#dc oc facts

[flickynightdarkness]

DC OC Fun Facts

Scotch Tetch – His favourite animal is rabbits, it is shown on that he even has a big collection of small rabbits

Bowie Tetch – He is in a romantic relationship with his childhood friend Rosa Hearts. The two share their interests of Alice in Wonderland series.

Rosa Hearts – She is shown to be really nice to Bowie and his friend Bonita and acts as a older sister like figure to the two

Talon Cobblepot – He is able to communicate with his birds by making sounds, birds make

Meredith Miranda – She can also speak Japanese

Evelyn Wesker – Her friends and herself refer to as Evie. While Ventriloquist, Scarface, Michele and Michelle refer to as Evelyn

Benjamin – He has an unnamed cousin who was unfortunately at a young age

Rosa Hearts – By Bowie's mind. She bares a resemblance to The Queen of Hearts from Alice In Wonderland

Trace Dent – Since she wears the same clothes and has a two faced scar like her adopted father. She really hates anyone who thinks that she is definetly related to him

Ray Nygma – Though he is skilled at making riddles and playing games of all kinds. Ray is even skilled at inventing machines that can be useful for him and Riddler

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 3

Again, the timing is icky but pretty much everything about it is icky.

——

Bruce wondered when Talia al Ghul would stop upheaving his life.

He loves Damian, but one surprise child was a lot, considering the cult deprogramming they’d had to do.

A second, older, surprise child? That was a bit overkill.

At least this time, the conception was consensual.

Bruce cradled his head in his hands, still-gloved fingers gripping onto sweat-soaked hair. The glow of the bat computer shone on his lone figure, sat huddled before endless screens of investigations and the unraveling threads of Bruce’s sanity.

How was he to cope with the knowledge that a child- his child, like Dick and Damian and Tim and Jason and- suffered so at the man he thought he had beaten so soundly?

It was his fault, Bruce thought, that Ra’s al Ghul tortured his… Bruce’s… daughter so brutally. It was no doubt, a way to assuage his anger at Bruce’s denial of being his heir.

His mistakes always came back to haunt him, but it never laid its furious eyes and hands on his own person. No, when Bruce made mistakes, his loved ones paid for it.

He tried his best, pushed harder as Batman, in penance. But this… his unknown daughter, trapped in the shadows of the league where it is cold and cruel and brutally painful…

How could he repent for the sin of letting his daughter suffer and chained at the hands of Ra’s al Ghul? How could he show her that the shadows could be kind? That he would rather break his own spine and get lost in the time stream again before he could even fathom hurting her? He found himself stuck in the same loop of thoughts that plagued him when Damian first came into his orbit.

The screens turned black, and Oracle’s call sign flashed onto the dark pixels.

“Oracle. I hadn’t finished looking at the cases.”

“Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“No, there is still work to be-” his voice, dipping into the growl, died a quick death when Barbara cut him off.

“Your daughter is coming tomorrow. So, unless you want to look like a disheveled grease racoon when you meet her, go shower and get some actual sleep.”

Bruce paused, feeling oddly offended. His eye bags weren’t that bad.

Bruce caught sight of his reflection in one of the blacked out monitors.

…Nevermind.

He sighed. “…Thank you, Barbara.”

“Anytime, Bruce. I’m always here to kick your ass into gear.”

Bruce huffed, but obligingly got up to change and shower. Alfred silently appeared at the elevators, polished shoes tapping against the stone floor as he raised an imperious eyebrow at Bruce.

“I see Miss Barbara has managed to persuade you to retire at an hour common to regular man, Master Bruce.”

“Ah, yes, she… did.” Bruce felt the urge to apologize, because if Alfred’s up because of him, it’ll wear down harsher on the older man’s health. If there was one thing he took seriously, it would be the health of his loved ones. “Sorry, Alfred. I’ll head up to bed soon.”

“See to it that you do, Master Bruce. I will warm dinner that you had missed by many hours and bring it to your room.”

Bruce lingered as the butler turned around and began making his way back to the main house.

Alfred paused and turned around once more. “If I may offer you some advice?”

“Please. Always.”

Alfred sniffed delicately, most definitely thinking of the times Bruce decided not to take his very well reasoned and seasoned advice. “You have done well with Young Master Damian.”

“Most of that was Dick,” Bruce interrupted, man enough to admit that he wasn’t a present or a particularly good father figure before his jaunt through time and space. Alfred shot him a chiding look, reprimanding him for interrupting. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Perhaps, but you have put in effort towards all of your children in a way that I have yet to see since Master Jason had… gone.”

“I’ll never make that period of time up to Tim.” Bruce whispered. Another thing he was guilty of. Tim still avoided some spaces in the manor, even when Bruce had-

“That is because you sit here, wallowing in your guilt,” Alfred returned. He added a belated “Master Bruce,” and it sounded like ‘you utter buffoon.’

“But…”

“You must take the first step, Master Bruce.”

“What if she hates me? What if I’m not ready- what if I can’t help her?”

“You will try. She deserves that, at the very least. You must try. Even if you are not ready for the day, Master Bruce, it can not always be night.”

“… You’re right.” Bruce straightened his shoulders. Time doesn’t wait. He, of all people, knew that.

“You will find that I am hardly ever wrong.” Alfred primly rested his hands atop each other.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course. It was also meant literally, Master Bruce, for the sun shall try its best to peek out of Gotham’s smog in approximately three hours and fourteen minutes.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Bruce grouched.

——

Her mother gave her a slow, cautious hug, akin to approaching a wild animal.

She huffed, and pulled her mother into a crushing hug. She allowed herself, for the first time in a long time, to linger and cling onto her mother’s shirt. Another tendency that Ra’s had thought he’d beaten out of her.

“Be careful,” the reincarnation whispered.

“You as well, my beloved daughter.”

‘You do not have to remind me that I am beloved, mother. I know.’

Talia al Ghul tucked a strand of the reincarnation’s curled hair behind her ear. “No, I do not believe that you do. But that is… my own fault. I will tell you and remind you that you are beloved to me as long as I can. I have two decades of it to make up to you, habibti.”

The flight attendant- a League operative- returned from placing her bags onto the private plane.

——

A sleek car made its way up Wayne Manor’s winding driveway. She’d declined the offer to pick her up from the airport. She had wanted a vehicle of her own, and some time before she met every one else. No doubt, knowing what she knew of her brother and Bruce Wayne, not to mention the little photographer, they were most likely tracing her path to Wayne manor obsessively.

She tapped her nails on the wheel as she drove towards her brother. Brothers. And… Bruce Wayne. On one hand, she’s kept them safe. On the other, she’d sacrificed years of getting to know them. It was odd, to feel this intensely awkward and nervous after years of intense hatred or apathy sprinkled by the the occasional love and fondness for Damian and her mother.

“Hmmm.” She hummed, slight smile spreading a bit more as the sound came out without pain. Two weeks, and the novelty of freedom had not worn off. She thinks that it would never wear off. She cherished it.

The gate had opened without needing a code, so they most definitely knew she was here. It’s a good thing she had prepared gifts in advance. Dodging Gothamites as they drove and jaywalked had been a rather unforeseen ordeal that she was not looking forward to repeating.

She rolled to a smooth stop at the front doors, giving the intricately carved oak doors a passing glance. She huffed a laugh as she saw Damian, flanked by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, staring proudly outside at the front door. They’re anticipatory of her arrival. Warmth spread through her heart, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the heat of rage.

She opened the doors with a quiet click and hiss, stepping out onto the heated paved driveway, and closed the door. At the steps, the two older men had frozen but Damian had come walking quickly towards her.

“Damian,” she whispered as he came near her, suffusing as much fondness as she could into his name. Her little brother all but sprinted towards her, screeching to a stop in front of her with excited eyes.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, ukhti.” He said formally. Her eyes softened and she pulled him into a hug.

(yā waṭawāṭī alṣṣḡīr is the phonetic spelling.) ("وطواطي الصغير" is the actual spelling. I think.)

“I have missed you, ya wat-wat alssgirr,” she whispered. The familiar endearment, “my little bat,” rung warmly like a warm crease ruffling his hair. The silks of her clothes and the ever present warm sand and candle scent wrapped around him like a hug… like the hug she was currently giving him.

