#i'm pretty i'm good at this i know this i'm smart

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

THE MIND OF A WEIRD BLACK GIRL

CHAPTER 1: "I'M JUST A GIRL!!!"

Platonic yandere!batfamily x Neglected weird black!reader

SYNOPSIS: You're not childish, are you?

3:00 am. I should be dead asleep right now, completely unconscious, but tonight I couldn't help myself. I mean, who passes up an update on their favorite Tumblr fanfic? This fic has got me stuck at my desk for days on end. I keep telling myself that this is the last one and that I'm done, but then out of the blue, an ask pops up from the floodgates, and I'm back on my grind; no Kevin Gates. The blue rays of my computer screen glow against my dark skin. I can feel my eyes getting red and heavy. Another swig of Monster will keep me alive. One sip, and I feel my body tingle. That definitely wasn't good. I can hear my mom's words ringing in my head: "I saw a story on Facebook about a girl who drank so many energy drinks her heart stopped." She really needs to get off Facebook, and I really need to invest in some water. *Ping* OOOH, Leon Kennedy smut? Don't mind if I do! I laugh evilly to myself, clicking the fic with the pretty pink dividers.

*BEEP BEEP* "AHHH!!" I fall out of my gaming chair, my face hitting the cold floor. I rub my eyes that were under my glasses. I turn my head to see the screen of my alarm clock. FUCK! I'm late! I grab my school uniform and race to the bathroom. That's weird. I'm the first one here. It doesn't matter; take what you can and do what you need. I take a quick shower, put on deodorant and perfume, and stare at all my imperfections. My eye bags are getting bigger; that’s what happens when I watch 24 episodes of One Piece nonstop. Taking off my bonnet, I pray my hair cooperates with me now. I flat iron it until my arms go numb. I smell something burning. You know what? Just thug it out. Great, I look respectable. Grabbing my jacket, I run down the stairs. We really need an escalator.

Running into the dining room, I see everyone at the dinner table, no one in a hurry or rush. "Young master, would you like to join us?" The British accent of the old butler made me calm down, only for a millisecond. "Sorry, Al, but I'm late!" I grab a waffle off the table. "What in hell's name are you talking about?" the little devil speaks up. "Damian," his name makes my skin crawl. Ever since he got here, he's been on my back like white on rice. "None of your business, pipesqueak!" I glare at him. Still, my father's icy blue eyes shine on me like an interrogation light. I straighten myself. "Sorry to burst your bubble, [Name], but it's Saturday." I try to hold in an involuntary groan. Every time Tim speaks, it’s like he’s trying to correct me on something. I get it, you're smart; get a life. "I knew that," I huff, the fastest lie in history. "Then why were you running like a chicken that lost its head, and why are you all dressed for school?" Jason says sarcastically, sipping his coffee. His mug has a middle finger on the bottom; it seemed like it was pointing at me. Asshole.

"Well, I was just... whatever." Grabbing a piece of French toast, I go to sit down, but Steph's hand reaches out to cover the seat. "Sorry, [Name], this is Cass's spot." Oh, what is this, middle school? I walk to the other side of the dining table, but both Tim and Damian cover the seat. "This is for Dick." Oh, this is middle school. My blood is beginning to boil. "Great, I guess all the seats are taken. Thanks, team." I snatch a plate of pancakes off the table, walking up to my room. "Thank Allah! I can't stand it when she sits with us. She won't stop rambling about Power Rangers. She's so childish." I hear laughs coming from downstairs. Well, isn’t that just great? So much for a family breakfast. I eat in my bed. I’d rather doom scroll through Tumblr than talk to those losers—those really cool, strong, popular losers. I stare up at the Batman merch in my room. They’re all in order from Batman all the way down to Duke, the last member of the family. I used to find it weird having merch, shirts, and posters of them. I mean, they’re my "family." It’s just odd, you know? But I idolize them; even Damian—fighting crime, saving lives—all that crap. They're cool, but who knew cool people could be so cruel and mean? But let's be real; the family tree should've ended at Duke. I have no powers, no cool ninja training. I'm not smart or athletic. I sweat at the idea of running a mile. I get good grades, but I’m not Tim Drake-smart. I’m not even a Cass-level fighter. Hell, I don’t fight, period. The bottom line is, I’m "normal," as normal as a high school girl who likes video games, comics, anime, and cartoons can be. Other kids wouldn’t call you "normal," but in my family, I’m a saint compared to them.

But that's enough of that. I'm going downstairs to put my food away. Everyone’s gone, just Alfred in the kitchen cleaning up. "Hey, Al, where's everyone?" I say, putting my dish in the sink, then picking up a sponge, ready to help the old man out. "Oh, family outing." Family outing? "To where?" "To see a play, I believe, or a show. Maybe I saw tickets?" A show? "Don't you think it's too early for that stuff?" I reply, my hands getting wet with soap foam. "It's a long play; they had to get there early." Oh really, huh? "Was there a ticket for me?" "I'm afraid not." Oh, just great. Dad can buy tickets for his clan of kids, but not for his singular daughter? Fucking fantastic. My hands stop scrubbing the plate. "Oh cool." I didn't want to sound disappointed, but let's be real—I was. They always do things without me, and whenever I'm invited to things, it's out of pity—like a little kid your mom forces you to play with because she met the other mom, and now you guys have to be friends and hang out by pure association, even if you don't want to. I can see it whenever they're around—going to the theater with Steph, Cass, and Babs to watch some superhero movie, I shout out facts like crazy: "You know Spider-Man isn't allowed to drink any alcohol!" during the Into the Spider-Verse movie premiere. I could feel them rolling their eyes at me. Fake fans. Next time, they didn't invite me at all. Maybe I talk too much, or I’m too childish. I tried to invite Tim to play a fighting game with me. "The MHA fighting game? What are you, twelve? You're so childish, [Name]." He's acting like MHA is a bad anime. I went to their library with Jason once and picked up Percy Jackson. "Look, Jay, they have the whole series!" I looked down and saw him holding The Giver. Oh well, these are completely different books. "Can you try not to read something so childish? Grow up, [Name]." Oh yeah, only middle schoolers read Percy Jackson—it's not like he's a staple of my childhood or that I grew up with Vivra character designs of him, not at all. But it seems like a recurring theme: "You're childish, so, [Name]." "Grow up, [Name]." Maybe that's why I wasn’t invited. I'm immature and childish. Hell, even Damian’s more mature than me, and he's like 14. But I'm not childish; I'm just passionate and energetic, and I like things. I like a lot of things. Is it wrong to enjoy stuff to the fullest? I could never be nonchalant. If I can't show how I feel, then who am I?

