#and maybe it's a model trained in their own work

[jemilyvsjeid]

First fic ever doesn’t have a name yet I have ideas but ugh guys this is the first time I ever wrote something lowkey nervous let me know if you have any suggestions my anons are open my DMs are open comments…be kind tho like I said this is the first time I wrote something 😭🤚

Pics for reference 💀

Guys …

Ughhh here you go 😭🤚

Tw: language?

Quick Backstory

Sasha Simmons: 22, 6'3", model with a slender build. Naturally blonde but dyes her hair black. She has high cheekbones and icy blue eyes. Growing up in Brooklyn, NY, she's a true city girl, unbothered by the chaos around her. After her father abandoned the family when she was just 7, her mother never remarried. A selfish alcoholic, her mother uses Sasha to maintain her own precarious position in life. Sasha is an only child, with two close friends: Natalia, her childhood "sister," and Emily, who introduced her to modeling back in high school. Girly pop has a hard time recognizing her beauty.

Paige Bueckers:You all know what Paige looks like, so there’s no need for me to describe her appearance or go into a detailed backstory — unless you want me to.

— -

Sasha

Your alarm blares, no, actually it screams at you to wake up. You've hit the snooze button seven times already.

sasha’s mom hurries through the room and throws the phone towards the back of her head

“FUCK YOU!” Sasha bolts upright, searching for the nearest object to throw back, but her mother rushes out the door before she can retaliate. Scanning the mess around her bed, she finally finds her phone, just in time to see the glaring screen flash 8:05 AM.

“Oh no! Oh no! Fuck! Why didn’t you wake me up earlier, Mom? I have that casting call for Nike today!” She races to the bathroom, all the while her mother rolls her eyes, inhaling the smoke from her Winston Reds, which have completely taken over their apartment.The apartment where she spent the last 22 exhausting, painful yet memorable years. The place where she learned to walk, where she learned about disappointments, where she realized being skinny could open more doors than being happy ever would. She never felt fulfilled. Despite winning every pageant she entered, graduating from NYU with a full ride, and traveling to cities in Europe that most couldn’t even name, it was never enough. Deep down, what she always truly desired was a townhouse filled with both parents, a dog, and siblings close to her age—maybe to actually celebrate holidays.

Her mother’s cough, loud enough to be heard from blocks away, snaps her out of her thoughts. The time now reads 8:20 AM. Has she really sat on the toilet for fifteen minutes? She’s got to be at the shoot in forty minutes — twenty on the train! In a frenzy, she jumps into the shower. Within fifteen minutes, she’s out the door, her hair still wet and half-dried, rushing to make it to the train just in time.

---

Paige

As I watch the stylist sort through outfits for my potential partner for this shoot, I can’t help but wonder what this person will look like. It’s strange they waited until today to find someone, but given my schedule, I can’t complain. I know my energy effortlessly charms those around me, making it easy for them to work with me, even if it's an inconvenience. While it feels good to receive such attention, I must admit it’s also awkward to have everything done for me. Glancing in the mirror, I remind myself that I truly earned this moment. The countless hours I spent on the court led to my recruitment by the best program in the country, paving the way for my success and growth as a leader. I’ve faced adversity over the past couple of years, but each challenge has helped me learn more about myself, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Robbie, the casting director, enters, enthusiastically explaining that he's looking for someone who's my complete opposite. We've gone over this several times, but his vision of this “dream girl” seems to intensify with each discussion. He hands me a piece of paper.

1.Jet black hair

2.Icy blue eyes

3.Sharp features

4.Tall

5.Shalom Harlow with a twist

With an incredulous expression, I ask, “How is this the opposite of me?” He chuckles and surveys me with a quick up-and-down glance (classic sassy gay man), saying, “Well, love, this dream girl will be the black cat to your golden retriever vibe. Sure, you both have similar eyes and features, but you're kind and sweet; this girl will walk into the room with a cold energy that’s anything but sunshine”.

“Oh wowww, you really have quite an imagination,” I reply, slightly annoyed by his specificity, as if such a person even exists. “Shalom Harlow with a twist?” I murmur again, baffled. She’s one of the hottest models out there, yet I can’t fathom meeting anyone close to that in real life.Let alone at a Nike shoot.Dropping the paper on the table, I walk over to the window, where the breathtaking views of New York City never fail to captivate me. So many experiences, so many stories. I can’t help but wonder what our “dream girl” is doing right.

---

Sasha

Glancing at my phone, I realize I should be right on time. My hair has fully dried, but it's slightly puffy now. If only I had a few extra minutes to fix myself! The casting call requested no makeup and natural hair—just blow-dried, nothing styled. They asked for jeans and a tee, preferably with sneakers, as they wanted to see how we “carry ourselves.” Silly, but I guess there’s a reason behind everything. I press the button for the 18th floor and take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Despite never feeling confident, I've mastered the act well enough that anyone who sees me is impressed. As the elevator doors slide open, I’m greeted by what seems to be at least seventy girls, most already clustered in little groups. Casting a glance around, I note several familiar faces from previous shoots, some of whom are friends of Emily's. As I approach, the only thing I can hear is the name “Paige” around me. Who’s Paige ?

“Hey, you guys!!” I say with the most artificial smile I can muster. “I’ve missed seeing you! How is everyone?” To be honest, I could hardly care less about any of them, but networking is crucial in this industry. As we chat, I mention the mysterious Paige, “So who is this Paige girl? Is she a new model we should be watching out for?” Dolia giggles, giving me a pointed look before saying, “How do you not know who you might be shooting with? At this point just forget about even being here.” She bursts out laughing obnoxiously, solidifying my reasons to not befriend any of these people ever. Hannah, grinning from ear to ear, chimes in, “It’s Paige Bueckers! The basketball player from UConn! How do you not know this?” This is the second time I’m hearing about her; the first was when Emily’s roommate lost her mind over some “talent show” she joined last spring on her live. I still don’t know who this girl is, and frankly, I don’t care. I’m here to work with a major brand, and this could be my ticket to fashion week — possibly an invitation to the upcoming shows. After being ghosted by brands I’d previously collaborated with, last year’s New York Fashion Week made me a recluse.

Just then, the casting director bursts into the room, announcing his last-minute requirements. I dread these moments. “If you don’t have jet black hair, you can leave,” he shouts. As most girls exit, that dwindles to at least twenty of us. Then he states, “Anyone under 6 feet tall can leave,” and that knocks out even more girls. Now there are only fourteen of us left, mere minutes ago there were so many. My thoughts wander as I scan the room and catch sight of a tall blonde just a few feet away from the other room. She’s beautiful—really beautiful—and her laughter makes her glow like… sunshine? “If you don’t have blue eyes, you may exit, and thank you for coming,” the director retorts, pulling me back into reality. We’re now down to just five girls, all looking like identical versions of each other. We're ushered into a room where we're given instructions about what’s to come. I’m the last to go, thankful I can drift for a moment. Hunger and fatigue creep in, but I push it aside.I can’t help but drift back to the girl I saw by the door. I wonder who she is…

—

Paige

Robbie steps into the room, informing me that the number of girls has drastically decreased, and it’s almost time for the shoot. He gestures for me to follow him to another room where I’ll essentially rate the remaining girls. It feels somewhat wrong to assess others this way, but I suppose it's necessary. The first girl walks in—gorgeous, resembling Lauren Jauregui in build and hair type. She’s asked to walk, but struggles to keep up with the beat; she doesn’t stand out. The next girl has shoulder-length hair, giving major Kendall Jenner vibes. Another pretty face, but again, nothing memorable. As I zone out I can hear Robbie buzzing in my ear that we have one last person, and then we are done. Rubbing my temples in frustration, I suddenly hear footsteps approaching.A raspy but sweet voice breaks the tension: “Good morning, I’m Sasha Simmons.” My focus shifts back to the door, and time seems to freeze. The girl walking in ticks off every box. She exudes a captivating energy that pulls me in like a magnet. Our eyes lock, and it feels as if we can't look away from each other. This girl is it. She’s the “dream girl” for both Robbie and, I think, for me too.

As I shift my body and quickly adjust my top, pushing my hair back, I break eye contact with a nudge from Robbie. “I think we found the one,” he whispers excitedly. But like everyone else, he asks her to walk, which she does effortlessly. The silence in the room deepens as Robbie thanks her and tells her to step outside. Confusion knots my stomach as I jerk my head back at him, questioning why he asked her to step out. He brushes it off, mentioning it’s part of a procedure. Filling out a couple of papers, he then directs me to step into another room.

“I’d like to stay,” I insist, but he gives me a sharp look, stating it wouldn't be very professional for me to witness the one-on-one rejection talk. Reluctantly, I accept it and walk to the other room, still in awe. I finally know who the dream girl is… Sasha Simmons.

Sasha

As I’m asked to walk into the room, my eyes are immediately drawn to the blonde girl I spotted at the door earlier. Our gazes lock, and I notice her fidgeting with her top and running her fingers through her hair. A surge of curiosity hits me—did I make her nervous?.... Why would she feel that way around someone like me? She must be used to receiving attention from all the girls surrounding her.

I shift my focus back to the director, who gestures for me to walk for him. With a few swift notes taken, he thanks me and asks me to step out. The whole encounter was alarmingly brief, leaving me lowkey panicked; maybe I wasn't what they were looking for. I can practically count the minutes I spent in that room on my fingers.I make my way to a nearby seat, trying to steady my breath. One by one, the other girls are called back in for the results.

As I sit in my corner, I feel my mind dissociate from the chaos around me—at least now I know who Paige Bueckers is...

••• if you got all the way here thank you so so much for reading like I said it my first time ever writing anything. I’m open to suggestions and comments.I only read over it a couple of times so there might be mistakes. Let me know what you guys want for the next part I kinda have an idea on what I wanna go off of but you’re the reader lol let me know anons DMs everything’s open.

[vampirepumpkins]

"this is AI [shopped] i can tell from some of the pixels and from seeing quite a few AI arts [shops] in my time." go back to 4chan pleaseeeeeeeee and stop trying to publicly humiliate a random artist who has had a presence on this site for almost a decade

I have never been to 4chan in my life. Someone being on a a site for decades does not preclude them from utilizing AI. Furthermore, the artist in question has implied in the replies that they do use some AI in their work. I'm not humiliating anyone.

Idk, it's not pixels my dude. That entire bridge doesn't make sense. Most of the illustration shows a high level of skill and yet parts of that bridge fade in and out and the posts are spaced strangely. Where the bridge begins makes no sense and if you try zoom in, it's all oddly out of focus especially compared to the pretty in focus mountain.

Like, is it bad to look at things critically now? You dont think someone would go on the internet and misrepresent their work?

[anaquariusfox]

I spent the evening looking into this AI shit and made a wee informative post of the information I found and thought all artists would be interested and maybe help yall?

edit: forgot to mention Glaze and Nightshade to alter/disrupt AI from taking your work into their machines. You can use these and post and it will apparently mess up the AI and it wont take your content into it's machine!

edit: ArtStation is not AI free! So make sure to read that when signing up if you do! (this post is also on twt)

[Image descriptions: A series of infographics titled: “Opt Out AI: [Social Media] and what I found.” The title image shows a drawing of a person holding up a stack of papers where the first says, ‘Terms of Service’ and the rest have logos for various social media sites and are falling onto the floor. Long transcriptions follow.

Instagram/Meta (I have to assume Facebook).

Hard for all users to locate the “opt out” options. The option has been known to move locations.

You have to click the opt out link to submit a request to opt out of the AI scraping. *You have to submit screenshots of your work/face/content you posted to the app, is curretnly being used in AI. If you do not have this, they will deny you.

Users are saying after being rejected, are being “meta blocked”

People’s requests are being accepted but they still have doubts that their content won’t be taken anyways.

Twitter/X

As of August 2023, Twitter’s ToS update:

“Twitter has the right to use any content that users post on its platform to train its AI models, and that users grant Twitter a worldwide, non-exclusive, royalty-free license to do so.”

There isn’t much to say. They’re doing the same thing Instagram is doing (to my understanding) and we can’t even opt out.

Tumblr

They also take your data and content and sell it to AI models.

But you’re in luck!

It is very simply to opt out (Wow. Thank Gods)

Opt out on Desktop: click on your blog > blog settings > scroll til you see visibility options and it’ll be the last option to toggle

Out out of Mobile: click your blog > scroll then click visibility > toggle opt out option

TikTok

I took time skim their ToS and under “How We Use Your Information” and towards the end of the long list: “To train and improve our technology, such as our machine learning models and algorithms.”

Regarding data collected; they will only not sell your data when “where restricted by applicable law”. That is not many countries. You can refuse/disable some cookies by going into settings > ads > turn off targeted ads.

I couldn’t find much in AI besides “our machine learning models” which I think is the same thing.

What to do?

In this age of the internet, it’s scary! But you have options and can pick which are best for you!

Accepting these platforms collection of not only your artwork, but your face! And not only your faces but the faces of those in your photos. Your friends and family. Some of those family members are children! Some of those faces are minors! I shudder to think what darker purposes those faces could be used for.

Opt out where you can! Be mindful and know the content you are posting is at risk of being loaded to AI if unable to opt out.

Fully delete (not archive) your content/accounts with these platforms. I know it takes up to 90 days for instagram to “delete” your information. And even keep it for “legal” purposes like legal prevention.

Use lesser known social media platforms! Some examples are; Signal, Mastodon, Diaspora, et. As well as art platforms: Artfol, Cara, ArtStation, etc.

The last drawing shows the same person as the title saying, ‘I am, by no means, a ToS autistic! So feel free to share any relatable information to these topics via reply or qrt!

I just wanted to share the information I found while searching for my own answers cause I’m sure people have the same questions as me.’ \End description] (thank you @a-captions-blog!)

[mclqren]

UNFORGETTABLE ★ CL16

PAIRING ✦ charles leclerc x fem!gymnast!reader

SUMMARY ✦ after attending one f1 race, you simultaneously manage to embarrass yourself in front of and impress a certain f1 driver [ SMAU ]

WARNINGS ✦ cursing

REQUESTED ✦ here!

NOTES ✦ for the purpose of this fic, the reader is going to represent america in the olympics for gymnastics. i made the reader have a private insta account for this fic & a main, just to fit in with the 'private life' aspect. the fc i've used is isabela juliana, but feel free to picture whoever you want! my requests are open so feel free to leave a request :)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

liked by yourbsf, simonebiles, and 237,901 others

yourusername flowers are the key to my heart 🔐💌

view all comments

user1 STUNNERRR!!

user2 if the whole gymnastics thing doesn't work out, you could literally have a career as a model because damnnn!!

user3 the flowersss 🥺🥺

user4 is she going to the olympics this year??

user5 yess!! can't wait to see her 💗💗

simonebiles my girl wowwww 😍😍

yourusername my lover fr 💓💓

yourbsf GORGEOUS

yourusername LOVE YOU!!

liked by yourbsf, simonebiles, and 124 others

yourfinsta sushi night & trying to figure this f1 shit out before this weekend 🍣😱

view all comments

yourbsf SINCE WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO WATCH F1

yourfinsta HAVE I NOT TOLD YOU

yourbsf NOOO???

yourfinsta FERRARI INVITED ME AS A PADDOCK GUEST SO I GUESS IM GOING

yourbsf you better message me ALL ABOUT IT

yoursibling you're the luckiest bitch alive.

yourfinsta yeah except i know NOTHINGG about f1 pls drop by my apartment and teach me ☹️

yoursibling fine fine im on my way

yourusername

( caption one: about to moveeee ✈️ | caption two: i apologize in advance for my limited formula one knowledge 😔 )

liked by yourbsf, yoursibling, and 201 others

yourfinsta third slide is me after embarrassing myself in front of one of the most good-looking guys alive?? i swear i knew his name i just panicked when someone asked me 😭

view all comments

yourbsf HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW WHO CHARLES LECLERC WAS

yourfinsta YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND IT WAS SO EMBARRASSING ESP WHEN HE BROUGHT IT UP AGAIN LATER??

yourbsf he brought it up AGAINNN?? oh he likes you.

yourfinsta NO HE DOESNTT HE WAS PROBABLY JUST AS EMBARRASSED AS I WAS.

yoursibling the caption??

yourfinsta it's a long story. i'll tell you when i get home

liked by charles_leclerc, simonebiles, and 301,121 others

yourusername i had such a good time w ferrari this weekend: thank you sm for having me!! (ps. yes i do know who both drivers are 🤣)

view all comments

user9 the caption 🤣🤣

user10 you have to praise the girl for owning her mistake!

user11 STUNNERRR

user12 so why isn't she training then...

user13 ppl are allowed to take breaks - leave her alone!

user14 the flowers are so on y/n's brand

user15 righttt!! she's so spring i can't explain it

scuderiaferrari it was lovely to have you with us, y/n!

yourusername thank you for having me! ❤️❤️

user16 okay but why couldn't they have chosen someone who knows about f1 instead of someone random girl off the street?? like at least pick someone who's WATCHED the sport, and knows the drivers names.

user17 tons of people who haven't watched the sport get invited all the time. she said when she was there that she didn't have too much knowledge on the sport, but wanted to learn more about it, hence why she accepted the invite. she said she forgot their names momentarily because she was panicked by the larger crowd, so maybe leave off her for a minute! 💓

yourusername

( caption one: back again 😴 | caption two: thanks for the gift 😉 )

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, and 292,102 others

yourusername another crazy weekend later...🏎️

view all comments

user22 she's so luckyyyy wth!

user23 TWO F1 RACES IN A ROW?? WOWWW SOMEONE'S POPULAR

user24 AND THE HAT? it's def charles asking for her

user25 the outfitttt wow 😍

user26 she's literally so pretty

user27 STAY AWAY FROM CHARLES

user28 girl what.

charles_leclerc the bag 😉

yourusername yes yes you bought it for me thanks babe 🤣💓

user29 A GIFT? 'BABE'? WHATTTT

user30 WOAH WHAT IS THIS

liked by charles_leclerc, yourbsf, and 280,111 others

yourusername back to training at last 🤸‍♀️

view all comments

user31 back to your rootsss!!

user32 my fav gymnast

user33 WE'VE BEEN WAITINGGG i can't wait for the olympics

user34 SAME!!

user35 wowww she's stunning!

user36 is this charles' girlfriend then or-

user37 nope! nothing's been confirmed right now - they might just be good friends!

simonebiles YOU ARE EVERYTHINGGG!!

yourusername I LOVE YOU 💗

charles_leclerc i could do that 🤣

yourusername fighting talk from someone who drives around in a car all day!