(Her clothes were in blues and silvers. It suited her, she who had been forced in green and golds and cuts of black.)

“I still can not believe you all but told me who father was and I still could not figure it out until mother told me.”

She pulled back. ‘Damian, you were five.’

“I have little doubt you were smarter at my age, ukhti, so do not lie to me.” Damian grumbled. Nevertheless, he stepped back.

‘No, you were smarter.’

And to her, he was. It’s not like Damian had the edge she did, and he wasn’t the one trapped for twenty something years. She had foolishly thought that Ra’s wouldn’t dare to harm her too much, seeing as she was his blood, but Damian knew from day 1. She made sure he did. If she was half as smart as Damian, she would have bent her knee and obeyed, no matter how she felt about killing. She would have taken warning Ra’s issued and soaked in the poisonous praise to bide her time to escape. She could not- she did not- do what Damian found effortless, and paid the price for it.

“Unlikely,” Damian said, turning around fully, but she could see the tips of her brother’s ears burning. Ah, perhaps she had been to stingy with compliments if he was shy hearing a mild one, sincere as it might have been. “This is Alfred Pennyworth. He is the butler, and an integral part of the family.”

Damian glanced at her, taking in her suddenly impassive face, and nods. Good. His attitude towards Pennyworth when he first arrived was… mildly shameful. His ukhti was smart enough to know that and therefore he won the argument.

On her part, the reincarnation followed along like she hadn’t mildly stalked this family for decades. It was nice to see excitement rearing on her brother’s face. It was rare in the league and Gotham’s gloom had ironically cheered him up far more than the suns of desserts ever did. She nodded at Alfred Pennyworth, who had admirably recovered from his earlier shock.

“And this is… Bruce Wayne. Our father.”

She tucked a strand of curled hair back, impassive blue eyes meeting her… father’s.

She offered him a short nod.

——

“My word,” Alfred Pennyworth muttered as his charge’s (his son’s) daughter step out of the car. Her steps were silent, graceful, and lighter than a gazelle.

The way she moved, even as she hugged young master Damian, whispered of leashed lethality and treacherous waters. She moved like if grace had a form and Alfred was willing to bet his entire career that not an iota of air got close to her without her knowledge of it, and it reminded the aging man of the young Miss Cassandra. He knew then, that she could have pretended to be unassuming and that he would have had a hard time equating her with danger. That she showed them her potential for death was a sign of trust.

But it was not the way she claimed death as her own name that caught the former spy’s attention.

No.

It was her blue eyes and the way they ever so slightly crinkled fondly as she laid eyes upon her younger brother. It was the way her hair, curled in a nostalgic style, that curtained her face as she spoke to the young Wayne heir, though he could not hear her voice. It was the way that she tucked Damian against her side, protective but encouraging.

It was the way that she, despite Talia al Ghul’s features, resembled his dearest friend, Martha Wayne, in her every movement.

Alfred Pennyworth felt like he was decades younger, standing before Martha as she fondly tucked Bruce against her side and successfully needled Thomas into going to see Bruce’s favorite movie.

It felt like he had his best friend once more, just a little.

From the way Master Bruce stared, it seemed as though he thought the same.

Alfred straightened when young master Damian introduced him. He was the Wayne Family Butler. And she was definitely a Wayne.

Master Bruce stood there like a lout as his daughter greeted him. Alfred shot him a scathing look- he had taught Master Bruce much better manners than to gape, the nerve!- before smoothly directing the attention away. His hands moved as he spoke.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, Miss-”

She made a sharp motion to cut him off and signed something. Alfred might be a tad rusty in Arabic sign language (like he and the rest of the family hadn’t spent the last two weeks frantically memorizing and brushing up on their sign language) but he knew a name sign when he saw one.

“al Ghul.” Damian recognized. He did not use regular Arabic Sign Language with her often, vastly preferring their own established sign, but that did not mean he slacked. “You may call her al-Ghul.”

‘Or nothing at all,’ Damian’s sister signed. She looked at him like she was waiting. A test, Alfred realized.

Alfred pushed the slight twinge of disheartening disappointment away. He had wanted to call her Miss Wayne, to perhaps indulge in a bit of nostalgia for a while longer. But he shan’t do it at the expense of his charge.

“Miss al Ghul,” he continued, not missing a beat, imitating the name sign with pin point accuracy. She lifted her chin. Alfred sighed in relief. He passed. And now, perhaps he should revive Ra’s al Ghul and have a nice, entirely civil conversation about Miss al Ghul’s expectation that her wishes would go ignored.

Alfred will bring his shotguns and most likely would abandon pretenses as soon as that old goat got into his crosshairs. Old as he might be, he was still a very good shot, and civility was reserved for those with honor.

“Please head inside. I am sure young master Damian would love to guide you on a tour,” Alfred continued like he didn’t think of violent second deaths for Ra’s al Ghul. “Perhaps Master Bruce will join you, if you are amendable, once he has managed to stop imitating the rather life like form of a smooth brained sloth.”

Alfred congratulated himself on the small crinkle of humor that graced Miss al Ghul’s otherwise expressionless face. Well, expressionless to those that did not know where to look. Fortunately, Alfred and the rest of the family were used to stoic caveman micro expressions, courtesy of Bruce, and therefore it would not be much of a problem.

“I will bring your bags up to your room.”

She scrutinized him and then dipped her head.

‘Be careful. There are dangerous things in there.’

“I assure you the utmost privacy in regards to your belongings,” Alfred said.

“Pennyworth will not peruse your belongings, ukhti. He has more honor and respect than that.”

Alfred would like to interrogate Talia al Ghul to see who he must introduce some lead to, that clearly disrespected Miss al Ghul’s privacy like so. But for now, he will bask in the warmth of young master Damian’s implicit trust.

Miss al Ghul nodded. She opened the trunk of the car- the interior of which Alfred could now perceive to be entirely customized and of extremely quality material. She handed the keys and gave him access to her luggage. Then, placing her hand at young master Damian’s shoulder, followed the young master into the halls where she ought to have been raised. Or, at the very least, ought to have taken a step in at least once before today.

Master Bruce lingered at the doorway, torn between following the siblings and helping Alfred with the luggage (read: running away.)

“The daylight is wasting, Master Bruce.”

Master Bruce skittered in behind them like a newborn colt, wobbling and anxious.

Well, it’s time for Alfred to do his job. There was only a single duffle bag.

Hm. He’ll have to tell Master Bruce to take her out for necessities. He hardly doubted that a single bag could last her very long. And Alfred Pennyworth was hellbent on convincing his granddaughter to stay, may the gods have mercy on whichever poor soul that tried to convince her otherwise for he won’t.

——

She followed Damian as he led her deeper within the walls of a home she knew by heart from afar. She was like the little photographer in that way. Bruce Wayne trailed behind them like a particularly awkward ghoul, and she found it amusing to equate this turtle necked man was the illustrious Dark Knight. How dangerous.

“This is the first parlor. It is for guests of the… regular persuasion.”

Ah, for the civilians. She nodded.

“Ah, the silverware was selected by Alfred.” Bruce interjected, gesturing to the display silverware by the door. Their cabinets were intricate without taking away from the paintings upon the delicate ceramic.

She looked at him, wondering why he was following before giving up and nodding. It was his house.

(Bruce, for his part, felt like his daughter had laid judgement upon him… and found him lacking.)

‘It is… adequate.’ She sighed to Damian. Damian tutted.

“It’s fine to say quaint, sister. It could hardly compare to the palace.”

Bruce jolted, plans for converting the manor into a palace already in the making.

No, he couldn’t. Alfred would murder him with his favorite dish.

‘I like it, even if it is smaller.’

“….you do?”

‘You are happy here. It is warm to you. I like it.’ She repeated.

Damian latched onto her sleeve. “I- I shall show you my art. And then introduce you to the rest of the bumbling fools we have for brothers-”

She tilted her head. Bruce paused as well when Damian’s words cut off.

“If… you want them as brothers. It would be… helpful, to integrate.”

She waited.

“But… I am the first. Your blood. And-”

‘I will make room in my heart for them, if you wish it. I already know some of them.’ She allowed a small smile to show. ‘But that does not mean you will ever lose your place, little bat.’

Damian felt extremely thankful that father had not managed to pick up their version of sign language yet.