"Young master?" "Sorry, Al, just deep in thought." I sighed. He patted my back gently. "You could spend time with me." "You don't mind?" "Not at all." At least there's someone who loves my passion. "You don't mind?" He shakes his head gently, so I spend Saturday with Alfred. It was mostly cleaning and listening to R&B. I never knew he liked Janet Jackson, but who doesn't like Janet Jackson? She's Janet Jackson! We were lip-syncing to Ginuwine: "So Anxious!" The house was clean; time to watch trashy TV—Dance Moms. It's our main show. "No! Why are they dancing like that? Horrible choreography!" I laugh. "You couldn't do better!"

"I have to run some errands; would you like to come?"

"Nah, I'll chill here, thanks, Al."

He pulled me into a strong hug despite his frame and then pulled me off the couch. "Get me something pretty, please!" I screamed out.

"Yes, young master!"

I giggled. If it doesn't burn my stomach in seconds, I don't want it. Flipping through the TV channels like crazy until I hit the news, I saw them all together without me in fancy clothes and coats, smiling at the camera. This was more than a play or a show; this was some kind of event, and they didn't think to bring me or tell me. They didn't think of doing anything to inform me, and the way they were smiling and talking, it was like they planned this all week, all month even. And no one even told me—they didn't invite me; they left me here.

"Dick, where's your little sister tonight?" said a reporter.

"Which one?!" Duke chimed in with a big smile.

"No, I mean [Name]," the reporter said, putting the microphone in his face.

"You know how she is. [Name] is just too childish sometimes."

Dick ran a hand through his hair, laughing. His blue eyes gleamed at the camera. Childish?

"Yeah, she can't go to events like this; she'd lose it," Steph barked out, making Tim chuckle.

"Yes, she's a handful; she wouldn't know how to act around these cameras."

Really, Dad, really? They're all laughing and making fun of me. The same words come up: "Childish," "Grow up," "Handful." I'm not that bad, am I? The final nail in the coffin: "She's so immature." From Damian? Immature? I'm not immature; I like comic books and collect figures and plushies and trading cards. I make cosplays and write fanfiction. That doesn't make me childish; I'm just passionate, that's all. I have passion. I care for the things I like, so what if they were made for little kids and boys to play on the playground? It doesn't mean I can't like it, doesn't mean I can't enjoy it, doesn't mean I can't handle a few cameras or a few mics.

Hot tears run down my face. "I-I I'm not childish! I can handle it! I can be a Wayne! I can grow up! I can!" Who am I trying to convince—me or the damn TV screen? I feel my body shaking. I rip the plug of the TV out of the wall, throwing it to the ground. I run upstairs to my room, seeing the Batman and Robin merch staring at me. "Childish? I'll show you childish!" I wipe the figures off my shelf; they hit the floor, smashing apart. The heads fell off and the wings of Red Robin's suit broke. I smashed the Lego Batmobile piece, scattering it everywhere. I ripped the posters off my wall. "Who's the handful now, huh, Bruce?" I stomped on the poster and snatched a Batman plushie off my nightstand. I took a mechanical pencil and stabbed it; the stuffing pooled out like blood. "I'm not a handful!" I threw it against the wall near Damian's action figures and Dick's.

"I'm not a handful!" I yelled as loud as I possibly could, my voice breaking. I flopped down onto the floor, my legs shaking. I could hardly breathe, staring at the mess all around me. I sniffled and wiped my face gently. I picked up the Batman plushie and pulled it close to my chest. "Sorry, Daddy."

@milkbean69

@mal-flores

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@simpingpandas

@sh0dor1

@pix-stuff

@viilan

@smutty-littleslut

@ilovemyhusbandnanami

@thecloudsaremyhome

@meganhaxaxa200

@goodsoup19

@onceinamillionposter

[acquelus-ussy]

Im thinking of...

Yandere!jock x wallflower!reader

Yandere!Jock is a fucking playboy, but you chose to ignore that. You've seen him do good things when his friends aren't around.

That's why you had a crush on him...

For a jock, he's pretty smart. He's a frat leader, a social butterfly, and would probably graduate with Latin honors. However, the only downside to him is that he can be a bully.

So, during the time you had a crush on him, he was the first to interact with you. But he wasn’t flirting or anything he was just asking if you were done with something.

And you being the wallflower that you are you blush you think to yourself

"is he really talking to me?"

And him, being the playboy jock, noticed the hue in your cheeks and decided to "play" with you.

"i can't believe you're blushing just because i talked to you wallflower haha cute"

It was a long time of banter between the two of you, and you thought there was something. But of course, reality strikes when a close friend of yours tells you his true intentions.

But...

Ever since you ignored our handsome jock over here He cant seem to get a hold of himself

He goes to nightclubs almost every night, trying to find a girl who looks like you, smells like you, and talks like you. But no matter how hard he tries, he knows he needs you.

The next day at school, you were in the library with a classmate, working on a school project, when he barged in. Oh yeah, he had been asking around if anyone had seen you it's not like he's in love or anything.

He pushes your classmate out of their chair and tells them to get lost. Then, grasping your arms, he looks at you and asks,

"Where the fuck have you been? We need to talk. I'm the most wanted man on campus, and you just ignore me like that? Doing that won’t make me give you more attention, you know."

"so what i don't fucking care i don't like you anymore"

Pang

What you said hurt him, but then again, why is he acting like this? A lot of girls love him and want to be with him, so what’s up with you? He knew you liked him but what the fuck happened?

Later that night... You wake up to glass shattering

Intruder?

A hand suddenly cups your mouth and you feel something hard on your back then you hear

"shh baby you got me all bricked~ up there's no use in fighting me i know how much of a fucking slut you are~"

The last thing you remember was passing out

You wake up to a soft, comfy bed but hold on… Why is there something heavy stopping you from moving? You turn your head and see him.

"You know, my love, a lot of girls dream about this… but you're the only one I want. I'm done being a player." He kisses you on the forehead.

"And also, don’t worry about school and your parents I called up some old buddies," he says, continuing to hug you like there's no tomorrow.

