#Jim x original character

[dbnightingale24]

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A Stepcest Love Story About Jim

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Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Trying to decide if I should do one update or two this weekend. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it!

Word Count: 4,963

Warning(s): SMUT (MINORS DNI), Swearing, Family Drama, Infidelity, Step-Daughter/Step-Father relations, Emotional Cheating, Drinking, Arguing, Forbidden Love, Lying, Self Loathing, Sneaking Around...I think that's it.

Summary: This is the final straw that breaks the camel's back.

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I do not give permission/consent for my stories/works to get posted elsewhere. I do not condone this type of relationship/behavior, this is for entertainment purposes only.

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Chapter 3

2 Weeks Later...

Ever since you and Jim fell asleep holding each other close on your bed, you’ve done your best to stay away. Coming up with any excuse to reject any invite your Mother extends. It was silly of you to think that she wouldn’t ask Jim to text you on her behalf. 

Unknown Number: Y/N?

Y/N: Who is this?

Unknown Number: Uh, it’s Jim.

Y/N: How did you get my number?

Unknown Number: Your Mother.

Y/N: Of course. Of course.

Unknown Number: She thinks you’re mad at her because you won’t come over, and thinks you’ll talk to me.

Y/N: I’m not mad at anyone, it’s just better for me to stay away.

Unknown Number: We don’t think so.

Y/N: Jim...don’t.

Unknown Number: Nothing happened.

Y/N: Did you tell her?

Unknown Number: No, because there’s nothing to tell her.

On the one hand, you know that the both of you know that’s total bullshit. On the other hand, technically, nothing did happen. Plus, you know the more you stay away, the more she’s going to bother you and Jim which wouldn’t be good either. So, you explain everything to Ciara, and while she gives you a stern talking to, she agrees to accompany you to whatever your Mother invites you to.

“So, are you two a thing now?” she scoffed once she poured the both of you a cup of coffee.

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re the one who cuddled him-”

“We were both just drunk and overwhelmed. You know how I get when I’m drunk, and you know I only drink like that when I’m around her, Rose, or the both of them at once.”

“Fair point. Well, how do you feel about him?”

“I don’t know? Nothing. He’s my stepfather-”“Yeah, cause that matters.”

“Ci, I’m sitting here asking you to be my decoy. I’m very much aware of what can’t happen.”

“It’s not like you need someone to play devil’s advocate in this situation, but she did go out of her way to keep him a secret and make you the bad guy.”

“He’s good for her and I don’t need her thinking I took someone else from her-”“You’ve never taken anything from her.”“You and I both know that’s not how she views any of it. She had no problems until she got knocked up with me.”

“I hate your Mother.”“Yeah, I know,” you laughed. “Just gotta get through the Summer,” you smiled weakly.

The plan worked well enough, because whenever Ciara didn’t feel like being there or could sense that you were feeling uncomfortable, she could easily say- 

“Darragh needs help with Nora, she’s become really fussy lately. I’m sorry, but we have to go. Y/N is always our last hope if we can’t calm her ourselves.”

Well, apparently that excuse was working too well, because two nights ago you got a call you’d been praying to avoid.

“Jim’s children are coming over this weekend! You’ll be able to make it, right?” your Mother beamed as soon as you picked up the phone.

Jim had to be standing right next to her. 

“Oh...why would I be coming?”

“To meet them! They’re your step-siblings!”

“Uh...Ciara and I made plans with Darragh, cause he’ll be dropping Nora. We figured we all go out.”

“That’s even better! We can all hangout together!”

“Mum, why not-”

“Y/N, it’ll be good for everyone. They need to meet you. We’re all a family now.”

How the fuck is this your fault?

“Yeah, you’re right. Fine.”

“Why are you upset?”“I’m not upset about anything. I’ll see you then-”

“You don’t know the time-”“Just text it to me,” you bit before hanging up.

All of this leads to why you’re currently pacing around in your childhood bedroom. You don’t even know why you’re flustered. You already knew he has children, so why does it matter so much? Why do you care if they like you? It shouldn’t make a difference whether they like you or not. It’s not like you’re going to be hanging around much, especially when you go back to school, so why it driving you mad now?

“Hey, you okay?” Jim asks softly as he makes his way into your room, closing the door behind him.

You just glare at him as you continue to pace.

“What? This wasn’t my idea. We got to talkin’ about doin’ somethin’ small for the weekend, and she realized that my children haven’t met you, and decided to put this together.”

“You don’t want me to meet them?”

“It’s not that.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“I don’t want them to meet you like this. All flustered and mad-”

“I’m not mad.”

“Don’t be a liar.” “I shouldn’t even be here. What the fuck?!”

“Calm down,” he begs softly, placing his hands on either side of you.

God, you hate how much you’ve missed his touch.

“They’re going to love you, today is going to be fine, and it’ll be done with before you know.”

“How do you know they’ll love me?”

“I know my kids.” “Jim-”

“Don’t stay away anymore.” “God, I can’t have that talk right now.” “What talk?”

“Don’t make me feel stupid on top of everything else!”

“We didn’t do anything-” “Jim, you flirted with me that night. We were standin’ outside my room, you flirted with me, and I liked it. I liked it a lot. Then, we stayed up talking and fell asleep holding each other...I shouldn’t be here.”

“Angel-” “You’re married to my Mother, Jim! My Mother! I can’t...we can’t-”

Taking a deep breath, he releases you and looks down at you. His eyes search the features, while you get lost in his ocean blue eyes.

“I don’t want...we just get along,” he smiles softly at you. “Aren’t we supposed to? I’m not trying to be some sort of father figure in your life, because you clearly don’t need one. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll only speak to you when you’re here-”

“It won’t, Jim. That’s the problem. It will just-”

“Here you two are!” Ciara whisper yells as she makes her way into your room. “Lover boy, I’m gonna need you to get down there and rein in your wife.” “What do you mean?”

“Her nerves are winning the battle and shes started drinking.” He scowls as he storms out, “fucks sake!”

You finally feel like you can breathe again. 

“What the fuck was that?!”

Shaking your head, you make your way over to your bed and sit, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“You tried to get out of it-”

“Ci, I shouldn’t be here. I should be as far away from him as possible, and-”

“Why...you don’t...Y/N-”

“It’s just a crush,” you quickly defend, but the scoff that leaves her mouth lets you know that she doesn’t believe you at all. “It is!”

“Your stepfather?”

“I haven’t even known him that long! Okay, this is exactly what I mean. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Alright, his kids aren’t here yet. Darragh is already fed up with your Mother, so it shouldn’t be hard for us to get out of here.” Grabbing your hand, she quickly leads you out of the room, “lets go.”

Ciara and Darragh exchange a look as he bounces Nora in his arms, and as  soon as her foot hits the bottom step, and he’s instantly getting up, Nora giggling at his fast movement. They decided to bring her last minute, and it honestly brought you more comfort than you thought it would. 

“Y/M/N I just remembered, I told my parents we’d come by today with Y/N, and it’s too late to cancel-”

“Nonsense!” your Mother slurs as she appears with a smile painted on her face, as an exasperated Jim follows behind her. “The kids are excited and almost here-”

“I figure we can leave now and just come back tomorrow for lunch or something. They’re here for the-”

He’s cut off by the doorbell ringing, and you close your eyes in defeat. Fuck.

You muster the best smile you can as you make your way to the front door, “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

His ex-wife has mixture of irritation and anger on her face, but she does her best to hide it with a smile. 

“You must be the stepdaughter,” she smiles bitterly, and you force yourself to swallow down your irritation.

You still don’t even know how you ended up in this situation.

“I’m Y/N,” you greet as the two children run towards Jim, who’s more than happy to greet them and give them bear hugs.

You hate how much it pulls on your heartstrings.

“Hey Danielle!” your Mother slurs and Danielle looks completely taken aback.

It’s not as if you can blame her.

“It’s been a while!”

“I’ve been so busy,” your Mother laughs, engulfing her in a hug.

You just want the ground to swallow you whole. 

You shake your head and offer a kind smile towards Danielle before telling her, “my best friend, her boyfriend and child, and I will be here all night.”

“Glad to hear it,” she laughs awkwardly, once your Mother finally lets go of her.

“Thanks for bringing ‘em, Danielle,” Jim offers softly as he comes up behind you, mindlessly resting his hand on your shoulder.

The look on her face lets you know that she thinks this is Peyton’s Place, or something close to it. Once again: you can’t blame her.

“You’ll give me a ring if something happens, yeah?” she asks Jim.

“Of course,” he promises with a small chuckle.

Danielle gives your Mother one last look before looking at you and nodding, turning, and leaving.

“Who’s up for a movie?!” you ask excitedly, turning around and making your way back into the house, being met with cheers.

God save you from the hell that’s about to reign down on you.

**

“It’s like your Mother constantly goes out of her way to be a bitch,” Ciara scowls and you laugh.

You’ve done your best to keep your Mother at bay, but it’s been useless. You gave the children (your “siblings”) a choice between ‘Shrek’ and ‘Robots’, and you were so happy they chose ‘Robots’. Your Mother always hated Shrek (for reasons forever unknown to you), and you were afraid it would’ve pushed her further into whatever anxiety depressed state she was in. Turns out, no matter what, she was determined to push herself further into her stupor.

“They really seem to fuckin’ love you,” she slurred as she plopped herself down on one of the kitchen chairs, drink in hand. 

“Mother, stop,” you snapped, “these are your stepchildren! Get it together!”

“Why did ya even have to come home?”

“You invited me for the Summer!”

“Ya just had to-”

“Go to bed,” 

“Is everythin’ okay in here?” Jim asked softly as he made his way into the kitchen. 

“As if you give a fuck,” she mumbled before she took another sip of her drink.

“Stop it!” you snapped again in a hushed tone. “Go upstairs and sleep it off.”

“I’m your Mother!”

“It’s a shame you’ve never acted like it. Now go!”

She mumbled something incoherent as she grabbed her glass and got up. She glared at you before got on her tiptoes and kissed Jim on the cheek, then finally made her way upstairs. You wanted to throw the bottle against the wall, but you knew it would only make things worse for everyone involved.

“Angel-”

“You sure picked a real fuckin’ winner,” you scoffed humorlessly as you started to pace.

“Just calm down-”

“Are ya okay?”

“I’m fine, just take a moment,” he begged as he stood in front of you.

“This was her idea and...I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Why not? Me being here only makes things worse. Only makes her worse.”

“I want you here.”

“Once I’m gone, she’ll be back to the way she was before. You’ll be living in wedded bloody bliss again in no time.”

“Angel, you don’t get it,” he chuckled humorlessly as he cupped your face and looked down at you.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Jim...no. If anything, that means that I really need to leave.”

“I won’t...I can’t. We can’t...right?”

“Of course!”

“Then why are you lookin at me like that?” he asked softly.

You should’ve moved away from him. You should’ve said ‘no’, but you just stood there like deer stuck in the headlights.

“Tell me you’ll stay.”

“Jim I...”

“Say it, Angel.”

“It’s not right.”

“I know, but I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.”

“I’m your stepdaughter, Jim. This can’t happen.”

“Do you really feel that way? Do you look to me as a Father figure?”

“You know I don’t, but...you’re married. To my Mother.”

“Angel, I have tried so hard, but this...this feels right. Doesn’t it feel right to you? Like it should’ve always been like this?”

“Jim-”

“Doesn’t it feel right?”

You inhaled deeply before you closed your eyes, “yes.”

“I want to be yours, Angel.”

“Jim...stop it. We can’t do this. You’re just mad at her right now, and you have every right to be. You’ll feel differently in-”

“It’s never felt like this with her. Even before you, I’ve never felt the same towards her as I do for you, or for anyone for that matter. I didn’t know I could.”

“Please don’t tell me this. I can’t hear it, Jim.”

“Then let me show you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to even think before he crashed his lips into yours. You hated how natural it felt, because it was wrong. It was wrong on so many levels. The kiss was gentle, but desperate, like he knew it wouldn’t last long. Like he knew it couldn’t last long. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, loving the way your bodies meshed together as you tried to sear this moment and feeling into your brain. 

You knew this could never happen again.

He backed you against the kitchen wall and gripped your ass tight, before he hoisted you up and you wrapped your legs around his slim frame. The man didn’t look it, but he was stronger than you imagined.

And you’d imagined a lot.

You moaned as he started to kiss down from your jawline to your neck, “Jim...please.”

“I’ll do anything you want, Angel. Just tell me what you want.”

“You,” you whimpered as you ground yourself against him.

“Fuck!”

“I just want you!” you assured him as quietly as you could. “I just need you!”

“Can’t wait to-”

“Dad! Do you need help with anythin’?!” his son called from the living area, and it pulled you both out of your trances.

“No, I’ll be back with the popcorn soon!” Jim called as he looked up into your eyes. 

When the hell did he even start making popcorn?

He slowly put you down as he let out a heavy sigh, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t...we shouldn’t keep dancing around this.”

“I’ll leave in the morning-”

“I don’t want that at all. Stay tonight and we’ll figure this all-”

“Jim, this can’t happen again. Ever again.”

“We both want it to-”

“This will fan out before it even has a chance to turn into anything-”

“I love you.”

“Stop it, Jim.”

“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“I’m just a nice vacation from my Mother, and you’ll-”

“You think that’s all I want? Close your legs to me forever, I’ll still want you, Angel.”

“Jim-”

“We can figure this out.”

“We have! We can’t do this ever again.”

He chuckled humorlessly as he pressed himself against you, “is that what you truly believe? That this is the end of it?”

“Jim-”

“Dad!” his son yelled, which only made him chuckle softly.

“I’m comin’” he called back. “This isn’t done,” he promised before he walked away.

Since that little incident in the kitchen, you’ve avoided all eye contact with Jim, as well as any close encounters. You feel like everyone will know if you two lock eyes, and you truly can’t deal with that right now. You can’t deal with any of it. How the hell did it even get this point? Just this morning, he told you that there’s nothing to be worried about, and now...?

You can’t do this. You can’t fall for this trap. He’s just hurting, and it’ll all go to shit. How can he be in love with you? He barely even knows you, but he claims to be in love with you? How would it even work? It can’t. Your Mother will hate the both of you, and she’d have every right. This is so-

“Babe, did you hear me?” Ciara laughs softly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“I’m sorry, no, I’m so drained,” you chuckle softly, shaking your head.

You’ve got to stop.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna stay over tonight?”

“I should stay. Who knows what she’ll be like in the morning, and I don’t want the kids dealing with her with just Jim. If the day needs to be saved, I’ll be here.”

“Well, aren’t you noble? Well, that and I’m sure you want to continue what you and Jim started.”

You can feel your blood freezing.

“What...how...?”

“Besides the way you avoided him like the plague, I was going in there to check on you, and saw you up against the wall, and him being the reason for it.”

“Oh my God!”

“I’m not going to say anything and I’m not going to judge you. However, you two do need to figure this out, and figure it out soon.”

 “I don’t even know how it got to this point. He claims he’s in love with me, but how can that be? Besides, there’s no way we can actually be together,” you groan, dropping your face into your hands. “The smart thing to do is to leave, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Then why is so damn hard for me to agree to leave?”

“Because you like him...a lot.”

“I’ve barely even spent time with him.”

“But the time ya have spent with him has been intimate. You both got to know each other in a personal way.”

“He’s my stepdad!”

“It’s not like you’re a child. You’re a grown woman.”

“He’s married to my Mother.”

“Because that’s goin’ so well.”

“She was fine until I came home.”

“She invited you home for the Summer! She has no reason to act like this, besides, if you didn’t set her off something else would have. She can only hide her real self for so long.”

“What if he’s actually good for her?”

“You think she can come back from this? Babe, even if he doesn’t end up with you, he’s never going to stay with her. Especially after that spectacle tonight,” she scoffs while placing her hands on her hips. “In case you forgot, she didn’t tell you that she got married.”

“C, this isn’t right.”

“I never said that it was. It’s backwards as shit, but I’ve seen the way you two look at one another. The way you both try not to look at one another. There’s something between the both of you.”

“There shouldn’t be. There shouldn’t be for so many reasons,” you sob as tears fill your eyes.. “God, maybe I’ll just head back early-”

“And go where? Do what?”

“C-”

“Just talk to him. He clearly has some things he needs to say so, at least, clear the air.”

“I can’t think when I’m around him.”

“I don’t think he’s much better, love,” she giggles softly as she gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“I shouldn’t be this torn up about this.”

“The heart wants what it wants. Like I said, just talk. See what happens,” she smiles reassuringly before wrapping you in a tight hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t see how it can be.”

“Just give it time. Everything in life requires time,” she assures you, letting go as both Darragh and Jim walk in. “Tell me how it goes.”

She gives you a quick kiss on the cheek along with a reassuring nod, before making her way over to Darragh, taking his hand, and walking out. You hear Nora coo softly when Ciara lifts her up, and a small smile comes to your face.

You’d choose her life over yours any day, honestly.

The door closes and you know you’re alone with Jim which, in some ways, is the last thing you want.

“Where are the kids?” you ask softly, avoiding Jim’s heated and heavy gaze.

“Everyone’s asleep, Angel,” he promises as he corners you.

That nickname is gonna drive you insane.

“Then we should be too.”

“We’re not done-”

“Jim, I’m just a welcomed distraction. You’ll get over this. Over me.”

“I don’t want to-”

“Jim, we can’t-”

“I know your heart rate speeds up when we’re alone, Angel. Mine does too. You want me the same way I want you.”

“Sex and intimacy are not the same thing.”

“And I never said that’s what this is.”

“Jim, this can’t happen anymore-”

“You don’t think about me the same way I think about you? You don’t want me in the same way I want you?”

“She’s my Mother, Jim.”

“Do you think of me as your Stepfather? As your Father?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Then what’s wrong?” he asks as he cups your face.

“This can be the only time we do this,” you breathe as he closes the space between the both of you. “Fuck.”

“There’s my good girl,”

“Jim...we can still stop.”

“We don’t want to.”

“We shouldn’t in here,” you breathe, mind foggy as you feel his breath on your neck.

“Anything and anywhere you want,” he husks before planting feverish kisses along your neck.

Fuck, is this really going to happen?

“Maybe...maybe we should wait-”

“I can’t wait anymore, Angel.”

“What if she wakes up?”

He’s quicker than you ever imagined as he stands up straight and leads you through the house. Almost in an instant, he’s leading you downstairs and into the spare room your grandparents had made for you to hide in when their arguments with your Mother got to be too much for you.

“Problem solved,” he husks before crashing his lips into yours.

It’s wrong, on so many levels, but it feels so good. He feels so good.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex,” you moan while he kisses down your body.

“Angel, this is so much more to me,” he promises, unbuttoning your shorts and pulling down. “I love you so much,” he groans, taking in your scent.

“Jim!”

“Been dreamin’ of this cunny, Angel. Let Daddy have a taste.”

You bite down hard on your bottom and swallow down your moan as he starts to suck on your clit. Lulling your head back, you close your eyes and grip his hair tight, quickly forgetting about all the guilt you felt only moments ago.

You gasp when you feel two slender fingers push their way inside, “fuck! You’re so....ahh fuck!” you whimper as quietly as you can.

Feeling the vibration from his moaning, has you ready to cum on the spot, but you’re not ready for it to end so fast.

Jim isn’t having that.

“Don’t make me beg, Angel,” he growls, looking up at you, fucking you faster with his fingers. “Give it to me.”

“I fucking...don’t wanna...fuck!”

“C’mon, Angel. Give me what I need,” he begs, using his thumb to massage your clit. 

“Fuck!”

“You sound so beautiful,” he groans doubling down on his efforts .

Your legs almost buckle as your orgasm washes over you, your desire soaks his wrist, and he fucks you through your high.

“You’re really somethin’ else,” he smirks as he slowly stands up, looking down at you with love and adoration in his eyes, while he slowly removes his fingers. “So lovely and all mine,” he whispers before delivers another soul stealing kiss.

You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only turns you on even more. Wrapping your arms around him, you let yourself get lost in him, almost completely oblivious to the fact that Jim is moving you both back towards the bed.

“Stop,” you breathe, forcing yourself to let go of him once you feel the back of your legs against the bed. “Take your shirt off.”

Lust floods his eyes as he takes a step back and slowly takes off his shirt. 

If you’re going to Hell, you may as well enjoy the ride.

Your hand lightly traces over his chest as you marvel, “you’re beautiful.”

“You’re one to talk,” he chuckles softly, caressing the side of your face. “If you want to stop-”

“We’ve already started,” you giggle softly.

“I love you, Y/N. I don’t want this to be over after tonight.”

“Lets just be here tonight, my love,” you smile weakly.

It’s not like you can blame alcohol, because you haven’t had a drink all day. This is a choice you’re making all on your own. You can’t even find it in you to feel bad right now because, with how he’s looking at you, the only thing you feel is love.

“Show me how much ya love me tonight,” you whisper as you undo his jeans. “Show me how much you need me.”

In no time at all, you’re both naked and under the covers of your long forgotten “emergency” bed. A very small part of you is still in shock over what’s about to take place, but as worships your body with his tongue, you instantly realize that it’s not enough to call it off and pretend it isn’t happening.

When you feel his tongue massage your right nipple while he sucks on it like it’s the world’s best lollipop, all regrets and guilt go out the window. 

“Angel?” Jim breathes, propping himself and looking down at you.

“Yeah?”

“Say it,” he pleads, slowly spearing into you.

“Oh fuck!”

“Please...fuck!” he grunts, gripping the sheets a bit tighter. “Please...please fuckin’ say it!” he begs desperately as he starts to pick up his pace.

“Fuck, I love you! I love you so...oh God!” you groan as he starts to pick up the pace. 

“You’re perfect.”

“Jim!”

“I know, Angel...just...Jesus, ya grippin’ me so tight!”

“Fuck...so close!! Right there...ahht!!”

“C’mon, Angel!”

“Jim...oh...OH!!”

You both go right over the edge at the same time, with Jim dipping down to kiss you in a weak attempt to silence your moans.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Give me a second,” Jim laughs softly, resting his head in the crook of your neck, while softly resting his body on top of yours.

“We’re fucked. We’re so fucked,” you laugh humorlessly.

“Angel, we’re going to be together-”

“Jim, it’s not like this is some regular affair. You’re married to my Mother. You’re my Stepfather. No matter what happens, this can only end poorly.”

“Then why did you do it?” he questions, pushing himself up a little.

You cup his face and caress the right side softly, “because I love ya, Jim. I’m in love with ya.”

Jim says nothing, he just dips down and kisses you passionately, and you feel him come back to life fore you.

His thrusts start off slow as a smirk comes to his lips, “I think we should have one more go, yeah?”

You dig your nails into his shoulder blades as you arch your back, “please!”