“Well… as long as you’re aware.” He marched further into the manor. She followed, once more, a look of fond indulgence gleaming in her eyes.

——

She stood in front of a painting her younger brother had done.

‘I made it two weeks ago,’ he’d told her, fingers curled into her palm.

It was green. She hated green. And gold. And ominous. Rage. Harsh, bold strokes and spots where the texture of the canvas were either globbed over or painfully showing through.

Her hands traced the single stroke of blue amidst the turbulence of green.

She tucked Damian against her side and realized that perhaps he understood after all, what it felt like. Perhaps not all of it, but enough.

——

“Here is your room, ukhti.” Damian stood watch as his sister scanned the room. She quickly removed three listening devices as Damian sighed.

‘You’ve gotten better.’ She crossed the room and plucked the listening bug from its place on the door frame.

“Clearly not good enough.” Damian huffed. “But I have beaten your knife game record. What do you think of the room?”

His sister rolled her eyes and handed him a blade she pulled from somewhere on her person.

An implicit challenge.

“No cutting your fingers off, please.” Father interceded.

“Begone, father. We are doing sibling bonding, something I remember you insisting that I participate in.”

Damian shut the door on his stupefied face, matching his sister’s sharp smirk as he splayed his hand on the dresser and raised the blade.

——

Alfred walked in with a covered plate and paused at the sight of the dresser.

Then, he looked on as Damian sat at the desk, rapidly signing to his sister in their own version of the language as said sister pulled out an entire wardrobe and a half to fill in the walk-in closet.

Alfred made a note to study some more magic.

“Miss al-Ghul. I bring you a snack that young master Damian made and to inform you that the others will be arrive en masse, within an hour.” Alfred paused. “Might I interest you in a mat before the two of you decide to… take a gander at furniture redecoration in the future?”

“Of course, Pennyworth. Apologies.”

“I’ll try to make sure they won’t overwhelm you. They can be a lot, at once.” Bruce said from the doorway. Miss al Ghul glanced at him and dipped her head in thanks. Her eyes wandered right back to the dessert.

Alfred made another note.

‘You made this for me?’ She asked, switching to standard.

Damian grumbled. “Do not eat it. I could not get the spice quite right, no matter how many variations…”

‘I am sure it will be good.’ She took the plate from Alfred’s hand and uncovered it.

They all had the fortune of witnessing a true, genuine wide eyed smile from a stoic face.

Alfred inhaled sharply. He had thought Master Bruce and young master Damian had inherited Thomas’ dimples. But she had inherited his entire smile.

‘Bstilla!’ She turned to Damian. ‘My favorite! You made this?’

“I know that. I am not incompetent as to not notice when you snuck three of them from the palace kitchens. You must give me the recipe from the cooks. I could not get it to taste like the spices they used. I even imported spices!”

Miss al-Ghul, like she had forgotten he and Master Bruce were there, stabbed a fork into the pie and put it into her mouth.

“Ukhti! Don’t- do not eat that! Spit it out! The pastry is too thick and-”

She held up her hand. ‘It’s good. I know what it is missing.’

She strode to her magic bag and pulled out a bottle.

She sprinkled flakes on top and offered a forkful of b’stilla to the young master who, shockingly, did not insist on his own utensil.

His expression lightened. “This is it. What is it? You know of the chefs’ methods?”

She sprinkled the mysterious spice on the food. ‘You’ve never eaten anything the chefs have made. I made your food by hand to prevent assassinations and inoculate you against toxins. Also, this is poison.’

Alfred stiffened.

“It’s what?!” Bruce spoke up, rushing into the room, finally to try and look Damian over.

‘It is fine. He has been immune since he was three.’

Miss al Ghul placed a piece of poisoned b’stilla in her mouth and ate. Young master Damian batted his father off, saying that poison inoculation was hardly a surprise. What was a surprise, though, was something else.

“That is- you- you’re the one who made my meals?” Young Master Damian demanded, looking guilty. “But- I- why did you not tell me? I made all of those demands in the middle of the night- what about the time I sent back the knafe fifteen times?”

She nodded.

“Why would you- why did you not tell me?”

‘You knew what grandfather thought of women. And besides, it was the only time I was allowed sweets. He did not want me to ruin my figure as it would lower my marketability.’

Alfred itched for his gun.

“You are not a commodity,” Master Bruce stated, intense as he tended to be. Miss al Ghul blinked at him.

‘… I am aware. But… thank you.’

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” And there went the emotionally intelligent Master Bruce. May he rest in peace until the next time he decides to make an appearance.

“I believe today is a chocolate chip cookie day, do you not, young master Damian?”

“Yes, Pennyworth, I believe it is.”

‘I have never tried it before.’

“You will love it. Pennyworth’s cookies are the best in the world, as is expected.”

Alfred watched as young master Damian tugged his sister out and marveled. The sides of his grandson they rarely get to see was so easily pulled out by his older sister.

——

Y’all I wanted to write her meeting the siblings but Alfred came out of no where and went haha nope feel the angst of a man who lost his best friend and had to raise her vigilante child.

Alfred, seeing Bruce put on the bat cowl for the first time: martha, why have you forsaken me

——

Me: what would baby assassins play as a binding game?

Me, remembering my past as a kid: I Spy, but with trackers and bugs. oh wait… THE KNIFE GOES CHOP CHOP CHOP

——

Also, I think B’stilla was food meant only for royalty and was probably rooted in slavery, so I thought it would be a meaningful nod to her position of privilege and how she are like a king but was treated as a… bed warmer and a slave. Yeah. If anyone knowledgeable on food history wants to school me on b’stilla, feel free to do so. I did like, a cursory research at best.

[bobbinalong]

Prompt: Steph's baby meets Ace the Bat Hound

I don't know how long it's been since you sent this, anon, but here's Allie and Ace (instant best friends) and, as a bonus for the wait, Allie and Bruce (she hates him) (or maybe she's just teething) (Steph thinks it's funnier to think she hates him).

[babygirlhaljordan]

since damian doesn’t really have his own green lantern, i decided to create one: tala >:3 more information can be found here about her but a very basic summary can be found here.

tldr version: tala is a 13-15 filo-american that uses her green lantern abilities to be a magical girl bc she’s a HUGE anime fan. with damian also being an anime fan… u can imagine the chaos that ensues

damian & tala hcs

hal jordan is her mentor, so you can imagine the amount of annoyance damian holds for her. much like her mentor, she’s impulsive and acts before she thinks. but she has a big heart and always aim to do the Right Thing. much like batman, damian often insults her but unlike her mentor… she never really catches it. if she does, she’s left unbothered

damian follows her tumblr + ao3 acc. he did it to figure out her secret identity but she all she does is post about anime & write precure fanfiction. he does NOT find anything useful except what she believes is the Correct Ships for sailor moon

they discuss anime together. while tala leans more to the magical show genre, she enjoys shoujo. and with a lot magical anime girls being apart of the shoujo genre they are able to bond >:3 she makes damian watch anime and unlike hal, he’s able to follow up with what’s going on. she gets so excited about that and declares him as her “best friend” (he refuses the title but can’t help but feel warm and fuzzy inside)

being the youngest in the family… they complain about older siblings. while tala only has one, that one is equal to damian’s 5… her sister makes fun of her interest in anime (despite watching it with her in the past. so, if anything, her sister is a hypocrite)

damian actually enjoys some of the fanfiction she wrote. he actually makes fanart for her works. and when they get older & tala needs a job… she becomes an author and damian (who wants an outlet for his superhero work bc that shit is stressful!) is an illustrator for her works

i imagine they’d meet thru being apart of a team together, all with heroes their own age and NOT friends with damian’s other family members bc i’m tired of him being friends with characters that were initially the other batfamily’s teams (kory for jason, raven for damian, etc)

it’s great for both of them because neither have worked with a team before outside of their own mentors (hal jordan or bruce wayne/dick grayson) with other members they’re challenged to work with new ppl (which u often deal with in life threatening emergencies) + learn from each other

[nubimera]

Sometimes I think about my DC oc and hope that my space cuckoo and their husband Jason are okay

[dyxtd21]

Fact: The Nine Tales Council (Parti Sapphire, Cornflower Blue Sapphire, Padparadscha Sapphire, Purple Sapphire, Pink Sapphire, Black Star Sapphire, Green Sapphire, Orange Sapphire and Yellow Sapphire) act like step-mothers to the young Damian Wayne.

