#these are fun and I Forgot to do it for days

[dreamwritesimagines]

Sunshine [9] - Tranquility

AN: My loves, thank you so so much for your patience! ❤️ You’re amazing! ❤️

I hope you like this as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! 🥰

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female!Reader

Summary: Simple days can be calming.

Word Count: 2853

CW: Explicit language,��mentions of sex, drinking, adult themes MDNI

Series Masterlist

Well.

This was very fun.

“I mean to repeat, I do have a hammer at home,” you said, leaning your elbows on the cart as you pushed it slowly and Logan raised his brows.

“Just a hammer?”

“Yeah, I wanted to put up that framed picture of me and Theo so Jamie brought it and then forgot it.”

“Exactly why we’re here.”

Home Depot wasn’t really your favorite place to shop in, you couldn’t even remember when the last time you had been there was. Needless to say, you felt a bit overwhelmed as you looked at the aisles with many tools and construction products, but Logan seemed right at home there, and the simple act of going shopping together -whether it was at a store you were familiar with or not- made you feel all warm inside.

Who knew the aftermath of breaking your bed would be fun as well?

Logan grabbed a pack of what seemed like tiny pieces of metal to put it in the cart, and you looked around, then gasped.

“Let’s get these, they look prettier!”

“Screw anchors?”

You tilted your head.

“Well if you feel that strongly about them…”

“No I mean— that’s what they’re called.”

“They’re yellow, I like yellow!” you said, grabbing the pack off the hook to hold it up and Logan chuckled.

“Sweetheart, if we’re going to use them on your bed, they need to be metal. Your bed frame is metal.”

You looked down at the pack. “Oh, these look plastic.”

“Mm hm, they are plastic.”

“Well, where do people use these?”

“On drywall, mostly,” he said. “When you’re hanging—hold on, did Jamie just put a screw into the wall for those frames you mentioned?”

“Yeah.”

He blinked a couple of times, then cleared his throat and took the pack from you to put it into the cart as well.

“Yay!”

“Anything else you want from here?”

You looked over at the shelf, then shook your head and Logan threw an arm over your shoulder to pull you closer to himself as you both went into another aisle.

“So wait, you need to put stuff into the wall to put stuff into the wall?”

“Mm hm.”

“Why?”

“Well, otherwise the screw can slip out of the wall when you hang something,” he said. “Anchors make sure whatever is on the wall doesn’t fall on anyone. It’s the same logic with anchoring furniture.”

“None of my furniture is anchored.”

“Babe, you have a mirror in your living room.”

“I just leaned it to the wall,” you pointed out and Logan heaved a sigh, then gently guided you into another aisle.

“I’m guessing you don’t have a drill?”

“Good guess—Logan, we’re not buying a drill!”

He went closer to one of the shelves to grab one to check it. “Why not?”

“I’m not gonna use it.”

“I’m gonna use it, I don’t want that mirror to fall on you.”

“It’s on the other side of the room.”

“Accidents happen,” he said. “That thing needs to be anchored along with God knows what. Every home needs a drill.”

You scrunched up your face, leaning back to the shelf.

“Debatable,” you said. “Every home needs a medicine cabinet. A drill is just something people in home makeover shows use.”

“What are makeover shows?”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God, you’ve never watched those? We’re so watching those, I need your commentary.”

Logan turned the drill in his hand and you bit inside your cheek, trying to fight the urge to jump on him in the aisle of Home Depot. Clearing your throat, you tried to focus and crossed your arms.

“Not that one,” you said and Logan turned his gaze to you.

“Why not?”

“We should get that one,” you pointed at the other drill on the shelf and Logan bit back a smile.

“Babe, that one is 12 volts. This one is 18.”

“Volt isn’t everything,” you said as if you knew what you were talking about and Logan pulled his brows together.

“It is kind of important in a drill—”

“Yeah but Logan, that’s orange,” you said and grabbed the pack of yellow plastic anchors out of the cart to hold it up. “See? They’ll match if we get this one!”

Logan stared at you as if he was trying to find the right words to disagree with you but you pulled your brows together before putting the pack next to the drill so that he could see it better.

“Same shade!” you insisted as you pressed your finger on the drill, looking up at him and the corners of his lips twitched, that fond light shining in his eyes before he nodded slowly, then put the drill in his hand into the shelf to grab the one you were pointing at.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get the matching drill then.”

                                                 *

At first you had been worried about being too much of a bother when Logan said he’d be fixing your bedframe but now, sitting on the couch eating the snacks you got on your way back home, you couldn’t help but notice Logan looked very comfortable and happy to be helping you out. Right after you got back home, he fixed your bedframe but apparently having a drill and a toolbox within his vicinity had awakened something in him that he was now working on what could be “fixed” in your living room.

You could’ve sworn his face had lit up like a Christmas tree when you mentioned you had shelves somewhere that you had been procrastinating on putting up.

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” you asked as you popped a piece of chocolate in your mouth and he shook his head, holding the shelf against the wall to draw on where he’d put it up.

“No need princess.”

“I could help, I have some experience in it,” you pointed out. “Not very pleasant experience but experience nonetheless.”

“How’s that?”

“Um, when I was a child, whenever something broke in our house my dad would want to fix it himself,” you said. “And he’d ask me to hold the flashlight and but then scold me for pointing it at the wrong place.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah.”

He looked at you over his shoulder before grabbing the drill and turned it on, making you grimace at the loud noise. He drilled two holes in the wall, then grabbed the plastic anchors and the hammer to nail them in.

You’d had a wet dream like this.

“How did you learn how to do all this?�� you asked him and he shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve been around for some time. You pick up hobbies.”

“And that’s your hobby?”

“I like fixing things,” he said. “And building stuff.”

You sat up straighter, your whole attention on him.

“Okay, so I can add it to the list of things I know about you,” you said with a bright smile. “I’m quite proud of myself you know, growing that list isn’t the easiest thing in the world.”

Logan shot you a small grin. “Subtle.”

“Hey I’m just warning you beforehand,” you said, holding your hands up. “You won’t even see me coming and before you know, you’re opening up to me.”

“Oh is that what’s gonna happen?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m too stubborn to quit.”

Logan’s smile was calm before he took a deep breath, then started working on the shelf again.

“It’s just…” he murmured. “A long story, you know? Too much to tell.”

“That’s okay,” you said softly. “I’ve got time. And until then, you can listen to me talk about absolute nonsense.”

“I like doing that, in case it escaped your notice.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest and you took a deep breath, pulling your knees up to your chest.

“So yeah, I apparently held the flashlight wrong. And there was also that one time—I’m just not the best at fixing things, there was that one time Julie tried to teach me how to change a tire but I ended up convincing her to go get mimosas instead. She’s really good at all that, I swear she and IKEA manuals have something going on that the rest of us human kind cannot understand, she built my wardrobe and I honestly just provided her with cookies—oh my God, Logan!” you said with a gasp. “Do you want cookies?”

A fond smile curled his lips as he looked at you over his shoulder.

“No seriously, I know you liked the chocolate chip ones but I’ve been dying to try this new recipe, it has mint chocolate—do you like mint chocolate? I hope you’re not one of those people who say mint chocolate tastes like toothpaste because I am a ride or die mint chocolate lover, but I think I can also make—”

You were cut off when he strode to you to lean down and kiss you, cutting you off before you let out a giggle.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling back to look at you better. “I’d love some.”

You beamed up at him and stole another kiss from him.

“So yes to the mint chocolate cookies then?”

He stroked his thumb over your cheekbone, that loving look in his eye making your heart skip a happy beat.

“Sure thing sweetheart,” he said. “Yes to the mint chocolate cookies.”

                                                        *

The more time you spent with Logan, the giddier you felt. You knew that you were supposed to keep yourself in check and play it cool considering everything between you two was very new, but it felt as if since you two had got together, you hadn’t been able to stop smiling.

Or it could’ve been just mind-blowing sex.

Either or.

“I’m not really much of a TV person.”

“And I respect that, but not having seen Titanic is simply just not acceptable,” you said as you poured the popcorn into the bowl and made your way to the couch. He wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you to his lap, making you let out a squeal as you straddled him with a giggle.

“You’re not distracting me this time,” you told him, pecking him on the lips before getting off his lap to sit beside him, still holding the popcorn bowl tight. You grabbed the remote to start the movie while Logan frowned at the screen as if it had personally offended him.

“I mean I heard about it,” he said. “It’s romance, right?”

“The best romance in the history of humankind.”

Logan pulled his brows together.

“So low expectations, got it,” he said. “The title suggests it’s not gonna end well?”

“Listen, they may have only known each other for four days—”

“Four days?!”

“Yeah but it was true love,” you said in a solemn manner, nodding your head and Logan’s frown deepened.

“I don’t think that’s how it works, babe.”

“That’s totally how it works,” you said. “It’s like opposites attract wrapped in star-crossed lovers wrapped in a tragic love story. I watched it for like 50 times, it’s my comfort movie. I always cry at the end.”

“Your comfort movie is a movie that makes you cry?”

“Yeah,” you said and grabbed at his arm when turned to look at the screen. “Look, that’s Jack! That’s who Rose falls in love with—wait, Logan, I have a question.”

“Hm?”

“So you were around when Titanic happened?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember it?”

“I remember the news of it, yeah,” he said. “Everyone was shocked by it.”

You took a deep breath to ask him another question but your doorbell rang. You turned your head and stood up but Logan was faster than you, so he walked to the door to open it and as soon as he did, Julie’s voice reached you.

“Holy shit you’re tall.”

“Julie?” you asked as you approached the door and Logan stepped aside. “Hi!”

“Hey, sorry I didn’t…” she motioned at Logan. “It’s just that I texted you and you didn’t answer, and I was on my way here anyway because who just got out of a terrible argument with her ex dickhead of a boyfriend and needed some distraction?”

“Jesus, that asshole again?” you asked and she nodded.

“Yep.”

“Come in!” you said and Julie shook her head.

“No no, I really don’t wanna interrupt your sexy time.”

Logan tilted his head while you shot her a lighthearted glare.

“Come in,” you insisted, pulling her by the arm before closing the door. “We’re watching Titanic. Logan, this is Julie, my best friend. Jules, this is Logan—” you paused for a moment, trying to find the right words.

Boyfriend was a big title and you hadn’t really talked about it before, and you actually didn’t know where Logan stood on this whole thing so you decided to play it safe.

“I told you about him,” you ended up saying and Logan extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Julie said, shaking his hand. “You really are a good looking dude, and I was so right about the lumberjack vibes.”

Logan blinked a couple of times as if he didn’t know how to answer. “…Thanks?”

“No problem.”

“I’m pouring you wine,” you said, making your way to the kitchen with Julie following you, and Logan lingered in the hallway for a moment before going back to the living room.

“Are you sure it’s cool I’m crashing your date?”

You took out a wine glass before pouring some wine in it.

“I’ll be offended if you ask me that again,” you told her and she hugged you, making you smile and press a kiss on her cheek.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to like, buy a baseball bat and threaten him?”

“Nah I’m fine,” she said as she pulled back to take the glass from you. “It’s just fucking frustrating.”

“Screw him, he’s an idiot,” you told her as you held her other hand and you both went into the living room.

“Hey man, sorry about the interruption,” Julie told him, flinging herself on the armchair and Logan shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it. No interruption other than me trying to figure out how these two people will have the ‘greatest love story’ in four days.”

“It is true love!” you said, smacking the back of your hand into your palm to emphasize each word and Logan chuckled.

“Yeah alright, sorry. True love.”

“Weren’t you around when this happened?” Julie asked, motioning at the screen and you grinned.

“We share one braincell,” you told her and Julie crossed her arms, looking at Logan.

“Did you meet Thomas Edison?”

Logan looked almost confused. “Uh, no?”

“Good, he was an asshole. Did you meet Victor Hugo?”

Logan paused for a moment, then turned to look at you. “Are you guys all secretly French?”

“No, we just watched Les Miserables one hundred times,” you answered while Julie sighed.

“A masterpiece, if you will.”

“Better than this whole true love in four days thing?” Logan asked, motioning at the screen and you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Careful there buddy, you’re on thin ice.”

Logan shot you a grin, making you smile back before you turned to Julie.

“Seriously, what happened with that jerk?”

“Oh you know, the usual drill. He called me drunk, started with begging and then that whole thing turned into him listing every single bad thing about me.”

“He was the one who cheated on you.”

“Yeah and you’d think he’d remember that.”

Logan threw an arm over your shoulder to pull you closer to him.

“I can beat him up if you want,” he said in such a matter-of-fact tone that it made you look up at him in confusion. Julie let out a small laugh.

“You, I like you,” she said, pointing at him before she looked at you. “I approve.”

“Aw thank you.”

“That being said,” she said. “Logan, you seem like a really nice guy but make no mistake, if you upset her in any way, I’ll get the biggest magnet I can find and point it at you so that I can pull that metal skeleton of yours out of your body.”

“Julie!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening and Logan’s smile widened as if he was merely amused. “Don’t listen to her. She’s nice to me and terrible to everyone else.”

Julie blew you a kiss and Logan nodded his head.

“Noted,” he told Julie and Julie grinned at him.

“See? You and I are gonna get along just fine.”

You heaved a sigh, then grabbed the bowl to hold it out for Julie to take some popcorn. She grabbed a handful, then leaned back to watch the movie while you leaned your head on Logan’s chest, trying to pay attention to the movie. Logan nuzzled into your hair and pressed a kiss on top of your head, making your stomach do a happy flip and you felt a smile warm your face before you bit on your lip, then turned your gaze to the screen again.

[coiled-dragon]

9 Fandom Peeps to Get to Know Better:

Thank you for the taaaag @thetentaclecommander

3 Ships I like: Dracfield (Dracula/Renfield) BlackIce (Pitch Black/Jack Frost) BillDip (Bill Cipher/Dipper Pines)

First Ship Ever: oh thats hard hmm.. I think it was Myotismon x Matt from Digimon xD

Last Song You Heard: 'Man Spins Black' by Wonderaven

Favorite Childhood Book: Eragon by Christopher Paolini

Currently Reading: ..... Eragon by Christohper Paolini >u>;

Currently Watching: YouTube tbh (specifically, Insym playing the newest Im On Observation Duty game)

Currently Consuming: Electrolytes (Propel fitness water)

Currently Craving: Bug

Tags for 9 people:

@pinkiepiebones @rmilkies @popironrye @just-a-silly-little-guy and whoever else wants to do it my brain is operating at like half capacity today fgdshfg BLOWS KISSES

[the-fab-fox]

Honestly growing up with my Hispanic foster parents, Tejano music was some of the best music I've ever heard still to this day.

I do love kpop and jpop (or whatever anime soundtracks would identify as). I think French music is gorgeous. Italian too!

I haven't heard German or Russian singing but I have no doubt that I could find beauty in their music as well. African music of all kinds is so good. Native American as well. Indian definitely! Especially that thing where they sing more than one note at a time. 😘👌 I think there are some other cultures that have that as well.

And ever culture music is so vastly DIFFERENT. It really is a look into the people that make up these different cultures.

And, this is gonna blow your mind, but trust me.

You don't necessarily need to understand the language to get that if you sit, listen, and emerse yourself in the feeling.

That's all music is anyway.

Feelings made audible.

Tangible, in a way.

Like you could listen to Como la Flor by Selena y Los Dinos, you don't have to be fluent in Spanish to know that whatever it is she is singing about, it is painful. Viceraly. But there's also a sort of finality to it, so you get the sense this is her letting go of whatever is causing that pain. Still to this day, even with the Internet, I have never looked up the lyrics.

I was in Spanish up through Pre-AP Spanish in 11th grade but I forgot everything but the most basic of words for the most part. But I can definitely pick out many words I do know. Or at least, from what I'm hearing. (I could be hearing a Spanish word wrong.) But honestly. I kinda like hearing it just in Spanish without really knowing the words but just taking in what they represent.

And you can do that with any and all non-English music! :D

Go try it! It's fun!

I wish Americans fucked with more foreign music. You don’t have to know the language to appreciate a good record. Folks in other countries listen to our music and don’t speak a lick of english. Music needs no translator

[baronessvonglitter]

would you ever consider writing a deeper romantic relationship for the lovely couple from Daddy can fix it??💖 it’s sooo good

I hope you didn’t think I forgot about you 💕 I was so pleased to receive your ask. From one hopeless romantic to another, I hope you enjoy!

Daddy Does Drilling

Handyman! Joel x fem!plus size!Reader

Word count: 1.3K

Summary: what happens when you and Joel blur the line between business and pleasure..

I invite everyone to also read "Daddy Can Fix It" 🩵

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Explicit. Reader is plus-size, wears apron and dress. Reader's age not mentioned so there is as much or as little of an age gap as you want. Unprotected piv (Joel is snipped). Oral (f receiving). Sarah and Ellie are mentioned but not named. Divorced Dad!Joel 🤭Slowly falling in love and not realizing it until it's too late. Mention of reader wanting a divorce from her husband. Also catty book club bitches.

"You're crazy, y'know that?" Joel whispers in your ear, his harsh whisper tickling your skin as he guides you up and down on his cock.

You grab the back of the sofa, nails digging into the soft upholstery as he plunges into your soaking wet pussy. "I had to do it," you giggle through your panting. "I couldn't stand my idiot husband doing all the work that you do better."

That earns you a slap on the ass, Joel's large hand giving it a firm grip after. "You're an insatiable lil' thing," he growls in your ear. "'Bout to wear me out."

You smirk up at the patched-up drywall, perfectly smoothed over by Joel's industrious and talented hands. Hands that are now grabbing your curves and molding your body to his. "Can you blame me? I'll never get enough of this cock!" Your sentence ends on a loud moan as he holds your hips steady and thrusts up into you hard and deep so you feel the steady brush of him up close to your cervix.

"Come on sweet thing, ya came twice already, you ready for a third?" Joel rasps in your ear. "Got my lap all fuckin' wet with this juicy pussy."

The moment he'd finished up with the wall you'd pounced on him, crushed your lips and your hips to his, delighted to find him already hard and ready. In the shortest amount of time ever, you both had shoved off and pulled aside whatever clothes were unnecessary and fucked right there on the sofa.

He's working you to your third orgasm, spoiling you, actually, holding back from his own pleasure because it's too much fun giving you yours, watching the beautiful expression on your face, the way your body shakes and trembles.

"There she is," he whispers as your sugar walls convulse around him, rhythmically squeezing his rigid cock, and that's when he lets himself explode, your pussy milking him for every drop he's got.

He's at your house every week, then twice a week, three times a week, until he's just there to fuck you and make you scream his name. No fixing of anything required.

Neither of you notices when things take a turn towards the soft, the sweet. He spends hours between your thighs, tasting and teasing you until you come multiple times, not just trying to get you off but trying to know you. Your time together is marked not by the quick, productive thrusts in positions you haven't tried since college, but in the lingering kisses and knowing stares, the confessions that spill from your lips, the honesty that is born of such intimacy as you've shared.

You find out that he's divorced, has two grown daughters, one married and the other away at university. He loves to work with his hands, that he has a natural knack for figuring out a solution to every problem, and persists until said problem is fixed. That's how he started his company.. and one day the ladies just started coming onto him.

Being older and single, he didn't let those chances pass him. The women he helped were lonely like himself, and if he could give them a bit of something to keep them happy even for a moment, he was glad to do it. It became a well-known secret among the housewives of the community of Royal Hill that he would provide good service at a decent price and give you the fucking of a lifetime if you asked politely.

He liked women, found their husbands to be idiots, more often than not. White collar limp dicks who think a G-spot is street slang for money. Some of them he got to know well: Amirah with the flawless umber skin and always smelled of jasmine; Isabelle who tip-tapped around her tiled home in impossibly high heels with ostentatious feathers on the straps and wore hardly anything under her sheer hot pink robe, also bedecked in feathers; Becky who was quite demanding and rude but submissive once she had a dick inside her.

Then came you. And you threw him for a loop.

You were more than you appeared: sweet, shy, pretty. Once he got you in bed you were a goddess, and the amazing thing was you already knew you were. You gave without asking anything in return.. but how could he ever deny you his strong hands, eager mouth, throbbing cock?

No one else had struck this feeling within him, no matter how many lonely housewives he visited, no matter how hard or rough or passionately he'd fucked any of them, they were just fun. Side quests, as his gamer brother would say.

He liked getting to know you, finding out who was the woman underneath the apron and the rosebud-patterned dress. You told him secrets no one else knew, and he found himself doing the same. You would call each other just to talk, to hear each other's voices when you couldn't be close.

What you didn't know was the impact it would have on the other housewives.

"He doesn't even come over himself anymore. His brother Tommy came by to fix the sink instead."

"Don't get me wrong.. Tommy's cute, but I wanted Joel."

"Daddy Joel."

You ignore the little group that's once again near the dessert table. You grab a couple of cucumber sandwiches and a chocolate-dipped madeleine, oblivious to their prattle.

"I don't know," Becky says pointedly. "His truck has been seen outside a certain someone's house a few days a week." She stops you before you can go back to your seat. "With the amount of time Joel's been at your home, you ought to have the most restored, revamped, upgraded home on the block," she says, brimming over with restrained attitude.

"What's going on?" she asks under her breath.

You can see the others are waiting for you to answer her, but for the first time ever you feel absolutely no need to appease them. You need to win them over like you need a hole in your head. "I don't know what you're talking about," you tell them, lying with ease.

"It's not nice to take up all his time," Becky says with an icy tone, staring you down as if looks could kill.

"Becky, is it just me, or are you jealous over a man you have to pay to fuck you?"

The others are stunned. No one has ever put Bitchy Becky in her place before. Not even she knows what to say.

"I think I'm done with this book club. I can read on my own at my house.. waiting on Daddy to fix whatever I need him to." With an angelic smile you drop the plate of treats back onto the table as you leave.

Walking out into the late afternoon sun you feel more free than you ever have before, as if a whole new chapter has started. The short walk to your house is pleasant, even more so when you see Joel's work truck in your driveway.

"Thought I missed ya," he says, his hands in his pockets as he walks from your front door.

"Fridays are for the book club," you explain, heart racing as you come close to him, and his arms go naturally around your waist. "But I quit. Can't really stand those snobby bitches."

You inhale the clean cotton scent of his red flannel, nuzzling your nose in his shoulder as he kisses the side of your head. "I don't want to do anything ever again that doesn't make me happy."

"So, lil' thing, what's gonna make ya happy right now?" he asks, a small grin playing across his lips.

Looking up at him, you realize Joel is the best choice you could have made. "I think I'm going to leave my husband. No.. I'm definitely going to leave my husband. But there's something else I want right now.."

"Good idea." His arms tighten slightly around you, as if to tether you to him. "And what would that be?"

"I want you to come inside.. you've got some drilling to do," you lead him by the hand and into your home.

dividers by @saradika 👑

[senmiyaazx]

12 months and 365 days

Crowe x GN!Reader

context: memories of your first year spent in loneliness, and memories of your second year spent with crowe. (aka how you met crowe)

cw: a little self indulgent. mentions of bullying. self deprecating and social anxiety.

word count: 1673

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

It's your first day.

You're very nervous.

Of course, you finished high school before. But college was different.

And you didn't have anyone you knew here.

It's okay. You reassure yourself. You just gotta save up enough money to pay the debt, make a few friends and graduate. It's easy enough, right?

It's... your third day.

You haven't talked to anyone yet.

It's alright. It's only your third day.

You'll be fine.

Besides, there's this cool person you've been sneaking glances at lately. Hopefully you'll build up enough courage to talk to them!

Something gnaws at your nerves.

It's been two weeks.

Two weeks since you came to this city.

Two weeks spent alone at a table in a busy cafeteria. Two weeks of sitting in the corner of the classroom as if you don't exist.

It'll be fine. You can get by with no friends. You just have to pay the debt, and you'll be back home like nothing ever happened.

It's fine.

Three weeks.

You're paired up with someone for a group project.

They're nice. Really nice.

You found out you share a lot of common interests.

They ask to be friends. You accept.

You're really happy.

1 month.

Oh.

They've forgotten about you.

It's okay. You expected it so it didn't hurt much.

It seems they already had an existing friendgroup before you.

It's not your place to be upset. You were strangers after all.

It's okay. Just focus on your job. You'll be home soon.

Five months.

Why don't they ask you for a pen? You're right here.

You have complete school supplies. You always take notes in class.

The person in front of you asks your seatmate for a paper. They don't have one.

You did.

Why don't they ask you?

Why don't you talk to them?

You can't. Because you're too anxious. Scared.

Fear of getting judged.

It's frustrating.

College isn't so fun when you're doing it to save your only home. When you have no friends.

Seven months.

You've gotten used to it.

Sure, you can talk to your group mates just fine. Act friendly and all that stuff. But it never lasted long. Nothing ever did.

It's nothing too concerning now. You accepted the fact you were too much of a coward to just talk and reach out to someone. You're an outcast, and it'll stay that way forever.

Even if your inner self begged to be able to rant about your interests, your hobbies, your troubles.

Two more years of this hell.

Before you knew it, you're in your second year.

First day.

Nothing unusual. You're still alone.

It's boring.

Four more hours till you go home.

Second day.

There's this guy who introduced himself to you.

He seems friendly.

He told you his name, but you forgot. Oh well, it's not important.

Not like you two will be close anyway.

One week.

He keeps talking to you.

You learned his name now. Crowe.

You weren't exactly a jerk either, and it was rude to show your obvious disinterest in someone, so you tried your best to put on a smile as you listened to him.

It's awkward. He's aware of the tension in the air.

You feel bad, but it's okay. Give it a week and he'll move on.

Three weeks.

He. Won't. Leave. You. Alone.

What's wrong with this guy? He keeps acting all buddy with you.

You don't know him. He doesn't know you.

It annoys you how he acts like he does. How friendly he is with you.

You're sure he has some sort of ulterior motive.

Ah, whatever. It's not good to assume. At least you have someone sitting with you at lunch. Even if you're a little irritated.

Four weeks.

You volunteered to be a helper at the school gardens. It's good. Extra credits and a place for you to hang out. Alone.

Now you no longer have to be in the cafeteria.

Five weeks.

He found out about the garden. Keeps pestering you about it.

"Can I join? Can I help? I wanna see! Let's eat lunch there together!" He says.

It's.. so annoying. But you felt bad for him, so you accepted. Grudgingly.

Now you have someone pestering you in your comfort spot. Great.

He tells you he didn't expect you to be interested in gardening. You told him you lived on a farm. He's curious, but you refuse to tell more.

It'll be a waste of time if he'll forget about you in the end anyways.

Two months.

He's still there. He's weirdly persistent on being your friend.

You're starting to doubt yourself now. Had you judged him too much?

Still, it's hard to act friendly now when you've spent an entire year being ignored by everyone on the campus despite your attempts to communicate.

He doesn't seem to mind. You feel weird.

For once, you allow yourself to soften a little around him.

Three months.

It's been a terrible week. Burnout has caught up to you. You're in an incredibly tight budget and you're nowhere near halfway to your debt.

Is there really hope for you? Your father?

Right. You're doing this for dad. The farm.

You can't give up now that you've come so far, yet...

The frustration and stress is too much. He noticed this, of course. He's always so observant when it came to you. Noticing all the little changes and details that nobody else did. Not that anyone else paid much mind to you in the first place.

Still. It's weird. It makes you feel overwhelmed and a little overstimulated.

And it's because of the stress, you think. It's the stress and anxiety that you've been bottling up for years— and ended up lashing out on him.

He's hurt. You know it. You feel incredibly guilty.

You fucked up, didn't you? You always did. Now you lost the only person who actually liked you.

It's all your fault.

Three months and two weeks.

You haven't talked to him since then, despite his attempts to reach you.

You're the first to leave when the bell rings. You lock yourself up in the garden when it's lunchbreak. You dash out the school gates when it's time to go home.

You've seen the way he looks at you. Worry and pain plastered all over his face. It makes your stomach twist. You're guilty. You're aware of how much of a jerk you're being.

But you have no choice. After all, you were born to be lonely.

I'm sorry, Crowe.

Six months.

It's been so long. You're sure he's forgotten about you. Like you expected. It hurts, yet you ignore the pain.

One day, however, you're cornered.

You've always been an outcast. One that's genuinely forgotten by everyone.

Unlucky as you were, you never had to experience bullies in your life.

And now..

One of them pushes your bruised body to the ground. You shake. They laugh at you. Fuck people and their greed for superiority.

You hate it. Hate this. Hate yourself. Why can't you just get up and fight back? Are you really going to let them step over you like this when you're already miserable enough?

C'mon. Get up. Stand up!

Someone yells from a distance. That voice, all too familiar. One that makes your heart drop.

"Crowe?"

It all becomes a blur. You're on the ground, frozen in fear as you watched Crowe take the hits for you. Defending you as if you've known each other for years.

Why? Why would he do this? You don't understand. You don't understand him.

It's so damn annoying.

Slowly, you stand up. There's a rock nearby. You grab it.

And throw it against the bastard's head as hard as you can.

He passes out. His other goons turn around to face you with a murderous glare, and you tremble as they approach.

"One more step and I'll scream so loud everyone will think you're a serial killer." It's a stupid threat. You have no guarantee it'll work.

To your luck, it does. They turn away with a 'tsk' as they pick their friend up. It seems they don't want to cause any more trouble than they already did. Hypocrites.

You immediately turn to face Crowe with a harsh glare, striding towards him despite the pain in your body.

You grab him by the collar, bringing him close to your face as you yelled, confusion and pain evident in your voice. Desperation. "Are you stupid? Why the hell did you do that?! There's literally no reason for you to defend me, so why?!" You shake him back and forth. You shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be angry at him when he helped you.

You're just.. so damn lost.

He doesn't mind the way you take your anger out on him when he should. He should be annoyed with you. He should be as mad as you for getting angry when he's the one who helped you.

Instead, he laughs. He fucking laughs.

"Because you're my friend!" He grins stupidly, and you have half a mind to punch him the way those bullies did.

You don't. Instead, you let him go as you felt warmth rush to your cheeks and all over your body. Till your heart aches and leaves a stinging pain in your chest. Till the tips of your fingers tingle and leave your palms sweaty. Till your knees feel weak and you sit down on the ground with your head held in your hands.

"You're.. so annoying, you know that? You're fucking insane." Your voice was shaky. Yet you couldn't help the smile that crept up to your lips.

He stayed. He didn't forget about you.

You have a friend. His name is Jericho Ichabod.

Three years — present.

You're in the greenhouse. Brittney and the others are somewhere in the garden, doing their own thing. You're glad they're enjoying this little space of yours.

Crowe's saying something about flowers. You don't listen much, simply staring at him as you nod and smile.

You have a crush. His name is Jericho Ichabod.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

a/n: i've had this on my mind since the update. unfortunately I don't have any ideas for a sol fic yet:(

[rosyprayer]

I made some new dance friends and omg they’re both bunnies and fearnots like I am and we’re having a party and I’m SO EXCITED !!! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

🎀 ˖⁺‧₊˚ 🤍 ˚₊‧⁺˖ 🩰

[riacte]

Can’t believe I forgot the one I actually did (or attempted to do)

Epistolary socmed / chatfic whatever but it’s updated in real time so your updates take place during the same day in-universe. I did mine for around 9 months. Requires a lot of upkeep and tremendous willpower so I highly suggest prewriting most of it. But it’s really fun because you and your readers get this “portal” to another world and it takes place at the same time— what happened three months ago to the characters also happened three months ago to the readers. You celebrate festivals and world events together. I did mine during 2020-21 as an no-Covid escapism AU and it mentioned Nov 5 Destiel and Suez Canal and Olivia Rodrigo as I was experiencing them. Kind of like a fake diary but with characters. You can also do stuff by creating a cliffhanger in which the story gets cut off at 11:59pm and you get a few hours before you post the update for the next day about what happened after 12:00am.

Unconventional format / mixed media / meta / epistolary fic ideas:

Script format but the characters slowly break fourth wall until they grow self aware and scream to leave but the script confines them.

Mock up notes of an author's fic outline only for a "fan favourite" / "author's darling" character to gain sentience and influence the story. The character changes the outline to suit their own agenda, and their changes are marked with a different colour whereas black text means it's the author's will. Maybe another character using another colour gains sentience. The different colours fight for dominance. Mom says it's my turn with the keyboard hey what the fuck man excuse me I'm literally trying to save my family can you guys let go and let me write your character arcs in peace OH FUCK OFF

Recipe fic. The story is told via those unnecessarily long backstories on a recipe blog in which you learn about someone's grandma or a breakup or literally anything. Bonus points if the actual recipe deals with worldbuilding (what ingredients are available? What utensils are used? How to serve this meal? Woohoo Dungeon Meshi) or in-cheek recipes (eg. "Recipe for making up with your estranged mother - Step 1: Mix patience, nostalgia, and filial piety and let it marinate for ten years. Step 2: Throw that shit into the trash because you're better than that")

Travel fic. A character is lost and trying to find their way somewhere. GPS directions, googling "x place to x place", tickets and dates, train station maps, leaflets. It gets weirder and weirder. You never get closer to your destination. You're walking around in circles. It's always 10 meters away. Where are you going and where have you been?

Receipts. Try to infer what a character is doing judging from the weird things they buy together. Also yipppee inflation tracker. On the other side, maybe it can be about a cashier/ shop owner getting to know their customers and what they order.

Written from the pov of an non-native English speaker, all the English words are italicized whereas their native tongue are the only words not italicized. Inspired by Kupu rere kē by Alice Te Punga Somerville. This is because I got salty about people from Ao3 Reddit saying they won't read a fic in all italics.

Murder mystery / "Among Us" style impersonation fic strictly using the chatfic format. Characters and readers will have to figure out which character has been killed and replaced from the way they text and use emojis. This is also because I got salty about Ao3 Reddit being a wee bit pretentious about emoji usage in fics. Maybe emojis can be important plot devices! Some people prefer to sign off messages with a heart emoji of their signature colour, so won't it be weird if they use another coloured heart? How about someone using lapslock suddenly using proper capitalisation and full stops? Can you tell if someone's phone has been stolen? What if someone's mother is pretending to text like their child? Why is someone suddenly only using UwU speak? Is it a bit, or have they been replaced?

Innocuous second person POV until the last line where it's suddenly revealed to be first person POV all along and the "I" has been stalking and narrating "you".

Other fun bits / Easter eggs / secrets to hide:

Decoding within the text itself. Maybe we get given instructions to find a word in x chapter on page y on the nth line. And when we as readers collect all the words, they form a sentence that spells out an important fact which the characters are oblivious to. Or maybe the in-universe characters find a book with the same title as the irl fic with a bookmark in it, and if you go to where the bookmark is stuck irl, you'll find the murderer plainly stated. The rest of the fic is about the readers having hard confirmation of who the murderer is while characters don't know.

A phrase is subtly repeated throughout the text of the fic and is spelled out with the letter that begins a sentence. It gives off the effect that the narrator is screaming and crying into the void (to the readers in the fourth wall) while trying to avoid detection. Bonus points if the same word is repeated for pages and pages to the point the lack of sentence variation feels weird and clunky.

Morse code!! I love morse code! Using onomatopoeia to convey the dots and dashes! The sound of rain pattering on the tin rooftop— drop, drop, drop. A low whistle of a train rumbling in the distance. He slowly sharpens his knife, creating a shiiing sound. A lengthy, high pitched squeal from his kettle. A dog barks. A sharp knock. His heart thumps. Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. SOS. Maybe a character's death scene spells out the name of their mysterious murderer. Maybe a character is reminiscing their deceased loved one and the scene spells out what the deceased person would've wanted to tell them— "LIVE ON" or "I LOVE YOU" or something.

[cheyisagirlkisser]

Having an attitude with Abby (Short!)

Warnings: Brat taming, NSFW content, spankings (r! receiving), fingering(r! receiving), pillow princess reader, sub-dom relationship (dom Abby, sub reader), Abby calls reader degrading names, soft sex towards the end, AFAB reader, dacryphilia Word Count: 1k

The door was slammed behind you and you quickly moved to sit down onto the bed. You were in some deep shit right now.

You had been mouthing off to Abby all day. You couldn't help but want to be a little bitchy to her. You made sure not to go too far with the attitude, but you laid it on just subtly enough in public that she knew what you were up to.

And that's also how you found yourself laid out across her lap with her hand coming down on your ass.

Smack!

"You better fucking count, you whore. You know you deserved this." She demands of you, and your legs turn to jelly. You thank whatever higher being is out there that she didn't have you standing, because you would immediately collapse.

"O-One!! Abby, please-" You tried to plead because it was more fun to beg for mercy even if you loved her putting you in your place. However, she cut you off with another smack.

"Shut up. Just..shut your damn mouth for five minutes. Take everything I give you. I know you can be a good girl." Her voice is still stern, but there's a warmth to the praise that makes your the coil in your stomach wind up even tighter.

You nod without further complaints, and you endure about four more spanks. Each time, it feels worse and yet the pleasure increases. You didn't know if it was just being in her lap like this, or maybe it was the way she bossed you around. Her hand coming down hard onto your ass cheek while the other hand held you in place by your waist helped, though.

By the time it was over and you had somehow managed to count, you were a tearful wreck on her lap. Abby almost felt bad if it weren't for the flashbacks to your earlier attitude. Usually, she was a big softie with you. She loved you dearly and would hate to be the cause of your tears. But you pushed it much too far. At least now you had learned your lesson.

She rubbed at your ass in a soothing gesture and pulled you up to sit on her lap facing her. That look on your face made her truly melt inside. Your soft, wide eyes staring at her as if she was the only thing in the world, and your hands immediately grabbing onto her sides to get closer with her. Abby forgot how clingy you got after punishments.

"Shh, baby. It's okay. You've learned your lesson. Let me take care of you now. What do you want?" She cooed into your ear, all the previous aggression nowhere to be found.

You sniffled pitifully. You knew you were almost to your limit, but you were still needy. It was hard telling Abby was you craved, but you just needed something vanilla after all the rough treatment.

"I..I want a bath. With you. And I'd like to be touched, too." You mumbled, trying to make yourself heard without having to be too bold about it. Abby smiled and decided to accept the vague words for now, and nodded. She leaned in to kiss your cheek and softly patted your thigh to signal it was time for you to leave her lap.

❀

The warmth of the water mixed with sudsy bubbles soothed you. You were sitting between Abby's thighs, your back pressed against her chest. Two of her fingers were deep inside you, and she was hardly stroking your sensitive inner-walls.

Moments where the two of you could have that slow, mind-blowing sex were the best in your opinion. You loved the rough moments where she'd be choking you with her fake cock sliding in and out of your cunt, or the moments where she'd degrade you and call you her whore, but you always needed to just feel the pleasure she gave you.

She whispered into your ear about how perfect you were and how you took everything she gave you so well. Her thumb rubbed softly over your clit and you were dizzy with all she was offering with just one hand. Her other was groping at your tits, rubbing at them and grazing over your nipples as if you were some type of goddess. She treated you like you were her reason for existing.

Ever so slowly, she'd pick up the pace while taking advantage of your head resting on her shoulder, neck visible to her. She'd mouth at the sensitive skin while keeping a steady pace on your sweet spot and clit. She admired how blissed out you looked, wet tendrils resting over both her skin and yours and your eyes closed with parted lips all kiss swollen from just a few minutes earlier when you made out in the tub. You looked so relaxed and yet so needy at the same time.

When you came, it was one of the most soul-intertwining feelings possible. You truly believed Abby was meant for you. It was hard to focus on the pleasure you were desperately chasing and she was more than happy to supply while also wanting to just think of her, picture her face and tall, muscular frame.

Your soft whimpers filled the bathroom and you finally came down from the heaven she offered you a slice of. She laughed softly when you simply went limp into her arms and she encircled you into an embrace from behind. There was always that softness to her that only you knew.

There was always a softness to Abby that only her attitude-filled girlfriend got, somehow. And you'd probably find a way to get her to pull you over her knee again and get absolutely wrecked, that would never change. However, your current night would end in sweet bedtime kisses and a lotion rub for that sore behind of yours.

[mattyriddlesbitch]

Hogsmeade(Chapter Four)

Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader

Warnings: None

One of the great things about being a third year is you now had the ability to go to Hogsmeade with your parents’ permission. The first visit was today and you already got your permission slip turned in. You got dressed, feeling free out of the school uniform already and were ready for more freedom by leaving the school grounds.

You strolled with your friends through the castle, following the other students who were going to Hogsmeade as well. You spotted Mattheo staying back in the courtyard, watching his friends leave and you ditched your group to walk over to him.

“You’re not coming?” You asked and he turned his head to look at you.

“No.” He shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Why not?” You furrowed your eyebrows.

“Didn’t get the permission slip signed. It’s fine.” He shrugged, looking back out at the students leaving the grounds.

You frown, following his eyes before looking back at him. “That’s not fair. Everyone should be able to go.”

“I can always sneak out when no one would be there to snitch on me.” He said, acting like he wasn’t upset he couldn’t go with everyone.

“Do you want me to stay with you? I don’t mind.” You offered and he looked back at you.

“No, you go have fun. Don’t worry about me.” He said before turning back to head inside the castle.

You watched him leave before following the other students to Hogsmeade, trying to catch back up to your friends.

After a few hours of roaming the shops and exploring the little town, you start heading back to the castle with a few of your friends. You felt bad the whole time knowing Mattheo couldn’t go. And you had your suspicions that the reason wasn’t as simple as he forgot to get it signed, but that he couldn’t. Maybe his mom refused to sign it? Or couldn’t? Maybe she wasn’t around? You obviously knew who his dad was, but he never talked about his mom.

You broke off from your friends after getting to the castle and looked around for him, hoping he was in a better mood than before. You found him alone in one of the corridors, staring at one of the random statues.

“Mattheo!” You called as you walked over to him.

“How was Hogsmeade, princess?” He asked as he turned towards you, walking towards you and leaning against the wall when you got closer.

“It was okay. You really didn’t miss out on anything.” You said, pulling your bag in front of you to dig something out. “But I did get you something.”

“You got me something?” He asked, clearly confused on why you would do that.

“Yeah. Nothing crazy.” You pulled out a small bag of treats. You really didn’t know what he liked, so you grabbed a bag of sweets pretty much everyone likes, and you also grabbed a box of Bertie Bott’s beans so he could do something fun with his friends. You handed him the treats, fixing your bag strap as you looked at him, hoping he liked it.

“Why?” He asked, holding onto the items.

“Well, you know, you didn’t get to go, so I thought I’d at least get you some sweets. And then I saw the beans and thought it might be something fun to do with your friends.” You shrugged, internally cringing at your weak explanation.

“Thanks.” He said, still looking slightly weary. “So nothing fun happened there?”

“Not unless you count Enzo slipping on the way there, so he got covered in mud, but refused to go back just to change.” You felt bad for Enzo, but you knew it would be something Mattheo would find funny.

He smiled slightly at the mental image. “Is he on his way back? I wanna see how pissed he is.”

“Probably by now, yeah. He looked pretty upset the last time I saw him.” You said.

“Oh, now I gotta see this. That’ll make this day a lot better.” He said, heading towards the front of the castle.

“You’re awful.” You shook your head but followed him anyways.

“He’s not hurt. It’s fine.” He said, turning to walk backwards to talk to you.

“It’s mean to laugh at him.” You said, but it was hard fighting the smile, especially seeing him in a better mood.

“I won’t laugh. I just wanna see it.” The smile on his face said otherwise though.

“Again, you’re awful.”

He chuckled and turned back around, running now with you after him to see poor Enzo all covered in mud.

You both made it just in time to see the other boys entering the castle with Enzo grumbling about his clothes. Mattheo laughed at him from your spot on the stairs above them.

You hit his arm playfully. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.” You shook your head at him.

“Come on. That’s funny.” He gestured to the poor boy covered in mud that had dried by now, making him uncomfortable.

“I’ll remember that, Riddle. You seem to forget that I know where you sleep.” Enzo shouted up to him when he heard Mattheo laughing.

Mattheo just laughed at him, leaning on the railing and watching the boys head back to the Slytherin dorms to presumably change and put away the things they bought.

You rolled your eyes at him and walked away to your own dorm to put away your own stuff. 

Mattheo would never dare tell you this, but he hates the candy you got him. He thinks it’s disgusting. But instead of throwing it out, he stored it in a drawer. He doesn’t think he could honestly bear your disappointed face if he told you he didn’t like them.

Current Taglist

Taglist:

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@yours-truly-5 @hpnsfwaddict @mayamonroem @brittney-121 @leovaldezsbitch

@dracoslovergirl @littlemadamred @mattheoriddleluvbot @acornacreacure @opheliamalfoy236

@demieyesore @akira1246 @queenshu @prettypinkprincess15

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@notavailibles-world @tantrumbaby

[daddiel-ish]

Question, since the other main Heart pirates are ladies, do you have any ship headcanons for them in your fem!law universe? I know Killer/Penguin is a popular choice for Peng, and they'd look so cute in your style!

Thanks!! I would like to draw the hearts more, but I never have good ideas -

Glad you asked this question 😈😈😈

Law (idk if you if you want something with her, but I'll drop something and then concentrate on the others)

Law and Luffy are a thing (duh). But law didn't fall immediately for the Monkey D. Her interest in him rose before Sabody, but not in the romantic way, more like "I wanna see what this little punk can do"

She fell in love with him after she saw him at his worst cause she had the impression to finally see the real Luffy. She felt understood in some ways...and you guys know the rest

Law love language is through act of services, she never clearly says "I love you"

Everynight she clings to Luffy with all her strenght cause she is afraid someone will take him away from her

Bepo

Bepo is looking for a sweet bear, but she has still not found one yet. Maybe her standards are too high (Shachi always says that)

She is not afraid of expressing her love. She always hugs the people she loves most. If you're looking for Bepo, you can certainly find her hugging Law or making sure the kids are having fun (and mostly making sure they're safe)

She is like a sweet aunt. Always dreaming to find true love, but her only love at the moment is her family

Shachi

She is pinning for Penguin till she has memories. Always yearning but never have the courage to make the first move

She always jokes about Penguin being hers, but it's always a bit painful, but seeing Pen laugh, it's always her biggest reward

She always leaves a tiny candy on Pen's pillow

When someone makes her notice that maybe she is in love with Penguin (Bepo), she always dismisses that with a laugh. "How can I be in love with her? She's like a sister to me!"

After Law sewed back Penguin's arm that night, Shachi never left her side, even tho Law encouraged her to rest. She wanted to be sure that Pen saw her as first thing when she'd open her eyes again. So she didn't feel lonely

Every day, she promises herself to talk with Pen about her feelings. But every time she met her gaze, Shachi forgot how to speak and just said the most stupid thing in the world

Penguin

Pen likes to flirt a lot. She doesn't think to be a catch, but gosh, how much fun she has flirting around

Every now and then, she steals gazes with Shachi. She always felt something for her but never really understood what-- she only knows that when Shachi is not around, the sun is less brighter

She loves finding candies over her pillow, and she knows Shachi is the one leaving them. She had done that since the first day on the Tang. She thinks it's sweet

When Shachi comes to her with that serious look just to say the most stupid shit in the world, Pen laughs her heart out, thinking that she couldn't live a moment without her in her life

When she's cooking, she always makes sure to make Shachi's portion a little bit bigger than the others

Every night, she fell asleep thinking about that time she woke up from Law reattaching her arm with Shachi holding her other hand while sleeping...that's her dearest memory

Here is some of my headcanons! Killer/Pen is a ship I have yet to explore (always open for new things), but since I've started to know the hearts Shachi/Penguin is one of my otps ♥️♥️

[spectralscathath]

Tour Guide to the Unexplained- a Gravity Falls Fanfiction

Chapter 8- Still Waters

Stan and Ford didn’t expect much when getting shipped up to Gravity Falls to stay with estranged family. Not a weird historical festival, not being a strange lady who lives in the junkyard, and definitely not the Mystery Shack and their lying uncle who runs it. But with Ford’s smarts and Stan’s punching, there’s no mystery they can’t solve.

Ao3 Link

“Fish-ing day! Fish-ing day!” Stan and Ford chanted in the back of the truck, Stan’s left hand now stuck in both a sling and a bright red cast that had Ford’s neat cursive and Dipper’s messy scrawl signed on it. He’d printed his own name in block letters as well, and he was going to make sure he got all sorts of signatures. Jimmy and Carla for sure, definitely Dan, he supposed he could allow Ford’s cool nerd friends to sign it if they asked, and hopefully Soos and Dolores as well. Last time he broke his wrist, no one but Ford signed his cast, but this time would be different. 

“Yunno, Granpa showed me how to put a hook on a line with my eyes closed,” Stan bragged. 

“He showed me how to make a fishing lure,” Ford bragged louder. 

“I’m sure you both have lots of fishing skills to teach me,” Dipper, despite his claims that he hadn’t ever fished, had managed to pull out a solid fisherman’s outfit, overalls and waders and even a beanie. He’d mumbled something about a cursed lighthouse when they’d pressed him on it.

“Yes we do.” Stan looked out the window as they drove into town to buy some fishing gear, but something seemed off. “Is that a covered wagon?”

“What?” Ford scrambled to look out his own window, voice growing increasingly  worried. “Grunkle Dipper?”

“Oh, it’s Pioneer day. I totally forgot.” Dipper drove around a cow and pulled into a space on the side of the road. “Yeah, this is the anniversary of Gravity Falls’s founding, so everyone dresses up and does historical activities. It’s kinda fun, what do you think?”

“This looks stupid.” Stan rolled his eyes.

“Grunkle Dipper, those costumes are historically inaccurate!” Ford sounded like he was about to have a breakdown. 

“Okay, no Pioneer day.” Dipper shrugged before he pulled out his wallet and handed them five dollars each. “I still need to go get fishing gear, so how about you two get yourself some old-timey candy and we’ll meet back at the car in, say- half an hour?”

“What? You’re leaving us alone with the hicks?”

“They’re using modern breeds of chickens for their re-enactments, this is terrible.” Ford sounded faint.

Dipper got out of the driver’s seat, reached into the back, and dragged them out by the jackets, setting them on the sidewalk before he locked the car doors. “Go on, try candle-dipping or something. Museum’s free entry if that’s your style. Half an hour.”

“Half an hour,” Stan grumbled and scuffed his shoe against the pavement. 

Dipper smiled and patted them both on the head before walking off, leaving Stan and Ford surrounded by covered wagons and people being silly in costumes. It was so uncool. 

“... wanna get some old-timey butterscotch?” Stan shrugged. 

“Yeah, okay. I still think everyone’s using fabric that’s way too modern- that lady’s got a zipper showing, for crying out loud.”

Ford picked up Stanley’s discarded butterscotch wrappers as he followed his twin, his own pockets full of candy. Stanley kept opening the butterscotch wrappers with his teeth instead of just getting Ford to do it or doing it one-handed. He was so strange sometimes.

“Nope, this whole thing is still lame,” Stan announced after they did a circuit of the main activities. 

“Yep,” Ford agreed without hesitation. “I don’t think the pioneers should be celebrated very much either, I researched the Donner party.”

“Ugh. I remember you telling me about that. And you think I’ve seen gross things.”

“You told me you once saw a seagull get stuck in the freshwater taffy.”

“And it was one of the greatest things I’d ever seen.”

“Ewwwwww,” Ford laughed and had more butterscotch. “Wonder what that crowd’s about?”

“Let’s go see.” Stan thumped his shoulder, Ford giggling and returning the favour. Not to the arm in the cast, obviously, but the rest of Stanley was totally fine. 

They darted through to the front of the crowd, arriving at a stage in front of a stone statue of a guy who Ford felt had a very punchable face. A man sat in a chair in front of the statue with a creepy grin, and a kid with dark hair walked up to the microphone in a fur hat and suit that was obviously English Victorian- not Western Frontier. 

The kid reached up to the microphone stand and lowered it, tapping it a few times to make that awful feedback sound before he spoke. “Hello, everyone. I’m Preston Northwest, richest nine-year-old in Gravity Falls, and also great-great-grandson of our town founder. Go Northwests! We’re super rich and fancy!”

The crowd clapped and Ford shared a look with Stan. “He talks a little like the-”

“Sibling brothers, yep.” Stan scowled. “Snooty.”

“Wait-” there was something important about the name ‘Preston Northwest’. “Isn’t this one of Grunkle Dipper’s enemies?”

“Maybe?” Stan chewed his butterscotch seriously. “Why do people like him bragging about being rich?”

“Do you have the Pioneer spirit?” Preston’s eyes scanned the crowd before landing on Ford and Stan. Ford immediately shoved his hands in his pockets to hide his six fingers. He hoped he did it fast enough. 

Preston scowled, nose wrinkling in disgust. It was a common expression aimed at the Pines twins. “Uh- you guys don’t have any Pioneer spirit. Where’s your costumes?”

The entire crowd shifted to look at them and Ford stared directly at the ground. Why were they at the front? That was where people were noticed.

“I dunno, why are you wearing a dead rat on your head?” Stan pointed. 

“Uh. It’s a raccoon, duh. And it’s because I’ve got Pioneer Day spirit.” Preston sniffed, looking down his nose. “You clearly don’t. Who are you?”

“We’re the Pines twins.” Stan raised his chin defiantly, Ford keeping an eye on him, the crowd, this kid. He hated how this kid looked at them, like they were dirt on his shoe. Ford was a genius, and Stanley was- well, Stanley. Everyone kept treating them like nothing when they weren’t, they weren’t. 

“Pines twins.” Preston growled. “Ugh. Whatever, you’re not even invited anyway to Pioneer day. You’re not Gravity Falls people.”

“So what?” Stan snapped back, already getting angry. Ford gritted his teeth, matching his brother’s temper. How dare this kid say that? When Gravity Falls was the first place Ford felt like he truly belonged?

“Your kind don’t belong here, dummies.” Preston scoffed. 

“ Our kind?” Stan took a step forward and Ford grabbed his elbow. As great as it would be to see Stanley punch this smug lil kid’s face in, he was also aware that was a bad look. 

“Stanley, let’s just go.” Ford looked around, pretty sure the crowd was not on their side. Unlike the freak show, there was no way showing his hands would suddenly get this crowd on his side. They were pretending uggs were historically accurate, for pete’s sake. “We’re going fishing. Who needs Pioneer spirit?”

Stan looked back, tense and ready to fight. He huffed, reaching into his vest and turning his glare on Preston. “Congrats on being special because of some dead guy. Smokebomb!”

They darted into the crowd the moment the plume of smoke appeared, running out the other side and running away until they’d rounded a building. 

“They’re not very good pioneers anyway,” Ford patted his brother’s shoulder, trying to bite back his own anger at losing that confrontation. He may have been used to losing against bullies, but that didn’t mean he liked it. It made him feel small and his brain was too big for that. He was smarter than Crampelter and his goons, smarter than this kid, they should have realised that meant something. 

“Yeah.” Stan scowled and kicked a rock on the ground. “Ford, would it be wrong to beat up a snotty nine-year-old?”

“Rational, that sounds like a rational course of action. But not in front of a crowd, okay?”

“You’re a bit anachronistic.”

Dipper barely kept himself from fumbling the fishing supplies in his arms as he turned, rods, bait and tackle box, and a few other things precariously balancing. He looked at the woman, strands of silver-white glinting throughout her platinum blonde hair. She lifted her sunglasses to fix him with her usual judginess. “Fishing season started weeks ago. It’s practically retro now.”

“Pacifica.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re not at Pioneer day?” 

“No, Preston’s doing the usual Northwest ceremony.” She checked her painted nails, leaning against her car. She looked far too modern for the town holiday. “He’s very excited.”

“Giving the speech with his dad?” Dipper knew exactly what minefield he was stepping into, but he’d never been anything but blunt with Pacifica in his life, and he wasn’t going to start dancing around issues now.

“Of course, Paxton’s an honorary Northwest, after all. It turns out we had a very interesting marriage contract.”

“That bad?” Dipper walked over and set his newly-gotten fishing stuff on the hood of her car, leaning against the vehicle beside her. 

“Split custody, he’s getting the mansion, the split of other financial assets is also stacked in his favour,” Pacifica rolled her eyes. “All in legal terms that would go over even your big head.”

“I’ve made it my mission in life to never return to a court of law,” Dipper shrugged, tucking his hands in the pockets of his overalls. “Why go through with it if you’re losing so much?”

She glanced at him, arching a brow. Probably tinted, or sculpted, or whatever people did with their brows. She’d aged more gracefully then he did, sure, but no one made it past forty without a little wear and tear. “You owe me a drink before I start answering those types of questions.”

“Yeah, do you want to start at the Skull Fracture or will we skip straight to Gnasty’s?”

“I’m not going back to that gnome bar.” The look she gave him could have deep-frozen a mountain lion. 

“You’re no fun anymore, Paz.” He grinned at her, long immune. 

“You’ve never been fun in your life.”

“Oh-ho, ouch.” 

“I’ll be getting you to throw up your anti-ghost wards on my new house once I’ve had my stuff moved in, by the way.”

“Can do. You’re staying in town?” His grin fell. Was she sure that was a good idea?

“Is that an actual question?” She scoffed. “It’s my town.”

“But the recurring bouts of amnesia- we still don’t know what’s causing them, but we know they’re localised to the town and being in the town itself heightens the risk of possible forgetfulness-”

“Are you still talking about that? It makes you sound like an insane conspiracy theorist. Like you have a corkboard and string.” She studied him. “You do, don’t you?”

“I’m not answering that question.” He had multiple. One for each theory. 

“If you’re so worried about your memories, why are you in town?” She looked him over. “And making such a fashion statement.”

“Uh- family fun day?”  

“That sounds like a nightmare, don’t tell me you’ve got a checklist again.”

“Checklists are extremely efficient!”

“The last time I saw you use a checklist you ended up fighting twenty of yourself and ruined Preston’s birthday party.” She pulled out a hand mirror, checking her reflection. Dipper was sorely tempted to poke the surface, just to leave a smudge. But no, he’d like to keep his hand attached to his wrist, he was quite fond of it where it was. 

“That was unintentional.” He was pretty sure that kid really hated him. Hated his shins, at least, Preston had a surprisingly sharp kick. 

“Whatever.” She glanced at him. “How’s your crafts project?”

“Won’t get much further without the other books in the series.” He slipped into the basic code they used, nothing like backwards talk but she refused to go along with that. No fun at all. “Still can’t find them at the local library.”

“Pity.” Pacifica sighed and pulled her sunglasses on. “And your ex-roommate?”

“He can’t evict me anymore.” Dipper placed a hand over the binding sigil hidden in his tattoos, meant to lock his spirit inside his body so Bill couldn’t pull him out into the mindscape. “I’ve got it sorted.”

“I remember the last time you said that.” She huffed and tossed her hair like a show-off. “You better be right this time.”

He chuckled and picked up the fishing gear. “C’mon, Paz. When am I ever?”

Stan hopped out of the truck, carefully parked in the woods around the lake rather than near the shore. Also not near the parking area by the pier. “What’s the plan?”

“You kids are gonna go into the building by the pier and be a great distraction, then meet me back here. It’s out of sight, so that should keep you guys from also getting banned.”

“Are you sure stealing a boat is the most logical course of action?” Ford hesitated before he took his jacket off and placed it under the car seat. Good idea. Stan did the same, only worrying about one sleeve since he was hiding the cast a bit, arm still in a sling. He didn’t want his smokebombs getting wet. 

“Stealing sounds fun to me, Sixer,” Stanley grinned and reached over the seats, messing up Ford’s hair. Ford laughed and batted his hand away. 

“Get off, you knucklehead.” 

There was the sound of paper flicking. Stan turned to see Dipper with a long list that unfurled in his hand. 

“Alright. You kids go first, try to be distracting for twenty minutes, set a watch or something, then bail. Got it?”

“I hope Fiddleford’s in there,” Ford smiled and clicked a button on his watch. “I wanna tell him about Gideon and the carnival.”

“I’m gonna ask if the lake water’s drinkable!” He said it for the disgusted look Ford shot him.

“It’s not. Try asking about what to avoid, Tate’ll give you the whole spiel. Bubbles and all.” Dipper folded up his list again, tucking it in his overalls.  “Ready for an adventure?”

Stan held out his good fist. “Ford, get your hand in here, we're gonna do a thing.”

“But we already have a high six-”

“A thing with Grunkle Dipper. Fists in.”

Dipper smiled bemusedly and did as told, leaning down to make it easier. Stan placed his fist on top. “Ford, complete the tower!”

“You’re really insistent about the weirdest stuff.” Ford rolled his eyes and did it anyway.

“Three, two, one-” Stan stole from the school sports teams back home, especially the one Shermie was on. Stan never had the knack for that team sport stuff, even though he liked watching other people do it. “Pines!”

Dipper followed Stan’s gesture with a grin. “That’s catchy.”

“It seems redundant but alright. I guess if we’re all scheming together we should have a thing?” Ford looked at his hand, wiggling his fingers. 

“Meet you back here, you rascals.” Dipper messed up their hair before he disappeared into the trees. Stan watched him go. He had to teach Stan how to pull a vanishing act like that, it was like something in a movie- like when people turned around and the killer suddenly wasn’t there. Super cool.

“So the amulet’s broken now? Forever?” Fiddleford clarified. Ford wondered why he’d gotten so pale during Ford’s recounting of the previous night. It was a pretty sunny and nice day, after all. 

“Yep. Too bad, I wanted to study it a bit, take some notes,” Ford sighed. Fiddleford gently patted his shoulder, which was nice too. It was amazing to have a good friend who could really keep up with him when he talked about science. He loved Stanley, but sometimes having to dial down what he was saying into layman’s terms was annoying. 

“Well, I mean, if it was so obviously evil, probably a fine thing you didn’t get the chance,” Fiddleford tried to cheer him up. “Do you and your brother want some sunhats? It’ll keep the sunburn off you.”

“Uh…” Ford did remember how painful sunburn could be. “Yes please. We don’t have much money though, we got a lot of butterscotch. Want some?”

“Well I would not say no to that!” Fiddleford smiled brightly and hopped the shop counter. “Let me nab those hats first.”

“Thanks.” Ford glanced over at Stanley, in the middle of bombarding Fiddleford’s dad with endless questions about the lake, but specifically weird distracting ones that weren’t easy to answer, like ‘have you ever personally drank the lake water’ or ‘could I fish using my foot as bait’. Weird stuff like that. Nothing all that useful, but maybe he would get some indication of supernatural occurrences they could investigate?

“It’s real nice having you drop by,” Fiddleford hummed as he sorted through the various fishing hats, limbs contorting with disturbing ease as he scuttled up shelves exactly like a possum. “I’ve been darn well bored stupid out here, I think the only reason my pops wants me to sit here behind the counter is so I can’t make any horrifying robots.”

“It does seem pretty quiet here. I guess it's more popular when it’s not Pioneer Day?” Ford felt a bit guilty about being a distraction now.

“I mean- first day of fishin’ season was a bit busy, but it’s a small town, not really anyone looking for anything they don’t already have.” 

“But… is it nice spending time with your dad?” Ford tried to be positive. Mr Tate didn’t seem all that scary, not like Ford’s Pa. 

Fiddleford set down two hats and gave Ford the driest look he’d ever been on the receiving end of, even after thirteen years sharing a room with Stanley. “This here’s the most I’ve heard him talk since I got here.”

“Oh…” Ford blushed a little in embarrassment as he tugged on the hat, looking down at the ground in hopes it might eat him. Or spontaneously turn into a second bottomless pit, even though that was by definition impossible. Maybe. Possibly. Could Grunkle Dipper let him do some tests? 

“Yep.” Fiddleford popped the P. “Don’t you worry none ‘bout that though, that’s my business.”

“Okay.” Ford was very grateful for that. But maybe- “we’re planning on exploring around the lake. Do you want to come?”

“I’d rather not be goin’ near that lake, on account of that terribibibble-” Fiddleford stumbled over the word and shook his head, looking a little annoyed, “ terrible shape I saw beneath the water. Long as a bus, I dare say.”

“... Would you happen to remember where exactly and could you mark it on a map?” Ford tried.

Fiddleford sighed and reached for a pamphlet. “Don’t do anything reckless, Stanford. And don’t show me whatever you fish up, I’d rather sleep at night, thank you kindly.”

“I’ll credit you as a key element of the discovery when I submit my evidence to all my favourite science journals!” Ford promised excitedly before the door to Mr Tate’s boat rental shop slammed open. Ford whirled, back pressed to the counter as he stared at the entrant. Blinked twice. What? “Who is that?”

“Oh no.” Fiddleford sucked air in his teeth. “Miss Chiu, I’m sorry, but you’ve been banned from this location!”

“Candy saw something in the woods!” The woman was short and hunched, her hair shock white and tangled, falling over half her wizened face, a frumpled, ragged sweater hung off her, so covered in moss and muck he couldn’t tell the colour or pattern it used to have. Her feet left mud tracks on the wood, tattered skirt held together by bandaids and mismatched stitching. She had forks bandaged to every finger on her right hand as she gestured excitedly. “I have seen the doppelgangers again! They’re gathering!”

“Hey!” Mr Tate pulled a spray bottle out of somewhere. “I told you to get away from the lake, you’ll scare the customers.”

“Dad, you can’t spray bottle her, she’s just an old lady.” Fiddleford gracefully hopped the counter and blocked his dad, hands raised to show his hands were empty. “Miss Chiu- do you need us to call someone for you?”

“I am a Mrs now.” She beamed and pulled an actual, honest-to-goodness fox out of her hair. “He will make me a happy wife.”

“... Congratulations?”

Stan joined Ford at the counter and picked at his teeth with his good hand. “I think they need to call someone , definitely. Maybe the nuthouse.”

“Stanley, that’s rude.” Ford chided. What did she say? Something about doppelgangers? 

“Lady, I need you to get away from my boathouse.” Mr Tate loomed behind his son. “You’ve been banned from the lake ever since you released boat-eating fungus into my shed.”

“My experiments require feeding.” The old lady- Candy- barely looked at them, her attention instead caught by the trail mix bags by the door. She drove her forks into one of the small bags, lifting it up and spilling mix everywhere. “Sustenance for Candy. And husband.”

The fox shoved under her arm stared at Ford with the most resigned expression he’d ever seen on a human or animal. He felt really bad for it. 

“Out!” Tate raised the spray bottle threateningly. “Go back to your dump, you old hag!”

“Pa!” Fiddleford snapped back. Wasn’t he scared? Why would he do that? “Stanley, Stanford, will you help me escort uh- Mrs Chiu outside? Mrs Chiu, why don’t you walk with me and tell me about these- er, doppelygangers.”

“I will explain in excessive and horrific detail.” 

“Yep!” Ford wanted to ask about the doppelgangers. “C’mon, Stanley. Also- I got us hats.”

“I didn’t agree to be volunteered for this.” Stan sighed and followed anyway as Fiddleford managed to bustle the old lady outside without touching the fox. Ford risked a glance at Fiddleford’s dad, expecting the glower that spoke of an oncoming explosion, but he’d just gone back to sorting out the tackle boxes. Strange. 

“I see them in a clearing, all with the same face,” Old Lady Chiu was gesturing animatedly, occasionally stopping to shove trail mix in her mouth, some of her teeth chipped and missing. “They are plotting great doom! There’s a blackboard with a many-stepped plan and they wear stupid hats marked with numbers. In four years they have not aged!”

“That sounds mighty creepifying, I reckon,” Fiddleford informed her bluntly as he managed to get her moving in the direction of the road back to town. “Maybe you should go tell the sheriff?”

“Yes, yes, Candy should. Grenda is… who is Grenda?” She reached up with her forks in a motion Ford recognised, and adjusted glasses that weren’t there. He felt an instinctive need to adjust his own, seeing the familiar movement. “Never mind! You should visit! I will let you assist in building death ray.”

“... I will- I will consider that. As an option.” Fiddleford gave her a nudge. “Please don’t come back? My pa’s really not happy with you.”

“But Candy is adorable!” She shoved the fox back into her hair as it stared at Ford. Its eyes screamed ‘help’ before it disappeared into the snowy white tangles.

“Yeah… I reckon Pa wouldn’t know adorable if it hopped up and bit him in the backside. Off you go, now, stay safe.”

Old Lady Chiu patted Fiddleford’s face with a smile, leaving a muddy handprint, and scampered into the woods. Ford felt like an observer, the same way he did reading the diary, or watching kids at school having fun and making friends. Something he wasn’t probably meant to be part of, but he knew it happened anyway.

“Well, that was random and made no sense.” Stan leaned his elbow on Ford’s shoulder. “Hey Ford, has it been twenty minutes yet?”

“You know her, Fiddleford? Has she mentioned doppelgangers before?” Maybe they should call off fishing day? 

“Why were you so nice to her?” Stan’s nose crinkled. “She seemed sorta-” he pulled away from Ford, made a circle by his temple, and whistled. 

Fiddleford’s shoulders straightened and the look on his face was stern, hard in a way Ford hadn’t seen. He’d seen Fiddleford excited, he’d seen him bored and glum talking about his dad, and he’d seen him scared, but he hadn’t seen Fiddleford look mad . 

“She’s a harmless old lady, that’s all.” Fiddleford glared at Stan, his accent gone from silly to sharp. “Not her fault her mind’s goin’ a bit. Least I can do is be nice to her, no one else in this darn unfriendly town is. So you mind your goshdarned manners.”

“Whoa, okay. Touched a nerve.” Stan put his hand in his pocket. “Who is she?”

Fiddleford scratched at the muddy handprint on his face. “I don’t rightly know. But I know she’s not meaning any harm. Just because someone’s a bit messy and don’t recall everything the right way, doesn’t mean they ain’t deservin’ of a bit of compassion.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I called her a nutjob,” Stan rolled his eyes. “What did she mean ‘doppelgangers’?”

“I wouldn’t put stock in it. She says a lot of things.” Fiddleford shrugged and trudged back to the boathouse. 

There was a yell inside of ‘where did my boat go?!’, and Ford winced while Stanley ignored ir. Looked like Grunkle Dipper was as good at boat theft as he said. 

Fiddleford didn’t notice the guilt on Ford’s face, taking his glasses off and cleaning the lenses with the edge of his sleeve. “Thanks for droppin’ by, Stanford. Stanley. Hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“Leaving?” Stan asked as Fiddleford stepped inside, finally accepting his hat from Ford and fitting it on. They both remembered how painful sunburn could be.

“Leaving.” Ford agreed as they ran into the woods towards where Dipper had parked, out of view of the little shore and the pier that acted as the lake’s only dock. Sorry, Fiddleford, but the hats weren’t that important. Not when Ford had the map. “Do you think we could look for the doppelgangers?”

“Can it wait? We’re fishing, right?” Stanley huffed out as they raced, shoes pounding on the forest floor. 

“Well- I mean, we’re monster hunting. Fishing is an extra, Grunkle Dipper’s going to show us supernatural stuff now, since he stopped lying.”

“But we’re fishing.” Stanley stopped running, forcing Ford to do the same if he wanted to continue the conversation. 

“Stanley, fishing’s fun,” when something was caught, “but Gravity Falls is full of real anomalies. Fiddleford’s lake monster, these doppelgangers, we have to investigate them.”

“Can you investigate the lake monster while we’re fishing?” Stan fidgeted with the brim of his hat.  

“Well- I suppose, but I mean, it’s not that efficient, and it would distract Grunkle Dipper,” Ford hesitated before he confessed, knowing Stanley would understand. He always understood. “Fishing’s not that fun anyway...”

“You’re just saying that because you’re bad at it and got a hook stuck in your hand.”

“It really hurt!” Ford’s cheeks grew hot as Stanley made fun of him. Why would Stanley say he was bad at it? Why didn't he understand? “I’m not bad- I just don’t like it!”

“Ford!” Stanley glared at him. “Why do you not like things that are fun?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ford stared at him, brows furrowing. He was always so hot-headed, Ford never knew why . 

“Whatever, nerd.” Stanley scoffed and stomped by, his shoulder knocking against Ford’s. 

“Why are you always so boneheaded!” Ford snapped at him as Stanley broke into a run, because really, this was illogical. Fishing was circumstantial fun where the circumstances were rare. It was a gambling game, an old man hobby, except the old man they were currently accompanying didn’t even do it. That made it a Granpa hobby. 

Monster hunting, now that was much better. That was Ford’s dream. 

Ford took a second to take a breath and focus on what was important. Doppelgangers in the woods with numbered hats, a giant shape in the lake marked on a map, a million other anomalies just waiting for him to discover. Why did Stan get angry so easily? It was rash, Ford wished he was better at not getting mad himself. He was supposed to be the logical one. Short tempers had no place in an intellectual mind. 

He looked out over the lake, placid and serene, but with fog gathered around the island in the middle. That looked like a perfect place to find anomalies! So many options, he could spend all day just chasing leads.

But he needed a boat for that, and the diary. Stanley had probably calmed down by now, Ford hated fighting, especially when he didn’t do anything wrong. Stanley was just being weird again. 

If Stan had to hear one more ‘can we go to that mysterious island’ outta his twin he might actually shove Ford overboard. Just a little bit.

“You mean Scuttlebutt Island?” Dipper deliberately enunciated the name as he pushed the tiller, steering them to the far side of the lake and away from the boat house.

“Butt Island.” Stan repeated, but he didn’t really feel the humour meant to come with something so funny.

“I’m not calling it that.” Ford huffed.

“Yeah, ‘course not.” Did he think he was better than them or something? Because of his mysteries? Better than doing something fun with family? Stan wanted to show Grunkle Dipper he was good at things that wasn’t just being a delinquent, couldn’t the monster hunt wait one day? 

“Trust me, kid, there’s nothing on Scuttlebutt Island but some really cute beavers. Soos and I scoped the whole place once, he took a ton of pictures.” Dipper reached into his jacket and pulled out a polaroid.

Stan perked up at the sight. “Wow, beaver with a chainsaw. That’s the greatest thing I ever saw, and I once saw a cockroach-”

“Please don’t mention the cockroach,” Ford cut him off before he studied Grunkle Dipper. “You just keep this picture? All the time?”

“Yeah… I was sort of insane that day. Convinced that I heard the Gobblewonker roar.” Dipper bashfully rubbed the back of his neck. “But it was just this lil guy.”

“Gobblewonker?” Ford turned his whole attention to Grunkle Dipper. “Is that a lake monster?”

“Yeah, but trust me, if I haven’t found it, it ain’t in this lake. There is a giant nocturnal boat-eating head, but there’s no Gobblewonker.” Dipper smiled at the beaver picture, tucking it back into a pocket. Stan swore he caught a glimpse of other polaroids in there. “That’s what the beaver picture is for, a reminder that not every weird thing is an anomaly. Stuff just happens sometimes.”

“But Fiddleford says he saw something!” Ford pulled a pamphlet out and pointed at a marked section. “Right here! It’s even on the far side of the lake, please?”

“Well…” Dipper’s face scrunched a bit, the lines in his skin deepening.

“Can we just pick somewhere and fish?” Stanley kicked the side of the boat. “We gotta stay still when we do. Go to the stupid monster spot, I don't care.”

“It’s not stupid!” Ford shoved him. “Why are you being so mean?!”

Stanley got ready to shove him back before Grunkle Dipper intervened. Again. Like yesterday at the carnival. 

“Guys, guys, this is family fun day,” Dipper held them both by the shoulder, hand scrunching on the life jackets. “You’ve been getting along great since you got here, now two fights in two days? What’s going on?”

“Is this because of fishing?” Ford scowled. “Stanley, there are more important things then that-”

“It’s important to me!” Stanley snapped at him. “I thought it was important to you too but you’ve not shut up about anomalies ever since Chiu mentioned the doppelgangers!”

“Doppelgangers…?” Dipper echoed quietly.

Stan continued, ignoring Dipper. “You were gonna run off into the woods on the word of some crazy old bat and ditch me!”

“Stanley, you’re allowed to come on my anomaly hunts-” Ford adjusted his glasses and he wasn’t getting it . Stan wanted to tip over the whole boat.

“I want to go fishing!”

“Why?!”

“Because it’s something I’m better at than you!”

Ford just stared at him. Stan sat with the snapped-out words just a moment longer before he felt an awful knot of guilt in his stomach. He wasn’t supposed to say that. He wasn’t supposed to think that. 

He was the spare Stan, he was meant to be proud his brother was so amazing- he was- so why was he saying it like it wasn’t the best thing ever? Toughen up, Stanley. Be a better twin. Do it for family. 

Ford shoved him overboard. 

The splash was loud enough that Dipper managed to shake his head clear of the memories of such a similar fight- history really did repeat, didn’t it- and leaned over the edge, scanning the water. Up bobbed Stanley, buoyed by his lifejacket. Dipper reached out a hand, keeping one braced on the boat’s edge. 

“Stanley, here-” he gripped the kid by the jacket, helping pull him up. The silence behind him shattered as Ford seemed to finish processing. 

“Ohmygosh Stanley I’m so sorry! I don’t know why I- are you okay?!”

Ford might not have known why he did it, but Dipper could make a guess. 

He remembered the fit he threw when Mabel got taller first, he hadn’t understood why she’d been so harsh about it, he thought she was the one who was good at everything he wanted, and the fight had brought down the house. He had been a raging bundle of insecurity back then, one poke and out came the venom. 

It was afterwards when Mabel handed him their games tally he’d finally understood, just a little bit. They were both jealous of each other for stupid reasons, in the end. She was fearless and he was nervous, he was tactical while she was impulsive. Different strengths for different scenarios, who even cared about how many chess games he could win?

Wouldn’t it be great if he could keep these kids from making his mistakes?

He got Stan out of the water and reached for the towel, wrapping it around the kid’s shoulders. He hoped the cast wasn’t gonna be damaged by a dunk in the lake. Stan batted at his hands, hackles up. Made sense, kid had a proud streak. “I’m fine , Dipper. I’m no weenie, I can take a dunking.”

“Stanley?” Ford asked hesitantly, and Dipper sat back, figuring that it might be best to let the kids talk it out. Preferably with no more shoving, why were these kids so pushy to each other sometimes? Had he and Mabel been like that?

Maybe they had. After all, shoving his twin through a portal had to come from somewhere, right?

Ford was wringing his hands together, polydactyly lacing and unlacing. “I… I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“Eh, I was thinking about pushing you overboard lots,” Stan shrugged, and then he smiled. It was big and bright and Dipper thought it would remind him of Mabel, because there was so much of his twin in these kids, but no. Mabel’s smiles were real in a way this wasn’t. This smile was a lie. Stan still wore it. “Since you were being all nerdy about monster hunting.”

“... Sorry?” Ford fidgeted. “... Do you not like monster hunting?”

“I didn’t say that.” Stan rolled his eyes. “Sweet Moses, Sixer, I like the monster hunts. Don’t worry.”

“Then why are you so focused on fishing? And…” Ford shifted nervously. “Why did you say that you being better at it matters?” 

Dipper rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands together in front of his mouth as a less-obvious method of clamping them over his mouth. The answer seemed obvious from someone who lived it, but if he just told them they’d roll their eyes and say ‘whatever, oldtimer’ or whatever teenagers did nowadays.

“Dunno.” Stan looked away. “It was a dumb thing to say.”

“Then why’d you say it?” Ford’s tone got sharper, more desperate. They were both so quick to anger. Dipper wondered if that was from Filbrick, not that Dipper knew anything about him beyond being his one and only nephew. It had to be Filbrick, or Caryn, right? Their grandpa had been the most relaxed older brother Dipper could have asked for. Mabel’s anger was deep and hidden, as long as a crush wasn’t involved. Dipper knew he wasn’t exactly a gentle soul, but these kids flared up so quick, their fuses were so short. Maybe it was just them, but even then…

Was Jersey really that much of a nightmare to grow up in?

“Why do you want to be better at me?” Ford leaned forward, hands pressed together in his lap. 

“It’s stupid, don’t worry about it.” Stanley deflected. What had gone on in his head, that he’d switched so quickly on a dime?

“You’re not stupid!” Ford pleaded. “Just say something.”

Okay, maybe Dipper could intervene a little bit. Tiny bit. Just a nudge. “You know- when I was growing up I was convinced your Granpa was better than me at everything. Maths, sports, you name it.” Mabel was good at everything Dipper wasn’t. Art, friendships, having people actually like her…

They both stared at him. Ford blinked first. “And?”

Dipper shrugged unhelpfully. “End of story. It’s a choose-your-own-message thing. Do you want me to look away and cover my ears now, let you have your moment?”

The mirrored unamused expressions were kinda funny, even if this was not a laughing moment. Dipper still covered his ears, pretending he wasn’t paying attention. It was a bit awkward to be in the middle of a sibling fight in a small space, he finally had sympathy for his parents during Pines Family Road Trips. Three kids jammed in the back, vying for space, legroom, control of the music, who could look out the window. He remembered elbows jammed in ribs and all three of them fighting like wild animals until dad threatened to turn the car around.

Family was such a pain sometimes. He missed it.

Stan was the one who scoffed and broke the silence this time. Ford bit his tongue to keep himself from bubbling over, mind whirling with a million things to say. Why did he push him? How could he push his brother off a boat? Why did Stanley say he wanted to do the same, what was wrong with them?

“I’m not jealous or anything lame like that. Don’t go thinking something stupid like that, okay?” Stanley started off, glancing at Grunkle Dipper. Ford also wished their Grunkle was not there momentarily, why did they have to do this on a tiny boat?

Focus, Ford. The real problem was there, and he could solve it, he just had to identify it. “Then why?”

“I just wanted to…” Stan looked away. “I’m not a screw-up at everything , alright?”

Oh. Ford remembered in the Jersey Devil’s lair, how Stanley had tried so hard to do something nice for dad and ruined it. It was an accident, but it still cost them a summer. It wasn’t bad, being inside all the time, certainly better than having to dodge Crampelter and his goons, but… “Do you think you’re a screw-up?”

But why? Stanley wasn’t- well, he wasn’t as smart as Ford, but nobody was, really, so that wasn’t his fault. Stanley was good at other stuff! Like- like punching! And lying! And reading people!

And… fishing too, he supposed. 

“You’re not a screw-up,” Ford repeated, trying to make Stanley believe it. “Is that why you want to show Grunkle Dipper how to fish?”

“You can do your monster hunting any time.” Stan mumbled, Ford straining to hear. “All summer. But we can’t get a boat every day. Not like home.”

“Yeah…” Ford knew exactly what he meant. A beach of sand and glass shards, and their perfect treasure, found by them, all theirs. They’d pushed it back into the secret cove and boarded it back up the moment they could, in the scant time before Shermie announced they were going to Gravity Falls and getting packed onto a bus. “It’s no Stan O’ War, is it?”

“Yeah.” Stan looked at him and smiled. Was it real? Ford couldn’t tell. He hoped so. “I mean- where’s the sail? I like that sail.”

“Me too.” Ford liked feeling like a dashing adventurer. 

“Speedboats aren’t very adventure-y,” Stan kept going, and Ford hoped this meant things were okay again. “Fighting a monster in this seems boring.”

“True, having a sail and a steering wheel is more suitably dramatic.” Ford smiled a bit brighter, hoping his contribution was acceptable. Was that it? All fixed?

Maybe… Maybe he should make a concession. “I don’t dislike fishing.”

He had all of Stan’s attention now. Stan was very good at focusing on someone. “You said-”

“I was… I guess we both said stuff we didn’t mean?’ Ford tried. “We can… we can look for the Gobblewonker tomorrow? And the doppelgangers?” It felt like a waste of time, but… he shoved his brother overboard, he probably owed him something. 

Stanley’s eyes shone. “Really?”

Ford nodded once, unprepared for Stanley to tackle him in a hug and drench him to the bone. It was freezing. 

Ford cautiously hugged him back and waved at Grunkle Dipper. “You can listen again.”

Dipper pulled his fingers from his ears. “If I could have gone to stand over there-” he gestured in a vague direction, “I would have.”

That would have made things less awkward. “Tomorrow can we go monster hunting? Today we’re teaching you how to fish.”

Dipper smiled and it looked like he was… proud. But why? For what reason? Could Ford recreate that?

Stanley let go of Ford and he looked happy again. Was it so easy to do that, all this time? Why did it matter so much to him?

“Grunkle Dipper, welcome to the Stan Pines Super Fishing School College!"

“Saying school and college feels repetitive,” Ford pointed out, unable to help himself.

“Shh, I’m teaching.”

Ford woke up in the middle of the night, looking around the room he and Stanley shared. Something didn’t feel right. Stanley wasn’t in his bed and Gompers wasn’t sleeping on the floor. 

He reached for his glasses before he realised he had them on- did he fall asleep wearing them again?

Blue and purple light shone in through the closed window and a jolt of familiarity hit him. Oh, this was another of those dreams. Okay. 

He always seemed to forget them until they happened again. 

He hopped out of bed and reached for the window, the words ‘it is polite to knock’ echoing in his head for a moment. 

Knock, knock on the window glass, the lines of a triangle etched into the panes, and the window opened, the milky way looking so much closer then it was supposed to. Ford grinned excitedly.

He climbed out the window to see the usual staircase of books leading up into the starry sky, colours that only existed in illustrations and not in the real night sky. 

Up the pathway of floating tomes he climbed, until the ground disappeared and he was left surrounded by the vast cosmos, infinite and mysterious. One day, he was going to explore every inch of it. 

And at the top there waited a friend. 

“Hiya, Sixer!” 

“Hello, Mr Cipher,” Ford smiled excitedly, stepping off the last book and into zero gravity, floating. It was so cool, these dreams were really fun. It was nice to not have nightmares about going to school with no pants on, or about Cathy screaming at him in third grade. 

“Ready to pick up where we left off?” Mr Cipher snapped his fingers and a chessboard appeared, the pieces placed just as Ford remembered them. “How about some space tea?!”

“I’d love some,” Ford smiled and accepted the cup as it appeared, the liquid inside full of swirling nebulas. It was like someone poured glitter into blackcurrant juice, and tasted just like it but even sweeter. 

He took a sip and stared at the board, waiting for Mr Cipher to make his next move. Mr Cipher’s hand hovered over the pieces before settling on his white bishop. 

“You know it was pretty selfless what you did today,” Mr Cipher commented, sliding the bishop three spaces along the board. “Letting your brother take over for a bit.”

“I mean-” Ford hesitated as he stared at the board. Hm. Rook or Knight? “It wasn’t that bad. It was fun. We even caught a carp." A boring normal carp, sure, but still a fish.

“Sure, but it was still nice of you to make your brother happy. You do that a lot, sacrifice your dreams for him. You think he appreciates it?”

“Of course he does!” Ford knew Stanley would do anything for him. “I don’t sacrifice things. Do I?”

“I’m just saying, kid, I bet someone as genius as you could have found the doppelgangers and the Gobblewonker in one day if you didn’t have to worry about him.”

“Well, yes, obviously- but it wouldn’t be fun if Stanley wasn’t there, you know?” Ford made his decision, moving his rook backwards to cover his queen. “We’re monster hunters together.”

“Like I said, you’re a real selfless kid.” Mr Cipher shifted a pawn forward. “I bet your great uncle thinks so too. He’s a weird guy, right?”

“He’s not so bad. Now that he’s not lying, at least.” Ford scanned the board as he thought five moves ahead. “Hey, why don’t I ever remember these dreams until they show up?”

“I dunno, Sixer! I’m just a figment of your subconscious!” Mr Cipher reminded him. “This is all in your head, so you should know!”

“I know, I…” he thought it over, hand dithering over his pieces. “Maybe it's just… happy dreams are harder to remember?”

“That sounds right to me, kid! Man, we’re a smart brain!”

“Can’t deny that.” Ford grinned as he made his move, placing his knight in position to take that pawn Bill had moved. Next turn, he’d make his move. “It’s still a little weird that a part of my subconscious is so aware. I’ve never read about anything like that.”

“We’ve never read about how other genius-level intellects dream!” Bill moved a different pawn. “Playing chess with yourself is a tried-and-true method of improving your skill!”

“That’s true.” Ford took Bill’s pawn with a smile, adding it to the small collection on his side of the board. “And that piece is mine too.” 

“Great move, kid!” Bill tipped his black top hat. “You’ve really got me on the ropes here!”

“Well, guess you’ll have to find an opening,” Ford smiled graciously as he picked up his tea cup from where it was floating. He almost had Mr Cipher in check. 

“Guess I will!” Mr Cipher laughed, high and screechy. Ford laughed with him, holding his tea cup, books and some of his favourite things floating gently around him. 

It was a nice dream. Sometimes it was a shame he had to wake up.

[deathdetermineslife]

how do you manage to get any followers or friends in the selfshipping community? is it just luck?

for months i’ve been trying to interact with others and follow people, engaging with stuff like ask games and hosting reblog games, but when i try to share any artwork or i reblog an ask game myself, its radio silence. like even in small discords i get ignored so bad

i don’t say this at all to be guilt tripping /gen, it’s genuine curiosity at how this stuff even works. like am i doing something wrong or is the community just like this?

here is my comprehensive and lame guide on How To Get Selfship Followers

step 1 - posting

so a lot of my posts are either kinda general or fun. folks I will not lie to you. these are all stupid shit that come to my mind on a day to day basis. for example, today, I thought, "man I'm such a loser I'm not in college like all my friends r" and then I was like "omg wait. i could make a post out of this" so I did that.

you also kinda gotta be conistent. so i try to post at least *something* everyday. even if its a reblog, tho, I don't reblog a lot of things other than ask games.

another thing with posting is that i do try to make a lot of community based content. so idk if yall remember but in the beginning of my account, I did the "things you can do if you have xyz f/o". i did like,,, I think almost 100 of those ?????? it was a lot. then I started making templates and I made some ask games and ofc I post a lot of general like,,, imagine stuff. oh also polls. people seem to enjoy polls.

step 2 - be positive

this is the big thing. as most of yall (hopefully) know, I do not fw proshippers !! but I don't talk about discourse unless its directly brought up. not only this, I put a big focus on just,,, being nice idk. like id like to think I'm a pretty down to earth person.

if you make a template and people tag you in it, say something nice! reply to peoples art, send in asks, things like that. i try to do my part in being nice. i also just like hearing about peoples selfships.

when people post promos and have the little "rb to be moots", reblog! when you come across someone having a bad day, maybe they made a vent or something, reply with a simple "I hope you feel better <3" or "your f/o loves you <3". things like that, ya know?

step 3 - have fun

genuinely. i post as much as i do because I like it. i didn't go into this thinking "oh... yea... I'm gonna get selfship famous..." like no I just wanna ramble somewhere bc none of my close irls r selfshippers.

you wont get popular or get followers because you grind out posts. literally one of my biggest posts on this account I wrote while I was half asleep one night and wanted to test out queuing on my account.

and in that regard, it is partially luck. i don't control what posts people do and don't like. sometimes I write up imagines and no one sees them. sometimes I write up a post saying "lol go kiss your fake boyfriend ooo smoochie smoochie" and that does numbers

step 4 - interaction

im only in two servers. one server (which was the first public server I think I ever joined ???? i could be wrong tho,,, bad memory blehg) that I don't own and then my own 18+ server. i don't think being in servers does anything,,, considering I'm only in one that isn't mine. i think its more like ,,, sticking to one or two places ?? like just being consistently in an area you're comfortable in.

i guess you gotta just find the right people ??? and like I mentioned, be friendly, but ya know. also I guess tags too? idk if you look at any of my regular posts I have 8 million tags on them. idk if that actually does anything or not because its kinda hit or miss sometimes.

i was gonna say something else but i forgot. see look listen I dunno how I got here but this is what I do ,,,, effectively nothing. also with the being kind thing, maybe this is how I am bc I'm pagan but I think that if you expect kindness back you wont get anything. sometimes its just nice to be nice. eventually you gain a reputation for being a nice person. you kinda have to not want that tho? like I don't see myself as particularly like ,,, super kind ,,,??? i just do what feels right.

step 5 - uhhhh idk im just rambling now

i guess i also went into this kinda like. damn sometimes this community is a cesspool of absolute meanie pants. i don't wanna be a Meanie Pants and just post my thoughts and the things I think about. i guess how I see it too is, I kinda like ? idk I think all these things anyways why not post them? kinda feels like a waste not to.

also ive been told my posts are pretty recognizable bc of how I format them ? my dividers and such. also tagging all of my imagines and stuff with my 🥀📜 emojis. i guess that helps too? because that's how I recognize certain accounts. "like oh there's them I recognize their dividers and their tags".

also you kinda gotta like,,, not let hate get to you. like have fun with it? i know that's hard, but, that's what you gotta do. when I get printer ink (bc. a hoe does NOT like buying printer ink) im printing out that fucking 8 mile long hate message I got sent. but also that's just the kinda person I am. like people being a dick and stealing my posts and telling me to swallow a glock 9mm doesn't upset me, im more like,, confused more than anything because never in my life have I ever sent hate to anyone. also I have had this "I do not care because you're some loser on the internet and you being an ass wipe is no where near as bad as the shit people have done to me irl" attitude.

TLDR; i dont think youre doing anything wrong because I don't exactly know what I'm doing right. i just... do... and sometimes, "just doing" is enough. maybe its luck, maybe I've been blessed by the tumblr algorithm and I've somehow figured it out, or maybe the community is just genuinely that bad and they pick favorites. maybe its all of the above! who knows. i try not to worry about it. i think at the end of the day, as long as you're having fun posting about your f/os and selfshipping, that's what matters.

alright thats all see ya. if you have any more questions feel free to ask however I fear I cannot answer them </3

[simlicious]

Today was one of those days where I had to keep the light on the whole day, it was so dark and rainy! So to combat my dull mood, I made this cheerful pattern and had fun creating a matching outfit and posing Aleesha in it! Vibrant colors do not suit me personally, so as always, I live vicariously through my Sims!

Also I forgot to check where I got these shoes, but as you can see, they glow! I never saw anything like it, I didn't even know clothes could be made to glow. If I knew how I would make matching glowing nails! And maybe glow bracelets! I sat there and just aaaahed and ooohed while recoloring them!

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter eight | back to black.

masterlist.

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +7k

A/N : FUNERAL DAY !! I originally planned for this chapter to be 10k words, but it felt like too much, so I decided to split it into two parts. I’ll post the next part soon after this one! As always, feel free to leave a comment—I love hearing your thoughts!

cw : Bruce being a simp, Maryam and her sisters making fun of him, I forgot what else, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE CAVE FEELS MORE LIKE A TOMB than a workspace, cold and silent, echoing only the low whirring of Bruce's gadgets. 

Beneath Wayne Tower, Gotham's pulse feels distant, dulled by layers of concrete and steel.

At his workbench, as usual, Bruce sits alone, bathed in the soft blue glow of multiple screens. His face is as unmoving as stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity that belies his calm. 

On the screen before him, the footage replays—not of Gotham's criminals, not of the streets he prowls, not even of Selina's contacts or his enemies. But her. Maryam.

Maryam—like the Virgin Mary, but nothing so innocent, nothing so untouchable. Maryam is fire and ice, contradiction and certainty, strength and vulnerability. She is as untamed as the storm and as steady as the mountains. 

He knows it well, and yet, even after all this time, she's still a mystery he can't solve, a puzzle with pieces he's terrified to touch.

The screen freezes on her face, capturing her in mid-sentence, her expression twisted not in anger, but in something deeper—hurt. Her brow is furrowed, and those striking hazel eyes, that impossible green-gold, blaze with a betrayal that lances through him like a blade. Her lips, poised to unleash a torrent of words she'd held back, are pressed tight in defiance. And all he can do is stare, feeling the sting of his own stupidity.

Valuable. 

He'd said it as if it were a compliment, as if it justified the risks she took, as if it somehow explained the place she'd carved out in his life of shadows and secrets. But he hadn't anticipated her reaction, the flicker of hurt that had flashed across her face, the way she'd recoiled, as though he'd reduced her to a pawn in his endless game of vengeance.

His hands, fingers tense above the controls, curl into fists as her words echo back, slicing through the silence of the Cave like a ghostly accusation.

"Just some asset to monitor, a liability to contain—like a ticking bomb?"

He could see her in his mind, fire in her eyes as she spat the words at him, her voice trembling with fury, her frame taut with unspent energy. And he'd felt that pang, deep in his chest, as if something inside him had cracked, letting in the tiniest sliver of vulnerability, one he'd locked away long ago.

He remembers the way she looked at him, her gaze searching, peeling back the layers of his resolve with an intimacy he wasn't prepared for. "I'm not just... valuable. I'm a person. I bleed, I hurt. And you... you can't just..." She'd hesitated, her voice wavering, raw with something achingly human. "You can't just treat me like I'm another cog in your mission."

She'd left him speechless. 

He, who always had an answer, who prided himself on his ability to read people, who knew Gotham's darkest corners like the back of his hand—he had nothing to say. 

Because she was right.

He'd built his life on walls, fortress upon fortress, a castle to keep everyone out, and her words had broken through like a wrecking ball.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, burying his face in his hands. 

And for the first time in years, he feels the weight of guilt, sharp and foreign, pressing into him like a blade he can't remove. He'd made a vow to never let anyone in, to keep his mission above everything, and yet here she was, tearing down his carefully constructed armor with nothing but her honesty.

He's so absorbed that he doesn't notice Alfred's quiet approach, the soft click of his footsteps as he stops a few paces behind. 

After a moment, the butler clears his throat gently, breaking the silence. 

Bruce doesn't turn, but his body tenses, the mask slipping back into place, though the rawness lingers in his eyes.

"Enjoying the view, sir?" Alfred asks, his tone laced with mischief as he steps into the dim light.

Bruce clenches his jaw, not answering his guardian, the words swirling in his mind—valuable, asset, liability. He feels the weight of them now, heavier than ever.

He'd built walls so high around himself, walls no one—not even Alfred—could breach. But Maryam... she had found a way through, dismantling his defenses piece by piece, forcing him to confront things he'd long since buried. 

Things he swore to himself would never resurface.

"Looks like you upset her," Alfred says softly, "Again." he says putting his arm behind his back, inspecting the screens before him.

Bruce exhales, shifting in his chair, his annoyance barely concealed. "It's not... like that, Alfred." His voice is low, roughened by something that sounds almost like regret. "She just... she has this way of getting under my skin."

Alfred chuckled softly, moving closer and crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of the workbench. "Under your skin? Good heavens, I'd say that's quite the understatement, Master Wayne."

Bruce didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the monitor. 

The screen showed Maryam's face frozen in a moment of hurt, her emotions laid bare. That expression gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.

Alfred caught the flicker in his young master's gaze and raised his brows, making his point.

"Not many people would stand up to you like that."

Bruce frowned, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back to the screen. "It's not about standing up to me," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a gravelly whisper.

But Alfred, as persistent as ever, pressed on. "Oh, I think it is. That kind of anger comes from caring, Bruce. Even if you didn't realize it at the time."

Bruce let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. Stubbornness radiated off him like armor. "She misunderstood."

"Did she? Or did you just say the wrong thing?"

Bruce's jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding almost audibly. "She doesn't understand what I'm trying to do."

"And whose fault is that, hm? Communication has never been your strongest suit, sir."

Bruce didn't respond, the tension in his body evident in the way his hands gripped the computer mouse and his knuckles whitened.

Alfred watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now, more measured. "People aren't tools, Bruce. She said it better than I could. They're not assets to be managed or risks to be calculated. Especially not someone like her."

Bruce's gaze faltered for a moment, his mind replaying the moment on its own, no longer needing the footage. He could hear her voice, see her expression, feel the weight of her words. The hurt in her voice cut through him like glass, and her defiance still lingered in the space between them.

Was she wrong to be angry? No. If anything, she'd been right. He had reduced her to a tool in that moment, another pawn in his endless war. But Maryam wasn't a tool. She wasn't a pawn. She wasn't like anyone else.

She had her own battles, her own scars. And yet, she had stood before him, unflinching, demanding more. Demanding better.

And he had failed her.

"If you truly believe she's valuable," Alfred said quietly, "perhaps you should show her why."

Bruce finally turned slightly, his eyes meeting Alfred's briefly. The butler gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"You'll have another chance, I'm sure," Alfred continued. Then, after a pause, he added, "Didn't you tell me that she seems familiar—?"

"She's a medical examiner. Nothing else."

There it was again—his stubbornness, a trait they both shared. Or was it something else? More like fear. 

Fear from a man who claimed to have none.

The thought of letting someone in, of opening even the smallest part of himself, was too much. Too dangerous.  It wasn't practical; he told himself that over and over. There wasn't time for it.

The butler sighed, shaking his head, as though reading Bruce's thoughts. "You keep telling yourself that, sir."

Bruce didn't reply, his gaze drifting back to the darkened screen. The weight of his choices, of his words, hung heavy in the cave, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.

A beat of silence passed before Alfred's voice cut through, pulling him back to the present. "Shall I take it as a good sign," the butler asked, a faint smile playing on his lips, a touch of humor in his tone.

Bruce furrowed his brows, not understanding. "What?"

Alfred gestured toward him. "Your attire." he clarified, raising a brow. "Is Bruce Wayne making an actual appearance?"

Oh, that.

Bruce glanced down at himself. He was, indeed, dressed in a suit—formal and impeccable, though he had barely noticed the effort it had taken.

Blinking as if shaking off the question's sudden intrusion, he straightened, rolling his shoulders to cast off the weight of his thoughts.

"There's a public memorial for Mayor Mitchell," he explained, his voice steady but cool. "Serial killers like to follow the reaction to their crimes—Riddler might not be able to resist."

"Oh, that reminds me." Alfred reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. "I took the liberty of doing a little work on this latest cipher..."

Bruce finally turned from the screens, the faint screeches of bats echoing from above as he focused on Alfred. The butler unfolded the paper, gesturing to the symbols.

"I'm afraid his Spanish is less than perfect, but I'm fairly certain it translates to, 'You are el rata alada.'"

Bruce took the paper, his brow furrowing as he studied it. "'Rata alada'... rat with wings?"

"It's slang for pigeon," Alfred explained. "Does that make any sense to you?"

Bruce nodded slightly, his mind already working. "Yeah... a stool pigeon."

Before the thought could deepen, Alfred's sharp eyes caught something else. "Where are your cufflinks?" he remarked, gesturing toward Bruce's bare cuffs.

Bruce muttered distractedly, "Couldn't find them," his attention still fixed on the cipher in his hands.

Alfred sighed and pulled a pair from his own pocket, stepping forward. "You can't go out like that—"

"Alfred, I don't want your cufflinks," Bruce snapped, irritation flickering in his voice as he glanced briefly at the older man.

"You have to keep up appearances," Alfred insisted, his tone calm but firm as he took Bruce's wrist and began fastening the cufflink. "You're still a Wayne, after all."

Reluctantly, Bruce let him.

As Alfred worked, Bruce noticed the monogrammed 'W' on the cufflink. He raised an eyebrow and let out a small, wry chuckle. "What about you? Are you a Wayne now?"

Alfred smiled faintly, moving to secure the other sleeve. "Your father gave them to me," he said quietly, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.

Bruce paused, the statement catching him off guard. 

He looked at Alfred, his expression softening slightly. But Alfred, ever the professional, broke the moment with a lighthearted smile. "I'm just loaning them to you—I want them back."

The billionaire nodded, a rare, fleeting warmth passing between them before he turned away, the weight of their conversation still lingering in the cave air.

The sun had barely risen, casting a dim, gray light over Gotham as Dr. Halimi adjusted the collar of her tailored black coat, her eyes scanning her reflection in the mirror. The soft morning light filtered through the small windows of her apartment, bathing the room in a quiet, muted glow.

She took a step back, her gaze moving over the sleek lines of the black coat, which hugged her figure with an austere, precise elegance. The cut was sharp, the fabric smooth, cinching at the waist and falling just below her knees—a perfect balance of timelessness and severity. She smoothed the lapel with practiced hands, tugging at the waist one last time before letting her eyes rest on the black veil pinned to her pillbox hat.

The veil draped softly over her high cheekbones, adding a quiet touch of drama to her otherwise composed appearance. It rested at a slight angle, lending her a timeless, classic look, while her caramel hair was half-up, the rest falling in soft waves down her back.

Sherine had teased her about the veil, calling it "a bit much," but to Maryam, it felt like the only choice. It was right for today—appropriate, even necessary.

Her black high heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she stepped back once more. The impracticality of them was a minor sacrifice for the sake of elegance. She adjusted the pillbox hat once again, smoothing the veil, allowing herself a fleeting moment to indulge in the kind of grace she rarely had the chance to embrace.

Maryam wasn’t one to lean into vanity—not because she didn’t enjoy it, but because her line of work didn’t exactly leave room for it. But today... today was different.

Her eyes dropped to her hand, where she held her mother’s brooch—an old, delicate thing, with silver vines curling around soft pearls. She ran her thumb over its familiar curves, feeling the weight of its history, its stories, pressed into her skin.

It was a relic, a link to a past long gone, and for years it had been tucked away in a velvet box beneath her bed. Pinning it to her coat had felt like the right choice—small, subtle, and close to her heart. But now, doubt began to creep in.

Would it draw too much attention? Invite too many questions? She wasn’t sure if anyone here would recognize it—or what it would mean if they did. For a moment, she considered leaving it behind.

Just then, Sherine yawned from the hallway, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. Dressed in a sharp black dress and high heels, she looked every bit the polished, worldly journalist and archaeologist she was.

She'd flown in from Metropolis just for this, bringing with her an extra pep in her step and an almost comical disbelief at Gotham's perpetual gloom. Despite being a Gothamite herself, it seemed that Metropolis had rubbed off on her.

"Okay fine, I admit it, the veil looks amazing," Sherine's voice broke through Maryam's thoughts as she stepped further into the room, reaching out to touch the delicate fabric. 

The doctor quickly slapped her hand away, and Sherine rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

Maryam smirked, smoothing down the veil with a delicate hand. "Thanks, it's called 'honoring tradition,' Sher."

Her sister raised an eyebrow. "Right. A tradition you remembered just for today, I see. You look like you're about to attend a royal funeral."

"Close enough," Maryam retorted with a dry laugh, checking her reflection again. "Besides, with Bruce Wayne rumored to make an appearance, it might as well be. Gotham's royalty, gracing us commoners with his presence."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Wayne," Sherine replied, practically snickering. "The hermit king himself."

Maryam shot her sister a sideways glance, a smirk tugging at the corners of her otherwise serious expression. “Can you believe it? Word is, the elusive Wayne heir might actually make an appearance today,” she said, raising an arm dramatically and waving it like she was unveiling a grand banner.

Sherine scoffed. "Nepo baby royalty. It's ridiculous, really. His family practically built Gotham—and I don't mean that in a good way. He's the poster child for unchecked capitalism."

Maryam chuckled, shaking her head. "You're not wrong. The Wayne legacy is all around us, and yet he hides away like some... Gotham myth."

"Not unlike Falcone," Sherine added, raising an eyebrow. "Though between the two, I think Falcone's the scarier recluse."

The mention of Falcone brought a flicker of unease to Maryam's face. "Do you think he'll show up?" She asked, more to herself than to Sherine. The thought of Falcone coming out of his shadows was unsettling, to say the least.

"Not a chance," Sherine dismissed with a wave of her hand. "That man's probably hiding under a dozen layers of security and shadows."

"Still, I wouldn't put it past him. He's got his hands in everything in this city."

"Not more reclusive than Bruce Wayne, though," Sherine snorted, reaching for her clutch. "At least Falcone actually does something—however terrible it is."

"If he shows up with his son Vittorio, I swear to God, I'll—" Maryam began, spritzing a hint of her favorite perfume on her wrists.

"You will do absolutely nothing," Sherine cut in, standing beside her and fussing with her hair in the mirror, her vibrant red waves catching the muted morning light. "You don't want to start anything, especially today. It's the mayor's funeral, for crying out loud."

"Oh, I'm serious, Sherine. I went out as the Wraith just two nights ago and yesterday as a civilian, and still nothing. Nothing! If Vittorio even glances in Alma's direction, they're going to find out exactly what I'm capable of," Maryam muttered, her eyes flashing with a hint of defiance as she twisted off the cap of her perfume.

Sherine raised an eyebrow. "And that's exactly why I'm reminding you to keep it together. This isn't some Gotham street brawl—it's a funeral. Dignity, remember?"

Maryam scoffed, setting the perfume bottle back on her dresser. "Falcone is the last person who deserves any respect. And his son? The only thing he got from his father is that insufferable sense of entitlement."

Sherine just sighed, too tired to argue with her stubborn sister. "You're impossible," she muttered, shaking her head.

Maryam responded with a faint, tight smile, but her eyes flickered back to the brooch now sitting quietly on her dresser.

She picked it up, her thumb tracing the delicate silver vines and tiny pearls. It felt almost too precious for a day like this—too bold, too revealing of a heritage she'd rather keep hidden.

Sherine noticed her hesitation. "Are you really going to wear that?" she asked, softening her tone, then quickly added with a grin, "Actually, I hope you do."

"I don't know," Maryam murmured, uncertain.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just wear the damn brooch," Sherine said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "No one here is going to recognize it. The average Gothamite probably thinks the Romanovs are a brand of vodka."

"Not everyone's that ignorant of history," Maryam replied with a hint of amusement.

Sherine smirked. "Maybe not, but Gotham has its own blind spots. Who's really going to scrutinize your jewelry today?"

Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the brooch before slipping it back into its velvet box, closing the lid firmly. "I just... don't want any unnecessary attention."

Sherine shrugged, looking Maryam over. "Fine. But you're still the most elegant one there, veil and all. That coat is practically regal."

Maryam's gaze lingered on the box, feeling the familiar tug of unease. She'd nearly decided to leave it behind... but, almost on instinct, she pinned the brooch to her coat, the weight of it settling against her heart.

"Yeah, fuck it," she said with a finality, sliding her clutch under her arm."So, are you ready? We need to pick up Aunt Meysa and Alma before they complain that we left them to fend for themselves."

"Oh, trust me," Sherine replied, laughing as she slipped on her coat. "Aunt Meysa is probably lecturing Alma as we speak. You know Alma's in hiding mode—poor thing can't even escape her law books without Aunt Meysa giving her a full interrogation."

Maryam smiled knowingly. "It's probably good for Alma. Keeps her grounded."

As they made their way out of the apartment, Maryam's heels clicked against the floor with a steady rhythm, each step seeming to amplify her resolve. 

Sherine chattered beside her as they descended the stairs and headed to Maryam's car, parked just down the block. The streets were already buzzing with Gotham's peculiar mix of early risers and the last stragglers of the night.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the steering wheel. Her sister glanced over, reading her sister's tension.

"Hey, it's just a funeral," Sherine said, trying to sound lighthearted.

"It's Gotham," Maryam corrected, a hint of grim humor in her voice. "Funerals here are never just funerals."

Sherine laughed. "Alright, fair. But come on, it's the mayor's funeral, not some mob boss's funeral. How bad could it be?"

Maryam shot her a look that clearly said, You should know better by now.

As they drove, Sherine’s phone buzzed incessantly, its ringing filling the otherwise quiet car.

The name "C" flashed on the screen, and Maryam caught the subtle twitch of her sister’s eye— the same one that always appeared when this particular contact reached out. The phone rang again, and Maryam couldn’t help but glance at her sister, who tried to hide the faint blush creeping up her neck.

They exchanged a quick glance, and both reached for the phone. Sherine, always quick, made a grab for it, but Maryam, with a mischievous grin, was quicker.

She snatched the phone away before Sherine had a chance to react.

"Ooooh, who is this, dear sister?" Maryam teased, unlocking the phone and scrolling through the messages. "Hmm? Someone special?"

"Nobody!" Sherine snapped, her voice tight as she stretched for the phone, but Maryam held it out of reach, enjoying her sister’s discomfort.

Maryam clicked on the contact photo, revealing a handsome man with black glasses, a shy smile, and messy black curls that fell just above his forehead. It looked like one of those professional photos you’d put on a company badge.

"Ooh, very cute. Very your style. Very glasses, very nerdy... very American," Maryam mocked playfully.

Sherine blushed deeply, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Khalas, Maryam! We’re gonna have an accident!" she scolded, her voice sharp as she tried once again to reach for the phone, but Maryam pulled it away.

Maryam continued scrolling, her fingers dancing across the screen. "Come on, tell me his name, and I’ll stop."

Sherine sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine! Clark, his name is Clark!"

Maryam raised an eyebrow, clicking her tongue. "Very American," she said with a grin. Sherine’s face reddened further, and her voice hardened as she reached for the phone again.

"Maryam."

Maryam sighed, finally giving in and tossing the phone into Sherine’s lap. The car remained perfectly still— Maryam was too precise behind the wheel for anything to disrupt their calm drive. The silence lingered, but Maryam wasn’t quite ready to let it settle just yet.

With a small smirk on her lips, Maryam reached for the radio, her red nails glittering as they stopped at a red light. She glanced at her sister, then at the road, before breaking the silence.

"So?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and mischief.

Sherine let out a long sigh, her voice softening as she glanced at the passing streets. "Ugh, yes, he's very American. From Kansas, farmer’s son and all that," she muttered, her tone losing some of its usual edge. "And... yeah, he's very attractive, to put it simply. Clark Joseph Kent. That's his name. He works at the Daily Planet as a journalist with me."

As Sherine spoke, her voice steadied, but Maryam could hear the quiet vulnerability slipping through her words. Sherine always said a person's full name when she was crushing hard on them.

"We're just friends, okay?" Sherine added, biting her nails nervously as she stole a glance at the road. "I mean, what am I even saying? Just colleagues. He's... he's interested in someone else." Her gaze drifted out the window, and Maryam caught the subtle clench of her sister's jaw, the silent struggle to hold back her feelings. "I met him three months ago and made him visit our place of work per Perry's order. That's all there is to know. We work together, and that's it." It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself.

Maryam raised an eyebrow, her smirk never wavering. She knew her sister too well. Sherine could pretend she didn’t care, but Maryam could see the truth beneath the layers of nonchalance.

But she also knew when to stay silent and let her sister talk in her own time.

"You better not tell anyone about him," Sherine said quietly, her voice carrying a hint of caution.

Maryam turned the wheel to the left, steering them through a turn, and made the motion of zipping her mouth with one hand. "Your secret’s safe with me," she teased, her smirk still in place.

They pulled up in front of Aunt Meysa's building, where both Aunt Meysa and Aunt Jamila were already waiting at the curb. 

Aunt Meysa, the picture of elegance, stood tall in a somber black dress, her usual veil draped gracefully over her greying hair. She raised an eyebrow, her usual approving expression settling on her face.

"Masha'Allah," she said with a nod, her eyes scanning their outfits. "You both look presentable, thank goodness."

Maryam smirked, fighting back a laugh. "Shokran, Amti Meysa."

Beside her, Aunt Jamila let out a low chuckle, her lips pulling into a wry smile as she cast Maryam and Sherine a quick, assessing look. "Almost like they didn't grow up running around in dusty alleys."

Maryam only hummed in response, stepping forward to kiss the cheeks of her two aunts in turn.

Just then, Aunt Meysa cast a sharp look back toward the building entrance. "Alma's coming down," she announced, a hint of exasperation in her tone. Her gaze flicked to Maryam. "You know she's ignoring you, right?"

"Isn't she always?" Maryam replied, shrugging lightly.

Sure enough, Alma appeared in the doorway moments later. She wore a simple black dress paired with an elegant coat and high-heeled boots. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her gaze remained downcast, deliberately avoiding her sisters.

"Ah, finally!" Aunt Jamila clapped her hands, her tone hovering between amusement and reproach.

Sherine leaned out of the car window with a grin. "Ready to face the lions, Alma?" she teased as Alma climbed into the backseat, her expression resigned.

Alma rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly. "Like I had much of a choice," she muttered, shooting Aunt Meysa a half-hearted glare.

Aunt Meysa arched an eyebrow, her voice thick with her Arab accent. "I swear to God, girls, I don’t want any problems. I’m warning you!"

When they finally pulled up in front of Gotham’s City Hall, the scene outside was pure chaos. The streets were teeming with people, their chants rising in the air—"No more lies." Banners with the Riddler's ominous symbols waved above the crowd like a dark omen.

"Shouf," Aunt Meysa gestured toward the crowd, her head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What is this?" she demanded, clutching her veil tightly as she observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes.

No one responded right away. The atmosphere was heavy with tension as they all stared out at the gathering, unsure of what they were witnessing.

Suddenly, a cop tapped on the glass, pulling Maryam from her thoughts. She snapped to attention, rolling the window down with a slight hesitation.

"Hello, names please," the officer said, his tone bordering on a command as he looked at them expectantly.

"Ben Halimi, sir," Aunt Jamila replied smoothly, handing Maryam an envelope with the invitations.

Maryam passed the envelope to the officer, who took it and quickly skimmed the contents. "Alright," he said with a nod, pointing toward a nearby parking lot. "This way, please."

As they parked, the air felt thick with humidity, the wet pavement reflecting the city’s lights. The sound of heels clicking against the slick ground echoed through the otherwise quiet street. Aunt Meysa led the way, her steps measured and dignified, her head held high as always. Sherine, Maryam, and Alma followed closely behind, the weight of the evening settling over them in the form of a quiet procession.

"Why didn't we get the same service?" Aunt Meysa asked, casting a critical glance at the sleek, elegant cars pulling up nearby.

"Because we're peasants, Amti," Maryam quipped without missing a beat, her tone dry and laced with humor.

Aunt Jamila laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Maryam, you look like royalty. We should've had the same treatment," she teased.

Maryam gave a mock grimace, her lips curling into a wry smile. "Yes, of course. And maybe we should've brought our butler too, right?" she retorted, which earned her an exaggerated eye roll from her aunt.

As they approached the entrance to City Hall, Maryam’s eyes scanned the crowd, noting the sea of black suits and dresses, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional camera flash from the paparazzi. Her gaze landed on Warda and her husband, Ryan, standing near the grand staircase. They were mostly overlooked by the flashing cameras, an odd relief in the sea of attention.

Warda stood with her hands gently resting over her growing belly, radiant even in mourning attire. Ryan hovered close beside her, one hand protectively on her back, his gaze sharp as he scanned the bustling crowd.

Aunt Jamila waved at them, her expression softening into something warm and affectionate. She shuffled over to greet them while other attendees glanced their way. Sherine offered those onlookers an awkward smile, but Maryam merely raised a brow, daring anyone to say something.

"Finally! We've been waiting for you. Rania's been fussing—"

"We know," Alma interrupted, her tone curt as she slipped her hands into her coat for warmth. "We saw the messages in the group chat."

"Feeling alright?" Maryam asked Warda, her instinct as a doctor surfacing as she nodded toward her sister's rounded belly.

Warda smiled gently. "Just fine. Ryan's the one fussing over me, though."

Ryan shook his head with an amused smirk, but Maryam chuckled, looping her arm through her sister's. "That's what husbands are for."

In Gotham, even a funeral felt like a performance, and Maryam couldn't help but wonder what kind of show was waiting for them inside.

She didn't have to wonder for long.

Not far from them, Carmine Falcone emerged from a sleek black car, flanked by his usual bodyguards. 

He extended a hand to help a striking woman out—a companion for the day, no doubt. Behind them, his son, Vittorio, followed, phone pressed to his ear, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with calculated precision. Maryam heard Alma shift nervously behind her.

"Is that—" Ryan started, narrowing his eyes.

"The Falcones," Maryam muttered, an unexpected flare of anger tightening her jaw.

"No, I meant Bruce Wayne," Ryan clarified.

"Oh my god, yes!" Warda whispered, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

"He's even more handsome in person," Aunt Jamila added, squinting like she was assessing a priceless possession.

"Look, Maryam! Go talk to him!" she urged, her voice practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Amti," Warda replied in Arabic, trying to suppress a laugh.

But Maryam wasn't paying attention. She hardly noticed the paparazzi shouting for Wayne or her family's chatter, because at that moment, Vittorio's eyes locked with Alma's. Alma immediately turned her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks, while his jaw tightened visibly.

Sherine squeezed Maryam's arm. "Mar—"

"Don't you dare, Maryam! You'll embarrass me!" Alma hissed, but her words went ignored.

Maryam shook off her sister's grip, her focus narrowing as she strode confidently toward the Falcones. Aunt Meysa's voice trailed after her, sharp with disapproval. "Where is she going? We're supposed to go inside!"

But Maryam didn't stop. Every step she took drew attention. As she closed the distance to Gotham's notorious crime family, one of Falcone's security guards stepped in her way.

"Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" he asked, his tone cold and dismissive.

Maryam pointed at Vittorio, her eyes burning with intent. "I need to speak to him."

Carmine's dark-rimmed glasses gleamed in the dim light as he turned his attention to her. His gaze, a mixture of curiosity and quiet menace, lingered on her before he spoke, his voice a low rumble. "And who might you be?"

Without flinching, she met his stare, her voice steady. "You should ask your son."

Vittorio said nothing, his gaze dropping away as he clenched his jaw and slid his phone into his waistcoat pocket. But Carmine didn't wait for an explanation. His sharp eyes flicked over Maryam's shoulder, settling on her family. His gaze lingered on Alma, and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

"They weren't lying when they said you girls were a sight to see. Beautiful," he murmured, his tone as smooth as it was unsettling.

A shudder rippled through Maryam, her unease deepening.

Then, from behind him, came a laugh—loud, brash, and unmistakably familiar.

Oz Cobblepot. Of course.

The sudden jolt of recognition struck Maryam. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. 

What did he mean by that? The way he spoke, like he already knew them—knew her—made her uneasy. Before she could find her voice, Carmine slipped his hand under her arm, his grip surprisingly gentle, almost as if she were fragile porcelain.

"Take a walk with us," he said, guiding her forward.

Still in a daze, Maryam let herself be led, her feet moving almost automatically as they began climbing the stairs. 

She glanced back, catching the confused, wary looks of her family. Aunt Jamila's eyes narrowed, a mix of concern and indignation flashing in them. Alma, on the other hand, seemed like she wanted to vanish into the ground. Aunt Meysa's stern expression softened, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she wanted to call Maryam back but couldn't bring herself to.

As they ascended, Maryam's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with questions she couldn't yet voice.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the city hall ahead. 

The city hall loomed ahead, its steps swarming with mourners and a sea of makeshift memorials. Flowers, candles, and angry placards blurred together in the drizzle, the wet pavement reflecting glints of firelight and the oppressive gray sky.

People were chanting "no more lies" people who at first thought were mourners but needed people who were protesting.

Among them , a group of hooded men caught his eye, their scrawled question-mark signs mimicking the Riddler's mark. 

Always lurking, he thought grimly.

Not far from him, another protestor waved a sign reading "Who Else Dies for Gotham's Lies?"

His blood chilled at the sight.

The honk of a traffic cop jarred him back to the present.

He avance with his car in the traffic before he could even down his window, an officer was already double-tooking through it when he recognized Bruce, his stoic professionalism cracking into something close to reverence. "MR Wayne over here!" he pointed to the place where valets were waiting down the stairs of the city hall the cop waved him forward.

The valet opened his door, and Bruce stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. The murmurs started immediately.

"Is that the Bruce Wayne?"

"Bruce Wayne's here!"

The paparazzi swarmed, shouting over each other as camera flashes exploded around him. Bruce reached for his wallet, barely paying attention.

Then he saw them.

Carmine Falcone stepped out of a sleek black car, his phalanx of bodyguards forming a protective shield around him. 

He moved with a calm, deliberate arrogance, the kind that only a man like Falcone could carry off. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he watched him reach out a hand to help someone step out of the car.

A slender leg, clad in a high-heeled boot, emerged first. Bruce's stomach tightened. The boots were strikingly similar to the ones Annika and Selina favored in the club. The woman followed, her face obscured by a hat, her movements poised and deliberate. For a moment, Bruce's mind reeled. Was that Selina?

But before he could process further, his attention snapped to something—or someone—else.

Maryam Ben Halimi.

The haunting of his dreams. 

Her face appeared in his line of sight, pulling his focus away from the unfolding scene. He recognized immediately despite her elegant veiled pillow box hat. She stood a short distance away, surrounded by a cluster of women—a pregnant woman, likely her sister, stood closest to her, her husband at her side. Maryam's hand rested gently on the woman's arm as she spoke, her expression soft but firm.

Bruce's hand, mid-motion to hand cash to the valet, faltered. 

The noise of the crowd, the paparazzi's shouts—it all faded into a dull hum. 

All he could see was her.

Even in the somber atmosphere of a funeral, she looked radiant. Her dark attire was elegant, almost regal-- like royalty, a stark contrast to the gritty chaos around them. 

For a fleeting moment, Bruce forgot why he was here. 

He forgot everything except the way she held herself—graceful, poised, utterly captivating.

Then she moved.

Bruce's brows furrowed as he watched Maryam break away from her family, her stride purposeful, graceful. She was heading straight toward Falcone.

What is she doing?

His pulse quickened as Carmine turned, his sharp eyes narrowing with interest as Maryam approached. The woman on his arm seemed momentarily forgotten.After talking for a few minutes, Carmine slipped his arm under Maryam's, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated charm as he began leading her up the steps to City Hall.

Bruce's stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

Before he could think, his body moved on instinct. 

The crowd was thick, a crush of mourners, reporters, and onlookers. Cameras flashed, and the paparazzi's voices rose in a cacophony around him, but he heard none of it. His eyes were locked on Maryam and Falcone, his focus razor-sharp.

He couldn't call out to her. No, that wasn't an option. She didn't know him—not as Bruce Wayne. To her, he was a stranger, a man with no place in her life.

And yet, none of that mattered. The only thing driving him forward was the unshakable instinct to pull her away from that man, to shield her from whatever danger lurked behind Falcone's veneer of charm.

As he closed the distance, the bottleneck near the entrance to city hall became a wall of bodies. Falcone's security detail fanned out, forming a human barricade between the mob boss and the growing crowd.

Bruce's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting as he tried to maneuver closer. Two bodyguards stepped into his path, their imposing forms blocking his view. His gaze darted past them, landing squarely on Maryam.

She turned then, her veil shifting slightly as her hazel eyes caught his. Bruce felt a jolt run through him. Her gaze met his directly—steady, searching. She took a shallow breath, her eyes narrowing as though trying to place him. Recognition? No, it couldn't be. She didn't know him. Not like this.

Still, he couldn't look away. 

It was as though the crowd, the noise, the chaos around them all melted into nothing. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable, while he stared back, caught in the moment.

It was only when one of the bodyguards slammed a hand against his chest that he snapped back to reality.

"Hey, hey—give us some space here, slick," the man growled, shoving Bruce back a step.

Bruce bristled, his frustration threatening to boil over. His piercing glare bore into the man as he fought the urge to push back harder.

The commotion finally drew Falcone's attention. The crime boss paused on the steps, his grip still resting lightly but possessively on Maryam's arm. He turned toward the scene, his eyes glinting with amusement as his thin lips curled into a smirk.

"Watch it, fellas—you've got the prince of the city there!" Falcone's drawl was smooth, mocking, every word dipped in condescension.

The bodyguards hesitated, exchanging glances before loosening their grip slightly at Falcone's signal.

Bruce stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Maryam as if the sheer force of it could dissolve the distance between them. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation, or perhaps a fleeting recognition that vanished as quickly as it came. He didn't know, couldn't know. 

But it pierced him all the same, an ache he wasn't prepared for.

The woman with the hat and the heels that had first caught his attention—the ones so similar to Selina's—turned as well, revealing not Selina, but Carla, the girl from the club. 

The realization barely registered; his focus was elsewhere.

"Some event," Falcone drawled, stepping forward with a smug grin. "Brought out the one guy in Gotham more reclusive than me. To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Maryam. She stood beside Falcone, her posture stiff, her body tense, but her expression now unreadable. If she was afraid, she didn't show it. Instead, her composure was as calculated as a blade—poised, sharp, and ready.

Falcone noticed. He followed Bruce's gaze back to Maryam, his grin deepening. Then, in a move so deliberate it felt like a taunt, he slid an arm around her waist.

The effect was instant. Maryam's shoulders tightened, and though she didn't flinch, the discomfort was plain in the set of her jaw. Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through him. He stepped forward again, but the bodyguards moved in, one of them shoving him back with a heavy hand.

"Easy there, Wayne," Falcone said, raising an eyebrow, his voice laced with mockery. "We're just having a little chat." He turned back to Maryam, his expression almost playful. "Do you two know each other?"

Maryam's hesitation was barely perceptible, a single heartbeat of silence before she answered. "No," she said, her voice steady but tight. She looked away from Bruce, breaking the connection between their gazes. "He's a total stranger."

The words landed like a blow. Bruce's chest tightened. But weren't they true? She didn't know him—not here, not like this. Outside of the cowl, he was nothing to her. A stranger. He reminded himself that he couldn't fault her for that.

And yet, the sting remained.

But Bruce didn't falter. His gaze stayed locked on her, even as she avoided his. The tension between him and Falcone thickened, an unspoken challenge simmering just beneath the surface.

"Let her go," Bruce said quietly, his voice low and even, each word a deliberate act of defiance.

Falcone's smirk deepened. His hand on Maryam's waist tightened ever so slightly, a gesture so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. But not by Bruce.

"Why don't you run along, Wayne?" another voice interjected, this time Vittorio's, dripping with false civility. "This is family business."

Bruce ignored him, his eyes narrowing at Falcone. "I thought your father never left the Shoreline," he said coldly, his tone cutting. "Aren't you afraid someone'll take a shot at you?"

Falcone's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes darkened. "You mean now that your father isn't around?" He turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. "Oz, you know Bruce Wayne?"

A gravelly voice answered, "Whoa—s'that right?" Oswald Cobblepot emerged from the shadows, his calculating gaze sweeping over Bruce from head to toe. He looked unimpressed, but the sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

Falcone chuckled, turning his attention back to Bruce. "His father saved my life, you know. I always tell the story to Vittorio here." He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, but Vittorio didn't react, his cold gaze fixed on Bruce as he dragged on a cigarette.

Falcone tapped his chest. "Took a bullet right here. Couldn't go to a hospital, so we showed up on Dr. Wayne's doorstep. Operated on me right there on the dining room table. Kid here saw the whole thing." His grin widened. "You don't think that meant something?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. He wanted to fire back, but Maryam's voice cut through the tension.

"I should probably go," she said, her voice steady but edged with tension. She stepped away from the group with a fluid grace that bordered on defiance, her grip tightening around her clutch. Falcone didn't even acknowledge her departure, his attention still fixed on Bruce.

Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she moved, the sound cutting through the charged air. For a brief moment, she turned her head back toward him, a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty, or perhaps contemplation. Her brow furrowed, a brief pause in her otherwise composed demeanor, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.

Then, with a final, decisive glance, she hurried into City Hall, blending into the crowd, her figure swallowed up by the throng of people.

Bruce's eyes followed her until she disappeared inside. 

Then, finally, he spoke. "It meant he took the Hippocratic Oath."

Falcone's laughter was sharp and derisive. "Hippocratic Oath, huh? That's good."

Vittorio, his silence thick as always, flicked his cigarette toward Bruce's shoes, a subtle yet pointed gesture. Bruce didn't so much as blink.

"'Scuse me," he muttered, brushing past them without a second glance.

His focus was singular now.

Maryam.

previous chapter | next

Oooooop 👀👀

I know this might be a bit cringey, but I can’t help myself—I just love doing it! So, here’s what I envisioned for Maryam’s outfit in this chapter :)) :

[ Translation ]

Amti : aunt.

Khalas : stop.

[jeepersjpeg]

u have like .. really good taste in media , so do u have any movie recommendations ?

my top favorites right now (in order)

1. I Saw The TV Glow (heartwrenching "coming-of-age"/psychological horror/wait.. he's "coming-of-age" so quickly--? Time wasn't right. It was moving too fast. I was 19, then I was 20, then I was 21. Like chapters skipped over on a DVD. I told myself, this isn't normal. This isn't normal. This isn't how life is supposed to feel. I thought about r-- really good movie if you haven't seen it already)

2. Possessor (trippy, violent sci-fi psychological horror. i wrote a song about this one. ive seen it around 5 times now and not a day goes by where i don't think of it.)

3. The Poughkeepsie Tapes (50% satirical mockumentary commentating on how america glorifies its serial killers, 50% found-footage horror, you'll need to look up warnings for this one [or just ask me, ive seen it 4 times, i can give you in-depth CW's without spoilers].)

4. Horse Girl (a girl's spiraling descent into conspiracy. trippy, mystery thriller)

other favorites in no specific order

• Antiviral (another Brandon Cronenberg film, sci-fi thriller, taking parasocial relationships to a whole new level)

• The PowerPuff Girls Movie (underrated and one of my favorite PPG-related things ever next to the now-banned rock opera episode, See Me Feel Me Gnomey)

• Longlegs (paranormal mystery horror film, an FBI agent gets more than she bargained for when delving into a new case. ASK ME ABOUT OZ PERKINS AND NICHOLAS CAGE'S PERSONAL CONNECTION TO THIS FILM AND HOW IT SAVED THE FILM ITSELF FOR ME AND MADE IT GO FROM "A WEE BIT DISAPPOINTING BUT STILL GOOD" TO "TOP FAVORITE" BECAUSE OF HOW IT IMPACTED THE WAY I VIEW IT... IF YOU DARE..)

• Catsoup (silent japanese cartoon, short film, you can find it on youtube! two cats go on a magical, somewhat dark, adventure. visually stunning)

• The Brave Little Toaster (the only disney film that will ever grace my favorites list. incredible. the anthropomorphization of objects is stellar, the characters i could go on and on about-- and the songs are fucking great. shoutout to mass car suicide [Worthless]. also this movie inspired one of my OC stories [Curtain Call].)

• I'm Thinking Of Ending Things (adaptation of my favorite book, very different from the book but i think it brings some excellent things to the table and tells it in a very cool way. psychological thriller, mystery. Jesse Plemons is in it, they grabbed him off the set of Breaking Bad and forgot to tell him he wasn't still playing Todd. [< compliment])

• Baby Driver (anyone who hates this movie doesn't know how to have fun. action-comedy, incredible soundtrack that is SYNCED TO THE HAPPENINGS IN THE FILM, main character is an autistic CODA who i love very much, i have a deep personal connection with this movie because of the person i watched it with and the impact it had on us.)

• I Don't Feel At Home In This World Anymore (action-comedy, crime, awkward girl and her awkward neighbor [who just met her but would kill and die for her] get in over their heads trying to retrieve a stolen laptop.)

• Poltergeist (1982, my ma's favorite horror film and one of mine too. paranormal, visually stunning, the practical effects are so fucking cool. also im decently sure it was inspired by Little Girl Lost, an episode of The Twilight Zone, because it's like a more fleshed-out version of that concept.)

• Home Movie (2008, it's on youtube, i can't remember if it's like overall good but it's the only instance thus far in which i think the "evil child" trope is done well so it makes my favorites list)

• Whiplash (ARE YOU RUSHING OR ARE YOU DRAGGING?!)

• Nightcrawler (crime thriller, guy's spiraling descent into abandoning all morals for the sake of his obsessive new project, and the gripping horrific ways that this choice affects those around him)

• Dread (2009, violent horror, guy's spiraling descent into abandoning all morals for the sake of his obsessive new project, and the gripping horrific ways that this choice affects those around him)

• Raggedy Ann And Andy : A Musical Adventure (on youtube, an animated childhood favorite that still holds up. shoutout to the blue camel)

aaaand some others im prooobably forgettinggg..? tried to include a bit of as many genres i could think of, since most of my favorites are horror :)

[enby--ghost]

Totally forgot about this until just now, but a few days ago I auditioned to voice Sun in a fnaf youtube channel thing. I didn't end up getting it, but it was fun to do!

Anyway, here's my not very good impression that took longer to make sound robotic than it did to record the dang lines