It sucks being a wallflower no one would look for you but don’t worry because he will~

---

This is probably the most longest fucking thing i wrote

[pineconepie]

oooo how about vincent with reader and one of his parties gone wrong? maybe reader gets hurt or almost dies?

Here you go!! <3

TW: Near-death experience (for Reader), mentions of murder, attempted murder, poisoned Reader, hospitals

"Stay close by me," Vincent reminds you once again, squeezing your hand tighter in his own gloved one. "You don't have permission to talk to strangers or leave my sight."

You almost scoff. As if you ever have permission.

Its been at least three months since you've started living with him. Despite being constantly monitored, you don't necessarily hate living with him. After getting used to his treatment of you, it's pretty comforting.

Being able to depend on somebody and not worry about things is nice. Other than a few rules, you can basically do whatever you want as long as it doesn't involve running away, hurting anyone or yourself, or disrespecting Vincent.

Overall, it could be way worse.

Vincent looks at you for confirmation.

"I know," you mumble. "No going near strangers or leaving your sight. I'm not stupid."

The blond chuckles softly, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. "No, you're certainly not dumb, pumpkin, but sometimes it takes more than smarts to keep safe. Remember what we said? The world is dangerous." He ruffles your hair gently. "And hey, if you don't wanna stay for long, we don't have to. Just need to make appearances, all that good stuff."

You nod. "Okay."

Honestly, if you had a choice, you wouldn't attend this gala whatsoever. It was a meeting between members of Cryo, but not like their usual monthly one.

Instead, this was actual an annual thing hosted in order to show off Cryo's successes over the year and hopefully find prospective members.

Vincent was reluctant when you told him you wanted to go, since apparently these galas were usually rather boring and weren't suited for "babies" like you (in Vincent's words). Plus, there'd be plenty of alcohol, gambling, and lots of "grown-up conversations."

But you managed to convince him with your puppy dog eyes and pleading. He's weak for those, you've noticed. Always wants to please you.

He had gotten you the nicest dress/suit, even though you already had at least five ones to choose from. He donned a black suit with a purple tie and matching slacks. His gloves were also black and leather, as well as his belt and shoes. He finished the look off with cufflinks shaped like golden bullets and a matching broach on his suit.

"You nervous, kiddo?" he asks in concern, squeezing your hand tighter.

"A little bit," you admit. "Just want people to like me."

Vincent frowns at you. "Well, if they're mean to you, they'll end up six feet under, so no need to worry about that."

"I don't want people to die either," you grumble. "Especially just because of me."

Vincent pinches your cheeks. "They can either be respectful to you, or dead. Their choices, doesn't seem like a hard one, either."

You swat at his hand, and he laughs. Soon enough, the two of you reach a large, extravagant looking building, lit up brightly despite the late night.

He guides you towards the entrance, and you enter into a massive hall filled with hundreds of people, most likely part of Cryo. Its quite loud inside. There's music playing somewhere nearby as well.

Everyone seems dressed formally. Suits and dresses abound. Several waiters walk by holding trays piled high with hors d'oeuvres and wine glasses.

Vincent continues to guide you towards a specific spot—where the guests are gathering to greet one another. As soon as he shows up, everyone greets him. Some of them eye you suspiciously or curiously, but they seem to know better than to outright approach you.

And you notice they only acknowledge your existence briefly before turning away and continuing their conversations with him or each other.

He notices you staring. "(Y/n), want me to introduce you?" he murmurs, patting your back.

You shake your head, and instead hide yourself behind him.

"Sorry, folks, my kid is a bit shy right now," Vincent laughs. "How bout we save introductions for later when they're in a better mood?"

The people shrug and agree, seeming content with that answer.

So that's how things continue. Vincent occasionally lets go of your hand to perform a handshake with somebody new, or wrap an arm around your shoulders, but never once truly leaves your side.

Occasionally, he offers to grab you food and drinks, making sure to only feed you things he knows are safe. Knowing the crowd here, for once you don't blame him for being extra vigilant.

A lot of small talk goes on. You zone out a bit as you hear talks about trade deals, weapons manufacturing, smuggling operations, assassinations... The typical mob business. You already know most of the details thanks to Vincent's constant chatter anyways.

Once it seems like the two of you have met every single person attending, he brings you to a quieter part of the gala, where they seem to have an open bar.

A couple people are milling around the area. A few seated on barstools and chatting with bartenders, others standing nearby watching. Vincent guides you to one of the seats, helping you onto the stool before sitting next to you.

"Want some juice, kiddo? We've got lemonade, grape juice, orange juice..." Vincent says. "I personally get a root beer float most of the time."

"Don't you drink?" you ask. Now that you think about it, you've never seen him drink in your presence.

"Not as often anymore. Not when I got someone young and innocent depending on me! Gotta be sober to watch you properly," Vincent says. "Besides, I'd never live it down if I became a bad influence for you."

You almost laugh. Funny he out of all people is saying that. "I guess I'll have what you're having, then."

Vincent grins and flags down one of the nearby servers.

"What can I get you, Mr. Brewer?"

"Two root beer floats for us, please."

She nods and rushes away.

While waiting, the two of you idly chat and watch everyone else. You notice a tall man with short brown hair and brown eyes approach, eyes fixed on Vincent. Something about his wide smile throws you off. He looks friendly, yes, but also a bit too enthusiastic, even more so than others who met you earlier.

He seems different than the other people here, and not in a good way.

"Hey, Boss," the man greets. His voice is slightly on the higher-pitched side. "Haven't seen you since your trip to Budapest. I heard you adopted a kid." He smiles at you.

"Yep," Vincent confirms, though he sounds a bit annoyed. "If you attended more meetings, that wouldn't have become a problem. Phoenix tried to contact you several times, we all thought you were dead."

The guy scratches the back of his neck nervously. "Sorry... Things got busy on my end..."

Vincent looks angry, but holds himself back from yelling. For your sake, that much is obvious. You see his fingers twitching subtly. "You should make an effort to stay available whenever possible. You have a job, Sullivan. This isn't some side-gig you can just show up to when you want. If your uncle weren't contributing so much to Cryo, you'd be out of here in a heartbeat. I can still make that happen."

Sullivan sighs. "Yeah. I'll try to do better next time. Sorry again, really." He sits next to Vincent, eyeing both of your root beer floats, both in fancy wine glasses. "So, uh, (Y/n), was it? Nice to meet you."

