#blockbuster night part 1

[goldfades]

★ YOU AND ME, WE'D BE A BIG CONVERSATION─── PB⁵ (part 1/3)

❪ requested -> "paige x famous!reader (singer, actress, up to u) inspired by endgame by ts where p reveals that r is her celeb crush in an interview and a few days later theres a vid of r responding to it saying shes been obsessed w paige lately / its such a big deal bc r has been involved in a lot of romantic drama lately so everyone is kinda iffy abt her rn, causing her to put up a tough guard. but p sees thru the facade when they start talking and allows her to be herself, making r fall even harder 🥹 " ❫ for my disco nonnie!

─ warnings | gossip, a lot of drama and random ass names (sorry i get confused when i don't name them), mention of panic attacks, hurt to comfort, pretty sure nothing else?

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my wcbb masterlist!

"Y/N L/N, ONE OF the biggest names right now in the music industry has found herself at the center of yet another romantic scandal involving her ex and now, reportedly a new lover."

The 22-year-old pop sensation, who recently topped the charts with her latest single, was spotted last night leaving an upscale Los Angeles restaurant with actress and heartthrob, Camilla Harrison. The two were seen getting into the same car, sparking rumors of a budding romance.

This sighting comes just weeks after Y/N's highly publicized breakup with fellow musician Lauren Marie, with whom she had a tumultuous on-again, off-again relationship for over two years. The split was reportedly mutual, with both parties citing busy schedules and the pressures of their careers as contributing factors. However, sources close to the couple suggest that Marie was unhappy about Y/N's close friendship with Harrison, which began on the set of her recent music video where Marie made a cameo appearance.

"Y/N and Cam have undeniable chemistry," says an insider. "They've been spending a lot of time together, and it's more than just a professional connection. They're trying to keep things low-key, but it's clear there's something more than friendship between them."

Despite the drama, Y/N continues to thrive professionally. Her upcoming album set to release in the next couple month, is already generating significant buzz. Critics are calling it her most mature work yet, with deeply personal lyrics that reflect her recent experiences.

Meanwhile, Harrison, 26, known for her roles in blockbuster films and her good looks, has remained tight-lipped about the rumors. Her publicist declined to comment, stating that Marie is concentrating on her upcoming film projects.

──

"Okay, next question," the reporter smiled as she scrolled through her phone as Paige gave a tight-lipped smile toward the camera. "Oh! Found a good one, okay. Who is your celebrity crush right now."

"That's easy!" Paige laughed as she glanced toward the reporter. "Y/N L/N, she's beautiful and insanely talented,"

The room filled with laughter as the reporter raised an eyebrow, clearly delighted by the response. "Y/N L/N, huh? That's a popular choice these days, a lot of people are big fans. Have you met her?"

Paige shook her head, her cheeks slightly flushing. "Nah, I wish. But I'm a huge fan of her music. Every song is a masterpiece and I'm not usually into pop,"

"Interesting," the reporter leaned forward, intrigued. "You know, there are rumors about Y/N's love life all the time. How do you feel about all the speculation surrounding her personal life?"

Paige shrugged, maintaining her relaxed demeanor despite the stupid question. "I think it's tough being in the spotlight like that. People forget that celebrities are human too. Everyone deserves a bit of privacy, I'm more interested in her work and what she brings to the music industry rather than whoever she's dating."

The reporter nodded, appreciating Paige's perspective. "Absolutely. It's refreshing to hear someone focus on the artistry rather than the gossip!"

──

"Okay, quick. Who's your celeb crush right now, other than Cam," Bowen Yang, grinned at you, raising an eyebrow as the audience laughed, eagerly awaiting your response.

You laugh (and decide to ignore the comment about Cam), feeling a slight blush creep up your cheeks. "Oh, come on, Bowen, you can't put me on the spot like that!"

Bowen leaned in, his grin widening. "Come on, Y/N, the people want to know!" He pointed to the crowd as they cheered, causing you to put your face in yours hands.

You then take a deep breath, pretending to think hard. "Fine, if I have to choose... I'd say Paige Bueckers. She's incredible on the court, and I've seen some interviews with her ─ she seems like such a cool person."

The audience erupts with loud cheers, causing both you and Bowen to laugh. Bowen's eyes widen, clearly delighted by your answer as he clapped. "Ooh, scandalous! Paige Bueckers, I love that! Have you met her?"

You shake your head, smiling. "No, not yet. But I did see a clip of her saying some really nice things about me recently. It was super sweet."

Bowen's face lights up with excitement. "She was practically gushing over you, this is perfect, we need to make this happen. Maybe you could collab, I don't know how but uh, if anyone could make it happen, it's you."

"Thank you, I think?" You laugh, nodding. "Totally, we'll see what happens."

Bowen turns to the camera, his enthusiasm infectious. "You heard it here first, folks! Y/N and Paige Bueckers, the crossover we never knew we needed but now desperately want!"

The audience erupts in applause and cheers, and you can't help but smile at the idea. Bowen turns back to you, his tone shifting slightly more serious. "Alright, before we wrap up, I have to ask ─ how do you deal with all the attention and rumors about your personal life? It seems like you're constantly in the spotlight."

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, caught off guard by the serious question. "It's um, definitely challenging at times, but I try to focus on the positive aspects. I love making music and my fans. As for the rumors, I just remind myself that I can't control what people say or think. I stay true to myself and the people who really know me, and that's what matters most."

Bowen nods appreciatively. "Wise words, Y/N. And that's why we love you so. Thank you so much for being here tonight."

"Thank you for having me," you reply, genuinely touched by the support.

"And that's Y/N L/N!"

The crowd erupts in cheers as you genuinely smile, happy for the support, waving toward the audience.

──

"Hey everyone, welcome back to the podcast I'm Lila, and today we've got a lot to talk about. Y/N L/N is at the center of yet another romantic scandal, and there's even a new twist involving basketball star Paige Bueckers. Let's dive in!" Lila said, her enthusiasm palpable.

"Yaya, so excited," Maya chimed in, adjusting her headphones. "So, Y/N was spotted last night leaving an upscale LA restaurant with actress Cam Harrison. They got into the same car, which has everyone buzzing about a possible new romance."

"Yeah, and this is just weeks after her very public breakup with Lauren, I think that's her name? It's been a whirlwind, to say the least. But honestly, I think Y/N is handling it all pretty well. She's focused on her music, and she's just living her life. What's your take, My?" Lila asked, leaning in slightly.

Maya sighed, her skepticism evident. "I don't know, Lila. I get that she's young and living her life or whatever, but it feels like there's always some new drama with her. First Lauren, now Cam Harrison? It's starting to look like a pattern."

"But that's thing, with being in your early twenties. Figuring out what you want, who you want to be with? I mean, she's also incredibly talented and driven. Her new album is generating a ton of buzz and it hasn't even been released yet," Lila countered, her voice full of admiration.

"Sure, but it seems like she's always entangled in some romantic drama. Maybe it's just the nature of fame or whatever, but it can also come off as messy. And now, with Paige Bueckers gushing about her in that interview, it adds another layer. I just hope she’s not stringing people along," Maya replied, her tone annoyed.

Lila nodded, annoyed at Maya's words but maintaining her supportive stance. "I get where you're coming from, but did you see Paige's reaction? She was genuinely excited about Y/N. It was sweet. Plus, Y/N responded so positively on the SNL interview. I think it shows she's got a good heart and she's just navigating her way through a complicated life!"

Maya hesitated for a moment as she glanced at the camera, then continued. "I mean, look at Taylor Swift. She's known for her string of high-profile relationships and breakups, and it hasn't always been received positively. It feels like Y/N is heading down a similar path- What?"

"Come on, Maya!" Lila glared at her, clearly displeased. "Comparing Y/N to Taylor Swift isn't fair. Taylor's faced a lot of unfair criticism for just living her life and expressing herself through her music. Y/N is her own person, with her own journey. She's navigating her twenties in the spotlight, and that's not easy."

Maya just shrugged as she glanced toward the camera, before adjusting her mic. "Well that got awkward, moving on..."

──── COMMENTS

sela 🐾 | is she wrong though... love her music but why'd paige gotta get involved too? ♡ 108

↳ l/nslover | cause they like each other???

↳ 🦕 | has bro ever heard of a pr relationship 😭

↳ ari! | THEYRE NOT EVEN TOGETHER YET BROOO😭😭😭

sarah™️ | LILA GET THE HELL OUTTA THERE BROOOO 😭😭 i never liked maya tbh this is just a weird ass take ♡ 1.7k

kayla 🎀 | listen as a y/n girly i also understand maya's point of view cause.... shes kinda for the streets ♡ 879

↳ ™️ | dont call yourself a """"" y/n girly """""" if ur gonna say she's for the streets??? the fuck??

⭐️ | i was understanding maya's pov up until she started saying all that taylor swift bullshit, they're two separate artists LET US LIVEEEEEEE ♡ 2k

josie may | hardest watch of the day 🥲 maya u let us down with that dumb ass take

──

"I just kinda... wanna disappear for awhile," you confessed, your voice quiet as you pressed the phone to your ear. "Don't know why this keeps happening, you're the only that can... help me through it. Sorry if I woke you up-"

It happened again ─ over the last couple of months (ever since you'd broken up with Lauren) you'd gotten pretty severe panic attacks. You were told by everyone on your team to just stay off social media and what had you done... exactly the opposite of that.

"No, no, I was awake anyway, promise," Paige's voice echoed through the phone. You heard shuffling through the phone as you sniffled, sighing. "And I don't mind, like at all. I meant what I said, I'm always here for you,"

Your heart swelled as you managed a smile, as tears began to build in your eyes. You and Paige had only been talking a month and she already understood you more than anyone had in what felt like forever. Her steady presence was like an anchor in the storm of your life.

The constant media scrutiny and the aftermath of your breakup with Lauren had left you feeling alone, but Paige’s calming influence was slowly becoming your safe haven.

"I just... I don't know how to deal with all of it. The rumors, the pressure, it's all so overwhelming," you admitted, wiping away the tears that had started to fall. "Half of it, it isn't even true."

"Hey, it's okay, I know, I believe you," Paige's voice was soothing, almost like a warm embrace over the phone. Even the smallest affirmation from Paige made you feel all okay again, even if it was just for the moment.

"You're not alone in this. We can figure it out together, step by step."

That part made your lips twitch up in a smile, feeling yourself relax again. You took a deep breath, feeling a bit of the tension ease from your shoulders. "I just feel like I can't breathe sometimes. Like the walls are closing in, y'know?"

"I get it," Paige replied softly. She'd know about it all too well, she'd been through it herself plenty of times. "Sometimes it helps to focus on the small things. One step at a time, remember? Have you tried any of those breathing exercises I taught you?"

You nodded, even though she couldn't see you. "Yeah, a little. They help, but it’s hard to remember in the moment."

"Next time you feel a panic attack coming on, call me. Anytime, okay? We'll get through it together," Paige's voice was firm, reassuring. "You don't deserve the shit they give you, like at all."

"Thank you," you whispered, feeling a surge of gratitude. "I don't know what I'd do without you, P."

"You don't have to thank me. I care about you, and I wanna help. Plus, I like hearing your voice," Paige added with a light chuckle, trying to lift your spirits.

You couldn't help but smile at that. "Me too, especially your cute tired voice."

"Cute, really?" Paige laughed through the phone and you swore you felt like your whole world felt even again. "But uh, if you do really wanna disappear you can always come to Connecticut."

The thought of escaping the relentless spotlight, even for a little while, sounded like a dream. "Really?"

"Yeah, you can stay with me for a bit, if that's uh... what you want." Paige explained through the phone. "My friends are super chill and it's always a fun time, if you ever wanna come. Think about it?"

The idea of spending time with the basketball player you'd quickly become enthralled with, seemed almost like a dream. And getting away from LA and all the madness that came with it sounded heavenly, you were going to give Connecticut a thought.

You sighed, feeling a warmth spread through you that had been absent for far too long. "Yeah, I will. And Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. Really."

"Anytime, Y/N. Sweet dreams."

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[mrsfancyferrari]

Real Love Pt 2

Summary: You and Carlos were just supposed to be a PR couple for less than a year but someone decided to catch feelings. Part 2

Song: Collide - Justine Skye

Part 1 Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! <3

Word count: 8.6k

You lay snugly beneath the soft sheets, the golden morning light streaming through the sheer curtains of your bedroom, gently warming your skin.

You can feel the faint rhythm of Carlos’s heartbeat as he lies beside you, the intimate silence only occasionally punctuated by the soft chirping of birds outside.

The world feels as if it has paused, just for the two of you.

“Are you sure you won’t regret this?” you ask, pulling back to study his face, your heart racing.

This is the third kiss since you woke up an hour ago, a sweet closeness you never thought would come to this, despite the countless moments shared—the stolen glances during games, the playful banter after late-night training sessions.

His dark eyes search yours, a flicker of something fierce and protective igniting in their depths. “Mi amor, I could never regret this,” Carlos replies, his voice low, an intoxicating blend of affection and certainty.

“But what about the team?” you counter, slipping further down into the warmth of blankets, away from the weight of the conversation. “They’ll be mad about us breaking the PR contract.”

Carlos pushes himself onto his elbow, his hair tousled but framing his striking face perfectly. “I don’t care about them,” he declares seriously, leaning closer as if the intimacy of the space can seal your secret. “I only care about you.”

The words sit in the air between you both like a fragile promise. For a moment, you can’t breathe, your heart thundering against your ribcage as his gaze holds yours captive. With a deep breath, you let his confession wash over you.

“I want to do this…for real,” you answer, your voice scrunching down into uncertainty beneath the weight of possibility. It feels right but so precariously delicate, like the morning sun reflected through the rain-slicked leaves outside.

Carlos’s lips curve into a genuine smile, the kind that lights up every shadowed corner of the room. “Then let’s go for it,” he says, the playful twinkle in his eye returning. “Let’s make this our secret love story.”

You chuckle softly, the tension beginning to melt away. “Our secret? Like something out of a rom-com?” You raise an eyebrow teasingly as a grin dances on your face, allowing your own excitement to bubble beneath the surface.

“Exactly! Just without the horrifying misunderstandings,” he adds, chuckling and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you closer. You snuggle into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of him igniting something deep within you. The soft scent of his cologne mixes with the morning air—a heady concoction you want to bottle forever.

“Okay, Mr. Love Story, what’s the premise?” you ask, looking up at him with mock seriousness.

He scratches his chin, feigning deep thought. “A blockbuster soccer star falls for the journalist tasked with covering his team’s next big match, but they must navigate the storm of media scrutiny and a wildcard PR nightmare,” he finalizes, winking at you.

“Wow, that sounds…dramatic,” you laugh, shaking your head. “We’re not exactly in a movie, Carlos.” But even as you say the words, the thought isn’t entirely unwelcome. This does feel like a story freshly spun from the hearts of the fortunate.

“Do you not want to be in a movie with me?” he teases, leaning down so that his lips graze your ear, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine.

“You know I’m already in one,” you whisper back, your pulse quickening. “With the hottest player in the league, no less.”

His laughter vibrates through you, a melodic sound that rattles the silence and ignites the room. “Then let’s make this one a blockbuster, too.”

You chuckle but then grow serious again, those reminders creeping back in. “But what about the consequences? Our teammates? What if they don’t take it well?”

With a single finger, he lifts your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Let them talk. You and I? We’re worth it. If we stand together, we can face anything. Right?”

Your heart swells at his confidence, your own self-doubt hindering but not extinguishing your burgeoning feelings. “Right,” you agree, your mind skipping back to the moments before this: how he turned from being just a teammate into something much deeper, something exhilarating.

Carlos leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours. “So, tell me, are you ready for a bit of adventure, then?”

You swallow, considering your response—because it’s no longer just an idle thought; it’s a leap you are willing to take. “As long as you’re by my side,” you finally say, honesty spilling from you. “I think I am.”

“Then let’s make it an adventure. Just us,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours, each kiss igniting embers of anticipation as if the world outside the walls had vanished entirely.

You close your eyes, feeling the cocoon of his arms—and the reality of your mutual promise—that no matter where this journey takes you both, you’ll face it together.

As the kiss deepens, you push aside your lingering doubts, giving in to the warmth that curls around you like a soft blanket. In this moment, nothing else matters except the two of you, wrapped in this intimacy, ready to rewrite your own story—even if it meant braving the chaos that love always brings with it. As dawn breaks fully outside your window, the slate is clean, and the sun just beginning to rise, a symbol of new beginnings, a notion that glows warmly between you.

And together, you choose to embrace the story—whatever that may entail—fully and absolutely. . . .

You stood in the kitchen, staring across the room where your boyfriend Carlos, racing superstar and current Formula One champion, was leaning against the counter, arms crossed and a playful scowl on his face.

His dark curls fell over his forehead, making him look both infuriated and irresistibly charming. The kitchen was buzzing with activity; friends and family had gathered to celebrate his latest Grand Prix victory, laughing and raising glasses of champagne in a toast to his success.

But all you could think about was the tension crackling between you and Carlos, a palpable energy that felt wholly out of place amid all the jovial noise.

“Carlos,” you whispered, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, “you can’t seriously be thinking about that right now. Look at everyone!”

He stepped closer, the sound of laughter fading away as he moved in, eyes darkening with mischief. “I’m serious. You’d better get rid of everyone in this house or I swear to God, I’m gonna fuck you on the first flat surface I can find, and I know you don’t want anyone to know what you sound like when I’m fucking you.”

Your heart raced at his boldness, a heat rising to your cheeks. Gone was the charming boyfriend; now you were staring down the passionate, possessive man you adored, and a thrill shot through you. You glanced at the crowd of shared laughter and merriment that felt impossibly distant now. “What, you think I can just shout ‘party’s over’?”

