#school donor wall

[cartoon-skeleton]

the school marketing team pulled me aside to interview me about some shit (make PROPAGANDA!!!!) and at the end they were like “okay now say ‘thank you [school]’ for giving me the opportunity to display my work in the building!’ but in your own words :)” and my jaw dropped… anyway I just know they aren’t using that footage LMFAO cannot fake sincerity to save my life

[k12academics]

Timelines and History Displays

School lobby designs

Education displays

Donor recognition displays

Sports exhibits

Athletic hall of fame walls

Custom award display cases

Student and alumni recognition displays

[leclucklerc]

Something Immortal CL16 - 01. Fate

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Wayne!reader

Summary: Bruce Wayne loves his kids. He really do. To the point he's going to buy his son a whole ass Formula One team.

Word Count: 5.6K

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It’s a fairytale-like story where a billionaire stumbled upon a baby – fresh out of her mother’s womb, still red and wrinkled – on his doorstep.

There’s a note, written by someone who he can faintly recognize as one of his one-night stands months ago. A messy note with an almost unreadable handwriting declaring that she doesn’t want to have any responsibility for this baby. That as the sperm donor, now it’s his responsibility to take care of the child.

He stared at the note before blue eyes turned their way toward the baby once again. And then, as if the baby recognized his stare, blearily eyes blinked.

It was at that moment that the man fell in love with the baby in front of him.

It was also the start of Bruce Wayne and y/n Wayne’s story.

Y/n understands that her father is not a perfect man.

He had made many wrong choices, choices that he believed were the best but in reality, it’s the choice that ended up doing more hurt than comfort. 

Communication is not his forte, as well as baring his emotion to those around him. There are many instances where her father intended to say one thing but, in the end, the words that escaped his mouth are more biting. More blunt. More heartless.

She knows it’s normal for someone to have a problem conveying their emotions. But in their family? In their family where there are far too many misunderstandings and far more unstable emotions as well as the tendency to take their own conclusion without consulting with anyone?

Well.

Jason used to call her the perfect child. The only child that grew up within the walls of the Wayne manor that ended up with a stable emotion and right mind. That she’s the perfect princess that Bruce Wayne always wanted. Unlike him, goes unheard. You’re the favorite, the one he favors the most, the one that he loves the most, goes unheard. Unlike him, once again, goes unheard.

It’s a bit funny to hear the man say that, because all her life, y/n is sure that she’s the least favorite child.

When she was a child, Dick had always been the golden boy. The perfect partner for Batman when they’re wearing masks and a charming happy child off mask. It’s a bit petty, but there was a time in y/n’s life when she felt a lot of resentment for the older. After all, she’s Bruce’s biological daughter, she’s the child that fell into Bruce’s life first, and yet-

And yet why didn’t he spend more time with her? Why didn’t he always explicitly forbid her to venture through the night like he and Dick?

Why was she never enough?

Of course, that resentment was short-lived because it’s Dick. Dick with his playful laughs and sunshine smile. Dick who always held her hands, guiding her away into some new adventure that he had created a mere minutes prior. Dick is the best big brother anyone could ever asked for. He always made time for her – even to play with her dolls or play pretend – always took care of and protected her in school, and always prioritized her over anything in his life – even Robin.

It’s hard to hate Dick, even after his huge fight with Bruce and his moving out of the Wayne manor. It’s hard to hate Dick, even though he had only hugged her in the middle of the night, muttering that he couldn’t stand living in the manor anymore, that B is beyond reasoning, and disappeared the next day.

It was hard to accept, that her perfect big brother suddenly disappeared from her life. That she was back to being the only child. That the only contact that her big brother made was the occasional phone calls or the screaming match that she sometimes heard from the cave.

What if she also wants to live with her big brother?

What if she also missed Dick?

Maybe that’s why Jason had always been so special to her. An older brother that Bruce found whilst in the middle of stealing Batmobile’s tires. She knows that Jason is not perfect. He has a potty mouth and often says rude things in a fit of anger. His temper was also extraordinarily short, and a bit unpredictable.

But Jason always tries.

He had always tried to be the older brother that y/n needed in her lonely life. He had always tried to make up all of his brash personality and short fuse. He had always tried to apologize first, always tried to keep up with all of her hobbies and interests. Always tried to be there for her. An older brother who often read her to sleep and talked sense to her father. An older brother who fills in the huge gap that Dick left behind. 

An older brother who had promised her that he would always be right by her side. That he will be there during her dance recital and her university graduation. That he will be there during her first date to give her lover a shovel talk. That he will always be there to make up for the lack of her father and their oldest brother’s presence.

To be the perfect older brother for her.

An older brother who died.

Y/n love for cars started when Jason stole one of Bruce’s Ferrari.

It’s a custom—a vintage beauty in the color of midnight and the only one that exists in the world. Her dad received it years ago as a thank-you for his massive investment in the company. Y/n knows that it’s one of her dad’s favorite cars. He rarely used it, only for special occasions, and he often came to the garage and polished it personally.

Most of your siblings shared that sentiment. Even those who don’t really care about cars appreciate their beauty.

So it’s normal for Jason – an automotive enthusiast, who has his own personalized bike and follows Formula 1 religiously – to be entranced by it. He had taken a liking to it since his Robin days when Dad once took him for a drive with that Ferrari. Many things had happened between those times and current times, but it seems his love for the car didn’t diminish.

Y/n was in the garage when Jason appeared, whistling and keys jiggling in his hand.

“I thought we’re not allowed to use that one,” pointed out the woman, grabbing his leather jacket in a sad attempt to stop him.

Jason raised an eyebrow before he raised his hand to ruffle the top of your hair. “As long as he doesn’t know I’ll be fine,” he scoffed.

“I bet Alfred knows.”

“Alfie knows everything.”

Y/n continues to stare at him as Jason reaches the Ferrari. You could practically see all the love and adoration in his eyes as he walked around the car as if he was about to inspect it.

“You know,” y/n started. “I could tell Dad.”

The older male stopped at that. “You wouldn’t,” he said, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I could,” you shrugged.

“What do you want in exchange for your silence?”

You grinned. “When you take it out for a drive, I want to go too.”

Jason seemed to contemplate that bargain for a couple of seconds before he nodded. “Deal.”

Truth to be told, it’s not like y/n was interested in automotive or cars back then. Back then, she had just seen it as an opportunity to become closer to Jason. After all, his relationship with the family is tense during the best days and downright horrible during the worst ones.

Y/n had been hesitant about approaching the man after the whole Red Hood and the… Jason being dead… thing that she had elected to stay away from him for some time. Most of the time, the man doesn’t even come to the manor if he can help it and only visits during vigilante business. Considering y/n is not a vigilante, well.

Jason had been her favorite brother. He had been the brother who understood her perfectly. The sibling that is the closest to her age.

The sibling that she had grieved for the longest.

Of course, she had been overjoyed at his return, despite all of the killings and the not-right-in-the-head part. It’s still Jason after all. It’s still the brother who likes to accompany her in the library and the brother who helps her with her English homework.

It’s still the older brother that she loves with all her heart, despite all the differences and all the things in between.

Jason still laughed with his full body, eyes still crinkling in amusement every time he found something funny. He still loves to read those cheesy romance books and believes in true love. Jason is still Jason and that’s all that matters.

That’s why she had seen it as an opportunity to once again, grow closer to Jason. To rebuild the relationship that had years ago. To become siblings once again.

She’s not even sure why Jason agreed to take her alone, not that she’s complaining. She just hopped into the car – excitement high and brimming – as she began thinking what kind of conversation they could have or if should they stop by for food afterward-

Though, in the end, both y/n and Jason crashed the car.

In both of your defenses, Jason – who was driving the car at that time – didn’t mean it. The both of you were high in euphoria and the thrill of high speed after all. And the road near the Wayne Manor is always empty considering, well, it’s also owned by the Wayne family, so no one is ever in it.

It’s not your or Jason’s fault that they didn’t predict a stray cat will pass through the road.

Y/n had screeched and Jason had cursed to hell back as he swerved. It’s only due to the man’s extensive experience as a vigilante and doing many many car chases throughout Gotham that the crash is not a horrible one.

But still, the custom Ferrari had a big dent and scratch mark on its side. Certainly not something that the both of you can hide from. 

Considering that it’s your dad’s favorite car, it’s only normal for him to be mad. But one look at your bruised forehead and Jason’s bleeding noise squashed down all of that anger and replaced it with worry and fretting. It seems his love for his children greatly overpowers any fond memories he has of that car.

However, it doesn’t mean that both of you came out of that mess scot-free. As a punishment, Bruce told both you and Jason to go fix the car.

Fixing the car is a generous term considering you and Jason only had to bring the car to something like a garage specializing in Ferrari or something. But though, it was also the moment that you started to build your relationship with Jason once again.

“Why do you like it so much though?” you had asked.

“Because it’s cool,” grunted out Jason as the both of you lounged in one of his safehouses. The TV is on, showing a Formula 1 race being broadcast. “Look, I know it just looks like cars going around in circles but you gotta watch the whole thing to understand the thrill!”

Letting out a hum, you settled once again on the sofa.

“Are you interested in it?” you asked in it. “To… you know, becoming your daytime job.”

“Dunno, being a crime lord is kind of a daytime kind of thing.”

You let out a huff of laughter at that. “You know that’s not what I mean,” you said, nudging him by the shoulder. “Dad is… you know how he’s trying to announce your revival publicly right?”

Y/n knows Jason knows that. Practically everyone in the family knows it at this point.

“And well, for your civilian persona, maybe having a daytime job that’s not borderline illegal could help.”

Jason let out a scoff at that. “Psh,” he said. “I’m like, way too old to start my carreer in racing,” waved Jason off, though Y/n can sense a hint of disappointment on his tone. “There’s no team who wants me anyway, what with my anger issue and bout of madness.”

The female frowned at that. “You know that’s not an issue,” she said.

“The hell does that mean?”

“If you want to become a Formula One driver, or anything – really – you just only need to say it,” said the woman. “Dad will practically buy you a private island if you asked him, let alone a Formula One team.”

Her brother stared at her, eyes blinking, and y/n merely kept her gaze on the screen in front of them.

“Are you- are you being serius?” Chocked out Jason.

“Jay,” started the female. “Dad id practically building a zoo on our backyard for Damian’s pure shit and giggles,” she said, reminding the older male about the construction that had been happening for some time and Damian’s dedication to it. “If Dad thinks you being a Formula One driver can help you to your… recovery, or you being closer to the family, he’s going to buy the whole paddock at this point.”

“… You’re being serious.”

“Obviously,” said y/n. “What? You don’t want to?”

“I don’t-“ Bit out Jason, “Have any time for that.”

Jason said that he doesn’t have any time for that. Not that he doesn’t wants it.

Y/n remember Jason’s childhood bedroom back in the manor. The old Formula One poster that had faded over time. The miniature Ferrari Formula One car that had been customized gift from the company, a special gift requested by Dad all those years ago. Or that day years ago, when Dad had taken a much younger y/n and Jason to Monza to watch the race.

She stared back at the race that’s showing on the screen in front of them.

Well, she thought. It won’t be too hard to convince dad to buy a formula one team.

You see, the thing is, contrary to popular belief, Bruce Wayne doesn’t want his children to become vigilantes like him. After all, he knows best how dangerous the job can be. How with a single mistake, a single misstep, it will be your life that is in danger.

He had been a bit accepting of the idea after Dick. Bruce knows that he’s not a great father, that he has made way too many mistakes, but seeing how great of a hero Dick is, the older man had accepted the fact that he may not have been a great father, but a great mentor.

However, that kind of thought soon changed.

After Jason, after Ethiopia and its explosion, and Joker’s manic laugh, he doesn’t want any of his children to become a vigilante. He doesn’t want to lose any of his children anymore. Bruce had been scared for the day that y/n would come to him and declare her desire to become a crime-fighting vigilante to come.

And yet, that day never came. Instead, y/n had come to him holding a stack of papers that Bruce recognized as his own father’s research paper. There’s a bright grin on her face, so much like Martha Wayne’s, as you declare, “I want to become a doctor!” said the girl. “Just like Grandpa Thomas!”

Oh, Bruce loves all of his children equally. He had loved each of them with the same intensity. Yet, at this moment, all he could see was the crying baby that was left on his doorstep all those years ago—the result of a careless one-night stand when he was too young even to manage his grief properly.

Y/n had been the first child that he raised and was even under his care years before he took in Dick as his ward. Bruce was practically a child himself when y/n appeared in his life, just a crying baby that was dumped on his doorstep by a mother who didn’t want her. He had made many mistakes and actually managed a somehow decent job at the whole being a father thing due to Alfred’s helping hand. She had been his only daughter for so long and seeing her like this, wanting to become someone just like his late father-

Maybe, just maybe. Maybe Bruce did a good job in this whole fathering thing.

That happened years ago, and now fast forward to now, y/n has become the youngest professor in Thomas Wayne Hospital. Considering her achievements and who her father is, it’s a no-brainer that she will take up the director seat soon enough. She too, alongside Jason, had been the face of Wayne Industry charities where her older brother focuses on helping street children to have a more stable future, she focuses on improving Gotham’s horrid healthcare system.

And of course, her side job.

The doctor to her siblings’ recklessness.

“Ow!” Hissed out Tim as y/n began stitching his wound in the med bay. “I didn’t expect it to be that painful-“

“Of course, it’s painful,” answered the woman with a scowl. “And you’re the one that’s insisting on not using any anesthesia, so suck it up like a big boy.”

“You know I got all sleepy if I had anesthesia,” grumbled the younger male. “I need to study a case file later tonight-“

“Tim,” cut off y/n. “When did you last sleep?”

Tim blinked. “… Last night?”

“Drake is lying,” interrupted Damian as he appeared next to the girl with a glare in his eyes. “He was last asleep approximately 65 hours ago,” continues the boy, tattling his older brother without a care in the world.

“You-“

“TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE-WAYNE!” Yelled y/n as she finished out the stitch. “What did I tell you about the importance of sleep!?”

“Well-“

“You’re still growing! I know that you just took over the CEO position and there are case files that you need to look up to, but how many times do I have to tell you that resting your body is also equally important!?”

The younger can’t even come up with a retort as he resigned himself on the onslaught of scolding that’s being rained upon him.

Dick is laughing easily besides them, fully enjoying the whole debacle.

It didn’t took y/n long to finish up tending on her sibling injuries before she moved towards where Bruce is sitting.

“I’m not injured,” he replied, though at the same time, letting his daughter to examined him closely.

Y/n furrowed her eyebrow at that, a gesture that his own mother likes to make when she knows that Bruce is lying, before she began examining him. It was silent around them, as Dick had decided to haul Tim up to his bedroom.

“Dad,” started y/n as she bandaged a small wound on his shoulder. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Bruce hummed.

“If I ask you to buy something, are you going to do it?”

That made him raised an eyebrow. Out of all of his children, y/n is probably the one who has the largest personal income besides Tim. It’s rare for the woman to ask Bruce something ever since she has her own money.

She’s probably going to ask him buy something expensive.

“Depends,” he replied. “What do you want?”

“A Formula One team?”

Huh.

Bruce has so many questions at that. 