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55, and 1,894,012 others

tagged yourusername

charles_leclerc turns out the key to heart is to actually just buy her flowers 🤷‍♀️❤️

view all comments

user42 MAMA Y PAPA

user43 UR SO REAL FOR THISSS

user44 DAMN Y/N IS BEING SPOILTTTT

user45 AS SHE SHOULD BEEE!!

user46 POWER COUPLE ALERTTT

user47 gymnast x f1 driver is NOT a trope i was expecting but i love it!!

yourusername the flowers are the only reason we're together.

charles_leclerc WHAT

yourusername wish i was kidding, i'm just a sucker for nice flowers 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

yourusername ALL JOKES ASIDE im so grateful 💗

landonorris barf 🤮

yourusername call me when you get a girlfriend x

user48 SHE'S FRIENDS W THE PADDOCK TOO??

liked by charles_leclerc, simonebiles, and 381,229 others

tagged charles_leclerc

yourusername it's no longer acceptable to forget your name anymore ☹️💓

view all comments

user49 MY NEW FAV COUPLE ON THE GRID

user50 im OBSESSEDDD

user51 pls call me if he fumbles you ☹️

user52 NO REALLL im always here y/n ❤️❤️

user53 THE THIRD SLIDE PLEASEEEE

user54 love a woman who's obsessed w her man 🙏

simonebiles if he hurts you im always here (to date you)

yourusername my ACTUALLL wife 💍💍

charles_leclerc im so lucky ❤️

yourusername you mean you're lucky i liked the flowers.

charles_leclerc you're still on about this??

yourusername YOU THINK IM JOKING?? flowers are my life. i would die for flowers. it's the only reason we're together 🤣💗

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[k-hotchoisan]

mmmmmm been thinkin abt photographer!san right nd he is know for his boudoir photography but his latest client’s got him in a chokehold like god how is she so fuckin sexy nd he can’t focus at all bc fuck all he wants to do is fuck her senseless— HELP

Your wish is my command Angel! Thank you for being patient 😘

As always, enjoy 🩷

snap.

<Choi san x fem!reader>

Synopsis: encouraged by your friend, you give boudoir photography a try after recovering from a break up, you find yourself doing more than just be a model.

Genres/warnings: smut, boudoir photographer!San x model!reader, sexual tension, unprotected sex, cream pies, mention of oral

Taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie @voicesinmyhead-rc @pre1ttyies

“Boudoir photography?” You reiterate. Your friend nods.

“A friend of a friend of a friend tried it recently and apparently she’s been full of confidence. Her boyfriend adores it too!” Your friend squeals.

You scrunch your eyebrows, wondering how semi-nude photos taken by a professional photographer in this niche would boost one’s confidence.

Your friend’s eyes dart to you again, and then your phone pings. You look at the link your friend sent you. It’s a referral code for a promotion. You turn to her, gaze still dripping with skepticism.

“Come on, just try it. You’re a lovely person and you deserve to see it for yourself! Boudoir photography might really help at not being constantly self critical.”

You weren’t an entirely insecure person, and you were sure of that. It’s just that, after the rough break up with your ex, and seeing them move on instantly (like two fuckin weeks) with a new partner, undoubtedly was a gut punch to your self esteem, while you were still stuck grieving over the lost relationship and wasted time.

You’ve heard of boudoir photography, but you’ve never actually understood the concept of it, considering that it was niche, and that you don’t really know the point of it. You glance down at the referral link before deciding to just fuck it and sign up.

San is working overtime again, meticulously editing and touching up the photos. It’s become a natural part of him to almost be a perfectionist, whether when on the ground taking photos of the model or the post editing process. But he never loses the sight of letting the women shine naturally through their photos. After all, in such a niche market, they picked him. Definitely, he has his mix of male boudoir models, but the women evidently take up a higher ratio. He understands that one of the most important aspects of boudoir photography is trust and comfort with his models, which has them coming back for more sessions, sometimes even with their partners.

Setting up his own business in such a niche market was difficult of course, and he’s grateful that he’s managed to make a name for himself. But sometimes he’s grateful that his good looks are an added bonus to drawing in his clients.

His email pings and it makes him pause his work. Maybe he should finish it tomorrow. San glances at the fresh email that sits in his inbox.

An appointment via referral.

He opens it, and looks through the client’s information. At the bottom box for comments, sits a short question.

[Just wondering, what should I expect for my appointment? Is there anything I should prepare?]

He takes a moment before he drafts a reply.

[Hey there! Nice to meet you. I’m Choi San, boudoir photographer of Woodie’s Studios. First of all, thank you for choosing our studio for your boudoir experience!

Regarding your question, come in with an open mind. For what to wear, you may bring a set of clothes/lingerie of whatever you feel confident in.

I don’t bite, I promise!]

He reads the reply a second time before he hits send. It’s not as if it’s the first time he’s gotten questions like these anyway. His train of concentration is broken, so he decides to call it a night.

You reach the opaque door of a clean-looking studio apartment. The sign has San’s studio name and logo imprinted on it, so you’re sure that you are at the right location.

You press the door bell and it chimes a lovely tune. There is a quiet pause, before the door handle clicks and the door itself pulls back. Before you stood a really, no, an insanely good looking, tall male. His glasses rest loosely on the bridge of his nose as his small eyes meet yours. His brunette hair is slightly messy. He wears an expression of confusion at first, but it turns into something unreadable. You think for a spilt second that he may have gotten the wrong client, but your rationale reminds you that you did send him photos of yourself so he’s able to recognise you. You blink once, then twice because you were starting to get lost at how handsome your photographer was.

“Choi San..?” you say, with a small tilt of your head.

Then it’s his turn to blink, and he snaps out of that small trance he seemed to be caught in for a few seconds. Then a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he greets you.

“Hey! Y/n right? Sorry, was tryna recognise you. I promise I don’t usually take that long to process”, he chuckles, pulling the door wider as he ushers you in, reminding you to switch out your shoes for the apartment slippers.

The hallway San brings you down is brightly lit and spilt into a couple of sections which you assumed one of them would be the photo studio itself. A couple of posters of pin up girls hang on the walls, all of them beautiful and stunning.

He then stops at a glass door and pushes it, to what you assumed to be his office.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get you a cup of tea. Any preferences?”, he gestures. You shake your head as you let yourself sink into the velvet couch, gingerly leaving your bag of clothing beside you. San gives a polite nod and excuses himself to the pantry.

And the moment the door shuts behind him, he tears his glasses off the bridge of his nose and hooks the branch onto his collar.

His hand is placed over his heart.

San has photographed many different women over the course of his career, some breathtakingly beautiful. But none has ever made his heart skip a beat and caused his words to be stuck at the back of his throat, not like you did. He doesn’t know what has gotten into him. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how you looked like—the pictures you sent served that purpose. Maybe it was the fact that he never expected you to look like that in real life, and for once, he almost doesn’t know how to react. His thoughts are all over the place as he paces into the pantry to prepare your tea. As he’s dipping the tea bag into the piping hot water, he begins feeling self conscious—was his hair too shrivelled? Did he smell bad? Was there something on his face? He tightens his grip on the mug and hastily makes his way back to his office.

San returns, with a smile on his face as he settles the cup onto the coffee table before you, and he joins you, seated on a velvet armchair across you.

“Take your time”, he reassures. “We can start after this, if you’re feeling comfortable, or we can just talk a little to ease your nerves.” It doesn’t take you much to think—you opt for the latter of course.

San laughs and nods. “I get that a lot, especially from first time female clients. It’s valid of course, having a male being your photographer for boudoir can sound off-putting. Perhaps looking at my portfolio might put you slightly at ease?” He reaches out for a large and thick leather-bound photo album. You let it rest on your lap as you receive it with a soft “thank you”, and flip the album open, and you’re instantly awestruck—San’s work spoke for himself. The models were diverse, both in nationalities and body shapes, all equally stunning and sensual in their own expressive ways. The only common denominator was the glint of genuine emotion and confidence reflected in their eyes.

You wonder to yourself—could you look and feel as confident as them? As you skim through the pictures, you feel yourself falling in love with the models as well—their genuine smiles when they do and the gazes they give.

When San catches himself staring at you being absorbed in admiring his portfolios, he feels his cheeks flush and he looks down, wondering what you think of it all.

“I see why you have so many clients. The pictures are gorgeous”, you say, shutting the photo album and handing it back to him. San flashes a sheepish smile and mutters a “thank you” loud enough for you to hear. The silence in the room remains a for awhile as you sip the tea, letting it calm your nerves. You don’t even know it but the person with actual jittery nerves was San himself, a feeling that he never expected to feel since the last time he did was when he started out this business three years ago.

“So… what’s the goal of being a boudoir model, if you don’t mind me asking? Like was it a long time thing you wanted to try or was it something spontaneous?” He asks to break the silence.

“I broke up with my ex recently”, you respond curtly, before taking another sip of the tea. Damn, this is some good ass tea. San blinks at your reply, unsure of what to make out of the bluntness. Before he attempts to reply, you continue, “and my friend sent me a referral to your studio, and I thought to myself, why not? I want to feel confident in my own skin. Also, I think it’s an interesting way of self exploration.” Your gaze meets his, and it’s his turn to look awestruck. You try to ignore the flutter in your chest when he laughs softly, when his smile reaches his eyes. It’s the way that he’s confident of his craft, and it’s making you warm up to him even more.

Your fingertips tap on the mug softly. Your gaze lands on the photobook once more.

“Does taking such risqué pictures affect you when you first started out?” You ask before taking another sip. San ponders about the question for awhile. He has people asking him that before, but for some reason, he wants to be slightly more transparent with you.

“I don’t see about my clients in a sexual way, even if they physically look appealing to me. In the end, self confidence and comfort always comes first, and I think that’s what I enjoy seeing in my clients when they become more comfortable in their own skin. People don’t understand how difficult it is to fully love yourself”, he replies.

That’s when you understand why San’s photography studio had so many recurring clients.

“Why boudoir? I think sensuality and intimacy is a form of art. It’s beautiful—watching people discover parts of themselves they never knew existed and falling in love. You don’t have to be conventionally attractive to be a boudoir model.

The money’s good, of course, but the satisfaction of watching my clients giving me feedback of them realising they deserve to love themselves more, or discovering other sides of themselves is nothing short of rewarding.”

By the time he’s done explaining, you feel a rush of confidence in yourself. It’s only been about ten minutes since the both of you just sat and talked, but you see that he definitely prioritises your comfort before he even begins the sessions. You ball your fingers into a fist, meeting San’s gaze with determination, telling him, “I think I’m ready.”

San’s eyes brighten up. “Great! You can use the bathroom to the left, and I’ll meet you at the photo studio just opposite the office.” He stands up, opening the door for you, and you bow slightly in courtesy as you head to the washroom to change. San’s heart beats faster, wondering what you’re gonna wear for the shoot.

San is fixing the sheets of the bed, then the studio lights at the perfect angle he wants it to be. His heart is still racing as he walks over to the tripod, glancing over at the door from time to time, awaiting for your arrival.

He perks up when he sees you walk in with a bathrobe on and he greets you cheerfully again, trying to hide his excitement.

You wave back with a smile, letting the environment of the photo studio sink in. The basic package for first timers consisted of a bed shoot, so it’s no surprise you see a bed in the middle of the room, covered in white. The bed looks comfy and you giggle to yourself, wondering if you’d end up falling asleep mid-shoot from how nice the bed looks.

“Anytime you’re ready”, San reminds you, carrying the tripod in one hand, his biceps flexing as he does, and it makes you blush slightly, which was ridiculous. Why are you swooning over your handsome photographer carrying the tripod with one arm? Suddenly you’re self conscious again, your fingers clutching against the black bathrobe. It was frustrating that you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was making you nervous, but you weren’t about to back out.

San continues to adjust his camera on the tripod, and his gaze absentmindedly shifts towards you, and his breath gets stuck in his throat, watching you undress from the bathrobe, revealing a white button up over black lace lingerie. It’s not anything new, but for some reason he can’t seem to tear his eyes off you—the way the panties hugs your hips and the bra cups your breasts, the garter belt hugging your waist and the straps hanging past your panties. He watches you climb onto the bed, eyes shutting briefly as you sink into the mattress with a soft smile.

He’s not confident that he’s able to last through the shoot, not when you’re looking like that.

“Is it too cold here?” San asks, trying to divert his attention from his perverse thoughts. You pop up from the sheets, the collars of the shirt slipping past your shoulders, obviously too big for you. That does nothing to help him with his thoughts.

“No, I think the temperature’s okay. Shall we get started?” You ask, buttoning up your shirt, the white material pathetically sheer that San is able to see the black bra peeking through.

The sight of you in an oversized shirt on, with no pants, just your underwear on is like a meal for San’s eyes. He hides behind the camera to hide his flushing cheeks, only to face your body through the viewfinder, watching you preparing to pose as you position yourself at the end of the bed, turning your body slightly to the side with one leg up, your thighs in full view, with the sleeves of the shirt covering most of your fingers, and your gaze right into the camera lens.

San takes a deep breath. Forty five minutes. He can do this.

“Sure. Ready whenever you are, y/n.”

It turns out to be a very agonising forty five minutes. While the both of you were cracking jokes during the shoot, San finds himself getting more distracted when you gradually remove your shirt, and when your poses grow ever more risqué—at one point you remove your bra and fit your shirt over again, which definitely made San grow very restless when he’s unable to tear his eyes away from your bare chest.

Midway through the shoot, all that swarms his mind is wondering how your body would feel against his, how your bare skin would feel under his hands, what kind of faces you would make when you’re under him.

What kind of noises you would make for him when he fits his cock right into you. He wants to fuck you so hard that your mind goes blank—so good that you’ll never remember your ex.

San blinks, his finger still on the shutter button. He doesn’t know what washed over him, but what he does know is the taut feeling in his pants, and he internally heaves a sigh of relief that he decided to wear cargo pants. Nonetheless, he hopes that it isn’t obvious. Well, it shouldn’t be, as long as you don’t ask for close up shots.

“San! Could you come closer for my close ups?” You call out, letting the collar of your shirt fall off your shoulder once more, revealing your bare shoulders, and reminding him that you were still braless underneath the loose clothing article.