Carlos stepped in closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe just suggest a drink outside? We don’t need an audience for this. I'm not joking, cariño.” His eyes bore into yours, filled with a fierce warmth that made your breath hitch.

“Heavens! How did I get stuck with such a needy boyfriend?” you teased, swaying your hip slightly as you pretended to survey the party, putting up a façade against his fiery gaze.

“Needy? You have no idea, love,” he said, stepping into your personal space, his breath warm against your ear. “I’ve waited all day for this.” The possessiveness in his voice sent shivers down your spine, leaving you torn between laughter and an overwhelming desire to pull him into a nearby room and shut the world out.

You motioned discreetly to your friend Emily, who was standing near the snacks table, her eyes twinkling with merriment. You gestured for her to come over. “Listen, I need you to cause a distraction. The kind only you can pull off.”

Emily raised an eyebrow, a smile dancing on her lips. “Are you getting interrupted by a hot F1 driver here? Because I can kick them out if necessary!”

“Just kick them out,” you whispered, trying to suppress a laugh. “I need some alone time with Carlos, and I don’t mean just to stare at him.”

With a knowing grin, she straightened and clinked her glass loudly against the snack table. “Alright everyone! Who’s down for a game of charades? Because I want to see if Carlos can act out the last lap of the race!”

The room erupted in a mix of cheers and laughter, and you felt Carlos’s arm slip around your waist, pulling you possessively against him.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple. “Good job, mi amor,” he said, warmth flooding through you as he spoke. “Now let’s get out of here.”

The two of you slipped quietly through the back door, navigating the sprawling garden where soft twinkling lights adorned the trees like stars.

The noise of the party faded behind you, the cool evening breeze wrapping around your skin as you stepped into the intoxicating silence of the night.

Carlos didn’t waste any time. He turned to face you, his gaze heated, full of need. “Finally,” he muttered, fingers tangling in your hair as he pressed his body against yours, closing the distance in an exhilarating rush.

You giggled, both nervous and excited. “We really shouldn’t. What if someone comes out here?”

“The only thing I care about right now is you,” he said, lips brushing yours just enough to tease but not enough to take. “I want you to know exactly how much I’ve been thinking about you all night. It’s torture having you close and not being able to touch you.”

“Then why don’t you?” you challenged lightly, your own body tightening in anticipation.

Carlos smirked at your challenge, there was a dark promise in his eyes as he pulled you flush against him, capturing your lips with his. The kiss ignited something deep within you, a need that wasn’t just physical but pulled at your very soul.

He deepened the kiss, and you sighed into him, fingers threading through his curls, wanting more, wanting all of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, breaking away just enough to trace the line of your chin with his finger. “I’m lucky to have you.”

“Lucky or not, you’re not getting rid of me,” you teased, sweat and laughter alighting the air between you.

“I don’t want to,” he replied, his face serious now, eyes dark and earnest. “You’re the one I want, always.”

A rush of warmth flowed through you, and you found yourself caught between laughter and exhilaration. “So, where do we…?” you began, glancing around the garden, your heart pounding like the engines of the race cars he drove.

“There,” he said, nodding toward a flat stone bench nestled between the blooming azaleas. “Perfect.”

You couldn’t help but giggle again, and Carlos grinned that breathtaking smile that made your heart race even faster. Before you could respond, he swept you into his arms, holding you close as he placed you onto the cool stone surface.

Your body tingled as you felt the warmth radiating from him, the electricity in the air palpably changing as you pulled him back to you, lips crashing against his in a fervent dance.

“Just us now,” he whispered against your lips, and with a smirk, you could hardly believe the sense of freedom you felt.

Tonight, in this garden, when the whole world seemed to recede, there was only Carlos, only you. And the night seemed like it would stretch on forever. . . .

You had just settled comfortably into your cozy corner of your shared home with Carlos when your phone rang.

It was a sunny Saturday, far removed from the high-octane world of Formula 1, and you had spent the day reading and sipping on a cup of chamomile tea, looking forward to Carlos coming home after practice.

“Hey, Charles,” you said, trying to keep your voice upbeat.

You had always appreciated how close your boyfriend was with Charles Leclerc, but the more you got to know him, the more you were aware that he had a serious side, especially when it came to his friends.

“Hey Y/N,” he replied, his tone more serious than usual. “I’m at the paddock with Carlos. He’s not feeling well.”

“Not feeling well? What do you mean?” Your heart raced, your pulse quickening as you imagined the possibilities.

The last thing you wanted was for Carlos to be sick. Your afternoon suddenly shifted from a tranquil day to a worrying reality.

“He just collapsed after getting out of the car,” Charles said, his voice filled with concern. “I think he overworked himself today. You should come out here.”

You felt a rush of panic. “I’ll be there right away. Is he… can he stand?”

“Not really. I’ve got him lying on the ground. He should be okay, but he needs you.”

“Okay. I’m on my way,” you said, already gathering your things as you rushed toward the door. Anxiety pulsed through you as you grabbed your keys, your mind racing with thoughts of Carlos, imagining him weak and vulnerable on the ground amid the chaos of the paddock.

The drive felt eternal. You envisioned Carlos's laughter, the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about racing, and how his smile could banish any dark thoughts.

The thought of him ill gnawed at you. “Get it together, Y/N,” you whispered to yourself, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Arriving at the paddock, you sprinted toward the chaos, a whirlwind of mechanics and team members working frantically. Your eyes scanned the scene, searching for a familiar face until you spotted Charles, his brows furrowed with concern.

“He’s over here,” he said, leading you to a shaded area where Carlos lay on the ground, looking pale yet conscious. Your heart sank at the sight of him, but relief washed over you when you realized he was still aware of his surroundings.

“Carlos!” you called, rushing to his side. He looked up, his eyes trying to focus as a small smile crept onto his face despite the discomfort.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured weakly.

“What have you done to yourself?” you scolded, crouching beside him and gently brushing the hair off his forehead. “You scared me!”

“I just… pushed a little too hard today,” Carlos admitted, his voice hoarse. “I thought I could handle it.”

Charles chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. “I warned him, but you know how stubborn he is.”

“Don’t start,” Carlos groaned, trying to sit up before deciding against it. “I’ll be fine, really. Just need to catch my breath.”

You held his hand, feeling the warmth in his palm even if the rest of him felt cold. “Well, you’re going to take it easy for the rest of the day. No racing, no pushing boundaries.”

“Deal,” Carlos said, his smile returning to his lips. You couldn't help but smile back, relieved that he wasn't in dire straits.

“I’ll make you soup when we get home,” you promised. “Oh, and I brought your favorite snacks.”

Carlos's eyes lit up at the mention of food. “You really know how to win a man’s heart.”

“Just stay focused on healing first, and maybe I’ll share them with you later,” you teased, squeezing his hand gently.

As you all waited for the paramedics to check him over, Carlos leaned back on the ground, looking at you with admiration. “Thank you for coming,” he said softly.

“Always,” you promised, your heart swelling. “Just try not to scare me like this again, okay? I can’t handle it.”

“I’ll work on that,” he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. You could sense the underlying bond between you deepening, filled with unspoken emotions.

You lay curled up on the couch, a plush blanket wrapped around you like a cocoon, feeling every bit of the cold that had taken residence in your bones.

It was a dreary day outside, the skies painted in hues of gray, and you could hear the faint echoes of the Formula One race festivities happening just outside your front door.

Carlos was deep in the paddock, working on the final preparations for the race, but all you could focus on was the dull ache in your head and the scratchiness in your throat.

You glanced at the clock. It was nearly six o'clock; Carlos should be back soon. You had tried to muster enough energy to at least make him something to eat, but the thought of standing up made the fatigue swell inside you.

Instead, you settled back into the cushions, reaching for your phone to check if he had sent any updates. As if on cue, a message popped up from him.

Carlos: "Just finishing up here. Can’t wait to come home to you. Love you!"

You smiled weakly at your screen, your heart fluttering at the thought of him. It wasn’t long before you heard the familiar click of the door, followed by the shuffling sound of Carlos’s shoes.

He appeared in the living room moments later, his expression shifting from exhaustion to concern when he spotted you.

“Oh no, mi amor,” he said, rushing to your side. He knelt down beside the couch, brushing a thumb across your forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Just a little cold,” you replied, attempting to sound nonchalant, though your voice felt raw and shaky. “How was the paddock?”

Carlos stood up and grabbed a tiny towel from the kitchen, dampening it before placing it on your forehead. “The paddock was noisy and chaotic. You didn’t miss much, except for a few rumors about the team. But you? You’re the most important thing on my mind right now.”

You couldn’t help but smile. There was something so comforting about the way he effortlessly switched from race-mode to nurturing boyfriend.

“I’m just glad you’re back. I have to say, being alone while feeling like this isn’t the most fun I’ve ever had.”

He chuckled softly, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room, and sat on the edge of the couch, looking down at you with those intense brown eyes of his.

“I’m glad you’re resting, but I can’t leave you like this. I’ve got your soup from last time and some herbal tea I brought back from the paddock for you.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to go out of your way,” you said, feeling a warmth stir within you, annoyed at how sweetly he always insisted on taking care of you.

“Of course, I did,” he replied, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “Your health is my top priority. Tell me how you feel.”

“Like I’ve been run over by a car,” you joked, failing to hide a cough that erupted afterward. “And like I’m stuck in a room without food.”

“I can fix that.” He flashed a grin, and just the sight of it lifted your spirits despite the fog of illness clouding your mind.

He sprung up from the couch, his presence like a whirlwind moving through the kitchen.

You listened to the sounds of clinking pots and scrambling movements as he maneuvered around your shared home. The aroma of garlic and broth filled the air, a mixture that made your stomach grumble with unexpected hunger. You shifted uncomfortably on the couch, trying to ease the fatigue that weighed down your limbs.

Minutes passed, and soon enough, Carlos returned holding a steaming bowl of soup and a small cup of herbal tea. He carefully placed the bowl on the sofa’s armrest before handing you the cup.

“Here, drink this first. It should help your throat,” he said, watching you as you took a cautious sip. The warmth spread through your chest, soothing the discomfort. “How’s that?”

“Better, actually. You always know how to pick the right remedies,” you replied, sipping carefully as you looked into his eyes, feeling adequately grateful.

He smiled, pleased, and took a seat beside you, lifting the bowl of soup to your lips. “Now let’s get some nourishment into you. Open up.”

You let out a laugh at his silliness. “You sound like a parent feeding a child.”

“Well, someone has to make sure you eat,” he rebutted playfully, taking a spoonful for himself and nudging it closer to you. “Besides, I happen to be an excellent caregiver. Ask the team.”

You laughed but complied, allowing him to feed you. Each small bite of soup made your stomach feel more alive. “You really do care too much, you know that?”

Carlos’s eyes softened, a tender look sweeping across his face. “Caring for you is the easiest thing in the world. Look at you; you’re adorable, even when you’re sick. I can’t help but want to take care of you.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at his words, and the drowsiness seemed to fade away momentarily. “You’re the adorable one, you know.”

“Is this a competition now?” he teased, feeding you another spoonful. “Because I’m winning.”

As the soup slowly diminished, laughter filled the space between you two, easing the sickly clouds in your head. The warmth in your chest was now anchored by his company, and just being near him felt like a balm to your aching body.

After the last remnants of soup were consumed, you laid back against the couch, your eyelids drooping. “Thanks, Carlos. I really needed this.”

“Anytime, mi amor,” he murmured, brushing a gentle kiss against your forehead. “Now let’s get you tucked in. You need your rest.”

“What about you? Aren’t you tired after all that?” you asked, watching him as he arranged pillows behind your head.

“I’ll be just fine,” he replied lightly, climbing onto the couch beside you. “As long as I’m with you, I’m always energized.”

Curled up under the blanket, you nestled your head against his shoulder, allowing the heaviness of sleep to pull you down into its comforting grip.

Carlos’s warmth enveloped you, and as his fingers lightly traced the back of your hand, you felt safe and cared for, even in your vulnerable state.

“Get some rest, and I’ll be here when you wake up,” he whispered, voice low and soothing, lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

In that moment, everything felt right.

And as you drifted away, you knew, without a doubt, that you were exactly where you were meant to be—with Carlos, the man who would take care of you, on and off the track. . . .

As you pull into the driveway of Carlos’ childhood home, your palms are a mixture of sweaty nervousness and anticipation. Carlos glances at you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, and you can see the warmth in his eyes, reassuring you. “Are you ready?” he asks, shifting the gear into park.

You take a deep breath, glancing out at the modest brick house. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, forcing a smile that barely conceals your anxiety. You’ve heard Carlos talk about his family countless times, but stepping into their world feels monumental.

Carlos nods, eyes shining with a curious blend of pride and fear. “Just be yourself,” he says, his voice steady. “They’re going to love you.”

You step out of the car, allowing the early evening sun to bathe you in warm light. As you walk towards the front door, the sound of barking draws your attention. A small, scruffy dog bolts to the edge of the yard, tail wagging furiously. “That must be Piñón,” Carlos chuckles, grinning. “Just wait until you meet him.”

You hunch down instinctively, and soon enough, Piñón leaps into your arms, showering your face with slobbery kisses. Carlos chuckles at the spectacle. “He likes you already!”

Laughter bubbles up from your chest, lightening the heavy atmosphere in your stomach. “I think I’ll keep him,” you tease, giving Piñón a belly rub as he squirms with delight.

Before Carlos can respond, the front door swings open with a creak, revealing an older man with a broad smile and deep-set eyes—Carlos Sr. “What’s this?” he booms, taking in the scene with amusement. “Are we adopting a new family member?”

You straighten up, releasing Piñón, who trots eagerly toward his owner. “Um, I’m actually here to meet the rest of the family,” you say, a hint of nervous laughter escaping you. “I’m—”

“Whispering sweet nothings to my dog, I see!” Carlos Sr. interrupts, wrapping you in a warmth-filled embrace before you can finish your sentence. “Welcome! I’m Carlos Sr. You must be the enchanting one my son has been raving about!”

“Dad!” Carlos playfully scolds, his cheeks flushing a subtle red as you smile.

You look between father and son, feeling the love radiate from both. “It’s lovely to meet you, sir,” you say, awkward but earnest.

“Come inside! Come inside!” Carlos Sr. gestures, leading you both into the cozy home decorated with family portraits. The living room is filled with the scent of something delicious simmering in the kitchen.

“Blanca!” Carlos Sr. calls out, and a moment later, a bubbly young woman appears, her hair cascading in curls as she flashes a wide smile. “Is that you, Carlos? And who’s this?”

You feel Carlos’ hand slip into yours as he beams proudly. “Blanca, this is—”

“Your girlfriend! I’ve heard so much about you!” she interrupts, wrapping you in her embrace before you can respond. “Welcome to the family!”

“Thank you,” you manage, caught between shock and delight.

“Where’s Mom?” Carlos Sr. asks, glancing toward the kitchen. “She should be here to meet the new addition!”

Just then, Reyes Vázquez de Castro strides into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her presence immediate and commanding. “Carlos! You’re here!” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling as she moves past Carlos to envelop you in a warm hug. It feels as if she’s been waiting for this moment forever.

“Wow, I feel like I’ve been hugged by a whirlwind,” you laugh, stepping back a little. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Vázquez de Castro.”

“Just call me Reyes!” she replies, her eyes twinkling. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally meet you! I’ve heard all about you.”

“Only the wonderful stuff, I hope!” you joke, glancing at Carlos who is attempting to hide his amusement.

“Absolutely. Only the best,” Reyes laughs, giving Carlos a mock glare. “Now, come help me in the kitchen. Dinner will be ready soon, and I could use a second pair of hands.”

“Sure! What do you need?” Carlos replies, slipping away to help his mother.

You hang back, feeling the warmth of the family’s connection wash over you. Blanca sidles up next to you, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So, how did you and Carlos meet?”

You share the story of the serendipitous meeting at the local coffee shop, how an accidental order mix-up sparked a series of events that led to your blossoming romance. Blanca giggles at the details. “It sounds like a movie! I can’t wait to see him in action when he tells it to all of us at dinner.”

Soon, the living room is filled with the aroma of a deliciously simmering stew, and the family gathers around the dining table. You sit beside Carlos, who reaches for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze as Reyes serves up generous portions of food.

The conversation flows easily, stories of Carlos’ childhood, Blanca’s mischievous antics, and heartfelt anecdotes from Carlos Sr. The laughter bounces off the walls, wrapping you up in the kind of warmth you’d always imagined family dinners would emit.

“Tell us something about yourself,” Carlos’ mom prompts, her approach direct, yet kind.

You look around, feeling suddenly vulnerable, but a swell of confidence rushes through you. “Well, I grew up in a small town too, with a family that loves to laugh over dinner. My parents would host big gatherings; it was chaotic but full of love.”

Carlos’ eyes sparkle with delight as he listens, absorbing every word. “I can see where you get your warmth from,” he adds, and the affection in his tone makes your heart swell.

After dinner, Piñón curls by your feet, and the family sits around the coffee table indulging in dessert—homemade flan. “This is amazing, Reyes!” you compliment, taking another bite.

“Gracias! I’m glad you like it,” she beams.

“Mom taught me everything I know,” Carlos adds, leaning back with confidence.

“Except how to clean up messes,” Blanca chimes in, laughter spilling around the table.

After sharing more smiles, Carlos leans closer. “So, what do you think?” he whispers.

You glance around the room, Your heart brimming with warmth and belonging. “I think I’m never leaving,” you reply, grinning. “You all make it feel like home.”

The evening winds down, and you help clean up amid playful banter. Carlos Sr. pauses at the sink, looking at you with sincerity that pins you in place. “You know, Carlos has been different since he met you. In a good way,” he says, and you can feel the weight of their approval in those words.

Your heart swelled with gratitude. “Thank you, Carlos Sr. That really means a lot to me,” you said softly, feeling the genuine affection radiating from the family.

