#what else is there to call you but a sell out

[labelleizzy]

Reposting from Morgana Alba on Facebook.

It's a reality check for white US Americans that there's WORK involved in emigration or asylum.

One comment on the original post was, "we're not leaving, my husband would never, he's too attached to his family" and the reply "if that's so, you could be the point person looking after /helping manage things for someone else who's got to flee.

Another point: the assumption that folks have $$ wherewithal and physical health enough to do the process as described. I understand that's not true for all of us, but there's a few items in this list that are good for anyone to try and accomplish:

Get a passport

Get all your important documents in a safe, grabbable space

Set up power of attorney for legal matters (your home, your pets if you have to leave them behind, etc)

Research and network for a possible safe landing person or location.

Otherwise, read the list, have a good think about what might apply to your situation, and start doing your research.

....

Morgana Alba:

You need to have a plan - Actually, you need 3.

(TL/DR - get a passport, a foreign one if you qualify, and start with anything in plan B to take actionable steps today to set yourself up for success)

Just in case you should ever need to uproot your life and move out of a country, for any reason, nothing in particular: you should have 3 plans. Not options. Not ideas. Plans. And I realize not everyone as raised like I was so I’m going to tell you how to make them. (And Step 1 is to have a passport. Do that immediately)

First of all, to be a plan it needs a clear objective, identified required steps, and a trigger point. A trigger point is the deciding factor or event that will automatically activate that plan. You must decide what your lines in the sand are in advance. Historic events rarely feel historic when you’re in them and if you don’t decide what you will not accommodate before you’re in it, incrementalism will paralyze you.

For the best coverage, start with plan C and work backwards.

*****

Plan A: Leaving under the best possible circumstances.

This is where a lot of you get stuck. Leaving under the best possible circumstances is a privilege but it’s not the only way out. This takes a lot of time and research and honestly you should have started this plan a year ago if it was what you wanted. To leave via plan A you should:

1. Research what countries you can live in long term and make a living in. This could mean countries you could transfer to with your current employer, countries that are expat friendly, or countries where you qualify for a work visa. If you have living grandparents or aunts that are citizens of and living in a foreign country you may even qualify for a foreign passport. Start that process now.

2. Start learning the language

3. Apply for jobs in that country

4. Find temporary or long term housing

5. Once you have residency and financial support/employment you can sell anything you aren’t moving and leave.

Trigger point for plan A is typically finding employment for most people.

*****

Plan B: Creating the flexibility for short or long term, potentially temporary, absence

This plan is about restructuring your life so that you could leave quickly even if you don’t have the security of Plan A.

1. Determine where you could go, short term. With a U.S. passport you could stay in most countries up to 3 months as a tourist but wouldn’t be allowed to work locally. Call up friends who live abroad and see who would be ok with a long visit if need be.

2. Start selling things you don’t necessarily love. Do a clothing and items purge. If you do have to leave without plan A there may not be the time for storage and sales so start reducing possessions now while you have the time to be mindful.

3. If you own a place, consider getting a roommate or having family move in so that you may not necessarily have to sell if you have to leave. Having someone else to look after the place and the added financial cushion of rent takes a lot of the pressure off during the departure. You’d have someone back home to ship or store your stuff or sell your car if you aren’t returning but you don’t have to make that call at the time.

4. Plan your financial support. Build up savings as you sell things. Look up what jobs will qualify for a digital nomad visa in the countries you’re considering visiting friends in, and very seriously start applying for remote work that fits those restrictions. Open a non-US based bank account to hold your savings. Get a credit card for this and only this. Stick it in the back of your wallet and forget about it.

5. Hoard Medication. Build up a 3-6 month supply of any required daily medications so that you have a cushion to hold you over between leaving and finding new medical care.

6. Digitize all your vital docs, including deeds and medical files. Store them in the cloud and email them to a friend who lives abroad

7. Have a plan for pets. With plan B you may be leaving them behind if you don’t know how long you’ll be gone or where you might settle. Talk to friends and family now about who would be willing to take them in in this situation.

Plan B is about giving you the most flexibility and options. You make big changes now so that you can be prepared to react to changes around you down the road. Trigger Point for plan B is often unique to the individual and involves law changes like access to medical support or the safety of their finances/job/marriage.

*****

Plan C: Run.

This plan is a last resort. It’s easier and less scary than most people think. But you absolutely need to be ready, and you need to know, firmly, what your trigger point is. This plan is for leaving in an emergency, potentially under scrutiny and persecution, with absolutely no plan to return. You should do as much of Plan B as you can, but you can still do plan C without that prep.

1. Have a go-bag. Your go bag is a waterproof, fireproof, personal-item sized piece of luggage that lives pre-packed with your vital documents (passport, medical records, SSN card, birth certificate, marriage certificate, name change docs, any extra photo IDs etc), your medications, around $1000 in non-sequential twenties, your emergency CC, addresses, phone numbers, and info written down for who you could go visit, proof of ownership docs for your house and/or car, and a single change of utilitarian clothing. Keep a pair of sturdy boots next to it if they don’t fit in it.

2. Pack your carry on. In this bag pack your jewelry, photo albums, grandma’s ashes, etc: whatever bits of precious you couldn’t possibly abandon. You need to make those decisions now, not in the moment. This suitcase must meet the SMALLEST restrictions on carryons for international flights (often smaller than what we’re used to in the U.S., typically 22" x 14" x 9") fill any extra space with toiletries or clothing as they reduce suspicion, but don’t prioritize packing clothing or comfort items. You can get that wherever you’re going.

3. These bags live packed in a safe place near the back door of your house; or in your car.

4. Decide where to run to and have a conversation about cover. In this scenario, if your trigger point is a certain executive order, your goal is to get to airport before enforcement goes into place. You need to know where you’re going and “why” your ticket is last minute in advance. Call up whoever is the safe person you’re running to and build the story. “Someone died suddenly” is a good one. This person needs to be ok with you showing up with 0 warning, and automatically going to the cover story if they one-day randomly get a call from a customs agent asking them to confirm why you’re traveling. If you have kids, have go bags for them as well, and only tell them the cover story.

5. Plan for your pet. Once you decide where you will run to look up what you would need to bring your pet and have those things ready to go (carrier, shot record, etc). Also plan for a situation where you have to leave your pet behind. Discuss with friends and family and get a commitment on who would take then in

6. Have a point person that is remaining behind that you trust to handle your affairs. If you have to run with no notice like this, you need someone here to sell your car, ship any possessions you need, cancel your lease, etc. Find your person and have the conversation about that now.

7. If you need to run you grab your go bags and maybe your pet carrier and you get on a plane. Use your normal bank accounts if you can, and your cash and emergency credit card if you can’t. Buy the ticket online if possible. If it has to be in person look for a visible minority ticket agent and if you’re questioned about the last-minute travel lean on the “my mother just died while visiting my aunt in France (or wherever you’re running). I have to go, I’m so distraught, taking my emotional support cat and kid cause idk when I’ll be back, there’s just so much to figure out. My Aunt has dementia. I have to get there before she does something crazy”

8. Try not to worry about what comes next. Humans have cut and run for thousands of years. You can do it. Immediate defense of life comes first. Everything else can be figured out after you’re safe. Don’t let worry over the logistics keep you in a dangerous situation.

Those are three plans you should have. But keep in mind there’s a lot of middle ground. Do as much of B as you can, and if you have to leave without a job, you can figure it out there. The place you run to doesn’t have to be where you’ll settle. You’l have more time to plan after you’re safe.

Americans have this warped idea of immigration. We believe other countries are as insanely draconian about it as we are but that’s not the case. Do your research. Make your plans. And don’t let fear of the unknown or a lack of planning keep you in danger. You can always just pack your bags and get on a plane to a friend’s place or a Sikh temple, and figure the rest of it out when you get there.

But definitely get your passport

[nightlyrequiem]

Work Wife

You've noticed a growing distance between you and Valeria. And when she forgets her lunch you bring it to her, finding out why. Valeria has a work wife.

AO3 W.C- 2,629

A/N- Minor angst as a little treat. This may be 2k words but treat it more like a drabble :3 NOT PROOF READ!!

Tags/Warnings- Light Angst, No Happy Ending, Emotional Cheating, Drama, Emotional Hurt No Comfort

Valeria forgot her lunch again. She's been doing it more and more often. You're starting to wonder if she's suddenly grown forgetful, or if she doesn't like your cooking anymore. You stare at the brown paper bag silently. Your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings. It's not just the lunch. Valeria herself is just... different. there's been a shift in your dynamic and you don't know why. She just slinks around you, doesn't really make eye contact, like she feels guilty about something. Even though she still kisses your cheek when she comes home and lets you cuddle up with her on the couch there's still this emotional distance between you. You're sensitive to changes.

Valeria's occupation isn't something unknown to you. Though she does her best to keep you and it separate, some things still manage to slip through the cracks and find their way back to you. She's affiliated with the cartel, she sells drugs, she's probably killed at least one person, and you know the location of her base of operations. You don't like what she does. It's dangerous and ever since she returned home cut up and covered in blood - both her own and someone else's - you can't help but fret that someday, she won't come home at all. This of course has provoked a few arguments between you. By the end you're incoherent and crying, and Valeria has her warm palms cupping your face. She says she works hard and puts herself in danger so she can take care of you. Think of all the luxuries I give you, Mi Amor, she says. I just want you to want for nothing. But you'd give up the nice house and cars and jewelry if it ensured your wife's safety.

Perhaps it's her safety that's altering her behavior. You worry at the inside of your cheek. Maybe she's in danger. Not being able to handle not knowing, you grab the paper bag from the counter and walk towards the door, slipping on your shoes. You'll pay her a visit and ask around. If Valeria won't tell you, then someone else will. You don't like being a sitting duck, not knowing if Valeria's going to be taken from you at any moment. As what you'll do to help... you'll just have to think of it when you get there.

You set the bag on the passenger seat of your car and start it, backing down the long driveway. Nerves chew themselves up inside your stomach. You've never been to her warehouse before. Never met her workers. You know Valeria doesn't want you mixing with them, but she'll have to just suck it up. It takes you a while to find the building. You didn't know the exact location of her warehouse, you concede. Just the general area. You finally come up to a looming gray building. Disrupting the harmonious browns and beige of the surrounded desert. Two armed men pacing around the front stiffen and stare at you.

You want to turn around and go home, but you've come too far to give up now. You get out of the car slowly and wait for them to speak. Still and silent as statues, they just stare at you.

"Um... Hi!" You call out, waving. "Uh, Valeria forgot her lunch, I'm her.. her friend." You stammer. They look at each other and the bigger one whispers into the other's ear. He slowly walks up to you and you catch sight of a gun tucked into his pants. You try not to feel nervous about it. Valeria owns firearms. She taught you how to shoot before.

"What's your name?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. You give him your name and his face stays blank, giving nothing away. You shift and open the passenger seat, startling when the man swiftly draws his gun on you. "Stop!" He barks. You flinch back and raise your hands.

"I'm just grabbing her lunch!" You reply, heart pounding. The man frowns and stalks forward, pushing you aside to peer into your car. 

You're too frightened to tell him off for his bad manners. Keeping an eye on you, he reaches in and plucks the little paper bag off the seat and looks in it. Probably not feeling all that threatened by the container of noodles and chicken. He grunts and looks at you.