Fuck.

San forces a smile, unlatching his camera and trying to walk normally without letting his erection steal your attention.

He reaches to where you are, reminding himself to stay professional, but when he meets your playful gaze, all he wants to do is pin you down. Your eyes twinkle with allure as you prepare your next pose. You get it now—the confidence that slowly trickles into you after every photo taken. You’ve never realised that you had this side of yourself, not until now, and you love it.

The close up shots only spell another layer of doom for San—he adores the budding confidence that you exude, but it makes it even harder for him to hold back, watching you make sultry expressions and poses close up. Through the viewfinder, his eyes try to focus on taking the photo but he finds himself being entranced by your stare. He counts down, then taking a few shots, not missing the growing smile you had.

San puts his camera away, reaching forward to your face to remove a stray hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, and his touch is warm on your face. It’s then you realise how physically close San is to you—you smell his cologne and it leaves your mind blank for a spilt second. He’s absorbed in fixing your hair, combing the strays off your face, the sound of his quiet breathing the only thing you hear. You look away, wondering if your heartbeat is loud enough for him to hear, and you hope it isn’t. San gives you a soft smile when his eyes finally meet yours.

He pulls back, preparing to take his camera for the next shot, but his leg gets tangled in the sheets.

Everything happens in a spilt second—his knee that shifts forward at first, pressing against the sheet that has unknowingly tangled around his other leg, then San trying to get up quickly with the tangled leg, realising a little too late by the time he falls right onto the bed.

Right onto you.

He almost squishes you. Almost. But he lands above you, supported by his elbows just in time before his body is in contact with yours.

Your heart races, way too quick for you to even process what just occurred. All knew you was:

One; San is right above you,

Two; his lips are hovering over yours,

Three; you feel something pressing against your pelvis.

And San stares down at you, his heart beating in his ears. He takes in the sight of you below him—eyes looking up at him through fluttered lashes, your heat radiating against his skin, your lips slightly parted in surprise.

As well as the strain in his pants when his eyes instinctively lower to your bare chest, your nipples peeking through your shirt, and that his little problem is just resting right on you.

“I’m sorry”, San whispers, breaking the silence that had hung between the both of you. “This usually doesn’t happen…”

You crack an amused smile. “Usually?”you reiterate teasingly. A tint of red flushes San’s cheeks and his clothed erection presses harder against your bare skin, and it makes you bite your lip.

“Fuck. I mean, this never happens. It’s just.. I’ve never felt this way about my boudoir models…”, he trails off. “I think you’re fucking stunning since you entered the studio, and I think you’re even more stunning now.”

Your heart flutters at his confession and this time, you feel yourself blush. A soft laugh escapes from the male above you when he sees you avoid eye contact from the shyness. His strings of rationale—yelling at him to stay professional—is snapping. He’s not lying. He’s never felt so attracted to any of his models before, until you, and now that he has you trapped under him, he doesn’t want to lose that chance.

“Should we end the session here?” San asks, with a quick glance at your pretty red lips.

Your fingers are playing with the dangling silver chain that he wears. He lets you, waiting for your response before he catches your gaze dances back to meet his again. Your hands shift to caress San’s jaw, and he takes it as a sign to make his move. You inhale softly as you feel his lips press onto yours, and it makes your head spin with glee. He tastes so heavenly, and your legs clench at the feeling that flutters between your thighs.

San slightly presses his body weight onto you, his erection only growing harder against your thigh. But it looks like he’s taking his time.

His fingertips warm your skin, and he lets them slip up your body, until he’s at your chest, barely covered by the sheer cotton material. His thumbs grazes against your nipples, and you gasp in between open mouthed kisses. You feel him smile, and he applies pressure, and the sensation goes right to your pussy.

He pulls back, watching your lip stick smudged, and your eyes dilate. You can’t help but feel entranced by San, and now you’re wondering how his face would look like when he falls apart.

And it makes you excited.

San lulls you back from your thoughts when you feel his lips suck softly against your neck, and now your fingers are playing with his soft locks of hair.

He’s slightly embarrassed at the way he’s growing even harder when he gingerly peels the white shirt away. His hands cup your bare tits, and he lowers himself to your left tit, giving it a couple of hungry licks and sucks, leaving your back arching and your mouth agape from how ticklish his tongue feels as he flicks your nipple. He doesn’t neglect the other nipple, giving it the same attention as he relishes in the way you fall apart for him. When he has his fun of sucking and making sure your nipples swell while you moan and tug his hair, he pulls away.

He sits up, pulls his shirt over his head and you’re left drooling at how chiseled his body looks. San unbuttons his pants and yanks it off, alongside his boxers, and you watch with awe as his cock springs out—hard and heavy against his abdomen. Your panties are tugged off you in no time, and you don’t miss the way his cock twitches when his eyes land on your slick covered cunt.

“You’re gonna be the death of me”, you hear him mutter before he collides his lips against yours once more. You squeal when you feel his fingers press onto your clit, giving it small rubs, watching and soaking your reactions—your whines and whimpers. There is a dull buzz in your mind every time your bundle of nerves get stimulated, and it builds up in your tummy.

“Oh god, you’re getting even wetter”, he sighs, his fingers completely soaked.

“It feels good. So good. Keep doing that”, you whisper, your fingers pressing against his arm. Your moans only grow louder as San picks up the speed on rubbing your clit, and it’s sending you over the edge way quicker than you wanted to.

San lowers himself to your head, and his husky voice vibrates in your ears.

“That’s it, keep coming undone. Let your mind shut off. You look so fucking beautiful like that.”

“San, San, fuck. I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back as your orgasm washes over you, your body tensing as pleasure becomes the only thing you know. You barely catch onto the dirty things San is telling you, but you know he’s encouraging you to cum on his fingers like a good girl.

He makes sure he has your orgasm drawn out as long as possible, your mind completely blown out at that point. San sucks off your arousal on his fingers, before giving his cock a few pumps.

“You taste like heaven, babe. I’ll get a taste of that cunt soon, but right now, I really can’t wait”, San huffs, trying to keep himself composed as he slowly fucks his hand.

“San, hurry up, please. I need you, so fucking bad”, you whine, your fingers pulling your wet folds open for him.

His breathing goes heavy at your words. “Damn, the shoot really got you heated,” San teases.

“I can’t help it if my photographer makes me wet”, you reply with a playful smile.

Something seems to snap in San when he hears that—all he’s thinking about is wanting to drive his cock so deep into you that your mind completely blanks out.

So that’s what he does.

San lines up his cock to your entrance and pushes and inch in. His eyes dart to your face, licking the bottom of his lip when he watches your face contort into pleasure. His hands stroke your thighs as he pushes in a couple more inches, soaking in your broken moans as he stretches you out. He forces himself to stay composed despite the fact that you’re squeezing him with your warm and soft walls.

He manages to bury himself right to the hilt and he gasps at how perfectly fitted his cock is in you, an uncontrollable moan escaping his lips when he feels you convulse around his cock.

“San, you’re so big. I’m so filled”, you whimper through glazed eyes, his cock completely cutting off other senses as your thighs tremble. A smile tugs at his lips.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, pretty”, San tells you. Despite that, he waits for your green signal before he pulls out and drives his cock right into you.

Your mind switches off the moment his cock is fucking your pussy, because that’s all that matters. It’s so good. So fucking good.

His hands slither to your wrists, and has them pinned over your head as his cock pistons into you. You swear he’s driving you to be cock dumb by the end of this, but not like you fucking minded anyway.

“Look at you. Growing stupid over my cock already. So fucking adorable.”

You only nod in reply, biting your lip as his cock continues to render you speechless. Now San has completely flooded into the smallest crooks of your mind. San has his mind blank, his eyes darting from your fucked out expression to your bouncing tits.

Your cunt flutters once again and tears are pooling at the corner of eyes. The sounds of wet skin slapping echo around the studio.

“…wanna touch you”, you mutter. Despite the face that you loved that he was holding you down, you are feeling desperate to feel his skin as you dance on the fence of your orgasm. San releases your wrists, and he props himself better as he continues to pound into you, hitting the soft, spongy spot over and over again when he has your legs folded. When his pulls out, his cock is covered in a creamy mess. His head spins and his ego inflates at the thought him being the one who drove you to this point of mind blanking pleasure.

“No, no, I’m gonna cum again. So good. San!” His name leaving your lips as a whine. Your hands are gripping onto the loose unbuttoned sleeves of your shirt. His hands take yours and places them on his on his sides, and he groans at the way you’re clawing him.

“Shit. Fuck!” San curses when you cream on his cock even more on top of your walls hugging him tightly. You let go on his cock with a pleasured sob, legs twitching.

It’s not long before a long drawn out moan San releases as his warm cum completely floods your tight hole. He swears he wants to keep his cock tucked in your pussy because it feels that fucking good.

His face—oh, his fucking face when he orgasms. You barely recover from your second orgasm to watch San fall apart while he empties in your pussy, and it almost drives you to your third orgasm. Almost.

The both of you remain still for a moment, only breathing filling in the silence. Then, San slowly pulls out, watching the way his cum leaks out of your abused hole.

San pulls back, and he realises that he’s never seen a more beautiful sight—you, splayed out in nude, only covered by a measly white shirt that inevitably drives him crazy, with cum leaking out of your pretty hole while your body twitches against the white sheets.

He thinks that it’s a pity that his camera is out of reach, because it’s such a beautiful shot.

You glance at San with a shy smile as he hands you your panties. He hooks the your legs into the panties and pulls it up to your hips. You feel another load stain your panties while your thighs twitch.

San dresses himself quickly and extends his arm for you to take as he leads you off the bed. He knows he’s got extra work to wash the sheets but that’s the least of his worries.

What throws you off is when he pulls you into his arms and kisses your temple.

“I promise I’ve never done to any of my clients”, he reiterates.

“Unprofessional”, you tease, your hands sneaking up his shirt.

“Can’t fucking help it. I never knew fucking an Angel in my studio would be this exhilarating. It makes the thought of washing the bedsheets bearable”, he teases back, letting his fingers tangle in your hair.

Your mind goes completely blank when he tells you to wash out the loads in you, so he’ll fill you up once more when he brings you home, which earns him a slap on the chest. He gestures you to go change up, watching the way you remove your shirt to reveal your bare back, and he makes a mental note to start fucking you from behind.

And back at his place, he does. His eyes are hyper focused on the way your ass bounces on his cock. A loud slap reverberates in his room followed by a whimper.

He stills in you, spilling his load once more into your abused cunt as you cream all over him once again.

Then he has you wrapped up in his arms, peppering you with kisses as you’re teetering off your high.

“Stay over, won’t you?”, San requests, tucking a lock of hair behind your ears. You’re beginning to feel completely enamoured by the male. You nod as you melt into his arms.

San thinks it’s ridiculous how hard and fast he fell for you, but he’s confident that you’re his favourite model, ever.

[nowoyas]

Trying to make sense of the Nanowrimo statement to the best of my abilities and fuck, man. It's hard.

It's hard because it seems to me that, first and foremost, the organization itself has forgotten the fucking point.

Nanowrimo was never about the words themselves. It was never about having fifty thousand marketable words to sell to publishing companies and then to the masses. It was a challenge, and it was hard, and it is hard, and it's supposed to be. The point is that it's hard. It's hard to sit down and carve out time and create a world and create characters and turn these things into a coherent plot with themes and emotional impact and an ending that's satisfying. It's hard to go back and make changes and edit those into something likable, something that feels worth reading. It's hard to find a beautifully-written scene in your document and have to make the decision that it's beautiful but it doesn't work in the broader context. It's fucking hard.

Writing and editing are skills. You build them and you hone them. Writing the way the challenge initially encouraged--don't listen to that voice in your head that's nitpicking every word on the page, put off the criticism for a later date, for now just let go and get your thoughts out--is even a different skill from writing in general. Some people don't particularly care about refining that skill to some end goal or another, and simply want to play. Some people sit down and try to improve and improve and improve because that is meaningful to them. Some are in a weird in-between where they don't really know what they want, and some have always liked the idea of writing and wanted a place to start. The challenge was a good place for this--sit down, put your butt in a chair, open a blank document, and by the end of the month, try to put fifty thousand words in that document.

How does it make you feel to try? Your wrists ache and you don't feel like any of the words were any good, but didn't you learn something about the process? Re-reading it, don't you think it sounds better if you swap these two sentences, if you replace this word, if you take out this comma? Maybe you didn't hit 50k words. Maybe you only wrote 10k. But isn't it cool, that you wrote ten thousand words? Doesn't it feel nice that you did something? We can try again. We can keep getting better, or just throwing ourselves into it for fun or whatever, and we can do it again and again.

I guess I don't completely know where I'm going with this post. If you've followed me or many tumblr users for any amount of time, you've probably already heard a thousand times about how generative AI hurts the environment so many of us have been so desperately trying to save, about how generative AI is again and again used to exploit big authors, little authors, up-and-coming authors, first time authors, people posting on Ao3 as a hobby, people self-publishing e-books on Amazon, traditionally published authors, and everyone in between. You've probably seen the statements from developers of these "tools", things like how being required to obtain permission for everything in the database used to train the language model would destroy the tool entirely. You've seen posts about new AI tools scraping Ao3 so they can make money off someone else's hobby and putting the legality of the site itself at risk. For an organization that used to dedicate itself to making writing more accessible for people and for creating a community of writers, Nanowrimo has spent the past several years systematically cracking that community to bits, and now, it's made an official statement claiming that the exploitation of writers in its community is okay, because otherwise, someone might find it too hard to complete a challenge that's meant to be hard to begin with.

I couldn't thank Nanowrimo enough for what it did for me when I started out. I don't know how to find community in the same way. But you can bet that I've deleted my account, and I'll be finding my own path forward without it. Thanks for the fucking memories, I guess.

[feline-insolitum]

i was gonna put this on a reblog to this post but i decided it needed to be its own post so here we go

LOOK AT HIM!!!

most other trainers will be super badass or cool whenever theyre terastallizing their pokemon. but kieran just kinda stands there devoid of life. he looks like hes not even there. almost like he's just... dissociating through the whole thing

you can also see eyebags that his teal mask model didn't have. he's been working himself to the absolute bone to get stronger. another character (i forget who) even says hes been sacrificing sleep just to get stronger. its very obviously been taking a toll on him

but looking back on the battle as a whole, this wasnt even the only time where he looked dull and lifeless. for the entire battle, when hes not being dramatic on purpose, he just looks so out of it

you cant look at these pictures and tell me hes mentally present. the left picture isnt even timed to make him look like that. his expression is like that the entire time hes giving that line of dialogue.

and again, you can see visible eyebags!!!

i think part of it is that hes imagined the battle against the protagonist so many times since getting back from kitakami that it's feels like it's already happened to him, and he's just reliving a memory.

maybe another part is since hes gotten back, hes just been battling non stop when he has the chance. to him its just another battle. initiate, defeat, get stronger. rinse and repeat. its so repetitive that half the time he doesnt even know who hes battling. i feel like thats the case here, maybe sometimes he forgets hes even battling the person that he became this strong to defeat in the first place

i think why he did this to himself is because of more than "just getting stronger". after everything that happened in kitakami: gaining a friend, only for them to lie to and betray him about the thing he loves most, then for them to get closer with his sister, who would consistently shut him down, then on top of it all, ogerpon chose us, and even in trying to battle us for her, we beat him.

that is a lot to have happen to you in just a couple days, so i think part of the non stop training is him trying to cope. in trying to make up for "being too weak", hes also trying to escape reality and forget that those things even happened. he looks so out of it for the entire battle because he is. thats why he has such a reaction when we use ogerpon against him in battle. because by doing that, were reminding him

this is all part of why he freaks out so hard when we beat him. aside from his whole complex of getting stronger specifically to beat us, its because hes already imagined beating us so many times that to him, it already kinda happened in his sleep deprived mind. its because hes won battle after battle since getting back from kitakami, so after being in this rinse and repeat cycle of battling and winning, us losing causes him to finally snap out of it.

after the protag wins, hes genuinely confused that he lost. but he knew how strong the protag was going into this. i think its because, for the majority of the battle, due to not being mentally present, he forgot he was battling us.

this, as well as how often he wouldve imagined him beating us, explains very well how surprised and shocked and panicked he is that he lost. "this wasnt supposed to happen" because it was just another battle, and he wins battles. "this wasnt supposed to happen" because he already imagined him beating us so many times that it had to have been real, right?

and because this monotonous cycle he was in that was actively draining him of energy was broken by us beating him, everything that he hadnt had the energy to process since training is hitting him like a truck now. ogerpon, the betrayal, how he kept losing to us, how he just lost to us right this moment, its all too much and he cant handle it. and so he crumples to the ground and has a mental breakdown

i didnt mean to turn this into a whole character analysis on kieran but i have a LOT of thoughts on his character and how hes written

[christianbalesblueadidas]

I have a prompt 🙋‍♀️👀 (a rlly long one). reader thinking noticing how Bruce always disappears/makes an excuse to leave at night (like on dates, events, or maybe while getting freaky (👀) he suddenly just gets up and goes like “oh sorry smth came up”) and he can never give a convincing enough excuse so she starts getting distant and cold coz she thinks he’s not rlly serious in the relationship and Bruce notices this and feels rlly bad but the reader only finds out why after she had to get rescued by him……. So yeah there’s my prompt yay!!!