He nodded, his smile deepening. “Just making sure you know—you’re not just a date. You’re becoming part of this family.”

As the night draws to a close, you find yourself holding Carlos’ hand tightly, feeling grateful for this family that had so warmly embraced you.

In that moment, with laughter and love resonating in the air, it dawns on you—you’re not just here as Carlos’ date; you’re becoming part of something special.

"Okay, enough mushiness! Who's ready for some card games?" Blanca interrupted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I hope you’re aware that I’m the reigning champion and will defend my title fiercely!”

"Only because you cheat," Carlos teased, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Somehow, I always end up providing her with winning cards.”

You laughed, feeling that beautiful tension between them — a comfortable bond born from years of sibling rivalry and an unspoken love that filled the air.

As the evening wound down and the games began, you settled into the rhythms of the Vázquez de Castro household, needing no script to feel at home among them.

Hours melted away in bursts of laughter and competitive groans as you all settled around the dining table. Piñón sprawled at your feet, his tail thumping rhythmically against the floor whenever he caught your eye.

“Okay, okay. Last hand of the night!” Blanca declared, shuffling cards with a practiced flair as you prepared for what you hoped was a winning hand. Carlos leaned close, his breath warm against your ear, making you shiver in a pleasant way.

"You're going to win, right? Because I’m going to blame the loss on you if I don't.” He winked, his teasing masking a deeper affection that made you blush.

You shot him a challenging look. “Well, if you lose, you have to dance with me later.”

“Only if you promise to lead,” he shot back with a smirk, clearly enjoying the playful banter between you two.

As the game progressed, the laughter only intensified, but it inevitably came to an end. With a dramatic flourish, Blanca tossed her cards on the table, victorious as expected. “Ha! And that’s how it’s done!” she exclaimed, holding up her winning hand.

“Fine, fine—the reigning champion takes her victory lap,” Carlos said sarcastically, rolling his eyes dramatically, which only made you laugh harder.

“Let’s do the dance now! I think that’s only fair!” Blanca prodded, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Carlos groaned, “I can't believe this is happening. You know, I can’t dance to save my life?”

“Oh, come on! Don’t let your reputation be tarnished! Besides, if you can’t dance, no one will know because I’ll be too busy saving my own ass over here,” you replied, your cheeky comeback earning you a sound laugh from Blanca.

The music began to play softly, and Carlos extended a hand to yours. “Alright, lead the way, my esteemed dancer,” he said, mock bowing as you both made your way to the living room.

With a playful shove, you took charge, attempting to lead him through a modified waltz. Each spin and turn brought stifled laughter as Carlos fumbled, stepping on your toes. "This isn’t a classical ball! You’re allowed to relax a little," you said, pulling him gently.

"Let it be known that I’m a terrible dancer," he said, and in that moment, your worlds collided, the laughter easing into a beautiful closeness.

When the last note faded, you both stood there, gazing at each other for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. You could feel the warmth of his hands lingering on your waist, his eyes searching yours for something you barely understood.

"Wow, I wouldn’t trade this night for anything," Carlos said softly, his tone shifting into something sincere and serious that drew you in.

“Me neither,” you whispered back.

As the night drew to a close, you settled with Carlos on the couch, blanket draped around your shoulders, and Piñón curled at your feet, snoring softly. The moments spent with them—filled with easy laughter and unexpected tenderness—made your heart ache with gratitude.

“I’m glad we stayed the night,” you said, looking up at Carlos, who was now reclining against the couch, his fingers brushing yours. “Being here really feels like home.”

Carlos squeezed your hand gently. “You’re not just a guest here. You really are part of this family already.” His voice was steady, and in that moment, you could see how he felt—how the walls you both wore were starting to dissolve, making way for something deeper.

The comfort of that sentiment wrapped around you like a warm embrace, yet the weight of those words lingered in the air. You leaned into Carlos, resting your head on his shoulder, and he moved closer, intertwining your fingers.

All of a sudden, you were no longer just his fake girlfriend or a visitor but someone who belonged—wrapped in the embrace of his family.

With laughter and love resonating through the home, you realized you were part of something special, and as you drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were right where you were meant to be. . . .

[rootedinrevisions]

Masterlist: Glen Powell

This is the hub for all my works featuring Glen Powell. These are all stories inspired by his life and career. From behind-the-scenes glimpses of Hollywood to fictional takes on his charm and charisma, you'll find everything centered around the man himself right here.

Explore the stories below, and let me know your favorites! As always, thank you for reading and supporting my work.💫 (UPDATED 12.1.24)

GLEN POWELL (HIMSELF)

**DRABBLES (Under 1k words)**

Welcome Back Kisses (Glen x Reader)

Glen's been gone for almost three months filming his latest project, but he's home now, and seeing you is the first thing on his to-do list.

Cute When You're Jealous (Glen x Reader)

Glen misses out on an event the two of you had planned to go to together. So a friend takes you instead, but it leaves Glen feeling a little jealous.

**ONE-SHOTS**

More Than a Game (Glen x Reader)

When you join Glen Powell for a night under the bright Texas stadium lights, you expect an evening of football and fun—but what you don’t expect is the sting of an offhand comment that shakes your confidence. As Glen’s world of fans and flashing cameras surrounds you, he’s quick to remind you of where you stand: by his side, as the one who holds his heart. With every protective gesture, from offering you his jacket to placing his prized Stetson on your head, Glen shows the world that you’re not just another face in the crowd—you’re someone special. FLUFF.

Texas Orange (Glen x Reader)

Heavily based on the song "Tennesse Orange" by Megan Moroney. You're in the early stages of your relationship with Glen and he takes you to a Texas football game with him. FLUFF.

Between Sets and Scenes (Glen x Reader)

As a dedicated personal trainer in Washington D.C., you've worked with high-profile clients before, but when actor Glen Powell steps into your gym, life takes an unexpected turn. What starts as a simple fitness transformation for Glen quickly evolves into something more when the lines between professionalism and attraction begin to blur. A chance encounter outside the gym leads to late-night conversations, unexpected connections, and the realization that sometimes the best chemistry happens off-screen. But with Glen's rising star and your grounded life, can you keep things casual, or is something deeper already taking shape? FLUFF.

**SERIES**

In the Wings (Glen x Reader)

When you're offered the chance to work as a hair and makeup artist on Top Gun 3, it feels like a dream come true. Leaving behind your routine for a Hollywood blockbuster, you arrive on set with high hopes but little expectation of the whirlwind to come. That all changes the day you meet Glen Powell—charming, grounded, and quick to make an impression. As your professional relationship grows, so does a spark between you, but you're still keeping things strictly work. For now, the only thing you're certain of is that this job will be like no other. FLUFF

PART 1 I PART 2 I PART 3 I PART 4 I PART 5 I PART 6 I PART 7

[laurents-laces]

Dumping my thoughts on the new aftg short stories here to contain all the spoilers in one place, because if I don't get to talk about them I'm gonna explode. Someone very kindly made a typed-up version of them here if anyone wants them!

TFC: David

We all know Neil is "distressingly single-minded about Exy" but I'm dying at the revelation that people in Millport knew this about him. He was supposed to be lying low 😭

Kevinnnnnnnn my boy!!!

"This is better. Easier? Better." Ouch

I had a feeling he was seeing Betsy more often than twice a year! And that we just didn't know about it because Neil didn't. That's amazing for him

Wymack is being such a great dad right now and he doesn't even know it

So excited to have one (1) canonical sentence from Kayleigh Day herself

I was headcanoning Kevin as ten when he moved in with the Moriyamas. I know nine is only a year younger but somehow it's breaking my heart a little more

Awww I always thought he looked just like his mom

I hope he looks a little like Wymack too but no one noticed before

I wonder if he ended up telling Betsy who his dad is? I don't think so but I'm sure she'd have kept the secret. Even though it would've been so hard to keep a straight face about it

"Coaches have no honor. Your word is enough. Just yours." I wanna hit every Raven coach with a very heavy stick, starting with Tetsuji. But I love how Kevin's always trusted that Wymack was different. He can be a surprisingly hopeful person sometimes. He's a little like his dad in how he sees the potential in people no one else does

Am I crazy or is Wymack talking about Andrew here?? Because it reminds me of the part in the extra content where Andrew keeps breaking into Wymack's apartment to rant about Kevin, until one day it's Neil he's more interested in

I always thought that Andrew agreeing to protect Kevin so easily might mean he was kind of into him. If canon unrequited kandrew is gonna be a thing then Andrew and Jean should form a Victims of Kevin Day's Big Green Eyes Support Group

TRK: Betsy

I'm so upset right now I don't even have words

It's so interesting to see what Andrew is like alone with Betsy. And I love that Wymack makes him feel safe

He loves his brother!!

"They cannot keep him. I will not let them." I fully believe Andrew would be down to break Aaron out of prison if he got jail time

"One week Neil had been the subject of some very grandiose conspiracy theories, and the next Andrew had only said 'He's Kevin's problem now, the end!' and refused to elaborate." That's the most Andrew response he could've had 😭

And he was so right about Neil being suspicious as hell! I need everyone to look back on the beginning of the year and realize Andrew was right about him

"Everyone knows now, Bee." My heart just broke into a million pieces

"Neil flinched. He'd pushed because he needed to see that horrible smile crack. He needed to know if Andrew was screaming behind the euphoria his drugs fed his veins. But Andrew wasn't, and Neil couldn't live with that. Andrew's medicine was too strong or his psychosis too twisted; either way, tonight didn't mean anything to him. This was a setback Andrew could sidestep and ignore." That part of TRK really stuck with me. It's a good thing he didn't actually try to act completely unbothered by everything that night but it still hurts to hear about

"I know what happened to you today was beyond cruel and that Drake's death will not undo what he did to you. I know our system has failed you every step along the way and that a part of you will carry that distrust and betrayal for many years to come, if not for the rest of your life. And I know you have done astoundingly well despite life's every attempt to crush you. I'm sorry," she said, trying and failing to catch his eye, "and I'm so, so proud of you." She just said everything I'm feeling, perfectly

Chaos and mayhem, or Blockbuster. These books are so 2006. I miss Blockbuster

TKM: Aaron

This was the first one I read and it took me ages to get through because I was laughing so hard. Aaron calling andreil's matching arm bands a promise ring broke me

He's such an asshole. I love him. He might not like it but he's a Fox through and through

"Exy this, Exy that, get a fucking hobby already. Oh, but I guess he did?" He sent a pointed look at Andrew. He's the funniest character actually

I've always wondered if he was a little jealous of a certain mouthy liar who has everyone wrapped around his little finger. Hearing that Ichirou chose Neil over his own brother must've been a wild experience

I also wondered if he actually had a passion for medicine or if he just picked the most respectable career path he could think of. It's so good to hear that it's really something he loves. He's gonna get his dream job and fix things with his brother and marry the love of his life some day, and I'm so proud of him

Neurosurgeon Aaron and paediatrician Katelyn are properly canon now! It's nice to get all these details from the extra content as part of the actual books

A few months ago, Aaron never would have imagined Andrew needed his approval. Finding out how important he was to Andrew was an ongoing, eye-opening experience. Aaron finally realizing how much Andrew has done because of him might be my favourite thing

"His father's people tore up his arms with a lighter and knives, and none of it is going to fade. He doesn't need to see those." Andrew Minyard you fake idgafer. You care so much. So much.

I wonder what would've happened with andreil if Andrew was in less denial about their relationship? I don't think he'd date someone on purpose while the no-dating deal was still in effect

"Andrew didn't want to talk about Neil with Dobson because once he broached that subject he had to either lie to all of them or admit Neil was more important than he wanted him to be." I love that Aaron understands this about Andrew

I love that the only other Aaron POV story we have also ends with him being able to tell when Andrew is lying to himself. The twinyards have their misunderstandings but at the end of the day they get each other

[ghostf1ux]

5 Times Jason Saved his the Flock and 1 Time they Saved Him: Second Time's the Charm

Day 10: Begging

Words: 5.6k

TW/CWs: Graphic description of injury, claustrophobia, literally digging out of a grave

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 (here)

-------------------------------------------------------

Everything was going according to plan.

Except for one small issue.

It turns out, Jason was not nearly informed enough about Blüdhaven. At least, according to his standards. Dick seemed to think what he shared was plenty, but he neglected to let Jason know that the underground owner of the god damn city had a personal vendetta against him.

So… Jason's a little upset. At his brother, for withholding crucial information. But mostly at himself, for getting into this mess.

What is the mess, you may ask?

Well, currently, Jason has had all his gear stripped from him save for the clothes he wears under his suit, which is just a thermal compression shirt and leggings combo, and he's gotta say, the thermal is really not helping in this dingy ass cold ass basement.

That may be in part of the sweat and blood dripping down his neck, the latter starting to pool on the ground from his kris blade embedded in his right thigh, pinning him to the chair he's strapped to by his arms.

Which, in reality, the chains keeping his forearms strapped to the arms of the chair would be easy enough to escape. They aren't very tight. The issue is more the armed guards surrounding him and, oh yeah, fucking Blockbuster standing at the other end of the room. There's also the issue of his… dislocated elbow and cracked radius on his left arm, dislocated right collarbone, several cracked ribs on both sides, and, oh yeah, the dagger in his thigh. And that's not even mentioning the extensive bruising and other minor injuries from the rest of the night.

Dick is so going to get punched later.

Jason grimaces as Blockbuster yanks his head up to face him by his hair, squinting when the fluorescent light nearly blinds him.

“Now, if I remember correctly, you work with that low-life flippy little blue bird vigilante,” Blockbuster states, like it's not even a question. Jason sighs, then immediately regrets the action.

“Work with is a strong description, Buster. Or Blocky? Which do you prefer? Mr. Bust, maybe?” Jason grins a bloody, toothy grin up at the man. He only scoffs.

“You play at being confident, Red Hood. But you will be how I take my revenge against Nightwing. For my life, I will take yours. But not before he knows that he could have saved you, and simply failed to do so.”

“What, you gonna put a bullet in my brain?” Jason croons.

“No, no,” Blockbuster chuckles, “But you're going to wish I did with how you're going to die.”

“Didn't stick last time, doubt it will this time.”

He hisses as his head is dropped and his collarbone shifts, just slightly.

“We'll see.”

------------------------

Dick sighs as he hears his phone ring, cocking his hip out in annoyance as he looks at the unknown number.

“Can you just give me a second? I've gotta take this call,” Dick plants his other hand on his hip as he glares at the purse snatcher cornered between him and the alley wall. He looks confused, but has the good sense to nod in understanding. Dick flashes him a news-worthy smile before answering the call and lifting the phone to his ear despite the chorus of quiet reprimands in his ear from the Bats. They can deal. “What can I do you for?”

“Ah, Nightwing, so good to hear your chipper voice again,” a painfully familiar voice crows. It makes Dick freeze, his posture immediately straightening.

“Blockbuster,” he greets cooly, motioning stiffly for the mugger to turn around so he can handcuff him. “I thought you were dead.”

“Well, times change, you know that, don't you? In fact, I just heard about something like that tonight. Something about it not sticking but… ah, that's not important.” Dick mutes to talk into his comm as he grapples to the nearest rooftop. Blockbuster keeps monologing in his ear but he isn't listening.

“Everyone, status, now.”

The flock knows better than to argue with his uncharacteristically sharp tone. Each one of them on patrol tonight responds with their vaguely positive conditions. So what…?

“...ut I figured I should give you a chance. You may have stepped out of the way of that bitch's bullet for me, but I'm going to graciously allow you to try to find your ally. I expect thanks for this, you know.” Dick tunes back into the monologue, unmuting himself.

“Who? Where are they?”

“Pity you can't even deduce who you're missing. Is Gotham really so much more important that you'd leave your ally alone in Blüdhaven for it?”

Dick mutes again.

“Who the fuck is in Blüd right now?” He nearly shouts, but manages to keep his voice to a loud hiss. Oracle's keyboard clicks in the background of her mic.

“No one, literally no one is in Blüdhaven right now,” Babs responds tersely. 

“Look for locations of everyone who's ever been there who's even vaguely someone I know.” Dick is pacing the rooftop now, with no direction to go and far too much energy he can't expend in any productive way.

“That's going to take awhile, N.”

“Just do it. Please.”

“You probably won't be able to find him, of course, but you'll have the chance anyways.” Dick clenches his fist so hard the material creaks. “I even put a nice little microphone in there for you, so you can listen to him as he dies. Karma's a bitch, blue. And, a plus side, now he'll be back where he belongs instead of sticking his nose into things he shouldn't be.”

Blockbuster laughs, and the line clicks once, twice, three times, and then a slightly staticky sound comes through. Dick's pacing slows and he covers his other ear so he can focus on the background.

It's faint, but it's there. Breathing. Quiet, slow breaths, like whoever it is is sleeping, but ever so slightly cut off at the end to suggest pain.

“O, how's the search?” Dick manages to keep his tone under control this time, reassured by the quiet breaths.

“All the Titans that you've been seen in public with are elsewhere in the country,” Oracle reports. Dick nods, but his guts twists. He's missing something. He's missing something big.

“He was taunting me,” Dick muses aloud. “He's mad that he died, he's trying to get back at me. He wants me to find whoever it is, or at least try. He would've left clues.”

“Oracle, can you play the recording of the conversation over the comms so we can all hear it?” Tim asks. Oracle hums an affirmative, and lets it play over. Then the active call itself is connected, so Dick puts his phone away.

“That was somehow oddly specific and incredibly vague at the same time,” Tim mutters.

“Agreed.”

“Tt. Is it not obvious?” Damian cuts in snidely. “There is only one who ever speaks of how death does not ‘stick’. Oracle, locate Hood.”

“During his previous check in two days ago, Hood was located in Boston,” Batman rumbles. “His investigation into a drug smuggling ring was proving fruitful, and going well. He may have been on his way back.”