He knows that a few months ago that y/n and Jason had crashed his Ferrari. As a punishment, he had asked them to fixed it together. He also knows that the both of them had been bonding over it. Y/n even visited Jason often enough to know the man’s daily habit at this point.

“What’s this all of the sudden?” he asked instead. “I didn’t know that you’re that… passionate about Formula One.”

It’s not that he’s against or doesn’t have the money to buy a Formula One team. Hell, he could probably buy the entirety of Formula One and go on his merry way. Wayne Industry is trying to expand into the automotive world too these past years – something that had caused Tim a great headache lately – but his daughter who previously doesn’t have any interest in Formula One suddenly asked him to buy a team there?

“It’s not for me, obviously,” said the woman. “It’s for… Jason.”

“Jason?” Bruce blinked.

“Lately we’ve been bonding a lot,” started y/n. “It’s great to have my older brother back, and we’ve been bonding a lot over Formula One because if you remember, Jason had always liked it, even before… everything.”

Bruce does remember it. The weekend that he spent in Monza with younger Jason and y/n had always been one of his fondest memory.

“I think Jason had wanted to become a Formule One driver, once.”

That, is something that Bruce doesn’t know.

“He obviously can’t right now, but if you buy a team, he could… I don’t know, do some testing, go on a simulation, or if god’s willing, maybe even race for the team,” explained y/n. “I know that this seems like a bizzare request dad, but I think this can make Jason really happy.”

An image of Jason appeared inside of his mind.

Of Jason scowling in front of him. Of Jason who had begged him to choose him over his killer. Of his son, laying lifeless on his arm, body cooling rapidly as the time stopped around him.

Of Jason, laughing and smiling decked in Ferrari colors in Monza all those years ago.

It’s an easy choice for Bruce Wayne- no, as Jason’s dad.

There’s a lot of hustle and bustle during the Monaco Grand Prix. This is not uncommon, considering how many celebrities or another important figures that attended that particular GP.

Though usually, Charles tuned them all out. After all, this is the Monaco GP. His home race. Monaco GP is probably the Grand Prix that matters the most to him. 

He really can’t help it. It has been his childhood dream to race in the streets of Monaco. Charles can remember vividly his childhood memories when he would watch the Monaco GP from his friends’ balcony. To watch the cars, speed up through the streets that he’s familiar with, just admiring and daydreaming about his dream as a Formula 1 driver. Years later, Charles managed to become a Formula 1 driver. Not only a Formula 1 driver but a Ferrari Formula 1 driver. It’s everything that he had ever wanted and yet-

It’s only losses after losses. Disappointments after disappointments. A string of failed races every time it’s time for him to race in his home country. People like to call it his Monaco curse. Charles personally found it ridiculous.

And yet they’re all living in a world where superheroes and supervillains roam around the land. They’re living in a world where there’s an alien and a man who dressed up as a bat posing as their heroes. Where villains who wants world domination appear every week.

So maybe, a curse is not something too far off.

Nonetheless, every time the Monaco GP turned up; it put him in a pensive mood. There are just so many things inside of his mind. The excitement of the race, all the bits of knowledge that he had to know regarding the car and the track, the fear of disappointment that kept hanging on his back over and over again.

Too many things to contemplate and brood about for him to listen to the idle chatter inside the garage. This year though, he can’t help but tune in.

“There’s an important guest in attendance,” said his manager during lunch. Charles eyed the chicken that was being served in front of his manager almost hungrily before he turned his gaze toward the sad plate of salad in front of him. “You know Bruce Wayne?”

“Ah,” said Charles in realization. Charles is not even an American and he’s very familiar with the name Bruce Wayne and the Wayne legacy. To be honest, it’s harder to not know the man considering he’s gracing every news outlet every other week. “The richest man in the world?”

“Bingo,” nodded the man. “He’ll attend the Monaco race, with some of his children,” he continued. “Apparently he’s a big fan of cars, and there’s even rumors that the Wayne Industry is going to acquire a team in Formula One soon.”

Oh, that’s news even for him. He wonders if FIA is going to expand the sport or maybe the Wayne Enterprise is going to buy one of the teams. Haas maybe?

“I see,” murmured Charles. “Is he going to stay in one of the team garages or?”

“He’ll be staying with us,” answered his manager. “His father had saved Ferrari from a financial crisis a few decades back, and Bruce Wayne is also one of the major stakeholders in Ferrari. The guy even got a custom-made Ferrari a few years ago… wonder where that went through.”

Well, if Charles also had a custom-made Ferrari, he would parade it around everywhere. But if you’re as rich as Bruce Wayne maybe a custom-made Ferrari is nothing.

Despite everything, Bruce Wayne didn’t actually show up until Sunday, the actual race day. Charles is sitting on top of tires just outside of the Ferrari garage, trying to get into the right head space when there seem to be clamors around him. He heard him before he saw him, as he could hear the increase of camera shutters and conversations.

Bruce Wayne is a large and domineering figure. He’s tall, really tall. Charles thinks there’s a couple of inches in difference in their height, but what really caught his attention is how built the guy is. Formula One drivers are expected to stay light, because the lighter they are, the faster their car will go. He has been way too used to seeing tall and lean men – the other drivers – that Bruce Wayne’s built body made him do a double-check.

Accompanying him, are a younger man and a woman – his children it seems. The man is also tall, taller than Charles but not as tall as Wayne, but he seems to compensate for it with pure muscle. He has tan skin as well as a tuft of dark hair with white streaks in front. The woman is also tall, her face showing few similarities with Wayne. Different from his father and brother who are decked in all black, the woman is wearing a red silk top. Clearly showing the whole paddock the team that she’s rooting for.

Ferrari’s chairman – John Elkann - is walking beside Wayne and is clearly pleased by the declaration from the woman.

“And of course, our driver!” said John when they were nearing the garage. Instantly all eyes were on Charles and almost automatically, a smile appeared on his lips. “Bruce, this is one of our drivers, Charles Leclerc, and Charles, you know Bruce Wayne.”

“Yes,” said Charles, increasing his charm to the max. Being on a good term with Bruce Wayne not only will benefit the racing team but Ferrari as a whole. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Wayne.”

Wayne laughed cheerily at that, shaking his hand with Charles. “It’s an honor for me too,” said the man. “I’ve been a big fan of Formula One for so long, only now do I have the time to watch a race live.”

Charles doubts that. Bruce Wayne is famous for all of his vacations and playboy lifestyle – the latter part had tamed a bit in recent years, considering all the children that he had now. No doubt, if he’s really a fan of Formula One, the man would have found time to watch a race or two.

“And my children too are big fans,” grinned Wayne as he motioned for both of his children to come closer. “This is Jason, my second eldest,” he put an arm around the man who nodded his head towards Charles. “And this is y/n, my youngest daughter.”

For the first time since their arrival, Charles got a good look on their face and-

Oh.

Oh.

Y/n Wayne is probably the most beautiful woman that Charles had ever seen in his life. Perfectly styled hair, red lipstick across her lips – perfectly complimenting her pearly teeth – and how her outfit today fits her like a glove. She looks really beautiful, almost unreal. It’s a really big compliment because he had seen many beautiful women – models, influencers, celebrities – but no one seems able to compare with the ethereal beauty of Y/n Wayne.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” said Y/n with a large smile. “As you can see,” at this, she motioned her top, there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I’m rooting for Ferrari, so I wish you good luck during the race.”

Fuck. Her voice sounds really nice too. Charles needs to open his mouth and answer the woman, but his voice seems to be stuck in his throat. 

Finally, after a couple of second of silence, he managed to say, “Yeah,” said the driver. “Yeah, thank you.”

A snort cut through his haze, making Charles turn his eyes towards the older Wayne’s sibling. Jason Wayne stares at him with a raised eyebrow, eyes showing as if he knows something that Charles doesn’t know. 

“I hope you enjoy your stay here,” said the driver turning his attention towards Bruce Wayne, trying to steer the conversation away from his awkwardness. Away from y/n Wayne’s perfectly styled hair and a perfect smile. “I was told you will be staying in the garage, yes?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Wayne. “I’m really excited about it, right Jason? y/n?”

“For sure,” answered Jason, talking for the first time since their arrival here. “Heard you have a shitty luck in your home race, gonna need lots of good luck, no?”

And ouch.

Charles knows that his home race curse is a bit infamous, but being told like this directly in front of his face is hurting his ego a bit. It’s not like he can give the guy a retort back considering he’s Bruce Wayne’s son – one of their biggest sponsors – but still, he can’t help the small twitch of annoyance that appeared on his lips.

“Jason,” said y/n, nudging the elder’s side.

Jason rolled his eyes, holding his hands up in defense. 

“Sorry about that,” said y/n. “He’s a bit prickly after the long flight.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” dismissed Charles good-naturedly, not wanting to offend their guests. “My Monaco curse has its own reputation after all.”

“Don’t call it a curse,” laughed y/n. “Someone once said to me that if you acknowledge something as a curse, it will only bring bad luck.”

Charles raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh?” he said, a bit intrigued. It’s an interesting concept after all. 

“Yes,” replied the female with a smile. Her eyes crinkled, only making it far more beautiful and show-stopping. “Maybe it’s luck? Luck for me?”

“For you?”

“Well, I think if I managed to see the il Predestino first race win in Monaco I would be a really lucky girl.”

And well, Charles can’t help but bark out a laugh at that. The idea itself is a bit ridiculous, but somehow, it only warms his heart. The woman seems to be amused at his sudden bout of laughter as she too, regards him with some kind of amusement in her eyes.

“That certainly one of the ways to see it,” said the driver, amusement dripping on his tone. “Thank you though, I’ll remember your words during the race and maybe it can serve as my personal lucky charm.”

Y/n let out a laugh at that. “Please do,” replied the woman. “It’s every girl’s dream to be remembered by Charles Leclerc after all.”

“Every girl’s dream huh?” answered the driver. “Is it also yours?”

“Well, for one, I’m a woman,” said y/n grinning.

“Mhm, I can see that-”

“That’s enough of that,” Cut off Jason and it made Charles remember that it’s not only him and y/n in the room. The older of the Wayne children stared at the both of them with something akin to disapproval that made Charles flicker his eyes to where Bruce Wayne was. Thankfully, he’s deep in a conversation with John. “I really don’t want to see my sister flirting with someone,” this he made a vague gagging sound, “and Bruce is leaving, so we better get going.”

“Ah,” said y/n, turning her eyes towards where her father is. “Jason is right, it’s really nice to meet you, Charles.”

He really can’t help the twinge of disappointment that appeared inside of him. He had been enjoying their conversation after all. The driver wishes that he doesn’t have a race soon so that they can have more time just getting to know each other. “It’s also really nice to meet you, y/n.”

The woman smiled at that before she leaned closer, startling him a bit. “Let’s continue our conversation later at the after-party,” she whispered, giving him a wink before she leaned back and said again in a louder voice. “Anyway, good luck out there. We’re really looking forward to the race later.”

Soon after that, Bruce Wayne’s entourage moved on, no doubt exploring the paddock with Ferrari’s chairman, leaving Charles standing there staring.

“Stop that gawking,” muttered his managed, snapping him out of his trance. “We all know y/n Wayne is pretty.”

Charles spluttered. “I was-“ he began fumbling. “I was not gawking at her.”

“Mhm,” hummed his manager. “Anyway, get your head right on your shoulder loverboy, the race is starting soon.”

The driver grumbled as he turned around towards the garage.

He’s Charles Leclerc. He does not gawk. He’s not-

Y/n Wayne’s beautiful smile flashed across his mind.

Oh.

Well, he’s a simple man after all.

[burntheedges]

Pas de Deux Chapter 1

Din Djarin x f!reader | 2.9k | fic masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

fic summary: When Din Djarin – principal dancer at Concordia Ballet Company and generational talent in the classical style – suddenly left CBC and joined the Nevarro Ballet Theater mid-season, it shocked the ballet world. You never would have guessed that he would change your life, too.

a/n: here we go! Chapter 1 starts sometime in late fall, November-ish. See my notes on the masterlist about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!!

chapter tags/warnings: gen, ballet terms (see end notes and the masterlist for definitions), a bit of angst

Chapter 1

“‘In a surprise move that shook the dance world, the Concordia Ballet Company announced yesterday that they have parted ways with principal dancer Din Djarin.’”

You could hear the sudden gasps through the open door of the large studio as you walked towards it. You recognized Clara’s voice as she read the news aloud, you assumed from her phone. 

“‘Djarin, 27, who trained at the rigorous Concordia Ballet School from a young age, has been with CBC for 10 years and is in the prime of his career. He was promoted from soloist to principal two years ago, as is the norm at CBC, where they do not promote dancers younger than 25 to principal. His performances have been highlights on the CBC schedule over the last two seasons, earning many rave reviews.’” 

You turned the corner to enter the studio and found most of the company class crowded around Clara as she looked down at her phone.

“‘The CBC press release did not indicate the reason for the split, which only makes this mid-season decision more disconcerting for fans and donors alike.’”

The group around Clara murmured and shifted their weight. You had just read the article on the bus and knew what was coming next. You slid down to sit against the wall by the door, watching.

“‘This decision comes amidst the company’s preparation for spring and for the last show on their fall schedule, Don Quixote, with no explanation as to how their roster of principals and other dancers may be adjusted to compensate for this enormous loss. Djarin is well known for his powerful physique, technical mastery, and classically perfect performances.’” Clara paused, and then continued, “then it talks about some of his work, we know all of that already, blah blah blah, ok whoa!” She gasped. “Ok. Listen to this – ‘Djarin has not been available for comment, but was seen boarding a flight to Nevarro two days ago before the announcement was made public!'”

You started to put on your shoes for barre and watched as everyone else in the room started to completely freak out.

“Here?!” Owen exclaimed, hand thrown over his mouth. “Is he coming here here?” He gestured around the studio as he asked.

Clara shrugged. “It doesn’t say, look, that’s the end of the article.”

Sophie had started rising up and down on the balls of her feet by one of the barres and you weren’t sure if she was aware she was doing it. Her tone was excited as she asked, “would he come here? Why? We’re, like, not his style.”

The room broke down into several noisy conversations at that point, and you felt your friend Adrian slip down the wall to sit next to you. “So, what do you think?” he asked, nudging your shoulder. 

You shrugged. “No idea. I can’t see any reason he’d even want to come here. CBC is so…” You trailed off, but he knew what you meant.

“Yeah. Traditional. Rigid. Not like us at all.” Adrian waved his hand towards the mismatched group of dancers in front of you and you both smiled. The Nevarro Ballet Theater was different from the Concordia Ballet Company in many ways, and the diversity of dancers in the company was one of the things that set NBT apart the most.

You nodded. “Right. If his flight destination even means anything.”

“If it does, what would that mean for us?” Adrian looked around the room. “We already have a full roster of soloists and principals.” He bit his lip. He looked nervous, and he wasn’t the only one — you noticed Sasha, Lu, Carlos, and Isaac were huddled around the bar, clearly worried. All principals, you assumed they were nervous about losing out on parts. For Adrian, you knew it was because he had just made soloist at the start of the season. A new superstar coming in might shake things up too much.

You nudged his shoulder with your own. “I was thinking about that when I read it on the bus. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I heard what Karga said, about how good you are.”

