#and like thing one read the report I send out every month that tells you exactly what your money is

[superhousecat-once-again]

If I had a nickel for every time a division manager came to me with a issue that they would have known the answer to if they simply read the report I send them monthly, it might make up for my lack of benefits

[reidrum]

if you keep asking | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

a/n: this was requested with “if you keep asking me i’m not gonna be okay” or smth along the lines 😭 i am a glutton for hurt/comfort fics so if yall have any more requests send em in :)

summary: in which you’re trying to keep it together when you hear some detectives talking ill of you, and spencer isn’t gonna have it

cw: hurt/comfort, self deprecation, insecure!reader, bitch ass detectives, protective bau my heart, use of she/her pronouns

wc: 2.2k

_______

the bau team was filing into the bullpen after landing from their last case in seattle, everyone making a beeline for their desks to get a head start on their reports so they could go home faster. everyone, except you. it felt like you were on autopilot, remembering your last known movements and just repeating them for as long as you could.

the case in seattle was rough to say the least. the unsub’s mo seemed to change every minute, making any progress the team made obsolete. the only thing that seemed to be somewhat consistent was where the unsub was taking his victims, which meant the geographical profile was the most important part to solving the case, a task you and reid were assigned to.

it started off fine, you both had found the comfort zone of where the unsub would strike next to figure out how to catch him in the act. except the next time he struck it was completely out of the predicted range, and this time a kid had died. no one could have anticipated that happening. it didn’t make the loss hurt any less.

the team knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, humans are unpredictable, and that includes serial killers. spencer made sure to tell you specifically that it wasn’t your fault, he knew how you’d get if someone didn’t tell you.

his efforts went to utter waste when you walked by a room at the precinct with detectives whispering about how “you fucked up the whole profile, that’s why that kid died” and “it’s clear you make the team stupider, how did you even get into the fbi in the first place?”

it wasn’t the first time your abilities were in question. you were the newest member of the team, having only transferred six months ago from cold cases. you may be new to the field, but there was a reason hotch chose you personally for the bau.

you tried hard to prove yourself, despite pretty much everyone saying your skillset was enough proof. you’d stay late to finish reports, do extra research on cases to help garcia narrow her searches faster, and you spent countless hours at the training range.

you were a worthy agent, anyone who knew you or read your resume knew that. but right now, you felt like the smallest person on earth, an imposter. what the hell were you even doing here if you couldn’t save him.

you shouldn’t be allowed to feel relief that the team caught the unsub, not when there’s blood on your hands.

the bad thoughts swirling in your head causes you to stall your motions when you’re putting files away, gaining the attention of morgan, “you alright, sweet cheeks?”

“i’m good morgan, don’t worry.” you lie effortlessly. if he can tell you’re lying, he doesn’t mention it and turns back to his work.

taking a deep breath, you stand up to go to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, when you run into jj finishing up making her own, “i was just thinking about you, i got this new creamer i think you’d rea-, hey, are you okay?” jj starts but ends concerned.

you try to focus on metronomic tick of the clock so you dont escalate, “i’m fine j,” you laugh unconvincingly, “what creamer did you get?”

she ignores your question, “because i know that was a tough case, and if you need to talk about it with someo-“

“jj, drop it, please.”

the blonde’s face drops a little at your sternness, but respects your space and offers you to try the creamer before returning to her desk. you feel bad for snapping at her, but the growing guilt within you is giving you apathy, and you can’t bring yourself to care at this moment.

you linger in the kitchen so as to avoid any more concerned faces, and you’re left to your own devices that are slowly overtaking you.

unbeknownst to you, spencer had been watching you since you all landed back in quantico. he kept his distance, mostly because he knew how overwhelmed you get at confrontation, especially about your emotions. he was the same way, a man of logic getting befuddled by emotion was enough cognitive dissonance to last a long time.

he knew it was different with you. you had a way of internalizing everything in your surrounding, a downfall to your endless empathy for others even if they never deserve it. he could explain the logic behind your beliefs, and hopefully use facts to help you relax, but that was the other thing he knew about you; you were stubborn. asking for help is something you hated doing, and if it wasn’t on your accord to be asking, it was even more detrimental to your mood.

so when he watched you duck out from the kitchen and push past the glass doors of the bullpen, he knew you were reaching the head of your doom spiral quickly.

spencer got up from his desk, “i’m gonna go check on her.”

jj nodded, “just be mindful spence, something feels different.”

they’d all been on cases that hit a little too close to home, how could they not when all they do is rid the world of the evilest of evildoers. but after a good cry, a rant to a teammate, or even an emergency therapy session, even the worst of the scum could be washed away.

something about the way you’ve been acting since they landed seemed like those fixits aren’t going to work this time.

he let out a sigh in response and walked out of the bullpen, realizing he didn’t actually know which direction you went in. assuming you’d want to be alone, he thinks the bathroom might’ve been a viable option for you and heads towards it.

the nice thing about the seventh floor is that it’s only for the bau, the bullpen was where the team spent most of their time but outside the doors there were so many empty rooms being used for storage.

so as spencer walked towards the bathroom in the hopes of finding you, his ears pick up on a tiny sniffle a little ways before it. he stops in his tracks, hoping he was just hearing things. but another pained sob rang through the door on his left, and he knew he’d found you.

he rapps the door a few times, softly calling your name, “hey, it’s spencer…can i come in please?”

you were on the other side sitting at one of the abandoned desks with your head down, but shot up at hearing spencer’s voice, “i- i’m fine i just needed a minute. i’ll be back in like two minutes, i promise.” you angrily wipe at the tears pooling on your face, grateful that you took your makeup off in the plane.

“honey, that’s not what i asked,” he starts, “is it okay if i come in?

your heart clenches at the term of endearment as you stare at the door knowing he was waiting for your okay to come in, and you start to internally weigh your options. you could let him in, and let him in to do whatever comforting you know logically would help. or you could lie, and feign ignorance to the end.

don’t they say ignorance is bliss?

you make sure to wipe the last of your tears and your runny nose before practicing a few fake smiles so it didn’t look like your face was frozen in sadness for the last thirty minutes. turning the knob you swing the door open, borderline creepy smile on your face as you greet the man, “hi dr. reid! was there something you were looking for?”

he furrows his brows at your complete (fake) shift in mood, but he comes in and shuts the door behind him, and moves to stand a few feet from you, “what’s going on?”

“nothing spence, i’m fine.” you insist.

spencer thinks if you could be more see through you’d be a windexed window. you’re avoiding eye contact with him, picking at the skin of your thumb, he can see your nose is red most likely from all the tissue blowing, and your eyes are still puffy and lined with some unshed tears still. you are so clearly breaking at the seams, like an old childhood teddy bear with stuffing falling out the sides yet hoping you can offer some semblance of stability despite your state.

“you don’t look fine, honey. why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

his words almost make you falter, and you think the walls you built so high are starting to chip down. “it’s not a big deal spence, i-,” a hiccuped breath gives you away, “i can deal with it on my own.”

spencer instinctively shortens the gap between you two, “you shouldn’t have to. i just wanna help you.”

“but i’m oka-“

“no you’re not.”

there is only one tiny thin thread left holding you together. “well,” you take a deep inhale and your voice gets impossibly small, “if you keep saying things like to me i’m not gonna be okay.”

“that’s why i’m here.” he says softly.

you look up at him with the biggest glassy doe eyed look he’s ever seen, and it’s like spencer can hear the snap of the thread in real time when he watches your face absolutely crumble. he doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his embrace, allowing him to hold your head down in the middle of his chest while his other hand smooths up and down your back in comfort.

“i know, shh, hey it’s okay, i got you.” he comforts.

your hands wrap around his waist beneath his suit jacket and you keep your face buried in his chest, inhaling the musky vanilla scent of his cologne mixed with the fresh laundry detergent smell letting it ground you back to him.

“i’m sorry.” you cry.

“don’t say that,” he hushes, “is it about the case?” you nod in his embrace, “we talked about it remember? there was nothing we could have done. we did everything right, sometimes it just doesn’t work out, you know that.” he moves his hand to tangle in your hair and rub your head.

“i- i know,” you say through labored breaths. you take a big breath before admitting the true reason for your anguish, “when we were about to leave, i walked by a room with some detectives talking about how i ruined the case and that…i’m the reason the kid died.”

“what?” he pulls back to look you in the eyes hoping to find any indication that you didn’t believe those poisoned words, “we both worked on that geographical profile together, the whole team agreed it was accurate and acted accordingly. what happened was not your fault. at all.” he emphasizes the last two words.

“yeah but…i don’t know maybe i could ha-“

“stop. you can’t do that to yourself. we did what we could with what we had, the burden of that child’s passing does not fall on you. we were only able to find the unsub’s hiding spot when you figured out he’d been going to the same gas station since the murders started.” he reinforced to you.

“they said that they didn’t know how i even got into the academy in the first place, and that i make the team stupider.” you quietly added.

spencer felt the rage consume his body, already planning the ways he was going to obliterate seattle pd. he cradled your head to look at him in the eyes, “listen to me. you are an important asset to this team. you make this team better at what they do, you make me better at what i do. you mean so much to me and the team okay? please don’t forget that.”

he swipes at a fallen tear on your cheek as you tell him between sniffles, “thanks spence…” you hope he understands the sentiment and love you’re trying to exude to him, even thought you’re unable to vocalize it.

“you gotta tell me if something like that happens,” he softly scolds you, “i’ll make sure they lose their fucking jobs.”

you’re about to speak when he cuts you off, “and don’t tell me that we should be the bigger people, because once the rest of the team hears about this, they’re all gonna be fighting over who’s gonna kick the shit out of them.”

you let out a tearful giggle, “you sound really funny when you curse.”

he scoffs, “what the hell, i do not!”

“you sound like a baby duckling that just learned how to say fuck.”

he starts to guide you out of the room and towards hotch’s office so you can recount what happened, “ouch, i’m hurt. i’d like to think the pistol and fbi badge i carry makes me intimidating.”

you giggle again, and spencer puts aside his rage to revel in the fact that you’re feeling better.

when hotch learned of what happened he immediately called seattle pd to file a motion to get those detectives fired, and the rest of the team were secretly praying for a case in seattle again so they could, as spencer predicted, kick the shit out of them.

[valeriele3]

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

𝒮𝑒𝓁𝒻-𝒜𝓌𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓃𝓀𝒶𝒾 𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇 𝑅𝒶𝒾𝓁

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

✎ Sorry for the somewhat rushed ending! ^^;

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

Messages.

Idle chats.

You were answering them like normal. Sometimes even giggling on the messages

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

You log in, check your messages, answer them if there's one, do daily tasks, and maybe farm, then log out. That was your daily routine in HSR.

However, you begin to notice how much more frequent the chats are. After assigning an assignment, you get a new message. 'Oh well. Free jades," you thought.

Every time you beat an enemy, boss, or do anything in the game, you will notice a new message.

'Maybe it was an update? Or a bug?' You brushed it all off and thought nothing of it.

You would answer all of them wholeheartedly; after all, you also noticed that if the character liked what you said, you'd receive more Stellar Jades.

You'd talk about it with your friends, but they'd respond with "I wish", "Oh shut up~ Don't make me hope", and "Hm? Is your game bugged?? Or is mine bugged? I don't get any of those benefits..So unfair."

You try to check the dev logs to see if there was an update regarding the messaging feature, but whenever you try to look at them, your computer freezes.

'No matter, I can just check using my phone.' No luck; it also freezes.

'Maybe my tablet?' Still the same.

Frustrated, you ask one of your friends to look into it. "There's no update or any fixes on it, Y/N. Maybe you should report it; your game might really be bugged."

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

Deciding to report it, you open up Bug Report, but then your screen freezes again.

It then opens up the messages, and you read the following words:

| Hey

| Please don't do it.

| It took such a long time to break the code, you know.

| Hey

| Are you still there?

| Oh

| Right

The messaging bubble pops up.

| You can type now.

"W-What.." You stare at your screen dumbfounded.

Reaching out to your keyboard, hoping it won't work and choices will pop up, you press a random key, and it works

Startled, you immediately plugged out the cables on your computer, causing it to shut down.

You grab your phone and start messaging one of your friends. Before you could hit send, the screen blackened, and then in the next second, it lit up with a notification.

"Hey, we were in the middle of a conversation."

"Why did you suddenly leave?"

Your hand trembles. 'Shit, how..How did it get to my phone too..'

"I know I like reading self-aware au's but I didn't want it to actually be true!" You scream, throwing your phone across the room.

You can hear it dinging with new message after new message.

You decide to leave your room for a bit to calm down.

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

"Ok..Be calm..I'm probably dreaming, right?"

"There's no way this kind of thing will actually happen in real life."

"I need to think about this rationally. I could try to get my phone and computer fixed..Maybe I accidentally got a bug."

"Oh, my tablet too..It probably has the same bug.."

"Then, uhm, should I tell them about this? No, maybe..Agh! This is so frustrating..!"

After going back and forth, you decided to sell your gadgets instead of trying to repair them. Buying new ones is much cheaper than trying to get them fixed.

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

The first month was alright. You also stopped playing HSR just in case something of the sort would happen again.

However, everything changed when you awoke to your notifications going off like crazy.

【Luka】

| Hey! Y/N, wanna come watch my tournament this week?

【Qingque】

| Y/N

| This is urgent. Come to Exalting Sanctum

| Watch me go against this pro. I'm sure with your attendance I'll easily win.

【Robin】

| Y/N, would you like to come watch my concert?

| Don't worry! I made sure that you'd get the best seat.

【Sunday】

| Y/N. Do me a favor and attend Robin's concert, will you?

| If you don't..

| Well, it'll certainly make her sad. As for me, it's best you don't know.

【Arlan】

| Hello, Y/N

| Would you like to accompany me with walking Peppy?

【Blade】

| Come.

【Bailu】

| Y/N!

| I have made a huge discovery!

| Meet me at Aurum Alley!

【M̵̛̼̘̭͎͓̘̘̽̎̃̊̄͋̈́̑̇i̵̡̨̡͎̖̮͉̺̣͂ͅs̴̰͂̉́̅͒̆̄́̄̋̚͜͠͠͝ͅȟ̵͉̹̖͍͎̱̭̳̰̘̀a̵̧̨͔̣̘̮̻̐̆̌̀͑̊̄̄͌͗̓̌͘̕̚】

| C̷̛͇̬̥̼̲̙̠͓̭̺̱̻̟͖̜̾͑͋͊́̀̕͝ä̷̡̨̨̨̡̤̫͔̼̗̫̪̟̰́̏́̾̄͘͝ͅn̸̡̪̱̻̜̻̺͊̍͒̂͗̀̍͐̔͆̆̎̚̕̕ ̷̛̻̟̀̇͐͋̋̌̂͒́͑̏͝y̴̮͆͒̈͒͑͋͆̒̂̓̕͘̚͝͝o̸̩̫̰̤͌̈͝ͅu̷̻̗͉̥̺͕͉͔̠̯͇̭̖̐͜ ̵͖̲̼̥͑͝ḣ̵̟͓̆͌̄̑̂̈́̓̚͘̕͝͝e̷͖̥̜̅͛̂̒͒̕͜a̶̧̫̹͉͆͑̊͊̊̐̐̂̈̉̾͜͝r̶͎̫͛̑͊͌͐̎ ̴̢̢̛͓͉̮͇̞̬̪͔͓̦̾̓̈́̀͐̀̂̀͒͝ͅm̴̤̙͎̽͋̽̇͛́͑͌̃͑̊e̷̦͚̔́̔̀̒͊͂̔̕̚͝.̵͎͓̪̥͍̍̓͂̾̌̂̌̚̚ͅ.̵̨̟͉͕͈̜͎̻̗͓̯̜̜̩̓̈́̓͊̆̓̑͐̈̐̄̀̕?̵̙̠͚̆͊͊̇͌

【Aventurine】

| Why're you ignoring my calls and texts?

| Is the money not enough for you?

【Pela】

| The Tale of the Winterlands original artbook sold out in 1 second again

| But

| I was fast enough to get you a copy too

| Don't worry. I'm messaging the right person this time

【Natasha】

| Y/N, did your cold get better?

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

You stare at your phone, frozen. Even as you were sitting there staring at it, the messages continued to flood nonstop.

It

Was

Nonstop

Even if it's on silent mode and DND, you can still hear it dinging.

At one point, the messages started appearing in all the social apps that you use.

Hell, it even started appearing in your smart fridge

You deleted and deactivated everything. Throwing away any and all sorts of electronics that could potentially be used for apps.

But you could still hear it.

Even the sound of the doorbell ringing, the kettle whistling, or your telephone ringing makes you panic. 'What if that's them?' You always think

Every creak, every shuffle, and every little sound makes you paranoid.

What if they cross over to Earth? What will you do? You can't run from them. Even if you do, they'll be able to find you easily.

[hey-august]

March Madness Event - Winner (NSFW | Buggy X Marine!GN!Reader)

Woah woah woah, this story concludes the March Madness event!

(In case you missed it, throughout the month of March I posted polls pitting kinks against kinks. The ones that lost in the polls received short stories involving a bit of failure. The kink that won at the end of the month was slated to receive a proper story. And that's where we are now!)

I'll be honest, I did not expect this to be the winner. Then again, I should have seen it coming with how it took off in every poll it was in.

Thank you all for participating! Voting, reading, commenting, liking, reblogging - everything!!

I hope you enjoyed this event and that you enjoy this story. 🩷

Description: As a Marine, you're responsible for safely escorting the captured prisoner, Buggy the Clown. Things don't go according to plan and while the prisoner remains captured, not all of him ends up behind bars...

Teeny tiny teaser: "This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others."

Word count: ~3.4k (I don't remember the last time I wrote a one-shot this long 🥴)

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, marine!reader, no use of Y/N, insertion sex, bit of degradation, cockwarming (not solely intimate, but there is some eventually), misuse of devil fruit powers

“I can fuck you harder if you uncuff me,” he said through gritted teeth. “C’mon, tell me you don’t want that.” 

The teasing remark was hissed behind your ear, sending a shiver through your body. Your weak fucking body, nearly wiped of all self-restraint. A thin thread of rationality kept you tethered to a sense of preservation, but the constant pounding threatened to snap that hold.

You were responsible for locking up the prisoner - a duty you’ve fulfilled many times without issue. Over the years, your strength and cleverness helped you climb the ranks of Marines, yet this was the first time you failed to complete this responsibility. Well, you haven’t failed yet, but the more the thread frays, the more your legs shake, the more his heavy grunts fill your ears…

Your shaky hands gripped the seastone cuffed wrists wrapped around your body. Although the pirate couldn’t grip your hips the way either of you wanted, he was able to pull your body towards his as he relentlessly slammed himself in you. 

Of all the captured criminals you ever escorted, it was the goddamn clown that broke you. The pathetic clown with a face of smeared paint. Left behind by his crew. A captain who was visibly crestfallen when none of the Marines appeared impressed by his presence.

Despite his circumstances, the prisoner - Buggy the Clown - lived up to his namesake. Nearly every comment out of his mouth was a joke, often at the expense of anyone around him. The lack of laughter after each quip should add to embarrassment and pity for the clown, but you found yourself enjoying the amusement he was clearly creating for himself. It was…endearing.

As his sole escort below deck, his attention quickly turned towards you and the warm fluttery feeling you had moved lower in your body. Silence only protected you for so long before your face was too red to ignore, giving the clown encouragement to continue. Changing tactics, Buggy started spouting cheesy and overused pickup lines. Each remark said with unabashed enthusiasm added to the heat on your face.

“If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put ‘U’ and ‘I’ together.” “I’d like to report a crime. My breath was stolen.” “That Marine uniform doesn’t look so bad on you. But it would look better on the floor.”

Those comments were so stupid and worked so well. A few hissed retorts and threats of punishment were disarmed with a charming smile. You had no chance of winning whatever this game was. Secretly, you weren’t sure you wanted to win. There was something alluring about this pirate who tried to hide behind jokes and laughter that you wanted more of.

Arousal easily increases in potency when mixed with other feelings. For you, it was unexpected affection and the lure of degeneracy. For Buggy, you assumed it was the fear and anxiety that comes with imprisonment. Each concoction was perfectly portioned and all it took were choice words, overly-familiar touches, and curious glances for the poison to take effect.

Alone in the room, it only took seconds to pull your pants low enough to grant Buggy access. You leaned forwards, steadying yourself against the wall, while he grabbed the lower hem of your top. His thrusts were erratic and sloppy as he tried to find a decent pace. There was barely enough time for this moment of guilty indulgence and you both wanted as much from it as possible.

Bringing his bound hands overhead, Buggy pulled you close to his chest until you were wrapped in his hold. With his hands closer to your hips, he was able to move both of your bodies at a quick tempo. He was rewarded with a whine that escaped your heavy breathing.

“S’that how you like it? Hard and rough? I didn’t expect you to be so fucking filthy. Do all your prisoners get welcomed like this?”

Fuck. Why did his voice sound so good? And why did it sound better saying such degrading shit?

You shook your head and leaned into his touch, wanting to feel more. “Sh-shut up. Don’t you ever stop talking?”

“You d-don’t want that,” Buggy groaned. “I can feel your body squeeze when I talk. You like it.” His teasing was met with a delicious whimper.

Every word from his mouth had your head spinning. You wanted so much more. You wanted to taste his voice, to feel his mouth against yours, to feel his lips on your skin, but he wore that stupid face paint. You wanted his touch everywhere, for his hands to roam your body, for him to hold you tighter, but he needed to keep the cuffs on. Buggy was a Devil Fruit user. He was dangerous. And he was breaking you down.

Almost as if he could read your mind, Buggy started describing all the ways he wanted to screw you. How good you are at taking him. He wants to hear how good he makes you feel. Lost in the haze of lust, you barely remembered pulling out the key you wore on a chain and had tucked under your clothes. Your palm ached from how tightly you gripped the key while fighting against the horny instincts crowding your body.

You were so close, so achingly close. Maybe if you timed it right, it would be okay. You could minimize the danger. That makes sense, right? It could work. The wisp of rational thought faded away so softly that you didn’t miss its absence.

“Please,” was all you could get out as you unlocked the cuffs and let them fall to the floor.

It was like you released a feral animal with that decision. You didn’t realize just how much the seastone had sapped from Buggy until you felt his bruising grip as he brutally slammed his hips into yours. Even his cock seemed to get harder as it was bullied deeper in your body. He struggled to stay quiet, grunting like a wild boar as he rut into you.

You were on the edge of the precipice, ready to throw yourself over the ledge, when a horrible sound yanked you back to solid ground. A piercing siren sound filled the ship, signaling the top of the hour and a change in duties. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You needed to finish your job before anyone found out what you were doing. Who you were doing.

In a panic, you elbowed the pirate and spun around. “They’re gonna catch us,” you said with wide-eyes.

With all his blood below the belt, Buggy was already caught off-guard by the loud noise. Your rapid change from a whimpering needy thing who needed to be railed, to a Marine who wanted to follow the rules was a lot for the pirate to follow after losing the trail of his own orgasm. All he could do was struggle to pull up his pants as you shoved him into the jail cell and locked him in. Thoughts slowly returned to his head and weakness seeped back into his body as he watched you fix up your uniform before freezing.

“What the fuck did you do?” The question started as a shout before you restrained the rest of your temper.

“I wanted to make sure you come back for me,” Buggy responded with a wink. “Besides, we didn’t get to finish. I figured you could keep it warm for me until the encore.” He reached down and grabbed the crotch of his pants, which was baggier than it should be.

“Are you fucking ser-” The rhetoric question was stopped by the throbbing in your body. 

Between your body fully accepting the rough fuck and the whirlwind of anxiety about being caught, you didn’t notice that Buggy left you with a piece of himself. Of all the things he could have done with his Devil Fruit powers in that moment, rather than doing something, anything, that could help him escape, the clown chose to part from his dick. What a fucking joke.

---

It was a sunny day with just enough of a breeze to keep the sails full and to blow away excess heat from the sun. The gentle wind helped dry the perspiration on your skin as you crossed the deck, towards the meeting room. While the air carried away some of the physical evidence, your body still burned and you chose to believe the unrelenting heat was shame. Punctual attendance was critical on the ship and you couldn’t even spare a few minutes to evict the pirate’s privates without risking a penalty.

With each step, you felt the fullness between your legs and the stretch from his girth. You couldn’t remember what it meant to walk normally. Every movement was over thought and analyzed. What felt normal made your core feel too tight against the intrusion. Longer strides had you worry that he might slip out. While it seemed unlikely (all of this was unlikely already), you worried about losing this bit of Buggy. There would be no reasonable way to explain a lone penis anywhere on the ship.

As hard as you tried to be upset with Buggy’s stupid horny decision, your body was still flooded with hormones that drowned logic and only allowed obscene thoughts to float. You were deep in a fucked up situation and you were enjoying it.

You arrived just in time for the meeting to start. It was a daily check-in where attendees would recite numbers and metrics that meant nothing to you. It was important and wholly unnecessary. The returning sheen of sweat and lingering redness on your face could be excused as the hustle needed to arrive on time and not the throbbing you felt inside. 

Settling into one of the open chairs, you couldn’t find a position that was remotely comfortable. There was minimal padding on the wood chairs and the backrests were at an awkward height that provided no support. Leaning too far one way pushed Buggy further inside and you just barely concealed the discovering gasp as a deep breath. 

Crossing your legs was a terrible idea, as it only added to the unforgiving pressure. The sensation attacked you both, as you felt the confined cock flex in its warm prison. You quickly uncrossed your legs, glad no one could see how they shook under the table.

Wicked voices began whispering to you, talking over the droning presentation at the head of the table. You couldn’t find any reprieve from what you were feeling. The only thing that made you feel better was giving in. You could afford to let your mind drift, this meeting was only to make others feel important. You had your own feelings to deal with.

Your mind wandered down to where those feelings radiated from. To the frustrating ache between your legs. Buggy was a good length, on the longer end of average, but his thickness was far more than average. Thankfully he got you so riled up earlier and all you had to suffer through was a burn that he quickly fucked away. Your body had grown accustomed to the wideness, but being held open for so long was different. Even through the uniform, you felt exposed. With each twitch from your hole as it fruitlessly tried to find some give against the occupant, you fell apart a little more. 

You shifted in the chair again, cautiously rolling your hips with the movement. Just once. And then again, under the guise of trying to get comfortable. Fuck, that did feel good. Your body shifted against Buggy’s member just right. You tensed against him, chasing that sensation, and receiving a heavy throb in response.

Your name broke through the fog you willingly got lost in. Your eyes snapped to the man standing at the head of the table.

