#blurred lines series

[whiskeynwriting]

Pedro Pascal Characters

Part One | Part Two

The Band Ghost Characters

Call of Duty

Star Wars

Marvel

The Boys

Other Characters

Series Masterlists

Themed Pieces

Kinktober, Daddycember, follower celebrations, reader-specific writing, boyfriend camera roles, character zodiac signs, Mando’a translations.

[acid-ixx]

gets fucking stabbed by damian and my last breath still be like "it's not his fault ! he is ten and was raised to be murderous since he was born ! kid entered a household where everyone ignores my existence, i don't blame him for assuming that to be the norm and acting evil to me so that he assimilates to his new environment ! bro literally went through the worst all his life so of course the way he expresses himself is harmful to others !"

and then i get stabbed again lol

— masterlist !

OH MY GOD PLEASE 😭 the gaslighting yourself is real, i'm telling you.

unfortunately, the reader's toxic mindset of justifying everything your family does is a common scenario for every time one of them fucks up; only in the past though. the present chapters will have you slowly realize just nothing really is ever your fault. that you've never once been in the blame for the actions of your youngest brother.

but right now, i want to focus on why you just seem to let damian go about his own crazy path of targeting you. and it's either it's because you have nothing, nobody else to fight back with you, or it's purely because you allow him to.

to destroy you, to make you suffer, to make you learn that you have no place, or standing in the family. and if you do have a place, it is at the rock bottom.

this is what damian is taught: the weak should be eliminated before they fester into some type of unnecessary cancer.

you're weak, when he first saw you, when you first approached him with your tail tucked behind your legs and an invitation to hang out together with the scent of cookies wafting in the air— he knows that it is you who will make him weak.

you give him temptations to be a child, he's raised to fight against it. he ignores the unwelcomed feeling of wamth that blooms in his chest, those are feelings that gets you killed.

so it's how the story goes: he brings his sword up to your neck, and sways his hands swift enough to make a small cut to ensure that the first thing you associate him with is fear. and for someone vulnerable like you, it doesn't take much before you quickly submit to the prospect of your place beneath a trained assassin like him.

he ignores the sudden pang of his heart and the aching, gnawing dread that chews at his mind at the memory of your widening eyes and the wobble in your steps.

it's already damaging enough to have the youngest be introduced and immediately accepted into the family, but it's worse when he's significantly younger than you, a boy nearly half your age; someone you've always wanted to have, to care for, to help raise and cherish... despises you from the start, before you two even formed a connection.

someone you once called your younger brother, now became an enemy in opposing lines in a place called home.

what would've been fine-tuned jealousy towards him because he was given everything in a silver platter turned into shame that you couldn't even face him, not right after he threatened to kill you, no... and especially not after you've convinced yourself that if you couldn't even prove your worth for a young boy like him, then you really have nothing good to offer.

you give him the autonomy to think it's alright, that due to his upbringing, alongside your naive brain always justifying that your other siblings are right, and you are in the wrong— he was given every opportunity to torment you when you even go as far as being in the same room as him.

and i have my receipts on why you're just like that; all in the grace of low self-worth and self-esteem. past you reasons out that it's because it's always your fault.

you couldn't even find a way to save your mother, you couldn't even establish your place in the manor, you couldn't comfort bruce when he was still not over jason, what more could you be when all you see damian as is a young, broken child like you? that behind that veil of threats and weapons ready to attack you, is someone you knew could've been different, if he was raised right...

if he'd given you a chance to help nurture the softer, more humane part of him.

you've always wanted a younger sibling, not only from back when you were just with your mother, but also when you were introduced to the manor. because not only did it mean that you'll know how your mother felt when she raised you, but because you thought you'd have somebody by your side throughout the silent torment you've went through.

and when you're graced with one, who doesn't even consider you his older sibling; you let it be.

you let him be himself.

damian wayne, demon's granson, the son of the bat.

so many titles he's called, but never one where he's your younger brother.

it doesn't help that you justify his past, because the man you idolize, dick, does so too whenever you try to complain. his excuses are never out of malicious intent to have you suffer further— it's just that he never once actually considered you as important enough to bat an eye on, like how the rest of them treat you.

because you know that even dick has his limit towards the youngest member of the family; he just never reaches it when it comes to you.

so if you have a person allow another to act terribly towards you, but have another, a friend or family, who teaches you that it's not right, who fights by your side; it wouldn't take long for you to also learn how to defend yourself then. you'll gain confidence that you're at least not alone, that your actions are completely valid.