"I'll let her know you stopped by." He says, turning away. Disappointment and confusion tugs at you.

"I came to see her. I'm her wife, actually." You tell him nervously. Holding up your left hand to show him your wedding band. He looks at it for a long time then gives you a weird look. It's not the judgmental kind, you're not sure what it means.

"... She's pretty busy right now. I think you should leave." He says, gruff but less unfriendly. He sounds almost... nervous.

You frown at him. "She's never too busy for me. Let me see her." You insist.

He frowns at you then looks back at the other man. His shoulders drop and he waves you forward.

"Fine. I'll take you to her. But I think it's in your best interest to leave." He mutters ominously. His words follow you into the building. Making you imagine all kinds of horrible things that could be happening. He stops outside of a room and knocks loudly twice. A muffled voice tells him to come in.

With a heavy, pounding heart you push open the door. You look inside and... stop. The room is a simple office. A wooden desk with a stack of papers near the back and a shelf of binders off to the side. Sunlight pours in through the window, backlighting Valeria... and the woman hunched over beside her. Valeria shifts away from her, getting that strange look on her face and alarms start blaring in your head.

"What are you doing here?" Valeria asks, her voice sharp. You frown at her tone, holding up her bagged lunch.

"You forgot this." You say, looking at the ither woman. She's pretty. Not at all rugged like the other workers. She blinks back at you. "Who's this?" You ask, narrowing your eyes.

Valeria clears her throat. "Her name's Layla," she says.

Layla smiles at you, plump lips pulling back to reveal straight white teeth. She extends a hand forward.

"Nice to meet you, you must be Valeria's wife. I'm her work wife, we're basically the same thing!" She laughs. Though you're not sure how anything she's said was funny.

"Work wife?" You repeat, lips thinning with disapproval. Anger flares in your chest. you are absolutely NOT the same thing. You glance down at the trash, seeing a different brown paper bag with scraps of food. 

"Layla, why don't you go check up on the cooks?" Valeria mutters, sending Layla away. Layla nods and smiles at Valeria, nodding at you before slipping out the door.

You don't look up from the trash, tightening your grip on the bag.

"Someone else has taken up the task of making your lunch, hm?" You speak after a few tense seconds. "Layla, I assume?"

"... It would be rude to deny food, Cariño." She says, brows furrowed. You stiffen.

"You didn't seem to think that way when you were denying my food." You reply indignantly. "Is my cooking not good enough anymore or what? And what the hell does she mean by 'work wife'?" You start raising your voice. 

Valeria stands.

"Lower your voice." She demands. "Look, it's not a big deal." She continues more softly. She rounds the desk and reaches out for you, pulling you close. "I'm married to you. She just likes to call herself my work wife because she brings me food and helps me out sometimes. It's..." She trails off, searching for the right words. "It's just platonic." Valeria's words do nothing to soothe you.

"You don't need a work wife, you have a wife wife." You reply tartly.

"You're getting jealous and upsetting yourself over nothing." Valeria sighs exasperatedly. "It's not a big deal, really."

"That's not for you to decide!" You snap, pulling away. "You've been acting different; you've been leaving your lunch at home. I was worried about you, Valeria!" You exclaim, suddenly feeling foolish.

Valeria shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. She leans back against the desk and the old wood creaks under her weight.

"I don't need you to worry about me. How many times do we have to go over this? I'm a grown woman. I was in the Special Forces for Christ's sake!" She snaps at you. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

You're mad that she's getting mad. She's not the one allowed to be mad here. "That's not the point," You say lowly. "I thought you were acting funny because you were in danger but it's because you've got some broad at work fawning over you, and you're letting her!"

"She's not fawning." Valeria snaps, glaring at you. "Why do you have to be so jealous and controlling? She's one of my workers."

"Not fawning?" You look at her blankly. "Kayla was practically unbuckling your belt and eating you out! I could see it in her eyes. She wants you. And I know you're stupid enough to not see it." You say angrily.

"Layla."

You frown. "What?"

"Her name is Layla, not Kayla." Valeria says flatly. You stare at her blankly. In disbelief that she actually corrected you about her name. You want to scream at her. Hit her. Instead, you throw her lunch into the trash on top of the other, eaten lunch.

"I don't even know what to say to you right now," You say, shaking your head. You turn and storm out of her office, ignoring her words calling you back. You slam the door behind you and try to find your way back to the front entrance.

Back home, you pace restlessly. Brows pulled low and fists clenched. Your heart still hasn't settled it's angry rhythm, in fact it jumps wildly when you think about Valeria and Layla. Her work wife. What bullshit. You eventually retreat back to the bedroom and sit on the bed. Unable to do anything but stare at the wall. Your anger gives way to hurt and insecurity. Your fire slowly burning out. Weren't you enough? She even corrected you about her name. You start to wonder if there's more happening behind the scenes. If Layla is doing more than just bringing her lunch and helping her out.

You slept in the spare room that night.

The next day, you decide to go back. You bring another paper bag, filled with food you know will go uneaten. It's not Valeria's lunch. Since she seems to think she's too good for your cooking now. You scowl. The guards out front are different men but they aren't too hard to convince. You walk right on in. You slip around workers, ignoring their imploring looks. The warehouse is big and you get lost finding Valeria's office again. You're forced to ask for directions, and when you finally get there, your nerves are almost frayed enough to send you running home. But you need to see them together again. At least confirm to yourself that it's something weird and you're not overreacting.

You lean your ear against the door, trying to hear through the blood pounding in your ears. You hear muffled voices. Valeria's low timbre rumbling in the air with high pitched responses from Layla. You don't have to see her to know.

You struggle to pick up on what they're saying. 

"What are you doing?"

You jump and spin around guiltily. "What? Oh, I'm Valeria's... I have her lunch." You say to the man who caught you eavesdropping. He looks skeptical, large arms crossed over his chest. "Actually, could you bring this in to her for me?" You ask, handing him the bag. He frowns at you but knocks on the door and lets himself in. You peer around his back, zeroing in on Valeria and Layla sitting on a sofa next to each other. Valeria's holding a glass of whiskey and Layla has her feet curled up under her.

You look in just in time to see her shift away from Valeria. The man brings in the bag and Valeria stiffens, looking wholly uncomfortable.

"Where-? She starts asking. You step inside and her words falter. She nods at the man. "Go." The man leaves, glancing at you as he passes. You stare daggers at Layla. "What are you doing here?" Valeria asks.

"What is she doing here?" You growl back. Clenching your fists and digging your nails into your palm.

"Working." Layla sniffs. Her lips twitch, like you're amusing her. You resist the urge to slap that smug little look off of her face.

"Working." You repeat, clicking your tongue and swinging your gaze back to Valeria. There's not even a single piece of paper on the table. Just a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass. Valeria turns to Layla.

"I think you should go. I need to have a chat with my wife." Valeria grits out. Layla nods, not even looking at you anymore.

"It's okay," She says, putting a hand on Valeria's arm. The action almost makes you start frothing like a rabid dog. If she doesn't get her hands off your wife, you might throw yourself at her. She stands and brushes past you. "I'll see you later, Valeria." You watch her leave, making sure she's gone.

A sigh brings your attention back to Valeria.

"What is your problem? You know I don't want you here." 

Her words sting. Even though you know (think) she doesn't mean them cruelly. "Why not?" You challenge. "Because you're worried I'll catch you cheating?"

"I'm not cheating. Layla is just my friend." Valeria says sharply. Your heart pangs at how significantly less softly she's looking at you.

"Thought she was your work wife." You snap, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at her.

"It's the same thing - it's all platonic." Valeria shakes her head, unimpressed. She pats the spot next to her but you don't move. Her expression darkens.

You stare at each other for a few tense seconds.

"Am I not allowed friends now?" She asks irately.

"That's not the problem!" You say angrily, raising your hands aggressively. "How much time are you spending with this woman?" You demand.

Valeria mulls over her words. "We work together, it's not-"

"How. Much. Time." You growl, taking a step towards her. She narrows her eyes.

"I don't know!" She snaps at you. "Most of the day? She helps me with paperwork. Do you know how long it would take if I were doing all of it on my own? You have her to thank that I'm able to come home to you at all!" Valeria shakes her head again and downs the rest of her drink.

Your eyes begin to prickle unexpectedly. You wish you weren't so sensitive.

"Are you cheating on me with her?" You ask. Instead of reassuring you like you want her too, Valeria only groans and rubs her face.

"No. I'm not cheating." She says dryly, like she's annoyed with you. "I love you, but you're so damn sensitive and emotional sometimes. It's not as big of a deal as you're making it seem." She sighs.

Valeria can't be bothered to comfort you, and that tells you all you need to know. You sniff, wipe your eyes, and compose yourself.

"Be friends with whoever you want." You say quietly, turning and walking out the door. You can get the hint. Why stay somewhere you're not wanted?

[angelltheninth]

Hey you know that trope where (usually) friends have to hide from a suspecting enemy but there is nowhere to really hide so the next best thing as to not draw attention to themselves is “quick we have to kiss because they are onto us!” One example is that one kiss scene with Steve rogers and Natasha.

Can you please write Clark, Bruce, Dick and Jason being in that similar scenario with reader? Whoever initiated it is up to you :)

I've written multiple fics with that exact premise, I know the trope very well.

Pairing: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, undercover mission, kissing, catching feelings, flirting

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Would do this with Clark more than anyone tbh. He's so cute!

BRUCE WAYNE

Takes his mission very seriously, a lot serious than you actually. Not to say that you don't but as long as you're at a fancy party you might as well have fun with Bruce. He however wants to get in, get out and get the mission over with without the two of you getting discovered, which proves harder when people keep whispering about what a cute couple you are and looking at you all the time. When he tilts your chin and captures your lips in a kiss he notes the surprised sound that leaves your lips after which he tells you he's sorry for the quick decision, but he needed to sell the idea of the two of you actually being a couple now that that is the most popular narrative and the one that will help the two of you the most.

DICK GRAYSON

Is more than happy to go on a mission with you and be your pretend boyfriend for the evening, now if only he could gather up the courage to ask you to be his girlfriend for real. Maybe he will if this mission goes well, it would make him a lot less awkward around you at the very least. Dick keeps glancing at you and at the people around you, hearing them getting more and more suspicious of the two of you right before you pull him by the tie and take him to the dance floor, smirking the whole time. As he's blushing his body falls into a rhythm with yours, the movements natural, the music and the atmosphere getting to his head so much that he kisses you at the very end of the dance, eliciting cheers and claps from the crowd, no more doubt.

RED HOOD

Loved the fact that the two of you got picked for this mission because it gives him even more chance to tease you and make you blush. Jason knows he can be a bit of an ass sometimes, okay, a lot of the time, but that doesn't diminish the fact that he still enjoys your company a lot more than the company of others. The people around the two of you are constantly looking over, at you specifically and he hates that, he was supposed to look at you like that, not anyone else so he leans in close and asks you for a kiss, otherwise he fears someone might ask you instead and he will blow your cover. Blushing at his request you smash your lips against his to shut down any smug words he might say to you next.

