#I tried painting this one- not sure how I feel about it

[dissapointu]

Thinking about Arcane with a partner who is terminally ill and has to stay in bed hooked up to a bunch of needles and tubes

Thank you for all your work you are amazing <3

Thank you so much for your kind words!

I swear we are allergic to happiness-

Jinx

Jinx hides her pain behind manic energy, trying to make you smile even when it feels like her heart is shattering. She brings you handmade gadgets, some of which are purely for fun—tiny robots that dance or explode into colorful sparks, filling the room with chaos and laughter. But when the exhaustion hits, she curls up beside your bed, her fingers tracing the tubes and needles with a quiet reverence. In those moments, her vulnerability surfaces, and she whispers about her fears of losing you.

Vi

Vi hates feeling powerless, and seeing you like this is her worst nightmare. She refuses to leave your side, bringing you books and stories of her past to keep your mind off the pain. Her hands are always gentle when adjusting your blanket or holding yours, but her emotions often spill over. When no one else is around, she breaks down, pressing her forehead against your arm, her tears soaking into the fabric as she begs you to hold on just a little longer.

Sevika

Sevika is practical, channeling her pain into action. She spends hours ensuring you’re as comfortable as possible, fixing equipment when it malfunctions and running errands for anything you need. At night, when she thinks you’re asleep, she sits by your bed, nursing a drink and talking to you like everything’s normal—about work, about Zaun, about how much she admires your strength. If you catch her in a rare moment of vulnerability, she’ll brush it off, saying, “You’re the tough one here, not me.”

Silco

Silco is a man of control, and your condition reminds him of his helplessness. He spares no expense in seeking the best care for you, but he’s always haunted by the sight of you so frail. His visits are quiet but full of unspoken devotion—he reads reports aloud, his voice calm and steady, though his eyes flicker to your face more often than the papers. Late at night, when no one else is around, he gently brushes your hair back and murmurs promises he knows he might not be able to keep.

Vander

Vander is a steady presence, his warmth grounding you even in your worst moments. He sits by your bed, holding your hand as he tells you stories from his youth or hums a soothing tune. He often brings the children by to cheer you up, their laughter filling the room. Vander tries to stay strong for you, but his hands tremble when he thinks you’re not looking. His love is unwavering, and he’ll remind you every day how much you mean to him.

Ekko

Ekko struggles with the weight of seeing you like this, but he refuses to let despair take over. He spends his time crafting small inventions to make your life easier or bring a smile to your face. When the silence becomes too much, he talks about his dreams for the future, painting vivid pictures of what could be. He clings to hope, even when it feels fragile, and does everything in his power to make sure you know you’re not alone.

Jayce

Jayce throws himself into researching treatments, convinced he can find a way to help you. When he’s not in the lab, he’s by your side, his hand resting over yours as he explains his latest breakthroughs or reminisces about the moments you’ve shared. He hides his fear behind his optimism, but when you tell him it’s okay to let go of the facade, he breaks down, resting his head on your shoulder and letting his tears fall freely.

Viktor

Viktor is no stranger to pain and illness, and he understands your struggles on a deeply personal level. He spends hours at your bedside, quietly tinkering with gadgets or reading aloud from books he thinks you’ll enjoy. His touch is gentle, his words soft, and his presence unwavering. He hates that he can’t fix this, but he makes sure you never feel alone, offering comfort in the form of quiet companionship and shared understanding.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn is your pillar of strength, calm and composed even when her heart is breaking. She works tirelessly to ensure you have the best care, pulling strings and calling in favors to get you what you need. She’s a constant presence, her hand often resting on yours as she talks about the world outside. When she’s overwhelmed, she steps outside for a moment to compose herself, returning with a renewed determination to make the time you have left as meaningful as possible.

Mel Medarda

Mel is a force of grace and composure, but your condition shakes her to her core. She fills your room with beauty—art, flowers, and soft fabrics—to make your space a sanctuary. She sits with you for hours, her voice soothing as she shares stories from her childhood or discusses philosophy and politics. Her mask only slips in the quiet moments, her hand lingering on yours as she murmurs about how much she loves you, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa is not one to show weakness, but your illness makes her feel a vulnerability she hasn’t known in years. She takes charge of your care, ensuring you’re surrounded by the best physicians and resources. Though her visits are often brief, they’re filled with quiet intensity. She sits by your bed, her large hand covering yours as she promises to protect you, her voice steady even as her heart aches.

Maddie Nolen

Maddie is practical and nurturing, spending her days by your side to ensure you’re comfortable and cared for. She’s always quick with a joke or a story to lift your spirits, her warmth a balm against the cold reality of your condition. But when the laughter fades and the room grows quiet, she leans her head against your shoulder, her voice soft as she tells you how much you mean to her, her heart aching with every word.

Lest

Lest hates seeing you like this, but she channels her emotions into quiet devotion. She watches over you like a guardian, her sharp eyes scanning every tube and needle to ensure everything is in order. She often sits beside your bed, her tail curling around her legs as she talks about the world outside, filling the silence with her soothing voice. When you catch her staring at you with a mix of love and sorrow, she quickly looks away, her ears twitching, but her hand remains firmly in yours.

[bluefootedbooby]

Take me Away

Jinx x gn!reader

Summary: You hear a knock at your door after watching the news of the war. Opening it you see… Jinx!? Hurt and aching but she has a plan and is ready to finally take you two away from here

The television buzzing with broadcast about the war, Ambessa Medarda dead on the battle field as Noxus warships retreat back to their home. It’s quiet, your heart stops. Jinx’s sacrifice her sister announced made your throat fill with a lump that you just couldn’t swallow. The bright screen being the only light in your dark apartment.

Your ears must have not been working as the quiet continuation of knocks hammered your door. Reality snapped back and standing up you go to open the door. The knob turning

Standing on the other side, is she undead? No… Jinx. She’s bruised and sooty, her hair shaved except for her iconic bang. But there she is, panting and sweaty

“Ha… Ha… Heya toots, miss me?”

A smile breaks across her face, one of her teeth chipped and her eyes squinted as the entire half of her face was bruised and scratched

You stood there, eyes wide and tears pouring out in lines before your body crashed into her.

She winced, but immediately hugged back. Your head buried in her chest. Her heart beating.

“How?!”

Your voice shakes, every part of you feels like it’s buzzing from your skull to the tips of your fingers. Jinx held your face, the cold metal of her prosthetic stinging your cheek. She smiled.

“I’m slippery as a eel”

You pause, breathing heavily before crying again, your head melting in her hands. Jinx pulls you closer so your foreheads meet. It was only you two, nothing else mattered. In the silence was the soft whirling of propellers, your ears focused and notice it coming from outside. Upon looking out the window you could make out an airship crudely parked by a building.

“It’s time to get outta this shithole.”

Jinx smiled, her hand gripping yours.

“Get out… y-you mean it?”

She nodded, a hum escaping her lips as she settled her hands down and stood straight up.

“It’s time for me to leave, a-and I want you to come with me, trinket”

Jinx searched your eyes, trying to grasp what you were thinking. Your hands kept touching her, any part of her to make sure she is real. Jinx snapped her fingers and tried to get you out of your head.

“Toots? You still there?”

She smiled, her teeth familiar with their gap except for one of her teeth being chipped from the impact of war. Your body trembled, finally your head nodded giving her the only answer she needed.

“Alright, let’s get going soon… before the Noxians start leaving.”

———

The ladder shook as you climbed up, or maybe it was just you shaking, but either way it was scary! Jinx helped hoist you up, although her hands ached and bruised from the explosion. Getting on the deck Jinx was already at the helm waiting for you.

“Ya ready?” She looked back, the purple shark hood falling off with the motion.

You smile, eyes staring at her features, the newly cut hair and the remaining long bang enhanced everything about her. She looked so free, no longer tethered down by the weights dragging her back. Even when half her face was bruised from the fighting she still looked just as mesmerizing.

“Yeah, I’m ready”

Jinx wastes no time, your hands grip at the railing looking over at the city before feeling gravity disappear as the airship soars higher and higher into the sky. The sky blue with clouds that looked painted on, the wide blue ocean waving underneath you. Turning your head you saw it. Piltover and Zaun, their image getting smaller and smaller. It made your knees give in, dropping yourself into the ground but still holding onto the railings watching the city leave. You two were finally leaving… just like you always said you would… The breath in your lungs vacuumed out and the only thing that could escape your eyes were tears that blew into the sky as if the world itself was telling you not to cry.

When the ship was at a good enough altitude Jinx walked over, sitting down on the floor next to you grasping the view of the pebble sized city now miles away.

“So… We have all of Runeterra! Where do you wanna go first?”

Her fingers play with the copper metal of her prosthetic, clinking and bending the joints of it.

“Well… sun’s setting behind us so we are heading east now. Bilgewater is along this way.”

“Bilgewater! Gonna be a couple skyborn pirates, eh toots?”

She nudged into you and smiled.

“Probably best place to go, far from Noxus anyways and Piltover does do trade time to time, you might be able to send a letter to Vi or Ekko when you’re ready.”

She sat there, smiling at the thought.

“Yeah… but not any time soon. Let them grieve, don’t needa add any more confusion. Vi would come lookin’ for me anyways… Ekko too.”

Your head nods, the two of you sit in silence for a moment until you speak up.

“What about Isha?! I-Is she here?”

“Don’t worry, trinket! She’s napping in the room below. I couldn’t leave her with Sevika! Ha! Not a chance.”