He nodded, but didn’t look reassured. “At least you don’t have anything to worry about, Ms. Soon-To-Be-Principal.” 

You rolled your eyes and shoved down the anxiety lurking in your stomach. You’d made soloist a couple of years ago, and then first soloist this season. There were some people (including Adrian) who seemed to think you’d be promoted soon, as early as the end of the current season. But there were at least a few critics who disagreed, and for months you’d been having trouble putting the words of one in particular out of your mind. You could quote it from memory:

“While her lyricism and skill are undeniable, one wonders if she has the artistry or stage presence to carry a narrative. She more than deserves the promotion to first soloist, but is this her ceiling?” 

You wished you’d never read the article, but it had seemed to be the usual season preview and you hadn’t been expecting the targeted commentary. You’d spent the last few months trying not to think about it too much, or you knew you would get all in your head about it.

“Shut up.” You nudged him again and he laughed.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the door opening next to you. It wasn’t your teacher who walked in, though, and once you saw who it was you both leapt to your feet.

Greef Karga, director of the Nevarro Ballet Theater, looked happy, but then he usually did. 

“Good morning, dancers!’ His voice was deep and loud and you all scrambled into a semi-circle facing him at the door, where your ballet instructor, Alexa, followed him in. You chorused a “good morning” in response.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen the news,” Karga continued, with a knowing smile on his face. “And you must be wondering why I’m here!” You glanced in the mirror and noted that everyone did indeed look both curious and a little wary. “Well, I am very pleased to confirm that Din Djarin will be joining us for the rest of the season here at NBT.”

There was some general murmuring and shock in response, but he was not deterred.

“I know we’re in the middle of the season, with many roles already planned. Din and I have agreed to try not to disrupt that too much this year. We’ll be adding some things to the anniversary gala and the mixed programs.” That made sense — the latter were showcases of the work of different composers and choreographers and could be more easily rearranged to include a new dancer. “We won’t be making any changes to Midsummer, Swan Lake, or Cinderella, which I know we’re already planning for and rehearsing.” You felt Adrian take a deep, relieved breath beside you. He was supposed to be Puck this year for the first time and it sounded like that wasn’t going to change. 

“Din will start joining your classes and the rehearsals for the gala and other programs over the course of the next two weeks. Please introduce yourself and welcome him — we are very excited to have him join us.”

You all nodded, of course, even though you knew a lot of your fellow dancers would be wary of the newcomer. 

“Well!” Karga clapped his hands together and smiled. “I’ll let you get started. Continue with your rehearsals as normal unless you hear otherwise. Have a wonderful day, everyone!”

Alexa moved towards the stereo system in the corner as Karga swept out of the room, and you turned to look at Adrian. 

“Well,” he said, turning towards his usual place at the barre. “This should be interesting.”

You nodded as Alexa turned on the music and you took your usual spot next to him at the barre. It definitely would be.

…

After all that excitement, you didn’t even see Djarin for a few days. He didn’t join the morning company classes right away, but you couldn’t really blame him — moving suddenly across the country wasn’t easy. It didn’t stop you from glancing around every room as you entered, trying to catch sight of your elusive new company member. 

You heard from the others that he’d dropped by a couple of rehearsals, and they’d overheard him talking about plans for the mixed programs with some of the choreographers and other staff, including Talia and Jee. You wondered if he’d ever met Kuiil, the current guest choreographer in residence, who traveled and usually worked with different companies every few years. You somehow doubted it — Kuiil’s style was much too contemporary for CBC.

You’d been in rehearsals for Nutcracker and Midsummer all week, though, so you weren’t really surprised that you hadn’t run into him yet. 

Finally, on Friday morning, you arrived early for class to find a group of your fellow company members huddled by the mirror and staring awkwardly across the room. You followed their gaze and found Din Djarin, in the flesh, warming up at the barre. For a moment you couldn’t reconcile the sight of him in your familiar space. He was tall and imposing, and dressed all in black — black ballet shoes, black tights, black sweats that cut off below his knees, and a tight black long sleeve shirt that showcased the breadth of his shoulders and just how strong he was. His curly brown hair was tousled. His signature mustache, somewhat uncommon in ballet, was in place, though you knew he often shaved for performances — there had been articles about his daring breach of the Concordia status quo when he didn’t. At least at NBT he’d be allowed to keep it, you thought. His face was blank, completely expressionless as he stretched. 

You knew he had to know the rest of the group was watching him, and when you glanced back and found them still huddled you sighed. You felt someone step into the room behind you and turned to find Adrian taking in the standoff. 

He shook his head. “Great start.” His tone was dry, and you laughed under your breath. 

“Should we say hello?” You sat to put on your ballet shoes and Adrian sank down beside you.

“Who, us?” Adrian raised an eyebrow at you. “Do I look brave to you?” 

You laughed again, and were about to suggest going together for moral support when Alexa walked in. She took in the situation and sighed, shaking her head as she crossed the room to where Djarin was still warming up alone.

“Look! Alexa took care of it.” Adrian nudged you and smiled. “No need for us to take one for the team after all.”

The two of you watched as she spoke with him, though you couldn’t hear what they were saying. He nodded at her, and she smiled before walking towards the stereo.

“Alright, let’s get started!” She called out without looking to see if anyone listened, but you all did. You realized as you took your normal spot that you were diagonal from Djarin across the space between two of the barres in the middle of the floor. You’d be able to see him whenever you were working your left side, and somewhat in the mirror on your right. You resolved not to stare.

You only sort of succeeded.

The problem, you quickly realized, was that his movements were beautiful. Even while doing simple pliés or tendus you could see the power in his body, the strength in his muscles, the rigor of his training. Every movement was precise, clean, and perfectly placed. The elegant line of his arm and the curve of his hip drew your gaze like a magnet, over and over again. His effortless coordination and control were mesmerizing. You watched the slow extension of his leg into grand battement until you had to force yourself to tear your eyes away.

Well, you thought, he certainly lives up to all of the hype about technique. CBC had a reputation and he more than exceeded it.

It made you painfully aware of the limits of your own abilities. You knew you were good – you’d made it this far, of course, and now you were first soloist, despite having what was seen as a late start in ballet (at age 7). And despite what the critics said, you were considered to be one of the better technicians at NBT. But you were no match for his level of skill, for the rigorous training you’d heard about at CBC. That much was obvious just from looking at him. 

You tried to clear your mind as the class continued, knowing your worries would start to show in your movements if you let them. It was hard to do that when so much strength and technical perfection stood only five feet away from you, demonstrating the ideal version of every move and transition that you attempted.

As you finished at the barre and quickly put on your pointe shoes to work in the center of the room, you finally put it out of your mind. There was no use in comparison, you’d learned that a long time ago. In the end, the only dancer you could compete with was yourself. And NBT was not a company that encouraged that kind of competition among dancers anyway.

You found your feet going across the floor, letting yourself sink into it as you moved through some jumps and short combinations. You tried to feel nothing but the pull in your muscles and pattern of your breath. By the end of the class you felt a little steadier, a little more centered.

Alexa dismissed the class, and you started to gather your things. As you slipped off your pointe shoes, you felt someone brush past you, heading for the door — Djarin didn’t look back as he crossed the threshold into the hall. You realized as he did that he hadn’t spoken a single word for the entire class. You wondered if he was unhappy to be here, after all. 

By the time you stepped into the hallway, he was nowhere to be seen.

Adrian fell into step next to you as you walked towards the larger rehearsal studios at the other end of the building. He hooked your arms together and looked around quickly to see if anyone was nearby. He leaned in to whisper, “did you see that? He was amazing!”

You nodded. “I know. I didn’t think anyone could live up to all that hype, but he does.”

Adrian shook his head, looking dismayed. “I know they said some roles wouldn’t change but, ugh. I wouldn’t blame them.”

“Hey,” you elbowed him lightly. “Don’t. You’re going to be amazing as Puck. And you know that role plays to your strengths. I don’t see him taking that one from you. It’s not really his style.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Ok, let’s hurry, I need to tape my knee before Nutcracker.” You winced in sympathy, knowing how much he’d be jumping in practice for both the Russian dance and the jack-in-the-box roles. But his words jogged your memory.

“Shit.” You froze in the hallway. “I left my tape in the studio. Go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded, but you were already turning as you said it, waving him on.

You heard him jog off towards the rehearsal rooms behind you as you walked quickly back the way you’d come, turning past the bathrooms and the administrative offices. It didn’t take long and your tape was right where you’d left it. 

Tape in hand, you turned around again and started walking back down the long hall. 

As you approached the offices, though, the sound of Karga’s raised voice stopped you in your tracks, just around the corner from his office door.

“We talked about this, Din. It's part of this company’s identity. You want to break away from them? You need to make a statement.” You heard the slapping sound of one hand against another and imagined Karga hitting his hand with his fist for emphasis. 

“No, Greef, listen. I don’t—“ You startled. It was the first time you’d heard Djarin’s voice and it was much deeper and more pleasant than you would have imagined. 

Karga interrupted him. “No, you listen. Din, you can do this. I know you can. And it will show them everything they’re missing, everything they let slip through their fingers. They are so stuck in their ways, they have no idea what you can really do. What you’re capable of. Let me help you get there.”

You heard Djarin sigh. “This will go badly and I’m going to blame you.”

Karga chuckled. You tried to picture Djarin looking amused, too, and failed. All you could conjure was the expressionless mask he’d kept in place for all of class that morning. Karga continued, “I’ll take it happily. This is going to be great, don’t you worry! We’ll ease you into it. Now, let’s go share the news.”

You heard them start to move around in the office and startled into motion. As you turned the corner, the door to Karga’s office swung open in front of you and Din Djarin stepped out of it. He was moving quickly, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed. He barely glanced in your direction, but when he did, you took a surprised step back at the fierceness of his glare. It was the most emotion you’d seen from him so far, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant. He didn’t stop, though, and quickly turned away from you to move down the hall towards rehearsal. You blinked, frozen mid-step, unable to shake the look he’d just given you. What was that about?

...

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a/n: sooo what do you think? ballet terms in this chapter:

see the masterlist for principal, soloist, class vs. rehearsal, season

plié - a bending of the needs (you've probably seen dancers standing at the barre and bending their knees -- that's a plié)

tendu - tight or stretched out - stretching one leg out long, often in brushes along the floor

grand battement - the leg is raised from the hip into the air and brought down again, both knees straight (with apparent ease)

barre - the rail that ballet dancers use in class (don't lean on it!). usually you'd wear normal ballet shoes at the barre and switch into pointe shoes (toe shoes) to do exercises in the center or go across the floor

and if you'd like a visual aid, one of the dancers I'm mentally modeling Din after is Carlos Acosta, who you can see in this compilation (~6:49) doing a variation from Don Quixote.

tag list coming in a reblog!

[kick-a-long]

Jewish Columbia students were chased out of dorms, spat on, and pinned against walls: damning report

By Matthew Sedacca

Published Aug. 31, 2024, 3:44 p.m. ET

Jewish students at Columbia University were chased out of their dorms, received death threats, spat upon, stalked and pinned against walls, as the Ivy League school devolved into a cesspool of antisemitic hate in the wake of Hamas’ Oct. 7 murderous raid on Israel.

The new and disturbing details emerged from the lengthy, 91-page document released Friday by the school’s faculty-led antisemitism task force, which revealed the extent to which the hate permeated the institution.

“Students described being shoved, pushed to the ground, berated for showing support for Zionist causes, and watching Israeli flags burned,” the task force’s authors wrote.

Jewish and Israeli students at Columbia University endured a months-long nightmare of harassment, violent threats and assaults after Oct. 7.

Getty Images

“They recounted seeing drawings of swastikas in their dorms, students yelling pro-Hamas chants, and being denied access to public spaces and opportunities simply because they were Jewish or Israeli.”

Testimony from nearly five hundred Columbia students informed the report, which found visibly observant Jews had been pinned to the wall and had their jewelry ripped off while coming and going from synagogue. Others recounted being spat on and having been called ethnic slurs on campus.

One student, who had installed a mezuzah on her dorm’s doorway prior to the Israel-Hamas war, was forced to move out after people were pounding her door throughout the night beginning in October, demanding she explain the Jewish state’s war in Gaza.

“If I walk on campus right now with my star out or kippah or say ‘am Yisrael chai,’ I could start World War III,” one anonymous student’s testimony read.

Instructors tasked with guiding and mentoring students instead contributed to the sense of isolation and unease among Jews and Israelis on campus, according to the report.

Students recalled being pushed to the ground and watching Israeli flags being burned.

One faculty member leading a class that delved into the Israel-Hamas conflict called a student who previously served in the IDF a murderer. Another professor extensively said a pair of Jewish donors to the university had “laundered” “dirty money” and “blood money.”

During the spring, as protests and encampments roiled the school’s Morningside Heights campus, protesters, including outsiders and members of the university community, bellowed death threats at Jewish students. Demonstrators who held Israeli flags, meanwhile, recalled being assaulted.

“There is a sense of personal threat, and we keep looking over our shoulders,” master’s student Omer Lubaton Granot, an Israeli veteran and father of a toddler, told an Israeli radio station in the wake of protesters seizing the academic building Hamilton Hall in April.

Councilman Eric Dinowitz (D-Bronx) described the students’ testimonies as “horrifying — and not surprising.”

“These are stories we’ve been hearing about, as the report says, even before the encampments,” he told The Post, adding that antisemitism had been on the rise at college campuses even before Oct. 7

“Without any sort of consequence [for students and faculty] this sort of behavior will continue

The task force offered several recommendations to address the issues detailed in the voluminous report, including improved anti-bias training for students and staff along with a new system for reporting complaints about antisemitism.

The report was issued just days before Columbia’s fall semester begins and less then three weeks after embattled university president Minouhce Shafik suddenly resigned, citing the “period of turmoil” that marred her brief tenure at the school.

Interim President Katrina Armstrong called the disturbing incidents “completely unacceptable” before rattling off new initiatives at the university aligning with the panel’s recommendations.

“This is an opportunity to acknowledge the harm that has been done and to pledge to make the changes necessary to do better and to rededicate ourselves, as university leaders, as individuals, and as a community, to our core mission of teaching and research,” she said

[loverofallthingssarah]

no more runnin’

part 1

melissa schemmenti x reader

summary: you’re hiding, you’re running. melissa finds you and your daughter and helps bring you both back to life.

warning: n/a

word count: 1.1k

a/n: this is my first time writing in probably over a year so i hope it’s decent! also im sorry if there are any spelling errors.

You slowly rolled out of bed with a big yawn and stretch that reminded you of your two cats that just happened to keep you up all last night exploring their new domicile. Get your daughter some cats they said, it would teach her responsibility they said. You scoff but love them nevertheless.

Walking towards your daughter's room to get her up and to start getting ready. You start looking around the hallway at all the boxes still lining the walls with all the things you and your daughter collected along the way. Usually you would have everything unpacked by now, but the gravity of your moves were weighing heavy on your chest. You were tired of having to pick up your lives whenever people started to figure out who you really were.

“Hey, baby… it’s time to get up and get ready for your first day at school!” you say excitedly. She grumbles, turning over, hiding under her covers. She reminds you so little of yourself. You were always a morning person and you wondered just where she got her morning grumpiness from because her sperm donor was never a part of your life. But you love how different you both were because there was never a dull moment between you both.