You and Jim spend the next hour or so getting tangled in your sheets, with you two mainly telling each other how much you both love and need one another. Yes, you don’t know much about the man, but you know that you’re drawn to him in every way that a person can be drawn to someone. Your heart, soul, and mind, has never reacted to someone in this way.

He is the missing piece you’ve always been looking for.

“Jim?” you question softly, laying your head on his chest and softly playing with his chest hairs.

“Yeah?”

“We can’t do this ever again. Ya know that, right?”

“We’re gonna figure this out-”

“Jim, ya married her. My Mother. Ya can’t-”

“I’ll figure it out-”

“There’s nothing to figure out, and you know that. You’re married to my Mother and this...this is for tonight only. She may not be a good Mother, but she is my Mother. At one point, you loved her and when I’m gone, you will again. You’ll see-”

“I loved a version of her. This isn’t just some fling with you-’

“She’s my Mother, Jim! I know that I love ya, and I believe that you love me, but this can’t happen. She’d never forgive me and I wouldn’t blame her. God, if she had any idea...Jim, it can’t happen again.”

“I don’t want that.”

“I don’t either, but it’s for the best.”

“If it’s what’s best, I’ll do it,” he sighs heavily, pulling you closer to him.

“I love you, Jim.”

“I love you too, Angel.”

“You can’t be here in the morning.”

“Just let me hold you a bit longer,” he begs softly.

You nod your head softly as you blink back tears. You know that this is the right thing to do. Yeah, your heart is breaking, and you know this isn’t something you’re gonna get over over night, but it’s what needs to be done. Tonight is all you two have, but what a night it was. As you slowly start to drift off to sleep, a small smile comes to your face. For just a moment, you two had each other. You had it all.

Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and all of this will be a distant memory, and you’ll be strong enough to move on.

...right?

~~

[emerydraws]

happy valentine's day ofmd folks (:

[arttsuka]

Reverse mlp mermaid au

[kawaiigirly21]

Did anyone else crush on this guy growing up?

[persephone-ransom]

idk if i already made this its own post for the holidays but it tis the season........

[o-dandelion-o]

Not that mask. Some old sketches I decided to color because Megan’s reaction to Jim in Darkwing’s mask is always hilarious 👀 No matter how pissed she is at him, the mask always does the trick 💞

[wdxghosty]

Don and Ophie in the Labyrinth 💜🩷

POV: your best friend who you totally DONT have a crush on takes about how much they wanna throw a ball for their birthday, but they don’t have the time. So you throw them a surprise party inspired by the ball scene in one of there favorite movies.

Ophie birthday was in August but I just rewatched labyrinth, and I year to draw the two of them.

And I know for a fact Donnie took ballroom dancing classes for this party, he already one what to do he just wasn’t good at it. And for the sake of keeping the party secret the got Sarah’s dress custom made.

And they have a shit ton of pink purple and blue mood lighting, and a plethora of fairy lights. You can’t have a fantasy ball without the essentials.

Reference pic ⬇️

[chevvy-yates]

[NC_RES]-31102049-EURGER scharfenberg_g_portraits_047_RC_SD.file ///core:_ryder_von_scharfenberg.file\\\

—

⚠️ READ: Please do not repost/reupload any of my art here or to any other platform, or I will be forced to do anything to get it annihilated.

—

cowboy shirt by @gloryride and @breezypunk 🖤

[luciferscowgirl]

— “Never to Return” —

60 chapter smutty slow burn

-

Catholic virgin x Cardinal Copia

Hello guys!

I can finally say that I have successfully finished writing my 200.000 words slow burn “Never to Return”, where a young Woman of God escapes the restraints of her Catholic upbringing with the help of our beloved Cardinal Copia. Throughout the story, unexpected things happen, and we will learn more about the characters’ pasts. Things turn sinful…, in every way.

Read it here (AO3) or click the link in the title. It is 18+, so MDNI, please!

Thank you all! 💓

[literaryfandomangel]

CSI Season 2 Episode 19 --Stalker

CSI Season 2 Episode 19

--Stalker

When we went into work, Nick and I stopped by Gil’s office. We had a discussion last night at his place about doing the right thing – telling the department that we were in a relationship. In my previous place of employment, they would have reprimanded me for seducing a coworker. Then I would have been demoted. Nick reassured me that this wasn’t the case here – that numerous coworker’s had relationships within the department.

Nick had rubbed my back as I tried to calm my breathing. I was worked up just by asking him what if they split us up. Moved us to a different shift, because then we wouldn’t be able to see each other. Nick shook his head, his crooked smile enveloping his face.

“That won’t happen, darlin’,” Nick reassured me, his Texas drawl soothing my frayed nerves at the aspect of telling Grissom that I was involved with one of his best CSI’s. I knew that Nick valued the opinion of Grissom as well, so that was also nerve-wracking.

“But how do you know?” I stressed, looking at him as I bit my lip. Nick laughed, not unkindly, but used his thumb to release my lip from the abuse of my teeth.

“Do you know how many of the lab has been together?” When I shook my head, Nick elaborated on the number of relationships he knew of, as well as how they were treated once it came out.

When we knocked on Gil’s door, he was bent over looking at something through a magnifying glass. He looked intrigued to see us at his door, both requesting an audience at the same time. Gil motioned to the chairs at his desk, wordlessly, and waited to see what we were going to say.

“We’ve been dating,” I blurted out, unable to keep it a secret any longer. Nick gave an awkward chuckle as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Is that all?” Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought someone was confessing to a crime. Needing help with hiding a dead body or something.”

“I didn’t want to be in any type of department violation,” I told Gil who nodded, as Nick was chuckling.

“See, I told you!” Nick pointed out.

“I see no issue with two of my CSI’s dating,” Gil remarked, already losing interest in this conversation and looking down at the bug he was studying. “I will make a note of it for your documents with the Crime Lab.”

“That’s it?” I asked, a little shocked at the handling of a relationship. Nick had validated this point and to see it occurring was honestly a little shocking.

“Yup,” Gil nodded, opening our files and putting something in the documents. “The only issue would be if you two were supervisor and subordinate. Then you wouldn’t be able to do the other’s evaluations.”

“Wow,” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Who knew?”

“I tried to tell you!” Nick smiled at me, as he shook his head, good-naturedly. “You’ve been panicking since our fourth date.”

“Well,” I tried to explain, but finally gave up. Gil gave us both a rare smile.

“Get ready, we have a 419 – it’s going to require all of us to handle the evidence,” Gil said. We both nodded and went to the locker room to get ready.

Once we were finished putting our holsters on, getting the guns loaded, and grabbing our credentials, we both exited the locker room and went to the breakroom where the others were waiting for the assignment of the night. I looked at our coworkers before taking a deep breath.

“Before Ecklie or someone says something – Nick and I are dating,” I told them. They all grinned, Warrick slapping Nick on the back, congratulating him. I rolled my eyes as Gil came into the room.

“We’ve got a 419,” Grissom said. We all got out of our seats and grabbed our gear, along with jackets. Nick had to wear a leather jacket as his clothing wasn’t at the drycleaners the other day. I had laughed at them handing someone else his clothing and told him that was the reason I do my own laundry. I doubled with Nick while Catherine and Gil were in the lead, getting to the scene first. Warrick and Sara were still back at the lab.

“It’s going to be a long night,” I told my boyfriend who nodded his head as we drove to the crime scene. He had grabbed my hand with his, entwined on the console as we listened to music on the way to scene. Once we were on the scene, Catherine and Gil went up to get the preliminary photos. Nick wanted to talk with the detectives on scene.

I grabbed my kit from the trunk and went up to the apartment building. I walked in as Grissom was coming out of the bathroom. I was looking around the apartment and my eyebrows were furrowed.

“So, has anyone seen this dog?” Gil asked, looking around the apartment and listening for any sound of the dog.

“Dog bed, dog bowl, dog food ... no dog,” Catherine remarked as they noticed the dog paraphernalia all over the house.

“Someone killed the dog?” I gasped, staring at the senior members of the team with horror. They both shrugged, not confirming or denying it. “People I get, but a dog?”

“Neighbor lady called 911 because she heard the dog yelping,” Gil stated. I sucked in a breath.

“Are we sure it’s not hiding somewhere? Or that the cops didn’t let the poor animal out when they kicked in the door?” I asked, looking around the apartment. “Here, boy!” I whistled, trying to find the dog.

“Triple locks on all the doors. Every shade drawn. State-of-the-art alarm system,” Catherine looked at the alarm panel on her wall. “As far as we know her place was perfectly hermetically sealed until the cops batter-rammed their way in.”

“Prisoner in her own home?” Gil asked, standing there looking at the aforementioned safety features.

“Maybe she was agoraphobic?” I suggested, standing in her living room.

“So, how did he get in?” Catherine raised an eyebrow as she looked at the locks.

“A better question -- how'd he get out?” Gil questioned.

“Maybe he’s with the dog?” I sneered, looking under the furniture, trying to see if the dog was hiding underneath the couch. The dog bed was small – indicating that this wasn’t a golden retriever. “The dog bed looks sort of small. This dog couldn’t be more than 25-30 pounds. And there is no fur all over the home. I think it’s a hypoallergenic breed. Or this woman keeps vacuuming a hundred times a day.”

Gil walked into the living room behind me. He was still searching for a way that the assailant could have gotten in or out of the home. Gil pushed the gauzy curtains out of the way to reveal that the windows were covered in silver.

“Aluminum foil,” Gil said, shining a light on the silver material covering the windows.

“Keeps the sunlight out,” Catherine murmured also looking at the foil lined windows.

“God knows one needs to in Vegas,” I groused, still checking under the furniture, flashing my light around. “The dog couldn’t have just disappeared!”

“Keeps the eyeballs out, too,” Grissom stated as Catherine announced she was going to process the bedroom. She left the room while I was still poking under the furniture and trying to entice a dog. The door opened and Nick came in. He raised an eyebrow at my wandering around the living room, randomly whistling.

“Did you finally lose your marbles?” Nick drawled. I huffed at my boyfriend.

“I wish!” I called out. “The victims dog totally vanished. No one can seem to account for the dog that prompted the 911 call!”

“You’ll find him, darlin’,” Nick soothed, knowing my soft spot for animals, walking down the hallway. He stopped after a moment, looking at the scene in the bathroom. Gil watched him for a few moments, before turning to point out a random spot to me. After a few moments, Gil left me on my own in the living room.

“Sorry, Nick,” I heard Gil say in the bathroom. “You've been staring at this girl for ten minutes. Do you know her?”

“No,” his voice was faint.

“Why don't you go do the bedroom? I'll get the coroner in here and finish up in the bathroom,” Gil took pity on Nick.

“Sure,” I heard footsteps go down the hall to the bedroom. I left the living room and wandered down the hall to the kitchen. Very few hiding places, but I still checked.

Catherine and Gil came up behind me in the kitchen. There was nothing. This was absurd. A canine doesn’t just disappear into thin air. It had to be here somewhere.

“Find anything?” Catherine asked, unsure why I was pouring all my energy into the missing dog. I turned to look at her, a murderous look on my face.

“Nothing at all,” I sighed. “Absolutely nothing. Why not leave the dog?”

“Why don’t you go back to the lab with Nick when he’s done processing the bedroom,” Catherine suggested. I blinked but nodded.

“Someone will find the dog, right?” I implored, pleading with my bosses. They both nodded, even though they had already guessed that the dog was probably deceased along with the victim. I went back to poking around, but eventually gave up as Nick was finished processing the bedroom.

“You alright?” I asked him as we put the evidence and kits into the back of the Yukon. Nick had been really quiet after he walked into that crime scene.

“Yeah,” Nick said, though his voice didn’t sound sincere.

“If you need to talk, I’m all ears,” I winked at him, pulling my red hair from the tight bun. I massaged my scalp as I got into the passenger seat, a headache forming in my temples.

“You alright?” Nick asked, a little concerned at the pained look on my face. I nodded, reaching into my pouch to pull out some Excedrin.

“Headache,” I muttered.

“Something about that scene,” Nick muttered, and I left him to muse about the scene. For some reason, the body rattled him. He didn’t know the victim, but there was something familiar about it.

By the time that we made it back to the crime lab, my headache had subsided to a lesser roar. It made it so that I could think. Nick grabbed the evidence from the back of the Yukon and then we entered the building. He stopped by the A/V lab to pick up a file and then we walked to find our coworkers – Warrick and Sara so they could help us in our quest to figuring out what had happened to the poor lady.

On our way to the breakroom, where Archie had advised the missing CSI’s were located, Nick noticed the latest issue of the newsletter posted on the bulletin board. We had an internal newsletter called “Crime Stopper”. This month, Nick was featured on the front cover, complete with inaccurate facts. I stifled a laugh as Nick ripped it off the clipboard, irritated at the issue.

“Don’t,” he warned, crumpling up the paper in his hand. I shook my head, holding up my hands in innocence. I had totally read through that paper – which even included Nick’s Alma Mater and the name of the fraternity he belonged. It was cute, but the others were using it as a way to tease their friend.

As we approached the breakroom, Nick and I could hear the laughter and giggling coming from the two CSI’s in the breakroom. They were sitting at the table, reading over the newsletter, laughing. It was totally absurd. Nick smiled, shaking his head at their antics.

“Who wrote this?” Warrick asked. Sara couldn’t contain her laughter.

“You're kidding me, right?” Nick asked, throwing the balled-up newsletter from the bulletin board into the trashcan.

“Nick Stokes, Crime Stopper,” Warrick read from the paper, deepening his voice. I snickered and Nick laughed, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “You went Hollywood on me, man.”

“And I quote, "in his off time, he enjoys creating and inventing toys." That's fascinating,” Sara said. “What kind of toys do you make, Nick?”

“I don’t know who got that information, but I can confirm that Nick doesn’t invent or create any type of toys,” I interjected.

“I thought I got my hands on all those departmental newsletters,” Nick reached down and picked up the newsletter. “Where'd you get those?”

“Greg,” Sara and Warrick said in unison.

“Yeah, that figures,” Nick’s jaw twitched in his annoyance. “All right, listen, Grissom wants us to divide and conquer. Blond hair for you, Warrick.”

“I do love a blond,” Warrick stated, holding up the bag of evidence containing the blonde hair inside.

“Sara, you're on phone records,” Nick put a folder full of phone records on the table in front of Sara who pulled a face.

“Yay,” Sara said, her tone dry as she looked down at the records she would have to comb through. Nick turned and left the room, crinkling the newsletter on his way out.

“Hey, I wasn't done reading that!” Warrick protested.

“Yes, you are!” Nick tossed the balled-up newsletter into the trash can as he left the room. I followed after him, waiting a moment, since he hadn’t given me an assignment.

“What about me?” I asked, trotting after him, questioning on how I could be of assistance to this case.

“You, my darlin’,” Nick winked at me, knowing how much his Texas drawl and pet names made me swoon, “are on a mission to see cause of death. Can you check with Doc Robbins to see if he has a COD?”

“Sure,” I smirked, walking around him. “I’ll find you when I get the results!” He nodded, continuing on his way after I pressed a kiss to his cheek.

I hated the coroner’s office. Doc Robbins and David were really nice, but it was extremely cold down there. I grabbed my fleece jacket and went into the autopsy room. Grissom and Catherine were with Robbins.

“Nick sent me down to see if we had a COD?” I asked, shivering inside the fleece jacket. Robbins usually took pity on me, sparing me a lecture, once he had caught my lips turning blue from hypothermia before.

“COD is asphyxiation,” Robbins said. “Petechial hemorrhaging, cyanosis. Oh, and she’s a natural blonde.”

“So someone died her hair?” I asked, reaching up to my own head of red hair. Robbins nodded, pointing at my natural-colored red hair.

“She wasn’t sexually assaulted either,” Catherine stated. I sighed.

“So torture, just to torture someone. Did you guys find the dog?” I asked and both Grissom and Catherine shook their heads.

“Dog?” Robbins asked, but I wasn’t up for chitchatting about the dog.

“UGH!” I groaned, leaving the morgue. I went upstairs, still shivering in my fleece jacket to find Nick fumigating the plastic bag.

“Find out anything?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at my obvious state of frustration.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “No one has found the dog yet!”

“Sunshine, I meant - ” Nick was interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on the lab door. We both looked up to see Greg.

“Heard you were looking for me?” Greg didn’t look like he wanted to be here. It looked like he wanted to be elsewhere but wanted to get it over with. I figured that Warrick told him that Nick was ticked.

“Greg. Come here. I want to talk to you for a sec,” Nick stated, looking down at the plastic bag. He put his clipboard and the pen down at the side, as he waved Greg into the room. Greg hesitated at the door.

“Come on,” Nick cajoled, waving him over. Greg finally relented, walking over to Nick’s side where he was standing looking down at a glass tank.

“What's up?” Greg asked. Nick reached over with his left hand, slapping him on the back, then gripping at the base of his neck.

“Stop invading my privacy, man, I don't like it,” Nick stated, not mad, but trying to get his point across. “I'm just trying to do my job around here. I don't need the extra attention.”

“Okay. But, I mean, you are the one who's doing the "Forensic Spotlight" in the,” Greg choked up as Nick tightened his grip. I hid my amusement as Greg winced in pain at his comment. “Department newsletter.”

“I didn't do anything, man,” Nick insisted, not letting up on his grip. “Someone from the community wrote a letter of commendation. Public affairs ran it. Cool?”

“Cool,” Greg grimaced, nodding his head. Nick finally let go of Greg’s shoulder, patting him on the back in understanding. Greg raised his eyebrows as Nick walked around the other side of the tank with his clipboard.

“So, uh,” Greg sighed, moving his shoulder subtly in a bit of pain from the neck pinching, “what are you fuming?”

“Plastic bag from the crime scene. I'm trying to get lucky -- see if I can get some prints off it,” Nick told the analyst. He opened the top of the tank and fanned the fumes. Greg was staring at the front of the plastic bag.

“Did she die of suffocation?” Greg asked. I gasped.

“How did you know?” I asked. Nick stared up at Greg, really amazed that was the only answer he was giving. Greg still stared at the plastic bag in the tank. After a moment, Greg looked up at Nick, since he didn’t get a response. Nick finally determined that Greg saw something. He walked around to the side of the tank where Greg was looking. I got off my chair and joined the two men, just to see the outline of Jane Galloway’s face on the plastic bag.

After several deadend leads that the CSI and Brass pursued throughout the day, Grissom finally called it quits with the rest of us. We departed for our homes. Nick pressed a kiss to my lips as he made sure that I was secure in my vehicle. I promised to call him once I got some sleep and then I left the Crime Lab.

I walked in my apartment, dropping the keys in the bowl by the door. I dropped my kit onto the closet floor, before walking into my living room. There were several messages on my answering machine.

“Hey Aria, just wondering how ya were doing? Give me a call sometime – Bobby,” I saved that message, having missed my surrogate uncle. He lived in South Dakota and owned a junkyard. As a kid I used to love tinkering in his yard, whenever my mom would take me to visit. Then when she married my stepfather, he forbid us from seeing Bobby.

The next message was a telemarketer. I deleted that message, before going into the kitchen. I searched high and low for something to eat – finding a few frozen meals. I preheated the oven. As I waited, I turned on the television. I watched a documentary about Egypt until my oven beeped. Then I put my food into the oven, and walked to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Once I had finished the shower, I slipped on a pair of silk pajamas and wandered to check on my food. I figured it had to be done, pulling the meal from the oven. I ate most of it, discarding the rest into the trash can. I sent a quick message to Nick, wishing him a good night, before I threw myself onto my bed, and fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up at a reasonably late time. Once I had managed to drag myself from the comfort of my bed, I went to the bathroom – got a quick shower, before applying my makeup. Once I was finished, I went back into my room and dressed for another day of work. I always loved the height that wearing heels provided, but it wasn’t feasible when we spent sometimes upwards of 24 hours on our feet.

I was wearing a pair of light green dress pants, a darker green long-sleeved top, and I pulled on my brown combat boots. I also decided to wear my brown leather jacket to pull the outfit together. (https://www.pinterest.com/pin/647322146460814169/) I grabbed my phone, seeing that Nick had messaged me, advising he was on his way to pick me up.

I sprayed myself with my perfume, before turning off the lights. I didn’t bother with breakfast, as we had a routine. There was a little bakery on the way to the lab, where we picked up breakfast and our coffee.

“Hey!” I pulled open the door before he could knock. Nick whistled as he saw me in my work attire, my cheeks coloring at his teasing. “Nick!”

“Sorry, baby,” Nick leaned down for a kiss, before I pulled the door shut, locking the deadbolt. “I’ve never seen you in a leather jacket.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I threw back at him and he chuckled, opening up the door of the Yukon. I slid into the passenger seat. Once Nick was on the way to our bakery, I noticed something seemed off. “You okay?”

“What?” Nick seemed startled that I spoke for a second. “Yeah, just something odd.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, careful not to pry too much. He shrugged as we arrived at the bakery.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Nick denied, opening up my door and then we went inside. I accepted his inability to talk about it for the moment.

“If you want to talk, you know where to find me,” I told Nick who nodded. Once we each had our food and drinks, it was time to return to the crime lab. I was in and out of the locker room quickly, while Nick hung around to talk to Warrick. I figured, he was unloading the situation with his best friend. I was happy Nick had someone to confide in, if he didn’t want to talk to me.

I found Catherine and Sara in the breakroom. They were looking over the files and the information that Sara managed to find about Jane Galloway.

“What about Jane’s work history?” Catherine asked, filling up a cup of coffee. She sat down and I joined the two as they discussed the information.

“Secretary at a brokerage firm. About three weeks from the day of her death she took a leave of absence,” Sara advised – my eyebrows furrowed.

“Is that the only one?”

“Yes,” Sara confirmed.

“Medical records?” Catherine asked and Sara looked down at the paperwork in front of her.

“She saw Dr. Slater. Had a prescription for valium and librium.”

“That’s some heavy prescriptions,” I stated. “Anxiety?”

(SARA shows the report to CATHERINE who takes it and looks at it.)

“Severe anxiety due to personal reasons,” Sara handed the report to Catherine who took it to look over the information as well. “One day back from leave, Jane quits her job. No notice. Hotel receipts show she checked into the Monaco for two nights.”

“The hotel?” I questioned, taking the receipts from Sara. Then I handed them to Catherine.

“A week before that she goes on a frightened woman shopping spree,” Sara told us, showing us the receipts to multiple hardware stores. Something was off about this whole situation.

“Hardware shop receipts for locks. Locksmiths. Alarm installations. Phone screeners. The voice on her answering machine—electronic,” Sara read off the information that she could gather about Jane’s whereabouts in the weeks leading up to her death. “She changed her telephone number. She cancels all but one of her credit cards.”

“No paper trail?” I questioned. “No personal way to distinguish herself either.”