Your body relaxes as you lean against the railing once more. Smiling softly.

“Phew…”

Both of you stay like that for a bit, leaning against each other as the wind blows at your hair and skin

“So… Bilgewater?”

The sudden scampering of stompy feet run along the deck as a young girl with her dyed blue messy hair runs up and crashes into you.

“Hey sleepy head!”

You smile wide seeing Isha, she grunts happily and sticks herself between the two of you holding onto her rabbit plushy. Jinx scratches her head and looks back to you.

“Hey kid, how ya feel about being a pirate?”

Jinx puts on her best pirate accent, closing one of her eyes and using her prosthetic finger as a hook of sorts

“You’re flipping her off!”

You laugh and Isha squeals in delight before rapidly nodding her head. Her hands go up to sign out pirate before mimicking Jinx with her eye closed and middle finger curled

“Such a bad influence…”

You sigh before smiling and pulling Isha in to hug her. Her face had burn scars from the explosion but thankfully she could survive and even with them she still looked just as adorable. Jinx would say she looks like a badass, even when you would prefer she used different language.

“So… We are Bilgewater bound?”

“Mhm! Just the three of us! Nothing in the world can stop us!”

On the other side of the deck the sun set could be made out, the rays of light reflecting off the water painting a golden mural for the three of you to see. It was astonishing. Jinx’s arm wraps around you and Isha pulling you three closer than sardines in a can. The waves underneath you and sea breeze nipping your skin, nothing has ever felt so free. Looking down at Isha, her head against Jinx’s side she has already fallen asleep again. Jinx lets out a quiet laugh before looking up at you, both your smiles so wide they might be permanently stuck to your face. Jinx attempted to lean in to kiss you but is too nervous to wake Isha. You offer up your hand and she kisses it inside, she teasingly licks it as well.

“I always knew I would ride in one of these one day.”

Jinx chuckled out, her hand rubbing your shoulder.

“Think we will return one day?”

“Probably, no where quite as fun as Zaun! That’s for sure… Plus I’ll sure wanna crash Vi’s wedding with her cupcake.”

Jinx laughed, her head leaning on the rail before turning to you.

“I love ya, y/n.”

Your eyes widen before your expression melts into nothing but purity. Finally you two get to leave, fly away as you always spoke of doing. Like an ending of a book… except you two can write a new one together now.

“I love you too, Pow”

💙

—

continue the story? check out my c.ai character!

https://share.character.ai/Wv9R/9chytnme

surprise! isha is alive :3 it didn’t sit right that she died just to be used for plot and even though i’m disappointed with how 8-9 went i still appreciate the show so much and im happy it exists

[puff0o0]

Soft touches, gentle eyes, shining tears. Your throat felt as if barbed wire was wrapped around it tightly, soft enough not to cut skin, but harsh enough to feel the strangling pain. You tried hard not to cry, knowing that if you did, you would feel weak and sensitive. But it was as if he was doing everything in his power to stop that.

Your simon made sure you were happy all the time. He understood you had your moments where you needed a cry, and he made sure he was the anchor that held the ship down. But if it was preventable, he did his damn hardest to make sure it didn't affect you. If it meant harming someone else to protect your feelings? Then he was harming that person.

You gave him a feeling of life and happiness, a feeling that would ruin him forever if you were to disappear.

No one could ever replace the soft tears his heart cries out when he wakes up next to you in the morning and sees you still asleep.

No one could replace the view of the sunlight cascading over your features and giving it a warm glow that not even a painting could properly resemble

No one could ever replace how protective he felt when he saw just a tear fall from your cheek

His gentle, yet scarred hands brushed over yours before finally taking your cold hands into his, warming it with his hands. The hands that have killed many and harmed many, the hands that have made decisions that have harmed few but saved thousands, were holding yours as if the absence of their presence could make you go away. He held them gently yet firmly, making a soft feeling of warmth go through you despite your vulnerable state

You just wanted everything to go away, to be alone and for everyone to forget about you. However, there was that small part of you that craves to be seen and held, that wanted someone to finally act like they cared about you and listened to you. He didn't force you to talk about it, he didn't force you to stop crying. He wanted to be your rock, to be the one to break that overflowing glass bottle of emotions you forced to close. He wanted to help you realize that he would always be there for you, no matter how many hours or days he was away

"It's a'right, luv. I'm listenin', jus keep talkin' to me"

"You're safe, y'don't have to worry 'bout a thing"

"I love you so much, luv"

He let you wail into his chest while rubbing your back, mumbling sweet words that could have been etched in a sweet vanilla cream. Every word was as if it was carved and baked with you in mind, making you cry harder and harder as they were words you desperately needed

He would make sure his presence gives you the peace and kindness you deserve

[dresshistorynerd]

His family owned the arsenic mine and he divested his interest in it eventually, though of course profiting off of it was certainly a hypocrisy he engaged in for several years even after becoming a socialist. I can't really ask much more than he should have done it sooner, since he could hardly decide how his father had made his fortune. I agree that his continued denial of arsenic poisoning was insane, but his factory did stop using arsenic in 1879, 6 years before he send that letter. And he didn't use the other poisonous dyes that were used frequently at the time. I'm sure his position on arsenic specifically was influenced by his family's fortune coming from arsenic mine and the need to be defensive about it. My point was rather that there has been no debate at all past many years weather viscose method is dangerous to workers or not and still it is used, even though the owners know and believe it's dangerous, which clearly he wouldn't have approved of. Overall his factory was reported to have good working conditions, much better than what was typical at the time.

I know he was a Victorian man and while I fully admit I very much enjoy his writing and work, I'm not hero worshiping him. I do have many criticisms for him, but surviving under capitalism in a way where he tries to make some positive impact is not one of them. I know every write up on him loves to paint him doing business as a hypocrisy and a point of criticism, but I find that very silly. He never became rich with his business, though it did most of the time bring him enough money to live a comfortable life (though there were times during which the business was not as great and he lived a less middle class life), because he despised commerce and did it enough in order to do arts in his own terms and survive. This whole criticism feels so much like that meme "you criticize society yet you live in society, curious, I'm very smart".

I would much rather criticize him for his racist attitudes. Even though he was anti-colonialist and opposed the British Empire and he didn't believe in inherent biological racial qualities, he did accept the premise that there were distinctions between races, he just thought those were caused by the living conditions of different peoples both environmental and the material conditions forced upon them. It's still racist. He was also clearly ignorant about many different cultures, especially non-white ones, and did sometimes engage in cultural supremacy. He also was part of feminist causes, but he very much did uphold very binary gender roles evident in the way he wrote about men and women, even as in some ways he tried to oppose them.

Edit: I took this comment in a way it wasn't intended, understanding now better the point, I can agree that it would have been better if I had brought up some of those valid criticisms too in the original post. For context, here's the additional exchange we had!

The Morrisian case against fast fashion

Today I discovered that H&M made a William Morris collection some years ago. The heath death of the universe can't come quickly enough. We can stop now. Satire is dead and we killed her.

It's not just the whole concept of H&M using William Morris' designs for their fast fashion which is insanity inducing, but also the critical response it garnered. Like sure, people did realize this is insane and there was a lot of think pieces about it at the time, but I read several of them and they all seem to still miss the point in spectacular way.

The basic premise of these think pieces go along the lines of: "Would William Morris spin in his grave with a speed of light because of the H&M collection of his designs? A difficult question indeed. William Morris was a complicated man. He wanted art to be affordable to everyone. Isn't H&M affordable? That kinda fits. Though probably he would have some concerns about H&M's practices."

On the surface - yes - but like in reality - fuck no. There's no nuance in this particular issue. He talked about many times what he though of the H&Ms of his time, the retailers selling poor quality industrially produced "fashionable" bullshit. We know exactly what he would have thought of H&M. Here's couple of quotes from his 1884 lecture "Art and Socialism", which makes it very clear.

"It would be an instructive day's work for any one of us who is strong enough to walk through two or three of the principal streets of London on a week-day, and take accurate note of everything in the shop windows which is embarrassing or superfluous to the daily life of a serious man. Nay, the most of these things no one, serious or unserious, wants at all; only a foolish habit makes even the lightest-minded of us suppose that he wants them, and to many people even of those who buy them they are obvious encumbrances to real work, thought and pleasure. But I beg you to think of the enormous mass of men who are occupied with this miserable trumpery, from the engineers who have had to make the machines for making them, down to the hapless clerks who sit day-long year after year in the horrible dens wherein the wholesale exchange of them is transacted, and the shopmen, who not daring to call their souls their own, retail them amidst numberless insults which they must not resent, to the idle public which doesn't want them but buys them to be bored by them and sick to death of them."

He is describing the birth of consumerism, which was taking form during his lifetime in the late Victorian Era, which fast fashion is the extreme logical conclusion of, and he fucking hated it. He specifically railed against endless consumerist products, which H&M is the perfect representation of. It was definitely not the art and beauty he believed everyone required and deserved. He makes the distinction often.

"Now if we are to have popular Art, or indeed Art of any kind, we must at once and for all be done with this luxury; it is the supplanter, the changeling of Art; so much so that by those who know of nothing better it has even been taken for Art, the divine solace of human labour, the romance of each day's hard practice of the difficult art of living."