You giggle as you scoop her up and tickle her, “Come on Acey, it’s time to get up!”

“Momma, I don’t wanna go to a new school,” she pouts, “I don’t have any friends and I won’t know anybody and I hate starting new schools.” You stand her up and take her to your bathroom and start getting her ready for the day.

“I know, babygirl. But you said that with your last school, and you made so many friends! I know the same will happen here and I know your teacher will love you. How can she not? You’re the bestest girl in the whole wide world!” you say as you pull her up in a tight hug after you finish up her hair.

Acey smiles, “Okay momma, you’re probably right.”

“Go get dressed baby. I’m going to finish getting ready and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” you say as you finish your morning routine. Simple routine due to being an ER nurse. Putting on loads of makeup and doing your hair to the nines just wasn’t worth it when you were bound to be run ragged by the end of your shift. Luckily for you, your schedule was extremely flexible due to a need to be able to pick up and drop your daughter off. Being there for her every night, because you didn’t have anyone you trusted to take care of her other than your parents. But they were left back home in South Carolina.

As you get started with breakfast you couldn’t help but think… Today somehow felt different, as if there was something you were meant to accomplish and you couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Part of you felt like, maybe this was the place you could settle down and stop running from your past. You did everything right this time and you were so careful. You pushed that thought to the back of your head because you didn’t want to get your hopes up.

Scrambling as always you both finish breakfast and letting your daughter give the cats a thousand hugs before you make your way to the car to get you both to work and school.

Finally, you pull up to Abbot and see students gathering up in a straight line at the front of the school getting ready to start another day. Your daughter looks out of the window with wide eyes and you can see a glint of curiosity at all the newness around her.

Making your way inside you make your way to the front desk, “Hello my name is Y/N Hadley. This is my daughter Acey. We registered her last week and she is here for her first day of second grade. I haven’t gotten any information on who her teacher is yet.”

A stern, yet soft looking woman rolls her eyes and turns around and yells, “Ava, get over here!”

She turns back to you, “I’m sorry, Y/n. My name is Mrs. Howard, but you can call me Barbara. I teach kindergarten here at Abbot. I’m sorry for the lack of communication our principal here can sometimes… be forgetful.”

You nod understandingly. After your brief interaction with Principal Coleman while registering Acey for school, you could already tell she was a character. You just knew she was in good hands at the school despite the kooky principal. You just had a feeling.

Ava made her appearance dramatically, “Hey, hot stuff. Let’s get your rugrat to class.” She pushes you both along down the hallway. You roll your eyes at her comment knowing that she probably does this with all the parents.

“Acey will be in Ms. Schemmenti’s class,” Ava says as she looks you up and down. “Hot stuff, what’s your ig handle. I go live everyday at…” she starts rambling but you tune her out. As you round the corner to your daughter's new classroom, you see a beautiful redhead bent at the knee tending to one of her students who was having a hard time saying goodbye to his mom. When she finally gets him to sooth a bit and enter her classroom, all three of you step forward to greet the gorgeous second grade teacher.

Ava speaks up, “Melisssa, this is Acey and her mother Y/n. She will be joining your class and yes I realize I forgot to tell you. And no I don’t care.” she turns on her heel with a smirk making her way back to her office. Melissa rolls her eyes and huffs at Ava’s retreating form. Almost like if she could reach out and wrangle her neck she would. You giggle quietly to yourself.

The redhead whom you now know is Melissa Schemmenti, bends down and welcomes your daughter, “Hi, sweetheart. Welcome to my class! Your desk will be over there by Malcolm. Go have a seat and we will get ready to have an amazing day,” your daughter hugs you tightly before following her teachers instructions.

“I love you, momma”

“I love you too, little monster!” she scurries off and Melissa turns her attention to you. She reaches out to shake your hand.

“Hello, I’m Melissa Schemmenti, but you can just call me Melissa.” and when your hands touch you feel a shock. and you breathlessly reply…

“hi…”

part 2 part 3

[tobiasdrake]

I know you haven't done your deep-dive fighting style posts in a while, but I was curious if you'd want to do one for Cell? I think his whole deal as a composite of multiple powerful fighters could be interesting to consider...

Oh, sure. Let's talk about Cell.

Cell is a complicated creature. The surface level is just that he's a regenerating bio-android who can use everybody's attacks, but we're gonna go a bit deeper than that. The first thing to note about Cell is that he, very unusually, does not have a ki signature. Rather, he has five ki signatures; One for each of his five genetic donors.

There is no distinct "Cell" ki the way there is for "Yamcha" ki or "Gohan" ki. Cell reads like Goku, Vegeta, Piccolo, Frieza, and King Cold are all standing in a circle holding hands or something. But this isn't just a neat detail; It also informs on his fighting ability.

Cell is able to use moves like the Kamehameha because he has their wielders' ki. Which has wild implications for how ki and martial arts works, if we're being honest. Apparently your techniques are stored in your ki like genetic muscle memory. He can also perform the Taiyoken/Solar Flare because that, too, is stored in Goku's ki.

Cell taps into one of his five wells of ki to call on that person's moves. But that comes with drawbacks. Cell's Kamehameha against Piccolo was weak and unimpressive because the well of Goku ki he has inside of him was taken from the fight with Vegeta, and we're a long way past that.

Cell-Goku's ki just isn't strong enough to power a very impressive attack, compared to the Nameless Namekian.

Further, because these abilities are stored like genetic memory, Cell himself doesn't fully understand what he's capable of.

He knows what these abilities are on a conscious level. He knows that he can do them. But he lacks experience. He has a wealth of technical knowledge without practical understanding of how to apply it.

He has a good laugh at Trunks over this shit.

But when it's his back against the wall, he's no better than Trunks.

Cell may have Goku's, Piccolo's, and Vegeta's ki, but he is no Goku nor Piccolo nor even Vegeta. He doesn't know how to fight when he's on the backfoot. He doesn't know how to turn things around when the tide shifts against him. How to plan his moves out in advance and then execute that plan to overcome a superior foe.

Because for all his advanced knowledge, he's still green.

He's sitting in an engineering workshop with the best tools that billions of dollars of wealth can buy and a middle-school education. He only knows how to dominate.

Which frequently bites him in the ass.

Likely as a consequence of how many raging egomaniacs are packed inside of him, Cell has a severe overconfidence problem. He conducts himself as if he were invincible, at one point even going so far as to let Vegeta hit him with his best shot and very nearly paying the ultimate price for his foolishness.

Sometimes it's only Piccolo's regeneration that keeps him from losing fights that, with his power, he should be winning handily. He coasts a lot on being very hard to put down.

Cell's comfort zone is when he can step out onto the field, having leveled up so far that nobody can touch him. He's not playing a fighting game. He's playing an RPG. If the fight turns against him, if he can't overwhelm his opponents, he turns his tail and runs for his life so he can grind some XP and try again.

And when he can't do that, he turns to more desperate measure like crying about the unfairness or trying to nuke the planet to murder-suicide his opponents. Thought, admittedly, the former was a ploy to manipulate Vegeta.

Cell's an extremely sore loser, is basically what I'm getting at here. He has a hard time figuring out ways to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, instead preferring to simply ragequit when fights turn against him. While also going out of his way to help his opponents power up, secure in the misguided belief that he's untouchable.

Cell has two modes: "I am invincible!" and "Oh no I'm vincible what do I do!?" The latter of which is a problem Goku, Piccolo, and Vegeta have all faced over their lives and come up with a variety of answers to, but for which Cell mostly falls back on "I need a level-up so I can be invincible again."

Cell's fight with Goku is his best. It's the one fight he has that genuinely feels like he and his opponent are both giving as well as they get.

It's this fight, keeping pace with Goku, that pushes Cell to his most interesting places as a fighter. Though, conspicuously, he's sandbagging and secretly this is yet another fight in Cell's comfort zone, where the true threat to him is minimal.

Uh, except when Goku outplays him.

See above, re: Cell nearly losing fights he should be winning handily.

Nonetheless, we get to see Cell at his best here. Which still pretty much consists of the basics: Punch, kick, Kamehameha here or there. And at one point pulling 17's force field out from desperation.

Cell's inexperience leads him to have difficulty anticipating his opponents' moves or gauging their strength.

And, fitting for a copycat fighter, he also has seemingly no capacity to innovate new ideas, strategies, or techniques for himself. Over the course of the Cell Games, he pulls "My Kamehameha will destroy the Earth if you don't stop it!" three separate times.

He really has no better ideas than this one. Which he stole from Vegeta.

But he also doesn't make a lot of use of his copycat abilities either. He mainly relies on the easy ones: The Kamehameha and Taiyoken, both of which are described as pretty simple and easy to perform. Though this isn't because he can't do more complex moves, as we see him break out Frieza's Death Beam in his fight with Gohan.

He has other moves. He just doesn't use them much.

(This is not the case in the anime, where he not only makes far more use of his technique pool but also they increased his number of donors to give him a wider pool of moves to copycat.)

I would be loathe to describe Cell as lazy. He puts a lot of effort into grinding XP in his own special way so that his Android manhunt can go off successfully. But his art is lazy. His style. His technique.

Out of all the major Dragon Ball characters, Cell is the most complacent. He was born already knowing everything he thinks he needs to know, and demonstrates little to no desire to refine his abilities on a technical level the way Goku, Piccolo, Vegeta, and even Frieza do.

He has a built-in roadmap of shortcuts to power, and so far as he's concerned, that's all he needs to become unstoppable.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XI. “lying through teeth”

parts: previous / next

plot: you have a tense visit with old friends that culminates in a hotheaded confession. Bruce Wayne decides his first official public appearance.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, sexuality

words: 2.6k

You woke up the next morning to brightly colored curtains and walls. You shot up in bed, startling a creature at your feet to jump up. It was Walter, and you were in your childhood bedroom. The sheets were from when you were a tween, some bright pink floral bedding that your dad had pulled out of the back of the closet. It smelled slightly musty, but Walter quickly fuzzied it up and made it feel like home. He crawled up to you with a yawn and stretch, and you pet his head as you gathered your surroundings. You weren't in someone else's bed. It wasn't dungeon-like. You heard your mom and dad talking out in the living room and heaved a sigh of relief.

Your phone on the bedside table vibrated, and you checked it. 1:38 in the afternoon. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and wandered out to the living room, your feet immediately rendering that they were back at home safe and sound. Your parents greeted you with delight as they had hands on the door—your mother had a new walker. She's not that old yet. God. I should have asked to see her scans yesterday. "We'll be gone until dinner, talking with the neighbors. I told Margaret about the anonymous donor and oh my, all the neighbors are gathering to celebrate!" With that she and your father bid you adieu, letting you know there were leftover pancakes from breakfast in the fridge.

Margaret. Mar. You took your phone out of your pocket and sent her a text. You hadn't told her you were leaving yet, but you weren't super close, and it had been on a whim... Hey, so sorry to let you know this over text but I left back to home yesterday. My mom's health is having some issues so I had to move quickly. How are you doing back there?

After eating some cold blueberry pancakes you slumped over in a dining room chair to think ahead to your mostly empty day. Walter wandered around behind you until he found his food bowl and went to town. If he followed his usual pattern he would curl up in his bed near the couch and go into a food coma for the next few hours. You smiled. What a cutie. You opened your phone again, this time to call your friend Lara. She answered on the very last ring. When you told her you were back in town, she responded sheepishly. "Uh, we thought you wouldn't be in town this early. We wanted to plan a homecoming party for you with your parents but we hadn't gotten around to it." 'We' referred to your friend group: Lara, Gabbi, and Rose. You didn't believe her when she said she was planning a party—you didn't even know if they were really your friends anymore. You'd tried to reach out so many times while you were in Gotham, but you'd only received enough responses to fit on one hand. All short, staccato, to the point. "Miss you!" and "Sounds good!" were the only type of responses your group of friends since high school had left for you since you'd left the city, though you started to wonder if they ever gave you things besides pleasantries at all.

You asked if the group wanted to go get coffee now, and after another hesitation she agreed. "Gab and Rose were just on their way to meet me to go to thrifting, but that can wait." It didn't sound like she wanted to wait, but nonetheless you planned to meet at 2:30. You showered, put on some clean clothes from your luggage, and grabbed your old bike to ride over. You had sold the car you'd gotten senior year of high school to pay for the flight to Gotham two years ago.

At 2:31 you pulled up to the local coffee shop. Sat on a patio table were Lara, Gabbi and Rose, all on their phones with drinks mostly empty when you pulled up. Had they been waiting here? Had they already been here? "Hi, sorry, we couldn't wait and already got our drinks." Lara smiled over her phone and gestured toward a grande chai latte sat across from her. "We got you a chai since you probably don't have a paycheck yet."

You held back a wince. Backhanded. You remembered another reason why you'd left which you'd tried hard to forget: your friends were... callous. They didn't have much of a filter, nor show much interest in anything outside of their own interests. Gabbi and Rose gave subtle waves when you sat down across from them, eyes still glued to their phones. Rose gasped and showed something to Gabbi, who gasped alongside her. "Ugh. That douche."

"How was your time in the big city?" Lara put her phone down while the other two chatted to look at you. At least Lara, however disinterested she could sound, tried to be an attentive friend. She'd had dreams of going to Harvard Law after you'd both binged Legally Blonde sophomore year of high school, but she'd missed the deadline senior year after a particularly bad bout of the flu. Now she worked a the local flower shop and somehow secured a local exchange student boyfriend, of which they were now three years strong. You put your chin in your elbows and sighed. "It's more dangerous than I thought. And also more boring. I think Gabbi and Rose would really like it there, it's more for partiers I think. I don't know, I never really found my place." You noticed Lara's eyes start to glaze over and shifted the subject. "But uh, I officially turned in my last paper for my degree! So as soon as they send in my certificate through the mail I'm done!" You forced a smile and Lara did the same. "Good for you." Her tone was sickly sweet and you once again hid a wince.

There was an awkward pause for a few moments until Lara cleared her throat and absently asked what your paper was on. Without thinking much of it, you responded. "I was going to do it on Bruce Wayne, but he stopped halfway through the interview."

Gabbi, Rose, and Lara all gasped in unison, and the former threw their phones onto the glass table. "OH MY GOD," Gabbi shrieked. "You've met Bruce Wayne?" By the way their faces lit up it was as if an A-list celebrity had entered the room.

"Did you hook up with him?"

You frowned. "I, I didn't need to sleep with him to get the interview,"

Gabbi, who had asked the question, furiously shook her head. "No," she said with an eye roll. "Because he's a billionaire?" They all stared at you with big, bright eyes. You had their full attention for the first time in your entire friendship. It hurt you, but you tried to hide it and quickly change the subject. "No, I'd never,"

Rose interrupted with a laugh. "No way, I'd do him in a second. Did you see the photos of him shopping today in Gotham? He looks ripped." The three women laughed to themselves and started loudly talking about their fantasies. "I think he likes cowgirl, how could he not? I don't think I could do doggy, he's just too fucking hot. I'd want him to remember my face too, no way."

"He's got to be a dom. He's not letting anyone on top of him."

"He's too jacked to just do missionary. He probably has some crazy sex dungeon."

"Ooh a REAL LIFE CHRISTIAN GREY! Holy fuck Lara I never thought about that!"