“You don't just bump into Blockbuster, you need to be sticking your nose into his stuff,” Dick sighs.

“I… can't find Hood's tracker,” Oracle– or rather, Babs, now that she's turned off her voice modulator– informs them. “His last known location was from two hours ago, and it was in Blüd.”

“His investigation must have taken him there.”

“That is entirely possible, but it does not help us find Hood's location.”

“I've already tried triangulating the call's location, it's like it's not coming from anywhere. It's untraceable, I can–”

“Wait, guys,” Tim cuts in, “I think he's waking up.”

They all fall silent as the breaths become shallower, quicker. As fabric shifts, as normal breaths turn to pained half-gasps, as small, exploring movements turn to desperate, scrabbling ones.

Then Tim asks the question they'd all been dreading the possible answers to.

“Wait, didn't Blockbuster say he was in something? What the hell does that mean?”

And then Jason gives them their answer with his first words, and it's a whole lot more concerning than they ever thought it would be.

------------------------

It's… dark, Jason realizes, as soon as he opens his eyes. His head is throbbing dully, but it's also a little fuzzy, like he's waking up from a drug-induced nap. At first he thinks he's blindfolded, but there's no pull of any sort of covering over his eyes, not even his domino.

The pain floods in a moment later, tearing his thoughts away from figuring out why it's so damn dark. Burning pain, pulsing around his thigh, his arm, and his chest. The slightest movements make his breath hitch, but the clarity it brings to his mind is welcome. His right arm– the one with the dislocated collarbone, his mind supplies– is tingling uncomfortably. 

He grunts as he tries to sit up, finding himself not actually restrained to anything and–

His head thumps against a hard surface covered by fabric. The surprise of it makes him drop back down, onto what he now realizes is a surprisingly soft pillow.

Actually, he's surrounded by surprisingly soft padding.

His heart and his breathing pick up before his mind connects the dots.

Careful fingers, ignoring every stab of pain, feel along the edges of the tight walls containing him. There's a lip between where the wall and the ceiling meet. It's sealed shut.

“No, no no no no no no nonononononono not a coffin please not a coffin I can't do this again– not again please not again–”

But kicking out with his good leg finds he's surrounded on all sides by a well-padded box, sealed tight. 

His eyes burn as he scrabbles at the walls that close in on him, nails digging into the fabric and ripping it apart only to find the lacquered wood underneath. His breathing stutters into gasps for air as it grows stifling and suffocating, pressing into him on all sides.

He sobs, not only at the pain flaring from every movement he makes but at the fact that he's trapped in a coffin and he can smell the wet ground surrounding him. 

“Please, please don't make me– I can't– no–”

Panic courses through Jason's mind as the air grows thin. How long has he been down here? Sometime, a long time ago, he was told that a coffin has enough oxygen to survive for about five hours. The memory is hazy at best but even if that number is remotely true, how much has he already used up? How much is he using right now?

“B- Dad– mom– fuck, Dick– anyone– I– I need h- help– please– I can’t– fuck– I can’t fucking do this again, please, anyone–”

Only a resounding, heavy, painful silence answers his shouts, his pleas. He's desperate, and he sounds pathetic, and he knows that, but he really just does not fucking care.

As he's tearing apart the fabric above his head, his fingers brush against something near the highest edge of the lid, embedded in the wood. Just the smallest bump, but the difference is enough to bring him back to himself, if only the slightest bit. Enough for the pads of his fingers to gently feel across its surface, making out the subtle criss-cross texture of metal.

“A fuckin’- a fuckin’ mic,” Jason breathes out. He lets out a choked laugh, remembering Blockbuster's words from earlier. “D- Dickie I am so gonna- gonna punch you later, an’ you're gonna stand fuckin’ still with no fuckin’- no fuckin' flippy shit- and- and you're gonna fuckin’ deserve it.”

He grins at the thought, dried tear tracks and old blood cracking at the motion. It's enough to motivate him to use the fabric as a mask over his mouth, remembering what he did last time. He's not going to die here. Not to Blockbuster. Not when Dick, and who knows who else, is listening in. He's done some cruel things but making his family listen to him die is not going to be one of them. 

So he digs his nails into the lid of the coffin, and he rips. 

It's a slow process, exacerbated by the blood running down his numb fingers and the white hot stabs of pain from every movement of his shoulders, but there's headway. He feels his nails be ripped off under the pressure, one by one, until his nail beds are just bloody, mangled husks.

Distantly, he thinks he might be screaming. Or sobbing. Maybe both. Maybe in hysterics. Maybe he's just finally fucking lost it.

He just knows that his throat is hoarse but he keeps going, keeps digging, keeps clawing, ripping away the wood and feeling the splinters become embedded in his already torn apart hands and his arms are struggling to move through the injuries of earlier tonight but he does it anyways because he is not going to die like this because he didn't the first time, not with worse injuries and not with being smaller and weaker and not without the experience of already having done it before so now he knows what to fucking do even if he doesn't have a belt buckle to help him.

The smell of wet earth hits his nose just before dirt and soil comes raining down. He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth through it, feeling it cascade down over his face and chest as he digs. He pushes it down towards his feet so he can keep going. The worms squirm around him, over him, their wriggly bodies trying to find their way back to their homes. Jason gags around the dirt and worms that found their way into his mouth, but he refuses to actually throw up. Not yet. Not until he's out. Not until he can feel the pitter-patter of freezing cold rain on his face, not until he can see that fucking angel gazing impassively down at the zombie that just came back from the dead, not until he can get a lungful of that trademarked Gotham smog that's probably ever so slightly tinged with fear gas and Joker Venom. 

His fingers break the surface, sooner than Jason was expecting. They reach up towards the sky, where a freezing breeze makes his fingers want to just stay there and never move again because it hurts and he's tired, he's exhausted–

Gloved hands find his, frantically clasping onto them with an iron grip and not letting go. He thinks another pair, or maybe several, are digging out the dirt around his fingers, leaving the rest of his hand, and soon his arm, exposed to the elements. He lets his hand go limp, let's himself stop fighting, stop digging. He feels the dirt being pushes away, the pressure of the earth surrounding him becoming less and less until there's ice cold moisture pattering against his head and there are arms underneath his, hands clasped around his hand and his forearm, the fractured one, he thinks, but he doesn't have the energy to scream, to yell, so he whines, he whimpers, while he's wrapped in something heavy, something warm, but it's too much, there are hands everywhere, they could be hostile hands, so he shoves them all away and blindly scrambles back until he can gag and heave and the dirt and the worms are finally being expelled from his mouth and his stomach. His ears are ringing and his chest burns and his body violently shivers and suddenly the weight is back but the hands aren't and it's just so, so warm so he lets himself get lost in it.

He did it.

He's out.

There's a hand carding gently through his hair. He leans into it. It's comforting. It's safe.

He closes his eyes, surrendering to the pull of that comforting, heavy darkness.

------------------------

Someone on the comm line fails to fully stifle a sob at the sound of Jason's cries, his begging, his screaming for help. Dick himself has long since stopped trying to stop himself from crying, instead he's just made it easier by flicking up the white lenses of his domino up so his tears can run freely over the mask instead of pooling within it.

It's not every day you hear your brother, who is as distant and emotionally closed off as they come, begging through tears for someone else to save him.

To say it was traumatizing was an understatement.

“Where are we at with the search?” Batman asks in his signature distant, emotionally-closed-off voice he gets when he actually feels something. It's the only reason Dick knows that internally, Bruce is freaking the fuck out right now.

He can sympathize.

“I– the line is untraceable, even to me. I've been combing through footage of every graveyard in Gotham, trying to find any irregularities but there's nothing yet,” Babs reports shakily. Dick takes a deep, calming breath, and tries not to let it out as another sob. He moderately succeeds.

“Something's been bothering me,” Tim finally states, breaking up the tense silence of the call. Well, silence from anyone who wasn't trapped in a coffin for the second time.

(Apparently. That was something else Dick was still trying to wrap his head around, but it also wasn't the most pressing matter at the moment so he pushed those thoughts aside before he could spiral further than he already had. He'd be of no help to Jason otherwise.)

“N, how was Blockbuster able to call you on your actual phone?” Tim's tone was clinically detached in the way he got when he was also starting to freak the fuck out. Some guilty part of Dick is thankful he isn't the only one.

“He… knows who I am,” Dick mutters, punching some other mugger he came across a little stronger than strictly necessary. “Out of costume. He knows who I am. Got a lucky hit in a fight a while ago, mask broke.”

Tim hums. “If that's the case, theoretically he would know who Hood is as well, right?”

“If he looked into it, sure, he's smart enough to figure that out.” 

And, a plus side, now he'll be back where he belongs instead of sticking his nose into things he shouldn't be.

The words echo in Dick's head. He swings his bike around to thunder down the road in the opposite direction, pushing the accelerator nearly to the max.

“He buried Jay in his own fucking grave,” Dick bites out, leaning down so he can avoid at least some of the icy rain pelting his face. A chorus of swears follow the words, and probably a collective changing of directions. “I'm twenty minutes out.”

“Twenty-five,” Tim mutters.

“Father and I are thirty-five,” Damian speaks up.

“I'm pulling up the feed now,” Babs reports. “Looks like it was set to a loop, nothing seems to be changed, but I should be able to find the real recordings–”

“A fuckin’- a fuckin’ mic.” Jason's raspy words cut Babs off, all of them going silent when he chokes out a slightly hysterical laugh and continues. “D- Dickie I am so gonna- gonna punch you later, an’ you're gonna stand fuckin’ still with no fuckin’- no fuckin' flippy shit- and- and you're gonna fuckin’ deserve it.”

Dick lets out his own wet laugh at that. “You got it, little wing. We're almost there, just hang in there.”

There's almost a minute of heavy, staticky breaths and a distinct lack of screaming, before another sound that'll probably haunt Dick's nightmares forever comes through. It's like nails on a chalkboard, but worse, because just by Jason's sounds of agony and sheer desperation he knows for a fact that the sound is nails clawing through wood. 

He screams and shrieks and Dick tries his best to block it out because if he actually listens he'll be forced to confront the fact that he's the reason any of this happened, Blockbuster did this to get back at him, and there was no explanation that could refute that. It was just plain fact.

The comm line is painfully silent of all voices other than Jason's, who had completely forgone even swearing in lieu of just letting his pain out in mangled, breathless howls. 

Finally, finally, after what feels like both forever and the blink of an eye, Dick is vaulting off his bike and racing towards the cemetery.

“Cut the cameras,” Dick orders just as he scales the wrought iron gates protecting the property. It isn't hard for him to sprint unseen across the various graves and up the hill he knows all too well.

Sure enough, the dirt before Jason's gravestone is freshly reburied. If he listens close enough, past his comm and the thundering rain, he thinks he can hear Jason's muffled screams through the earth.

That propels him to look around frantically for the nearest shovel, which, of course, is nowhere in sight.

Granted, his sight is vastly limited due to the pouring rain, but that doesn't stop the frustrated shout from leaving him. He just drops to his knees and starts digging with his hands.

Minutes later Tim is there with him, immediately dropping down beside him and joining him in his frantic shoveling. 

“B's ETA is five minutes.”

“Bring a fucking shovel,” Dick hisses, too tired and panicked to worry about his tone.

“Bring several,” Tim amends, his voice now having the barest hint of a waver at the end. Bruce grunts in affirmation, which is good enough for Dick.

In what could been five minutes or two, Bruce and Damian are there with them, carrying three shovels. Dick and Tim immediately take two of them, and Bruce helps them with shoveling out as much dirt as they can, as fast as they can. Damian is relegated to spotting duty so they don't accidentally hit Jay with the shovels.

Which is why when Damian's eyes widen and his breath stops for just half a moment, Dick is immediately chucking his shovel out of the three foot hole and digging with his hands again until bloody, mangled fingers break the surface. He latches onto them despite the pain it probably causes Jason, because it's probably better he knows someone is here regardless of whatever injuries he has.

Tim, Bruce, and Damian all drop in beside him to continue digging out around the slowly uncovered form that is Jason. Dick keeps his hand locked in Jason's, getting a better grip on him as more is uncovered. First it's his full hand, which Dick is more than happy to clasp in his iron grip, smiling wetly when he feels Jason gripping his hand just as tightly. His forearm is next, which Dick holds with his other hand, ready to help lift him out. His hand and arm go limp at some point, and only the rapid thread of his pulse under Dick's fingertips keeps him from panicking further. Then there's a muddy streak of white, or at least what used to be white, plastered within black curls. Bruce is quick to work his arms under Jason's shoulders to help lift him out.

“We've got you, little wing, we've got you. You're safe now,” Dick murmurs comfortingly as they start pulling him out. He doesn't answer, and doesn't open his squeezed-shut eyes, but he's shaking like a fucking leaf and maybe that's because he only has his underclothes on instead of all his gear.

Or maybe it's because he just had to go through an extremely traumatic experience for the second time and is still sobbing and hyperventilating.

But who really knew.

He's partially lifted out of the hole to where his full chest is visible when Tim speaks up.

“Wait, wait, stop!” Both Bruce and Dick glare at the younger vigilante, but they do stop.

“The dagger gifted to Todd from my mother is embedded in his right thigh,” Damian reports. “It is dangerously close to his femoral artery. If you remove him too carelessly, we will have a far greater problem.”

“Secure it. Quickly,” Bruce growls, and oh, yep, that's all fatherly worry there. Glad to know he can still let it out sometimes, Dick supposes. Even if it takes one of his children being literally buried alive.

From Dick's point of view, he can't see exactly what the younger two are doing, but he's getting antsy waiting around for even the maybe fifteen seconds it takes them to secure the knife.

And then they both lean back and help Dick and Bruce lift Jason out the rest of the way. A broken whine leaves Jason's lips as he's quickly draped in Bruce's cape, whimpering as he weakly tries to shove himself away from Dick, away from them all, movements jerky and sloppy and bloody, god, there's so much blood. Each movement makes him flinch, each calming touch they try to give him makes him scramble back, so eventually, they stop and let him have his space.

Except for Bruce, who follows Jason calmly and cards the hair out of his face while he gags and throws up graveyard dirt. He drapes his cape around Jason again, gently rubbing soothing circles on his back. Dick watches as Jason's ability to hold himself up finally gives out under his trembling shivers and he sags gracelessly into Bruce's hold, who murmurs comforting words to Jason even as he keeps him wrapped in both the cape and his arms.

Dick breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Jason's breathing even out and his face goes slack. He lets go of Tim's and Damian's hands, which he didn't even know he grabbed. 

“I– I'll take care of this,” Tim says quietly, gesturing back at the grave. Bruce nods, but doesn't say anything further. Damian follows Bruce as he stands with Jason in his arms, looking so small, smaller than he should ever look, considering the six-foot-two at least and built like a brick shithouse build he has. Dick glances wordlessly between Bruce and Tim, panic once again rising at the thought of leaving either of his brothers.

Tim rests a steadying hand on Dick's shoulder. “It's okay, I can handle this. Go be with Jay.”

Dick meets his eyes, searching for any sign of lying from his little bird.

“Alright, baby bird. But come back as soon as you're done.” He plants a kiss to the crown of his head before he's jogging to catch up with Bruce and Damian to head back to the manor.

------------------------

When Jason finally wakes, it's not slow, or comforting, or painless.

When he wakes its with a violent jerk, brain still having yet to catch up with the events around him, his mind filled with the stifling, still darkness of the fucking coffin and the pain, the agony as his fingernails are ripped out one by one from the sheer force of his desperate efforts to escape it, and he's cold, he's so cold, it's like he's dead all over again and there's fucking grave dirt in his mouth, choking him, drowning him, he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe–

“–wing? Little wing, I need you to open your eyes, you're safe, I promise,” a voice– Dick's voice– speaks from somewhere in front of him. He manages to tear his eyes open at Dick's calm words, immediately squinting with the sudden brightness of what he thinks is the Cave medical wing.

How the fuck did he get here?

He doesn't have time to ponder it before his leg is buckling and he's falling into Dick's chest, the older vigilante making only the smallest grunt at his weight.

“Breathe with me, Jay. Let's get you back in the bed, yeah?” He gently leads Jason back over to the cot he'd flown out of in his panic, which he didn't even realize was him panicking until Dick had pointed it out a moment ago.

With only a few hisses and grunts, Jason manages to help lower himself back into the cot. It's only then that he registers the other eyes on him, crowded at the entrance to the medbay. No less than four vigilantes were squished into the space of the corner of the room and the doorway, making Jason roll his eyes once he got his heart rate back under control.

“You–” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat (wow that fucking hurt), “– you all just gonna hover over there or…?”

Because honestly he had no idea what they're doing. But he does know that his voice sounds like shit, because everyone's face grimaces and Tim is quick to walk over to pass him a glass of water with a straw. You'd think he'd gargled glass or something, and he can say that because he technically has! Or at least, was forced to eat some. Zero out of ten, do not recommend. That was a rough couple weeks.

Or maybe this was because he's been screaming and shouting his fucking lungs out at some point. That vaguely sounded like something he did recently.

Jason resolutely chose not to think about it for his sanity.

That being said, he gulps the water down thankfully, after swishing the first couple mouthfuls around and spitting them out to get the lingering dirt taste out of his mouth. Because it's gross.

“How are you feeling?” Babs rolls in next, coming to a stop on the opposite side of the bed from Dick and Tim. Her voice is soft, genuine, in that way she gets when she's really worried. 

Jason shrugs, immediately regretting it when he feels several stabs of pain from it. Looking down at himself now, he can tell he won't be doing anything for a bit. His ribs are wrapped, his leg is wrapped (with the dagger that used to be in it sitting on the table next to him), his arm and wrist are in a cast, and his hands are thoroughly bandaged. 