"And here furthermore is at least a little sign whereby to distinguish between a rag of fashion and a work of Art: whereas the toys of fashion when the first gloss is worn off them do become obviously worthless even to the frivolous—a work of Art, be it ever so humble, is long lived; we never tire of it; as long as a scrap hangs together it is valuable and instructive to each new generation. All works of Art in short have the property of becoming venerable amidst decay: and reason good, for from the first there was a soul in them, the thought of man, which will be visible in them so long as the body exists in which they were implanted."

When he thought of popular Art he thought of the craftsmanship of the common people. The art people have made from useful everyday objects with skillful handicrafts. This is what he means by "divine solace of human labour". It's not reverence of Puritanical work ethic, on the contrary, it's the reverence of creation, of the earnest joy people feel when they get to express themselves through their creative pursuits. He certainly didn't believe in work for work's sake, work needed to be worthwhile and enjoyable. He summarized his own position on what labour should be thusly:

"It is right and necessary that all men should have work to do which shall be worth doing, and be of itself pleasant to do; and which should he done under such conditions as would make it neither over-wearisome nor over-anxious."

He urged his middle class audience to reject consumerism (the lecture was for a very much middle class atheist society):

"For I say again that in buying these things: 'Tis the lives of men you buy! Will you from mere folly and thoughtlessness make yourselves partakers of the guilt of those who compel their fellow men to labour uselessly?"

I think it's glaringly obvious H&M and fast fashion in general is what he would consider luxury. Rags of fashion that are just churned out and discarded without thought and produced by compelling people to labour uselessly. It's not popular art that's made by workers and craftsmen, who are able to express themselves through it. There's no agency for the abused workers in H&M's sweatshops, they are not expressing their joy of creation, they are simply labouring uselessly.

Morris didn't shame workers for buying affortable things even if they weren't Art with big A, because that's the problem he despised the whole economic system for, for taking away the popular Art from people, making it inaccessible, and selling back mass produced products with very little practical or aesthetic value. So I don't think he would have problem with people who can only afford fast fashion today. They are the victims of capitalism too, because Art has been taken away from them. But the idea that some of these think pieces had that perhaps the H&M's Morris collection can be good actually if you squint, that H&M has the capacity to bring the art and beauty Morris advocated for for the people, is level of stupidity that's hard to express in words.

Morris didn't believe anything made with exploited labour could be truly beautiful, truly art. In his 1879 lecture "The Art of the People" he put it like this:

"That thing which I understand by real art is the expression by man of his pleasure in labour."

The way I understand this, is that art is communication. Through it we communicate feelings, ideas and thoughts, that is it's purpose. So for that communication to work, for it to be imbued with message, the person making it needs to feel passion and love for it's creation. How can there be love and passion if the hands making the garment belong to a tired exploited worker who has no egency what so ever in their work and can only think about survival to the next day?

Beyond the fundamental exploitativeness of H&M and fast fashion, this collection would still get zero points on aesthetic values from Morris even with his own designs. Because the work itself was such an important part of art for Morris, good design was nothing without good craftsmanship. Good design in his mind was always relative and dependent on it's purpose.

"For everything made by man’s hands has a form, which must be either beautiful or ugly; beautiful if it is in accord with Nature, and helps her; ugly if it is discordant with Nature, and thwarts her; it cannot be indifferent." (The Lesser Arts, 1877)

Here when he says nature, he means the nature of the thing that is made - basically it's purpose and function - and the nature of the materials it's made from. Basically, the design must always be made to bring out the function of the art and the qualities of the material it's made from, not fight against them. This is because he believed handicrafts were uniquely suitable for expressing the love of creation, therefore superior labour, and to really bring out the qualities of the craftsmanship and enjoy the creative process, the design should be suitable for that craft. The other side, which was the joy of using and experiencing art, required the craft to be selected for the suitable purpose. Using poorly functioning furniture for example is not very enjoyable, nor is using clothing that's made from materials that are not suitable for the climactic conditions it's supposed to be used in.

H&M of course utterly fails in this. They use Morris' designs in fully unsuitable ways. They print patterns made for example for wall papers on poor quality fabrics with synthetics dyes they weren't made for. This line from one blog post I came across really got me: "Therefore, without cheapening the artistic value of Morris’ designs, H&M’s collection offers an unparalleled potential for accessibility to them." No. Fuck no. They do in fact cheapen Morris' designs in every single way possible. Literally this is atrocious.

Despite the popular depiction, Morris wasn't in fact against industrial machinery or industrial art even, or at least he wasn't once his views on art and politics matured. He did think technology was useful, but he thought the people should use industrial methods for the benefit of all, not be enslaved by the industrial machine.

"I have spoken of machinery being used freely for releasing people from the more mechanical and repulsive part of necessary labour; and I know that to some cultivated people, people of the artistic turn of mind, machinery is particularly distasteful, and they will be apt to say you will never get your surroundings pleasant so long as you are surrounded by machinery. I don't quite admit that; it is the allowing machines to be our masters and not our servants that so injures the beauty of life nowadays. In other words, it is the token of the terrible crime we have fallen into of using our control of the powers of Nature for the purpose of enslaving people, we care less meantime of how much happiness we rob their lives of." ("How we live and how we might live", 1887)

However, he thought that the designer should approach it the way they approached any craft, by designing for the strengths of the machine work.

"But if you have to design for machine-work, at least let your design show clearly what it is. Make it mechanical with a vengeance, at the same time as simple at possible. Don't try, for instance, to make a printed plate look like a hand-painted one: make it something which no one would try to do if he were painting by hand..." ("Art and the Beauty of the Earth", 1881)

He did use some machinery for fabric and wall paper printing, but he was very intentional about their use. Still his designs weren't made for the type of methods these modern H&M machinery uses and he did for example use natural dyes. Particularly insulting is that some of the H&M clothes are made from viscose, rayon made with viscose method. Viscose method is extremely toxic and is known to cause long term health consequences for the workers and the people in surrounding areas. This has been well proven knowledge for ages. William Morris' wall paper factory in the beginning used the typical method used at the time which involved arsenic, but once he learned this could pose risks for the workers, he changed the method. Many of the new synthetic dyes were toxic at the time, which is the major reason he so favoured natural dyes, known to not cause health issues for workers or pollute the environment.

The question many of these think pieces about the H&M Morris collection posed was, would Morris disapprove and should we care? The first part of that is very easy to answer. Yes. Of course Morris would disapprove. He is currently powering the whole of British isles with purely the kinetic energy his grave-spinning produces. Should we care though? If you care about Morris' art, if you want to see more of that kind of art in this world, you should care. Morris' art is not about the superficial qualities. Copying his designs and aesthetics and styles, will only lead to hollow imitations, that are exactly what he described the rags of fashion to be; as the shininess of novelty wears off they will reveal themselves to be soulless, useless and utterly empty. This collection is just that. To see more of the kind of art that makes you feel like his art makes you feel, not just something that reminds you of that feeling, you should focus more on the way the art is made and less on the specific aesthetics. If his vision of labour and art was realised, all art produced of course wouldn't be loved by every person, but all of it would be loved by someone, even if that someone was just the maker. And that would be more worthwhile than every single rag of fast fashion.

I will stop William-Morris-posting now and return to my thesis.

[scarletwinterxx]

so what? - lee haechan imagine

hellooo~ i was catching up on some nct content and i can't help but miss haechan🥺 idk i just suddenly felt like that even though i see him on my tl everyday... so now here we are. hope you like this one!

For my other works you can check them out here, and for my other story series’ you can check them out here.

and if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The sky is painted with hues of pink and orange as you and Haechan walk down the familiar street toward your apartment. The sun is setting, casting a soft glow on everything around you.

You’ve been talking about your day at university, not noticing how your hand is now gently resting in his, fingers intertwined. You’re completely unaware, too wrapped up in your own thoughts to realize that you’ve been holding his hand for a while now.

"So, I had this huge presentation today, right?" you continue, oblivious to how his heart races at the simple touch of your hand. "I thought I was going to freeze, but I actually ended up talking too much. The professor looked like he was going to kick me out halfway through." You laugh, shaking your head at the memory.

Haechan, on the other hand, is a nervous wreck inside. He tries to hide it, but his heart skips a beat every time you move closer or touch him, even if it’s just a hand on his arm or the accidental brush of your fingers. Right now, though, he’s trying his best to keep it together.

"Yeah? So, you just went on and on?" he asks, trying to focus on the conversation rather than the warmth of your hand in his.

"Pretty much," you smile up at him, clearly unaware of the effect you have on him. "But hey, I got an A, so I guess it wasn't too bad after all."

His lips twitch into a small smile, but he doesn’t say anything. He just lets you talk, lets you hold his hand, because, at this moment, he’s the happiest he’s ever been.

The more time you spend together, the more his feelings for you grow, but you’ve never caught on. You always just assumed you were great friends, and maybe a little too oblivious to everything else.

The two of you round a corner, and that's when you see Jeno and Jaemin sitting on the sidewalk, clearly waiting for Haechan. They both glance at you, then back at him, grinning mischievously.

"Look who it is, Haechan," Jaemin teases. "The girl you can’t stop thinking about."

Haechan’s face immediately flushes. "Shut up, Jaemin," he grumbles, but there’s no real bite to his words. His eyes flicker to you, hoping you didn’t catch the teasing.

You, of course, are completely oblivious. "Hey, Jeno, Jaemin!" You wave cheerfully as you pull your hand away from Haechan's, giving him a bright smile. "What’s up?"

Jeno gives Haechan an exaggerated look, like he's trying to hold in a laugh. "Oh, nothing much. Just enjoying the view."