“It's as if she's trying to make herself disappear,” Catherine stated, shaking her head as we looked over the evidence.

“Make no mistake. Jane Galloway was being stalked,” Sara stated, voice confident in this answer. All of us could agree – this was textbook stalking behavior. “Emotional terrorism at its finest.”

“And her boyfriend had an alibi?” Catherine asked, disbelieving. It was rare that stalking came from an outside source – like kidnapping.

“Here's the, uh, worst part. Uh, I ran a phone check on all her incoming calls. Guess where they were coming from,” I exchanged looks with Catherine before we took the phone records that Sara was handing over.

DATE / TIME / PLACE & NUMBER CALLED 4/16 / 2:44 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0146 4/16 / 2:56 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0198 4/16 / 5:15 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0287 4/16 / 5:18 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:18 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:18 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:19 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:19 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:19 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:20 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:20 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:20 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:21 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:21 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:21 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/16 / 5:22 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0188 4/17 / 10:48 am / Summerlin, NV 555-0173 4/17 / 04:16 am / Summerlin, NV 555-0189 4/17 / 3:43 pm / Las Vegas, NV 555-0132 4/17 / 12:04 pm / Henderson, NV 555-0173

“Wait – isn’t that her own phone number?” I asked.

“Inside her house.” The realization dawned on Catherine who knew that she had to get this information to Grissom and Brass right away. We overlooked something at the crime scene.

“Good work – Sara keep digging. Aria, you help her.” Catherine gathered the phone records and left the room with her coffee. Sara and I got to work, combing through more information about Jane Galloway. I was in charge of making sure that the prescriptions wouldn’t cause some type of psychosis or hallucinations. Though with the evidence that we had gathered – I was confident that wasn’t the case.

We were working on the situation, when suddenly Sara got a phone call from Catherine. Catherine advised us to get a list of utility companies that Jane had and send all the addresses. We would all be out gathering information.

Catherine ended up with the carpet installation. Warrick and Nick were in charge of the Luna Cable company. Sara was going to talk with the appliance delivery. Grissom was talking to the gas company, and I was to talk with the alarm company.

Unfortunately, the alarm installer didn’t know anything. He couldn’t even remember Jane’s name, just that he remembered putting in the state of the art alarm system for her. He said she was strange, but most single women in Nevada were worried about their safety, so he chalked up her nervousness to that.

I had just thanked him for his assistance and was walking away when I heard my phone ring. I grabbed it out of my pocket, expecting it to be asking if I had found anything. Only for Warrick to tell me that Nick was being transported to Desert Palms Hospital. I dropped the file onto the passenger seat and flipped on the sirens, before peeling out of the parking spot.

My heart was pounding as I raced to the Desert Palms Hospital after Warrick had called to tell me that Nick had been injured. I couldn’t focus on anything other than the loud thumping in my chest as well as my hands shaking on the wheel. I don’t think that I was alright to actually drive to the hospital, but I needed to be there.

Once I had parked the SUV, haphazardly, and not entirely in a space, I rushed into the Emergency Room doors. One of the nurses took pity on me, asking me why I was there.

“My boyfriend – Nick Stokes – was just brought in? He’s part of the police,” I explained, my heart thumping.

“I think your friends are over there,” she pointed out Warrick and Brass who were pacing a length of hallway. I thanked her, ears whooshing with my heartbeat as I tripped over my feet in my haste to get to them.

“Whoa,” Warrick steadied me before I could barrel right into him. “He’s alright,” Warrick soothed.

“Are you sure?” I asked, heart still pounding loudly behind my breastbone. It almost hurt, it was beating so fast and felt like it was hitting against the bone.

“He woke up before the paramedics got there,” Warrick gave me a light smile. Just then the rest of the team rushed into the hospital, reaching our side.

“What happened?” Grissom demanded.

“He was pushed out of a window,” Warrick explained. “I didn’t see anyone leave or enter the apartment.”

“Are you sure he’s alright?” I questioned. Catherine turned her attention to me.

“Honey, you need to sit down,” she urged, forcing me into a seat. “You are as pale as a ghost. Put your head between your knees.”

Catherine forced my head down between my knees, as I attempted to steady my breathing. It took me a while to calm down, the rest of the team offering support and comfort without discussing anything else. Brass had to leave as they were searching for this Nigel that threw Nick out of a window.

Finally, the doctor exited the room that they had Nick sleeping. Sara and Catherine both stood as she came out to give us an update. I didn’t trust my legs to support my weight, depending on the information that we would receive.

“Concussion, two cracked ribs, sprained wrist, five stitches to the forehead,” she explained his injuries to us. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“But he's going to be all right?” Warrick asked the question that was stuck in the back of my throat. When the doctor nodded, I cried.

“He needs rest,” she stated, looking back at the unconscious Texan lying in a hospital bed. “But I don't see why he can't go home relatively soon.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Grissom thanked the doctor who left since she didn’t have anything further to state. Warrick was upset, while Sara sat next to me, rubbing my back.

“Damn it,” Warrick hissed, sounding upset and frustrated. “Grissom, this guy was right there. I could have had him.”

“You helped out Nick. That was the right thing to do,” Grissom reassured Warrick who didn’t look convinced.

“Doesn't feel like the right thing,” Warrick grumbled.

“If you hadn’t helped out Nick, I would have shot you Warrick,” I warned the man, who looked chagrined to have even stated that. I wiped the tears from my eyes. It had been too long since I had to sit beside someone that I loved, that I cared for, and had so much uncertainty about their injuries. The last person was my brother.

“You know, Nick was alone,” Catherine mentioned, making the blood in my veins run cold. “The Stalker could have killed him and didn't.”

“Yeah, I wonder why. Let's go back over there,” Grissom stated. Catherine stood up, walking down the hallway. Warrick started to follow the two CSI’s.

“I'm going with you.” Grissom shook his head, putting a restraining hand on Warrick’s shoulder as he turned to leave.

“No, no. You need to calm down a little,” Grissom ordered. “Talk to Nick when he wakes up.”

Sara and I remained in the hallway beside Warrick who didn’t look pleased at the orders from Grissom. I was relieved that they didn’t want me to go with them – but I think Catherine knew it would take me kicking and screaming. Just then, my phone started to ring.

“I’ve got to take this,” I stated, looking down at the unfamiliar number on my screen. I sighed, walking down the hallway away from prying eyes and ears.

“Hello?” I answered the phone to be met with the familiar rough voice of my brother.

“Aria,” he sounded relieved to have my attention.

“Why are you calling me?” I asked him. He sighed, letting out a burst of air.

“Dad’s missing,” my brother stated. I rolled my eyes. Apparently, that was the reason that my brother wanted to call me, have a reunion. All over our father.

“Uh huh,” I wandered back down the hallway when Sara appeared at the end of the deserted and secluded space, waving me on. “Dad’s missing?”

“Yes!” My brother insisted as I entered the hospital room where Nick was awake – groggy and confused but awake.

“It’s Dad,” I rolled my eyes. “You know what he’s like. He’s found himself some Jim, Jack, and Jose along with some blondes. Dad will stumble home like he’s always done at some point. No need to send out any sirens.”

“Aria, I know you and Dad didn’t get along - ”

“Didn’t get along?” I echoed, a bitter laughter forcing its way out of my lungs. “You mean the same man that told me if I wanted to go to college, I better not grace his doorstep any longer? That same father?”

“Alright, so he said some things,” my brother attempted once more.

“No, he’s said a lot of things. Namely how I was dead to him for choosing a different career. I’m sorry, but I can’t argue about this right now. My boyfriend was injured, and I need to take care of him. I’m not helping you track down Dad, when he’s not even missing,” I said firmly into the phone, taking my coworkers off guard. They weren’t used to this side of me. I was usually the nice one – bending over backwards to help out anyone with their situation.

“Aria,” my brother pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “But find someone else, Dean.” I hung up on my brother, turning to the other members of my team and my boyfriend. “Sorry about that. How are you feeling, Nicky?”

“Sore,” Nick groaned. “What’s wrong with your dad?”

“Nothing,” I waved him off. “He’s off on a bender.”

“Are you sure you don’t need to go?” Nick groaned, but I shook my head, a smile on my lips.

“How could I leave you all alone?” I countered, not wanting to go into my family dynamic. The reason why I was left with my stepfather for years, barely seeing my father after my mother found out the truth of the matter.

“Thanks,” Nick smiled, as the guys started to talk between each other for a while. Sara gave me a concerned look, but I shook it off, content to sit in the uncomfortable hospital chair and watch Nick grow more aware of his surroundings.

The doctor came in while Nick was awake – she explained all of his injuries. I think Nick was a little overwhelmed by the information coming his way. He just nodded his head in response, which is when I knew that he wasn’t comprehending most of what the doctor had just thrown Nick’s way.

“When can I go home?” Nick asked.

“I can release you now that you are awake,” the doctor promised. “Will someone be staying with him?”

“I will,” I raised my hand. “Nick’s my boyfriend. Warrick and Sara will have to return to the lab.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “I’ll explain what needs to happen. Follow me?”

I followed the doctor into the hallway where she explained his injuries in full, along with the instructions to follow once he was home. I accepted all the paperwork for his injuries along with the responsibility of taking care of Nick. Once she was done, she left to get the discharge papers. I went back into the room, smiling at the scene of the CSI’s talking and laughing together. Finally, the doctor came back with a wheelchair.

“Now, these painkillers are the real deal, okay?” The doctor stated, handing over a prescription of opioid painkillers. “Don't overdo it. Plenty of rest. No work for at least a week.”

I nodded, understanding the situation. I took the medication, tucking it under my armpit. I would be monitoring Nick – ensuring that he ate with the meds, and that he only took them when absolutely necessary. We didn’t need Nick spending time in rehab over an opioid prescription. Nick was sitting in the wheelchair. He had wanted to walk out, but with his ribs, he could barely walk around to get dressed.

“Will do, thank you, doctor,” Sara stated, while I was still a little emotional. The Doctor finally turned and left. I grabbed the wheelchair handles as we started down the hallway towards the parking lot.

“The gloves, you find them?” Nick asked, disregarding what the doctor had just said about his work restrictions. I shot a glare at Warrick who actually humored him.

“Catherine thinks he might have got away with them,” Warrick avoided looking at me and my murderous glare. “But, uh, Grissom did find some wacky video collection.”

“Of what?” Nick demanded, interest the case well known. I sighed, but thankfully, Sara stepped in, knowing that I was going to snap at him.

“Now, did you not just hear the doctor?” Sara told Nick and I nodded my head, though he couldn’t see me as I was pushing his wheelchair. “You're supposed to rest. We're on it, okay?”

“Yeah, relax, Ironside,” Warrick joked, finally, stopping the information dump that he was providing to the workaholic in the wheelchair.

We had gotten home, Sara helped me get Nick into the car. When she was done, I gave her a smile as I handed Nick the prescription that the hospital had filled. Nick took it, letting me shut the passenger side door. I knew that it killed him that I was doting on him – since Nick was the perfect gentleman. He insisted on always shutting my door, everything that a gentleman would do.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you guys?” Sara asked, genuinely concerned with Nick’s inability to move. I shook my head.

“We’ll be fine. Grissom needs all the help he can get on this case,” Sara nodded, understanding that Grissom and Catherine needed help. Plus Sara was a known workaholic. “Especially now that he’s down two people.”

“Alright,” Sara smiled. “But call me if you need anything.”

“Sounds good,” I gave her a hug. “Thanks for being there.”

“No problem,” Sara waved and walked off to her own car. I got into my car and looked over at Nick who looked terrible. He seemed to be in a lot of pain and was trying to hold off on how terrible he felt.

“When I get you home, I’ll make something to eat. You shouldn’t take pain killers on an empty stomach,” Nick nodded, groaning as the car jostled his ribs. I sighed, pulling out of the parking space and then out of the hospital. Thankfully, the ride from the hospital to Nick’s house was relatively short, especially since it was really late.

Nick was leaning against me as I helped him up the walkway to his house. Then he handed me the keys, which I dropped onto the counter along with his prescription. Nick motioned for the bottle which I handed over, going into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water.

“You’re the best,” Nick sighed, taking two pills and setting it down on the counter. I lifted it up and read the instructions.

DESERT PALMS HOSPITAL (NAME) STOKES, NICK (FILL DATE) 4/17/02 PHONE NO. 555-0190 TAKE ON TO TWO TABLETS ... EVERY FOUR HOURS. VICODIN (EXPIRES) 04/17/03 (REFILL) 0 (BY) 11/17/02

Nick shuffled along to the sofa holding his ribs with his arm, where he settled down with a groan. I clucked my tongue in sympathy. I knew how painful broken ribs could be. Especially with the rest of his injuries; though he was no stranger to injuries. A former football player, but it had been several years since his playing days.

“Do you want something like a sandwich or do you think you want a meal?” I called out to Nick. He just groaned. “Nicky.”

“Can we wait for dinner?” Nick asked, more or less pleaded. “Just until the pills kick in and I can actually focus?” I nodded my head, exiting the kitchen.

“Sure. I’m going to wash my face and change my clothes, okay?” Nick nodded as I walked down the hall of his house. I had some clothes in one of his drawers, but I was definitely going to steal one of his shirts. Some nights, it was too exhausting to drive us both home – therefore, Nick would just let me crash at his place. He was too much of a gentleman not to trust; plus the two of us were usually exhausted from working doubles.

I giggled, grabbing one of his extra-soft LVPD shirts. He had discarded it a couple of days ago; which meant that it still smelled like him. I also grabbed a pair of my bike shorts. I went into the bathroom, peeling off my work shirt. I grabbed a washcloth and then washed my face and down my arms. As I was trying to get some of the day dirt off of my body, I heard knocking at the front door.

“I’ve got it!” Nick said. I quickly toweled off, opening the door. I didn’t bother with the LVPD shirt, as I was wearing a sports bra. It covered more than most bikini’s. I walked into the living room where a man I recognized from this case was standing in the middle of the room.

“I saw this house. I saw this house; I saw the number I saw the street name. Something is wrong here. Something terrible is going to happen here,” Morris Pearson stated. The hair on my arms stood up as I stood in the living room.

“Sir,” Nick tried to get his attention, but the psychic was just standing there, looking around. He had been right about everything else in this case – including the breakthrough of the stalker watching Jane from her attic.

“I can feel it,” he murmured, the hair on my arms rising at his words.

“Sir. Sir ... You're going to have to leave,” Nick was standing at the door.

“Please, please, listen to me!”

“Get out of here!” Nick yelled, having enough.

“Nicky! Listen to the man!” I finally interjected, believing that this man knew something. He knew too much about details that were never released to the public. This man knew about the dog.

“Listen to me!” Pearson turned to look at Nick. They stopped screaming at each other.

“I saw the address. I saw this address!” Pearson implored. Nick took a step away from the door.

“You saw my address?” Nick asked, sounding unsettled. Morris Pearson continued to walk further into the living room. I wrapped my arms around my bare stomach, wanting to run back to the bathroom for the shirt.

“Yeah, but that's not it, that's not it. I saw, I saw ... I saw crashing,” he was desperate, trying to state what he had seen in a manner that would make sense. Morris was trying to interpret what he was seeing. “I saw ... falling and crashing-- I saw somebody seeing through the back of his head. I don't know, I don't know ...”

Morris continued to mumble as he walked around. But suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to look at Nick.

“Green tea! Green tea! Does that mean anything to you? Green tea?” Nick and I both shared a look. It didn’t mean anything to either of us. Neither of us were very big tea drinkers, though I enjoyed a cup every now and again.

“I don't know,” Nick shook his head. Not only did he have to deal with this, but he had to deal with a concussion. His phone rang.

“Just ...” Nick stopped whatever he was about to say and answered his phone. I moved around Pearson to Nick’s side. “Hello?”

“Who?” Nick asked, looking over at me.

“Yeah, well, I'm not alone,” Nick responded.

“Your psychic's here,” Nick told who I assumed was Grissom on the other end. Then Nick hung up the phone. He looked over at me, grabbing our weapons out of the hidden compartment by the front door. Our service weapons were back at the station, but these were our personal handguns.

“Mr. Pearson,” Nick cocked his Glock 19, handing me my steel Colt M1911A1. I took the gun in hand, feeling the familiar weight, before cocking it as well. Pearson was out of our sight. Nick motioned to the hallway. “Mr. Pearson. Mr. Pearson ...”

Nick and I walked down the hallway. Nick took the lead, even though he was injured. At this point, I assumed the Vicodin was kicking in, as most of his pain seemed to take second burner. He checked the first door, nothing. Then he looked at the backdoor, but it was still locked and chained. I waited; gun drawn as Nick looked outside.

“Mr. Pearson, you back here?” Nick called, checking the other rooms. We heard the floor creak before a thud was heard.

I pointed up at the ceiling and Nick nodded. We pointed the guns at the ceiling and walked towards the living room. My heart sank as I realized it wasn’t green tea as in the drink, but rather the floor. A green T in the center of his rug. I touched Nick’s sleeve and pointed. He let out a breath at the sight, now realizing that whatever Pearson had seen was about to occur right here.

We both stood still in the living room, listening. The sounds were still coming from the ceiling. We both had our guns trained on the ceiling and all of a sudden, the ceiling caved in. A body hit the floor in front of us as debris sprayed everywhere. Nick dropped his gun while I had plaster dust in my eyes. I heard another thump but couldn’t see well due to the tears welling in my eyes. I still had my Colt in hand.

“Oh, man. You got to ... you got to watch who you let in here,” a male said. I blindly pointed my gun at the location of where the voice was heard. “Guy was snooping around all over the place. You know, smart move. Spare gun.” The male sighed, as I just blinked the dust out of my eyes, getting a clear look at the intruder.

“Put your gun down or I shoot Nick in the face,” I sighed, and set the gun down on the floor. My eyes were finally clearing up. “Ah. Keep it right by the phone, right? Right next to your address book and, and take out menus.”

Nigel Crane, the suspect in our Jane murder, gathered up my gun and then went to the front door. He secured the front door, drawing the chain and locking the door.

“Cops are on their way,” Nick said as I stood in the living room beside him. I took in a deep breath, knowing that I would have to fight this man. I squared my shoulders, planted my feet. He went to the window and pulled the blinds down.

“You wearing my clothes?” Nick sounded sickened. I did as well – knowing that I stole Nick’s clothes for comfort. What was this guy doing? Apparently, he was assuming the identify of his victims. And that explained where all of Nick’s clothing had gone.

“Oh, yeah. I'm ...” Nigel Crane seemed proud of his deviance. “You know, I-I-I picked these up at the dry cleaners and I ... I hope you don't mind. It's just that ... I'm sorry I, I just get a little confused about what's yours and what's mine.”

“You know what? I'm a little confused here myself,” Nick and I were both confused as to who this guy was and why he was trying to assume Nick’s identity. “Uh, why don't you refresh my memory. When did we meet?”

“Sports package,” Nigel Crane sounded incredulous as he snorted. “Hundred fifty channels. I-I-I even threw in a few movie channels. Free. We-we-we talked, like, forever. I mean, it's like I knew you my entire life.”

“You installed my cable.” Nick stated, brain working on overtime. I kept myself partially hidden behind Nick’s muscular body. I didn’t like the way this man was watching me, in my partial state of undress.

“Yeah. The ... the minute I met you I knew we connected. Because you told me what you did and I knew exactly what you were talking about, because ... that's what I do. I do it, too. You know, I observe people. I-I-I notice everything about them. I watch them. All the time.”

“Like you watched Jane Galloway?”

“Jane was cool. But, um, it would have never worked out between us, you know. Never. I mean, she had a boyfriend, and she was kind of stuck up. And you know what, she would have totally, totally gotten between us. So, you know, consider that a gift,” Nigel stated. “Though you have a girlfriend.” I swallowed deeply. This man was seriously unhinged and this might end badly for us.

“A gift?” Nick spat.

“Yeah. Prom night. Your date. Melissa.” Nigel smiled, looking proud of himself. “Bent over the toilet puking her guts out. Is that ringing any bells, huh?”

“Yeah,” Nick sounded freaked out.

“You know, I mean, Jane's hair was the wrong color but, you know obviously, I fixed that. Because I know how much you love redheads,” he pointed out. I felt my face flush as he motioned for me to come out. “Like this lovely specimen. You know, you ... you mentioned her name in your sleep.”

“You watch me sleep?” I felt sickened. I had slept over a couple of times at Nick’s house, used his shower since he installed the cable. He looked down at the dead psychic on Nick’s floor.

“You, um ... you want to open him up?” Nigel sounded eager, crouching down over the body. “Hmm?”

“No, no, it's, uh ... it's not our job,” Nick shook his head as he crouched down to be on eye level with Nigel. “You should know that. It's the coroner's gig.”

“Are you humoring me, Nick?” Nigel asked, sounding outraged.

“No,” Nick shook his head, voice soft.

“You know ... we made friends that day and every time since you just blew me off,” Nigel was definitely unhinged. I wondered how much longer it would take for Brass and the uniforms to come here. “Do you know that? You just completely blanked me. You are so self-absorbed.”

“Nick is not self-absorbed!” I interjected. Nigel sneered at me.

“I was right in front of your face,” he laughed. He stood up, getting more upset. “Manners, Nick! Manners!”

“ey, now, Nigel, now we got a D.B. here, huh?” Nick was trying to placate the man, buy us both some time. “You're going to help me with the crime scene, right?”z\

“No, no, I'm going to ... I'm going to ...” Nigel pointed Nick’s gun at my face. “Give you a brand-new one. I'm going to do better than that. I'm going to give you the best you ever had. Stand up, Nick, Aria. Stand up.”

Nick and I both rose to our feet. Nigel grabbed a hold of me, pulling me into his side. I shuddered at the feeling of his unoccupied hand trailing over my flesh. I really wished I had put on that T-shirt right now, as Nigel’s hand pet my abdomen.

“Nick, you know what a nine-millimeter slug does to a skull at close range? You know?” Nigel Crane held the gun in front of Nick’s face. My eyes filled with tears.

“Yeah,” Nick swallowed hard.

“Blow it right apart, right? Brains like strawberry swirled whipped cream, everywhere. And you,” Nigel pointed the loaded weapon back at Nick. “You'd have to scoop that stuff up, right? Yeah, little pieces of skull and bone and brains. All in individual baggies with the victim's name on the label.”

“ You know I don't want to disappoint you, Nigel, but this isn't the first time I've had a gun in my face,” Nick took a determined step towards Nigel.

“How do you want this to end, Nigel?” Nick asked.

“How do I want this to end?” Nigel echoed Nick’s question. “I want you to be able to remember my name.” He jammed the gun into the side of my head. Nick lunged for the gun, the two of them struggling for the gun. Shots were fired into the ceiling.