"Yeah... nice to meet you too," you say politely, sipping your drink.

Vincent's eye twitches. He shifts his chair so it's angled closer to you protectively. Almost like a shield separating you and Sullivan apart. "Is there something else you needed?" Vincent questions, clearly getting impatient. He puts his drink down, right next to yours.

"Nah, just wanted to see you and apologize for being such trouble recently." Sullivan wedges himself between you two, arms outstretched on both of your shoulders, and both of you looking at him in confusion. Vincent's confused look turns into a sour one. "What? Just wanted to be affectionate, sorry. You're awfully grumpy today."

"Are you drunk?" Vincent sneers.

"Just a little!" Sullivan snorts and pulls away.

You're a little fearful for the guy's life, judging by the way Vincent is staring him down. You grab your drink and take a sip from it, not noticing Sullivan's brief look of panic.

"Uh, well, gotta go! I'm sure Trent's gonna wanna catch up with me," Sullivan nervously says, walking away quicker than Vincent has ever seen him go.

The blond only scoffs. "If I see him again tonight, I'll shoot him in the head myself," he grumbles.

"What happened to wanting to be a good influence?" you laugh.

Vincent flicks your nose. "Hey, if someone were bothering you who you wanted to shoot, I'd fully support it. I think the world would be a much better place if we got rid of all the people who were bothering my beloved kiddo." He ruffles your hair. "And hey, did you take my root beer float? Mine had the purple straw! Brat." His tone is playful, of course.

You pull back to look at the nearly fully-consumed drink, seeing the green straw. "Oops, must've mixed 'em up... too late, it's mine now."

He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "My kiddo... so mean. But it's fine, because yours had more in it, anyway! So ha-ha." As if proving a point, he begins loudly slurping yours. You laugh at the silliness. If only everyone knew that Vincent was a fool.

"That guy was kind of weird," you murmur, changing the subject onto Sullivan. "Have you known him for long?"

"Unfortunately," Vincent mutters. "Ever since his uncle joined Cryo, he felt entitled enough to get a job from us. Honestly, I'd much rather fire him, but since he's family with a high ranking member, I'd rather not cause any unnecessary conflict. Don't really trust him, though."

"Sounds like you really hate him," you chuckle.

"Me? Hate someone? Pfft, never. I'm a saint." Vincent nudges your shoulder with his own. "Yeah, I'm kidding. I kinda hate him. And I especially hate anyone who makes you uncomfortable, which I can tell he was doing. If not for his uncle..." He doesn't need to finish that sentence.

You finish your root beer float, and put the empty glass to the side. He wraps an arm around your shoulders while he pulls out his phone.

You see it's Quinn, and that he's telling her to keep an eye on him. You continue reading what he's texting, but then it gets harder to, the words growing blurrier and blurrier.

That's when you realize everything is getting blurry. Even the man next to you.

"Dad," you mutter. Your tongue feels like lead.

"Not now. Give Dad one sec." He keeps typing on his phone.

"Dad." More urgently.

"Be patient, kiddo. Quinn can barely type properly as is."

"I feel really bad," you rasp. "Dizzy."

Vincent looks up from his phone quickly. "(Y/n)?" His eyes widen as he sees your pained expression and sweat dripping down your face.

He drops his phone immediately as he catches you right before you fall off the stool. He runs a hand across your forehead. "(Y/n)? Hey, baby, shh, calm down. What hurts?" Panic seeps through his tone, yanking off one of his gloves with his teeth to feel your pulse, putting two fingers to your neck. Its rapid-fire.

"E-everything," you whimper. It's hard to even form words anymore. Your vision is getting darker and darker, and you can no longer breathe.

You begin to cough, holding onto his shirt for comfort as you feel the edges of your conscious slipping. Your throat feels blocked up. Every attempt to speak results in a strained wheeze and a coughing fit.

Vincent lets out a rare, strangled noise. The fear of losing you is the one thing keeping him grounded.

He lifts you up easily, bridal-style, into his arms, resting your head against his chest. He maneuvers past the crowds, calling for someone to get a stretcher for you.

You can't tell what he's saying anymore, only that he's yelling. Is he mad? Upset?

Or terrified, maybe. Maybe that's why his voice is shaky and cracked.

"Baby, come on, just breathe for Dad, alright? Just focus on my voice, sweetie," he begs, rubbing circles in your chest, as if he can coax air into your lungs. "Breathe with me. Please."

Your breath stutters and comes out shallowly. There's nothing you can do.

No way to obey him. You can't breathe. Why can't you breathe? You're trying so hard, just like he asked you to, but it's like your lungs refuse to expand, refusing to cooperate.

Vincent tries his best to coach you into breathing right, talking in soothing tones and soft coos, encouraging you to calm down and copy him.

Even if everything didn't sound muffled, you couldn't understand him anyway from the way he's speaking, on the verge of hyperventilating. He's trying so hard to act okay for you.

Everything starts to become dim. Blackness creeps into the corners of your vision, slowly overtaking your sight entirely. No matter how hard you struggle, fighting to stay awake and alive, your body gives into the poison and shuts down, leaving you limp in his arms.

The last thing you hear before darkness consumes your consciousness is Vincent screaming louder than you've ever heard him before.

...

Vincent paces back and forth as he waits in the hospital hallway outside of the ER.

"Vincent," Trenton greets sympathetically. It's rare he ever refers to his boss with his first name, but it's not something Vincent minds usually, especially not now. His mind is too preoccupied. "We found the perpetrator—"

"Sullivan," Vincent snarls, finishing for him. "I already figured."

"R-right," Trenton sighs. "We caught him attempting to run. He was already prepared for flight. Uh, it seems like the strychnine was meant for you, but either mixed them up or you got your drinks mixed up."

Vincent nods. "That damn traitor... you have him in custody, right?" Trenton nods. "Good. Keep him alive. I want to kill him myself."

"Understood. Do you want us to torture him first?" Trent asks. He's usually not this brutal, but he loves you like a sibling, after all.

"No. I'm saving that pleasure for myself." The door opens and a doctor steps out. Vincent's most trusted doctor, Dr. Fredericks. "(Y/n)! Let me see them now!" He doesn't even bother asking if you're alive; he simply refuses to even consider that outcome. That's the only thing that's been stopping him from absolutely losing it.