Jaemin chimes in, teasing, "Yeah, it’s hard not to notice when Haechan is practically glowing every time he’s near you."

You laugh, thinking they’re joking. "You guys are silly," you say. "Haechan, you’re blushing!"

Haechan’s face turns even redder. He mutters something under his breath that only you hear. "I’m not blushing." But it’s too late. His friends have already caught on.

"Sure you’re not," Jeno says sarcastically. "Just keep telling yourself that."

You tilt your head, confused, as Haechan starts walking again, practically dragging you away from his teasing friends.

"Are you okay?" you ask, looking up at him with concern.

"Yeah, I’m fine," he responds quickly, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. He clears his throat. "Just… tired, you know?"

You nod, not suspecting a thing. "I get that. I’m exhausted too. Uni is draining."

The two of you continue your walk home, but now, Haechan can’t stop thinking about how perfect this moment is. You’re so close, your laughter fills the air, and everything about this feels like it should be a scene from a movie—except for one tiny thing: you have no idea that he’s head over heels for you.

A few days later, you’re hanging out at a café with Haechan, Jaemin, and Jeno. The conversation flows easily, and you feel completely comfortable. You’re telling them about a funny incident that happened in one of your classes.

"And then," you say, leaning forward on the table, "the professor totally called me out in front of the entire class. He said, ‘Maybe next time you’ll read the syllabus before making assumptions.’"

Everyone laughs, but Haechan can’t help but watch you with a soft gaze, as if you’re the only one in the room. His friends, of course, notice.

"You know, Haechan," Jeno says, grinning from ear to ear, "we all know you’re a simp for her, right?"

Jaemin smirks. "Yeah, it’s kind of obvious."

Haechan rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are still a little pink. "So what?" he replies, his tone light but with an edge of defensiveness.

You laugh, thinking they're joking. "Hyuck, you okay? You look a little red." You use his nickname affectionately, the one you’ve always called him.

His heart skips a beat, and he nearly chokes on his drink. "Uh, yeah, I’m fine," he stammers, quickly taking a sip of his coffee to cover his nervousness. "Just a little warm, that’s all."

Jaemin and Jeno exchange knowing looks but stay quiet. They know Haechan well enough to see how much he’s holding back. The poor guy is in love with you, and you don’t even know it.

The next week, you and Haechan are walking home again, just the two of you, as usual.

This time, you’re telling him about a movie you watched the night before. You’ve been laughing about it for the last few minutes, but then you get distracted by the way the streetlights flicker on as the evening sets in.

"I love this time of day," you say softly, almost to yourself.

Haechan glances over at you, his heart swelling. He’s always so mesmerized by the way you get lost in the small moments, the way you find beauty in everything. He loves that about you.

"Yeah," he says quietly, "me too."

You smile at him, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s just the two of you, walking under the streetlights. Your hand brushes his again, and this time, you don’t pull away. You just let it happen.

"So, Hyuck," you say, looking at him with a playful glint in your eyes, "when are you finally going to admit that you like me?"

His heart stops. He freezes for a moment, thinking maybe you’ve finally caught on. But then you laugh, and he realizes you’re just joking, not really expecting an answer.

His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts. He knows he should say something, anything, but all he manages to do is give you a nervous smile. "Maybe… maybe one day."

You tilt your head, not quite understanding the depth of his words, but it doesn’t matter. To you, everything feels perfect as it is.

"One day," you repeat with a grin, "I’ll hold you to that."

Months go by, and the teasing from Jeno and Jaemin never stops. But Haechan’s feelings for you only grow stronger. Every time you laugh, every time you talk about your day, he feels like he’s falling more in love with you. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep his feelings a secret.

Then, one night, after you’ve both been hanging out with the guys, you walk home together again. It’s late, and the air is cooler now. You’ve been talking about random things, but this time, there’s a shift in the way Haechan looks at you.

"Hey," he says quietly, turning to face you. "I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" you stop walking, looking up at him curiously

He takes a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. "I like you. A lot. Like, I’ve liked you for a while, and I’m not really good at hiding it anymore. But, uh, yeah… I like you."

You blink, surprised, but the moment feels so right that you can’t help but smile. "I thought I was the only one who didn’t know that."

Haechan laughs nervously. "Well, now you do."

You step closer to him, your heart racing as you hold his gaze. "I like you too, Haechan."

He grins, finally letting out a sigh of relief. "So… so what now?"

"I think we can start by not letting your friends tease you about being a simp anymore."

Haechan chuckles, pulling you into a gentle hug. "Yeah, that sounds good.

And from that moment on, things between you two couldn’t be more perfect. The teasing continues, but now, it’s not just about his feelings—it’s about the two of you, finally being together.

Every day, you find new ways to fall for each other, and everything feels right in the world.

After all, in the end, it was always meant to be.

[gingerteawrites]

Dangerous man - Nanami Kento and Gojo Satoru

A/N: Inspired by this fanart I saw last night. This is a bit different in terms of my usual writing content, but I hope you enjoy it.

Content: female reader, Gojo x reader, Nanami x reader.

You stepped into the room, heart thumping with enthusiasm. You had been so excited to finally find a jazz lounge in your area that opened at a time you were free to go. Sure, it was a bit out of the way and not very frequented, but you were happy nonetheless.

The velvet dress you had picked out hugged your body in all the right places, satisying your goal of matching the vibe of this place.

In spite of your efforts, though, you were not fully prepared for it to feel so bewitching. From the maroon lighting that painted the whole area in a dangerously seductive sheen, to the noir jazz being played by the small ensemble on stage. You had somehow stepped foot into a different world.

But most peculiar of all, were those two men sat in the corner. One blonde and the other white-haired who sipped languidly on their drinks while in a hushed conversation. You took a seat on a stool at the bar, and ordered a drink, but you couldn't help but have you attention fully captured by the pair.

Their suits and pristinely done hair gave off an aura of importance, but the serious expression they donned were straight out menacing. Menacingly alluring. They looked like danger. And for one like you, who tried your best in life to stay out of it, the pull you felt towards them was as foreign as it was exhilarating.

You shifted in the small bar's stool, now drink in hand, and turned to face the stage, attention on the female singer who crooned a sensual tune. This is why you were here. To enjoy the music and forget the stress of your usual life. To cosplay a character who did not need to worry about things. Her tone and the gentle swirl of instruments around her lulled your mind away from the men, and into a slow sway as your body moved to the melody.

Her set ended, and you sat up straight to clap as she exited the stage. But in the flurry of the moment, you did not register the presence of one imposing figure who had made his way over to you.

"Incredible performance," the blonde man commented, somehow seating on the stool to your right. The sweet musk of patchouli invaded your senses before your eyes had the chance to find its owner. You startled a bit, but composed yourself.

"Yes it was fantastic. She's a beautiful singer," you commented, focus now captured by the man beside you.

"Oh but I must say," his white haired companion leaned in from the seat on your left.

How on earth had you not noticed him getting closer too?

"Her beauty pales in comparison to yours." His honeyed voice drifted over to you.

Your eyes fled from his smothering gaze, and you heard the blonde man click his tongue in admonition.

"Satoru," to which his friend responded with a brief chuckle. "My name is Nanami Kento, miss." The man slipped his hand into yours, bringing it to his lips in a firm but polite kiss.

His friend, whom you now knew was Satoru smiled at you, the mischief behind his expression not completely gone. "And what is your name, pretty lady?" He asked.

"___" You stated your name, and watched them repeat it. The way it sounded on their lips surprised you with its allure. Like everything about them.

"So, gentlemen," you forced yourself to relax, not wanting to lose this moment to nervousness, "what brings you here?" You questioned as the next combo took their place on stage, the slow drag of the clarinet introducing the next piece.

Satoru chuckled, leaning into you so that his lips were only a few paces from your ear. "It matters not what brings us here," he crooned. Kento turned to you, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. "What matters is where we go from here," His smooth voice almost sounded like part of the song's arrangement.

The music faded to the background and you examined the two men who flanked you. All of their attention focused on you.

You were well aware of the unusualness of the situation. Of a sense of lurking danger around them. You had noticed the way that no one had approached the bar since they found your side. But their mere presence was oh so intoxicating.

"What do you say, beautiful?" Satoru stretched a hand before him in invitation, a smirk pulling at his lips.

Would you take his hand, and join them for the most memorable night of your life?

This was so much fun to write, hehe. I love the idea of having a mysterious encounter at a jazz lounge. It reminds me of the song a night to remember by laufey and beabadoobee. Please let me know how you liked it!

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated (❁´◡`❁)

[msilwrites]

Papa Bear Material - (Captain Price Fic) - Matchmaking

A/N: I hope you guys can be patient with me as I set up the scene and context for the story! I know you might be eager for Papa Bear John, so if you can't wait, feel free to scroll all the way down or check out the short version. But if you’d like to enjoy the full background and get all the details leading up to the moment, stick around here for the original version. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! Warning: Mention of child abuse in the story. Summary: Y/N is a reserved former constable and master sniper in the London police force, now working full-time as an artisan. She reconnects with old colleagues at a grill house for a catch-up, where her former junior, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, tries to play matchmaker. Gaz’s attempt to set her up with the retired SAS and Papa Bear material, Captain John Price, is met with resistance as Y/N is caught off guard by the unexpected attention.

Y/N stepped into the familiar warmth of the grill house, the smoky aroma of sizzling meat mingling with the distinct hum of rugby commentary from the TV above the bar. The place had that well-worn, comfortable charm—like an old friend. She spotted her old colleagues almost immediately, seated around a table, beers in hand, laughter spilling into the air.