They absolutely adore and spoil him, thinking he's the most precious thing to ever exist on the planet. Damian is shocked by them at first but then gets accustomed to them and doesn't mind them. He likes their attention, sometimes.

Scenario:

Bruce, reading the newspaper in the morning while noticing Damian getting ready to leave: "Now, where are you going off to, Damian?"

Damian, casually: "Just to go and visit my nine step-mothers."

Bruce: "Ah, alright then."

A long pause as Damian's words fully hit Bruce.

Bruce: "Wait! Wha-"

But, Damian has already left, leaving Bruce stunned and speechless, even confused as well.

Nine step-mothers? That's...not right. Who are they? Bruce thought, still grappling with the words of Damian's.

Alfred walks in the dinning room: "Master Bruce? Please do not tell me that you haven't noticed about young Master Damian's meetings with the only anthropomorphic female Kitsunes council? The Nine Tales Council, I believe?"

Bruce, thinking hard as of now: "No, I have not."

Alfred, in disbelief: "Oh, Master Bruce. What am I going to do with you?"

[muppet-facts]

Muppet Fact #846

Miss Piggy performed "Dance Me If You Can" with the Cheetah Girls.

Source:

Studio DC: Almost Live. Hosted by Selena Gomez. October 5, 2008.

[vioranhyperfixation]

Damian on one of his mission, just disturbed a human action and currently handling the legal procedures with the police.

Random police : huh. You're really good at doing your thing. Okay, I'm in.

Damian : the change i know what you're talking about is 50%, but unfortunately I know what you're talking about. But what value will you bring?

Random police : I'm desperate, I will do anything.

Damian : good enough. What's your name?

Random police : jake,

Damian : okay jake, pack your things and goes to the airport lobby exactly at 4 P.M. one of my agent will pick you up.

Somehow by some turn of event, jake get assigned to gotham. And support red hood because he is his boss somewhat sibling, and he's not that bad, and when his boss found out he give him bonus! He like his new boss. He really know how to his things.

[songsofbat]

dontcha have...otha friends like...aside from carnival?

...

I'm not friends with Carnival. How many times do I have to elaborate that we are acquaintances at best?

Why are you so interested in whether or not I have friends.

[gothamiiz]

Fun fact did y'all know I have a non functional lung and half my intestines underdeveloped

[gotham-crow]

Edit: ooc post

Just finished reading a crow facts article thing and trust ill have a whole post about the ideas it spawned in me, but one thing really excites me and my phones about to die so imma talk about this real quick

Basically my oc comes from a wealthy Gotham family, but a "cursed one" for the last couple generations maybe, the majority of the children in the family have died at around 14 years old. No one knows what causes it, the family keeps the detains quite to protect the privacy of the grieving.

Turns out, the wealthy family isn't actually doing the best financially. To make up for this, they have taken to selling their children to the jonathan crane, who eventually becomes the scarecrow, to use in his expiraments for a high price.

(This comes from crows in the wild having a life span of 7-8 years but in captivity of 30 years. All they need is to be taken care of)

[flickynightdarkness]

Fact about Laurent Crane and Lauren Crane!

Though most of the time, they are humans. It's happened to be a mere disguise, because they have actual forms, it is said by them that they were a demonic curse placed by their cult's leader; The Eye Lord. They turn into this form whenever they feel angered or getting the intent to kill someone.

They use that form instead of fear toxin/fear gas. As it said that tend to get violent with fear, because that is the way of what their concept of fear looks like

[khyiratw]

ᴏᴄ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴡ/ ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ <3

ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏ ʙɪᴏ ʀᴜʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏʜ ᴡᴇʟʟ. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇꜱ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ. ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟꜱ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏᴏ, ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ʜᴜɢ��� ʙᴏɴᴜꜱ. ;ᴘ

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴄ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴛʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ᴅᴄ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ! ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ. ʙʀᴀɪɴꜱᴛᴏʀᴍɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴄᴏꜱᴛᴜᴍᴇ ᴅᴇꜱɪɢɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ɪꜱ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ʙʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ! ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ. :')

ɪ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴡʜɪᴍ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴏᴅʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏꜱᴛᴜᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴅ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ! ɪ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛ, ɪ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙɪᴛ ʟᴀᴢʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ, ꜱᴏ ʜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴜʟᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴅᴏᴏᴅʟᴇ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ. <3

ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴇ (ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ), ꜱᴏ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴏᴡ ᴄʜᴜɴᴋʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɢᴀʟ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ɴᴜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇx ᴀꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙʀᴜꜱʜ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛᴏᴏ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴀ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ "ᴛᴇᴇʜᴇᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ʙᴀᴅ ʙɪᴛᴄʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɢᴜɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ". ;-;

ᴄʟᴀʀɪꜰɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱ/ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇꜱ. ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘʟᴀɴꜱ/ɪᴅᴇᴀ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀᴀʟʟ ᴅᴄ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ɪ ᴍᴀʏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ɪɴ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪɴᴊᴜꜱᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴋʜᴀᴍᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴀ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴄᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ɪ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴꜱ, ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟʟʏ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴜꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍʏ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏ ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ɪꜱ ꜱᴀɪᴅ.

/// ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ \\

💄 ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴇ ʏᴇᴏɴ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴠꜱ ᴏʀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍ.

💄 ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇʀᴏ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱ ɪꜱ ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ꜱᴡᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ, ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ ʀᴏɢᴜᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ʙʏ ᴄᴀʟʟɪᴏᴘᴇ ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ. (ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅɪᴠᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴀꜱꜱᴏʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴀʟʟɪᴏᴘᴇ ʟᴏʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ;ᴘ)

💄 ꜱʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʜᴇʀᴏ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀɴʏ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ʜᴀʀᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ, ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟʏ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴡᴀʏ. ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ꜱᴡᴀɴ (ᴡᴇʟʟ, ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ).

💄 ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀʜᴇʀᴏ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʙʏ ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ (ᴅɪɴᴀʜ ʟᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ). ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ ᴛᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴅᴀʏ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ'ꜱ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ, ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʀᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀᴇʏ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛᴀɴᴅᴇᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀʀᴏᴡ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴏɴ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴꜱ.

💄 ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴛᴀʜᴜᴍᴀɴ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ʜᴀꜱ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴄᴀᴘᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴡᴏ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ꜰᴜʀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɴᴏᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀᴋɪɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ꜱɪʀᴇɴ'ꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇʜᴏᴡ ꜱᴄᴀʀɪᴇʀ; ᴀ ᴠᴏᴄᴀʟʟʏ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ɪɴꜰʟᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴇᴛꜱ' ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪꜱᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴏʀᴄɪɴɢ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴꜰʟᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟᴇᴄᴛ ᴄᴏᴍʙɪɴᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴇ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ᴄᴏᴍʙɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏʏɪɴɢ ��ɪᴛʜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴏᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ. ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴘᴜʟʟ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ. ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɪɴ ᴀ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴍᴇꜱꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴅɪᴄᴛᴀʙʟᴇ. ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ʀᴏʟᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴇᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ. ᴀʟʟ ɪᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪɢɢᴇꜱᴛ ᴡᴇᴀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ. ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ, ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴏʀ ʙᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴꜰʟᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏɴᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛ. ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏɴᴜꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ᴠᴏᴄᴀʟ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜʀᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ ᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴏʟʟ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴛᴀɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ᴘᴇʀɪᴏᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ꜰʀᴇQᴜᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴅᴜᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅᴜᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴇ ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ. ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ꜰᴏʀᴍ. ᴀᴛ ʙᴇꜱᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴏʀᴀʀʏ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴀɴ ᴏᴘᴘᴏɴᴇɴᴛ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴜꜱᴇꜰᴜʟ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴜɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ��ᴇꜱꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ.

💄 ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴘʟᴇɴᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ʜᴀɴᴅ-ᴛᴏ-ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ᴛᴇᴄʜɴɪQᴜᴇꜱ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴏᴘᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴜꜱᴇ ɢᴜɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ ɴᴇᴄᴇꜱꜱᴀʀʏ. ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴇᴇɴ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴄᴜꜱᴛᴏᴍ, ᴘɪɴᴋ ꜱɪɢ ꜱᴀᴜᴇʀ ᴘ365ꜱ. ᴀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜʏ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴄɪᴛᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ɢᴜɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀɪʟꜱ ɪɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ. ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ "ᴡʜʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ"?