Yeah, nope, not gonna think about that.

“Better than I could be,” Jason tries, attempting nonchalance. By the looks exchanged between the five present, he doubts it worked. Oh well.

“Pennyworth says you're to remain in the manor for two weeks,” the demon brat speaks up, arms crossed across his chest. If Jason didn't know any better, he'd think there was a tinge of unease, and perhaps worry in his eyes. 

“Nah, I'll be out by the end of the week,” Jason replies easily, waving dismissively. “But don't worry, pipsqueak, I won't be doing anything too strenuous. Probably.”

Because who really knows with this job.

But apparently that wasn't the right answer, because looks are exchanged again and now it's making Jason annoyed. Annoyed, because he doesn't want to admit to being uncomfortable.

“I think we'd all really like it if you stayed a bit longer than that, Jaylad,” Bruce chimes in gruffly. His words are firm, but there's a hint of desperation behind them. “I'd like it if you stayed longer. To make sure you're okay.”

Dick, Tim, and Babs all have their stupid little hopeful smiles, Damian is scowling slightly less than usual which is basically the same thing, and Bruce is looking… oddly emotional. Not walling himself off like usual.

Huh.

Weird.

But no way he was staying in the manor any longer than he absolutely needed to. He can already feel his blood pressure rising at the idea of being trapped here for two whole weeks.

“Yeah… no. I'm not staying here for two weeks,” Jason mutters tersely. “Besides, I have shit to do in my apartment. Cases. Work. Whatever.”

Literally anything to get him out of staying here for two weeks.

“Alright, alright, we can talk about it later,” Duck cuts in before anything can devolve into anything even close to an argument. “But for now, why don't we head upstairs and relax? Watch a movie? It's been a long night.”

“I agree with Master Dick,” Alfred announces as he strolls in with a change of folded clothes. “I will be taking a look at Master Jason's injuries before he follows. I believe Master Tim and Master Damian can decide on a movie together?”

He sends a pointed look at the two, who don't dare linger under it and quickly scurry off, already bickering about their ideas of good movies. The other three turn back to Jason, who immediately feels the air get heavier.

“Jaylad…”

“No,” Jason bites out, “I'm not talking about this. Not tonight. If you didn't already know, then you aren't nearly as good of a detective as you think, Bruce. The Pit can't just bring people back to life, and I had to wake up somewhere.”

Of course the hoarse words come out more exhausted than actually scathing, like Jason meant them to be. Once again, he shoved down the mental images into the recesses of his mind, despite how they clawed at the fringes to get back in, just like he had clawed to get out of those stupid coffins.

God. If Jason had a nickel for every time he had to dig his way out of his own grave, he'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird and fucking traumatizing that it happened twice.

“He's right, B,” Babs chimes in quietly. “We shouldn't talk about this tonight.”

“Or ever,” Jason helpfully adds with a glare. He hisses under his breath as Alfred checks his injuries as gently as he can. Unfortunately, it's bound to be painful when every movement hurts something.

“...Fine. As long as you stay,” Bruce compromises, meeting Jason's gaze. Jason furrows his eyebrows. Since fucking when did Bruce compromise? Where is Bruce and what did this imposter do with him??

Jason acquiesces with a sigh. “Alright, whatever.”

And so Alfred finished up his examination, Dick and Bruce helped Jason get upstairs, and he spent the rest of his night watching movies with his family until he passed out in the giant cuddle pile that they all inevitably turned into.

It didn't stop the nightmares, but it certainly helped once he woke up.

[reidreaders]

Girl's Night Out

Poorly Kept Secrets: Part 3

Summary: Part 3 in which Penelope accidentally spills Spencer's secret (you) to JJ and Emily!

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: kissing, use of y/n, established relationship, semi-secret relationship, not proof read, idk this is pretty much just straight fluff but lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I'M ALIVE BITCHESS I took some time off writing bc college is hard but im back!! I had so many requests for part 3 to this story so I hope y'all enjoy!!

Part 1 Part 2

Things had quieted down around the BAU in the weeks since Hotch, Penelope, and Derek found out about you and Spencer. The three of them had agreed to keep Spencer’s secret, seeing as how he wasn’t ready to share you quite yet, which was massively relieving to him. The team hadn’t been called out on many cases lately, meaning that Spencer had more free time than ever to spend with you. You and Spencer had only been dating for a couple of weeks, so you were still in the getting to know each other phase of your relationship, so it was tough that he was away fighting crime most of the time. All that to say, it was a nice change of pace for the both of you. You spent your nights taking turns cooking dinner and choosing which movie to watch, you spent your weekends introducing each other to your favorite hobbies (you had a new found love of chess), and lately, you had spent your mornings waking up next to each other. 

You and Spencer had yet another dinner and movie date planned for that night. When he arrived home from work, you were already in his kitchen getting dinner started. 

“Hey, Spence!” you shouted from the kitchen, as you heard the familiar footsteps enter the apartment.

Spencer rounded the corner into the kitchen with a confused look on his face, “Hey?” he questioned, “what’re you doing here so early?”

“I thought it might be nice to have dinner ready for you when you got home! Plus, I might have missed you a little bit.” you grinned as you moved to be closer to him, throwing your arms around his neck as he moved to put his hands on your waist. 

“Well that’s really sweet of you,” he blushed, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t missing you today too.” he leaned in and closed the gap between the two of you. The kiss was soft and tender, yet full of passion. 

Spencer pulled away with a puzzled look on his face, as if something had just occurred to him, “How did you get into my apartment without a key?” 

Your eyes widened, guilt evident on your face. You had hoped that the imminent promise of dinner coupled with the fact that you were so excited to see him would be enough to distract him from the fact that you were seemingly breaking and entering. “Um…” you delayed your response, trying to figure out what to tell him, “I may or may not have bribed your landlord to let me in…” you winced, hoping he wouldn’t be too mad.

“Well, I’m gonna have to have a word with her about that.” He chuckled, leaning in for another kiss. 

You moved back to the stove to finish up cooking dinner, while Spencer set the table. The two of you sat down to eat and began what had become your usual dinner table conversation. You asked about his day, which he welcomed the opportunity to ramble on about. You didn’t mind when he rambled. In fact, you enjoyed it, hooked on every word that came out of his mouth. He asked about your day, and to be honest, you rambled just as much, happy to have someone in your life who seemed to genuinely care about how your day went. Needless to say, you guys had gotten much more comfortable around each other than you were the first time you had been invited over. Of course, it didn’t help that the two of you had been busted by his boss in desperate need of a babysitter.  

After you had finished eating, Spencer did the dishes, while you picked out a movie to watch with him. When you had first started dating, it quickly became very evident that Spencer had never seen any of the blockbuster movies you loved, nor had you seen any of the foreign films he held so close to heart. So, movie night became a tradition, taking turns showing each other your favorites. In the spirit of fall, you had chosen ‘The Fantastic Mr. Fox’, a childhood favorite of yours. 

You had raided his closet before starting the movie, desperate for something comfy to wear. You had chosen a pair of soft, flannel pajama pants and CalTech sweatshirt that smelled just like him. When you returned to the living room, Spencer was already laying down on the couch. You snuggled into him, squished between him and the couch, with your head on his chest and an arm thrown around his stomach. One of his hands was lovingly rubbing your back, but made its way up to your hair as he got more engrossed in the movie. This was your sweet spot. Nothing could put you fast asleep quicker than someone playing with your hair. You began to doze off, and Spencer, exhausted from a long day of paperwork, wasn’t far behind you. 

What the two of you did not know was that Emily, JJ, and Penelope had just finished up at a wild girl’s night out. The bar they had chosen was located conveniently close to all of their houses, and coincidentally, right down the street from Spencer’s apartment. The ladies had just begun their walk home when tragedy struck; JJ had to pee. 

“Oh c’mon can’t you just hold it?” Emily asked, anxious to get home.

“Yeah, we’re so close to your house Jayje!” Penelope chimed in.

“Guys, no! I’m seriously about to have an emergency. Now, can we please just find someplace to pee?” JJ begged, clearly desperate.

That’s when Penelope had a light bulb moment. “Oh! Why don’t we just pop by Spencer’s place real quick? I’m sure he won’t mind!” She said, excited to have found the solution to JJ’s ever growing problem. 

“Sounds good to me!” Emily said, followed by a “Thank God!” from JJ. 

As Penelope led her friends to Spencer’s apartment, she had completely forgotten about the secret she had promised to keep. She wasn’t used to Spencer having girls in his apartment, after all. 

When they finally arrived at Spencer’s place, JJ frantically knocked on the door, but got no answer. The two of you were fast asleep on the couch inside, with the movie drowning out any noise from outside the apartment. 

After knocking for several minutes, and receiving no answer, Emily decided to take matters into her own hands. She pushed past JJ to the door and tried the handle, revealing that it was unlocked. JJ raced down the hall to the bathroom, not noticing what the other girls had. 

“Oh no.” Penelope whispered to herself.

“Who is that??” Emily said a little too loudly for Penelope’s liking.

“Shut up! You’re going to wake them up!” Penelope whisper-yelled.

JJ had finally reached the bathroom by this point, slamming the door shut behind her. Spencer jolted awake at the sound, which in turn stirred you awake, too. He looked around for the source of the sound, but instead found two of his coworkers staring at him with wide eyes. 

“What are you doing here?” Spencer said exasperated, as he jumped up from the couch.

“Spencer, I am so sorry. I totally forgot about Y/N and that she’s a secret and JJ really had to pee and we were right down the street so I brought them here and I’m really, really sorry.” Penelope spat out, practically at the speed of light. 

You sat on the couch, barely awake and trying to process what was going on. You sat up to get a better look at the intruders and realized that you had seen them before in photographs. 

“So, are you gonna introduce us to your dirty little secret, Reid?” Emily smirked.

“She’s not my dirty little secret. She’s my-she’s just-” Spencer was cut off. All of the sudden you were next to him, extending your hand to Emily.

“I’m Y/N. Spencer’s girlfriend.” You said it proudly, even if the two of you hadn’t entirely agreed on what you were to each other yet. 

This statement elicited what was quite possibly a world record blush from Spencer. He was so happy to hear you call yourself his girlfriend that he had to restrain himself from grabbing your face and kissing you. 

Emily and Penelope introduced themselves to you and the four of you made small talk while you waited for JJ. You were happy to get to meet some of the friends you had heard so much about, even if the circumstances were less than ideal. 

JJ finally made her way out of the bathroom and noticed you for the first time, “Woah, what did I miss?” she asked.

Spencer jumped into action mode, determined to spare himself from another awkward explanation of why he hadn’t told anyone about you yet, “Nothing!” he said quickly as he began to usher the girls out of the apartment. 

You giggled under your breath at him. It was so endearing how determined he was to keep your relationship away from the prying eyes of his profiling friends, to give the two of you the space to figure out your feelings for each other, to spare you from yet another strange and unexpected encounter with his coworkers. 

As Spencer walked them out, you couldn’t help but eavesdrop. You listened to the girls asking him all kinds of questions about you. It was incredible how much they managed to ask him between the living room and the doorway. Once Spencer had finally gotten them out of the apartment, you heard him speak. “Can we please just keep this between us. I really, really like this girl and I don’t want to put too much pressure on her by introducing her to you guys already.”  They all agreed to keep his secret, solely because he did seem to really like you. 

Spencer shut the door and made his way back to you, “I’m really sorry about that,” he chuckled, embarrassment evident on his face, “I seriously have to talk to the team about them showing up here like that.”

“No it’s okay,” you assured him, still swooning at what he had said to his friends, “It was kind of nice actually.” you smiled.

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” Spencer asked, genuinely curious about what you could have possibly enjoyed about that encounter.

“Well, I get to officially be your girlfriend now…” you said sweetly.

Spencer blushed again, thrilled that you were excited to put a label on your relationship, “Yeah,” He giggled, “I guess something good did come out of all that chaos, huh?” he said before leaning in to kiss you, your first kiss as an official couple.

hope y'all enjoyed! I had so much fun writing this one, so I think part 4 will be up sometime next week! ALSO my requests are open so send me something to write :)

MASTERLIST

[en-gelic]

LiA'S PICKS FROM VERSACE 23/24 SPRING SUMMER COLLECTION DISCLAIMER : SPAM LIKE = BLOCKED drabble — O.1k-O.9k words mid-length — 1k-3k words LIKING AND REBLOGGING IS HIGHLY APPRECIATED BACK TO NAVI

COLLECTION 1. 이희승

Lowkey ( mid-length ) — long as we keep this lowkey | BUY NOW

Angel's kisses ( mid-length) — an angel's kisses are a delicate feeling | BUY NOW

Lovesong ( smau ) — music brought you together and broke you apart | BUY NOW

This is what falling in love feels like ( drabble ) — falling in love with him | BUY NOW

Seal it with a kiss ( drabble ) — how to keep a promise | BUY NOW

COLLECTION 2. 박종성

Italian summers ( drabble ) — summers with him | BUY NOW

Blockbuster ( drabble ) — the thrill of loving him | BUY DEMO NOW

Blockbuster ( mid-length ) — the thrill of loving him | BUY FULL VER NOW

COLLECTION 3. 심재윤

Fireworks ( drabble ) — rushed confessions | BUY NOW

Kiss and make-up ( mid-length ) — love with a playboy | BUY NOW

Espresso ( drabble ) — that's that me espresso | BUY NOW

Homesick ( drabble ) — when he misses you | BUY NOW

Truth or dare ( mid - length ) — let's play truth or dare | BUY NOW

Kiss of summer ( O.4k ) — the taste of your lips | BUY NOW

Forty-five till dinner ( O.4k ) — 45 minutes is all he needs | BUY NOW

a night to remember ( soc med ) — handsome stranger danger | BUY NOW

COLLECTION 4. 박성훈

About us ( mid-length ) — dating in secret | BUY NOW

First place ( mid-length ) — falling for your academic rival | BUY NOW

Class president ( texts ) — a troublemaker and his tutor | BUY NOW

Love and war ( drabble ) — all is fair in love and war | BUY NOW

Licorice ( mid - length ) — you're addicted to the taste of his lips | BUY NOW

Glue and paper ( drabble ) — stick together like glue and paper | BUY NOW

COLLECTION 5. 김선우

my love mine all mine ( drabble ) — he's all yours | BUY NOW ( COMING SOON )

COLLECTION 6. 양정원

sun shower ( drabble ) — rainy days with him | BUY NOW

COLLECTION 7. 西村力

Magnetic ( drabble ) — like it's magnetic | BUY NOW

Ever seen ( drabble ) — he had the prettiest eyes you'd ever seen | BUY NOW

READ THE NEWSLETTER ! — OT7

boyfriend instagram stories series | BUY NOW

lucid dreams series | BUY NOW

attention please ( headcannons ) — when they want your attention | BUY NOW

bubblegum ( headcannons ) — to be loved by them | BUY NOW

the boy is mine part one ( headcannons ) — when they're jealous | BUY NOW

the boy is mine part two ( headcannons ) — when they're jealous | BUY NOW

Copying and plagiarizing my work is strictly prohibited. Translating my works is allowed under the circumstance that you CANNOT claim it as your own work. All rights reserved, © en-gelic 2024.

[gothamitewriter]

Whumpcember Day 1: Broken Bones

Yes I am a day behind, shush. My roommate and I got distracted watching criminal minds last night.

Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne

Words: 1118

Warnings: Blood, violence, swearing

Summary: Dick goes in underprepared to a fight with a small-time mob boss, he isn't expecting the consequences.

Dick hadn’t expected to have any major issues upon moving to Bludhaven. Sure, the city has a higher rate of organized crime than almost any other in the country, but it was still nothing compared to the beast that is Gotham. What Dick hadn’t taken into account was that he was used to working as a team, either alongside Batman or with the Titans, and it was this miscalculation that led him to his current predicament.

The mob boss in front of him was a behemoth of a man, nothing compared to the likes of Blockbuster, but still far larger than Dick’s own frame. He wasn’t a big shot in anyway, just some drug trade, a few armed robberies, not too many minions. The only reason Dick was even bothering going after him was because the gang’s last robbery had been of a pharmaceutical company that Dick was currently investigating. What Dick hadn’t anticipated was that in order to carve out the tiny part of Bludhaven’s underground that he had, the boss was strong, vicious, and clearly well trained.

Both of Dick’s escrima sticks had been snapped in half and tossed aside, leaving him weaponless against a much stronger opponent. He was certain he could still win that fight, but it wasn’t going to be fun. Dick rushed forwards, using the boss’ higher center of mass against him as he sent the both of them tumbling to the ground, lashing out wildly at each other. Each of Dick’s movements were precise, muscle memory guiding him as he countered the overwhelming force he was faced with. He winced as he felt one of his ribs give way with a sickening crack, knowing that it was in all likelihood the first of many.

Dick twisted, sending a knee into the man’s groin, and using the opportunity it presented to make some distance between them, rolling across the ground. Shallow breaths entered Dick’s lungs, even the minute expansions enough to send radiating pain out from his ribs. The moment over, Dick dodged a punch that would have surely given him a concussion, retaliating with a succession of blows to the joints and other weak areas. Dick whipped his head around as a minion entered the room, and in the rush to avoid the bullets flying at him, Dick felt meaty hands grasp his neck.

Dick thrashed, trying desperately to free himself as his vision blurred and his eyes watered. His lungs burned, and while Dick was no stranger to oxygen deprivation, he was only human. Luckily, he saw he chance, he kicked at one of the broken escrima sticks on the ground near him, launching it across the room and knocking the gun out of the minion’s hands. As Dick twisted he silently screamed, something in his neck making a hideous crack as he head butted the mob boss, finally knocking him unconscious. Dick could taste blood on his tongue, could feel the adrenaline abandoning him and threatening to drop him into oblivion. With his last moments of awareness, Dick reached desperately for his emergency beacon, activating it just as he went limp.