“Oi! Look who’s gracing us with her posh, artsy presence!” came the teasing voice of one of the officers. “You still wearing them fancy shoes, Y/N?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, a half-smile playing on her lips as she made her way over. "Oh, please. I’d have to sell a few more prototypes just to afford these," she said, giving her Gucci Princeton Leather slip-ons a quick glance. "You know, designing and crafting, prototypes for others, specially demanding architects and students—it's harder than catching a criminal on a Sunday shift."

The group laughed, and one of them raised their glass. “Come on, that’s not true. Bet you’re all over the art scene now, living the dream!”

“Sure,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she slid into her seat, “if by ‘living the dream’ you mean sometimes starving in a studio, getting rejected by every gallery in town, and designing things no one’s ever heard of, yeah, it’s just like the movies.”

They all burst out laughing again. One of the lads signaled to the waiter, who was making his rounds. "Oi, get her a proper drink," he said with a grin, "she looks like she needs it."

A tap of beer was quickly placed in front of her, and she gave her colleagues a mock glare, but couldn't help but smile. "You lot are too kind. Just wait ‘til you see my next masterpiece—a painting of you lot after too many pints."

As the laughter faded, they began catching up, each group diving into stories and teasing. "Any funny incidents lately?" one of the officers asked, a grin spreading across his face.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Oh, plenty. You lot wouldn't believe half of them, but I'm still waiting for the call-up for my big art show... not holding my breath, though."

The conversation shifted, and soon enough, someone asked, “When’s your next reservist shift, then? You’re still doing that, right?”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, taking a moment before answering. "Ah, next month. Got my refresher course first, so I'll see you lot after that." She picked up her glass, the cool beer sliding down her throat as she sighed contentedly.

It had been a long day—too long. But, she was glad to be here, catching up with these old faces, the familiar rhythm of their banter and laughter settling into her. The worries of her day faded, replaced with the warmth of good company and the taste of a well-earned pint.

The table buzzed with laughter and the clink of silverware as everyone dug into their meal. Y/N, content with a bite of lamb chop, was about to take another when Kyle’s voice broke through.

“So, Y/N,” he said with a mischievous grin, leaning forward, “how long’s it been since you’ve been single?”

Y/N paused, looking at him like he’d just asked if she wanted to run a marathon. She narrowed her eyes, the chop still in her hand. “You’re not about to start playing matchmaker, are you, Gaz?”

Kyle shrugged nonchalantly, completely unbothered. “Well, you know... I might have a perfect guy in mind. Could introduce you next time.”

The table erupted into teasing shouts, and a few of the women at the table nudged her playfully. “Ooh, a ‘perfect guy,’ eh?” one of them said with a sly smile. “Sounds like someone’s trying to get you out there, Y/N!”

“Yeah, yeah,” another girl chimed in, grinning. “You can’t stay single forever, love. You need to live a little!”

Y/N laughed, raising her glass of beer to her lips. “I’ve been living plenty, thank you very much,” she said, taking a sip. “I’ve been single since I was 22. Too much going on in my life. Can barely keep up with myself, let alone anyone else.”

One of the guys leaned in, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Come on, Y/N. You can’t just keep dodging the love life thing forever. You’ve gotta try at least once. Who knows? Maybe this ‘perfect guy’ will be just what you need.”

“Or,” another woman piped up, waggling her eyebrows, “he’ll just be an excuse for a nice date night and some free food. Win-win.”

Y/N put a hand on her chest, feigning shock. “Oh, I see how it is. You lot just want me to get free dinner at someone else’s expense!”

Kyle laughed, raising his beer. “Well, if you don’t like him, I’ll pay for the meal myself. But I’m tellin’ ya, he’s worth a shot.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her tone dry. “Tell you what—if I get to choose the place, I’ll consider it. But no more ‘perfect guy’ nonsense, alright?”

Her colleagues cheered, raising their own glasses. “To Y/N’s perfect guy!” someone shouted, and the table erupted into more laughter.

Y/N just rolled her eyes, taking another bite of her lamb chop. “Alright, alright. You lot are relentless.”

As the teasing continued, Y/N raised an eyebrow, clearly curious. “Alright then, who’s this ‘perfect guy’ Gaz has in mind? One of your mates?”

Kyle leaned back, clearly proud of his matchmaking skills. “Yeah, mate. His name’s Price. Former SAS, top bloke—don’t let the gruff exterior fool you. He’s solid. Got a good head on his shoulders.”

The table went silent for a moment. Some of the guys and girls exchanged glances, clearly impressed by the mention of SAS.

“Ooh, SAS, huh?” one of the women said, grinning. “That’s like, the real deal, right? Tough, mysterious, probably has a six-pack or maybe even eight! Hidden under all that tactical gear.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” another guy added, practically waggling his eyebrows. “Rugged, muscular, probably a bit brooding. Can already see the whole ‘I’ve been through the worst’ vibe.”

“Sounds like someone’s got a lot of mystery about him,” one of the other women teased, nudging Y/N with her elbow. “Could be just the thing you need, Y/N. A real adventure.”

Kyle, clearly delighted by the reactions, went on, “Yeah, you’ll like him. He’s been through the ringer, mate. The kind of bloke you don’t wanna mess with. Tough as nails.”

The group went on, each person adding their own humorous speculation about Price’s rugged, mysterious persona—tough military training, intense eyes, dangerous aura. The teasing was infectious, and everyone was in on it now, laughing and playfully suggesting how wild or sexy Price must be.

But Y/N’s expression had already shifted. Her hand, still holding the lamb chop, froze mid-air, and she stared into the distance, her eyes darkening as she took in what Kyle had said. The laughter around her faded into the background, her own thoughts taking over.

One of the guys, noticing the shift, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, Y/N?” he asked, clearly sensing the change in her mood.

Y/N blinked, breaking out of her thoughts. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Yeah, fine,” she said quietly, but her tone was noticeably subdued.

Kyle, still excited, didn’t notice. “I’m telling you, mate, he’s a proper top guy. You’ll get along fine with him, I’m sure of it.”

But Y/N’s eyes had taken on a more somber look. “Yeah, maybe,” she muttered, her voice much softer than before. “Look, I’m not saying all military guys are the same, but…” She paused, her hand tightening around her beer glass. “My father was ex-military. Bit of a bastard, to be honest. Mentally and verbally abusive. So, I’ve... never really been into that kind of thing, if I’m honest.”

The teasing stopped abruptly. The table grew quieter as her words sank in. Kyle, finally sensing the shift, looked at her with a soft expression. “I didn’t mean to bring up anything heavy, Y/N. Just thought I was being helpful…”

Y/N gave a small, weary smile, waving it off. “It’s alright, Gaz. You didn’t know.”

One of the women, noticing her mood, reached out and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Hey, you don’t have to meet him, Y/N. No pressure.”

Y/N nodded, the smile returning just a little, though it was faint. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’s a great guy. Just not sure I’m ready for... anything like that right now.”

The table grew quieter as the conversation shifted away from matchmaking and towards other, lighter topics. Laughter bubbled up again, but Y/N’s mind wandered back, the memories creeping in despite the cheerful chatter around her.

Her father… It didn’t take much to bring his image to the forefront of her mind. The memories of him were sharp and unpleasant, lingering like an unshakable shadow. He’d been in the military for years before moving into MI5 when she was a child. After he retired, though, he never really left the mindset behind.

She could still hear his voice in her head, cutting through the air, as if he was right there. The constant little digs—his sharp tone when he'd see her, trying to maintain that military discipline, as if he could control every aspect of her life. Every time he looked at her, it felt like he was seeing an enemy, like she was still just a soldier under his command.

He’d belittle her. Criticize everything, from her clothes to how she held herself, as though she were an extension of his authority. It wasn’t just the verbal abuse, though. There were moments where the anger would spill over. He’d hit her, sometimes, not out of frustration but out of a need to keep her “in line.” If she argued or disagreed with him, there were times he’d drag her out of the house, leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere just to teach her a “lesson,” and then come back hours later, violently pulling her into the car as though nothing had happened.

Y/N shook her head, pushing the dark thoughts back. She’d spent so long trying to bury them, trying to focus on anything else that didn’t make her feel like a child again, helpless under his control.

It wasn’t until that one night when she was 19—kicked out of the house, no place to go, just a bag and nothing but cold streets—that she decided enough was enough. She didn’t have the luxury of time or an easy choice. She’d had nowhere to go but a friend’s couch for a few nights, and that’s when she made the decision: she would join the police force. She needed the money, the stability, and more than anything, the chance to break free from the past.

The police program offered her a way out, an escape, a way to stand on her own two feet and start building something for herself. At the time, it also came with education, which was a huge draw. She could pay for her tuition while working, get the training she needed to eventually leave all that behind. She’d never intended to stay long in the force, but it turned out to be the best decision she could have made, even though it came with its own set of challenges.

Her eyes flickered back to the table, the laughter still ringing around her, but now muffled, distant. She had come a long way since those dark days, but sometimes—like now—the weight of it all crept back in.

It was easy for her to laugh along with the others, easy to let the jokes flow. But sometimes, when the noise died down, she could still feel the sting of her past, just beneath the surface.

Her thoughts snapped back to the present as someone nudged her elbow. “Oi, you alright, Y/N? You went all quiet there,” one of her friends said, concern lacing their voice.