... but if you have an entire family that couldn't even scold the boy for leaving a scar on your neck, who brushes his mean comments about you aside, who isolates you even further with malicious words that you know becomes crueler when targeted at you—

then you have no basis for what is right, and what is wrong.

and that makes your authority, your trust in yourself dwindle like your already crumbling relationship with all the others the further you try to fight back.

that's when you learn what it's like to give up, all over again. if you accept his vidictive insults, if you know your place to turn back if you see him in the same room, if you knew from the start that sometimes trying doesn't equate to succeeding; then it'll at least numb the pain that comes after.

for the entirety of your life from when damian was introduced, that was how you coped—

but your life after the manor, after damian matures and learns softness, about empathy (that he's buried long ago during his training from when he was all but a toddler) on your situation; reading your journal entries because he still felt entitled to due to some hidden, twisted trait of possessiveness... that's an entirely different story.

would you still be as understanding as you were back in the past towards him? would you still force yourself to love the demon you saw as just a little boy? or would damian finally understand that it's too late to turn back time, to correct all his mistakes?

either way, if you were capable enough to change (at least, in his eyes), becoming an independent person (you think, huh? your place is at the manor), then maybe you could give him a chance too, to fix your relationship and build a bridge to an even stronger one.

one where you could finally baby him, like what you've desired. one where he could feel vulnerable, when he learned that it's valid to feel weak— it cuts back to the previous points: you make him weak.

and when he's out to find you after going through every single diary, every entry, after deducing that there's still a small spark in your that'll forgive him if he tries; he refuses give up any sooner if it meant replicating the same warmth he felt when he stood by your presence.

so... you wouldn't want to leave your youngest brother waiting for you, don't you?

after all, it's just like what your entries told him, right? this is what you always wanted, right?

a/n: everyone is entitled to their own feelings about how i portray damian and mc's relationship!!! i love how all of you guys have different conflicting reactions to this. it's all so complex for me, how damian sees you as someone who's weak and makes him weak (he's just a stubborn little guy), and you, who sees yourself in damian, alongside the added desire to just have someone to care for (because you want to so badly honor your mother's memory), and that person also caring for you is ARGH!!?!

i apologize for my long rambles (if anyone wants me to cut back on posts like this, just tell me), i'm sure everyone is anticipating chapter 5 and possibly (soon) chapter 6 (since the drafts, not the final work is becoming too long). but right now, all i could provide are my depictions of the reader's relationship with every member of the family. i love to churn scenarios where it feels like you're actually part of the family so i'm actually manipulating all of you guys to become attached to the characters too, just to add an extra layer of angst, hehe...

[z0mbiew00d]

Southlands polycule but noones really sure who’s in the polycule and who isn’t

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blurred Lines 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: some more Nicky for the girlies.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Back to usual. 

You say goodbye to Joey with an especially clingy hug. She’ll be gone back to campus by the time you get home. Her short visits always leave you a bit sad.

You arrive at Nick’s place and let yourself in. The remnants of the prior day’s get together are still littered over the dining room table and throughout the front room. There’s more in the kitchen.

You gather the empty glasses and a few bottles with varying amounts of liquid still inside. You scrape plates into the pin and sweep napkins in after them. You fill the sink with warm soapy water to wash it all when you hear the soft but clumsy pad of feet on the stairs. They’re too light to be Nick.

You have the coffee brewing in anticipation of your boss’ hangover. The aroma wafts into the air as the machine clicks. A figure appears in the doorway and you turn to greet the woman in her sleek but wrinkled dress. This isn’t unexpected either.

“Good morning,” you greet her stunned eyes as she blanches.

“Um, I’m sorry, I was only–”

“Coffee?” You offer her as you open the cupboard, “look like you need it.”

“N-no, I… should go. Is there a Starbucks around here?” She croaks.

“No need, I can do lattes,” you offer, “he’s got this ridiculously expensive machine.”

“Er,” she looks down at the heels dangling from her hand then back to you, “sorry, are you… do you live…”

“I work for Mr. Fowler. Just the maid,” you assure her. Her assumption fills your chest with an unspent laugh. You’re far too old for Nick. Besides, the concept is ridiculous.