Just then, the door burst open, battering ram through the front door. The door crashed open and Brass along with several officers rushed into the house. Their guns were drawn.

“Get down! Get down!” It was a chaotic scene. Nigel kicked me hard in the face, while struggling with Nick. I let out a grunt, feeling my cheek split open, hot blood spilling down my face. Nick managed to get possession of the gun, holding it up to the ceiling. He took a step back, pulling me back with him. We watched as they handcuffed Nigel Crane.

“Hey,” Brass said to the both of us, he put a hand on the side of Nick’s neck. The two of us were emotional at the fact that some strange man was able to violate the house. We were breathing heavy, both of us shaking with anxiety. “It's, it's done. All right?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, looking for all the world like this wasn’t done, struggling not to cry. Nick pulled me into his arms, running his hand down my back as he looked at Brass who called for some paramedics to attend to my cheek.

We were taken to the police station, where Nigel Crane sat at the interrogation room table. He was just muttering the same line over and over again ‘I am one, and who am I?’. It was honestly pretty eerie to stand in the observation room, seeing him mutter to himself.

Nick had his arm around me, reassuring himself that Nigel Crane hadn’t actually shot me as he had threatened. Catherine, Grissom, Warrick, and Sara were with us, watching this bizarre man have a complete meltdown.

“Why me?” Nick murmured. “Why us?”

“I don't think it was about you, Nick. Or Jane Galloway, for that matter. I think it was more about Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. His premise is that social beings strive to belong. In Nigel's mind, Jane Galloway was someone he could control which was okay for a while but you ... you were someone he could actually become. See, Maslow's Fifth Tier of the Hierarchy is Self-Actualization.

“The problem for Nigel is that you would have to die in order for that to happen. Or else he would,” Grissom stated, making the hair on my arms stand on end. “He would have shot Aria and then himself.”

“Twenty-five years to life, Nick. It's over,” Sara stated, I turned to look at her as she sat on top of another table.

“It's not over for me or Aria,” Nick murmured. “It's over for Jane Galloway.”

“Well, we should get back to the lab,” Catherine stood, putting a hand on Nick’s shoulder and one on my back in comfort.

“Yeah,” Grissom agreed, standing up. Warrick and Sara also stood, moving towards the door. They all left the room, leaving Nick and I standing in the middle, watching the madman that tried to kill me and might have killed Nick in his own home. As it was – Nick’s house was now stained with the death of Mr. Pearson.

[dbnightingale24]

React

A Stepcest Love Story About Jim

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Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

I think my internet has finally stopped hating me, but I can't be too sure. We'll see what happens.

Word Count: 5,531

Warning(s): SMUT (MINORS DNI), Swearing, Stepcest, Infidelity, Step-Daughter/Step-Father relations, Family Drama, Forbidden Love, Lying, Sneaking Around, Emotional Cheating, Drinking, Self Loathing, FLUFF, Crying...I think that's it?

Summary: You and Jim have discovered that you don't want to stop, and don't even want to entertain the idea of it.

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I do not give permission/consent for my stories/works to get posted elsewhere. I do not condone this type of behavior/relationship, this is for entertainment purposes only.

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Chapter 4

You and Jim are horrible people, there’s no other way to put it. Jim woke you up the next day with his head between your legs, and you didn’t even attempt to stop him. Nor did you stop him when he told you get on top of him and get yourself off on him. The first two hours of the day were spent getting lost in one another and, for a moment, you forgot why it was wrong.

Then, you heard your Mother the second you opened the basement door.

“Well, why did ya sleep on the sofa, Jim?!” she snapped.

“My kids are still asleep, Y/M/N,” he huffed as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “You were a mess yesterday and-”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“I had to carry you up the stairs in the middle of the movie.”

“Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I got nervous and they seemed to take more to-”

“That’s been your reason for every time your shit faced now, and it’s always Y/N’s fault.”

“I don’t say that it is-”

“Yes you do, and she’s only here because you asked her to come! Jesus, where’s the woman I met? The woman I fell in love with?!” he snipped and your heart broke.

You wished you’d never come back.

“And you? What do you think?” your Mother asked once she spotted you trying to creep out of the kitchen.

“Please, leave me out-”

“What do you think?” she snapped.

You let out a heavy sigh, because you knew how the rest of the day was going to go.

“I think I should’ve never come back,” you sighed as you leaned against the entry way. “I feel like you do better when we don’t see each other, and I’m not even mad about that. That’s how things have always been between us, and I don’t know why I expected it to change. Since I’ve been home, you’ve been drinking non-stop and an emotional wreck. You asked me to come back and I feel like it’s something I shouldn’t have done. I messed up your progress,” you finished softly as you toyed with your fingers, avoiding her hurt and irritated gaze.

As far as she was concerned, you and Jim were ganging up on her. Hell, if you hadn’t spent the previous night and that morning fucking her husband, you would’ve been able to feel like you weren’t ganging up on her. However, the guilt was eating you alive instantly, and it only got worse when she grabbed a bottle of whiskey off of the top of the fridge. 

It wasn’t even 10am and she’d snapped.

She was drunk off of her ass by 12pm, which meant that it was up to you to save the day for your...step-siblings. 

The day wasn’t even hard because you didn’t like them, it was hard because of what you’d done. With their Father. It didn’t help that they really had seemed to take a liking to you, and they wanted to do everything with you. Especially after your Mother passed out at 1:30pm.

“You alright, Angel?” Jim asked softly once he’d closed the door behind him to your bedroom.

The room that was right next to your Mother’s.

“It’s fine. They go back tomorrow and I’ll go to Ciara’s-”

“I want you here-”

“We already had this talk. Once was enough, Jim.”

“Angel-”

“It’s wrong! You’re married to her! Even if you get a divorce, she’s still my Mother! We can’t just...no, this can’t happen again.”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about ya all day, Angel,” he confessed softly as he made his way closer to your bed.

“You’ve been thinkin’ about fuckin’ me.”

“No, I’ve been thinkin’ about you,” he confirmed softly. “Your smile, the way you laugh, the sound of your laugh, how caring and sincere you are, how thoughtful-”

“Jim-”

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he promised as his right hand cupped the side of your face. “Have you been thinking about me?”

“Jim-”

“Have you?” he asked sincerely as he focused your gaze on him.

It slipped out before you even had a chance to stop yourself.

“Yes.”

You honestly hadn’t meant to get so caught up in the kiss, and you hadn’t meant to give him a blowjob. However, both of those things happened, which led to him fucking senseless in your bed.

Which is, once again, right next to your Mother’s bedroom. The bedroom that she shares with your Stepfather.

You couldn’t get out of that house fast enough the following day. However, when you got to Ciara’s, she wasn’t proving to be much help either. 

“I’m sorry, you two did what?! How many times?!” she squealed before she took a sip of wine.

“We only did that position once, but we had sex.. a few times,” you mumbled, very clearly ashamed of yourself. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“You’re in love,” she shrugged as if it was the most simple thing in the world.

“I’m in love with my Stepfather. He’s married to my Mother-”

“Your Mother is awful.”

“Be that as it may, she’s my Mother. She wanted to start a new chapter with Jim, and her new found sense of-”

“She did this, love. She created this fake version of herself, then let it all come crumbling down when you came home. She invited you back, then had a meltdown on the both of you. Is this right? Of course not. However, do I understand it? Of course. I know you feel terrible, and I would too, but lets not pretend you meant for any of this to happen. Hell, you didn’t even know she’d gotten married. Yes, it’s wrong, but you both did your best to fight this and seemed like the harder you two fought against it, the more she went out of her way to be problematic,” she sighed as your phone went off again. “What’s goin’ on there?”

“Jim and my Mother have been messaging me all day,” you muttered with an eye roll. “She wants me to come back because she feels awful and is tired of driving me away. He wants me to come back because he misses me and wants to fall asleep next to me. I’m staying far the fuck away from both of them.” 

“You’ll be goin’ back soon enough, and that should help,” she smiled mournfully.

Honestly? It should’ve. It should’ve been enough to keep you focused and your thoughts away from all of the other bullshit. It’s your final year, and you have so many things to figure out. You need to decide on a job, figuring out living arrangements, where you’re going to live, and a million other things. However, Jim was persistent. If he wasn’t calling and texting, he was sending you flowers with the cutest notes attached. 

By day four, you’d crumbled and told him to come to Ciara’s. 

He took you out to dinner at a cute little restaurant outside of town, and spent the entire time picking your brain. He wanted to know if you were excited or nervous about graduating (you told him that it’s an evil mixture of both), he wanted to know if there’s anything in particular you’re excited about getting back to (you told him about the cute dog adoption center that’s not too far from campus that you visit when you’re feeling too overwhelmed), and he wanted to know your favorite things (that had you rambling longer than you meant to).

Yes, the whole thing was sweet, but you rightfully had your reservations.

“Jim, how do you know this is real? No to be a total fucking cunt, but this will be your second failed marriage. What makes you so sure this will work?” you asked softly before you took a sip of your drink.

“This isn’t like what Yvonne and I did. I was in a good marriage and I fucked it up. I fucked it up for selfish reasons and looked for everyone to blame but myself. This...I honestly never knew this side to your Mum. If I had, I wouldn’t have married her in the first place. Yvonne and I...it started for all the wrong reasons. It started for selfish reasons on both of our parts, but this isn’t wrong or selfish, I promise.”

“Your wife made you unhappy-”

“Don’t. This isn’t something I started because I was havin’ a bad day. You just...you’re so beautiful, Angel. I don’t just mean on the outside. You step up when you shouldn’t have to, you’re thoughtful, you’re so damn funny, you’re witty, you’re patient, you’re painfully considerate...I could go on for hours. When everything started to fall apart, you stepped up and kept a level head. Between the two of us, you were the more mature and calm one. Hell, this whole thing started because I can’t control my feelings for you.”

“What about when I make you mad?” you asked timidly as you toyed with your fingers. 

“You’re not your Mum, Angel. We can talk things out and make it work. We can have an actual relationship that works.”

“Your kids-”

“They love you-”

“As their step-sister.”

“They’ll get used to it.”

“Jim-”

“Angel, I love you and I want this with you. I know I have a lot to prove, but I’m willing to try if you are. We’ll...test this out for a few months and you can decide-”

“A few months?! Jim, she’s my Mother-”

“I’m filing for a divorce, Angel. No matter what we do, I’m filing for a divorce. Things aren’t what they were and they never will be again,” he confessed with a scoff, but you could hear the pain in his voice.

He really thought he got it right with your Mother.

“We can’t...we have to take our time with this,” you told him softly as you tried to force yourself to come to terms with what you were saying.

What you were agreeing to.

“We can do whatever you want, Angel. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“We should wait until we have sex again.”

“If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do,” he promised with a nod as the waiter came over to ask if you both if you wanted anything else.

You folded like a lawn chair the second you and Jim were in front of Ciara’s house. You pulled him to the backseat of his car and had him until you were both spent. He ended up sleeping over Ciara’s that night, and he held you so close, as if he were afraid you’d run off in the night.

No, none of it had gone ideally. You and Jim spent every moment you could together, and he made it so easy to ignore the guilt. Every kiss, every touch, every date, every laugh...he made you forget how wrong all of it was. He made you forget that the both of you were committing the worst kind of betrayal.

Which is why you’re now pacing around your dorm room, waiting for his phone call. It doesn’t matter that you have an essay you need to start on, or that you have job applications to fill out, because you miss him and he makes you feel like a lovesick idiot. It also doesn’t help that he sent you a beautiful bouquet of pink peonies earlier in the day.

The second your phone goes off, you almost pounce to answer it.

“Baby?” you ask breathlessly, a smile coming to your lips.

A horrible way to answer the phone for the current situation you’re in, honestly. 

“It’s me, Angel,” he chuckles softly. “I miss you too.”

“In my defense I ‘aven’t been this excited to speak to someone...ever,” you giggle softly and he laughs. “How was your day?”

“A bit stressful, but it was good. I hate drivin’.”

“Why were you driving?”

“Had some things to take care of,” he sighs as someone knocks on your door. “Who’s that?”

“I’ve no clue. I didn’t make any plans with anyone,” you shrug as you make your way to the door and unlock it. “JIM!” you scream, throwing your phone to the side and jumping on him as your legs wrap around him, and he laughs softly. “Why are you here?! How?!” you giggle as you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Hi to you too, Angel,” he laughs, carrying you inside with a smile, before kicking the door shut behind him. “I missed you, and I wanted you to have a good few days before...”

“Before what?” you question with a cocked eyebrow.

“When I go back....I’m filing.”

“Jim...”

“I want this, Angel. I want us. I’m not gonna regret this and I hope you won’t either.”

“I just...Jim...”

“Do you still want this?”

“You know I do, but...you have to really commit. You’re leaving your wife for her daughter. Are you truly sure this is something you want? Are ya sure you want me?”

“Get dressed,” he smiles once he sets you down, “I’ve got somewhere to-”

He’s cut off by a knock on your door, “Y/N, are you in? It’s Mum,” your Mother proclaims from the other side of your door.

FUCK. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“What are ya doin’ here? Give us a moment, I just got out of the shower!” you panic as both you and Jim try to find a place to hide him.

“Well, Jim is gonna be gone for a few days to go and see a friend, so I figured I should come and see you. We didn’t end on the best of terms.”

“Mum, I really don’t have any issue with you or Jim. It’s just better for you if-”

“I know I haven’t always been the best Mother, but I want to change that. With time, you and Jim will grow to like each other and get along. I know I don’t always act like it, but I want all of this to work. I want us to be a proper family,” she confesses, remorse painfully clear in her voice.

By the look in his eyes, you can tell that Jim wants to say something, but he can’t without giving himself away.

“I don’t hate Jim,” you prattle on as you push him into your bathroom and motion for him to lay down in the bathtub. 

You’re quick to run to the sink and wet your hair, while trying to swallow down all of the anxiety and guilt.

“I don’t hate either of you,” you continue as you look yourself over in the mirror, “I just felt that it would be better if I finished holiday with Ciara. Let you two work on things.”

Lie, lie, lie.

“I just feel like me being around only makes things worse for you, and I don’t want that,” you explain, making your way back over to the shower. “Silence your phone,” you whisper before closing the shower curtain.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door to your room, “I really wish you would’ve called.”

“I figured it would be fine since you didn’t get back too long ago. You don’t have too much work, do ya? We could grab a quick bite,” she smiles hopefully.

You truthfully don’t know what to do, because it’s not like the trip from Dublin to London is an easy one, but Jim also made the same trek and is currently hiding in your bathroom. Seeing as he is about to file for a divorce just to be with you, maybe you should go to dinner with her.

However, Jim did get here first.

“What are you doin’ tomorrow?” you ask, hopeful that she won’t be too hurt.

It’s not as if you’re saying no all together, just not right now.

“Leaving,” she laughs awkwardly. “I figured I’d head back early tomorrow. I’m hoping Jim will come back early and we can talk things out. We got into a bit of an argument before he left, and I’m afraid I’ve really made a mess of things,” she admits shyly.

Fuck.

“Let me grab my things and we’ll go,” you smile solemnly.

Quickly grabbing your phone, you text Jim a quick ‘I’m sorry’, before grabbing your purse and key to your dorm.

“Is there any place in particular that you wanna go to?” you ask, locking the door to your bedroom.

“I figured we’d go somewhere you love. My treat,” she smiles and it only makes you feel worse. 

“We can go to Chez Jules, and don’t worry about me, I can pay for-”

“I’m surprisin’ ya, I should at least pay for dinner. Besides, I put you through a tough Summer-”

“It’s alright-”

“Just let me be a proper Mum for once. Please?”

You hate yourself. You hate yourself to your core. Yes, you and her have always had a turbulent relationship, but never in a million years did you see this scenario playing out as it is. Hell, you honestly didn’t think you two would be in each other’s lives at this point. You and Jim falling in love isn’t even a result of you being angry with her, it just happened. Hell, you fought it so hard because you do actually love your Mother.

Now, it’s just a big mess. You don’t want to hurt her, but you can’t pretend your feelings for Jim aren’t real. You honestly wish you never came home for the Summer.

“How does it feel to be back?” your Mother asks once you’re both seated.

“It’s weird,” you laugh awkwardly, “I can’t believe this is my final year.”

“I’m so proud. Ya did what I couldn’t.”

“You can always go back whenever you want. You know that.”

“It was never for me. I don’t think an of this was ever for me,” she laughs softly.

You don’t even catch yourself as you mumble, “don’t I know it,” slips out.

“ ‘m sorry, Y/N. I really am.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“You’re hurt and you’re angry. You have every right to be. This past Summer...I don’t know why I reacted like I did. I don’t know why I always react the way I do to you. I do love you, I just don’t know how to be a Mother. I never have and I never wanted to be one. I just...I really thought it was a role I could grow in to. I’d like to think I’m better now, but we both know that I’m not and it doesn’t even matter now. You’re an adult all on your own and your own person.”

“Can we not do this in public? I’m too sober for an argument-”

“I don’t want to argue, I want to be honest. I’m trying to...I want to apologize. Ya didn’t know about Jim and for me to react the way I did...I just felt like he was taken with you more than I would’ve liked,” she sighs as the waitress comes over.

“Y/N, I already know your order,” she laughs before turning her attention to your Mother, “for you?”

“Gin,” she smiles.

“Do you need a moment for food?”

“Um, I’ll have the pork loin steak.”

“Mum!”

“Jesus, I can afford it, as can you,” she laughs. “What do ya want?”

“I don’t-”

“She’ll take the braised shoulder of lamb,” your Mother nods, grabbing your menu and handing it back to the waitress.

“Mum, we can’t-”

“It’s a girl’s night!”

“I have class in the morning,” you lie with a giggle. “I can’t be out too late.”

“I won’t keep ya too long,” she smiles. “I just felt like this would be good for us. I was afraid if I called, ya’d say no.”

“I just...time apart has always been best for us.”

“That’s not how it should be. Jim loves ya, his kids love ya, and I just...I got jealous. You getting to the house before me...I should’ve waited, because I knew you would’ve been hurt. It was a big decision and I didn’t even take you into consideration. I was just so in love with Jim and I felt like...I figured I could finally do it, ya know? Be a proper wife and Mother. Be someone everyone could finally be proud of. I didn’t tell Jim much about my past, because it’s not anything to be proud of, but I did tell him about you. I told him that you’re the only thing I’ve done that’s right. I knew you two would get along, but I still had my reservations. The way I had been with him was a side of me you’d never seen, and I was afraid you’d resent me for being better with him and his kids than I ever was with you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me about him?” you ask, swirling your drink in the glass.

“I don’t know. We were in our own little bubble, and it was nice. I didn’t want to ruin it, and I know you’ve never been a fan of the men I’ve been with, which I can’t blame ya for. I was just scared. It got so bad so fast, and I know it’s on me. I’ve never actually committed to this part of myself and failed before I even gave myself a chance. I let you down, again, and I’m sorry.”

You say nothing as a new wave of guilt washes over you as your dinner is delivered. How could you fuck up this badly? How could you let yourself end up in a situation that will end so horribly?

“I know it was all in my head though,” she continues after the waitress walks away. “Jim barely knows you and you don’t see him like that. You don’t know him well enough to look at him in that light. It was just my own insecurities getting in the way, and I’ll do better. I’ll be better for the both of ya.”

“What did you and Jim argue about before he left?” you ask, doing your best to fight back your tears as you cut up your lamb,

“He’s rightfully angry with me. The drinking, the way I acted around his children, the way I treated you...he said he doesn’t know how to be with me anymore. I was drunk, we both raised our voices, I threw some things...it’s not lookin’ good,” she chuckles humorlessly as she wipes away a few tears. 

“What do you think-”

“He wants to leave me,” she interrupts with a shrug. “He didn’t come right out and say it, but he said it in so many words.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t, but I can tell that he really is at his end. Even with sex-”

“Sex?” you eagerly cut off before you mean to.

You hate that you care so much. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not goin’ to give you too much information,” she laughs softly. “We barely ever have it, and I feel like I have to beg for it anyway. When we do, he never seems to be...in the moment. He always feels a million miles away, and it feels so empty. It was never like this before, and I know it’s on me. I made such a mess of everything this Summer.”

“Maybe you two just need some time apart,” you suggest, knowing damn well that, that won’t solve anything.

The man is waiting for you in your dorm room.

“He seemed pretty put off before he left. I tried to talk to him, but he just...he walked out. He doesn’t love me anymore, and I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Well, why do you do this shite? Huh? You finally had what you wanted-”

“I know, I know,” she sighs, throwing her fork down and drying her eyes with the backs of her hand. “It was goin’ too good. I got too nervous and I just...I let my fears win. I took it out on you, I took it out on him...I can’t fix it,” she sniffles, drying her eyes.

“I can talk to him for you,” you offer quietly.

You fucking idiot.

“My estranged daughter pleading my case for me? That’s even more pathetic,” she scoffs, before taking a sip of her drink then picking up her fork. “Anyway, tell me about school! Are you more excited to be back, or to be graduatin’ soon?”

For the rest of dinner, you try to keep up appearances, but your mind is going a million miles a minute. You know what you need to do, but you also know how much it’s going to hurt. You and Jim have spent so much time trying to build some form of a relationship, and you’re about to destroy it. 

To be fair, the relationship should’ve never happened in the first place.

“You’ll tell me when you’re home and safe?” you ask once you two are back at your dorm.

“Of course,” she smiles, wrapping you in a tight hug, “thank you for this. I really needed it.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll let you get back to your studies,” she laughs awkwardly as she lets go of you. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you smile with a nod before unlocking your door, “let me know when you’re at your hostel, yeah?”

“I promise.”

“Well...goodnight,” you nod once you’re in your room.”

“Night.”

You wait until you see her turn the corridor down the hall before finally closing the door, and letting out a heavy sigh. You know what comes next is gonna break both you and Jim’s heart.

“I know that sigh,” he comments as you close the door.

“Ya can’t leave her, Jim. Make it work.”

“Angel-”

“She’s so in love with you and she’s so sorry-”

“Stop it.”

“She’s my Mother! What do you want me to do-”

“Why do you keep trying to spare her feelings? She did this!”

“Jim, please-”

“I love you, Angel. I’m in love with you-”

“She’s your wife, Jim. She’s your wife and I’m her daughter. Your stepdaughter!”

“I didn’t even know you until I met you! This isn’t some relationship that we built up over years! I met you and we just-”

“Jim...please,” you sob.

He lets out a heavy as he wraps his arms around you, “please don’t cry.”

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be the reason you walk away-”

“She did this! She lied, she drank herself into a stupor, she lied-”

“You married her,” you sob softly, looking up to meet his heartbroken gaze. “I can’t hurt her like this, Jim. I can’t be the reason something else-”

“You’ve never taken anything from her!”

“Jim...”