Y/N blinked, shaking herself free of the memories. She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah,” she replied, taking another swig of her beer. “Just a long day, that’s all. Don’t mind me.”

They didn’t press further, thankfully, but she could feel their eyes on her for a moment before the conversation shifted again.

The laughter from the table faded as everyone began to gather their things, slipping out one by one into the cool night air. Y/N lingered for a moment, the clink of glasses and murmurs of her friends still echoing in her ears, but it felt distant now—like a tune she was no longer part of. As she stepped outside, the damp pavement underfoot caught the glow of the streetlights, each step sharp and purposeful. She let out a long breath, the chill of the evening sinking into her skin. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d needed this—quiet, space to herself, far away from the constant chatter and noise that seemed to follow her every move.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, snapping her from her thoughts. She glanced down at the screen. An unknown number. Normally, she wouldn’t even bother answering, but something told her to check it.

She unlocked the screen and swiped open the message.

"Hi, Y/N. John Price here. Gaz gave me your number. We should grab a drink sometime. Maybe chat about a few things. Cheers."

Y/N stopped dead in her tracks, eyes narrowing. Her thumb hovered over the screen as her mind scrambled for a reaction. John Price. The John Price? The former SAS legend, now retired, and apparently still involved in some highly classified business? What the hell was Gaz thinking?

"What the fuck, Gaz!!!" Y/N hissed under her breath, staring at the message with disbelief. Her gaze snapped up and scanned the street. She could see her friends walking ahead, far down the street now, their backs turned. Gaz, that bloody menace, had passed her number along without a second thought.

She stormed a few paces ahead, but her steps were more frustrated now. Her mind raced as she considered her options. She didn’t want any part of whatever ‘chat’ Price had in mind. She wasn’t a fool—she knew how these things worked. She could already picture the smug look on Gaz’s face when he thought he was doing her a favour, setting her up with some ‘good guy’ from his circle of military buddies. But military men… well, she had enough of that in her life already.

Y/N scrolled through her contacts, her fingers moving like clockwork. She was about to fire off a quick response to tell Price to kindly go to hell when she caught sight of her reflection in a shop window. Her face looked tired, the exhaustion from the day finally catching up to her. She could feel the cold seeping through her coat, and for a moment, it was like the weight of everything—the years of trying to make it on her own, the trauma, the nightmares—settled right back on her shoulders.

She quickly closed her phone and shoved it back into her pocket. A drink with John Price? Yeah, that was definitely not going to happen. But Gaz? He was going to hear about this. She didn’t care if he was busy with some top-secret ops or whatnot—this was a step too far.

"Next round’s on you, Gaz," she muttered to herself as she walked toward the corner, feeling the familiar mix of annoyance and amusement begin to churn in her stomach. ----------

Y/N's eyes fluttered open to the soft light of the morning, spilling through the gap in her curtains. The events of last night—Gaz's matchmaking attempt and the unexpected message from John Price—already felt like distant memories, lost in the haze of sleep. She groaned and stretched, her arms reaching out before she swung them over the side of the bed and planted her feet onto the cool wooden floor.

She was hungry. More than that, she was starving.

With a deep sigh, she pushed herself to her feet, feeling the weight of yesterday’s long hours still in her bones. Her body moved on autopilot as she made her way to the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee hit her senses before she even flicked on the kettle. The day ahead was full—pottery to finish, pieces to deliver, and the usual grind of meeting deadlines for design projects. But the pottery was the steady foundation. It brought in consistent income each month, even if it required hours of backbreaking work.

The market was always a good outlet for her—hands-on, personal, where customers could appreciate the craftsmanship and effort she poured into each item. She enjoyed the physicality of it, the quiet satisfaction of shaping clay into something functional and beautiful. She had a reputation for it, too—well-known in the area for her distinctive, handmade pottery, with a smooth, glossy finish that always caught the light just right.

After a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, she shuffled into her workshop. There was something grounding about the familiar rhythm of her craft. The kiln had cooled overnight, and her latest batch of pottery—plates, mugs, vases, and a few statement pieces—was ready for inspection. Y/N carefully removed the items, one by one, from the kiln. The glaze had set perfectly, giving each piece a rich, lustrous shine. She ran her fingers over the smooth surfaces, admiring the precision of her work. Her hands were still stained with the evidence of yesterday’s labor, but it didn’t bother her. It was part of the process.

As she carefully packed the finished pieces into protective wrapping for transport, she nodded in approval. She may have put the hours in, but the result was always worth it. The market would love these.

Later, Y/N stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, examining her reflection with a critical eye. She’d always believed that people treated you better when you looked your best—when you seemed approachable and friendly. And since she was about to step into the public eye again, it was important to put a little effort in. She applied her makeup with precision, the soft strokes highlighting her features, then slipped on a small pair of gold-plated silver earrings that added a touch of chic to her look.

She was wearing a loose white linen shirt with long sleeves, its cuffs casually rolled up. The shirt was light and breathable, perfect for a day of carrying boxes and setting up her stall. Over it, she tied her craftsman apron—dark, worn from years of use, but still functional, with enough pockets to hold all the tools she needed.

Her wide-legged chinos reached just to her ankles, the fit comfortable and practical, paired with her slip-on loafers—a soft, leather pair she’d had for years. It was casual yet still put-together, an outfit that made her feel at ease while still ready for whatever the day might throw at her.

She practiced her smile in the mirror—a grin that wasn’t too forced or strained, but warm and inviting. Some days, it felt like a performance. But she’d learned long ago that a good smile could sell a piece of pottery. And that was what she needed today: to sell, to engage, to make her art speak for her.

With a deep breath, she adjusted her apron, straightened her shoulders, and gave the mirror one final smile before grabbing the first box of finished work.

She had a day of selling ahead. And though sometimes the world felt heavy, she was ready to face it head-on. Her pottery, her designs—they were the bright spots in her life, the reasons she’d fought so hard to keep going, to stay grounded.

With another steadying breath, she stepped out into the cool morning air, the day ahead waiting for her.

-----------

Once Y/N had finished unpacking and arranging her wares at her stall, she took a moment to step back and admire the display. The pieces were neatly arranged—vases catching the light, mugs stacked just right, and her signature pottery glistening with its smooth, glossy finish. She felt a small sense of pride bubble up, but it was quickly tempered by the hustle of the market around her. There was no time to linger; there were customers to engage, products to sell, and a whole day ahead.

Grabbing her phone, she tapped into the group chat with her friends, which, of course, included Gaz. A small smile tugged at her lips as she typed out a quick message:

“Hey guys, I’m set up at the market today—stall 30 if you’re in the area and fancy dropping by. Would be good to catch up if you have the time! 😎”

She added a few relevant emojis, then hit send, tucking her phone back into her apron pocket with a sigh. If they could make it, great. If not, no big deal. It would be nice to see a familiar face, but she’d already grown accustomed to the solitude of her work.

As she glanced up from her phone, she was met with the hustle and bustle of market-goers milling around her stall. Some stopped to admire the pottery, others just passed by, lost in their own little world. Either way, it was all part of the game. She adjusted a few pieces that had shifted during the unpacking and waited for her first customer of the day. -------------

Y/N was arranging the last of her pieces when a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped up to her stall. She glanced up, quickly taking in his dark blue shirt, trim hair, and the kind of build that made him look like he could carry a truck on his back if he wanted to. The guy looked like Papa Bear material—muscular, solid, and with a presence that seemed to fill the space around him.

He stood still for a moment, his eyes scanning over the pottery on display, then back at her. Y/N couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly attractive he was. He had the kind of look that made heads turn, even if he didn’t seem to be trying. She could feel a little flutter of nerves creeping in, but she pushed it away, focusing on the pieces in front of her.

"Hi there," she said, forcing a smile as she adjusted a mug on the table.

"Hey," the man replied, his voice deep and steady. "You’ve got some brilliant work here."

Y/N nodded, her hands still busy with arranging. "Thanks. I’ve been at it for years, trying to get the perfect finish."

There was a pause as he looked at her again, this time with a more direct gaze. “You’ve definitely nailed it. Everything looks... well, perfect.”

Y/N felt a little warmth in her cheeks. What’s with this guy? she thought, still unsure of why she was feeling so off-kilter. He didn’t strike her as the type who would be interested in pottery, let alone strike up a conversation about it.

Then, with a small smile, he stepped forward and said, “I’m John, by the way. Gaz sent me.”

Y/N blinked, her heart skipping a beat at the mention of Gaz’s name. Gaz? The first thought that shot through her head was, No, no, not this again. Her stomach turned as she realized that Gaz hadn't given up on matchmaking her with this Papa Bear of a man. Gaz!! You matchmaking bastard, why'd you do this to me!!

She tried to shake off the feeling. "Gaz, huh? Of course. I should’ve known."

John’s smile softened. “Yeah, he said I should come over and introduce myself. Said you’re someone I should meet.”

Y/N gave him a wry grin, glancing at the ground for a moment. "That sounds like something Gaz would say." She forced a casual tone, but inside, she was already second-guessing everything.

There was a brief, knowing pause between them before John continued, his voice a bit quieter but warm. "I’ve seen the pictures Gaz sent me... you’ve definitely exceeded that. And you look even better in person."

Her heart pounded, and she could feel her pulse picking up, but she didn’t want to let him see how much his words affected her. Gaz... you absolute idiot.

John continued, stepping a bit closer. "I don’t usually do this, but I’d love to take you out sometime. Dinner, drinks... whatever you fancy."