“Oh…” her single syllable dangles.

You pour her a cup and turn to offer it to her. Her mouth slants in a guilty smile. She shambles forward and accepts the mug.

“You take sugar, cream? Maybe some Advil?” You suggest.

“Oat milk? And yes please, my head is pounding.”

“Right, he has almond milk,” you open another cupboard and pluck out the ibuprofen, “or whole milk.”

“Almond is fine,” she accepts as you rattle the bottle.

“One or two, hon,” you ask as you approach her again.

“Two, please,” she inhales the scent of the coffee and sighs, rubbing her eye socket before extending her hand to take the tablet, “the whole bottle if I could.”

“Ugh, yeah, I don’t miss those days,” you hum and cap the bottle.

You put it away and go into the large fridge, taking out the carton of almond milk for the woman. You take it to her as she approaches the island to clink down the coffee. You watch as she adds the milk and takes a slender spoon from you to stir it in. She takes her first sip and moans before tossing back the pills.

“Coffee good?” You prompt proudly.

“Oh, yeah,” she looks up at you, “yeah, it’s great.”

“Took me a while to master the beast,” you point to the machine. “I finally got my ristretto down, too.”

She gives a nervous laugh and gulps again, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, “you’re nice… really nice. Why?”

You blink at her question. It makes you wonder, was Nick not nice? That’s not really any of your concern.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You shrug and turn to the full sink, “you’re a guest.” You plunge your hands in and scrub the porcelain, “plus, you kinda remind me of my daughter. I’d like someone to treat her nicely too.”

“Ah,” she accepts, “that’s really sweet.”

“It’s human, I hope,” you open up the dishwasher to slide in each plate.

“You really… didn’t have to make me coffee,” she murmurs.

You peek over at her as she stares into the depths. She seems sad but that might just be the hangover. You continue your work as you reply.

“It was already on. If you’re hungry–”

“Please, no, that’s okay,” she declines with a wave, “I think… I think I’ll just finish this and get an uber. Maybe go call my mom.”

“Well, you let me know if you need anything before you go,” you chime as you hook glasses into the top rack of the dishwasher.

You finish the dishes and grab a damp cloth to go wipe the table down. You stop by a few other surfaces to clear away rings from the finish and return to the kitchen. As you enter from the dining room, Nick appears in the other.

The woman faces him as she grabs her shoes, “hi.”

He growls and lumbers over to the coffee machine. He sees the mug waiting for him and peers into its empty body. You clutch the cloth in your hand as you watch his naked back tense. He wears nothing more than a pair of briefs. At most, you’ve seen him shirtless when he needs some stitches.

“More coffee?” You offer the woman.

“No, I should go,” she peeks at him nervously.

“Alright, well, you take care,” you bid her and take her cup.

“Thanks,” she says and skulks to the door, “bye, Nick.”

“Mmm,” he flicks his fingers at her as he pours himself a cup.

You narrow your eyes at his shoulder blades. That wasn’t very polite. Well, it isn’t your job to be his mother, even if it feels like it sometimes.

You put the almond milk away as he turns to lean in the corner of the counter. He presses the porcelain to his forehead and groans. You shake out the cloth over the sink and rinse it out.

“You have a daughter,” he states plainly. A question but not really.

“I do,” you answer evenly.

“I didn’t know that,” he says.

You shrug, “guess it never came up.”

"You’ve worked for me for three years…” he mutters.

“You never asked,” you say lightly, “it’s fine.”

He lowers the cup and slurps loudly. He swishes the coffee around before he swallows thickly.

“Your husband okay with you working twelves?”

You chuckle, “sir, really, it’s fine.”

His curiosity is not usual. You stick to the expected, the manageable. You don’t stray outside the lines. You’re friendly but you’re not overfamiliar. He always seemed to prefer that. He enjoyed talking about himself far more.

“You were busy yesterday,” he shifts his weight to one foot, his muscled chest rippling.

“I suppose as busy as you,” you roll in the racks of the dishwasher and add soap before closing it up.

“I… interrupted your plans?”

“Sir, it’s fine, I had a good day off and now I’m back,” you insist, “are there any other messes I need to worry about?”

He tilts his head and exhales deeply. His cheek dimples as he considers you. The cut on his head is exposed but not as bad as it was, though the bruise under his eyes has only gotten darker.