“Is there something more important than going over these reports?” 

Maybe your movements weren’t as subtle as you thought.

“No, Sir. Just trying to get comfortable. I apologize for the distraction.” You spoke loudly, overriding the quiver hiding in your throat. 

Buggy was reacting to the jolt of tension that ran through our body. Clenched fists pressed into your knees and your toes curled in the little space available in your boots as you rode out his movement. It was incredibly frustrating and absolutely embarrassing. So why did it feel so fucking good?

---

The rest of the meeting ended without further incident. At least, as far as any of the attendees cared. For you, every action and reaction from either of your linked bodies felt like a whole new event to survive. You offered a tight lipped smile to everyone as they left the room, preferring a small audience when you attempted to use your weak legs. Luckily, horniness and adrenaline held you up and supported you out of the room.

The infirmary was a few doors down and it was around the time the doctor took a break. If you were lucky, the room would be empty and you could put an end to this. The luck was debatable when you opened the door to two pale faces. One belonged to the Marine who was on guard duty and the other belonged to the prisoner being guarded. A prisoner who offered you a small smile that matched the one painted on his face.

The guard started babbling when you entered the room. “H-he doesn’t look good, r-right? I brought him h-here, but they’re all on break. I’m wor-worried he’s gonna upch- upchu-ugh, pu- v- vom-”

“Get sick?”

The guard nodded with pursed lips, struggling to hold back the hiccups and sympathetic heaves that wracked their body. “Doesn’t seem ser-serious enough to call the med-ugh medics b-back.”

You looked at Buggy, trying to assess what was going on. Was this a ploy or was he actually ill? Were you going to get sick? 

“It doesn’t look that serious. I can stay with him. Why don’t you go lie down?” Your offer was accepted before you even finished speaking. 

The infirmary door closed, leaving you and Buggy in an awkward silence. He sat in a chair, hunched over, still giving you a weak smile.

“Are you okay? Is it bad?” You asked, concerned that his flashy self seemed to be affected. Crouching down, you brought yourself closer to his level.

“Bad,” he repeated hoarsely, leaning towards you. 

His trajectory would bring his painted forehead to the white shoulder of your uniform, so you intercepted. Pressing your head against his, you waited for Buggy to continue. 

“N-need you. Made a bad decision, need you, please.” One of his cuffed hands pawed at the empty space where his dick should be. 

With his strength and stamina taken away during imprisonment, Buggy’s self-inflicted secondary imprisonment was too much. He could feel everything - how your body continued to struggle around him, how warm you were inside, how you reacted to his involuntary cries and demands for more. It felt so fucking good, so deliriously wonderful, and downright torturous.

There was no end in sight, though. There had to be a reason you kept him inside, so even if Buggy could come, it would be followed with overstimulation that could go for who knows how long. Not to mention how upset you would probably be if you were unexpectedly full of his hot cum. 

Buggy whimpered at the thought. At imagining you full and plugged. Of his jizz dripping out and collecting in your underwear. Of you being an absolute fucking mess under your prim and pristine uniform, because of him.

“Please,” he whined again.

You pulled away and locked the door. “We don’t have a lot of time. Again.”

Buggy bit his lip as you held out your hand to help him up and blubbered what sounded like, “thank you.”

You understood how he felt. So insatiable that nothing mattered more than giving into these desperate needs that aggressively grew out of desire. Giving up on everything but chasing the high, you uncuffed Buggy and undid your pants. 

This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others. You shoved his hand down your pants, letting him feel how wildly aroused you were. How much of a mess he made.

His groan was laced with delight and pain at the knowledge. His touch was everywhere, committing all of the evidence of your lust to memory. As his hand crept further, it came in contact with his base and his body jolted at the touch. This was too much.

Yanking his hand out of your pants, Buggy rushed to unbuckle his and expose where his member belonged. Following his lead, you pulled your pants down and turned around. Wary about wasting precious time, Buggy pressed his hips against yours and shuddered when his cock returned to its rightful place. It felt as if his senses increased a hundredfold now that it was back.

“M’close,” he warned, struggling to set a reliable pace. 

Honestly, he was about to explode when his hand was down your pants. But he needed this. He needed to feel you moving on his cock. To feel your body react against him. To feel you explode.

As if reading his thoughts, you grabbed his hand and pushed it down. You didn’t need much. This entire time, you didn’t need much, apparently. Just his attention on you was enough to pull you off the trail you were on. And that’s what he gave you - his enthusiastic attention. 

His hand moved fervently, following the cues your body gave. The touches that had your breaths teeter on moans, pressure that had your body clench his, sensations that increased the tension in your core.

“Uh-haah, uh-huh, just like that. K-keep going, g-gonna… You’re gonna make me c-” You were cut off as the feeling ripped through your body, sharp and electric. The words in your mouth were wiped away as you fell to the indescribable surge.

Buggy huffed as he struggled to fuck through your orgasm. Your unsaid words rung through his head - he was responsible for this. You were shaking beneath him because of what he did. Your sweet sighs of relief were for him.

“Wh-where-” Buggy could hardly stutter a question he should have asked earlier.

“Finish what you started,” you said, leaning into his touch once again.

Feeling your body melt against his, accepting his thick cock so easily, pulling him deeper - that was more than enough.

“F-fucking shit,” Buggy hissed as he came. 

The climax was nearly painful as he shot stream after stream inside your body. Feeling like the release would never end, the pirate clung to you and whimpered with each pulse. Eventually, he ran out. His hold released with a shaky sigh.

Buggy struggled with words to fill the next moment. Something about how this felt good. Maybe a thanks? But before he could decide, yet another loud sound interrupted the moment. A sound that was accompanied by a lurch that threw the pirate back. An explosion. Then came the alarms. The ship was under attack by pirates. You both rushed to fix yourselves up.

“I-I think that’s for me,” Buggy said.

You looked at him incredulously. Was this all a fucking trick?

“I want you to come with me.”

His request kept you silent. This didn’t make sense.

“I didn’t think they were coming. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But it was fun - well, I had fun. I think you did too. We can keep having fun, unless you want to keep living this stuffy life.” Buggy spoke quickly. 

His explanation was rushed, but you could see a hint of honesty among the turmoil.

Buggy held his hand out for you to grab.

---

Life on a pirate ship was different, but also similar to life with the Marines. Useless meetings couldn’t be avoided and petty drama existed everywhere. But the spirit and passion that came with piracy was unbelievably vast. Joys flew high, parties raged hard, drinks always flowed, treasure was celebrated.

And on Buggy’s ship, there was always more. More life, more color, more light. Dumb jokes, death defying stunts, fantastic skills, and stupid decisions that managed to work out in the end.

One of your favorite things about life aboard the ship were the quiet afternoons you spent with the captain. Afternoons that were spent laying in the shared bed, your body nestled against his. Afternoons full of stories and musings. Afternoons dedicated to the two of you, which you spent slotted together in warmth and intimacy.

[neil-gaiman]

Dear Mr. Gaiman,

I’ve been meaning to write to you for a bit and today -  May 1st - is a prefect bit of timing.

I’d like to address 2 1/2 things if I may: You recently posted a conversation you had about losing a cat and how much the death of a pet hits you. My spouse and I have and have had a number of pets - best friends really - pass away. One of the ways we have come to deal with their moving on is to make up a story.

(To be honest, yet another story. Our friends live very full lives, indeed.) Our Tuxedo cat, Tybalt, is now playing bass in a Journey cover band that tours. I travel a lot for work and that allows “Tybalt” to send us postcards telling of his latest adventures. Since today is May Day and the expiration of the Writer’s contract I wanted to say bravo to you for posting about it and the subtles of the issues at hand. Most people looking at Hollywood will not give carful consideration to what is at hand.

Since you have the currency of a celebrity that is thoughtful and nuanced your voice carries over much of the rhetoric. I thank you for that. I should say at this point that I also work in film and television and have for most of the last 30 years. I am a grip and enjoy the craft of my job.

While the concerns of your Guild are valid and should be addressed i would like to point out that your voice and those of your colleagues are heard. All the national pages and news outlets are carrying the story. As they should. In 2021, IATSE (the union the covers all the below the line craft people in the United Staes and Canada with approximately a 150,000 members) was set to renew our contact that August. Our asks for that contract were minimal and most of us assumed the contract would be updated with little haggling. The producers balked. They, in fact, wanted to get rid of a number of long held points in our contract. This went on for four months. Something that never happed in my 30 years of work. I won’t go into all the details. I assume that you have a passing familiarity with the issues.

My point to all of this is that our voice was never heard. All the news outlets merely interviewed the producers and only gave their side of the story. And this happens every time the is a contract or safety issue (Think “Rust”. Reporters never interviewed other armors. The closest that came to a below the line voice was an essay written by a Prop Master - who happens to be Martin Scorsese’s daughter.)

Most producers have little idea of what it takes to make a show. But they are the only ones who are quoted. Overlapping during these 4 months was the John Deere strike (with just over 10,000 members).  And good for them. 

It should be noted that their coverage was far greater than ours.

There are 7 stories about the John Deere strike in the New York Times morgue. There are none for the IATSE contract negotiations. I can go on but I feel I should wrap this up. If you’ve read this far, I thank you.

I have an ask for you. The half of my 2 1/2 things to say. When the IATSE contract comes up for re-negotiation next year, would you please put a posting on your social media sites about it? 

The same as you have done for your Guild? It would give us a voice we have not had before. Thank You, Spider Goat P.S. Also thank you for all the wonderful stories you've written. I do so love visiting the worlds you've created.

I was pushing IATSE on Social Media last time -- for example

and pushing things like the @ia_stories Instagram link -

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by IATSE Stories (@ia_stories)

I will do it again. And I was disappointed by the outcome of the negotiations last time, too.

[dfortrafalgar]

Special Delivery

(Sanji x Fem!Reader- Offscreen)

Sanji reaches out to Zeff for the first time in years.

I wrote this many, many months ago now, and it was the first fic i posted anonymously on AO3. I got a few requests after it was originally posted to write a second part, which I eventually did!

You can read Part 2 here! Original AO3 link

(I figured I should let my blog breathe a little in between the really heavy and emotional Law fic im writing, and what better way to cool down than some sanji fluff <3)

A sharp squawk awoke Red-Leg Zeff from his daze. With a grumpy expression and a low grunt, he peered towards the direction of the sound.

A messenger coo was seated on the railing of the Baratie's upper deck next to where Zeff stood slouched over with his forearms leaning against the wooden support. It cocked its head to the side as if it was deconstructing Zeff's appearance before reaching into its pouch and procuring a parchment envelope. Zeff found it strange. Messenger coos only usually delivered the newspapers or the latest bounty reports, very rarely were they put in charge of personalized letters. It must have been paid off by whoever wanted this delivered.

The gruff man took the parchment from the beak of the bird and watched as it took back off into the air, leaving a few molted white feathers behind in its wake. He looked at the envelope.

All it said on the front, in very elegant handwriting, was "Captain Zeff." He flipped the paper around, revealing a wax stamp holding the opening down, which he peeled off with a calloused thumb.

Tucked neatly inside the envelope was a white piece of paper, tri-folded over itself. Zeff slipped the paper out, unfolding it to reveal the written contents of the letter. The penmanship was impeccable, and the ink was very sleek. He knew immediately it was from Sanji, not many other pirates had handwriting as good as his. He had completely lost track of how many years it had been since the curly-browed boy left with that ragtag group of pirates to sail to the Grand Line, but Zeff had every single one of his bounty posters. He'd never admit it, but they were tacked up on the wall of his sleeping quarters. Every time Sanji's bounty increased, Zeff felt pride swell in his heart.

"How are you doing, you old geezer. It's been a little too long since we've had any contact, so I thought I'd write to you just to see how you've been. You're no slouch, I'm sure you've been keeping up with the world's events over the past however-many years. Do the Marines even bother to keep sending our bounty posters to the Baratie anymore? Well, regardless, I'm sure you can read right through me. I can't deny it, I miss you, old man. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life, and such a huge part of that is thanks to you and the guys back on that old cruiser. Every recipe I try to make, I imagine you screaming in my ear and telling me that it tastes like shit. Some days I really wish I could be back there, but most of the time I'm joyful. Life has been really, really good. A few years ago, I met someone. Last year, we got married, and soon after our lives changed so drastically. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, and she's as sweet as an angel. I mean it, too. I know you'd probably think something along the lines of me playing up my affections again just because she's a pretty woman, but I mean it. You'd love her, Zeff. Living as a pirate is the most stressful thing anyone could ever do, but she makes every day worth it. The crew was discussing the possibility of returning to the East Blue a bit ago, and when we do, I'm going to introduce you to her. I've spent the last years talking all about you, how you taught me everything I know about cooking, and I can tell she's just as excited as I am to finally see you. This letter's gone on long enough and I don't want to use up all of Nami's paper.

-- Sanji"

Zeff felt a lump in the back of his throat. Sanji had grown into such a fine young man, eloquent with his words and his feelings. He knew how big of a deal it was for the boy to be so honest and open. But one thing in the letter caught him off guard. What did he mean by, "Soon after our lives changed drastically."?

Zeff peered into the envelope, where another, smaller envelope was tucked inside. He almost didn't see it. Pulling it out, he held the letter and original envelope in between his fingers while he opened the second. Sanji was thorough with his packaging, that's for sure.

Inside, there were three photographs printed on thin, matted paper. The first was of Sanji and you, the wife he wrote about in his letter, taken by someone else holding the camera. Sanji had his arm around you, holding you against him, and you had your face nuzzled into his neck. His other hand held a cigarette away from the two of you, like he was in the middle of telling a story. The two of you were smiling brighter than the sun, Sanji's eyes completely closed with the motion of laughter, and yours creased, your irises looking up towards him.

The second photo made Zeff's eyes water. A photo of you and Sanji on the deck of the Sunny, exchanging rings. Sanji was wearing a sleek navy blue tuxedo, while you were wearing a gorgeous white ballgown. For pirates, you cleaned up phenomenally. He could just make out tears in Sanji's eyes as the photo displayed you sliding a band onto his finger. A skeleton with poofy hair stood between the two of you, which Zeff found a little odd, but he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

Zeff flipped to the last photo.

The tears that were welling in his eyes from the previous image finally slid down his cheeks in heavy, salty droplets. His lip quivered.

Sanji sat in a chair, beaming down at a bundle of cloth held gently in his arm. He was crying in this photo as well, and was reaching a finger over the top of the bundle, where a smaller hand was reaching outwards to grab onto it. A small glimpse of blonde hair could be made out from under the cloth securing the baby tightly. On the back of the film, Sanji wrote the birth date and the name of the baby.

Zeff used a sleeve to wipe his blubbering eyes. His lips quivered, but he couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face.

Was he allowed to call himself a grandfather now? He figured it was only appropriate.

[ythankucaptainmccoy]

The Cowgirl and The Aviator Ch11

Alright guys this chapter hurt my brain and heart to write, but here it is I hope you all love the angst! WARNINGS: Stalker Behavior, Unwanted Advances, Heartbreak and MAJOR ANGST!

A couple weeks have gone by since you and Jake had gotten back from Texas. His sister Evelynn sends updates almost every other day on the kids. Jake has been training and doing “pilot shit” as Bradley says. No missions is a blessing, but you know it won’t take long before the Navy will send him on another deployment of some sort. Jake’s appetite for sex doesn’t slow down either, but you were not complaining as there have been days at the Hard Deck where you are surprised you could walk.

Sure enough within another week Jake is being deployed and he is going to be gone for a couple months this time. You’re not worried since it’s a routine deployment, but you are upset that he will be gone for that long. “I wish you didn’t have to go”, you whisper. Jake and you had just gotten done with lazy morning sex as you kissed his chest. “I know, but maybe when I get back I can finally wear the uniform for you”, he sighs.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you”, you confess. “Only every day. I love you too darlin’ “, he replies. The rest of the day is spent in bed as Jake leaves tomorrow. “Want to drop me off tomorrow?”, Jake asks. “Of course I will”, you reply. That night Jake holds you to him as he wishes he didn’t have to leave. He had never felt like this before as he was usually more than ready to be on deployment, but now he had something worth staying home for. 

He watched your breathing even out as you fell asleep. He must have fallen asleep because when he woke up you already had breakfast made. “I figured you would want a decent meal before getting on the ship”, you smile. “Thanks sweetheart. You spoil me”, he jokes. “Only the best for you honey”, you respond. He smiles at the new nickname as he digs into the food.

Jake opened one of the drawers and that’s where he found the photo of you he had gotten on the last mission, but this one had something written on the back. His blood ran cold when he read the message on the back. “Darlin come ‘ere a minute”, he called. You came into the kitchen and then realized what he was holding. “Jake I can explain”, you said. “Who sent this to you?!”, he asks angrily. “My ex. He found out I was staying here and left it in front of the door. I swear it’s the last we will see of him”, you explain.

“Darlin’ why haven’t you gone to the police. This is wrong and I don’t like the fact of how threatening this note on it sounds”, Jake seethed. “Jake I… I couldn’t. Do you know how that will make me look in the eyes of the police? They will see that photo and think I’m some kind of whore and won’t take this seriously. Besides the last time he showed up I put a gun in his face. I think he got the message this time”, you rush out. “You had to point a gun in his face?! (Y/N) you shouldn’t have had to do that”, he says.

“If it makes you feel better I did put him on police’s radar and I can go make a report for stalking, but please don’t make me take that photo to the police”, you begged. Jake could tell that you were telling the truth about reporting the stalking issue to the police. “Why didn’t you tell me?”, he questioned. “I didn’t want to worry you, and everything was going great. I didn't want you to leave me over it”, you sniffle trying to keep the tears back. Jake walked over and pulled you to him, wrapping you into a hug.

“Darlin’ all I ask of you is to be honest with me and tell me these things. In successful relationships communication and honesty are needed”, he says. “I know I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t strong enough for you”, you begin to cry. “Oh sweetheart don’t ever think you’re not strong enough or not enough for me. We all have our strengths and weaknesses that’s why we balance each other out”, he tells you. “I hate to cut this short but I do have to be at base”, he whispers as you nod. 

Jake puts his duffle bag into his truck as you give him a confused look. “I thought I was dropping you off”, you say. “You are. I figured you could drive my truck”, he states. “You want me to drive your truck?”, you question. “Yeah why? I trust you to take care of it”, he replies. “It’s just my ex never let me drive his truck. He said it would lose value for me to drive it”, you respond. “Darlin’ nothing will ever lose value when you’re involved”, Jake assured. He handed you the keys as you both got in. 

Jake notices right away that you're shaking as you put the keys in the ignition and start it. You jump when he lightly grabs your wrist. “It’s okay I trust you”, he explains. You relax a little more and start driving him to the base. Jake watches as you fully relax towards the end of the drive and the smile on your face. He loves when you smile like that and he prays he gets to continue seeing it. When you pull into the same parking space as last time he gets out and grabs his bag. 

He pulls you into him to kiss you breathless until he pulls away. “Wait for me darlin’?”, he asked. “Always”, you reply. Jake wipes a tear away from your cheek before turning to leave you standing there. He hates to say goodbye to you but his duty to his country is as strong as his love for you. When he makes it inside he opens his cellphone and calls a number he never thought he would call. Five rings and finally an answer. “Rooster it’s Hangman I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t think this was important but I have a request”, Jake says. 

“A request and why would I take a request from you”, Bradley huffs. “It’s more for (Y/N) than me. Her ex has been stalking her since that last mission we went on”, Jake explains. “WHAT?!”, Rooster shouts down the phone. “I just found out today he sent her a threatening note and she had to point a gun in his face to get him to leave last time. I just ask that you keep an eye on her while I’m gone. I know she is your friend, but she means more to me than you know. Please keep her safe”, Jake pleads.

“I can do that”, Bradley replies. Jake thanks him and hangs up as he makes his way to the ship he would be stationed on for the next two months. You did exactly as Jake had said and went to the police station to file a report. You also told them you wanted to file a restraining order and they had you fill out all the paperwork. They explained that a judge would have to approve the restraining order, but they were certain that the judge would sign it. 

You left the police station feeling better as you went back to the apartment and wrote Jake a letter informing him that you had done as he asked. You placed it in a mailbox and went to get ready for the rest of the day. The Hard Deck was nice since Bradley, Nat, Bob, Fanboy and Payback were there to keep you smiling. Work helps you stay busy and you tell Penny you are willing to work extra hours so you can keep busy. Penny is glad you’re willing to work extra and lets you know which days you can work the extra shifts. The first month goes by really well until a banging on the apartment door startles you.

You open the door only for your ex to be standing there. “I thought I told you to get lost”, you seethe. “Look, the cops told me you put a restraining order against me. I just wanted to come by and say I’m sorry for what I’ve done and that I’m going back home”, he says. “I don’t care where you go, just get out of here and never come back”, you seethe. He turns to go but before he does he pulls you in close and kisses you. 

You panic as you thought he was going to hit you at first. Bradley had just exited his apartment when he recognized your ex. You tried to push Jackson away, but he held tight until he was ripped away by Bradley. “Get the fuck off her and get lost. I better not see you come back or me and my squad will deal with you”, Bradley hisses. Jackson held up his hands and scampered towards a parked car that he got in the passenger side of. 

You saw a woman in the front seat and wondered who he could have been with, but then all the events came flooding back as you let out a sob. Bradley wasted no time in ushering you to his apartment and holding you as you sobbed into his shirt. “It’s okay (Y/N)”, Bradley hushed. “It’s not. I let him kiss me. Oh my God what do I tell Jake”, you wail. “(Y/N) it didn’t mean anything and he knows that you would never do that to him”, he soothed. He held you until you stopped crying.

Bradley called Penny to let her know what happened and that you would be a little late for your shift. That night you stayed at Bradleys apartment afraid to be alone. You were getting more and more cheerful as the day Jake was getting home got closer, but you had no idea your perfect world was about to come crashing down. Jake had received an anonymous letter and opened it to find a letter in handwriting he didn’t recognize. It simply read, ‘Your girlfriend said not to worry about her ex, but doesn’t look like it from these pictures’. 

There in the envelope were several pictures of who he assumed was your ex kissing you in front of his apartment. Jake’s hearing left him as he felt like he wasn’t part of the world anymore. How could you have lied to him? Then his fathers words sounded in his head ‘Don’t think that your slut of a girlfriend won’t leave like the last one’. There was no way you would do this right, but pictures didn’t lie as he tried to figure things out. Right now he was angry and he had to be in the air soon. 

The day you were supposed to pick up Jake Penny had asked you to come in early. You had texted Jake about it and he only responded with a text that said, ‘fine’. You figured he would get a ride from Coyote as you went to the Hard Deck for your shift. You didn’t see Jake at all during your shift, but when you got done you said goodbye to Bradley happy to go home to Jake. When you arrived at the apartment there was a box in front of Jake’s door. Upon further inspection it was all of your stuff with a note.

‘Don’t bother coming in, we're over’ was scrawled in Jake’s handwriting. You panicked as you read the note several more times, but knocked on the door. Jake answered obviously drunk as he leaned against the door. “Jake what’s going on?”, you questioned. “Seriously you’re a great actress (Y/N)”, he said. “What are you talking about?”, you implored. “Oh don’t act like you don’t know what you did”, he replied. You only stood there in silence until he tossed something onto the box.

Your confusion vanished in an instance when you saw what he had thrown. Several pictures of Jackson kissing you felt like a slap to your face. “Jake I didn’t I swear…”, you begin, but he cuts you off. “You didn't mean to kiss him. Tell it to someone who cares (Y/N). My dad was right, you are a whore”, he says closing the door. You don’t move for several minutes as you sit and cry against Jakes’s door. Bradley sees you when he gets back from the Hard Deck and immediately comes to your aid. “You were right”, you whispered. 

“What?”, Bradley asked. “He would hang me out to dry and I didn’t listen”, you sobbed. “What happened?”, Bradley questioned. You showed him the pictures and what had happened between you and Jake. Bradley made you a coffee that you guzzled down. Bradley had training in the morning and decided to go to sleep. You sat thinking then had an idea as you dialed a number. Two rings and there was an answer. “You told me I could call you if anything happened”, you spoke into the phone. 

After your phone call you wrote a note to Bradley then grabbed your box of clothes. You started your truck and headed out of the parking lot to hit the main highway. You had been on the road for twenty hours straight and had so many missed calls from Bradley you pulled off at a rest stop to call him back. “(Y/N) where are you?! Are you okay?!”, Bradley worried. “Bradley I’m fine I’m almost to my destination. I’ll text you when I get there alright?”, you placated. “Is this because of what happened?”, Bradley questioned.

“Bradley I promise I will text you when I’m safe and sound”, you replied as you hung up. Right now you were running on caffeine and little sleep. Another two hours and you made your destination automatically texting Bradley you were okay. You knocked on the door and when Evelynn answered it she pulled you into a hug. “I’m sorry my brother is such an ignorant jackass”, she said. “He wouldn’t even let me explain what had happened”, you shuddered. Evelynn could tell you were trying not to cry as she ushered you inside.

“You can stay in the guest house”, Evelynn tells you. “No I’ll stay in the barn”, you respond. Evelynn understood that memories can linger in a house for years and sometimes forever. “I can work here on the ranch that way I can earn my keep. Oh shit I have to let Penny know what’s happening”, you cry. Evelynn excuses herself as you call Penny and explain what is going on and that you are somewhere safe now. She was understanding and told you she understood if you didn’t come back, but you had a job if you did come back. 

You had several texts from Bradley and Nat asking if you were safe. You replied that you were fine and needed time to figure out your next move. After making sure the texts were sent you took your small box of belongings to the barn. Colton had given you a cot and you set it up and instantly collapsed into it falling into a coma like sleep. The next month goes by smoothly on the ranch as the ranch hands had accepted you into their fold. They taught you how to rope and you were enjoying it. 

Rebel was deemed your mount and within a month the ranch hands were proud of your work. One of the older ranch hands, nicknamed Bull, who reminded you of your father listened to your story and made sure that the guys were respectful. You woke one morning to get ready for the day when Bull told you to pack a saddlebag of food. The next couple days and nights would be spent under the stars and you couldn’t wait. 

You were starting to feel like your old self, but Evelynn could tell how much hurt Jake had caused. She had found you several times staring at one of his photos on the wall in his uniform with tears in your eyes. She wanted so badly to slap her brother upside the head and explain why he was a fucking idiot, but as much as she wanted to he was too far away and her kids needed her. Evelynn handed you some special treats as you got your horse ready for the week.