—

Pain screamed through every inch of Dick’s body as he was woken by the sound of bodies hitting the floor and quick, light footsteps moving towards him. His eyes opened, squinting to see in the dark warehouse, relaxing as the bright primary colors of the Robin suit hovered above him.

“Nightwing! Are you okay? Batman is en route, he was caught up in a fight when your beacon came through.” Jason’s worried voice prompted Dick to take stock of his situation beyond the pure blinding pain. He opened his mouth to give a report only to twist to the side as blood spilled out of his mouth.

“Shit, shit, that is not good. Fuck. Okay, stay on your side, I think that’s supposed to keep the airway clear? Or is that for vomit?” Dick reached out, placing a comforting hand on Jason’s boot, giving a shaky, blood-stained smile.

“I’m okay,” He signed, like a liar.

“I don’t believe you, where else are you injured, Dickhead?” Dick gestured vaguely to all of him, before pointing at the rib which was aggressively protesting his new body position.

“Broken, I think,” as his hands moved, slowly as Jason was still learning ASL, another spurt of blood forced its way past Dick’s lips, leaving him gasping as he coughed up what was probably way too much blood.

“Yeah no shit, you look like you were run over by the Batmobile,” if you call the a small-time mob boss with way too much combat skill the Batmobile, sure.

“Distract me?” Dick managed through more painful coughs that shifted his broken rib dangerously.

“I can be distracting! Let’s see.. Oh! I got an A on my presentation for English class, I got some points off for pronunciation, but I think they just don’t like my accent. I really liked the book we read, though. I might read it again once it’s summer break. It’s so annoying the way they don’t let us read ahead when we’re reading for assignments, though. The way they assign the chapters we always end off on a cliffhanger!” Jason had sat down on the floor next to Dick, helping him shift more firmly on to his side while they waited for Bruce to arrive.

“They’re teaching patience,” Dick did his best to sign clearly while moving in a way that wouldn’t possibly shift his rib even more.

“That’s dumb, it’s English class, shouldn’t it be a good thing that I want to read more? Who just puts down a book when the chapter ends on a cliffhanger? No one! I thought they were supposed to teach you things that apply to real life,” Jason pouted, throwing his head back dramatically in a way that caused his curly dark hair to bounce around his head before settling back into place.

Finally Dick was saved from the teenage melodramatics (which, admittedly, he had asked for and did help to distract him), a shadowed figure entering Dick’s field of vision in a way that immediately let Dick know that Bruce was here.

“Robin, what is Nightwing’s status?” Batman barked out. Jason scrambled to his feet, listing off the injuries that he had been able to see.

“I think he should be safe to move? But even if he isn’t we really need to, he’s losing blood from some sort of internal injury and if we don’t hurry he’s going to drown in it.”

“Right, up you go, chum,” Dick hissed out a breath as he was lifted off the ground by strong arms, hard body armor digging in. “Let’s bring you home.”

[oonajaeadira]

For the Love of Fic: November 20

Heyo! I've been just parking read fic here for a while and didn't realize how long it was getting! And then I used my wait times in Disney to read a bunch more.... anyway. I've got a long list of fun for you!

Also, I'm really sorry, this is the dumbest header I've ever made but it made me laugh so here we are.

🪐 = Year of Themed Creation Fics!

.

DIETER BRAVO

Dieter, Dieter, Pumpkin Eater by @coulsons-fullmetal-cellist I can't decide what I love more: Dieter getting frisky in a bouncy castle or his gleeful exclamations when the goats take to him. I want this. I want all of it. Sign me up. Crocs and all.

Tip Your Server by @nothoughtsjustmeds I love love love this fic. I love Dieter needing to get reader all hot and bothered while wearing fancy clothes, I love the banter, I love the obvious love these two have, the cavalier throw-away of a precious object, every gesture of affection and its tie to absolute, loving sass. And the prose is so great. This is a masterclass fic.

.

JOEL MILLER

Strong Enough To Stand by @the-blind-assassin-12 Oof. This both hurt and was satisfying. Joel has a habit of holding onto love and hurt. It's definitely detrimental at times. But damn if it doesn't illustrate how fiercely he loves. Alyssa's lead up story to this--It Pours From Your Eyes--nearly destroyed me, but this one thankfully helped to soothe.

Surrender Chapter 13 and Chapter 14 by @ezrasbirdie Birdie gave us a beautiful reunion and ending for Daisy and Joel and I'm just so proud of her for putting her heart into a wonderful OC. There's so much in this series about learning to love and--even more interesting--learning to BE loved, and both Joel and Daisy are wonderful for that. I know there's an epilogue coming and I will patiently wait for my desert while this meal of a fic settles in my heart.

Saying I love you through an accidental kiss by @songsformonkeys Listen. Joel Miller's got a lot going on today and it's chaotic and you made him food and took care of Sarah and you...you reached for him first. SOFT! CUTENESS!

Spend All Your Love Making Time by @haylzcyon Sub!Joel is my new favorite obsession. He's just so in LOVE with reader, so in thrall and this is hot hot hot.... Those baby browns are certainly made for puppydog wants....

Something Soft by @keldabe-kriff 🪐 Everyone knows what you do with dandelions, right? Until an apocalypse wipes off even the tiniest things from human culture. Then kids like Ellie may not understand the simple joy of making a wish on one. Good thing there's folks like Joel who remember and help her out.

Joel, Interrupted by @iamskyereads This is both melancholy and warm, and that is such a welcome taste. It is quiet and lovely and the last line gave me so many feelings. If Joel was a ghost in his own house, this is exactly how he'd be. <3

.

MARCUS MORENO

Not All Heroes Wear Capes by @all-the-things-2020 🪐 I love "fandom crossovers" as a year of tropes offering. ST:TNG was one of my big fandom obsessions, so it's nice to return to some of those characters. Putting a Pedro boy in there is inspired, and this was handled so well!!!

If It Wasn't For The Nights by @simpingcowboy 🪐 Marcus is just made for angst, isn't he. It's obvious how much he loved his wife and how much he loves their daughter. Going inside to examine that is just asking for a heart twist....

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JAVI GUTIERREZ

The Last Blockbuster: Bump in the Night by @blueeyesatnight I love these two slacker filmophiles and am always happy to see them return to my dash. This time it's a test of readers' spine, to see if she can handle the scary movies like she says she can. I appreciate the appearance of another movie memorabilia piece...🦇🦇🦇

IRL part 1 @ nickcage_numerouno and part 2: of festivals and food by @grogusmum I love that both these dopes are so insecure about meeting one another. Javi is sweet and wonderful like always, and it's nice to get his POV here and there as our plus-size reader deals with her own assumptions. But oh my gosh he's smitten and if there's gonna be a part 3 I'll lose my mind.

.

COMANDANTE VERACRUZ

When it Comes to You... by @flightlessangelwings 🪐 I mean, if anyone's gonna get violently protective over his girl, it just might be Veracruz. I mean, to make you his priority during an ambush? To come back victorious and rail the crap out of you afterward? That's the dream....

,

DAVE YORK

First Kill by @hopeamarsu 🪐 Holy balls, this is a beautiful little character study on Dave. Hope goes inside his head during a therapists' session where he's asked about his first kill, and it is menacing AF. Take a look at this piece, because it is bomb.

.

EZRA

Gravity by @insomniamamma 🪐 J has a way with Ezra that I'm just addicted to. I know she loves him deeply, always takes so much care with him, gets his soft side just right. She makes me yearn so very hard for this man...his physical gracelessness a grand contrast to the gracefulness of his devotion. My goodness, I love this fic.

.

PERO TOVAR

untitled by @writeforfandoms Listen. It's a little mixed trope drabble about Pero as your bodyguard that might not mind being mistaken for your boyfriend and I could take 10K of this thanks.

Bangathon fics Cowgirl and Missionary by @prolix-yuy I may be a broken record, but I just cannot get enough of a solem and sour protector who only shows his vulnerability behind closed doors. I knew better than to read LJ's take on him and expect to remain unmelted.

Grumpy Pumpkin by @sirowsky This is just the very cutest. Of course Pero knows his way around knives, but pumpkin carving doesn't go exactly as you planned. In fact, it goes much sweeter.

Seed by @perotovar I love a Pero that is hot for his wife whether or not she can concieve. And that the want for a baby that hasn't come yet doesn't make them sad...it just makes them want to try harder! Soft and sweet and spicy all at once. Just like I like him.

.

FRANKIE MORALES

Ring Toss by @morallyinept Look. It's a simple concept. Frankie brings you donuts because Frankie loves you. You're resisting because you're on some silly diet. Donuts have holes. Frankie's got something that will fit in that hole. One temptation is bad enough, but two sticky treats together? Resistance is futile.

Questions and Stories part 1 and part 2 by @never--doubt 🪐 I love this concept of Frankie and reader's daughter asking them how they met and functioned as soulmates, how love takes work, and the mechanic of not being able to see one particular color until your aoulmate finds you....

.

EDDIE THE VAMPIRE (WITH MAX PHILLIPS)

An Act of Kindness by @missredherring This is a very sweet intro to a really lovely dynamic between a vampire reader and a fledgling. Oh my balls, Eddie needs help and she's such a good teacher. And he's so smitten with her in the cutest way... And of course, Max being Max, which is to say, Max being a douche.

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JAVIER PEÑA

Summer Kiss Prompt - Apology Kiss by @something-tofightfor I cannot deal when strong men recognize thier trauma and try to do better. It's clear here that Javi hasn't learned how to let someone else take the lead with him yet, but the growth that's comes is beautiful.

Summer Kiss Prompt - Lazy Kiss by @something-tofightfor Rachael does slice of life so well. There's something very wonderful about Javi's focus on his work to the point where he forgets to take care of himself, and maybe even lovlier about the woman who makes sure he eats something and has himself a break now and then...

.

TIM ROCKFORD

Rockford and Roan 4 by @littlemisspascal I am so in love with Rae's soft soulmate stories, she always knows how to warm my heart. This one has some darker elements what with Tim investigating crimes....BUT THERE'S ALSO A DOG THIS TIME.

.

DIN DJARIN

Ambrosial by @spacecowboyhotch A soft and lovely story staring a black reader, wherein Din learns about the ritual and culture of her hair, how it links her to her family, how much a part of her it is...and therefore how much a part of himself. I just wanna curl up in this, it's so cozy.

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SPECIAL GUEST CORNER

FENNEC SHAND

A Different Way of Life by @ghostofskywalker 🪐 Yes. Yes this is what I want. To run away for adventure only to find I really ran away with the love of my life...who just happens to be a bounty hunter and a ton of fun.

.

DICK GRAYSON

Seasons of Love by @captainsophiestark 🪐 I don't know much about this character, but he seems very sweet and loving. A jump through time in a relationship involving ties to the Wayne family.

.

[onbearfeet]

Queerwolf By Night: Queercoding, Media Literacy, and Werewolf By Night (part 3)

Lovely to have you back for this, the final part of our examination of WBN being queer as fuck. If you missed the earlier presentations in Media Studies and Writing Hacks With Kat, Part 1 is here and Part 2 is here.

We've gone through the Hays Code AND the AIDS crisis so far, and that's a lot, so could I interest you in a cup of coffee brewed over a campfire?

Thanks, Ted. You're a peach.

So let's look at the final scene of WBN through a queer lens. There's a needle drop, color is restored to the world, and we see Jack waking up in the woods to drink coffee, grunt at Ted, and eventually decide that sushi should happen.

(Side note: I have a whole rant about queercoding and sushi, but I cut it, so here's a gif of Aziraphale gayly eating sushi in Good Omens, which you should watch.)

Okay, enough queer angels. Time for more queer monsters.

First things first: this scene is SO DOMESTIC, y'all. They're literally playing house in the woods, in that Ted has built Jack an adorable little house and brewed his morning coffee. The camp is littered with little domestic touches like the French press and the guitar. It's a homey, if slightly eclectic, vibe. (Where did Ted find a payphone?)

There is no explanation for these objects being there, afaik; Ted and Jack both have presumably come from some distance away, involuntarily in Ted's case, so there's no reason Ted would know the location of a well-stocked camp to put an unconscious Jack down in if Jack even set one up. Presumably the camp is Ted's work, but there's never an explanation for where he got any items other than the robe and the phonograph. (I'm particularly curious about the flower mug, personally.) Yet the objects are not remarked upon, and the entire scene is played as if this is a relatively normal morning for the two of them.

In fact, most of the mechanics of the scene are effectively those of a morning-after scene, perhaps a morning after characters fall into bed for the first time. Jack wakes up groaning, crawls out of bed to see where he is, and finds his partner has laid out something like breakfast for him and is prepared to discuss the events of the night before whenever Jack is ready.

And speaking of that discussion, we once again have displays of queercoded masculinity: Jack and Ted being physically affectionate, playful banter, and emotional vulnerability when Jack asks about Elsa. You know the drill by now. The camera pans up as "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" swells and fades out.

Wait.

Rainbow?

Let's talk about music in this film.

Michael Giacchino is primarily known as a composer of film music. WBN is his directorial debut. I guarantee you've heard his music before, because it's basically in every summer blockbuster franchise. If you can't get John Williams, Danny Elfman, or Hans Zimmer (all of whom are getting long in the tooth), you get Giacchino and he turns in a fucking SCORE.

Now, I am not a music person. Not at all. But even my musically illiterate ass knows that traditional film scoring derives a lot from classical music, especially Romantic composers like Beethoven. And that means LEITMOTIFS, baby!

(I learned about leitmotifs from Bugs Bunny and Star Wars. Do not be impressed.)

A leitmotif is a short musical phrase that can be used to signify a character, object, or theme in a larger work of music. For a very basic example of this, look up the Force theme from Star Wars and watch a supercut of all the times it was used to indicate that someone was using the Force. Or just watch this Sideways video about why the music in Rise of Skywalker was ass:

Anyhoo. The point of leitmotifs is to give an audience a feeling without necessarily tipping them off to exactly WHY they're having that feeling. And Giacchino LOVES his leitmotifs.

So when he uses someone else's music, he's extremely aware of the emotions that can come attached to that music. It's literally what he does.

There are two pieces of music used in WBN that Giacchino didn't write: a late 1930s recording of Vera Lynn singing "Wishing Will Make It So" and Judy Garland singing "Over The Rainbow" from The Wizard of Oz. Let's start with Vera Lynn.

Vera Lynn was an English singer most associated with big band music before and during WWII. During the war, she was known as "the Forces' sweetheart", both for her efforts to entertain the troops and for the fact that she was kind of every British fighting man's waifu. What Betty Grable's legs were to American GIs, Vera Lynn's voice was to British servicemen. She's best known for the song "We'll Meet Again", which is about exactly what it sounds like. She was a nice lady, by all accounts, and there is a ferry boat named after her now.

A Vera Lynn song about childhood and wishing is what Verussa plays in the labyrinth, apparently to annoy Elsa, who switches it off (even though that's going to inform everyone of where she is). For the purposes of queercoding, Vera Lynn is mom and apple pie, or possibly mum and fish and chips, and above all she is safe, compulsory heterosexuality. The Forces' sweetheart.

Judy Garland, on the other hand, is a queer icon.

I can't overstate what a Big Deal Judy Garland and Dorothy Gale from The Wizard of Oz are in queer culture. The themes of the story, including acceptance of the unusual and embrace of a found family (along with the sapphic elements of some of the books), resonated so deeply with queer people that for several decades, "are you a friend of Dorothy?" was code for "are you gay?" The US Navy actually launched an investigation to find the mysterious "Dorothy" who was supposedly the ringleader of all the gay sailors.

And then there's the song itself, with its theme of longing for a faraway, more colorful place where those who don't fit in at home are loved for who they are. It's, uh, pretty resonant with the queer experience.

So I now draw your attention to the phonograph. Gramophone. Record player. Whatever it's called.

In WBN, we first see the player set up in the labyrinth, presumably by Verussa or at her orders. It's playing a Vera Lynn song about childhood and wishing, which apparently annoys Elsa so much that she switches it off, thus alerting Jack to her location.

The next appearance of the player is in the camp, where it's now playing "Over the Rainbow" beside Jack as he wakes up. Ted has presumably stolen it; there's no other candidate for that, and we already saw him swipe a murder robe for Jack, so why not a record player too?

In other words, Verussa Enthusiastic Heterosexuality Bloodstone sets up the Compulsory Heterosexuality Machine, after which Elsa Ally-Coded Bloodstone turns it off in disgust, and Ted swipes it and turns it gay for Jack's benefit.

That's the coding. That's BARELY subtext. I really don't know what else to tell you. This essay started with my making an offhand joke to bluemoonperegrine about Ted and Jack being "literally friends of Dorothy" and then realizing nobody else in the conversation had noticed this stuff.

So what do we do about all this? Is WBN queer? Does all the Wolfstone stuff pale in comparison to the glory of Russallis? Am I trying to start a ship war in a fandom so small it probably wouldn't fill up Vera Lynn's namesake ferry boat?

Jack, you can answer this for me.

Nope. Not trying to start anything. I happily read Wolfstone, and technically have written some. I love all three WBN leads and am happy to enjoy them in any configuration (although my personal preference is group napping in a puppy pile, because these characters deserve naps).

I just figured it was worth documenting all this so people who haven't had the benefit of my very strange education would be better equipped to recognize (and ideally enjoy) old-style queercoding when they see it.

Wait a minute. You promised writing hacks. It's in the series title and everything.

Shit, you caught me.

Obviously, queercoding isn't a universal tool. There are plenty of storytelling contexts in which it's much better to make characters explicitly queer. Representation matters, and all that.

But sometimes you won't have time for explicit confirmation (like when your story takes place overnight and nobody really has time to play tonsil hockey). Sometimes you won't be able to include it due to outside constraints (like Disney being Disney).