CLARK KENT

Was flustered when you asked him to be your partner on this mission, but he did say yes, he wanted to go, he wanted to make sure you were safe. He was a little fidgety around you, nervously glancing at you, at your lips, at your pretty dress, then quickly back at the crowd when he'd get caught. You loves teasing Clark when he got like this, you knew he had a crush on you but didn't want to call him out on it, he should tell you that himself, which is what you hoped would happen on this mission. Instead he kisses you out of panic when someone asks if he was your boyfriend and then apologizes profusely afterwards, saying how he couldn't think of any other way to make the lie convincing, which is funny coming from a man like him.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLVIII. “Bliss”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: everyone knows about you and Bruce… except you, and Bruce—though this, among other things, heats up.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, angst, giggling kicking feet

words: 14.2k

a/n: hiiiiiii this is the longest chapter yet!! Luminol, my beloved, you’ve been upstaged (just a lil bit). this was a (fun) beast to write, and thought it needed to be allll one chapter. have fun, lovelies!! also… I definitely didn’t stay up all night finishing this with an ear infection bc I love them and y’all <3 lmaooo

The first half of the meeting went by without a hitch; you figured you’d be snubbed more by the press, but it was quite the opposite—faces that had pinned to the back of your thoughts by the shove of their cold shoulder faced you with smiles and handshakes. Some even pretended they hadn’t seen you before, and if you were of sound mind, you might’ve challenged their niceties. Oz had grabbed you by the neck and rattled your confidence to the bone. 

Why had Bruce known that comment would set him off, and why had it in the first place? Making a comment at Bruce’s expense, the resident billionaire, didn’t make sense for Oz having the bad reaction. Was it based in something traditional, like a distaste for women talking back? Embarrassing their man? Obsessing over it only worked you in circles, teeth tearing at your cheek as you struggled to pay Mr. Convoy any mind.

The budget looked no different than last year’s, though this was in spite of the population actually growing for the first time in a decade. You had no reserves to call out the discrepancy, to stick your neck out for the little guy, too busy worrying about yours getting severed. Every thought was a downward spiral from Oz’s glass in the trash to Bruce’s supposed imagination, making your head spin whenever you lingered there. It was the only thing that pulled you out of your anxious reverie. 

Notions of a universe where Bruce pictured you in the same frame capsized everything you thought you knew about boundaries and guilt. That single taste of him made you want him more, and more, and more, on an endless loop. And, shit, if you didn’t bite back a tremble reminiscing on how his lips felt on your neck… 

Convoy’s voice was grating, at least against the velvet memory of your lips. He knew why you’d done it; if it had been Oz coming in, it would’ve been suspicious to just be talking. Two lovebirds finding the closest private room to make out was smart, quick thinking. Hopefully you thought he was trying to sell it, too; hopefully, you weren’t reading into that imagine, but if roles were reversed, he wouldn’t have a single deviating thought. 

Concentrating on the meeting wasn’t an option. Your skin… it was soft, supple and warm beneath his lips, an absolute dream. He absently traced his lips with his tongue, biting down when he felt himself begin to breathe deeper, harder, faster. Fake or not, it was enough to undo every knot he’d so carefully tied. Bruce gripped his thighs under the table. 

“Mr. Wayne.” 

He blinked to the meeting’s intermission. “Seth.” A gnarly purple bruise glared at him from his temple. 

“Watch out.” Gavenstein pointed to his forehead, face deadset. “See what that bitch d—”

Bruce stood from his chair with a loud scrape, shoving it back into place. “Lucky she didn’t do worse.” He didn’t concern himself with awaiting a reaction, the man’s string of words dulling as he turned to notice you were no longer in the conference room, and nothing else mattered but finding you. 

His breath caught when Oz walked up to you from the front doors, and it took supreme restraint not to sprint across the foyer at lightning speed. It was like slipping a hand into glove when Bruce finally wrapped an arm around your waist. It hadn’t been subtle, and surely, Oz would read it as possessive. He didn’t much care.

“Oz.” He monitored his expression, keeping it neutral to pleasant. Penguin glanced between him and you, wearing a laugh and a brutalized leather jacket; it hadn’t looked that wrinkled at entry. If he didn’t know any better—and how could innocent Bruce Wayne?—he would’ve wrung his neck and checked him for blood splatters. He tightened his abdomen as he fought not to hold his breath. 

“Thought I’d leave over some shit wine?”

Yes. “Surprised not to see you in there.” Bruce hoped you’d stay quiet, not by any fault of your own. One slightly misplaced word, a sideways glance, and you’d be on his hit list. It was too unbearable to think about you being targeted, and what he might do to anyone who hurt you. The flexing of his moral code was almost as disturbing as the black eyes in front of him. He dug his fingers tighter to your waist. 

“Had to take care of some business. You know how it gets.” Penguin put his hands in his greedy pockets, Bruce analyzing his every move like prime prey, every sense heightened by your presence; everything too high stakes. 

Bruce couldn’t manage to get a word out, only a watery grin and nod. Why’d you have to come to Gotham? And why, god why, had he let you get involved in the research? Though he was grateful to meet you, to hold you, you walked a tightrope every second you remained. You were too precious, your mortality as visible to him as a throbbing carotid. 

“Man of few words, huh?” Penguin gestured to you, eyebrow raised, and you tightened against him. You were scared. As you should be with him, as he wished you would’ve understood before getting your hands dirty. He would spiral if he lingered much longer. 

“Trust me, I’ve talked to him about it.” He felt you slap his chest, feigning a laugh that was convincing enough, benign enough, but no—nothing was benign enough with Penguin. Probably spinning a narrative in his head about if you’d talked to Bruce about him, signifying that he didn’t want to talk to him in particular, and this was going to snowball, and his throat went dry, tight, and this was excruciating. 

What once had been anger had melted into pure fear. Penguin had something valuable now, could tell by how he pulled you into him, by how he pulled into the corner of your waist with his fingers, how he tracked every pull of every ligament in Penguin’s face for danger, any inkling he needed to jump in front of you to deflect a bullet. 

“Guy doesn’t need to talk, right? Money does.” He dared nudge your arm, and it felt like a bullet to his chest. He gripped you too tightly already, resisting the impossible urge to pull you closer, tighter, merge your body into his; signal that if Penguin ever touched you, ever even looked at you… his thoughts drew increasingly violent. He glanced at you to melt them away, like sun to snow. 

You laughed, and said something he couldn’t track, too invested in how Penguin sized you up with just a glance, eyes squinting and widening, seeming too interested. Oh, this made him absolutely ill. Fuck. You deserved more than he could give you. Staying here, with his beady eyes on you, was the beginning of a death sentence. 

You jammed your elbow into his rib, and Bruce attended to the words falling out of Penguin’s mouth, only catching the tail-end. Something about just joking, about never too busy for a Wayne, something about it being an honor. He forced himself to agree, play along, because it would make you safer, only for your safekeeping. Fuck. Fuck! This was visceral, tangible fear, capable of snuffing him out. He barely registered when Oz walked away, except that the air was less suffocating. 

“I need to pee.” You pulled him by the wrist down the hallway, and he was so out of it that he really thought you were going to the restroom, and startled when you got close, so close your perfume whacked him, making him dizzy; everything was getting too much, and his hands were clammy, and his lips parted and he wanted to hug you, and hold you, and never let you go, and never see you again. 

“So we’re going to the club tomorrow night?”

“We?” He hadn’t known he was agreeing to we, and the only thing filling his thoughts were expletives. “No, I’m going alone.” 

“You said we were going together.”

“I didn’t say it.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. 

“But you agreed to it.”

“I didn’t catch that.” He jammed his tongue into his cheek, looking anywhere but at you. He must not have worn his spiral well, because your hands came to his cheeks and straightened him to face you. The mist broke when he met your eyes. 

“We’ll be fine, it would be weird if we didn’t go together. It’ll solidify things.”

Convoy called the meeting to resume, and Bruce very nearly took you back home, but acquiesced to Penguin’s pull. He’d think it strange if he disappeared, give him something to read into, a reason to be more suspicious…

He didn’t have to pull you into his chest this time, you went there. Your hand knocked into his pocket, and you jumped at the small, rectangular box. “What’s that?”

“Benadryl.” He muttered, keeping an eye out for where penguins loitered. 

“I told you, you shouldn’t have it again.” 

He shook his head, responding without thought. “It’s for you. Keep it on me, just in case.”

Bruce was too busy scanning the foyer to notice the way you looked at him. No one had been that thoughtful with you; you’d even forgotten to bring your goddamn epipen back with you after the last visit home. A surge of warmth replaced the chill Oz had left. 

His gaze darted frantically across the room, and even a yank at his wrist—not gentle—wasn’t enough to tug him out of his hyperfocus. You grabbed his forearm and led him back around the corner, just out of view, and put your hands on his shoulders. He carried the weight of the world on them. 

Ocean blue eyes pored over your face with the weight of a truck. You rubbed his shoulders, down his bicep, all the way to his wrists, repeating the motion until his breathing evened. While his stare wasn’t a shred less frantic, it became increasingly focused, almost pinning you to the wall with its intensity. Mr. Convoy announced the closing of the doors, Bruce took a breath, and you both slipped into the conference room as he pulled the door shut behind you. 

Every second of the meeting was pulled teeth, every minute agony. You sat behind him, which was partially ideal with Penguin flush to his shoulder—but that meant Bruce couldn’t see you, either. He tore at his nail beds under the table, something he’d never done before. Scraping nail tips and cuticles distracted him from the intrusive worry that if Penguin looked at him just the right way, like you had, maybe he would deduce the same damn thing, and everything would be gone: forever. 

Bruce felt chained at the meeting’s end as he refused his instinct to make a quick getaway. He bid goodbye with a plastic grin and empty words of how thrilled he was to see the lounge, and what time was it again? Got it, great, awesome, excited to see you, and wrapped his arm around your shoulder as his thoughts flew him. Pulling you down the wet stairs past the paparazzi caused a slip, but he caught you, and you smiled, and he laughed, and it was hollow, but also not, and the paps got lots of photos of that, and he let you into the front seat, and you were in the car now, it was okay, but was the car fucked with, had Penguin cut the brakes? 

“What was that about a storm?”

His grip clenched around the wheel. Rain spattered the windshield, side streets already struggling to drain the excess water as the car zipped past. “There’s a bad storm that runs through every fall. Expected to hit tomorrow night, forgot about it.” 

“How bad does it get?”

He glanced at you before refocusing on the glittering road. Your tentativeness sat like an untrained animal, its gentleness cruel. 

“A few days of staying in.” 

You tapped his shoulder, then gestured down a random alleyway. Confused, but desperate as ever to please, he followed. Your face was stern as he switched off the car, and his chest thrummed with variations of what you might say, about the kiss, or his imagination, or anything else. But all you said was: “I’m okay.”

He rolled his shoulders back. “I know you are.”

“No, you don’t.”

He slumped back into the seat, his head knocking against the leather headrest. His eyes fluttered shut, deep breaths accompanying the affirmative sound you made from the passenger, somewhere close to ‘I told you so’. “Oz. Freaks me out.” 

“Freaks you out?” An edge crept into your voice. 

“I don’t want him hurting you.” 

“So obsessed with me getting hurt.”

Bruce was almost offended. You said it like it was stupid, dismissed it like it wasn’t the most natural thing in the world; like he wasn’t born to worry about you. You didn’t return his stare, instead watching a raindrop drip down the glass. 