“I love you! What’s the point of staying with her if my heart isn’t in it? What’s the point of faking it-”

“You two can find that happiness again-”

“I’ve found it with you, Angel,” he husks as he pins you against the wall.

“Jim...stop,” you moan as he kisses down your neck.

“No.”

“Jim-”

“Say it like you mean it. If you really want me to stop, I’ll stop,” he promises, unbuttoning your shorts and pushing them down along with your panties. 

“This...this is the last time,” you whimper as he starts teasing your clit.

“Sure it is, Angel,” he chuckles as he hoists you up and forces your legs around his waist. “Whatever you say.”

“Fuck...Jim!”

“I know, Angel. I need you too,” he groans as you undo his jeans, and force them down.

“I love you so much!”

“Do ya? Do ya want me?”

You know where he’s going with this, and you know it can’t go any farther.

“You know it’s wrong, Jim! We can’t keep on as we are!”

“Lets see how wrong we can be tonight, shall we?” he chuckles as he thrust himself inside of you, barely giving you a chance to breathe before he starts loving you hard and fast.

“Jim...don’t stop!’

“That’s a good girl.”

Yes, you’re going to end things with Jim and do your best to move on from this completely fucked up situation, but for now? For now you just want to live in this moment.

You just want to be with him. 

“I want to be with you,” he pants as he lays you on your bed, before resuming his pace and fucking you brutally hard. “I love you!”

“Oh my God!”

You don’t care if you two wake up the whole damn building.

“Tell me you don’t feel the same! Lie to me and tell me you don’t feel the same!”

“I fucking love...Jesus...Jim! Don’t stop!”

“That’s right, Angel. Take everything I’m givin’ ya,” he husks, pinning your hands above your head as starts biting and sucking on your neck.

“Oh fuck!”

“I’ve missed you so much, my Angel,” he grunts, the feel of his breath on your neck making you clench him tighter. “Fuck, just suckin’ me in!”

“Jim...aht...please!”

“Give it to me,” he groans as you ball your hands into fists.

You squirt hard as you lull your head back and arch your back,”fuck!”

“So good for me, Angel,” he groans as he pulls out.

Before you can whine in protest, he flips you as if you weigh nothing, and you’re instantly ready to go again.

“Hands and knees for me, Angel,” he demands gruffly, and you instantly comply, arching your back and curling your toes in anticipation. “You think we can just stop?” he asks rhetorically, gripping your hips tight before thrusting into you.

“Ah shit!”

“You’re mine, Angel. You’re mine, just like I’m yours,” he whispers seductively against the shell of your ear, thrusting harder and faster.

“Jim...I love you! Fuck, I love you so much! God...that’s it!” you cry out, strangling your pillows as he hits that spot he’s only ever been able to find. “Right fuckin’ there! Don’t stop!”

“Say it! Fuckin’ tell me what I need to hear!”

“ ‘m yours, Jim! All yours, always!”

“Fuck, not gonna...cum with me Angel! Please!” he husks pathetically, resting his head in the crook of your neck, kissing it softly as he coats your inner walls with his desire.

You have no choice but to obey, and you yell his name in the process, as mind numbing pleasure washes over you.

“So good for me, my Angel. So sweet,” he coos as he rides out both of your highs.

You’re quick to collapse onto your bed, trying to clear the euphoric clouds out 

of your head. You don’t know why you thought you’d be able to think clearly 

around him, especially when you’re already so emotional. You know what the 

right thing to do is, but it’s not what you want. It’s not what either of you want.

You hate this so much.

“We can figure this out,” Jim promises softly as he gets in bed next to 

you, instantly pulling you close.

“Jim...what we’re doing is wrong. What we’ve been doing is wrong-”

“I want to be with you.”

“You’re her husband and she’s my Mother. Jim, it should’ve never 

gotten this far. We’re horrible people.”

“Are you afraid of her hating you?”

“I can deal with her hating me. Shes always resented me a bit and 

that’s fine, I’ve always been able to handle it. What’s hard to handle is me 

being the reason she’s heartbroken. She doesn’t deserve that.”

“It wouldn’t be-”

“Jim you may have been the one who initiated everything, but it’s not 

like I ever tell you no and meant it. I want every part of ya just as much as you 

want every part of me.”

“I don’t wanna stop, Angel. I don’t want you with anyone else and I 

don’t wanna be with anyone else.”

“I love you and I’m so happy when we’re together. So fuckin’ happy, 

but this isn’t right. You leaving her for me...Jim, we can’t.”

“So, this is it?”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“We do, you just don’t like the other option.”

“Jim, for as angry as ya are, I know you don’t wanna hurt her.”

“I don’t, but you’re who I’ve always been lookin’ for. We were made for 

each other.”

“Jim...we have to let each other go.”

“After this week,” he sighs heavily, pressing a kiss to the back of your 

neck, “I’ll stay away.”

“Jim, I do love you, it’s just that...this is the right thing to do. Give it a 

few months, and everything will be back to how it was. It’ll hurt for a while, but 

it’ll be alright.”

“How it is now is how it always should be,” he mumbles into your hair 

before pressing a soft kiss into it. “Lets sleep, you have a lot of work to do in 

the morning.”

It’s not like this isn’t ripping your heart up. You want to be with Jim more than 

anything, but you can’t handle hurting your Mother like this. The ultimate 

betrayal. You have to get over this, because what’s the point? Your 

happiness shouldn’t have to make your Mother miserable. No, this is for the 

best. Yes, it’ll hurt and drive you insane for a while, but it won’t always be like 

this. It’ll get better.

Or so you hope.

~~

[sweetblinginrose]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭,

symbols and meanings:

★ series ♥︎ smut ꥟ oneshot ༄ fluff  angst

✿ x reader ☾ x fem!reader 𒊹︎ x OC 𖣯 x masc!reader

═══════ ≫ ♡ ≪ ════════

billy hargrove

★ ♥︎  𒊹︎ sweet chestnut ︎

(“Sweet Chestnut” is an ongoing series about Samantha, Billy’s stepsister, who she really doesn’t get along with. It’s basically an enemies-to-lovers story)

eddie munson

♥︎ ꥟  ☾ the sith order

♥︎ ꥟  ☾ the sith order pt2

(A OS consisting of two parts where you, with your own D&D group, face off against Eddie, whom you secretly love but also hate)

♥︎ ꥟  ✿ hospital

(Eddie is in the hospital because he messed up his hands, one of which is in a cast, so you have to help him with almost everything)

jonathan byers

♥︎ ꥟ ☾ photoshoot

(Jonathan’s first job in California turns out to be a photographer for a porn actress)

steve harrington

♥︎ ꥟  ☾ spoiled daddy’s girl!

(It’s about your life when you were dating Steve and your return to the town as a very lesbian girl, hooking up with Robin)

robin buckley

♥︎ ꥟  ☾ spoiled daddy’s girl!

(It’s about your life when you were dating Steve and your return to the town as a very lesbian girl, hooking up with Robin)

jim hopper

♥︎ ꥟  ☾ back to hawkins

(You return to Hawkins after your divorce, where you encounter your old ‘boyfriend’ Hopper and end up sleeping with him)

[aprilludgate357]

take on me

steve harrington x original character

"Say after me It's no better to be safe than sorry..."

Gracie Williams used to think she had the best and easiest job in the world. Getting paid to play Dungeons and Dragons and hang out with a couple of middle schoolers was something she could do in her sleep. But when Will Byers went missing, babysitting took on a whole new level of difficulty. Gracie would still say it was the best gig she could have though. And while she may have resisted it at first, steve harrington joining her on the job wasn't the worst thing in the world either.

season one!

episode one: the vanishing of will byers

episode two: the weirdo on maple street

episode three: holly jolly

episode four: the body

episode five: the flea and the acrobat

episode six: the monster

episode seven: the bathtub

episode eight: the upside down

[heydoaflip]

Enter Sandman: Sleep with one eye open (chapter one)

Summary: After a chilling encounter with a figure she knows only through theories, she is forced to confront her beliefs about fear, change, and what it means to truly make a difference in a city that thrives on chaos. Warnings: Themes of fear, Trauma, and Violence, Descriptions of a physical attack and its aftermath, Mentions of Assault/Robbery, Psychological manipulation, References to blood and injury, Maybe some Stalking and Obssessive Behavior, Subtle power dynamics Word count: 15K series: [0], [1], [2] series masterlist.

The name reverberated in her mind, sending a shock through her system that settled as a cold weight in her chest.

Jonathan Crane.

The notorious psychologist—no, the expert on fear, who had turned its study into something dark but intriguing, something people only whispered about in Gotham’s shadowed corners.

Rain poured steadily, a relentless, icy sheet that soaked through her coat and plastered her hair to her skin. Droplets traced erratic paths down her cheeks, mingling with the sting from the encounter, her umbrella lying forgotten on the ground beside them. Its handle, slick with rain, sat half-submerged in a puddle, as water seeped into the cracks of the pavement.

The rain thudded in the silence between them, a constant rhythm that magnified every heartbeat, every breath.

Crane’s gaze was fixed on her, intense and unwavering, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. His features were sharp, almost severe, the angles of his face softened only by the rain that clung to his skin, catching in his lashes and tracing along his cheekbones.

His eyes were a piercing, pale blue that seemed to cut through the darkness, watching her with an unsettling stillness as if he could read her thoughts, each racing heartbeat laid bare.

“You should be careful,” he said, his voice even, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the edge of his mouth. His hand released her chin slowly, though his gaze held her in place, piercing and analytical, as if filing away her every reaction.

Daphne’s breath was shallow, each exhale clouding in the cold night air as she processed his words. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, her voice as frozen as the rest of her.

After everything that had happened, after the suddenness of her attacker’s fall, Crane’s arrival, and this terrifying realization… She felt herself unraveling, any attempt at rational thought slipping through her fingers.

Crane straightened, his gaze breaking from hers for the first time as he glanced down at the trembling figure still sprawled on the wet ground.

“I imagine he won’t forget this encounter anytime soon,” he murmured, almost to himself, his tone clinical. His words sent a shiver through Daphne; the detached observation was as unsettling as his steady presence.

He turned back to her, and for a moment, his expression softened with a kind of restrained curiosity, as though he were sizing her up, calculating.

“Miss…?” His words hung in the air, a gentle prompt, his head tilting just slightly as he waited.

Slipping back to reality, she realized he hadn’t spoken to him until now.

“Daphne,” she answered instinctively, the sound barely a whisper.

His gaze dropped to her side, lingering on the cut where her attacker’s knife had grazed her, visible now beneath her soaked coat.

“Daphne,” he repeated, his voice rolling over the syllables with a strange deliberation, almost as if committing it to memory, “You’re injured.”

Yeah, that she could tell. Daphne looked at the bruise herself, she didn’t feel anything but the sting, probably the adrenaline was still blinding any of the pain it would be causing her.

He observed, his tone as calm as if he were pointing out the weather, “Let me help you back. You shouldn’t be walking alone.”

Part of her wanted to refuse, to collect herself and walk the rest of the way alone, but the adrenaline still coursed through her, each pulse a raw reminder of the fear that had gripped her only moments ago. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, her mind torn between wariness and the reluctant acceptance of the help he offered.

Besides, she was beginning to spiral in regret.

If she’d accepted Clara’s offer to drive her home or listened to Bruce’s insistence on helping her to get a better job, maybe she wouldn’t be in this situation—in the cold, drenched in the unrelenting rain, and shaken from an encounter she hadn’t anticipated. Her self-assured independence felt almost foolish now, a miscalculation she couldn’t ignore as she looked at the man standing beside her.

The name echoed in her mind, settling with an icy weight in her chest. The mind behind so many controversial theories she’d pored over late into the night, dissecting each line, each implication. And now, in a twist she could barely process, he was here—flesh and blood—offering his quiet, steady support as if nothing about this moment was strange.

Her fascination with him had always been professional, albeit intense—a kind of reverent awe for his precision, his ability to deconstruct fear as if it were a physical entity. She had spent hours with his studies, lost in the cold elegance of his words, the flawless logic with which he dissected fear and all it laid bare in people.

But this… This was something else entirely. She was no longer the detached reader, analyzing him through carefully structured paragraphs. But someone he had chosen to aid.

He saved me, she thought again, and the strangeness of it seemed to ripple outward, unsettling. Of all people, it was him—the man she’d read about in clinical journals and dissected case studies. He was the one who had stopped his night to help her.

Gotham’s streets were a relentless backdrop of indifference, filled with strangers who turned a blind eye, who moved quickly past danger, leaving others to fend for themselves. No one would have stopped for her—not in this part of town, not at this hour. However, Crane had.

As she looked at him, his features sharp and defined under the rain, she couldn’t shake the awareness of how little she truly knew about him beyond his words in print. She knew his theories, his studies, his provocative assertions about fear’s utility, its potential as both a force for self-understanding and for manipulation. But the man himself, here in front of her, was something different, something she couldn’t fully read or predict.

Standing this close to him, her vulnerability seemed to widen, something beyond adrenaline and fear, a sensation that made her feel exposed in a way she couldn’t quite place.

The rain traced paths down his face, softening the cold, precise lines of his jaw, trickling over his high cheekbones and down the slender curve of his nose. His eyes held an intensity that cut through the darkness, fixed intently on her as though he were still assessing her reaction, drawing conclusions that only he could see.

However there was no hostility in his gaze, only a strange kind of curiosity, the faintest flicker of amusement at her unease. She couldn’t tell if he was truly concerned or if this was part of some elaborate study of human behavior—if she, unknowingly, had become part of his work.

“Let me walk you back,” he repeated, his tone calm and steady, each word softening her resolve to refuse. She wanted to protest, to say she could manage, that she didn’t need help.

But as he stood there, his expression unchanging, she found her voice caught in her throat, as if he had silenced it with nothing more than a look.

“Alright,” she managed to say, the word almost lost in the rain.

They walked in silence, his figure close enough that she felt the pull of his presence with every step, his gaze flicking over her as though ensuring she didn’t falter. The rain poured steadily around them, every drop amplified in the quiet, deserted streets. With each step, the surreal nature of the moment seeped deeper into her mind—the Jonathan Crane, the man whose work had fueled her own ambitions, was here beside her, not as a figure in print but in the flesh.

She kept her eyes fixed ahead, thoughts racing between fragments of his studies and the palpable tension of his silence. She had read his theories on fear as if they were dark poetry, each line calculated, precisely, a reflection of his views on control. He saw fear as something that could be deconstructed, reshaped, and weaponized, a philosophy she had spent hours grappling with, trying to balance her respect for his insights with her unease over their implications.

At least, reflecting about his theories now distracted her from the pain of the cut.

As they neared her building, her keys were suddenly cold and clumsy in her hand. She sensed his eyes shifting toward her thigh, his gaze lingering on the graze where her attacker’s knife had cut into her, his look almost clinical.

She pressed her hand to her coat, hoping to conceal the wound, her thoughts drifting back to how improbable it was for him to have been there, of all people.

In what world would she imagine this happening to her?

A strange warmth filled her chest as she searched for the right words.

“Oh, I realize I hadn’t thanked you yet,” she said, her voice shaky as she looked up at him, the rain still pattering softly around them. Her gaze flitted away, self-conscious, “I don’t even know where to start, but… Thank you, Dr. Crane. Really, for everything. You didn’t have to—”

“It was nothing,” he replied, his tone smooth, practiced, “Gotham isn’t exactly forgiving at this hour. And you… Seemed like you could use the help.”

His words, simple and practical, sent a strange thrill through her—a mix of gratitude and disquiet that left her breathless. Had he noticed she recognized it or brushed past the subject purposely? Either way, she thanked him mentally.

It was difficult to reconcile the man she’d imagined in her mind, the brilliant but distant psychologist whose work had defined so much of her own thesis, with the man who had stood between her and a brutal attack. A small voice in the back of her mind questioned it all—why he had intervened, why he, of all people, was here with her in this intimate, rain-soaked moment.

And yet, the fact that he was there filled her with a surreal sense of awe, as if some piece of her carefully constructed reality had fractured. The man she’d only known through the cold lines of his articles was now standing inches away, real and composed, his presence almost grounding her, even as she still felt the ache of fear.

His gaze dropped to her thigh again, where her hand pressed against the wound, a small but visible stain of blood seeping through her coat. His brow furrowed slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he took in the wound with a clinical detachment that almost made her shiver.

“You’re still bleeding,” he murmured, his tone soft, unsettlingly so. His eyes flickered back to her face, searching her expression, “If you need assistance, I could take a look. I have… Experience with injuries.”

Daphne swallowed, nerves prickling as she felt her pulse quicken.

“It’s just a scratch,” she managed, her laugh coming out shakier than intended. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll clean it up myself. But thank you, I don’t want to keep you.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that made her heart pound. His hand hovered close to her arm, as if he might insist, his fingers stretching toward her before they curled back, almost reluctantly.

“Very well,” he replied, his voice returning to its calm, measured tone. He looked down at the umbrella still in his hand, the water dripping quietly into the concrete.

He extended it toward her, his fingers gripping the handle loosely, waiting for her to take it.

Daphne hesitated, her own hand reaching forward but stopping short. She wasn’t sure why, but a part of her felt reluctant to end the encounter just yet.

“Keep it,” she offered quickly, managing a faint smile, “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold after… Well, everything.”

A small, almost inscrutable smile played at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes held something darker, unreadable.

“Considerate of you,” he murmured, his tone barely above a whisper, “I suppose I’ll return it another time, then.”

The words hung in the air, carrying an undertone she couldn’t place, like a promise cloaked in something she couldn’t quite acknowledge yet.

She managed a nod, and he took a step back, his silhouette fading into the dim glow of the streetlights, becoming one with the rain and shadows.

“Good night, Dr. Crane,” she said softly, the words feeling strangely formal.

“Good night, Miss Daphne,” he replied, his voice slipping over her name with a subtle, unnerving familiarity.

The words seemed to linger, threaded with something she couldn’t quite pin down, something that held a strange, dark warmth. He inclined his head, an almost imperceptible nod, before stepping back, his silhouette merging into the shadows, the rain masking his retreat until he vanished entirely.

Daphne watched him disappear down the street, her breath still caught in her chest. She felt a strange, heavy silence settle over her, the kind that gnawed at the edges of her mind, raising questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answers to. The night’s events played over in her mind, each detail slipping between her thoughts with surreal clarity.

She had just been attacked—by a man who must have followed her from the café, his familiarity casting a grim light on what she thought had been innocent glances. And then, out of nowhere, she’d been saved by none other than Dr. Jonathan Crane, the man whose writings on fear had formed the backbone of her thesis. One of her most important references had come alive in front of her, shrouded in shadows.

Unbelievable.

Once inside her building, she climbed the stairs to her apartment, every step accompanied by the ghost of his presence, his gaze lingering in her memory like an imprint.

A thought struck her, something Crane had said in passing, his words woven with an almost taunting subtlety: “I suppose I’ll return it another time.”

The promise echoed in her mind, a quiet shiver prickling down her spine.

By the time she reached her door, she was soaked, the chill of the rain clinging to her skin as she stepped into her small, silent apartment. She shut the door behind her, the quiet settling over her like a thin film of unease.

The locks clicking into place offered a fragile sense of security. But even as she stripped off her damp coat and pressed a hand to the sting of her wound, the strange weight of the night clung to her, refusing to fade.

She made her way to the bathroom, carefully pulling up her pant leg to examine the wound. Blood had soaked through, leaving a dark stain on the fabric. She turned on a single dim lamp, the quiet warmth of the room doing little to chase away the cold sense of dread clinging to her. Her hand hovered over the fresh bandages she’d set out on the counter, but her thoughts were still tangled in the night’s events.

Gingerly, she inspected the wound. The cut wasn’t deep, but the sight of blood on her skin sent a pulse of dread through her, stirring memories of her attacker’s blade grazing against her thigh. The anger in his eyes, the way he’d looked at her with that dark satisfaction as he taunted her—it all replayed in her mind, vivid and raw, each moment branded in her memory.

As she pressed a damp cloth to the wound, she hissed, more from the memory than the pain. She had felt utterly powerless in that alley, her voice trapped in her throat, her body frozen as he gripped her. A sense of complete helplessness had flooded her, drowning out any thoughts of escape. She hadn’t even been able to cry out, to resist, her mind paralyzed by a terror that clung to her even now.

A flash of anger flared up, directed not at her attacker but at herself.

How could she, someone who claimed to understand fear, have been so vulnerable, so utterly unprepared?

Her theories and words felt hollow, their weightlessness mocking her as she tended to her wound. Her thesis lay scattered on the desk, a stack of neatly ordered notes that now felt inadequate, incomplete—a childish attempt to understand something far beyond her grasp.

What was the point? she thought bitterly, securing the bandage over her thigh. What did her carefully constructed arguments and theories matter in a city like Gotham? The idea of harnessing fear for rehabilitation seemed almost laughable in the face of tonight’s reality, a naive fantasy built in the comfort of academic detachment.

Once the bleeding had slowed, she moved to her desk as she glanced at the scattered notes she’d left behind, pages half-filled with her own theories on fear. The Psychology of Fear as a Tool for Criminal Rehabilitation.

Her thesis title stared back at her, but now it felt… Inadequate (Reckless), almost naïve in the harsh light of what she had experienced tonight.

Pages and passages that she had once felt so confident in now seemed flimsy, shallow attempts to rationalize an instinct as primal as fear itself. Her words felt like paper shields in a city of shadows and violence. She rubbed her temples, her fingers lingering over a highlighted line in her own handwriting:

"Fear, when properly understood, can be a force for change rather than harm."

But tonight, fear had been nothing more than a weapon, one she hadn’t known how to counter. Her mind drifted back to the moments in the alley, to the memory of that paralyzing terror, how it had seeped into her bones, leaving her immobilized. Her own fear had been complete, like a shroud that clouded her thoughts, stripping her of any ability to act.

She let out a bitter laugh, her frustration bubbling over. What do I really understand? she thought, glaring at her notes. What use were her theories if they crumbled the moment she faced fear directly?

She was on the verge of shoving her work aside when a thought rooted itself in her mind, quiet but insistent. Her eyes fixed on her own handwritten note, scrawled in the margin of a study she'd cited countless times:

"Fear strips us of pretenses, revealing who we truly are and what we truly need."

Her mind kept looping back to the alley. To him.

The words weren’t hers, though they felt like they could have been. They belonged to Jonathan Crane, from one of his lesser-known studies dissecting fear’s psychological aftermath. She had read and reread that passage so many times, but now, it seemed to take on a new weight, pulling her thoughts back to the night before.

Her mind refused to let go of the image of him: sharp features shadowed in the dim light, his calm demeanor as though he were untouched by Gotham’s chaos. And yet, there he was, intervening in her moment of fear.