"Okay, but they're very much out of it," she tells him, leading him down the hallway into your room.

She's right.

You're on a hospital bed with the covers pulled over your chest. An oxygen mask is secured over your mouth and nose, and several monitors hooked to various machines beep quietly, tracking your vitals. There's an IV drip attached to your wrist.

As promised, you are awake, but clearly unable to do anything beyond that. Your eyes are drooping and you're blinking slowly, struggling to stay alert.

"(Y/n)," Vincent breathes, rushing over and grabbing your hand. He crouches beside the bed so that he's level with you. "Sweetie? Can you hear me?" He kisses your temple gently. He brushes your hair away from your forehead, pressing his cheek against yours.

You try to move your hand weakly towards his voice.

The blond nods quickly. "Hi, baby. Yeah, its Dad. I'm here. Everything is gonna be okay now." He presses kisses all over your face—anywhere he can reach without disturbing the oxygen mask.

"Poisoned," you manage to rasp.

"I know, lovebug. But it'll be okay." Tears threaten to spill down Vincent's cheeks.

"Scary," you say next.

"I know," Vincent whispers again, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching closely enough. Shouldn't have let him anywhere near us. I won't make that same mistake again, I promise." Not after he turns that bastard to dust. Slowly.

"Not y'r fault," you slur.

"It is. I should've protected you. That's my job, sweetie." He kisses your hand repeatedly. "Don't speak anymore, okay? I just want you to rest. At least until this comes off." He taps the clear oxygen mask. "And then we'll talk aaaall you want. Doesn't that sound nice?"

You shift positions as much as the wires will allow, and you pat the small space on the mattress, motioning for him to join you.

He chuckles and shakes his head fondly. "Aww, buddy. I don't wanna crush you."

When you continue to persistently slap the bed sheets, he finally concedes. He slips his shoes off and climbs onto the bed with you, helping you lay on top of his chest.

He makes sure all wires are in place as they were moments ago. "Comfy?" You hum in confirmation. Vincent plays with your hair. "Get some sleep, honey. Dad's not going anywhere."

Your eyelids flutter shut as you listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat, grounding you and lulling you to a peaceful, safe sleep.

Normally Vincent would be awake, hyper-vigilant as ever, but the exhaustion from running around in a frenzy and pure terror takes its toll on him too. His eyes close and sleep follows soon after.

[insomniac4000]

Some fluff, taking care of Chris after his surgery!

I actually already had something like this drafted!

Healing- ChrisMD

Chris groaned as he shifted on the hospital bed, the dull ache in his knee reminding him why he was here. Years of playing football, pushing himself for content and competitions, had finally caught up to him. The doctor had warned him this was inevitable, his knee had taken too much wear and tear, and now, post-surgery, he was stuck here, wrapped in bandages and feeling more useless than ever. It wasn’t his first rodeo, about five years ago he needed a surgery to shave down some bone on his foot but this, now this felt worse somehow. He knew he would be okay thought because he had his best girl by his side.

As if on cue the door creaked open, and in walked Y/N, carrying a takeaway coffee in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other. Her auburn curls were pulled into a messy bun, and her hazel eyes softened as she took in his tired expression.

"How's my patient?" she teased, setting the coffee down on the bedside table before leaning over to kiss his forehead.

Chris exhaled sharply. "Feeling like an old man, I’m going to go insane."

Y/N chuckled, settling into the chair beside him. "Well, you are an old man, you’re thirty next year. But you'll be back on your feet soon enough if you listen to me." She smiled and threw a punnet of grapes Chris’s way. She didn’t know why it was a thing to bring sick people grapes but here she was, Chris wouldn’t be in hospital long not even overnight so he just needed a little snack to tide him over and knowing he was a fitness freak, a fitness freak who wasn’t going to be able to be active for a while fruit seemed like a safe option.

Chris blinked sluggishly as the hospital room came back into focus. The bright overhead light was too harsh, and everything felt a little... floaty. He squinted, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

"You're so pretty, I’ll forgive you for calling me an old man" he mumbled, his voice slow and slurred.

Y/N bit her lip, clearly holding back a laugh. "Well, that's a nice thing to come into."

Chris attempted to lift his hand but gave up halfway, settling for squeezing hers instead. "No, like… really pretty. You’re... like a forest fairy or something."

Y/N snorted. "A forest fairy?"

Chris nodded, or at least, he thought he did. It was hard to tell when his head felt like a balloon. "Yeah. All curly and glowy and... I love you."

Y/N's lips parted slightly, a soft, surprised smile playing on her face. "I love you too, Chris."

Chris furrowed his brow. "No, but I really love you." His voice was thick with sincerity, even through the post-anaesthesia haze. "Like… so much. More than football. More than chicken." He gasped. "More than the last chicken nugget when I'm really hungry."

Y/N laughed, squeezing his hand. "That is serious."

Chris's face scrunched up, as if he had just realized something deeply profound. "You're my favourite person in the world." He tried to lift his head, but his body wasn't quite cooperating. "Did you know that?"

Y/N brushed a hand over his forehead, smoothing back his messy hair. "I had a feeling, yeah."

He sighed dramatically. "You're so smart. And nice. And you take care of me. And you smell really good." He inhaled deeply, then frowned. "Wait, I can't smell you from here. But I know you smell really good."

Y/N shook her head, laughing. "Chris, I think the pain meds are making you a little loopy."

Chris gasped again, his eyes wide. "Oh my God. Am I dreaming? If this is a dream, I never wanna wake up. This is the best dream ever. It’s got you in it."

Y/N rested her chin on his hand, still grinning. "This isn't a dream, babe."

Chris blinked at her, dazed but utterly besotted. "You're real?"

"I'm real."

He let out a deep, contented sigh. "Good. Because I want to marry you."

Y/N froze for half a second before chuckling. "Let's maybe revisit that conversation when you're not high on hospital drugs."

Chris pouted. "But I mean it. You're my best friend and the best girlfriend ever. I’d be lost without you."

Y/N leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "I’m not going anywhere, Chris."

He hummed, his eyes fluttering shut. "Good. 'Cause I love you. More than pizza..."

And with that, he drifted back to sleep, still holding onto her hand.