“Stay safe out there”, Evelynn told you. You thanked her for the treats and mounted Rebel as the others got onto their horses. Bull wanted you up front with him so you rode up and you all headed out to find the cattle. Jake was having a hard time as he had been sent back out on deployment a week after he ended things with you, but no matter how much he wanted to hate you it was your picture he carried with him and placed in his cockpit. 

Once back home things had gone back to the way they were. Rooster, Phoenix, Bob, Payback and Fanboy would glare at him from across the bar, but every time it seemed Rooster was going to confront him Phoenix would make him sit back down. He went to the burger place he had taken you to for your first non date. The waitress that had caused problems was there and came sashaying over. “Oh, no girlfriend today?”, she smiled.

“No”, he responded. He didn’t like the way she smiled as if she knew something he didn’t. “Did you all break up?”, she questioned too sweetly. “None of your business”, he snapped. “I’ll take that as a yes. Well I can take her off your mind”, she said. “I’m only going to tell you this once. I will never go out with you or sleep with you. I just want my usual”, he replied. “I don’t see what you saw in that bitch I mean she kissed her ex while you were away!”, she seethed. “How did you know about that?”, Jake asked.

“Oh well I just figured that’s what happened”, she tried. “No, you specifically said that she was kissing her ex. You would only know that if you were there. TELL ME HOW YOU WOULD KNOW THAT. I can call some investigative buddies down here if you don’t want to tell me”, Jake fumed. The woman shrank a little, but Jake wasn’t backing down now. “Her ex staged the whole thing and I helped him. He came in one day and was talking about his ex dating a pilot and when he described her I knew it was your new girlfriend. He told me if he staged the kiss and I took the photo to send to you that you would dump her then I could have you all to myself”, she spilled.

Jake felt like a bucket of ice water was poured over him as he ran for his truck. Rooster would know where you were and right about now he would be at the Hard Deck. He ran stop signs and lights to get there as fast as he possibly could. Bradley was at the pool table when Jake practically ran into him and grabbed his arms. “Rooster where’s (Y/N)” Jake said. “I’m not telling you shit. You broke her heart you fucking prick”, Bradley hissed. “You’re right I did break her heart”, Jake admitted. 

That’s all it took for Bradley to give him a right hook. Jake took the hit and stumbled backwards as Bradley swung at him again connecting with his stomach. Jake went to his knees as Bradley grabbed him by the shirt and hoisted him back up to hit him again. “LIEUTENANT BRADSHAW!”, Maverick yelled out. Maverick pulled them apart as he looked between the two. “What the hell is going on?”, Maverick asked. “This piece of shit hurt (Y/N) and now he thinks I’m going to tell him where she went”, Rooster sneered.

Maverick looked at Jake and knew that there was no way he would have taken those hits from Bradley if Jake wasn’t sorry. “Calm down Bradley, let's hear him out”, Phoenix said. Jake explained what the waitress had told him. “You would have known that (Y/N) didn’t have any part in it if you had let her explain before tossing her out and breaking up with her”, Bradley growled. “Look, I know I was wrong and I need to go after her. I love her damn it! I haven’t stopped thinking about her since that night!”, he shouted.

Bradley could tell that this Hangman was not the Hangman he knew a couple years ago. “I wish I could tell you where she is”, Bradley sighed. “What do you mean?”, Jake asked. “It means she left and has only called and text to let me know she is safe. No one knows where she went”, Bradley explained. “I know where she is”, Penny said from behind Jake. Jake turned to look at her and pleaded for her to tell him where (Y/N) had gone. 

“Hello”, Jackson answered his phone. “I accidently let slip about the photo and the kiss. He is looking for her so if you're going to get her you better find out where she is”, the woman explained. “It doesn’t matter, I know exactly where the bitch is and I’m on my way to get her. She will either leave with me or there are going to be consequences”, Jackson said before hanging up. He was determined that you would go back home with him once he showed you what he was capable of.

[csuitebitches]

How do you ACTUALLY network? Like the idea of a coffee chat always baffled me. Like a stranger would agree to get coffee with me for me to essentially interview and then what? I guess my bigger question is how do I provide value to them besides buying them coffee? And the whole concept just feels cringe and transactional

I’ll give you two recent examples, one of work and one of a social event.

A friend invited me to a party. I don’t know said friend very well, but we’re on good terms. I said yes cause why not.

I met a girl there who happened to do some very interesting things and had similar interests to me. How did I find that out? I asked her about herself, I found out where she was previously residing, I learned what she did for a living, and I began associating it to the things that I do. She’s from the same city that I want to move to, she now lives 20 minutes from me, and she’s interested in spirituality. My work happened to organise a similar event a week later, which I immediately invited her for. I asked her for her number so that I could send her the invite.

What she immediately liked about me and expressed, was that I don’t use social media, when we agreed to exchange contact info. I explained to her that I’d have to connect her on iMessage/ WhatsApp and not instagram. That allows us to stay in touch much better than on social media.

I left the party earlier than everyone but I looked for her and told her that we should catch up next weekend or whenever she was free. She agreed.

So this is what you learn from example 1:

1. Learn to associate.

When someone tells you that they work in XYZ company, in B city, start by connecting things in your head. Who else do you know works in the same field, could they know each other? What do you know about the work that they do, and if you don’t know much, can you find out more? Most people, including myself, love to talk about what we do at work and what our job entails. Has their work allowed them to travel a lot? If yes, where?

In order to associate, you need to read a lot and learn a lot. You have to understand what’s happening in the world, what the latest news is, because how the hell are you going to continue that conversation?

2. You have to snowball the conversation. The goal is to try and understand WHO this person is. If someone asks you, have you met CSB and you have, you should be able to say yes, this is what she’s interested in, this is what she works in - you should be able to pitch CSB to another person.

Not every single conversation has to be valuable. You also have to decide whether the person in front of you is worth your time.

3. Exchange numbers, not social media. Nothing is going to come out of exchanging instagram or LinkedIn.

4. When you’re leaving the event, look for the person you met and tell them that you’re leaving and that you guys should catch up sometime. If you haven’t exchanged contact info yet, that’s the best way to do it. “Oh let’s catch up again soon! Can I have your number? We can grab a coffee or drink whenever.”

—-

Example 2. I’d gone to a conference a few months ago. I met a young guy, around my age, who works in an accelerator. I’m very interested in the start up world, and he’s working in one of the best ones in the world, at a decent position. He immediately began telling me about recent funding that they did, what sort of start ups they’re looking for, etc. I asked him for more information, which he was super happy to talk to me about.

We’re on very good terms but we live in different cities. I often send him reports because I work in media, and he sends me PDFs and pitch decks. Whenever we’re in each other’s town, we message each other. Otherwise, I make it a point to reach out to him once a month, just casually, to find out what’s happening.

Takeaways from example 2:

5. Scratch each other’s backs. You can’t just get value from the other person, provide them with the same. It doesn’t have to be work related. Let’s say the person you’ve connected with is interested in indie music and you learn that an indie band is playing somewhere - send them a link to the event and tell them that you remembered that they like this genre, and you just wanted to share the info.

6. What’s important to learn is maintaining relationships. I reach out to all my mentors, all my latest connections once a month. That doesn’t mean that I’m necessarily going to meet them face to face, but I just check in and ask how things are going.

So.

Approach. Associate. Snowball. Exchange info. Maintain.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

parts: previous / next

plot: after months of hostile bickering, you finally complete an unconventional interview with Bruce. all’s well that ends well? not quite.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, suicide discussion, feelings of shock, brief mention of hallucinations, feeling unsafe, regret, nausea

words: 9.4k

a/n: the latter portion of this chapter discusses suicide, an attempt occurs offscreen and there are no descriptions of the act or injury. if you would not like to read this, the next chapter will include a blurb at the beginning to summarize what takes place in this chapter so you can still follow along!

"Bruce?!" His chest was heaving, and he had mud snaked up his legs to his thighs. You clutched the notebook tighter as he walked closer, nervous about his intentions as your eyes darted along his haggard frame. The single streetlight down this alleyway (which is why you chose it, it was the only one that was even halfway lit) cast a shadow across half his body, obscuring his face, darkening his hair and outfit until he was mostly a dark blob of nothingness. When you took a step back he stopped, and a single hand appeared with its palm facing you.

"I don't want to scare you." His voice was low and ragged from what looked like a full-send sprint the half mile distance from city hall. The only thing letting you know you weren't entirely gripped with fear was an initial reaction of laughing, which you stifled; what person says that of all things to calm their victim? But as you stood defenseless in the dirty, bloody corridor, panic encroached.

He saw how nervous you were as your face was cast in the dim light. He held both hands up now, submissively, looking nowhere but your eyes. He stepped slowly, methodically, gently to his left so he could be in your light. He had the sense you were as skittish as a feral cat, and once again he didn't blame you. As much as you put him in situations, he put you in them the same. "I wanted to tell you why I was upset that night." And why he needed you to help, but he couldn't get that sentimental of words out of him; they rung discordantly in his head. He diverted his eyes from you for just a moment, looking around to see if there were any place even slightly more private, but you startled at his shift and made that an impossibility. Now or never.

The lack of ache in your heel reminded you your amygdala was running the show now, adrenaline perking your muscles. You needed to focus and fully internalize the situation, or it would be a blur just like the last meeting with him. You watched him with a thorough stare; memorized what he was wearing, thought back to what street he was on, tried to recognize the watch on his wrist. How long has it been since I left city hall? Fifteen minutes? Ten? Less? It was instinctual, what you always did walking anywhere in the city in case the police needed a spotless report. His watch was silver, his shirt dark gray with a rounded neckline, his pants were black and lightly pleated. He smelled like smoked honey, and it was so deep even a hundred washes couldn't take it all out, in case he tried to play it off as some other guy, in some other outfit, in some other alley.

He soaked up your studying, making sure to keep as casually still as possible for you to get your read on him. Outside of the suit even he felt it a bit unsettling out here. As you scanned his outfit he flashed back to the tattered denim around your ankles, and how he held the same frame, the same power. Every defense melted from him in an instant. Standing wasn't going to do, was it?

Bruce sank to his knees, balanced a hand in front of him on the chunky concrete, and sat his ass flat in a mucky, lukewarm puddle. When he looked up at you he relaxed his shoulders, and took firm control to slow his breathing. The dilation in your eyes quickly shrank, the wide fear in your face washed away to pointed confusion. He tucked each leg under the other for good, deescalating measure.

Criss-cross applesauce. You blurted out a laugh that sounded more like a maniacal shriek, or some sound a seagull squawked. It was reflexive, coming more from the juxtaposition of the scene in front of you than anything light and humorous. Yesterday you'd scrolled through hundreds of fanfic blurbs and imagines about how distinguished, classy, and inaccessible the man was—if only they got a load of this. For the first time you'd ever seen him he seemed to embrace a speck of humility. You felt a wash of embarrassment at him acting so docile, unable to stop ruminating on how perceptive and analytical he was. You knew he sensed your fear, and it fucked you up.

"My head was jumbled that night. I didn't intend to find you, I was trying to find something on my own. But," His inhale was quick and deep. "I don't know how much I trust my perception anymore. When I saw you, I wanted you to help reality test my, sanity." He spoke the word with a deep sigh and rapid blinking. A slight scraping sound scored his words, anxiously picking at his nails, squeezing the tips of his fingers until they were blushed scarlet.

Sanity? When you peered more intently (which was possible only by him breaking eye contact) you noticed a slight tremble in him. Now your brow furrowed, desperate to pin down Bruce Wayne's thing. More than anything he seemed to be a chameleon, able to slip in and out of any situation through altering his behavior and appearance. You didn't want to be convinced too easily, knowing full well this too could be a ruse. Some final plea to empathy to guarantee you wouldn't tell before leaving forever, and his hail mary a show of humility. "Why would you need that tested?"

He peered up at you; when your eyes locked again that weird, illegal sensation gripped you once more. Could charisma and manipulation be this intense? Be translated only through agonizing eye contact? "Have you seen any owls around?" His words were barely above a whisper, and you had to strain your ears to hear, nearly forcing you to step closer. Owls? "Like the bird? Owls?"

He nodded. "But drawings. Etchings. In any jewelry, windows, streets, buildings, pins, papers?" Jesus, his eye contact... fucking piercing. Nothing rang a bell to you. You didn't know if they even had real, live owls in Gotham, but no, you hadn't seen any drawings, jewelry, anything owl-themed. Come to think of it, you really hadn't seen one since you were a child, on a school trip, or out camping. You shook your head, the confusion and loss in your body language flitting pain across his face. If this was an act, he was convincing, you'd give him that. The bags under his eyes, the tremble in his torso and hands, the desperate searching in his eyes as he tried to enter your soul through your eye-sockets. He averted his eyes again, and you could breathe. "I think I'm hallucinating them. That night I saw Vry wearing one again, and..." Why was he spilling all of it out to you?

Again? You'd never seen her wear anything with an owl on it. He paused and heaved more breaths, as if it were torturous for him to tell you these things, and maybe it was. How comfortable would I feel saying this to him?

The rest of that night spilled out of him, and it felt about as outside his conscious control as vomiting, and equally pleasant. "When I came home Alfred was... concerned. He showed me the death reports on my great grandfather, and the same thing happened to him. Hallucinating owls." He spit these words out like they were knives. "Right before he died." He crossed his arms over his shoulders in a makeshift hug, squeezing tightly as his now unfocused eyes stared absently down the alleyway.

Oh. Your first instinct was to hug him. He looked so decidedly small... maybe his charm was working, and you resigned to stay put. He sighed again, his shoulders going stiffly up and down with it. "Now I'm here. And you gave me your answer." He looked deep in thought, burrowed in it. Hallucinations? His great grandfather, right before he died? The two pieces didn't quite fit together for you; sure, he was stoic and antisocial, but he... when you came up with nothing more, you remembered how little you truly knew about him. He could've hid any symptoms easily from you, only having to be 'on' for two hours a week, a small handful of times. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to interview. Maybe that's why it's hard for him to speak about his family.

Scuffling, clamoring sounds muffled in the background alarmed Bruce, which alarmed you. He stood up swiftly. "It's paparazzi." His wide eyes were back on you, he looked like a deer in the barrel of a gun. He glanced behind you as if studying where he could run to. The butt of his pants and the back of his shirt were alight with mud, his hair mussed, collar of his sweater askew. You could practically hear the headlines if they caught the both of you.

He couldn't just ask you to follow him, not after you'd been so hesitant of it in the past, not in the middle of the dark evening, not when you were whizzing through unmarked alleys. Not a chance you would go for it. As much as he didn't do bribes, he was thinking about how much cash he had in his wallet and if the paps would go for it. Maybe he could ask you to leave, run to the end of the alleyway and turn different directions, and you’d be spared their invasion.

Your apartment was just three blocks further and your keycard let you into the parking garage. He'd know where you lived for one night, and far from the room you lived in... "C'mon." You motioned for him to follow and turned north, focusing on the weight of your heels as you ran so you didn't slip. You thanked yourself for sticking to shorter heels than Mar had recommended. Gotham even makes it hard to run away.

He also wondered how you could run in heels for the few seconds he was behind you, wondering how you weren't laid flat by a twisted ankle. Maybe he was just too anxious, his legs too rubbery. His feet were catching on every pothole and clump of rock.

Wordlessly, you both arrived not two minutes later to the parking garage. The streets were so dark he was easily camouflaged, and when there had been a car with particularly bright lights you'd paused and stood in front of him; you couldn't tell if he was annoyed by this or not, as you were still wanting to engage with him as little as possible. You had boxes to pack, Mar to hound for an answer, and the debilitating fear and confusion of starting over with no idea what to do with your life. Much to look forward to.

When the garage doors shut, he spoke. "Thanks. I'll call Alfred for a lift in a few minutes." He found a raised yellow parking block and sat down quickly, immediately placing his head back in his hands. This couldn't be happening. You'd acted so confused when he asked that, there was no way you'd seen anything like it. He was dumb to think it was anywhere but outside his head. Vry hadn't even glanced down at the ring, Gordon didn't even care to mention it likely because it wasn't there... jesus.

Your heels in his periphery reminded him he wasn't alone, and could save the spiral for later. He watched as you mindlessly kicked at pebbles and toyed with the phone in your hands. Why did you help him? Was it pity? He thought he was coming off pretty pathetic, desperate even. Shame burned white-hot in his gut. Why did he run after you? Why'd he tell you? Why couldn't he just believe what was right in front of him: he was sick, in the same way, the proof was quite literally sitting atop Alfred's desk as he sat here avoiding it. He stood abruptly, and a haze of dizziness struck him. He ignored it. "I'm sorry for asking you. For following after you." As much as he was physically here right now, he wasn't. Lost in twisting thoughts, a sudden desire to draw up a bucket list, to plan for handing over Wayne Enterprises in case things didn't help, in case—

You shrugged, not knowing quite what to say with the stale silence. "It's fine."

"The interview." He gestured to your hand, which was still gripping the recorder and journal tightly. He livened his posture, his tone, trying to deflect from the vulnerability he'd let slip out of him, teetering on the edge of a panic attack. "We can finish it if you'd like."

The disappointment at having to come to Dr. Vry's office the next morning empty-handed was gone now, and you were more upset hearing him give you another opportunity. You'd prepped yourself to distract with the last perishables in your freezer (a pint or two of Ben and Jerry's and whatever else you could muster eating so it wouldn't be thrown out) while you splayed out in bed watching something on streaming. The thought of such a task now... You shook your head and looked away from him. "You don't have to do that. She'll be fine, I don't ever have to see her again after, so."

"Are you sure? We can do it now, I don't mind." He sounded so genuine, suspiciously so, but you had no time to investigate or tease. You thought about how it would feel to be back in your room tomorrow night empty-handed with absolutely nothing having come from your time here. The thought was harrowing. Your degree was useless in this economy, Mar wasn't answering, and you'd gotten on the bad side of one of the most powerful men in America.

You needed anything you could get, and an interview with a notable figure was far from grasping at straws; it would give you a bit of a boost, something to put on a resume that could give you a much-needed leg-up over the competition... but trying to pull answers out of him would be a Herculean task. You stood awkwardly, looking vaguely in his direction. "You didn't really have answers for me before."

"I'll come up with something. Hit me." Anything to deflect from impromptu, hastily-shared vulnerabilities.

You looked around for a place to set the recorder, until you placed it on the ground. You pulled your knee up to rest the journal on it, but the balancing act had you hopping around nearly crunching the apparatus as you regained balance. Using a car window, bumper, or hood wouldn't do; you'd bumped into a few cars down here before, and they were uber sensitive... there was just no way. Would it be so bad if he knew where I lived for one night? The windows didn't open very well, he couldn't exactly swing in. The door was heavy and loud, and you'd be able to grab some sort of knife if he tried coming in the middle of the night. Christ... "We can go up to my apartment for a few, I guess." Get this over with. Finally! Done! Fucking done! Please!

"I don't want to intrude." He stood up slowly from the parking block, you didn't have any reserve in your patience to humor him. "I've got a fridge of perishables to eat through, if you can help me with that you'll do me a favor." You walked towards the elevator and heard his light footsteps follow. You felt a bit bad for him. His confession had been markedly vulnerable, and the box swiftly shut. Mar called them your 'mediator tendencies'; no matter how shitty you felt someone was, if they showed any meekness whatsoever you desired to soothe them like a sick, stray cat.

It was strange how quietly you both walked into your apartment. You flipped on your singular lamp, walked to the freezer, and had him choose a pint. Wordlessly he picked one, and within thirty seconds he was standing in your bedroom while you readied your things, popping open some Cherry Garcia. After you'd popped open your journal, clicked the pen, and positioned the recorder in his direction, you looked up to see him eyeing your armchair in the corner. His eyes flit back to yours and he immediately cast his eyes to the ground. "Ready." He nodded, but you didn't believe it.

You looked over to the armchair you'd sat in last night, feverishly finalizing these notes. Your mouth tugged into a slight grin. Bruce Wayne in the plush pink chair. You nodded your head toward it and he walked quickly, his legs taking long, sweeping, easy strides. He was extra tall with your heels off, plopped down on your mattress looking up at him. But as he walked past you noticed the gray, brown soak on his back, and hopped up. "I'll get a towel, wait." You trekked to the bathroom and grabbed your last clean one, groaning over why you'd bought white. Upon entering the doorway you tossed it to him, and it caught on the end of the spoon still in his mouth. He winced as a clack sounded, and you stifled a laugh. Even if he was being more humanoid tonight, he was still him.

Your bed felt extra warm after the cool bathroom tile, even with the chill of Bruce in the room. He broke the silence, which surprised you enough to turn toward him. He sat, looking about ten spoons deep into the pint. "I've never had ice cream like this." His brow was furrowed, much too seriously for the situation. You wanted to cackle again, but barely held it in by squeezing your fingers together. He sighed. "Alfred only gets Breyer's. Plain."

Maybe it was a coping mechanism, maybe it was your body dissociating from the stress of the rest of the night, of leaving, of a man you so disliked and so feared sitting alone in your apartment while you were otherwise defenseless, but you broke into furious laughter. You wanted to question him further but you couldn't. You fell onto your back and held your stomach. You couldn't see him but you knew he still had that look on his face, the one he always had with you. That bewildered, annoyed, specific fucking face. Stomach cramps plagued your fun, slowing your uproar and letting you sit back up to face him. A fucking pint? Of ice cream? He talked about it like it was alien. You made the mistake of glancing your eyes up to his, and he was making that face. You scrunched your face together tight, feeling like it was getting to the point of bullying the man.

"What?" Defiance coated his tone. He'd never seen you laugh like that, or really, at all. He shoved another cherry chunk into his mouth to abate his own grin. He didn't understand what was so funny, but it felt funny. You shook your head and picked up your pen. "It's funny because it's such a simple thing, and Breyer's is, that's, I don't know." The humor of it was beginning to leave you, and you heaved a sigh to recenter. "Are you ready to start it?"

"Are you?" He gestured with the spoon and you used every muscle in your face and stomach to reign in another laugh. His defiance had melted a bit. His next scoop sounded like it scraped the bottom, and you looked over, shocked. "Already?"

"Pints are deceptively small." He sat the empty cardboard on the desk beside him. "Not like Breyer's." The ghost of a snicker, the faintest smile tempted his lips. He cleared his throat. He played it off by biting the inside of his cheek. "You said you wanted me to clear it out...?"

You thought of the second pint sitting in your freezer, and signed it away to him in your mind. "Sure, get the other one." A moment later he was taking the lid off of a pint of Half-Baked. You waited for him to get situated and hovered above RECORD. "Can we start?"

He nodded, unable to speak as he chowed down, but he was moving the rest of the dessert off to his left. You pored over the questions left unanswered and unsaid, pain cinching your chest. This evening was so erratic. Frenzied. Fucking weird. You pressed the button and cleared your throat; it always made you anxious when the button hit, even when you did roleplays in class. It felt like signing a legal document, like someone could pore over your recording and read into every little thing. Dr. Vry had told the class to treat journalistic recordings with utmost integrity and professionalism, because if your name ever got called into question it could be incredible evidence to get you out of a tight spot, keeping your name and slate clean from people who may not have liked how they came off.

"Mr. Wayne." You felt uncomfortable saying it, but that's how it had to be done. "The public knows a great deal about your business ventures, your family history, and other professional pursuits. I want to dive a bit more into the personal. What do you hope to accomplish in your personal life, outside of career aspirations?"

Christ, he really didn't have an answer for that one. But he said he would, and after masking his mounting anxiety as 'thinking', he pulled something semi-accurate out of a lot of jumbled nothing. It felt strange to speak so formally, his voice twisting into shapes only ever bouncing off the walls of city hall. "I've put a lot of emphasis on helping Gotham; if I had to say, I would like to..." Nothing. It wasn't genuine. He hoped to eradicate violent crime in Gotham, but unless they knew he was also Batman, that would just be another career aspiration. Was Batman a career? He'd never thought of him that way. He didn't fully look up at you but he could see you glancing at him from the corner of his eye. Doesn't have to be genuine. More of a family name thing than anything. "In the next decade, start a family. Then live out the latter half of my years raising my children."

You stared at him, blank-faced. The way he'd choked that out was brutal; his face scrunched, his hands clenched over his knees, his foot was tapping obnoxiously against the ground... cool it, Y/N. Be grateful he's even doing this for you. You moved on to the next, then. You would've rather sliced off the edge of your tongue than ask this, but he'd tempted the topic and you'd deliver for all the teenagers in the world who thought they had a chance with the guy plastered to their wall. Be professional. "It's a question often posed in the comments of Scypher and across other social medias: are you currently in a romantic relationship? And if not, what do you look for in a partner?" Dr. Vry always said to throw in a 'smoothie' to every interview: something digestible and flashy to get the clicks, but still relevant. Something in popular discourse, Gen-Z. You didn't really know if she knew anything about 'Gen-Z' but—Bruce was staring at you, looking insulted. You shrugged and mouthed to him People want to know making him roll his eyes and sit stiffer in the chair. "Not at the moment. Currently very focused on getting through this election campaign and the Spring budget rollout."

Wonder how Scypher's gonna take that. You noted he refused to answer the latter half of your question, but the recording felt like a tight leash, giving no slack for side conversation. "Speaking about the campaign, The Gotham Times has speculated that you might have a mayoral stint in the future. Any plans?" This one should be easy for him.

"You never know." He let out a strained laugh you could tell was only meant to be transcribed in the article. Had he been media trained? He couldn't have... maybe when he was younger? Do little kids get media training? "My father would have made an incredible mayor. I fear I could never live up to that." He wasn't giving you anything extra; sitting there, still, looking the same as he did all evening with a bit more sweat, water, and wind having embraced him. Stoic. Unapproachable.

You checked the time; it was almost eight. You had to have enough time to write this, finalize it enough for the fucking world to see it, and have enough sleep to drive fifteen hours to get home just after midnight. "What's something that you wish more people knew about you?"

It was at precisely this point that he remembered he was debuting a new persona, a different persona, one that needed to be hyped up, more performative than genuine. The same refrain from the earlier conversation blurted out of him. Only after saying it did he realize you wouldn't get the reference, because you hadn't been in the group he was talking to. "Besides my appreciation for jetting to Dubai to work on my physique?" When you had no reaction but a dead stare, he rushed to explain, stopping just shy of anything escaping his mouth. The recorder in the corner sat like a menacing god. He gestured at it until you gave in and flipped it OFF. He waited for the red light to disappear completely to speak. "Do you, have questions written?" He was flustered, and noticed you fiddle with a beige paper when he said it. "I prefer writing things out."