💄 ɢᴏɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇɴᴛɪᴄᴇꜱʜɪᴘ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ. ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴜɴɪQᴜᴇ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ 13 ᴏʀ ꜱᴏ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴇᴅ ᴀ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴇᴛᴛʏ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴꜱ. ᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ʜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴛɪᴄꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴇꜱᴄᴀʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍɪᴛ ᴘᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴛʜᴇꜰᴛ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴛʜᴇꜰᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜰᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀʏ. ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ᴀᴠᴇʀᴀɢᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ɪᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴀꜱɪʟʏ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪꜰʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀʟʏ ꜱᴜꜱᴘɪᴄɪᴏᴜꜱ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴇʏᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ. ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ʟᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ʙʏ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ, ᴀꜱ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ ꜱᴀᴡ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴀɴ ᴜʟᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴜᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏʀᴛꜱ. ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏʀ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀᴠɪꜱɪᴏɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜰᴛ ʙʏ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴅᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴʏ ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴇQᴜᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴋɪᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ'ᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ, ɴᴏʀ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ'ꜱ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ. ᴀᴛ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴡ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ꜰᴀʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ. (ꜱʜᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜰᴛ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇʟʏ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʀɪᴄʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ɴᴏᴡ. ^^' ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰʀᴇQᴜᴇɴᴛʟʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ.)

💄 ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʜᴇʀᴏ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴋᴇʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ. ʜᴇʀ ꜰʟᴀꜱʜʏ ᴄᴏꜱᴛᴜᴍᴇꜱ, ᴏᴠᴇʀ-ᴛʜᴇ-ᴛᴏᴘ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴇɴᴅʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ᴀᴜᴅᴀᴄɪᴏᴜꜱ. ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ' ᴄᴏꜱᴛᴜᴍᴇꜱ ʀᴀʀᴇʟʏ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴛʀᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴘᴀʀᴀᴍᴇᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘɪɴᴋ, ꜱʜɪɴʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴇᴅʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ. ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ɪᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛɪᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴜᴍʙ ɪɴ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴅᴀᴍɴᴇᴅ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴊᴏʙ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ꜱᴇxʏ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ꜰɪɢʜᴛꜱ, ꜱʜᴇ ꜰɪɢʜᴛꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴇʀ ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ᴜɴɴᴇᴄᴇꜱꜱᴀʀʏ ꜰʟᴀɪʀ. ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ᴏʀ ꜰᴀɴ ᴇᴅɪᴛ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. ᴏʜ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀꜱꜱ? ɪᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴇɴᴅꜱ. ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ? ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴛᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴏʀ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ ꜰʟɪʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴘᴘᴏɴᴇɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱᴋɪɴ. ʙᴇɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴠɪᴇᴡᴇᴅ? ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘᴏʀᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ʀᴜɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴍᴏɴᴇʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴛᴠ-ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴇʀᴏᴇꜱ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ? ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʟɪᴘ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ.

💄 ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴀʟ ʜᴇʀᴏ ᴀᴍᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ᴄʜᴀʀɪꜱᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴅʀᴏᴘ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ɢᴏʀɢᴇᴏᴜꜱ, ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ? ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ɴᴀꜱᴛʏ-ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅɪɴɢ ʀᴜᴍᴏʀꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ʙᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟꜱ, ᴅᴏɴᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴛʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏᴜᴛʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍꜱ, ʀɪɢʜᴛ? ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴜɢʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀꜰᴜʟ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ʙᴇ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴ ᴇᴛʜɪᴄᴀʟ ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ (ꜱʜᴇ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴇᴛʜɪᴄᴀʟ ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ); ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʟᴜᴅɪᴄʀᴏᴜꜱ. ᴘᴜᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴅᴇꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ (ᴏʀ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴇxʏ) ᴘʀɪᴠɪʟᴇɢᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴛᴀɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ. ᴡʜʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ꜱʜᴇ?

💄 ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴅᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪᴠᴇ ꜱɪʙʟɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ᴀ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ-ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴋᴏʀᴇᴀɴ-ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴡʜʏ ʜᴇʀ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ. ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴋɪᴅꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ-ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅɪɴɢ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴍɪꜱᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴏʀ ᴍɪꜱꜱᴘᴇʟʟᴇᴅ.

💄 ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ' ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ʙᴏɪʟᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ, ɪᴛ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴀɴʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ. ᴡʜᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ. ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ, ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜɪʀᴇꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜱᴜʀꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴄᴜᴛ-ᴀɴᴅ-ᴅʀʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʜᴏᴛ ɢɪʀʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ʟᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴠᴜʟɢᴀʀ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀʟʏ ꜰʟᴀᴍʙᴏʏᴀɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʀɪᴅɪᴄᴜʟᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴᴄʟɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴏᴠᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛᴏᴘ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ. ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ʜᴇʀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀ ʟᴇɢ ᴜᴘ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ʟᴀᴅᴅᴇʀ, ʀɪɢʜᴛ? ᴡᴇʟʟ, ʏᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏ. ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴜᴛᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴀᴛᴛɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴄᴇꜱꜱᴀʀɪʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛᴇɴꜱ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴀꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇʀ ꜱʜᴇ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏᴜᴛʀᴀɢᴇᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀʀᴄᴀꜱᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀᴇxᴀɢɢᴇʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴇɢᴏᴛɪꜱᴍ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇʟʏ ʟᴏʏᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ; ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴇxᴘᴇɴꜱᴇ. ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜꜱʜ ᴀ ʙᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ᴜᴘ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴘᴘʟʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ. ɪʀᴏɴɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ ꜰᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀɴ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ʙᴏᴏᴋ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘʟᴇɴᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ, ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ, ʟᴇꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴛᴀɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴏʀ ꜰᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀʏ. ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀʟʏɪɴɢ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ʙᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ɪꜱ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴜɴᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪꜱᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ "ᴊᴏᴋᴇꜱ" ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴏ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏꜱ ɪᴛ ᴏꜰꜰ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. ᴘᴜᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ, ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪꜱ ʜɪɢʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ɪꜱ ʟᴏᴡ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀʟꜱᴇ ᴇɢᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴇɴᴅꜱ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɪɴ-ᴄᴏꜱᴛᴜᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴘʀʏɪɴɢ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ. ᴀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏᴜᴛʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏʀᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ꜱᴀᴅɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍ��ꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟꜱ (ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ᴛʏᴘᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟꜱ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴠᴇʀᴀɢᴇ ᴛʜᴜɢꜱ), ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ' ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʟᴏᴏꜱᴇɴꜱ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛʟʏ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ʟᴏꜱᴇꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴢᴇᴅ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀɴɪᴀᴄ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ɴɪᴄᴇ. ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡᴀʀꜰᴀʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴛᴀᴄᴛɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀꜱ; ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ʜᴏʀʀɪꜰʏɪɴɢ ᴀᴍᴏᴜɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴄᴜᴍʙᴀɢ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ʜᴇʟᴘʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙʀɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴊᴏʏ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏᴋᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ɢʟᴀᴅʟʏ ᴇxᴘʟᴏɪᴛꜱ ɪᴛ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇꜱ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴛᴇʀʀɪꜰʏɪɴɢʟʏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋʟᴀꜱʜ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ… ᴜɴꜱᴀᴠᴏʀʏ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ɢᴇᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ.

/// ꜰᴜɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛꜱ / ᴛʀɪᴠɪᴀ \\

💄 ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴏᴘᴇɴʟʏ ʙɪꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʀᴇQᴜᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴅᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴍᴇɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴏᴍᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ɪᴛ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ᴘʀɪᴅᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ ʙᴏᴛʜ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏꜱᴛᴜᴍᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ɪɴᴄᴏʀᴘᴏʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʟᴀɢ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴅᴀʏ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ. ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴅɪʙʟʏ ᴜɴᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢᴇᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴀꜱ ꜰᴀʀ ᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴇᴅ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ ɢᴏ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ.