And sometimes, you'll remember that there are plenty of people who can't or won't pick up explicitly queer media. Homophobic parents who won't let their kids watch Love, Simon ... but who WILL let them read your YA novel about unicorns or whatever where there are two female unicorns who are, uh, life partners. Grumpy uncles who refuse to acknowledge their nephew's boyfriend until they notice that, hey, they kinda act like Finn and Poe from that Star War. And so on. Sometimes, coded rep is the best rep you can get ... and so it's useful to have. A good toolbox has ALL the tools.

So if you're building characters for your story and don't or can't have specific queer goals, throw in a little coding. Put a rainbow T-shirt on a kid. Let two boys hold hands or have literally any feelings. Let a girl say a girl is pretty. Look up some of the older symbols for queer love and have someone growing lavender in their garden, or use newer queer symbols and have a character crack an egg in a key scene. Have a character who's content without a romantic or sexual relationship, and has an arc about something else, because aces and aros exist too.

There's a whole universe of coding out there. Go add some layers to your work.

Or better yet--see if they're there already. You might surprise yourself.

Sometimes the monster has a familiar face.

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

Teen and Up Rated Fics Masterlist (36)

Part 1 - Part 29 / Part 30 / Part 31 / Part 32 / Part 33 / Part 34 / Part 35 /

Created: March 24th, 2024

Last Checked:—-

Christmas Time-hutchabelle (ao3) Summary: Katniss and Peeta wait anxiously for their children to return home safely for Christmas and recall other Christmas times. Cirque du Capitole-forthegenuine (ao3) Summary: When a circus mysteriously appears overnight in District 12, Peeta is enchanted by the illusionist, who brings a little bit of magic into his life. Inspired by Erin Morgenstern's The Night Circus. Day 3: The Fair. Context-hutchabelle (ao3) Summary: Katniss needs some advice about her outfit for a date, so she asks her roommate Peeta for his opinion. His surly answer infuriates her until she understands the context for his mood. Contra Dance-FanficAllergy, RoseFyre (ao3) Summary: Gale had no interest in his soulmate. Which was good, because Katniss Everdeen had no interest in him. Unfortunately, this is Panem and the Capitol will have its way. But there are other ways of resisting. You’ve just got to change partners and dance. Convergence-FanficAllergy, RoseFyre (ao3) Summary: A slip of paper blown away in the wind and District Twelve's first volunteer isn't the Girl on Fire but rather the Boy with the Bread's brother. One change. One puff of the wind and the Panem we know changes. Curves. Converges. Katniss was right; she and Peeta would have happened anyway. Here's how. Cruel Games-FanficAllergy (ao3) Summary: For the first time in his life, Cato begs. Cut To The Kiss-hutchabelle (ao3) Summary: Katniss and Peeta star in a summer blockbuster, but their onscreen chemistry needs a little extra help during a particularly fiery scene. Daddy's Girl-Flyingcarpet (ao3) Summary: Five times Katniss lost her father. Dark and Stormy-hutchabelle (ao3) Summary: It was a dark and stormy night when Peeta hurried across campus to the library where she waited for him. At least he thought she would wait. He was late. Very, very, very late. days gone by-Word_Addict (ao3) Summary: Katniss realizes the full impact of her children needing to learn about the Games.

[embossross]

The Art Collector

Prologue >> Chapter 1 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Mikey x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+ dark explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CWs: references to past cheating, drinking, author is not an artist and is Reaching for this character lol

✣ Story CWs: yandere, stalking, dubcon, kidnap, sex (ptv, oral), rough sex, and probably more to come

✣Synopsis: Mikey isn't like your typical boyfriends. He isn't an artist. He doesn't sport a messy bun or name drop Heidegger. He's just an antisocial IT guy. Or at least that's what he's told you...You may not know your boyfriend as well as you think you do, and by the time you realize your mistake, it may be too late for him. Or you.

✣ Word Count: ~6k and counting

It wasn’t raining or snowing, yet here you stood, struggling. You cupped a hand over the lighter, clove cigarette dangling from your pursed lips. This time you succeeded. A lungful of bitter smoke flooded your belly, and every synapse fired in relief at the familiar rush. You sank into a crouch, back against the wall as you savored your first smoke in six weeks.

On the other side of the wall, inside where it was warm and the harsh, unseasonable winds didn’t beat down like a father’s heavy hand, a dozen or so patrons wandered a little art gallery. It was the opening night of your first ever solo exhibition.

Thirty-eight minutes. That was how long you had survived playacting your official role as artist on display before you had snuck through a door marked employees’ only to smoke away the heartburn that flared in the face of phoniness.

To exhibit anywhere, even a dingy little art gallery in a dead backstreet of Kichijoji, one that saw less foot traffic than a 21st century Blockbuster video, was an enormous privilege. At twenty-seven, most artists slaved away at parttime jobs to afford cup ramen or hung up their paints for a life of housewife drudgery. You were so very fortunate, and if you were the type for positive affirmations, you would remind yourself of that more regularly.

The reverberations of polite dialogue trickled from inside, past the open door, to where you hid. You needn’t hear the exact words to know what they were saying. Trivialities as they strolled past work that dwarfed months of your life. Whether their comments were good or bad, asinine or nuanced, it didn’t make much difference.

Was it wrong to make art not just for the sake of its creation but in the hopes that someone, anyone, might find in your work the hidden messages that you knew were there, just out of your grasp, if only someone might decode them for you?

The breaking point that had sent you fleeing for the alley came from a smartly dressed woman, who praised one of your paintings as an ‘arcadian fantasy,’ as a ‘violent refusal of modern social organization,’ and return to innocence. She had categorized it as a clear response to the Tōhoku tsunami’s continued psychological and economic impact on the Yutori generation.

The painting in question depicted four schoolchildren at play. Lush green grass layered in oils dominated the background, leaving no visual queues as to the time of day, weather, or location as if the playground extended for eternity: back, back, back. The children appeared happy, but upon closer study, the viewer would find each child was built from an amalgamation of swirls. The swirls varied in size, but each one spiraled predictably at the same angle and to the same inevitable end. Using your most delicate paintbrush to measure to exactitude the angles, you had labored for hundreds of hours on that piece.

During the painting process, when you would stumble home after a night of drinking, you would get lost in those swirls, a sense of overwhelming mawkishness rising up from your gut at how each child was bound for the same destination. Everything was so predetermined in their young lives.

The spiral motif appeared again and again in tonight’s collection, going largely unnoticed by the gallery’s patrons. The only time your swirls seized attention was in your one interactive piece: four wooden panels, 75x225 centimeters, one fitted as a door to create a cramped room. Inside the panels were covered in tar paper and painted a deep black. Then, you had layered on the swirls in a gritty grey, so they dominated every spare millimeter of space, spinning and spinning. You had dubbed it the panic attack room because closed inside, you would be confronted with the inverse of infinity, feel the walls moving closer with every winding spiral.

The two “journalists” there that night – one an art blogger, the other covering for a university newspaper – both attended solely to try out that room. They thought it might make an attractive picture spot as interactive art was all the rage.

Speaking to them earlier, both presumed so much about your work and influences. You must have so admired Kusama Yayoi’s infinity rooms, they said; yes, you recognized Kusama as one of the greatest living artists, but no she was not a direct inspiration for your piece. The art blogger asked if, like the French-American sculptor Louise Bourgeois, you saw the spiral as a symbol of “freedom and control;” no, not remotely. The student journalist wondered if you’d read Uzumaki by Junji Ito as it depicted spirals in horror; no, you had never heard of it.

One of your friends, Shiyuri, had urged you to spell out the meaning behind your work on the placards that accompanied each piece.

“Don’t just name your art,” she had insisted. “Give people some guidance, some keywords, or shit, so they know they’re looking in the right direction.”

You had thanked her for the suggestion, even stared at a blank Word document for a half hour hoping to write out something helpful, but the words did not come. Behind each artwork yawned a question, dreadful and all-encompassing, and you painted in the hopes that someone, someday might answer. Maybe then you would finally understand yourself.

“There you are!” the curator boomed, peering around the doorway to where you crouched. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You won’t believe it. Every piece! Sold! Just like that!”

“I can believe it,” you breathed out around a last, lingering puff of smoke.

The curator’s beard twitched as he rushed to tell you about the phone call.  A mysterious figure had bid to buy every single painting on display for the full asking price. He hadn’t even tried to haggle! The man’s fingers waggled as he spoke as if imagining the bills he would count and caress once he received his commission for hosting your work. He led you back inside with a hand at your back and the promise of celebratory champagne.

Inside, the orangish lights cast your work in warm tones that drew out their vibrancy. People flocked to the paintings now that they saw the lauded stamp of approval beside each, the sought after “sold” sticker that warned them this was their last chance to see the collection before it was locked away forever.

The champagned tasted fine as it fizzed down your throat. Around you, the blogger and student journalist prattled about how artist patronage of this sort was so uncommon these days. The curator boasted how he put you on the map with this exhibit. Your show was officially a success.

When ten rolled around and the last of the patrons left the gallery, you and your friends made the short walk to Harmonica Alley, settling on the first empty bar you found. It was standing room only, so you formed a single column at the bar. Your group tallied six in total: you, your four housemates, and one of your housemate’s new boyfriend. An hour ago, you had texted an invitation to the jazz musician you were seeing, but he shot back that he was busy with a gig and couldn’t join. He promised to see you soon and capped off the message with a winking emoji.

The once quiet bar grew rowdy as your friends settled into place. All of you were artists, renting a house together, a commune of sorts for creatives not long out of school. You shared the two bedrooms on the second floor with Shiyuri and Kii, rotating the private room every month to keep things equitable. Then, on the first floor, you’d hung a curtain over what was probably meant to be a dining room to create a makeshift bedroom for the boys, Yuudai and Fujio. There was a basement as well, but by unanimous vote that was retained as a studio for your collective use.

By the time you ordered a third round of beers – on you and your new windfall you assured your friends – everyone was red cheeked and loud as only twenty-somethings on a Friday night can be.

Normally, conversation would turn to topics like whether the newest arthouse film was worth seeing, the status and inspiration behind your current projects, and any household gossip, but tonight your housemates were joined by Kii’s new boyfriend, Shinosuke, and he couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.

Who had bought all your paintings tonight? And why weren’t you more surprised?

Your friends exhausted that topic months ago but as Shinosuke was himself an art student, the kind who monologued about the virtues of sacrifice in the name of art, fashioning himself as a starving idealist in the vein of a young Yoshizawa Akira – as if his parents didn’t deposit a tidy sum in his bank account every month – he fixated on the night’s dreamlike events.

“I don’t know who bought them,” you admitted.

“I think it might’ve been that woman in the fur coat. She looked like she had money, and she said she liked the painting of the empty hallway,” Shinosuke said.

“No, no, we know it’s a man, and that he always orders everything over the phone,” Kii explained.

“Always? Wait, so this has happened before?”

You shrugged, too bored by the saga of your good fortune to answer, but Yuudai jumped in and answered for you, “It happens nonstop. Everything she’s put up for sale in the last six months. This mystery guy just calls right up and buys it all. I’ve been telling the universe to send him my way, but so far, no dice.”

Seven months actually. It had been seven months since the first strange purchase. The lack of name hadn’t seemed so odd then when the cash was warm in your pocket. Then, your next painting had sold within mere hours of debuting. Then, the next. The guarantee that your work would sell was why you could afford to exhibit in a real gallery in the first place. It also earned you enough money to pay your water bill, to no longer worry over the expense of new brushes or the cost of good tampons. You even stashed a little away in savings. Thanks to your mysterious benefactor, you were the most financially stable member of your art collective.

“How can you have no idea?” Shinosuke demanded. “How would this rich, art-loving guy even find you? And why would he buy up all your art?”

“It’s not that crazy. Some artists have exclusive patrons even today. It’s rare, but it happens,” you said.

Shinosuke pressed his stomach into the bar and leveled you with a smirk. “Sounds like a sugar daddy situation to me. If he has any hot friends, hook me up, okay? I’d sell more than my body to get my art out there.”

Dents in the shape of fingerprints mangled your beer can. Kii’s faux-outrage, more worried about Shinosuke pimping himself out than the insult to her friend, saved you from having to respond.

Maybe Shinouske’s dumb remark could be chalked up to male pride. It was the kind of comment that almost any male artist languishing in obscurity might make when faced with a woman’s comparative success. They all figured that success came entirely at their own expense, a kind of stolen recognition. The art world thrived on scarcity, and you didn’t entirely blame Shinosuke for his resentment.

But you wondered if Shinouske’s mind might circle sugar daddies for a different reason. Kii might have run her mouth about that time you slept with your professor.

(You hadn’t slept with your professor to improve your grades, mind you, or for any other professional advantage. You had slept with him because you were young, and you liked the way his hands shaped around clay in your pottery class. You had slept with him because it was lonely that first year at CalTech, where you discovered your English was less “conversational” than passable. You had slept with him because you liked the way he would gasp out, like a confession, that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with as you rolled around in cum-stained sheets that his wife would later clean. Like you said, you had been young. You would do it all differently now.)

The congratulatory beer doesn’t warm you on the way down. There wasn’t much to celebrate anyway when everyone took your success for granted these days, when your art would only be hidden away from the world in some rich asshole’s vault.

That was the other reason for the exhibit. You wanted someone, anyone, to see your work before it disappeared from your sight forever.

You excused yourself as if to the bathroom but made a beeline for the exit. A second cigarette laid crumbled in the pocket of your jeans, and since you were already off the bandwagon, you figured you might as well enjoy.

Thick cloud cover shaded the night in misty grays, but the moon glowed down unimpeded like someone had punched a hole in the sky just to let it shine. Still, the wattage of the moon couldn’t compete with the many LED lights that shone from streetlamps and storefronts alike. You had dressed for a warm spring night, but the wind had other ideas, stinging the bared skin of your arms and legs.

Once again, you struggled with your lighter, but before the spark could flicker to life, a hand, ghostly in the moonlight, held a flame up to your cigarette.

You screamed.

There were no blind spots on the narrow road, and there should have been no way to approach you without the sixth sense you possessed as a born-and-bred city dweller kicking in to warn you. Yet here stood a stranger. You raised a hand to your forehead to check for fever, wondering if you drank too much at the bar.

The man – because of course it was a man, you thought wryly – was shabbily dressed in a too-large black tee-shirt and joggers. The baggy clothes concealed his frame, but he looked small, shockingly so. Sharp clavicles jutted out above his shirt collar, and his gaunt cheekbones stood in sharp relief against a shadowed face. He might have been any age, a boyish prettiness put him in his early twenties, but his eyes…his eyes had seen things. Between his frailty and bottle blonde hair, he looked like he daylighted as a pretty boy idol.

“You scared me.”

He didn’t offer an apology. You couldn’t place what about this stranger unsettled you. The happy chatter of your friends drifted from the open entryway only a short distance away. Most of the other shops on the street were sealed shut by metal gates, but passersby ambled past the opening of the alleyway every few seconds. There was no rational reason to feel afraid, but you couldn’t escape the impression his icy smirk left on you, the impression of stumbling into a vampire movie and now playing the part of the woman who dies stupidly. His face of contradictions, his silent tread as he approached, and now, his undeniable presence all unnerved you.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the artist, right? Didn’t all your art sell?” the stranger jerked his head in the direction of the gallery.

“Yeah, yes, drinks on me tonight!” you said.

“Oh, thanks. But I’ll take a rain check.”

Reality rebalanced itself as you laughed. The only horrors that awaited you were the hangover symptoms sure to greet you in the morning. This guy was just some starving artist who stopped by for a drink after the show, same as you and your friends.

“I liked your show. I’m not surprised it sold out as fast as it did,” the stranger said.

You don’t deign to thank him in the same way he avoided apologizing for scaring you. Strange to start off a conversation on such a rude foundation, but the polite niceties seem superfluous when judged against this man’s innate intensity.

“What kind of art do you make?” you asked.

The stranger chuckled. When he shook his head, the messy blond locks that framed his face swung momentarily to shield his eyes. The fine strands looked baby soft, almost translucent.

“I’m no artist,” he said.

“Really? If you’re not an artist, why do you go to shows? Usually, the only people who come to these sorts of things are other artists or friends of the artist. I’m not a big name, so it’s not like I draw a crowd.”

“I don’t. I just walked into yours because it was there. First time I’ve ever done that.”

“Ah, so when you say it was good, you mean it was better than the alternative, which is nothing,” you teased.

“No. Your art moved me.”

Such simple words. Such black eyes. They could suck you in. Yet the sensation of falling was almost pleasant, a kind of indulgence that raised goosepimples up and down your arms.

“What…what about it moved you?” you croaked.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know anything about art, remember? I can’t explain it.”

“Nah, I’m sure you can. All theory does is teach people to lie about what they’re seeing. I mean, I love reading theory to spark ideas or challenge my preconceived notions, but I think it’s more helpful in the creation of art than in the understanding of it. You go to school, and they teach you how to contextualize everything within these discourses, even if they don’t actually apply to what you’re looking at. As if art isn’t a visual medium. All you need to understand it is to look. Or, well, at least that’s what I think.”

Another half-assed dissertation on your work would send you to the hospital. This man claimed to be moved by your art, and you wanted to know what he felt, not what sounded impressive to the ear.

“How to explain it? Looking at your paintings, those spiral things especially, it’s like they sucked me in. But, rather than pulling me outside of myself, they pushed me back into myself, like the block hole was inside me, and so to look at your art was to look at myself. Does that make sense? I never liked art growing up. I always thought it was stupid the way artists tried to make something beautiful when nothing they make could ever beat a sunrise. The world is beautiful, I thought, but humans? We’re too ugly, too corrupted to create something truly beautiful. Looking at your art, I don’t see beauty, but I do see myself, every ugly part, and there’s something beautiful in that. Almost.”