After a few hours Chris was given the all clear to go home, Y/N got him in a taxi safely and they made their way back to their flat. They had only moved in their together a couple of months ago and it was only temporary, they had planned to use this downtime Chris was going to have to try and look for a house together, it was scary but they were both excited, but first Chris needed to heal.

The first couple of days post-op were the worst. The painkillers dulled the worst of the ache, but Chris hated being stuck in bed. Y/N stayed with him, making sure he was comfortable,

When he got too grumpy, which was often she bribed him with ridiculous YouTube videos, snacks, and the promise of fresh air as soon as he was mobile. Despite al f this thought there was a small part of him that quite liked all the attention.

"You realise I could get used to this level of attention, right?" Chris quipped one evening as she tucked a blanket around his legs.

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Enjoy it while you can, because in a few days, I’m turning into your personal trainer."

Chris groaned dramatically. "Remind me why I thought dating a fitness-obsessed idiot was a good idea?"

She smirked. "Because I’m also cute."

He couldn’t argue with that.

A week after surgery, Y/N helped Chris onto the sofa, propping his leg up on a cushion.

"Alright, time for your first set of exercises," she announced, holding up her phone where a list of rehab moves was displayed.

Chris eyed her warily. "Y/N, be honest. How painful is this going to be?"

She shrugged. "Probably not as painful as playing on a dodgy knee for years."

He sighed. "Fair point. Alright, coach, let's get this over with."

Y/N guided him through the simple movements; quad contractions, ankle pumps, gentle stretches. She was patient but firm, making sure he did everything properly. When he winced, she softened, reassuring him that progress took time.

"You’re doing great," she murmured, resting a hand on his thigh. "I know it sucks, but you’ll thank me when you’re back running circles around the boys."

Chris managed a tired smile. "Only if you promise to be my first opponent when I’m back to full strength."

Y/N grinned. "Deal."

As the days stretched into weeks, Chris grew stronger. Y/N kept him accountable, dragging him outside for short walks, filming his progress, and making sure he didn’t slack on his exercises.

"Y/N, I swear you just enjoy torturing me," Chris grumbled as she helped him through a balancing exercise.

She smirked. "No, I enjoy watching you get better. And also, maybe, just a little bit of the torture."

Despite himself, Chris laughed. "Unbelievable."

By the time he was allowed to put full weight on his knee again, Chris was more than ready to push himself. Y/N, however, kept him in check, making sure he didn’t rush the process.

One afternoon, after a particularly good physio session, he pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly against his chest.

"You know I couldn't have done this without you, right?"

Y/N smiled into his shoulder. "Of course you could have. But I wasn’t about to let you do it alone."

He kissed the top of her head. "You're the best."

She pulled back slightly, smirking. "I know. Now, are you ready for our first post-recovery one-on-one match?"

Chris laughed. "Loser makes dinner?"

"Deal. But just so you know, I'm not going easy on you."

He grinned. "I’d be disappointed if you did."

[shatcey]

Victor's route 10ch (Victor at the party)

We had never seen him in social circles before… only in the palace.

I must apologize for my perhaps excessive love of beautiful words. The original was not as colorful. I usually trust my ear… If I like how it sounds, that's good. But maybe my hearing doesn't know much…

Well… not surprising. He's rich and powerful. Not to mention that he is extremely attractive. What these women find more atractive is a question. We all remember Silvio, right? So… I'm not surprised. I'm surprised I've never thought about it before.

Did I get it right? It's like… a one-night stand? What? VIVI!!! Don't tell me you're indulging them in their… dreams… too often. Now I'm starting to doubt who have more expirience in… to get… close…

Damn it. Ally!!!! It's your fault that my thoughts are moving in this direction.

I have no idea what you're hitting at! Could you elaborate?

(glare at him)

Actually, I think it was at 8ch… Kate saw Victor with a woman in the park… Back then I thought maybe he, like Nokto, was just collecting information. But maybe it was just one of the women who was very interested in him. His fan… so to speak.

And a little more… How did she realize she was in love?

I really like this concept. It's simple, but it feels so very right. And beautiful. And… I dunno, I just like it.

And a little joke

Just before Vivi appeared… William asked Kate to dance. And she even agreed. But… as soon as Vivi shows up… we never heard from William. Were they dancing? I'm curious, you know!

I know, I know… it would slow down the narrative… But why did they let him invite her in the first place and not finish the scene? It's so weird…

Oh, I know! He noticed that she was so fascinated by our beloved Grim Reaper that she turned into a very pretty statue of herself. So he went to look for a more... moving... dancing partner. What a smart move, Willy! I expected nothing less from you, darling!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🔝 𝕊𝕋𝔸ℝ𝕋 ℙ𝔸𝔾𝔼 🔝

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[coldlykawaiipotatoe]

Ok, I'm finally back, I was being held hostage at my 9 to 5 :(

Hi there, welcome to THG Statistics 101 (aka Bets crash course),

and may the odds be ever in your favor!

I guess mild spoilers, but I'm pretty sure Haymitch survives and also this will be a very long post

You want to understand how Wyatt calculates people’s odds and makes bets? Well it’s a combination of two things, first of all the mathematical part (statistics) and empirical knowledge (what we usually refer to as a “gut feeling” or “hunch”).

You may have the statistics knowledge to make educated guesses, and you will be right most of the time. But if besides that, you also have the empirical knowledge, you will start to feel hunches, because your brain will process data in an offband (unconsciously) way.

Now Wyatt doesn’t have a formal education, because in district twelve the education system is built to create miners, and they don’t really need the math for the job. That means Wyatt is/was (depending his status on your fic) a very smart guy, who also happens to have made lot’s of bet and be surrounded by the betting culture, both thing shaped his ability to make very good guesses at people’s odds very quickly and very accurately.

You now know how hunches or gut feelings work. Let’s get to the fun part, the mathematical way of getting those odds.

We are talking here of creating a score system, similar to the one we see on the books, where the gamemakers assign numbers to the tribute’s private displays, and the higher the score they land, the higher the chances for sponsors to support them (We will get back to this in a minute).

In this case, we will be “making an educated guess” of the possibilities of survival of the tributtes. So, let’s create our imaginary system.

First things first, choose the characteristics, traits or abilities, that are gonna be your system foundation. For this example, I’m going with Intelligence, Agility, Strength, Stamina, Popularity and (from another reply to your post) Background. But why?, why do this traits matter to my tributtes probabilities of survival and winning?