💄 ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʜᴏᴘᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ᴅᴇɴʏ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀꜱʜ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴛ ꜰᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʏᴘᴇ ʙʏ ᴀɴʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜱ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇʜᴏᴡ, ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ꜰɪɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ. (ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙᴀᴅ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʀᴇ ᴍɪɴɪᴍᴜᴍ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʜᴀꜱ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ᴠɪᴇᴡꜱ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ.)

💄 ꜱʜᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʀᴀꜱʜʏ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɴᴏᴛ. ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴ, ɪᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ-ᴀ-ꜱʜɪᴛ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ. (ʏᴇꜱ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅꜱ ᴛʀᴀꜱʜʏ ʙᴏᴏᴋᴛᴏᴋ-ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴍᴏʀʙɪᴅʟʏ ᴄᴜʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʀᴏᴀꜱᴛ ʙᴀᴅ ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ.)

💄 ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʀɪᴅᴇ ᴍᴏᴛᴏʀᴄʏᴄʟᴇꜱ, ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛᴇꜱʏ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴀɴᴀʀʏ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ. ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴜꜱᴇꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙʀᴀɢɢɪɴɢ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ʙᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ꜱᴇxʏ ʙɪᴛᴄʜ ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜱᴇxʏ ᴀꜱꜱ ʙɪᴋᴇ? (ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇꜱ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟ ʜᴇʀ ʙɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴇxʏ. ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ.)

💄 ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ-ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴘʟᴀʏʟɪꜱᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ ʀᴀɴɢᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴅᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ ꜱᴏ ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛʟʏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ɪᴛ'ᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ ʙʟᴜꜱʜ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀʀɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀʟʏ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴜx ᴏɴ ᴛʀɪᴘꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴏʀ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴘᴀᴄᴋ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙɪᴋᴇ.

💄 ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱ, ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛᴛᴇᴅʟʏ, ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪɴᴀɴɪᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ ꜰɪʟʟ ᴀ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ, ꜱᴏ ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢʀᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ. ʙᴇꜱɪᴅᴇꜱ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ.

💄 ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱɪɴɢʟʏ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟ. ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ʜᴀᴛᴇꜱ ɪᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀꜱ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ʟɪꜰᴇ. ʙᴇꜱɪᴅᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ɢᴜʏꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄʀᴇᴇᴘʏ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴꜱ, ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴅɪꜱɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀʟʏ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ.

💄 ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰᴇᴅ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟꜱ, Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀᴍᴏᴜɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴇᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ. ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴄʜɪʟᴅɪꜱʜ, ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ʜᴀᴘᴘɪʟʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴘʟᴜꜱʜɪᴇꜱ.

💄 ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʜᴇʀᴏ, ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀɪᴏᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ, ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ɪɴᴛᴇʀʀᴜᴘᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜱʜᴇ'ʟʟ ʜᴀᴘᴘɪʟʏ ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ.

💄 ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ɪꜱ ʀᴏᴜɢʜʟʏ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋ-ᴘᴏᴘ ɪᴅᴏʟ, ʜᴡᴀꜱᴀ. ʙʏ ɴᴏ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴇʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴡᴀꜱᴀ ʜᴀꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀɴ ɪɴꜰʟᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴠɪꜱ' ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ.

ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴏɴᴇ… ᴍʏ ɢᴏᴅ. ɪ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʙᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴀ'ʟʟ ɢᴏᴛᴛᴀ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴇꜱꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ. :')

ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜʀꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ- ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ.

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ, ʜᴏᴘᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴍʏ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴜɴʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴᴀʙʟʏ ʟᴏɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴜʏꜱ' ꜱᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪɴᴇ. 'ᴛɪʟ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ! <3

[dubjtodd]

I need to leave Gotham

[saltycharacters]

[ID: Digital artwork featuring two bipedal feline characters, one dark grey and striped and the other red and lynx-like. The dark grey one is sporting a captains hat, coupled with a simple earing and belt, baring her teeth at the audience as she extends her claws. The much shorter, red one has some patterns sprinkled on her, both spots and stripes as a particularly large one makes a target-like symbol on her bangs. Both characters have their bangs covering their right eye. End ID]

Feline cousins

[kanerallels]

The Kanan as a Lunar Guard au as requested by @seleneisrising for my 501st follower celebration!

Quick warning: This au is a little darker than most of mine. Most of it is fine, but there is some violence and blood, and some death.(caused by someone under mind control, so they're being forced to kill someone. It's not that graphic, but I felt I should add a warning.) If you've read TLC, you should be fine, though!

He had to make things right.

Kanan knew that much. It was the one thing he was actually sure of right now, as he checked around a dark corner, hand hovering near the gun he’d stolen. It wasn’t his favorite idea, but it was a good back up.

He took one more glance around the hall before looking back at his companion. “The coast’s clear,” he said quietly.

The small, dark haired kid who popped out from the doorway he’d been hiding in didn’t look like much at first glance. But Kanan knew better. Because this boy was a shell— a Lunar born not only without the ability to manipulate bioelectricity, but who was unable to be controlled by anyone with that ability.

There were no shells— none that lived among society. They were taken at birth, ripped away from their families. But this boy had escaped that. Until now. Kanan felt a shudder tear through him at the memory of what he’d witnessed only hours before.

“Let him GO!”

The woman’s screams ripped through the streets, and Kanan saw one of the guards standing next to him shift uncomfortably at the sound. Kanan couldn’t blame him— the sound of agony made his stomach roil.

Stepping forward, he caught the woman by the arms as she lunged for the guard who was dragging away her son, who was staring with huge blue eyes. “Step back, ma’am,” he said firmly, keeping his voice stern.

“Let him go,” she begged him, finally tearing her gaze away from her son and latching onto Kanan. “Please— he’s not going to hurt anyone.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Kanan said. “He’s a shell— these are the rules. He should never have been here this long.” 

Even saying the words hurt, like he was plunging a knife into a part of himself that was barely living. It’s wrong, his mind whispered. It’s wrong and you know it.

The woman’s husband stepped forward, gently pulling her away from Kanan and into his arms. His gaze was locked on Kanan, however, as he said, “Please— you’re a thaumaturge. There has to be something you can do, some exception you can make.”

Never in his life had Kanan wanted to do something more, to fight back. He opened his mouth, not quite sure what would come out—

“He certainly can,” came an accented and horribly familiar voice. Thaumaturge Isaacs stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “He can remove this aberration, as should have been done in the first place. And you two shall be disciplined for committing a crime such as this. You two should be ashamed.”

Pulling away from her husband, the woman glared at Thaumaturge Isaacs. She didn’t have a shred of fear on her face, and Kanan found himself admiring her as she said, “Discipline us all you want. I will never be ashamed of raising our son.”

“How noble of you,” Isaacs said, a thin, unpleasant smile crossing his face. “Unfortunately, Her Majesty does not accept such excuses. I’m sure your executions will be quite pleasant.”

To Kanan’s surprise, there was no real fear, no panic on the couple’s face. But the woman bowed her head, looking shaken. After a moment, she stepped closer to Isaacs, and looked up with a pleading expression on her face.

“Please,” she said. “Please, keep Ezra safe.” She took a deep breath, and then her gaze moved to Kanan, and he realized with a jolt she was talking to him.

“Please,” she repeated, and then moved, faster than Kanan would have expected. There was a flash of metal, and Isaacs let out a roar of shock and pain as a knife plunged into his chest.

It missed anything vital, instead slashing open the area between his collarbone and his shoulder. The woman pulled it out and went for another blow— and then froze. From the way her eyes widened, panicked, Kanan knew it wasn’t voluntary.

Judging by the snarl of rage on Isaacs’ face, he knew what was coming next. And he couldn’t watch. So as the woman turned to her husband, raising the knife, Kanan slipped past Isaacs and headed towards the guard who held the boy in place. “I’ll take care of him,” he said brusquely, pushing the boy forward before the guard could protest.

“Wait,” the boy stammered, trying to twist out of Kanan’s grasp. “No— Mom! Dad!”

“Ezra!” called the man, his voice shaking. “Stay strong! We love you!”