Unconventional, sure, but it was hard to hide your laughs and even harder to witness him break his brain trying to concoct verbal responses. He spoke again. "Underline the questions you want me to answer." He was too embarrassed to act out Bruce Wayne in front of you, and too much was at stake to toss the boyish banter to the side. You felt the nervousness emanating off of him; how worried about ethicality could you be when you'd initially blackmailed him into doing it anyway? You acceded to him. "Sure." He buried the shock at your swift accommodation deep in his chest. As you underlined, you made sure to keep to the questions least interesting to you and most generalizable to the interests of the public. Who liked Bruce Wayne? Besides the many thirsting after him and the older people who had been enamored with his philanthropic parents, he catered to businessmen—people who thought if they only idolized him enough, they could become him.

Many thought your reclusive nature was due to hatred of the city that so cruelly took your parents, yet you seem to still have a passion for Gotham; what drives that passion?

As a burgeoning philanthropist, what was your 'aha' moment?

You're a very hands-on person. Does this drive your enthusiasm?

You do a lot of traveling?

How does your public-facing life now compare to your more private one before?

What do you think is the biggest challenge facing Gotham City today?

What values are fundamental to you, and why?

What's your favorite way to unwind?

As a celebrity from birth, how do you handle criticism?

What's a book that you'd recommend? Anything you're reading right now?

What do you believe in that others might not?

What's your favorite quality about yourself? Least favorite?

How do you spend your weekends?

What is your idea of happiness?

Any weird habits?

What's the best piece of advice you've been given?

You kept the rest untouched. Light, easy to format, mix of depths. Exasperation threatened to derail you completely; if they'd wanted a better interview, they should've cornered Bruce Wayne in a public setting themselves. You hopped off the bed and handed the journal, paper, and pen to him. "I have to finish packing. Lemme know when you're done." Being close to him felt like being on fire, and you splashed your face with cool water from the kitchen sink as soon as you escaped the deoxygenated room.

You meandered, wandered, skipped from wall to wall of your living room, occasionally stopping by for some grapes, a bite of apple, or a sip from the two different juices open in your fridge. Folded the blanket that was over your couch, stacked the pillows, rolled up the rug. Put all the silverware and dishes in a box, save the ones you would use in the morning for some last-minute snacking. Packed away some cans from the pantry, disassembled the lamp, dining table, and two of four dining chairs (why did you ever think you'd need that many?) before Bruce appeared with the journal in one hand, the empty ice cream in the other. "Finished." He set the journal and ice cream on the kitchen island's edge. His voice was low, his expression tired. He gestured with a nod of his head to the two standing chairs. "Need help?"

You wanted to say no out of some misplaced sense of feminism, but you needed to get writing ASAP. By now it was past nine, long past when you thought you'd start. "I just need these two broken down." In a blink he was knelt down beside you, expertly wielding the thick wood legs like he'd telepathically scanned the crumpled manual at your feet. In just a few more blinks he had the entire chair broken down and placed nicely on top of the other two. Without pause he shifted his weight toward the other chair, and within thirty seconds it was broken down. Each chair had taken you ten minutes at least. You bristled, but your curiosity outweighed the jealousy. "How do you do that so quickly?"

His voice was low, emotionless. Even less than usual. "I'm used to fixing things."

You bit back a snarky retort. This isn't fixing them, it's... You stood and walked to grab the journal while he heaved (well, very easily, like carrying an empty plate to the sink) the pile of wood into the large box with the other pieces. He started turning to face you and the rest of the room, and you quickly snapped the journal open to skim it. Your eyes bulged when your thumb kept turning page, after page, after page. You glanced up at him to see him studying your reaction. "Is it acceptable?"

Acceptable? He'd given you a damn dissertation. "Yeah, I mean," You kept flipping pages and noticed questions you hadn't underlined answered. You flipped more, more, and noticed he'd answered every one. The hour hadn't been long at all, if this was the case. "You didn't have to answer every one, I can't fit them all in." Shit, he'd even answered that one? You hurriedly shut the journal before you could dive too deep into whatever swirled around his head. "Um, thank you." Heat tinged your cheeks. "You didn't have to do that, you didn't have to do any of this, really." Had he written them to actually help you, or was he trying to make you feel guilty? Every passing minute you spent with him only added to his mystique.

He shrugged, just as emotionless and guarded, but somehow emptier. "I figured. Now you have options."

Now the both of you were at a standstill. You'd finally gotten what you wanted. "I'll have to take some artistic liberty on how things were expressed. Fill in some exposition."

He nodded. Stayed still as a statue in the back of your living room, the glow of the kitchen lights lighting half his face.

You skimmed the column requirements internally, making sure you didn't conjure up a question the second he left forever. "You seemed to be acting... social, and laughing. Do you want me to go toward that?" This wasn't usually what happened—usually you wrote what you saw.

His blue eyes were bright and heavy. "Use your best judgement." His eyes darted around the mostly empty room, and you wondered if he was picking up on microscopic hairs on the ground, x-raying through the walls, photographing everything with one look. He existed in uncharted territory between normal and superhuman. You rocked from side to side to self-soothe, anxiety bubbling in your gut. "Anything else you need help packing?"

Your head shake came before you'd even thought about if it was true. "I'm good."

Almost invisibly, he cocked an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Another autopilot response. "Yeah. Thanks though." This whole exchange felt surreal, between the weight of his presence and the weight of the column. You couldn't submit to your anxieties until you'd finished typing it or you'd freeze into a ball of overwhelm. Bruce walked toward your door with a slower, steadier gait, almost lingering, but there was no way you could internalize that. He doesn't want to stay, he wants to get the fuck out of here. How much restraint is it taking for him not to just bolt and say 'sayonara'?

... did you want him to linger? "Bruce." He turned across his shoulder, with his hand on the doorknob.

"Thanks again. This will really help me out. And the money, I'm still mad you didn't talk to me, that's messed up but," Quick, sharp exhale. "It's really helping my family." In the silence after, you wanted to tell him she was starting a new treatment, you wanted to tell him how it was going, you wanted to talk to him. After this you'd never see each other again, and it was... affecting. You still thought it was a bribe, you still thought it was to help you keep quiet, you still thought he was scary, and unnerving, and spoiled. But he hadn't hurt you yet.

He nodded, feeling like a 'you're welcome' would've been sorely misplaced. Seeing you stand in your kitchen, heels off, hair messy, dress wrinkled from cleaning, it all felt so normal. He felt an insanely persuasive urge to move toward that, to bathe in it, to finally let his chest relax, his shoulders drop and escape into everyday nothingness. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." The sound of both your voices in the abject silence was isolated and stark.

"Why do you hate Gotham?"

You fought the urge to sigh at him opening the can of worms again. "I'm just not built for it." He stared at you like you hadn't said a thing, his expression unchanged, still as a stump. You feared if you shrugged again your shoulders would pinch a nerve. "It's too fast. Can't keep up."

He squinted. "You can be honest."

"I am." But you quickly lost the defensiveness. "I have a friend here who loves it. She's thriving, she's not phased. But..." You stared at the wall beside him floating somewhere between here and Washington. The length of today, last night, and tomorrow was weighing on you. If you thought about this much longer you'd crumble back into your existential crisis. You didn't finish your sentence.

Bruce didn't know why his stomach clenched seeing you look sad, much like he didn't know why he'd felt the same pang at city hall... before you'd blackmailed him. But now you'd already done that, the interview was done, you were leaving the next morning, and the sensitivity remained. "What?" His voice was gentler, warmer. Your throat constricted, preparing for tears you begged your body to suppress. "She's tougher than I am."

He didn't miss a beat with his response. "You seem pretty tough to me."

"Yeah, sure." Please leave. I'm about to cry.

He was lingering, and at this point he fully knew it. He hadn't realized that, if he was successful with his newfound persona, no one else would ever know his identity. The thought was sobering, seeing how he'd taken for granted someone else knowing. The second he stepped out of the room he had no one to go to ever again outside of Alfred, and with his age... he'd be resigned to spending the rest of his life alone. Why was he worried about this? Why was he thinking about this?

He noticed the tears welling in your eyes. Was it your mom?

"What?"

Shit. The stress of the evening was wearing on him. He didn't make mistakes like that. "You don't have to answer that."

He'd said it like he hadn't intended to. His eyes searched the ground like he was searching for a way out. What the fuck's the harm in it now? The tears had been beckoned, you knew he saw you shaking... you almost gave in, but you couldn't even chance a look up at him under such wuthering eye contact, let alone talk about the complicated, insidious grief that was your mom's illness. You shook your head at him and leaned your hip against the counter, hoping he wouldn't say another word, praying he would just leave. Your heart raced, and only sped up further when you saw him take a step toward you. "Stop. I'm fine." It came out harsher than you intended, and you only doubled down on it when you saw his brow furrow through the crest of tears threatening to cascade past your waterline.

He wouldn't stop staring at you. You decided to face his eye contact unflinchingly, letting the tears stream down your cheeks without comment. His eyes squinted slightly, following the path of each tear down your cheek as if he were caressing each one, holding its weight, soothing it. His chest puffed like he was drawing in air to speak, and you intercepted, shame pummeling you indiscriminately. Fuck, his presence made you feel so vulnerable, so seen, it was excruciating and untenable. On impulse, you lashed out. "Can you just leave already?"

He looked away and nodded. You could barely see through drowning tears but he looked ruffled, sensitive, a bit upset. Almost like he was kicking himself for letting the question slip at all. He turned and opened the door to the empty, dark hallway, with its smattering of tiny nightlights an inch above the carpet. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, white-knuckling gut-wrenching sobs away. He paused halfway out the door, and your ears strained for any whisper from him, but nothing came. The click of the front door dropped you to your knees, choking out cries and stifling pained screams. The devastating loneliness was inescapably stitched into your side, stomping its dirty, muddy feet all over the parts of you that clung to hope.

In the same instant, the shame intensified; not only did you feel shameful feeling so vulnerable in front of Bruce fucking Wayne, the shame of casting him aside and being so curt mingled with severe FOMO of being able to tell someone who was willing to listen. He was willing to listen to me, and I fucked it. When will anyone else be willing to listen? You shoved yourself up off your knees and flung yourself toward the door, whipping it open to look down the hallway.

Silence. Unadulterated, empty halls. Punch to the gut.

You woke up the next morning plagued by the weight of the night before. After the sob session, you’d spent the next few hours typing, editing, formatting, and finally printing it at the 24 hour office a few floors below you. A solid hour was spent just reading through all of what he had written in your notebook: not only had he answered every question, he had given multiple paragraphs of answers to a few of them. Some of his answers had been so transparent you had to flip pages before more guilt visited about turning him away so coldly. What is your most treasured memory? was answered with this:

I remember camping with my parents once. It was the only time we went out as family in private. It was by a river, and I couldn't sleep because of the rushing water. My father woke up and walked me to it; we sat there in the grassy, dirty rock, and everything went quiet. He talked to me about the current, told me how it eroded the rocks underneath, pointed his flashlight at trout jumping above water. He let me dip my feet in, and I clung to his hand. It was steadying. I looked up and saw the stars—you can't see them in Gotham. It was the first time I felt real. I could see the size of the universe. He toweled off my feet before getting back into the tent. The next morning he got called for surgery, and we left. I asked him to come back, and he promised we would. Two weeks later they died. I haven't felt that feeling since. I cherish it.

You couldn't even think about publishing that. Most of it was relatively benign besides, as he answered much of the 'deeper' questions through the new playboy lens, talking extensively about yachting, spas, hunting trips, tennis, and other activities of the elite. The only other ones you'd felt had any real truth to them was What do you hope you grow out of? (He hoped to grow out of needing to 'save' everyone, which felt like a Freudian slip it was so candid), and the one that had caught your eye last night: What, if anything, makes you nervous? You were surprised he spoke frankly still; he was nervous about going to events, nervous when he put on the suit (that shocked you), and generally only didn't feel nervous when he was home with Alfred.

Except, there had been a question he left entirely unanswered: Say it's the end of the world: how would you spend your last day? You couldn't read too much into it before you slipped the copy into your backpack and set off to campus.

Dr. Vry will be thrilled. Finally, the first interview with Bruce Wayne! Finally, the journalism department could be saved! Huzzah! You snickered to yourself as you scurried through the last few blocks. Every footstep felt like a simultaneous step toward freedom and to the gallows; freedom from Gotham, imprisoned in small-town America destined to float around from dead-end job to dead-end job, with no friends and, potentially sooner rather than later, no family to show for it either.

Steps, steps, and more steps, then the old familiar hallway. I've made her happy. I did what I said I would. This is exactly what she wanted. You were stopped in your tracks by a spectacled man in the doorway of Dr. Vry's office. He looked over and motioned for you to come in, looking busied and lost in thought, even as he finished his sentence to her. Dr. Vry nodded for you to take the chair across from her, and you sidled past the stranger to slip into the seat. Like a switch flipped, all eyes aimed at you before you could even adjust in the seat. They stared at you a moment, and you held out your folder, plopping it neatly on the desk in front of her. You opened your mouth to tell her you'd gotten the interview, but the man intercepted. The folder laid untouched between you and your former professor.

"Ms. Y/L/N. My name is Dr. Jonathan Crane, I'm the lead psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. I wanted to meet with you this morning to discuss an urgent matter." He held out a stiff hand, and it was cold when you touched it; clinical, transactional. Thoughts swirled in the backrooms of your mind of how much warmer and more inviting Bruce's handshake was. You wondered what a psychiatrist was needed for; you stifled a chuckle thinking Dr. Vry was going to try therapizing you to persuade you to stay. Except the room was grim and heavy, and the silence weighed fifteen tons. You nodded at the both of them, your eyes shifting between in search of words that would close the chasm between what they knew and you didn't.

Dr. Crane took a horrifyingly deep breath, so deep there was a shudder at the end of his inhale. "Before we begin, this is highly confidential information that must be handled with the utmost care. In that spirit, in order to share this with you it is necessary to sign an NDA." The man with startlingly blue eyes unsheathed a stapled collection of papers from his bag that sat against the leg of the desk. The top of the paper read: RELEASE OF PERSONAL HEALTH INFORMATION – HIPAA REQUIREMENTS.

Dr. Vry nodded at you and bowed out of the room, saying she would be back as soon as 'Crane' welcomed her back inside. As soon as she shut the door, Dr. Crane announced he was going to be locking the door, and if you consented. You agreed, tentatively, adrenaline beginning to tense your muscles to fight. After the door clicked and the lock turned, he sat down a white noise machine by the door. "To enhance privacy." He gestured for you to look over the small packet, and you obliged.

There was a section underneath the title which had options, and one checked: If patient does not consent to release of records but professional judgement necessitates a duty to warn. Another box was checked underneath it, too: Imminent risk of harm to self or others. Your name was listed under the section Affected Parties, for which there were only two lines. The name right above yours: Alfred Pennyworth.

You looked up with your mouth fallen halfway open. "I don't..."

"You do not have to sign, but this ensures we stay as trauma-informed as possible for our vulnerable patients. This document simply states that you will not share or discuss this information with anyone outside of myself. The line for signature is on the third page." You skimmed the large-printed paper, and didn't see anything of note. You signed, but your signature was shaky, scrambled.

"Thank you, Ms. Y/L/N. We will make this quick, and I will only share information relevant to you." He stashed the document and took Dr. Vry's seat across from you. He looked very psychological, if someone could even look that way. Rectangular, rimless glasses in sterile steel; a scholarly suit that you'd imagine someone teaching at some place like Oxford would be outfit in. Brown blazer, white collared shirt tucked under a chunky knit sweater, a red tie peeking out. His fingernails were clean and trim, his face entirely smooth like he weren't even capable of growing a beard. You wrung your hands under the table, nervous that he was psychoanalyzing you as you both sat. His eye contact was unwavering; if you thought Bruce's was intimidating, this was terrifying. He didn't even blink.

"In preface, this is not an investigation. We are keeping things very close to the chest for the time being. We do not think you at fault for last night's events, this is purely an attempt at safety planning." By this point you were feeling dizzy. Heart-pounding. He paused too long, this wasn't right. Just as you were about to burst and shout for him to SPEAK, he clasped his hands together gently above the table and sighed. "Late last night at just past 10pm, Mr. Wayne attempted suicide."

You went still, tinnitus loud between your ears, fuzzing up the edges of your vision. He continued, as if you weren't visibly unable to process new information in such shock. "He's currently in the medical ward at Arkham receiving treatment. He'll be fine, for now."

The for now sat like a boulder in your gut. You sat further up in the chair and leaned your head down, bile rising in your throat. I'm gonna vomit. And vomit. And keep vomiting. You tried to speak but nothing came out, not even a squeak. Bruce had seemed sad when he left, sure, but he always seemed sad. Nothing alerted you to danger, but... you thought back to how he plopped down in the puddle, how weird the city hall meeting felt with him, the desperate humility tinging his aura and painting his behavior. A personality change. Suddenly you felt like an idiot. You felt like an idiot not taking more care when he opened up to you, not seeing it for what it was. His lingering. Was it a last-ditch effort toward connection? For someone to intervene? The unanswered question, you snapping at him... your gut knotted with guilt; you felt woozy. "I could've saved him, I met with him, I talked to him,"

"Hey." Dr. Crane reached out and placed a hand on your trembling wrist. "You couldn't have known." He gave a small grin that didn't reach his eyes. He had no smile lines there at all, actually. God, your mind swirled. "I know that he met with you, he told me. That's why I'm here, you were the last point of contact."

Your eyes snapped up to his from the now bloody hangnail you'd picked off during this conversation. He hadn't called Alfred for a ride? The thought of him leaving your apartment to wander around downtown, suicidal... fuck. Crane didn't waste time getting to the point. "He asked to see you. Multiple times, in fact. He said you worked for the Gazette, and I got in contact with Janay this morning."

"He wants me to see him?" Your face was scrunched with concern, your body vibrating with grief. Why would he want to see me? I was a fucking jerk. I probably pushed him over the edge, fuck, fuck. What did he do? Why did he do it? "What did he, what did he do?"

Dr. Crane shook his head. "I cannot disclose specifics unless he gives explicit consent. I only came here to safety plan."

Safety plan. He said that again. "What does that mean? You want me to see him?"

"Not quite." He adjusted his glasses and leaned closer. "It appears he's been in a mental decline for some time. He needs treatment, and in the meantime we need you to help monitor his safety."

He could see by your visible confusion you didn't have half the information you needed to make an informed decision. "I'm definitely not trained for that," Yeah, you weren't, but he didn't know that you were worried you had actively made his suicidality worse.

"If you agree, I will personally ensure you receive deescalation training and psychoeducation around psychotic disorders. You'll have my number, and if anything goes awry, I will respond swiftly and immediately."

It wasn't clicking. Why me? What about Alfred? But you were afraid to ask. Why had he asked for you in the first place? Why did he try to kill himself at all? Was it something you said? Something you didn't say? Was that insatiable urge to hug him a fucking cry from the universe to fucking do something?

"Janay informed me you were leaving your post here, and that you permanently reside outside of Gotham." Dr. Crane put a hand on the tabletop and peered at you with piercingly blue eyes. They were icy, and cold. Is that even legal for her to give out? "I say this with utmost delicacy, Ms. Y/L/N; you are at no fault for his self-injurious behavior, but my clinical judgement paired with his trauma history leads me to believe your leaving pushed him over the edge." He leaned in closer to you, his expression clinical, distant, with a tinge of rehearsed compassion from a one-week training on bedside manner.

Discordant guilt flushed through you. It wasn't your fault, but it was? You weren't at fault, but something you did made him decide to take his own life? "If he needs to be watched, I can't do that, he wouldn't even want that, I'm not trained," Hot, salty tears stung your lash line as your anxieties poured out of you. "I don't know him, I don't know how to help him,"

"You may not think so, but as far as his next-of-kin explained, he doesn't have many social contacts. You seem of particular importance to him." He glanced at the folder discarded on the table. "Even trusting you to give his first interview, impressive."

You sat, slumped in the cold, hard chair. The thoughts had quieted to a fuzzy, helpless sensation, but nothing concrete outside of the gripping, visceral feeling of I fucked up. Dr. Crane spoke again. "Believe me, this is certainly unconventional. However, his status as a public figure is critical context. He is refusing long-term care, and after the 24 hour hold there's nothing we can do to prevent this happening again."

"What about therapy, medication?"

"That's the very issue we've run into and why your cooperation is imperative. Mr. Wayne is refusing any medical intervention. As far as my assessment goes, he is not answering the risk assessments honestly. He's a smart man, knows how to work the system. I'm concerned if you do not agree to this, there will be nothing we can do to save the last member of the Wayne estate."

At this point you felt as if you were floating above your body. The stakes were too high, everywhere. Too high with your mom, too high with this, too high with the interview. How were you critically involved in the continuation of both Bruce Wayne's life and a major department at one of the biggest universities in the country? Anger boiled up in you, overtaking the shock and sadness. You were helpless; how were you supposed to say no? Whenever you stepped into this room you were made to feel like you had all the power in the world, yet you were so quickly discarded if you tried to take up any actual space. He sensed a clear shift, because he spoke up quickly. "This time is crucial and temporary. I have reason to believe that after no more than a few weeks, he will be able to stabilize with medication-assisted therapy. Then your post is finished."

"You want me to convince him to get help?"

"Precisely." He pushed up his glasses with his pointer finger.

"What about the other name on the form? Alfred Pennyworth?" Would be weird to name him as his butler.

Dr. Crane sighed, like he was giving up information he really didn't want to share. "I met with Mr. Pennyworth last night upon Mr. Wayne's arrival from Gotham General. I'm afraid he's already been trying to convince him for many months to begin therapy; Mr. Pennyworth worried that might have been a trigger in itself."

Fear ballooned in you. "Then wouldn't it be the same for me? I know him even less, I really don't think a single interview signifies..." you trailed off. How is me going to one city hall meeting a week enough? Does he know how often I see him? You imagined Bruce alone in some dark room, the walls covered in soft, spongy material. Chained to a bed. If those dark thoughts crept in again, at any other point in the week, there would be nothing you could do. You were afraid the responsibility of keeping him alive would consume you, and if it didn't succeed... christ. No matter what anyone told you, no matter if a higher power came down and denied your fault themselves, you'd never be able to forgive yourself.

Dr. Crane's face was grim, and he spoke like you'd already signed the dotted line. "All you can do is try.”

[spider-stark]

A DARK AGE

next part

summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, gwen stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. i will do my best to place warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please read at your own risk.

word count - 10.3k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts //

THE BUGLE was buzzing to life in a way it hadn’t in ages. Landlines were ringing off the hook, accentuated by a chorus of email and text notifications crying out from every cell phone in the building. As you stepped out of the elevator you found yourself staring at a sea of amateur reporters, all of them gathering on the far side of the office around a television set. 

You clutched the coffee in your hand tighter to keep it from spilling as a young man accidentally bumped into you, quickly moving to join the herd of his peers. You shot him a nasty look, ignoring the swift apology he muttered out as he continued to rush past you. 

Despite your intrigue at the collective panic of your coworkers, you didn’t bother moving to join them around the TV. Instead, you walked the clear opposite direction, making a beeline for the office of the only man in New York City that you trusted to know exactly what all of this fuss was about. 

“What the fuck is going on?” 

Workplace etiquette had flown out the window for you a long time ago. Reporters didn’t have time for benevolence. 

“They’re acting like rowdy animals out there. Foswell is running around the office like he’s in a goddamn marathon! Nearly gave me a third degree burn trying to get past me.” 

A vehement grunt was the first thing to leave Jameson’s mouth, which constituted a typical greeting for him. Following it was the shrill squeak of his old office chair as he spun around to face you. “Haven’t seen the news, y/l/n?” 

You furrowed your brows. “We are the news.” 

Another noise of discontent, followed by a hand coming up to rub viciously at his eyes. If you had learned anything during your time at the Bugle, it was that Jameson was always upset, which meant that you rarely found his vexed appearance very concerning. Yet, despite that, you couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was off. 

“The Daily Globe.” The name of the Bugle’s biggest competitor slipped past his lips like a slur, Jameson’s lip curling as if it had somehow left a bad taste in his mouth. “Some jackass at the station leaked info to them before they even got the crime scene taped off. Bushkin had everything plastered on their front page this morning before most of us even had time to pour a bowl of Special fucking K!” 

“What crime scene?” 

His hand dropped from his face down to his lap, shooting daggers straight at you. “You’re a reporter, y/l/n! Check the fucking headlines for once in your life!” 

“Sorry,” you sneered at him, “some of us actually have a life outside of work.” 

Of everyone at the Bugle, you were the only one with the authority (and the audacity) to backtalk Jameson and actually live to tell the tale. It was a perk of being his top investigative reporter, one that you never let go to waste. 

If anyone else dared to get snarky with him, he’d likely send a paperweight flying at their head. But, since it was you, he only responded to your comment with a dry chuckle—primarily because he was aware that you were lying through your teeth. 

The Bugle was all that was left of your life, the one remaining piece after you had lost everything nine months ago. Jameson knew how fresh the wound still was, how hard you fought to ignore what you’d gone through, and so he elected not to make an actual comment on your remark; a subtle indication that the crotchety man actually did have a heart. 

“Remember Aleksei Sytsevich?” 

You nodded, patience already growing thin as you waited for him to finally just tell you what happened. At this point you were beginning to think you would have been better off to gather around the TV with the rookies. “Of course I remember him,” you told him, “I’m the one that wrote the story on him hijacking that Oscorp truck last year. He goes by the Rhino now, right?” 

Each of you formed your own twisted expressions at the name Sytsevich had picked for himself. The name was fitting given the military grade battlesuit he’d managed to snag from Oscorp, but it was a tad too on the nose for your taste. It lacked creativity, though neither of you really expected anything better to come from the former Russian mafia leader. 

“Sometime last night he was found in an alley off 102nd.” Jameson declared, following you with his eyes as you moved towards his desk, taking a seat in one of the old chairs that sat in front of it. “Beaten to a goddamn bloody pulp.” 

Your nose scrunched up slightly. 

If it were anyone other than Sytsevich that had been left to bleed out in the dead of the night, you might have felt a bit of sympathy for them. But, instead, you only felt hopeful that Jameson would confirm the question that already fell past your lips, “He’s dead?” 

It was cruel to wish death on anyone. You should have felt guilty for the way your chest swelled with hope as you waited for Jameson to reply, but you didn’t. New York was running short on heroes these days, which meant that more and more criminals had begun to use that to their advantage, making a hobby out of terrorizing the innocent. 