Her fingers hovered over the note for a moment longer, tracing the familiar words as though they might anchor her. The memory of the alley refused to release its grip.

How had he been there? The question pulsed through her mind, sharp and persistent, again and again.

Jonathan Crane, a man whose work she had poured over countless nights, stepping into her life not as the theorist she admired from afar, but as a shadow in Gotham’s chaos. The unreality of it gnawed at her.

What made him stop? What brought him there, of all places, at that exact moment? Gotham’s streets were cruel, but they rarely felt random. Her fear had stripped her bare, and coincidentally, somehow, Crane was there and intervened.

Was it curiosity? Calculation? A fluke?

Daphne leaned forward, her hands pressing into the desk as her thoughts spiraled, as much as her injury persisted to hurt. Her theories suddenly felt too fragile, too distant from the harsh reality of Gotham’s violence.

But Crane’s memory in her mind had shifted something—his calm precision, the way he had acted without hesitation. It unsettled her, how measured he had been in the face of chaos.

And, in some weird way, It reminded her why she started this in the first place.

One more time, her gaze shifted to the highlighted line in her notes.

“Fear strips us of pretenses, revealing who we truly are and what we truly need.”

Crane’s words weren’t just an observation—they were a challenge.

Maybe her experience hadn’t been proof of her inadequacy. Maybe it was proof that her work mattered. That fear wasn’t a barrier, but a lens. A way to see the truth—her truth, Gotham’s truth.

Her frustration softened into something quieter, steadier. She couldn’t let this derail her. Fear had shaken her, but it hadn’t broken her.

If it hadn't then, it wouldn’t now. She had feared worse.

If she gave in now, she would be proving her doubts right, undermining everything she had fought to understand.

With a slow, deliberate breath, Daphne reached for her notes again, her hands steadier now. She read Crane’s words once more, her heart light as a feather.

The rain tapped against the window, filling the silence as she sat back, her shoulders loosening. It wasn’t the resolution she had been searching for, but it was a start.

This wasn’t the end of her journey—it was only the beginning.

Fear strips us of pretenses… His observation echoed in her mind, the meaning shifting in the wake of her encounter.

Was she ambitious or reckless?

Or selfish? That question would follow her until the end.

The smell of blood lingering in her fingertips made her memories drift back to years ago, when she was still a little girl, nursing injuries just like the one she had tonight. But, back then, she’d been the one doing the healing on another.

Was it selfish? She wondered, the question tugging at her like an old wound, one she’d never quite let heal.

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

The man covered by shadows almost laughed at her while her little hands tended to his bruises. Which color was his eyes? It had been a long time since she had seen him.

Am I selfish? She asked herself again.

He probably would say no, in the end, she was trying to do better than they did—that is what he asked her to do, right?

However, what would Bruce say if he knew? Alfred? She imagined Alfred’s gentle but disapproving frown, Bruce’s quiet, unreadable expression—expressions that might mask concern, perhaps even disappointment.

Daphne took a steadying breath, forcing herself to refocus. This is what you wanted to understand, she reminded herself, a mantra she repeated in her mind.

What if fear wasn’t just a weapon? What if it could be something else entirely? Those doubts were what had started everything, and they would be what drove her to see it through.

She rose from her chair, intending to clear her head, but as she moved toward the window, a flicker of something caught her eye. Her curtains, normally drawn tightly, were slightly ajar, a small sliver of the dark street beyond visible through the narrow gap. Her heart skipped, and she froze, staring at the faint line of light that crept through. She hadn’t left them like that. She was certain.

A strange sensation crept over her—a prickling awareness, as if unseen eyes were trained on her. She slowly drew the curtains closed, letting the fabric fall back into place, but the unease persisted, a lingering weight pressing at the edges of her thoughts. It was almost as if the night itself held its breath, listening.

Trying to shake the feeling, she picked up her phone and dialed Alfred’s number, her fingers trembling slightly. She felt an urgent need to hear his voice, to remind herself of something solid, something real. As the phone rang, her gaze drifted back to the window, her mind tracing the faintest shift in shadows cast by the streetlight. The sensation of being watched seemed to pulse in the room, heightening her awareness with each ring.

Don’t be paranoid, she scolded herself, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. It was just residual fear from the night, leftover tension from the attack.

Then, finally, Alfred’s voice came through the line, warm and steady. “Daphne? Are you alright?”

The sound of his voice brought a small, unexpected sense of relief, grounding her, if only slightly.

“I... I just wanted to hear a familiar voice,” she said, her own voice wavering despite herself. “It’s... Been a night.”

There was a pause, a thoughtful silence before Alfred replied, “I had a feeling you might need some company.” His voice held a gentle note of concern, as though he knew she was leaving things unsaid.

“What happened?”

She opened her mouth, hesitating as her gaze fell back on her desk, on the scattered notes and passages she’d spent so long constructing. Part of her wanted to tell him everything—to admit how close she’d come to letting fear break her resolve. But the memory of Crane’s steady gaze, his unwavering calm, lingered, and she found herself choosing her words carefully.

“That’s... Why I called you.”

Across the street, just out of sight, he watched her. His gaze was fixed, steady, taking in the quiet movements inside her apartment as she paced, as her hand lingered on the window latch, as she finally retreated deeper into the room. His interest was piqued, his expression unreadable but intent, as though he had found the missing piece in an elaborate puzzle.

A smile touched his lips, barely there, as he turned and melted into the shadows, leaving only the rain and the faint, lingering sensation of his presence behind.

The umbrella firm against his grip.

The next afternoon, Daphne found herself seated across from Clara in their usual spot at the café. The familiar hum of voices and clinking of mugs usually soothed her, but today, it felt distant, as if she were wading through it rather than a part of it. She forced herself to smile, hoping it masked the threads of last night still tangled in her thoughts.

Clara leaned forward, eyes bright with her usual warmth.

“You’re still coming to my birthday party, right?” She gave Daphne a playful nudge, “You wouldn’t want me to think you’re avoiding me.”

Daphne managed a faint smile, glancing down at her own untouched cup.

“I… Don’t know yet,” Daphne replied, her voice trailing off as she searched for a word that wouldn’t reveal too much, “Things have been a bit—” She paused, “Difficult lately.”

“Ah, the endless grind of the thesis?” Clara teased, stirring sugar into her coffee, “You’ve been practically living in that project for months now, I thought you’d give in a break after the submission. Sometimes I swear I’m competing with it for your attention.”

Daphne managed a faint smile, though her mind was far from the café.

Images of last night flickered through her memory—the sharp bite of fear, the press of Crane’s fingers beneath her chin, steady. She could still feel the unsettling calm in his voice, the intensity of his gaze as he’d studied her. For a moment, her surroundings seemed to blur, leaving only the memory of that alley and the strange, unsettling force of Crane’s presence.

A chill traced her spine, and she quickly refocused, grounding herself in the warmth of the café and Clara’s easygoing energy.

“I guess I just get a little lost in it sometimes,” she murmured, setting her coffee back down, “It feels like there’s always one more page to read, one more theory to chase down.”

Clara raised an eyebrow, catching the tension behind her words.

“Sometimes it feels like you’re searching for answers you might already have,” she said, her voice soft but sincere. “I know your work’s important, but it’s okay to take a breath. To actually live.”

Daphne looked down, tracing the rim of her coffee cup, but her mind slipped, unbidden, back to the previous night. The man’s face floated into her memory—his gaze cold, almost savoring the fear he thought he had her bound in. Her fingers tightened around the cup, the image shifting to the moment he’d become the prey, his eyes widening with terror as he lay crumpled on the ground.

The sudden reversal had been almost surreal, that raw fear stripping him of his threat, leaving him as vulnerable as she had felt moments before.

Once, red had meant rage to her. A searing, hot fury, the kind that bubbled up in childhood arguments and simmered in the injustices she witnessed. Red had been her anger.

But now, red meant something else entirely. It was the sheen of blood in the dim light, the smear on the wet pavement, the terrible vividness of life drained away. It was the raw finality of violence and the stain it left on her mind.

She shivered as the memory sharpened, her thoughts lingering on his face—the way the color had drained from his cheeks as he lay motionless. Red had stolen it, painted the pavement with his life, leaving his skin pale and his fear etched in stark relief.

“I know,” she replied, managing a faint smile, her thoughts still caught in the haunting scenes she couldn’t quite shake, “It’s hard to step away from it, sometimes.”

Daphne hesitated, reaching for words that would stay on the surface, concealing the unsettling weight of last night.

“The thesis is important to me,” she added, the statement simple, but the meaning beneath it complicated in ways she wasn’t ready to share.

Clara held Daphne’s gaze, her brow furrowing slightly.

“I get that it’s important,” she said gently, “But sometimes I think you’re holding onto it too tightly. It’s like you’re carrying something heavier than just research.”

Daphne looked down, her fingers tracing the edge of her coffee cup. Clara wasn’t wrong. She could still feel the weight of last night pressing on her—the helplessness, the thrill of Crane’s presence, and that fleeting moment where her attacker had been reduced to a trembling shadow of himself.

The irony of her research felt sharper now, almost cruel, as if her own theories were mocking her fear.

“Maybe I am,” she admitted quietly, though she kept her tone light. “But the work is more than just a project to me.”

Clara tilted her head, watching her closely.

“Just remember, you’re allowed to live outside of it,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Otherwise, you’ll end up letting the work define you.”

If Alfred was there, he would have said “you’re letting him define you”. And he wouldn’t be wrong, she was letting him define her.

Daphne’s grip on the coffee cup tightened slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of the ceramic rim. Clara’s words lingered, unsettling in their truth. She didn’t respond immediately, letting the hum of the café fill the silence between them. The smells of roasted beans and pastries mingled with the soft murmur of patrons chatting, grounding her momentarily in the present.

But her thoughts refused to stay in the café. They drifted back, as they always seemed to, to the alley.

The memories came in fragments—fractured moments of fear and sharp clarity, each piece cutting into her as though fresh. She remembered the man’s hand reaching for her, the gleam of the blade catching the faint light, the sudden weight of terror that had seized her limbs.

That was how they felt? Daphne almost threw up with the idea.

The thought clawed at her mind, cold and invasive. She had spent countless hours dissecting the psychology of fear, pouring over case studies and theoretical frameworks, but nothing in her research had prepared her for the visceral reality of it. The way it hollowed you out, left you stripped of everything except the pounding of your heart and the desperate instinct to survive.

Her fingers trembled against the ceramic, the sensation of Crane’s hand beneath her chin replaying in her memory. His grip had been steady, clinical almost, as if he were studying her even as he reassured her.

Dr. Crane.

The name felt surreal now, tethered to years of academic intrigue and the shadowed figure who had stepped from the alley the night before. A man whose theories she had cited, debated, and built her own work upon, suddenly more than a name in a footnote.

What had he said? Not much—just enough to steady her in the moment, enough to leave her mind unraveling in its wake. His presence had been an anomaly, a quiet, calculated disruption in a night that already defied sense.

Clara stirred her coffee idly, her eyes softening as she watched Daphne wrestle with her thoughts.

“You’re thinking about something else entirely, aren’t you?” she asked gently, though the faintest edge of amusement lingered in her tone.

Daphne hesitated, then nodded faintly. “Maybe,” she admitted, her voice low.

“I don’t need to know the details,” Clara said, leaning forward slightly, “But I’ll say this again, you already have most of your answers. But it is okay if sometimes you don’t have all of them.”

Daphne glanced at her, skeptical. When she was about to retort, Clara was quicker to interrupt her.

“I’m serious,” Clara continued, her tone firm now, “You dig into fear like it’s a code, but maybe it’s something you learn to live with, hm?”

Daphne ran her finger along the rim of her cup, “I just… I need this to mean something. All of it. The research, the work—it has to matter.”

Clara leaned back, crossing her arms, “Of course it matters. But if you lose yourself in it completely, what’s left? Your thesis doesn’t define you, Daph. You’re more than the work.”

Daphne stayed silent, letting Clara’s words settle. More than the work. She wanted to believe that, but something about it felt hard to grasp, as if a truth were resting just out of reach. She turned her gaze to the small, swirling patterns in her coffee, watching as they dissolved into the dark liquid.

There had been days—too many to count—when her work was the only thing that seemed to hold her together, a thin thread pulled taut in the face of everything Gotham had taken. Or rather, left her with. The cold pages of her research, the starkly clinical theories on fear and control, had given her purpose, a focus that kept her from staring too closely at the things she couldn’t change.

They were a map, a way to make sense of Gotham’s grip, the way it twisted lives and swallowed ambitions whole.

She swallowed, feeling the faintest twinge in her chest, a pull toward memories she’d long since tucked away, memories that surfaced now and again, slipping through her defenses uninvited. The thesis, with all its complexities, was a way to build something solid from those shadows. Something lasting. Her work wasn’t just research—it was a promise she’d made to herself, though she’d never put it into words.

Clara’s hand reached out, giving hers a quick squeeze.

“Hey,” she said gently, “Just remember, you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Daphne managed a faint smile, the warmth of Clara’s words easing some of the weight in her chest. Still, there were things she couldn’t share—and never would.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Clara’s expression softened, a quiet understanding passing between them, “And you’ll still come to the party, right?” she added, her tone lighter now, bringing them back to the present.

Daphne blinked, caught off guard by the shift. Of course Clara wouldn’t forget the subject.

“I… I don’t know,” she replied, trying to match Clara’s smile, “I’ll think about it.”

Clara gave her a knowing look, chuckling as she picked up her bag, “You always say that, but you can’t keep skipping out on everyone. I will see you there!”

Daphne watched as Clara rose to leave, her friend’s laughter lingering even after she disappeared through the door. Left alone in the café’s soft light, Daphne sat in silence, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. She tried to focus on the warmth of the room, on the familiar sounds of cups and chatter, but her thoughts drifted back into the quiet places she kept guarded.

Be better than them. She would be.

The late afternoon sunlight slanted across Gotham’s streets, casting long, golden shadows as Daphne stepped out of the café. She tugged her coat tighter against the chill, the comforting warmth of the coffee she’d just finished still lingering faintly in her hands. Clara’s laughter echoed in her mind, a brief reprieve from the weight that seemed to follow her everywhere these days.

She let out a soft breath, glancing up at the pale sky. Thank God, her boss had let her finish early today. For once, she had an evening to herself.

The thought brought a flicker of relief, but it didn’t last long. Gotham had a way of sinking its claws into any moment of ease, pulling it back into its shadows.

As she moved down the sidewalk, the hum of the city faded into a dull backdrop. Her thoughts drifted to her thesis, the email she was meant to receive in a couple of days, and the creeping doubts that had settled in ever since she hit the damned button.

She was so lost in her mind that she almost didn’t notice the faint rhythm behind her. Almost.

Footsteps.

At first, it was nothing—just the sounds of the city merging with her thoughts. The distant hum of traffic, the occasional car passing by. But then, the rhythm of those footsteps grew louder, closer, more deliberate.

Her senses sharpened.

Was it just her imagination? Maybe she was being paranoid. She had studied the science of fear—its ability to manifest as a trauma response, even without a real threat. Maybe that was it.

Maybe she was overreacting.

Still, the footsteps continued. Steady. Measured. Too deliberate to be random.

Daphne tried to dismiss the thought, telling herself it was probably just someone on their way somewhere, like everyone else around her. But her body wouldn’t cooperate. Her stomach tightened, her breath coming a little quicker, her heart rate picking up pace.

Not again.

Daphne cast a casual glance over her shoulder, her pulse quickening, and there it was: a man in a dark coat, a hat pulled low, obscuring most of his face. He was walking just a little too close behind her, close enough that it wasn’t an accident.

She felt a knot twist in her stomach, that familiar feeling of something being off. Her mind raced to the last time this had happened—the strange man who had followed her for blocks, his intentions unclear, his presence unsettling. The memory made her skin crawl.

What is it that I attract? she thought bitterly. Creeps in alleys, strangers with too many questions...

Men whose academic papers line the shelves of my home, whose brilliance feels more like a shadow than a light.

Her steps quickened slightly, instinct telling her to move faster. She couldn’t afford to be complacent. Not in Gotham. Not again.

The footsteps behind her mirrored her pace. A little too much. Too deliberate.

Daphne’s mind whirred, trying to process the best course of action, her body tense, bracing. She had to confront this. She wasn’t going to run. Not again. She couldn’t let fear dictate her every move. But at the same time, she didn’t know who this man was, or what he wanted. She had learned the hard way that Gotham was a city of shadows, and in the shadows, everyone had an agenda.

Still, she forced herself to stay calm, to think.

Her grip on her bag tightened as her mind raced. The man kept his distance but stayed close enough to unsettle her. She picked up her pace, weaving through the thinning crowd, her heels clicking a little faster against the pavement. She reached a corner and hesitated. She couldn’t let him follow her home.

She needed to act.

Her mind worked quickly, calculating. She glanced around, assessing the layout of the street—the dim alley to her left, the flickering streetlight ahead, the comforting hum of a distant diner. She shifted her weight slightly, her fingers brushing against the strap of her bag.

And… A plan began to form.

Daphne slowed her steps, carefully feigning indecision, as though she were debating her route. She turned onto the quieter street, her eyes scanning for an ideal spot. The footsteps behind her grew louder, closer. Her pulse quickened, but she kept her expression neutral.

Then, at just the right moment, she stopped abruptly and whirled around.

The man faltered, clearly startled by her sudden movement. His hand jerked slightly as if he’d considered reaching for something but thought better of it.

“Why are you following me?” she demanded, her voice sharp and steady, though her heart pounded against her ribs.

He blinked, his hesitation lasting just a second too long. “Miss Pennyworth, I’m—”

How did he know her name?

Before he could finish, Daphne swung her arm back and hurled her shoe at him. The pointed heel clipped his shoulder, and he flinched, his face contorting briefly with surprise.

“Wait! I’m security!” he called out, his hands raised defensively as the shoe hit the pavement with a clatter.

Daphne didn’t hesitate. She reached for her other shoe, her body tense and ready. He was kidding, right?

“Security?” she frowned, “Then why are you sneaking around like some creep? Who hired you?”

The man sighed, exasperated.

“Mr. Wayne.” Oh, that was it. He said quickly, his voice tinged with frustration, “I was hired to look out for you after… Yesterday. I wasn’t sneaking—I was doing my job.”

Her grip on the second shoe faltered, her arm dropping slightly as his words sank in. She narrowed her eyes, studying his face for any sign of deception.

“So, you work for Bruce?” she repeated, her tone skeptical, her eyes narrowing at the man, as if trying to piece together some hidden agenda.

“Yes,” he replied firmly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hm, I see… Daphne pondered, her thoughts racing.

She studied him, assessing the situation, considering a thousand different ways she could respond. The instinct to push back, to throw her weight around, flared in her chest. She could feel her grip tightening on the shoe.

Would Bruce still get upset if she threw one of his precious books out of the window? Or was that only a problem when he was eleven?

Her mind spun with the idea, amusement fleeting through the annoyance.

The audacity of this fucking bastard.

“And if you don’t believe me, feel free to call him,” the man added, the smugness in his voice barely hidden, “Though, considering you just attacked me with your footwear, I’m not sure he’ll appreciate that.”

Daphne felt the anger flare, a hot, sharp prickle at the back of her neck.

The nerve of him. What did he expect her to do?

She took a deep breath, trying to shake the irritation, but it stuck to her skin like a layer of grime. She could feel the tension in her fingertips, the sharp edge of the shoe in her hand.

There was hesitation, but only for a second. Her resolve hardened, and with a sharp flick of her wrist, she hurled the shoe at him.

It struck him square in the chest, the heel hitting with a satisfying thud.

The man grunted in surprise, fumbling to catch it before it hit the pavement.

“Seriously?” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief as he held both shoes out to her like they were a peace offering.

Daphne crossed her arms, her posture tight and unyielding as she glared at him, “You could’ve just told me who you were instead of lurking around like a creep.”

He sighed, clearly irritated but trying to maintain his composure.

“Fine. Message received,” he said, his tone flat, “I’ll let Mr. Wayne know you’re aware now.”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. So… She wasn’t even supposed to know?

Great.

Fucking great.

She tried to bite back the laugh that bubbled up in her throat. Bruce had hired him to watch her? She couldn’t wait to have this little conversation with him. He better hope she was in a better mood when they met. Or maybe she’d throw him out of the window.

The man handed her the shoes back with a pointed look, his expression no longer masking his irritation, before turning on his heel and walking away. His footsteps echoed in the quiet street, a rhythm that faded into the distance.

Daphne stood there for a long moment, her heart still racing. She slipped her shoes back on, the click of the heels sounding louder than usual. Her thoughts were spinning, but the immediate rush of defiance started to dissolve, leaving a faint, uncomfortable sense of foolishness in its wake.

What had she just done?

What would Bruce say?

Shit.

In the dimly lit study, shadows crowded around towering shelves lined with tomes on human psychology and the nature of fear. Dr. Jonathan Crane sat in the silence, a slight tilt to his head as he allowed his gaze to drift from his notes, recalling the events of the night before.

The girl from the café—the one he’d crossed paths with, as if the alley had beckoned them both. Her face lingered in his mind, the look she’d worn: a clash of defiance and fear. It had fascinated him, the way she’d tried to hold her composure even as uncertainty broke through, fraying at the edges. Her fear, subtle but present, had revealed itself in her eyes, her body language—a language Crane knew all too well.

The irony of her position amused him.

There she was, a young researcher eager to wield fear, attempting to subdue it into a tool for something as naive as reform. She sought to transform fear’s primal, unyielding nature into something tame and utilitarian. But as she’d learned last night, true fear had no such loyalty to ideals. It could twist and consume, undermining even the best intentions.

A quiet smile played on his lips as he tapped his fingers absently on the page of his notebook, considering her thesis, what she had told that friends of hers about it at least.

How often he’d encountered ambition disguised as optimism—but hers was different, far more different.

His fingers brushed the edge of his open journal, where his latest observations lay scribbled, an analysis of fear’s unfiltered effects.

Daphne… That was her name, right? The memory of her lingered, fragile but tenacious, clinging to his thoughts with a persistence that intrigued him. Her theories on fear were ambitious, admirable even, though undeniably misguided. As she talked with her friend, she approached fear as though it were a specimen to be pinned down, dissected, controlled.

Crane’s lips curved into a faint, almost mocking smile. Controlled. Fear didn’t operate within boundaries; it thrived precisely because it eluded them.

Yet, he found her approach strangely compelling. Rarely did he encounter someone who considered fear anything other than an enemy to avoid or suppress. The young woman had the nerve to probe deeper, to see fear not as weakness but as something to wield.

Misguided, for sure. But it wasn’t without potential.

She was dabbling in dark waters, stirring the depths of something ancient and volatile, and she seemed unaware of the risks—or perhaps simply unprepared for them.