“Don’t look back,” Kanan told him, pushing him forward. “Trust me.”

The boy tried to anyway, but Kanan kept him moving, even as they heard a scream of pain and a cry of agonized sorrow from the woman. Even as there was a final cry that Kanan knew meant they were both gone.

He could hear the boy sobbing, shoulders shaking. He tried at least once to escape, to pull away, but Kanan kept him moving until finally, they reached the transport. Bundling him into the passenger seat, Kanan slid into the driver’s seat.

Starting the engine, he started them moving forward, slipping down the streets. He didn’t bother waiting for the guards or Isaacs. 

“What are you gonna do to me?”

The boy’s voice was shaky and full of tears, but defiant. Like his parents. Swallowing hard, Kanan wished— not for the first time— that he hadn’t been born with such a strong gift. That the queen hadn’t taken notice of him. That they hadn’t been able to use his family against him when he tried to decline the offer to become a thaumaturge. That he’d been able to stand up to them.

I’ve sat by long enough. I can’t let this one slide, too.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he told him, his voice steady. “I promise.”

That had been a full week ago. Kanan had managed to cover for the two of them, sneaking Ezra food as he hid in Kanan’s quarters, but only just barely. Luckily, he’d come up with an escape plan. He just really, really hoped it worked.

“Remember the rules?” he asked Ezra quietly.

Nodding, Ezra said, “Stay quiet, don’t move, and only get out when you say it’s safe. And if you give me the signal—” his voice wavered. “Run. But I don’t like that part.”

“Neither do I,” Kanan said. “But we don’t have much of a choice right now. We’re close, though.” Putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he said, “You ready?”

Taking a deep breath, Ezra squared his shoulders in a way that reminded Kanan of his last glimpse of the boy’s father. I’m sorry, he thought, not for the first time. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” Bending down, Kanan grabbed the case he’d brought with them— a large crate, set on wheels. Just the right size for a fourteen year old boy to hide in. “Get in.”

Ezra scrambled in, curling up into a ball, and Kanan put the lid down, leaving a tiny crack so the boy could still breathe. And push open the lid and make a run for it if he had to. But Kanan preferred not to think about that.

Tugging at the hem of the guard’s coat he’d stolen— which was a little too tight around the shoulders, but fit well enough that no one would notice— he took a deep breath. This is it. No turning back.

He wasn’t afraid— not of leaving. The only thing he was terrified of was getting caught. And the best way to avoid that was to move, and fast. So, grabbing the crate, Kanan propelled it forward, pushing it down the hall at a brisk clip.

It was late enough at night that Kanan didn’t see anyone as he made his way to the hanger nearest to his rooms. Choosing one of the ships closest to him, he was wheeling the crate up the open ramp when he heard a voice behind him.

“You there, guard!”

Oh, kriff. Kanan flicked a quick glance over his shoulder as he pushed the crate the rest of the way up the ramp, settling it into a secure position. With a jolt, he recognized the coat of a thaumaturge, standing in the middle of the room.

Things were about to get messy.

“Can I help you, sir?” Kanan asked, moving down the ramp a little ways.

“What exactly are you doing out here so late—” the thaumaturge’s eyes widened as they locked onto Kanan’s face. “Jarrus?”

Kanan moved, before the man across from him could. Diving forward, he slammed bodily into him, knocking him to the ground. The thaumaturge thrashed wildly, and shouted, “Guards! I’m being attacked!”

Slamming a fist into his jaw, Kanan knocked him out, and scrambled to his feet. The sound of footsteps in the corridor caught his attention, and dread swelled in his chest. Time to go.

He’d only just made it up the ramp when the door burst open, and a flood of guards poured into the room.

They took one look at Kanan, who slammed the button to raise the ramp, and immediately pulled their weapons. Drawing his own gun, Kanan shot the first one without hesitating and ducked behind a crate as bullets rattled off the interior of the ship. One ricocheted, and he felt pain blaze through his arm as it bit through his ill-fitting jacket.

As the ramp started to raise, muffling the sound of shouts and gunshots, Kanan got to his feet. Moving to the crate where Ezra was hiding, he flipped open the lid. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide and concerned.

“I need you in the cockpit,” Kanan told him, and Ezra immediately scrambled up and over the edge of the crate. He followed Kanan as he headed into the cockpit, and took the pilot’s seat.

“Buckle up,” he ordered the kid, who obediently strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat. Kanan focused on the console, switching levers and bringing the engine to life. We need to keep moving. Need to get out.

He didn’t move out of his trance, his focus on the ship, lifting it off and cruising out of the dome where he’d lived for his whole life. It was time to leave it behind. After everything he’d seen, everything he’d done, anywhere was better than here.

And there was really only one anywhere they could make their way to. Earth.

“Kanan?”

Ezra’s hesitant voice cut through Kanan’s thoughts, and he glanced up. “What?”

“You— you’re bleeding.”

His words brought the pain rushing back, and Kanan held back a wince. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Glancing at the console, he frowned. “Better than the ship is, anyways. I think we took some damage back there.”

“Are we gonna make it to Earth safely?” Ezra asked.

Taking a deep breath, Kanan said, “I hope so. Here goes nothing.”

The time slipped by, growing more vague and dizzying. Kanan knew the blood loss was affecting him, and he knew the ship was getting worse. But they couldn’t stop. They couldn’t. Not if there was still a chance that they could make it.

They’d only just made it through the atmosphere when the ship gave out. Kanan tried desperately to help the ship recover, to save it. But it didn’t work.

He heard Ezra scream once, shocked and terrified, as they plowed into a stand of trees he could barely see in the darkness of night. The ship shook, throwing Kanan forward, and his head slammed into the dashboard. Everything went black.

~

Hera jerked away, sitting bolt upright in her bed. For a minute, she wasn’t sure what had woken her, and then it registered. There had been a loud boom, somewhere out in the forest.

Sliding out of bed, she crossed the room to her window, pulling aside the curtains. At first, she saw nothing. And then, a dull glow made itself clear in the distance, beyond the forest that sat not far from her house.

Something’s wrong. It almost looks like… did a ship crash? There hadn’t been many in this area— Lothal was isolated enough that they didn’t get a lot of outsiders. And the ones they did didn’t crash their ships in the middle of the night.

But Hera had a gut feeling about this, and she tended to trust her gut. So, after quickly dressing, she headed out the door, stopping only for her bomber jacket. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, her shotgun.

You couldn’t be too careful, out in the woods in the middle of the night.

She’d made it out of the house, and halfway across the field that separated her house from the woods when she heard someone call her name. Glancing over her shoulder, Hera saw Sabine on the porch, a blanket draped around her shoulders.

“Stay in the house,” she called to the girl. To no one’s surprise, Sabine didn’t listen. Instead, she darted forward, crossing the grass in her bare feet as she caught up to Hera.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To look into that sound,” Hera said, deciding it was best not to argue. The girl could be incredibly stubborn sometimes, and it was good to have backup. Just in case. “It sounded like a ship crashing.”

“Smells like it, too,” Sabine commented, nose wrinkling. Hera could smell the same thing— the strong odor of something synthetic burning.

Together, they headed into the woods, weaving through the trees and towards the source of the smell. It wasn’t long before they found it.

It was, in fact, a crashed ship. Hera winced at the sight of the torn metal and shattered glass— the ship had barely held together, and had annihilated a couple trees on the way. But that wasn’t what made her pause, brows knitting together. “This design,” she murmured. “It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen here in the States, let alone in Europe.”

“Maybe we should focus less on that, more on where the passengers went?” Sabine suggested. “Looks like the ship’s empty.”

She was right— the windshield had been shattered, and there was no sign of any occupants. But as Hera moved closer to the ship, she saw the way the glass had been pushed out, and a few smears of blood on the metal. More spatters left dark marks on the grass, tracing a path deeper into the forest.

They can’t have gotten far, whoever they are. Raising her voice, Hera called, “I know you’re out there! And you’re hurt. Let us help you.”

She paused, awaiting a response— but there was none. “Well, it was worth a shot,” Sabine said. “Now what?”

Hera started to answer, but then a rustle in the bushes cut her off. Turning towards it, she saw a dark figure moving towards them, its pace stumbling and unsure. As it drew closer, the shape resolved itself into a man. Most of his features were still obscured by the darkness, but the gun in his hand was clear enough.