Well let´s go to the book, do you remember that scene in sort, where the tributes are being interviewed by Caesar Flickerman?

We’re gonna compare Panache´s and Wyatt´s interview. We know from Haymitch´s POV that Panacheis a big guy, but not very bright, and Caesar exploits that to make fun of him, and manages to get the entire public laughing at his expense, convincing everyone Panache´s an idiot. Even the other tributes and Haymitch are laughing, Panache becomes the butt of the joke, so you as a capitol citizen, being so smart, you wouldn’t bet on an idiot right?, because if you did, that would make Y-O-U an idiot too.

Flash forward to Wyatts interview, he impresses Caesar and everyone else with his incredible ability to estimate so quickly the odds at different situations. And Caesar speechof “if you win the games, you and I, are hitting the casinos”, it´s a vote of confidence that his intelligence it’s real may be useful enough in the arena to crown him winner (or finalist). So it’s a safe-bet for you, a smart Capitol Citizen, and you actually should bet on him, because you are so much smarter than this poor district tribute, right?.

Back to the system, you should have a general outline of why each trait it’s important to you, and this will help you assign later weights to each trait. Something like this:

Intelligence: capacity to understand and adapt quickly to the environment, and to make the right call under stressful situations.

Agility: ability to move through any weather or terrain quickly.

Physical Strength: ability yo move big obstacles, defend oneself from or cause harm to others.

Stamina: how long will the tribute’s body hold-on on harsh environments, while jogging, running, with lack of food and sleep.

Popularity: likeness from the public, tightly linked to sponsors support (like the number assigned by the gamemakers and Caesar’s approval or disapproval).

Background (as suggested by giftedwithdumbness, love the name, which I had thought about it first): has the tribute district had any previous winners (we know that the Victor’s district get food rations for a year from the Capitol, that would improve the life quality over the years, allowing the tributes to grow stronger and develop better stamina or agility, than those who don´t have that much food). Careers from district 1 and 2, would have a better background score; followed by district 3 and 4. For the rest of the districts tributes this trait would mostly be zero. While district 12, has had a winner in the past, it was too long ago to have any positive repercussion on this quarter quell tributes.

2. We now assign based on our assessment (aka opinion) how much this attributes will weight on our system. Since we have six attributes, I’m gonna rank them from one to six (one being my lowest ranked and six my highest ranked attribute). (I do not know how to make images smaller here, so enjoy this giant tables)

Consider that you could keep on adding attributes, the more you include, the more realistic it’s gonna get. But it’s also gonna get longer to process the data

3. Now it’s turn to define, what your traits scale is gonna look like. Mine will be zero to five, being zero my lowest score and five the highest score a tribute could get.

4. We already have a system, let’s try it! We’re gonna imagine an ideal tribute and she´s from district one, she get’s the highest score on every category. How would that look like? (I’ve rearranged the traits table by order of weights, because it looks more orderly, but you could left it as it was)

This is where I mentioned in my original reply, you have to multiply the Weight (you assigned to each trait) with the Score (the tribute got in their previous assessments), to get what we’re gonna call Skill Score of each tribute.

So your ideal tribute would get under our system, a score of 105 Skills points maximum.

5. That is the highest score any tribute could ever get on THIS system. What we now have to do is make all of the tributes to undergo this system. Let’s look at a few of their scores:

First we have Percy, from district 4, he scored

We also have Grover, lovely fella from district 11

Lastly, let’s look at Bianca’s, she’s from district 12, and she didn’t do well on the evaluations.

6. Let’s consider we have 12 tributes, we already made them go through our system, and we have their skills score as shown in this table.

What we now need is to addition the tributes skills score, to get a total of possibilities. Let’s me explain on different terms. Let’s say that we are playing a dart game with this tributtes and they are going to be hitting a dart card on the wall. But here’s the catch, we’re not gonna give equal amounts of darts to the tributes, because we already assessed them and we know some of them don’t have good chances of ever hitting the dart cart, so why waste darts on them?. We have bought 673 darts, and we split them according to the chances of the tributes hitting the dart card.

Clearly those who get more darts, are gonna have better chances of hitting the dart card on the center. So the 673 darts are the total amount (aka 100%), so if someone was given the 673 darts, the probability of that person hitting the center is 100%. But which is exactly the percentage a particular tribute has of hitting the center? considering they’re not receiving the same amount of darts? Let’s find out.

7. We’re translating the table data to percentages that represent their probability of surviving among the other eleven tributes.

8. How do we do it? you say, Im glad you asked:

We’re gonna divide the Skill score of each tribute between the Collective Skills Score (the addition of the point of every tribute, aka the 673 point, that’s our total skills score). And to turn it into a percentage, we’re gonna multiply it (for “many times”) a hundred. Let’s take Astrid for example

Astrid

(Skill Score/Collective Skills Score) x 100 = Survival Odds

(95 / 673) x 100 = Survival Odds

14.12% = Survival Odds

This are her odds to survive an arena with this amount and particular set of tributes. But she did very good on the evaluations. So what about a tribute who didn’t do so well? Like Hiccup, let’s check:

Hiccup

(Skill Score/Collective Skills Score) x 100 = Survival Odds

(15 / 673) x 100 = Survival Odds

2.23% = Survival Odds

That not great, he has a very slim chance of surviving, so small that it doesn’t really seem possible.

9. We would repeat this process for each of the tributes, and end up with:

10. And that’s it, you now have the odds of each of the twelve tributes surviving. Now obviously if you wanted to make it more realistic, you could bet on the probability of a tribute, let’s say Annabeth, surviving the first, the second and third day. But you will have to add other variables (traits) to the system, like sponsor support, allegiance (and inside this one, the odds of survival of her allies), and even luck, don’t discard it so easily. But yeah somewhere along my explanation, a system was born, feel free to use it, discard it or modify it, and if you have other questions, let me know.

But with this table, a Capitol citizen interested in being a sponsor would look at someone like Hiccup or Bianca, and consider them dead with those chances. But that same sponsor would look at Annabeth, Astrid and Percy's scores and decide that they are a better bet, and donate more money to them.

Wyatt fans that understand betting help me out here. In *very* simple terms, how does one calculate reaping and Games odds like Wyatt does in SOTR?

(It's for a fic. I can write. I cannot maths. Send help.)