Silence stretched the length of the cabin, seeming to inflate with every blink. He startled—a rarity—when you severed it. 

“We could go shopping tomorrow.” 

He side-eyed you. 

“For club outfits. Another outing for people to photograph.” 

Bruce couldn’t say he wasn’t interested in doing another activity with you, or that he wasn’t pleased at you taking Penguin more seriously. However, he ping-ponged this interest against the fear of your heightened visibility. Going to meetings together was one thing, but making a habit of public outings elsewhere? 

He followed your lead, concentrating his nervous energy into raindrops on the glass. Showing up without you would do more harm than showing up with you; this was simply the best course of action for supporting his and your public personas. His gut cinched at your needing one, but there wasn’t much he could do about that at present; it didn’t help his tension knowing the only time he’d get to act like this with you was when things were public, and fake. Penguin had certainly dampened things, but it was still peaceful having you close. 

He nodded at you, and put the car in gear. The remainder of the drive was quiet; it didn’t exactly make you uncomfortable, but you were cued into his anxiety like it was your own body. You knew he didn’t like this arrangement, and wrestled with new guilt about taking him away from his patrols, his research, to do mindless little things in an effort to protect you. Though, you reminded yourself, it was protecting him, too. 

Bruce paused before the final turn to his house. Strange that one of the most notable skyscrapers in the city you’d walked past time and time again with Mar was now a ‘house’. “Can you do something for me?”

The hair that’d been swept behind his ear fell into his eyes with his sigh, and your stomach somersaulted. “Stay at my place. Through the storm.”

“Sure.” 

He was struck by your resolute acceptance, but he wouldn’t push his luck. If you were finally seeing how risky things were, he wasn’t about to change your tune. 

“Can I get some of my stuff, then?”

A pile of chairs stuffed to the side of your apartment door made you cringe as you flicked on the lights, and you hoped he wouldn’t read into it. In your periphery, you noticed him glance over it, and clenched your hands. 

“For future reference,” he picked up one of the chairs after shutting the door, pushing it at a certain angle against the doorknob. “This is most effective.” 

You nodded and walked to your bedroom, Bruce keeping his list of hypotheses to himself. Nightmares, probably. Hell, he still had them twenty years later. He’d ask you about them soon, but not now. Dresser drawers shifted and closed as he roamed the open plan living-dining, analytical gaze inspecting for sign of intruders. His circling landed him at the freezer, where an opened pint of Ben and Jerry’s sat alone in the corner. 

The gentle, cool breeze of it closing locked him to his mind. Sentimental over ice cream? He distracted by looking out the kitchen window. When he took in the skyline—you had a stellar view from here—it was difficult to justify the inevitable time that he would spend talking with you, looking at you, and thinking about you that could be given to the city. You tied him down like an anchor. 

“How many days will it last?” You shouted, and the sound of your voice was an immediate balm. 

“Sunday evening.” 

A selfish smile snuck up on him as he stared at the kitchen tile; true, he wasn’t helping the city, but he was with you. No matter how illogical it was, his feelings remained unshakeable, and refused not to be indulged. 

Sweats and baggy tees sat in the bottom of your backpack, slowly being crushed by the toiletries you stuffed on top. You doubled-back to your dresser to find something worth being papped in, but nothing was sufficient. You drew increasingly worried as you faced the reality of one dress, one pair of trousers, and a couple fine-knit sweaters. Maybe that would work, but…

You stopped yourself with a fistful of sweater, bringing yourself back to your body. There was no use starting this cycle; you were okay showing up exactly as you were. You grabbed a sweater, an extra tee and jeans, and avoided the lingerie you meant to throw away—and extra avoided how your mind connected them to the condoms in your nightstand. 

You moved to leave the bedroom, but stalled. Really, no? Wasn’t it best practice to have them regardless? What if… you felt a bit dizzied. Surely there was no world where that would occur, and… but… every day you spent with him brought you closer to that fantasy, at least in your thoughts. Locked in over the weekend through a storm would provide ample opportunity, and maybe you’d get cabin fever and he would too, and maybe you both would try it out since you were faking things in public anyway…

Through sheer force of will, you blocked the thought, turned off the light, and stepped into the kitchen, letting Bruce know you were ready to head back out. 

You were both stiff and silent as you walked down the hall toward the elevator. Bruce interrupted it once to ask if he could carry your bag, but tightening your hands on the straps was the only thing keeping intrusive thoughts from spilling out, so you refused. The ding! of its arrival exposed a cluster of friends who gasped as they looked behind you. They pressed themselves to the corners of the elevator to make room, their faces varying shades of pink. 

Bruce grabbed your hand, softly, every touch from him was like a whisper; almost like he was afraid to touch you. You’d thought you were better than the people who fell all over him, but here you were, fighting goosebumps at a choreographed touch of his fingers. A giggle erupted behind you, but neither you nor Bruce brought attention to it. Your focus was entirely taken by the heat of his skin on yours. 

Cameras flashed through the lobby windows, the paparazzi’s shouting echoing coolly off the walls. His grip tightened, nearly too much. They knew where you lived, now. Would they camp out indefinitely? Bruce had done a good job of losing the cars that followed from the meeting, tucking into the parking garage seamlessly, but it was as if he’d posted his location. 

He tucked you closer to his chest as you walked, the backpack bumping against his side with each step. Men shouted, fawned for attention, peppered questions you couldn’t quite make out through the glass, though you swore the word ‘scandal’ and ‘relationship’ popped through a handful of times. If it already spread this much throughout Gotham, why hadn’t Dr. Crane mentioned it? Did he not pay attention to that sort of thing? 

“Sorry.” Bruce spoke quietly into your ear as you descended the second elevator, and thankfully, the parking garage was empty. You hadn’t realized until he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze that your breathing had become dysregulated, or that spots had entered your vision. He made efficient work of leaving the garage, and you pulled a grin as the doors lifted. Am I smiling too much? Not enough? What are people going to say about this? Intrusive images of your face plastered across tabloids in checkout aisles made you shiver. 

Paparazzi didn’t lessen when you arrived at Wayne Tower; hiding in the back had been necessary before. They snapped photos on the sidewalk, waved, yelled, and some even moved so close to the car you jumped, worried that Bruce might accidentally run someone over. When his garage doors slid shut you felt your body deflate. Holy shit. That single interaction had made this whole thing real. 

Bruce sensed how much it affected you; you weren’t exactly keeping your nerves hidden. And how could you on your first run-in with these vultures? He unbuckled, hesitating before stepping out. “I…” his head shook, just a little, words failing him. Your eyes cast down and away, and his gut cinched. “I’m sorry.” 

You played with your fingernails again and, though he knew how ridiculous it was, he wanted to die. He shifted toward you, caring less how the words came out and more just that they did. “Don’t worry about catering to them.” 

Rage tensed his muscles as you gnawed at your lip with your teeth. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do for either of you but stay trapped; the options were to waste his family’s legacy for all the public knew, or be poked, prodded, and analyzed by them until the day he died. “You look fine.” 

You shoved your hands into your pockets when a hangnail began to bleed and sting, following his lead to yet another elevator. Bruce pressed for the top floors, and everything became routine. You walked up the stairs first, after saying a drive-by hello to Alfred, found your way to your room, and shut the door behind you. 

The room felt bigger and emptier than it had last night. Would he talk to you about that new apartment now that you did find a lead? Would he ask you to move in here? You admired the high ceilings and thought of the echoey halls in the night. Would you want to? 

Marble flooring was cool beneath you, the short length of the dress dropping the temperature a few degrees. You peeled it off, kicked your heels across the room, and threw on pajamas. You sat in a huff at the edge of the bed, lost in vague, blurry thoughts, letting emotion wash through you as you rocked back and forth. 

Eventually, you rattled yourself out of it by remembering your purpose: you were doing a good thing. For Gotham, and for Bruce. You wiped under your eyes to make sure no wetness remained, and smoothed your fingers over your hair to catch any flyaways that might’ve cropped up from changing. There was a reason you were doing this, and you needed to take advantage of it. 

You padded down to the kitchen, finding Bruce and Alfred speaking in hushed tones by the sink. Alfred smiled when you entered, and all conversation ceased. “What’s going on?”

“Wanted to know if you were okay after the ordeal on the way, Miss.” Alfred wrung his hands on a dish towel, a ray of comfort breaking through his evident fretting. Could be the accent.

“I’m okay. Thanks.” You clasped your hands together and followed Bruce as he walked to another elevator. Your head spun. 

“If you need anything, let me know. Our house is yours.” 

You nodded over your shoulder gratefully, settling in flush to Bruce’s shoulder. He didn’t say a word until it had descended, you’d both stepped out, and he’d logged into his computers. Your stool was still in its place, and you wondered if he’d made any headway on the research since Monday night. 

He hadn’t. The monitor opened to the same screen you’d left it on before he clicked away. It only took a short glance to see that something ate at him. He pulled up the camera software and cursed under his breath, making some command and stepping back from the desk. You squinted at the monitor, noting a name you barely recognized as the Times reporter, with his headshot.

Approx. ten minutes remaining.

You felt slow, foggy. Fighting with things to break the silence, you questioned the giant tunnel leading to the basement before broaching the elephant of research, which you hadn’t a clue how to approach.

“Has anyone found you down here?” It was just… open. 

He spoke with curious conviction. “People don’t think about what’s underground.” 

You drummed your fingers on the edge of the stool, and bit the bullet. “Did you find anything else about Morrison?”

Bruce shook his head, running his fingers through his hair with an air of delicious frustration. Oh, how a movement like that used to set you on edge; now you wanted to soothe it out of him, barely restraining yourself from thinking up ways to. 

He ripped off a sticky note and began writing bullet points. You steeled yourself and scooted until you could read it. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, pausing with his pen above a scrawled M. 

Gary Morrison, GU head of journalism. ‘Deceased’, ‘river accident’ in March 2014. 

Wife reported she ‘wanted body to rest’

Last seen via cam August 7, 2024

Rimmel building

Clifford Marks, Times interviewer. ‘Retired’. Age 35.

Interviewed Morrison’s wife

‘Retired’ from Times month later

Approx. eight minutes remaining.

“So Morrison was only there? Didn’t come or go from anywhere?”

“Nowhere the cameras caught.” Bruce set his pen down and stuck the note to the side of the monitor. The stool creaked beneath him. “By his stride pattern, he approached from the west. All we have.” 

“Can you confirm if he was that victim?”

“Caught on too late.” He leaned over the desk, pinching his nose bridge. This was where the frustration came from. 

“So… where do we go from here? If he could be the dead guy, or,” you snapped your fingers, feeling excited. “or maybe he was the killer!”

Bruce cast a blank sort of look your direction. Your shoulders dropped. “Your evidence for that?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “And your evidence against it?” 

“He never left the building.” 

“At least not in a way the cameras recognized him.” 

He rolled his eyes, and your stomach curdled. “This isn’t ‘true crime’.”

You pressed on, despite how much that hurt. “Was he that mutilated you couldn’t tell it was him?” 

“Look, I’ve got it covered.” He pulled off the note from the monitor and grabbed his pen, fixing his stare pointedly at the screen, which had jumped to one minute left. 