I'm Sorry, Sweetheart

bruce wayne x f!reader

your boyfriend seems to hate being around you. it's time to give him a taste of his own medicine.

warnings: NSFW, minors DNI (18+), some smut in the middle, kidnapping, graphic language

word count: 3.4k

a/n: thank you for the request! i hope i did your idea justice.

Bruce Wayne is singlehandedly the most infuriating man you’ve ever dated.

Every week, you know him a bit more. Little by little, you get to know him — soul, mind, and body — more and more every time you meet. And it’s not the cute “let’s take this slow” type of getting to know each other. It’s the irritating kind, where you get to know more about him and his world and he suddenly takes it away from your hands.

Your first date goes smoothly enough, setting an expectation he can never reach since. Despite it being the bare minimum, you are happy he is there the entire time, physically and mentally. He never once looked at his cellular phone or his watch or a random clock in the room. It is just you and him and the company you share together.

On the second date, he starts off completely interested and later into the night, he inexplicably turns distracted — and almost anxious. He picks up his phone and says he has a call to make, he disappears into the corner of the room, then comes back to your table and tells you he has somewhere to go. Wayne Enterprises business. Ignoring your barely hidden disappointment and offense, you nod with a smile and tell him, “It’s alright, Bruce.”

Of course, he notices your hurt expression when he leaves. Even if you manage to hide your emotions well, Bruce is trained to notice it. To make up for that mistake, he invites you to a fundraising party. Frankly, it’s out of your league, but you can never pass up an opportunity to be with Bruce and to finally experience a fancy party.

Contrary to your expectations, it’s the most boring party you’ve ever been in, full of snooty millionaires and social climbers. You don’t know how Bruce endures this. You’ve read about and saw the models he brings — multiple at a time too — to his parties and you’re guessing that’s how. You push away the thought, not sure whether to be insecure that you can’t measure up to his models and actresses or whether to be proud that he chose you and only you to be his date tonight.

You stand in the far corner of the large ballroom at the top of his penthouse, subtly avoiding Bruce’s “friends” and thinking about him. And speaking of the devil, his arm snakes its way around your waist from behind. Despite him being so close and having his arm around your middle, his hand is flat and open, careful not to hold you in a way you won’t like.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Bruce whispers to your ear and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You roll your eyes in amusement and turn your head to face his. Your breath hitches — a bit too obviously and embarrassingly so — as you realize that you’re so close to him. However, you quickly recover and reply, “Isn’t that line a bit too overdone for you, Bruce?”

He shrugs a shoulder playfully, his full glass of champagne sloshing in the flute.

“It always works,” he says. “If it isn’t broke, don’t fix it. But how about I try another line?”

With a charming smile that makes you weak in the knees, his open palm grips your hip, just right above the curve of your backside. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes and his grip hesitant, almost like he isn’t very sure of himself or of something else. Nevertheless, you’ll fall for his charm anytime.

“You wanna get out of here?”

That single question brings you to his bedroom, which is almost the entire floor if it weren’t for the foyer to give him privacy from the elevator. You’ve never seen a bedroom quite like it. Floor-to-ceiling windows that display a view of Gotham, frosted glass panes around his bed for some semblance of privacy, and a sitting area beside it that looks over the city. It’s an apartment without a kitchen, which you’d be more astonished about if your breath weren’t taken away by Bruce’s slow kisses on your lips and your neck.

He has you on your back on the bed, silky taupe sheets like clouds under you. He hovers over you, his entire figure taking over your vision, his muscles hidden by a black Giorgio Armani suit and gray tie. His lips and tongue move languidly against yours like he has all the time in the world. He holds himself up by a hand beside your head and the other presses your thigh against his hip. His hand idly runs up and down under your dress, but never quite reaches anywhere near where you need him the most.

“Bruce, plea—“

You’re interrupted by his phone on the nightstand. Your head whips to the side, glaring at the screeching machine. Who the hell is calling during this time of night? Well, perhaps that’s what you get for dating a billionaire. Rich people are always eccentric.

He suddenly stiffens up and gets off you. A pang of hurt in your heart rings as you notice how quickly he gets up like he got burnt. Your brows furrow, confused and a bit offended.

“Who is that?” you ask and you can’t help the way you sound so jealous. You’re aware of the fact that you shouldn’t be — not yet — but the fact that you’re in his bed is making you more sensitive about your feelings for him.

“Uh,” he reaches for his phone. He looks at the screen. “It’s Lucius Fox.” Lie. “I have to take this. I’m sorry.”

He disappears into the bathroom to apparently take his call. In fact, it is just an alarm set with a ringtone to sound like a phone call. He feels especially bad about using you as an alibi, but his usual strategy to get out of parties that stretch on too late involve his dates.

Due to his playboy image, nobody questions when he leaves too early. He rarely sleeps with the women he invites to parties, and if he doesn’t, they never tell anyway because it hurts their pride to say that Bruce Wayne didn’t sleep with them. It never hurt him either. You, however, are different. He wishes he doesn’t have to use you.

He emerges out the bathroom with a regretful look on his face. You don’t know how much it also hurts for him to make you leave.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll have Alfred drive you home.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, it’s just work. But it’s urgent,” he replies and he almost winces at how uncharacteristically bad he is at lying to you.

“Oh, of course. It’s alright, Bruce.”

This time, you don’t hide your disappointment.

He tries his best to not abandon you every time you see each other. He scoots your meetups an hour or so earlier because Batman can’t adjust, not even for you. Then, he texts and calls you whenever he’s free and awake, giving you random updates that he doesn’t know make your day. His efforts reassure you eventually, and you’re no longer mad at his odd tendency to leave you so suddenly in the middle of the night or when it nears twelve. Now that you’re both content with how often you see each other and how often your nights don’t get interrupted, you’re both happy.

One day, you surprise him at his penthouse after work. It’s a random visit, to be frank, and you just wanted to watch television or do anything boring with him after you eat the dinner you have brought. What you don’t expect is that you’ll be on your back on his couch, stuffed full of his cock as the TV plays in the background, neither of you interested to watch it. No dinner yet either, but he's enough to make you full and wanting more.

Airy moans leave your lips as he thrusts into you, holding onto his broad shoulders by bunching up the fabric of his expensive shirt in clenched fists. It has never occurred to you that you’ve never seen him without his shirt off even during sex. You’ve always been too distracted to care.

Too distracted like right now. The stretch of him in your cunt is delicious, satiating your appetite in ways that no food or other pleasure could. His pelvis rubs against your clit and you cry out every time his tip hits that spot in you while your bundle of nerves grind against his firm body. With every grind of hips, you reach new heights on your way to orgasm.

Bruce is a sight to behold. His eyes half-lidded mouth parted, moans spill from his wet lips. His chocolate brown hair a mess on his head, a product of your hands mussing them up earlier while making out. His muscled chest heaves, pressing against your softer one when he inhales. When your eyes aren't rolling back, you love staring at him above you.

“I— 'm close,” you manage to mumble out despite being so cock drunk.

"Me too, sweetheart," he growls out, a lower register that sounds unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, considering that you've only heard this tone from him during intimacy.

Bruce has one ear for you and the other for the TV, even when he's already nearing climax. The television is now apparently showing the news. The reporter says something about a bank robbery organized by the Joker and—

His hips thrust roughly into yours out of instinct, shocking you and making you moan even louder. He doesn't go faster, knowing it doesn't quicken the job. He takes your legs by the crook of your knees and presses your thighs to your torso, essentially folding you into a position you never knew you can do. You let go of his shirt and tangle your hands into his already-messy hair. With this new angle, his cock reaches deeper inside of you.

"Bruce," you moan out, your eyes rolling back. "Oh, fuck."

You don't know that he's trying very hard to make this good for you while letting him have time to take care of the bank robbery. He doesn't want to leave you in the dust again, mostly because it'll be an asshole move and because you're both on the verge of orgasm and a hard-on isn't something to bring to a fight.

More importantly for him, he doesn't want to leave you hanging. He can't express his thoughts and feelings very well other than through gifts and sex, so he wants to show you how much he adores you, especially that he's leaving you again. He knows it isn't enough, but it's all he can do for now.

He leans his head down to kiss you, sloppy and all tongues. While you're distracted by his mouth and his cock, he reaches a hand down and rubs circles on your clit while he thrusts in and out of you.

He proudly watches as you unravel underneath him, masterfully played by him like an instrument made only for him. Your toes curl in the air as you stiffen up and relax. He swallows your moans with his kisses, eagerly drinking in your pretty noises. He helps you ride it out like the gentleman he is, still moving in and out of your pussy.

He follows suit, coming deep inside you and painting your walls white. A deep groan rumbles through his chest, eyes squeezed shut and jaw slack.

He internally curses when he realizes he didn't have a condom on and he's only lucky that you told him before you take birth control — and that you even allowed him to come in you. But still, he curses at his lapse of sensibility.

You come down from your high. Bruce is counting down the seconds and the minutes. He needs to be out of here as soon as possible to deal with the Joker. He slowly pulls out of you, come dripping down your flesh mixed with your wetness. But you can't even bask in the afterglow because of his urgent task.

"You alright, darling?" he asks breathlessly. He looks you up and down, surveying you.

You can only nod and hum in affirmation. Eyes half-lidded and gaze trained on him in a daze.

"You don't mind if I have to go now? Something came up."

Oh, how you hate that. Why does something always come up when you're in the middle of something?

"It's alright, Bruce."

That evening, Batman is too late to catch the Joker. When he gets there, he was already in his getaway car. He pursues him, leading to a high-speed chase around the city. However, the Joker has traps ready on the way. He should've known that he'd anticipate his presence.

Bruce comes home to you weary and frustrated. He takes it out on you, inexplicably being rougher than usual for your round two. You take it, enjoying it anyway. But still, something lingers in the back of your mind, a thought rearing its ugly head since the time he left — maybe even since a few months ago.

Is he not taking your relationship seriously? You should've guessed he wouldn't, you think, considering he does have a reputation. But you're optimistic enough to have thought that perhaps his reputation is mostly the work of the media. Even then, you can't deny the photos and videos you've seen of him. Perhaps it's true. He doesn't value you as much as you value him.

You don't talk to him since that day. You don't outright avoid him but when he doesn't reach out, you don't either.

He notices you distancing yourself from him. He figures that maybe you need some space, which is one of the worst decisions he can ever do when it comes to this situation. He has never been good with relationships.

It further upsets you. In your mind, he doesn't even care when you stop approaching him. He doesn't care that you're not seeing each other or even talking to each other much. He's only there if you want him first.

To Bruce, it's fine that you need space. It's fine that he doesn't get to see you as much as he wants to — at least, that's what he tells himself. Batman feels differently. His punches hit harder, the bruises he leaves much darker. Even though no one else knows about you and him, Gotham knows there's something upsetting the Bat more than usual.

He thinks about telling you his secret but that involves putting you in possible danger. No one else can know he is Batman. Not even you, not even if he cares for you so much. He'd rather distance form between you than tell you. He's got eyes on you, anyway.

You don't know how to go about this. It seems too presumptuous to barge into his penthouse. You're obviously not on that level of relationship to do so. A call is too impersonal. So, you don't go about it at all. You have never been good at communication.

You spend days constantly on the verge of tears, bottling up every drop of frustration you've felt ever since Bruce started acting suspicious around you. When you're at work, you stifle the urge to cry. When you're at home, you hold yourself back from calling him — and then cry. It's a vicious cycle and it hurts even more than when he leaves you.

Sighing, you insert the key into your car, more than ready to drive home after work. Suddenly, strong hands grab you into a beat-up black SUV parked nearby. You scream and flail, but nobody is around to help, or maybe they're too unbothered and selfish to care. This is Gotham after all; these things happen every day.

You can't see or speak, blindfolded and a duct tape covering your mouth. You can only hear what the kidnappers are talking about as they drive you to an unknown location. It's an isolatory experience and how you wish you were actually alone instead of tied up and blindfolded. Tears wet the bandana tied around your head as you quietly cry.

"Wayne would pay so much money to get that back."

"Would he? He has a new bitch every week."

"Lucky fucker."

"Hope not too lucky. I wanna get at least a mill from this bitch."

A loud bang from the roof of the car startles all of you. The driver slams the brakes, flinging you to the back of the front seat, a cry of pain ripping from your throat.

"Shit! It's Batman!"

"Fuck! I told you we shouldn't mess with Wayne! He has him in his payroll!"

The doors of the SUV open and the kidnappers hit you on the way as they rush out. You hear scuffling and punching and metal banging on metal and bones breaking. A sob escapes you despite you trying to keep your resolve.

"Don't let me see you again," a voice growls out. Then, what seems to be a body slams onto the side of the car.

Wait, that voice sounds familiar...

A rough material brushes your skin as — you assume — Batman rips off the tape on your mouth. A gasp leaves you, heaving in a deep breath. You hear metal ripping fabric and you can see again. You blink through your tears, adjusting to the light, which isn't much as you're in a lonely road in the middle of the night. Eventually, your limbs are free too, but you're still too weak to stand or walk.

Black surrounds his eyes due to his cowl and, with his armor and cape, he is completely shrouded in darkness. But you'd know those eyes anywhere. You'd know those lips anywhere. He can't hide even in darkness, his own domain.

"Bruce," you breathe out in relief.

Surprising him, you wrap your arms around his armored neck, pulling him close to you in an embrace. It's not the warmest nor most comfortable hug in the world, but the fact that it is him is what matters.

His eyes widen. How did you guess it was him so easily? Nevertheless, without missing a beat, his arms wrap around you protectively. His muscular form and dark cape warm you up and shield you from the world. He is relieved that his tracker works and alerted him at the right time. You're safe in his arms now.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, holding back another sob. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, the armor pressing onto your cheek.

Now, you understand. You understand all his sudden leaving, the odd hours he replies to your texts, his persistent drowsiness, and the random bruises. You feel like an ass for being cold towards him when he's risking his life every night for the city. Not to say that you like the idea of your boyfriend running around beating up criminals during the night, but the fact that he is so selfless while you aren't makes you feel terrible.

"No... I should be the one who's sorry," he says and there's a sense of hesitancy in it, like he has never said those words before in that order. Still, you detect his sincerity and accept it.

In a moment of impulse, you pull away from the hug only to rest your hands on his covered cheeks and to press your lips against his. You tilt your head, the hard nose of his cowl pressing against your cheek. The pain goes unnoticed, your mind more preoccupied with how much you've missed his lips on yours.

As his tongue runs through the seam of your lips, coaxing it open, he pulls away as though he remembers where you are. Almost to placate you for the loss of contact, he runs a hand down your hair, petting you like a doll, a faint smile on his lips. It's a peculiar sight seeing the Batman with an expression other than stony emotionlessness or rage. The fact that you're the reason why makes the butterflies in your belly flutter even quicker. It makes you feel special.

"I'm bringing you home. I'll be there when the sun rises."

For the first time, you're not dejected nor disappointed unlike the other times you've uttered those words as you reply with a small grin tugging at your lips.

"Alright, Bruce."

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Mz. Bitch's Masterlist

Started: 2/24/24 Last updated: 11/27/24

Due to inline link limits, please click on the story name to start reading and follow the chapter links. Thanks little darlings! Love y'all!