Why couldn't they see the flames shooting out of your ears? "He's not even hot, guys," You rolled your eyes and sat back with your arms crossed. "I don't understand the hype. He's... no."

"Come the fuck on, Y/N, he's the hottest celeb right now." Rose was rolling her eyes at you now, while Gabbi glared at you. "What's your problem?"

You threw your hands in the air, exasperated. Your voice rose as the tension in your body became unbearable. He's not hot. He's not cool. He's just Bruce fucking Wayne. He would be no one if it weren't for his fucking mountain of money. "You all couldn't care less about my life. About me, about my school." Hands slammed on the table as you shoved your chair back. They jumped, gasping. "Y/N!" They chastised. It didn't matter, the words were already pouring out of your mouth as unconsciously as vomit. "The first time you all really look at me, pay me any fucking attention, is when you think I might have fucked Bruce Wayne. I'm done."

"Fuck off, everything just has to be about you." Rose snarled. You were already on the way to your bike but spun around at the sound of them getting back to their phones, more furiously now. Nothing with them had ever been anything but themselves. They'd never paid you mind. They kept you in tow because you were too nice. Someone who could always be a shoulder to cry on. Someone to run errands with. Someone to rant to about the other friends in the group.

"You know what?" Fists balled at your sides. Your face was twitching at their audacity, at all the adrenaline shoving through you, making you a live wire. "I did fuck Bruce Wayne. And fuck you."

The flash of cameras haunted him as he slammed the door behind him. Alfred had stared at him peculiarly when he walked in, noticing the Dior and Prada bags in his fists. He wanted to press Bruce on what he planned to do with the clothing (the boy never went out unless he was forced to) but decided to wait and watch it all unfold. Unfold it had; as Alfred sought a snack in the kitchen later that evening, Bruce had walked out in a sharp Prada double-breasted suit, adjusting his cufflinks and shaking out his arms before standing in the entryway. "What do you think? Is this a good Bruce Wayne?"

The question struck Alfred, and he hadn't answered for a good few seconds. Why was he acting like Bruce was a character? He went towards that curiosity. "You look like yourself in a suit." To which Bruce responded with a short huff and looked at the ground. "I just, I need more separation from Batman. I don't want anyone able to suspect me." His answer made well the confused storm raging in Alfred's brain. No one had ever recognized Bruce before so he'd never had to grapple with that possibility. Along came someone who had, and now he was outfitted in silhouettes he'd only hoped Bruce would grow into. Tears sprung to his eyes; he could tell the boy noticed, but all Alfred did was nod. He imagined Martha seeing her boy all grown up now, looking sharp and mature. "Makes sense, right then."

Bruce holed up in the basement scribbling into his journal. Got designer clothing today. Hated it. Needed to. Creating more separation from myself and Batman. Another close call would lead to some difficult decisions I don't want to make. I still have work to do here, and I don't want to go into hiding earlier than planned. Suddenly fear and anxiety gripped him. Maybe this could just be a one-off. Bruce Wayne hardly seen again, per usual. He could have just gotten the suits to update his sizing, maybe his butler didn't get his sizing right and he had to do it himself. So he had something to wear to the city hall meetings. No, he couldn't do Alfred like that. He'd just wear it to the next meeting. Change around the Batman suit, make it a full face covering: no lips, eyes behind colored mesh. He could sneak platform wedges into the boots somehow to make him considerably taller, to further throw people off his trail. His eyes heavied with sleep from the weight of the exposure today, but he still needed to go out as Batman.

Before he could, however, he needed to empty the earbuds and contacts he'd worn to shop. They were filled with recordings from earlier, something he'd done in case he needed to look back at anything later. You never knew when crime would strike in Gotham, and sometimes he only had a few seconds to make an ID. He plugged them into their chargers where they immediately began streaming data to his screen. He skimmed through it mindlessly for a minute, hearing nothing besides screaming paparazzi and the clicking of cameras. A clustering of voices from a throng of onlookers he'd passed through, desperately asking for a photo, an autograph, a million dollars. He'd strolled quickly past, paying them little mind beside passing greetings... and a mumble. Rewind.

Mumble.

Rewind.

"Might be a new member in the club."

He could barely make out the gruff, low vocals. The club? Then an even softer, quieter response. Unreachable.

Rewind. Vocal increase. Isolate. Max volume.

"Think we can trust him?"

After that point you had entered the store and were no longer in reach. Which club? Had you heard those voices before, or was this new? The last thing you heard before getting out of reach, disappointingly, was the first man scoffing. "The prince of the city? He's more of a fed than the cops."

Bruce immediately went to his contacts to replay the footage. He roughly matched the timing of the words to men barely in his periphery—but nothing close to making an ID. If it hadn't been for the damn cameras... he could have been more vigilant. Being in public exhausted him more than any single night shift. He started scribbling more musings. No trust with public. Become less of an enigma. A partier? A Yachter? Own room at the clubs? Separation and infiltration. Talk of a club. He reviewed the footage again with neurotic focus.

As far as was possible to tell from the fish eye footage, they were suited. The only type of people who wore suits in downtown Gotham were rich. The type of people who couldn't be touched; the business district was up north, far enough away to not get mugged by partygoers the moment something valuable was visible. They had to be people that couldn't be messed with. The type of people who receive a bad look one day and have your head the next. The clubs. The dinners. These people weren't a part of the mainstream party scene; they were in the club within the club, Penguin types. Bruce groaned and tossed his pencil across the table. He didn't want to do this, and after today he realized he'd have to sacrifice more of Batman than he thought if he would have the energy to get through the day as Bruce Wayne.

He pulled up the Gotham event page and marked down every listed event to his calendar. How was he going to explain his sudden personality shift and movement into the public arena? Questions swirled and dizzied his mind. He could only do so much in his cape; now he had to create another mask. And his first big event would be Gotham University's graduation ceremony.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Tontos Bruce Wayne HC Pt 2:

You know the one thing that Tontos joy. Making her friends happy.

When she hears about how the international break is over the Ballon D’or ceremony she gets angry that her friends can’t attend so you know what sue does. Tontos buys FIFA. Not the video game. Not some other random company with the same initials. She buys FIFA (the International Federation of Association Football). She moves the international window so her friends can attend the ceremony and get the praise they deserve. She also decreases the amount of games and adds new policies to protect her friends. But like any teen she hadn’t thought this through. After she does this, when she checks her bank account the numbers have doubled and she just wants to slam her head on a wall.

So to attempt to get rid of this money she hires a team of accountants to shuffle her money around and give it anonymously to struggling teams. Whenever she hears a women’s team (international or club) get cut, she dumps a ridiculous amount into their team anonymously. And of course the ever observant Mapi and Ingrid notice how one day a team is struggling financially and then the next day the news is saying they got anonymous funding. Like they know what Tontos is doing but they don’t say anything because I mean what can you say to a person who’s helping others. But this action barely dents what it Tontos massive accounts.

So Tontos tries to help the other kids of the woso world to drain her bank accounts. Schools they go to? Paid by Tontos. Equipment they need for their various activities? Already bought by Tontos. And she spares no expense. Anything really but at this point it doesn’t touch her bank accounts at all.

Sometimes even the team forgets that Tontos is stupidly rich. Like they’ll all go out for a team dinner to some fancy restaurant and when they all go to pay they find out it’s already been paid for because Tontos gave the server her card as soon as they walked in. But it became even more apparent when they had all gone out but Sunshine was having a problem with her Santa Heart. Sunshine was rushed to the nearest hospital and when the team got there she had found Mapi and Ingrid sitting in the waiting room distraught and nervous. When asked why they weren’t with Sunshine they said they wouldn’t allow them back. So in Tontos fashion she took one look at the name and instantly called her team and bought the hospital. While the nurses were trying to keep out the entire Barca Femení plus the rest of the traumatised teens and children, Tontos instantly walked up to her and demanded at least Mapi and Ingrid to be let back with Sunshine. The conversation went as followed:

Nurse: Listen kid, I don’t take demands from you. Just who do you think you are.

Tontos: I think I own the hospital. Since this is my hospital I can go wherever I damn well want.

After that incident, the team asked Mapi and Ingrid what all Tontos owns and they were shocked to find the long list of companies and buildings she owns.

Tontos is rich but she's still young and prone to on the fly decisions which is why she even bought FIFA but she does quite a lot of good there and helps declutter the schedule and fund Project ACL and move things around so it's more fair

She's absolutely the 'mysterious' anonymous donor and she absolutely buys a hospital to get Mapi and Ingrid through and she's flying out the best doctors to give second and third opinions on Sunshine and her heart problem

[storiesbyjes2g]

3.195 Uncle Luca's day out

So, uhhh ... We have a closet now. After seeing Less', our empty wall was looking extra empty. Once I told Sophia what I saw, it was a wrap. She ordered that thing so fast, and it arrived way too early this morning, but here we are. It's funny how this room is smaller than the last one, yet we never had so much storage space before. Fewer windows have advantages, I suppose.

Rosie is barking outside our window. Our dogs are always barking, especially when she is playing, but what catches my ear this time is another voice. I look out the window and see Alessia playing with her! This house is doing a number on all of us, I see. I love that she's not only getting along with our dogs but also seeking them out. I've said it a million times, and I'll say it once more: we're going to be alright.

The other night, when me and Sophia looked school information after trying to prep Desiree, we learned the school system is on winter break right now, so we have loads more time with her! I was so glad and relieved to find this out. I mean, if she had to go to school, we'd send her, but I felt like we were all unprepared for this next phase of life. It came around so fast! Now we have the time to prepare, and we get to have more fun together. With school out, four kids, and two deserving mothers, I decide to take the kids out and let the moms rest. Also during the school information quest, I stumbled upon the high school's events page. They host many events that the public can attend, and tonight there's a football contest. That sounded like a good event for the kids, but it wasn't until 5 p.m., so I made an impromptu agenda to kill time. We began our adventure early with breakfast in Oasis Springs.

We go to the steak house me and Sophia frequent, but I don't recognize the host this time. She must be new, but man, does she have an attitude. She acted like me bringing four kids to a restaurant at 9 a.m. is a personal affront to her. Maybe it is early, or maybe I'm just too flabbergasted by her outburst, but I don't know how to respond. It's for the best because I probably wouldn't be nice because I feel the spirit of "I got time" rising up in me again, heh. I need to get into the gym and hit a bag because it is clear I want to fight someone. I blame Alessia's sperm donor, Jace. We got all hyped up about fighting him and never did. Maybe that urge never left me. Anyway...

The cook had just walked in on her berating me and shook his head at her. If this happens a lot, why don't they fire her? It can't be good for business.

"Come on, man," he said to me. "We've got plenty of tables, and I have to walk that way, anyway."

That was so nice of him. We followed him to a table, and I told ol' Nasty Nelly to have a good day so the kids could hear, heh. Sure, it was sarcasm, but hopefully they haven't learned that concept yet. With any luck, they'll learn to return nastiness with kindness.

When we get to the table, we have a quick family meeting. Because it's their first time in public, and I am the lone adult, we discuss inside voices, manners, and general public behavior, aka, this is not a playground, aka do not embarrass me, heh. Breanna and Arvin want to play in the rain, so I let them go as long as they are quiet. Desiree and Lex stay with me. She colors the placemat, and he plays quietly with a toy.

When the food came, I collect the other two from outside, and we have a fairly decent time together with minimal incidents...

I'm not naïve enough to think we could go all day without someone acting up. But what I did not anticipate was it would be my child I'd have to call out. She kept farting and laughing about it. I didn't realize she was the culprit until Breanna had enough and screamed at her.

I told her no one else thinks it's funny. We're eating, and no one wants to smell that with food in our mouths, and she should apologize to the table. Her remorseful face almost broke me, and I wondered if I was too harsh. I knew I wasn't because I didn't yell, but I just hate seeing her sad. I stayed strong, though.

After breakfast, we still have several more hours before the event, so I take them to Copperdale so we'd already be in town. I remembered a park down the street from the pier, so we go there first. The weather is not conducive to playing in the park. A thick blanket of snow covers the ground, and it's still falling on top of being extremely cold. I should cancel our plans and go back home because I don't want anyone getting sick. But the kids scatter before I can stop them. Desi says she has to pee and goes to the bathroom. Breanna makes a beeline for the monkey bars, reminding me so much of her mother. Arvin also goes to the bathroom, which leaves Lex with me again. He's such a cool little dude with a chill temperament, like me. I noticed his outfit earlier, and he seems to care about his appearance more than the other two.

Some older gentlemen are out taking a stroll for some reason and come over to talk about the weather. Lex doesn't seem to mind, but I want him to have fun too, so I excuse myself to have some snow fun with him. We have a snowpal building contest with Bre.

We win by default because Bre quit when she saw Desi and Arvin talking outside the bathrooms. We're still proud of our victory, though.

It seems a shame to come all the way to Copperdale and be a stone's throw of the pier and not ride the rides, so I check on the kids to see how they're doing with the weather. It stopped snowing, so the visibility is better, but it's still freezing. Children have an uncanny knack for being impervious to the weather, however, so they all said they're fine to stay out. I tell them about the haunted house ride, and they're all very excited about it. I figure we'd do that one over the Ferris wheel so we can get inside for a bit.

Although I know the cars only have two seats, I still wish we can all go together. I want to ride with Desi, but who would stay and watch the other kids while we ride? She wants to go with Arvin anyway, and Lex wants to go with me. Breanna is a boss just like her mom, and she doesn't want to sit with anyone. By the time we all take our turns, it's about 5:30, so we head to the high school.

On the way, I explain how this will be their school when they become teenagers. There're all kinds of activities they can get into, like the football team, which is what we'll be doing today, cheerleading, chess club, computer club, and so much more. Realizing they have no frame of reference for school, however, we walk around the classroom building to warm up and see what it's all about. This isn't my alma mater, but a school is a school. They're all basically the same.

Bre got upset about Desi farting again. Just as I begin to express disappointment, I remember something from her infancy. She was gassy a lot and constantly had hiccups. And she belched a lot when we burped her after feedings. Could something still be going on with her stomach? Am I telling her to stop being nasty while she can't actually help it? I didn't say anything that time and decide to talk to her about it in the privacy of our home.

[otakusheep15]

Flufftober Day 30 - Dance

Content includes: Crowley x reader, reader is a teacher at NRC, reader is described as a wallflower, Crowley has (very obvious) feelings for the reader, reader’s feelings are left somewhat ambiguous, Crowley as a general warning

It’s officially that time of year again: NRC’s annual dance. Every year since the school’s conception, a dance has been held for both students and outsiders alike. Any and all are welcome to attend.

As a teacher, you’re required to attend as a chaperone. Dances, and parties in general, are not particularly your scene, but this one is fun. You’ve been teaching for a few years now, and you always have a good time at this event.

And, of course, a good time for you is awkwardly standing against the wall as you watch over the students.

This is what you do every year, and you intend to keep it that way. Most of the faculty tends to do the same, although some of the more extroverted members of staff tend to find their way into the crowd.

For right now, you’re on your own, and you have the occasional small chat with whoever passes you by. It’s calm and peaceful, just the way you like it.

Until it’s not.