Y/N felt a flush creeping up her neck. This was it, wasn't it? Gaz and his matchmaking nonsense had really gone this far... She looked up at him, her expression softer now, but still holding a hint of surprise. This guy wasn’t just tall and fit; he was exactly the kind of person Gaz would go on about.

“Look, I am a little busy right now... uhhmmm,” she said, but there was a small, teasing smile playing at her lips.

John smiled, his eyes twinkling with something playful. “Take your time. I’m patient.”

Y/N sighed inwardly. Gaz hadn't given up on this... She couldn’t help but feel the pressure of it all, even as she admired John's presence. Big guy, military background, and that soft, paternal charm. She’d met her fair share of tough guys, but there was something different about John Price. The way he carried himself—genuine, steady, and disarmingly kind—was impossible to ignore. A/N: I do hope you enjoyed that one! I’ll be writing another chapter when inspiration strikes, or feel free to drop any suggestions you might have!

[grechsblog]

(There are several fundamental things that you are certain of, about yourself. The truth about them is so integrated in your bones that no matter how much the curse over your memory tries to scrub it, you refuse to forget.)

"You are certain he is not in the meadow?" You hear Odile ask a third time, something sharp but also maybe a little fearful in her tone. You are bad at depicting exact emotions, always have been, so you aren't fully sure, but you, personally, feel very afraid as of right now watching the House in the distance, so you wouldn't blame her for being so high-strung.

Even if you'd prefer that she would stop biting Mirabelle over it.

(One: you were born on the island north of Vaugarde.)

(The language, the rituals, the crafts — you were raised into it, breathed it, lived it until it all was swallowed into an insatiable black hole that spans across the whole Universe, making it remember and forget and remember and forget, cycling.)

Mirabelle is anxiously wringing her hands, hastily put on oil-stained clothes rustling like tree's leaves in the strange wind you are sure isn't natural. "I am sure!! I've- I've checked it over and over, and walked a bit into the woods near it, and run up to Favor Tree and checked there a couple of times, but he's- he's nowhere to be found."

(Two: you are stubborn when it comes to knowledge.)

(You have been researching your home since the very year you forgot it, learning until you forgot, and relearning it all over again until it sticks. Some of it has, and you are immensely glad- but the things that didn't made you very adept at circling out the important parts of what you see, or read, or learn, which in turn was very beneficial in fighting tricky Sadness or gaining more specific clues to where the Orbs were.)

"Dile!!" Bonnie calls out somewhere on your right, painting with exhaustion from running all over Dormont in the ten minutes they were gone. In the periphery of your eye you see Odile snap her attention at them in an instant; their voice gets swallowed halfway through by the buzzing of your skull, but you still get to hear their report: "I checked the flower shop and fields and clocktower again and asked the guys on the rock but no one saw Za after he went away!! And- and-"

(Three:)

"And there are no Orbs!!!"

You hear Odile take a sharp inhale. Mirabelle makes a choked noise from behind her hand, like something is stuck in her throat. Even you feel a pang of what you may as well call horror.

Bonnie's voice wobbles as they explain that, when you were away, someone ransacked your stuff, taking away the Orbs and tonics, leaving things askew. From the way they describe it, though, the precision was too keen for it be someone who doesn't know exactly what they're looking for, or where to find it — only the necessity was taken. Crafted Water, Pepper, Thyme. Notably no Ginger disappeared, like it wasn't even remotely needed.

The wind blows in your face, bringing a sharp sting of a smell you can't quite name. Your gaze is glued to the House.

(You know what you know.)

You all know who took them.

You do not hear what Odile says over the sudden howling in your ears, but Mirabelle's voice rises several octaves at once and barely manages to tear through. "He wouldn't!!" She argues, voice dangerously close to real tears. "He wouldn't, he- he's-"

Odile's tone is sharper than it ever was before. "I do not want to think of him like that either, but then what will we do? He's still unaccounted for, and nowhere to be found. He either deserted, betrayed us, or-"

"Za wouldn't!! Even if we got into a bad fight he wouldn't!!!!!"

"Boniface-"

The smell grows stronger. Stronger, stronger, stronger. It invades your mind, overtakes your thoughts, claws at your brain with nails sharp as knives. You can't focus on the argument that gains both volume and momentum; everything stinks of something, like it's smeared all over your face. The air is stale with it, compressed, hard to inhale or exhale. There's a comparison on your tongue, so close, so close, if only you could-

"Madame, enough!"

You wish you could-

"Stop trying to sugarcoat it, Mirabelle!"

(There are several fundamental things that you are certain of, but most important is the most obvious.)

You nearly gasp aloud. It's almost funny how such a small thing makes everything click into place.

(You were taught Wish Craft since you were a wee-baby, barely able to walk. You were raised into it, breathed it, lived it. It's part of you as much as your absent memories of how you did so.)

Sugar. You've been smelling sugar all day — in the library, in the clocktower, and especially on Isabeau. Tacky like syrup, awful and sweet to the point of being bitter. Molasses in every breath, rotting fruit between your fingers, overpowering every other smell yet unnoticeable unless you really focus. It's been itching at the back of your head, tidbit for you to pay attention, hot brand on your thoughts now.

(You know what you know.)

He's in the House. The House that is strange, warped, and not in the way, you think, it's supposed to be warped.

(You recognise Wish Craft for what it is when it's presented before you, and especially how truly dangerous it is.)

He's in the House, whose roof is askew at an impossible angle, half floating in the air. Whose windows are all different shades of wrong. Walking halls you've never seen before. Fighting Sadness, finding keys, tearing down the foundation of that building brick by brick. Most likely going to go toe-to-toe with King soon.

You ignore the way everyone behind you yelps when your cloak hits the ground. You ignore the indent in the ground, you ignore the choked call of your name, you ignore the wind's howl, you ignore the stink of sugar, you ignore.

The smell of sweets, — worryingly, — becomes even stronger.

(You don't know what he wished for, but this amount of craft is immense.)

Everything.

(Isa is in danger.)

Your fingers snap and you're gone like a released arrow.

this is also cross posted on ao3 :333!!!

What if during Traveler Isa's act 5 Sif leaves the cloak at the clock tower just out of a sheer rush to get to Isa

Bold of you to assume Siffrin would've left every single one of his belongings at the clocktower the moment he realizes where Isa is >:3c But for real. You sparked an UNHOLY amount of inspiration in me this evening. My hand hurts, but it was worth it! I think!!! thank you! and curse you for hitting me with the creativity brick to the back of my head on my weekend break

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

@chasani THE WORSTIES! Nearly Two Whole months later!! Don't worry, Gonta's tarantula has a bigger enclosure at home, she's gonna hang out on his shoulder while they have lunch :]

Please don't tag as ou/goku!

[braisedhoney]

made a design for the narrator! because there’s no such thing as being late to a bandwagon lol. lemme know which set of sleeves looks better. tbh i kinda like the alternate version.

also the scarf thing moves. bc that’s cool.

[virtuallyindubitable]

[camellcat]

dunno if it really fits them but the thought won't leave my brain so here's a doodle

[the-acid-pear]

It's not easy to be a guy with a weird gender and complicated relationships with its sexuality and romantic attraction and fat and autistic and traumatized to the bone but someone has to do it

[snowsinterlude]

need someone older.

(teacher!coriolanus × student!reader.)

summary: a teacher can do a lot in private lessons.

c.w: reader is 19 for repeating a year, age gap (coryo's 29), fingering, tummy bulge, heavy smut, edging (f. recieving), overstimulation, stuffed panties, mild public sex, petnames (coryo calls reader bunny, pet, good girl.), reader thinks coryo is married so . cheating implications, marriage proposal

being a dumb girl was something you tried your best to do ever since you repeated the first year of high school, watching all your friends graduating before you was something you weren't proud about- not for them, but for you. you were supposed to be by their side.

thankfully, you had your professor, coriolanus snow. god. he was the only reason for you to pay attention to class (or at least try to), you were hungry for his approval. for you to be called a "good girl", and be said that you've done well in your tests? yeah, you were willing to do anything for that.

when he offered you private classes, you said yeah without even thinking much. you needed to learn, and spending more time with him was something you craved for. the ring on his finger? fuck it. you wanted it. you deserved it. more than his wife – if he had one.

you've been day dreaming about it constantly, eyes always searching for his on every class you had with him, and he would keep that smile painted on his face, not wanting anyone to think you were the reason for him to be smiling, even if you were, the didn't need to know about it.

"bunny," he voiced, leaning on your desk and taking advantage of the fact that you both were on the library, every student on the school had gone home and the teachers had gathered to go to a nearby bar. "stop looking at my dick now, will we?" he said, chuckling at you.

"huh?" you asked, finally waking to your reality.

"you need to learn that if you don't want to repeat a grade again." he said, sitting by your side, his hand holding your thigh. "you don't want to repeat now, do you?" you shaked your head negatively, and he loved seeing you like that, shy as a kitten even if you usually had his dick on your mouth when that used to happen. "c'mon, don't look at me like that. we have to put these things on your brain if you want to graduate already." he said.

his fingers slowly travelled all the way up on your panties, finding a small damp on the fabric, he looked at you with his usual smirk, his pupils blown already from everything he was about to do to you.

and now you looked like a mess. hands gripping on the library desk as your legs trembled with the aftermath of every time you almost came. you counted six till now, crying from how good it felt having him behind you, his fingers thrusting lewdly into your cunt.