MARVEL

Bucky Barnes *One shots Sex Pollen My Alpha Got Nothing On You Part 2 Movie Night Please Come Back Vibranium & Stainless Steel Shy Dream Girl A little help from my friend Angry baby? Throw It in the Dishwasher Part 2 The Boss Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 I.T. Time to Heal A Very Cutesy, Very Demure Halloween Regrets & Apologies Quite a Workout Part 2 Part 3 Overheard Oh Sister Let's Go Down Little Sea Storm *Series Breaking the Class Ceiling **Finished Bucky Barnes is a middle class clerk. He needs to marry well to take care of himself and his father. Y/N Y/L/N is the heir to a millionaire fortune, who is blunt, no-nonsense, flirtatious, and looking for a partner. Everyone is vying for her hand. Can Bucky ever win? Pretty Pointy Smile **Finished Bucky was born different, and has been judged for it ever since.  His father has had enough and sells him to the circus.  The acceptance and love of his newfound family, and the beautifully fierce ringmaster, help him realize he’s not the monster everyone else made him out to be. Sugar Mama **Finished Bucky is overworked and struggling to get by.  The bills are piling up and he’s consistently in the red with no end in sight.  Y/N is a billionaire’s daughter, entrepreneur and philanthropist having a hard time finding true friends or love.  She has a proposition for him. Marriage of Convenience **Finished Y/N’s father is gone, and he leaves it all to her.  But in 1880s Oregon, she can’t own land without a husband.  Under the threat of it all being taken away by a land hungry Sheriff, what’s a girl to do with no prospects?  Maybe one of the cowboys on the farm can help… The Temptation **Finished Father Barnes is devout, steadfast, and undeterred by flirtatious congregants.  So why does this fallen angel tempt him so?  You cannot serve two masters.  Will he choose God, or his heart? Norsemen & Anglo-Saxons **Finished Princess Y/N has a secret that her parents are ashamed of.  A conquering Viking chief recognizes the gift she has.  Will they be able to bring peace between warring people, and maybe find love along the way? Stranded **Finished Tossed overboard and lost at sea, Bucky washes up on an uninhabited island.  Injured, lost and scared, with little to no wilderness training, he fights to survive.  But is he really alone? The Fuck Up **Finished Bucky fucked up.  A few times.  Will his best friend ever be able to forgive him?

Naughty Nanny **Finished Bucky had a lovechild from a one night stand.  He barely even remembered it, and was surprised to find a baby on his doorstep 9 months later.  But one look at that little girl and he knew she was his and that he’d die for her.  The only problem was, he knew nothing about babies, and being an Avenger meant he couldn’t just drop everything and be a dad full time.  Then he found the perfect nanny…or so he thought. Run, pretty girl, run **Finished Even with the safeguards put in place after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., the remaining Avengers find themselves on the run after the American government falls into disarray.  The code word is sent, and they’re officially fugitives.  Bucky makes a run for the safe house set up for emergencies like this where the Avengers are told to meet up, but on the way saves the pregnant agent turned payroll specialist that he was partnered with.  Will they make it before she goes into labor?  Or at all?

Pretty P.A. **Finished Y/N has been the personal assistant to the most influential and famous fashion model agency director in the industry for the past 13 years.  They’ve decided to retire, and are leaving the agency in the hands of their protege and former model, Bucky Barnes.  He seems plenty qualified, and Y/N is excited for a chance to work with him.  Change always takes time,  but the new insanely hot boss is distrustful and hesitant towards her.  The Gorgon **Finished The village nearest the mountain by the sea has a generations-old tradition of offering sacrifices to the monster in the mountain to gain favor and keep its wrath away from the people.  Every person starting from the age of 15 has to take a turn in making the journey up the mountain to the mouth of the cave once a year to drop off the gifts…and it’s a journey that some never come back from.  Y/N took her turn when she was 15, and now the rotation has come back to her again.  If the gift isn’t given by the autumn solstice, there’s no telling what harm the creature will wreak onto the people.  With a seemingly insurmountable obstacle in her way, will she make it to save her and her people?  Can a monster have a heart? Dreamboat **Finished Y/N, her brother Steve, and his best friend Bucky all moved out West for a new start after Y/N was almost caught up and hurt in a rival gang fight.  Steve wasn’t in shape to fight in the war, but Bucky was drafted.  While out West, Y/N finds herself in trouble again from the local bar owner.  Steve is suddenly drafted for an experimental division of the army, but leaving Y/N alone isn’t an option.  Bucky comes home needing help, and Steve comes up with a crazy compromise.  Sweet Pumpkin **Finished Bucky is struggling with the dating world and knows that if he ever hopes to have a serious relationship, that he needs to get through his touch deprivation issues.  It’s not that he doesn’t want to touch people, or them to touch him, but after decades of pain he doesn’t know how to accept physical intimacy from others, or how to give it himself.  He hires Y/N, an intimacy coach and professional cuddler, who comes highly recommended.  Will his heart be able to distinguish between a service given versus real love?

Yes Mama **Finished Bucky Barnes has made quite the name for himself in the underground mob boss world.  But he’s not the boss.  Just the face of the Family. 

A Pirate's Life for Me **Finished Captain Bucky Barnes and his crew on the Armored Star are the most fearsome pirates in the known world.  They’ve given the British fleet a run for their money as they try to free the enslaved and take from the rich, but they could have never guessed how the British empire would retaliate against them.  When a new pirate ship appears and lays waste to all in its path, will Bucky and his crew be ready for the wrath of a woman scorned?

The Witch and The Doctor **Finished Bucky thought he could make a difference, getting a medical license and trying to change people’s minds.  But the 1600s New World is a harsh place with cruel people.  After being accused of witchcraft he makes a run for it, facing the dangers of the woods and the rumored witch that lives within them.

Peter Parker *One shots Emotional *Short Series Tasty **Finished Peter just wanted to have one night of fun.  Then that night of fun almost killed him.  Now it won’t stop haunting him.  And he’s loving it. 

*Series The Young Duke **Finished Queen Y/N is running out of time.  At 35 years old she has to marry and make an heir to the throne, but all suitors so far have been unsatisfactory in one way or another.  Duke Peter Parker is the young Duke of Queensland, and his family is on the brink of ruin due to his parents’ failures and famines throughout the years.  He needs to find an advantageous marriage to save his family’s estate, so when an invitation from the Crown comes, he jumps at the opportunity.  Will it be a match?

Steve Rogers *Oneshot Sex Pollen

*Series My Queen **Finished Steve Rogers is the newly inherited Duke of Brooklyn, struggling to fix the mistakes of his parents while enduring an overbearing, matchmaking mother.  He has no intention of anything romantic in his future, but will a forced love connection with the Queen change his mind?

Fortuna Major **Finished Steve Rogers came home from World War II shell shocked and overwhelmed by the place he once called home.  After losing his mother he and his injured best friend Bucky decide to find a quieter, slower way of life to heal from the war.  They head out west until they hit Fortuna, California, and get jobs in the lumber industry.  Steve comes across a local lodging for miners and lumber workers, and falls head over heels for the female owner who takes no man’s shit. 

Stucky *Oneshot Three's Company

*Series Emerald Hallow **Finished Steve Rogers wants to move on.  He wants to forget Peggy, and dive into the 21st century.  But this man of the past doesn’t know how to navigate being an Alpha in a modern world of skittish Omegas.  He prides himself on his self control, never wanting to harm or scare them, until something just smells too damn good. And he's not the only one who smells it...

Actors

Sebastian Stan *Series A Patient Man **Finished Sebastian swore to never fall for another co-star again. Until Y/N drops into his life.

[batsycline69]

Chapter One: Head Above Ground, Feet in the Grave

Summary: You get a tattoo from Jason and realize your first impression may not have been spot on

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Words: 5,576

Warnings: needles, profanity, canon-typical violence, reader has tattoos but is otherwise not described, jason doesn’t know how to flirt.

SERIES MASTERPOST | NEXT

“So. Whatcha reading?” he asks over the buzz of his needle gun. Your confused look is enough get him talking again. “Saw you with a book out front.”

As soon as he stepped out into the front thirty-five minutes after your appointment was supposed to begin, as peeved as you were, you couldn’t deny he was attractive. One of his broad shoulders leaned into the wall, his thick, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Dark curls with a patch of white at the front.

“Oh, it’s Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier,” you reply, a little surprised the guy built like a brick shithouse was asking about your reading. Then again, he’s probably just trying to make conversation.

Jason just nods.

Maybe he isn’t trying to make conversation.

The bad news is, up close, he’s even more handsome. Now you can see the little scar that angles through his eyebrow and another that curves up along his cheek. His eyes are intense as he works, his absurdly large hand has a firm grip on your forearm, guiding you as he works. He smells like cigarettes, but only just, and what you can assume is the lingering smell of the timeworn leather jacket sprawled across the chair in the corner. And all of this is bad news because this guy is obviously bad news. How can he not be, right?

It’s just this feeling, one that you couldn’t shake as soon as he sauntered towards you, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering on his worn black t-shirt. Like he’s too cool for you. Even as he’s permanently etching a skeletal bird into your arm, there’s this air about him you can’t quite place.

Before he led you back to his station, you were so certain there was going to be some sort of bikini-clad model plastered to the wall. But yet, the space is surprisingly empty. There’s a little corkboard leaning against a small table with old designs thumb-tacked to the board and not much else.

“How long have you been working here?” you ask.

Despite asking, you already kind of know the answer.

You’ve been following the shop’s Instagram for a while now. You remember the post introducing Jason, the carousel of photos demonstrating his work. Not that you’d tell him right now, but you had fallen in love with his style as soon as you saw it. The sure, thick lines. The moody shading. Bones and knives and bugs. He had no Instagram of his own for his work that you could find; only the posts in the shop with the caption ‘by Jay.’

“Couple months,” Jason replies. “I was traveling around for a while before. This is the first steady place I’ve worked.”

“Oh, wow, that’s cool. Where were you before?” you ask. It’s small talk, and you hate it, but the lack of conversation is uncomfortable in a way that usually isn’t the case. Silence doesn’t bother you. His silence does.

You wonder if his home lacks as much personality as his station. You imagine his apartment is the kind with the mattress sitting on the floor, TV on top of a folding table, and a refrigerator full of cheap beer. Something that doesn’t feel completely moved into.

He gives a small shrug of his broad shoulders. “All around,” he replies.

Even small talk seems to be off the table.

You give a curt nod of your head. A couple minutes pass, and you can’t take it anymore. “Sorry, you mind if I grab my book real fast?”

Jason nods in return, pulling the gun away. “Go for it.”

God, you feel him watching you as you slip off the table, heading towards your bag on the little couch in the corner. Why is he watching? Why is this so awkward? Is it you? Is this guy just that standoffish? You pull out your worn bookand get back into position on the table.

“You good?” he asks, his intense eyes still trained on you.

“Yeah, all good,” you say, holding the book open with one hand as the buzzing starts back up again.

This is pathetic.

Jason has spent the last few years spending his time around the worst of the worst. He’s been with assassins, arms dealers, and soldiers so bad, even the U.S. Military didn’t want them, and yet, he’s fumbling just because someone cute is reading classic literature.

Fuck.

He’s supposed to be better than this. Ever since he got back into Gotham two months ago, he’s been making deals with the worst of the worst—as far as drug dealers go—without breaking a sweat, and yet holding a conversation with you turns him into Mr. Darcy. He’s blowing it, and he cares that he’s blowing it.

At least everyone thinks he’s dead. If this had gotten out to anyone, he’d die again.

It’s been five years since he was resurrected. A couple of weeks have passed since he flew back into Gotham with another one of Talia’s connections, this time intending to stay for good. He found a little tattoo shop near Crime Alley. Close enough to keep tabs on everything, but not so close that he’d be crossing paths with Batman regularly. The last thing he needs is to run into Bruce while trying to come up on top of Gotham’s underworld. Not until everything was ready.

That’s his world. Swept off the street and recruited for a war that wasn’t even his, not really. That’s just what he was sold: security to a kid fending for himself.

Bruce may have believed he had something to show Jason about Gotham, but this city raised him more than anything. Without a stable place to call home, the city’s streets were the substitute. What more did Bruce have to teach him when Jason had already huddled for warmth in these alleys? Ran from cops, knew all the hiding spots. What did Bruce have to offer when Jason already saught comfort in a place where comfort died? In a place where hope was trying to grow on salted earth. A place so haunted, it’s more ghost than city.

Jason was made for Gotham.

After he died, Gotham fell to ruins in the greatest earthquake she’s ever seen. An anomaly. The world wanted to watch Gotham burn, abandon the city and everyone remaining inside it. Leave her buried in the fate the world deemed appropriate for a city so infected that everyone around suffered.

He knows what it means to come back again, maybe when staying gone was what should have been done.

While he learned how to kill, he learned how to tattoo. Bruce always went on about the importance of keeping their identities safe; he chose his playboy routine, and Jason chose this.

It started before Bruce even took him in. One of the older kids he used to sell stolen car parts to gave him a stick ‘n poke in the back of his dad’s auto shop. It’d only been a few weeks after his mom died. Bruce saw it within a few days of living at the manor. He didn’t comment, but Jason saw the scowl when Bruce saw the shitty skull on his ankle. He didn’t approve, and that made his chosen path all the sweeter.

In London, the guys he was staying with tattooed each other to pass the time. That’s how it all really started. He watched their hands as they worked, watched the way the ink shot into the skin. He gave his first tattoo in the seedy back room of some haunt for scumbags. He had yet to feel at home within his body again, like it was just on loan. Like his reanimation was contingent on something that could be taken away at any time.

But he kept living. And he picked up tattooing fairly quickly. He gave plenty of shitty tattoos to men whose lives ran off of fucking over innocent people. Some of them wouldn’t even live to regret his uneven lines. A good number of them, Jason watched die.

None of that, however, negates the fact that he still can’t have a conversation with you.

Every so often, he spares a glance at you as you read. You’re holding the book with one hand, awkwardly turning the page with your pinky in a way that he knows won’t last long. He’s trying to rack his brain for something, anything, to talk to you about once you need a break from your position.

When his moment finally comes, he clears his throat.

“You ever read any Virginia Woolf?” he asks.

He’s going to spoil his whole ‘asshole tattoo artist’ persona because he’s not supposed to be reading tragic modernist writers, but he can’t bring himself to fall into his usual routine. He wants to hide behind the metaphorical mask he wears when he’s not wearing his literal mask, but he just fucking can’t with you.

He doesn’t know you. You’re just someone who booked with him a few months ago. You’re a civilian, and he is supposed to be getting ready for his Gotham takeover. Now isn’t the time. He’s got work to do.

Unsurprisingly, you seem caught off guard by his question when you look up from your book. You try to regain your composure. You seem like someone who wants to be polite like that. Jason’s eyes land on your finger as it slips into your book to hold your place.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’ve read a couple of hers.”

Jason gives a single nod of his head. He breathes as if steadying his aim to shoot. “I’m reading Mrs. Dalloway right now,” he says.

If you were someone he had to threaten, it would be going better than this. He could get you to tell him all of your secrets in under a minute no problem. But he doesn’t actually have to know how to do any of this to know that’s the wrong way to go about it. Besides, how could he forgive himself if he brought you into Red Hood’s world? You don’t belong there.

“Are you much of a reader then?” you ask.

Jason recognizes it for what it is. You’re holding out a hand, practically guiding him into a conversation just like you’ve tried so many times. You notice he’s trying too.

His lip quirks up a bit at the corner. “Yeah, I am. But don’t tell anyone. If they figure out I’m not an idiot, they may ask me to help out more.”

You graciously laugh at his joke.

He likes your laugh. It’s soft, like your skin. He’s tried to not think about it, but he has noticed. He knows you’re going to take good care of the bird carcass he’s tattooing.

When you reached out and told him what you wanted, he knew he couldn’t possibly turn the idea down. He did always have a fucked up sense of humor.

You’ll never know what makes this funny. He can’t do that to you. Maybe you can know Jason the tattoo artist, but you can’t know Red Hood.

Jason looks at you with a softness you miss when you glance away for a minute. “I’ve got a Metamorphosis tattoo over here,” he says, briefly raising the arm holding yours down.

You turn your head, trying to get a look of his Kafka tattoo, and Jason feels a little bit of warmth growing in his chest, even if he desperately wishes he didn’t. He’s getting way ahead of himself like a kid. It’s going to hurt that much more when you realize all the reasons you shouldn’t get involved with him. He shouldn’t be drawing attention to himself. He shouldn’t be getting distracted. This job isn’t for him to make connections with avid readers; he’s here to know what’s happening and when.

