#everyone just moved on and evolved and grew up

[radioactive-cloud]

there's a certain pattern that almost every time i put on makeup to meet with my friend i end up removing half of it with my tears later

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

Lone Warrior

summary : reader is put into emergency foster care after a tragedy , despite living with the Wayne family for a bit , reader takes it upon herself to move away and start anew since she clearly wasn't welcomed , after many years have passed Damian finally joins the family and after a particular spat w his father he finds himself in reader's room and an interest in them has sparked.

a/n : this story is a wip ( work in process )

part 2 , part 3

Reader's POV

Beginning

Everyone knows biologically , a child needs a father and mother to come into existence . Growing up I had exactly that , a mother and a father . I had what many would consider a good childhood , a mom who brushed my hair everyday before I went to school , a mother who would have prepared meals and would have read me several stories . I had a father who would pick me up everyday and let me get a treat from the nearby parlor everyday after school. We certainly weren’t rich but we had enough to make do and I was content with it - I was content with my life until life struck.

My mother got laid off from her job - it was some run down mill cashier job at an old mechanics pit stop but it brought in money no matter how grimy the place was . I remember my younger self sat in front of the television when it was broadcasted - Joker , Prince of Gotham held three hostages at gunpoint in the shops and sadly despite Batman’s efforts , one hostage suffered a car falling onto their legs - crushing them instantly - the news anchor panned their camera onto the car and how it’s green front bumper was smeared in crimson blood.

Since then mom had been home while father went to work . It was fun at first , we had dinner earlier than usual , mom started back sewing and she even took up gardening since she loved planting tomatoes in our backyard garden . Everything was good but gradually - mom began feeling trapped like a bird in a cage . It started off slow - mum and dad arguing every night after dinner , sneering at each other as they walked past one another . It evolved into dad sleeping on the couch and mom sleeping in their bed . I was young and too naive - I assumed like the silly little girl I was , that mum and dad were just arguing about the dishes in the sink.

One day, it got extremely bad. It was a Tuesday morning and I had ran into mum’s arm’s , comb in hand, waiting for her to brush my hair like every other morning but instead she screamed at me to get out of her face . I ran away, of course, crying and brushing my own hair since then. Every day since that point had been utter agony - mother grew even more distant - began shouting , screaming at everything and everybody .Every day was a new struggle , she had no luck finding a new job, and there was no luck of her getting any better .

One day , dad just hugged me before he left out the front door . He kept muttering ‘sorrys’ and ‘i love yous’ and he kept weeping . I recall hugging him back , telling him it was okay, and he just smiled at me and left . He hadn't come back since. Mother grew furious that night, and for the first time - she screamed at me , blamed me , cursed me , cried about how I ruined everything, and then she choked me . I remember my young , frail body clawing at her tight grip desperately - pleading with her to let me go, but she didn’t let up . She kept squeezing me, and I remember going in between conscious and unconsciousness - I remember hearing police sirens blazing in front of our house.

I don't remember anything after that point . Memories were all a blur, but I recall a police officer handing me off to Mr. Wayne at his porch step. I remember the look of uncertainty, the look of pain and burden flashing in his eyes when he looked down on me . I remember him holding me by my elbow and guiding me through his foyer until he reached his butler.

I watched them both converse , the butler glanced at me every other moment. Eventually , Mr. Wayne leaves me alone with the butler and returns deeper into the mansion. The butler smiles down at me, though, and I just looked at him as he guides me down some halls and into a room.

It's been a full week , I've only ever known my room , the garden, and school. I haven't met anyone besides Alfred - the butler and my teachers. Alfred kept assuring me that I had brothers who would love to meet me and that my 'dad' , Mr.Wayne was busy, so I should bear him patience.

I hadn't really cared about Mr. Wayne's absence , as far as I considered my father, was out there somewhere and had left me, and I had no interest in having siblings. I hadn't told Alfred any of that, though - I had been silent since I had arrived here . Two weeks passed, and Alfred introduced me to someone named 'Ricard' , Mr. Wayne's eldest .

This Richard had given me a tight-lipped smile and a half hug that I didn't reciprocate . I could tell he felt uncomfortable and forced, and I respected his boundaries because I would of reacted the same way if I got introduced to my new supposed 'sibling' .

Alfred had told me that Richard lives away and visits when he can since he too has work . Since then, I haven't met anyone . Maybe if you count seeing Mr. Wayne walking in and out the foyer then maybe .

Months passed, and it's been the same process - I wake up , scarf down whatever Alfred makes , go to school , come home , sleep, and repeat. Now and again, Richard may perhaps drop by, but our meeting were just exchanging pleasantries before we go our own ways.

I was still mourning my parents. It's weird to mourn when they aren't dead. Today I had I.T class , meaning I had access to a laptop . Using what minimum sites I could , I dug up that my mother was admitted to Arkham asylum and was deemed ' mentally unstable ' . It's weird seeing her in that old , grimy straight jacket and her worn hands in silver cuffs . It's weird that she is the same person who used to bake me fresh cookies when I was sad and used to so attentively braid my hair everyday - It's weird to know that somehow my pure , kind mother somehow turned into what she is.

I hadn't found out nothing about my father - reports just suggested he moved to another city or somewhat - some speculated he manipulated her into the abuse - but I knew my father went far away to start a new life - a new life that hadn't involve me .

It stings every time I think about that, though , that my dad thought I was so much of a burden he had to leave me to start anew . A part of me loathes him - wants to tear him out , another part of me wants to cry and scream ' how could he ', but the biggest part of me has already grown numb to everything around me and has accepted the fact that it's better off being on your own.

Months continue to pass on - nothing really changed , I haven't 'bonded' with anyone at the mansion , Alfred keeps making excuses for their wariness and coldness. I discovered through him that recently, one of Mr.Wayne's children , Jason, had recently passed due to a mishap with the Joker . He hadn't gone into full detail, but I understood the pain and grief - the pain of losing your loved ones and having to bury them.

Days blurred into one another, but as recently, I have been seeing advertisements for a youth camp. It's new to be supposedly based in Russia and aims to teach children survival skills, and for some odd reason, it called out to me . I became further intrigued when on one particular evening , my English teacher pulled me across after class and handed me a pamphlet for it , I remembered her saying " I thought ...maybe you can use this Y/N maybe they can help you " . I remember taking it home and staring at it for a good while.

That same day - apparently we got a new member to the family named Tim , I saw him walk in the foyer , Mr. Wayne's hands practically draped over his shoulder with a proud 'dad' smile on his face . I exchanged pleasantries with both, but the Tim guy was giving me a dirty look .

After that night , after careful consideration, I decided to join this youth camp but in order to do so I would of course need money so that very nigh I applied to some jobs . A week passed since Tim and I didn't really get along . He kept glaring at me, and I just kept ignoring him .

Apparently he didn't like that and one morning when I was leaving for school he pulled me across and with a nasty snare said , " can't believe Bruce and I bust our asses every night protecting the city and people like you get to squander away - you know for someone who uses so much of Bruce's resources I don't understand why he hasn't gotten rid of you ".

I slapped him in response and walked out - I won't and don't tolerate shit - especially from someone so far up their ass . Alfred walked in on us in the foyer and began lecturing me on the spot, but I had a cold, hard look - challenging him . Alfred just tutted and carried us both to school.

Yes - apparently, this Tim person goes to the same school as me, and I had to listen to him nag Alfred about it on the way there . I rolled my eyes - seriously, he sounds like an entitled brat . Alfred dropped us off . The moment Tim stepped foot in school lots of kids approached him - probably because it was publicly known he was a Wayne , I on the other hand wasn't- hell I didn't even take his name I still kept my father's surname .

I left him and continued my day like normal, and after school, I went to my waitress job on the block. It's a quaint little cafe waitress job . It was nice and had good pay, so I wasn't too bothered. Of course, a week into my job and Tim had to already cause a scene .

The brat had to walk in with his group of little friends and had the audacity to demand I get them a table . I sat them down, took everyone's orders, and this man had to order some complicated shit with absurd add ins. Why order expresso and complain it's too bitter ?? Why order no flat decaf when decaf is already flat ? Why , when I explain to you , you snare at me .

The brat even had the audacity to say ' I was embarrassing the family by working here ' . I stepped on his foot, causing him to flinch and whispered to him , " Frankly I don't give a fuck what you or anyone thinks or has to say - you can frankly kiss my ass and see if I could care " and walked off .

He didn't leave a tip sadly and walked out of there with a nasty glare . I came home that evening and met Alfred, leaving out my dinner in my room , " Master Wayne restricts you joining dinner tonight since you are behaving too violent." I just gave him a look . For one pathetic of Tim to tattle to Daddy darest - another many reasons why I don't want siblings and secondly I've never joined anyone at dinner , I live and breathe in this room and unless the mansion is burning down I won't leave it to go anywhere unnecessary.

Months like this pass , Tim and I glaring at each other. Occasionally, Richard stops by to check on Mr. Wayne, or simply hang out with Tim and I was steadily saving money to go to this youth camp.

On my final day , I paid off for the youth camp registry and began packing my things - I simply began packing my clothes , I left behind any things deemed unnecessary like my record players , little nicks and knacks friends gifted me , the very painful photos of my parents and I and the home sewn clothes I once made in tech Ed.

Everything held very little value to me here , especially since I wanted a fresh start there . I packed my bags that night and left without a trace. Downtown Gotham was dangerous but had useful people for the wrong things. I carefully knocked on a banged up door and waited .

I heard a latch move itself and a wrinkly , obese man peers through at me . " What you want, kid?" he grunted . " A passport and a straightway ticket to Russia tonight," I say monotonous. He stared at me for a moment and left . Moments pass and he returns and slips me a passport and a ticket . I let our a small grun before slipping a $100 dollar bill in the latch before taking off in the night.

Training

Russia was cold - but for some odd , maybe sick and twisted way, I loved it . I loved the feeling of the cold nipping at my fingertips , I love the ghostly feeling when the cold air blows in you and I love the way it makes me feel alive .

The youth camp was a successful idea - marvelous even . Though many in my unit complained about how strenuous the training was , I enjoyed it . Every morning , from 4 am to 6 am , our mentors took us on a two hour long jog in the snowy forest of Cheremkhovsky .

It was hard at first , I had literally fainted on my first go, but as I eased into this , it became easier . After that jog , we had breakfast, and then we trained in our combat , hand to hand , handling weaponry such as guns and knives, etc.

My mentor , Kerry Lenz, took me under her wing when I joined . She saw my raw potential, my greedy need to feel alive and belonging . She had practically made me into what I am , a trained assassin .

While most of my peers were asleep in the dead of night , she took me out into the forest , regardless of whether it was snowing , raining, or a massive heatwave . There, under the start nights, she taught me the art of murder , she taught me how to effectively hide a body in plain sight and taught me how to read a person thoroughly , taught me how to stalk a prey and how to notice the tiniest details no matter how absurd .

She taught me like a mother hen would to her chick, and it made us closer. I came here to Russia at fourteen, and now here I am, graduating at eighteen into Russia's CIA program.

She kissed both of my cheeks that day and hugged me, and for once , I reciprocated it . " My beautiful rose , be the strong daring girl I taught you to be," She sobbed into my shirt . I smiled and hugged her , my eyes brimming with tears as I nuzzle into her shirt - her smell of rose scented perfume and Columbian cigar wafted into my nose .

" I promise to be that strong girl , mom," I promised her that day . She smiled at me and patted my shoulder . " hun , this life is a life you can't back away from , it digs its claws into you and keeps you hostage, promise me , you would not deter."

I nodded into her and tightened my hold on her . Since my graduation , I , out of the twenty five candidates at the youth camp , graduated into Russia's CIA task force . Our missions were never easy , every one we face the brutality of human nature - from sex traffic rings , child predators , serial killers to huge organizations abusing civilians , we were tasked to handle them all.

Every mission had its difficulty, a loss albeit one of our own or a victim, or maybe it's the mind-numbing pain of killing . Every mission had its fair share of shit but that didn't deter me one bit - I loved my job - I lived knowing that when I killed another child predator that I saved another child.

What's the use of arresting them in a system we're they are bound to be free and face no repercussions? Doing this job made me look at persons like Batman and his folk and a bit differently - he knowingly puts people like the Joker back into the Arkham asylum, knowing they'd break out and wreck havoc again.

Damian's p.o.v

If anyone told me that I of all people would feel out of place I would laugh at you . For my whole entire life - I've been a man sure of everything - down to the nitty things - I've been sure of everything.

I knew what I liked to eat , what shirt I wore with its specific pants , what show I like to watch , knew for certainty I wanted to be Robin but here - in this family I'm at a loss.

I'm always cleft confused and rather frustrated . My father's eldest , Dick , keeps lecturing me about how 'violent' my ways are , how I'm not suited to be Robin , that Robin is not 'violent'.

How is a boy supposed to believe the methods he's had instilled in him from birth are considered wrong - considered too orthodox. We both always argue - he always pushes me to my wits end . Today, though - today, he took it a notch further .

Today he involved father in our spat . It was a simple situation - a simple stake-out , a robbery being done in some small local supermarket , the robber noticed us before we noticed them and took off running and I had simply launched a batrang into his leg to stop him.

It led to the robber bleeding out in the road and almost dying, but wasn't the objective met ? Father and Dick seemed to think otherwise considering I was berated for it for fifteen minutes straight.

But what got me was when dick said , " You're a monster like your mother." I literally launched myself at him - almost prying out his eyes but father managed to pull me off and send me off to my room with a glare.

I didn't go to my room - I was far too angry, so I just roamed around the mansion . I have never been to this side of the mansion - to be fair, I don't even think Alfred ventures down here, but somehow - the quiet halls bring a bit of peace to me .

I walked down a hall and stopped at a door left abit ajar - weird I thought all doors in this house automatically closed . Approaching it , I carefully opened the door and peer in , inside - inside looked like a bedroom.

The bed looked like it was purposely shoved up against the window , it only had two pillows but frankly sat plush in-between them was a small plushie of a penguin. The room held minimum decor - whoever lived here may have been a minimalist or has long since moved on .

It had a quaint dark oak desk covered in dust and had several stacks of books that looked well used . Next to it was a wardrobe in matching oak that had a red,very worn , backpack hung on it's round handle . The room had a vanity , a cute miniature white one that every little girl must dream off , it held a simple comb and hair ties in a singular cup but the mirror was covered in old polaraid pictures.

So someone definitely lived here - but who ? I've seen Dick's room , even though he isn't here often Alfred cleans it and he has those stupid posters all over , it can't be Tim's either because his room is all dark and has a bunch of clothes strewn around , it's clearly a girl's so Cassandra? No she's too neat for this - steph ? No , I remember her decorating her room with pink frilly ribbons last Christmas- Jason? - no so then who -

" I see you've come across y/n's room " comes a sudden voice behind me . Turning around , I am met with Alfred, who looks around the room so - so sullen ? " Pennyworth, why such a cres- fallen face ?" I enquire . Alfred looks everywhere but me .

" This is y/n's bedroom " he says as he steps in. " y/n ?" I ask perplexed - father - hell no one has mentioned y/n to me ever .

ty for reading !!!

incorrect quotes

[inkskinned]

no, actually, where is the whimsy?

my ex had a best friend named larry who asked me once: what do you think comes after irony?

we were at the bar where larry worked. it was a quiet night, and he'd hopped over to sit with us on the patron side. i swirled the lemon around my limoncello martini.

earnest positivity, i said, while my ex said, art self-destructs.

i stared at my ex. he stared at me.

his argument was the cinemasins argument: look how bad media is becoming! look at the loopholes and the dumb shit!

it was roughly 2011. galaxy print was still in. at the time, i had a favorite shirt that was a wolf howling at the moon. it got ripped in half in the wash and i honestly still mourn it. i dressed like effie stonem, because everyone did. and irony was the name of the thing. men liked MLP "ironically." the internet liked the kind of crass, "anti-mainstream" vibes of things like fuck romance, touch my butt and buy me pizza. we put cats in sunglasses everywhere, which was because we only liked things in irony.

and media had the same vibe in it: anti-hero white men would be "hard to love" and then storm off the scene. nobody was just earnestly trying to save the world: they were jaded, angry, unoriginal. mad you even asked them to try to help.

my ex ends up not being wrong. cinemasins becomes super popular. a lot of people start viewing media with this lens that is the cruelest, most jaded depiction. it's wrong for your character to have unexplained powers, even if the entire movie is about how strange it is she has unexplained powers - that is still considered a "loophole." characters make thoughtless, panicked choices? loophole. characters are actually kind people, despite hardship? loophole. features a woman doing literally anything without assistance? loophole. movies become hyper-aware of scrutiny, and now irony rules the media.

which means you go to a movie, and the character has to turn to the screen and say "beats me!!" or one of the side characters has to have some kind of quip like "are you seriously telling me that you think this is normal?" because nothing can happen in earnest. like a sitcom laugh track, we now anticipate the fourth-wall break: the moment that the media acknowledges it is telling a story. the media has to apologize for itself, or else someone like my ex rolls their eyes.

but here's the thing: i wasn't wrong either.

the difference might be that i am (and always have been) so soft-hearted that any crack in the light of this world will spear me into the ground. and i was the poet in the relationship. (he thought that was the same thing as being naïve and stupid). i was making things daily. i knew how all of us artists are driven by some strange desire to evolve. he notably liked to critique art, not to create it.

so yes, i've made things that are bitter and angry and even ironic. i've made long, sharp poems with all capital letters, and i've made poems about how the silence stretches out like a song. someone wrote once that we will spend our whole lives just circling the place we grew up. i think it's more that we spend our whole lives trying to remake a home. i think it's that as we age, it becomes less exciting to build the castle on the beach - we become aware of erosion, of windforce. we realize what we really want is to come home to our dog, castle or not.

and while art in the foreground is mired in white male violence and irony, and aggression, and not taking anything seriously - i don't think that's true of all art. i think more and more artists are leaning in to the things we love. the world has changed so much. they have taken so many things from us. the only thing we have left is love. at the bottom of the moving box - all we get is the faint sense that we have to appreciate what little we've got. i can't enjoy this stuff ironically anymore: what room do i have for irony? if it makes me happy, that is an amazing thing. there are so few happy places left for me. i want to be happy because of how leaves shiver beside each other like nestling birds. i want to be happy because of the color pink, and how magenta doesn't exist. i have spent so much of this life suffering, i have earned my right to a gentle ending. if nothing matters, i get to assign meaning to the nothing. i get to create meaning. i am an artist first and foremost, which means creation is my thing.

where is the whimsy? wherever i fucking put it. because if this is my last fucking chance to do any good in this world - i want to do it earnestly. i want to write things that make you happy. that make people feel heard and seen. what comes after irony has to be positivity.

it was close to my 21st birthday. in 7 years, i would end up writing a book about this relationship, which is hopefully coming out somewhere around May 2024. i come back to this bar scene in my memories a lot. i keep thinking of how pale my ex was. the look that crossed his face. how i looked back at him. how for a moment, both of us couldn't recognize the other person. like the gulf between us was a suddenly wide and cavernous thing. like we were alien to each other. he never took my opinion seriously, and he always seemed surprised whenever his manic-pixie-dream-girl ever broke free of the plot. like in the whole time we were together, i wasn't human enough.

this knowledge: where he said nothing comes after, my only instinct was what comes after is love.

[alilobsessive]

The Terrible Crow

All your life you desired recognition from your father, well you got it! But not from your bio dad, things only grow worse from there. For the Bats, not for you.

All your life you have longed for one thing, you’re Father’s recognition. At first it was simple things, like getting good grades, school awards. Anything for him to tell you how good of a job you’re doing. When he brought in Dick that changed, the escalation was quick. If he could be Robin, if he could fight with your Father why couldn’t you? Eventually after years of begging he agreed, then not even a week later he took in Jason and he became the new Robin. Your Father told you it was because he was older then you, already making it safer for him to go then you. When you brought up the fact that you’re the same age as Dick when he started, your father countered that Dick already had years more training with his parents than you.

After that you reluctantly didn’t argue, scared of seeming like nothing more than a spoiled kid. Jason in you began training together, although the two of you grew a bond it never felt right. Everyone called you close and although you liked him a part of you was resentful. You’re Father was always tougher on your training then Dick or Jason, always finding a flaw no matter how long you practice. In a way it helped you perfect your skills to the last detail. But he never told you “good job” not like Dick or Jason, it was always moving right on to the next thing. After Jason’s death the training got worse, he was somehow harder and stricter than before. You went to bed sore with aching bones and bruises from training, if you went to bed at all that is. Sometimes your sleep schedule was what was being trained, he would make you stay up for days at I time, rarely doing anything more than a nap. He told you this was similar to the training he went through, that it would make you stronger.

You never got the chance to prove it though, not even a half a year since Jason died a new boy was brought in. Tim’s the same age as you, highly intelligent and good at stealth but completely untrained. “SO WHY IS HE ROBIN!” You screeched at the man you call Father, Tim stands there glaring at you. He has a red mark on his cheek from where you slapped him when you were told he would be Robin. You were instantly yelled at and reprimanded by your Father for this, which started this argument in the first place. “I HAVE TRAINED FOR MOST OF MY LIFE FOR THIS, I HAVE DONE ALMOST EVERYTHING YOU WANTED ME TO! I FOLLOWED YOUR ORDERS I DEDICATED MY LIFE TO THIS” You scream at him, tears filling your eyes and falling down your cheeks. He just stares at you, expression blank and unchanging “what made you think I’d ever make you Robin?” Is all he says. Freezing you just stare at him crushed. “You’re dismissed” you feel like he spits it out, he doesn’t but it feels like he does “don’t ever train here again, nor even think about being a vigilante” you’ve never felt so much rage and sorrow before. You turn around to leave pushing Tim to the ground as you do “you’re grounded!” He calls out. Without even looking back you flip him off “fuck you Bruce!”.

After that things were never the same, you never wanted to try at anything anymore. What was the point in constantly studying if it meant nothing? So you did whatever you wanted, there were barely any consequences. Bruce didn’t give a shit about you, he never truly did. Alfred always sided with Bruce, sure he called him out when he was in the wrong, but that rarely changed anything with you. Dick was as absent in your life as ever. Finally you and Tim’s relationship was shit, it would never recover, at least you didn’t care if it did or not.

Eventually though you stumbled across a niche that peaked your interest. It started small, quick one minute videos about animal biology you finished the nearly 10 year old channel's entire library of content in 2 days. Then it evolved into animal psychology and finally to humans, what made them tick. It was fascinating every last detail interested you, from the mating habits of raccoons to the study that showed most humans could pick out snakes in extremely pixelated and blurry images. Even the more questionable experiments that would never pass today, like the wire and cloth mothers, and the monster study. Things that would have been difficult to prove or research if it wasn’t for the unethicalness of it all. Hell, even the bullshit study with gorillas learning sign language was interesting, even if the whole thing was completely pointless and awfully mismanaged. It was just so interesting to learn about.

Then you stumbled across it, a familiar name, Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow. All his published studies were almost 2 decades old, but that didn’t stop how interesting they were. Both as a glimpse into the mind of a madman who long had his license revoked and as a study in how the mind understood fear in general. Sure you were made to memorize his habits, his usual schemes, hell you even helped reverse engineer and make a cure for several of his fear toxin strands. But you never learned about his studies, never learned about the person behind the mask. But now you wanted to, desperately, of course you couldn’t just go to Arkham. Bruce would learn about it and who knows what he would do once he learns of your little…. curiosity.

No, you didn’t want that, so you lied in wait for the perfect time. But while you did so you studied, falling back into old habits. Day and night you obsessively researched human psychology, several studies both bullshit and true. You memorized everything, dates, names, places, what effects they had, any changes or new revelations in the study, what they were studying and in some cases what they ended up actually studying. You even ended up dabbing deeper into chemistry. All of this to impress someone, but you enjoyed learning these things. All of this was fun, unlike dealing with Bruce.

Then finally the day came, Scarecrow broke out of Arkham. Using the skills Bruce ground into your brain you found him. It was pretty easy, you're shocked he didn’t find Scarecrow sooner. Of course you ended up captured, tied to a chair in one of his labs. Oh also a gun pointed at your head, neat! “What are you doing here?” Scarecrow says suspiciously, a wide grin forms on your face as you happily say “I want you to teach me!” The man just looked at you strangely. Then he laughed, “this isn’t a very funny joke kid” the man sneered at you. “But I’m not! I’ve read your work Mr. Crane! It’s absolutely fascinating! I want to learn more, especially about your newer unpublished stuff!” He just stares at you, “really?” He asks, pointing the gun down. Although he doesn’t look like he believes you, “then prove it” before you can even react the gun is back at your head and he shoots.

The bullet barely misses but you don’t move, don’t even flinch, you just smile. You know how manic you look, but you don’t care. Scarecrow just stares at you surprised, he completely lowered the gun and put it away. “Well..” he mumbles, “I guess I can give you a test” that made you feel nothing but pure glee.

The costume you were put in started out simple, a almost completely black suit with blue gloves and a mask vaguely resembling a plague doctor. You thought you looked like a rip off emperor's coven member but that’s not that important. As Crow as his apprentice you were first given grunt work, helping and leading his henchman in getting supplies for whatever project he was working on. That was when you weren’t doing homework, taking notes, organizing documents. The Bat’s were completely unaware of what you were doing, sure they knew you had something after school. The one time they asked you told them you got an internship. They didn’t even bother to verify if that was true or not. Alfred was the only one who even slightly cared and even then he was just proud that you finally found a calling away from the vigilante life. Boy was he only slightly correct.

Things started ramping up after you defeated Tim, Robin in combat. The pure smug joy you felt at that moment is indescribable. The rejected Robin, who's rusty, proving that they're stronger, faster, smarter, better than the current? You were so excited you almost went into hysterics, and the fear on his face as you brutally kicked his ass? Priceless! They didn’t even realize it was you, but Scarecrow did, he recognized how similar your fighting style are instantly. At first you were worried, scared even about what he’d do now that he knew. Truthfully he was suspicious at first, but once you told him your story, how you were rejected from being Robin in favor of the second and third. How cruel they were to you before and after, even said you would tell him the secret identities of the bat’s and everyone you know is affiliated with them. Both publicly and privately, although he rejected your offer he saw your desperation. How much you want, no needed to stay, to keep this. Scarecrow accepted your loyalty and at that moment you truly became Crow.

To commemorate this occasion you got an outfit change. It became more padded, the mask looking more like a helmet then anything, and boots that increase your height by several inches. You were also made to train in a different combat style with both the added height and change of vision it was a necessity. But also to help cover your tracks as Crow from the Bat’s. So you grow, you changed, you trained and trained and they never noticed. Not when you came back injured from work, with new bruises and scars. Not when you came home with gifts, or when you brought your assignments back with you. They were completely ignorant as Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane, he became your family, your father.

Eventually though Bruce got suspicious, he never figured out who you were, not until much later. But he realized you're doing something shady, the man never put in the effort to figure out what exactly. So he sent you off to a college far from the city, of course he let you pick the field you wanted. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what to do, psychology was already your passion after all and you were being trained by the best. The only issue was Crow, how to excuse there absence. So faking an extreme injury a week before you left easily fixed that. Afterwards you packed up and went to school, a school you would never return from, not to the manor at least.

There you continued your studies, your training in all forms and your contacts with Scarecrow. The only real difficult thing was not getting caught in your less ethical studies. You spent from the age of 18 to 24 studying as much as possible in your field getting both a bachelor’s and master’s. The plan was to go for a PHD too, but sadly things were interrupted and you quickly returned home. Your dad, Scarecrow was extremely injured during a fight and was in the hospital. Someone needed to step up, that person was you.

This time your outfit changed once more, it made you look even bigger and bulkier then you were. A cloak with a feathered collar, iron gloves with clawed ends, the faceless bird helmet looking even more imposing. Everything in your power to make you look as menacing as possible, large and imposing, a night to rival the knight. As you were making your return known you discovered something interesting, a new Robin, a baby brother. Dispute your issue with your family something about this was exciting. You felt so happy and you didn’t know why, but the fact he’s a Robin? Well, the kid needed to be taught a very important lesson before he learned it the hard way.

It wasn’t hard leading him to Wayne tower by himself. Kid had the skills but no discipline, reckless and willing to do anything to prove himself worthy. You can relate, which is way it has to be you who dose this. You approach the 10 year old boy from the shadows “you came alone hatchling?” You say in a soft voice. He jumps away and wipes his head around to face you eyes wide, he pulls out his sword and points it at you. “How-“ “a magician never reveals there secrets” you say playfully “now put the sword down baby bird” he doesn’t just glares at you. He then lunges forward aiming for your throat, but it wasn’t hard to grab the blade and rip it from his hand. He stares at you wide eyed as you throw it to the other side of the building, he quickly reorganize himself and throw a punch. But you dodge it, each kick and punch he sent was easily avoided.

As he moved to kick your head you grabbed his leg, and pulled him away. “You know” you begin walking to the edge tone not changing, “in nature Crows and Robins have an interest relationship. Crows are an omnivorous creature, they don’t just eat seeds and nuts like some people will have you believe. They’ve even been reported to peck out the eyes and tongues of lambs. Robins are no exception,” you hold him over the edge and watch as his eyes widen. He squirms and yells, “Crows will actually protect the nests of Robins, for a fee of course.” Batman should appear any minute now. “There young, they take and feast on the eggs and hatchlings. They basically farm them, it’s fascinating really. Crows are one of the smartest birds, about as intelligent as a 7 year old human. We’re watching the first signs of the evolution of a society!” You say almost giddy, “little mafias! It’s adorable and fascinating!” “We’re are you going with this” you just stare down at him, your mask making it nothing more then a dark void. You can practically feel his presence close to you, “it’s simple really! I’ve never been payed my dues! And you’re just a hatchling that doesn’t know better” and you drop him.

Batman catches him of course, but by the time he does and gets back up the tower you’re already long gone.

——————

Sorry if it takes a while for me to post things! I haven’t been feeling great both physically and mentally lately.

[jose996c]

Unspoken

Parings: dbf!joel miller x f!reader

Word count: 4.6k

Summary: In the sweltering heat of an Austin summer, Joel Miller finds himself caught between loyalty and forbidden desire. As his best friend's daughter returns home, no longer the little girl he once knew, the lines between past and present, right and wrong, begin to blur. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, and every unspoken word threaten to unravel the careful distance he's tried to maintain. But some fires, once sparked, are impossible to put out.

Warnings: no outbreak au, smut (18+, MDNI), age gap, unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it), secret relationship

edit: I want to thank everyone that has liked and/or reposted this fic, it means a lot to me - and i'm planning to write more i just need ideas <3

a/n: Hi, this is my first fanfic - please leave a comment if i need to do anything different <3 or if you have an idea for my next fanfic (i'll write for any Pedro Pascal character

In the heart of a sweltering Austin summer, Joel Miller sat on his porch, nursing a cold beer as the sun dipped low. The sound of laughter and distant music drifted from the neighbourhood barbecue, but he remained in his solitary retreat, lost in thought. At 46, Joel had seen enough of the world to appreciate the quiet moments. His eyes followed the lazy flight of a dragonfly, the only creature brave enough to dance in the heavy air.

He heard the familiar crunch of gravel as a car pulled into the driveway next door. Your dad's old pickup, he thought with a hint of a smile. You stepped out, a vision of youth and energy in the fading light. The sight of you never failed to stir something within him, a feeling he had been trying to ignore for years. But as you grew older, the lines between friendship and desire blurred more each day.

You were 24 now, and the little girl who used to follow him and your dad around the yard with wide eyes had transformed into a woman. Your laughter had deepened, your gaze had grown more knowing, and the way you moved... it was as if the very air around you hummed with a secret life Joel wasn't privy to. He took a long pull from his beer, the coolness barely touching the heat building in his chest. It was wrong, he knew, to think of you like this, but he couldn't help it.

Your relationship had evolved from childhood playdates with Sarah to stolen glances and awkward silences. Your dad, oblivious to the tension thickening the air between you and Joel, had invited him over for their weekly catch-up. The TV in the living room buzzed with the latest baseball game as the two men talked over it, their voices a comforting background to the rhythm of the house.

You emerged from the kitchen, a plate of freshly baked cookies in your hand, your eyes immediately finding Joel's. His gaze was like a warm caress, making your cheeks flush as you offered the snack. He took one, his rough, calloused hand brushing against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. The electricity between you was palpable, a silent symphony playing only for the two of you.

As your dad disappeared into the garage, the TV's volume seemed to drop, the world outside the living room fading away. Joel leaned in, his breath a whisper of temptation. "You know, I've always liked these cookies," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your dad makes a good BBQ, but your mom's cookies are something else."

Joel took a bite of the cookie, watching you with a look that seemed to say so much more than his words ever could. He chewed slowly, savouring it, and then spoke, his voice low and earnest. "But what I like even more than your mom's cookies; is the company they bring." His eyes searched yours for a reaction, a hint of what you might be feeling.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest, your breath hitching slightly. "What do you mean, Joel?" you asked, playing it cool despite the heat rising in your cheeks. You knew what he meant, but you needed to hear it from him, needed the validation that the feelings weren't one-sided.

Before Joel could answer, the sound of your dad's heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway, and he re-entered the living room, wiping his greasy hands on an old towel. "You two okay in here?" he called out, breaking the tension. Joel's eyes darted towards your father, and you took a step back, the moment lost to the intrusion of reality.

You mumbled something about needing to get ready for bed, your voice barely above a whisper, and practically sprinted upstairs, the plate of cookies forgotten on the coffee table. Joel's gaze followed you, a mix of longing and regret etched into the lines of his face. When your dad looked at him questioningly, he shrugged, playing it off with a forced chuckle. "Guess she had a long day," he said, his tone casual, as if the air between you hadn't just crackled with unspoken desire.

As the night rolled on, the conversation flowed, but Joel's eyes kept drifting to the empty spot where you'd been standing. Every laugh, every gesture, played on repeat in his mind, taunting him with what could have been. He took a deep breath, pushing down the emotions that threatened to bubble over.

When the final inning of the baseball game ended and the TV screen flickered to darkness, your dad leaned over and nudged Joel with his elbow. "Remember, the Johnsons are throwing a barbeque next Saturday. Starts at two, should be a good time." Joel nodded absently, his mind racing with thoughts of you, of the way your eyes had searched his.

The following week, the air was thick with the smell of grilled meat and the sweetness of blooming magnolias as the barbeque at the Johnsons' kicked into gear. Joel found himself by the grill with your dad and a few of his old friends, the sizzle of burgers and the crackle of the fire punctuating their easy banter. Despite the casual chatter, Joel's eyes kept drifting towards you, your laughter a siren's call amidst the clink of ice in plastic cups and the hum of conversation.

You looked stunning in a sundress that hugged your curves just right, your hair cascading down your back like a dark waterfall. The sight of you, surrounded by friends and neighbours, made his chest tighten. He told himself he was just being protective, that it was his duty as your dad's best friend to watch out for you. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. The way your eyes caught the light, the curve of your smile, it all whispered of secrets he wasn't meant to know.

As the afternoon grew into evening, the shadows grew longer, and the conversations grew quieter. Joel noticed you slipping away from the group, heading towards the house to grab a fresh drink. The kitchen was your fortress, a place where you could hide from the prying eyes of small-town gossip. He took the opportunity to follow you, under the guise of needing a beer from the fridge.

In the cool embrace of the kitchen, the air was thick with the scent of BBQ sauce and the faint hint of your perfume. Joel leaned against the counter, his eyes never leaving you as you filled a plastic cup with ice. He took a deep breath, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on his shoulders.

"You know, you've always been like a daughter to me," he began, his voice thick with unspoken emotions. "But lately, I've been noticing things... things I probably shouldn't."

Your heart thudded in your chest as you met his gaze, the words you'd longed to hear finally spilling from his lips. The kitchen was a cocoon around you, the outside world forgotten in the face of this moment. "What kind of things?" you asked, your voice a soft whisper that seemed to hang in the air.

Joel took a step closer, his eyes searching yours for any sign of rejection. "The way you look at me," he said, his voice raw with vulnerability. "The way you smile, the sound of your laughter... it's like you're the only thing that makes any sense in this world."

You felt your heart swell; the words you've been longing to hear spilling from Joel's lips. "Joel, I-"

He cut you off gently, placing a finger to your lips. "Shh," he said, his eyes searching yours for permission. Without a word, you nodded, the tension in the room snapping like a tightly pulled rubber band. And then, with a soft groan, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, as if he was afraid, you'd vanish in a puff of smoke. But as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, he deepened it, his hand cupping your cheek. The kitchen spun around you, the only reality the taste of BBQ sauce and beer on his lips and the feel of his hands on your body.

For a moment, the world outside the kitchen didn't exist. There were no neighbours, no friends, no awkward silences or hidden glances. Just Joel and you, lost in a kiss that felt like it had been a lifetime in the making. His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, sending shivers down your spine. It was everything you'd ever imagined and more, a secret promise whispered in the heat of the moment.

But reality had a way of crashing in, and when you finally pulled away, breathless, Joel's expression was a storm of emotions. Guilt washed over him, the weight of his actions heavy on his shoulders. He took a step back, his hand dropping to his side, the warmth of your embrace replaced by a coldness that chilled you to the bone. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "I shouldn't have done that."

You searched his face, trying to understand the conflict in his eyes. "Why not?" you whispered, reaching out to touch his arm. But he shrugged you off gently, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Because of your dad," he said, his voice hoarse. "Because of Sarah."

For a week, you both danced around the elephant in the room. Joel's absence at your dad's weekly gatherings was palpable, his laughter a ghostly echo that haunted the quiet nights. Each day, the ache grew, the memory of his touch like a phantom caress that taunted you in your dreams. You knew you had to confront him, to lay your feelings bare and risk everything for the chance to be with him.

The evening air was sticky with the scent of rain as you approached Joel's house, a borrowed wrench in your hand serving as your excuse. When he opened the door, his eyes searched yours for understanding, for a reason to resist the pull between you. But the words that followed only served to stoke the fire in your belly.

"We can't do this," Joel said, his voice a tightrope stretched to its breaking point. But his eyes gave him away, the flicker of want in their depths.

You stepped closer, the scent of his aftershave and the faint hint of engine oil clinging to him, a heady combination that made your heart race. "Do what?" you challenged, your voice a soft echo in the quiet evening. "Talk? Be in the same room?"

His eyes searched yours, a maelstrom of emotions swirling in their depths. "You know what I mean," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Your dad trusts me. I've been a part of your life for so long—"

Since I was a kid, you cut in, your voice sharper than you intended. "I'm not a kid anymore, Joel

."

He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face tightening like a coiled spring. "That's the problem," he murmured.

With a sigh that was more of a battle cry, you turned on your heel and marched out, the screen door slamming shut behind you. The sound echoed in the stillness of the night, a stark reminder of the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Joel watched you go, the light from the porch casting long shadows across the yard.

A few days later, the neighbourhood buzzed with the excitement of a potluck dinner party. The air was alive with the sound of children playing and the aroma of a dozen different dishes wafting through the air. You found yourself at the center of a group of your peers, an old friend from college recounting a wild spring break story. Laughter bubbled up from your chest, pure and uninhibited, and you felt a sudden warmth in your cheeks.

Across the yard, Joel sat in a plastic chair, his eyes on you, his grip on his beer bottle so tight that condensation trickled down his knuckles. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening with every giggle that left your lips. He told himself it was nothing, that you had every right to enjoy the company of others, that he was just being an overprotective fool.

The sound of your laughter grew louder, and Joel couldn't ignore the sting of jealousy that pierced his chest. He'd known this day would come, but watching you flirt and smile with ease was more than he could bear. He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping against the concrete, and made his way to the cooler, his eyes never leaving you.

As he approached, he heard the tail end of your friend's joke, the punchline lost on him as he focused on the way your cheeks dimpled, and your eyes sparkled with mirth. Joel's hand tightened around the neck of his beer bottle, the plastic crackling under his grip. "Didn't know you liked frat boys," he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You turned to him, the laughter dying on your lips as you searched his face for a clue to the meaning behind his words. "Excuse me?"

The guy who'd been telling the joke looked confused, but you didn't care. All that mattered was Joel, his eyes dark and unreadable, his body a live wire of tension.

"What's your problem?" you whispered, leaning in so that only he could hear.

Joel's eyes searched yours, the intensity of his gaze making you feel like the only person in the world. For a moment, the rest of the party faded into the background, the laughter and music a distant hum as the air between you crackled with tension. His expression flickered between frustration, desire, and something deeper—something he was too afraid to name.

But then your dad's booming laugh cut through the air, pulling you both back to reality. Joel took a step back, shaking his head. "Forget it," he murmured, his voice thick with regret.

But you don't.

For the rest of the barbecue, Joel avoids you. He doesn’t look your way, doesn’t seek you out, but you can feel his presence like a weight in the air. He’s tense, distracted, not laughing as easily at your dad’s jokes.

And you? You should be enjoying the party, but all you can think about is the way his voice had sounded—low and rough with something dangerously close to jealousy.

Later, when most of the guests have left and the night is winding down, you find Joel sitting on the back porch, a fresh beer in hand. You hesitate for a moment before stepping outside, closing the door behind you.

"You were jealous," you say softly, standing just behind him.

Joel doesn’t turn around, but you see his shoulders stiffen.

"Go inside," he mutters.

"No." You move closer. "You were jealous, Joel. Why?"

He exhales, shaking his head. "It doesn’t matter."

"It matters to me."

Finally, he looks at you. The porch light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the conflict in his eyes. "You want the truth?" he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod.

He swallows hard, as if bracing himself for the weight of the confession. Then he leans in just slightly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Because I hate seeing you with him."

The air between your crackles, thick and heavy. Your heart slams against your ribs.

Before you can respond, the sound of the sliding door opening behind you breaks the moment. Your dad’s voice cuts through the tension. "There y’all are! Thought you both disappeared."

Joel is on his feet in an instant, stepping away from you like he’s been caught doing something wrong. He clears his throat, taking a long pull from his beer before flashing your dad an easy, practiced grin.

"Just needed a minute," he says smoothly.

But as your dad launches into a story about the barbecue, Joel doesn’t look at you again.

And you know—this isn’t over. Not even close.

The days after the barbecue were unbearable. Joel had always been a constant in your life, his presence woven into your world like a familiar melody. But now? Now, he was avoiding you. No more casual visits, no more lingering looks. He hadn’t been over to your dad’s house all week, and the absence felt like a void you couldn’t ignore.

You tried to brush it off, but the gnawing feeling in your gut wouldn’t let up. You knew why he was pulling away. You could still hear his voice in your head, raw and full of something dangerously close to regret: Because I hate seeing you with him.

Tonight, you decide you can’t take it anymore. You need answers.

When you knock on his door, there’s a long pause before he finally opens it. Joel stands there in the dim glow of his porch light, his face unreadable, his jaw tight. He doesn’t invite you in.

"Shouldn’t be here," he mutters, eyes flicking past you like he’s making sure no one sees.

You swallow hard. "Then tell me to leave."

Joel exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. Torn. "Damn it, kid…"

Your stomach twists. "Don’t call me that."

His eyes snap to yours, something dark and conflicted brewing in them. "You think I don’t want this?" His voice is low, hoarse. "You think I don’t—" He stops himself, shaking his head like he’s trying to will the thought away. "This ain't right."

"Then why does it feel like it is?" You step closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Why did you say what you said? Why did you kiss me if you were just gonna run?"

Joel clenches his jaw, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Because I’m tryin’ to do the right thing."

You let out a bitter laugh. "And avoiding me is the right thing? Pretending like nothing happened? Like you don’t—"

"Like I don’t want you?" he cuts in, his voice rough, edged with something desperate. His control is slipping, you can see it in the way his chest rises and falls, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you. "You think I don’t lie awake at night regrettin’ every goddamn second of that kiss? Because I do. I regret it because I shouldn't want you. And I regret it because I do."

The confession steals the breath from your lungs. The world narrows to just the two of you, standing on the edge of something irreversible.

"Then stop fighting it," you whisper.

For a long moment, Joel just looks at you, torn between every instinct telling him to walk away and the pull that keeps dragging him back to you. And then, like a breaking tide, the moment crashes over him.

With a growl of pure need, Joel pulls you into his arms. The kiss is explosive, desperate. It’s as if he’s been holding his breath for a week, and you’re the air he’s been gasping for. His hands roam your body, his touch burning through the fabric of your shirt, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

You cling to him, your own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. The kiss turns into an all-consuming fire, devouring every inch of doubt, leaving only raw, unbridled passion in its path.

You stumble back into the house, the door slamming shut behind you. Joel’s hands are everywhere—on your waist, your hips, your thighs—as he lifts you onto the kitchen counter. The coolness of the tile against your skin does nothing to quench the heat burning through you.

Your legs wrap around his hips, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses along your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pulls your shirt over your head, exposing your lacy bra to the cool air.

The intensity of his gaze as he looks at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time—makes your knees wobble. "You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice a hoarse rasp.

The words are a balm to your soul, soothing the ache that’s been festering since that night in the kitchen.

Joel’s hands trace the edges of your bra, his thumbs brushing the swells of your breasts until you’re aching for more. And then, with a gentle touch that belies the fierce need in his eyes, he unhooks it, letting it fall away.

Your breath hitches as his mouth finds your nipple, his tongue teasing it into a peak. Your back arches, your hips pressing against him as his hands glide up your bare back.

The world outside fades away, replaced by the sound of your ragged breaths, the rustle of fabric, and the unmistakable thud of your heart beating in time with his.

You’re lost in a whirlwind of sensation—his mouth on your skin, his hands in your hair, the feel of his chest pressed against yours. And in that moment, you realize that maybe this isn’t just a fleeting crush. Maybe it’s something more, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for years.

And as Joel whispers your name against your skin, his eyes locked on yours, you know you’re about to find out just how much more it can be.

The tension snaps as Joel lifts you off the counter, his strong arms cradling you effortlessly as he carries you through the darkened house. The air is thick with anticipation, the unspoken words between you louder than any confession could ever be. Your heart pounds against your ribs as the soft glow of the streetlight filters in through the curtains, casting warm, golden streaks over his sharp features, highlighting the intensity in his gaze.

He lays you on the bed, his hands firm but reverent as they sweep over your body. His eyes never leave yours as he undoes the button of your jeans, fingers deft yet unhurried, as if savouring each second. The zipper whispers open, the sound nearly drowned out by your own shaky breath. He peels the fabric away, revealing your matching lace panties, his gaze darkening with something primal, something possessive.

A shiver runs through you as his fingers trace the delicate line of lace, his touch featherlight yet electrifying. Your body arches instinctively, every nerve alive, every inch of you attuned to him. His thumb lingers over your hipbone before trailing lower, teasing but not giving in. The corner of his mouth quirks up at your barely restrained whimper, his control evident in the slow, deliberate way he moves.

Joel leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the waistband, his breath hot against your skin. His stubble rasps against your stomach, the sensation both rough and intoxicating. Your hands find their way into his hair, threading through the dark strands, tugging lightly in silent plea. He groans against your skin, the sound sending a thrill down your spine. Your hips lift of their own accord, a wordless request, and this time, he gives in.

The fabric slides down your legs, cool air kissing the bare skin he’s just revealed. His hands follow the path of the lace, his palms rough against your softness, branding you in a way that has nothing to do with touch and everything to do with the way he looks at you—like he’s waited a lifetime for this.

The air is charged, thick with unspoken promises and a hunger neither of you can suppress any longer. He kisses his way back up your body, slow and deliberate, as if mapping every curve, every hollow, every inch of you that belongs to him now. His lips hover over yours, his breath mingling with yours, teasing you with the anticipation of a kiss he refuses to give just yet.

You reach for him, hands trembling with need as you pull him closer. Your leg’s part, inviting him in, and Joel doesn’t waste a second. He settles between your thighs, his body a solid, comforting weight against yours. His fingers trail down, teasing, exploring, before his mouth replaces them.

The first flick of his tongue sends a jolt through you, your body arching off the bed. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you open, his mouth a weapon of pleasure against your most sensitive spot. Your fingers tighten in his hair, a broken moan escaping your lips as he groans against you, the vibration sending another wave of heat through your core.

The world around you blur as the pleasure builds, coils tightening deep within. His name falls from your lips in breathless gasps, your body trembling beneath him as he pushes you closer to the edge. His hands roam, gripping, teasing, claiming, until you shatter, the release crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Your chest heaves, the aftershocks still rippling through you when he rises, his lips glistening, his eyes burning with something deeper than just desire. He kisses you then, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, branding the moment into your soul.

And then he’s there, pressing into you, stretching, filling, until you are one, until there is no space left between you. A gasp catches in your throat, the sensation overwhelming yet perfect. He stills, giving you a moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both breathe each other in.

The first thrust is slow, reverent, as if he’s savouring the feeling of finally having you. Then another. And another. Each movement sends you higher, the pleasure mounting again, your bodies falling into a rhythm as old as time itself. A rhythm that speaks of longing, of passion, of love that’s been denied for too long.

Your name is a broken whisper on his lips as his pace quickens, his control slipping. You cling to him, nails digging into his back as you chase the inevitable. And when you fall, when the pleasure crashes over you again, you take him with you, his own release tearing through him as he buries himself deep inside you.

Silence settles in the aftermath, the only sound the mingling of your breath, the pounding of his heart against your cheek. Joel pulls you close, his arms wrapping around you as if he can shield you from the world, from the consequences waiting on the other side of dawn.

But reality is a cruel thing.

The cold grip of it slithers in, twisting around your heart, suffocating the warmth of what you just shared.

What have we done?

The unspoken question lingers between you, hanging in the air like smoke from a fire that burned too hot, too fast.

This can’t be a one-time thing. The thought is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen, but you also don’t know how to move forward.

How do you tell your dad? How do you explain the way you feel about Joel without shattering everything?

The silence stretches, thick with fear, with desire, with something too big to name. But for now, all you can do is lay there, wrapped in Joel’s arms, and hope.

Because you know one thing for sure: you can’t go back.

The line has been crossed, and there is no undoing it.

[obsessedwhyyes]

Beneath the Blood and Starlight

Summary: Awoken from a nightmare, you seek a moment of reprieve down by the river, only to find your mysterious vampire companion - covered in blood. As you help him with his mess, you realise that perhaps there's more to his rakish, teasing façade: a vulnerability that you had not anticipated. A moment of intimacy ensues.

Rating: T Word Count: 3096 Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader Content: Act 1, pre-romance, fluff, early bonding, non-sexual intimacy, flirting, feral cat Astarion. Warning: Starts with a nightmare sequence featuring depictions of ceremorphosis, in case that's an issue.

A/N: What was meant to be a cute, fluffy little drabble grew arms and legs and turned into several thousand words. I wanted to explore some non-sexual intimacy, in the context of Act 1 where everyone is still learning about each other, so here we have some typical Act 1 Astarion flirting, some banter, and some exploration of Astarion - the person, rather than the vampire spawn.

It was a night like any other.

The campfire warmed the faces of the merry band of travelling companions you had accrued throughout the course of your journey. The strangest bedfellows one could ever imagine, but amidst the chaos of your journey up to now, the sound of laughter was a joyous reprieve; a rare moment of peace.

Your gaze was drawn inexorably to Astarion who sat across from you. Firelight danced across his pale skin as you watched him, and he caught your eye then. A mischievous smile played at the corners of his mouth and your heart fluttered, just a little.

“Darling,” he purred, raising a finger to point to you, “you’re bleeding.”

You were?

Your hand reached for your face, feeling a slickness trickling from your nose. Strange. You hadn’t noticed any pain.

Suddenly, the firelight seemed too bright, the laughter too loud.

Something was wrong.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your body was wracked instead with a fit of coughs. You could not breathe.

You doubled over, and an ache spread throughout your jaw - a pain unlike anything you had ever experienced. Your innards felt ready to burst out of you.

“Are you alright?” Astarion’s voice was tinged with an uncharacteristic concern. Moving quickly to your side, his cool hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. But as your eyes met his, you recoiled in horror.

A mindflayer.

Where Astarion’s once beautiful face had been, you were greeted with orange eyes, burning with malice, sharp teeth like cut glass within a tentacled maw, and slickened, wet skin. Yet, his voice remained the same, teasing and rakish - a jarring contrast that set your heart pounding, limbs begging you to flee.

You tried to scream, but your jaw felt wrong. It cracked, a sickening sound that reverberated through your skull. The pain was excruciating, blinding. Something writhing and slick attempted to push its way out of your throat and you choked.

Astarion-Not-Astarion’s hand, still cool against your feverish skin, stroked your cheek almost tenderly. “That’s it,” he cooed, his voice a twisted parody of his usual flirtatious drawls, “embrace the change.”

You looked around wildly. All of your companions had transformed, their familiar faces replaced by disgusting, terrifying… No, beautiful, evolved, magnificent alien features.

“Change,” they chanted. “Change. Change…”

You bolted upright, a strangled gasp escaping your lips. Cold sweat drenched your skin as you wildly scanned your surroundings. The familiar sight of your tent came into focus.

Your heart pounded in your chest as realisation set in. A dream. It was a dream.

It was a night like any other.

And that was precisely the problem.

Sleep, you decided, was no longer an option.

There was a river in the woods nearby and you were in desperate need to cleanse yourself of the sweat which clung to your still shivering body. Or rather, you needed something, anything to distract yourself. And so, packing washcloths, you left the confines of your tent and snuck away into the woodlands.

–

The sound of running water called to you, a moment of solace drawing nearer. Or so you thought, until a familiar figure came into view.

It was Astarion, sitting by the river's edge, moonlight gleaming across his pale… Bare skin.

Assuming you'd stumbled in on something you shouldn't have, you averted your gaze hastily, a blush crawling up your neck. “A-ah, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude!”

“It's just my shirt, darling. No need for such modesty.” Astarion’s voice carried a hint of amusement, clearly privy to your embarrassment.

A moment passed as you attempted to recompose yourself. Looking up, he was indeed just shirtless. 

Thank the gods for that.

As you drew closer to him, you noticed the blood smeared across his face - evidence of a recent hunt.

Truth be told, he was a bit of a mess. Crimson streaks painted his cheeks and chin, with a particularly gruesome splatter across his left temple. Some of it had begun to dry, flaking at the edges. It was a stark, almost beautiful contrast against his pale skin - a reminder of the predator that lurked beneath his charming exterior.

You sat across from him, trying to ignore the way the moonlight played across his bare chest.

His lips curled into a smirk. “Out for a midnight stroll or were you just hoping to catch me in a compromising position?”

You rolled your eyes, though you were grateful for the familiar banter. You tried not to recall the events of your nightmare, the lingering tendrils of which still threatened to send you into a blinding panic. In a way, you were grateful to have stumbled across Astarion on your journey out here. As much as you told yourself otherwise, being alone was perhaps not what you needed right now.

“I just needed some fresh air,” you said, less than eager to give away the finer details of your predicament.

Your gaze fell on a needle and thread beside him, and a hole in his shirt draped across his lap.

“What happened?” you asked, nodding to his shirt, in a hasty attempt to change the subject.

“Ah, this? I was unfortunate enough to get tangled up with a particularly feral boar this evening. The little bastard didn't get very far though.”

Well, you thought to yourself, that explains the blood.

As he picked up the needle and resumed his repairs, long fingers moving with practised ease, you found yourself curious. “I didn't know you could sew.”

“I'm a man of many talents. I'd be happy to give you a… private demonstration, if you like.”

You sighed in mock exasperation. “Isn't it exhausting trying to talk your way into my trousers all the time?”

“Who says I was trying to talk my way into your trousers?” Astarion gleamed.

You fixed him with a doubtful look, eyebrow raised. In response, he reached into his pack which rested behind him, and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to you. As you unfolded it, you gasped. Delicate florals, intricate patterns adorned the fabric, embroidered with a meticulous care and skill that you would have attributed to the tailors and seamstresses of Baldur's Gate’s Upper City. It was as if he had captured the essence of a moonlit garden, with silvery threads weaving a tapestry of nocturnal blooms and shadowy vines.

“Gods, Astarion. You made this?”

He nodded, a flicker of genuine pride crossing his features.

“It's beautiful,” you breathed as you ran your fingers across the stitches. “What a wonderful talent to have.”

Something shifted in Astarion’s expression - a flash of vulnerability quickly masked. 

“Yes, well, one must find ways to pass the time. Keep it, if you like,” Astarion continues, attempting to feign disinterest. The look in his eyes told a different story.

“Thank you,” you said. You meant it.

A moment of silence passed between you, punctuated by the gentle bubbles and burbles of the river as it flowed.

“I don't think I have any special talents of my own,” you mused, more to yourself than to him.

Astarion glanced up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, I'm sure you have some hidden talents. I'd be more than happy to help you explore them, if you like. In my tent, perhaps?”

You raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze.

Astarion grinned, unabashed. “That time, I was trying to talk my way into your trousers.”

You laughed then and gods, did it feel good to laugh on a night like this, even with the familiar feeling of heat rising to your cheeks. This dance between you - this constant push-and-pull - had become almost comforting in its familiarity. Of course, you had considered his offer - he had not exactly been subtle about his intentions with you. But you weren't quite ready to give in. Not yet, anyway.

Your laughter settled, and something in the mood shifted as Astarion turned his gaze from you to the river.

“Truth be told, Cazador didn't give us much beyond the clothes on our backs. I had to learn some things for myself.”

The admission hung heavy in the air. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, despite the venom that laced his voice at his former master’s name. 

“I'm sorry,” you said softly. Once again, you meant it.

He shrugged, forcing a lightness into his tone. “It’s not all bad. Using my hands to create something beautiful - it's a welcome distraction. It lets me feel… well, not good, but less terrible for a while.”

You nodded. You never knew quite what to say in these moments. Astarion had only recently begun to open up to you regarding his past, and each story drew forth a maelstrom of emotions from you. Sadness at the gods-awful role he was thrust into; guilt at not having been there for him sooner; anger, not only at Cazador, but at those who had the opportunity to save him but chose not to, as though his vampiric nature made him less worthy of the safety that all who live, crave. You could only imagine the feelings which raged like a tempest in him.

It was in moments like these that you had to admire just how brave he really was.

You were snapped out of your ruminations when Astarion finished his mending. You caught a glimpse of a sharp, pointed fang as he used it to cut the thread - an action which shouldn't have been as fascinating as it was.

He stood and slipped on his shirt.

“Well?” He asked, with a twirl and a flourish. “What do you think?”

“Perfect as always,” you replied, then paused. “Except for, well, the blood on your face.”

Astarion’s eyes widened in indignation. “And you're only mentioning this now?”

You shrugged, fighting back a grin. “I thought the feral look rather suited you.”

“You absolute freak,” he scoffed, but there was no real heat behind the words.

“I can help if you want.”

As you dug into your pack to procure a washcloth, your intentions clear, Astarion’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He recoiled as if you'd brandished a weapon, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Absolutely not.”

Pride and uncertainty marred his voice. You recognised the look in his eyes - the same wary glance of a feral cat, torn between the desire for help and the instinct to flee.

“Come on,” you coaxed, keeping your voice soft, even. “It's not like you can look in a mirror.”

You had hoped humour would de-escalate the situation.

It did not.

For a moment, anger flashed in his eyes - a cornered predator lashing out. But as he met your gaze, something in his expression shifted. The fury melted to uncertainty, then a flicker of longing so brief you almost missed it.

Astarion’s body language was a mess of contradictions. He leaned slightly towards you, as if drawn by an invisible thread, only to catch himself and pull back. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but the words lacked his usual bite. “I don't need– I mean, I'm perfectly capable of–”

“If you don't need my help, that's okay. We don't have to do this if you don't want to.”

Astarion’s eyes darted between your face and the cloth, held loosely in your hand. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“Why?” he asked.

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Why are you helping me? Why care?

“Because I want to,” you answered simply.

Something in Astarion’s expression cracked then, a hairline fracture in his carefully constructed façade. He gave a jerky nod, not quite meeting your eyes.

“Well,” he said, his tone aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile, “if you insist on playing nursemaid, who am I to stop you? Though I warn you, darling, caring for me can be a dangerous pastime.”

The words were pure Astarion - flirtatious, guarded, with a hint of threat. The words weren't quite acceptance, but they were close enough.

“I'll take my chances,” you teased softly, patting the ground beside you, prompting him to sit.

He complied with an obvious reluctance, perching on the edge of the riverbank as if the ground might swallow him whole.

As you wetted your washcloth in the river and moved closer to him - close enough to feel his cool breath on your skin - you notice him tense at the anticipation of your touch. His eyes were squeezed shut, face turned slightly away from you. But you were gentle as you placed the cloth to his cheek and began to wipe away the streaks of crimson from his face.

The sounds of the world around you dulled, faded to a murmur as you tended to him, as though the leaves had stilled their rustling and the river its gurgling. In this moment of suspended reality, your focus narrowed to Astarion’s face and the myriad of emotions playing across it.

His hesitation, his vulnerability - it struck you how monumental this simple act truly was. Here was a man - a vampire - who had known centuries of cruelty; who had learned to weaponise his charm and keep the world at arm’s length for his safety. And yet, he was allowing you to see him like this: uncertain, teetering at the edge of trust.

The weight of his concession settled over you like a blanket. Each micro-expression that flickered across his features told a story of internal struggle - the tightening of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his eyes squeezed shut as if bracing for pain that wouldn't come. It was a dance of contradictions; a battle between ingrained distrust and a longing for gentleness.

In this frozen moment, you realised that what you were offering wasn't just a clean face. It was acceptance, care, a touch unburdened by expectation or demand. And for Astarion, perhaps accepting it was an act of bravery greater than any he'd shown in battle.

With careful strokes, you cleaned the blood away from his cheek. You worked slowly, mindful of the tension in his jaw. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he began to relax under your ministrations.

“Turn your head for me?” you asked, softly.

Astarion complied without a word, tilting his face to give you access to the other cheek. His eyes remained closed, but the furrow in his brow had softened.

You resumed your task, gently working your way across his features. A stubborn smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, another at the hollows of his cheekbones, droplets that had spattered at his forehead - all melted away before your eyes with each glide of the wet cloth, unveiling his pale skin.

As you worked, you found yourself studying him in a way you never had before. His elven features were a study in contrasts - ethereal beauty intertwined with the weathering of time and hardship. High cheekbones caught the moonlight, throwing delicate shadows across his face. His skin, where it wasn't marred by blood, was like polished alabaster, smooth and luminous.

As you gently moved to cleanse his temple, your fingertips brushed against a strand of his hair - silk curls spun from starlight.

Yet it was the imperfections that truly drew you in. Fine lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes, like a map of laughter and sorrow etched by the years. His brow, while regal, bore the weight of exhaustion, a testament to the burdens he carried.

There was something mesmerising in the juxtaposition - this timeless, otherworldly beauty marked by the unmistakable signs of an unlife born of hardships and losses yet unspoken between you. But each line, each weary shadow, only served to enhance a grace that time and pain could never fully erase.

Your hand paused, cloth hovering near his cheek, as you realised you'd been lost in studying him. In that moment, beneath the moon’s gentle gaze and the river’s whispered song, you saw not just the elf; the vampire; the mysterious travelling companion, but the man - beautiful, vulnerable, and utterly captivating.

Astarion’s eyes fluttered open, catching you in your reverie. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The air between you was filled with unspoken words and possibilities. 

It was… intimate.

“See something you like, darling?” Astarion’s voice was soft, lacking its usual sharp edge of sarcasm. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that made your breath catch.

You smiled softly, resuming your gentle ministrations.

“Just making sure I didn't miss any spots.”

You weren't quite ready to voice the thoughts swirling in your mind.

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by rippling sounds of water as you periodically dipped your washcloth in the river to wring it out.

As you shifted to clean the last traces of blood, you finally looked up again to meet Astarion’s gaze fully.

“There,” you said. “I knew there was a handsome man somewhere under all that filth.”

Astarion’s lips quirked into a smile - not his usual smirk, but something softer.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you for your… attentions,” he murmured.

The moment stretched between you, fragile and charged with possibility. For a heartbeat, you thought he might lean in; might close the distance between you. But the moment passed, leaving behind a mix of relief and something that felt dangerously close to disappointment.

You cleared your throat, breaking the spell.

“We should probably head back to camp,” you suggested, your voice steadier than you felt.

Astarion nodded, rising to his feet with his usual grace. As you gathered your things, you felt his eyes on you, thoughtful and considering.

“You know,” he said as you started back through the woods, “I think you might have one hidden talent.”

You glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow in question.

His smile was enigmatic, tinged with something you couldn't quite name.

“You have a remarkable ability to surprise me. And that… that is no small feat.”

As you made your way back to camp, the weight of your nightmare felt lighter. And if you walked a little closer to Astarion than strictly necessary, well, that was just to avoid tripping in the dark. Nothing more.

It was a night like any other and yet, as you settled back into your bedroll, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between you and Astarion. A new understanding, perhaps, or the first trembling notes of a melody yet to be fully composed. Whatever it was, it sang you to sleep, keeping the nightmares at bay just this once.

No Pressure Tag List: @roguishcat @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard

Masterlist can be found here.

[fanbasetwo]

Ꮺ . , BEING ENEMIES WITH WONBIN !!

NOTE FROM SENA , (this is a fic in a headcanon manner) first wonbin work lesss gaurr , MASTERLIST!!

i. THE BEGINNING OF A SILLY FEUD

Your rivalry with Wonbin started over the most ridiculous thing ever: his best friend stealing a strawberry from your best friend’s lunchbox in 3rd grade.

Your best friend cried for hours about the betrayal, and you decided it was your duty to avenge her. Naturally, this meant you had to hate Wonbin by association.

“You’re friends with a thief!” you’d declared with the confidence only an indignant child could muster.

“It’s just a strawberry! You’re crazy,” Wonbin had retorted, rolling his eyes.

And from then on, you two were sworn enemies. Even as the years passed, the petty grudge somehow persisted, growing into something you didn’t even know how to stop.

ii. HIGH SCHOOL : THE RIVALRY EVOLVES

By high school, the rivalry had become an unspoken rule. If there was a chance to one-up or annoy each other, you both took it without hesitation.

During group projects, you’d fight over ideas until the teacher had to separate you.

If he scored higher than you on a test, he’d make sure you knew about it: “Better luck next time,” he’d say with a smug grin.

If you beat him in a game during gym class, you’d make a point to celebrate a little too enthusiastically, just to watch his annoyed reaction.

Your classmates were so used to the bickering that they didn’t even bat an eye anymore. “Oh, it’s just Y/n and Wonbin being Y/n and Wonbin.”

iii. THE MILK INCIDENT

The rivalry reached its peak when you heard a rumor that Wonbin had bullied one of your friends. Furious, you decided to confront him in the most dramatic way possible—by dumping a carton of milk over his head during lunch.

The cafeteria went silent as everyone turned to stare. Wonbin froze, milk dripping from his hair as he looked at you with wide eyes.

“What the hell was that for?!” he finally asked, his voice sharp and low.

“For my friend, you jerk!” you shouted back, feeling righteous in your actions.

Later, your friend admitted she’d lied, and you were mortified. But by then, the damage was done—Wonbin refused to talk to you, and you could feel his cold gaze whenever you crossed paths in the hallways.

iv. FAILED ATTEMPTS TO APOLOGIZE

Guilt gnawed at you, so you decided to apologize. Writing a note felt like the easiest option since facing him seemed impossible.

“I’m sorry for the milk thing. I overreacted. Can we talk?” you wrote, slipping the note into his locker before rushing away.

The next day, you saw him take the note out, glance at it, and toss it in the trash without even opening it. You felt your blood boil. How dare he ignore me like that?!

v. CORNERING HIM AFTER CLASS

The silent treatment pushed you to the edge. After one particularly tense class, you followed Wonbin out and grabbed him by the collar, shoving him against a wall.

“Why are you acting like this? I said I was sorry!” you snapped, glaring up at him.

He looked down at you, completely unfazed. “You think one sorry note fixes everything?” he shot back, his tone sharp.

“What else do you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg?”

“You could try thinking before you act for once,” he said, his words hitting harder than you expected.

vi. THE UNEXPECTED KISS

The argument grew more heated, voices rising as you both vented years of pent-up frustration.

“You’re so infuriating!” you shouted, your grip tightening on his collar.

“You’re not exactly a walk in the park either!” he retorted, leaning closer as if challenging you.

In a moment of pure impulsive anger, you yanked him down by his uniform collar and kissed him hard.

For a split second, he froze, but then his hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer as he kissed you back with equal intensity. It was messy, fiery, and charged with all the unresolved tension between you two.

vii. THE AFTERMATH

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.

Wonbin smirked, his lips still inches from yours. “Still hate you,” he murmured, but the teasing edge in his voice felt softer, almost playful.

“Good,” you muttered back, even though your heart was racing.

viii. A SHIFT IN THE DYNAMIC

After that kiss, things between you and Wonbin were… different. The bickering continued, but now there was an underlying tension that neither of you could ignore.

He started teasing you more often, but his comments were laced with a new kind of warmth.

“Don’t trip over your own feet,” he’d say during gym class, but his smirk would linger a little longer than usual.

You found yourself glancing at him in class, wondering if he was thinking about the kiss as much as you were.

ix. NEW “RIVALRY” RULES

The “hate” between you two started feeling more like a game. When he scored higher than you on a test, you’d roll your eyes but secretly smile at his smug expression.

When you outperformed him in a group activity, he’d groan dramatically but give you a subtle nod of approval.

Your friends noticed the shift immediately. “Are you two… flirting?” one of them asked during lunch.

“Flirting? With him? Never,” you scoffed, but the blush on your cheeks gave you away.

x. THE UNSPOKEN TRUTH

Neither of you openly acknowledged what had happened in that hallway, but it was clear that something had changed.

You still pretended to hate each other, but the lingering glances and subtle smiles told a different story.

And though you’d never admit it out loud, you didn’t really hate Wonbin anymore. If anything, you might actually like him. But for now, you were content to keep playing the game—because that’s just how things were with you and Wonbin.

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© fanbasetwo | tumblr

[ivoryreality]

MIXTE 1963 ♱ DR

In 1953, when Rebecca Ivory was just eight years old, she moved from her hometown in England to France. Her mother, seeking a fresh start after a difficult divorce, decided it was time for them to begin a new chapter abroad. In both England and France, Rebecca was homeschooled for much of her early education. However, her academic journey took a significant turn when Voltaire High School began admitting female students, and Rebecca was among the select few chosen to enroll. Rebecca is deeply committed to her academics and takes pride in leaving a positive impression on everyone she meets.

“I CARE, I CARE, I CARE LIKE RIBBONS IN YOUR HAIR” 🪽 Priscilla Beaulieu and Rebecca Ivory first crossed paths on their very first day at Voltaire High School. From the moment they introduced themselves, an instant connection formed, and they quickly became best friends. It was as if they had known each other forever. From that day forward, the two girls were inseparable. They sat together in every class, shared notes, and were always paired up as partners for class projects. Their bond grew stronger with each day, evolving into a sister like relationship.

REBECCA’S MIXTAPE

i. It Ain’t Me , Babe - Bob Dylan & Joan Baez

ii. Baby I’m Yours - Cass Elliot

iii. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over - Jeff Buckley

iv. Paper Bag - Fiona Apple

v. Linger- The Cranberries

♱ On her first day at Voltaire High, Rebecca Ivory catches Joseph Descamp’s eye, and their connection grows through shy glances and smiles. But everything changes when Joseph humiliates Rebecca’s best friend, Priscilla, with a cruel prank. Heartbroken, Rebecca distances herself, even after Joseph stops attending school due to an eye injury. When he returns, he apologises to Priscilla and tearfully confesses his regret to Rebecca. Surprised by her lingering feelings, Rebecca admits she loves him, and Joseph reveals he feels the same.

“I know you must despise me for what i did to Priscilla…” “I suppose I should despise you, Joseph but i find that i cannot.”

inspired by srreids & umanzors 🪽

[sydneymykah]

☆MY FASHION ICONS☆

How to turn influence into originality

I think everyone should have at least 2 - 3 different fashion icons. Whether it's an artist, model, designer, fictional character or even cartoon. It's these influences that can help build upon your own fashion sense and style. Relating and gravitating towards certain people can help us decide how we want to present ourselves to the world. Help us find our inner confidence shine through to the physical. Taking bits and pieces from other influences to make something completely your own.

This post is in three sections

1. How finding your influences can help you find your style

2. My icons and their style

3. How I use their influence to find my own original style

(Also I use fashion icon and style icon interchangeably. The basis is just someone who’s fashionable and has a style you feel inspired by)

Lets get into it

FINDING INFLUENCE

Maybe you watched a movie when you were younger and a character dawned an outfit that has stuck with you forever. A specific show or movie has stayed with you simply because of the fashion alone. You discovered that you would give anything to dress like the people you grew up seeing on your screens. To a celebrity's iconic street style or a characters impeccable fashion choices. What we naturally gravitate towards is what inevitably ends up being our main influence. Knowing what we are inspired by helps us figure out how we want to represent ourselves. Today I'm focusing on fashion and style.

If you're someone who wants to figure out what inspires you I'd suggest to go explore all genres of films and tv. Regardless the decade I bet you, you will find a movie or show that resonates with you in terms of fashion/style and aesthetics. Pinterest of course is also an amazing place to look for inspo. Especially if you already have an idea of what you want but need expanding upon it. Environment also affects inspiration. I've seen people's style and how they express themselves completely change because they moved abroad or just simply to a new city. I hope people who read this who are in an environment who cant express themselves the way they want are able to find a place for them someday. If you cant find an environment physically, I'd suggest finding one online. Twitter communities, Tumblr and discord servers pertaining to your interests can help you extremely.

Now, people might struggle to take what inspires them and make something of their own without looking like a straight up carbon copy. Not knowing how to build a style and not look like they're wearing a costume. What I've found to be helpful is to start off by noticing patterns with how your influences dress. If one is a celebrity you can probably find interviews of them talking about the style you're trying to implicate. If it's a character(s) there's a high chance there are YouTube videos and even tiktoks dissecting their style. The best part about this is that you can pick and choose what you like and what you want to try out.

That is also how you eventually find your own style through influence. You have to do things through trial and error. I know that makes people wince because they don't want to look ridiculous but it's true. The main thing you need is confidence. And if you don’t have that fake it till you make it sis. I can think of many people and celebrities who started off one way and evolved into the icons they are today. To people like Rihanna, Bella Hadid, and Sabrina Carpenter. Even with them you can see what influences their style. Rihanna (who has gone through many fashion phases) once being very heavily influenced by 80's UK British punk rock style and Americana. Bella recently being influenced by vaquero and cowgirl chic fashion because of her current cowboy boyfriend Adan Banuelos. Sabrina being very influenced by baby doll aesthetics, lingerie, and 60's style of clothing. You can see with all of their influences they're able to make it theirs. Of course they have stylists to help them(not to take away from their own creativeness) but you can still find ways to help yourself.

Even I am in the trial and error stage. Finding out what I like and what my current influences wear that I want to try too. What helps me is making mood boards and finding pieces that look similar to the ones my inspirations wear. It’s important to note that just buying statement pieces won’t help you build style because it’s harder to create different outfits with them. Basics are VITAL. So don’t overlook them when dissecting your influences. Let me show you how I dissect the patterns and fashion sense my fashion icons have and how I use these as blueprints in figuring out how I want to style myself.

MY ICONS

FRAN FINE

Played by the fabulous Fran Dresher, Fran Fine was the main character in the extremely popular and iconic sitcom of the 90's "The Nanny". Fran being a flashy girl from Flushing Queens who stumbles into a nanny job taking care of rich bachelor Maxwell Sheffield's three kids. The shows main plot is the will they won't they dynamic between Fran and Mr. Sheffield and how unconventional of a nanny Fran is.

Her unconventional yet charming nature reflects in her many iconic outfits. Many pieces being traditionally sophisticated like blazers and turtlenecks are made more flirty and tempting with mini skirts. Frans style didn't shy away from any sort of color, texture or pattern. Wearing things that range from a brick pantsuit, a rainbow sequined strap dress, tiger print blazer and mini skirt set, many bright colored fur coats, and full vinyl and leather matching sets. Her main inspo to her fashion seems to take from 60’s and mod fashion trends. Especially with her big hair and headbands being her main choice of accessory.

Frans typical silhouette would consist of some sort of turtleneck or vest. If she wore a vest it'd usually would have some sort of blouse underneath (collared or another turtleneck). Her bottoms would either be fitted pants, a mini skirt, or a mini dress. Frans signature shoe was a classic pump heel and would usually wear some sort of stocking or tights with them. (usually black) Occasionally she'd switch out the pumps for a boot that would either be reminiscent of 60's mod or just a regular heeled boot. Fran loved a matching set so typically her skirts would usually match her jackets. Her jackets typically being cropped or regular sized blazers. A lot of them being fur trimmed.

CHER

Cher is a famous musician, actress and Tv host. She was the IT girl of the 70's deemed " Goddess of Pop" and was known muse for the incredible Bob Mackie, one of my favorite fashion designers.

Cher was known for her impeccable and ground breaking style. She was unique and was never afraid to dress outside the box. Proudly showing off her stomach and wearing very risqué mesh outfits. Cher's approach to fashion was like a hybrid of bohemian, Disco and old Hollywood glamour. The main thing I think of when it comes to Cher is how she was almost always decked out in sequins and diamonds. Forever sparkling and shining in the cameras. Looking like a colorful disco ball. Cher was also known to not shy away from feathers, furs, and metallics. Considering she can technically be considered a showgirl and had her own popular show filled with musical numbers it makes sense for her to wear that sort of fashion.

Cher's classic silhouette was usually some sort of form fitting, skin showing dress or two piece. She would start off covered in some sort of shawl or jacket that was usually fur or covered in feathers. Then she would reveal her outfit. Typically the outfit would show some a lot of skin, usually her stomach, chest and arms. She was almost aways wearing cross body dresses and tops. a top that would wrap around Chers chest but still show off her core and arms. If Cher wasn't wearing a dress with this type of top she was wearing flared disco pants/Bell bottoms. Similar to Fran, Cher never strayed from interesting patterns and designs. Both very flashy and fashion forward women who knew how to light up a room with just their style alone.

JEM

Jem, from the 80’s cartoon "Jem and the Holograms" is the lead singer of her pop rock band of the same name. Not only that but she’s also secretly Jerrica Benton, the groups manager and owner of her late father's record label starlight music. Jem's 80's fashion can only be described as truly outrageous along with her big pink hair.

Jem of the Holograms was a unique show not only for its premise but because the main cast almost always had a new outfit every episode. Jem didn’t have a consistent silhouette but her outfits were adjacent or the inverse to her alter self. Jerrica being more conservative and covered while jem was more flashy and glamourous. Like a rock star should. One thing consistent with jem were her colors. Pink being her iconic color along with purple, light blue, fuchsia, and yellow.

Jem wore everything from pant suits, bodycon dresses, ball gowns, evening gowns, trench coats, matching sets, and bodysuits. All with 80’s trends like shoulder pads, fingerless gloves, popped collars, patterns like polka dots, layered necklaces, and mini skirts (one reminiscent of tutus artists like Cyndi Lauper and Madonna would wear) The one accessory that stays consistent with her is her gem star earrings and if you notice in the show are the bands symbol. In many of her outfits she dawns a star shape or pattern

*Note that not just Jem inspires my fashion tastes in the show but other characters as well. The other person inspiring me second to her is her antagonist Pizzazz who I've opted as my alter ego. especially considering Jem wears pink and Pizzazz wears green, (opposite colors)

CREATING YOUR OWN STYLE

If it’s not obvious based off the three examples I gave, I like dressing like the brightest thing in the room. The star. The showgirl. The main character of you will. I like to be dressed up even if I’m the only one doing so. So naturally I gravitate to people (or characters) who dress like that. Showgirls like Lola Falana and Josephine Baker inspire me too. Now what I do is take the inspirations and make a mood board. You might've seen my "The Vibe I Bring to the Function" post. That is one example. I've created many moldboards of the type of style I want to have. By taking those influences I notice the similarities between them then make a base line. Here's what I've noticed with mine:

Sequins and rhinestones

Feathers and fur

Leather/Vinyl

Figure hugging

Skin showing

Bodysuits

Turtlenecks

Fitted Blazers/Suits

Flared pants/Bell Bottoms

Matching skirt/pants and jacket sets

Animal Print

Bold Prints/Patterns

Cross body/Halter tops

Bold and bright colors

Then I take this andattribute it to what I know looks good on me. Like certain accessories. for example headbands and bamboo hoops (usually in gold). Speaking of you should also learn your colors. Coincidentally Jems colors are actually some of mine. Especially the color pink. But like I said above trial and error is how you soon figure out what works for you and what doesn't. I used to have a romper body suit once that was baggy with spaghetti straps. The pants were hemmed with elastic so it looked like sweatpants… That's when I realized that if I wanna wear a bodysuit it looks better if its form fitting and flared at the leg lol. Asking people what looks good on you helps a lot too. A lot of the stuff I figured out looks good on me is because I consulted some good friends. When it comes to my environment I'm in an astrology discord chat with some close friends and long story short I'm associated with peacocks so I consider that into my style as well. I'm also from the south so southern inspired outfits also intrigue me. I take this all and experiment with it. I currently have a bunch of animal prints in my close to a peacock corset to an orange velvet bellbottoms. This is only the beginning.

At the end of it all it comes down to experimenting, finding what looks good and realizing that what you gravitate towards. Learning to style yourself is as easy as looking up the basics on YouTube and building on from there. Your icons in fashion will help you get to the direction you want and one day you’ll see how much you’ve developed.

Also ALWAYS remember that you’re in charge here. You can change whenever and whatever you want. You don’t have to find your style and stick with it forever. Like I mentioned before Rihanna has been through multiple different fashion phases, we’re seeing the same with Doja cat as well. Your influences now can be completely different later. Whether it’s your environment or tastes that change. Whatever you find in life that influences you. So today I might be dressing like a 70's showgirl the next a man-eater vampire. Still me at the end of the day. And whoever your icons are, or whatever your inspired by at the end of it all should be reflection of how you want to express yourself.

✧─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Xoxo, Sydney Mykah -☆

[gravebirds0dmnk]

DAMIAN WAYNE RANT

Once again!!

Damian Wayne is not just a bratty, murderous goblin child who hates everyone except his dad and his cat. The fandom loves to flatten him into this one-note "feral gremlin" who snarls at everyone and occasionally gets chucked off a rooftop for laughs. But if you actually read the comics, his dynamic with the Bat-family , especially his siblings..is a lot more layered, meaningful, and dare I say... human?

Dick Grayson (Nightwing):

Canon Damian sees Dick as a role model. Period. End of story. Dick was the first person who treated Damian like more than a weapon. He gave him a chance to be Robin, he mentored him, he made fun of him like a real older brother would - and Damian grew for it. He mourned Dick deeply when he was presumed dead, to the point that it shattered him. But fandom? Nah. Let’s just make Damian constantly call him “Grayson” like a snob and ignore all the warmth and growth. Or make him his father figure when he's obviously not!!

Tim Drake (Red Robin):

Okay, yes - these two butted heads hard. The early animosity is real, and it makes sense. Tim felt replaced, and Damian felt defensive and superior. But even that evolved! They’ve saved each other’s lives multiple times. They’ve come to respect each other, even if grudgingly. Damian has acknowledged Tim’s intellect and leadership. But fandom loves to freeze them in that "I tried to kill you once so we must always be enemies" phase, forever.

Jason Todd (Red Hood):

Now this one is where fandom either completely ignores it or just makes it into the “edgy murder bros” trope. But in canon, Jason and Damian have bonded. They both have complicated relationships with Bruce. They both hate authority sometimes. Jason has gone out of his way to help Damian in more recent comics, and Damian has trusted Jason when he wouldn’t trust anyone else. But fandom wants Damian to be scared of Jason or constantly annoyed by him for some reason?

Barbara, Steph, Cass, Duke, etc.:

This is where the fandom just gets lazy. Damian’s relationships withthe extended Bat-family are often nuanced and evolving. He’s had sweet moments with Barbara as Oracle, and his interactions with Steph and Cass (especially post-Rebirth) are often respectful. Damian clearly values Duke and even helped him during the Robin War" stuff. But fandom? Let’s erase all of that and just make Damian a sexist, rude little troll to all women and a lone wolf to everyone else.

Bottom line:

Canon Damian Wayne is a work in progress. That’s the whole point of his arc - he was raised to be a killer and chose to be a hero. His journey is messy and difficult, but it’s full of growth, love, and actual relationships with the people around him. The Bat-family, dysfunctional as they are, is his family. He fights for them, mourns them, learns from them.

Fandom Damian? Often just a punchline or a one-dimensional trope.

Let the kid be complicated. Let him grow. And for the love of Gotham, stop acting like he’s never hugged anyone in his life.

I am begging the fandom to make up its damn mind.

Is Damian Wayne a violent little goblin child who kicks puppies and bullies everyone in his path - or is he a soft, baby-faced toddler who can’t lift a sword without help and needs to be swaddled by every older Bat-sibling in sight?

Because I swear, the whiplash is real.

Let’s start with “uwu baby Damian” syndrome:

This version of Damian is everywhere. The one who’s four feet tall and always sobbing. The one who can’t tie his own shoes but calls Bruce “Father” like a formal Victorian orphan. The one who is basically just a house cat in a cape, curled up in Dick’s lap with his eyes big and sad because someone said “no.”

And look, I get it — young Damian moments can be adorable. He has his sweet scenes. He’s been through hell. Seeing him relax with a pet or accept a hug can be genuinely moving.

But when fandom strips away all his sharpness, his intelligence, his pride, and yes, his snark, just to turn him into a plush toy that needs cuddles and protection from the world, it’s not just inaccurate - it’s insulting. Damian isn’t soft by default. He chooses compassion despite his upbringing. That’s what makes it powerful.

Then there’s “bully Damian,” aka pure Gremlin Core:

This is the version of Damian who never grew past his first dozen issues - the one who tried to stab Tim, called everyone beneath him, and needed a muzzle at all times. Fandom loves to make him the mean little kid who mocks everyone and has zero emotional intelligence.

He’s always the problem. He’s the one who “ruins” family dinners. He’s never learning, never softening, never changing.

Do y’all just not read comics past 2011? Like seriously??

Because here’s the truth: Damian Wayne is both. He’s complex. He’s a product of being raised by assassins and then adopted into a family of emotionally stunted vigilantes. He’s a genius, he’s arrogant, he’s twelve years old and figuring out who he is - and sometimes he screws up, badly. But he also has heart. He loves his family, fiercely and awkwardly. He shows growth. He learns humility. He grieves. He sacrifices. He becomes a better person.

And fandom constantly shoving him into either “misunderstood cinnamon roll” or “demon spawn tormentor” completely erases what makes him interesting.

He’s not your emotional support baby.

He’s not your chaos gremlin for comedic relief. He does not bite people

He’s a character with layers - and he deserves to be written like one.

--

Why is it that every time fandom finds a close, emotional bond -especially in the Batfamily - someone has to ruin it by shipping it?

Seriously. The Batfamily is made up of siblings, adopted kids, traumatized teens, and a dad who can barely handle his own emotions. But somehow, people look at Bruce and Dick, or Tim and Damian, and go, “Yeah, that should be romantic.”

No. It shouldn’t.

Batcest isn’t “deep,” it’s not “exploring dark dynamics,” and it’s definitely not some brilliant subversion of tropes. It’s just weird. The Batfamily works because they are a messy, complicated family learning to love and support each other. Turning that into shipping fuel is a huge slap in the face to what these characters are actually about.

And let’s talk about proshippers who act like they’re fighting for free speech or artistic integrity by defending these ships. You're not standing on some grand moral hill - you’re just defending the right to post gross, tone-deaf content. Nobody’s stopping you from enjoying angst or morally gray stories. But there's a huge difference between writing flawed characters and turning adoptive siblings into a romance plot.

Also, can we stop with the “aged-up Damian” excuse? If you have to age him up just to make your ship barely legal, that should be a sign. You’re not clever -you’re just side-stepping the fact that he’s a kid in almost every version of canon.

The Batfamily already has a thousand ways to be messy and dramatic and interesting. You don’t need to force romance between family members to make it compelling. These characters are rich with story..why flatten them into shock-value shipping?

You want to write drama? Betrayals? Complicated emotional arcs? Go for it. But maybe, just maybe , keep it in-character, in-universe, and not in the realm of “hey what if these siblings kissed?”

It's not edgy. It's not cool. It's just... tired.

Do better.

....

Everyone loves to slap the “Best Dad Ever” badge on Bruce Wayne - especially in fanon. And look, sure: he took in a bunch of traumatized kids, gave them homes, trained them, and cares deeply in his own broody, emotionally-stunted way. But can we talk about how all that dad energy seems to magically vanish when it comes to Damian?

Let’s be clear: Bruce is not abusive to Damian. He’s not cruel. But if we’re being honest? He’s not the father Damian needed either - at least not consistently.

Bruce adopted Dick, Tim, Jason, and Cass under tragic circumstances, but once they were under his wing, he fought for them. He took time (as best he could) to emotionally connect. Even with Jason, whose arc is full of tension, Bruce has shown deep remorse, grief, and desire to make amends.

But with Damian? The literal biological son who was raised by assassins and came to his doorstep at age ten?

Bruce treats him like a soldier first, a liability second, and a child maybe third - if he remembers.

Damian came into Bruce’s life wanting one thing: a father. Not a mission. Not another cape. Not a training regimen. Just a father. He may not have known how to express it (because, again, he was raised in a cult by a mother who taught him love = loyalty = survival), but he wanted love and structure — and Bruce didn’t give it to him.

Instead, Bruce gave him expectations. Be better. Don't kill. Be a Wayne. Be a Robin. Be like your brothers. Don’t embarrass the legacy.

That’s not parenting. That’s PR.

And the fandom? Just sweeps it under the rug. We write fics where Bruce is the perfect dad making pancakes for everyone, but we forget that Damian spent years trying to earn what his siblings got automatically: validation. Trust. Love.

Bruce has grown with Damian, yes. They've had incredible moments. But you can’t call Bruce the ultimate Batdad without admitting that his approach to Damian was stiff, late, and sometimes cold - not out of malice, but out of ignorance of what Damian actually needed.

And that’s the tragedy. Not that Bruce didn’t love him, but that Bruce didn’t know how to show it - and Damian felt the gap like a knife.

Bruce may be a “good father” to many of his kids. But for Damian? He was a father who had to learn, and too often, he was late to class.

[shybluebirdninja]

Broken Claws and Tender Hearts

Summary: In the dark corners of a crumbling city, aging mutant Wolverine, James Logan Howlett, finds himself gravely wounded and abandoned. Rescued by Y/N, a compassionate woman trapped in an abusive marriage, Logan’s gratitude evolves into deep, forbidden love as he witnesses the brutal toll of her husband's violence.

The city was a mess, like it had given up on itself a long time ago. Streets were littered with trash, and broken glass crunched underfoot like a constant reminder of the decay that had set in. In the darkest corners of this dismal place, where even the streetlights seemed to flicker with disinterest, James Logan Howlett—known to the world as Wolverine—was barely hanging on. Once a fierce mutant warrior with an unbreakable spirit, he was now just an old man with unhealable wounds and a broken heart.

Logan, as he was known, was a far cry from the invincible fighter he used to be. His claws, once sharp enough to cut through steel, were now dull and rusty. His body, scarred and bruised from countless battles, was failing him. Pain was his constant companion, a relentless reminder of his mortality. As he lay slumped in a filthy alley, the cold seeped through his tattered clothes, mingling with the sweat of his suffering. He was beyond exhausted, teetering on the edge of consciousness, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“Fuck, this is one hell of a way to go,” he muttered weakly, his voice barely a croak. His usually fierce eyes were now clouded with exhaustion, and the alley seemed to close in around him, a concrete tomb waiting to claim him.

Just when it seemed like things couldn’t get any worse, a pair of footsteps echoed through the alley. Logan's dimming senses barely registered the sound at first. But the crunch of boots on the grimy pavement drew closer, and his survival instincts kicked in, if only just. He tried to lift his head, but it felt like it weighed a ton. He managed to catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure approaching.

“Jesus Christ!” a female voice called out, a mix of shock and concern lacing her words. The figure moved closer, and Logan could make out the silhouette of a woman. Her face was partly hidden by the dim light, but the earnest worry in her eyes was unmistakable.

“Hey, buddy, you look like shit,” she said, crouching down beside him. “What happened to you?”

Logan tried to muster a response, but the effort was futile. Instead, he gave a weak shrug and a bitter laugh. “Just another day in paradise,” he rasped, struggling to keep his eyes open.

The woman, whose name Logan would soon learn was Y/N, didn’t seem deterred by his sarcastic tone. She looked him over with a practiced eye, noting the severity of his injuries. “You’re in no shape to be lying here. We need to get you out of this mess.”

“Yeah, like I’m gonna be any trouble,” Logan mumbled, his voice tinged with irony. “I’m practically dead weight.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Y/N said, her voice firm but gentle. “Everyone deserves a chance, even you. Let’s get you out of here.”

With a strength that belied her delicate appearance, Y/N helped Logan to his feet. It was no easy task; he was barely able to support himself, his legs unsteady beneath him. She wrapped an arm around his waist, trying to steady him as they made their way out of the alley. Each step was a challenge, and Logan could feel his energy draining away with every movement.

“You’re really doing this?” Logan asked, glancing at her with a mixture of gratitude and skepticism. “You know I’m not exactly in the best shape.”

“Trust me, I’ve seen worse,” Y/N replied with a faint smile. “You’re not the first person I’ve helped, and you won’t be the last. Just hang in there.”

The journey to Y/N’s home was slow and arduous. The streets seemed endless, stretching out like a labyrinth of shadows. Logan’s breathing grew more labored with each step, and he could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness. Y/N kept a steady pace, her determination unwavering.

When they finally arrived at her modest apartment, Logan was barely aware of his surroundings. The building was far from luxurious, but it had a certain homeliness that contrasted sharply with the desolation he had just left behind. Y/N managed to get him inside and guided him to a makeshift bed in the living room. The space was cluttered but warm, with a few personal touches that made it clear someone lived here.

“Alright, let’s get you settled,” Y/N said, her voice gentle as she helped him lie down. “I’m going to get some supplies and see what I can do for you.”

Logan watched as she moved about the small apartment, gathering medical supplies and setting them out with careful precision. Her movements were efficient but calm, as if she had done this many times before. Despite the pain, Logan found himself oddly comforted by her presence.

“Why are you going through all this trouble?” Logan asked, his voice weak but curious. “You don’t even know me.”

Y/N paused her work and looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “It’s not about knowing you. It’s about doing what’s right. No one should be left to suffer like this, not even someone who looks like they’ve been through hell.”

Logan chuckled dryly, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m kind of a mess. I don’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“Everyone has their own battles,” Y/N said softly. “Yours might be different from mine, but that doesn’t make them any less real. I’ve had my share of struggles, too.”

As Y/N cleaned his wounds with a gentle hand, Logan winced at the sting of antiseptic. Despite the pain, he appreciated her care. It was a stark contrast to the harshness of his usual existence. For once, he wasn’t fighting, wasn’t on the run. He was just lying here, vulnerable and at the mercy of someone who seemed to genuinely care.

“You know, I’m not exactly the type to get all mushy,” Logan said with a faint grin. “But this...”

Y/N cut him of and glanced up at him, her eyes warm. “You don’t have to be mushy. Just be grateful that someone’s here to help. That’s all I’m asking.”

Logan nodded, his heart heavy with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’re giving me a chance when I don’t even deserve one.”

“Everyone deserves a chance,” Y/N replied firmly. “Even if they don’t think so themselves.”

As the night wore on, Y/N continued to tend to his wounds with meticulous care. Logan watched her, taking in the details of her face, the determination in her eyes. It was a rare sight—a glimmer of kindness in a world that had long since turned its back on him.

Despite the pain and fatigue, Logan felt a strange sense of calm. For the first time in a long while, he was allowing himself to be cared for, to be vulnerable. It was an unfamiliar but oddly comforting feeling. He had spent so many years fighting, surviving, and pushing everyone away. But here was someone who was willing to stand by him, even in his darkest hour.

“Hey, Y/N,” Logan said softly as she finished her work. “You ever wonder why we end up in places like this? I mean, I’ve fought a lot of battles, but this... this is a different kind of fight.”

Y/N looked at him, her expression thoughtful. “Sometimes, I think we end up where we need to be. Even in the darkest places, there’s a chance for something good to happen. Maybe this is just one of those moments.”

Logan nodded, his thoughts a tangled mess of past regrets and hopeful possibilities. As he drifted off to sleep, the warmth of Y/N’s care was a small, flickering light in the midst of his darkness. It wasn’t a cure for his wounds or his broken spirit, but it was a reminder that there was still some good left in the world

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

Y/N’s apartment, though modest and cluttered, was a sanctuary of sorts for Logan. As days passed, he began to recover from his severe injuries, thanks in no small part to Y/N’s dedicated care. The old Wolverine, now fragile and more vulnerable than ever, found himself in an unexpected role—patient rather than warrior. It was a role that didn’t sit easily with him, but Y/N’s unwavering kindness made it bearable.

Y/N’s daily routine revolved around caring for Logan. Mornings began with gentle cleaning of his wounds, followed by a carefully prepared meal, usually something simple yet nourishing. Despite her own exhaustion, she never missed a beat, always wearing a brave face even when her eyes betrayed her fatigue. Logan noticed these details—the way her hands shook slightly when she applied ointment, the forced cheerfulness in her voice, and the way she always tried to keep things normal.

One afternoon, while Y/N was in the kitchen preparing lunch, Logan sat on the bed, feeling the stiffness of his muscles. He was starting to regain some strength, but moving was still a struggle. He could hear Y/N’s soft humming and the occasional clatter of pots and pans. Just as he was about to call out to her, the sound of the front door slamming shut cut through the quiet.

Logan tensed, recognizing the unmistakable sound of anger. Y/N’s face, when she returned to the room, was pale and strained. Her eyes darted nervously towards the door. Logan could sense the tension in the air, a sharp contrast to the calm that usually filled the room.

“Everything alright?” Logan asked, his voice hoarse but concerned. His eyes, though tired, were keenly observant.

Y/N forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, just... Marcus had a rough day at work. Nothing to worry about.”

Logan didn’t press further, though he could tell there was more to it. He knew from experience that some things were best left unspoken, but the bruises on Y/N’s arms, which she tried to hide with long sleeves, spoke volumes. Each mark was a silent testament to her struggles.

The days turned into weeks, and the tension between Y/N and Marcus became increasingly palpable. Logan overheard snippets of arguments through the thin walls of the apartment. Marcus’s voice was harsh and threatening, full of disdain for mutants and a general aggression that made Logan’s skin crawl.

One evening, as Y/N was bandaging a fresh wound on Logan’s side, the door burst open with a violent crash. Marcus stormed in, his face twisted with rage. “What the hell is this? You’re still wasting your time on this mutant freak? I thought I told you to get rid of him!”

Logan’s eyes flared with anger, but he held back, his body tensing. Y/N’s face flushed with a mix of fear and frustration. “Marcus, please, just calm down. He needs our help.”

“Why should I give a damn about this piece of shit?” Marcus spat, his eyes cold and unfeeling. “He’s nothing but trouble. You’re bringing this mess into our home.”

Logan could see the strain on Y/N’s face, the way she struggled to keep her voice steady. “Marcus, I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. This man is hurt and needs help. I can’t just turn him away.”

Marcus’s gaze flicked to Logan, his eyes filled with contempt. “And what about what I need? You’re always putting others before me. I’m done with this crap.”

Logan remained silent, his claws itching to come out, but he knew better than to escalate the situation. Y/N’s shoulders slumped as Marcus’s angry words continued to fill the room, each one a fresh wound to her already battered soul.

Finally, Marcus stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Y/N stood there, shaking slightly, her eyes welling up with unshed tears. Logan’s heart ached for her, and he struggled to keep his voice calm as he spoke.

“Y/N... are you okay?” he asked, his tone gentle despite the anger bubbling inside him.

She wiped her tears and nodded, though it was clear she was far from okay. “I’m fine. It’s just... the same old stuff. Marcus doesn’t understand, and he never will.”

Logan reached out, his hand brushing against her arm gently. “You don’t deserve that, you know. No one does.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. “Thank you, Logan. I know it’s not your place to say that, but it means a lot coming from you.”

The days that followed were a delicate balance of tension and care. Y/N continued to nurse Logan back to health while trying to manage the chaos that Marcus brought into their lives. Logan’s own recovery was slow but steady, and he found himself growing more dependent on Y/N, not just for physical healing but for the emotional support he hadn’t realized he needed.

One night, as Logan lay awake in the dim light of the living room, he heard Y/N sobbing quietly in the next room. Unable to ignore her distress, he carefully rose from the bed and moved to the door of her room. He knocked softly, hoping not to startle her.

“Y/N, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There was a brief pause, and then Y/N’s voice, strained but soft, replied, “Yeah, come in.”

Logan entered to find Y/N sitting on the edge of the bed, her face buried in her hands. The sight of her, so vulnerable and broken, stirred something deep inside him. He approached her cautiously, sitting down beside her.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice a rough whisper in the quiet room. “You want to talk about it?”

Y/N looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “It’s just... everything feels so overwhelming. Marcus is getting worse, and I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Logan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle despite the rawness of his own wounds. “You’re stronger than you think. You’ve been handling all this shit with a lot more grace than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N gave a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Logan. It means a lot to hear that, especially now.”

As they sat together in the dim light, Logan found himself opening up in a way he hadn’t in years. He shared fragments of his past, stories of battles fought and lost, of the loneliness that came with being a mutant. Y/N listened intently, her presence a comforting balm to his wounded soul.

“I never thought I’d be in a place like this,” Logan said quietly. “Hell, I thought I’d be dead by now. But... there’s something about this place, about you, that makes me feel like maybe I’ve got a reason to stick around.”

Y/N’s eyes met his, and for a moment, the weight of their respective burdens seemed to lift. “Maybe we both needed this. A place where we could find some kind of solace, even if just for a little while.”

Logan nodded, feeling a strange sense of peace despite the chaos around them. He realized that his feelings for Y/N were growing stronger, and he admired her more with each passing day. Her strength in the face of adversity, her kindness despite her own suffering—it all spoke to him in ways he hadn’t expected.

One evening, after another particularly brutal argument with Marcus, Y/N sat down beside Logan, her face etched with exhaustion. She had a new bruise on her cheek, a stark reminder of the violence she faced at home. Logan’s heart ached at the sight of it, and he reached out, gently brushing his fingers against the bruise.

“Does it ever get easier?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with concern.

Y/N shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “No, it doesn’t. But I have to keep going. For me, for you... for everyone who needs me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone. It’s not right.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and hope. “Maybe someday things will change. Maybe there will be a way out of this mess. Until then, I have to hold on to whatever hope I can find.”

As the days continued, Logan’s feelings for Y/N deepened. Her resilience in the face of Marcus’s abuse, her unwavering dedication to helping him despite her own suffering—it all made him see her in a new light. He found himself drawn to her not just as a caretaker, but as a person who had become an unexpected beacon of hope in his life.

One evening, as they sat together after Marcus had stormed out, Logan took Y/N’s hand in his, his touch gentle but firm. “Y/N, I want you to know something. I’m here because you gave me a chance when no one else would. And... I care about you. More than I probably should.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, her breath catching in her throat. “Logan, I—”

Before she could finish, Logan leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that I want to be here for you. I want to fight this together.”

Y/N’s eyes were filled with tears, but a small smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Logan. That means more to me than you can imagine.”

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

Logan's recovery was a slow grind. The days were punctuated by a relentless rhythm of pain and progress, his wounds mending bit by bit. Y/N's care was both a balm and a burden; she was always there, her hands gentle and her demeanor kind. But as Logan's strength began to return, another kind of strength was being tested—Y/N’s.

Every day, Logan saw the bruises she tried to hide. He noticed the way she flinched when Marcus’s name was mentioned, the dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could mask. It wasn’t just the physical pain that she wore like a second skin; it was the emotional toll that was etched into every line of her face. Logan could sense it, even when Y/N put on a brave face and forced a smile.

One evening, while Y/N was preparing dinner, Logan was lounging on the bed, his head resting against the headboard. He heard the all-too-familiar sound of the front door slamming, followed by Marcus’s booming voice, filled with venom. Logan’s jaw clenched, his claws itching to come out. But he knew better. The last thing Y/N needed was another problem on top of the one she already had.

Y/N’s footsteps were quick and hesitant as she moved around the kitchen. Logan could hear her trying to keep her voice steady as she spoke with Marcus, though it was clear from the sharpness in her tone that things were far from calm. Logan’s concern deepened with every shouted insult and the occasional crash that echoed through the apartment.

He struggled to stay put, his anger boiling beneath the surface. It was maddening to be so powerless, to hear Y/N suffering while he lay here, barely able to move. He wanted to confront Marcus, to show him just how outmatched he was, but his weakened state kept him tethered to the bed. It was a cruel irony that the very strength that had once made him a force to be reckoned with now left him helpless.

The door finally swung open, and Y/N walked in, her face pale and her eyes red-rimmed. She carried a tray with a modest meal, her hands trembling slightly. Logan’s heart ached at the sight of her, and he tried to offer a reassuring smile, though he knew it probably looked more like a grimace.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Everything okay out there?”

Y/N set the tray down on the small table beside the bed, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and resignation. “Yeah, just another argument. Marcus had a rough day and... well, you know how it goes.”

Logan’s gaze was intense, filled with concern. “Y/N, you don’t have to go through this alone. You don’t deserve this.”

She sat down next to him, her shoulders slumping as she took a deep breath. “I know. I just... I don’t have a choice. If I leave, things will only get worse. I’m trying to hold on for now.”

Logan could see the pain in her eyes, the way her hands shook slightly as she picked up a small bowl of soup. He wanted to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, but he felt powerless, his own strength a mere shadow of what it used to be.

“Y/N, listen,” he said, his voice rough but earnest. “I know I’m in no position to make demands or offer solutions, but you’ve got to know that you don’t deserve this. Marcus is a piece of shit, and you’re better than this.”

Y/N’s eyes met his, and she looked so tired, so weary. “It’s not that simple. Marcus is... he’s unpredictable. If I push too hard, it’ll only make things worse. I have to tread carefully.”

Logan’s anger flared, his hands curling into fists. “You shouldn’t have to live in fear. No one should.”

Y/N gave a small, bitter smile. “I appreciate that, Logan. I really do. But sometimes, just getting through the day is enough. It’s all I can manage right now.”

As the days went on, Logan’s concern grew. He noticed more bruises on Y/N’s skin, more shadows in her eyes. The arguments with Marcus became more frequent and more vicious. Logan found himself wrestling with a deep, gnawing frustration. He wanted to protect her, but he felt like a caged animal, unable to do anything but watch.

One night, after an especially brutal argument, Y/N came into the room, her face bruised and her lip split. She tried to hide it, but Logan saw the truth. His heart pounded with a mix of rage and helplessness.

“Y/N, what happened?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She sat down beside him, her movements slow and pained. “It’s nothing. Just... another fight. I’m okay.”

Logan’s eyes were fierce, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re not okay. This isn’t right, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to put up with this crap.”

Y/N sighed, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resignation. “I know, Logan. I know. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just leave. I need to keep this place together, even if it’s falling apart.”

Logan’s anger simmered, his frustration boiling over. “I wish I could do something. I feel like I’m just... useless.”

Y/N shook her head, her hand reaching out to touch his. “You’re not useless, Logan. You’ve given me more hope than I’ve had in a long time. Just having you here, knowing you care—it means more than you know.”

As they sat together in the dim light of the room, Logan felt a deep connection to Y/N. Her strength, her resilience, even in the face of so much pain—it was a stark contrast to the brutality she endured. He realized how much she had come to mean to him, and how deeply he wished he could change her circumstances.

Despite the growing attachment and the undeniable pull he felt towards her, Logan remained bound by his own limitations. He could only watch as Y/N continued to endure Marcus’s cruelty, his own feelings of helplessness mixing with a fierce, burning desire to protect her. Every bruise, every tear she shed was a reminder of the pain she was enduring and the brutal reality of her situation.

Logan’s internal struggle was a constant battle. He wanted to be the hero, the one who swooped in and saved the day, but he was stuck in a role that felt more like a spectator than a savior.

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

The night air was heavy, thick with an oppressive silence that seemed to press against Logan’s chest. He lay in bed, the shadows dancing across the walls as the soft hum of the city outside filled the room. Y/N had been unusually quiet tonight, and Logan's senses were on high alert, a growing unease gnawing at him.

He could hear Marcus’s booming voice from the other side of the apartment, each shout like a hammer pounding against Logan’s already frayed nerves. It had been a rough night, and Y/N’s attempts to calm her husband had only seemed to make things worse. Logan could feel the tension in the air, a sense of impending violence that made his heart pound and his skin crawl.

“Damn it,” Logan muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. He struggled to push himself up, but his weakened state made it a Herculean effort. He needed to do something, anything, but he was still bound by the limitations of his own frailty.

Suddenly, a crash echoed through the apartment, followed by Y/N’s scream. Logan’s blood ran cold. Without a second thought, he threw off the covers and stumbled toward the door, his heart racing. The anger and fear coursing through him felt like a storm, threatening to tear him apart.

“Y/N!” he shouted, his voice hoarse and desperate. He reached the door and yanked it open, the scene that greeted him was something out of a nightmare.

Marcus was towering over Y/N, who was curled up on the floor, her face streaked with tears and blood. The rage in Marcus’s eyes was palpable, a fury that seemed to consume everything in its path. Logan’s instincts screamed at him to act, but he was frozen for a split second, caught between his own fear and the raw, primal need to protect.

“Get the hell away from her!” Logan roared, his voice a guttural snarl. He forced himself to step forward, his hands trembling as he tried to summon the strength to intervene.

Marcus’s head snapped around, his eyes locking onto Logan with a mixture of shock and fury. “What the hell are you doing here, mutant? Stay out of this!”

Logan’s claws extended with a sharp, metallic hiss, his rage boiling over. “You’ve done enough, you piece of shit. Leave her alone.”

Marcus sneered, his face twisted into a cruel smile. “Or what? You’ll claw me to death? You’re pathetic.”

In a burst of adrenaline, Logan lunged forward, his claws slashing through the air. He was fueled by a mixture of desperation and anger, the need to protect Y/N overriding every other consideration. The chaos that ensued was a blur—Marcus lunged at Logan, and in the ensuing struggle, Logan’s claws struck out, his aim wild and frantic.

Time seemed to stretch and warp as Logan’s claws found their mark. Marcus fell, a look of disbelief and shock etched on his face. The room fell silent, the only sound the ragged breaths of the two remaining people in the room.

Y/N was still on the floor, her body trembling as she stared at the lifeless form of her husband. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Logan stood there, his own breathing heavy, his claws retracting as he tried to process what had just happened.

“Oh God,” Y/N whispered, her voice breaking. “What have you done?”

Logan took a tentative step toward her, his heart aching at the sight of her pain. “Y/N, I—”

“No!” she cut him off, her voice sharp and filled with anguish. “You didn’t have to kill him. I—I didn’t want this.”

Logan’s heart twisted at the sight of her tears. “I didn’t mean to... I was just trying to protect you. I couldn’t stand seeing him hurt you like that.”

Y/N’s sobs were ragged, her hands covering her face. “It’s too late for that now. I don’t know what to do...”

Logan knelt beside her, his voice soft and full of regret. “Y/N, please. I know this is a mess. I never wanted things to end like this, but I care about you. I care about you a hell of a lot.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes red and swollen. “What are we supposed to do now? What happens next?”

Logan reached out, his hand gently touching her arm. “We get out of here. We leave this place behind and start fresh somewhere else. I’ve got a stash of cash, and we can find somewhere safe. I just—”

Y/N cut him off, her voice trembling. “And what? We just run away? We leave everything behind and hope for the best?”

Logan’s gaze was intense, his voice pleading. “It’s not just about running away. It’s about finding a place where you can be safe, where you can be happy. I know it won’t be easy, but it’s got to be better than staying here, right?”

Y/N’s eyes searched his, and for a moment, Logan saw the flicker of hope amidst the pain. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “Okay. Okay, let’s do it. But we have to be careful. We can’t just jump into this blindly.”

Logan nodded, a mixture of relief and determination in his eyes. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll figure things out together. I promise.”

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

The first light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the dilapidated building where Y/N and Logan had spent the night. They had barely slept, huddled together in a small room with only a threadbare blanket for comfort. Y/N's eyes were red from crying and lack of sleep, and Logan's face was etched with exhaustion, but beneath it all, there was a flicker of determination.

“Jesus, what a fucking mess,” Logan muttered as he rolled out of bed, wincing at the stiffness in his body. His voice was rough, a mix of weariness and frustration. He glanced around the room, taking in the dusty furniture and peeling wallpaper. “This place isn’t exactly a five-star joint, but it’ll do for now.”

Y/N sat up, her expression a mix of sadness and resolve. “We can’t stay here long. We need to move, find a place where we can lay low and figure things out.”

Logan nodded, his gaze fixed on her. “You’re right. The longer we stay, the more chance we have of getting caught. I’m sure Marcus had connections and surely he talked about me. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who kept his mouth shut.”

Y/N rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of her nightmare-filled sleep. “I just can’t believe it’s really over. That we’re actually doing this.”

Logan moved closer, his voice softening as he spoke. “It’s real, alright. And it’s probably gonna be rough as hell. But we’ve got a shot at something better, Y/N. We just gotta keep moving, keep our heads down.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes full of a fragile hope. “And what about you, Logan? How are you holding up? I know you’re hurting, too.”

Logan grinned wryly, a hint of his old self peeking through his exhaustion. “I’ve been through worse. I’m still kicking, aren’t I? It’s not about me right now. It’s about making sure you’re safe.”

She smiled, a small, grateful curve of her lips. “Thank you. For everything. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

“Hell, it wasn’t easy for either of us,” Logan replied, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “But that’s the way it goes. You deal with the crap life throws at you and hope for a bit of luck.”

They packed what little they had, their belongings hastily stuffed into a couple of old duffel bags. As they prepared to leave, Logan took a moment to glance back at the room they were leaving behind, a reminder of the chaos and danger they were escaping.

“Let’s get the hell out of here before someone shows up,” Logan said, his tone low and urgent. “The city’s not exactly safe, and we’ve got no time to waste.”

They made their way through the empty streets, their movements cautious and deliberate. The city was waking up, and with it came the hustle and bustle of a new day—one that neither of them had any intention of being a part of.

Y/N walked beside Logan, her hand occasionally brushing against his, a silent reminder of their shared journey. The streets were eerily quiet, the weight of their escape hanging heavily in the air. The city’s familiar sights were quickly becoming distant memories, replaced by the uncertainty of the open road ahead.

“So, what’s the plan?” Y/N asked, her voice breaking the silence. “Where do we go from here?”

Logan glanced at her, his eyes focused and serious. “We head north. There’s a cabin in the woods a few hundred miles away. It’s not much, but it’s off the grid. We can lay low there for a while, figure out our next move.”

Y/N nodded, absorbing the plan. “Okay. I trust you.”

“Good,” Logan replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. “We’ll make it. We just need to stick together and stay smart.”

As they continued their journey, the reality of their situation began to sink in. They were fugitives now, their past lives left behind in the wreckage of Marcus’s wrath. But amidst the uncertainty and danger, there was a growing bond between them—one forged in the fires of their shared struggles and the hope for a new beginning.

They traveled through small towns and rural areas, staying off the beaten path and avoiding any unnecessary attention. Each night, they would find a place to rest, whether it was an abandoned house or a makeshift campsite. They made do with what they had, finding solace in their shared strength and resilience.

One evening, as they sat around a small campfire, Y/N turned to Logan, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “You know, I never thought I’d be here. On the run, hiding from everything. But having you here... it makes things a bit more bearable.”

Logan looked at her, his gaze softening. “You’re not alone, Y/N. We’ve got each other, and that’s something.”

She smiled, a small but genuine expression of warmth. “Yeah, it is. And it means more than you know.”

They sat in comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire their only companion. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with challenges and obstacles, but for the first time in a long time, there was a sense of hope—a belief that, despite everything, they might find a way to make it through together.

[bwobgames]

The train sounds the whistle

The wheels start moving

And they won’t stop until it reaches its destination.

It’s 8:25 pm

“………..”

“…………”

“This thing got ghosts? Awesome. Free marketing”

A communal “Huh?” goes through the wagon

“Mari? What do you mean?”

“A fancy train with a spooky story attached? It’s a success in the making. Amateur ghost hunters, supposed mediums, average spiritual people, even non-believers. Everyone would be up to the challenge of a supposed ‘haunted’ building. Why do you think graveyard tours are a thing?”

“Inventing a rumour about hauntings to increase tourism… What a fun idea”

“Wha- Lady, this thing got into a huge accident back in the 60s! It’s not just a mere ghost story!”

“So? Does this look like a 60s train to you? If it didn’t fit the safety measures it wouldn’t be allowed in the modern era”

“But hey, if you find a ghost, do tell me. For now, I’ll be relaxing”

So she leaves. Good for her, she isn’t one for stressing out on baseless stories after all.

Oliver in the other hand…

“Do you think it’s time to start searching? See what is that this thing does?”

“I’m joining”

“What. No you aren’t”

“You said to wait until I’m no longer a minor. I’m 19 now. I can go hunting houses too”

“No no no If your mother finds out she’ll send a pipe bomb to my apartment”

“She doesn’t have to know”

“She always knows!!”

Oliver is… getting better.

He used to jump at every possibility of ghosts. Of the paranormal. Of houses.

Firefox has given him quite a string of false cases.

He will breathe, he will think, he will analyse and reach a conclusion.

“Marigold’s right”

“About what? The marketing thing? I completely agree but I’m afraid we’ll have to ruin yet another business opportunity for her”

“No, no. I mean, about rumours.”

“Aside from us, no one takes the word ‘haunted’ as … what we know. For everyone else, haunted is just a synonym for ghosts and such. Which, most of the time end up being hoaxes”

“I… I think we might be getting ahead ourselves a bit. I mean, a train isn’t a house”

“Are you sure about that”

And of course, Nadia comes in to plunder all that progress into the ground

“We have beds. We have windows. We have kitchens. We have people”

“Then is a car a house too? Are we working on Terraria rules to define what a house is?”

“Also, I might not know much about biology, but I don’t think many organisms are happy about running all day”

“Animal locomotion is a thing”

“…Fuck”

“Alright. They must have a bat or something, right? I can sneak into the motor rooms if necessary”

“No. Going in without a lead is dangerous. Specially with so many people involved. Remember the normal class seats”

“… You’re right. Let me corral in Vivi and we can bunker down until we get out”

“No, guys, listen to me”

“Perhaps it is… just a rumour?”

“Believe me, I’m the most eager to get any and all houses destroyed but…”

“Nothing feels… wrong”

Then again, his natural detective instinct has been a bit… wonky. After the mansion.

The knowledge of the supernatural has opened a world of possibilities that the average human man was not supposed to have in mind. Less so when dealing with his cases.

Houses… He and Ángel have gotten a few ones. He doesn’t know everything, as he prefers to simply tear it down. Enter house, find purpose, break heart. Easy.

The world is fluid. Most things are. Most organisms are.

Trains are not houses.

Organisms evolve.

He doesn’t know what to think. His instincts have been adjusting but he’s still not sure.

He hasn’t been feeling like himself after…

He’s been under the weather for a while now.

This is… not ideal. He really didn’t need this right now.

Ángel notices.

“…Hey. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is just a rumour”

“Or just ghosts! I can deal with ghosts. They are nothing to me” “Or even if it is a house, it’s no big deal! We didn’t shrink this time! Or grew weird animal ears! And-And even if something weird were to happen, there’s a bunch of people here! Someone would say something!”

“We are not alone this time!”

He sounds like he’s reassuring himself. Yet, Oliver is proud of his development.

“I’ll tell the guys to keep an ear up.”

“Be careful, try to stick with people”

“You’re asking me to be careful?”

“Yeah yeah, adult woman I get it, go now”

As they go to inform Vivi, she goes in to terrorize the new people

“So, are you four ghost fanatics? Amateur hunters? Tiktok debunkers? Straight up ghosts?”

 “I have a tiktok!”

“No no I don’t mess with that stuff. Respect it, though”

“But, well…”

“There used to be five of us”

<-PREV START NEXT->

[websterss]

OUR QUIET START (1) — ERIC (AQPDO)

SUMMARY: You didn't think much when you decided to leave the house today, you didn't plan for a world apocalypse, you didn't plan to fear for your life, you didn't plan to meet anyone new.

WARNING(S): angst, some fluff, signing, deaf son.

WORD COUNT: 1,963

PAIRING: Eric x fem!Reader  

A/N: Hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed.

MASTERLIST

You didn’t think your life could flip in an instant. One mere disaster that further evolved into living in fear and silence. You didn’t know what those things were, but all you knew was that the mere lot of them had descended from the sky and now they wreaked havoc in the streets. Your neighborhoods, your city. It wasn’t intact anymore. It had just been a regular day. A great day, one turned into a never-ending nightmare.

The echoes of everyone’s screams still haunt your nightmares. What was a nice sunny day turned into a living hell. You and your Thomas had only needed to get a few necessities that you were running short on. You didn’t think much of it until the ruckus started. Cars crashing into each other outside. Horns going off one by one. People began running frantically, running back into the stores, which had lured the things inside. You had instantly dropped everything and grabbed onto him. Tugging him down with you. Your backs pressed up against the shelves. Your first instinct was to reassure Thomas. He could see everything unfold before him, people running past the aisles, parents hoisting up their children, cans and packages falling, he registered everyone’s movement, but he couldn’t hear the screams and cries. Not like you could. The creature was picking everyone off one by one. You shed tears harder as you brought your hands out in front of you. Your hands were trembling as you managed to say what you needed to him.