The thought of watching her continue, letting her drift further down this path of hers, was… Satisfying. After all, everyone needed a push now and then, a quiet nudge toward their true potential. It was rare to find someone with the audacity to view fear as something more than an emotion, or at least something that could be more than mere theory.

Crane leaned back, allowing his mind to dwell on the possibilities.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He closed his notebook with a quiet motion, rising from his chair. With an expression of calm, he walked to the door and opened it, finding one of the senior professors standing there.

She was a woman in her fifties, her hair pulled back tightly, emphasizing a face marked by lines of both concentration and hesitation. Her thin-framed glasses perched on her nose, framing eyes that seemed both sharp and wary, darting around the room before settling on him with a hint of unease. Her brow furrowed slightly as she gave him a tense nod.

“Dr. Crane, may I speak with you?” Her voice was cautious, a little too careful. But then, he mused, who among the faculty didn’t approach him that way?

He inclined his head, gesturing for her to enter, “Certainly.”

As she stepped into the room, her gaze darted briefly to his desk before she seemed to catch herself, taking in the space with the kind of contained curiosity Crane was accustomed to seeing in faculty members who viewed his methods as... Unconventional.

After a moment’s pause, she spoke.

“We’re facing a dilemma in the psychology department. I thought your insight into... Certain methods might be invaluable.”

Crane raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“Invaluable?”

She nodded, her posture shifting slightly, her expression intent, “Yes. There’s a thesis proposal in your particular area of expertise. We need someone with your experience to help us make a decision. If, of course, it suits you.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze sharpened as he considered her words.

Recognition. Invaluable.

For someone like Crane, who was accustomed to whispers and apprehensive glances, hearing his work acknowledged in this light was rare, and it brushed against his ego with a quiet thrill. The prospect of someone in academia—no less, the psychology department—recognizing the worth of his insights, even seeking them out, was as gratifying as it was unusual.

True, it wasn’t for some grand, transformative revelation, but for a thesis proposal. Still, it was something—a reminder that even in the cautious world of academia, his insights continued to ripple beneath the surface.

He allowed the moment to stretch, letting her request hang in the air just a bit longer than necessary, before finally replying, “I’d be honored.”

The light from her laptop cast a soft glow across the dim, cluttered room, bouncing off walls crowded with loose papers, unopened mail, and old, cracked paint peeling at the edges. Outside, Gotham's night pressed in, with the faint sounds of traffic and city hum seeping through the thin windows—a steady lullaby that seemed almost in time with her heartbeat.

Daphne’s eyes drifted over her inbox, each subject line blurring in her vision until she noticed one that caught her breath: About your Submission. The words were simple, almost anticlimactic, but they sent a shiver through her fingers as they hovered over the trackpad. It had been weeks since she’d hit submit, sending her work out into an academic abyss.

She clicked the email open.

Her eyes scanned the words quickly: Your thesis proposal, “The Psychology of Fear as a Tool for Criminal Rehabilitation,” has been reviewed and accepted…

Daphne stared at the words, letting their weight sink in. A rush of exhilaration surged through her, filling her chest until it felt ready to burst. Before she could stop herself, a laugh escaped—sharp, breathless, and almost foreign in the quiet of her apartment. It broke the stillness like a firework, leaving her half-embarrassed even though no one else was there to hear it.

She jumped to her feet, her hands flying up in triumph before she realized the absurdity of it. A tiny, victorious shout nearly bubbled out, but she caught herself, biting down on her lip as a grin spread uncontrollably across her face. For a moment, she felt weightless, untethered by the doubts that had gnawed at her for weeks.

Pacing the small living room, the woman glanced back at the email on her laptop every few seconds, as though the words might vanish if she looked away too long. It’s real, she thought, her pulse racing. She clenched her fists, trying to ground herself in the reality of this moment.

Daphne jumped back to the sofa, letting her head fall into the worn cushions, her fingers tracing the edge of the laptop’s frame. The screen’s soft light bathed the room in a gentle wash of blue-gray, casting shadows that seemed to blur at the edges. The email outlined next steps: meetings with her committee, her advisor, a schedule of seminars, and more and more tasks. Daphne read the words, but her mind drifted. The path ahead felt real now, tangible—and terrifying.

For months, she’d been driven by this idea, this theory that fear could be harnessed and reshaped, that it could become something productive. But now that her work was in its way to be out there, exposed, the implications pressed down on her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. This wasn’t just about submitting papers and reading the latest research; she was venturing into dangerous territory, questioning ideas that most would avoid.

She let her gaze wander around the apartment, as if looking for answers in the scattered papers and stacks of books that crowded her tiny apartment.

The apartment, once her sanctuary, now felt almost claustrophobic, as though it could barely contain the gravity of what she’d set in motion. Her eyes lingered on the dusty corners, the unopened letters from her old university, the loose pages covered in her cramped, hurried notes.

Outside, the faint sounds of Gotham drifted up through her window—a siren wailing somewhere far off, voices calling into the night, the city’s pulse steady and relentless. She felt it pressing in, that familiar weight, reminding her that the city didn’t care about her theories or her plans. It was a force unto itself, a presence that loomed over her work like a shadow, indifferent and unyielding.

She closed her eyes, letting the silence stretch. In a few days, she’d begin meeting with her advisor, her committee. In a few months, she’d be standing in front of people who’d be questioning her every idea, every assumption. And in a few semesters, she’d be faced with a reality she couldn’t quite prepare for—a reality where her theories on fear would be tested not in the safety of her mind but in Gotham’s cold, unblinking gaze.

The glow of her laptop faded as Daphne closed the lid, leaving the room steeped in shadows. She leaned back, staring into the dimness, her heart still racing. Outside, Gotham droned on, unaware of her tiny, newfound victory.

The city, as always, felt larger and darker than she could fully grasp, its influence creeping into every corner of her thoughts. Her mind drifted, anxieties twisting through her initial thrill of success like dark vines—fears she couldn’t quite banish but hoped she might someday control.

Daphne knew sleep would come reluctantly that night.

A knock startled her, sharp and unexpected, shattering the stillness of her apartment. She froze, her breath caught mid-inhale. For a moment, the sound seemed to reverberate unnaturally, making the dimly lit apartment feel smaller.

Her gaze darted toward the door, and instinctively, she reached for the light switch by the wall. With a soft click, the apartment bathed in a muted, warm glow, pushing back the shadows but doing little to quell the unease creeping under her skin.

Could it be Alfred? The thought surfaced quickly, and for a moment, it soothed her nerves. Alfred was always checking in, always finding ways to remind her she wasn’t truly alone in this city, even when she tried to push him away.

When she opened the door, her breath caught—not Alfred, Bruce stood there. Framed by the dim hallway light. The sharp angles of his face were softened by the shadows, but his presence, calm and assured, filled the space as it always did. His coat, dark and heavy, carried the chill of the Gotham’s night, and in his hand was a small brown bag.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. His expression was steady, familiar, but she caught it—something in his eyes, a flicker of tension buried beneath the calm exterior he wore so effortlessly.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door, the memory of her irritation bubbling back to the surface. The security.

“Thought I’d bring you something,” he said, his voice low and even.

He held up the bag slightly, the faint aroma of pastries slipping through the air like an unspoken olive branch.

Daphne hesitated, glancing at the bag before meeting his gaze.

“Pastries?” she asked, the word tinged with reluctant curiosity.

“Sweet ones,” he clarified, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Damn, he was good.

The familiar, almost cozy scent wrapped around her, a sharp contrast to the night’s chill still clinging to him. The bag felt out of place in Bruce’s hands—more suited to a casual morning café run than the man who wore Gotham’s weight like a second skin.

As he stepped inside, his eyes swept the room, taking in the organized chaos of books, papers, and loose notes crowding every surface. She recognized that familiar look in his expression—the quiet curiosity that noticed everything without betraying his thoughts.

“Didn’t know you had a pastry streak,” Daphne said, closing the door behind him.

“Consider it a peace offering,” he replied, his tone lighter now, though she could still sense the tension lingering between them.

Bruce set the bag on the counter, his movements unhurried, deliberate, as if letting the atmosphere settle. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze lingering on the notes spread across the table. His silence wasn’t oppressive, but it carried weight, like he was waiting for her to speak first.

She didn’t. Now, her attention was fully on the pastries over the counter. She didn’t wait much before taking the bag in her hands.

“Congratulations, Daph,” he continued. His words were gentle but edged with a hint of tension, the kind that came from someone who knew her well enough to see past her surface. “I had a feeling you’d get it.”

Daphne leaned against the counter, crossing her arms loosely, though her fingers still flexed against one of the pastries. The warmth of the room suddenly felt stifling, pressing against the thrill that had barely settled before his arrival.

“You knew before I did, didn’t you?” she asked, her tone laced with a faint accusation but softened by the faintest curve of a smile.

Bruce met her gaze, his expression inscrutable but for the faint quirk of his brow.

“Let’s just say I had faith,” he replied, his voice tinged with amusement.

The hint of pride in his voice softened something in her chest, and she looked away, running a hand through her hair.

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a bite at the pastry.

Bruce stepped further into the apartment, his gaze lingering on the cluttered surfaces, the stacks of papers, and the flickering light from her laptop that had long since been closed. All spread around the living room.

“You’ve been working hard,” he said, his tone low, almost measured, as if gauging her reaction, “I’m proud of you.”

Daphne’s breath hitched, though she masked it by taking another bite of the pastry. The warmth of the compliment was foreign, like wearing an old sweater she hadn’t realized she missed. Her lips quirked into a faint smile, but she kept her gaze fixed on the counter.

“Coming from you, that’s saying something,” she teased lightly, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Bruce smiled faintly, that rare moment of warmth flickering in his usually guarded expression.

“I mean it,” he replied, watching her closely, as if he saw more than she was letting on.

She pulled out another pastry, the sweet aroma filling the air between them, but it did little to ease the tension that still hung there. Bruce didn’t sit immediately; instead, he leaned against the wall, his posture casual but his eyes focused—almost like he was waiting for her to speak, to reveal something.

Finally, after a long beat, he spoke again, his voice quiet but firm, as if the weight of the subject had been pressing on him since he’d heard about what happened.

“It’s a dangerous city to fix, Daph,” Bruce said, his voice heavier now, carrying a weight that made her chest tighten. His words lingered in the air, unspoken meanings pressing against her like a hand on her shoulder. She felt the familiar unease coil in her stomach, sharp and unwelcome, as though he had reached into a part of her memory she fought to keep buried.

“You’ve seen it more than anyone else.”

The pastry halted midway to her lips as her mind slipped.

Sirens wailed in the distance, their cries cutting through the thick Gotham air. The sound of boots crashing against floorboards filled her ears, loud and chaotic, mingling with fragmented images she couldn’t fully suppress—shadows stretching along walls, voices raised in anger, and then… Silence. Absolute silence, but her own crying.

Daphne blinked, her breath catching in her throat. The weight of those moments hung in the space between her and Bruce, though he didn’t say more.

The reminder wasn’t lost on her, not now, not ever. She could feel the frustration bubbling up, hot and insistent, as though her very resolve were being challenged. But she knew the risks. She always had.

She wasn’t about to back down. She never did, and that truth drove Bruce and Alfred to exasperation.

Daphne was well aware of that.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, her voice quiet but unwavering. She raised her gaze to meet his, her grip firm on the pastry as though it might ground her. “But someone has to try. If not me, then who?”

Bruce’s gaze softened slightly, his expression unreadable. It was clear he understood the weight of her words, the quiet urgency behind them. But there was something else in his eyes now—something she couldn’t name, something that was both a warning and a plea.

“I’m not saying that,” he said, his voice low, careful as always, “I am saying that you have to be smart about it, Daph. This city... It doesn’t care how good your intentions are.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her tongue. She had heard it all before—this city breaks people. Gotham wasn’t some abstract theory. It wasn’t a puzzle to be solved with data and analysis.

It was a place that consumed the naive, the unprepared, the idealists who thought they could make a difference. And Daphne knew that.

They transformed them into something else, the worst versions of themselves.

“I’m not trying to save Gotham, Bruce, if that’s what you think I’m trying to do,” she said, her eyes meeting his, “I’m trying to understand it.”

She didn’t expect him to understand, not really. He had his own battles with, and they weren’t the same as hers.

Bruce crossed his arms over his chest as he studied her. The flicker of hesitation in his eyes was almost imperceptible, but Daphne caught it—a rare crack in his otherwise resolute demeanor. The air between them felt charged, the tension underscored by the distant hum of Gotham’s ever-present chaos seeping in through the window.

Daphne shifted her weight, her hands tightening around the pastry as though grounding herself. The warmth from the baked sweet in her hand had already faded, replaced by the cold reality of their conversation.

Where was the woman from two hours ago who would throw Bruce out of the window if he gave her the chance?

“You think understanding makes you immune?” he asked quietly, his tone more curious than accusing.

“No,” she shot back, her grip on the counter tightening. “But it gives me a chance to make it mean something. To prove it’s more than—”

Pain. Loss. Chaos.

Bruce’s gaze softened, but the tension in his shoulders remained. He stepped away from the wall, his footsteps soft against the hardwood floor as he closed the space between them. The room, with its dim lighting and stacks of unopened mail on the counter, suddenly felt smaller, more confined.

“You’ve been running at this full speed, Daph,” he said, eyes constantly searching for her, “But these people don’t reward recklessness. When you hit the wall, they’ll hit back harder than you’re ready for.”

Her jaw tightened, her fingers curling against the counter’s edge. A part of her wanted to lash out, to remind him that she wasn’t some fragile figure to be shielded from the world. But the memory of the alley stopped her, the image of the man towering over her, the knife flashing in the dim light, pinning her voice in her throat.

She wished to shout, to scream the loudest as she could, but instead…

“Do you think I don’t know that?” she managed, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady, “That’s the point, Bruce. These people—Gotham’s people—they weren’t always this way. I want to reach the part of them that’s still good, not the part that’s waiting to strike.”

Bruce’s silence was answer enough. His jaw clenching as he ran a hand through his hair, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

“You say Gotham’s people,” he muttered, his voice tinged with exasperation. His gaze shifted to the window and back to her, a piercing look from the corner of his eyes, “But let’s be honest, Daphne. Everyone who knows about your thesis—Alfred, me… Anyone—we all know who you really mean. Arkham’s people. The ones who’ve committed the worst crimes imaginable.”

She flinched, the words striking closer than she wanted to admit. Her fingers gripped the counter, knuckles white as she fought to steady herself.

“Most of them are still people, Bruce,” she said, her voice gaining strength. She turned to face him fully, her eyes burning with defiance, “You of all people should understand that. You’ve always believed people can change, that they’re more than their worst moments.”

“Not without consequences,” Bruce shot back, “And not without accountability. You think you can walk into Arkham and reach them with words, guiding them to a good path by uncovering their fears? Fear didn’t spark what they’ve become. It’s their weapon in this city.”

Daphne’s narrowed, pinning him down.

“And you think that’s all they are? Or have?” she countered, “You’re right—fear didn’t spark it. Trauma did. Desperation did. A system that failed them at every step did. Fear is just the byproduct of all that, Bruce. If I can help them face it, maybe I can get them to see a way out.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, her words sinking in. For a moment, he didn’t respond, she knew exactly where his mind was. Years ago, when Riddler brought chaos to Gotham and almost flooded it completely.

“You’ve seen it!” she reminded him again, “The way fear strips people down to nothing, leaves them raw. But what if that’s also where change can start? What if it’s not about wielding fear, but about showing them there’s something on the other side of it? There’s a wiser way to help those people than putting them in cages and forgetting they were humans once.”

Bruce’s lips tightened, a flicker of something—hesitation, recognition—crossed his face before his expression hardened again. He pushed his hands into his pockets, his shoulders straightening as though bracing himself.

Daphne sighed, the frustration thick in her voice, “You’ve forgotten what it’s like to need someone to believe in you.”

Her words lingered, a sharp challenge hanging between them. Bruce’s gaze was glued at her as he exhaled deeply, breaking the silence as his frustration bubbled to the surface.

“You dismissed the security I sent,” he said, his tone sharpening, a new edge cutting through the conversation, “Was that you being wiser?”

Daphne blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. The heat in her chest surged, and she set the pastry down with a sharp motion, the thud against the counter punctuating her irritation.

“I didn’t need someone following me around like a shadow, Bruce. I’m capable of handling myself,” she snapped, turning to face him fully.

His expression didn’t waver, the line of his jaw clenching more and more as he leaned slightly closer.

“Capable?” he echoed, his voice low, each word deliberate, “Daphne, you’re lucky to be standing here right now. Do you understand that? If things had gone differently—if that stranger hadn’t stepped in—you might not have been.”

The words stung more than she cared to admit. Her cheeks flushed, anger bubbling to the surface as she turned toward him.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she shot back, her voice taut with defiance.

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Bruce countered, his voice quieting but losing none of its intensity, “You never ask for help. Not from me, not from Alfred, not from anyone.”

Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a barrier she hoped would hold against the weight of his words. Her gaze drifted to the window, the rain painting streaks against the glass, the city lights blurred beyond them.

“You think you can do this alone,” Bruce pressed, stepping closer again, his tone softening slightly, “But you’re not invincible.”

Her throat tightened as much as her heart already was,his words pressing down on her chest. Memories swirled at the edges of her mind—sirens, shouting, the snap of wood splintering beneath forceful boots, all over again.

She pressed her palm against the windowsill, grounding herself in its cool, steady texture.

“I’m not trying to be invincible,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite her resolve, “I’m just trying to be enough.”

To do better.

Bruce sighed, and she heard the faint rustle of his coat as he stepped closer.

“You already are,” he said, the words cutting through her defenses more than any argument could.

Her fingers curled against the sill, her gaze fixed on the streaks of rain. The city stretched beyond the glass, restless and unyielding, a reflection of the turmoil inside her. She shook her head, the movement slow, almost imperceptible.

“No, I’m not,” she murmured, her tone heavier now, “I’m not you, nor Alfred, Bruce. I don’t feel as though I’ve… Built anything. Not yet.”

Her reflection wavered in the glass, distorted by the droplets clinging to the pane. For a moment, she thought of questions she never dared to ask—of truths she chose not to chase. Like echoes, shaping her steps without her fully understanding why.

“But my thesis?” She turned to Bruce, her voice gaining strength, “That’s my something. I know it is. And I know it’s reckless and, perhaps, too optimistic, but I believe it has the potential to bring change.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting as though to speak, but he said nothing. Instead, his gaze shifted past her, settling on the city outside. The faint lines of tension at the corners of his mouth softened, though not entirely.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, as if he were testing the words, “It’s a lot to put on one idea. On one person.”

“It is,” she admitted, “But it’s better than doing nothing. It’s better than just building higher walls and pretending they’ll keep everything out.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened again, his thoughts clearly turning over her words. For a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter.

“You’re ambitious,” he said finally, his tone neutral, his words carefully measured.

Daphne straightened slightly, her gaze fixed on him, “And?”

Bruce hesitated, his eyes flicking back to hers, “And that’s not a bad thing,” he said at last.

The words caught her off guard. She blinked, her arms loosening as she searched his face for anything more. But Bruce, as always, gave nothing else away.

“But ambition doesn’t mean taking stupid risks. If you want this to work, you have to stop putting yourself in danger. No more ditching security. No more walking into alleys unprepared… Please.”

Daphne’s lips twitched into a smile. The faint edge of exasperation softened into something gentler.

“So no more hiring securities to follow my tail,” she said, her voice low, almost teasing, though the tension in her shoulders didn’t entirely ease, “I don’t want to risk and lose my shoes.”

Bruce’s brow arched faintly, his lips pressing into a thin line of mock disapproval.

“You’re impossible,” he replied, his tone lighter, though it still carried the weight of unspoken concerns.

“And you’re relentless,” she countered, the sharpness dulled but not gone.

They fell into a charged silence, the rain humming softly against the window, its rhythm filling the space left by their words.

Daphne turned her gaze back to the city, her reflection wavering in the glass. For a moment, she saw herself as she had been years ago—just a kid looking for answers in a city that seemed determined to bury her.

Bruce’s reflection in the glass caught her attention. In the faint light, he looked less like the confident, stoic figure he often projected and more like the boy she used to know—one who had also been too afraid of the dark. It made something in her chest ache, a pang she couldn’t quite name.

Bruce’s voice broke through her thoughts, quieter now, but no less resolute, “You need to be able to defend yourself, Daph. Not just words, not just theories. You need to know how to fight.”

She glanced at him, her jaw tightening, “I’ve managed so far.”

“You survived,” he corrected, his tone cutting but not cruel. “With the help of some stranger. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

She flinched at the memory of the alley, the cold press of the knife, the man’s taunts echoing in her ears. She hated that Bruce was right, but she hated more that she didn’t have an argument to counter him.

Her mind drifted unbidden to that big shadow that followed her everywhere, a feeling she didn’t often let herself linger on. A different kind of fear, older but no less potent, clawed its way up from the edges of her memory.

It wasn’t the knife she had feared then; it was the sound of a voice that had once been gentle, but no longer was.

A shiver coursed through her as fragmented images flitted through her thoughts—an empty chair at the dinner table, the scent of aftershave mixed with something sharper, the muffled sound of something she couldn’t remember clearly but never forgot.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Bruce added, his voice firm, calling her back to reality, “You want to do this, to make your study matter? Fine, I want to help you. But you’re going to learn how to take care of yourself first. Alfred and I will see to it.”

Daphne exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging under the weight of his words.

“And what if I say no?”

Bruce smirked faintly, his confidence unshaken, “You won’t.”

Daphne’s grip on the windowsill loosened, her fingers relaxing as she looked out at the blurred city lights. She wanted to argue, to throw his certainty back at him, but the weight of the night pressed too heavily on her.

Her mind circled back to the memory of the alley, the helplessness she’d felt, the vulnerability she couldn’t ignore. She thought of the man’s taunts, the knife so close to her skin, and the way her voice had frozen in her throat. That feeling—of being completely at someone else’s mercy—lingered like a bruise she couldn’t shake.

That was how they felt? She asked herself again, hating the answer that her mind already had.

And then there was Bruce, standing beside her now, his presence steady and immovable, like it had always been. As frustrating as his overprotectiveness could be, she knew it came from a place of care, of shared history.

She turned her gaze to his reflection in the window. His eyes held that familiar mixture of concern and determination, the same look he’d given her when they were kids, when life in Gotham had taken its toll on both of them in different ways.

She let out a slow breath, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. The tension between them easing just slightly.

“Stubborn as ever,” she muttered.

“Takes one to know one,” he replied, his tone lighter now.

She didn’t answer, but the smallest smile lingered on her lips. For all their clashes, Bruce had always known how to cut through her defenses. The weight of the conversation still hung between them, but it felt... Manageable now.