[mermaidsirennikita]

one thing I wish we were more open about as a society is that like... feeling better about your appearance is so rooted in the mental game

like I can't control how society casts me, but I can control what I project and what I tell myself; and I may not truly believe I'm a hot girl every day of my life (lol who does) but I do believe in bigging myself up, and I wish everyone felt comfortable doing that. tbh, I'd compare it to that idea that if you smile at yourself in the mirror daily, you will eventually kind of con your mind into at least a slightly raised sense of positivity

and neither of those things are going to work for everyone, but it bugs me that we really kind of push this idea that you saying you find yourself pretty or beautiful or hot somehow means you think worse of OTHER people, and that it's bad to think you look good, that vanity is this like... crime; and what makes me even more bugged is that we push it particularly on everyone who essentially isn't a cis man

[tvckerwash]

you know, an interpretation of ct that I don't see that I personally really love is that she's a fuck up. like yes she's cool and she has some good fight scenes, but a huge part of her character is that she makes mistakes. the mistakes that she makes are ones that on their own aren't the end of the world, but she keeps making these little mistakes, and they eventually add up until she's out of room to make any more.

a really good example of this phenomenon in action is the actions she took leading up to her final confrontation with carolina and tex.

strike one, she thought she saw something in the water, but when asked by the leader what it was, she brushed it off as nothing when even if it had been nothing, it would've been smart to tell him what she thought she saw.

strike two, she didn't sense or notice florida's presence when the leader did, and she looks at the leader twice, once as she pulled out her magnums, and again after she did a scan of the room, almost like she was looking at him for guidance before he finds florida and takes him out with one good axe throw.

strike three, she couldn't convince the leader to leave when they had the chance to get away, and her cheap tricks were not enough to hold off either tex or carolina in a fight. they were only good for incapacitating her opponents enough for her to get away, which doesn't work when she has no escape.

ct is not tex, or carolina, or south. she is not a one woman army who can get herself out of trouble when she's stuck in tough situations. she needs people who can watch her back, she need a team who can cover her when she does mess up, and the leader and his team were not those people. she couldn't bring herself to trust them, and they couldn't bring themselves to trust her, and that cost all of them their lives.

[bongosinferno]

I'm on episode 5 of the Fallout show; NO WHAT THE HELL I LITERALLY THOUGHT TO MYSELF "MAN I'M BEGINNING TO LIKE THIS SHOW" AND THEN THEY JUST REMOVE THE NCR FROM CANNON. WHY. THAT'S SUCH A FRUSTRATING CHOICE

also STOP PLAYING ON THE NOSE MUSIC I CAN UNDERSTAND THE PLOT WE DON'T NEED CONSTANT 50S MUSIC

[running-in-the-dark]

okay, I bought pretty sock yarn, and I have decided this is the year I'm going to finish knitting my first (and second) sock - I have started about five times but always gave up.

does anyone have a good, easy, beginner sock knitting pattern? ideally toe-up, I think? I know I've tried like three different ones but they were all confusing 🙈

[bumblingbabooshka]

Tuvok’s Kids: Sek, Elieth, Varith & Asil

[snivel1]

I'M IN TEARS I AM INCONSOLABLE TEARS AND MUCUS FLOWING DOWN MY FACE WHAT DO YOU MEAN THIS IS THE END FOR THEM I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THIS😭😭😭😭

[cementcornfield]

Is it stupid to think that if only 2/3 can stay it would be less risky to trade Tee. It would be a shame to not have Tee and all three should be here but te defense was just soo bad and I don’t trust them to fix the giant hole Trey would leave.

the logic (and if you'd like to be convinced feel free to go to paul dehner junior's twitter where he's parading why this is actually a Good Thing) is that trey is 30 (and therefore a withered old crone completely devoid of value despite being the only even halfway decent player on our defense) and is likely to have a decrease in production over the coming years, and that if you gave him an extension now, you're retroactively paying for when he WAS good the last few years and not what he'll be the next few years (because why reward your players! it's not like their human beings or anything! gross!) and they believe that they can get at least a second round pick for him (which, fair enough, it's a deep d-line draft) and then they believe that the new DC can develop a new pick to be at least close to what trey was (despite trey having a leading sack record for the last two years). and okay. if i look at it objectively (which i'm mostly incapable of right now due to my Rage) i can see their point. the new DC has an invaluable background at the college level and was involved in drafting logan wilson who was our last actually successful defensive pick. but my god. my god the risk involved here. the gamble we're trying to pull off when we're in our super bowl window with joe and ja'marr. sure it could pay off OR YOU COULD HAVE JUST LET GO OF OUR LAST REMAINING HOPE ON DEFENSE BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T WANT TO COUGH UP A FEW EXTRA MILLION OUT OF YOUR LITERAL BILLIONS OF DOLLARS

[dont-leafmealone]

On the topic of the last post I reblogged, I feel like a lot of people get Ozai's personality and feelings toward Zuko confused with Zhao. Ozai really doesn't care about Zuko, just wants him out of his way so he can abuse his power in peace without being embarrassed by his dumb kids.

Zhao is the one brimming with a concerning amount of excitement at any excuse to kill Zuko; while I'm sure Ozai doesn't *care* all that much if Zuko ends up dead, he's probably not gleefully helping Zhao plot his Next Grand Scheme To Kill The Prince. If anything he probably thinks it's weird how preoccupied he is with it, like dude, you have a job already, go do that instead of getting your ass kicked by my dumb kid.

[im2tired4usernames]

Ugh I was excited for today until I found out I'd have to spend it with people that actively make me hate being alive hate the future and drain me off all energy physically mentally spiritually like a vampire I can't stand to be around her she is the definition of stupidity and even then that's generous as fuck this bitch has filled her brain with so much garbage I watch her brain cells die at alarming rates every single time she uses her vocal cords her giggles make me want to jam a sewing needle into my ear repeatedly so I can never have to hear it again its a friendly reminder that my parents decisions this time my dad's constantly makes me want to die

[smolbluegoblin]

boyfriend haven't watched the LOTR movies in a long long time while I marathon them every year so this year for my birthday we're gonna watch them together

and he's so sweet he's so excited to watch them with a Tolkien Nerd™ because he likes to ask questions about stuff and I'm always willing to share what I know about it but this time it's gonna be about my favorite franchise!!!!

He's using me as his own personal Wikipedia and I LOVE IT