“I’m trying.” You cleared your throat when it came out whiny, fiddling with a hole in the side of the seat’s leather. “I want to help.”

He tapped the pen’s tip on the corner of the note, placing small dots at random. “You being here helps.” 

“Don’t placate me.”

“I get distracted when you’re a–way.” His pen dropped as his sentence fizzled out. There had been two sightings: one at Arkham a month post-the interview, then the airport that same day. 

Two blurry videos loaded from each; Bruce played the Arkham footage first, where Marks was seen shouting, pointing his finger at the security guard who shoved him out. He shouted from the ground, but there was no audio, and there was no way to make out the words on a lipread from such low quality footage. 

“Wait,” you squinted, squishing closer. You pointed to the ground by his foot. He rewound the footage, and a shimmer crossed the camera’s lens by his leg. 

“A knife.” Bruce scrawled something else on the note, then pulled up another software you’d never seen him use before. GCA. Airport records. 

“How the hell do you have access to all this?”

He clicked to another tab, writing something else down. 

“What? Tell me what you’re finding.”

“He was headed to LA.” Keystrokes. “Stopped in Denver.”

“And?”

You waited what felt like an hour for him to respond, watching him pull up that camera software, other programs, notate more, moving at such rapid speed you wondered how he even caught what was on the first screen before moving to the next. 

“He left the Denver airport, never came back.” 

“Why would he do that?”

“Didn’t want to be tracked. Most flights are direct.”

“So we look into Arkham.” You swallowed hard, knowing this would end terribly, but knowing too many signs pointed there to ignore any longer. Maybe you could keep him specifically to that time frame, and he wouldn’t have to find out about things happening now. Namely, you.

“We find out where he went in Denver, and talk to him.” 

“For all you know he paid cash for a random car and could be anywhere in the country.” 

“It’s a lead.” 

“There’s so much shit that points to Arkham.” 

“Thought you said I shouldn’t look there yet.” He’d paused his incessant typing and scrolling, eyes dipped to the screen’s bezel. 

“I think we won’t get anywhere until we look into it. Too much to avoid now.” If he hated you, at least people would be safer for it. At least you were trying to do something good for him and them, even if he might not see it that way when he got there.

“We need to talk to Marks.”

“Arkham is right here. You said yourself he hasn’t been spotted elsewhere.” 

Bruce was well aware why he worked alone, but he became more certain he’d continue with every ‘helpful’ comment by you.  

“What, are you going to tap into every security camera in the US and hope it caught the right angle?”

“I’m following the lead.”

“Arkham is also a lead.”

“We don’t even know what to look for there.” His shoulders turned toward each other, feeling squeezed. Anger sat at the tip of his tongue, snide comments creeping along the walls of his skull. “I’m used to doing this alone.”

“I can tell.”

“I’m sorry. I’m getting frustrated.”

He said it so plainly it was almost funny, if you weren’t so insecure about your incompetence. You shifted in your seat as you looked around the basement, noting his giant Batcar jacked up to get serviced, and put a pin in it, wanting to redirect. 

“We’re meeting Oz tomorrow. What do we want to look for down there?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re going there to be allied.”

“We can’t double-task?”

Guilt warming his conscience, he gave you an inch of the reigns. “Have anything in mind?”

“You said he’s a dealer, right?”

“Drops. Already know everything about that.”

You sat in thought for a moment while he organized his desk space. The click of his pen brought Arkham to the front of your thoughts again. “The mayor, Bella. She had that task force thing. The journalist talked about it.”

“Yeah?” Bruce looked increasingly interested, his shoulders shifting square to yours. 

“We don’t know why she was put in there. Maybe they found a new drug or something.”

He mused on that, and by the very second you internalized being a complete idiot, he grabbed another note and scribbled things down. He was always in a hurry, and you kind of understood it now. He had competence and power to make an impact, and he was caring and kind, wanting to help as many people as possible. It was valiant, almost like he was some sort of hero.

You blinked away the thought; idolizing him would do no good, especially with the inevitable end you hurtled towards with this research. If you kept adorning him with a halo, you’d never recover. 

Could you recover at this point? When just packing your bags had you wondering about condoms and lingerie and perfume? You hadn’t needed to pack things like body wash, you knew he had that here, but you wanted him to know you, to smell you, like how you smelled him every time he got close; in case he memorized you like you did him. Juicy papaya, guava, surely that would make an impression… 

Suddenly the air between you popped like it held a charge. Being alone with him threatened the firmest of your resolve against the backdrop of the kiss. You bit the inside of your lip and abruptly stood, refusing that rabbit hole. The car caught your eye for the second time, and you followed it, asking him to show you what needed fixing.

A few hours later, you tucked a towel into the rack as the shower warmed; your hands and arms were covered in grease because apparently, giant cars had millions of parts that needed constant tweaking. You shut the glass door as you stepped inside, feeling sleepy and full to bursting. The shower was pleasant. Everything was. 

You tugged clothes onto damp skin and wrapped the towel atop your shoulders so as to not leave a trail to your room. Bruce waited at the top of the stairs, his hair only slightly drier than your own. You wondered why he stood there, he’d already thanked you on the elevator up, but didn’t complain. He was a vision in his quintessential black, emphasizing the softness of his eyes. 

“What do you like for breakfast?”

“I don’t wanna interrupt Alfred’s plan.”

“Thought I’d make it tomorrow.” 

“Those burnt pancakes were pretty good.” You grinned. “Lot of personality.” 

The timbre of his laugh made your face heat. “Will-do.” 

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” 

You paused before turning to the door. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.” 

He nodded, putting a hand on the railing. “Good.” 

Breakfast had been nice; the food was noticeably less charred, and there was an actually full jug of orange juice. You’d been so excited when he woke you up in the morning that you hadn’t checked your phone until you were finding parking at Saks. 

Bruce looked concerned when you groaned, skimming the curb of the parking garage before correcting. “What?”

“I was supposed to go home this weekend.” You’d missed a call from your mom, received a text updating about the shot. Everything went well, and she commented on how delightfully busy you must be. 

Let me know you’re safe, honey. 

The garage had no signal, so you put it in your trouser pocket. You could practically feel how close she was to assuming you were busy with Bruce; last night before you’d gone to sleep, you’d decided to scroll through your unread messages. Aunts, uncles, and cousins just ‘checking in’, acquaintances from high school coming out of the woodwork. It was beginning to feel impossible not to reckon with what this meant, bleeding past what you could mute notifications on.

Walking into a luxury store made your gaze heavy, focusing on the floor. Bruce let go of you to shake a worker’s hand as they welcomed him in, and you startled when he introduced you. He didn’t give you a title, no girlfriend or partner, but he didn’t need to. Your hand was cold on the shake, ears booming with the shouting and cameras banging on the windows behind you. 

First was the men’s section, and you didn’t expect otherwise. You coming along was an afterthought to them, starry-eyed by the presence of Bruce Wayne. They walked him right past brands like Eton, Canali, and Ralph Lauren, motioning towards names like Garavani, Prada, Saint Laurent, and Givenchy. You nearly felt bad for even breathing on any of the items. 

Bruce was overtaken by the man who was apparently his personal shopper for the day, and you thought the staff had completely forgotten your existence until you pulled out an enticing black dress shirt, and he plucked it from you with a pearly smile. “Impeccable taste, ma’am.” He left you to your own devices with an armful of items already taken to the back. You stifled a laugh at how overwhelmed Bruce looked the next rack over. 

Taking advantage of the shopper’s absence, you moved to the pants, and gasped at the prices. 

“Find anything?”

You shook your head, thumbing through strange cuts, textures, and colors. “Only the ugliest shit I’ve ever seen.” 

He chuckled. “Don’t want me in…” he held up tan, ribbed joggers that looked like long johns. “Four thousand dollar sweats at the club?”

Sometimes you forgot he wasn’t as old as Alfred, and knew terms like ‘ghosting’ and basic club etiquette. You averted your eyes to the rack, swooning over this dynamic. It felt effortless. “Your closet’s probably full of them, just in black.” 

You moved to a rack of black dress pants, shivering to think someone would willingly wear the others in public. Flipping through hangers ran your pinky across smooth, silky fabric, and you paused, pulling out pleated Saint Laurent with a thin, flat waistband. Saint Laurent. You’d only heard the name in songs. 

“Will that be all for now, Mr. Wayne?” The shopper had arrived, holding out his arm to take the trousers. 

Bruce looked at you as you handed it over. “Up to you.” 

You’d picked one shirt and one pair of pants, but followed Eric (his nametag was small), and Bruce to his dressing room; it was enormous. Full-length couch plus loveseat, plush throw carpets, and rows of shoes, handbags, and jewelry in addition to the racks of clothing already chosen. He said he’d be back in a few minutes, leaving you and Bruce standing in the hallway. 

He gestured for you to come in. You crossed your arms tight to your chest and sat yourself on the couch. He grabbed the outfit you chose, and hesitated long enough you noticed. You covered your face with your palms and heard buttons and zippers, clenching your teeth when his pants plopped softly on the ground. 

“This?” 

“You sound confused.”

“I’ve just… never worn anything like it.”

You peeked, seeing the back of him as he faced the mirror. The fabric was a thin silk—no, satin; which was more matte?—looking like a normal dress shirt at first glance. At the points where the light hit, the sheer was especially obvious, highlighting the curve of his shoulderblades. The pants hugged his frame like they’d been crafted with him in mind, tight and flowy in a way that elevated the simple silhouettes. He looked over his shoulder, and you snagged on the turn of his waist. Shit. 

He caught your sharp inhale, and quickly turned away. He fiddled with the cuffs, then undid an extra button at the top of the shirt when he began to sweat. “I, uh, think he picked things for you.” 

And Eric had. Bruce faced the opposite wall while you shimmied on a silver mini dress, trying on shoes and watches. 

Metallic mesh with thin straps connected by hardware accents. You grabbed a pair of silver heels he’d left, and checked yourself in the floor mirror, then stopped, half your foot in the heel. 

It looked… gorgeous. You never figured silver would complement you so well. If Mar were here, she might’ve started squealing.

“Like anything?”

“Um, mhm,” you stammered as you shoved your feet in the heels and smoothed out your hair. In an instant you felt vulnerable, consumed by the fact Bruce would see you like this. Why’d it feel so fucking intimate?

“Can I see?”

“Yeah,” you said, weakly. 

Bruce took a step back, his breathing taking a hit. “Whoa.” You fussed with the dress’s edge in the mirror, and he was grateful for the extra seconds to pull his expression together, hoping he’d said it so quietly you hadn’t heard. 

Your eyes narrowed as you took yourself in, and he couldn’t fathom why. “What do you think?”

He needed a cold glass of water, that’s what he thought. He felt himself turn red. “Looks like it was made for you.” 

Has all the air been removed in here? Can Eric show up? Please? Your heart raced, and you were certain he could see goosebumps with this much exposed skin. Your gaze betrayed you and you checked his outfit in the mirror to your left, heartbeat rushing to your throat seeing both of you together. 

Your phone buzzed, twice. An email had never been such a saving grace. Thankfully, Bruce went back to whatever he was doing in the corner, and you read the message from Dr. Vry. 

“Can we stop at GU on the way? Since I’m not leaving, Dr. Vry says she has something for me.” 