As the rain continued its steady rhythm, she felt a flicker of resolve returning. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to do this alone after all.

Maybe he was wrong.

The sunlight streaming through the large, arched windows of Gotham University’s psychology department did little to warm the air. Daphne adjusted her bag strap, the weight of her thesis drafts and notebooks pulling at her shoulder as she entered the department. The polished wood and towering shelves of reference books gave the space an almost solemn air, as though the walls themselves were heavy with the weight of Gotham’s endless challenges.

The corridors felt colder than she remembered, the walls lined with academic accolades and photographs of past faculty. Daphne’s shoes tapped softly against the polished floor, her grip on her bag tightening as she neared Dr. Lydia Warren’s office. The building’s silence was unnerving, broken only by the occasional murmur of distant voices or the hum of the overhead lights.

Lydia Warren’s nameplate gleamed on the heavy oak door, its simplicity contrasting the weight of what lay beyond. Daphne inhaled deeply before raising her hand to knock, her knuckles brushing the wood for just a moment too long before she finally rapped twice.

“Come in,” came the response, sharp and clear.

Pushing the door open, Daphne was met with a space that felt more lived-in than she’d expected. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with well-worn texts, academic journals, and the occasional framed photograph. The desk in the center was a controlled chaos of papers, a laptop, and a steaming cup of tea.

Behind it sat Dr. Lydia Warren, a woman whose reputation preceded her.

Professor Warren was a woman of striking composure. Her gray hair, streaked with subtle hints of gray, was pulled into a low chignon, exposing high cheekbones and a jawline that seemed carved from stone. Thin-framed glasses perched on her nose, reflecting the soft glow of her desk lamp. Her attire was impeccable—sharp lines and muted tones that spoke to both her authority and practicality.

She had the kind of face that appeared unyielding at first glance, but there was a softness beneath it, like the warmth of a fire well-contained.

Lydia glanced up, her dark eyes sharp as they settled on Daphne. She had the kind of presence that made you feel immediately scrutinized, as if she could see the undercurrents of every thought before they even surfaced.

However, weren’t all those involved with psychology? She herself could say she had the same habit.

“Ms. Pennyworth,” Lydia greeted, gesturing toward the chair opposite her desk. “You’re punctual. I appreciate that.”

Daphne managed a smile, taking the seat with a quiet exhale. Her gaze flicked to the stack of papers on Lydia’s desk, spotting her own name neatly typed at the top of one.

The scent of aged paper and faintly burnt coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the herbal sharpness of tea cooling in a mug on Lydia’s desk. Afternoon light streamed in through the blinds, cutting harsh streaks across the dark wood and muted academic tones of the room. It felt like a space designed for clarity, but Daphne’s mind was anything but clear.

Lydia leaned back in her chair, a well-worn leather piece that groaned slightly as she shifted.

“Your thesis proposal is compelling,” she said, her voice calm. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto Daphne’s, “I see the groundwork of something ambitious, but ambition needs structure. And, perhaps more importantly, it needs to be tethered to reality.”

Daphne nodded, though her thoughts churned with unease. Her mind flickered back to the night in the alley, to the raw, visceral fear she had experienced. The memory came in fragmented flashes: the glint of a knife in the dim light, the suffocating weight in her chest, the ghostly calm of Crane’s voice… She shook her head, she needed to focus.

“I understand,” Daphne said carefully, her voice grounded despite the quiet storm in her head, “Theories aren’t enough. I want to make sure this has practical applications.”

Lydia’s gaze softened slightly, though the edge of her professionalism remained sharp. The older woman toyed with the corner of Daphne’s thesis draft in one of her hands.

“Good,” Lydia said after a moment, “That’s exactly what you should be thinking. You’re not just writing a paper; you’re proposing a solution to one of the city’s most enduring problems. Fear in Gotham is practically woven into its architecture. If you want to reform it, you’ll need to engage with it on its terms.”

The words struck something deep within Daphne, feeding both her resolve and her doubt. She glanced around Lydia’s office, her eyes catching on the stacked books and journals crowding the shelves. One title stood out: Fear and Cognitive Adaptation by Crane, J. Her pulse quickened as the name triggered an avalanche of memories. Not just the academic citations she’d devoured over the years, but him.

It had been already two nights ago, she realized.

Her hand tightened slightly on the edge of her chair, steadying herself against the rush of fragmented thoughts. The clinical precision of his tone, the brief but profound moment when he had met her gaze—it felt impossible to reconcile that figure with the man whose name was printed so neatly in the academic tomes around her.

“On that note,” Lydia continued, her voice breaking through Daphne’s spiraling thoughts, “I think you’d benefit from attending a seminar series starting next week. It’s being led by one of our adjunct professors. I also asked him to sit in on some of our meetings as a secondary advisor for your PhD. I truly see potential in your work.”

Daphne tore her attention from the book and met Lydia’s eyes.

“Which professor?”

“Dr. Jonathan Crane.”

The name fell into the quiet room like a stone into still water, ripples spreading through Daphne’s mind. Her heart skipped a beat, memories of the alley flooding back with a sharpness she hadn’t anticipated. Crane’s features—severe, almost academic in their precision—flashed in her thoughts, alongside the cold calm of his demeanor.

Lydia’s tone remained casual, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something more.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with his work, you have referenced him a lot in your submission. His insights into fear as a psychological mechanism are unmatched, though his methods have been the subject of... Considerable debate.”

Was she dreaming? If anyone had told her that not only the author of her favorite theories and studies would help her against her attacker but also serve as her academic guide… She would have called that person crazy.

Yet, here she was, Daphne nodded slowly.

“I’ve read his studies,” she managed, choosing her words carefully instead of indulging in the spiraling thoughts crossing her mind, “His work is provocative.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Lydia replied with a smirk, “But provocation isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If anyone can challenge your ideas, it’s Crane. His perspective might be exactly what you need to sharpen your arguments and ground them in practical reality.”

The idea sent a chill through Daphne. It wasn’t the kind that rattled her body but one that wrapped tightly around her thoughts, pulling her into places she wasn’t sure what they were exactly.

Jonathan Crane wasn’t just a name in a footnote or a source for her arguments; he had walked into her life in a way no paper could have prepared her for.

A quiet weight pressed against her ribs. Two nights ago, the glint of a blade and the suffocating fear in her chest had consumed her. And, in the shadows of that moment, he had appeared—calm, precise, and inexplicably there.

Why had he helped her? She couldn’t reconcile it, not quite. His theories had always been clinical, detached from morality, and grounded in a darker understanding of the human psyche. And, somehow, from all people in Gotham, he was the one to intervene and help her.

She dragged her focus back to Lydia, whose voice had softened as she spoke again.

“He’s brilliant,” Lydia continued, leaning forward slightly, “But divisive. Approach his theories critically, and don’t be afraid to push back. He respects intellect, and from your submission, I can see you have a lot of it. But he’ll test you.”

Daphne nodded, though her thoughts churned with unease. The idea of "testing" was unsettling in a way she couldn't fully articulate, as if the word itself carried too much weight. She glanced at Lydia, who had leaned slightly forward, her demeanor calm yet pointed in her encouragement.

But Daphne's focus wavered. In the back of her mind, fragments of the alley resurfaced—images sharp and intrusive, refusing to be ignored. Crane’s calm voice, deliberate and almost clinical, lingered there too, interwoven with the chaos of that night. Why had he been there? How had their paths crossed in such an improbable way?

And now, he was the very same man who would help her with her PhD? What was happening in Gotham?

She shook the thoughts away, forcing herself to return to the present.

“I understand,” she said finally, though her voice was quieter now, “I’ll attend the seminar.”

Lydia opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden knock at the door interrupted her.

“Well,” Lydia glanced toward the door, “speaking of the devil.”

The door creaked open, revealing him.

Jonathan Crane stepped into the room with measured precision, the scent of rain and cold air trailing after him. An umbrella hung loosely from his hand, droplets of water pooling silently on the floor beneath him. His sharp features were cast in stark relief under the dim office light, giving his expression an edge of austerity that matched his reputation.

His blue eyes scanned the room before settling briefly on Daphne. Her stomach dropped under his gaze, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if he could see straight through her.

“Dr. Warren,” he greeted, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a quiet authority. His gaze flickered back to Daphne for the briefest moment, his tone shifting almost imperceptibly as he added, “Miss Pennyworth.”

Did he recognize her from that night?

The air in the room seemed to shift with his presence, the scent of rain mingling with an undercurrent of unease that Daphne couldn’t quite place.

“Dr. Crane,” Lydia said smoothly, gesturing for him to step further inside, “Perfect timing. We were just discussing your seminar and your involvement with Miss Pennyworth’s thesis.”

Crane inclined his head slightly, his eyes now fixed on Lydia. He placed the umbrella against the doorframe with the same care as his movements, deliberate and exacting.

Daphne’s breath caught for a fleeting second. The umbrella. Recognition struck her before she could stifle it.

“Unusual,” Crane said, a note of dry humor threading his words, “I don’t often find myself the topic of discussion before introductions.”

Lydia returned his faint smirk, her ease a stark contrast to Daphne’s turmoil, “Daphne is one of our most promising candidates, as you already know, I must inform her about the goings of her PhD. I thought you’d appreciate knowing the caliber of students you’ll be working with and the importance of their research to Gotham's ongoing challenges.”

Daphne felt rooted to her seat, her pulse quickening as the man she had spent years studying—and encountered under such strange circumstances—stepped into her academic reality. His presence filled the space in a way that was both commanding and disconcerting.

As Crane moved closer to the desk, the soft tap of his shoes on the polished floor echoed louder than it should have, each step amplifying the tension. Daphne’s thoughts raced, fragments of the alley flashing in her mind—his steady voice, the sharpness of his gaze, the disconcerting calm that had cut through her fear.

She tried to reconcile the sharp edges of his academic legacy with the figure who had so unexpectedly stepped into her life.

“Shall we?” Lydia said, her tone light as she motioned for Crane to join her at the desk.

He nodded, his steps precise, before resting the umbrella against the edge of the desk. His gaze settled on Daphne again, and for a moment, it felt as though the world narrowed to just the two of them.

“Didn’t I tell you I would return it to you another time?” Crane asked, motioning to the umbrella. His voice was calm, conversational, carrying an undercurrent that Daphne couldn’t quite read, “Though I believe it would be better if we waited for it to dry before you take it back.”

Daphne’s lips parted, but no words came. He did recognize her.

“Oh,” Lydia interjected, glancing between them with mild curiosity, “Do you already know each other? Why didn’t you tell us, Dr. Crane? I believe it would have convinced the board more quickly.”

Crane’s lips curved faintly, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well,” he said smoothly, his tone neutral, “We met under… Unconventional circumstances.”

Daphne shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her mind racing. How could she describe that night without spiraling or distancing herself from the now?

“Unconventional?” Lydia echoed, her tone tinged with curiosity and amusement.

“Perhaps a story for another time,” Crane replied, his words hanging in the air, well measured. The smile he offered was as much a deflection as it was polite.

Then, with a fluid shift, his attention returned to Daphne, pinning her beneath the weight of his pale, steady gaze.

Her relief was immediate. She didn’t want to explain—not now, not here. The chaotic storm of her thoughts settled slightly, replaced by a quiet, fragile gratitude.

“Miss Pennyworth and I will have ample opportunity to discuss matters further during the seminar,” Crane added, his tone cool yet laced with something unspoken.

Lydia nodded, her curiosity evident, though she let the matter rest. 

Daphne’s eyes lingered on the umbrella a moment longer, its curved handle gleaming faintly under the soft light. It should have been nothing—just an object. Yet now, it felt like a thread tying them together, delicate and strange. A reminder of the alley, of his calm presence in the chaos, of her unspoken debt.

Her gaze lifted tentatively, drawn upward by a pull she couldn’t quite name. And then she met his eyes.

The air seemed to thin. Crane was watching her—not the way Lydia might, with curiosity and encouragement, but with something quieter. His pale blue eyes held hers steadily, his expression inscrutable, as though he were dissecting something she hadn’t realized she’d revealed.

Despite the unbearable weight that his gaze carried, she didn’t look away.

Something shifted in her chest, subtle but impossible to ignore. It wasn’t admiration, not exactly. It was curiosity, tangled with unease, and something else she couldn’t define.

It was merely intellectual—a fascination with the mind behind the man. Nothing more. After all, she had studied his work, and now here he was: real, tangible, standing a few feet away. But deep down, a quieter part of her wondered if she was wrong, if it was something else entirely.

His lips quirked ever so slightly, as though he’d noticed her turmoil and found it amusing. The gesture was fleeting, subtle enough to make her question if it had been there at all.

The sound of rain against the window filled the silence between them, steady and relentless. It should have been grounding, but it only seemed to amplify the noise in her head: the questions, the unease, the strange, insistent awareness of him.

However, the rain outside continued its relentless rhythm, each drop a steady reminder that Gotham never truly slept, and neither would the questions swirling in her mind.

TAGLIST: @fearmaiden

If you wish to be tagged, let me know by commenting or dming me!!

[harringtonstilinski]

Always The Babysitter - Chapter Twenty-Three: E Pluribus Unum

Author: @harringtonstilinski​ Characters: Steve Harrington x Olivia Henderson(OC) Word Count: 1,757 (short chapter this week) Warnings: angsty Smut: no | yes; A/N: Hi, friends! We get a lot of Dustin and Erica in this chapter <3 Also, no Steve gif this chapter! We're getting a Dustin one 'cause of this iconic line!! If you like this chapter, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox. As always, read at your own risk and enjoy 😊

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Dustin looked up at me - well, past me to look at Steve, both of them saying, “The gate.”

I backed up from between them making my way back down the steps. “Ya’know, Dustin, I really hate being doubted.”

“I don’t understand,” Robin said. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Not exactly,” Steve said.

“Then what, exactly?”

“Trust me when I say it’s really bad,” I said.

“It’s really bad,” Steve added.

“Just said that, babe.”

“Like end-of-the-human-race-as-we-know-it kind of bad,” Dustin said. 

“And you know about this how?” Robin asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Uhm, Steve,” Erica said. “Where’s your Russian friend?”

I turned around to look at the ground behind me, seeing that the guy was indeed gone. “Sweet shit.”

Next noise to hit our ears was the alarm blaring, Steve rushing to the door to open it and look out into the hub space we sneaked through moments earlier. I heard “Halt! Halt!” before Steve closed the door, saying, “Shit!”

We ran through a couple of doors that led us straight to the control room, all of our feet stopping when the men turned to face us. Looking to my left, I saw another flight of stairs, running towards them.

“Come on!” I yelled, hearing Steve’s voice repeating the word go. I ran down a walkway, screaming as I pushed one of the hazmat suit guys out of the way, stopping once I reached the end, almost falling to my untimely demise.

I felt Dustin’s arms around me, pulling me back, both of us repeating, “Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”

I breathed in deep before I screamed out, “Holy shit!”

“Guards! Go!” Erica said.

I turned around to face the rest of the group, my arm being tugged by Dustin as Steve yelled, “This way!” and led us down another set of stairs, pushing a guy out of the way before pushing a set of barrels towards some more guards.

I rushed towards him, running past him and to another door, leaving it open for the rest of our group to run through. Hearing it close, I turned back around, seeing Steve and Robin leaning against it to keep some weight on it.

Dustin and Erica went to a vent cover, opening it, Erica yelling out for us to come on. I looked between my brother and boyfriend, wanting to protect both of them, but knowing I’d have to leave one.

“Liv, go with Dustin!” Steve yelled.

“I– I–” I stammered.

“I’ll find you,” he said. “Go!”

“Steve–”

“Go, get out of here! Go get some help!”

I wanted to rush to him, to plant my lips upon his, but knowing I couldn’t against his struggle on the door. Feeling myself being pulled up the stairs, I kept my eyes locked on Steve before I had to look away, almost falling into the vent shaft. Looking back at Steve, I yelled, “I love you!”

“I love you!” Steve replied before I ducked into the shaft, closing the cover as I heard Robin yelling out, guns being cocked.

“He better not die,” I muttered, following after Dustin and Erica down this vent shaft.

~~~

Sitting in front of a giant fan, Dustin explained to Erica what happened that first year when Will went missing and then explained what happened a few months ago with Dart and the demodogs.

“And now, for some insane reason, these Russian assholes want to reopen it, for God knows what reason,” I said, using my hand to fan myself… even though we were by that giant ass fan. “Destroys everything we’ve risked our lives for.”

“By we, you’re including Lucas?” Erica said.

“Yes. Even Lucas was there. Matter of fact, everyone was there, aside from our mom, your parents and Mike’s parents.”

“So, all that shit he told me, Lucas was there?” Erica asked.

“Yes, Erica, he was there.”

“My brother, Lucas Charles Sinclair?”

“Yes!” Dustin and I exclaimed.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Wait, wait, hold up,” I said, sitting up a little and facing the young girl. “You mean to tell me that you believe everything about El and the gate and Dart, but you don’t believe the fact that Lucas was there helping us protect Hawkins?”

“That’s correct.” She looked from me to Dustin before she asked, “You need help with that?”

“No,” Dustin replied.

“Well, I mean, it’s taking a while, so–”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.”

“Dustin Wade!” I exclaimed.

“Alright,” Erica said. “So, if we don’t find a more efficient method to stop these fans, we’re never gonna find help, and your ice cream buddies, slash boyfriend and best friend, are screwed.”

“Yeah, with that attitude, they are,” Dustin and I said.

“Jee-zus,” Dustin added.

“I’m just being realistic,” Erica said. Looking at her watch, she said, “I mean, we’ve made it about point-three miles in nine hours. Then we had to walk three hours down that tunnel, so I’d estimate ten miles back to the elevator, which should take us approximately twelve-and-a-half days.”

I looked at her with a stunned expression as she did all that math that quickly. “Holy shit. You just did all that… in your head?”

“I’m good with numbers,” she deadpanned.

“Holy shit,” Dustin said.

“You’re a nerd!” we exclaimed.

“Come again?” Erica scoffed.

“You,” Dustin said.

“Are.” Me.

“A.” Dustin.

“Nerd,” we both ended.

Pointing her finger between the both of us, Erica said, “Okay, you better take that back, nerds.”

“Can’t put that truth back in the box,” I smiled.

“But it’s not the truth.”

“Okay, let’s examine the facts,” I said, scooting a little closer, holding my fingers out while I counted the facts. “Fact One: You’re apparently a math whiz.”

“Pretty straightforward equation.”

“Fact Two: you’re a 10 year old political junkie.”

“Just because I don’t agree with Communism as an ideology–” 

“Fact Three: you love My Little Pony,” I said, grabbing her backpack and turning it to face her.

“And what does My Little Pony have to do with this?” she asked.

“Ah, let’s recall the ponies’ latest adventure, shall we?” Dustin said, which caused a confused look to come from me. “The evil centaur team and Tirek turns Applejack into a dragon at Midnight Castle, and then Megan and the other ponies have to use Moochick’s magic to defeat his rainbow of darkness, saving them from a lifetime of enslavement. All the pink in the world can’t disguise the irrefutable fact that centaurs and castles and dragons and magic are all standard nerd tropes. Ergo, My Little Pony is nerdy. Ergo, you, Erica, are a nerd.”

“Bro, what the fuck?” I murmured.

“And how do you know so much about My Little Pony?” Erica asked.

“Because I’m… a nerd,” Dustin said, taking the panel off the wall that he unscrewed during his little rant. He pulled the wires from their slots, the fan next to us powering down. “Let’s go… nerds.”

~~~

After we crawled through the blades of the fan, we made our way down the vent shaft. Whenever I spotted holes above us, I started feeling around for a loose square. Once I found it, I pushed it up and out of the way, climbing out of the shaft and onto the floor that we were crawling beneath, seeing a whole bunch of that green stuff they were putting into, what I’m calling, a gate drill.

“Jackpot,” I said, helping Erica and Dustin out of the shaft.

Spotting what seemed like a golf cart, I smiled and made my way towards it. “Hell yes!” “Do you even know how to drive?” Erica asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve been driving on my own for a year. Damn it. There’s no keys.”

“You seriously thought they’d just leave keys in there?”

“There’s always a spare,” I said, more to myself. I started looking around, hearing Dustin’s rustles as he helped me look.

“Hey, Hendersons,” Erica said.

“Yeah,” Dustin and I said, getting out of the golf cart to look around more.

“How big did you say that Demogorgon was?”

“Huge,” I said.

“Nine feet or so,” Dustin said.

“Why?” we both asked.

Dustin moved to another panel box, using his screwdriver to open it, grabbing a key to the vehicle inside. “Found ‘em.”

“Dustin,” I said. “Look.”

What I was looking at was a crate, big enough for a Demogorgon. 

“Ah, shit,” I said.

“Erica?” Dustin and I said, jumping at the sound of a loud zapping noise.

“What the fuck?” I breathed, holding my hand to my chest.

“What the hell is that?!” Dustin yelled.

“A deadly weapon,” Erica said, almost like she was in love with it. “Could be useful.” She zapped it again, Dustin and I jumping once more.

“For what?”

“What do you think? Taking down Commies, saving your friends.”

“Thought you were more realistic than that, nerd?”

I took the keys from him, not wanting to hear anymore of their banter for the moment. As I got behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition, I said, “We don’t even know where they are, and even if we did, there’s a million guards up there with way deadlier weapons. The best thing we can do is get out of here and find help.”

“Easy with that,” Dustin said. “Our chance of surviving, and theirs, rises substantially. Just trust us on this. Please?”

~~~

Stopping at a certain point, I got out of the cart and looked in the back, seeing boxes of that green goop sitting in it. Grabbing a couple of them, I walked a few feet in front of the cart, taking a deep breath. “Steve… this is for you.” Slamming the glass containers on the ground, I watched as they shattered, the green stuff once again eating away at the floor.

I quickly made my way back behind the wheel, trying my best to speed off. Stopping a few feet from a door, I told Dustin to charge in with that laser thing, to which he immediately did.

I charged in after Erica, standing in between her and Dustin and watching as an evil looking doctor fell to the ground. I turned to face Steve, seeing his eye bruised and swollen.

“Hey! Henderson!” Steve said, excitedly. “That’s… crazy, I was just talking about you.”

Sighing, I undid the bonds that were around his arms, hands and legs before putting my hand on his cheek. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, my god,” Robin said.

“Get ready to run!”

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

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~~~

A/N 2:  hi, friends! pls be kind and reblog! it really helps us content creators out <3

Additional Note: i absolutely love it when gaten screams shit. it's the best thing ever, lol

~~~

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All characters, story lines, and plot aside from y/n and her storyline & plot, are all of the work of The Duffer Brothers.

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Posted on April 2, 2024

[persephone-ransom]

do u guys to see the vision