Crowley approaches you, sliding up to stand next to you. You can already tell he wants something based on the look he has on his face. Or, at least the bottom half of his face. Even at a party, he always has that mask on.

“Well hello there. Are you enjoying the party? Aren’t I just so generous to have upped the budget this year?”

By upping the budget, Crowley means the lukewarm punch you’re currently drinking. Lately, guests have been complaining about the lack of food and drinks provided at the party, and some of the more important guests (namely, donors to the school) have threatened to stop attending. Thus, Crowley made the executive decision to provide snacks.

You nod at his question, sipping at your drink so that you don’t have to verbally respond. Naturally, you’re happy to have something to snack on as you partake in your people watching, but you wouldn’t classify them as being ‘good’ snacks.

“Of course you agree. I only provide the best for my esteemed guests.”

He’s stalling. You can tell something’s up, even if you can’t tell what. Crowley always gets rambly like this when he has something on his mind. It’s not like you meant to learn his mannerisms, but you’ve been around him for years now, and he’s not exactly difficult to read.

Instead of building the tension, you decide to cut him some slack, asking him what’s bothering him.

“Wh-what? Whatever could you possibly be talking about? I’m not bothered at all. In fact, I would say I’m quite swell considering how the party is going.”

Oh yeah, something is definitely up. If he wasn’t your employer, you would just tell him to cut the crap and spill what’s on his mind. However, he is your employer, which means you should probably say it with more tact.

You down the remainder of your drink, suddenly wishing it were a little stronger. Then, you look him in the eyes (mask?) and ask him if he’s sure everything is okay.

“Fine, I suppose I’ll come clean, since I’m so generous and all.”

His words almost make you reconsider, but something about the way his mood shifts keeps you where you’re at. He almost looks… vulnerable all of a sudden.

“To tell you the truth, my concerns lie with you. Not in a bad way! Don’t get the wrong idea.”

You nearly have a heart attack, but you’re glad he clarified quickly. What did you do to concern him so much?

“I… well, I was hoping to maybe… ask you to dance? In a strictly professional way, of course! I just noticed how you’re always on the sidelines during the dance every year, and I figured you were lonely. How generous am I, to offer a dance to someone like yourself?”

Any sympathy you had for him vanishes in an instant. You would have said yes if not for what he said at the end there. Why must he always ruin everything by making it like this?

He awkwardly laughs, and you can tell he knows that he messed up. You stare at him, giving him a displeased look, and that causes him to wilt a bit.

“I apologize for that. I’m sure you already guessed, but I was rather nervous to ask you. Alas, even with how charismatic I am, even I have my weak points.”

That gets a small laugh out of you. Your boss is so strange. You then look at him, less upset this time. In fact, your look could almost be considered a fond one.

Instead of a verbal answer, you reach your hand out, a silent gesture. He takes a moment, obviously not expecting you to say yes. Then, he smiles and takes your hand.

He guides you to the dance floor, and you can immediately tell that people are watching you. It’s embarrassing, especially since you’re not much of a dancer. Still, you’re able to push those thoughts aside, instead focusing on the man in front of you.

This is certainly not where you expected your night to end up. But, as Crowley expertly leads you across the floor in a dance, you can’t exactly mind.

[simply-ivanka]

Biden Gets the Chicago Treatment

Barack Obama, an old-fashioned ward boss, orchestrates the president’s removal.

By Rod R. Blagojevich

Wall Street Journal

Democracy took a devastating hit on Sunday when President Biden withdrew from the presidential race. Along the way, he got it wrong. It isn’t Donald Trump who is an existential threat to our democracy. It’s Barack Obama.

In the old-school way of Chicago backroom politics, Mr. Obama was the conductor of the band that successfully orchestrated the removal of the presidential candidate chosen by more than 14 million Democratic primary voters—to be replaced by someone he and the party bosses choose instead. It’s classic ward-boss tactics.

I’ve known Mr. Obama since 1995. We both grew up in Chicago politics. We understand how it works—with the bosses over the people. Mr. Obama learned the lessons well. And what he just did to Mr. Biden is what political bosses have been doing in Chicago since the 1871 fire—selections masquerading as elections.

Mr. Obama and I know this kind of Chicago politics better than anyone. We both rose up in it, and I was brought to ruin by it when the Illinois Legislature impeached and removed me from the governor’s office in 2009 for conversations initiated by Mr. Obama himself. A common element in my case and now Mr. Biden’s is Mr. Obama’s involvement. He’s the central figure who played a behind-the-scenes role in both stories.

While today’s Democratic bosses may look different from the old-time cigar-chomping guy with a pinky ring, they operate the same way: in the shadows of the backroom. Mr. Obama, Nancy Pelosi and the rich donors—the Hollywood and Silicon Valley elites—are the new bosses of today’s Democratic Party. They call the shots. The voters, most of them working people, are there to be lied to, manipulated and controlled.

All along, Mr. Biden and the Democratic politicians have been claiming that this year’s presidential race is about “saving democracy.” They are the biggest hypocrites in American political history.

The party that says it is running to save democracy has already deployed the criminal-justice system against the leading candidate of the opposition party. And now they have successfully maneuvered to dump their duly elected candidate for president.

Mr. Biden’s withdrawal proves something even more sinister. They’ve been lying to us the whole time. The president’s unfitness to run for re-election today didn’t just happen. The Democrats have been covering it up for a long time.

They hid him in the basement when he ran for president in 2020, and they got away with it because of the pandemic. But when Mr. Biden’s cognitive issues were exposed during June’s presidential debate, Mr. Obama and the Democratic bosses could no longer hide his condition. The jig was up, and Joe had to go.

The Democratic National Convention in Chicago next month will provide the perfect backdrop and place for Mr. Obama to finish the job and choose his candidate, not the voters’ candidate. Democracy, no. Chicago ward-boss politics, yes.

Mr. Blagojevich, a Democrat, served as governor of Illinois, 2003-09.

[thegreathuxton]

Came and Never Left

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader (No use of Y/N)

Inspired by "The Day That I Met You" by Matilda Mann.

Summary: "You're wasting your potential at Bunchurch, you know... Call me, and I will take care of you. I promise."

Warnings: I'VE READ THE BOOKS SO THERE MIGHT BE SPOILERS. Cannon-typical violence. Reader has parent issues (Father isn't in the picture, and mother just passed). Depictions of death/homicide. Slight mentions of the reader being bullied/put down by coworkers.

A/N: Maybe series incoming? Idk, we'll wait and see. BTW, don't worry about the little numbers. I like separating my work into sections, just in case you accidentally close out and lose your place. Just remember Chapter/Part Whatever, Section 69, or something like that.

(PART 2)

1.

It was pouring outside and just minutes before curfew. You cast a nervous glance at the phone book, sitting on a table by the door. The yellow pages glared with agency ads, especially from Rotwell's and all of their new technology developments, such as iron tape and ghost alarms. The ghost alarm was bogus, you found. It was nothing but a rod, some spiderweb, and a bell attached to the end. It did ring, sure, but incredibly late. Your mother had bought it before she died. It rang an hour after her apparition attacked you in your living room, late one evening. And the iron tape was something you had bought on your own time. It now lined your bedroom walls.

The page the phone book was open to had another agency ad in particular that made you antsy. The silver and black stood out against the vomit-yellow color.

A. J. LOCKWOOD & COMPANY.

Beneath was a phone number, provided for leisure. They were small and they were cheap. And you knew no one from that company, which made you feel better.

There was a sudden knock on the door that broke your attention away from the book. You took a deep breath, fixed your wool cardigan so it covered you (you didn't think about the way this was a very grade-school English teacher moment), and unlocked the door. You expected a team to be at your front door, but no. Just one boy, about your age. Tall, strikingly handsome, and charming without having said a word. He was dressed in a fine-pressed suit, which was only kept dry by the stark black umbrella looming above his head.

"Good evening," he said. His voice emulated milk and honey. "My name is Anthony Lockwood, head of Lockwood & Co. I've been informed of your situation, and I'm here to help. May I come in?"

2.

You brought him to the kitchen and put on the kettle. He sat down at the table and had a few biscuits that you politely offered to him before sitting down across from him, nervously twiddling your thumbs and trying to act natural. You didn't want to make yet another enemy from an agency other than the one you were currently employed at.

He ate while flipping through the week-old newspaper. Once he was done, he sat back and smiled at you. It was like the sun had just come blasting right through your window. You sat up straight, and he fixed his tie.

"So, you're an agent as well?" He asked you so bluntly, but his smile never faded.

"I am..." You murmured back, unable to meet his gaze now.

"I'm sorry to sound so rude. I just noticed the rapier and work belt hanging by the door when I first stepped inside. Which agency are you from? Rotwell? Fittes?"

"Bunchurch," you said. "My mother worked there when she was a kid, as a researcher, and she was one of their biggest donors and contributors into their own research of The Problem before she passed."

"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. What talent do you possess?" He showed a brief amount of sympathy before moving on.

"I'm an all-rounder, as my supervisor likes to put it. I'm pretty mediocre at everything there is. I do some field work, but..." You trailed off. "They usually stick me on the research end of things."

Lockwood nodded, once again, sympathetic.

"Again, I'm sorry to hear that, but I must ask you something." He then leans forward. His hands come together, and he rests his forearms on the table. "Why did you call on us rather than Bunchurch?"

You stiffened at the question. He was forward and all business. You obliged him, not wanting to be a burden.

"They don't exactly treat me as well as some would want to think," you began, fingers now mindlessly picking at your mother's choice of tablecloth. You stuck your pinky finger through a small burn hole, left by one of her cigarettes. "And if I told them I couldn't deal with one measly ghost on my own, they'd probably laugh and put me out on the street..."

You look back up again, and Lockwood's eyes are glued to you. His eyes are such a pretty brown color. You look away again.

"What makes you say you can't deal with the ghost on your own?" Lockwood was very quiet when asking this.

"It's my mother," you said back, equally as quiet. You both sat in silence for quite some time. He took a patient breath.

"How did it happen?"

"Burgurlary gone wrong," you whispered, still picking at the cigarette burn. "I was out on a job. Mom had horrible hearing. She lost the ability to hear out of her right ear when she was fifteen. Some idiot on her team had horrible aim and hit her with a salt bomb. It went off when it hit her face. Robber came right in the dead of night, and she didn't hear him. She woke up and went downstairs just to get some water. Guy thought she had seen him, and just..." You made a gun with your hand and put it to your forehead. You slowly lowered your hand. "Neighbors called the cops. Cops called DEPRAC, and DEPRAC called me while I was on the job."

"And she attacked you?" He asked. You nodded.

"Three AM, just a few nights ago. I went downstairs to get a glass of water, just like she had, and there she was..." You sighed. "She could be rather cold, personality wise, but I never imagined her coming back as a cold maiden."

"Type two?"

You nodded once more, and Lockwood does as well. The kettle started to scream from the stove. You quickly stood up and tended to it.

"English breakfast or Earl Grey?" You asked.

"Earl Grey, please, with a dollop of honey, if you have it."

3.

You helped him set up in the living room. It was the least you could do in exchange for his kindness and patience.

As you laid out a circle using the iron chains he had packed in his dufflebag, he examined the room, all the pictures that hung on the wall, and the traces death-glow left on the wooden floors. Your mother, unfortunately, had been shot on her favorite white carpet. DEPRAC had rolled it up and took it to the furnaces to be incinerated, along with a few other items that had been spattered with blood. Many other items were packed in cardboard boxes.

"Planning on moving, I assume?" He hummed.

"Just to the quarters within Bunchurch for the time being. I can't afford to keep up with rent on the house on my own," you explained and linked the chains perfectly together, just as you were trained to do. You then went to stand beside him as he admired a piece of artwork, just above the fireplace and resting on the mantle. Your mother would always stare at it when she was home. It was like a piece of resistance in her eyes.

When Lockwood tuned to face you, his scent, unburdened by the rain, washed over you. He smelled strongly of freshly clipped lavender and clean laundry. There was also a faint trace of burnt toast and magnesium. He smiled down at you.

"Do you have a safe place to go while I do my business here? Or would you feel better if you supervised?" He said, still smiling and making your heart beat a little faster.

"My room should be safe," you said to him. "As long as that iron tape from Rotwell's holds up."

He laughed at your answer. "One of my associates has a habit of buying that junk too. He rambles all the time about all of that Rotwell nonsense. Can you believe it?"

You smiled back up at him and blushed.

"You have to give them credit. A lot of the stuff they sell is junk, but it can be useful some of the time."

"Oh, spare me," he openly joked with you. "George will definitely get a laugh at that. He went on this huge rant just the other night about the stupid ghost detector stick he bought with his entire paycheck."

You continued with the small banter and kept him company until the old grandfather clock that sat in the corner struck twelve. Lockwood had been sharing jammy dodgers with you that he had tucked in his coat pocket, when the metallic twang rung and had the two of you in a spellbound trance.

Lockwood looked at the clock, checked his watch for the accuracy, and then unclipped the thermometer from his belt. The black box read 17.2 degrees Celsius. He let out a small laugh, chuffed with himself.

"I suppose you best be heading to your iron tape fortress rather quickly," he said while showing you the reading. "It was twenty-four degrees in here about 10 minutes ago."

With that, you both stood. He went to his iron circle and dug in his bag for a moment. When he stood back up, he turned to you.

"I'm sure you have a million and one of these stashed somewhere, but just in case you can't reach one of yours, take one of mine," he grinned and placed a salt bomb in your hands. "It'll give me some peace of mind when you go upstairs."

You smiled down at the thing in your clutches, then nodded, grinning just as big as he was.

"Don't let her bully you," you teased him, tucking the salt bomb in your pants pocket. "She was always kind of mean to strangers."

Lockwood shrugged and kept smiling. He waved you off and watched you disappear upstairs.

4.

You couldn't sleep. You kept thinking about the boy downstairs, doing God knows what in your living room. He was probably sitting in his little protected circle and eating another biscuit. You smiled at the very prospect.

You sat in bed, one hand resting over the salt bomb still sitting snuggly in your pocket, while the other held open a book, but your eyes didn't bother reading anything. Your ears were too busy listening, which took up most of your brain power.

The grandfather clock would echo up the stairs and to your bedroom. One passed, then two, and before you knew it, it was two forty-five. Fifteen minutes before things began to happen.

Each night, at precisely three in the morning, a horrible scream would rock the house. You gave these details to the company working downstairs over the phone. You never dared to explore more, always too terrified of dying at the hands of your mother's spirit to try. Your thumb twitched over the salt bomb again.

You stared at the pages of your book until the clock struck three, and the seconds seemed to slow. Like clockwork, the scream came rippling through the house. It was louder this time. Loud enough, it made you cover your ears.

Five seconds after came the loud BOOM of a magnesium flare and then the CRACK of a salt bomb. Another terrible shriek tore the house asunder and had you putting your house shoes on. You glanced at the clock.

It read 3:06. Another bomb went off, and you heard furniture start to crash and rumble. You gripped the salt bomb in your pocket and then rushed to your closet. The thought that scared you more than facing your undead mother was the thought of another agent, dealing with a dangerous type two ghost and thinking they could do it alone.

You found your grade three rapier. It was shorter than the one you used now, but that one was downstairs by the door, and you couldn't possibly go for it now.

You threw a robe over yourself and threw open your door. The temperature change was horrendous. Your room was a comfortable and warm temperature, but as soon as you stepped beyond the door, you could see your breath perpetrating in the air. Thin layers of ice grew on the walls and cracked at the crumbling wallpaper. Another terrible shriek pierced the air, but it wasn't feminine. It was Lockwood.

You rushed down the stairs and turned to see the scene before you. The walls were burned from salt, magnesium, and ectoplasm. Lockwood had been knocked on his back, and his coat was steaming from the ectoplasm burns. The iron chain had been snapped in two. His rapier was far across the room, stuck in the wall like a decorative art piece. Above him was your mother. Her apparition was blue and terrifying. You could hardly look at her without wanting to turn away and sob. There was still a bullet hole in the center of her apparition's forehead. Tentacles of ectoplasm lashed out at Lockwood as he laid on the floor, and he was trying his best to dodge each one. He was out of flares and out of time.

That was, until you rushed to his aid.

You unclipped the salt bomb and threw it. It exploded and blinded both you and Lockwood. Your mother screeched and disappeared briefly, but she was quick to start reforming. You ran to Lockwood and helped him stand up by his shoulders. His eyes were wide and wild and he loomed at you with his mouth agape. You stared back, just breathing hard and speechless. Your heart was going a mile a minute. His eyes suddenly flicked away from you. He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you to the side quickly. He slammed his back against the wall and kept you tight to his chest. You realized he had just pulled you out of the way from another lash from an ectoplasm tentacle.

"I thought you wanted to stay with your iron tape fortress!" He panted, smiling at you as he let you go.

"I couldn't let you deal with her alone," you said back, then turned to face the bigger problem in the room. Your mother had reformed herself, right in front of the chimney. She screamed again, and it rattled your brain inside your head. You screamed back and threw your rapier.

The point of the blade struck her blue chest. Her apparition disappeared as the blade went entirely through her and landed in her favorite painting on the mantle, like a dart in a board. You watched the blade shake and then still. Steam bellowed from it.

"The fireplace," Lockwood muttered and he came to stand beside you. "The source has got to be in the fireplace."

You nodded in agreement.

Lockwood approached his dufflebag quickly and retrieved a silver net. He pulled his rapier from the wall and looked to you.

"You go up there, and I'll watch for her. Okay?"

He gave the silver net to you. It wasn't an option anymore. You both cautiously approached the fireplace, and another screech rang from the house and shook the ice-chipped, ectoplasm stained walls.

"Not getting any younger here, Bunchurch," he said cooly, keeping his rapier steadily pointed while his eyes flickered all over the room, carefully watching.

You wasted no more time, climbing into the fireplace with no light. You relied on your hands, feeling the bricks and only finding thick grime and soot.

"Lockwood!" You called. "I'm not getting anything! I don't think it's here!"

"I think it is," Lockwood said, now sounding tense. "Because your mom's back, and if you thought getting a spanking with a wooden spoon was bad, you're definitely going to hate what she's about to do here in about ten seconds or so."

You searched all the more frantically, and you stretched up on your tippy-toes. Your fingers dived into a mesh of spiderwebs suddenly, and it took all of your willpower not to pull your hands away and wretch with disgust. You dug deeper, wincing as you heard the visitor scream again. Your hands then felt something wooden lodged between a couple of bricks. With no hesitation left, you grabbed it and yanked it down. You wrapped it in the silver net, and as soon as you did, all was silent. You could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and Lockwood's loud panting.

5.

You crawled out of the fireplace, and the first thing you saw was Lockwood's smiling face. He put both of his hands on your shoulders and beamed so brightly at you.

"Well done, Bunchurch!"

You began to beam, too.

He took the silver net from you and set it somewhere safe, where it wouldn't be disturbed.

"Did you see what it was?" He asked you and took a seat on the floor. The couches were still thawing from the bitter cold and the walls now dripped from melting ice.

"No," you sighed. "A box, I think."

He hummed. You sat on the floor with him, next to him. He produced a bar of chocolate from his now near-empty duffle bag. He split it with you, and you made a new kettle of tea in the kitchen, where you both soon moved to sit more comfortably.

"Hang on a second," he suddenly mumbled to you. "You've got soot all over your face. Let me get it for you."

He wet a napkin and then approached you. The smell of lavender was overwhelmed by the magnesium, but still there all the same. He wiped at your cheeks and forehead with the wet napkin and got as much grime as he could while the water in the kettle started to boil. He was so gentle with you, it made you blush profusely, and his eyes had a new gleam to them that you hadn't seen when he first stepped foot into your house.

"If you want," he spoke softly while using his other hand to tilt your chin up more, "I could stay with you until dawn and we can see what the source was in the morning, when it's safe."

You thought about it for quite some time, then shook your head.

"No... I don't think I really want to know what it is," you sighed and looked up at him. He had paused with dabbing the napkin and now just mindlessly rubbed your chin with his gentle thumb. "I've spent the past two weeks trying to heal after her death. I think seeing what it is will put me back quite a bit."

Lockwood stood there for some time, just gazing at you while you spoke. He dropped his hands and nodded, finally, after some time of thought.

"As you wish, Bunchurch. I'll take it to the furnaces first thing," he smiled at you, and you smiled back. He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you placed your hand on top of his, in return. You saw the pink rise to his pale cheeks, and he gave you the faintest hint of a laugh. He stayed with you for some tea and a light, congratulatory breakfast. Not long after that, he was packing his things and getting ready to leave.

6.

"You know," he spoke softly as you walked him to the door. "You saved my life tonight. You'd be surprised at how many people there are in this world who wouldn't do the same."

You smiled at him.

"From one agent to another," you said with sincere warmth in your tone. He smiled back at you.

Dawn was just beginning to peak in through the window above your front door. He turned to face you just as you reached for the handle.

He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and brought out a small business card. Scrawled on it was the same name and number you had gotten from the yellow pages.

"What is this?" You murmured, confused. It took you a moment to realize that the number on the card was different in the slightest of ways.

"It's my personal phone number. We have two phones. One for business and one for other things. Give us a ring sometime, using that number," he spoke and pointed to the card. "You're wasting your potential at Bunchurch, you know. The way you acted tonight more than proved you deserve to work on the field rather than some dusty library. Lockwood & Company will always have room for more people like you." He cupped your hand, the one holding the business card, and curled your fingers around it for you so you could hold on tight to it. His hands were warm and comforting around yours. His warm, brown eyes never left you. "Call me, and I will take care of you. I promise."

It seemed like only a few heartbeats before he was gone. You watched from one of your living room windows as he went to the corner of your road and hailed a cab. You sat and watched his cab drive away, still clutching the card, just knowing from the feeling you got, you'd be leaving your job at Bunchurch very soon.

[pro-dumbledores-office]

A Brief Tour of Dumbledore's Office

This post is a brief guide to all the different layers of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore's office - what is in them and how he uses them.

Lower Level

Upon entering Dumbledore's office you will find yourself in a large circular area beneath the desk and primary workspace. The walls are lined with portraits of the previous headmasters and headmistresses. A fireplace connects the office to the floo network and is used by Dumbledore for quick official visits to and from the Ministry. This level is also where Dumbledore keeps his many strange and unusual magical devices - turning the entry level of the room into something of a museum for guests.

Main Office

This is Dumbledore's main work area within the office. It is dominated by a massive carved wooden desk with a gold throne like chair behind it that is surrounded by overstuffed bookshelves. This area is also home to Fawkes the Phoenix and the Sorting Hat. Fawke's perch rests just behind Dumbledore's desk, while the sorting hat has pride of place on a shelf above the desk. My one critique of this area in the films is that there really do need to be chairs in front of the desks so Dumbledore can more easily meet with guests.

Sitting Room

Located behind the main office and resting in what seems to be the bottom of the tower, Dumbledore's sitting room is a small comfortable space (with tragically few pictures on the internet). Heavy, well cushioned, Victorian furniture - presumably from Dumbledore's youth - dominates the room with a small cabinet for drinks in the corner beside a window seat. This is where Dumbledore has his more informal meetings - chats with potential donors to the school, difficult conversations with students, drinks with guests, and gripe sessions with Minerva McGonagall.

Observatory

High above the whole office is Dumbledore's observatory. I am unsure what other headmasters used this space for - more space for entertaining, a meeting room, or something mysterious and magical - but in Dumbledore's time, it was used to house his impressively massive telescope. In addition, there is sometimes a second perch for Fawkes up here.

[andreafmn]

12 Days of Ficmas ✵BONUS✵

Request by @lillybearblog: I hope this is ok to ask for! Basically it's your first time with Carlisle! (Can be human or new vampire I don't mind!) It is your first time with everything even kissing, hickeys, org*sm etc. You are super nervous and Carlisle is the consent king. Hes super gentle and walks you through everything. Can add things like pinning against the wall 😉

Word Count: 3.5K

Story Description: (Y/N) has always worked tirelessly for the Heaven’s Care Foundation to provide orphaned children and at-risk youth with a safe place to be. But working in a nonprofit is hard, and trying to give hundreds of children a Christmas to remember even more. Unless an anonymous donor changes everything.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI) read the request for everything else that's on here

Pairing: Carlisle Cullen x Female!Reader

A/N: i decided to use this request as a way to tie in the second part for the 12DoF one-shot for Carlisle. I really hope I did the request justice. I'm still very new to smut and it can be a bit hard for me to write it. Hope y'all like it!

Follow 😊 -> TikTok • Instagram • Business

<- Previous

Christmas Miracle Come in Attractive Packages | Part 2

When the gala was finally over, and everyone was gone, (Y/N) looked for Carlisle Cullen once more. They had spent the time she had free talking and getting to know one another. As tension built between them, all she could think was how the night would end if he did wait for her,

She was sure he would have gone home by now, bored after hours of a lot of bureaucratic performances she had to do for the people that helped fund the organization.

But as she finally exited the doors into the freezing winter of New York, there he stood in all his splendor. In the midst of the white snow, his body and clothes blended into the scenery. He was as picturesque as the city.

“You waited,” she smiled catching up to him. “Thought you’d be home by now. It’s freezing out here.”

“Some things are worth the wait,” Carlisle responded, a grin stretching on his face. “Now, I don’t mean to sound too forward, but would you like to come over to my place? It’s very cold and my apartment is close by.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” (Y/N) tried her best to sound confident. But the reality was, she couldn��t help but let her fears get the best of her.

She was inexperienced in all matters of personal relations. When everyone around her was experimenting from high school all the way to college, she’d never done anything. Instead, she spent her time trying to finish her studies so she could get started on her dream – the foundation. Then when she started on it, she had no time for socializing outside of work.

So, her love life had been on the back burner her whole life. And now that a man had seemingly taken interest in her, she was not sure how to proceed. Thankfully, she was a quick study.

Before she could notice, Carlisle was parking the car in the car park of a luxury apartment complex. He guided them inside, hitting the last level in the elevator. Just who was this man? Doctors made money, but this amount of riches definitely did not come from the hospital.

“Welcome to my home,” Carlisle said as he opened the door to a beautiful apartment.

It was a modern build, with sleek line architecture, tall ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows that gave him one of the best views in New York. It was a glaring juxtaposition to where she lived and could not believe this was how some people lived.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed out, taking in the scenery. “Can’t believe this place is real.”

Carlisle turned on music, which startled (Y/N) around, her dress whooshing with her movement. Her clothing stood out amongst the white and black styling of the place, making her seem out of place and the perfect focal point in the space.

“I believe we never got a chance to dance,” he smiled, taking her arm and twirling her toward his body.

She collided against his chest, having to look up to meet his eyes. Carlisle led the dance, having them sway to a song that (Y/N) could barely register, too entranced by the man before him. She had never felt this drawn to anyone. Taking her time to know people was normally how she went about things, but something about Carlisle told her to jump headfirst into it.

As they gazed into each other’s eyes, they started to lean in, closing the small gap that was still between them.

“Wait,” (Y/N) stopped abruptly.

“Is everything alright?” Carlisle worried. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“Yes.. no… maybe,” she stammered nervously. “It’s just this is my first, uh, time…”

“What?” he chuckled. “First time going home with someone on the first date.”

“First time for everything actually,” she grimaced slightly. “I never had time nor interest in having a love life and before I knew it so much time had passed that I never had the chance to do… well, anything.”

“Well, that’s no problem.” He gave her a smile that instantly made her weak in the knees. “We won’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing.”

“That’s the thing,” she grinned. “Something about you makes me want to do… everything. I’m done putting my life on the back burner and I would love nothing more than to push forward with you.”

As they shared another smile, Carlisle place both of his hands gingerly on the side of her face and finally bent down, pressing a kiss on her lips.

That’s when she saw fireworks.

She could feel herself growing warm already, the knot in her stomach tightening promptly. (Y/N) knew the feeling perfectly. Just because she hadn’t done anything with another person didn’t mean she hadn’t explored that side on her own.

The kiss grew hungrier, with Carlisle taking the lead. He was gentle as his hands roamed down her body and settled onto her waist pulling her warm body flush to his ice-cold one. It had been a few years since he had engaged in any type of physical relations, and though he wasn’t inexperienced, he was ravenous.

He hadn’t planned to meet anyone in his time in Ithaca, much less a human. But (Y/N) had barreled into his life by pure chance. Had she not bumped into him whilst his brain was focused elsewhere, there was a big chance they would never have crossed paths.

Oh, but how glad he was that they did.

“Are you sure you want this?” Carlisle breathed, breaking the kiss first. “I want to make sure you are absolutely certain this is what you want.”

“It is, Carlisle,” she responded. “I’ve never been this sure of anything before.”

“Then, if at any moment you want to stop, just say the word and we’ll stop.”

“Take me, Carlisle,” she mewled in his ear. “I’m all yours.”

The words surprised (Y/N) as they came out, but they ignited something inside Carlisle. He brought his mouth to hers once more, taking his time to devour her mouth. She was bringing the animal in him that lay dormant. And though he normally hungered for blood, this night he was going to feast in something more primal. He was going to show (Y/N) what she had been missing.

Their movements were fluid, almost choreographed. Their hands ran across their clothed bodies, learning every corner with their hands.

When Carlisle felt satisfied with her mouth, his lips traveled down. He kissed her cheek, down her jaw, and started work on her neck. He kissed and kissed until he found a spot that made her moan loudly. With a grin growing on his lips, he nipped at the spot siphoning new sounds from (Y/N)’s mouth.

She could feel herself growing warmer, wetter. Her hands gripped onto his hair, pulling on the blond locks of his hair. This let out a growl from Carlisle’s throat, making him bite softly on the areas he was enjoying — never enough to draw blood, just hard enough that it was a temptation.

“That’s gonna leave a mark in the morning,” she chuckled, slightly out of breath.

“That’s the idea,” he grinned mischievously. “I want everyone to know what will happen here tonight.”

“Then, what’re we waiting for? Let’s move this to the bedroom.”

Carlisle’s eyes darkened, lust glazing them over. They fumbled backward together, connected through their lips and their hands not working fast enough to get their clothes off their bodies. They stumbled through every step, (Y/N)’s dress getting tangled between their feet and they walked the long hallways trying to not spend even a second apart.

“This isn’t working,” Carlisle chuckled. “Come here.”

Swiftly, he snaked one hand under her legs and the other on the small of her back. A gleeful shriek escaped her as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He wanted nothing more than to speed them over to the bedroom and get her on his bed so he could ravish her body as if it was his last meal. But he would scare her before he could do so. That meant he had to walk as fast as he could, and that’s what he did.

Carlisle pushed opened his bedroom door with his foot, crossing them through the threshold. He set her down gently as (Y/N) pushed the door closed after. He pressed her front softly against the door, his lips connecting to her skin, and he slid the zipper of her dress down.

As his hand pulled the zipper agonizingly slowly, he kissed from her neck to her shoulders, to her exposed shoulder blades. Every piece of skin he could find he would kiss or nip, smiling as he noted some start their process of bruising. Every mark was a testament to what he had done, of what she had allowed him to do.

The red fabric pooled at her feet, exposing her bare back and the black lace underwear she had chosen to wear. Instinctively, she covered her breasts. A red hue fell over her entire body in embarrassment. But Carlisle took her arms in his, turning her around and placing another kiss on her lips.

“Don’t hide yourself, (Y/N),” he whispered into her ear. “I want to see you. I want to see all of you.”

He looked at her with admiration and hunger, so much hunger. His eyes studied the curve of her breasts, the dip of her hips, the length of her legs — she was a sight to behold. Every single part of her body was perfect to him. From the freckles to the blemishes to the scars.

He had seen perfection in vampires, marble-like skin that could hold no flaw. Still, there was something about human beauty that he found precious. Immortal beauty would never compare to the transitional beauty of human beings. It was transcendental.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said as he looked her over. “Perfect.”

“Well,” she grinned. “I wouldn’t want you to feel left out, so how about we start with you?”

(Y/N) went for his tie first, pulling it until it joined her dress on the floor. Then she unbuttoned his shirt, ever so slowly, teasing him slightly. But it was backfiring. As she worked to build his desire, hers grew as well, along with desperation. His clothes could not be off him fast enough for her. She wanted him, and she wanted him now.

Once she reached the last button, she pushed the shirt and the blazer off his shoulders to reveal his bare chest. (Y/N) ran her hands through his pecs and down his arms, feeling the smooth valley of his skin. Not only did he look like a perfect marble statue, he felt like one. Carlisle was as smooth, cold, and as hard as stone — enchanting and beautiful. It took everything in her to not continue to gawk at his body. His mouth on hers helped.

Carlisle guided them to the bed, laying her gently onto the massive piece of furniture. The duvet felt cold against (Y/N)’s skin – nowhere as cold as Carlisle – and her body erupted in goosebumps. But the coldness was quickly replaced by the warm knot forming in the pit of her stomach as the man slid her panties off her body.

Never breaking eye contact, Carlisle pulled the piece of fabric down her thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles, and finally her feet. In the shining light of the full moon that seeped through the windows, he could see her wetness glistening. She was drenched and he could smell her arousal since they had gotten to the apartment. Now that he had her right in front of him, he needed to devour her.

“Let me know if this gets too much, (Y/N),” Carlisle said, sucking in a breath. “Remember, if at any point...” 

“I promise I’ll let you know,” (Y/N) somehow managed to breathe out through her panting. “Just touch me please.”

Without a second thought, Carlisle’s tongue lapped her slit, running from her entrance and ending on the sensitive bud that lived at the top. This took (Y/N)’s breath out of her lungs. An overwhelming feeling of pleasure ransacked through her body, arching in tandem.

But that simple touch could not compare to when Carlisle started his ministrations on her clit. His tongue circled, his mouth sucked, and his throat vibrated. That was enough to have her nearing that so-awaited for peak that would have her clutching at the sheets. Yet, Carlisle introduced a finger into her wet entrance and that sent her onto another plane.

“Whatever you’re doing,” she moaned. “Don’t you dare stop.” 

“I wasn’t planning on it.” 

He responded pressed against her, his voice sending shock waves through her body. He was feasting, and like a good boy, he would devour his whole meal. It helped that it was so beautifully presented.

With a masterful tongue, Carlisle continued his attack on the needy mound as his fingers – two more already added for preparation – pistoned into her at an inhuman speed. But what had her moaning and writhing, was how he curled those fingers to press on her most sensitive spot from the inside.

She could feel the crescendo of her climax reaching its peak. Her walls clenched around Carlisle’s fingers, her body feeling fuller than it had ever been. There was only so much she could do with her own fingers. But this man somehow knew just how to coax out her orgasm better than she ever could. His mouth and his digits worked in perfect symphony until they had her yelling out his name.

(Y/N) was sure she was seeing stars. As her cunt wept in pleasure, her brain could barely process what had happened. Se believed she had been able to orgasm when she divulged in alone time, but it had never felt like this. Nothing (Y/N) had done to herself had her legs shaking or had her lungs devoid of oxygen. This experience was simply unparalleled.

As she recuperated from the assault, (Y/N) watched with newly growing warmth as Carlisle licked her arousal from his fingers, savoring it as if it was his last meal. It was just the thing to have her ready for the next round.

Carlisle towered above her, kissing her deeply. As his tongue explored her mouth, she explored her own taste on his tongue, making her wetness start pooling once more. Her hands traveled down his body, one of them landing on the button of his pants as the other palmed at his stone-hard bulge.

(Y/N) gawked as she finally freed his hard-on from his pants, astonished by the mere size of it. She was sure it would never fit – then again, how would she have ever known? But in her astonishment, (Y/N) found herself lowering her head, ready to at least make it fit in one entrance at a time.

Carlisle stopped her.

“Tonight is all about you,” he whispered. “We can delve into other things at a letter time. But right now, I need to be inside you.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” (Y/N) purred with newfound confidence. “My cunt is begging to be filled.” 

The words surprised the woman as they rolled off her tongue. She had no idea where they were coming from or how she had the gall to say them. But it was how she was feeling and it was what her body was yearning for.

Carlisle’s smile contorted into a devilish grin as he lined himself with her entrance. He used the pool of her core to slather his shaft and pumped himself three times to get himself ready for her.

First, his head breached her, starting the stretch. It felt nothing like when he entered her with his fingers. And though it was just a tad painful, she was quickly growing to love the feeling. As his cock continued to slide into he, (Y/N) felt her breath leave her lungs. Once his hips hit hers, she felt completely full and stretched.  

“Are you okay?” Carlisle asked seemingly out of breath as well. “Let me know when you feel comfortable for me to move.”

“Just give me a sec,” she exhaled deeply. Growing used to the feeling did not take long. The stinging pain shifted quickly into yearning pleasure. At first, it was too much, but now it was not enough. “You can move now, please. I need you to move.”

He was slow at first, moving his hips softly into her. But he knew he could not last long. From her scent to her tightness, Carlisle felt himself nearing his end. Though restraint was something he excelled at, something about (Y/N) made his inhibitions fall. It made him feel like a newborn once more – the lowest level of self-control.

As his pace turned faster, (Y/N)’s voice could only make out moans, groans, and pants. It was a feeling like no other, and it was a great one. The knot that had formed at the pit of her stomach tightened as he continued his calculated attack.

“I-I’m close,” she mumbled out.

“So am I, darling.”

He pummeled into her even faster now. His tip hit her g-spot with every single stroke. As he did, (Y/N)’s grip on Carlisle’s hips tightened, pushing him into her deeper and deeper. She was chasing her second orgasm of the night in what she found was her favorite way.

Until he used his thumb to stimulate her clit. (Y/N) yelled out at the attack. Her eyes closed and her back arched off the bed. He rolled the small bud over and over, his fingers somehow matching the speed of his hips.

It was only a couple of thrusts more before they were both screaming out each other’s names. (Y/N) felt Carlisle’s release mixed with hers, coating her walls with his seed. It was reckless, but it felt right at that moment.

Carlisle slipped out of her and climbed beside her on the bed, cradling her body close to his as she panted. He could tell she was exhausted. (Y/N) slumped against him, too tired to do anything else.

Her mind was hazy from everything they did, and although she wanted more, her body was overcome with exhaustion. (Y/N) thought she would have built up stamina, that she would be able to go all night and enjoy this man for as much as she could. But she had not anticipated how much energy she would drain by getting two leg-shaking orgasms one right after the other.

“So,” Carlisle said into her hair. (Y/N)’s head was laid on his chest, his hand drawing shapes on her bare back. “How was your first time?”

(Y/N) stared at him through her lashes, transfixed at how the moonlight hit his perfect features. “It was more than I could have ever imagined,” she said. “You’re more than I had ever imagined.”

“What do you mean?” he chuckled. “Do not tell me you had not planned to have your first time with a man you barely know.”

“Obviously I didn’t,” she laughed. “But I wouldn’t trade this for the world. I, uh, I hope this wasn’t a one-off. I would like to see you again… and many times after that.”

“I could never let you go now. Not after all that,” Carlisle smiled down at her. “I would certainly enjoy continuing this wonderful adventure. In fact, if you’re up for it, why don’t we go out for breakfast in the morning?”

“I would love nothing more.”

Carlisle met her in another soft kiss. This one wasn’t hungry or ravenously passionate. It was full of promise, full of future expectations. It was a kiss that told her he wanted to know everything about her, to someday bring her into his life – although explaining his supernatural situation could prove rather tricky.

For her, it was a kiss that solidified her Christmas miracle. She was meant to meet this man. She was meant to go home with him. She was meant to be here, on his bed, in his arms. Carlisle was the miracle she had always waited for.

Taglist:  @agent-annana@banterbanner@alitav99@daniallh@catchmeupimgettingoutofhere@imaginetwilight2704@mauvette268@beefwhobarksandisalilmadalot@abelbai000@ridiculous-creature​ @mikariell95@gryffi-ndor@jules-bea2308@comic-book-overload@winter-soldier-101 @jessicasunderground @mxyee @hey-you-therexo @witchy-obeyme-freak  @xcastawayherosx @kortniec696 @slutforsainz @Blackbluerose666 @DyslexicCatterpillar @sunflowerleii@gypsymusiclover@byelannie@a-sifu-hotman@zheezs14 @minhaimaginação @bluebirbnamedJay @sirenheadenby@mushroomelephant @swidkid @skyesthebomb@user0ur0mom@nogitsune-the@cometstail@volturiwolf@locokoca@esposadomd@this-is-a-bad-idea @nocturnalherb16 @rosalie-whitlock @Nyctophilia710 @blueshoelaces@ems-alexandra@then-worship-at-my-altar @Six-Call @witchofhawkins @lovel-blog @sugajar@goodpeoplegotohellanyway @Yuki254 @avis15 @honeylovemoon@wonieeee @baebeepeach @catgirlpwr@krazyk99@klf1999@sl-ut@adaydreamaway08@cinffy23@toomanythoughts33@sugasthreedollarkookie @laylaskywalker @volturiwolf @fandomonetwo @fruitylilfuck @a-slut-for-Loki-Bucky @honeywxter @haroldpotterson @revnamjinn @justamessandahalf @come-on-darling-honey @dove-chan32931 @kaita11

[mariacallous]

Linda McMahon, a business and wrestling executive and major Republican donor, is likely to lead the Education Department, CNN reported Tuesday evening, citing four people familiar with the matter.

McMahon, a co-chair of President-elect Donald Trump’s transition team who has virtually no experience in education, served as director of the Small Business Administration in Trump’s first term. She left the administration in 2019 and went on to help create the American First Policy Institute, a pro-Trump think tank that’s been closely involved in planning for the second term. The Trump transition team did not respond to a request for comment about the selection.

McMahon is perhaps most known for her time as CEO of World Wrestling Entertainment, which she co-founded with her husband, Vince McMahon. Together, they built the company from a small regional corporation to a multinational public enterprise. She stepped down from the executive role in 2009. In 2010 and 2012, she ran unsuccessfully for U.S. Senate in Connecticut.

Although her experience in education is sparse, McMahon does have some ties. A New Bern, N.C., native, she graduated from East Carolina University in 1969 with a bachelor’s degree in French and certification to teach. She also served a one-year term on the Connecticut State Board of Education after being appointed by Republican governor Jodi Rell in 2009.

She’s a longtime supporter of and board member at Sacred Heart University, a private Roman Catholic institution in Fairfield, Conn. In 2012, Sacred Heart’s student commons was named after McMahon, who gave $5 million to support capital projects at the university, according to The Register Citizen.

Picking McMahon, a wealthy executive with little experience in education, is a move reminiscent of Trump’s first term, when he appointed Betsy DeVos as education secretary. DeVos, a billionaire philanthropist known for her support of school choice, voucher programs and charter schools, was a controversial candidate whose confirmation required then–vice president Mike Pence to cast a tie-breaking vote in her favor.

McMahon will be the second consecutive education secretary with ties to Connecticut—current secretary Miguel Cardona grew up in the state and served as commissioner of the Connecticut State Department of Education from 2019 to 2021.

McMahon’s name was not one of those thrown out as a potential candidate to lead the department, though The Wall Street Journal reported Tuesday that she was in the running for education secretary or U.S. ambassador to the United Kingdom, citing people familiar with the matter. McMahon was up for the position of commerce secretary, CNN reported, though that job went to Howard Lutnick, also a co-chair of the transition.

Candidates whom some lobbyists and experts considered likely to be on the short list included Ryan Walters and Cade Brumley, the state superintendents of Oklahoma and Louisiana, respectively; Tiffany Justice, a co-founder of Moms for Liberty; and Christopher Rufo, a board member at New College of Florida and senior fellow at the Manhattan Institute for Policy Research.

If confirmed by the U.S. Senate, McMahon will take over a department that Trump has repeatedly said he wants to get rid of. But doing so will require an act of Congress. Some policy analysts have said Trump and his allies are more likely to leverage the department’s power to reshape the higher education system. Trump himself has pledged to fire accreditors in order to reclaim colleges from the “radical left” and proposed creating a free online university funded by taxes on wealthy private colleges.

McMahon penned an op-ed for The Hill in September supporting the Workforce Pell Act introduced by congressional Republicans in 2023, offering a rare glimpse into her potential education policy agenda.

The bill, which would expand eligibility for federal Pell Grants to students enrolled in short-term credential programs, was blocked by Democrats but faces a much easier path to becoming law in the new Congress. Critics worry that in lieu of increases in overall Pell funding, expanding the program would deplete funds for students pursuing four-year degrees.

In the Hill piece, McMahon argued that Pell funding for credentials like coding boot camps would “create high-paying jobs for more Americans.” A report published Monday on a federal short-term Pell pilot program found that it did not lead to higher employment or earnings for participating students.

“Half a century ago … colleges were focused on preparing students for professional roles at the highest levels of government, science, business and the arts,” she wrote. “Today, however, many degree programs have lost sight of their mission … Our educational system must offer clear and viable pathways to the American Dream aside from four-year degrees.”

Career Education Colleges and Universities, a national trade association representing for-profit technical institutions, endorsed Trump’s reported pick in a statement Tuesday evening.

“Linda McMahon has extensive experience that positions her well to address many of the key areas that will be education priorities in the new administration,” CECU said in the statement. “We look forward to working with the new secretary and the team assembled around her. Under her leadership, we are confident that the new Department of Education will take a more reasoned and thoughtful approach in addressing many of the overreaching and punitive regulations put forth by the Biden administration, especially those targeting private career schools.”