“Sure.” He kicked off the shoes he just tried on, reaching down to grab them. They looked nice, and shiny. 

You both changed facing opposite walls, heads buzzing. 

Eric checked you both out, and you winced at the five-thousand dollar price tag on just your dress. Bruce carried the bags out, and you actually felt happy seeing the paparazzi, knowing that… his hand slipped into yours, and you grinned. 

Bridgit met you at Dr. Vry’s office, holding a spiffy black handbag. The hallways seemed smaller now. “Hey, she told me to—”

She beamed, handing the purse to you. “Janay told me.” Janay? Since when? “She wants you to bring this to events from now on. Represents the prestige of the university.”

Prestige of a public university? In Gotham? You took it, confused. It felt sturdy, like thick, unyielding leather, with gold accents. You thanked her, and left. 

Bruce’s eyes flashed when you entered with it, and he informed you on the short drive to his house that it was a Birkin bag. “If you thought the dress was expensive…”

Thirty-two thousand dollars was the price that came up on Google, and you carried it gingerly up to your room to change, petrified of leaving a fingerprint. You set it on the spare dresser, just enough out of reach it couldn’t be bothered if you tried. What the fuck was Dr. Vry thinking? You pulled on your dress and strapped on your heels, threw on some makeup from the bottom of your purse, and headed downstairs.

You struggled to avoid looking at Bruce as you headed to the elevator. Alfred appeared, the clip of this cane comforting you. You thought it might be easier to look at him than Bruce, but he was positively beaming; did he know this was fake, or was he leading him on, too?  

“Have fun.”

Bruce handed you a pair of contacts when you got to the garage. He said he had three pairs to be able to rotate through, in case they tore. He grabbed a contact case and plopped his in no problem, and you struggled until you swore your mascara would bleed. 

Bruce’s hand was warm and reassuring as you walked into the Iceberg Lounge. Mar had visited a few times, and you recognized some booths and light fixtures from half-drunk selfies she’d sent over the years. 

If you thought eyes had been on you at City Hall, you were the goddamn Mona Lisa here. Bruce tucked you under his arm as the hallway narrowed, and you swallowed spoonfuls of saliva at the contact. Possibility electrified your limbs, rendering them half-numb and hypersensitive. To think that anything went here… that getting handsy, or a kiss, or stuffing him into a corner booth to have your way with him would only help the cause. Tasting his tongue against yours, running fingers down his thighs—playing the part. It left such wonderful deniability; for all he knew, you were a dedicated actress. 

The man in front waved a keycard to security, but Bruce made it through without a hitch. He held you tighter as a drunk group of men swaggered past, bumping you against his dense, muscled body. 

It was a perfectly normal club; downstairs was noticeably less noisy, but it still boomed, tickling your eardrums. A quick scan of the room didn’t show Oz anywhere, which was upsetting and relieving; Bruce’s brief on the way about what set the guy off had been unsettling—anything that could be read as pandering, insulting, or condescending would get you clipped. 

The bartender nodded as you both settled into seats at the counter. They quickly saddled you with a water glass, and you ran your fingers on the lip, trying to calm your nerves. Red and blue reflections of the club lights glinted through it, projecting a kaleidoscope on the countertop. The low lighting also illuminated the curves and valleys of Bruce’s muscles.

Every night pounding the pavement in that heavy suit had formed his build into a fucking menace; so different than how you might’ve imagined Batman would look, bringing butterflies to your stomach. You took a swig of water, avoiding further analyzing. You kept forgetting he was fucking Batman, even that he was a Wayne, but you felt the presence of both now. It dizzied you. 

But could you blame yourself? Was there anyone who wouldn’t want him? Anyone who would sit in your position looking into those ocean blue eyes with those long lashes, feel the comfort and strength in his touch, the sultry invitation of his breath wafting across your cheeks, and not fall head over heels? 

“What do you want to do?”

You wanted to take him to the back rooms you kept seeing the dancers take men to, that’s what you really wanted. Unbutton his pants and pull his shirt over his head, trail kisses everywhere usually hidden, hear whatever sounds that pulled from him, damn. You toyed with the glass again, the only thing you could.

You rushed to fill the space with something other than erotic thoughts, and landed on what you and Mar always pulled out once it passed eleven, and all catch-up conversations had been positively exhausted. “Truth or dare?”

Pulling up questions on your phone from some random generator sites, you placed it between you. One red button for DARE and a blue button for TRUTH sat there, ready to roll the dice. “You first.”

Bruce hit truth, and you mused the politics of his decision. Too shy to pick dare? Also, having him touching your things? Exhilarating. Having his undivided attention? Fucking addicting.

What’s your favorite curse word?

“Damn, starting tame.”

Bruce rested his chin in his hand, thinking way too hard about this. A crease appeared between his brows, and after about thirty seconds, you had to nudge him. Maybe he wanted that closer contact. Seeming like you were in the grips of intense, loving conversation, making eyes. He knew what moves to make, he knew how to manipulate. His eyes flicked to yours. “Fuck.”

That felt intimate. Too intimate, and your body rattled. You managed to a nod, clicking on your request.

“Ooh.” Bruce hummed when you clicked dare, and the screen spun. When had he started that humming thing? Since when did he make small little comments like this?

Eat a teaspoon of hot sauce.

You thought Bruce was moving toward letting you off the hook, so you waved down the bartender and requested a shot of it. You felt a strange desire to impress him, like a kid at recess trying to impress a crush. They asked how spicy, and you said medium. The bartender brought back a half-filled shot glass, and you slammed it back without a wasted second.

“Shit.”

A swell of pride speared through you at making an impression. The heat hadn’t hit in full yet, percolating on the roof of your mouth. His eyes widened, and he sat up from his slump.

“Not spicy?”

As if on cue, it attacked your tastebuds, screaming to be heard. Your face contorted, and you chugged the rest of your water; Bruce passed you his, and in a second that was finished, too. Your eyes watered, your stomach turned into a knot. 

“What the fuck sauce do they have here?!” You flapped your hands at your sides as if that would make a single dent—and noticed how happy he seemed. You wanted to tease, how dare he like when you were in pain, but the crinkle by his eyes always felled you. The bartender must’ve been watching, because they brought you a jug of water, and you drank it like you never would again. Bruce smiled, and you fought to join him.

“Since you were so brave.” He clicked dare, and you tried not to feel ecstatic at being called brave by Batman himself. Somehow, it wasn’t at all condescending. You hoped you could get a few more rounds in, seeing as your phone was at a measly five percent.

Show your most recent Google search.

Bruce’s lashes fluttered, and your face scrunched. “Such an easy one, this game’s rigged.”

Pink spread across his cheeks, and his voice became softer. “There’s no ‘skip’?” He laughed, halfheartedly, and you cocked your head at him. He eyed you. “Since you got such a big one,”

“No, no.” You were curious now. “Show me.”

Bruce gingerly pulled out his cell, and when he opened it, you saw he didn’t have a password. Surely he knew better than that, right? Or did he have a hack for that too, some sort of bomb that would go off in the battery if he ever had an inkling it was lost?

He opened Safari, and your eyes flit between his increasingly red face and the loading screen. He shifted in his seat and glanced at the table underneath. You could tell when it loaded, because his face flushed the darkest you’d seen it.

An article, titled: Romantic Conversation Starters (+ Tips to Set the Mood).

You chanced a look at him as you tucked your lip under your teeth, barely abating a laugh. You felt yourself turning warmer, and tempted the increasingly tense silence; you could feel he was about to combust. You called it out before your anticipation got the better of you and you zeroed in on things you shouldn’t. “You’re blushing.”

“Wanted to make it believable.”

Your laugh escaped you, unable to be contained. “By going on WikiHow?”

It was so endearing; he navigated these rooms so seamlessly, had people falling all over him, desperate for his attention, practically on their hands and knees to whatever the hell he had to say, including yourself, but he was just… awkward. Unsure. It was written all over his face. And fuck, it only made him more attractive.

“You got a better idea?” His defensiveness was creeping in, as expected. You might’ve fallen into the floor in his position. You mirrored his earlier posture, resting your chin in your hand.

“Be yourself.”

He clicked the phone off, slipping the evidence back in his pocket. The movement pulled at the fabric across his bicep deliciously. “‘Myself’ doesn’t want to be here.”

“What would make it more tolerable, Mr. Wayne?” You sipped at the remainder of the water from the jug like it was a delicate glass. His blush flushed deeper, which you didn’t think possible. Teasing him was fucking adorable; how could you not?

“Thought I was baby.”

You struggled not to show how that affected you, because it affected you. “Thought you were shy.”

“Sometimes.”

Another imperceptible cock of his brow and that deep, penetrating eye contact. The rise and fall of your shoulders was tighter, higher. You thought of pushing it further, teasing more, being a bit more forward, but your tongue tied, and he wasn’t breaking eye contact, and your hand was going numb under the weight of your body pressing toward the counter for balance, and—

Out of the corner of your vision, you watched Oz enter, pulling some pills out of a bin to his side. When he distributed them to the table, they stuck their tongues out at each other, showing a bright red bloom from the drug. They laughed and handed over cash. So bright and bloody… Mar did something like that once. She’d told you about it. Showed you the tongue stain a year ago. 

Oz pulled out two more pills, then locked eyes with you. You smiled, but it felt like ice water thrown down your neck. Bruce tensed as he approached. 

“Welcome, welcome! Got a coupla drinks, yeah? How ‘bout we keep the good vibes going? On the house.” he held out the pills, and you hesitated; Bruce began a deflection, but you grabbed one. His attention shot to your mouth, and he started stuttering something out, eyes wide, but you swallowed.

Oz chuckled, pushing his hand closer. “C’mon, don’t let your lady outdo ya.” 

“He’s the designated driver, I’ll have my fun tonight.” You winked at the man, and he grinned, but it faltered for a second before he righted it. Bruce needed to be careful, shooting daggers at you with Oz right there. 

“Hey baby, yeah yeah.” Oz apologized, saying he’d bring you both back to ‘his section’ soon. The second he was out of earshot, Bruce leaned in, whispering heatedly. 

“What the hell was that?”

“You want to know what this does, right? This isn’t Drops, this is newer.”

Bruce glared at your red tongue. “We could’ve asked any druggie here.” He slammed his palm just hard enough against the table to make you stiffen. “For all you know he could’ve laced it.” 

“He pulled it out of the same thing he gave everyone else, I watched him.”

He softened when you jumped, moving his hand down to his pocket. There were better ways to get his point across than scaring you. He faced you with apologetic, worried eyes. His chest felt heavy, breathing more labored. “I’m scared it’s dangerous.”

“Well then,” you scrambled not to look like a total airhead, knowing you had your reasons, but struggling to articulate them. “I’m the perfect control either way. We know I haven’t drank anything, I’m not on other drugs,”

He sighed. “Wish you would’ve consulted me.” 

“He was about to get suspicious. Now you have an out.” You sipped some water to try to abate the rising anxiety; it didn’t work. “Rich guy who doesn’t want to total his favorite car, I don’t know. Get his ditzy girlfriend all wasted.”