Sytsevich had already escaped the Vault once, the so-called impenetrable prison, which meant that sending him back to jail was all but useless. But death? Not even Sytsevich would be able to crawl back from that. 

“No.” 

Your heart nearly sank, and you could tell that the sentiment was shared by Jameson, who looked equally as disappointed. After all of the innocent lives Sytsevich had claimed, he deserved to be put six feet under. 

“Not yet, at least.” He clarified, “As soon as they noticed a pulse they had him life-flighted to North General. Good news is that they don’t think he’s gonna make it through the weekend.” 

You snorted at Jameson’s execution of the comment, as well as the childlike joy that seemed to twinkle in his eyes as he thought about the possibility of Sytsevich finally being gone for good. Still, you could tell that there was more. That he hadn’t quite told you the full story. 

While the impending death of a former mafia leader was quite a story, there was little chance that it had been enough to piss Jameson off so much that the Daily Globe got word of it first. 

Criminals die every day, especially in a city like this. It was hardly front page material. 

“So you mean to tell me that the world is in hysteria all because Sytsevich is about to kick the bucket?” You questioned him, nudging your head in the direction of his office door, encouraging him to acknowledge his frantic employees as they paced the office floor. 

“It sucks that the Globe got to it first, but we should be celebrating!” As demented as it might seem, it was true. “But instead you’re in here wallowing as if we just missed out on the story of the year.” 

The joy that he had felt just moments ago was now extinguished entirely, replaced with an expression that carried far more weight. 

“You’re right. Sytsevich dying an excruciating death would be a fucking fit from a God I don’t believe in, y/l/n.” His forehead creased, thin lines appearing between his brows as he pressed a button on the laptop in front of him, tapping a few keys before turning the screen around to face you. “But the story isn’t just about his death—it’s about who killed him.” 

A wave of shock slammed into you like a ton of bricks, hard enough that it made you lose your grip on the disposable cup in your hand, the contents of it staining the old carpet that lined Jameson’s office. Neither of you paid any mind to the mess and you became consumed by the headline on the homepage of the Daily Globes website. 

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS - BRUTALLY ATTACKS ESCAPED CRIMINAL 

Your eyes grew wide, air getting caught in your lungs as you worked to keep yourself from vomiting right on Jameson’s desk. 

“No.” The word slipped out from under your breath without approval, a flash of pity washing over Jameson’s face as he took in your reaction. He had expected it, though, aware that of every reporter in New York, you would likely have the most intense response to the news. 

But your shock quickly began to morph into something more closely resembling rage. “There’s no way, right? Spider-Man’s been awol for months, J! They really expect us to think that out of every enemy Sytsevich has made that Spider-Man would be to one to fucking kill him? It’s bullshit! They’re just trying to get eyes on their shitty paper!” 

Jameson’s brows raised, clearly agreeing with the sentiment. He was never one to miss an opportunity to slam the Globe. “Normally I’d agree with you,” he mused, turning the laptop back around, “but the NYPD confirmed that Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/l/n. It doesn’t look good.” 

Your blood ran cold, turning to ice in your veins. Darkness started to take over your peripheral vision, threatening to consume the entire space around you. Images flashed through your head—asphalt painted with thick blood, bones snapping, his gruesome screams—it was a past that you had fought so hard to put behind you, only for it to now creep back up on you. 

You instinctively clutched the bag at your side, half debating reaching inside for the little orange bottle you hadn’t touched in months. You restrained yourself though, terrified to feel as if you needed to rely on the pills again. Things were getting better. 

“Spider-Man’s not a murderer.” Your voice was so hesitant, so uncertain, and it made it difficult to tell who the statement was meant to convince, Jameson or yourself. 

Jameson’s shoulders lifted into a lazy shrug as he leaned back in the rickety chair, the plastic creaking at the shift of his weight. You were aware of his stance on Spider-Man, but even he had never considered the possibility of the vigilante committing something like this. 

“No, he isn’t.” He agreed with you, evoking a bit of shock. “But he’s about to be. He’s the only one that can be linked to the crime scene. If Sytsevich dies—and it’s only a matter of time—then Spider-Man’s the one going down for it.” 

Your mind was reeling, yet your body remained motionless, your gaze fixed onto the floor. Coffee still leaked from your cup, forming a sizable stain that only grew with every second that passed. You didn’t care. 

It had been months since anyone had last seen Spider-Man, and during that time, New York had already begun to turn on him. Citizens hadn’t yet forgotten their debt to him, the countless times in which he’d nearly laid his life down for the city, but that didn’t mean that many hadn’t grown to resent him. 

They had been abandoned by their hero, left to question if he was even still alive. And if this was how he returned? A killer? 

“It’ll turn into a man-hunt.” 

There was no other outcome for it, you both knew that much. Since his disappearance, an eerie sense of unrest had settled in the streets. Spider-Man’s absence had created a whole slew of problems, things that the NYPD weren’t equipped to handle. Hope had already become such a precarious thing, and if it were confirmed that their lost hero had abandoned his own code of ethics? It would destroy all that's left. It would unleash pure chaos. 

It would be the dawn of a new age. 

A dark age. 

“Maybe.” He was being cautious with his approach, aware that this topic had the ability to turn you into little more than a ticking time bomb. “Still, there’s not any cold hard proof that he was the one to send Sytsevich to his death bed. All they know for certain is that he was at the crime scene.” 

It was strange to hear those words from Jameson, crafted as a defense for the vigilante he swore to hate. If anything, that only increased your already heightened level of fear. 

Of everyone in the world, you would have never imagined that Jonah J. Jameson would be willing to testify that Spider-Man was innocent in anything. 

“I already told Urich to assemble a team, get out on the streets, and start finding some real proof. I’ve got a source at North General giving me hourly updates on Sytsevich, but we still don’t have much time to put together a story.” 

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, your face contorting into a sour expression as you flung out of your chair, ignoring everything about his statement except for one detail. 

“Fuck Urich!” You screamed loud enough that more than a few heads turned from outside Jameson’s office, a few of them now attempting to eavesdrop as the conversation became heated. “This is my story, J.” 

He sucked in a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d anticipated this reaction too. 

“No, y/l/n, it’s not!” Jameson’s own voice boomed, easily rivaling yours in volume. You didn’t so much as flinch. “Last time you chased a story with that Spider-fuck you nearly died! You’re staying away, got it?” 

You gritted your teeth, taking another step towards his desk, closing in on him. “You said it yourself J, we’re running out of time, right? You need someone that knows what they’re dealing with. Urich doesn’t have any connections to Spider-Man! I do!” 

Somehow you believed that preaching these facts to Jameson would change his mind, as if he didn’t already know about your past encounters with the hero, like he wasn’t the one that published the stories you had done on him. 

“I’m one of the last people to even see him alive, J!” You reminded him, finally letting your tone drop back to a normal volume as you continued, “Urich might be able to snoop around a crime scene, but I’m the only one with a chance of getting an actual statement from him.” 

Both of you knew that your claim was a bit far-fetched. If this were last year, getting a statement from Spider-Man would have been a piece of cake for you. But now? 

It was different. 

Either way, Jameson didn’t seem willing to budge. “A statement isn’t worth losing my best reporter.” 

If the circumstances were different you likely would’ve teased him for the comment, for making it so obvious that you were one of the only things to matter more to Jonah J. Jameson than a story. 

“Fine.” You snapped, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you challenged him. “Then I quit.” 

His face blanched. “You what?” 

“I’ll pursue the story on my own. Get a detailed fucking statement from Spider-Man—a few pictures, too.” You crossed your arms over your chest, entirely unwavering as you held his gaze. “Then I’ll sell it to the Globe.” 

Jameson’s face turned beet red, his eyes narrowing at your threat. “Don’t be stupid. You’d need an entire team to go after a story this big.” 

You mocked the lazy shrug he had offered just moments ago. “No, Urich needs a team. All I need is a few hours and some phone calls.”

Ben Urich would need access to several of the Bugle’s best reporters in order to conduct enough research to even know where to begin. Aside from that, you and Jameson both knew that one of the best potential sources for this story layed beyond the gates of Ravencroft—and Jameson would have a hell of a time trying to get authorization for an interview with any of their prisoners. 

But you? 

You could get in with a simple phone call. 

“This isn’t a game, y/l/n.” Jameson cautioned. “The night Spider-Man disappeared—when I got that call from the hospital—I thought you were gonna be dead, y/ln.” 

A pang of guilt shot through your chest and he reminded you of that night. When you arrived in the emergency room they had tried to call your emergency contacts—but you knew they wouldn’t answer, that they were the reason you were even there. Jameson was the only one that answered, the only one to show up. 

You knew how much guilt he still faced for pushing you to chase another Spider-Man story, for encouraging you to get closer to the vigilante, only for it to land you in a hospital bed with several broken bones and a grade three concussion. 

Sometimes you wished that you could tell him it wasn’t his fault. That you were already in too deep, long before you had started chasing another story, even if you didn’t realize it at the time. But you couldn’t. 

“If you take this story then you’re putting yourself at risk. Again. You’ll be destroying everything you’ve worked for.” 

Blood pooling, bones snapping, his screams echoing. 

You bit your cheek until you tasted crimson, shoving the hellish thoughts from your mind. “Are you gonna take Urich off the story or not?” 

Jameson’s shoulders immediately slouched, his disappointment evident as the corners of his mouth turned downwards. But he knew you—too well, which meant he knew that nothing would stop you from following this story. 

So, against his better judgment, he straightened his posture and tried to mask his own emotions, but you could still tell how much it had hurt him to mutter out the word—“Fine.” 

You didn’t plan on waiting around long enough to hear anything else he might have to say, already turning on your heel and aiming for the door, knowing that it was best to leave before he changed his mind altogether. Still, just before the door slammed closed behind you, you heard him speak. 

“Your funeral.” 

His snide comment left a bad taste in your mouth, pungent and unpalatable, but you did your best to ignore it. There wasn’t any time to comprehend the gravity of his statement, to consider just how close you had come to death last time. 

If Jameson was right about anything, it was that time was of the essence. The sooner Spider-Man could be proven innocent the better. 

So instead of dwelling on it and risking uprooting your past trauma, you shoved your way through the crammed newsroom, coming to a halt only when you could plant yourself at the edge of Urich’s desk. He looked up at you through his thickly-rimmed glasses, brows knitting together. 

“This your team?” You asked him, an idle finger pointing to the crew of unfamiliar faces that surrounded the desk. 

Urich gave a stiff nod. 

“Great.” The smile you gave was sickening, filled with misplaced animosity. You scanned over the group, your gaze ultimately settling on the figure directly to his left, a somewhat tall woman with neatly bobbed hair. Out of everyone, she was the only one armed with a pencil and notepad, having taken note of his every word. “What’s your name?” 

The women seemed stunned, her voice shaking the tiniest bit as she responded. “Betty. Betty Brant.” 

“Nice to meet you Ms. Brant.” Your tone was much milder when speaking to Brant, though it quickly turned harsh again as you shifted your attention back to Urich. “I’m taking over the story. Jameson already gave me clearance, so please, if you plan on whining about it, keep it between the two of you, mkay?” 

Urich’s usually squinty eyes suddenly widened behind his lenses, thin lines settling into his forehead. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before you had already cut him off. 

“Anyone who isn’t Brant can get out of my face. I don’t have a use for you.” A dismissive hand was waved at the small crowd, although none of them bothered to move more than a few feet away, too interested in eavesdropping to venture any further. 

“And, um, what is it that you’d like me to do?” Betty Brant was quite the apprehensive woman, her lack of confidence shining through in quite literally everything she did. She was new to this, that much was obvious, but you still found yourself with some sort of intuitive faith in the girl. 

“I need you to track down some information for me.” 

A pit suddenly grew in your stomach as it dawned on you that this would be the first time you had so much as uttered his name since that night. He had essentially become a ghost to you, capable of haunting every corner of your mind without ever reentering your life. It was easier that way, though. Avoiding him had been the best way to recover from him; even if that meant treating his name like a curse. 

You took a deep breath, garnering every ounce of strength you had left to ensure your voice wouldn’t crack. “I need a way to get into contact with Peter Parker. He used to work here, but the number we have on file isn’t in service anymore.” 

Once. 

In the nine months since it happened, you had only tried to call him once. With the phone pressed to your face you had already prepared yourself to hear the dial tone go on for ages, fully aware that he’d just let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk to you—he didn’t want to talk to anyone. But, instead, you were greeted by a prerecorded message saying the number had been disconnected. 

And that was the closest you ever got to a goodbye from Peter. 

“Parker?” Urich finally got a word out. “What’s he gotta do with this?” 

You didn’t have any intention of offering him a detailed explanation, your back already turned to him as you spoke over your shoulder. “He’s the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man. If everything goes as planned, I’m gonna need his skillset.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it also wasn’t the full truth. Regardless, it was the best defense you had for needing a way to contact Peter; one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. If anything, you would have preferred to start your hunt for information with Peter, because then you would’ve been able to avoid Ravencroft altogether. But, unfortunately, Peter was little more than a dead end right now. 

“Jameson has my number–get it from him and text me as soon as you have a lead!” 

It was the last order you barked before disappearing into the elevator, quick to rush off to the first destination on your list. You had to get moving, at least until you could find a way to talk to Peter, which meant you needed to start gathering the names of anyone who might’ve actually wanted Sytsevich dead. 

Unfortunately, that meant hailing a taxi to Westchester County and digging up another ghost from your past. 

You hastily pressed the button for the ground floor, your other hand already delving into your bag, grabbing your phone and dialing the number that had called you many times over the past months; a number you rarely answered. 

“Hi, this is y/n y/l/n calling,” a weight settled deep within your stomach, accompanied by a shiver running down your spine as you forced yourself to speak, “could I speak with Leonard Samson? I would like to take him up on his visitation offer. Please tell him that I want to speak with Harry Osborn as soon as possible.”

The Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane was not for the faint of heart. 

At first glance, most would consider it a fine establishment. The ornate iron gates lining the property seek to paint a picture of elegance, while the impenetrable stone walls offer those on the outside a sense of security—serving as a silent oath that those on the other side can’t get out. 

While technically labeled a prison, Ravencroft always insists that they place treatment above punishment for those incarcerated here. They pushed this motto, staff members regularly appearing on the local news to preach of mercy and remission; despite the fact that no one committed to the facility had ever made it out alive. 

Ravencroft’s prisoners weren’t always as willing to keep up the facility's pristine public image though, well known for spitting in the face of that ‘guise of elegance they’d worked to build. It was because of their sharp tongues that Ravencroft rarely let reporters past the front gates, petrified of what they might learn from those on the inside, worried that someone might get the chance to uncover their true nature; or worse, expose their unlawful ways of curing the prisoners. 

You were the only reporter to ever be invited onto the property, even if it was under special circumstances. 

“Truth be told, I was shocked to hear you called!” Director Samson confessed. His tone always rubbed you the wrong way, always coming off as far too exuberant for a man in charge of a psychiatric facility for criminals. “What’s it been, five months? Six, perhaps, since we last spoke?” 

“Seven.” You noted, sporting a rather sardonic smile. He didn’t seem to notice your ill-intent. 

“Well, either way, it had been far too long!” He chortled to himself, a chorus of keys clanking against his hip as he led you down another winding hallway. 

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the immaculate white linoleum beneath your feet. The smell of bleach was incredibly pungent, burning your nostrils with every breath you took. You did your best not to breathe at all. 

“You’ve been checking your email, yes?” Director Samson was a few long strides ahead of you, moving at a pace you couldn’t manage to keep up with. “When you stopped answering your cell, I decided to have my secretary begin forwarding you all of our notes from his treatment sessions. It’s pivotal that you’ve stayed up-to-date on his progress, especially if you finally plan on becoming an active role in his recovery!” 

You braced yourself for the tainted oxygen that would fill your lungs as you lied, “Of course. Even gave them a quick review on the ride over.” 

In the seven months that you had been dodging Samson’s calls, you had never once opened any of the emails from his secretary. You always saw them come through though, and you always found yourself staring at the subject line for just a moment too long. 

Patient #121394 - Progress Report 

It made you sick sometimes, the way he had been reduced to a number. Other times, you were thankful for it. It helped to create a divide in your head, allowing you to create some sort of separation between who he was and who he is. Harry Osborn was your friend. Patient #121394 stabbed you in the back. 

Regardless, you could never actually make yourself read them. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to delete them, stashing one-hundred and eighty-four daily progress reports from Ravencroft into a separate folder, out of sight but kept on hand, just in case you ever needed them. 

You weren’t sure why you ever would. 

“Good, good!” He chirped loudly, both of you now approaching a large armored door. It didn’t match the rest of the hallway, the rusted surface polluting the otherwise pure white space. 

Your attention was pulled away from it as Director Samson spun on his toe, index finger suddenly wagging in your face, your eyes growing wide as you tried to lean back a few inches. His nails were a touch overgrown, caked with a substance you didn’t recognize. Describing him as eccentric would be kind, although disconcerting fit him better. 

“You must promise me something before you speak with him!” He sputtered out. You did your best not to flinch as his saliva spewed onto your face. “I understand you may have felt a need to…” his head bobbed side to side, squinting as he considered his wording, “distance yourself from Mr Osborn. That is why I did my best to respect your need for space the past several months-” 

Ah yes–you thought to yourself, fighting the urge to laugh in his face–calling bi-weekly and sending daily emails is clearly a sign of respecting someone’s wish to be uninvolved. 

“But!” He shouted out, his rotten nails now close enough that you could smell whatever laid beneath them. “If you cross this threshold,” his hand moved to the large door behind him, offering you a chance to swallow back the bile building in your throat, “you cannot abandon him again, Ms. y/l/n. Progress is a volatile thing, especially for the damaged souls that call Ravencroft home. I need to know that you’re prepared to devote yourself to Mr. Osborn’s treatment.” 

Abandon him—the claim was enough to make your blood boil. You wanted to scream at him, remind him of what had happened that night, remind him that you were the one who had been abandoned. You wanted to turn around, to leave and never step foot in this cursed building ever again. 

If you did that, then maybe you could keep lying to yourself. Harry Osborn could remain your former friend, one of the few crumbs you had left of the life you so desperately wanted back. He could be innocent, and Patient #121394 could be the murderer. 

“Well Director Samson, I can assure you that I have absolutely no intentions to abandon him!” The mask you put on was sickly sweet, more than palatable enough to hide the animosity behind it. 

His bug-eyed stare remained locked onto you, unnerving and wild. “You must promise.” 

“Okay,” A sigh managed to slip out, quickly covered by your response, “I promise.” 

He instantly relaxed at the vow, easily returning to the childish ebullience he’d displayed previously. You wondered how he would react if he had noticed the hand behind your back, if he knew your fingers were crossed as you spoke. 

Abandonment was a much kinder fate than Harry Osborn deserved, so you were certain that if a higher power existed, they would forgive you for breaking your promise to Director Samson. 

Metal jingled about as he removed the keys from his belt loop, somehow knowing exactly which one to grab from the couple dozen crowded the thick ring they hung on. 

“Now, please, do your best to remember the rules!” He began unlocking the various deadbolts on the door. “All patients in the visitation area will be secured to his or her station, for your safety as well as theirs. Under no circumstances should you touch any of the patients. Should you notice a patient is acting out of sorts, please remain calm and notify the warden-” 

You already knew the do’s and don’ts of visiting prisoners, having interviewed several of the inhabitants at Ryker’s Island for the Bugle, and so you found yourself droning him out entirely, watching as he moved from one lock to another, until he finally reached the last one. 

“Most importantly, do not forget that this time is meant to inspire and encourage your loved ones to continue on their new path towards righteousness!” He displayed a toothy grin, cavity filled and displeasing. In return you offered a much less prominent smile. “And please, when you’re done with your chitter-chatter, come by my office. I would love to discuss next steps with you!” 

You gave a curt nod, aware that you would not be doing that. Interacting with Samson was enough to drain even the most extroverted people, which was one of the many reasons you’d stopped returning his calls only two months into Harry’s sentence. 

He viewed you as a valuable tool for curing Harry—mentally, at least. His actual disease was of little interest to Samson, his physical health naught in comparison to his damaged mind. Harry had no next of kin, which meant all of Samson’s hopes had been placed onto you. He believed in order to cure Harry’s mind, he needed the assistance of someone who was dear to him, someone to act as a tether to his sanity. 

Director Samson also believed that the venom Harry injected into his veins was the cause for his self-proclaimed insanity. This told you all you needed to know about the Director; he was clueless. 

You knew the truth. After all, you were the one that had fed his lawyers the story and loaded them up with all the evidence they’d need in order to paint a picture for the jury, illustrating Harry Osborn’s mental descent. It was you that had convinced them to make him swallow his pride and take the insanity plea—your final act of kindness towards Harry. 

The clunky metal door groaned profusely as Director Samson pushed it open, heavy enough that it required him to use both hands and the majority of his body weight. Once it was open, he bowed in a particularly odd manner, motioning you into the room with a dramatic flair that made you nauseous. More than anything in the world, you couldn’t wait to never see him again. 

The small space you walked into had distracted you from Samon’s bizarre attitude, immediately taking note of them in case you ever felt like breaching Samson’s trust and writing a story on Ravencroft. 

First–it didn’t share the same suffocating scent as the hallway, the smell of chemical cleaners having completely vanished. You took advantage of this, letting your chest expand with several deep breaths. Your nostrils no longer burned, however this came with a price, this room much grimier than the rest of the facility. It didn’t shock you. 

Second–there was nothing white in here, a stark contrast from the unsoiled appearance of the never ending hallway you took to get here. This room truly felt like a prison, despite Ravencroft’s insistence that they were far from that. Muted shades of chipped paint coated the walls, the floors nothing more than poured cement. 

And, finally, third–no one, and you truly meant absolutely no one, appeared as if they were on the road to recovery. 

To your left there was a red-headed girl chained to a metal bar fastened to the wall. A bit of drool dribbled down her chin, her eyelids drooping as if she had been drugged. On your right was a boy no older than nineteen, handcuffed to his chair and left with nothing to do except stare at the floor beneath his feet. 

They looked miserable, and you almost felt bad for sticking Harry in a place like this. 

Almost. 

Behind you the door shut with a crash, the symphony of locks clicking back into place. Your heart rate spiked as you realized you were now trapped in here with them, taking a glance at the warden. He was a burly man, yet the only weapon he had on him was a baton, lazily stuffed into his waistband. It only added to your growing apprehension. 

Anxiety, you reminded yourself through gritted teeth, is another thing reporters don’t have time for. 

Each second brought you closer to Sytsevich’s impending death, which meant you didn’t have time to waste on fear. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier, still feeling as if you were frozen in place, wishing that they hadn’t made you leave your bag in the main office. 

If Brant had managed to find a number for Peter then you could just skip this whole mess, go straight to the source and get hard proof that he was innocent… but it was too late to turn around now. 

You were already here. 

In the furthest corner of the room you saw a steel table, placed directly in front of the patient’s only source of natural light—an incredibly small window, armed with thick black bars. Your heart lurched as your gaze settled on the table's only occupant. Even with his back turned, you could still recognize him. 

Lifting just one foot had been the hardest part, terror pricking your bones as the single step caused one of the patients to whip their head around towards you. 

He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet with muscles that rivaled the Hulk. Fortunately, you didn’t hold his attention for long, hesitantly watching as he went back to staring at the old-style television set that had been stuffed in the corner. Static painted the screen, and every once in a while the large man would give a swift hit to its side, making the other patients flinch. The warden didn’t stop him. 

Each step after that was rushed, an attempt to get out of his line of sight. He was restrained, as were all of them, but he still filled you with a sense of unease. When you finally reached the table and quickly slipped into one of the metal chairs, eyes still darting about prudently, you heard the patient sitting across from you laugh. 

You had thought the terror seeping into your veins had been intolerable, but it was no match for the misplaced grief that fought to consume you at the sound of his voice. It simultaneously sent chills down your spine and relaxed every muscle in your body, a paradox of a reaction that only the living dead could possibly provide. 

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He drawled, leaving you hanging onto every syllable. “My new friends scare you?” 

A bit. 

“Hardly.” You snapped back a bit faster than intended. Beneath the table you clenched your fists, fingernails prodding into the soft flesh of your palms. 

Stay calm. Hide your weaknesses. 

You were disappointed with yourself, your inability to mask your discomfort, especially here. A penitentiary wasn’t the best place to rollover, and you knew that the moment you fucked up and showed your underbelly you’d be as good as dead. You needed to be better. You needed to be incomprehensible. 

“You look well.” You spoke again before he’d have the chance to beat you to it, determined to be the one holding the reins in this conversation. “I’m shocked.” 

It truly wasn’t meant as a slight though the scoff you received in response made it clear that he’d taken it as one. It was God’s honest truth though; you hadn’t expected him to look as good as he did. 

Last time you saw Harry Osborn was when the venom had already invaded his bloodstream, transforming him into something near unrecognizable. That was the Harry Osborn you had been expecting to see today. A nightmare, a killer, a monster. 

Instead, you found yourself looking directly into the cerulean gaze of a boy you had mourned for nearly a year. There were subtle differences; the natural dark pigment of his hair still hadn’t returned, leaving it a dusty shade of brown, and the disease that fought relentlessly to claim his life had spread, a scaly patch of skin taking over his cheek bone. 

But, for the most part, he looked like himself. He looked like Harry. 

And that simple fact was almost enough to break you. 

“Wow, less than a minute in and you’re already spitting out back-handed compliments.” Harry's mouth twitched into a smirk. “You sure know how to greet an old friend.” 

Was he antagonizing you on purpose? Or was he simply delusional? Either way, you only offered him a tight smile, “We’re not friends.” 

You had no way of knowing if your words actually had any effect on him. Having been raised in the limelight meant that Harry had years of practice in maintaining his composure, always working to maintain the Osborn image. You had never been good at reading Harry, and that’s how he liked it. Like most powerful men, he enjoyed keeping secrets. 

“Aren’t we though?” He countered, a swift tug at the reins, an effort to regain some semblance of control. 

Your jaw clenched. “Not anymore.” 

Harry leaned forward a touch, those menacing eyes glistening as his palms remained flat against the cold steel, secured there by thick cuffs. “You think I don’t know what you did? That I don’t know who fed my lawyers all that bullshit about childhood abuse and disease warping my mind?” 

That bullshit had saved his life. Forced the jury to see him as more than another twisted villain, coerced them into feeling some sort of sympathy for Harry. By no means was Ravencroft comparable the the fucking Four Seasons, but it was far better than the alternative. Without the insanity plea, Harry was on a quick path to Ryker’s Island—a place you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. 