He scoffs as a smirk slants his lips, “sure. You could change my bed sheets.”

“Sure,” you accept breezily, repressing the glimmer of concern at the base of your skull. 

Something about his response seems trite, as if he means to insult you. You’re an adult, you’re less than shocked at his after hours play. By now, you’re quite used to it. He’s in his prime, he’s well off, and he’s handsome by anyone’s measure.

“You could try some witch hazel,” you touch your cheek then point at his, “for the bruising.”

“I can handle it,” he retorts and pushes himself away from the counter, “enough chattering. Get to work.”

🥃

You knock on the office door and wait for an answer. The little device you keep clipped to your belt is still buzzing with Nick’s demand. He calls to you from within and you enter.

“Sir?” You greet him.

“What took you so long?” He growls.

He’s in a foul mood. He has been all day. He can be gruff, you’re used to that, but today, he just seems prickly. His romp must not have been much fun. Come to think of it, his partner had been all too eager to flee.

You shake away the intrusive thoughts and clear your throat, “I was in the laundry room. Sorry.”

“My head is pounding,” he rubs his temples.

“Right, sir, I’ll bring you Advil and some water–”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” he snarls.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sure I’m a lot older than your daughter, so cut it out.”

“I wasn’t– sir, I’m sorry.”

“Go, get the pills,” he shoos you, “and call Rhonda.”

You nod and leave him. Wow. You don’t think he’s ever spoken to you like that. The mention of Joey also puts you off. Why is he so concerned? Most people could look at you and assume you have a kid or too. At your age, with your hips…

You go downstairs to retrieve the Advil and a tall glass of water. You climb back upstairs and follow the airy hall down to your office. As you enter, he sits with his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk. You don’t say a word as you set down the glass and pills.

He doesn’t move. You back away slowly and pull out your cell phone. You’ll call the masseuse, she should be able to work out the tension.

As you get to the door, he growls and his chair squeaks.

“You said something, about witch hazel,” he snarls.

“Uh, yes,” you face him, “it’ll take down the bruising.”

He narrows his eyes, the gesture tweaking his swollen cheek. Even battered, he isn’t unattractive. And the woman in his kitchen was just as gorgeous. So you find it hard to fathom why he’s in such a mood.

“Would you like me to get it for you, sir?” You ask, trying not to sound too pandering.

“Sure, whatever.”

You sweep away and go down the hall to the cabinet. You keep everything stocked well. Part of your job is inventory. You’ll have to go through the liquor bottles later and see what needs replenishing too.

You return to him with the witch hazel and a bag of cotton balls. You place them on his desk as he leans his head against the chairback, his eyes closed. You step back on your heel and his eyes pop open.

“Would you mind?” He motions to his face.

“Sure,” you take the cotton balls and pull one out.

You uncap the dark bottle and dampen the cotton with the liquid. His eyes close again as you sidle closer and you dab gently along his cheek. He flinches, just once, then stills. It must be cold. 

His eyes flick open again and startle you as you retract your touch. Awkwardly, you move away and gather up the bottle and bag of cotton balls. He’s quiet as he leans forward to grab the bottle of pills.

“I should’ve guessed,” he says as he shakes two tablets out, “that’s what I do. I read people. You’re a mother, for sure. She’s older, isn’t she? College? You had her young–”

“Sir,” you sniff, uncomfortable.

“Just the one. And you didn’t answer me when I talked about your husband so he must be out of the picture. Divorced. About the time you came around here, huh? You need the job after the messy break up,” he suggests as he wags his finger with a knowing grin, “probably another woman, huh?”

You blink. You’ll let him think what he wants. His opinion of your marriage isn’t important. It won’t do to correct him anyway. He doesn’t really seem to care, he just wants to wound. You just can’t figure out what you’ve done to deserve it.

[artbyblastweave]

Many years ago J. Michael Straczynski wrote a miniseries for Marvel's MAX imprint called Supreme Power, which was itself a spin on the classic Marvel Faux Justice League The Squadron Supreme. And in this miniseries you've got a Flash Expy, The Blur, who in a very compelling way is like the inverse of A-train from The Boys. They're both black speedsters from impoverished backgrounds who use their powers to become walking billboards instead of going directly into conventional superheroism- at least in part because there isn't actually a lot of call for conventional superheroism. They even share a color scheme.