For all he knows, you could be a spy, aware of the moves he’s trying to make. Could work for the Penguin. But he’s aware that’s a Bruce level paranoid thought, and he’s not proud to admit that. His ties to Bruce are supposed to be severed forever.

Two hours pass far less painfully than you were expecting. Not in the literal sense, because your arm has started to get sore, but in the sense that you and Jason are finally actually talking, more or less. You take a break, trying to get the blood flow back into your arm from being at an angle for so long.

Your stomach started rumbling half an hour ago, and now you’re scrolling through your phone, chatting with Jason on what you should order. He says by the time food would get here, he’d likely be finished up.

Jason’s already told you he doesn’t do a lot of delivery. He says it’s because things are always fresher at the restaurant.

After the last couple of hours spent talking literature, you know your first impression of him was wrong—there’s a joke about books and their covers somewhere in there—but be that as it may, you still haven’t quite figured him as the sort of guy that’s going to be overly snobby about food.

He says he cooks, and you believe him, more because you like to indulge in the thought of him knowing his way around a kitchen. You also just want to believe it for the sake of justifying the crush you feel creeping in every time he shifts your arm.

You’re not going to hold your breath hoping he opens up to you, but you can tell he’s someone with a story. Someone with history. And that’s something you can respect, because you’ve got your own past you’d rather not shell out just because your tattoo artist is hot. That doesn’t stop your mind from wandering though, trying to fill in the blanks.

Maybe he did some sort of stint in the military. That’s your first guess, at least. You didn’t get any more information on the tattoos he’d done ‘all over,’ and he doesn’t talk about it anymore, so you can’t really figure out anything more than that. You also consider the fact that it’s Gotham, and shit just happens. It’s not your right to meddle in whatever tragedy this city has doled out for him.

“One of the apprentices orders delivery here a lot,” Jason says, and you roll your eyes.

“That’s not helpful, nor does it answer my question,” you say. “Even if you don’t get things delivered, you still have to know what’s good around here, right? You’re not bringing a little brown bag lunch to work every day.”

“And what if I do?” Jason asks. His voice is low, almost like he’s daring you. The features on his handsome face are serious, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that hints he’s teasing you. And damn those eyes. You’re thankful he’s been spending the majority of your appointment staring down at your arm, because you’re not sure you’d survive two hours of looking at him, seeing where the thin ring of blue around his iris before it bleeds into vivid green.

You laugh. “Then I’d admire your dedication.”

You think he’s mostly being difficult because you offered to buy him food, a perfectly normal thing to do. But explaining to him that you’ve offered to everyone you’ve gotten a tattoo from doesn’t seem to change his mind. He’s stubborn, that much you can tell.

As you continue to scroll your phone, silence settles between the two of you. The silence doesn’t feel so oppressive this time, not weighted by awkwardness and uncertainty. Now it feels like a surrender. Neither of you bring up the beginning of the appointment. Not how he was late, not the tension that seemed to linger between the two of you, not how convinced you were that he actually hated the fact that you were sitting in his session.

“The fries at Wally’s are the best in Gotham.”

His voice comes from behind you, and you jump, turning over your shoulder quickly. He’s peering over your shoulder, eyes fixed on the screen of your phone. You hadn’t even heard him get up from his stool. Last you’d looked his way, he was sitting across from you.

You spit out a curse. “When did you get back there?” you ask, clutching your chest with overdramatic flair.

“What, you didn’t see me get up?” he asks.

You scoff. “No, I didn’t see you get up. What are you, some kind of fucking ghost?”

And Jason laughs.

At the best of the times, you consider yourself a relatively dignified individual. Maybe it’s a bit of flattery, but regardless, that’s what you’d like to believe. And yet, there’s something so incredibly rare about the sound of Jason’s laughter, something that makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. It’s like hearing something long forgotten. Like catching the song of a bird long thought extinct. This isn’t the playful scoff of laughter like when you’d said maybe Northanger Abbey was your favorite Jane Austen book, and he’d said you seemed more like an Elizabeth Bennett than a Catherine Morland; this seems like something secret. Something reserved.

Even if the sound makes your stomach flip, your foul language hardly seems funny enough to warrant such a laugh. Your silly off-handed joke doesn’t seem worthy of the burst of laughter that bubbles up from his wide chest.

“I think the hunger’s getting to you,” Jason replies finally when the laughter settles. He nudges his head back towards your phone to get back on topic. “Wally’s is good.”

You have to yank yourself from your thoughts and will yourself to nod. “Yeah, okay,” you say, feeling like such a loser for the way a single laugh could knock you off your track so quickly. You go back to scrolling through the menu to give yourself something other than gawk at him. “So fries. What else is good?” you ask, not daring to raise your eyes.

Jason crosses back over to his stool and sits. Your face gets hot as you feel self-consciousness creep up thinking maybe you’d been obvious, worried you’ll scare him off. But before you know it, he’s naming off his favorite things. And yeah, maybe you bought more than you alone could eat, and maybe you got the burger he spent a few minutes gushing about. If he doesn’t want it now, he can save it for later.

But nearly an hour later, you have a whole spread of junk food in Jason’s station and a finished bird skeleton plastic wrapped on your arm. Jason rolls his eyes at your generosity, and you threaten to eat everything you bought all by yourself, but he eats the burger and steals the fries you jokingly told him to keep his hands off of.

“So can I ask why you were so late?” you ask.

You’re toeing your boundaries. Maybe you’re intentionally trying to press your luck. Part of you knows you maybe shouldn’t ask. But you do it anyway.

Jason looks up from his burger, wiping a small smear of ketchup off his lip. “You’re gonna think I’m an asshole.” He smirks when he sees you quirk your eyebrow. He was thirty-five minutes late; of course you already think he’s an asshole. At least he’s a good sport about it. “I was out smoking.”

“Mm,” you say with a mockingly serious nod of your head. “Leaning up against a wall, cigarette in one hand, Mrs. Dalloway in the other. I guess you must be so cool I have to immediately forgive you,” you say sarcastically.

“Shut up.”

You smirk and go back to eating your food, unaware of Jason’s subtle gaze your way now that your attention has been diverted.

Jason’s used to a somewhat infrequent eating schedule, otherwise known as he rolls out of bed half an hour before he’s supposed to be at the shop, which doesn’t give him much time to eat. And by the time he’s done with his shift, he’s usually starved. He tries to eat an hour before kicking anyone’s ass so he doesn’t cramp up, so that involves him cramming whatever leftovers he has in the fridge into his mouth the second he gets back to his apartment. Then, he goes back out to work.

He’s become somewhat of a late night chef, putting together whatever he can make as quickly and easily as possible. The sort of skills he’d picked up when he was all on his own, trying to keep himself fed from whatever was available, doing whatever he could to make the best of a bad situation. Shoplifting butter and pasta, crushing up old Corn Flakes in a bag with a hammer to put on top. It was something his mom had done. Something he didn’t want to give up.

For the past two hours, he’s been hoping you’ll say something stupid, like how cool you think Batman is.Instead, he finds you kind in a way he doesn’t really see that often. You tolerate his shit to a certain point, and you push back when he goes too far.

People are scared of Jason, hood on or not. And they should be. They see his scars, his tattoos, his sheer size, and they cross the street. They turn their eyes as he buys bread at the grocery store. They can see him for what he is. But for some reason, you don’t. At least not now.

He’s mapping out his plan of how to take over the city, and you’re giving him shit for being late to an appointment for a job he only has for information. The fact that he met you is just a blip in the greater scheme of things, and yet that’s going to be what he walks away from today thinking about.

A guy came into the shop earlier. A local dealer. Jason played cool, pretended he didn’t have an idea who the guy was. This lowlife didn’t need to know Jason already knew where he picked up his supplies. He’d asked if the guy had any plans for the day, as if Jason didn’t already know about a shipment coming in late tonight. Jason’s plans for the evening had been clear. All he had to do was get through one more appointment.

Except that appointment had been yours.

The shop is closed now. A few stations away, one of Jason’s coworkers is still working. In the lull as you both eat, the faint buzzing of the needle and music playing from the speakers up front. Even if Jason wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s comfortable with you, there’s something of a surrender in the time you spend together.

You don’t know the things he’s going to do once you leave, and you wouldn’t assume them of him. What are you seeing in him because it’s sure as shit not something he’s ever seen himself.

At some point, Jason knows he’s going to fuck it all up. You’ll probably get ready to leave, and he’ll say something as you walk out the door that will make you question all of this. Make you second guess this good opinion of him you’ve managed to come up with. It’ll be for your own good.

His eyes drift over to your arm, your bicep still wrapped up in plastic. He can still feel the warmth of your skin lingering on his palm.

For so long, he’d been used to the dull cold of the apartment he squatted in, frigid air seeping in through neglected walls. As hard as he tries not to, he remembers arriving at Wayne Manor for the first time. He’d forgotten home could be so warm.

The warmth of your arm felt like that.

Since coming back in Gotham, he’d given plenty of tattoos, touched plenty of arms. Body heat is body heat, except when it’s yours.

“Where do you go from here?” Jason asks, looking up from his burger.

You shrug your shoulders. “Home, probably. Gonna get that good post-tattoo sleep.”

It’s cold out. You’re bundled up in your coat, aware of the tenderness of your arm where the fabric brushes up against the flesh.

You’re walking towards your train stop. The sounds of sirens echo somewhere in the distance. Purple light filters out through the blinds of one of the apartments you pass, loud bass temporarily overpowering the distant wail of emergency vehicles for a moment as you walk by, until it fizzles back out into quiet. As the music fades, you hear the sound of a couple arguing from an apartment somewhere up above you.

Across from the stairs up to the station is a bar, patrons hanging around outside smoking cigarettes and laughing. You can feel a huddle of men watching you as you move, but you don’t glance their way, just make your way up the stairs.

Yellow-tinged lights line the station, a lamp every fifteen feet or so. From what you can see in the beams of light weakly dispersing from the streetlamps, you’re alone. You find a spot under a nice shelter, though nice is relative considering the lingering smell of piss and obscene graffiti on the walls, but it’s not out in the open where anyone stumbling onto the stop will find you.

The light above you flickers sporadically. You wish there was somewhere else you could wait.

Jason hadn’t seemed thrilled that you were going out to wait for the train all on your own, but you assured him, somewhat indignant, you could handle yourself.

“You sat really well,” he’d said, and you couldn’t help but entertain the idea of inviting him along on the train with you, but you were not going to stoop to that level.

The sounds of approaching footsteps reminds you to keep your focus. You can kick your feet about Jason once you get back to your apartment.

Three guys stumble up the stairs. And just your fucking luck, you’re pretty sure they’re the guys from outside the bar. They’re laughing, and their voices carry from the opposite side of the tracks. You hope they’re going northbound, that they’ll have no reason to cross the tracks. You keep your eyes fixed away from them, down the tracks, now feeling even more impatient for the arrival your train, hoping somehow it will turn you invisible.

But their boisterous conversation suddenly turns much quieter.

Your shoulders tense, and as subtly as you can, you try to slip your hand into your bag for your pepper spray. Blindly, you feel around, trying to move as little as possible so as to not draw any more attention to yourself, because you have no doubts you’re the reason their conversation has become so hushed. If this doesn’t end horribly, you’ll have to try to remember to clear out all of the junk you have stashed away.

One of the men laughs, and then their conversation stops all together.

Your fingers curl around the tube of spray in your purse.

Without looking, you know they’re moving towards you now. Their shuffled, stumbling footsteps are growing louder. They’re drunk and not looking for their night to be over just yet. Unfortunately, you just happened to be in their way while they were looking for the next phase of the evening.

“Hey!” one yells.

You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe they’ll be drunk enough to think you genuinely can’t hear them and give up. It’s wishful thinking, but what does that matter?

Now you’re regretting pretending you were so tough for Jason because these guys sure as shit wouldn’t even give you a second glance if you were standing next to him.

They’ve crossed the tracks now, and there’s still no sign of train headlights. Your grip on the pepper spray tightens, not wanting it to slip now that your heart is starting to race.

“Hey! You!”

You don’t look.

One of them grabs your arm and tugs you out from the shelter. You wince at the contact against the fresh tattoo. “We’re talking to you,” he laughs.

You’re about to use your pepper spray when it clatters to the ground.

All three men look down at it.

“What’s this?” the second man says, bending down and picking it up.

But before any of them can say anything else, a figure just outside of the ring of light the four of you are standing under. You can’t make out any details about him besides the sheer size of him.

“Walk away while you still can,” he growls. The sound of his voice isn’t quite right. It sounds distorted. Your skin prickles with nerves from the sound of it.

The man who picked up your pepper spray turns it towards the figure, threatening to spray.

The figure just chuckles. It sounds cold, metallic. The sound of a gun cocking follows as the figure steps just into the light. The pepper spray wouldn’t do the man any good.

A man wearing a red helmet walks into sight, gun trained on the man holding my arm, but his grip drops instantaneously as he knocks through his other two friends to run, but the other two follow behind almost immediately.

And that leaves you and the guy in the helmet alone.

Gotham has its fill of guys in mask, and sure, there seems to be a new one popping up all the time, but you don’t know this one.

You look up at him, eyes wide with fright. The second the men are gone, he puts the gun back in one of the holsters on his thick thighs, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has them. You don’t know who this guy is, who he works with, whether he’s any better than that group of men or just more armed.

“You alright?” he asks when you don’t say anything. He has a voice modifier, you realize now, though you piece that together slowly.

After a beat, you nod your head. Your hand curls over your throbbing arm. You don’t like that you can’t see where he’s looking. Just two unblinking white voids where his eyes must be. “Yeah,” you breathe. Your eyes fall on your pepper spray. The man holding it must have dropped it when he ran.

When it’s clear you’re not moving to pick it up, the man bends down and grabs it. He holds out a gloved hand, offering it back to you.

Your trembling hand raises and you take it from him, offering a barely audible thanks as you slip it back into your bag.

He nods.

There’s still no sign of a train, and he’s not moving.

“I can give you a ride someplace. If you want.”

Don’t take rides from strangers. You’d heard it just as much as anyone, and the man standing before you is the definition of a stranger. You can’t even see his face; you have no idea who he is beneath that helmet. The one thing you do know is he has a gun, and he’s built like a fridge.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he adds, but his modulated reassurances don’t ease your concern. He senses your hesitation and takes a step back. “Do you want me to leave?”

A few more seconds pass as you consider the question. What if those guys come back? What if some other group comes along? But is giving your home address to the guy with a gun a better idea? And would him standing beside you as you wait for your train make you feel any safer? Could you so willingly accept he wasn’t going to just wait for the moment your guard is down to do something, just the way this city works?

Finally, you shake your head. Neither decision seems like the right one to make. But he did help you. Now you just have to hope to god he’s not going to take advantage of your vulnerability.

You want to ask if he’s one of Batman’s friends, but you don’t find the words.

Instead, you two fall into a silence. For you, it’s tense. You wonder if he feels the same, or if this is just a regular night for him. He stands near you but keeps his distance, like he’s aware how intimidating he could be.

The train is so late. There must be some hold up. One of Gotham’s usuals causing a delay in public transit. Go fucking figure.

“Are you new?” you ask finally. If the train never comes, you might end up taking him up on his offer for a ride, so you may as well try and figure something out about him. Any sort of indication of if you can trust him or not.

There’s another distorted chuckle, though somehow, this one seems less malicious than earlier when threatened with your pepper spray. “You could say that.”

You have no idea how to respond to that, so you don’t.

Silence settles between you again. You can see the lights of the train in the distance. You’re hoping that nothing happens on the train. All you want is to crash into your bed.

The man in the red helmet stands beside you, not pushing any further to make conversation. He waits with you. As it screeches to a halt in front of you, you turn to thank him, but you notice he’s already gone.

NEXT

[beuxwhoyouare]

Raised You Better

My son Jasper was a good kid. He was a star soccer player in school and got a scholarship to play in college, so I only saw him on holidays. I missed him so much and looked forward to our quarterly reunions.

Well that was until his most recent visit. He was being so distant and when I finally inquired why he was acting differently, he finally admitted he actually dropped out to pursue being a personal trainer.