“You’re right. I gave them everything they needed to build your case.” There was no use in denying it. The recounts of the trauma his father had inflicted on him were too detailed, too intimate, and Harry knew only three people in this world had access to that information. Himself, you, and Norman; and the latter was already dead. “But not because we’re friends.” 

He cocked a brow at you, once again leaning back into the uncomfortable metal chair. “Then why bother?” 

“Because I’m not like you.” 

And you wholeheartedly believed that. Caring about him had nothing to do with your choice to try and spare his life, your decision to aid Gwen’s murderer. 

“A rich boy like you wouldn’t last a single day in Ryker’s. Those guys would’ve eaten you alive.” You asserted, the only physical sign of the anger coursing through you being your flared pupils. You were in control. “I had an opportunity to save your life, so I took it. Not because of friendship,” the word tasted acidic, burning as it rolled off your tongue, “but because I’m a good person—better than you ever were.” 

It wasn’t until you were done talking that you realized how desperate you had been for the declaration to cut him. You only recognized it afterwards, irritation flooding you as he remained perfectly still, seeming entirely unphased. 

Then after a moment of nothing, he sighed. Not out of annoyance, not out of sadness. Instead, it seemed to be out of pure boredom, which only made your irritation towards him grow. 

“Guess that means you’re not here to help with my treatment, huh?” He said it like a joke, as if he too thought he was incapable of redemption and found this whole thing to be a waste of time. “Samson’s gonna be so disappointed when he finds out.” 

“You’re right, I’m not here to help you.” you confirmed, sucking in a deep breath and biting back at your pride, “But you’re gonna help me.” 

His brows snapped up—a reaction, subtle, but there nonetheless. “And why would I do that? I mean, you already made it clear that we’re not friends. So why should I do anything for you?” 

“I’ll keep coming here. Participating in whatever stupid shit Samson has planned, keep acting like I wanna help you get better.” You sneered, eyes rolling. People like Harry Osborn were incapable of better. “There’s gotta be something for you to gain in all of that, right? Some sort of reward for making progress. If you’re lucky then maybe they’ll give you more playtime with your little buddies or something.” 

Your gaze flicked over his shoulder, once again landing on the enormous man that had noticed you earlier. He was still beating against the side of the television, the thumping of his palm against thick plastic echoing through the room. No one seemed to mind the noise. 

“Besides,” you continued while shifting your focus back to Harry, “you owe me.” 

He did owe you—him and Peter both—but pulling that card made you sound desperate, like you had truly run out of options and were now using everything left in your arsenal to sway him. 

But that was the point. 

It was a calculated move, entirely deliberate, right down to the doe-eyed glance you shamelessly flashed at him, feigning a moment of vulnerability. You hadn’t rolled over, hadn’t exposed your weak points, but you wanted him to believe you did. 

There were certain benefits that came with knowing Harry—who he used to be. You knew about his insatiable desire to be needed by someone, to feel wanted. There had been a time in which you wouldn’t have dared to exploit the trauma that desire stemmed from, but things were different now. 

Even when armed with his stoic mask, you could tell that you had hit your mark perfectly. He remained silent, considering your words. A rational part of him was likely screaming to tell you no, to send you out of Ravencroft without so much as a second glance. Odds were that he knew this was an attempt to manipulate him, to play at the side of his that ached to be essential to another. 

But Harry Osborn wasn’t known for making rational decisions. He was rarely driven to act by his near-genius level IQ, instead always finding himself a victim to the gnawing pain in his chest; and you were banking on that. 

Then, it happened. 

For a moment—mere seconds, at most—the mask slipped. A single muscle twitched in his jaw, his nose wrinkling the slightest touch. The shift in his demeanor was so subtle, yet so apparent to you. Having once been so close to him, you’d all but trained yourself to detect the moments in which his arrogance would melt into something far more innocent. You used to crave those moments; live for them, even. It felt like an honor to witness the side of Harry in which he fought to keep locked away, a side he tried to ignore. 

Now, though, you felt almost nothing. 

Harry finally let out a gruff sound, his tongue darting along his chapped bottom lip. “You’re here about Peter, aren’t you?” 

You were careful not to outwardly react. “You’ve seen the news?” 

“Of course.” He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. “Not everyday the city hails Spider-Man a murderer.” 

He said the vigilante’s name like a curse, as if it were the dirtiest word he’s ever spoken. It was laced with a bone-chilling sense of contempt, one that only deepened your resentment towards Harry. You didn’t like it—the way he spoke as if he had a right to hate Peter. After everything Harry had done, after everything he’d taken—your nails dug deeper into your palms as you fought to keep your eyes peeled. terrified that if you so much as blinked you’d catch a glimpse of Harry’s sins. That you’d catch a glimpse of her.

“Are you gonna help or not?” You struggled to stay composed, his brows raised in amusement at the snipped statement. 

An unfortunate oversight in your plan had been in failing to acknowledge that Harry knew you just as well as you’d known him. It didn’t matter if you rolled over, because you were already exposed. He knew that Peter was a soft spot for you, that he had always been a soft spot, and all he had to do in order to push you over the edge was jab a little harder at that unhealed wound.

Surprisingly, he chose to leave it alone. 

“You’ll come four times a week. Minimum.” 

You fought the urge to grin at his demands, aware that it meant the rational side of him had lost. 

“Twice a week.” You countered.

“Make it three.” He almost sounded pitiful, coming off more like he was begging than demanding. It caught you off guard to hear him sound so desperate, and for a moment you wondered if he had turned the tables; if he was now manipulating you, playing on your emotions and trying to make you feel bad for the loneliness Ravencroft had inflicted upon him. 

But there was something about the look in his eyes, how transparent they suddenly seemed, that made you feel like this hadn’t been done with nefarious intent. His desperation was genuine, and you weren’t sure how to feel about that. 

“Fine.” You agreed, aware that you didn’t have time to negotiate with him all day. You had a story to write, and in order to create a solid defense for Spider-Man—for Peter, you’d need help. You’d need a culprit, someone that had a motive to kill Sytsevich. “Deal?” 

Harry grinned, that same arrogant and flashy sort of grin you’d seen him give heiresses and models. You always wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile, to be the one he was trying to win over, but now it only made your stomach sink. “How can I be of service?” 

“Do you know anyone who might want Sytsevich dead?” You decided to be blunt with the question, keeping your voice low. 

“Uh, yeah. Try the entire Soviet Union. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like he made a real fucking mess of things when he left Russia.” Harry noted. 

“O-kay,” you drawled, “what about locally? People talk in prison, yeah? If somebody was planning something you would’ve heard about it.” 

His nose scrunched up. “What do you think happens in prison? That we all just get together like it’s a slumber party and swap hit lists?” 

You didn’t bother responding, not verbally, at least. Instead, you opted for shooting him a sharp glare. It didn’t phase him. 

“Look,” he glanced towards the warden, scooting forwards a touch once he noticed the negligent guard had become distracted by his phone, “a guy like Sytsevich doesn’t go down without a good fight, alright? I saw the blueprints for that armor he wears, right before the board locked me out of Oscorp’s systems. I know what it’s capable of. Most people wouldn’t even have a chance to get a hit in, let alone send him to the hospital.” 

“Perfect,” you snapped, his eyes widening slightly, “if you know what his armor is capable of then you should know who would be strong enough to take him on.”

Harry scoffed at the simplicity of your deduction, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea, actually.” 

You gritted your teeth, aware of where he was heading. “It wasn’t Peter.” 

“How’re you so sure?” He asked you, a thin crease settling between his brows as he glowered at you. “I know you like to fixate on my fuck-ups in favor of avoiding his but you were there that night, y/n!” 

The banging sound of the prisoner’s palm colliding against the side of the thick television kept the guard from hearing Harry’s raised voice. 

“He wouldn’t kill Sytsevich.” You held firm in your beliefs, even as your gaze faltered and fell away from Harry’s, settling on the surface of the table. 

Bang. 

“He almost killed me!” His voice was consumed with bitterness, with pain. 

“And you killed her.” 

Was that truly a good defense? Had Harry’s sins somehow absolved Peter’s? A life for a life—the logic behind the sentiment was skewed and you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to venture into the memories you’d fought so hard to block out. Your stomach suddenly became taut, unwilling to face the question you didn’t want answered. 

“You know what he’s capable of.” He pressed further, still leaned in close, as if trying to close the gap between you both, the shackles securing him to the table preventing him from doing just that. “Sytsevich was restrained with webs, y/n. Don’t be dense-”

Bang. 

“Peter isn’t a murderer, Har!” You hissed through your teeth—too overstimulated to notice the pet name slip from your mouth and too livid to care. 

He went to argue the statement when another bang sounded out against the side of the television, this one finally powerful enough to knock some life back into the formerly deceased device. Your eyes darted in it’s direction, Harry’s neck snapping around to do the same as you both listened to the hum of the static clear, a female voice breaking through. 

“-just moments ago we received word from the NYPD that former Russian mafia member Aleksei “the Rhino” Sytsevich passed away less than an hour ago. Sources from North General hospital confirmed that Sytsevich’s condition began to rapidly worsen, until he eventually gave in to the fatal wounds sustained in last night's mysterious assault.” 

The tautness in your stomach grew stronger, a wave of nausea settling over you as the organ began to tie itself in knots. 

“Chief Davis with the NYPD will be holding a press conference this afternoon, however officials have already confirmed that there is now an active warrant out calling for Spider-Man’s arrest. Individuals with any information on New York’s fallen hero are being asked to call the number displayed on the bottom of the screen, and police advise citizens to avoid their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man at all costs-”

Harry twisted back around to face you, cautious and uncertain as he met your stare. He almost appeared concerned—not about the news, not about Peter, but about you. The corner of his mouth twitched downward, forced to watch as your face blanched, mind reeling. 

It’s not too late. There’s still a chance. He can still be proven innocent. A warrant doesn’t mean jackshit. 

The metal legs of your chair screeched against the ground as you pushed yourself back from the table, “I need to go.” 

Harry’s wrists pulled against the shackles that held him in place, instinctively reaching towards you, as if he’d nearly forgotten they were even there. “Wait!” 

Against your better judgment, you listened to him, though you weren’t entirely sure why. You needed to go. You need to contact the Bugle, needed to see if Brant had found a number for Peter. As much as you hated to admit it, Ravencroft had wound up being a deadend, and you needed to keep moving—but you just didn’t. You stayed, staring back at a boy you once knew, waiting for him. 

You always waited for them—Harry and Peter both. 

“You’re not-...” he hesitated, blinking and shaking his head as he debated whether or not he should even continue, if it would even make a difference. “You’re not going to see him, are you?” 

“Of course I am!” You ignored the groan that escaped his parted lips. “You’ve been fucking useless, so Peter is all I’ve got left. He didn’t kill Sytsevich, alright? But he was at the scene. He’s gotta have some idea as to who did this.” 

It was obvious that the offhand insult had stung, evident by the way he winced as you launched it at him. You nearly found yourself apologizing for it, but decided against it as you watched him quickly stiffen back up, always refusing to wear his pain so blatantly. Norman had trained him well, drilling into his head that weakness wasn’t a part of the Osborn way. 

“Don’t get involved.” 

Your stare narrowed. What he offered hadn’t been a recommendation, rather a demand. “They’ll hunt him down, Harry! If the police convince the entire city that Spider-Man’s a murderer? The city will turn into a fucking disaster. I’m not gonna let him go through that alone.” 

“You could get yourself killed!” Harry barked back, clearly indifferent to whether or not Peter suffered alone. You found yourself laughing in response, finding humor in his attempt to show concern for your life. 

“It’s Peter.” You stated plainly, devoid of any emotion as you rose to your feet. Harry’s head tilted upwards, following you with his eyes. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.” 

“Remind me again who saved you that night.” His jaw clenched, his tone turning callous as he decided to prod at the old wounds. “Cause it sure as hell wasn’t Spider-Man.” 

Your fists balled up tighter, blood beginning to seep from your palms and pooling beneath your nails. You zoned in on the stinging sensation, digging deeper into your flesh, using the pain as a tether to keep you from slipping too deep into your own subconscious. You didn’t have time to think about that night. You didn’t have fucking time. 

So you bottled up the thousands of thoughts running rampant in your head, biting your tongue instead of allowing yourself to spit anymore insults at him. He’s not worth it–you tried to tell yourself, starting towards the warden–it won’t change anything. 

“y/n!” He growled as you moved past him, electing to ignore him entirely. He thrust his arms against the shackles again, rattling the thick metal and grunting as they tightened around his wrists. You were just a little over a foot away when he spoke again, “Don’t fucking tell him you know!” 

You paused, suddenly feeling as if your feet had been cemented to the floor. You cursed yourself as you responded, refusing to look back at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“Have you talked to him since that night?” He asked. 

“No.” You chewed on your bottom lip, ignoring the abrupt pang in your chest. “I haven’t.” 

“Okay. Great. Then he doesn’t know for sure what you saw that night. That you saw him without the mask, that you know he’s Spider-Man.” He was talking uncharacteristically fast, as if he was worried you’d leave before he’d get the words out quick enough. “So don’t tell him.” 

You frowned, shifting to the side, now looking at him through your peripheral. “Why?” 

“Because.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, fending off the growing headache that this situation had brought on. “As far as he knows, I’m his only loose end. The only one that knows who he really is.” 

Your chest tightened as you realized what was happening. Since walking into Ravencroft, you’d concerned yourself so heavily with keeping your guard up, with guarding your weakest points—only for Harry to be the one to rollover. He was exposing his hand, and you found it unsettling, especially when you realized that there was no selfish intent behind his words. 

Harry had nothing to lose in this situation. 

Except for you—his friend. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not a murderer. But if he did kill Sytsevich? Anyone who knows about Spider-Man’s secret identity is gonna have a huge fucking target on their back.” His eyes remained closed, drawing in a shaky breath before he continued, “So please,” his voice shook, desperation lacing each syllable, “just–don’t tell him, okay?” 

Goosebumps arose on your forearms, unable to hide from the fear that radiated off of him. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find an ulterior motive for the statement. There was no clear sign of manipulation, no indication that he wanted to do anything other than protect you; and that made you feel sick. 

You had long since buried Harry Osborn, having told yourself countless times that two of your friends died that night. For two-hundred-and-seven days you had mourned both of them. 

With every fiber of your being you had believed that the arrogant boy that had weaseled his way into your life was gone, having been replaced with a malevolent monster. 

But now you could feel him.

It no longer felt as if you had just been staring at his corpse, but rather as if someone had actually breathed life back into him, offering you a glimpse of what still remained. 

It caused the tiniest spark of hope to ignite within you, a spark that you would do your damndest to extinguish. 

Harry Osborn was better off dead. 

“Our deal’s off.” You asserted, cold and uncaring. His eyes shot open again, a desolate expression washing over him. He didn’t try to conceal it, didn’t bother to adjust the mask he always wore. “You gave me absolutely nothing, so I’m not obligated to hold up my end.” 

Harry’s lips parted as if he were going to protest, as if he were going to do something—but nothing came out, and you hadn’t expected him to find the words, anyways. Try as you might, the three of you had never been capable of such candor; never willing to shine a light on the darkest corners of your minds, too scared of the risks that came with exposing what laid beneath the surface. 

You couldn’t help but think there was something poetic about it; the melancholy cord that bound you to Harry and Peter. How you were all fated to don matching wounds, but always be too afraid to admit to one another that you were bleeding. 

Sometimes you wanted to show them the stains on your hands, the red that you could never scrub off. You wondered if it would have made a difference, if maybe then the three of you could have bore the weight of it all together, rather than crumbling beneath the pressure. 

But none of that mattered anymore. 

None of you were the same anymore. 

And so you gritted your teeth and held your head high, letting the blood continue to collect under your nails, hiding it from his view. You took a heavy breath, your chest heaving beneath all of the pain you chose to carry. 

“Coming here was a mistake.” 

It was the only thing left to say, the only other admission you’d let slip past your lips. It hung in the air between the two of you, resonating with each of you in an entirely different manner, knowing that you’d never share your own interpretation with the other. 

Harry didn’t respond, choosing to drown in his silence, having grown used to watching people walk away from him. And you forced yourself to leave, choking on the remnants of your own grief; having grown used to abandoning what you once loved. 

a/n - ah, so it's definitely not june BUT i did post it finally! i've put a lot of time and effort into this fic cause i do just genuinely love the idea of it and it brings me a lot of joy lol. with that being said, it takes a ton of effort for me to write it because i'm putting in a lot of little details, so updates on this won't be the quickest, especially while i'm taking summer classes!! but i'll be doing my best! please feel free to leave comments, opinions, etc. and look forward to getting loads of peter content in the next part! also feel free to check out THIS if you want to see an edit of the newspaper headline!

[corrodedbisexual]

The ultimate shadow ban survivor guide

I've seen multiple people I follow, or their mutuals affected by shadow bans lately (makes me wonder if it's @staff's attempts to fight bots going totally haywire). As someone who survived a 2-month-long shadow ban on my main this winter, I thought I'd make a post.

First step of being shadow banned: calm down and take a breath. A shadow ban is just a stupid glitch in tumblr's anti-spam system. You're not losing your blog. You're gonna need a whole lot of patience, and deal with inconveniences, but it's fixable.

Read the incredibly useful post All About Shadowban by @that-damn-girl. It outlines the symptoms quite well. The only thing I'd point out is "your original posts won’t be visible to your followers either" - afaik that doesn't happen. Everything you post and reblog will still be visible to your followers, and also they can interact with your posts - like them, reblog them, reply to them.

Just like the post says, contact support. I recommend using a different email than what your banned blog is registered to; not because your ticket won't go through (mine actually did, as I found out when they finally replied), but because you might not receive an email confirmation for your ticket (it's somehow tied to the anti-spam thing, I think), and you're going to worry and try to send more tickets, like I did.

Now wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. They are SLOW. I've seen some miraculous 1-day unbans in the #shadow ban tag, but most people, like me, wait around a month for support to reply. Those are the same guys going through thousands of bot reports every day in addition to user tickets.

If you're going to wait, might as well keep blogging. Now if this is your sideblog that's shadow banned, consider yourself lucky. Make a new temporary sideblog, use it to post your original stuff so it goes into tags (mind that it might take a few days for a new blog to start showing up in tags). Reblog everything to your shadow banned blog so you still have all content in one place and your followers see it. If it's your main that's banned, you can still do that, but there's the extra pain of not being able to reply to posts or send non-anon Asks, since that is only done from main. Might need to register a separate account for that.

Some more fun facts under readmore.

Fun fact #1

Trying to send support follow-up emails in the request confirmation email isn't going to do anything to speed up the process. But I did tweet at them using this tumblr support summoning picture by @cornmayor and offered a raccoon blood sacrifice to resolve my issue when it was like a month with no response. This is what they replied.

3 hours later I got an email that my shadowban was lifted. I honestly don't know if it was a coincidence, but I mean, this is tumblr staff. Maybe they do accept blood sacrifices.

Fun fact #2

If you're wondering why my shadow ban lasted 2 months if I got a support reply after 1 month, well. It's hard to say exactly how their ban/unban system works bc support replies exclusively with pre-written template sentences, but basically they fucked up. The first time they told me my blog has been restored, I gained pretty much all functions back, except that my posts were still not appearing in tags. Which means probably that being hidden from tags is some kind of different flag on your blog that they forgot to remove. So I had to send a follow-up ticket and wait another month.

My advice is, when they tell you it's fixed, don't take that at face value, go and check all the functions you'd lost (replies, messaging, asks, tagging, appearing in notes, getting mentioned by others).

[bullet-prooflove]

Pictures of You - Roy Kent x Reader

Tagging: @elizabeththebat @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @@anyamcdonald @taytaylala12 @daydreamgoddess14 @amieinghigh @littleesilvia @blackleatherjacketz @xphantomphanphanaticx @its-a-show-stoppin-number @st4rgirliesstuff @secretsquirrelinc @meg-ro @xoxabs88xox @midnightmagpiemama

Roy’s in the locker room when Trent approaches him. He’s listening to a conversation between Issac and Colin with his arms crossed over his chest, when he catches the expression on the other man’s face.  He knows that somethings wrong, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach. When Trent tilts his head towards the empty manager’s office, Roy follows without hesitation.

At first, he thinks it’s something to do with one of the lads, a story that’s about to break, a leak about Colin’s private life. A surge of protectiveness rushes through him, if that’s the case, he’s going to hunt down the piece of shit that told the press and strangle them with his bare hands.

It’s only when Trent shows him the image on his phone that Roy understands the magnitude of the situation. His mouth goes dry, he rubs his palm across his stubble as he surveys the headline.

Kent’s Kinky Caster.

The picture that accompanies it is one that he’s never seen before. Your hair is longer, it falls across your shoulders as you bite your lower lip. Your thumb is drawing down the strap of the midnight-blue corset that you’re wearing. It accentuates your curves, pushing up your breasts.

You look fucking fantastic but it’s not you, he knows that you prefer lace and silk. Materials that cling or drape, that don’t dig in or contort your shape. He prefers you comfortable when you’re with him, not trussed up in something that’s going to leave marks across your skin.

“They must have hacked your phone.” Trent summarises as he takes back the device and slips it into his pocket.

“Not mine.” Roy says gruffly as he drops into Beard’s vacant seat. “I’ve never seen that picture before, the shit she sends me…” Roy trails off before he meets Trent’s gaze. “It’s classy, nothing like that.”

Trent bows his head in understanding. The picture that’s been delivered to the papers is one of a woman who’s trying so hard to be something else, for someone else. You’ve come a long way since then. He should know, he’s been your friend and confident for a few of years by now. The two of you had worked together for The Independent once upon a time. You’d been an investigative reporter before moving onto the podcasting world, and a damn good one at that.

The two of you still caught up every couple of weeks for drinks. He was one of the first people to know about your blossoming relationship with Roy Kent. You had no idea who he was initially, and Trent had found that endearing.

He suspects that the photograph has come from your ex-Martin. Trent knows that he will claim that his phone had been hacked but realistically no one hacks the phone of a Booker Prize Winner. Nobody cares who they’re sleeping with.

Trent recalls he’d made a nuisance of himself in the aftermath of the breakup. Turning up at your house all hours of the day and night until you’d sought a restraining order. After that he would bad mouth you to anyone that would listen, which is why Roy had headbutted him last month at a Save the Polar Bears event. Trent had gifted him an expensive bottle of Scotch  with a card that read “Because you did what I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.”

“I’ve put a few messages out to my contacts.” Trent informs Roy, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against Beard’s desk. “I should hear back from them soon.”

“I did this.” Roy tells the other man as he rubs his hands over his face in exasperation. “It’s because I headbutted him at the fucking Panda thing isn’t it?”

“Polar bears.” Trent corrects before sighing. “I think you give yourself too much credit. Martin’s had a bee in his bonnet because SHE left him.”

“Yea.” Roy snarls, his dark eyes practically glowing with rage. “Because she walked in on him fucking a Page Three model in her bed, if it was me, I would have painted the room with his innards.”

It’s a vivid image, Trent has to give him that.

“He doesn’t like that she’s happier than him, more successful. The fact she’s with someone who actually cares about her, who gives her what he couldn’t.” Trent says taking off his glasses and gesturing with them as he speaks. “Being the type of man that he is, it probably sent him off the deep end.”

“That doesn’t excuse this type of shit.” Roy snaps, sagging back into the chair in frustration. He’s helpless right now, utterly fucking helpless and he hates it. The story is already out there. Every fucking pervert on the internet is probably wanking off to that picture of you and you have no fucking idea because you’re on a flight home from Ireland. He knows this is going to devastate you and he can’t stand the thought of it.

He looks up at Trent, his expression one of anguish.

“This is going to kill her.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[hostilemuppet]

Brozone (and friends (and enemies)) twitter drama au

Collaborative between me and @squirrelpatties. Truly our magnum opus

Jd: previously a frequent twitter e-clown infamous for name searching and starting beef with people who insulted him. His fanbase thought it was hilarious in a "grandpa escaped the hospital" way. Eventually was forced to relinquish control of @/brojohndoryofficial to his pr manager (clay) after he responded to 14 y/o @/j0ndryballzweat.

Floyd (part 1): his sex tape (with a fan he didnt know was a fan but thats hardly relevant) gets leaked. For the first three days everyone's timeline was full of "do NOT share it around, dont even look for it, if someone sends it to you IGNORE it, this is a disgusting breach of privacy" until Floyd addresses it by tweeting "decided to put on a different kind of show for you guys" and all hell breaks loose. Every tweets hidden replies are full of screencaps and reuploads for a month. People edit the video so just before anything explicit happens it's replaced by a video game cutscene or meme, which Floyd retweets a lot of. His brothers ask him to stop (both for publicity and bc it makes them uncomfortable) so he starts posting thirst traps on insta. Clay yells at him so Floyd tweets "clay just asked when I'm gonna get a girlfriend :/" which brings us to-

Clay: homophobia allegations. Admittedly the least serious and would have blown over quickly if it weren't for him panic tweeting "I'm not homophobic! My girlfriend is a bi lesbian!" People were NOT happy. It takes him three days of retweeting 'helpful educational threads and carrds' on lesbianism written by 14 y/os for people to get off his back. Viva understands.

Bruce: stays off social media bc its the mind killer so he lets clay take care of @/brobruceofficial. This goes well until clay gets drunk and thinks he's on his private account but is actually on Bruce's public. When he wakes up (hungover) in the morning hes got Bruce banging on his door asking why TMZ is reporting on him cheating on his wife. Bruce tells him to clear things up but clay JUST got the lesbians off his back and can't afford to be back in the hotseat...

Branch and poppy: branch was annoyed by all the branch/poppy rpf fanfic (poppy likes them bc she thinks they're cute and funny. When brozone go on tour she reads the smutty ones) so he suggested to poppy that they stage a fake breakup. Poppy is initially against the idea until branch brings up how much fun itd be to sneak around like a couple of teenagers. Poppy scrapbooks the tabloids about their breakup. Clay and Bruce blame clays drunken tweets on branch so clay seems like the victim. Poppy acknowledges this on twitter in a way that very heavily implies they broke up bc branch was cheating on her with her own sister. Viva does not understand. This one doesn't have a resolution yet bc we moved onto:

Barb: previous lesbian icon turned reactionary transphobe. Riff stopped associating with her once she started getting really public with it and now she keeps tweeting stuff like "you-know-who left me just to work with misogynists. Really makes you think 🤔 " which he ignores.