But unlike A-Train, whose moral core is thoroughly corroded by celebrity, Blur's apparent crass commercialism ends up being thematically linked to the fact that he's easily the most moral and considerate of the entire first wave of superheroes, because he's literally the only one of these people who's ever had to work any kind of day job, and thus the only one who's really in any way beholden to the logic of human society and its associated common courtesy.

[markofcastiel]

I was sick for 3 weeks in December so I call this my fever dream series

[athousandbyeol]

>> a boss and a babe episode 7 | stills

[artekai]

OC-tober (late) Day 1: Fave OC

Here's some old art of my favorite little guy I never posted. You can really date it by my old url, his hairstyle, the artstyle, and the fact that its caption was originally supposed to be "RIP the internet, Artekai would've loved you 💔"

Alt w/o the black and white filter under the cut

[whiskeynwriting]

What songs inspired your fics/series?

1. My Best Friend’s Dad Series

Main line of inspo...

"Don't blame me, love made me crazy. If it doesn't you ain't doin' it right. Lord save me, my drug is my baby, I'll be usin' for the rest of my life."

2. Blurred Lines Series

Soooo many lines in this song, specifically...

"Are you gonna kiss me? 'Cause you're takin' me home. It's four in the morning, are we doin' this wrong?"

"Let's fuck up the friendship, come get in my head. Baby, cut the tension. I'm hung by a thread."

3. Insatiable Series

A couple in here, too...

"Why don't you put me up in your chateau? Then you can show me off to all these hoes, And charge admission."

"I keep him inspired, put my pussy in a frame. Tell me I'm a perfect beauty, Dit moi en français."

No pressure tags 🥰 @kteague @loversandantiheroes @moralesispunk @movievillainess721 @nicolethered @radiowallet @toomanystoriessolittletime

[antihibikase-archive]

Guy who is Every Protagonist Ever

[whattadroid]

watched After Yang and feeling absolutely destroyed by the implications of it all !!!!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blurred Lines 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: double chapter day! Thank you to @alicedopey for the ask! I see you girl.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Cotton drags over tinted skin, flecks it red catching along with the new blood trickling from the split. A hiss passes through clenched teeth despite your gentleness. The act reminds you of when your daughter was only six, crying over a scraped knee as you covered it with a Spongebob bandaid. You don't have any of the yellow strips now, just the roll of gauze and medical tape.

"Ah," Nick clenches his jaw again.

"Sorry," you murmur, "it needs pressure."

You push your thumb against the cotton and he winces, forcing a smile as he crackles out a chuckle.

"I can handle it, honey," he assures you as you hold the cotton above his brow, his other brilliant eye looking up at you. "Just like you handle me so well."

You don't respond. Your boss is a mercurial man. One moment, charming, the next rigid and ignitable. You've learned it's better to just go along with whatever mood he's chosen.

"Other guy looks worse," he remarks as you lift the cotton.

You nod, "I'm sure, sir."

He laughs again, closing his eyes with a sigh. He sits reclined in one of the leather armchair, his head tilted as you tend to him. It's after midnight. You're supposed to be at home sleeping. Your daughter's coming back from college for the weekend, you planned on brunch.

You sift out the box of slender steri-strips and bend over him, carefully sealing the gash above his brow. He's a handsome man. Objectively, you must admit it. Dangerous, too, but you don't wonder about the cuts and bruises. He has a shining badge that tells you more than enough.

"Hands of a goddess," he purrs as he opens his other eye again.

You stand and gather up the waste, packing away the medkit. You thank him plainly and fight the urge to look at the clock. You wad up the used gauze in your fist.

"Sir, is there anything else tonight?"

He lifts his head, both eyes on you now. He considers you as he sits straight and grips his knees. He stands and shrugs, spinning on his heel and striding to the mirror hung on the wall, just above the low table decorated with brass and oak.

"Did I interrupt you?" He asks as he checks his reflection. His left cheekbone is purpled and scraped.

"No, I was only sleeping," you say. You try not to let on that it doesn't come easy or often for you. It's not his concern.

"Mmm," he squints at himself and winces as it tugs at his wound. "Well, you can find an extra room here, drive back in the morning."

"That's kind, sir, but I'm okay," you back up, "I'll clean this up and go if there's nothing else."

"You'll just be back tomorrow," he turns and crosses his arms.