He turned to you, waiting for you to look at him. You didn’t. He brought his hand to your chin, and you thought it would be harsh and rough, but it was gentle as he tilted you to face him—always gentle. He looked a bit like he had at City Hall the day before. Frazzled, concerned. “You can’t leave my side, okay?” 

You swallowed hard, immobilized by the pull of him. “Didn’t plan on it.” 

His hand left you, but his stare didn’t. “How are you feeling now? We need a baseline.”

You remembered at this point that he was wearing the contacts, and you were, too, when he didn’t take out his phone to notate. Oz’s big hand gestures from a table across the way signified it wouldn’t be long. “Uh,”

“Fatigue? One to ten.”

“Uh, two.”

He pressured his speech, likely feeling Oz’s inevitability as much as you. “Brain fog?”

“I don’t know, one? Zero?”

“How does your body feel?”

“I don’t know, my feet hurt from the heels,”

“Hot? Cold?”

“Flushed, warm, I don’t know, a tiny bit warm? The hot sauce?” And conversation.

“What’s your mood?”

“Uh,”

“Apathetic? Euthymic?”

He was moving at lightning speed. “I don’t, a little anxious? Kinda sad, I don’t, I can’t quantify it right now,”

“Sad, scale of one to ten.”

You picked at your nails. “Four?”

“Anxiety?”

“Like a five?”

“Do you feel weak at all?”

“No.”

“Unsteady?”

You only had time to shake your head before him.

“Hey, VIPs!” Oz shouted from the corner, waving you and Bruce toward the back of the bar. “Follow me.”

It only took a few steps for things to shift. The world blurred out, and you were suddenly gone; all worries about what Oz was doing, all anxiety about the night: disappeared. The lights went increasingly hazy, and then it snapped into a mist; you couldn’t help but laugh. 

You leaned harder into Bruce, your knees weakened. Every brush against his arm was so electric, sensual, like foreplay. It was blissful. 

Oz said something about the party finally starting, and you thought he looked at you, but you were lost in the strength of Bruce’s hand and how much of his skin you could touch. A bright smile peaked the apples of your cheeks as you felt genuinely, stunningly happy. The music settled into the background in a dull pulse. Your thoughts rolled into a mess of ferns and twigs and pine needles that amounted to one singular need: Bruce.

Bruce tightened his grip on you, feeling you begin to drag; he wanted to make sure you were okay, but Penguin was showing him towards a back room, refusing him space to avoid eye contact. 

Stepping behind the bar revealed a moderately large lounge, close enough to 44 Below’s main stage to be involved, far enough to be private. The space was moderately large, with a glowing green EXIT sign to the left, and a long hallway to the right. No one else was back here. 

“When I’m not upstairs, you know, doing business? This is my zone, my asilo. Make yourselves at home, go on.” He moved for him to take a booth, and you clomped down next to him with a delighted huff. Bruce looked at your half-lidded eyes and enormous grin when you rustled the table, desperate to know what was going through your head. 

Penguin pointed at you, and launched into a speech about how business shifted since the flood. Bruce couldn’t make sense of why he started shifting to talking about drugs with him; was he this confident now of not catching consequences? 

“Needed to find something to help the people here. Lost lives, families, homes. Who wants to go to the club when their lives are falling apart, huh?” Penguin held his arms like he was bragging, like he was selling something. Did he want him to go in? 

You shifted and giggled beside him. God, he needed to talk to you. 

“Those eye things,” Bruce pretended not to recall, snapping his fingers in thought. 

“Ah, Drops.” He made a disappointed, dismissive sound and waved his hand, as if one of the most dangerous and widespread drugs in all of Gotham was nothing more than a passing project. “Nah, nah. That brings people down, makes ‘em nostalgic. You’ve tried it, right?”

“Makes things slower, yeah.” Was Penguin observant enough to catch the non-answer? Bold enough to call it out?

“Right, right. So this, this is something beautiful. Brings people up, keeps them excited, partying.” He straightened, gesturing every which way with his hands, his tone moving in and out as it only did with him. “And the best part is, thing’s all natural. Straight from the soil.”

Mushrooms. Why was he saying all this?

“Sure you don’t want any, boss man?”

Bruce barely contained a disgust response. With no other way to see out of it besides throwing the relationship under the bus, that’s exactly what he did. 

“Paps have been fucking ruthless since they got those photos.” He shook out his arms and set his face to look annoyed. “If they catch me with anything for a while, whew.” A tight shake of his head would finish it, and a pursed lip. “Gonna have to stay sober tonight.” 

“Prince of Gotham, alright.” The man held his hands up like he was being accused, though his demeanor remained agreeable. “Ain’t wanna be responsible for corrupting that.” 

Bruce played along, deepening this faux rapport. “People already try to discredit,” he recycled your earlier attacks on him. “Nepotism, all that bullshit.”

“Right, right. Lotta rumors.”

“Exactly, Oz.” Bruce blew a heavy breath from the bottom of his chest, making himself look as frazzled as possible. He performed musing on something, then moved like he might get up to the bar. “You know, I might get a whiskey,”

“Nah, not in this section.” Penguin, almost angry, motioned for him to sit back down with a shoo. Bruce stifled a grin; like hell he would leave you. “I’ll send one of the girls to get something for you.” 

You slumped against him as Penguin turned the corner. He didn’t waste a second. “How are you feeling?”

Your hands crawled up his arm and shoulder, and your grin got louder, and louder, which he didn’t know a grin could do. He reflexively smiled at your supposed euphoria, never seeing you so content. Your smirk went straight to his chest. 

Bruce measured his breathing when you moved your hands to his hair, twirling it between fingers. He bit his cheek when your hand slid lower; down his neck, past his abs… he gulped and moved your hand away, his body lighting up. You pouted, making a pitiful noise that went straight through him. 

“Please.” You slid nearer, whining, closing the space; your pupils were so wide your eyes were almost entirely black, your shoulders squeezed inward, like every muscle in your body was tense, needy. Your fingers moved to his thighs, rubbing the top in smooth, languid strokes. 

That please echoed through him like a fucking gong. He shook it from his thoughts the second it ricocheted. Shallow and quick, his breathing hitched, and he shifted away with another swallow. 

Heat spread across his face as he darted a look at yours. You bit your lip, and he averted his eyes to under the table. No chance you would’ve taken it if you knew it would increase your libido this sharply. With his awareness cast down, he noticed you press your thighs together, crossing your ankles. 

“I want you.”

He caught your hand as it traveled to his waistband. His fingertips were freezing, head turning staticky at your touch. You pouted again, and he looked at you with increased resolve. 

“No. You’re not sober.” Gentle, yet firm. Your eyes went glossy, almost with tears. He took your hand to bridge the distance, rubbing what he hoped was a relaxing circle along your palm. 

Your eyes pleaded with him. “It’d be so fun like this.” 

“We can talk.” 

“Can we talk about it?” You rested your head in your hands, fluttering your lashes to frame your doe eyes. 

He didn’t hesitate shaking his head. You thought long and hard, and he theorized you were mining for a loophole. “Can I look at you?”

His expression eased. “You can look.” 

You were so thrilled it was like the past conversation hadn’t happened. You analyzed every pore of his face, admiring it like some great statue or famous painting. When he felt himself start to wonder what you were imagining, he pivoted. “Tell me. How are you feeling?”

“Could be better.”

He paid the insinuation no mind. “One to ten?”

“You’re funny.”

Huh? “How am I funny?”

“Soo serious.” You pressed your finger between his brows, uncreasing them. He let his shoulders relax. “There you go.” 

You sat back, gazing dreamily. “You should talk more. I love hearing you talk.” 

Should he… stop talking? Was it making it worse for you? Were you lucid? “Do you know why we’re here?”

“Talk, baby. Come on.” 

Like he was zigzagging his car through Gotham, but unable to lose them. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I just wanna watch you.” 

He regretted the question as it passed his lips, loathed how he couldn’t help but blush under your focused attention, but he’d endure it. If he needed to dodge your advances for the next ten hours, the whole weekend, so be it. 

“You’re so cute!”

You looked pained, a growl edging out your sentence. “Is that a bad thing?”

“UGH.” You slammed back into the chair, giving him barely enough time to place his hand behind your head; his knuckles knocked into the wood, and he winced. 

Was this because he wouldn’t let you touch him? Tentatively, he removed his hand. “If you still feel this way when you’re sober, we can talk about—”

“Whiskey for Mr. Wayne?”

“Thanks.” His fingers wrapped around the drink, leaving visible prints against the smooth siding. You still faced forward, looking upset. 

He worried his hands along the lip of the glass, needing to make himself perfectly clear. “I don’t want you feeling rejected,” he took a deep breath. “but there’s no way anything is happening while you’re like this.” 

“Not that.” You scoffed, like you hadn’t just begged him to let you. 

“What then?”

“The storm.” Your expression twisted, and you really looked like you might cry. “All the animals, and birds,”

“What about them?” 

“They hate getting wet.” Tears slipped down your cheeks. Mood swings. “Walter hates getting wet. What if he was here?” 

He pressed his lips into a thin line to keep a laugh at bay, reminding himself you were obviously wrecked over it. It was no small feat evicting humor from his tone. “I’m sure animals here are used to rain.”

You sat in thought. The booming sounds from the dance hall upstairs filled the silence, and the sharp click of a dancer’s heels as they pulled a customer to the back went along with the beat. “Can we go dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

He’d tried to convince you on the stairs to ditch this idea, but you’d quite literally yanked him to the dance floor. Admittedly, he liked this possessiveness, but under different circumstances. 

The crowd was tight, and only got tighter as word spread. Anxious thoughts circled like a shark, threatening to drown, but not you. Fully invested in whatever song was blasting through the speakers, you held your hands high, swaying side to side, grabbing his hips at every switch in the beat. You mouthed the words—you knew this one, had you gone clubbing with your friend much?—and he tried to mirror your movements, though subtly, feeling embarrassed. 

He shut his eyes for just a second at the overstimulation; he needed to be firmly rooted here to keep you safe. He wanted to help you have fun, too, and he wanted to enjoy this, or at the very least tolerate it. What kind of person would he be if he interrupted your joy, no matter what caused it? 

When he opened his eyes, a flurry of people were pressed against him, fighting to claim his attention, touching him in ways that made him want to jump out of his skin. He only panicked for a moment at your disappearance, easily looking over shoulders to find you just behind. You stared at the back of their heads with amusement; somehow, he thought you’d be angry. 

You laughed, so loud he could hear it over the bass, and jammed your way through them limb by limb, shoving your body flush to his. He caught you, feeling a profound sense of home when you pressed into him, your perfume and shampoo and whatever else made up you filling his senses in a way that shot him straight to heaven. He felt you rumble against him, hearing your laugh even closer now. He moved his mouth to your ear as you tightened around him. “What’s so funny?”

“They think you’re not mine.” You rolled your eyes so casually, like he hadn’t burned to tell you so for weeks. 

His lips curled into a small grin. “You think I’m yours?” 

Those half-lidded eyes met him again, spearing him. “Of course you are.” 

You didn’t wait for him to respond, and that was good, because he was full of nothing but looping thoughts of yes, yes he was, he was yours. 

You brought his hands to your waist and he held you carefully, the room shifting to a closed concept as he absently moved in tandem with you, following your lead as his nerves fell away. He wouldn’t ask you how you meant it, not now, possibly never, but he could pretend. Pretend you could feel how much he cared; that somehow, despite his best efforts, you knew with unwavering confidence that he was entirely, deeply yours without ever having to say it. 