"c-coryo- t-teacher, please. please stop it, i have to cum- i can't hold it in anymore!" you begged, clenching as his fingers rubbed deliciously on your clit after thrusting so many times inside you.

"well, it's not my fault, pet. you're the one getting your questions wrong." he said, pulling his dick to tease the core of your pussy, your cries only making him feel and making his ego bigger. "tell me, baby, how do you want it?"

"q-quick, pleease! if it get slower i-i think i'll die!" you said, legs spread as your skirt revealed a small part of your ass.

"oh, c'mon, i'm sure you can take it, baby" he purred in your ear, the tip of his cock teasing your pussy and slapping your clit slightly, making your body jolt slightly. you bend over, your elbows being now your main support at that table.

"please, teacher..!" you begged. but he didn’t even bat an eye to your cries, slowly sliding his dick inside you, and fuck, you both fucked on wednesday, how come he always seems to stretch you up so good? the pace he choose to torture you with was so slow, making sure you felt every inch of his dick inside you, stretching you, making you his. "please, don't do that to me. j-just ask something easier!" you cried.

"easier? okay... let's see" his hips bucked slowly into yours, your pussy gushing around him as if your own body needed that- as if he was the hair you breathed for. "what's your age, babe?" he asked, a playful tone being cast as his free hand massaged your boob, pinching on your nipple and freeing both your boobs from it's cage.

"n-nineteen." you said, and he laughed again as he said: "good girl, you're right.", his hips giving you a powerful thrust that made you cum with only that, making you cry from your own humiliation.

"ah, bunny, don't tell me you came already only with that." he said, joking with your face as you cried.

"i'm sorry- too good. i-it was too deep." he laughed, pulling back and thrusting deeper again, this time, you made sure not to cum again, edging yourself as he changed your position to put your leg over his broad shoulder, his dick making a bulge appear at your tummy. he loved that view- much more than he loved you.

"look at you, taking me so well. how does it feel, baby? use one of the words we learned at the literature class," he grunted your tightness coating his dick with your own juices, "use them, even if it's just two, and i'll let you cum."

"tortuous," you begin, crying from how good it felt, from how dumb you were getting. "spiralling, it's twirling my insides!" you cried. and he smilled, kissing and licking your tears before placing the most gentle kiss on your lips, pouding faster into you as you closed your eyes shut, moaning and grunting from all the pleasure- and yet you tried your best to avoid moaning only to hear his moans and the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh.

"good girl." he said, his hands holding your hips as he fucked you. it felt truly out of your world experience. his phone ringed just at the right moment he hit your cervix. "t-teacher, your phone- it can be your wife." you said, earning a frown from him as he turned the phone off.

"wife? baby, i'm single." he said, chuckling at you. "you've been walking around school with my cum stuffed in your panties even thought you thought i was married?" he pounded into you with a more quicken pace. "god, what a dirty girl you are. fucking around with married teachers." he teased you.

you felt a heat on your cheeks that you never felt before. god, how much would you end up humiliating yourself? "b-but, fuck! y-your ring-"

he showed you the ring. taking it off his finger with his mouth and sticking his tongue to you, an invitation for you to take the ring.

"keep it." he said once you took the ring

"but- s-sir, i-"

"mm, bunny, i'm a faithful man." he said. "and right now, i'm faithful to you." he said. you squirmed deliciously at the feeling of his cock filling you up again, his tip on your cervix as you came again, and soon enough, he came too.

he helped you get dressed into your panties again and straightned your clothes, a cast kiss on your lips before he smiled sweetly at you, putting the ring on your middle finger.

"i hope you know what that means."

"i-i do." you said, for both questions heavily implied in that context.

"great. then make sure to graduate, bunny." he smiled. "i'm sure the honeymoon will be great."

[merakidoll]

the music from downstairs played in the bathroom like a muffled tone. you couldn’t even focus on what song it was, but only the man behind you - fucking you as if he had a point to prove. “mmh, watch that shit ma’ma, watch how i break you.” connie was someone who you were not supposed to be with at all, and you weren’t with him; but god he was so much fun. “c-con holdonnn” you tried pushing at his stomach, his cock so deep and the feeling of an orgasm at brink. he ignored you and pushed your hand, hicking up your leg to rest on the counter, while his tattoo hand wrapped around your throat.

your makeup was a smudge mess, the two seconds lip gloss re up, turned into an hour of your guts getting played with. your mouth watered at how sexy he looked. fitted cap slowly moving back onto his shave head, letting the pink design peak through.the gold chain danced around his neck and his pretty pink lips were wet, the bottom one sore from all of his bitting. your eyes met his in the mirror, and on cue your eyes rode to the back of your head. his cock repeatedly hitting your g-spot, mouth opening in an o shape but nothing could come out.

“that’s the spot? yea, cream baby. make a fuckin mess” connie focused on slowing down his pumps, thick tip dragging on that one spot- you didn’t even realize you had orgasmed as your body fell limp on the counter. cream making a mess over the both of you. connie through his head back speeding back up and let all of his ropes out into you, making you squirt just a little! the bathroom was silent, the mirror slightly foggy and the heavy breaths of you both, stars still in your line of vision. connie slowly pulled out of you groaning when you dripped out the mix of you both. he mindlessly scooped it up and put it back inside of you.

his painted nails fucking into your sore walls and making sure that your pussy held all of it. “better keep that shit in there” he didn’t ask you- but told you. watching your pussy clench as he pulled back up his pants. you slighty rose your head watching him, a gasp coming from you when he slapped your pussy and kissed your cheek. he sat down a my melody ziploc bag that held two rolled blunts, walking out and leaving you to hear him immediately dap someone up while laughing. all you could think about was the mess you made on his hand moments prior

[shinobicyrus]

I've seen a lot of posts about Batman using his Bruce Wayne alter ego for the good of Gotham: job programs for felons released from prison, orphanages, charities, high wages for his employees, ethical business practices...the legendary post where Bruce Wayne goes to Wal-Mart.

Thus far I've never personally seen anybody really dig into the persona of Bruce Wayne the Billionaire Playboy. A handsome, rich, powerful man who always is seen at fancy galas, art openings, charity dinners, and wild parties with at least one beautiful woman on his arm.

We know Bruce Wayne is the mask, and its Batman who has a...complex love life, depending on the iteration we're talking about. Talia, Catwoman, sometimes Wonder Woman.

Bruce Wayne's dates, on the other hand, are all "normal" people. Maybe they're an aspiring actress, a supermodel, a prima ballerina, the occasional reporter...and every time there's that bit of nervousness at the start.

Sure everyone knows Bruce Wayne. Everyone knows the story with him. Sometimes his wilder parties make the news, but there's never really been anything nasty reported about him. Never...allegations. But he's a billionaire. He's one of the most powerful people in the whole city, nevermind the country. If he did have some skeletons in his closet. Well. Men with power have a way of making those kinds of stories go away, don't they?

As time goes on the Date's fears dissipate pretty quickly. Bruce Wayne is nothing but polite, kind, and at times charmingly awkward in an 'raised by his butler in a mansion' kind of way with his dates. Some of them can tell he's holding back, of course. Maybe the more perceptive Dates notice he's smarter than he lets on - playing the himbo or hamming up the "know-nothing rich boy" act to the cameras or some of his wealthy peers.

He also listens, is the thing. He's always listening to what they're saying, is interested in hearing about their careers, their hobbies, their lives. Really listens, too. Might refer to something a Date said weeks later off-hand. Buy out the whole museum for a private dinner date with a famous painting from an obscure artist they like, or a private performance with another's favorite band.

He has anecdotes and funny stories for days that somehow says very little about his personal life. The Dates know he has kids (it's practically a running gag in the news that Bruce Wayne has adopted yet another orphan) and maybe she might spot one of them at the mansion, but Bruce seems very keen to shelter them from any intense spotlight and scrutiny, and they all seem happy if a bit weird like him.

Eventually, there's drifting. He's a very busy man, with a very busy schedule. On more than on occasion his nice old butler will call and extend apologies that Mr. Wayne will not be able to make it this evening. Sometimes it's virtually impossible to get a hold of him over the phone. After a while they stop trying. None of them feel quite surprised by that. In the end, it just doesn't work. Sure, he's a little distant and doesn't make himself emotionally available...but he's not a bad person.

Especially when the so-called "exes" of Bruce Wayne start networking. Gotham isn't a small city, but the social circles Bruce Wayne travels in aren't as big. They don't quite gossip or complain about him. More like...who else would get it?

(I touched his side once and he winced...like he'd been hurt real bad there. He laughed and said it was tackle polo. How does that even-?)

(Somehow, after two dates, he saw right through me and listened while I told him what that casting director tried to do. He nodded, gave me the contact details of a law firm, and said not to worry about the legal fees.)

(I don't know for sure it was him, but it can't be a coincidence that my building got bought out from under my shitty landlord and we were all able to buy our apartments under market value.)

(He got my brother in the best rehab program in the city after his relapse. It probably saved his life. We'd stopped dating months ago, I still don't know how he found out.)

(He gave me a card with a phone number and told me that if I was ever in trouble to call it. Said one of his cars would come to pick me up, any time, any place, no questions asked. The one time I did have to use it after a bad party, it was Alfred.)

I think any tabloid reporter digging around for salacious stories or dirt about Bruce Wayne's love life would be completely and politely stonewalled when they try asking his former Dates. Even when money is offered. Every single one of them.