"Um, it's my day off, sir."

He clicks his tongue and nods, "forgot."

You force a small smile. No big deal.

"Got big plans then?"

You hesitate. He doesn't usually ask. You shake your head. You don't think he really cares.

"Would you like some scotch before I go then?"

He inhales, chest rising deeply before falling again. He drops his arms and slips his hands into his pockets. One tail of his shirt is untucked and his jacket is splotched with dark stains. He is sauvely unkempt.

"Sure," he grumbles as he paces before the artificial fireplace.

You dip your chin and leave him. You toss away the garbage and tuck away the kit. You wash your hands before you return to the den and take the thick-bodied decanter from the cabinet. He stands with one hand on the mantle as he stares at the floor.

You pour him a glass and bring it to him. He accepts it without looking up. You ask him if he wants the rest left out for him. He says it doesn't matter.

You bid him good night as he resumes his pensive trance. The adrenaline slakes away and now he's coming down. He'll be in for a good sleep, a lot better than your own. You'll be lucky to get a few hours before you're due to meet Josephine.

🥃

You smile across at your daughter. Every time you see her, she seems more grown up than the last. She has a pretty flower pin in her hair and her lips are glossed the perfect shade of rose. She reminds you of your age, both in a good way and a bad way.

You don't fail to notice the other looks in Josephine's direction. Joey, she corrected you when you picked her up. The changes in her make you feel stagnant. You suppose that comes with age too. You're done blossoming, you only have the wilting ahead of you.

"So, exciting," you say as you pinch the stem of your glass, a pair of mimosas between you as you await your entrees, "you got an internship."

"Um, yeah, it's not bad," she pushes her shoulders up, "my boss is okay, I guess."

"That's good, most bosses don't earn much more than 'eh' as a rating," you kid, "sorry, kiddo."

"Mom," she warns.

"I know, sorry," you correct yourself, "I'll try not to do it again."

You remember being her age. Caught in between adulthood and childhood, not wanting to be reminded of the latter.

"It's fine," she sighs, "I just... I'm trying to be a grown-up, you know?"

"Oh, you've got lots of time for that, Miss Lawyer," you trill, "you are very grown up. You know that, don't you? I'm so proud of you."

"Still got a far way to go," she sips from her own glass. You couldn't have ever imagined your daughter with prosecco sparkling in her hand, but there she is. You almost can't believe she's yours. "Let's talk about you. That's a lot less stressful."

"Ha, but boring," you roll your eyes. "You know, same old."

"Oh, trust, I could tell by the dark circles."

"Oof, you did not," you cackle, "Josephine-- Joey."

"You should try some vitamin C cream--"

"Don't," you warn her with a point across the table.

She giggles and her eyes flit around. There's something else. Something she's not telling you. But she wants to.

"What's going on?" you prompt.

"This is such a nice place," she looks at the table and fidgets, "thanks for breakfast, mom..."

"But..." you add on.

"I... hate to ask but..."

"You need money," you utter, "that's okay. We can make it work. What's it for?"

"Books," she says, "I kinda ran out before I could buy them all, so..."

"That's okay. I'll see if I can't get a few extra hours at work then."

As if he could hear the very allusion to his existence, your phone flashes with a private caller. It's Nick. It's only ever him. You flip the phone down to hid the call.

"Take it," your daughter insists, "it's fine."

"No, it isn't. It's my day off. It's our day," you say, "it can wait."

She smiles. She's so pretty. You can't help but feel inadequate next to her; your own daughter. She's young and vibrant and you're wearing a blouse you bought a decade ago that squeezes your middle a bit too tight.

"Like I said, I'm boring," you sit forward, "tell me about the good stuff. The juicy stuff. Any boys-- or, men?"

"Mom," she snipes.

"What? I gotta live vicariously through you."

She rolls her eyes, "no."

You laugh. You always loved teasing her. She's hard-nosed and too focused to worry about the piddly troubles caused by boys. Or...

"Any girls?"

She looks at you with fire in her eyes. Ah, that's it.

"What's her name?" You goad.

"No, it's nothing. We're not even-- I mean, there's no one," she takes another gulp of her mimosa.

"Sureeee," you drag out the word teasingly, "how many more of those to spill?"

"Enough," she warns, "what about you, huh? You seeing anyone besides your soap operas?"