Moving swiftly, Hera brought her shotgun up to her shoulder. “Stop right there,” she told the man. “Not another step until you drop the gun.”

He did stop, weaving a little on his feet. The gun slipped from his fingers and he spoke. “Please,” he said, his voice rough and deep. “Please. Help him.”

Before Hera could begin to ask one of the myriad of questions in her mind, the man's knees gave out and he crumpled to the forest floor. Lowering her weapon, Hera handed it to Sabine and stepped forward. Moving into a crouch, she grabbed the man by the shoulders and rolled him onto his back.

Taking one look at his face, she let out a choked gasp. He was covered in blood. Most of his eyes were obscured by it, but Hera could see shards of glass digging into his cheek, and her stomach turned.

“Sabine, go get Zeb,” she ordered. “Tell him to get a transport and get back here, fast. And call the doctor, tell him we're on our way.”

“On it,” Sabine said. Pausing only to set the gun against a nearby tree, she bolted back the way they'd come, her blanket falling to the ground behind her. Hera only sent one look after her before turning her attention back to the man laying on the forest floor in front of her.

“It's going to be okay,” she told him. “Sabine's going to get help, you'll be fine.”

“No.” The word was barely a whisper, and Hera frowned. “Please. Help Ezra.”

Ezra? The way he was talking, it sounded like… There's someone else out here.

Getting to her feet, Hera headed in the direction the man had come from. It wasn't more than a few minutes later that she found what she was looking for. Hiding inside one of the bushes was a boy, not my older than fourteen. He lay on his side, unmoving, but as Hera knelt next to him, she could see the rise and fall of his chest. When she checked, his pulse was steady, and he only had a small gash on his forehead. 

He must have been knocked out in the crash, Hera guessed. But how did they crash? Why? Something here wasn't quite right. 

The hum of an approaching transport caught Hera's attention, and she headed back to where it was just coming to a stop, near the crashed ship. Sabine hopped out, followed closely by Zeb, their neighbor. “Karabast,” he said, staring at the crashed ship. “Someone made it out of there?”

“Two someone’s, actually,” Hera told him. “There's a kid in the bushes. Unconscious, but he's not nearly as bad off as his friend.”

“Tough kid,” Zeb said. “I'll go get him first, then.”

As he headed into the bushes, Hera moved next to the man. He didn't react— odds were good that he's lost consciousness. “He's okay,” Hera told him anyway. “We found Ezra, now hang in there.”

He stirred a little, and for the first time Hera noticed what he was wearing. Under the blood and dirt stains, the tattered jacket looked almost familiar. Like she'd seen it before.

But then Zeb was back, and Hera was helping him get first Ezra, then his companion, into the back of the transport. Minutes later, they were zipping across the grass and towards the small town of Lothal.

When they arrived, Dr. Meridian was waiting for them outside her office. Between Hera, Zeb, Sabine, and the doctor, they managed to get first the man, then Ezra inside.

The doctor looked over the unconscious Ezra first, and proclaimed him possibly concussed but fine. But when she disappeared into the second room with the man, Hera knew it would be a while before she came back. The image of the blood-soaked wounds on his face came back to her, and she winced.

Sabine had taken up one of the two chairs in the waiting room, with Ezra curled up in the other one. Zeb was pacing back and forth, and Hera leaned against the wall, watching the minutes tick by on the clock across from her.

The room was quiet, so quiet she could hear the second hand on the clock ticking. So quiet that when Ezra stirred, Hera’s gaze moved to him before his eyes opened.

When they did, they widened quickly. “It’s okay,” Hera told him quickly as he shrank back. “We’re friends. Your friend is in the other room— you’re Ezra, right?”

“Y-yeah,” Ezra said slowly, staring at her. “Who are you— and where are we? Why isn’t Kanan here?”

Kanan. So that was the name of the man. “He was hurt in the crash,” Hera said. “That’s where we found you. I’m Hera, by the way.”

“Hi,” Ezra said, looking around the room. His gaze moved from Zeb, to Sabine, who gave him a half-wave, then back to Hera. “Thank you. For helping us. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course we did,” Zeb said. “We’re not monsters.”

“Right, but— well, I know that Earthens don’t really like Lunars.”

The room went quiet. Oh, Hera thought. That explains a few things.

Looking between them, Ezra’s eyes widened. “Oh. You didn’t— um, I promise we’re not gonna hurt you? I can’t even use the gift and Kanan promised he wouldn’t, I swear. Just please, don’t give us back—”

“We’re not going to,” Hera told him firmly. “I promise.”

“R-really?”

“Really,” Hera said firmly. “You’re far from the first Lunar that’s wound up in Lothal. It’s a good place to hide, if you need to. Now, why don’t you tell us what happened? Start from the beginning, and take your time.”

Slowly, falteringly, Ezra began to tell them. About how he’d grown up in hiding, protected by his parents for as long as they could.

But then Queen Levana’s soldiers had found out about him, and they couldn’t protect him anymore. They had both been killed— Hera gathered that much, though Ezra didn’t talk about it much. “But Kanan didn’t let them take me,” he said. “He protected him, snuck me out.”

“That’s a bold move for a guard,” Hera murmured.

“Kanan’s not a guard,” Ezra said. “He’s just wearing the coat so no one would realize it was him. He’s, um. He’s a thaumaturge.”

Zeb cursed, and Sabine’s eyes went wider. “Wait. Don’t thaumaturges work specifically for Queen Levana? And, you know, do terrible things?”

Ezra’s gaze dropped. “Yeah. But he helped me. He saved me. So he can’t be that bad.”

Hera thought of the desperation in the man’s voice when he’d begged her to help Ezra first. Not him, but Ezra. He’s right. Kanan cares about him, and he wants to help him. Hera didn’t know this man, not really. But she trusted her gut, and her gut told her that this man was a good man, even if he was flawed.

As she was thinking, the door to the other room creaked open. Hera looked up as Dr. Meridian stepped through, closing the door behind her.

“Is he okay?” Ezra asked instantly, sitting up.

The doctor glanced at him, smiling warmly. “I see our young friend is awake,” she said, her accented voice soft. “How is your head feeling?”

“Fine. Well, it hurts a little. How’s Kanan?”

“Your friend is stable,” the doctor assured him. “I cleaned and dressed his wounds— a bullet wound to the arm, and multiple wounds to the face and eyes. The glass came out cleanly, but the damage to his right eye is so extensive that I doubt his vision will recover.”

“So— he won’t be able to see?” Ezra’s voice shook, and Hera instinctively reached out and took his hand. He clung to it, his eyes wide and shocked.

“Not out of that eye— and not well out of the other, I’m afraid,” Dr. Meridian said, her voice sympathetic. “But he’s stable, and a lot better off than he could be, considering the circumstances of the crash. I’m so sorry— I did everything I could.”

“We understand,” Hera assured her. “Thank you. Would it be better if we left him with you, or took him to my house?”

“I think it would be best if he had someone familiar there when he woke up,” the doctor said. “So your house may be best.”

“We’ll take him there, then,” Hera said. “Thank you for all your help.”

“Of course.”

With Zeb’s help, it wasn’t long before they had Kanan back in the transport, and made their way back to Hera’s house. Once inside, it took them a while to get everything situated. Finally, Sabine was back in her room, Kanan in the guest room, and Ezra took Hera’s bed, because she knew she wasn’t going to be getting much more rest. Zeb offered to stay, but eventually headed back to his own house, after promising he was only a call away.

And then Hera was alone, in a quiet house after an hour or more of hectic activity. Heading into the kitchen, she made herself a cup of coffee before slipping into the guest room to check on Kanan.

He was still asleep, though as Hera settled in the chair she’d set up next to his bed, he stirred a little. “Ezra?” he mumbled.

Hera felt her heart twinge in sympathy. The man had been through so much, as evidenced by the clean white bandages wrapped around his eyes. But still he worried about Ezra. That spoke of a good man, someone Hera had a feeling she could respect.

“Ezra’s safe,” she promised him. “He’s okay. Just rest— everything is going to be fine.”

The tension twisting Kanan’s face eased a little, and he slipped back into a peaceful slumber.

Tomorrow, they’d have plenty of questions to answer and painful truths to give. But for now, Hera was happy to give this man one more night of peace.