Do you not want him involved with the case? He doesn't have time to work with us anyway. He would just be listening for a name and reporting it to us if he heard it."

Tim's jaw clenched around the words but couldn't quite corral them. "I bet he'd make time for you."

"Wait." Damian reached for his chin. Tim jerked it away, knowing it was petty but unable to stop himself. Damian ignored that and grasped it between his thumb and forefinger too quickly for Tim to repeat the action. He examined Tim's face, eyes narrow. "Are you seriously angry about my having spent time with Jon? He's one of my oldest friends. One of the few who exist, as a matter of fact."

"It's not you 'spending time' that pisses me off, Damian." Tim rose to go get some water and maybe cool down in the process, but Damian blocked his path.

"Then what is it? Don't run. Your avoidance of direct conflict is downright pathological sometimes."

Tim clenched his fists at his side. He wanted to deny the accusation, but it was too justified. "Okay, one, I can't run anywhere right now, and two, I don't have any right to be angry and I know that, so just let it go."

Damian reared his head back, shock making his mouth drop open the slightest bit. Tim didn't have time to enjoy the unusual effect he was having because Damian's lips immediately curled into a sneer of disbelief. "Are you angry because I slept with him? After your enthusiastic endorsement of me fucking my way through the younger superhero set? Your hypocrisy knows no bounds."

Tim shoved past him. "It's not that."

Again, Damian refused to give him space, stalking ahead of him to stand in front of the fridge, arms crossed and brow stormy. "You're going to give me a straight answer."

"Fine!" Tim threw his hands in the air. "I fucking hate that you let him fuck you! You told me before I left that you didn't like that, but clearly you found out you did like it as long as it was with him, and it's killing me inside to know you trusted him with something you weren’t willing to do with me!"

Damian, for once, seemed completely nonplussed. He stood there, unmoving and unreacting except the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and said nothing.

Tim dropped his arms again, breath labored with fury and humiliation. "Are you happy now? I know I'm being irrational and a hypocrite and I hate that too. But I don't wanna share. Fuck, you have such a tight hold on me, you don't even know."

Damian opened his mouth and closed it a few times, wordless, in the following silence. Finally, he managed to say, "I cannot know what you do not tell me."

Tim hugged his own torso, miserable with having exposed himself. "Well. Now I've told you. So you can go laugh at how pathetic I am with Jon or whatever."

"That is unfair."

They stood, frozen, for a few more moments. Damian broke first and stepped forward, his arms reaching as if to embrace Tim before he yanked them back. Tim struggled with himself, sick of his own weakness, but then he couldn't keep up the pretense of a desire for freedom any longer. He moved to lean his forehead against the armor protecting Damian's heart and said, low-voiced, "I'm sorry. I know it's ridiculous of me."

Damian stripped his gauntlet off with his teeth and fit one big hand around the back of Tim's head. "Don't apologize. It's flattering." He caressed Tim's hair, settling him. "Does this mean you wish us to stop seeing other people?"

Nice of him to assume they would both need to stop. Tim nodded into his chest, still feeling too foolish for words to come easily.

Damian's smile curved against the top of his head. "Very well. I'll explain more when I come see you again later, but I'm amenable to that as well." He drew back and kissed Tim's forehead. "Put some ice on that ankle and elevate it. I'll return after patrol."

He left before Tim could do more than blink in surprise.

"Okay, then, guess I should have meltdowns more often," he said to the empty room.

days 77-83 here

[framed-incompetence]

I don’t know when I’ll be done with part two so I thought I would post the rough draft what I have so far here. Just to get something out, you know.

The working title for this part is “You Can’t Put A Price On Peace of mind” and it focuses in on the Batfamily’s dynamic in this AU from the point of view of Duke.

———💡———

Duke had high hopes for college.

Everybody does, Duke thinks to himself. But now, as he sits in his dorm at the very tail end of his first semester at Gotham University, the “college experience” everybody kept going on about back in high school might have just been one huge inside joke. A joke that maybe he’ll laugh at when he’s older and has kids of his own, that maybe he’ll tell to them and stifle his laughter when they come home over break with an endless litany of complaints falling from their lips. But now is not then and as he sits in his dorm working through his English final—that he definitely didn’t procrastinate on—trying desperately to tune out the sound of his dorm mates having a “little” get-together in the room next door and his roommate behind him loudly complaining on the phone to his friends about how much noises they are making he’s starting to realize that maybe Tim had it right

“Urgh,” he groans into his hands he checks his word count; five hundred more words to go. The yelling, banging, and music continues around him as he gets back to work. He still has two more hours until this paper is due, plenty of time.

It was a lot quieter back home, he thinks to himself. The chaos around him reminds him of what it was like before Tim was killed-, Duke violently cuts that thought off as his fingers freeze on the keyboard. It’s been months since Tim showed back up in Gotham and still, he slips up. Tim was taken, not killed.

Taken, not killed.

Taken, not killed.

Taken, not killed.

The repetition eases his mind and his fingers begin to move across the keys again. Back before Tim was taken Steph would come around so often that someone could be mistaken for thinking she lived at the manor and Barbara would come around every so often as well sometimes with her father in tow; he and Bruce would sit in the parlor for hours with drinks just talking. Now he only sees Oracle and Spoiler in the cave and the commissioner on chilly rooftops. Is it weird to miss something he is not sure he ever had?

Nevertheless, considering the signal that came through his coms early this morning that’s all going to change soon. Bruce has never used this particular signal before. Even when he definitely should have, the clacking of the keys under his fingers gets louder as Duke remembers the multiple city-wide gang wars or hostile takeovers orchestrated by various members of his rogue gallery over the years. He remembers seeing the panic and the fear so familiar in the eyes of his people as they flee once more. But most importantly he remembers the resignation in their eyes and wonders if Tim ever saw the same or if Jason, still barely out of training, has seen it yet.

He lays his head on his desk and curses Bruce for making him so distracted at the most crucial time in the semester. He breathes in, then breathes out. He lets the chaos around him block out the thoughts and memories of what awaits him back home. Of whatever fight that was so difficult Bruce needed the entire family's help to deal with it. Of Tim and his seemingly endless catalog of secrets. And of his upcoming first encounter with Damian Wayne: the eldest, the first Redbird, the perfect son.

Duke lifts his head and focuses on the screen in front of him. He has four-hundred-thirty-eight more words to go and an hour and a half to get it done. Plenty of time.

Here’s a link to part one of this AU if you’re interested: