#i need to make my own business so i can afford to live but everything to mae a business costs too much!!!!!!!

[autisticlee]

how to make business plans: spend 2 weeks looking for a website to make a visual plan guide that you can collaborate with business partners, but you end up nowhere because all of them require paid subscriptions to do more than a few basic things. except you don't want to pay for these because you don't have a business yet and therefore no money!!!! but you need more than basic features (basically you can only put 50-100 items on your board with free account and i will definitely need more)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 1

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

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

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

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don't ask me why I did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You keep to yourself. That’s the safest, the easiest way to live. You keep your head down, your eyes to yourself, your voice bottled up. 

You grip your phone as you approach the coffee shop. You stand on your toes to see through the painted windows and frown at the long queue. You won’t have to worry about that. Like everything else social, you’ve found a work around. 

You look at your phone, the app showing your order as ‘preparing’. It should be done shortly as the progress bar fills close to complete. You can bear the claustrophobia for a minute or so until it’s ready. 

You go to open the door but an arm reaches past you and does that first. You step back, patiently waiting for the other customer to precede you. They don’t move. You stare at their shoes. Dark blue velvet loafers with gold emblems on chains.  

“Go on, baby face, I got it,” the man’s voice makes your skin crawl. 

You shrink down and give a nod, throat clenching as you struggle to find your voice. You’re not much for conversation but you’re but impolite. 

“Thanks,” you force out without raising your head. 

You scurry through quickly, a bit to close to the stranger than you like, and you clasp your phone against your chest as you stand just away from the cluster of people awaiting their orders. You bounce on your feet as the noises join together to form a cacophony; the hissing steam, the clanging metal, the clinking porcelain, the calls of the workers behind the counter, and the buzz of the crowd seated or standing around the cafe. Sweat gathers on the nape of your neck as the chaos swirls a storm around you. 

You pull your phone away from the front of your pullover and check the screen. Should be ready any moment and you’ll be free of the circus. You adjust your grip on the phone, almost jittery as another customer joins the wait at the pick up window. 

You breathe out. It’s not usually this busy at this time. You have a routine. You can handle the expected. You order on your phone so you don’t need to talk to anyone. You wait outside until it’s almost done then come in too quickly claim your prize. But not today, something’s different and it’s throwing everything off. 

It’s only on Wednesday’s that you venture down to the cafe. It’s the halfway point of your week so you mark it with a taste of motivation. The same order every week. A London fog latte. Simple and affordable. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. 

Your name cuts through the din, “...medium London fog.” 

You drop your arm to your side and set your shoulders. You march forward through the parting bodies ahead of you and reach for the cup. Before you can grasp it, someone else scoops it up. You nearly cry out in horror. Someone’s stealing your order! 

You turn to the tea thief but they make no move to flee. They hold the cup nonchalantly, turning it to read the sticker on the side, reciting the same name that just rose from the barista’s lips seconds ago. You face the stranger but again, your eyes are downward.

The blue loafers! 

“Cute name,” he comments as he holds the cup out. 

You once more try to take the cup but before you can, he has it out of reach again. Your lashes flick and your fingers twiddle helplessly. His large hand is firmly around the cup so even if you did try to wrestle it from him, you doubt you’d have any hope but to spill it all. 

You look around but no one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at their phones or talking with the person next to them. The staff behind the counter are too busy appeasing the rush of orders. 

“I’ve never tried one of these,” he taunts, “I’m more of a ristretto guy. Like my espresso.” 

You shake your head and rescind your hand, balling it against your fist. What does he want? Why is he bothering you? You said thank you. Did he not hear you? 

“Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” he pushes the tea towards you, “there you are, sweat pea.” 

You hesitate. You slowly unfurl your fingers and reach for the cup. As you wrap your fingers around it, you can’t help but brush his. Thick and strong and unmoving. He clings to it for just a moment before he lets you have it. 

“Thanks,” you squeak again, this time louder so he certainly hears you. 

“You got a sweet voice,” he puts his hand on his hip, a glimpse of a shiny gold watch face peeking out from beneath his sleeve, “I’d love to hear more of it.” 

Your eyes round as you focus on the zipper of his thin jacket. You shake your head and meekly raise your cup awkwardly and dip your chin slightly. No thanks. 

You turn and weave your way back through the crowd. Your heart is thumping in your chest. What an odd encounter. 

More so, you’re dismayed that he saw you. That he noticed you. For years, you’ve done your best to be invisible. You prefer it that way. You don’t even think your neighbours know you exist. But that man, he seemed to see nothing but you. 

You push outside and nearly drop your cup. You try to steady yourself. You’re all knotted up and tense. You tuck your phone into your back pocket and bring the cup before you nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the foam. Something about it isn’t as soothing as usual. 

You turn down the pavement and wince as a sole scuffs close behind you. Suddenly, another set of steps walk next to yours, measured to keep in tandem with your own short legs. Blue velvet.  

You walk faster. Is he following you? Why? What does he want? He’s much taller, you can’t outpace him. 

“You know, when I said I’d like to hear more, I thought maybe over a coffee?” He suggests. 

You don’t say a word as you keep your eyes forward, squeezing your cup tight as you try not to swish it around too much. You’ve never had to deal with this before. Men don’t see you. There was a time you hated that but since, you were grateful for that. 

“I mean, I could do most of the talking, never had much of a trouble with that, jellybean,” he offers. 

You shake your head. Your throat tightens. You can’t speak. You want to scream but you can’t make a noise. 

As you get to the corner, you stop short. He steps past you but just as quickly catches himself and turns to face you. You gulp and look down at your cup. You can’t keep going. If you do, you’ll lead him right to your home. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart? You forget something? How about we head back and I’ll buy you something sugary to go with that?” 

You furrow your brow and step back on your heel. You bring your eyes up, a furtive glance at his face, brief and flickering. You just want to know what he looks like so you never see him again. 

His blue eyes twinkle, his nose is long but proportioned to his chiseled face, his hair is combed back, the sides shaved, and a thick swatch of hair lines his upper lip. He’s older than you, you know that much, but you’ve never good at gauging age. You’ve never seen him before but you can’t be sure. You don’t look at many faces. 

You pivot and cross the street without looking. You narrowly miss a bumper and get a honk in remonstrance. You can’t stop yourself. You’re panicking. You head down the next street as his footsteps follow. It’s all you can hear.  

As you pass a bin, you dump the drink. You don’t pause as it plummets heavily into the trash and you fall into a brisk half-jog. You pump your arms, puffing wildly, dizzy as you search for a saviour.  

You dash into the library. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just for anyone to get this man to leave you alone. 

You don’t look back as you enter and head straight for the front counter. You’re out of breath as you approach the rounded edge and tap the bell frantically. A woman emerges from behind the window wall and she greets you with a confused chime. 

“Hello, can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes, I need...” you gulp and glance at the doors. You push away from the counter and spin, searching. You don’t see the man. He’s probably waiting outside. But you never looked back. You never really saw if he was following. “I...” you turn back to the woman, “never mind.” 

You cross your arms and turn away. You cringe as you realise how ridiculous you must have seemed. Worse, you didn’t mean to bother someone just doing their job and over what? You’re own issues. You should go home, back to your reclusion, where you can’t be in anyone’s way. 

👄

When you finally muster the courage to leave the library, your journey home is slowed by your paranoia. You have your phone out, held up so you can see over your shoulder with the front camera. You watch the screen more than the sidewalk ahead of you. 

You get home without a second shadow. As you let yourself through the grated front door of the building, you can’t help but feel stupid. That man must’ve got the idea when you as good as ran in the other direction. You’re being dramatic. 

You close the camera and put your phone away. You waist six dollars in your frantic flight. You mourn the tea latte as the heavy inner door clunks shut behind you. You drag your feet up the stairs as your keys jingle on your finger. 

You apartment is at the very end of the hall. You enter and twist the latch. You slide the chain into place and hang the key ring on the little hook beside the door frame. You untangle your purse and leave it with your phone on the table in the corner. 

You shuffle the few feet to the front room and look around. You find comfort in the familiarity of your little apartment. Your hideaway. 

You go back to your desk and sign back in. You’re back later than usual but you can still make up the time. As long as there’s enough tasks left in the portal. You don’t have to let that man ruin your whole day. You’ll never see him again. In a few days, you won’t even remember him. 

👄

Wednesday. Halfway through the week.  

You scroll and click around your screen as you watch the clock in the corner tick on. Usually around this time, you’d be excited. You’d clock out for your break and go down to the cafe. As much as you looked forward to the treat, the walk alone was relaxing in its own way. 

Not that day. Despite your efforts to shrug off the strange encounter, you haven’t shaken it. So instead, the kettle boils as a bag of earl gray sits in an empty mug. You’re not going. Maybe next week. 

You’re a bit depressed but you’re too nervous to make the venture. Oh well, you’ll save a bit of money. You could find a different place next time. That might be easier. 

You stay logged in and claim a new task. Hey, you can be done work earlier if you can power through. You might even make a few extra bucks. 

The kettle clicks and you get up to pour the water. You leave it to steep, forgetting it for the screen before you. Your fingers tap endlessly across the keyboard, filling the silence as you zone in on the words, transcribing messy ink to Times New Roman. 

Your trance is broken by a sudden buzz. You sit up, the kink in your neck pangs. You need to stop hunching. The buzz comes again. Is that... It must be a mistake. It happens now and then, someone buzzes the wrong apartment. 

You get up as it sounds a third time and you shuffle down to the speaker box. You hit the button, “wrong number.” 

“No--” 

You let go of the number before you can hear the response. They buzz again. You sigh. You hit the button. 

“I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,” you repeat. 

“I don--” 

You release the button again and take a step back. Buzz! You’re getting annoyed. You hit the button. “Wrong--” 

“Got a delivery. 212.” The man’s voice drowns out your own, reciting your name after your apartment number. Your finger stays on the button as you frown. A delivery? 

“I’m not expecting a delivery.” 

“Are you...” he says your name again. 

“... yes.” 

Silence, filled with the low hum of the speaker, “so, can I come up or...?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

You pull your finger away and hover it over the other. Maybe it’s from work? There was the one time they sent a cheap mass production travel mug with their logo on it as some incentive. A poor attempt at employee appreciation. 

You press down and hold until you’re certain they have enough time to get in. You wait by the door, ringing your hands. You hear the door at the end of the hall open on its old hinges and you peek through the peephole. 

You watch the fuzzy figure come into focus with each of his long steps. He doesn’t hold a box nor wear the uniform of a postal worker. No, he wears those blue leather loafers and holds a bright pink paper cup with a white lid. From the cafe.  

As he comes close, you get a pigeon’s eye view of the hair on his upper lip and his bold blue eyes. It feels like he can see you too as he stands smirking on the other side of the door. This can’t be real. 

He knocks and you wince as the door shifts in the frame. 

“Special delivery,” he calls through, “open up, baby face.” 

[cosmicanakin]

★ NO STRINGS ATTACHED.

੭୧ . . . vinnie hacker x female!reader.

ᯓ what began as a casual physical arrangement between two best friends soon blossomed into deeper feelings that neither were prepared to face without turbulence and confusion along the way.

warning(s) angst┊smut┊hurt comfort┊friends with benefits trope┊strong language┊anxiety┊miscommunication. 𓇼 angsty fwb ft. vinnie? count me in. it's my first time writing this trope so crossing my fingers i didn't fuck up. eighteen plus! adult content | minors do NOT interact.

　✧⠀ ⠀⠀　𓈒　⠀⠀ ⠀૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ꪆৎ masterlist.

you wake up with warmth behind you and an arm slung gently over your waist. looking at the time on your phone, you see it’s nearly noon. turning, you find vinnie still sleeping soundly, his face soft and serene.

a smile tugs at your lips as you watch him. he looks so peaceful. his curls fall messily over his forehead in a way that makes your stomach flip. you want nothing more than to lean in and place a gentle kiss on his lips, but you stop yourself.

that's what got you into this mess in the first place. kissing led to more… and more led to feelings. feelings you can't afford to have, not when this was supposed to be casual between you. what started as a friends with benefits situation has spiraled, at least for you, into something much deeper.

but vinnie made it clear from the beginning - no strings attached. and you agreed, not realizing your heart had plans of its own. now you find yourself falling helplessly for your best friend and you need to get yourself out before it’s too late. before you get hurt.

carefully, so as not to wake him, you slip out of bed and get dressed. once you're out the door, you shoot vinnie a text saying you had an early shift at work. it's not entirely a lie - you did pick up an extra shift today in hopes of keeping busy and your mind off of him.

the next few days, you do everything you can to avoid vinnie. you let his calls go to voicemail and take hours to reply to his texts. when he asks to hang out, you come up with excuses - you're tired, have plans, are busy with work. the hurt and confusion in his messages are painfully obvious, but you reason that it's better this way.

it has to end, and distancing yourself is the only way you'll be able to get over him. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself as you try to ignore the ache in your chest that grows more piercing each day without him.

one night, as you're lounging alone watching a movie, your phone rings. vinnie's photo flashes on your screen and you debate not answering, but curiosity gets the better of you.

"hello?"

"hey." his voice is tight. "we need to talk. i'm five minutes away."

before you could even protest, he hung up. your palms start to sweat as you realize there's no getting out of this. ten minutes later, there's a knock at your door.

you pull it open to find vinnie standing there, hands tucked into his jean pockets as he scowls down at the floor. he looks up at you, eyes softening when they meet yours. "can i come in?"

nodding mutely, you step aside to let him enter. he paces into your small living room as you close the door behind him. "so," he starts, turning to face you. "wanna tell me what's going on?"

"nothing," you mumble, avoiding his gaze. "i've just been busy."

"cut the bullshit," he snaps, uncharacteristically angry. "ever since that night a few weeks ago you've been ghosting me. i thought we were friends."

that night plays on repeat in your head, almost like a movie you can't turn off. the feeling of vinnie's lips on yours, his hands exploring your body, the way he made you feel cherished and cared for. but it was all pretend - nothing more than physical pleasure between best friends.

or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself it was to him while your foolish heart dreamed of more. now you have to make him understand it can't be anything at all to you anymore before you get in too deep.

"i think we should stop.. whatever this is," you say quietly, finally meeting his turbulent gaze.

hurt flashes across his face before he schools his expression into one of indifference. "oh. i see. it was just nothing to you then?"

"no, it's not like that," you sigh in frustration. how do you explain this without hurting him more? "i just, i developed feelings okay? and i know you said no strings but—"

"who said i didn't have feelings too?" he cuts you off, running an agitated hand through his hair.

you blink, taken aback. "what?"

"fuck, i care about you!" vinnie shouts, the anger and pain finally bursting to the surface. "these past few months with you have been some of the best in my life. i tried to play it cool but i'm in deep, alright? i love you."

your mind spins, trying to process what you're hearing. vinnie likes you? all this time avoiding him was for nothing? you stare at him open-mouthed as he continues.

"so don't tell me it was just physical for you, because it wasn't for me," he says bitterly. "i wanted all of it - the sex, the cuddling, the lazy mornings together. i wanted you."

a sob wells up in your throat. all the hurt and confusion comes spilling out as you grab onto the fabric of his shirt, balling it tightly in your fists. "i'm so sorry," you blubber, tears now streaming freely down your face. "i thought—i thought if i distanced myself it wouldn't hurt as much. but it only made it worse."

vinnie's face softens and he grasps your wrists gently, loosening your grip on his shirt. "hey, shh it's okay," he soothes. "i'm here now. i got you, baby."

he pulls you against his chest in a tight embrace as you cry, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "i should have been honest with how i felt from the start. this is all my fault."

you shake your head into his chest. "no, i pushed you away when i shouldn't have. i was scared."

pulling back to meet your watery gaze, vinnie brushes your tears away with the pad of his thumbs. "don't be scared. i know i said no strings but… fuck, i want all the strings with you, baby. if you'll have me."

a watery laugh escapes your lips as a smile breaks through. "of course i'll have you, you idiot."

vinnie grins, his smile bright enough to light up the dark room. he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that expresses everything left unsaid between you until now. you moan into it, grasping at his shirt to keep him close, never wanting to let go again.

when you finally part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes glittering with care and affection. "let me stay with you tonight?"

all you can do is nod euphorically, still overwhelmed by the turn of events. vinnie takes your hand and leads you down the hall to your bedroom, closing the door shut behind you. his touch is gentle but searing as he guides you back onto the soft mattress, covering your body with his own.

there's an underlying urgency to your actions now, a need to reconnect after being torn apart by doubt and confusion for so long. but vinnie takes his time undressing you slowly, pressing sweet kisses to every new patch of skin revealed with a reverence that makes your heart ache.

you return the gesture in kind, learning his body like a beloved song you know by heart but will never tire of singing. his moans and the scrape of his stubble against sensitive flesh are your favorite melodies.

when he finally sinks into you, it feels like two pieces of a puzzle clicking perfectly into place after drifting so long apart. he hits that spot inside you with practiced precision, drinking in every gasp and cry wrung from your lips in the dark.

you cling to him desperately, etching crescent moons into his back with your fingernails as you fly higher and higher together. when you fall, it's simultaneously the most exquisite pain and pleasure. he follows you over the edge with a raspy moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

you lay entwined after, listening to each other's rapidly calming breaths in comfortable silence. vinnie presses a kiss to your shoulder, arms tightening around your sated body.

"be my girl?" he mumbles sleepily against your skin. you turn to face him, heart swelling almost to bursting at the vulnerability and care written plainly across his handsome features.

"i'm already yours," you answer, sealing it with a soft kiss.

for the first time, you allow yourself to believe this could be the start of something real - something permanent and loving between you. no more running from what you want; you're in vinnie's arms where you belong. tomorrow you'll start again with open communication and honesty. but for now, basking in the afterglow and security of his embrace is more than enough.

[sansaorgana]

I’ve never understood why we shoot off fireworks in the USA for the 4th, I just feel like it could trigger some of our veterans and it makes me feel awful! Could you write something like this with Buck?

hello! 💖 in my country we only shoot them on new year's eve but since I own two cats, I hate them 😡 one of my cats is so terrified each time that he literally has spasms 😥 the older he gets, the more worried I am each new year's eve tbh 😐 anyway, thank you for your request! 🎆 I was actually thinking of something like this with Buck!

I had to close my requests for now because I got so many 🙏🏻

It was the first Independence Day after the war and you were excited that you would celebrate it with your husband for the first time in two years. Especially now, after the victory, it felt more special than ever.

You decided to throw a barbecue for your befriended neighbours and you had been preparing the house and the garden for the whole week – putting up decorations with Buck’s help and cleaning everything. In the last two days you had also been busy with cooking meals and preparing salads while Buck had been supplying your fridge with everything needed for the barbecue – all sorts of meat, vegetables and sodas.

The only thing you hadn’t bought were the fireworks. You wanted to save some money, especially after hearing that different neighbours down the street were preparing a real show anyway. Surprisingly, Buck had agreed to that pretty quickly although you had expected him to try to convince you to get your own fireworks. Not because he had ever been a big fan of them but he never liked it when you were using the “saving money” argument. Whenever you would use it in different situations – like deciding whether to buy a dress or not – he would say “if it makes you happy, we can afford that”. And he knew very well that this barbecue party was making you happy.

However, you didn’t ask about it because it didn’t seem to be significant enough and you completely forgot about it anyway, too busy with all the preparations.

The barbecue started in the afternoon and the weather was beautiful on that day – clear, blue skies above you, giving you a perfect view of the fireworks here and there in the distance. You were handing the bottles of beer and coke to the guests while Buck was in charge of the barbecue when one of the neighbours asked a question that made you freeze.

“Damn, it’s like back there again, is it not?” He chuckled at Buck.

His name was Frank and he had been to Europe as well but not as a pilot. He was obviously referring to the fireworks in the background as he tried to turn it into a joke but his wife Helen hissed at him.

You suddenly realised that the sound of fireworks was not the same to everyone and you looked at your husband, worried. He might have seemed to be pretty alright after the horrors he had endured but you knew him better than everyone else and you knew. You knew about his nightmares and panic attacks. They were rare but they still were happening, sometimes triggered by the things you had never thought of before as threatening. Like with the fireworks.

“I don’t pay attention to them,” Buck gave Frank a kind smile. “My brain just shuts the sound off at this point,” he explained and he seemed to be genuine in his answer, which made you sigh in relief.

You went back to handing out the sodas and glanced at the watch on your hand. It was half an hour until the fireworks show promised by the neighbours living down the street.

When everyone had a bottle of their chosen beverage already, you joined your husband’s side to help him with the meat and vegetables. Rubbing his arm softly and laughing at the jokes being told by the others, you felt happy and satisfied with your life. Finally, after such a long time, it was back to normal, you thought. Well, nearly.

Everyone was sitting by the table in your garden and talking when you realised you had forgotten to bring mustard and ketchup.

“I’ll get it,” Buck smiled at you and stood up.

“Grab me a can of coke from the fridge, too, darling,” you told him and he nodded before disappearing inside the house.

A short moment later, the fireworks show started. Your neighbours living down the street had to spend a real fortune on it because the fireworks were many and very, very loud. You gasped and watched in awe as others stood up and cheered.

You, Helen and Frank were the only ones left sitting by the table. From the corner of your eye, you spotted that Frank’s face changed. He was no longer smiling and his skin lost some of its colour. Helen was squeezing his shaky hands and whispering something to him.

A very loud firework made you flinch while others screamed out of joy and Frank jumped on his seat. You stood up rapidly, realising that Buck hadn’t come back from the house yet.

“Helen, listen,” you leaned in to talk to her despite the noise. “You can go inside with Frank, it’s okay,” you assured her.

“Thank you,” she mouthed out with gratitude in her eyes before urging him to stand up and follow her inside.

You, however, weren’t waiting for them because you were rushing to the house yourself. You froze at the sight of your husband sitting by the kitchen table and hiding his face in his shaky hands. In fact, his whole body trembled and there was a broken bottle of mustard in the middle of the floor. He had to drop it when the fireworks show started.

Your heart broke at the sight. Your Buck was the strongest and the bravest man you knew. You would always go to him when you needed comfort or help because he was so capable of making everything – everything – better. He was good at fixing things in the physical sense but he was also always comforting you with his kindness and calm nature. He would never panic about anything and you had always admired him for that.

In moments like this, you felt helpless because you couldn’t take his pain away. And if you could, you would. He had already suffered so much that from now on, you’d rather suffer for him. But you were also angry – angry at the war for taking place and breaking him so much.

“Darling…” You started slowly and crouched down in front of him, carefully, trying not to startle him. He didn’t seem to acknowledge your presence, though. “Darling…” You repeated and put your hands on his trembling thighs.

He flinched and you shushed him while tears streamed down your cheeks. 

“Shh, shh, baby, it’s me, it’s okay, you’re home,” you tried to soothe him. “You’re with me now, you’re safe,” you assured but it was not working.

You took a deep breath in and moved up now, to stand above him. You put your hands on Buck’s ears, trying to shield him away from the noise coming from the outside. And then, gently, you pulled his face closer to you and pressed it to your tummy. You leaned in to kiss the top of his head and whisper sweet nothings that were supposed to calm him down and after a while it seemed to be working. You could feel his muscles relaxing and eventually he stopped hiding his face in his hands and wrapped his arms around your waist instead, clinging to you like a little boy.

When the fireworks show stopped and it was quiet again, you moved your hands away from Buck’s ears and began to rub his back soothingly instead.

“It’s alright now, baby, you’re home with me. I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” you promised in a whisper, sniffing back your own tears.

Buck looked up at you with teary eyes and you cupped his face to wipe his tears off of his cheeks with your thumbs. You let your fingers trace his scars and your lower lip trembled. Not that you minded those scars – not at all – but they were yet another reminder of what horrors he had been through. And he was just a man – as weak and scared as everyone else; only forced to be brave.

You understood now why he was scared of having a son with you one day. He was scared of another war coming sooner or later and he was scared of his own child going through what he had gone through.

You feared that, too. And you didn’t even fully know what had happened in Europe. Only the men who had been there knew. Women – especially those who had stayed back home – they would never understand.

“Are you back with me now, my love?” You asked, gently. Buck nodded after a while of hesitation.

“Sorry ‘bout the mustard,” he mumbled out and you chuckled as you shook your head.

“It doesn’t matter, darling,” you assured him.

But you were grateful that Buck’s panic attacks were like that. Perhaps it was wrong to be grateful for such things but you had heard enough stories of triggered men who would do much worse things while having panic attacks.

“I’m sorry…” He breathed out as fresh tears pricked his eyes.

“Don’t,” you interrupted him as you crouched down again and held his hands now to squeeze them tight. “Don’t, Gale, please, don’t ever apologise for that,” you pleaded and he looked down.

“I didn’t expect them to be so loud and so… Close. I… I suddenly wasn’t in our kitchen anymore but back in the air, up in the fort and the Germans were shooting at us and I was trying to focus on flying but deep down I was just… I was just praying to get back home to you and all I could see was your face when they tell you I’m dead and…” He started and you pursed your lips to stop your own tears from falling.

“I know, baby, I know. But it’s over now, yes? You’re back home with me, safe and sound,” you reminded him and leaned in to place a kiss upon one of his hands.

You heard footsteps behind you. It was Helen peeking inside shyly. You turned around to shake your head at her and she gave you an understanding look before walking out without a word.

“Let’s clean up now, yes?” You let go of Buck’s hands and fixed your hair before standing up clumsily.

You occupied yourself with cleaning the mess from the broken mustard bottle and Buck washed his face with cold water in the kitchen sink. You handed him some of the paper towels you were using so he could dry his face.

“You’ve missed the fireworks show because of me,” he pointed out.

“God damn those fireworks shows, Buck!” You exclaimed. “God damn them. I don’t want to see any ever again. I’m sorry that I didn't think that it would… That it would scare you like that,” you apologised.

“Well, it takes time to come to terms with the fact that your husband is a coward now,” Buck sighed and so did you, while throwing the used paper towels into the trash bin aggressively.

“My husband is not a coward and has never been. However, that self-pity attitude is new to me,” you told him and he turned his head around to look at you. “My husband is the bravest man I know,” you added. “He is my hero. And I don’t allow you to talk about him this way, you hear me? I have defended him from all the women in town telling me that men in the captive camps were no real heroes and I will defend him from you, too, when you’re so mean to him, Buck, I mean it.”

“Stop, or I’ll cry again,” he shook his head and sniffled.

There was a hint of a smile on his face and it made you grin as well before you approached him and wrapped your arms around him to hug him tight.

“I love my wife, too. The most in the whole wide world,” he assured you and hugged you back while pressing his lips to the top of your head but you could still understand his words. “I wasn’t brave, really, I wasn’t. I just did everything it took to come back to you.”

MASTERLIST || BUCK MASTERLIST

[nadvs]

rafe x reader meeting eachother’s family ?? love the series !!🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

thank you!! i got a few requests for this one, i hope y’all like it 🥰

based on this fic

» au masterlist

they decided it’s best to meet each other’s families before he moves away to start training and playing basketball professionally. the timing works out well, considering they’ve been together for five months now.

when rafe met her family, she could not believe he was even capable of being so polite. he shook hands. he asked questions. he even fake-laughed at jokes. he was charming as hell. and she teased him mercilessly for it.

“didn’t expect you to call my dad sir,” she mumbled with a small smile as he drove them out onto the street.

“i can’t afford to fuck up,” he replied with a shrug. the fact that he cared so much made her heart flutter.

now, a week later, they’re driving to rafe’s family house and she can’t believe how big the homes in his neighborhood are.

he had told her about how his dad owned a successful business. she knew he was well off based on how carelessly he throws money around, the opposite of most of their friends, who fit the cliche of poor students scraping by. but this? this is ridiculous.

“could’ve told me that you live in a mansion,” she says as the gate at the end of his driveway opens.

“okay. i live in a mansion.”

she nudges his shoulder and huffs a laugh.

when they step through the front door, she can tell rafe didn’t mince his words when he told her about his familial relationships. the way everyone greets him makes it clear he was telling the truth about everything.

his youngest sister, who he said he always had a soft spot for, throws her arms around him. his other sister only offers a nod of her head. apparently all they do is bicker.

his step-mom’s side hug is impersonal but polite. and rafe visibly stiffens when his dad approaches him, pulling him into a hug, patting his son’s back hard.

he told her all about how much he’s always tried to get his dad’s approval. that his sister usually got it without having to try, while rafe always struggled for it. she can tell her boyfriend is tense.

“congratulations are in order,” ward says, diving into conversation about draft night. then, because he just seems to love making his son feel less than, he mentions how the team he was drafted to hasn’t won a championship in a few years.

“but hey, maybe things will change this year,” his father adds.

she can’t hold herself back from interjecting.

“they will. they have a new team of coaches now. they’re making all kinds of improvements, including the rookies they signed,” she says. she forces a smile and offers a handshake, introducing herself.

rafe watches her with a smirk he can’t stifle. he was just about to introduce her, but she couldn’t help herself from butting in to bat for him. they have a lot in common, including how protective she is.

sure enough, after dinner, wheezie quietly mentions to rafe that she’s basically a girl version of him.

“you think so?” he mumbles.

“no kidding,” sarah says, overhearing. “except i actually like her.”

rafe watches his girlfriend drift towards a wall of photos, cocking her head as she looks at the images of him in different stages of his life.

“wow,” she mumbles when he comes up next to her.

“what?”

“you’re playing basketball in like, all of these,” she says with a soft chuckle. “it was meant to be.”

he looks down at her. he know he’s grinning like an idiot because he notices rose close by, smiling at him like a proud parent.

afterwards, she goes to the restroom before they head out, and his step-mom turns to look at rafe the second she’s out of earshot.

“we like her,” rose says, her arm at the crook of ward’s elbow. “you seem happy.”

“i am,” rafe admits. he didn’t need their approval, but it feels really good to have it. it’s not a surprise to him, though. she was talkative and fun. she was likeable. she was herself.

“make good choices when you’re out there, son,” his dad says. “let us know if you need anything for the move.”

rafe nods. it’s bizarre how he’s taking such a big step, moving states away for an nba contract, yet he still feels like a kid when he’s here.

but then she comes back into the room and he feels like the self-assured man he knows he is.

they say their goodbyes and she breathes a breath of relief when she shuts the passenger door of his car.

“you good?” he laughs.

“that was so nerve-racking,” she admits.

“what?” she seemed totally cool and collected the whole time.

“the first thing i did was snap at your dad,” she says nervously. “i thought i blew it.”

“nah, everyone liked you,” rafe says. he turns the car on. “my sisters said that we’re the same person.”

the sentiment warms her heart.

“you’re really sweet with wheezie, by the way,” she says. “the guys would never believe it.”

“and they don’t have to,” he mumbles, feigning irritation. she laughs. he puts up a tough, intimidating front with his teammates. she sees right past it.

she leans over to kiss his cheek. she’s glad it went well. she sees a future with him. he sees one with her, too.

[spicybunni]

❤️ASHLEY AS A HUSBAND❤️

Hello darlings!! These are a few headcanons of my yandere OC Ashley, the mob boss who can’t get enough of you. Hope you like him!

WARNINGS ⚠️: NSFW MENTIONS, SMUT, YANDERE TENDENCIES, FORCED MARRIAGE, VIOLENCE (not to reader), BLOOD MENTION

❤️Before we get into it, The marriage was not consensual by any means on your end. Ashley forced you saying it’s for your own good and that you and your family will be safe. Which sounded like a threat more than anything. You agreed to it only for the sake that he doesn’t harm your loved ones.

❤️He forced you because the word of his infatuation with you, a local waiter, got out to his rivals. He didn’t want to ruin your life with violence. So he decided to ruin it with a forced marriage.

❤️As a husband, Ashley was very traditional. He would come home after doing business. Sometimes with a little blood on his clothes or some skinned knuckles from throwing punches.

❤️Regardless of how he looked he would come to you before anything else and give you a kiss on the cheek. Ask you about your day and sit down in the living room.

❤️Your stomach would flip whenever he came near you with blood on his suit. Looking like a damn maniac with a smile on his face indifferent to whoever’s blood is splattered on him as he hugs you.

❤️He was more than happy to consummate the marriage after half a year living together. You hated him and everything he stood for, but your feelings, being cooped up in the mansion, and the way his stupid hair falls on his face as he looks at you- it all has gotten to you!

❤️Ashley couldn’t get enough after that. But his number one rule was to always have you come to him for it. Sometimes you would just awkwardly come into the living room, face flushed and lightly sweating as you avert your gaze. You’d place a hand on his shoulder as he sat in the armchair. He’d look up from either the paper or book he’s reading, smirk at your state, and take your hand upstairs.

❤️Ashley couldn’t care less about how adorably awkward you are downstairs when in the bedroom your ass bounces off his dick so divine.

❤️His plan was to tease you with how good it felt when you gave into your desires. Rubbing the head of his cock on your soaking entrance, holding your legs down in a press. Ashley’s erection would become painfully more hard when you let out whines and begs for him to get on with it.

❤️Least to say you were so cock drunk that you could care less in the moment if he came inside you.

❤️ This man is rough to say the least, but you love it. The way he holds your head down as your ass is in the air being pounded by him. His belt being used to tie your hands to the headboard of the bed while he does sinful things down below.

❤️DO NOT CATCH AN ATTITUDE WITH HIM❌ it will end in you drooling into the sheets as your body gets an pleasurable attitude adjustment.

“Sweetie, sweetie-Hey. Look at me while I make you a mess you hear me? That’s it. Atta darlin’…ah-fuck!”

❤️Even though he coats your insides to the brim with cum, he cleans you up nicely. He’ll grab a towel from the connected bathroom and wipe your sweat while you come down from your bliss.

❤️After two years being forcefully married, your life was actually simplified. No need to stress on bills, you actually had a chance at doing your little hobbies, and you can afford all the foods you’d like to cook. Ashley also would gift you clothes you liked instead of repurposing rags for your uniforms and pajamas. He would whistle when you’d walk out of the changing rooms in a new outfit. Making you do slow twirls for him.

❤️There were times where logic would come back into your mind to tell you this dynamic wasn’t right, you had to leave.

❤️But Ashley will never let that happen. His protocol if you were to ever try and escape is that all his men would be on the lookout for you, then have all his patrons in the district report to him if they spotted you.

❤️Ashley would never hurt you, but in a scenario where you tried to escape he would isolate you to a single bedroom for a month. It would take lots of time to earn his trust again after that.

❤️But that’s all hypotheticals for now….

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

VII. twenty-one questions.

parts: previously / next plot: everything comes to a head. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, reader's a little stupid, descriptions of surgical stitching, blood, surgical needles, knives, violence, mentions of drugs and underage substance abuse (alcohol), minor character death(s). words: 11.4k.

a/n: it has been yet another hot minute and this chapter has given me a lot of grief in terms of all the ideas I had for it and what it ended up being. as you can tell by the word count, I could Not shut up

Alfred calls you bright and early to watch Bruce spar.

The billionaire had mentioned it before, and while you didn't doubt you would meet an untimely fate were you to challenge Mr. Pennyworth one-on-one, it was a whole other thing seeing them both on the mat.

Alfred is slow but thoughtful; when Bruce attacks, he goes for several hits at once. Alfred anticipates each one. He's more defense than offense, but when he strikes Bruce in the chest even you can feel it.

Bruce is lean, quick. He ducks and rolls and uses every part of his body, not just his fists. He looks a little sloppy when he wraps his legs around Alfred's—out of practice, maybe?—but it doesn't keep him from succeeding. Alfred fights like a soldier. Bruce fights like a martial artist.

Bruce makes a noise when Alfred falls to the mat and you spring up with attention, "Everything okay?"

You hear "his leg" and "I'm fine" overlap one another.

The real reason Alfred had called you was because he wanted you to watch Bruce hurt himself. The vestiges of a sprain, he guessed, that Bruce was too stubborn to rest. When he couldn't convince Bruce to pass on sparring, he resorted to you: "an objective spectator." Alfred had sounded pleased. Bruce had looked about ready to suplex him.

You head over anyway, ignoring the protests of the injured so you could kneel and survey the damage. "Can you walk?"

Bruce doesn't meet your eyes. He forces his body to stand, but you can easily tell he's favoring a side. You reach a hand up and pinch his injured calf, hearing him hiss through his teeth. "Of course it's going to hurt when you do that." He sounds childishly annoyed. Alfred is fighting a smile from his spot next to you.

"I don't understand. You're head of the company, you can afford to take a few days off. Even chair rest is still rest."

"Ah, but there lies the conundrum," Alfred pushes himself up to his feet, "he cannot sit still."

Bruce extends his hand to you, still avoiding eye contact. You hesitate but take it anyway, and the ease with which he hoists you to your feet is a bit disorienting.

Since your agreement with Batman, you were forced to be patient. After all, there were more pressing matters in Gotham besides your own ticking time bomb. He'd promised that he'd get back to you soon about Bruce and, until then, you would have to grin and bear it.

Alfred excuses himself to get busy with lunch the minute Dory enters with the groceries, leaving the two of you alone in the middle of the living room. "As your doctor," you begin, "I can't in good conscience let you keep pushing your body past its limit."

"It barely hurts anymore."

You bend as if you're about to grab at his leg again and he takes a step back, annoyed—if not offended, "You have no record of chronic pain. No record of serious past injuries at all. Yet you strain yourself doing... what, exactly? Sparring all day? You may be young, Bruce, but your body isn't indestructible."

You get the feeling he's heard this before, bristling like a scolded cat as you stare him down, "I'm fine," he brushes past you toward the table he and Alfred moved to the far end of the room, grabbing a sweating glass of water, "Alfred's just being... Alfred. He worries too much."

"I worry," Bruce raises a brow as he takes a swig and you clear your throat, "you said you need to be reminded to care of yourself. Well, that's my job now. Not that the hospital couldn't use more of your money but it's not worth the pain you'll be in." Bruce leans against the table, one leg crossed over the other. You approach, briefly taking note of the water that dribbles down his chin. "I'm starting to think you're just a masochist."

"Yeah? How do you figure?" His lip twitches up into a smile.

You open your mouth but the thought stops you cold. You were going to say, "Because I know someone just like you," but then you're transported back to that fateful morning where you first met. Bruce and all his... familiarity. The wild speculation of your exhausted mind. All of which, at the time, overlapped perfectly. Yet now that you knew them both better, they were worlds apart to you. Except for that one thing.

What was it that set them apart, again?

Your eyes drift up to Bruce's. "I get your type at General sometimes," you divert, "real pains in the ass."

Bruce steps closer to you with his glass abandoned on the table, "And your type can't seem to leave well enough alone."

You prickle. If it weren't for the fact that he was so clearly teasing you, you'd have lingered on the almost double meaning, "The fact you think this," you raise your foot and tap the side of Bruce's injured leg; his eyes narrow, "is well enough further proves my point. You need rest."

Bruce rolls his shoulders back; his compression tee clings to every muscle as he does, drawing your attention for a brief moment. "I'll think about it."

Your jaw drops. Bruce smiles. You feel a white hot flash of irritation that's wiped away when Alfred reenters the room, dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, eyes fixed on you, "Will you be staying for lunch?"

Before you can say no, Bruce interjects for you, "Yes. Thank you, Alfred." Then he turns to you, pats your arm like a friend, and pushes you in the direction of the kitchen, "I'm gonna shower. Make yourself at home."

You stumble over yourself, regaining balance just as Bruce's head disappears over the top floor banister. How quickly he could retreat when leaving you to the lions.

But Alfred is in a good mood today. Better than usual, actually. The hair on your neck stands on end as you follow him to the kitchen, preparing for the good mood to sour now that it wasjust the two of you, but it doesn't come. You watch him hum a little tune as he fixes up some vegetables to sauté.

You even find yourself getting comfortable at the island when he breaks the silence, "I appreciate what you're doing for Bruce... regardless of its efficacy. It's nice to know someone else has common sense in this house." Alfred sets down four empty plates at the breakfast table.

You take note of his tone, an improvement from his barely concealed dislike from weeks before. You take that as a small victory for today, "It's like arguing with a brick wall. How have you managed it all these years?"

"Like a soldier." Without asking, he fills a glass to the brim with water and hands it to you.

"Right. You're a veteran." Your observation gives him pause, the food he tends to at the stove crackling away. "I can tell. I've treated a lot of veterans so I can spot them from a mile away now."

Alfred snorts, straightening his shoulders. "I served as a young lad. Eventually retired and came here, took on the job as the Waynes' butler and bodyguard. I've been with them for quite some time. Since before Bruce was even born."

"You practically raised him."

"Rather... clumsily, might I add," Alfred glances at you and you're surprised to see him bashful, genuinely, "protecting him, I could handle. Raising him... well, that was another matter entirely."

"But you did a pretty good job. I mean, he's accomplished a lot. Especially with the mayor. I imagine that's why he's working so hard: really seems like he's dedicated to restoring his father's legacy."

You can't help the little hook you throw out.

Right before the Mayor was elected, when a bomb shook the penthouse of 1939 Kane St., Edward Nashton had taken to the airwaves to out Thomas Wayne as a cold-blooded killer. Not long after, the man who'd pulled the trigger was shot dead in the street before he could be brought to justice. That would bring anyone out of hiding.

Wayne Enterprises inevitably challenged the claims, Bruce Wayne had taken to his father's defense in an impassioned press conference that even you tuned into, and Gotham General made the decision to keep his father's statue in the courtyard.

It was never ruled out, though. After all, all of the Riddler's other exposés were true. But there was no paper trail. Nothing but he said, he said, and with everyone involved dead, it was Bruce Wayne's word over a zealot who'd flooded the city.

You take a sip from your glass to let Alfred ruminate on his reply. He doesn't raise his eyes to you again, "Precisely."

"I've been keeping a close eye on him in the news. His philanthropy this past year has been really remarkable." That was a bold-faced lie. You'd been keeping an eye on him for the past few weeks. Everything else you knew about Bruce Wayne's newfound appreciation for the poor and needy came from Em. "Some of the people at the party, however..."

"Councilman Roberts, was it? He was awfully spirited from what Master Bruce relayed to me."

The very mention of his name makes your blood pressure spike, "The guest list was very diverse."

Alfred transfers the cutting board to the sink, "Master Bruce has his reasons. He's become rather fixated on the state of political affairs. First behind the scenes, and now..."

"Now center stage." You finish for him, swirling your glass. "Think he'll run for office one day?"

Alfred looks somewhere between amused and horrified.

It would be natural. Thomas Wayne had almost done it. Why not Bruce? It'd be a comeback story for the ages if someone didn't try to kill him again.

"I'd rather he keep out of it. Being in a position like that has never been his true calling."

"Yeah? And what is?"

Alfred doesn't look like he wants to say. He scrubs at the surface of the wooden board, absentmindedly brushing the same spot clean over and over. His eyes catch yours for a split second, just as quick as the smile that he flashes when the answer finally spills out of him, "Altruism."

You and Alfred don't talk much more until Bruce comes down. Dory joins you all at the table soon after and, rather awkwardly, you find yourself having a quiet lunch with the Waynes. Hooks abandoned. Fish not caught.

You wait for what feels like hours, but eventually he arrives.

His car is an absolute monster. It growls as it pulls up beside you in the withering glow of street lights, and if it weren't for said lights, it would blend into the shadows almost completely. The raindrops that dot the hood help catch the light on the deep black paint job.

You look for the door handle but it opens for you. Inside, you see Batman with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. You swallow. This is new territory.

You throw your bag in first, then climb into the passenger seat, very aware of the pocket knife stuffed in the pocket of your scrubs. You go to close the door and it closes for you all on its own. Behind you is an intimidating engine that vibrates through your every bone and muscle, and when you look to the driver, he is staring straight ahead. A few beats pass as you try to keep your teeth from chattering, "Do the seat belts move on their own, too?"

Batman looks at you from his peripheral. Then—twisting in his seat—he reaches across you to retrieve the seat belt, dragging it across the front of your body until it clicks at your side, "'Fraid not."

Despite all the rumbling of the car engine, it's a smooth ride through the city. Even the littering of pot holes and uneven pavement doesn't ruin it. Still, it does nothing to quell your nerves.

You feel small, sinking into the passenger seat built for people wearing a lot more armor than you. You also note that there's nowhere for your legs to go underneath the seat. You bump the solid obstruction with the backs of your sneakers but can't make out what it is.

There are other weird things you notice when you start looking. Starting where your shoulders rest are six holes going down the seat, three on each side, all a foot apart from the last. You press your finger into one of the holes and feel hard metal on either side of the gap. Upon further inspection, Batman's seat has it too, "What are these for?" You ask.

Batman doesn't need to look at you to know what you're messing with, "Restraints."

You recoil, "I beg your pardon?"

"I could show you."

"I'm- sorry, what..." You bend at the waist to feel the metal plate beneath the seat and recognize that there are holes along the sides there too.

"In case I need to bring someone along who's less than willing. Metal bars are installed in the seats. Only I know how to activate them."

"Why your seat too?"

"In case someone tries to steal the car," he makes a turn into one of the boroughs and you realize you're getting close to your destination, "but I've considered putting a trunk in the back for... passengers."

"And where do you get the money for such... modest mods?"

At that, Batman does not answer you. You figured he wouldn't. There were a hundred answers he could give you that would surely, most definitely give his identity away. It doesn't stop your brain from beginning to wander.

It doesn't get very far before you're pulling up into the alley between two houses, shrouding the car in the shadow of Joey Russo's home.

It's not as nicely kept as the other houses on the street, and its age doesn't do it any favors. A lot of the off-white paint has been chipped off or discolored over the years. There's a piece-of-junk car in the driveway that looks like it works, but just barely. The lawn has outgrown the neighbors', kept at bay by patches of dead grass where you can tell someone had gone to town with weedkiller. There are old, faded garden decorations around the front porch. Some gnomes with their ceramic hats caved in, a wind chime missing most of its chimes.

You're wandering out of the alley and into the harsh, orange beam of the streetlight when you feel Batman's hand roughly drag you back into the dark. You're about to ask what the problem is when your eyes catch the side of the house.

There's a little window with its grey curtains shut, a dead flower limp on the sill. Next to the window is a backdoor cracked open.

You do not protest when Batman presses up against the side of the house and moves you behind him. There are dogs barking, cars driving by, faint sirens in the distance, but you can't hear anything from inside.

You watch as he presses his hand to the door and slowly pushes it open, peeking in from a safe distance into the dark. Most of the windows are blocked out by sheer curtains, and no light in the house is on from what you can tell.

Batman is a hulking thing, always, but every step is feather-light on the weathered floorboards as you both enter. There's no sign of Russo, even though the house feels warm. Like it'd been lived in recently. Your heart picks up as you swear you see a shadow move in the corner of your eye, but it's just the wind picking up one of the curtains.

You so desperately want to ask him what he's thinking but your voice is stuck in your throat, the thought crashing down upon you that you are here, that somewhere in this house is the man who had ensured you'd be here today (in nearly all the ways that that could apply), and that it was not so far behind you as you might've hoped.

And were you to get an answer—any answer—from Russo tonight, it would not change the fact that your name was still on Bruce Wayne's payroll.

You feel sick to your stomach all over again.

When the living room is clear, you're simultaneously relieved and terrified when Batman leaves you to scope out the adjoining dining room. The house is silent aside from your breathing.

It's a few moments alone that does it; you start to feel another wave of anxiety. It had been a few minutes, hadn't it? Maybe. A minute at least. You're not confident enough to go looking for Batman, and you fear calling out to him would just detrimentally unsettle the atmosphere. You listen for where he might be, any creaks in the floors boards, but there's nothing.

Just as you're about to step into the dining room yourself, something moves out of your peripheral again. Only this time, you realize too late that it's not the curtain.

You barely register the pain at first—the skin of your upper arm splitting in half—but then it's white-hot and you're choking on a cry before you can stop yourself. Something had rushed at you, a person. You shakily touch where they'd cut you.

Was it a knife? It had to be, with how cleanly it tore your skin. Your brain jumps to the next question: was it covered in anything? Would you get infected?

You stumble back and reach into your pocket for your own knife with a little more urgency. The person rushes at you again with something akin to a battle cry and you narrowly dodge their raised weapon, only the sound of it ripping through the curtains tells you it wasn't just another delayed reaction.

You slash at their back while they're still turned and manage to actually make a cut before jumping back. It's not enough, though. Your attacker spins and even though the light has now turned them into nothing but a silhouette, you can feel their crazed gaze on you.

It feels boiling. It feels personal.

Their breathing is ragged, panting from more than just the fight. It sounds like they're foaming at the mouth, rabid and wild, as they spit at you, "You should've died with your little bitch of a friend when you had the chance."

The anger in their voice stuns you before the words do.

They come at you again and you sidestep them once more but it's staggered, allowing the tip of their weapon to slice your cheek open. When you cry out this time, you yell for Batman.

You don't have any concept of time right now, but as you fall to the floor, you swing at your attacker's ankle, hoping to cut a vein, when you feel Batman rush past you and directly into your attacker.

They both crash into the coffee table, glass and wood shattering in a cacophony. You watch through burning eyes as the two wrestle each other, keeping your hand pressed to your arm to still the bleeding even as it slips against the skin. Batman has them pinned when your attacker starts wildly kicking, and one of his feet hits Batman hard in the leg. You don't expect it to be the leverage he needs, but it's enough to daze Batman—he looks suddenly awash with pain—and that's all the attacker needs to slip out from beneath him and head out the back door.

Your heart stutters. How hard did he have to hit him through the suit for it to cripple him so easily?

Batman tries to recover, tries to deploy the grapple gun in his gauntlet to trip him, but he slips into the alleyway just narrowly. Batman is after him in an instant.

You force yourself up from the floor to follow after him, when you realize that within all that commotion, no one else in the house made themselves known.

You stumble up the staircase, haphazardly swiping at the wall for light switches that might help clear the spots in your vision. "Russo!" You call out, and your voice is shaky. You realize you're trembling.

There are too many doors on the upper floor but there is one that is cracked open. You rush toward it first, shoving it open with your good shoulder.

And there, to confirm your worst suspicion, is proof.

You've had enough training in your field not to immediately vomit at the sight even as the smell overpowers you. He's lost weight and he looks smaller than he had been when you were just sixteen. Laying on the floor, drenched in his own blood, Detective Joey Russo isn't the crystal clear picture you'd preserved in your head these past 17 years.

You make it only a few steps before falling to your knees beside him. It's clear he'd passed from the stab wounds not long before you'd arrived and there's just so many. His chest, his stomach, his arms and legs and skull—his face had taken the worst of it. Whoever had done this had been furious.

You can barely bring yourself to stare into his eyes but when you do, you sob. You try to look anywhere else but your eyes just catch on pictures of him on the wall, happy, smiling, with a wife and a kid who leave no traces of themselves in this room.

It's just him. All alone here.

You sway a bit as you reach a hand up to shut his eyes but the blood on your fingers stops you. You realize that you've left a trail on the way up here, and as your eyes retrace back to the bedroom door, you see Batman standing there looking down at you.

He doesn't ask, just walks over to you and hoists you up to stand, forcing you to lean into him for support.

The time between him finding you and the walk downstairs passes in a muddy amount of time and you're stumbling into the hood of his car as your head swims.

You must be losing a bit of blood.

Batman presses a hand to your arm. His other hand goes to your cheek and you flinch away at the sting.

You watch him dizzily. He reaches down to the bottom of his cape and rips a strip off to tie around your bicep. "GCPD is on the way. We have to get you stitched up."

"If only there were a surgeon around." Batman doesn't find your joke funny. Neither do you, all things considered.

The doors open on their own again and he sits you in the passenger seat, leaning it back as far as it'll go before buckling you in. You think you feel his hand linger on yours before he abandons you for the driver's side. The thrum of the engine is the least of your concerns now.

You're halfway down the street when you mumble, "He said... I should've died."

"Stop talking." He doesn't say it with menace, or at least not the kind where you actually mean it. It's all bark and... worry, you think.

You hate the smell of your own blood, which is funny because it smells about the same as everyone else's and usually that's just fine for you. Or maybe you're still smelling Russo's.

You think of your attacker. About what they said. That you should've died with your "little bitch of a friend". It's too convenient to not be—one of the street lights you pass is far too bright and you have to shut your eyes to keep the thought going—be about her. And why her? Why Russo? Why now?

17 years of nothing. And now everything at once.

"Russo," your voice is weaker, "we gotta go back for him."

"Stop talking! I'm trying- shit." This is the most panic you've ever heard in Batman's voice before. The most fear. He hadn't been this worried when he was dying on your living room floor. "Please." He begs.

You're of sound mind enough to know what he's really asking. You should know, even as you sway in and out of consciousness.

You conserve what little energy you have left to focus on the side of his face. His jaw forever clenched. Eyelashes long enough to catch the city light on. And although it's not entirely clear from the angle you're laying at, you search out the blue of his eyes as his face turns to look at you. It's the last thing you see before you give in.

When you come to, you are laying in a hospital bed with a throbbing arm and an equally throbbing cheek. Your scrubs are still in tact, even with the bloodstains down the front and sides. The knees of your pants are stained too, and you are harshly reminded that this blood doesn't belong to you.

The next thing you notice is Em sitting in the chair beside your bed, head thrown back in a peaceful nap. She must've heard—or seen, you don't recall getting from the car to here—and came to keep you company. You'd reach over to tap her knee if it were your good arm's side. The next thing you notice after that is that there is someone else in the room with you two.

It takes a second, but you remember him: a kindly face even with the cloud of disturb that hangs over him. When he sees you're awake, he gets up from his position against the wall and approaches the other side of the bed, "Detective James Gordon," he introduces himself, nodding to you, "we met at the precinct before."

Your voice comes out scraggly, "I remember you."

He flashes you a quick smile, "Well, I'm happy to see you're alright. You lost a bit of blood, but your friend—" A pen materializes in his hand and he points it at Em, still dead to the world, "—said it was just a few stitches."

"Are you here to arrest me?"

He's trained well enough not to look shocked, but you see his expression shift, "Why would I arrest you?"

You swallow, looking down at your scrubs once more, "I assume you're not here to talk about our mutual friend."

James nods. "We examined Joey Russo's home. We found, among other things, your DNA on the scene. Blood in the living room and... upstairs bedroom."

You pinch your pants leg, trying to get at the skin so you could keep the churning of your stomach at bay. Anything to distract yourself from the very vivid image of Russo's lifeless eyes.

James clicks his pen and you focus back on him. He's got a small notepad in his other hand with a few words already written down. You wonder what he's written about, what he's thinking about you right now. "From what I understand, you dropped by the precinct recently asking for the whereabouts of Russo and were denied given his retirement. You mentioned that you were inquiring about an old case involving yourself, is that correct?" James continues after your nod, "You brought this up to the Batman too."

"Yes," your voice wobbles, "I asked if... he could help me."

"And?"

"He said no."

"But you were both there tonight. So, what happened? Why were you looking for Joey Russo?"

You lean up on your good arm, allowing your legs to swing from the bed so you could sit upright in front of James. One glance over your shoulder tells you Em is still asleep, "I told him it was urgent. I had reason to believe confidential information about the case had been leaked to someone. I wanted to confront him, find out if he... was the one that leaked it."

"The case being part of your sealed juvenile records, correct?" James casts a look over you, somewhere between pitying and skeptical, "given your involvement in this situation, I was given access to this record. Detective Russo worked your case 17 years ago, and was, in fact, the person to get your records sealed in the first place. Along with... three others, I believe. And you believed someone had unauthorized access to it?"

"I know- I know. I know they did."

"Can you tell me the name of this person?"

Detective Gordon seems trustworthy. Batman trusts him, you can tell that much. It's just the saying it out loud part that trips you up, "My, um... my employer. Not Rudy, but Bruce Wayne. I'm his personal doctor. I became aware he had this information and wanted to check with Russo myself before I said anything."

James doesn't bother hiding his intrigue this time. His eyebrows shoot up a bit when you say Bruce's name, "Right. And... do you have proof that he has this information? A picture or a recorded conversation, a witness even?"

Of course not. You'd been happy enough to get out of that penthouse without being caught. Your silence is answer enough. James writes something down on his notepad and nods at you, "Well, a single person—especially not a civilian employer—should be able to access something that's not public record. Even Russo couldn't, having been retired. I can't imagine Russo was the one to give him that information unless he just had a file lying around, and I doubt he did. He never revisited that case before he retired in any capacity."

"Is there any way Bruce could have accessed it?"

"There's plenty of ways if you have an in somewhere and the leverage to do so, but this is all speculation. I can look into it, though. See if anyone's accessed the file recently, sniff around. If you come across anything solid, let me know."

You doubted you would. After that night, those files had probably gone into a room with lock and key.

"There was something else that I wanted to talk about, though," James shifts closer to you, "Our mutual friend assured me that you've never been to Russo's house before tonight, and that he had been with you the entire time you were there. From what I understand, there was someone else in the house with the two of you. Do you have any idea who he might've been?"

"No, I... I didn't really get a good look at him."

"What about his voice? Could you describe it?"

"Uh, young. Sounded about my age." Your fingers grip the bedsheets tightly, "He said something. He said that... I should have died. Along with my friend."

James' eyes narrow on you, "Your friend?"

"Alex," you choke out, feeling a tear spill out of your eye, "I know he was talking about Alex."

"Hm. You think that's why he attacked you? He knows you?"

"But I don't know him."

James flips his notepad back a few pages, "There were eight people there the night Alex Villanueva was murdered, including herself and you: your three friends, none of whom have stepped foot in Gotham since 2019. The shooter, Natalie Young. Her younger brother, Dimitri Young. And a fellow member of their gang, Lucien Goulding. Natalie was killed in a shootout 17 years ago, Goulding is currently in prison, and Dimitri... he should be serving life in prison right now."

Your brows furrow, "Should?"

"He and several other inmates were reported missing from Arkham five days ago."

Your mouth goes dry. You squirm in bed with a sudden urge to take off running and never look back. Maybe you'd aim for your mom and dad's in New Jersey, or maybe the Atlantic.

You remember when Dimitri was a head shorter than you, had yet to sprout up so young. You remember what it was like looking at this kid not much younger than you, green eyes watering, curled up on the concrete as Alex kicked and punched and bled him until he could barely limp home.

And how he looked when Natalie came for you. Still a kid.

"Bat said he was about 5'11, 210 pounds, green eyes, shaved head and tattoos. A bit different from what he was when you last saw him. It makes sense you don't remember."

"He wanted to kill me." You whisper.

James—he's an angel, really—gives you a moment to let it sink in. "We want to put a security detail on you. We have strong reason to believe Dimitri was the one to kill Russo, and it's very possible you were next on his list, but I don't think he anticipated you being there tonight... which might've saved your life."

You shake your head, "Batman saved my life."

The detective smiles, "Twice in a row might make him your guardian angel." The both of you turn when you hear Em stir awake from behind, and James goes to dismiss himself, "Well, thank you for your time. You should probably be heading home to get some rest soon, but if you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to let me know." James hands you a business card, "And I'll look into Bruce Wayne for ya. Could be something there. Our mutual friend might know. Take it easy."

"Wait," you call, before he can get out the door, "Russo. He had a- a kid. A son. And a wife, I think. They weren't at the house. Are they okay?"

James looks a little pained as he answers you, "No... uh, his son was murdered a while back. His ex-wife's been living back home in Boston ever since. She's been notified."

There isn't much else to say after that, so he ducks his head as a final goodbye and exits the room, raincoat swaying behind him.

You're awoken by an incessant ringing about 24 hours later.

Popping one eye open, your brain takes in the shadowy lighting of your living room, blinds still halfway up from when you'd first returned home early that morning. Judith had caught you slumped outside of your apartment door and flanked by two officers—roused by the sound of you coming home late—and had helped you to your couch, poured you a glass of water, and stayed with you until the painkillers put you to sleep.

Frankly, you gave yourself permission to lie and rot today. But the ringing would not stop.

You grab your phone, uncaring of the caller, and accidentally press it to your cut cheek with a hiss, "Yes?"

You expect it to be Em, checking in to see if you were still alive. You also expect it to be your mother, checking in to make sure you still planned on staying in Gotham. You even expect it to be Rudy (who had been just about on the verge of tears when he saw you with a busted cheek).

It's none of them. "Can I see you?"

You place the voice instantly, actually going breathless. "I'm- what's... what's wrong?"

Sitting up hurts like a bitch and you realize that you're about two hours past your scheduled Tylenol. You inhale through your teeth and try to gather your bearings.

"I got... stabbed," Bruce sounds guarded, but it shockingly doesn't come across like that's because of the stabbing, "I need your help."

"Jesus! You need to call 911. Or- or get one of your ten million drivers to take you to the ER, or call a fucking helicopter to-"

"The tower, can you come? Now?"

You weren't supposed to be driving. The cops had brought you home, and you very much did not want to ask for that favor. You drop your forehead into your palm, massaging your temple with your thumb, "How deep is it? Did you stop the bleeding?"

"I've got something on it. I just need you to stitch me up."

You glance around the room, hazy, and reach for your water, "I'll need a ride. Can't drive right now."

"He's waiting outside." The line goes dead.

You don't believe him until you go to open your apartment door and see a suited man leaned against the opposite wall, nodding politely at you. You must look like you've sprung from the dead after last night, but no one makes a comment about it. The two officers on either side of the door nod to you, "Says he's a driver for Bruce Wayne and that you'd know what he was here for. His ID checks out, but we're gonna have to tail him if you go with him."

You shut the door and look through the peephole, but the driver looks comfortable waiting.

You'd wonder how Bruce knew you'd need a ride before you said as much, but it was clear by this point that he knew everything about you.

You probably shouldn't go. Not until Gordon looked into him, or Batman. Right?

You root around in your coat pocket for the phone Batman had given you and send a quick text to his number.

Going to Wayne's. Tell Gordon to hurry up with a warrant.

You pop two pills and pull on your coat.

When the elevator doors part, you drag yourself down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the main room. Alfred nor Dory is anywhere to be seen, but with it being past 10 at night, you can only imagine they're off to bed by now. There is just a single light coming from the kitchen, and when you turn to the breakfast table, there is Bruce. Waiting.

He doesn't look at you when you approach, however. One of his hands is holding stained gauze under the neck of his shirt, and the other is gripping the table with white knuckles. You wash your hands at the kitchen sink, then round up on his left side where he's pressing against the back of his shoulder, just out of reach for him to stitch himself. You fear he would've tried had you not answered the phone.

Or, God forbid, come to you.

He looks up when you're right in front of him, scanning you quickly, "Are you okay?" He doesn't sound all that surprised to see you like this. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck.

You pull the neck of his shirt down to survey the damage, for lack of a good explanation, "I'm certain I've got a better excuse than you." Bruce shifts when you move his hand away, exposing the bloody flesh that makes you wince. You set your things on the table and command him to lift his shirt. He hesitates. "What is your excuse?"

"Got caught off guard."

"Where?"

Slowly, Bruce slips his shirt off, allowing you to see the full expanse of his back. There was the angry red stab wound, but there were other things too: moles and beauty marks scattered across his skin that paled in comparison to the several jagged lines across his shoulders and lower back—pink raised skin where it looked like he'd been cut before. Cuts that had healed years ago. You hover your fingers above one and realize they're shaking. "You never told me you and Alfred fight with knives."

"We don't," he glances at you over his shoulder but looks away just as quickly, "some of those scars are from martial artists I trained with in Thailand."

"Some?" You see so many, and those are only the ones that leave visible scars.

"Others are from the Russians."

You begin to lightly clean around his wound and ready the anesthesia but, despite the fact that he cannot see it in your hand, he waves it off completely, "Are they... the people who gave you this?"

He goes silent again. You feel like you should stop asking questions at this point, but they itch at your throat.

He wouldn't call you here to fix this unless he had nowhere else to go.

When you make the first stitch and he doesn't flinch, your eyes flit to his other scars. Martial arts training, he said. The second stitch and still no response. On the third stitch, you press your thumb against the edge of the wound and push down. He actually swears at you as blood dribbles out of the wound, and the hand that had been gripping the table reaches back to grab your lower thigh, effectively bringing the operation to a halt.

You shove his hand off, "What the hell happened? Your hands, your leg—that was easy to explain. But this?"

He has the audacity to glare at you over his shoulder, "I don't pay you to ask questions."

"No, you don't. And yet you could've hired anyone but you hired me. Even though..." You trail off, eyes blazing, because you're not feeling that confident, "the least you can do is tell me what happened."

Bruce holds your gaze until you feel your knees begin to wobble in place. For once, he doesn't look like a wide-eyed, nervous animal in front of you. He looks angry.

Then it's gone. Bruce rolls his shoulders back and you watch the needle, still hanging by its thread, roll against his muscles. More blood seeps from the wound as your hands itch to get back to work. "One question," he starts, looking away from you, "the night of the party, upstairs. You told Alfred no one got on the elevator. But you did, didn't you?"

You swallow. "He said it was broken."

"Be honest with me and I'll be honest with you."

"About anything?"

From behind, you can see Bruce's jaw twitch just so, "Everything."

You step closer. Taking your needle, you resume the suture, "A question for a question, then. To keep it fair."

"Alright."

"Tell me what happened."

"I was looking for someone."

"Who were you looking for?"

"That's another question."

"Fine," you try not to take your frustration out on his skin, "I did. Who were you-"

"Dimitri Young." You still in your stitching. It feels like your heart is inside your head, thumping against your skull with every beat. "What did you see down there?"

You have to rake your petrified brain for context, having nearly forgotten everything that had come before... before... "I- I was... nothing." Bruce hisses through his teeth and you realize that you're just pressing the needlepoint into his skin mindlessly. "Files. A computer. A car underneath a sheet, some tools, a motorbike. A TV playing the news." You don't bother with hiding it now, "How do you know about Dimitri?"

"Because I know about you. Why did you go down there? Not knowing what you might find?"

It takes all that you have to keep the burning tears at bay, "Because I don't trust you. Because everything about this has felt off. I needed to know what you were hiding. What are you gonna do with what you know?"

Bruce takes a moment as if he's thinking about it, but when he answers you, you're for once certain of his honesty, "Nothing. I might set it on fire, if that's what you want."

"You could have another copy lying around. Or a way to access it again."

"I could. But I don't. And I wouldn't want to." He turns his head over his shoulder and you are frozen under his stare, "I'm being honest with you."

"How did you get it?"

"That's another question."

You complete the next few stitches with a little more force than needed, "Then ask me something."

"Why did you take the job if you didn't trust me?"

You laugh humorlessly, "Because I knew the pay would be fucking ridiculous. How did you get my file?"

"You wouldn't have turned me down the first time if that were true."

"Answer me."

"Be honest with me, I'll be honest with you. Why'd you take the job?"

"Because-" You choke, "you... sent me those ridiculous flowers and a handwritten note." Bruce's head tilts, you choke out more, "And when I asked you why you offered me the job, you said that it was because I noticed you were hurt when no one else did. And I said it felt like more than that. I think- I have been trying to get an answer."

Bruce studies you. He must believe you because he finally answers your question, "Russo had nothing to do with it."

"Who did you pay to get it for you, then?"

"That's-"

"Just ask me, God damn it." You finish off the suture and bite off the thread.

"Why did you turn your life around?"

You'd thought about that a lot after that night. The simplest answer was right there, but if you were being honest with yourself (and you were being more honest than you would've liked tonight), you really didn't want to die. "I wanted to live. That's what I'd always wanted. Even though I... really didn't act like it. I never wanted to live more until that moment." This time when you lock eyes with Bruce, you don't want him to look away. Maybe it's because he's defeated you, broken your pride, whatever. Right now, you want to see him.

You don't have to ask again. You watch him rise from the table, flexing his back again, and though you want to scold him for irritating his stitches mere seconds after you've finished them, you just... don't have it in you.

And then he's standing face-to-face with you.

You think the lights and painkillers are deceiving you at first, but this close, you are certain: he is littered with scars and wounds color-picked from late twilight skies. His back doesn't even look this bad. It's always been more than bruised knuckles and leg sprains.

And it's familiar. All of it. Bruises and cuts new and old, the shape of him, the color. The stab wound is new but all of this is months (years) in the making.

The closer you get, the more it knocks the wind out of you. Your eyes follow the length of his torso and then—your fingers press against his side, up against a healed gunshot wound. You brush your thumb against it. It makes you feel nauseous.

You look up and he's looking at you. Defeated. Relieved. You can feel the denial creeping in but it all clicks into place, doesn't it?

The bullet wound, the limp, the job offer, the sprained leg. You couldn't see it because, frankly, they couldn't be any more different from each other. And yet...

Bruce's hand covers yours and keeps it there.

That damned bullet brought you together. It had brought Batman to you, it had brought you to Bruce, and it had solidified in no small way that whatever had led you to this moment in time was years in the making. All because you wanted to live.

"Come with me." And Bruce leads you upstairs.

17 years ago.

"I think it could be good," Alex holds up the bottle to you, "if you're down."

You hate the taste of whatever she's giving you but it does make you tingly. You take a big swig and set it between you on the concrete, "You know I'll go wherever you go."

Alex grins, "That's the spirit!"

On Tuesdays, you and Alex like to watch the cars go by from the alley. It's between a Thai restaurant and a laundromat so it always smells good; if it's not the fabric softener, then it's the pho. It's where you always find her. After a few heart-to-hearts spent curled up on the ground with her here, it became "your" territory.

Claiming it didn't stop people from holing up inside and standing around a barrel fire, nor did it stop the laundromat owner nor the line cooks from coming out to smoke and take out the trash. But it did mean that you both liked it here. For lack of other places to go.

"You know that piece of shit from the Vipers won't take no for an answer?" Alex kicks at a rat that scuttles past, making sure it wouldn't take a bite out of her ankle.

"You're very popular, it's not a surprise."

"Shit, it's just cause they know my parents don't give a shit where I go. They're all like, 'Come join us! You could be one of our best! We'll pay you more in a day than you'd make stealing in a week!' but they don't talk about all the kids floating in the river when they try to do better for themselves."

"Like you'd let someone boss you around." You giggle, and Alex beams.

"No way in hell! I love my independence. See, I can take whatever I want whenever I want. Those sad fucks in the Vipers have to answer to some... some random guy they rarely ever see. Why would I want that?"

You'd seen the kids the Vipers recruited. There was no age limit, some as young as nine were happily making deliveries. It used to be a joke in your school that any kid with a front door would end up in the Vipers eventually.

You wondered if you would've ended up there too, had you not been with Alex.

Your makeshift gang of two which had grown by three in the last few months was less organized than the Vipers. It didn't pay unless you pulled your weight, and most of it was at Alex's discretion. For the most part, none of you moved without her. She was the head, the leader, and the only reason you could afford your new winter boots this month.

And you would truly follow her wherever she went.

You watch a few more cars pass. You press your head to the brick and let the sounds of the city light your nerves. That is until you feel a breeze where Alex had once been. You open an eye and find her inching further into the alley. "Hey," you call, but she turns and shushes you so your next words come out in a whisper, "where you going?"

She frantically waves you over.

You don't see what she's looking at until you get about halfway down the alley, but the voices are crystal clear at this point. There's a woman and a young boy standing off behind a dumpster, but when the woman catches sight of you and Alex, she shoves something into the boy's hands and dips around the corner. The boy, flustered, is just barely able to put it away before Alex is grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the light.

It becomes clear that he's not a young boy. He's about your age, maybe off by a year or two, but so thin and lanky that his puffer jacket engulfs him completely. Alex yanks his sleeve down to reveal a poorly done tattoo of a snake going up his upper arm, jagged and unfinished like he'd run off in the middle of getting it done. It didn't seem too far-fetched an idea: the guy looked 92 pounds soaking wet.

"You're on the wrong turf, kid." Alex warns, but you know her tone of voice is too final to be a warning.

The guy yanks his arm back, "Fuck off."

You realize what he was fumbling with when the woman had run. A small bag of something white, and a wad of cash sticking out of his pocket. You snort, "Dealing for the Vipers a little far from home, aren't you? You must be new."

The guy tries to escape but Alex grabs the hood of his jacket and drags him back, "We'll overlook the trespassing if you give us a cut."

"Leave me alone. This place doesn't belong to anyone." But as soon as he says it, Alex takes a hold of his dirty blond hair and yanks his face up to look at her. You go to grab his money while he's distracted but you don't expect him to brandish a knife until he slashes at you. He misses, but it sets Alex off.

She uses his hair to throw him into the side of the dumpster and you can see the thoughts rattling around his head upon impact.

"Right, everything belongs to the Vipers. Is that why your boss is still Falcone's little bitch?"

The guy is indignant against the taunts. He tries to slash at her but Alex is faster, always has been, and she has his wrist in a death grip before he can even get close. You watch her twist it back until he lets out a cry of pain, the knife clattering to the floor at your feet. You take it and hold it up to his neck, watching his eyes go wild between you and Alex.

"Give us the money and we'll pretend this never happened-" you start, but jump back when you feel something wet hit your cheek. You almost don't believe it, but the guy has some spittle dribbling down his bottom lip and a satisfied smile when you lock eyes with him again.

Alex wasn't just fast. You remember her standing up to your childhood bullies between classes and giving them shiners that she still bragged up to this day. It took a few years before you both stopped ending up with twice as many injuries, and a few more years after that before you stopped having bullies at all.

And this guy— maybe he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into and that extended to more than just this moment in time—was half the size of the guys Alex had beaten to tears in the past.

It does not surprise you that he crumbles to the ground with the very first punch to his gut. Alex hits hard first to make the fights quick, and so when her next punch lands on his nose, you know that something has been broken. With each kick to his gut, the tears free flow as if surely, the next hit will kill him.

You watch silently. Alex is unforgiving.

After a minute or two goes by, he is so beaten down that he wheezes every time he breezes. You're certain Alex has gone overboard but something in your heart swells at the thought that it was for you.

When all is said and done, you snatch the money from his jacket and he doesn't bother to stop you, head leaning against the ground as tears and blood and snot trickle into a puddle. For good measure, Alex snatches the drugs too, "Don't show your face in this alley again or you won't leave alive."

And you know this is a lie. A trick to make her bigger and badder. A threat that she would never follow through on. Because Alex always made herself look bigger, badder, scarier, deadlier. It's what protected you both on the streets. It's what made you follow her, what made your friends follow her.

Alex was everything, and you would follow her anywhere.

You ride in silence together down to the terminus. You feel much the same as you did the first time. Bruce pulls back the gate and you spill out into the dark, but much like before, the lights and TV kick on. The News 7 jingle plays, Bruce pads over to mute it.

You watch him stand a few feet away from you, avoiding your eyes as they sweep the floor. There are those same tools scattered about, hubcaps stacked on top of tires, wires going from one side of the room to the other. It looks just like you'd last seen it, only the car that had once been covered by tarp is now on full display. It gleams in the overhead lights, as much of a monster in clear view as it was in shadow.

He really wasn't shitting you.

When you still don't say anything, Bruce walks over to his desk. Underneath it is a crate full of folders, and you realize he's getting yours when he turns and holds one out to you. You take it, inching closer. Without a word shared, Bruce pulls up something on his computer and you nearly flinch when your mugshot is reflected back at you on one of the screens.

"Your record isn't accessible unless I use a workaround which isn't... legal, but it's how I found your file without Russo. The GCPD doesn't know." You peer at him from the corner of your eye, urging him to explain, "I taught myself how to get in."

Your eyes are welling up with tears the longer you stare at the younger version of yourself. Bruce continues, "I know what the record says. That they traced back a few robberies to you and your friends over the years, and that you'd had a run in with a Viper the night you met Russo. You helped track them down, took out a portion of the gang's operation, and your record was sealed. That's all."

"They didn't trace all of them back to us," you start, not really wanting to talk, "just some. There were more."

Bruce seems to sense that as he closes the record, "It's your turn. To ask, I mean."

You look at Bruce in the face and hate the softness there. You can't be angry, or numb like you wish you could be. Your chest is all twisted up with emotion with no one feeling staying for long, even if it would flare up again every once in a while. "Did you know about me before or after you asked me to work for you?"

"Before. After that morning, I couldn't stop... thinking about you. Truth be told, me and Alfred have been doing this alone ever since I started. Before you, he was the one that would stitch me up, kept me out of doctor's offices where someone might talk. But he was also running the company for me, and taking care of me, and worrying about me. I knew if I was going to commit to this, I would need to try and stay alive, and I always meant to find someone but it wasn't an easy decision to make. Until I met you."

You know it's his turn now, but you can't help asking, "And you didn't think... maybe the kid with a record would be a bad idea?"

Bruce cracks a smile, "I mean, the stitches never got infected." You would've laughed at that if you were in a better mood. "I wasn't always so understanding. But I imagine someone who's dedicated the better part of their life to saving lives has more than made up for it."

Your head automatically shakes, "I can never make up for what I did."

"You don't have to tell me everything," he begins delicately, "but I need to know what Dimitri is after. I need to know what he's thinking. You're the only one who can help me."

You blink away a few tears and plop into a stool by his desk, dropping your head in your hands. The memories suffocate you, rushing at you like a flash flood. You don't know where to start, let alone what you want to tell him. An hour ago, you were certain he was caught up in a Gotham mob, planning to use your history as blackmail for... something.

You can't quite reconcile the feelings you have for Batman with the face of Bruce Wayne. Or who you thought was Bruce Wayne.

But he was right. You were the best chance at catching Dimitri. You were the only one who could make it up to Russo.

You swallow at the memory of Russo's mutilated body, but then... you remember him in that police station. When you were 16 and wishing you were dead. You suck in a sharp breath, "I met Alex when I was a baby. I mean, we've known each other for a long time- knew each other. She and I used to be attached at the hip. She protected me from bullies and I would sneak out at night to listen to her vent about her parents, about Gotham. She fucking hated it here. I did too.

"Alex and I learned that if you want to survive, you have to be powerful. So we became powerful. You might not think a pair of 14 year olds are all that powerful in the grand scheme of things but when it was just us against the world, it was addicting. When we wanted something, we just... took it. We started off pickpocket-ting on the streets, usually assholes who could afford to lose a hundred or two. And then we started robbing places, small-time stuff, you know. Run down houses, apartments, swiping out of registers when no one was looking. If anyone gave us shit, we just turned tail and ran. It was hard enough trying to make ends meet for our parents, and we liked the thrill of it. We rarely ever got caught.

"Eventually, some of our friends from school joined us and we become a little piece-of-shit gang. God. We were like... fucking 15, running around the city like we were so big and bad. My parents had no clue what I was really up to but they knew something was wrong. I didn't care. I was with Alex and I would follow Alex anywhere. We had this little alleyway, right? Between a Thai place and a laundromat. That's where I could always find her. And one day, we were fucking around and caught some guy dealing back there. Alex got pissed. We tried to take his money but he defended himself. I said something... he spit at me. And Alex just lost it.

"She beat him into the concrete and I just... watched. This guy, couldn't even throw a punch if his life depended on it, and she just wailed on him. And I watched. And I liked it. I felt powerful. We felt powerful. I know, a pair of jackass teenagers hurting people for fun? We were pathetic. But it didn't feel that way, being with Alex. She was my best friend."

The tears are free-falling now and you don't even bother to wipe them away. It would feel cowardly. You couldn't hide from Bruce now, not anymore. Not if he wanted to believe in you. "We didn't know who this kid was, other than the fact he was a Viper. A young one, a weak one. We didn't think he'd even last a week. Most kids like him end up getting disposed of by the boss anyway. And then all five of us were fucking around in that alley again when they showed up: the guy, Dimitri, and his sister Nat and this other kid. All of 'em Vipers.

"Nat wanted the money and the drugs back. Kid had a black eye so I guess he'd gotten shit from his boss about it. Alex was... indignant. Refused. For once, I begged her to give in but she just wouldn't fucking listen. Of course she wouldn't, do you know how much I enabled her? We were on top of the world, why would she give in? And she really pissed Nat off with that, but then she started mouthing off and then... Nat shot her. Right in front of me. It was instant."

Bruce remains incredibly still. His lips part to say something but nothing really comes out. You keep on going, "I was so shocked that I didn't even move when Nat turned the gun on me. It was like... I don't know, it was like I couldn't quite believe she was dead. But I understood what happened. Logically. I saw it happen. I saw the bullet in her brain. And when Nat turned on me, I think a part of me just... didn't want to have to think about it. Like a coward. If it wasn't for our friends pulling me out of the way, I wouldn't... be here. Next thing I knew, I was at the GCPD getting investigated for murder."

"They thought one of you did it?"

"The cops that brought us in, yeah. They just so happened to be around the corner when we ran into them. By that time, Nat and Dimitri had run off. The cops thought it was some fight between the five of us and that one of us pulled the trigger, but they couldn't find the gun. That's when Detective Russo showed up."

"And he offered to get you a plea deal."

You nod, sniffling, "He told me... he said that he could tell I'd never seen something like that before. There was no way I could've done it. And when I couldn't even finish the whole story without choking up, he said... he said that in exchange for our help catching Natalie, he would make sure all the crimes they tied back to us were sealed and expunged."

"What about Natalie? How did they find her?"

"The GCPD had been looking into the Vipers for months. Vipers almost exclusively recruit minors because they're more loyal, but there wasn't a way to get in without putting some innocent kid in danger. So they had us look into it. We found one of their hideouts by the docks. GCPD wanted to get the kids out and into the foster system since a lot of them were orphans, like Natalie and Dimitri. But the ambush didn't take. They got a couple kids out but... a few died, including Nat. Last I heard of Dimitri, he got tried as an adult for killing a cop during the shootout. That was life in Arkham."

Bruce shifts closer, "Until he got out. And he came looking for Russo."

"He was just a kid, Bruce," your voice cracks, "he was just a kid. He couldn't even defend himself. And because we were assholes we got his sister killed and we got him put away. He was just a kid."

"So were you."

Something about the tender way Bruce says that makes you sob. For years, you've looked back on that moment with so much guilt, knowing how lucky you were to make it out of that situation alive and unscathed. How lucky you were to be taken seriously, to be cared for, for a detective like Joey Russo to show you a picture of his kid in his wallet and tell you that he would hate to see them in your position.

You were lucky that you got to fix your grades and go to college, study medicine, save lives, be here. Natalie didn't get that. Dimitri didn't get that. Alex didn't get that.

"You said... you said you hated Gotham. Why did you stay?"

You wipe at your cheeks, "I- I honestly... I wanted to. My parents made a deal with me that we would leave for New Jersey after I graduated but I didn't want to leave. I couldn't. I couldn't leave Alex. I couldn't leave the city, after all I'd done to it. In it. I wanted to leave like my friends because the guilt was so much but I felt obligated to fix it. I wanted to help people. Not hurt them. And I've worked hard to do better. I just can't leave. I don't want to leave."

What surprises you is the hand on your face afterwards. Bruce cups his your cheek. His thumb brushes away some tears, and it feels so unlike Bruce even though it's him, even though he's the one who cradled and comforted you after being held hostage, even though he was the one that stood on your fire escape and confessed that he trusted you, liked you even. Your brain just sort of stops there. You melt like putty in his hand. You realize you've been craving a gentle touch like this for a while.

"Then you won't have to," Bruce casts his eyes to the side, looking at where you laid your file on the desk. You can see the cogs turning beneath his furrowed brow, "I'll make sure of it."

"How?"

"...You won't like it."

[shakingparadigm]

I always kind of wondered why Hyuna went out of her way to save Mizi in round five out of like anyone else. I originally thought it was just because she was up against Luka but that didn't really make sense because of round 4. You saying that she did it because she personally say herself in Mizi makes everything much more clear!! I was to busy look at the rescue from a more political standpoint against the aliens (which it still is) that from a more emotional one

I felt that too, honestly. When I first saw Mizi's rescue in ROUND 5 I found it confusing that Mizi was singled out as someone worthy of saving. Could Sua have been saved by the rebellion too? Why her and not anyone else? It's not just because she was up against Luka, the green-haired Durian girl went against him in ROUND 4 and there had been no effort to save her. It can't be just be her violent outburst, either, because Till acted out in ROUND 2 (and many instances before that) yet the rebellion remained unmoving.

So out of all people, why was Mizi saved? Since ROUND 5, I've settled on my own interpretation of things.

(The first one is more of my own speculation, while the second is more in line with canon, backed by Hyuna's info from Patreon)

1.) Why doesn't the Human Resistance Force save any other human from ALIEN STAGE? How do they increase their numbers in the first place?

I don't think it's common at all for the Human Resistance to interfere while ALIEN STAGE is ongoing. They must be well aware that it's one of the most dangerous moves they could ever pull. They can't afford to save every single contestant, and even if they could I still don't think they would've. Many human pets are raised to revere death as some kind of honor. Some of them are just happy enough to die, unfortunately. It's risky to try and convince someone who's loyal to the system to come to your side, as they might resist or rat out the whole rebel operation when pushed. You never know which humans actually want to be saved and which ones wish to live and die in the system.

Written on the walls beside Hyuna's wanted poster are messages by the rebels themselves. (Roughly translated) the one on the left reads:

Recruitment of Human Rebellion

Qualification: All human beings who hate segyein

Provides accomodation / residence / basic food, clothing, shelter

If we continue to live like this, we will die

We are better than your master

The Rebellion relies on humans to come to them, encouraging others to make the conscious decision to save themselves and switch sides. The rebellion can't save just anyone, a human has to prove that they don't want to be a part of the system, they need to show signs.

It makes sense that they didn't save Sua. In front of the cameras, she played her part of "the perfect pet" too well. She showed no signs of resistance and even smiled as she was shot dead.

Though still rebellious, Till had purpose in ROUND 2. Even if they came to save him, he wouldn't budge if it meant leaving Mizi behind. Plus, Till's performances usually call for an increased amount of security and guards to pin him down in case he loses control like they expect him to. Increased risk for a rescue mission that might amount to nothing.

Ivan in ROUND 3 played his part just as perfectly as Sua (it was only during ROUND 6 where Hyuna, most likely spurred on by Mizi's attachment to them and the successful rescue in ROUND 5, decided to push forward with saving both Ivan and Till).

After ROUND 1, Mizi lost everything. She lost her joy, her willingness to participate any further in the competition. Anyone watching ALIEN STAGE can tell just how despaired Mizi is, how she no longer wants to go on because of Sua's death. Furthermore, ROUND 5 was delayed because Mizi refused to participate. Maybe it was within this period of delay that the Rebellion began their plan of action.

Mizi openly showed her despair and refusal to participate in the competition any further, she provided the rebellion with a timeframe to execute the rescue mission, and her violent outburst at the end of ROUND 5 not only further proved her anger and disgust, but also nearly killed her. She needed to be saved at that point.

That's the best way I can try to explain the Resistance's decision for Mizi's rescue from a logical standpoint, but as we know, the true reason for Mizi's rescue is far more personally motivated.

2.) What does Hyuna see in Mizi that reminds her of herself? What drove Hyuna to save her?

Hyuna may have an older, tougher edge, but overall she and Mizi are the most genuinely extroverted and outgoing of the cast (or they were, at least). As children, they both shared a bright and sunny personality that positively affected all the people around them. Even their long hair and the way they styled themselves as children is strikingly similar.

Before Hyunwoo's death and whatever went down in the 49th season of ALIEN STAGE, Hyuna was most likely just as excited to compete as Mizi was. Although their motivations differed, they both shared a love for performing. Cheerful, optimistic, and painfully naive.

Hyuna seemed much more innocent and "pure" back then as well, taking a lonely Luka under her wing and caring for him together with Hyunwoo just as she treated every other child in the Anakt Garden as her little sibling. Hyuna seems to retain this sisterly instinct, shown by taking in more humans into the Human Resistance and looking after them, providing shelter and other basic needs for those who wish for a safe refuge. However, she's much more cautious with who she allows to come close. Hyuna in present is incredibly jaded behind her cheery facade, and has lost all her naiveté. She adopted her righteousness from Hyunwoo, who seemed to hold strong positive beliefs from the beginning while she herself held a more realistic and somewhat pessimistic outlook. Hyuna believes that all humans are inherently selfish, and even the most altruistic of people possess this selfishness in their nature.

Plagued by all the past events and the trauma that heavily affected her way of living, Hyuna allows herself to fall into vices such as smoking and drinking, which she indulges in so often that it's stated as her "likes" on her official profile. These not only serve as a coping mechanism for her past hurt, but also as a way to further distance herself from segyein culture, which prefers their pets to remain prim and proper. Although years have passed, it's apparent that Hyuna still hasn't moved on from the death of her brother. While her intentions for an uprising are for the benefit of all human pets, seemingly altruistic, Hyuna herself states that people are selfish, and she is no exception.

It seems that Hyuna is in pursuit of vengeance or justice. Her motivation for rebelling is fueled not only by her wish for freedom, but also by the urge to make up for Hyunwoo's death. She wants to be freed from the shackles of past, and it is through Mizi that Hyuna hopes to accomplish this.

Mizi, much like Hyuna, has experienced the devastating loss of someone who has been with her for almost her whole life. Someone who meant the world to her is now splayed out on the ground, blood spilling out of their lifeless body. The horror in that wide-eyed stare, paralyzed in shock... It's all too familiar.

To add fuel to the flame, the person who further perpetuates Mizi's misery is Luka, tormenting her with memories of Sua and stepping uncomfortably into her space, leading her like a puppet. It's established that whatever connection Hyuna had with Luka is now cut. She no longer holds a fond protectiveness over him, now viewing him as a threat that must be eliminated or brought to justice, hence the dagger held over his head. Whether or not she can find it within herself to actually bring the dagger down... we'll have to wait and see.

Hyuna sees much of herself in Mizi, and she hoped to console her own pain by saving and helping her, almost as if she were helping another version of herself.

Near the end of All-In, it's Hyuna's turn to become paralyzed at the sight of someone that might as well have been dead to her. Re-entering ALIEN STAGE grounds inevitably presents one with Luka's image, and when Hyuna recalls her memories with him, she freezes up. She and Mizi have now switched places, with Hyuna as the one in need of saving and Mizi as the only one up to the task. When Mizi fired the gun and saved her, Hyuna felt more "healed" than before. She felt a sense of satisfaction and peace due to Mizi's growth and slow but steady recovery.

Hyuna's rescue of Mizi ended up serving the both of them. Mizi learned to stand on her own two feet again and gained strength, while Hyuna was able to put herself at ease.

At present, Hyuna is the person Mizi confides most in. Mizi finds herself similar to Hyuna in many ways, especially after hearing about her past.

[nivasichakano]

Feeling — Bonus Content for Driven

“Ni hao from Shanghai!” 

Gale appears on Morena’s phone, standing in a swish living room. Behind him, large windows overlook a cityscape of brightly lit skyscrapers, neon against the night sky. 

“You’ve got a nice room this week,” Morena remarks, sipping her tea. Spring sun pours in through her kitchen window and she moves away from it, to better see her son on the screen. More sunny days than not, recently. She loves this time of year. 

“Oh,” Gale looks around. “This is Astarion’s room-”

“Hi, Mor!” Astarion’s voice rings out from somewhere behind the phone and Morena hides her smile. Of course he’s in Astarion’s room. 

“Hi, love!”

“As a lowly race engineer,” Gale continues, his voice teasing, eyeline off camera. “I don’t get booked business class executive suites like this anymore.”

Astarion’s retort comes quickly.

“You don’t need one now that you’ve got a sugar da-”

The video call goes momentarily blank and there’s a sudden loud rustling noise followed by a thwump and a disgruntled ‘OW’. 

“Gale?” Morena stifles a laugh. “Did you drop your phone?”

Gale reappears, slightly flustered, now with a cushion in hand. “No, er, yes. Sorry!”

“What was Astarion saying, love?”

“Nothing,” Gale is glaring off-camera now but there’s no malice in it. Morena can hear Astarion snickering in the background. “I’ll show you my room, one sec.”

As he strides out of Astarion’s suite — pausing momentarily to afford Morena a view of the young driver sprawled on the bed, waving merrily — Gale chats away about the flight, the hotel, the busy day Astarion has lined up tomorrow, shooting promo for Weave’s new sponsors. 

There’s something different about him, Morena observes. A lightness that she hasn’t seen in a long time. A happiness. 

She knows, even before he walks into his room and carefully shuts the door behind him, glancing up the corridor as he does so. She knows, as he sits heavily on his bed, running a nervous hand through his hair. She knows even as a slight flush blossoms over the tops of his cheeks. She knows what he’s going to say.

“Astarion kissed me,” Gale confesses quietly, a bashful grin on his face.

She knew it. 

“Oh Gale!” Morena nearly spills her tea. “When? How? I knew it!”

“What do you mean, you knew it?” He’s beaming now and it’s nice, oh it’s so nice to see. 

“I just had a feeling. I could tell something was different,” Morena finds herself putting her mug down and clutching her phone with both hands, wishing she could grab his daft face instead. “You look the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time.”

Gale’s hand goes to his cheek subconsciously, still smiling. “Do I?”

“Yes!” Morena laughs. “Tell me everything.”

“Well, we were actually having an argument…” 

As the story spills out, Morena revels in every detail. Thank god Astarion had the sense to finally make the first move. From the noticeable surprise on Gale’s face when he recounts their joint confessions, Morena doesn’t think her son would ever have got there on his own.

When Gale gets to the part where he ran to Astarion’s hotel room to kiss him back, Morena nearly explodes with smugness. “What did I tell you? What did I tell you, moromou!?”

“I know…”

“I said: ‘If you go and kiss that man right now-’”

“I know!”

“A Dekarios is never wrong!”

“I know, I know!” Gale rolls his eyes, laughing. “Trust me, nobody is kicking themselves more than me at the wasted time.”

“Don’t think of the time behind, love, only the time ahead," Morena smiles before adding gently: “So... What does this mean? Are you an item?”

“I, ah-” 

She notes the slight shift in his expression then, the way he runs his hand through his hair again. “Gale?”

“It’s complicated,” he sighs. “We’ve talked about it and we both want this to be something real, but…”

“...But that means telling people besides me?”

“Yeah,” Gale sighs. “I’m not worried about coming out or anything like that. It’s more that- well, at the moment, it’s all so… lovely, and new, and perfect and I feel like, if we tell people…”

“...It’ll be a lot of shit to deal with?” 

“Yeah…” He says again, smiling sadly, and her heart goes out to him. 

“What does Astarion think?”

“Oh, well-” This thought at least cheers him up, apparently. “You know what Astarion’s like. He wants to tell the world and then tell everyone to go fuck themselves at the same time.” 

Morena snorts. “Good lad.”

Gale shakes his head. “God knows what Elminster would say. Astarion, he… he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already talking about quitting the team. But I can’t let him do that, he’s so happy at Weave and driving is all he knows… I suppose I could- I could go to a different team but then… isn’t that a worse conflict of interest than it is now? Or we could talk to Elminster, but then the decision might be taken out of our hands entirely... And that’s without any of the- the external attention: the press, and the public, and…”

He trails off, looking torn, and Morena wishes she could help, wishes she had an answer for him. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m sorry it has to be so difficult for you, but you’ve both been through much worse and you’ve always been all right as long as you’re together.”

Gale’s expression brightens at that and he nods. “That’s true. You’re right- you’re right, and I am happy. So happy. I suppose I’m just… I’m worried for him. He had so much uncertainty and stress last year, I only wanted him to have a bit of stability for a while. A bit of peace... I think-” His cheeks color again as he looks at the floor. “I think I'm in love with him, mum.”

Morena’s hand instinctively goes to her heart and she has to fight to stop her eyes welling up. 

“Well then, my boy,” she whispers. “That’s all you need.” 

“Yeah,” he smiles again. “Thanks, mum.”

“I love you, moromou.”

“Love you too.”

“Now, take me back to your boyfriend, I need to have a word with him about his intentions-”

“Oh my god, mum, good bye.”

Morena chuckles as he hangs up, going immediately to WhatsApp and opening her chat with Tara. 

MD: You were right. Gale just phoned me.

Actual MD: I told you. You might have a word with your son about being a bit less obviously head over heels. Other people might not know him as well as I do but they will start to notice soon.

MD: I’ll talk to him

MD: Do you think they’re going to be okay, Tar?

Actual MD: I don’t know. I hope so.

MD: Me too

MD: Miss you all 🙂

Actual MD: You know you can always join us. Gale isn’t driving anymore.

MD: I know… But now I’ve got two of them to bloody worry about

Actual MD: Welcome to my world. 

Actual MD: We miss you too, Mor.

Morena is smiling fondly at her phone when another message pings through. It’s from Astarion.

Asty: I don’t have a mother to tell about my new boyfriend so, since I heard you’re part of Team Secret now…

Underneath, he’s sent a picture. It’s of him and Gale, sitting on the hotel bed. Astarion is holding the phone with one hand, his other flung around Gale’s neck, and he’s kissing Gale’s cheek with wild abandon. Gale’s hands rest in his own lap and his eyes are rolled heavenward but his grin and the pinkness in his face give him away. 

Asty: This message will self-destruct in 24 hours 🤫

Morena hugs her phone to her chest and laughs.

🏎️🏎️

Read Driven on AO3!

[gravedigginbbydoll]

Slumber Party Kissin'

Modern! Nancy x Fem! Reader Smut

Midwest Princess Series

AN: Heyo! So each one of these will be a one-shot based off of a Chappell Roan song and added to a Masterlist later! Please forgive me as this is my first ever time writing with Nancy!

CW: MDNI!!! mature, internalized questioning, unrequited? crush, first queer experiences, mentions of past relationships (Steve and Jonathan), use of nickname Angel, fem! reader (v) x Nancy, 69ing, oral (v), fingering, making out, boob play, etc

Even miles away in Manhattan, Nancy Wheeler had a hold on you. 

You two grew up together, photos of the two of you, arms around each other, missing teeth. You whispered secrets to one another, sharing dolls. Nancy was your world. Until you complicated it. 

You two shared everything. Right down to first kisses. You thought it was normal to giggle with a friend and kiss, ignoring the weird feeling of her braces behind soft lips. To play with and style her vanilla and coconut hair, the curls soft in your fingers. You whispered to one another how much you disliked boys, Nancy crying over how they stuck gum in her hair. 

Hell, you even played Boyfriend and Girlfriend. 

You only began to notice Nancy’s apprehension when you both befriended Barb. 

Barb wasn’t grossed out by your bond anything, just seemed to joke about how people may perceive you as more. 

Nancy stopped holding your hand. She stopped giving you soft kisses on the cheek. 

You two stayed friends but drifted apart slowly, busy with your own lives. 

Flash forward a few years and Nancy was in college and freshly broken up with her boyfriend and you were in the big city, free spirited. You were learning things, like how you loved the hustle and bustle but missed Hawkins small town charm. She had called your cell phone, voice warm and sweet as ever. Your heart clenched. 

“Hey…I know we haven’t hung out in a while, but I’m in New York for an interview with the New York Post…” 

“Nance, that’s awesome!,” You exclaimed, heart and mind begging her to come see you, your stomach twisting.

“Um, yeah…So I-”

“Did you need a place to crash, because- Sorry! My connection is so shitty, I-,” You started, heart racing.

“No, yeah! I would appreciate that! Yeah…you’re the best,” Nancy stated, a smile clear in her voice. 

“Of course! Like old times, huh? We can make it like a sleepover!,” You grinned, heart threatening to escape its cage. 

“Oh yeah! I’d love that! Thanks, angel,” Nancy said softly, before saying her goodbyes as your heart threatened to stop. You hadn’t heard that nickname in a while. 

If you knew one thing, it was this: You had…feelings…for Nancy. 

You loved her coconut and vanilla shampoo, the way she rolled her eyes when you said something ridiculous, her studious nature, and her blinding smile. She was smart, strong, and maybe a little too stubborn. 

You’d suspected it, of course. For years. But you’d never been with a girl. Only a handful of boys had piqued your interest, and most of them… were less than stellar. 

Nancy was a constant in your mind, more reassured than cicadas in the summertime. 

You immediately sat up in your tiny studio apartment (all you could afford), and rushed out the door. 

This had to be the best reunion ever. 

When you finished, your apartment was decked out in pink string lights, snacks littering your  kitchen counter, along with DVDs stacked up on your coffee table, and all the activities you knew Nancy would love. Face masks, friendship bracelet making, and your switch to play MarioKart (She always beat you). 

You stared at the whole set up, proud of the progress, when a knock startled you. You answered the door, eyes wide at Nancy on the other side. She was still petite as ever, but her heels made her a little taller. Her familiar curls were shorter now, her makeup simple but…flawless. She smiled softly at you, blue eyes making your heart stop. 

“Hey, Angel,” She said, reaching out for a hug. 

You met her hug, melting into her arms and your face buried in her hair. There was that familiar scent, making your heart skip a beat. You pulled away after a bit, trying to will yourself to calm your heart, your face warm. 

“Hey, Nance. Come on in, get comfy,” You ushered her in as she looked around, smiling. 

“Wow, this is so cute! You didn’t have to go through all this for me,” She said, eyebrows pinched in a way that made you want to hold her hand. You refrained. 

“Nonsense! It was fun, honestly,” You shrugged, smiling. You tried to will your eyes away from her lips, her lip gloss capturing the peachy color perfectly. 

Shit. 

You smiled and clapped your hands, turning around, desperately trying to ignore the stampede of elephants currently running laps in your stomach. 

“Well…what movie do you wanna start off with? Mean Girls?” 

 Nancy and you were huddled under a blanket, currently suffering a sugar high and giggling over Regina getting hit by a bus. A bowl of popcorn rested between the two of you as you chatted, you seemingly playing off the desire to kiss the brunette next to you. 

Nancy dug into the bowl, smiling. 

“Ya know…Regina George is one of my women crushes,” She joked, eyes twinkling with humor. 

You gasped, laughing, “Me too! Me too!,” You couldn’t stop the giggles coming out of your mouth. 

“But honestly I’m kind of surprised…All American Sweetheart Nancy Wheeler, Investigative Journalist, Future Nobel Prize Winner…crush on Regina? I thought you’d say like, Cady or Janice…Maybe Karen. I can see you liking a bimbo,” You teased, dodging the popcorn Nancy threw at you in horror, pretty lips in an O. 

“Hey! Look, I don’t support the way Regina acts…She’s just really gorgeous. And fashionable. Now for Karen…I prefer Amanda Seyfried in Mamma Mia. She’s super hot there…and sweet,” Nancy smiles, cheeks pink. 

Your heart skips a beat, laughing softly. Nancy wasn’t a prude or anything, just a studious and goal driven person, her wit sometimes scaring you. Hearing her gush over girls when you experienced her own apprehension towards you two toeing the line both confused and made you perk up. 

Would she maybe give you a chance?

But you were too scared to push it. 

You and Nancy eventually wore yourselves out, passing out on the couch. 

You woke up after her, the scent of cinnamon and coffee permeating your kitchen. Nancy, always being an early bird, had woken up early and made breakfast. You rubbed at your eyes sleepily, stretching and yawning, trying to shake off the cobwebs. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Nancy piped up, hands holding a mug as she smiled into the mug, eyes sparkling with that same sharpness you adored from her. She was dressed up and makeup simple yet elegant, as per usual. You’d almost forgotten she’d had an interview this morning.

You perked up a bit at her voice, her voice making the stampede of elephants take another lap in your stomach. You seriously needed to get this crush under control. 

“Morning,” You piped up, standing up from your couch, stretching. 

“So I thought maybe we could explore the city? I’d like to know the place if I get to stay here,” She says sheepishly, her cheeks pink. You felt your heart pick up speed as your cheeks burst into flames. 

Nancy. In the city. Around you. 

“Sure! Did the interview this morning go well?,” You questioned in the most casual tone you could muster, coming over and grabbing the mug of coffee she so fondly made for you, her remembrance of how you liked it making your chest feel tight.

“Yeah! I think I really impressed them with my past papers and the one I wrote for the Hawkins Post about the Mayor’s embezzling,” She grinned, her expression glowing. 

“That’s awesome, Nance,” You smiled, walking around the counter to pull her into a side hug, your hands brushing her waist. You pulled away quickly, covering it with a cough. 

“Um, we should celebrate,” You offer, trying to ignore the imagery in your head of Nancy by you, your hands around her waist, your lips on her… 

Get a hold of yourself, dumbass. 

You ignore the growing need in your belly. 

“Yeah! Let’s!,” Nancy smiles, lighting up the entire kitchen. 

You smile and let her know you’re going to take a quick shower and change, heading for your drawers and grabbing clothes before heading off to the bathroom, trying to not think of how she had smelled like your soap, clearly using your shower this morning before heading out. 

Her lean and petite frame naked and…

You were gonna need cold water. 

You and Nancy spent the whole day walking around and exploring, huddled together in jackets, the crisp New York air cutting through the fabric. You showed her Times Square, the Mysterious Bookshop (which of course she poured over, being the mystery lover that she was), Central Park and the Swedish Cottage Marionette Theater (you’d bought tickets in advance like a lovesick loser), and more. You’d ended the night by taking Nancy to a bar, buying her drinks in celebration. 

Which is how you had ended up stumbling into your apartment, giggling, the two of you leaned against one another. 

You were drunk, falling over yourselves as you sat on the couch and Nancy giggled, cheeks red and hair a mess. 

“I can’t beli-lieve I punched that guy,” She slurred, grinning. 

You grinned back just as dopey, giggling. “Yo-you were like my knight in shining armorrr,” You drawled out, hiccuping. You leaned against Nancy as she swayed on the couch a bit before standing up, leaving you to flop over. 

“Where goooo?,” You sing-songed, the buzz in your veins making you flop around like a fish. 

“W-ater…need..to give you,” Nancy mumbled, giggling as she overfilled a glass and it spilled into the sink. “Oops.” 

She stumbled over to you, giving you the water, your mind still fuzzy as she stood and tilted your head up and poured the water in your mouth, the desire growing between your legs. You swallowed, cheeks burning. 

“Y-you look out for me too much,” You slurred, voice soft. 

Nancy flopped next to you, shrugging it off, drinking some of the water. You watched her throat bob up and down as she drank, the wetness beneath your legs pooling as you noticed her jawline and neck, wanting to mark the pale skin with purple and red bruises. 

She set the cup down, turning to face you and eyes so intense you sobered up a little. 

“Rem-ember when we useded to play boyfriend and girlfriend?,” She asked, voice still slurring slightly but softer. 

You nodded, your throat feeling dry. Hell yeah you remembered it. Lips brushing Nancy’s neck, her own lips. Coming much closer to kissing than friends should. Sure, you were young, but you knew the implications. Later on in your early teen years, you two practiced kissing on one another, claiming you didn’t want to be bad at it. It was a giggly and silly sort of kiss, but led to more ‘practice’, you claiming to be nervous. You sort of lied, but Nancy never knew.

“I miss that,” She whispered, eyes staring at the couch as she played with the stray thread that seemed to escape the cushions. You gulped, heart threatening to stop. Your hands shook. You were sobering up quickly, still fuzzy but desire building. 

“Y-yeah…Si-simpler times,” You managed to get out, your words stuck in your throat like honey. You turned to sit criss-cross, facing Nancy, your eyes taking in her long lashes and how she bit her lip. Fuck. You wanted to bite it for her. 

She leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper as she looked down at your lap, hands fidgeting. “I n-never told you…but I think you were a better kisser than Steve or Jonathan.”

You laughed a bit, heat extending from your cheeks to your neck. “No way…I would always smile and giggle.”

Nancy giggled a bit, smiling and scooting closer, eyes still wandering before looking at you, clearly sheepish and still buzzed. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve improved. You’ve grown a lot.” 

You felt your heart stop and your mouth run dry. You swallowed and smiled, trying to tame your flaming skin. “Y-yeah…Definitely more experienced..But nothing’s been crazy,” You joked, waving a hand off, trying to be careful to not cross the line. 

Nancy nodded, letting a beat of silence cross before she piped up again. “H-have you ever…done anything…with…a girl?,” She questioned, brow furrowed, cheeks red. She seemed to fidget a bit, making your eyes glance at her chest, which was raising and falling rapidly, splotchy pink. You looked up. 

“N-no. Bu-but I mean there’s a first time for everything, right?,” You joked, your stomach twisting and turning at Nancy’s sudden interest in your sex life. 

“What about you?,” You asked softly. Nancy shook her head, chewing on her lips again before thoughtfully looking at you, face crossed with an expression you couldn’t read, brows furrowed and eyes guarded. “Wo-would you w-want to?” She bit her lip again, hand touching your calf. 

You swallowed, eyes on her touching you. You whispered, your heart racing and the heavy beat loud in your ears. “I mean…maybe..” 

She leaned forward a bit and seemed to sigh softly, her voice slightly shaking. “C-can we try…pretending…again? Ju-just…for old time’s sake.” 

You felt your brain short circuit as your heart seemed to disappear into the floor, your eyes wide. 

“Ye-yeah…I mean we’re tipsy and-” 

Nancy cut you off with a bruising kiss, her plush lips capturing yours as you felt your breath get taken away, eyes fluttering closed as she grabbed your jaw with one hand. You kept kissing, breaking apart for air before she crashed back into you, your back hitting the couch as she loomed over you, elbows against the couch, a giggle escaping your lips as Nancy smiled against your mouth. 

“Shh, I’m trying to impress you with my kissing skills,” She mumbled against your lips, a smile still on her face. 

You were about to retort before she began kissing you more passionately. She licked your bottom lip, making you gasp and allowing her to slip her tongue into your mouth, you softly moaning beneath her. 

Your hands drifted up to around her waist, never getting enough of her soft skin. You pulled her in closer, the two of you pressed together. Your hands slipped beneath her top, rubbing at her sides and slowly inching her shirt up inch by inch. She finally sat up, straddling you and throwing off her top, her pale pink and lacy bra making you salivate. You reached up slowly as she bit her lip, nodding. Your hands brushed the fabric, your mind swimming with only thoughts of how intimate this was. You squeezed one breast, Nancy moaning softly before reaching around and undoing her bra, letting it fall loose, blush spreading from her cheeks to her chest. She shrugged off the bra, letting it fall to the ground before grabbing your hands, placing them on her bare breast, chewing on her lip as her blue eyes stared at you with want. You kneaded her breasts, playing with her nipples like you often would with yourself, hips bucking up at the erotic scene unfolding above you. Nancy rolled her hips against yours, moaning at the friction. You felt it too, the direct pressure against your aching core. 

Nancy leaned down and continued making out, the two of you moaning against each other's mouths, rolling your hips against one another. Nancy eventually tugged at your shirt, mumbling against your mouth. “Off. Now.”

You moaned against her, tugging your shirt up and over your head as she pulled away, then reaching behind yourself and undoing your bra, shrugging it off quickly as she leaned down and took one of your nipples in your mouth, immediately making you arch your back and whimper beneath her. She didn’t abandon your other nipple either, nimble finger tracing the bud and pinching it softly. 

“You feel so soft,” She whispered around your breast, licking the bud before nipping at it. She rolled her hips against yours as you bucked your hips up, moaning. She sat back up, cupping your breasts before pinching both of the buds and making you cry out, blue eyes staring at your chest. “So pretty…”

You reached up from your spot under her, tugging at her button on her jeans, whimpering beneath her as Nancy squeezed one of your breasts delicately before whispering softly. “Be patient, angel.” 

She undid your button on your own pants, tugging them down your legs before tossing the pants away, staring at you for a minute, biting her lip. You felt heat crawl from your neck up your cheeks, aware of your nakedness as Nancy spread your legs gently, softly coaxing you. She stared at the wet spot near your center before looking at you, smiling softly. 

“Guess I proved myself,” She said softly, making you hide your face in your hands, embarrassed at how easily she made you soak through your underwear. She pulled your hands away gently, tutting. “No, no. I wanna see those pretty eyes…”

She reached out her hand, her pointer finger rubbing your sensitive clit through the fabric, making you writhe beneath her. She hooked a finger into your underwear, eyes eager as she looked at you. 

“Can I take these off?” 

You nodded wordlessly, lifting your hips so she could remove the one barrier keeping you clothed. Nancy tossed the fabric to the side, staring at your cunt like it was a meal, licking her lips. Her gaze stayed at your dripping core, eyes dark with lust. “Ca-can I…I know I haven’t ever… but-” You cut her off by squeezing her hand that was holding your thigh, nodding. Words were escaping you.

She laid down fully, her soft breath so close that it made you shiver. She licked a stripe up your slit cautiously, continuing when she heard your whining. She kitten licked your clit a few times before sucking it into her mouth, shooting waves of pleasure through the bud. Your hands tangled into her soft curls, the usually tidy brunette waves now a mess. She folded your legs up against your chest in a gentle coaxing manner, humming against your cunt as you did so. She began alternating licking broader stripes and focusing on circling your clit with her tongue. She clearly was calculating which movements and flicks of her tongue made you pull at her hair more, being sure to keep the constant pleasure flowing. Eventually she pulled away from licking and sucking at your clit, moving one of her hands off to rub at the sensitive spot with her fingers, pulling whines from your throat, pleasure bubbling up in your stomach. 

“So pretty…so much better than anyone I’ve ever had, angel,” Nancy practically purred, making you buck your hips up into her touch. She stopped for a bit to stare at you, reveling in how your pussy clenched around nothing, 

“Nan...Nancy….,” You whimpered, pleasure numbing your brain, need seeping into your bones. “T-touch me, please…touch me…” 

Nancy chewed on her bottom lip in thought, her breath hitching as you begged for any release. She stood up quickly, unbuttoning her pants and stripping down to nothing, barely giving you a chance to react to her pink lacy panties. She laid down on the couch, making you sit up and look at her confused. She bit her lip and stared at you, eyes making you shiver. “Come sit on my face, angel,” She coaxed you, swallowing down her nerves. You felt your heart speed up, cheeks hotter than hell, nodding. 

You’d known from high school rumors that Steve loved the 69 position, and Nancy was a ‘quick learner’’. Of course this was before Steve grew and matured, becoming the sweet man Nancy befriended and children adored. But this fact intimidated you a bit. What if you sucked at this? You’d never- 

Your thoughts were cut off with a soft slap to your thigh, Nancy’s tone firm and meaning business. “Hey, stop overthinking. Just sit.” She laid back down as you climbed on top, your core hovering over her face before her soft hands gripped your hips and pulled you down onto her mouth, immediately lapping at your dripping center. You laid down, opening her legs and starting simple by circling her clit, your hands clammy with anxiety. She moaned around your clit, driving you to continue before slowly lowering your head to her center, licking a tentative stripe, and moaning. Her mouth against you along with the taste of her cunt, nothing like the other people you’d ever slept with. You began licking stripes up and down, circling her clit with your tongue, your own hips bucking against Nancy’s face as you continued moaning against her own dripping cunt, your pleasure building. Nancy’s moan vibrating against your clit, driving you to suck more and wriggle your hips against her. She kept rubbing your thighs, so gentle yet breaking you apart at the same time. Eventually you both were rocking your hips against one anothers faces, moaning and whimpering echoing in the room. You felt that familiar build up, popping off Nancy’s clit obscenely and whimpering against her thigh, begging. 

“Fuck…Baby, please, fuck, fuck, fuck-,” You whined out as Nancy pulled off you, those delicate fingers now thrusting in and out of your entrance while her thumb rubbed at your clit. 

“You can let go, angel. Cum,” Nancy whispered, her stern tone pushing you to climax as you cried out, bones suddenly gone, somehow still rubbing at her clit until she moaned loudly, clenching around nothing. 

“Fuck, angel.”

You stayed leaned against her, your breathing still shallow as you both panted, her softly caressing your skin and laying gentle kisses on your skin, trying to catch her breath. You felt her whisper against your thigh, voice meek. 

“That was…better than the video I watched.” 

You laid in silence for a moment, brain still fuzzy before you laughed a bit, realizing Nancy meant she had watched (and probably studied in earnest) some porn. 

“Definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the two of you comfortable and seemingly worn out for a second, before Nancy’s voice piped up below you. 

“So…are you willing to try something else?,” She asked cautiously. 

You scrambled up and sat across from her, admiring her naked body, her lean muscles and lithe stature. Your cunt clenched in lust again, your breath shallow. 

“We do have all night-,” You stated, cut off by another bruising kiss that had you falling backward again. 

Guess it’s true what they say…In New York, you can try many things.

Taglist: @reidsbtch

[blueskittlesart]

What advice would you give beginner artists?

it's fine to want to do more stylized art, but nothing will help you improve quickly like studying from life. even if you want to draw very stylized figures, life drawing is still going to help you understand how the human body works and then you can build your stylization off of that understanding. I also recommend studying specifically things you're looking to improve--if you feel like your poses aren't dynamic, ask your model to do some quick (1-2 min) dynamic poses and work on getting the gesture down. if you're looking for anatomy, ask for longer, more static poses and really study the contours of the body. this also applies for portraiture and character art--my expressions and facial structure improved like CRAZY when i started doing portrait studies from life! (note: i know live model sessions aren't accessible for everyone. i'm a huge advocate for nude models, if you can find a studio nearby that's affordable to you that offers sessions, that's the best you're gonna get. however, there are sites that will give you photos of nude models to draw from, too, or you can even just ask friends or family to pose for you when they aren't busy, that's what i did before i started getting model sessions from my school!)

materials are not everything but sometimes a good material can make a difference. it's important to know what's worth it and what isn't for your skill level. invest in some decent-quality supplies or a good art program, but understand that you're still going to need to work to understand your materials and use them to their fullest potential. (if you're a digital artist buy csp. trust me on this. get it on sale. it will change your life. also do not fucking use photoshop)

tracing is ok. listen to me. TRACING. IS. OK. tracing is how you learn. don't trace other people's art and pass it off as your own, obviously, but there is literally no problem with tracing real-life reference photos. I routinely trace references for backgrounds and the like. there is no reason for you to kill yourself trying to make complex perspective and shit up from your head when you can very easily just overlay a photo and get what you need.

in that same vein, USE REFERENCE PHOTOS. find pics online or take pics of yourself and USE THEM to see how your poses work. it makes it SO SO SO much easier. the understanding that you need to create a pose out of nowhere will come with time but you're not going to get that skill unless you have a foundation of understanding how the real human body works, and the easiest way to get that understanding is by copying photos of real people.

last but not least, there's generally a sort of 'rulebook' that new artists are expected to go by, especially online, when it comes to digital art. when i was first learning, it was all about lineart and cell shading, two things that I didn't really like. Nowadays it seems to be all about rendering. the single most important thing i can tell you is if it sucks you don't have to do it. if you hate lineart just color your sketches. if you hate shading don't shade, or find a different way to shade that you enjoy more. if rendering is annoying or difficult for you DON'T BOTHER!! art is supposed to be fun. if part of your process is annoying or upsetting to you, cut it the fuck out. don't torture yourself just to do art the "right" way. i guarantee your art will look better when you're having fun making it anyway!

[multifandomwhore-003]

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned

Pairing: gf! Ethan Landry x female! reader

Summary: He would do anything for you.

Genre(s): angst, just pure angst.

Warnings: SCREAM VI SPOILERS, obsession, very graphic descriptions of k*lling, inj*ring, bl*od, a lot of yelling, a lot of violence.

Taglist: @bratty-lxndry444 @melancholy-avi , join here :)

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗

REQUESTS CLOSED

THIS IS NOT FREE USE, YOU CANNOT USE MY WORK

Reblog if you like

"Baby, baby," he whispered, tears menacing to come out.

You covered your face, shaky hands hesitantly touching your forehead, "Ethan, please-" you took a step back.

He followed you, like he had promised himself he would, making it a vow, a blind devotee, pledged fervor and intensity since the first night he followed you home. He traced your shoulders with his fingers, a hopeless attempt at soothing you.

"No, no-" you took a shaky breath, "I-"

"Baby-"

"No, Ethan, I need to fucking think! Please! I shouldn't have to ask you for a fucking minute!" you spat, voice cracking.

He returned to the couch, perfectly still, he couldn't leave, he never would. Ethan never thought he'd felt fear with you, no matter how many douchebags flirted with you, how many people you had slept with before, the negative opinions people who never learned to mind their own business had, or the extensive periods of time you'd go without seeing one another, he had never doubted your relationship, your bond, he had never been afraid to lose you. It was new, the uncertainty, the mistrust, the anxiety, the dilemma; he was not appealed to the idea of new, not after all the changes his life had gone through in the blink of an eye.

He had chosen you, it wasn't chance, or a senseless coincidence, out of all the people he categorized as appealing, you were seamlessly outstanding, he made you more than the pretty girl from Econ who couldn't keep opinions to herself, he made you his fate, his and his only. He couldn't take credit in shaping you, however, he did crumble to how perfect you were, how flawlessly you filled his every need, a dangerous temptation with the sweetest of embraces. He couldn't afford to lose you, not now, not ever, he would never be able to get such luck, he was never a religious young man, but he felt blessed, and without a question, he would delightedly kneel before you.

"How?"

He turned to you, noticing your quiet sobs.

"How did you do it?" you sniffed.

He gulped, "You saw the news,"

"Yes, I saw the goddamn news Ethan, but I want to hear it from you, with that same confidence that you admitted it, I deserve to know!" you banged your hand on the kitchen counter, "It's the least you can fucking do! The whole fucking truth! I don't care how gross or violent it might sound! We both know you're not ashamed of it, so you better not fucking lie to me, I deserve the truth!"

He corrected his posture, "I took the knife from-"

"No!" you rushed to the living room, "I said everything! When did you decide to kill him?"

He had never seen you in such a way, so angry, so free; he had no choice, but to confess, "When he first whistled at you," he clenched his jaw, "I held back because you told me that you were gonna handle it, but you never did," he relived the frustration, "You knew the school wasn't gonna do anything, and you lied about everything else, so when I found the picture on your phone, I lost it, I followed him home as many times as I needed to memorize his routine, and last night I just-" he slightly grinned through the salty fluid, "I knew he didn't deserve a quick death, so I just began to cut him, until he had no blood to fight, I castrated him, something his parents should've done in the first place," he chuckled, "And to finish it off, I just chopped his head into nothing but paste,"

You looked at the ceiling, "And you-" you winced, "You did this for me?"

"I would do anything for you," he tilted his head.

You nodded as you returned to the kitchen, weakly filled a glass with water, and then drank from it, drowning the urge to feel nausea. You didn't notice when he suddenly was less than three feet away, you almost jumped at his sight.

The room had finally gone silent, nothing to be said, nothing to be thought, just raw suspense. He observed you wiping the runny mascara, hiccuping with every inhale, and almost whining with every exhale, washing the container, and drying your hands, trembling every second like a stray under the rain.

You came close, placed yourself on top of the counter to match his height, grabbed his hands timidly, as if you had never held them before, and cried more at the mere thought of what they can do, there was no point in having remorse anymore, so you simply began to bawl; but even then, you kissed his palms delicately rubbing them after, and guided them to hold your face. You finally met his terrified eyes with your red and puffy ones, trembling fingers crept to his brunette curls, reverently caressing them. You leaned in to peck his lips, testing, they felt so warm, tasted so delicious, you repeated your action, and this time he corresponded.

You had never kissed him with such passion, with such sincerity it almost felt like worship; his right hand hugged your waist, he wanted you, all of you simply in contact with this skin-wrapped vessel of his that was the only thing he could ever be allowed to hold you with.

"Please forgive me," he moaned into the kiss, "I'm sorry, love, I'm so sorry,"

He dried your tears with his rough thumbs, out of all the wicked things in his life, you were the best one, the most utterly divine one.

You didn't think it would be possible, but you broke again, you hated every inch of yourself, and almost felt disgusted by it, you weren't mad at him, you never were, you just wanted a reason to withdraw, but you couldn't, now that you knew everything you still loved him, all of it. There was no way back now, no second thoughts, no doubts, just a corrupted girl at his mercy, waiting, patiently waiting for the conflagration, you were ruined by him, for him. Your dearest sin.

[deltadarlingf1]

On the Reality of Dating a Famous/Wealthy Man:

I was going to post this on Twitter but decided I wanted to a do a long form post. So an explanation of this tweet, which was inspired by the screenshot just below it:

First a disclaimer: I am not at ALL saying Mick is anything like the men I'm about to talk about (I genuinely doubt it). I'm using this response to him hard-launching his relationship as an example of the mindset I see in a LOT of the young female F1 fans. If you read the gossip blogs, you've seen posts like this and worse, particularly on Charles, Pierre, Danny, and Carlos's gfs.

As I said in my tweet, if these young girls knew what it can be like behind closed doors for the WAGs of the rich and the famous, they probably wouldn't make statements like this.

I see a lot of younger fans here on social media posting their imagines and fan fics, and as someone a bit older than them, it does worry me. I know for most people it's simple fantasy and fun, but when I see things like the above I know there are some younger girls that really just don't get it.

My aim in posting this is that maybe it'll be a bit of a reality check for some of those girls. And I don't mean that in a bullying way, I mean that in a "please don't look at these smiling pretty girls with the closet full of designer, perfect body, and seemingly perfect life and feel bad about yourself" way.

Lastly, how do I know any of what I'm about to talk about? I wish I was just chatting shit, but I have lived through all of what I'm posting below as the daughter of a "man" of wealth. His money came from corporate life, not fame, but when you have as much as my "father" did/does, you rub elbows with the famous. Everything I detail below happened to me, my mother, and the wives of my "father"'s coworkers. I'm now watching history repeat itself as I've moved up the corporate ladder and find myself around millionaires and billionaires on a regular basis.

1. The "Starter Wife" Phenomenon

In wealthy circles there's the concept of a "Starter Wife". This is the woman wealthy/famous men marry because they were high school sweethearts, worked together early on, or they dated before the man had his "come up". Sometimes men marry these women and have kids for the SOLE purpose of having the "Family Man" persona. For famous men, this can be good PR. For wealthy men, this can boost their career.

A lot of these men fucking HATE their wives. By the time they have money, they want the freedom of single life back. They can now afford their "dream woman" and loathe being "stuck" with their current wife because of it. Leading to:

2. Serial Cheating

These men have all the money and resources they need to live a double life. Not to mention built-in time and an alibi: They're on the road all the time for their job, work trips, events, etc. No time unaccounted for because they're always working.

Some of those work trips to wine-and-dine clients include runs to the local strip club, escorts, and in some cases some of those escorts are of INCREDIBLY questionable age (in reality, they are victims of trafficking). Again, I wish I was talking out of my ass, I have seen this shit with my own eyes and wish to the Gods I hadn't. Then there's also:

3. Domestic Violence

This is bad enough when it's a wealthy man whose built that "Family Man" persona to protect himself, but it's even worse when they're famous. No one believes the victims, in some cases the woman is financially stuck and can't just take the kids and run when it happens.

And for some women it hard to leave the man they thought their partner was and, yes, to let the lifestyle go. Speaking of the lifestyle there's:

4. The Loneliness

This is a big one for the F1 girlies I see posting their imagines and fanfics and what not. The fairytale of "he'll make time for me because he loves me and I'd be special. I'd be different."

These men are busy as shit. That Cartier Bracelet you envy on these girls is often a "sorry I missed your birthday". The big bouquet of roses is a "sorry I had to leave our trip early." Yes, we know the joke "well at least I can cry in a Ferrari", but that shit will wear on you more than you can believe. I can't tell you growing up how hurt I was when my performances were missed, major dates were forgotten, or my proud life updates were met with "yeah, uh-huh, hold on I have to take this call."

Of course there are good times, of course there's memories you'll cling to, but when you're out, you often realize how alone you felt in the relationship. Lastly, and most poignant with this F1 WAG nonsense:

5. Keeping Up Appearances

You're no longer your own person in a relationship with these men, you are an extension of them. With famous men, you're a part of their "branding".

You have to look a certain way, act a certain way, talk to the right people, have the right friends. In the corporate-wealth world, that means making your partner look good, playing the part of the trophy wife and perfect mother. Smile in front of those coworkers that you know just spent the last business trip drinking, gambling, and cheating on their wives. Wear the right dress to the corporate dinner to make his coworkers envy him, but don't dress too sexy or he'll grow angry and think you're trying to cheat.

If you're dating someone famous, by the GODS, you better look immaculate in every post. You better be there to support him at his events, but if you're there too often you're "attention-seeking". You better have model good-looks, but if you ARE a model, you're "a jobless loser trying to profit on him". Don't post him on your IG, but if you happen to post that you're in the same city as him, you're "dropping hints". If he posts you, it's only because you "probably begged him to".

It's a maddening dance where you cannot win for losing. And once you break up, enjoy letting the world decide if he should have stayed with you, or if they're relieved that he finally got away from "that selfish bitch".

Do what you will with the above. I just wanted to get it off my chest. But I do hope that maybe, MAYBE, it'll give someone that needs it some perspective.

[three--rings]

Started writing this last

I spent the six months before and the nine months after the 2016 election doing extensive activism, online like 16 hours a day compiling actions and protests and coordinating people.

And then I burned out hard, and quit, sick of everyone and everything in the left-leaning political sphere. Absolutely sick to death of the endless handwringing about which actions were actually good and which were problematic or ineffective and infighting over priorities and virtue signaling.

And I found refuge in Yuri on Ice fandom, which is when I started writing fic again for almost the first time in a decade.

And I look at the future here and I'm just so tired. Too tired to do that again. The world is so much worse now. Discourse is so much worse now. Politics has gone rancid. I'm too old, tired, and disabled to fight. And mostly I don't have hope like I used to.

I just feel like the most I can manage now is to maintain my own desire to keep living. I mean it's already the most I can do to keep us fed and our bills paid. I have a business I need to put more work on to bring in money cause see the cost of everything. I need to work on building strength so I can properly walk again.

You know? But I feel like I'm failing.

I'm already so, so tired of seeing posts about giving money to various (worthy!) charities as a way to do something, when I can't make it from paycheck to paycheck these days and cannot spare anything.

And I don't have transportation anywhere because I have a car that's needed repairs for almost a year now that I can't afford so I can't go and do anything. And yanno, it's gonna get WORSE for a long time before it gets better, now.

And I'm so tired of being so helpless and tired and I'm just that "man loses last little bit of hope he didn't even know he still had" meme. I didn't realize I had some optimism about my countrymen left but apparently I really did.

And I'm so so jealous of everyone I know in blue states. Who feel some comfort in where they are. I don't have any representatives to call! They hate me! They actively wish suffering on me and wish I would die! My neighbors are thrilled right now! My doctors will be celebrating again while I struggle to afford my care and I'll grimace and try to smile so I can continue living.

I don't know, I'm just...talking.

[foggyfanfic]

Did you guys hear Disneyland Cast Members voted to strike?

It was nearly unanimous too, 99% of the unionized cast members voted in favor of the strike. This doesn't necessarily mean they will strike, more that when the union rep shows up to the negotiation table on Monday they'll have that extra bit of leverage. Hopefully that'll be enough to win them living wages and such. I don't have anything intelligent to say, I just feel a kind of way about this subject, I'm going to put my opinions under the cut.

Ok, look, I love Disneyland. Love it with a passion. You know what reminded me this was happening and prompted me to look up the story? I was thinking of updating this card I made for one of the many games I've come up with to play in Disneyland because I have a weird variety of hyper-fixation when it comes to that park specifically.

So I am not speaking an ounce of hyperbole when I say Disneyland is my favorite place in the world.

But! Whoever the hell is making the big decisions around there needs to get their head out of their ass. I don't know if I should be blaming Bob Iger or Josh D'Amaro for the way the parks have been since the pandemic, but I'm going to blame both. I can deal with them experimenting with Genie Plus (I hate it but I'm used to capitalism), and I can sort of deal with the prices (I can't afford them easily but I'm saving up), but Disneyland has very clearly been trying to cut labor costs for a while now and it's incredibly baffling to watch. It feels like the parks are being run by somebody with a business degree from a sketchy "college" and zero experience with the real world.

They're cutting back on shows, overworking their existing staff, and skipping regular maintenance so they can operate the park with a smaller maintenance team. Overall it results in a worse experience for the customer, making it less likely that they'll convert new guests into returning fans like myself. While Disney World is a major tourist attraction that most people consider a once in a life time experience, Disneyland has always had a steady revenue from local Californians that return again and again. If you frequent forums about the parks you hear all about folks who live in SoCal that buy their annual pass (I know that's not what it's currently called, but that's what it is) and use it to get into the parks just to have dinner or rove around and maybe grab a churro. They might not be paying for Iger's next yacht, but those folks are providing a reliable revenue stream, and they go back again and again because for decades Disneyland has maintained a "magical" atmosphere.

And I feel like it's fairly obvious that the front line workers are the ones that make Disneyland what it is. Right? Like I'm not crazy, we all agree Disneyland would be nothing without the hard work of these cast members, right?

Why are they-? You need front line workers, why wouldn't you-? Do they not have years of research and experience backing up how beneficial a well paid staff is? I love the Incredicoaster but if all I wanted was thrill rides, Six Flags is an hour closer and a whole lot cheaper. I'm going for the complicated rides that require their own pit crew like Mickey's Runaway Railroad. Why are we even still having this conversation? I get that people like Bob Iger are a bit insulated from the rest of us, but the relationship between a happy staff and profit is well documented. Why wouldn't they just...? In the Disneyland subreddit a retired cast member post the Benefits Binder he got back when he worked for Disneyland and this thing was thick, it included health, retirement, and stock options. Somebody somewhere must have known that whittling down benefits while stagnating pay was not sustainable. Right?!

Like I said, I don't have anything intelligent to add to this conversation, but to be honest, I think everything intelligent to add has already been added. I'm just annoyed for my own sake and downright pissed for the sake of the cast members. I hope they get everything they ask for on Monday, and if they don't, I hope the strike knocks some sense into everybody it needs to.

[storiesbyjes2g]

3.170 One more thing

I probably should have waited to have the next conversation, but I figured since we were getting everything in the open, we may as well discuss finding a new house. Besides, she said she missed talking, right? Autumn in San Sequoia is beautiful. It's refreshingly cool in the mornings, and evenings, and warm during the day. I suggested we take Desi and hang out in our side yard for a bit. A little while ago, I packed up the yoga mats I had out there and set up a nice outdoor chill spot. It's clear I'm not gonna achieve my yoga dreams, if you can even call them that. We weren't using the space, so I turned it into something we will definitely use. Since Desiree will be walking soon, I'll have to get her some toys and things out here. But for now, she can take a nap under the sun in the fresh air while Sophia and I talk business.

It was a little cool, so Sophia lit a fire to keep the baby warm. I let us enjoy the weather and silence for a few moments before bringing up Alessia's conversation.

"So, ummm, after the memorial, Less told me she wants to move."

"Oh! That's great. So she's gonna live in your dad's house then?"

"No."

"Oh. So you're gonna help her find a place?"

"Yes, but not exactly what you're thinking."

She gave me that "Watcher, here we go," face, and I knew I had to sweeten this deal even before I presented it.

"Dub and Maia live in a duplex. They live on one side and rent out the other. I think a situation like that will be ideal for us. Less will be right next door if something happens. We'll share a backyard so the kids can grow up and play together. It's perfect for us. And if Less ever wants to move out, we can rent it to another family and have another stream of income. It's a win win for all of us."

"Wait," she said. "You want us to move? We just got here!"

"True, but things change. It's no big deal. We'll still be in San Sequoia. Just another neighborhood."

"But I love it here," she said. "We spent so much time and money making it our own. Luca, you proposed to me here! I gave birth here! This is my home!"

Sometimes I forget Sophia lived in one place for a long time. Plus, she's a lot more sentimental than I am. This house is the sixth home I've lived in. Moving is no big thing to me, even though this particular home is special to me too. I dreamed about living here; I longed for it. But life hasn't turned out how we thought it would, so my priorities are different now. While I could accomplish my goals perfectly from here, I'd be more at ease somewhere else.

"I understand. We've had lots of great memories here. And I know you're concerned about me being too involved in Less' life, but I think the best way to minimize my time away from home is to have her as close as possible. I promised Mama I'd look after her, Sophia."

She let out a looooong sigh and sat in silence for a bit. I wanted to know what went on in her head, but I knew I needed to let her work it out within herself first, so I waited until she was ready to continue.

"What about this house? What will happen to it?"

I honestly wasn't too keen on selling it. I worked really hard to get it, and I didn't want anyone else to enjoy the fruit of my labor.

"We'll keep it," I said, hoping we'll be able to afford to buy a new house without selling this one. "Less won't need us so close forever. This duplex situation is just temporary, so we can come back here when it's over. Maybe we'll rent it out while we're gone."

Sophia winced at that idea.

"Or it can just sit here until we come back," I said.

She nodded and sighed.

"I don't want to move," she said. "I don't think it's necessary. But everything you said makes sense. I do want Desi to be close to her cousins. The thought of her having easy access to them sounds nice. And I know how much you love your sister."

"Thank you. I'm sorry we have to leave here, but I really do think this will be good for all of us."