As he spoke, the stranger met your gaze with unflinching eyes. You swore they swirled with all the same power and loss as your paintings. True to his words, they sucked you into their depths.

“See, you don’t need to learn theory to talk about art. Actually, you kind of stumbled into centuries long discourses about the possibilities and purposes of representation in art. And, while I’m not going to agree that aesthetics don’t matter or that beauty is impossible – because, hello, I am an artist – I know exactly what you mean. There’s a theory called the Formulation Theory of Expression that basically just says art is an outward expression of the artist’s inward feelings. When I paint, it’s because there’s something inside me that I don’t understand, and when I put it on the canvas or whatever…I can look at it outside myself. And then, I feel like I can conquer it or at least live with it.”

At some point while you spoke, you wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing at chilled flesh. The cramped alley created a wind tunnel effect, directing all the elements straight at your lightly clothed body. The stranger’s eyes tracked your shiver.

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah, I think it might storm. This wind is weird,” you said.

“I don’t have a jacket to give you…” the stranger frowned.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“How about we take a walk? It’ll be warmer if we keep moving,” he offered.

You glanced back at the bar where your friends remained happily ensconced. Through the entrance, you could see Shiyuri flirt with the bartender. The bar shaded in yellows and reds looked toasty, the simplest way to warm up. Your stranger, on the other hand, looked cold and somehow otherworldly, like he could never join your friends for a pint and a chat, like he was meant to wander the streets like a wraith until the sun rose and dissolved him back into the sea.

“Why not? So long as we don’t go too far,” you agreed.

With an illicit thrum of adventure, like you were doing something naughty, you took the stranger’s icy hand in yours and led him onto the main drag. You debated whether to head to Inokashira Park to enjoy the moonlight on the water or the opposite direction to stroll the shopping on Sun Road before deciding on the latter. The man let you drag him along without complaint.

You set a steady pace until you reached the shelter of Sun Road. Glass paneling overhead blocked out the moon and shielded you from the worst of the elements. Soon, you were warm, blood pumping strongly in your veins, but you didn’t let go of the man’s hand as his fingers stayed chilly in your grip.

An hour passed without you accounting for it. Childhood memories of Osaka and the free-wheeling college years you spent in Pasadena, venturing into L.A. as the mood struck, provided a benchmark against which you judged all cities. Since moving to Tokyo six years back, you were sure of one thing. You loved Tokyo with your whole heart.

You loved its tall buildings, the character of those varied architectural styles that never sought unity with one another and made for such an ugly skyline. You loved that it made a wonderland of the skies, climbing up, up, up as the city grew ever taller, loved that it made a playground of the underground, carving shops and restaurants out of earth and rock to accompany the subway system. You loved its people, who set the speed and schedule of the city. All that life happening just outside your door if you only thought to look.

It was a rare treat to visit Musashino as you sometimes went months without leaving your district, let alone Tokyo, and as you wandered about, you considered that your love just might extend to Tokyo’s network of satellite cities, too, thankful for the supportive flavor they added to the place you had made your chosen home.

Your eyes feasted on the vibrancy around you: the messy mix of old and new, high and low – a fortune teller’s impromptu stand blocking the entrance to a Krispy Kreme, a high fashion boutique on one side of the road and a hundred yen shop on the other. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery only to be replaced by the heady scent of perfume from a department store a few steps beyond. A few shops had yet to take down their Golden Week decorations, and colorful carp streamers gaped with dumb open mouths down from those storefronts.

As you walked, the conversation flowed easily between you both. You would talk for a few minutes about aesthetics, and then he would return with a dazzling compliment, delivered as if it were the merest trifle, about how your art made him feel seen for the first time in so very long. He told you about old friends, who had insisted they understood him just because they were always looking but in reality, only saw the afterimage of the man he once was and refused to see the shell in front of them. You told him how you never felt less seen than after someone looked at your work, the contradiction and frustration of failing to communicate when you poured your soul into each piece.

You never talked like this with your friends. They would have called you pretentious, a death knell in your world, and scolded you for not appreciating the honor of even having an audience in the first place. The stranger, on the other hand, showed no signs of irritation as you unburdened yourself, your steps growing lighter and lighter with each confession.

Several times, you almost walked right into a trash can or utility pole. The stranger jerked you out of the way each time. After another near accident, your body bumped into his and stayed there, glued to his side where it was safest.

The many sights of the shopping distract were distracting enough, but it was the man’s eyes that increasingly tripped you up. They were all-consuming as they listened so intently to your every word. Yes, listened! His eyes rather than his ears received what you said. So black, they were almost a void. You wondered how you might capture them on paper. Charcoal was the obvious choice, but you doubted you would be able to render the nuances, the momentary flecks of light that warmed his haunted face and made the contrasting darkness all the more harrowing. Cold sweat collected in the creases of your arms if you stared into them too long.

“You know, I’m not always this moody,” you said, having just finished angstily opining against your audience. “I get anxious about showing my work, but on a normal day, I’m a lot of fun.”

“Oh, yeah?” the man hummed.

“Yes, very fun and bright,” you said cheerfully as if to prove yourself. “I’m a super fun friend to have because I love to go out and try new things, see shows, visit new places. And, I always have a ton of energy because I drink too much coffee, which now that I say it, doesn’t sound like a positive, but I swear it is. And, I am a great conversationalist, which…that one you already know.”

The ghostly facsimile of a smile brightened the stranger’s face as he said, “Well, I’m sold. You sound like a fun friend to have.”

“And you? Your turn to pitch me.”

“Pitch you?’

“Yeah, you now wanna be my friend, so you’ve gotta convince me that I want to be friends with you, too?” you teased.

“Your friend, huh? I guess that depends. Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

Thoughts of the jazz musician you’d been seeing made you hesitate. You thought of his fingers, so nimble as they danced across piano keys, his smile – cool and remote and the right kind of unattainable to make your heart race –, and his deep bass rumble when he got excited about music. You liked him, maybe enough to consider making him your boyfriend, but neither of you had broached the topic yet, and left in the no man’s land of situationships, you had no loyalties to betray.

Until now, you had balanced precariously on the line between friendly and flirtatious with this stranger, not entirely sure which direction you ought to tip. Despite his dismissal of aesthetics, the man’s face was certainly aesthetically appealing. Not merely handsome, but arresting, the kind of face you could stare at for hours. And, when he spoke about your art, your tummy buzzed with a feeling not so different from infatuation.

So, you answered honestly.

“Not really.”

The stranger nodded, once again quirking his lips into something that almost passed as a smile but didn’t penetrate his eyes.

“Well, what’s there to say about me? I have err, security, money, and time? I work from home doing IT stuff, so I set my own schedule,” he said, and then grew quiet for several long beats as he struggled to come up with more. “I…am a good driver. I have a license to drive cars and motorbikes.”

“Well, that does sound fun. I don’t have a license,” you giggled, and then you knocked your shoulder into his. “Come on, you’re supposed to be selling yourself to me. Tell me that you’re the funniest guy in every room or something.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. This dark and mysterious act is hot and all, but I want to know what you’re like on like a Wednesday afternoon not just on a Friday night when you’re brooding outside bars,” you said.

“I used to be fun,” the man conceded. “I was somehow always the leader in this friend group I had as a kid. People just looked to me. And I had all these dreams and ideas and the ambition to see them out. I was always reaching for something, and my friends were right there with me.”

“What changed?”

“My family died.”

“Oh my God!”

Stunned by the barefaced admission, you dropped his hand for a moment and then hurried to relace your fingers with his. Every time you compared him in your mind to a ghost or wraith or vampire returned to you. He wasn’t some dead thing but the very opposite, startlingly and devastatingly alive despite his loss.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed to say. “For your loss I mean, and for all those jokes. I didn’t mean to be such an asshole.”

“It’s okay. It’s been over ten years now since my sister died, so I’m used to living with it. I figured you would understand after looking at your paintings. I could tell you’ve lost people, too,” he said.

“Not really, actually. I’ve only lost a grandmother I wasn’t that close to,” you admitted.

He came to a halt, right in the center of the sidewalk and studied you. A generator, in the alley behind his back, whirred loudly. When you looked at him, the darkness of the alley seemed to reach forward as if to swallow him up.

“I don’t understand. Your art has so much pain in it. Grief.”

“It does in a way. When I was a kid, I went through this – and I’m so sorry, this is so awfully morbid after what you just said about your sister – but I went through this obsession with corpses. I would beg my mom to take me to cemeteries everywhere we went. We actually visited the one up ahead at Gesso-ji Temple once. I wasn’t obsessed with death but the corpse itself. I’ve always been fascinated by abjection, the revulsion we feel at something that was once the self, transformed into the other. It’s in most of my works, this interrogation of what is that which is no longer us. How much of the self is left in the corpse? It must not be much based on the way we react to them. Anyway, I guess I have this perversity in me. I can’t forget that everything ends even when I’m happiest. Especially then. So, I find myself mourning people that are still there. It’s kind of sick when you think about it,” you said.

Maybe that morbidity explained your love of Tokyo. A city on the verge. One seismic shift, and then, collapse. The Tokyo Skytree would fall, devastation, evacuation. An ending both symbolic and true. But until that day, it shone brighter than anywhere else, glowing like a beacon for whatever astronauts peered down from space.

Engrossed by you as if you yourself were a work of precious art, the stranger continued walking without once looking away from your face.

“That’s smart,” he said finally. “I wish I’d known to mourn people while I still could. I would have appreciated them more. Kept them safe.”

Persistent buzzing from your pocket reminded you that you were hardly appreciating your own friends. They probably thought you’d fallen in the toilet at this point. You asked the man if he minded and fished out your phone. There were four missed calls and ten unread messages. You skipped reading any as you could imagine well enough what your friends wanted and dialed Kii.

“Hey, sorry about that,” you said when she answered.

“Where are you? We wanna head home, and the subway’s gonna close in an hour.”

“I needed some fresh air and ended up taking a walk. Didn’t realize how long it’s been. If you give me twenty minutes, I can come back with you guys.”

“Well, you better. Don’t forget you’re paying!” Kii cheered.

As you chatted, the man loomed over your shoulder, or loomed wasn’t quite right. He didn’t have that tall, physically intimidating presence some men had. His stillness, however, was eerie, his ability to stand patiently as you made plans without fiddling with his own phone or scratching a single itch. The only motion he indulged was scanning his surroundings, dark eyes missing nothing.

“Sorry about that, but I have to get back. Walk me?” you asked.

The man hooked his elbow through yours this time, and you walked arm in arm back to the bar. He kept you busy with questions about how you learned to paint, your next collection, your hopes for your career. After hearing about his family, his reticence no longer struck you as weird, and you appreciated his desire to simply listen.

Exiting Sun Road, the night returned in full force. The cityscape was a living thing, loud with sighing exhaust pipes and gurgling streams overheard as you crossed over storm drains. You made sure to appreciate every moment of it.

Somehow, the hurried walk back felt longer than the leisurely, initial stroll from the bar. Time froze and then sped up when you talked to this strange man, but too soon, you were back. Sounds of your friends’ good cheer trickled from the bar.

“Well, I’ve gotta get back to my friends. Thanks for keeping me warm,” you said.

Once more, the stranger’s mouth moved, corners curling up, but this time, even though the air was still, you shuddered with your whole body. You had the strangest impression that he didn’t want to let you go. That he wouldn’t let you go.

This figment of your overactive imagination passed quickly as he merely nodded.

“I’ll be on the lookout for your next show, then. It was fun,” he said.

“Fun? You? In that case, why wait? Let me give you my number, and we can grab a drink sometime.”

You typed your number into his phone without scrutinizing the spontaneous decision beyond the basics that he was hot and his hand fit well in yours. He may not have been your usual type – not an artist, no messy bun, not a single name drop to Heidegger the entire conversation – but he was attractive in a midnight kind of way, and he saw something in your art that you wanted to see for yourself.

Watching his retreating back, you were struck by the thought that he might be what you had been looking for all this time.

“Hey, wait a second!” you called after him. “I just realized, you know my name, but I don’t know yours!”

“Sangawa Manaomi,” the man answered quickly. “But my friends call me Mikey.”

‘Well, friend, Mikey it is then!”

You would be waiting for his call.

[haveyoulistenedtothisalbum-poll]

Tracklist:

Jeopardy • Oh My Darling Don't Cry • Blockbuster Night Part 1 • Close Your Eyes (And Count to F**k) • All My Life • Lie, Cheat, Steal • Early • All Due Respect • Love Again (Akinyele Back) • Crown (Diane Coffee) • Angel Duster

Spotify ♪ Bandcamp ♪ YouTube

[justinssportscorner]

Li Zhou at Vox:

Caitlin Clark, a college basketball phenom and the top pick at Monday’s WNBA draft, will make a staggeringly low salary in her rookie year compared to her NBA counterpart. Despite her record-breaking performance in the NCAA and the energy that she’s generated for the sport, Clark’s base salary will be $76,535 as a rookie. In the NBA, meanwhile, the first draft pick is expected to make roughly $10.5 million in base salary their first year.

Players like Clark, who was picked by the Indiana Fever Monday night after multiple blockbuster seasons as a point guard for the University of Iowa Hawkeyes, and former Louisiana State University forward Angel Reese, who was signed by the Chicago Sky, have helped women’s college basketball achieve a landmark year. For the first time ever, the women’s final March Madness game, which drew as many as 24 million viewers, surpassed the viewership of the men’s final. “It’s been catapulted this year to a whole new level,” says University of Michigan sports management professor Ketra Armstrong. “People are tuning in to the WNBA draft that never had before.” The fresh attention for the WNBA draft, however, is also spotlighting the problems the league has had with pay equity. For years, the WNBA’s salaries have lagged the NBA’s by a massive margin. That’s due in part to the leagues’ differences in revenue and season lengths. But other factors, like differences in collective bargaining agreements and revenue-sharing, also play a big role. [...]

The pay-gap problem is bigger than any one player

Despite her record-breaking performance in the NCAA and the energy that she’s generated for the sport, Clark will earn less than 1 percent of what her male counterpart will make in her first year. She will be able to supplement her salary through endorsement and marketing deals, but even with those, her estimated earnings will be lower than the base salary of a first-round NBA pick. Clark isn’t alone. WNBA star Brittney Griner — who spent months jailed in Russia — spoke about the reason she played abroad in the offseason, and noted that a big part of it was to supplement her income: “I’ll say this ... the whole reason a lot of us go over is the pay gap,” she said at a press conference in April 2023. In 2023, a WNBA player made a $113,295 base salary on average, while an NBA player made an average base salary of $9.7 million. The NBA’s much larger revenue is part of the reason for this discrepancy: It takes in an estimated $10 billion annually, compared to the WNBA, which has been projected to bring in roughly $200 million. Its season is also about twice the length of the WNBA’s, including 82 games compared to 40 games. Those factors alone, however, don’t tell the full story.

It's a grotesque insult that WNBA stars (and potential stars) such as Caitlin Clark, Angel Reese, and Brittney Griner are appallingly underpaid compared to their male counterparts in the NBA.

The large gender pay gap between WNBA and NBA players is why WNBA players choose to play in overseas leagues during that league's offseason to supplement their income.

[holdontohopelove]

I think my biggest issue with the whole thing is that while the Season 2 finale is exceptional, it's only exceptional in the context of Season 2.

Let me explain.

I saw on X last night that people were raving about the finale, calling it the best Marvel work in years, the "Andor" of the MCU. And it was a blockbuster finale especially compared to some of the other studio projects lately.

HOWEVER, it's a good end for Season 2, if it was an anthology. Or if you came into Season 2 without much knowledge of or emotional investment in Season 1. Because Season 2 and Season 1 barely seem like the same show.

The new characters. The time splitting and the multiverse and the overall weirdness of the whole thing. Sylvie basically being a side character. Mobius and Loki being the dynamic duo of the season (Not bashing, just observing). The extra time spent on Timely and Renslayer and Ms. Minutes. Whatever was left hanging in Season 1 stayed hanging in Season 2 as Season 2 went in a totally different direction with totally different vibes. Quite literally, it felt like different branched timelines of the same fucking series.

So with that being said, the finale went perfectly with Season 2. It was, in some ways, exactly what was supposed to happen if you only look at Season 2. Loki saves his friends. Loki completes his "villain to hero" arc. Loki becomes the true god he was always capable of being.

But if you try to connect Season 1 to Season 2, the finale falls short immensely. Because no matter what or how you ship, very little of what went on makes sense in the context of the Sylvie and Loki connection. Yes, he sacrifices his life as it was and could have been for her free will and for her to live her life. Yes, he loves her too much to kill her. But everything else that Season 1 laid down - the nexus event, the "you go, I go", their magic being stronger together, Loki's obvious temptation at the two of them together on the timeline - Season 2 never picks any of it up. With the possible exception of Loki making the final choice so that Sylvie can be "okay" (and this is NOT said, just an inference on my part), none of it really connects.

Yes, he's a hero. Yes, he sacrifices himself for his friends. Yes, he loved Sylvie too much to kill her. Yes, the TVA is revamped and ready for Kang. Yes, Sylvie and Mobius get to live life with free will. But where, where was any of the resolution needed from Season 1? Like so many other people have said, even if EVERYTHING ELSE stayed the same, having Sylvie and Loki have a deeper moment when time was frozen, or a more meaningful goodbye, or ANYTHING that addressed the connection from Season 1 would have bridged the seasons. And truthfully, I think the strongest bridge between the seasons would have been if Sylvie chose in that moment of her own free will to stay with him. How do you spent one season building up these two characters as being so deeply connected and then basically have them never address that connection in the next season?

Separately, each season is amazing. But to try to put them together as one cohesive, satisfying series doesn't work at all.

Is it just me here? (No hate, please, I come in peace).