I was shocked. He's always been a model child and did all me and my husband expected of him. Maybe it was all our time away working? Maybe I should've been home more instead of being at the lab. It felt like a punch in the gut. I mean sure he knew what he was doing thanks to all his time training for soccer but that's not a way to build a life?

My husband and I did it right. We met in college and supported each other through our advanced degrees and worked our way up in an international pharmaceutical company. Personal training is just so...surface level. He's supposed to be better than us. That's what you want for your children. No no no this is no good. I'll have to set him on the right path.

I knew of a special program at work that was rooted in natural medicine and meditation with a mad science twist. I set up Jasper with the "Sports Nutrition" department at work but it was actually our new experiment. It looked like a TENS muscle stimulator on crack. Several wires shot out of a relatively large dark grey box with a screen and several sliders on one side. I sat connected on the other side of the wall connected with the pads all over the top of my head. All I had to do was wait for Jasper to get hooked up. We sold it to him as a scientific way to curb cravings for sweets and unhealthy things, like an ozempic shot for the brain. In reality, I was told that the machine would take positive attributes from one source and strengthen them in the weaker mind.

I saw the lights flicker and anticipated that he had already been hooked up to the machine. I just laid back and rested while focusing on the importance of getting a quality education. Eventually, I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes again it was all so groggy. But I was sitting facing the opposite direction. I lifted my arms to wipe my eyes and gasped when I looked down. My boobs were gone and replaced with sizable mounds of muscle escaping a tiny white tank top. My arms and thick thighs now filled with tattoos....no?! This isn't supposed to be how it works

I told the lab techs who I am and that I was actually Meredith. They both looked at each other spooked but judiciously jotting down notes. After answering a few security questions, they agreed to believe that I was indeed not Jasper and it must be an unforseen side effect from the treatment.

That's when they explained the problem....When my body woke up, it also said it was Meredith. Could the experiment have basically overwritten the memory of my son with my own? I felt like I basically killed my own child. Grief swept over me. But then so did a bravado, a confidence, a giddiness? The two lab techs handed me a towel as they shyly avoided looking down at a tent forming in my shorts. Oh I guess the excitement led to a physical response.

In theory I get it as a scientist. I did in fact instill positive traits on my son. Granted, that also erased him seemingly. But also it's a chance at a new life full of new experiences. I'm a man now. And what a man indeed. I walked into the shower facility at the lab. I took off the outfit Jasper donned to the lab, if I was still a woman it'd be called skimpy and slutty. Tiny shorts with underwear built in and a virtually see through tank top. In two swift moves, I had taken everything off. I had seen my son naked as a child but this is different. He looked so much like his father....well I guess I looked so much like MY dad now. His genetics graced me well as I placed one hand on my pecs and another on my new dick. I squeezed both recoiling from the newfound pleasure. This was wrong right? Like I shouldn't be doing this....I felt disgusted with myself. No. This is for the betterment of Jasper's life. I'm going to let go of my past life....I'm Jasper now.

And what a life it will be. Years of playing sport and training, whew. I wasn't going to let him throw it away, I'll let it be a side job, maybe I'll own a business with a bunch of trainers under me but I won't be hustling like that. Not yet. I gotta learn the new me. I used my hands to trace the curves of each new tattoo, then moved on to each muscle. I poked and prodded before squeezing, then I remembered I had business to attend to. I took one hand and gently took hold of the warm fleshy rod under the steamy water pulsing down onto me. I pumped back and forth for a few minutes. Jasper was not sensitive at all...I shoved aside my reservations and gripped myself firmer and began jerking harder and faster. Eventually I introduced my other hand....oh he was girthy in the best way. I mean I am thick in the best ways. Harder and faster, it felt like I was floating outside of myself as my muscles took over almost like autopilot.

The steam radiated off my new musculature when it felt like I saw a flash of light. Shot after shot came out of my new rod. The lab walls had likely never seen a show like this but I was happy to christen them. The autopilot kinky thoughts continued to take over my new mind and body. I squatted down an licked the nearest wall as my cum dripped down. I knew Jasper was queer but I didn't know how he would respond to this kind of kink. I think he was a little freak because there was not one single butterfly in my stomach from this action. I quickly toweled off and headed to my apartment. I figured "Meredith" could find her way home.

The apartment smelled like a young male in college. A musk twirled around sweat and strong cologne. Foreign to me, but familiar to my new body. I couldn't control myself and ripped my clothes off...literally. My strength made it obscenely easy to tear them off in ways they weren't intended to. I wanted to try on all my new clothes. This body made everything look good.

My phone buzzed. It was one of "my" bros asking if I was coming down to the shoot. I played it off like I forgot and asked him to send me the "deets" again.

I threw on the nearest random shirt and bottoms and made my way to the warehouse address given. I guess "I" had agreed to help with the photoshoot to launch "our" new clothing line. A nearby table had Jasper's name on it and I quickly assumed the position taking off all my clothes and putting the skimpy clothing on. I channeled my new swagger as my bros began taking pics.

Oh I think I'm gonna like this. Hopefully I can find a cute twink or something soon. I really wanna put these thighs to work plowing someone's son or two.

[pitchsidestories]

don't say maybe II Ingrid Engen x Reader

masterlist I word count: 1466

a/n: dear readers, thanks for helping us to decide on Ingrid Engen for this fanfic, we hope you all enjoy it. <3

You were mesmerized by her from the moment you met her first, almost a year ago now.

And since then, you had only gotten more intimidated by her.

Ingrid Engen wasn’t just the sweetest sounding name you had ever heard, it also belonged to a woman that could easily pass for a Norwegian model. She was gorgeous, with long dark hair and light eyes.

Not only that, but she was also a talented football player.

Pretty rude to have that much luck in life, if anyone asked you. Still, you often found yourself looking at her, daydreaming about how it would be to date someone like that.

It was stupid, you knew. There was no sign that she was into girls, maybe she even had a boyfriend.

For some reason, you still could not stop yourself from talking about her.

“She’s amazing, Esmee. The way Ingrid stepped up from midfielder to defender due to Mapis injury…“, you were so in awe, you couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Yeah, she really evolved.“, Esmee said from the massage table next to you while she got her physiotherapy treatment.

“While looking flawless.“, you added, biting your lip.

You decidedly ignored the look Esmee exchanged with your physio.

The dutch player sighed: “Jeez, she’s just a human being. Calm down.“

“I know that!”, you responded quickly and with more force than you had intended.

“Just ask her out if you’re so obsessed with her.“, Esmee laughed casually.

You only rolled your eyes: “Oh, you must be joking. She’ll never go out with someone like me!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not that pretty and definitely not cool enough for her.“, you replied in a tone that made clear that the answer was obvious.

You physio decided to join your conversation. “Pretty low self-esteem for a football player.“, she teased you playfully.

You gasped and threw a roll of kinesiology tape in her general direction: “Rude!”

She caught it, already used to your shenanigans and shrugged: “I said what I said.“

“She’s not wrong.“, Esmee agreed.

“Hey!”

The physio started to massage your thighs that felt tight since the last training session: “Esmee is right. You should just ask her, what do you have to lose?”

“My dignity.“, you retorted quickly.

“You still have some?”, the physio asked, visibly proud of her own joke.

Esmee sided with her: “Surprising after saying that you’re not good enough for our Norwegian princess.“

You groaned, silently cursing yourself for being friends with them: “Okay, can you two stop now?

“We’ll once you sorted this out.”, the physio promised winking.

“There is nothing to sort out.”, you grumbled.

“Fine but you need to relax so I can work here.”, she advised.

“I’m relaxed.”, you lied.

“And a bad liar too.”, the physio chuckled.

“Stop it!”, you demanded, suppressing a smile.  

“Ah, already a bit better.”, she concluded happily, her hands soothing the tension in your muscles.

Later, Ingrid stood in the doorframe beaming at the Dutch player. “Hi Es, are you joining us for the basketball game?”

“Yes, of course.”, Esmee nodded, a half-crooked smile on her lips.

“Great. Do you know if y/n would be interested too.”, the Norwegian asked, playing nervously with a string of her dark hair.

“Very interested. Heard she loves basketball.”, she replied.

“She does, huh? To be fair she got the height for it, don’t you agree?”, Ingrid questioned biting her lip.

“Yeah, definitely.”, the younger woman agreed.

“I’ll ask her.”, she decided. The training the following day has just ended when Ingrid approached you. “Y/n?”

“Yes?”, you looked at her too stunned by her beauty up close to say more.

“Would you like to come to the game with us?”, the Norwegian addressed her question directly at you.

Under her gaze you could feel your cheek heat up. “Me? Yes, sure.”, you answered delighted.

“Perfect. Es is coming too.”, she answered.

“That’s cool. Did you know I almost became a basketballer?”, you begun to open up, feeling the usual tension you’d have in front of her leaving your body as you leaned nonchalantly on to the wall.

“No, you did?”, the brunette placing her hand on your upper arm seemingly impressed.

“Yes, but football feels like the right choice.”, you admitted, trying to ignore the urge to pinch yourself, this was better than any daydream about her.

“I was telling Esmee yesterday that you look like a basket baller.”, Ingrid confessed.

“You like that, hm?”, you countered cheekily.

“I do. I think it’s pretty funny.”, she responded.

“It’s a bit.”

“I mean I like tall women.”, the Norwegian declared blushing.

“Wait, you like..?”, you frowned.

“See you at the game.”, Ingrid cleared her throat.

“Can’t wait.”, you said while she was on her way out.

“Oh, Ingrid you got love in your eyes.”, Fridolina realized smirking while her best friend sat down on the passenger seat of her car.

“Frido!”, the younger woman groaned.

“What? It’s true.”, the blonde shrugged.

“It’s not.”, Ingrid disagreed.

“You’ll wear something cute later, right? See? I knew it.”, the Swede grinned triumphantly at the brunette.

“I didn’t say anything.”, she protested weakly.

“You didn’t need to I can read it from your face.”, Fridolina remarked. Years of friendship meant that words weren’t necessarily needed, the facial expressions spoke for themselves.

Ingrids cheeks reddened slightly: “Oh please.“

Fridolina knowingly raised an eyebrow: “You’re absolutely smitten.“

The Norwegian flinched at hearing these words out loud. She gently pushed her best friend: “Shut up.“

“Not until you ask her to go out with you.“, Fridolina laughed which caused Ingrid to frown at her.

“I’m not asking her.“, she said decidedly.

Fridolina left it at that and started driving.

You all met a few hours later at the stadium. Esmee and you were already seated, armed with food and drinks when the two Scandinavian girls arrived.

“Hi girls, Esmee and I got snacks.“, you greeted them, lifting the popcorn you were holding in their direction.

Fridolina grinned at you as she sat down: “Delicious. Let me try.“

“Here you go.“, Esmee said, offering her food to the Swede.

“So good.“, she nodded, happily chewing.

Ingrid had in the meantime taken the seat next to you and nudged you with her elbow: “So y/n…?”

“Yes?“, you asked, reluctantly tearing your eyes away from the game. Partly because of your interest in the game, partly because you were nervous to have Ingrid so close to you.

It was worth it though. When you looked up, she smiled at you with kind eyes and soft lips.

She nodded towards the court: “Can you imagine playing there too?”

“With the dudes? Hell no.“, you laughed.

Ingrid rolled her eyes: “Obviously not with men.“

“With girls? Yes, maybe but I prefer football.“, you replied more seriously this time. “Want me to teach you a little after the game?“

Your teammate beamed upon your suggestion: “Please.“

Finding your confidence, you replied: “Can’t say no to a pretty girl.“

“Me neither.“, Ingrid flirted back.

From your other side, Fridolina cringed: “This feels like an awful high school movie. Esmee?”

“Huh?“, asked the young player surprised.

“Come with me, I need something to drink.“

Esmee frowned at Fridolinas drink: “But your cup is still half full…“

Only after the Swede elbowed her in the side, she finally got up: “Okay, sorry, I get it.“

“Thanks.“

You watched the two leave the stands with a shake of your head: “These two really think they are not conspicuous at all, huh?”

“They’ve been planning this for while.“, Ingrid admitted.

Alarm signals went on in your head. Of course this had been too good to be true. Of course this was just a dumb joke and you were the butt of it.

You got up from your seat, heart racing: “What do you mean by planned?“

Ingrid gently reached for your hands, probably concerned that you could run away: “They knew you are exactly my type.“

“I’m your type?!”, you looked at her in disbelief.

“Yes.”, she confirmed earnestly.

“You’re mine too but I thought you were too perfect for me.”, you confessed.

“Too perfect? Me?”, the Norwegian replied amusedly.

“Yeah?”, you replied turning red.

“I’m not perfect.”, the beautiful woman stated.

“So, you said I’m your type and you’re mine, where do we go from here?”, you asked boldly.

“How about we leave this, and you teach me how to play basketball?”, Ingrid suggested.

“I’m in, let’s go.”, you declared while your teammate finally took your hand.

When you both got in her car teenage dirtbag was playing on the radio and you felt with the singer who sung that the girl he had admired all along had feelings for him as well.

Just like Ingrid who cared about you too. This life was sweeter than fiction.

[atyourmerci]

Softdom!abby X plus sized insecure reader ♡

Abby painting all the things she loves about your body

CW: smut, MDNI, softdom!abby, sub!reader, plussized!reader, reader is anxious, me making up shit ab artistry, face sitting, fingering, mult orgasms

♡ ♡

In your sun kissed painting room, abby lies against your velvet couch, her blonde hair glowing against her pale flesh. She often modeled for all of your class assignments so she was used to her spotlight.

She loved watching you at work, so concentrated as you perfected your craft. She would do anything for you, she just wanted to help her beautiful girl.

As your eyes are trained on the majority of a blank canvas you zone in on creating your base, knowing your girlfriend would stay still so you can get your perfect shot.

“Why don’t you ever let me pain you?” Is heard from behind the white canvas propped up on your easel.

It caught you so off guard your head peaks around the board to look at your girlfriend. hmmm? Comes out as an honest confusion.

She giggles to herself at how locked in you truly were, “why don’t I ever paint you?” She reiterates.

You giggle back at her question, “because you can’t paint for shit,” you toy with her playfully.

“And what if I wanted to try huh, maybe I’m not using the right medium perhaps,” she comes back with a sophisticated air to her tone.

“Yeah yeah okay, just sit and look pretty,” you say getting back to your work when you hear a rustling, seeing her get up from the couch to approach you, “don’t move! That was a perfect-,” before you could finish her hands are wrapped around your stomach as she kisses the side of your face.

You can’t seem to protest with the naked woman behind you, touches of her sun soaked skin drenching you. You lean into it, letting her do as she pleased.

“I want to paint you,” she says in between peppering kisses down your neck. You giggle at her insistence, “baby I think we’ve been over th-,”

“No, no I want you paint on you,” she whispers into your ear as her hand cups your jaw gently.

“N-now? Right now?” You turn to face her, she had to be joking, right? Abby watches you with doe eyes, nodding back at you.

“But it’s bright in here,” you say averting your glance, the pit in your stomach growing with anxiety of the thought. Your nervous tick of flexing your fingers beginning, and abby notices.

Taking your palms into her own and rubbing circles with her thumbs on top of your hands in order to soothe you.

“I know. I want to admire every part of you. I want you to see what I see baby. Is that okay?”

A white tapestry lies beneath your barren body, stripped of all the confines and masks you build up to protect perception.

There’s no real reason to hide from abby. She adored every inch of you. Every marking on your body was akin to threads of gold to her.

Now tracing them with your paintbrushes, creating flowers from the stretch marks on your stomach, one of the biggest insecurities you had.

You once tried to hide them, turning around to change, avoiding mirrors that may give away your secrets. She’d trace them in the safety in the darkness, admiring your body for taking care of you, protecting you when she couldn’t.

As she aimlessly paints away at your flesh she admires her artwork, not the paint itself, but her own human body sculpted for her eyes. She rambles on about how you represent the body of a Greek goddess, full and radiant.

Her light touches, soft words, and longing glances sending you into the deepest form of arousal you’d ever known.

To be loved is to be seen

Beginning to form dainty flowers amongst the stretch marks in your inner thighs you couldn’t take it anymore, breath getting heavier, her mouth beginning to gape at your dripping arousal…so close to her touch.

“Please sit on my face,” she sounded depraved, as if she’d die without it.