Need stay quiet. You signed. You nodded rapidly, trying to make him understand. You brought your finger up to your lips to further emphasize. You brushed back his curls as he brought his own hands up to wipe at your fallen tears.

Your lips trembled as the clicks of the creature grew closer. The store fell into an eery silence. You were just waiting for someone to fuck up and make a sound. Draw attention and risk your lives.

Thomas tapped your arm to gather your attention. His brows furrowed deeply as he signed. Your eyes fell on his hands then his face.

Shooter, what?

You shook your head no. Reaching your hands forward to grip his own. You could see him stricken with fear and confusion. If it hadn’t been a shooter then what was it? Thomas shook his head, his own hands pushing your hands back up to explain it to him further. His jaw was clenched and his eyes narrowed. He pushed against your hands again. Then he signed. Tell me. He mouthed me.

You sighed then closed your eyes. Your brain half working in the brink of nearly dying and trying to get the fuck out of the store. Monster. How the fuck did you forget the sign for monster? You opened your eyes back up. Raising your right hand to spell out monster for him. Letter by letter.

M.O.N.S.T.E.R. You then went to sign what you had been pondering what they were, they shot down from the sky that could only mean one thing right? You rose your hands up to your head, your hands curling to make devil horns, but instead you wigged your forefingers in a circle to sign alien. Your mouth mouthing the word for him as well. Alien.

Thomas’s eyes fell to the ground then back up to you. He shook his head, pressing against your lowering hands. That’s not what he wanted to know. You only locked eyes with him. Keep contact and nodding yes. His eyes widened in fear as he started registering it. His eyes stayed that way as he moved back a bit. His body slumping as his eyes wandered around. Looking to each end of the aisle you took shelter in. The store, you now realized might’ve been the wrong place to take shelter in, anything could clatter to the ground if you weren’t careful.

You figured he needed a minute because it was a lot to take in, but boy were you wrong. His eyes flew past your shoulder, and that’s when he saw the creature before you even heard it. He tugged on your sleeve frantically, scooting back, but you stayed frozen in place as you slowly turned to look at it. His eyes widened in fear. It turned into the row you were in. Thomas gripped your hand firmly. Sliding into your side. He went as far as to wrap his arm around you. His arm now between you and that thing, but it wouldn’t do much to protect you both. The alienated clicks it was making did not put you at ease. Especially as he creeped by you two. You held you breath, staying as still as you could muster. Thomas opted for closing his eyes. If he couldn’t see it, then surely it wouldn’t do anything to you guys, he thought. And it didn’t. Not yet anyway.

The creature didn’t see you. You further watched as it continued down the another end. The people in the aisle next to yours however hadn’t been so lucky. A can colliding with the floor capturing its attention right away. You silently gasped as you clung to Thomas. Burying your face in his chest. He pressed your head to his body. Creating a barrier between you and the horrid sight that was happening before him. His eyes watered as he looked away and let his forehead press on top of yours.

You had completely missed the man looking at you and your child, nor the creature coming back down towards you after tearing apart another person who dared to scream at the sight of them alone. So long as we didn’t make any noise they wouldn’t go near us, you began to put together. They were attracted to noise, so you just had to not make any.

Upon the creature getting closer the man decided to slowly pick up a can and launch it down the store. The loud clatter of the can was enough to drag the creatures attention that way. The cacophony of other peoples screams kept the creature and its second buddy busy. There had been two in the store with you all. He pushed himself up his feet, and grabbed both yours and Thomas’s hands, pulling you out the store before they turned back.

The chaos outside was worse off than the store. You would have rather stayed put inside to not have to watch New York fall apart in disaster. You clutched your son close to you, turning his eyes away from the chaos that administered around you. Various screams of those trying to out run the terrifying creatures down the streets, cars being flipped and ablaze with fire. Buildings shattered glass littering the streets and caught fire from the collision of their arrival. Your beloved city was no longer.

You turned to face the man who saved you both. His mouth opening to speak, but your hand shot out before you could think, covering his lips with your palm as you shook your head no.

He seemed to catch on as he scoped the vacant streets. He looked down brushing his hands against yours, you hesitated to follow him once more, but something in you told you to follow, to follow where he went. Better than staying out in the open. You looked down at Thomas who peered up at the man with feigned interest, he was guarded and caution of the new stranger.

Don’t trust him. He signed, shaking his head. His hands clawing upwards his chest area then curling into fists in an upward twist. Trust is what he signed. His brows pinched together. If his frown didn’t give him away, it had been the judgmental look he gave the man in the brown suit as he roamed his figure in a once over. You sighed quietly, bringing your hands up to sign back.

You mouthed its then brought your forefinger, middle finger and thumb together flicking them outwards in an okay sign. You mouthed Let’s then signed for trust. You brought your hands upwards your chest area too, then curled your hands into fists in an upward twist. Trust.

The roll of his eyes had you smiling. You got him. You extended your arm for him to take then allowed the man to lead, but not before he stuck his finger out in a waiting motion. He paused for a brief second, looking like he was thinking over something then lowered to your son’s height. He brought out his right hand and miserably failed to sign his name, the R passing for a U which had you and your son pinching your brows together. Euic?

Was he foreign?

Upon your lost expression, he looked to you and mouthed Eric. Pointing to himself.

You looked to his lips. AREECC. You mouthed his name to yourself slowly. Your mouth opened in realization knowing where he messed up. You looked down at Thomas whose eyes shifted back and forth between the two of you. You waited patiently till his eyes landed on you and your hand. E-R-I-C. You signed the R hard for emphasis in replacement of the U.

Eric? What? Really? Thomas’s brows shot up in amusement.

Your son deadpan at the man. Eric now labeled, was lost to his own confusion. You silently laughed, no sound echoing past your lips. You slowly helped him out hitting and making each letter out hard. You twisted your forefinger and middle finger together. Then pressed your thumb to lay on top of your ring finger. R you mouthed.

Eric copied your hands. R he mouthed. He went to make the attempt again with your son. He lowered down to his height and began with pointing to himself. I’m E-R-I-C. He smiled feeling happier he was able to get his name across to you both. He went further to extend his hand out, your Thomas was hesitant but eventually shook his hand. With learned precision, Thomas’s signed letters came out second nature. Watching Eric trying to catch each one was all the entertainment you needed today. You tapped his shoulder to look up at you. You slide your right dominant hand up your non dominant left a short distance across your forearm in a fast motion, starting from the back of the base.

Slow. You gave him a pointed look. He don’t sign. You slide your right dominant hand up your non dominant left a short distance across your forearm again, going even slower to emphasis very very slow.

Slow. You mouthed. Thomas huffed in annoyance. You understoodd his hate to go at the pace of someone who wasn’t fluent, his want for people to learn was valid, but not everyone wanted to or wasn’t very good at it.

He patted Eric and waited for his eyes to shift onto him. With reluctance and annoyance he brought his hand up and signed his name slow at your requests. T-H-O-M-A-S.

Thomas, he mouthed his name then pointed to himself.

“T–“ You had rushed forward again when Eric began to pronounce his name. You muffled the T before it spilled past his lips. You looked around, your heart beating against your chest, but the tension in your shoulders didn’t let up. A creature ran by but didn’t see nor hear you three. You let your head fall forward. Eric steadying himself with a hand on your shoulders. You shook your head again, lifting it slowly then bringing your forefinger to your lips. Your reminder to him to remain quiet. Quiet…you all needed to stay quiet. Your fear struck something within him, a need to not fail you again. To not fail you and Thomas ever again.

[alotofpockets]

The newest member | Alessia Russo

Pairing: Alessia Russo x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: Alessia being extra protective of you during your pregnancy.

Masterlist | Woso masterlist | words: 1k

Over the years you had grown to love how protective Alessia was over you. She showed her protectiveness even in the smallest of ways, it had always made you feel safe and loved. Ever since the two of you found out that you were pregnant with your first baby, her protectiveness evolved. 

It started out very sweet, making sure she got you everything you needed, taking control of the conversation when the questions were getting too much for you, and setting up all the doctors appointments so that you didn’t have to worry about it. But as your pregnancy progressed, her protectiveness grew with it. You had mixed feelings over the new found protectiveness. 

There were the ways that you were grateful for, like telling strangers to back up when they reached their hands out to touch your belly without permission, or making sure that she grabbed everything you needed for your wide range of cravings from the store. But there were also ways that could be rather annoying at times. The further along you got into your pregnancy the less she let you do on your own. 

In your third trimester her biggest form of protectiveness was that she had taken the no heavy lifting advice that the doctor gave you as you not being allowed to lift anything. Which often led to frustration from your end. “Less, come on. There are literally two baby onesies in here, I think I can handle that on my own.” You roll your eyes at your wife as she takes the bag from your hands anyways.

In your fourth trimester she wouldn’t let you be home alone, ever. Having your wife around so much was great. She would read to the baby, make you food, and she gave you the lots of cuddles. But when she would leave to go to practice, she would have someone babysit you, which was less fun. She never called it babysitting, of course, but whenever she had to go another person randomly showed up on your doorstep. Whether it was her mom, a friend, or a teammate, there was always someone there. Luckily for you, the people she sent to babysit you never acted like that was why they were there. 

While usually Alessia’s antics of having someone practically babysit you were pretty annoying, today you were grateful to have someone around. Viv was with you today, she was still out because of her ACL injury, and therefore she wasn't joining the rest of the Arsenal girls for training just yet. You were in the kitchen, getting a glass of water, while Viv was sitting on the couch. “Viv, get in here.” You yell out. Viv hears the worry in your voice and is quick to her feet. “What’s wrong?” She asks, matching your worried tone. “My water just broke.” Viv moves to your side and grabs your arm to support you, “Okay, let’s get you to the hospital then.” She leads you to the front door, she scoops up the hospital bag that Alessia had placed next to the front door a couple of weeks ago, “Just in case.” she kept saying. While you settle in the car, she gives a quick call to Jonas. 

At the training field Jonas hangs up the call and heads over to the team again. “Girls, can I have everyone’s attention please.” He calls over and everyone jogs in his direction. “I thought I’d get everyone together for this announcement because I just got a call that is rather exciting.” The team has their full attention on their coach. “Alessia, your wife is in labor. Viv is driving her to the hospital as we speak.” Alessia stood in shock until her teammates start patting her on the back, and hugging her. “What are you waiting for Russo? Let’s go.” Katie says once her teammates are done hugging her. “I’ll drive.” Beth announced, rushing to the locker room to grab her keys.

You hear a knock on your hospital room door, Viv gets up and opens the door for your new guests. Alessia is immediately by your side and takes your hand in hers, “How are you feeling, baby?” She asks as she places soft kisses to your forehead. “At the moment I am mostly excited to meet this little girl.” You share.

When it was time for the delivery, Alessia ushered everyone out of the room. Over the years these girls had become your family but this was a moment you did not want them present at. Alessia stayed by your side the whole time, helping you do your breathing exercises, holding your hand, being supportive, and praising you for how well you were doing. The delivery was very hard but all was forgotten the second you got to hold your baby girl. Alessia asked one of the nurses to snap a few pictures, and enjoyed the moment of meeting your little girl for the first time. 

Once the doctors and you said visitors were okay, Alessia went to the waiting room where Viv, Beth, and Katie were very impatiently waiting. “Ready to meet our healthy baby girl?” She asked as she watches everyone get up full of excitement. They follow her in the room. You don’t think you’ve ever heard them be so quiet before. “You're allowed to make noice, you know?” Effectively pulling them out of their trances. Alessia picks up the baby from the little crib, and walks towards her teammates. “These are your aunties.” The girls huddle around the newborn, admiring the little girl. 

When it was time to take your little girl home, you dressed her up in the baby Arsenal jersey that Alessia got from the team. Your wife snaps a picture and sends it to the Arsenal group chat with the caption, ‘Meet the newest member of the team’. 

You enjoyed your first day at home with the newest member of your family with just the two of you. Letting family and friends know that both mom and baby were doing great, and setting up times for them to meet your little girl.

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[bluublu-blub]

more yan! bf

another drabble of yan! bf trying to tie you down by terrifying the shit out of you. i can't believe this evolved from me wanting to see man on his knees to this. i once again apologize for not uploading frequently. i am working on it —life have been just... uncooperative.

Here's the thing with yan! bf, he will absolutely not try to hide that he is doing something behind your back. It baffles you to no end because it is so damn obvious that he is hiding something from you and he will look at you with eyes that urged you to ask him —"what". 

You don't want to know at all.

The whats and whys.

It's better to not know at all before it drown you with guilt.

You are well aware of the fact that he isn't the one to cheat. Yan! bf has nothing to hide after all, you just need to ask him a question and he will go down on his knees to answer your questions. At this point, you would rather be ignorant of what activities he is up to. 

There are moments where you think he is involved in some crime syndicate and with your less than stellar self-preservation would quive and hope that you won't get tangled in whatever crimes he committed. 

You probably should've broken your relationship especially if you care so much about your safety. But, you don't. You aren't that attached to him really. It's just for the sake of everyone's safety, you would rather stay with him. Besides, he is very endearing and loyal to you —what more could you ask for? 

It was one of the days where Liam refused to let you go. This happens far more frequently than you would want it to. His arms wrapped securely in your chest, his limbs are gripped tightly on your legs which makes movement seemingly almost impossible. 

"Liam, move." You tried to get out of his hold. 

Liam hummed before nuzzling into your head.

 

"I have work." 

Sighing at the top of your head, he whines at you. "Let's cuddle some more."

"I am going to be late." You tried to reason with him.

"Quit your job." He grumbled. "Spend more time with me."

You closed your eyes to try and calm your growing annoyance at his familiar remarks of you quitting. 

"I told you, you don't need to work." He says. 

"I need to work to live. Not everyone has a trust fund, Liam."

"Well, you need to think more of me then." You could feel him moving from your side to hold your face in place so he could look directly in your eyes. "I have more than enough for you."

There it is again.

You observed him as he grew more serious, eyes staring straight into your soul as he spoke. 

"Darling," he purred. "Do manage your expectations of me a lot higher than your average lowly guys."

Once again you could feel the unsettled foreboding feeling in your gut that made you want to run away. Yet, his hands are still locked in holding your face as if he knew that given a chance —you will try to run away from him. 

"While I do adore your stubborn personality, darling."

You feel trapped as he leans his forehead to yours. 

Suffocating as your breath hitched, the cold air felt a lot more colder than it was before as it touched your skin.

His eyes remind you of how terrifying he truly is.

"It would be better if you try to see where I am coming from."

[formulas-bitch]

streamer Lando Norris x artist/reader

In a world where streaming had become the new norm, Lando Norris found himself in an unlikely partnership with a female streamer. Their names were as different as their personalities; he, a young, charismatic racer with a penchant for speed and risk-taking; she, an enigmatic artist with a flair for storytelling and an uncanny ability to connect with her audience. Their partnership was not born out of convenience or necessity, but rather, a strange and inexplicable twist of fate.

As they streamed together, their chemistry was undeniable. Lando would bring the thrill of the race to the screen, his fingers dancing across the controller as he maneuvered his way through virtual tracks at breakneck speeds. His laughter and cheers echoed through the studio, filling the air with an infectious energy that seemed to lift the spirits of everyone around him. On the other hand, the female streamer would take the reins when it came to interacting with their audience, engaging in witty banter and sharing intimate details about her life as an artist.

Their fans, known as the "Lando's Angels" and the "Artiste's Aficionados," were equally devoted. They would tune in religiously to witness the dynamic duo's antics, often spending hours in their streams, cheering them on and leaving generous donations. The streamer pair's popularity only grew with time, transcending the boundaries of gaming and art. They became cultural icons, their influence spreading far and wide.

Lando and the female streamer continued to push each other to greater heights, experimenting with new games, art forms, and storytelling techniques. They embarked on charity streams, using their platform to raise awareness and funds for various causes close to their hearts. Their partnership was not without its share of challenges, of course. They had their fair share of arguments and disagreements, but they always managed to find common ground and work through their differences.

As their fame grew, so did the pressure. Lando found himself constantly in the spotlight, his every move scrutinized by fans and critics alike. He struggled with maintaining a private life and the constant need to be "on" for his audience. The female streamer, on the other hand, dealt with her own set of challenges as she navigated the often-misogynistic landscape of the streaming world. Despite these obstacles, they remained a beacon of positivity and resilience, inspiring countless others to chase their dreams and find their own unique voices in the world of streaming and art.

Their partnership eventually evolved into something more than just a professional arrangement. As they spent more time together, traveling the world for gaming and art conventions, attending exclusive events, and collaborating on creative projects, a deep bond began to form between them. Lando found himself falling for the enigmatic artist, her wit, charm, and unyielding strength winning him over. She, in turn, found herself drawn to his vulnerability, his willingness to open up and share his fears and insecurities with her. Their relationship was not without its fair share of challenges, but they faced them together, their love for each other serving as a guiding light.

As their personal lives intertwined, so did their professional lives. They launched their own production company, hiring a team of talented streamers and artists to join them in their quest to create something truly special. Together, they pushed the boundaries of what was possible in the world of streaming and art, exploring new genres, mediums, and storytelling techniques. Their streams became less about the games they played or the art they created and more about the stories they told, the lives they shared, and the connections they forged with their audience.