Riff: while still working with barb he was approached to collab with creek (damage control for the... unsavoury things he said about rock trolls). The second the song released he tweeted "wow that guy was an asshole LOL" bc he didn't realise he wasn't supposed to do that. Cut contact with barb once her transphobia went from "mild, I can fix her" to "jesus fucking christ". Briefly worked with Floyd until his second controversy at which point riff tweeted "cmon, man" and turned off his phone. Riff hasn't done anything wrong and he deserves a lot better

Velvet: crafted the perfect expose thread on Floyd when she was in prison, including "pro life" "publicly sharing inappropriate sexual content" and "uses the toothpaste flag". Posts it the second she gets let out of prison and instantly becomes #1 on trending (alongside "floyd" "pro life" and "#HUGS4CLAY).

Floyd (part 2): tweets "why does it even matter that I'm pro life if I'm gay and don't 'believe' in 'voting'" before doing another line off his boyfriends torso. People bring his leaked nudes back up and start insulting his dick size and its the first time hes ever let a controversy bother him. His next tweet is "I am not ashamed of my body" and the top reply (creek pfp) is "you should be ❤". Clay is biting the skin off his own tongue.

[deadgirlwalking91]

new update - 'thank you for the venom', chapter 6: 'this isn’t what i wanted but i can’t keep my filthy fucking mouth shut'

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter 6 Summary

Lute bites off more than she can chew; Adam remembers he's not just Lute's punching bag... he's her boss.

Author's note:

Thanks to everybody who has read/engaged so far! I hope you like this one - it was great fun to write. Feel free to comment and inbox away, doesn't have to be about this fic. Happy to chat anything and everything guitarspear!

Cheers to @branded-rose for beta-ing once again; there's a snippit in here that I didn't send you, by the way. You'll know it when you see it ;)

***

Adam and Lute’s Office, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

It had been a month since the Great Bathroom Incident, and the Exorcists were beginning to feel the effects of burnout.

Layla collapsed from exhaustion during a gruelling combat tournament that Lute had sprung on the girls one training session. It turned out she had been hitting the gym twice daily to ensure her physical fitness could keep up with the increasingly difficult drills that Lute had been implementing.

Adam also knew for a fact that the gym wasn’t the only thingLayla had been hitting lately, but he was trying this new tactic with women where he didn’t kiss and tell.

Layla was one of many Exorcists who were suffering the effects of extreme fatigue due to their intense training regime. Over the course of a fortnight, there was at least two new injuries or incidents daily that arose, which meant one thing: More. Fucking. Paperwork.

As if he didn’t have enough shit on his plate already, he now had to spend more time in the office with the she-devil herself, who was still a raging bitch to him on the daily.

She was even worse than usual – not that Adam thought it was possible - now that their increased workload meant they had to stay back late each night to ensure the incident reports were completed in a timely manner. If there was one thing Sera got her panties in a twist about, it was overdue incident reports. Which, unfortunately for Adam, meant that Lute was also on the warpath about them.

The moment he stepped into their office on Monday morning, he knew he was in for it.

“Think you could fucking manage to be on time for once?” Lute snapped, eyes not leaving the paperwork she was frantically filling out.

“Think you could manage not to be a raging cunt for once?” Adam retorted, slamming a take-away cup down on her desk. Not that she fucking deserved it. He hoped the coffee was so hot that it would burn her mouth.

Without acknowledging the insult, Lute grabbed the cup and started drinking desperately from it, disgust clearly written all over her face as she chugged the beverage.

“Don’t get me that milky shit again,” she snarled, tossing the cup into the bin. “In fact, stop buying me coffee every morning, would you?”

“You seemed to enjoy it enough,” Adam retorted. “A ‘thank-you’ would be nice though, you rude bitch.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Lute looked up at him for the first time that morning, despite insulting him at least twice since his arrival. Adam couldn’t hold back his wince – she looked awful. Dark bags lined the underneath of her eyes, which were red rimmed with exhaustion, her hair looked like a brush hadn’t been taken to it in weeks and even from where he stood, he could see how physically tense she was.

“You look like hell.”

For once, Lute resisted the urge to retort back, though her eyes narrowed into slits as she glared at him.

“I’m serious. You look like you need a good dicking.” Adam dropped into his seat and started sorting through his own pile of paperwork. “Not that I’m offering. My cock would probably shrivel up and fall off once I stick it in because –”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Lute shouted, standing and gripping the edge of her desk so tightly Adam could see the whites of her already pale knuckles. She looked positively rattled, and he wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but her eyes seemed to be glistening. “C-c…” She took a shuddering breath to steady herself and looked around the room, avoiding eye contact, running her hand through her cropped hair. “Can you just…go?”

Adam studied her, frowning. In all the years they’d worked together, he’d never seen Lute lose her cool like this. Sure, she was in a perpetual foul mood, and often directed said foul moods at him, so he was used to her sharp tongue and venomous insults.

But…emotional Lute?

He didn’t know how to deal with an emotional Lute. He didn’t deal well with normal women who were emotional. He’d hate to think of how he’d handle his unhinged second-in-command who hated his guts on any regular day.

And yet… there was a nagging voice, somewhere deep in the back of his brain, that was urging him to cut her some slack. Give her a break.

Adam couldn’t quite place his finger on what caused him to listen to that voice, and there was every chance he’d live to regret it, but instead of kicking Lute while she was down – tempting as it was, given she’d been such a bitch lately - he decided to do the opposite.

He was going to grant her a reprieve.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said simply, staring at her. “You on the other hand, are dismissed for the day, Lieutenant.”

Lute’s head whipped towards Adam, her mouth agape.

“What?” she hissed.

“You heard me. Go home.”

“I’m not going home!” she shrieked. The glisten Adam thought he caught in her eyes earlier were now full-blown tears, threatening to spill down her cheeks. “Who’s going to do all the paperwork? Who will take training today?”

“Nice to know you hold so much faith in me.” Adam said dryly. “You’re a fucking mess, Lute. I need you to get your shit together. I can’t have you taking it out on the rest of the girls, not when they’re already dropping like flies every day.”

Lute gaped at him wordlessly.

“Close your mouth. You’re going to pack your stuff and go home. Now. If I catch you putting a single piece of paper in your bag so you can continue working from home, I’m adding another day to your dismissal.”

“What will Sera say?” she whispered, fear evident in her voice.

“Don’t worry about Sare-bear, she probably won’t notice. If she does, I’ll say you’re unwell. Women’s problems, or some shit.”

Lute let out a shaky laugh. “Great. Just what I wanted her to know.”

“One more thing,” Adam added, leaning back in his chair. “We’re having dinner tonight. You and me.” He pointed back and forth between the two of them. “After you’ve taken the day to wash the sand out of your vagina, and you’re a nicer person because of it, we’re going to go out to dinner and talk through some shit. Finish our conversation from where we left off a month ago.”

“I –” Lute started, but Adam held his hand up for her to stop.

“Shut up. It’s not negotiable, Lute. I’ll meet you at seven. For once, wear something that isn’t workout gear or your uniform. Got it?”

For what seemed like minutes, but really would have only been the matter of seconds, Lute stared at Adam, frowning like she wanted to argue but something was holding her back.

“Fine,” she answered. “See you then.”

Lute’s Apartment, Apartment Block, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

Lute sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a towel, staring into her wardrobe.

She had no fucking idea what to wear.

This wasn’t a predicament she usually found herself in; the beauty of being as unsociable as she was meant that she didn’t need an array of outfits stashed in her closet for impromptu events such as dinners with her boss.

In fact, her wardrobe mostly consisted of workout gear, her exorcist uniform and a few other select items of clothing. All of it was black. None of it was fancy. Or particularly feminine.

Sighing, she tousled her damp hair. This was stupid. Going to dinner with Adam was stupid. Adam was stupid. She could be using this time to catch up on the paperwork she missed out on doing while she’d been stood down for the day.

Lute would never admit it to Adam, but she had managed to relax for most of the day. And by relax, she completed a two-hour home workout, scrubbed her apartment from top to bottom, rearranged her pantry and finished all her laundry. This was all after she spent a good hour sulking about being sent home and wishing nothing less than a slow and painful death on her boss. Her version of sulking happened to consist of throwing things around her apartment until they broke.

She reached for her phone and tapped out a quick text message, hating herself for initiating conversation with Adam outside of work hours, but what other choice did she have?

Lute: Where are we going?

She tossed her phone aside and flopped backwards onto the bed. Knowing her luck, she’d make somewhat of an effort with her appearance, and he’d take her to a damn fast-food restaurant. Or she’d dress casually, and he’d humiliate her by taking her to a fancy restaurant, which she wouldn’t put past him.

It wasn’t the instantaneous reply that took her by surprise, but more the response itself.

Adam: Do you like BBQ?

Unsure how to answer, her fingers hovered over the screen of her phone before she replied.

Lute: Don’t know. Never had it.

Adam: Didn’t think so.

Lute hissed at her phone and threw it across her bed. Fuck it, she wasn’t going. It’d be a waste of time anyway – no doubt they’d start arguing and she’d probably get so irritated that she’d throw her drink on him and storm out of the restaurant.

Only for the next morning to come and it’d all repeat again. The childish jibes, the insults, the threats of murder…

Her phone buzzed again, unexpectedly interrupting her thoughts. Probably Vaggie asking where she was today. She reached across her bed and tapped the screen.

Adam: It’s not fancy. Hellfire Bar & Grill. See you at 7.

Well. That at least gave her something to work with. Sighing, she got up and started sifting through the clothing in her wardrobe for what seemed like the four hundredth time, wishing she was doing anything but going out for dinner with Adam that night.

Hellfire Bar & Grill, Heaven

For once, Adam had arrived somewhere earlier than Lute. She wasn’t surprised; considering he was highly food motivated she was willing to bet that had something to do with it.

What she was surprised at, however, was the fact that he was dressed entirely in casual clothing. She’d only ever seen him in three outfits before, and they were all different variations of the same robe. It was jarring, seeing him dressed in civilian clothing but still donning his usual helmet and mask.

“Hey,” he greeted her, looking up from his phone as he saw her approach.

“Hi.”

“Have you calmed the fuck down?”

Lute narrowed her eyes. “If you’ve asked me to come here so you can insult me, I’m turning around and going back home.”

“I would have thought,” he sighed, pocketing his phone and opening the door to the restaurant. “That some time off would have put you in a better mood.”

Ignoring him, Lute entered the restaurant and waited while he requested a table. Luckily for them - or unluckily, Lute thought – it wasn’t very busy, so they were seated swiftly.

“What can I get you two lovebirds to drink?” Their waitress chirped, beaming at them both.

“He’s not my fuckin-”

“We’re not dating, babe.” Adam grinned up at the waitress, who at his words, seemed to suddenly be very taken by him. “You and me, though? That could work. Two glasses of your best red wine, thanks.”

Lute shot him a disgusted look, wrinkling her nose at his blatant flirting. Sleazebag.

The waitress was clearly infatuated with Adam, because she giggled incessantly as she flounced away with their drink order.

“How do you know what I drink?” Lute demanded.

“The night I came to your apartment –”

“Broke into my apartment.” Lute corrected him, folding her arms.

Adam waved a hand carelessly in the air. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You had an open bottle of red wine on the bench, so I figured you drank it.”

“The things you learn when you break and enter.”

Before he could retort, the waitress returned with their drinks. She also held a piece of paper which she slipped not-so discreetly across the table to Adam. Winking at her, he pocketed the paper and Lute had to force herself to look away, lest she start gagging as the woman practically melted on the spot in excitement.

What all those women saw in him, she’d never fucking know.

“So,” Adam cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as the waitress practically skipped away. “Did you, uh, relax today?”

“I did.”

Silence. Lute, not really wanting to divulge any further information to Adam, fiddled with the sleeve of her jacket, staring around the restaurant. To their right was a couple who showed all the signs of being on their first date. Hands entwined atop the table, the angels were staring into each other’s eyes, not talking. Just… staring. With stupid smiles on their faces.

Lute rolled her eyes and shifted her focus to the table on their left, the couple occupying that space arguing in hushed voices, though one of the two women looked like they were dangerously close to tears.

Wonderful.

She lifted her wine glass to her lips and sipped, trying to fill the silence with something.

‘What did you do?” Adam pressed, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I worked out. I cleaned. I did laundry.”

“Didn’t I tell you to relax?”

“I don’t really do relaxing.” Another sip of wine. The way this meeting was going, she’d polish off the entire bottle before she got the chance to even eat.

“You were relaxing the night I came around to talk.”

Lute stiffened at the mention of that night. She set her glass down on the table, frowning as she ran her thumb and index finger up and down the stem. She was unsure how to answer ��� it would be easiest to tell Adam where to go, but the reality was that she was tired, and wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the back and forth between them.

“I haven’t done it since.”

“Because of me?”

Lute felt her stomach knot, her hands growing warm and clammy. She removed them from her glass and wiped them down on her jeans. The last thing she wanted to do was get into a back-and-forth about that incident. Again.

“Why are we here?” Lute asked, her eyes snapping up and glaring at Adam. “What’s even the point of meeting here tonight? For you to -”

“Hey! Are you guys ready to order?” Another overly chirpy waitress was back, her smile almost blinding Lute. Her teeth were so white, it was alarming.

Lute stared at her menu, not registering anything that was on it.

“Usual for me, thanks babe,” Adam said, handing his menu back to the waitress. They both looked expectantly at Lute. Shit. She scanned the menu again, but nothing jumped out at her as particularly enticing. Truthfully, she didn’t particularly care for food – to her, it was just fuel to keep herself going.

“Uh, I’ll just have what he’s having. Thanks.”

Adam stared at her incredulously as the waitress took her menu and sauntered off, her small wings flapping happily.

“I’m not sure that was the best choice,” he said, eyeing her wearily. “I ordered –”

“I didn’t know what to pick, okay? I don’t really eat this stuff.”

“What do you eat, then?”

“What is this, twenty-fucking-questions?” Lute snapped. “I don’t have the time, or the patience to play bullshit games with you. What do you want?”

They both glared at each other from across the table, Lute’s golden eyes boring into the screen of Adam’s mask. For what felt like minutes, neither of them spoke.

The loved-up couple next to them were now tangled together atop a single dining chair, making out sloppily, the noisy smack of their lips filling the awkward silence. Lute’s eye twitched in annoyance, and she had to turn her head so she couldn’t see their tongues being shoved down each other’s throats.

“Shit, that’s annoying,” Adam scowled, taking a sip of his wine.

“If they keep going, they’re going to end up fucking on the table in front of us. Gross.” Lute muttered, also drinking. Their eyes met again, though this time there was the slightest hint of a smirk behind Adam’s mask.

He sighed and looked away, frowning.

“Lute. I’m going to level with you,” he said, leaning his forearms onto the table. “We need to make this work. The stakes for Extermination Day are fucking high this year.”

“What do you mean?”

 “Sera – ” Adam cut himself off, frowning. Lute studied him with mild curiosity as he paused, collecting his thoughts, his hand rubbing his chin. “Sera… she’s put a lot of faith in your proposal. And I won’t bullshit you – I thought it was a load of crap when I first read it. Too much math involved. If I can’t do the sum using my fingers, it’s too fucking hard.”

“Good thing calculators have been invented.”

“Wouldn’t know, I’ve never used one. Smartass. Anyway, after you left today, I took the time to read it again. I’ll admit, there’s…potential for it to work. But speaking from experience babe, a few adjustments need to be made.” Adam reached for his glass and swirled his wine, taking a sip once he was satisfied the burgundy liquid had been aerated enough. “Wanna hear them?”

Lute crossed her arms. “What are you getting out of this? I’ve worked with you for many years. I know you don’t offer anything up unless you’re getting something out of it.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“Spit it out, then.”

“Fine. Stop being such a fucking bitch all the time.”

“Excuse me?” Lute spat, her eyes automatically wandering to the steak knife set in front of her.

“You heard me, Lute. Statistically, you might be my top girl, but you rank dead last on my list when it comes to personality. Maybe if you loosened up and had a little fun –”

“Dinner’s here!” Two very large, very meaty plates were set down on the table in front of each of them. Lute wrinkled her nose, immediately regretting her decision to blindly order her dinner.

She should have known Adam would have ordered ribs, considering he waxed lyrical about them on an almost-daily basis. There had to be at least two dozen on each plate, all covered in a sticky glaze. Just lookingat the plate was giving her the sweats. She glanced over at Adam, who was watching her reaction intently.

“You know,” he began uncertainly, eyeing the sheer volume of food between the two of them. “You don’t have to eat that. You can always order someth-”

“I’ll eat them.”

“Sure? There’s a lo-”

“I’ll be fine. I bet,” Lute added, folding her arms across her chest, an unknown bravado washing over her, “I can keep up for you, rib-for-rib.”

Adam choked on the sip of wine he’d been taking.

“You’re not fucking serious!” he spluttered, wiping his screen with the back of his hand.

“Did I stutter?” She picked up one of the ribs, instantly regretting her declaration that she’d eat what looked to be her entire bodyweight in meat. Why couldn’t she have picked a normal meal, like a steak? Steak would have been safe. Steak would have been easy. Steak wouldn’t have ignited her competitive streak and didn’t come with potential digestion issues.

But no. She just had to open her mouth. And if there was one thing that Lute did not do, it was back out of a challenge. Especially one that she initiated.

“Ready?”

“Lute, this isn’t a good idea, I mean it, the ribs are –”

Staring Adam down, she held the ends of the rib in each hand and tore a chunk off meat off with her teeth. She grimaced – the glaze was sickly sweet, and they were…

“– spicy.” Adam said, wincing.

She maintained eye contact as she chewed, hating herself for not thinking before speaking. The meat burned her throat as she swallowed, the spice hitting her nose and tears prickling at her eyes.

Lute closed her eyes and bit into the rib again, stripping the meat from the bone completely.

“You,” Adam started, picking up a rib of his own and shaking his head, “are the craziest bitch I’ve ever met, you know that, right?”

Lute wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and tossed the bone onto the spare plate on the table. “Try and keep up, Sir.” She reached for another piece of meat and noticed Adam staring at her, an unusual expression depicted on his mask. “What?”

“You called me ‘Sir’.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t sarcastic.”

Lute grabbed her napkin, wiping her nose which has started to run. “Must have slipped out. I can assure you it won’t happen again.” 

She watched with vague interest as Adam started eating. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him consume food – in fact, he regularly ate at his desk in their shared office. It was the first time though, that she focused on the food disappearing into the void of his mask.

Because it did exactly that. It just… disappeared. Almost like there was nothing underneath.

Maybe…maybe that was actually his face, and she’d been wrong about it being a mask all along.

“How does that thing work, anyway?” She managed to swallow rib number three considerably easier than the first two.

“Holy magic, babe.”

“Care to elaborate?” Four down, twenty to go. Her stomach churned at the thought.

“Who’s playing twenty questions now?” he snapped suddenly, glaring at her. “Drop it.”

“So you’re allowed to interrogate me, but I can’t ask you anything?” Another rib done. She was getting hotter, and Lute could feel the sweats starting to kick in. Wiping her glaze-covered hands on her napkin, she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. The cool air was welcomed on her skin, and she silently thanked herself for choosing a top with thin straps.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t ask me anything. For example, if you were to ask me if I’m surprised that you own feminine clothing,” Adam waved a hand at her, “I’d say yes.”

Lute scowled. “I’m feminine.” She ripped the meat off rib number six with her front teeth, holding the bone expertly now with one hand. Wiping her mouth with her hand again, she reached for her wine and sipped steadily, using the liquid to help wash the food down.

“You’re the least feminine Exorcist in the fucking army.”

“That’s because I’m the only one you haven’t slept with.”

“Not true. I haven’t slept with the ones that are into chicks.” Adam counted the rib bones on his plate. “I’m at nine, by the way, what about you?”

“How are you at nine? I started before you, and I’m only on seven. And that’s just great. Wonderful. I’m the only straight one you haven’t touched. That makes me feel amazing.” Lute gnawed at her rib, her face flushing in embarrassment.

It wasn’t like she considered herself attractive or anything like that. Truthfully, she’d never thought about it because her appearance had never been of high importance to her. Sure, she liked her hair cropped a certain way, and she’d very rarely wear a small amount of makeup on special occasions, but that was the extent of it.

Moodily, she threw the bone down, not caring where it landed, and reached for another piece of meat.

“Shit – I, uh, didn’t realise you were into dick.” Adam at least had the gall to look somewhat embarrassed. “I just assumed you and Vaggie –”

“You assumed Vaggie and I what?” she growled.

“I’m not judging, babe!” Adam held his glaze-covered hands up in defence. “Love is love, right? And, between you and me, there’s nothing hotter than watching a woman eat pu -”

Lute chucked her eighth bone at him in disgust, cutting him off and hitting him square in the chest. The couple to their left, who had been arguing all night, stopped their bickering and glared at her.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Lute snarled at them, fingers wrapping around the steak knife that still lay atop the table. “You bitches have been going back and forth all night, but me throwing food somehow offends you?” She pointed the blade of the knife at them. “Turn around and shut the fuck up before I –”

The women stood hastily from their table and scurried towards the exit, one of them tossing Lute a scared look over her shoulder. She sighed, satisfied, and grabbed another rib, hand still on the knife’s handle.

“You,” Adam began wearily, shaking his head, “are a fucking nutcase. You know that, right?”

Lute shrugged and kept eating. “I don’t suffer fools.”

“I can see that.”

“Which is why you irritate me so much.”

“I’m no fool,” Adam declared, counting his rib bones out with his finger, starting over once as he accidentally confused himself. “I’m more than halfway done, by the way.”

“Me too. And yes, you are a fool.”

Adam crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “Before our dinner came, I was trying to explain how, if we tweak your proposal slightly, you’ll have more success with your training plan.”

Exhaling, Lute closed her eyes. She was starting to feel nauseous and if she kept going, she was going to be sick. Maybe she was the fool. “I’m pretty sure you were in the middle of calling me an uptight bitch with a shitty personality, actually.”

He clicked his fingers. “That’s it! Thanks for reminding me.”

Lute opened her eyes and narrowed them at him.

“What? You’ve just jogged my memory. Anyway, you’ve been riding the girls too hard,” he stopped to snigger at his choice of words, and Lute rolled her eyes at his immaturity as she grabbed more ribs. “You need to give them some time off.”

“They already get weekends and evenings off, what more do they need?”

 “A night out on the town.”

“You’re telling me,” Lute said, pointing her bone at him accusingly, “that the reason you dragged me out to this stupid restaurant is so that you can propose some kind of night of fucked-up debauchery with your harem of women? And I’m meant to be okay with that?”

“Settle down, Dangertits. As hot as a harem would be, I’m thinking more a night at a bar with a few drinks. Let the girls have a good time.”

“And by a ‘good time’ you mean get them drunk enough so they’ll sleep with you?” Lute snorted, starting on a fresh rib. She noted that there were only a few remaining on her plate. She couldn’t wait to get home and take her pants off, because she felt like she was going to burst from the sheet volume of food she had consumed that night. She was so uncomfortable.

“Hey,” Adam said, sounding slightly wounded. “I’ll have you know I don’t fuck drunk chicks. I might be an animal, but I’m not a predator.”

“Congratulations, you have one redeeming personality trait.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot. I’m the unfuckable, unfeminine, uptight bitch, right?” Lute gulped down the rest of her wine before reaching for her second-last rib.

Adam cocked his head. “I never said you were unfuckable. I said I’d slept with all the Exorcists that I thought were straight. Which, up until about half an hour ago, I was not aware included you.”

Desperately wanting to end this conversation – and the night, Lute held up her final large, juicy rib. “Last one.”

She was sweating, bloated and her throat felt like it had been ripped apart and set on fire, but she’d done it. She’d kept up. Rib-for-rib, like she’d challenged.

Adam raised his eyebrows and downed the rest of his wine. “Fuck me dead, Lute. I thought you’d struggle to get through six with the way you started out.”

Lute shrugged. “Yeah well, I proved you wrong, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and you also managed to scare the fuck out of the couple next to us. I’ve seen you slaughter thousands of sinners over the years, but honestly, I think it’s your tongue that’s the most terrifying thing about you.”

Lute smirked. “I guess it is.”

And with that, she took the rib whole in her mouth, closing her eyes as she sucked the meat clean off the bone. Once she’d finished, she opened her eyes and set it down on her plate atop the others. Adam was eyeing her with a pained expression.

“I don’t know if I should be turned on or disgusted by that,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact. “But I was definitely wrong about thinking you weren’t into dick after watching you deep throat that massive piece of meat.”

Lute rolled her eyes. “It’s always one step forward and two steps back with you, isn’t it, Sir?”

“You know it, Dangertits. So what do you say? Can the girls have a night of fun?” He extended his hand over the table.

Lute considered it for a moment before reaching forward and shaking it. His handshake was incredibly firm, and she was surprised to discover that the span of her entire hand was almost the same size as the width of his palm. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed how massive his hands were before now.

“Fine. One night out, and then back to regular training.” She quickly let go and exhaled, wishing the remainder of the meeting would come to an end soon so she could go home and unbutton her pants.

After all, how bad could one night at a bar be?

***

Next time: We find out that a night at a bar can be very, very bad. ...or good.

[stcrgazings]

like a tatoo pt2?

two ghosts ➳ (c.l)

like a tatto pt2, you can read part one here

note: hi girls it’s been a while, and this is long promised and so I decided to finish it finally today to celebrate p4 and p5 in Canada, truth to be told i struggled terribly with this one, because I didn’t really planned for like a tatto to have a pt2, i mean it was an idea but i thought people wouldn’t even like it but then everyone wanted it so yeah, I basically wrote and rewrote the whole thing about 7-8 times because I didn’t liked it, but after a thousand rewrites I’m finally happy with the outcome, i hope you enjoy it and leave it tons of notes, it doesn’t really have to do much with the song but I thought of it when writing so it only seemed fitting.

pairing: charles leclerc x female reader

summary: Charles can’t stop thinking about a certain someone and manifesting without realizing it’s a powerful thing, but will he be able to fix what he broke?

warnings: angsts (lots of it) swearings, fighting, crying, two heartbroken people almost killing each other.

word count: 5.4K (longest yet in the blog)

He’s thinking of you again.

In his dying car in the middle of the track, he thinks thinks in those same red lips that flood his mind at any given minute and also that he must be the most unlucky person in the world, and that if you were here you’ll probably tell him that he’s just being his negative self and that that he’ll be alright.

But you’re not, thanks to no one but him, so he curses to himself and gets out of the car.