Now it's your turn to frown, "no," you answer evenly, "I... don't think that's in the cards for me, honey."

"Mom, it's okay," she softens her voice, "dad wouldn't... he would want you to be happy."

"Mm, he would, but he was my happy," you bat your lashes against the singeing heat. "I'm okay, really."

"You deserve someone," she says. "You don't have to be alone."

"I am alone, doesn't mean I'm lonely," you deflect. "Anyway, let's enjoy this. I don't get enough of you."

"Alright, twist my arm, I'll settle for free mimosas and a breakfast bowl," she gives a snarky grin.

You smile. She's the hope you have left. You hope that she never goes through the same pain again. One loss is enough for both of you.

🥃

Joey orders and Uber and you sidle in next to her. You clutch your phone over your purse as the haze of the mimosas fogs in your vision. You may have indulged a bit much.

Your phone shines and you look down. 'Private'.

"I see what you mean about bosses," Joey chides.

"It's not-- not a big deal," you dismiss the call.

"Mom, maybe it's an emergency," she sniffs, "he's been calling a lot."

"He's an adult, I just sweep up his crumbs," you wave her off.

Your phone lights up once more. You're starting to get paranoid. Still, you have to maintain boundaries. Today is your day off.

You exhale and sit back. You watch the city smear by and yawn. The restless night tingles on your eyelids.

Finally, you get to your apartment and slump out of the Uber. You stop as Joey helps you tip the driver with the app and you carry on into the lobby of your building. The feeling of the world passing you by lingers beyond the car ride.

Upstairs, you get Joey settled into the room you haven't changed since she left. She puts her bag on the bed and hangs out in the living room as you put on a pot of coffee. It's too early to be this tipsy. You yawn and your phone once more comes to life.

You swipe it up and tell Joey to help herself to the coffee as you sweep out of the room. You head down the hall and step into your bedroom as you answer, "Mr. Fowler."

"You're busy?" Nick asks.

"It's my day off," you say firmly.

"Yes, we talked about that."

You're quiet. Confused. You try to recall the last time he bothered you outside of work. When you're not being paid for it, you never really hear from him.

"Is something going--" you stop and suppress a hiccup. It's more dehydration than the alcohol. "On?"

"I have guests coming," he says, "thought you might like some overtime."

"Oh, sir, I'm sorry, but--"

"Clearly you're disposed," he says tersely. Is he mad?

"I wasn't expecting--"

"It's fine. It was an offer. I can manage on my own."

"Of course, sir, I wouldn't--"

You flinch as the line cuts and the call goes dead with a bloop. You pull the phone away from your face and furrow your brow. Really? He hung up on you.

You toss your phone on the bed. Whatever. Forget him. Even if you weren't three glasses deep, you wouldn't leave Joey just to kowtow to his pretentious friends.

[strayslost]

i've seen the theory that fyodor's essentially going to "possess" sigma so to speak in varying different places now and i am so scared. and kind of excited.

[we-are-all-of-legend-now]

Currently reading: I was broken, numb to want and desire, but then he came along...

Three years after the tragic events of Anna’s sixteenth birthday which saw her boyfriend killed and her kidnapped by his sadistic murderer, she’s no longer the happy-go-lucky girl that everyone used to know and love; she’s now cold, hard and suffers from night terrors.

Carter is currently serving time for the murder of Jack–a conviction that Anna helped secure–but his retrial is coming up because some key evidence appears to have been tampered with.

Needing to ensure his daughter’s safety, presidential candidate, Senator Spencer, tasks in Ashton Taylor, a newly qualified SWAT agent, to guard the broken girl and keep her safe until the end of the trial.

For three years Anna has refused to feel emotion or pain. Can Ashton help her rebuild her life and finally deal with the grief of losing her childhood sweetheart? Will he be the one to make her see that life is, in fact, worth living and that not all men will hurt her?

Author's note: This edition contains Part 1 (Guarding the Broken) and Part 2 (Blurring the Lines) and combines them into one novel of epic proportion!

[retiredcultistredux]

Prince fluff please be quick kirby and hyness are in danger.

Also, good luck with Ester.

Prince Fluff: "Yeah, I know--"

He rolled his eyes before scoffing, which led into him ranting as he ran down the hall.

[...Yeesh.]

[techtechonmymind]

wait this is fun 😭 i didn’t realize the only friends opening theme was khaotung’s own song