“B-but the paint,” you breathe out, not giving a shit, but knowing there would be a mess.

“I don’t fucking care, please baby,” she pleas, gripping into the flesh of your thighs.

You’d never done this, allowed yourself that vulnerability. You’d berate your thoughts, always worrying you’d be too heavy. What if she thought you were too much, too heavy for her? Would it change her mind about you?

She guides you above your mouth, paint smearing across her cheeks. You begin at a hover, attempting to make yourself lighter, more palatable.

“Baby all of you, please I need you,” you hear from her, tugging on your thighs to sit comfortably on top of her.

A sigh of relief floods you, releasing the tension and submitting to her completely.

If she could have eaten you whole, she would have. Sloppily licking down your cunt, pressing down your thighs to get as close as she could.

She made you whine and shake till your tired limbs gave out, falling down onto her, letting your body rest completely. Planting kisses on your forehead while she runs her fingertips through your hair.

“Let me do the work this time, just lay there and look pretty,” she says gazing down at you with a grin, knowing she’s stealing your line.

Your body sprawled out on the cloth, completely revealed to her open-mouthed gaze, sun kissing your sweaty flesh.

Driving her fingers into you she can’t help but stare at your pretty mess, paint covered, soaking cunt all of her. “Look so fucking pretty like this,” she coos, sending your head back in pleasure.

The feeling of full liberation, complete autonomy over your body, at the hands of her.

‘mine mine my girl my fucking pretty girl’ she can’t stop herself from babbling, watching as her piece of art comes to life.

Even after you finish from her fingers she can’t stop looking, obsessed, utterly enthralled at the thought of getting the honor of fucking a goddess.

Dried paint chips away at your bodies as the sun goes down. Bare bodies lying there for hours. Maybe you’d never leave this moment.

[1d1195]

Made to Be - Extra IV

Read Made to Be here | ~1.8k words

From me: I was just thinking about them (probs because I'm always thinking about school. This take place sometime between January and the second extra (pre-baby stuff). This is just a really quick little thing until I can write something of merit. I believe I'm almost caught up at work. I think I might be able to write something more substantial this week 💕 Thank you for being patient and kind.

Warnings: none, fluffy cute stuff.

Summary: Harry's not the only one who thinks she was made to be a teacher.

May

“I think we should outlaw field trips,” she mumbled sitting beside Harry in the front seat of the bus.

He chuckled. “It will be fun, kitten,” he assured her.

“Fun for you maybe. You got the good group of kids to chaperone.”

“I’ll give y’group a lecture before we split up, angel,” he promised. Harry snagged her hand from her lap and gave it a gentle squeeze. They tried not to be overly affectionate in front of the students because they didn’t want it to be weird...not that it was weird. But it was definitely something in their eyes. “Y’know they only gave y’a tough group because y’can handle it and they love you.”

She sighed. “I know, I know.”

They were dressed comfortably for the history museum trip. Business casual that made Harry think she was modeling for teachers in textbooks. She was so pretty it made his heart skip a beat.

She had been telling Harry how excited she was to go on the trip up until she got the names of the group she was chaperoning. She was especially excited because schools always got great discounts for museums that she generally hated to pay for. But not even the group rate was enough to make her enthusiasm spike. She fiddled nervously with her engagement ring dangling on her necklace. Harry truly outdid himself and wearing the ring on her finger in the city made her nervous so she opted for the necklace so she could tuck it away safely. (But she assured Harry the thought of taking it off made her feel naked.) Until it was tucked away, Harry smiled, self-satisfied as she twisted it on the silver chain. That pretty diamond glittering in the sun coming through the window of the bus made him so happy. The little symbol that they’d be together forever. She was made for him. He was certain.

He almost forgot he was supposed to be comforting her. It was loud behind them. Not excessive, but when forty something students chattered in an enclosed area, it always got a bit loud and also didn’t help his train of thought. “They’ll pull it together for you,” he draped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. The kids would have to deal.

“Aw!” Someone droned. Her cheeks heated briefly but Harry turned in his seat and glared so that the sound was cut off quickly.

“Jus’ show them all y’favorite things,” he shrugged.

“My nightmare is losing a student on a trip,” she sighed. “This is so stressful.”

“They’re not little ones, m’love,” he reminded her. “They can wander a bit and they’ll be okay. S’not like they don’t all go to the mall on their own and whatnot. Plus, I’d never let y’take the fall for losing one of them. We’d find them. M’sure a lot of parents wouldn’t either. But s’not going t’happen.”

She nodded. Then she sighed heavily and squeezed his hand back. “You’re right.”

“Mm, music t’my ears,” he grinned.

“Don’t push it.”

*

But Harry was right. Her group of students who were usually a rough and tumble kind of bunch really got into the trip. At first they were quiet, almost shy. But she acted as if she didn’t notice and told them all about the exhibits they encountered and explained as much as she could. She did her best to connect the displays to their own lives so they would care more.

As such, they walked right along with her and forgot their shyness. They asked intelligent follow up questions after she explained what they were looking at. They followed all her directions and even asked her for more information about the information she told them as they walked through the rooms. She was going to boost their grades when they got back to school with bonus points for being so good and learning at the same time.

The relief was exhilarating.

About part way through the morning, her group of eight needed a bathroom break. She waited outside the bathrooms and checked her phone for any kind of emergency. Harry texted to check in on her, so she answered to let him know how good her group was and how happy she was to be on the trip again.

“School trip?”

She looked up instinctively, the lanyard around her neck was the only thing that marked her as an adult in comparison to her students. Her slightly shorter frame didn’t compare to the boys she taught who often towered over her. She thought she usually looked the part of being a teacher. She felt it was written on her face (or maybe it was the headband with the Treaty of Versailles printed on the fabric and her pencil earrings that gave it away). The man before wasn’t one of her coworkers but he had a lanyard around his neck from a school she hadn’t heard of before.

She nodded. “Oh yeah, drove an hour in,” she cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Same here. About an hour and a half. You’re a history teacher as well?” He asked.

Her students were still in the restroom, so she cleared her throat again and nodded. “Yes, World History.”

“Same here, where are you in the curriculum right now?”

“We just finished up the Industrial Revolution. About to start Imperialism.”

“Fun stuff! You know, one of my students heard you talking about the Enigma exhibit. Said I left out a ton of information that you seemed to know a lot more about.”

She chuckled. “I see, sorry about that,” she smiled politely. “I get a little too into Bletchley Park.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Miss,” one of her students said suddenly appearing from the bathroom with two others. She glanced toward the men’s bathroom but didn’t see any of them just yet. “Can we pop into the giftshop?”

She glanced at her watch. “I think we have time for that, scope it out before everyone else at the end of the day. We have lunch in about an hour.”

“Are you all eating here, in the food court?”

“I think we’re eating outside,” she said. “Nice day and all... I think the boys are coming out now,” she smiled at her student. “Nice meeting you. Enjoy the museum,” she ushered her students toward the men’s room and sighed.

“Was he hitting on you, Miss?” She whispered.

“Shh.”

“Okay, queen,” she giggled. “Are you going to tell Mr. Styles?”

“He wasn’t hitting on me.”

“Miss,” she laughed. “He was so hitting on you.”

“I didn’t—”

“Who was hitting on her?” One of the boys asked.

“No one—”

“That guy.”

“Oooh, he’s cute. Wait until Mr. Styles finds out he has competition.”

“Miss, I think we have to intimidate him,” another one of the boys explained knowingly. “It’s what Mr. Styles would want.”

“Oh, my word,” she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we go to the giftshop?”

*

“Everyone please look in the seat next to you and check if the person you travelled with on the way here is still here! We’re doing a final headcount as soon as we’re all seated.”

“Mr. Styles!” One of her group members sang. She glared at him briefly with her best teacher stare before she sat facing forward in her seat. Harry squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

“Yes? Didn’t y’torture m’fiancée enough today?”

“I would never torture her! But your fiancée got hit on by a guy by the bathroom!” He shouted.

The resounding oohs from the entire bus made her blush. She looked straight forward at the seatback in front of her. “Really?” He smiled and glanced down at the pretty girl beside him.

She shook her head. “He was not flirting.”

“Course he was, Miss! You’re a total catch!” The girl in her group called back.

“She’s right, y’know,” he winked at her knowingly, his voice was low. Maybe only one or two students heard Harry say it and they were kind enough to giggle and not make a scene of it or embarrass her further. “Alright, alright, head count!”

She stayed put while Harry walked up and down the aisle. When he returned to the front, he told the bus driver that everyone was accounted for and they could go on their way.

“Hiding your affair from me?” He winked.

“Shut up.”

He chuckled and grabbed her hand from her lap and brought her fingers to his lips briefly. “S’no surprise, really.”

“It’s probably because my ring was inside my shirt.”

“Lucky ring,” he hummed.

“Harry,” she hissed.

“The man has good taste, kitten,” he shrugged. “M’not surprised at all.”

She sighed. “I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just didn’t want to make you jealous. I don’t want you to think you have anything to be jealous of, you know?”

“I know, I know,” his voice was so kind and soft. The way he sounded when they were falling asleep. It was quiet and warm. If they weren’t in front of forty something students, he probably would have held her cheek and kissed her the way he did every night. Would have traced her features and told her how much he loved her. “You’re jus’ so pretty, so nice, so lovely that anyone with half a brain cell can see it from across the room,” he assured her. Her relief was massive. The idea of hurting Harry’s feelings or betraying his trust was one of her worst fears. She pulled the necklace from its spot and twisted it again and Harry’s smile grew. “God,” he shook his head. Then he squeezed her hand three quick times. She squeezed it back four times in succession. Both knew what it meant. A not quite secret that they loved each other.

She was always grateful for Harry coming into her life. The day she left her old school and got her new job was so scary and sad. In hindsight, she would have told herself in her first year of teaching that a new school was in her future, and she was going to meet a man that was everything she wanted and more.

Someone who was made for her.

“What?” He smirked. The sun was setting and bathing the bus in a soft golden light that only highlighted how handsome Harry was.

“Just thinking about how jealous I would be if a girl flirted with you on a field trip. You have way more kindness than I do.”

“Oh, don’t worry, kitten,” he mumbled and brought his mouth to her ear. “M’going t’show you how crazy the thought of another guy chatting y’up makes me later. Remind you that y’don’t need anyone else. Ever,” he promised and pressed a chaste kiss that did not match the intensity of his words.

Her cheeks warmed once more but she smiled. Shaking her head she squeezed his hand three more times.

--

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach

@straightontilmornin @freedomfireflies @littlenatilda @kathb59 @babegoals

@angel-upon @lilfreakjez @mleestiles @ameliaalvarez06 @canyonmoondreams

@summertime-pills @daphnesutton @l4rrysh0use @perfectywrong @foreverxholland

@lovrave @st-ev-ie @pandeebearstyles @toosarcastic03 @luvonstyles

@tenaciousperfectionunknown @classychalamet @love-letters-to-uranus @emmaawbr @crossyourpeter

@kissitnhekitchen @boopookie @stylesfever @indierockgirrl @michellekstyles

@just-another-reader1098 @hermionelove @tiredinwinter @whimsy-willows @hannah9921

@fangirl7060 @triski73 @vikiii07 @prettygurl-2009 @madstyles3204

@angeldavis777 @tchlamqtsgf @lizsogolden @me-undiscovered @you-sunshine

@rose-girls-world @claimingharrystigertattoo @inlikea-coolway @theseaview @lunaharrygurl

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[shapeshiftersvt]

Well!

This sucks.

In 2016, Shapeshifters was two and a half years old when the country we operate in seemed to elect one particular asshole. Today, this company is ten and a half years old, and the same damn asshole is back again.

Under that first term Shapeshifters went from a two-person, back-of-the-dining-room operation to a production floor in a converted warehouse to the beautiful studio we're in now. We sent chest binders in anonymized packaging all over the country and the world for those four years. We hired trans people in our town and purchased services from queer folks in our network. We left behind the landlord who objected to our Black Lives Matter banner and hired models for photoshoots who knew what we were about and were excited to join the work.

Then we took a damn breath. We found stability in our little studio, over the last four years. We experimented with prints and patterns and fashion lines. We worked on new projects with new people.

It sucks that we're back here again.

And: our job now, as always, is to connect you with what you need and connect each other with what we all do.

There's a lot of good advice out there about keeping yourself as safe and healthy and stable as possible, from a lot of activists and poets and people much better at it than me. I speak from my position as a business owner from a family of economists, who's been trained to watch the money. Buy queer when you can, buy local when you can. Keep the money close, trade the same $20 back and forth with your friends for services, re-use and repair what you have.

Buy a binder, or a sew-your-own-binder kit, ora sports bra, or a binding dress, or some cryptid art from us here:

Find a queer-owned business for what you need at Everywhere is Queer:

And also from Hey Famm:

If you are located in or near Western Massachusetts, find some queer folks to support via Bloom Local:

and if you have a few bucks a month to spare, maybe support a trans person on Patreon. I suggest friend of the shop @neolithicsheep :

and Mercury Stardust, the Trans Handy Ma'am, who is a great resource when you need to fix something yourself:

Spend your money for good whenever you have the chance. It matters.

And you matter, too.

Keep talking to us, keep talking to each other, keep in touch with your people. Keep building these systems and these structures and these networks. We're going to need all of them.

And, hey: if you're trans and starting a business, reach out. I'd love to help folks in the early stages, connect you to resources, pull you over some of the hurdles we faced. There's a lot more room for queer business owners now than there was eight years ago. Let's take up that space.

Keep building, fam. It matters and it's worth doing. Every time.

[fabaulti]

I think most of us should take the whole ai scraping situation as a sign that we should maybe stop giving google/facebook/big corps all our data and look into alternatives that actually value your privacy.

i know this is easier said than done because everybody under the sun seems to use these services, but I promise you it’s not impossible. In fact, I made a list of a few alternatives to popular apps and services, alternatives that are privacy first, open source and don’t sell your data.

right off the bat I suggest you stop using gmail. it’s trash and not secure at all. google can read your emails. in fact, google has acces to all the data on your account and while what they do with it is already shady, I don’t even want to know what the whole ai situation is going to bring. a good alternative to a few google services is skiff. they provide a secure, e3ee mail service along with a workspace that can easily import google documents, a calendar and 10 gb free storage. i’ve been using it for a while and it’s great.

a good alternative to google drive is either koofr or filen. I use filen because everything you upload on there is end to end encrypted with zero knowledge. they offer 10 gb of free storage and really affordable lifetime plans.

google docs? i don’t know her. instead, try cryptpad. I don’t have the spoons to list all the great features of this service, you just have to believe me. nothing you write there will be used to train ai and you can share it just as easily. if skiff is too limited for you and you also need stuff like sheets or forms, cryptpad is here for you. the only downside i could think of is that they don’t have a mobile app, but the site works great in a browser too.

since there is no real alternative to youtube I recommend watching your little slime videos through a streaming frontend like freetube or new pipe. besides the fact that they remove ads, they also stop google from tracking what you watch. there is a bit of functionality loss with these services, but if you just want to watch videos privately they’re great.

if you’re looking for an alternative to google photos that is secure and end to end encrypted you might want to look into stingle, although in my experience filen’s photos tab works pretty well too.

oh, also, for the love of god, stop using whatsapp, facebook messenger or instagram for messaging. just stop. signal and telegram are literally here and they’re free. spread the word, educate your friends, ask them if they really want anyone to snoop around their private conversations.

regarding browser, you know the drill. throw google chrome/edge in the trash (they really basically spyware disguised as browsers) and download either librewolf or brave. mozilla can be a great secure option too, with a bit of tinkering.

if you wanna get a vpn (and I recommend you do) be wary that some of them are scammy. do your research, read their terms and conditions, familiarise yourself with their model. if you don’t wanna do that and are willing to trust my word, go with mullvad. they don’t keep any logs. it’s 5 euros a month with no different pricing plans or other bullshit.

lastly, whatever alternative you decide on, what matters most is that you don’t keep all your data in one place. don’t trust a service to take care of your emails, documents, photos and messages. store all these things in different, trustworthy (preferably open source) places. there is absolutely no reason google has to know everything about you.

do your own research as well, don’t just trust the first vpn service your favourite youtube gets sponsored by. don’t trust random tech blogs to tell you what the best cloud storage service is — they get good money for advertising one or the other. compare shit on your own or ask a tech savvy friend to help you. you’ve got this.