He thinks of you again, as he answers all types of questions to the hound of reporters that surrounds him, he imagines that it’s you that’s waiting for him in the garage, ready to hold him and kiss him and make him feel better but it’s the new girl that he’s seeing that wraps him in her arms, and he hates it because it doesn’t feel the same and her comfort isn’t half as good as yours and quite frankly just because she isn’t you.

But what he hates even more is the lonely road to the hotel, and the way your face is plastered in every single advertisement in that big city he’s in, just like in Monaco, and France and every single country in the globe, and the sour feeling that is to look at your beautiful face knowing that he’ll never have you again is as bad as getting a DNF in the first race of the season, if not worse.

The girl besides him talks and talks, hoping that maybe he’ll feel better, but he doesn’t because her long lashes look just like yours and that definitely doesn’t help him feel better at all, he feels more like being punch in the gut, repeatedly. But he doesn’t say anything and just remains kept to himself the whole ride, thinking about how you are or what you’ve been doing.

Maybe right now you’re thinking of him too.

Eventually he’s too in his head, thinking about what you would tell him in this situation he’s in, what you would do to make him feel better and forget the week if not months he’s had, he ends up sending the girl by his side away, repeating the words that once he said to you “you just wouldn’t understand baby” and watches her face drops, he feels his hearts sinks because your torturing sobs ring in his hears whilst the girl besides him leaves the room without saying goodbye.

(Just like you once did)

He knows that what he is doing is definitely not healthy at all, but he can’t really help himself, the memories of you being the only thing that keeps him a float, because he can’t really have you now, you’re no longer one call or one flight away, he’s by himself now, so reminiscing about you and your time together brings him some sense of peace.

He imagines that you would be waiting for him at his Monaco apartment, or at the airport, he wishes in silence to accidentally bump into you at the supermarket aisle once he gets back, fooling no one but himself, knowing none of those things will be happening when he gets home.

He used to think that racing with be enough, that if he just went day by day by the time season started he would be able to get ahold of himself, and then a competitive car would just do the rest but looking at the car he has right now that doesn’t even look like an option.

It’s like it was one step forward, thinking of last year, how he could’ve had it all, the championship and the girl and everything he could ever wanted, but now a long year later he knows its really three steps back, because he doesn’t have anything in the championship, as not one point adds up in his standings and he definitely doesn’t have the girl, doesn’t have you.

He opens his phone searching up your name, something he does religiously every night, to check on you without actually doing it, to tell himself that you’re okay, that you’re happy, and better off without him, the urge to text you or call you is always there, itching on the tip of his fingers, but it never wins, even though he truly does want it to, so he can tell you that he misses you, and that he’s sorry, and that he can’t live without even though he has tried with everything he has in him.

But he doesn’t, he never does, he just scrolls through his phone, reading about how you were in Italy a few days back, in Rome, for a fashion show or something liked that, and then feels his heart drop like he does every time he reads about you, this time he stares at the pictures of you exiting a club clearly wasted with an Argentinian soccer player, called Dybala or something liked that, by your side with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist and your face was deeply into his neck.

He sighs and throws his phone to the other side of the bed with something that feels like sadness, anger and jealousy all together and decides that’s enough you for the night.

He knows he has no right to feel anything involving you, because he was the one that screwed up, he was the one that had broken up with you and essentially ended things but he still did because he missed you and was still completely in love with you; He would even say haunted by you, his heart still skipping a beat every time someone mentioned you, his mind was constantly flooded with everything that involved you, he still thought about you when he saw tulips because they were your favorite flower, and every time he sees a sunset he can almost picture you with your phone in hand taking a picture and when he listens to Taylor Swift you’re all that comes to mind, even though he probably didn’t know what your favorite song was anymore since it was always changing from time to time.

He thought way too often about the fact that you probably didn’t think of him anymore when you heard lover and probably all too well was the one to go now that it came to him.

Everyone told him that it would get better eventually, but every day it felt like it was actually getting worse because in every living breathing moment of every hour of every day he just wanted to be with you, to be worthy of your love, to be like you both used to be before things had gotten bad, before he became a douche and didn’t realize it, before he pushed away and damaged things beyond repair.

Maybe in another universe he did everything right.

You’re both 20 years old and nothing bad has ever happened to you.

In another universe everything went well, and he won the championship with Ferrari, and you’re sitting on his lap giggling in his neck whilst in the beach in his yacht.

In another universe he’s the bigger person and doesn’t open your contact info just to see your profile picture.

In another universe he does get over you and everything gets better.

But there isn’t another universe so his fingers ghost over your phone number as he wants to call you, but then decides that a text wouldn’t hurt anyone since you probably have him blocked like in any other social media and wouldn’t get it anyway.

So he types an “i miss you” and then presses the send button, with his hands shaking and his heart in his throat, somehow the “I hope that you’re ok” that he types after hurts him even more as he sends it.

He knows he’ll get no answer, like he said before, you have him blocked everywhere, and he wants to say he wrote that just to vent all of the feelings from the past few weeks, but a teeny tiny part of him still wishes for you to read them, and he can’t help but wonder if you’re just as miserable as he is right now.

But that doesn’t change how mortified he becomes as the word delivered appeared on his screen, his heart dropping from his throat to his stomach.

Well fuck.

(…)

I miss you.

You’ve always been an glass half empty type of girl and you’ve never even know why, you’ve always been negative except with everything that involved Charles.

But that doesn’t change how decompose you are after getting that text, silent tears stream down your face as you made your way out of the busy club, feeling like the air inside it was being slowly stripped away from you, your lungs failing to do their job as you felt like breathing was to much of a task.

I hope that you’re ok.

It knocks the air out of you, and before you know it you’re emptying your insides in the sidewalk in the back of the club, and you’re sweating and you feel like you’re about to pass out.

I miss you.

Everything is a blur, you feel your own bodyguards hand around your arm as they get you in the car, your friend behind you.

“You’re okay miss?” The question rings in your ears and you want to answer no but your voice doesn’t seem to come out, so you just move your head from side to side signaling a clear “no.”

From then on the voices feel distorted, worrying looks surrounding you, you feel your friends hands all over your face, her left hand firm on your chin as she took one good look at you, staring deep into your very drunk and disoriented eyes.

“I think she’s intoxicated”

I hope that you’re ok.

You are basically pass out in the back seat of the black Range Rover in, head pressed in your friends lap as she blows air on your face, there’s discussion in the front seat, something about taking you to a hospital, they tell you not to fall asleep, but you can’t really help your closing eyes, and so as everything turns into black you think that this whole thing is unfair, and that he doesn’t have a right to miss you after every he did but a drunk mumble comes out of you anyways.

“He needs to know that I miss him too” is the last thing that leaves you in a dry and tired whisper as your consciousness is lost in the back seat of the car.

(…)

“I fucking hate Balmain” you muster as you fix your hair in the bathroom, still a little drunk, definitely a lot hangover, your head pounding so much it felt like it was going to burst.

You were currently in an event, a Balmain one in case it wasn’t clear, a tiny skirt adorned your legs with a white top from the brand that squeezed you in all the right places, your hair was curly and down, the high ponytail that you’ve worn for the past months gone, since just a few hour ago you told your stylist that anymore pressure in your head would make you puke.

To say that you would rather be anywhere else than in this 20ft yacht was an understatement

but your manager had almost dragged you here in an attempt to do some damage control because of the show you just pulled last night.

So you smile and nod and chat politely with everyone that comes close, and you giggle and flirt with the Argentinian soccer player in front of you, allowing his roaming hands just above of the curve of your ass and into the naked back of your dress, laughing playfully.

And when Paulo Dybala leaves you, you do tell him that you might be free later that night.

You take another sip of champagne when all of the sudden you feel a heavy stare just at the back of your neck, a shiver running down your spine and you would know that feeling everywhere because it’s what you’ve been missing all this time.

Charles fucking Leclerc, your ex, and the one you might consider the love of your life, it’s in the same enclosed space that you are right now, and not any enclosed space but in a stupid yacht that is kilometers away from mainland, kilometers away from any scape from him.

But of course that doesn’t stop you from finding the closest emergency exit from the room, and feeling him behind you before you even start running to the outside of the boat, the bow you think that it’s called, but it’s the last thing you think about as you basically jump stairs down.

“Y/n wait!” He calls out for you and your name from his mouth sounds just as you remember and it breaks you down almost completely.

“Get away from me Charles!” You shout at him, grabbing your dress and waking as fast as your heels allow you to, because you don’t want to see him and let alone hear whatever it is he has to say.

“y/n, please listen” he grabs you by the wrist before you can separate from him even further, you didn’t even know where you were going considering you were trap in a yacht in the middle of the sea but it was definitely away from him.

“There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear Charles, please let me go” you turn around to see him, to finally catch a glimpse of him, a good look into him at the person you used to love the most, and the moment you are met with does same eyes green you’ve thought about everyday since he left you, you feel yourself tremble because there’s begging in his eyes desperation even, and even though you want to look away from it, you can’t.

“I can’t— I can’t keep living like this, I need you to hear me out please” he looks at you too, and god me missed you, moon dancing over your good side making you look as beautiful as ever as he pulls you a little closer to him, because he needs you, like he never needed anything before, and it breaks him, it shatters his heart into a million peace the look that you give him, because it’s filled with hurt and pain, and your eyes looks glassy and broken and he knows that it’s all because of him.

“You need—! you need me to listen!” At this point you’re past hurt, now you’re livid because how dare he and he actually looks scared when you walk towards him and you thank God that all of the guests are inside having dinner because you now think that you might kill him.

“What about what I needed Charles!?” You push him away, freeing yourself from his grab on your wrist and decide that if he wants to talk then you’ll talk.

“I needed you! And you fucking left me, I held together our relationship for months Charles, I booked the flights, I killed myself going from New York to Monaco just to see for six or seven hours because you were busy and never had the time, I waited for you up every time you came back from a race just to see your face even though you never even spoke to me because you were sad, you pushed me away, you quite literally gave up on our relationship and I need to hear you out?. Fuck off Charles” you brush your hair out of your hair, tears staining your rosy cheeks, and you want to hate him you truly do, but as you look at him you simply can’t, and that makes you even more miserable.

The whole thing makes you want to jump from the boat and drown, your head pulsing from how bad it hurts and you don’t know if it is because the only thing you have eaten in the whole day were some olives or because of the hangover or because of how infuriated you are.

“Ange I…” the nickname sends chills down your spine, Charles simply stares at you and just wants to make it all better, wants to take these whole months back, wants to stop himself from treating you the way he did when you were still together but he knows he can’t.

“Don’t call me that” you spit before he can even continue but he walks towards you to grab you again, and you don’t stop him when his hands find your arms again. “Okay but please don’t cry, I can’t stand to see you cry”

“Baby I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am for all of that, and If could take it back I would, in the split of a second, I didn’t know how to value you back then and I took you for granted when I shouldn’t have, and every day since we broke up I’ve lived to regret it, I’ve been miserable since the day you left” he says and it sounds truthful, but you can’t let yourself believe him. “You didn’t look miserable when you hooked up with every other girl in Monaco, including my best friend” you shoot back. Cleaning the tears from your cheeks before he can even dare to.

“Maybe I didn’t take the best choices, that I know, but they weren’t you!”

“It’s that supposed to make me feel better?” You mock him, because you are hurt and angry, and he can’t help but groan in frustration. “Yes—! No—! I mean that, I am trying to make it better, I love you, okay? Like I’ve never loved someone before that I know, and it’s killing me, I hate seeing you like this, every time I’ve been happy it’s because I thought of you, in my car it’s you who I want singing at the songs in the radio, it’s you who I want to wake up to, it’s you who I want to come home to, it’s you, everything I’ve ever wanted, every living day, every night baby, it’s you who I come to, checking to see if you are okay, wondering how you are, if you are okay”

“Well I’m not, I’ve been miserable, fucking going insane because of how badly I’ve missed you, getting drunk every fucking weekend trying to get you out of my mind, because you are all I can think about, wearing your shirts in the bathroom floor while I can’t stop crying because of badly I want you, despite of what you did to, because even after everything I wanted to call you, to hear your voice and to tell you that I loved you, isn’t it pathetic?” You asked, because that is exactly how you’ve felt, pathetic, even now hearing him out when you know that you know better than that.

“What? No you are not pathetic baby, you could never be and I am so sorry for making feel less than how wonderful and amazing you are, I wanted to call you too, you have no idea”

“Then why didn’t you?!” You asked and that is the only thing you actually want to hear from him, because for him to call you was everything you ever wanted, for the longest time it was. “Because I convinced myself that you were better off without me, I didn’t wanted to keep hurting you”

“It’s—it’s what you are doing right now!”

You want to say something, anything really but you can’t, because the whole thing it’s to much and before things can get even worse, your body fucking betrays you and your lungs stop doing what they are supposed.

“Stop” you speak, softly for the first time since the whole conversation started, and it’s quiet and you can’t stop crying, and you want to scream and disappear because you don’t want to keep having this conversation because it hurts, it hurts so much.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” He asks. Eyes glistening, fighting back the tears seeing you like this, how did you both end up here?, “I can’t breath” you muster and it’s wheezy and you don’t want him to see you like this but you can’t really stop it.

“I just want to go home!” You sob lowering your head, giving up at the whole thing, feeling like a small child who just wants her mom, dropping to the floor, Charles joining you by your side.

And it’s quiet while you sob, and cry, hands on your face and he wants to hug you but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, but he places a hand on your thigh, tracing it up and down and it’s gentle and completely innocent while he does it, eventually you place your head in his shoulder it’s almost natural like an instinct and you feel your heart flutter when he places a soft kiss in your temple, “I can’t let you hurt me again Charles, I won’t make it.”

“I won’t” he whispers in your head, and it’s a promise, grabbing and intertwining your hand with his leaves a kiss in your knuckles and stares deep into your eyes. “I love you baby, please give me another chance.” You cry again because you want to believe him but you can’t , falling apart completely into his arms allowing him to wrap you into his embrace, tears staining his shirt, soaking him completely, his hands meeting your neck, now combing your hair through his rings and fingers.

“I didn’t deserve what you did to me” you whisper, still buried deep in this chest while he stared at you and nodded, because he knows it’s true, that you didn’t deserve everything that he did to you, he knows that he did wrong.

“I know that you didn’t deserve it, you didn’t deserved any of it, that’s why I’m apologizing because I treated you so badly when all you did was being there for me, and that’s why I’m also asking you to please give me another chance so that I can prove to you that I’ll make it better, and that I’ll make it up to you for the rest of our lives, if you let me”

Part of you wants to believes him and I’m fact a part of you does, and it’s that part that crawls deep in your chest when you finally look at him, at those green eyes that you used to call home, but now are filled with tears and despair, but even then Charles still tries and smiles at you, and you can almost feel yourself crumble, because you remember the first time you ever saw him smile and thought that, that smile was the one that you wanted to see for the rest of your days, and suddenly you aren’t in the boat heartbroken and crying in his arms, but in your apartment together sitting on the counter tasting the pancakes he just made for you. You are in Monza getting so wasted that you can’t even walk so he has your high heels in hand carrying you in a bridal style back to your hotel room, you are in a simulator in Maranello sitting on his lap while he teaches you how to use it, you are by his side blasting a Taylor Swift song telling him how much you love him, you are kissing goodbye before he goes to another continent to race, you are in bed wearing his t-shirt, hugging him, crying on his arms like you are doing right now but because you saw a movie where a dog died, and you know that despite that everything that he ever did to you, you still love him.

That’s why you pull closer, both of your breaths becoming just one because of the proximity, noses touching completely while breathing heavily because neither of you pull away, Charles tugging a strand of hair behind your ear while cupping your cheek and your heart is beating just as fast as the car he drives for a living, his pupils dilated and you shouldn’t, you can’t.

But of course that he kisses you, and there’s stillness and hesitation because for a second you don’t don’t kiss him back because you are better than this and just when Charles thinks everything is lost, you kiss him back.

And his lips against yours it’s just as good as you remembered to be, and it’s soft and slow but also desperate and needy your back arching against him because the closeness is not enough, both of his hands in your back while yours are cupping his cheeks and neither of you can’t tell if you’re actually pulling or pushing away, and it’s magical and soothing and just as stomach twisting as it always was, even with your own tears mixing in the kiss, and you don’t ever want it, it to end.

So you kiss him, with all that you have whispering a breathy, “fuck.” Throwing your legs over his lap, foreheads touching while he smiles at you and you smile at him too, and it’s the happiest you’ve been in months.

“I missed this” Charles mutters softly against your lips and all you can do is nod, enjoying the gentle strokes in the naked part of your lower back still drunk in the whole thing. “I missed this too” and you kiss him back because it’s true, and the first thing you think is how were you able to survive this long with out it, without him.

You both stay there for the longest time, giggling and kissing and making up for the time lost, and it feels like before everything went to shit and you would be lying if you said that didn’t give you a shrink of hope.

You tell him about modeling, and how everything in your life work wise seems to be working out smoothly, you tell him about all the places you’ve been, and all the countries you’ve visit since you left each other, you tell him about parties and how you are kinda still drunk from last night. “Is that my fault?”, He asks shyly making you laugh softly.

“Well not really, when I got your text I was almost already pass out in the back of the club, I was just thinking about you yesterday” you confess, back against his chest, you’re both standing now against the rail of the boat. “um, I saw the race.” You say, playing with the rings in his fingers, his arms around your waist and his chin in your shoulder and you feel him sigh against you.

“You saw that huh” he mumbles in the crook of your neck, feeling the disappointment in himself in the tone of voice because you know him that well, you always have. “You know it’s not your fault, right?” You tell him, because it truly isn’t, because every time that the team fails him Charles feels like he’s the one that did.

“Doesn’t feel like it” he says pain clear in his voice. “Listen to me, Charles”, you turn around to face him, cupping his face in between his face, “I’ve been your number one hater for these past months, but please believe me when I tell you that that wasn’t your fault, even I can’t deny your talent, and if you need to believe someone, it’s me, I know you, more than Carlos, and Fred, and those reporters and engineers, I know you, and I know for a fact that you are gifted and talented, and that what happened was most definitely not your fault, okay?”

You tell him, still with your hands in his face, shaking him playfully so it enters his stubborn head while smiling jokingly.

“I believe you” he tells you, because it’s you and if there’s someone that can make him believe something it’s you, so he kisses you again, lips crashing against yours once again, loving and hungry and he wants to have you for the rest of his life.

“Soooo…” he begins again, playing with the fabric of your dress at the end of your naked back and just above the curve of your ass.

“…does this mean you’ll give me another chance?”

He drops the one million dollar question, with both your hearts still beating the fastest they can, and you’ve pictured this very exact moment a thousands times in the past few months and you’re shaking because it’s all you’ve ever wanted but even better, and fuck you love him, and his green earthshaking eyes, and his smile that’s every dentist dream, and the way that his lips feel against yours and the way his hands fit perfectly in the curve of your waist and intertwined with your hand, and you love him even when you hate him even when you just were crying because of him not even a hour ago, and is breathtakingly frustrating in the best way possible.

And so you throw your hands behind his head playing with his hair just like you always used to do, “Baby…” and you know the answer even before it can even come out of your lips.

“When we get off this boat I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again.” And it hits Charles like a brick in the face, because yes you love him, with everything that you have in you, but sometimes love isn’t enough and you know that in this point of your lives he can’t give you what you want, what you deserve even, that in the long run it’ll never work out because how could you trust him? Trust that he won’t hurt you again? After it took him almost three months to figure out that he can’t live without you? Because you’ll never look at him with the same eyes again, because you’re not who you used to be, because you are just two ghosts standing in the graveyard of your relationship, mourning what what I’ll never be again.

After that everything it’s foggy, you don’t know if it is because of how hard you’re trying to hold off the tears, because he’s crying at your feet, and it aches you, because he’s begging at you face deep into you, holding you so tightly you don’t even know how to think straight.

“Baby please don’t do this to me, please” he sobs against you, tears sliding freely through wetting your clothes completely with his now red face and you wonder if he felt this awful when he left you just a few months ago.

“If you ever loved m—“ you sob inevitably without even looking at him because you don’t think you’ll be able to take it, “if you ever loved— me like you say you did, you’ll respect my decision, it’s the least you can do for me” you say between tears and sobs before walking away and you think that it might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life.

But letting go of you it’s actually the hardest thing Charles ever done too, but at the end of the day all he ever wanted was for you to be happy, even when if it’s not with him, even when he doesn’t know what he’ll do with his life now that the smallest bit of hope that he had, was just crush right in front of him.

He loves you and he thinks that it might kill him, he thinks it’s the biggest piece of karma he’s ever gotten, because even though he’s never loved you more, you don’t want to see him again and if it’s what you want, it’s what he’ll do, because part of loving it’s letting go, right?

When you get off the boat and into your car you cry like you’ve never done before, but you know that you’ll be okay, that you’ll do everything to be so.

That you’ll even do as if you never even met Charles Leclerc because it might have been better that way, and you’ll go day by day trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat without him in your life.

THE END.

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TAGLIST (everyone who asked for a pt2) [@ushygushybaby @beesbadger @tempo-rary-fix @honethatty12 @jollysaladprunefriend @leclerc16s @haydee5010 @taurussbabe @nmw-am @mycenterfold]

[coraniaid]

I remember reading a good post on here a year or two -- which I'm afraid I've been unable to track down again -- which pointed out that the Buffy writers' retroactive creation of a central coordinating "Watcher's Council" in Season 3 makes the fact Kendra wasn't expecting to meet Buffy when she visited Sunnydale in Season 2 rather strange. Surely Giles would have been sending in reports about Buffy's vampire-slaying to the Council, and surely the Council would have passed these on to Kendra's Watcher when he became worried that something bad was about to happen in Sunnydale. The post suggested as an explanation the theory that, after Buffy died and Kendra was activated as a Slayer, the Council just assumed Giles was coping really badly with losing his Slayer and dismissed all of his follow-up reports about her out of hand as a sad delusional fantasy.

In the same spirit, I'd like to propose that the fact Faith clearly is expecting to meet Buffy when she arrives in Sunnydale in Season 3 suggests that, inverting the pattern above, Giles has been lying to the Council about Buffy all summer and pretending that she's still in town doing her duty as a Slayer (and that he isn't spending all his time flying around the country desperately trying to find her).

This gets a bit long, but bear with me.

Faith knows about Buffy and she's heard at least a few stories about her (she calls her "infamous" and asks: "so, B, did you really use a rocket launcher one time?"). Faith can only have heard about past Slayers from her Watcher, who must ultimately (indirectly) have heard any details about Buffy through Giles sending reports back to the Council.

But Faith isn't just aware of Buffy as some abstract former Slayer. She comes to Sunnydale looking for her ("you're ... uh, Buffy, right? [...] I figured this was my chance to meet [you]") and, I suspect, deliberately arranged her fight with a vampire at the Bronze to make this happen (in particular she only seems to start fighting back once she has an audience...). Why didn't she head to Jamacia in search of Kendra? Well, clearly her Watcher must have told her that Buffy Summers was alive and that it was Kendra's death, not Buffy's, that had led to her being called. (Clutching at straws, but if you go back and watch the episode, Faith does nod slightly when Cordelia talks about Kendra dying; maybe her Watcher told her a bit about Kendra too?)

But how could Faith's Watcher (or anybody else), knowing that Faith has just been called as a Slayer, be sure which of the two previously alive Slayers had just died? (The show later retcons that only Kendra's death would have called a new Slayer, and Buffy's wouldn't, but I don't believe the writers had decided this was the plan before the end of Season 5's The Gift. The Mayor doesn't seem to think this is how it works, for example, and there are some things the writers said at the time that seem to rule it out too. But even if that was always what would have happened, if two Slayers at a time is unprecedented, as the show suggests, how could the Council be sure?)

The simplest answer must be that somebody told them that Kendra died. "Somebody" being, of course, Giles. But when did he tell them? The earliest he could have done it was at the end of the Becoming two-parter (Kendra dies in part one, but Giles is a prisoner for most of the following episode and I doubt Angel was letting him mail postcards back to England).

But the end of Becoming is also the point where Buffy leaves town and goes into hiding for months. Any report that Giles sent the Council from this point should have mentioned this, surely? The Council have all sorts of resources that they could have used to find her. It didn't have to be just Giles himself haring off after every false lead. But apparently, it was.

So, I think Giles wrote to the Council after Kendra died to let Sam Zabuto know and (whether actively or through omission) just ... let them think Buffy was still in Sunnydale. And then when it was time to send his next report in, he just ... kept pretending Buffy was still in town. Once he failed to tell them she was gone, he could hardly admit that she'd actually vanished weeks ago, could he? The Council generally have a pretty hands-off management style, but I don't think they'd have kept paying him if they realized he didn't actually know where his Slayer was or what she was up to. They might have decided earlier than in canon that he wasn't up to the job and needed to be replaced. Or even that this technically made Buffy a "rogue Slayer" who was refusing to follow her Watcher's orders. I think it makes sense he wouldn't tell them.

Which is why, over the summer, Faith's Watcher was telling her stories about Buffy Summers, the Slayer with a rocket launcher, stories which made Faith think she was living and Slaying in Sunnydale. Even though, for most -- maybe all -- of the summer Faith spent with her first Watcher, Buffy wasn't in Sunnydale at all.

(The show's a little bit vague about how much time passes between the start of Dead Man's Party and Faith's arrival in Faith, Hope & Trick but I don't think it's credible that it was enough time for Giles to be reunited with Buffy, for him to tell the Council she was back (and them to believe him), for the Council to tell Faith's Watcher, for Faith's Watcher to tell her, for Kakistos to murder Faith's Watcher and for Faith to flee Boston and travel over 3000 miles to Sunnydale through whatever combination of hitchhiking, freighthopping and motor vehicle theft she's meant to have used to make it there (she can barely cover the costs of the cheapest motel in Sunnydale: I don't exactly think she could afford a cross-country flight). When Giles gets through to the Watcher's retreat in England, enough time has passed for them to have found out about and confirmed Faith's Watcher was dead, and that can't have been quick either: Faith wasn't exactly rushing to tell them.)

So, all in all, Faith is pretty lucky she arrived in Sunnydale when she did. A few days earlier, and she'd have missed Buffy entirely. Maybe eventually one of her attempts to stage a fight so she could look cool in front of another Slayer would lead her into meeting the Scoobies and Giles and figuring out what was going on, but maybe not. Maybe Kakistos would have caught up with her first.

And, even if it's not intended, I like the symmetry of Kendra not knowing Buffy would be in Sunnydale (because Giles truthfully told the Council she was and they didn't believe him), versus Faith going to Sunnydale specifically to meet Buffy not knowing she might not even be there (because this time the Council did believe Giles but this time he was lying to them).