As you both danced, he kept a shield around you. When someone got too close, he’d shift you away or pull you in without you even noticing. He caught you the rare times you stumbled, and every time you laughed, he placed the memory in a locket. Your face lit up when he’d dip his shoulders to the beat, rolling his body just enough to feel the rhythm deep in his core. Eventually his movements became smoother, more evocative, encouraged by your enjoyment. When you got too dizzy, he let you catch a breath in his arms. You’d lean in, whispering that you knew he would get into it, that you knew he could let loose. 

You pressed your foreheads together, panting. He realized he’d been working up a sweat, moving more than he had outside of patrol in years. “You don’t dance, huh?”

He laughed, and it didn’t feel strained or hollow. “Didn’t think so.” This wasn’t scary, not at all. 

He guided you off the floor when your eyes shut, rubbing your shoulders to keep you awake. He whispered to you. “Let’s say goodbye to Oz,” and brought you downstairs, already anticipating… Penguin laughed, giving him a wink and a nudge.

“Have fun, kid.” 

Disgusting. 

He snuck you out of a side door, wanting to limit photography, when he felt a punch on his right shoulder. He pushed you against the brick wall as gently as he could, but not as gently as he would’ve liked, as he caught sight of a knife. 

Disarming the assailant was easy; it didn’t take three steps and a few uppercuts for the weapon to clatter to the ground, and him to fall to his ass. Usually, if he were in the suit, the criminal would scoot back wildly, scrambling to escape further punishment; but this guy thought he was dealing with prissy Bruce Wayne.

The man lunged for his ankle—elementary. He had his wrist in one hand, wrenching his elbow until he screamed. Desperate not to escape but to hurt, the stranger lunged forward, teeth bared. Bruce yanked hard on his arm, hearing a crack, and slammed the heel of his shoe against the man’s jaw. He fell on his back, dazed, blood trickling down his nose. 

From the ground, he eyed you with a glare in the second it took Bruce to decide to scuff his shoes. Against thigh, then stomach, then chest. The last hit had the man yelping, dragging himself down the alleyway in as much a limping hurry he could manage. Bruce huffed, feeling the impact on unprotected knuckles. 

“What the fuck…” 

You were disoriented, blinking slowly, out of it. He wrapped you in a hug, shielding you from the rain he hadn’t felt until now, rushing you out front to the valet. He helped you into the passenger seat, buckling you himself so he didn’t worry, and slipped beside you, hurrying past the crowd. 

The weather worsened by the second. Umbrellas swayed and flew out of hands on the sidewalk, and rain pelted the car like bullets. If you’d left any later, he might’ve had to carry you home. After what felt like an eternity, he pulled into the drive. The piss-poor weather had deterred most of the paparazzi. 

Not even six in the evening, Alfred startled at the state of you, eyes struggling to open, slumped into Bruce’s side. “What happened?” 

“She’s fine.” 

“Bruce,”

“Went to meet Penguin, she took some drugs,”

“Drugs?”

“I told you, it’s fine,”

In his haste to get the old man off his back, you tripped on the first stair. Bruce barely caught you before you nose-dived. He helped you upright, whispering for you to jump; it was halfhearted, feet barely an inch off the ground in your exhaustion, but it was enough. He carried you the rest of the way, tenderly setting you in the middle of your bed. 

You grumbled, shifting to your side. Your heel grazed him. Right. He knelt to pull them off, setting them under the bed. He massaged the back of your heel until your grumbles turned to sighs, then hums. When your mouth slacked open against the pillow, he knew you’d passed out. 

Silently, he rose and snuck to the door, careful not to rouse you. He’d keep the door open, check on you every half hour. He grimaced, spiraling on how much could go wrong in that time. Maybe every quarter hour. 

“Don’t leave.” 

His heart cracked when he heard tears. He stepped back into the room, your scrunched, tired face staring at him like he’d committed a cardinal sin. “Okay.” He let go of the doorknob. “I won’t.” 

You patted the bed next to you, and scooted to make room. He laid on the bed’s furthest edge, arms tight to his torso. You shook your head. “Closer.”

He scooted toward you, and you dragged yourself into the crook of his arm. Your body softened and the sniffling stopped. Bruce kept deadly still, scared he’d interrupt your sleepiness with full breaths. 

It was impossible not to follow suit; just as he thought he might nap, you rustled in your sleep. His body jerked in response when you sat up, mumbling about feeling hot, and promptly yanked off your dress. Half awake by that point, he only realized you’d undressed when you threw it to the end of the bed. You thudded into him like nothing happened.

He almost fell asleep again, but you started pawing at his chest, muttering. “Too scratchy, take it off.”

He hesitated, instead pulling the blanket higher to cover it. You fell asleep quickly, and he did the same. 

You heard a thump. 

More thumps. 

You opened your eyes and saw a quilt, and felt a weight draped over your hips. You blinked a few times, groggy, and realized it was a heartbeat that you heard. 

Bruce rustled, and what was apparently his arm moved off your hip to rub at his eyes. You sat up and felt a breeze, becoming aware of your discarded dress, and your stomach shot to the back of your throat. 

You tried to remember what happened. Everything was blank, outside of entering the club and playing some truth or dare. Had you dared to hook up with him? Had he dared you? 

“How are you feeling?” His voice was slightly hoarse, from fatigue or something else. 

Your mouth went dry, posing the question even seeming too intimate. “Did we, uh,” you pulsed with embarrassment, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, “have sex?” 

Suddenly you were quite breathless. A ghost of an ache pulsed between your thighs. Ah, fuck, you’d fucked him for the first time and you couldn’t even relive it. 

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “What do you remember?”

You tried to, but it was like the time hadn't passed. He swung his legs off the bed, moving to stand. His shirt was half-tucked, his hair undone just enough to be sexy. You wished you’d fucked him; but your body, it… it felt like it had. It was needy, and spent. “Nothing.”

“You can watch the recording, then.” Bruce held out his hand, and you stared at it. You placed your hand in his, and a small noise fell from him. You ripped it away, and his brow quirked. You burned. “Contacts.” 

Timid, you peeled the contacts off your dry eyes and handed them over. As he put them in a case, you patted the bed for your phone. He pulled it out of his pocket, apologizing for the oversight as he plugged it in. “It died at the bar, sorry.”

“Why were we in bed together?” You figured you’d find out soon on the tape, but the anticipation was ruining you. Maybe you hadn’t fucked, but you’d made out, or touched him, or he touched you, because your pussy ached like it’d been made sore, and you couldn’t fucking place why or how. You clenched. 

“You cried when I tried to leave.” 

Cried?

“Wanted me to stay while you slept.” 

You believed him, but that felt humiliating to admit. “Then why was I half naked?”

“Said you were too hot.” He shrugged, moving toward the exit. “Glad you’re alright.” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You took Oz’s drug.” 

Your face fell, a crumb of memory resurfacing. His worry, his questions, and how bitter the pill was on your tongue. 

“Meet me in the kitchen and we’ll go down together.” 

Bruce pretended to work on his car while you watched the video; he thought you couldn’t tell, but you were excruciatingly aware of his presence and knew you’d be doing the same thing if he’d been behaving this way. It was mortifying.

Every time you gasped or looked away from the monitor—he definitely wasn’t watching you, no—he would attempt to soothe, telling you that ‘everything worked out’, and ‘seemed like you had fun, that’s good’. You did not agree. 

Watching your hands glide over his body, getting dangerously close to his zipper, fuck. The beg in your voice, saying that you wanted him, saying please, oh, you could’ve died. Creeping on him like that… Why hadn’t he let Oz take you out back with a shotgun?

“If you still feel this way when you’re sober, we can talk about—”

You jumped. The basement went quiet, the worn concrete walls choosing now to absorb all sound. You skipped forward, gulping back a scream, as your head pounded at the implication. 

It killed you to type ‘marked increase in libido’ and ‘risky behavior’ into his computer, but externalizing it walked you back from the cliff. A third word: ‘euphoria’. That feeling had been the loudest. You didn’t want to keep watching, but you had to. 

The fucking dancing. This couldn’t be too bad, right? No talking could happen under these circumstances. You unwound watching Bruce blush under the lights, moving stiffly like the concept of rhythm was entirely foreign. 

Bruce took a peek at you as he bolted the last tire on, watching you grin and tuck your lower lip under your teeth. He grabbed the bottled water at his side and swigged it, wishing just a little bit that it was whiskey.

You got pushed aside by a group practically clawing at him. You boiled inside, bruised, but heard yourself laugh. You pushed your way through them, easier than you thought, especially for someone drugged, and suddenly your vision was dark, clouded against his chest. His voice was right in your ear. “What’s so funny?”

“They think you’re not mine.” 

Jesus, how did he react? Just when you thought you might actually die, you watched him grin. Cold flashed through you. 

“You think I’m yours?” and it sounded really rhetorical, really delicate, and what the hell did you say to that? 

“Of course you are.”

Oh, shit.

You paused the footage, feeling caught between worlds. Technically, you’d already told him all the things you were so scared of. A side-eye in Bruce’s direction showed that he wasn’t working on his car anymore, and his empty hands looked inviting. That neediness was back, and you nearly stepped toward him, but stalled. Your heart could’ve beat out of your chest. 

When your breathing caught, you took it and rushed to the elevator, fully aware how fast you were moving, and how suspicious it was. But Mar would want to know what happened, you’d told her you’d gone clubbing, and she did need to know you were safe, and you wanted to know if she’d escaped the storm. But all you told him was you wanted water. 

“Can I go with you?”

You nodded, knocking the hair out of your face with shaky fingers. Every stride between his car to the elevator ratcheted your heart rate up a notch, and you swore it was as visible as the clothes you wanted him to tear off. Your hands clenched into fists as he stepped inside. “Sorry for acting like that.”

“No need.” 

“I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t.” He pressed UP, and you began the ascent.

“Do you mean that?”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob, and started feeling like the question you asked was more intimate than you thought. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?”

“It’s only been a few hours.”

“What do you mean?”

His back pressed against the elevator wall, like he wanted to create distance. “Do you just want water, o-or want me to make you something?”

“Why are you stuttering?”

“Why are you asking?”

The doors opened, and he practically lunged toward the kitchen sink. You watched, breathless. He didn’t think you were fully sober. Maybe you weren’t. 

You cut upstairs, head pounding. ‘Right now’. ‘Imagined’. That grin of his, and how sure you sounded. You struggled to grip the doorknob, palms slick. It wouldn’t turn, and you smacked the wood, spirit weary. You wished you’d never found out about Batman, that you’d never gotten tangled up in this shit so you didn’t have to wonder, and worry, about what was placation and what was real; so that you could break the ice and ask him yourself, or tell him, and not silently read into every glance, holding memories with white knuckles.

The door popped open, and you stumbled inside. Your phone glowed on the nightstand. Thinking nothing of it, you fell into bed and unlocked it.

The glass shattered in the sink as Bruce heard you scream. No thoughts came, only fear, and he traveled the steps four at a time. You flung the door open and slammed into him. He’d never felt someone shake so much, and held you so tight he thought he might break you, but you were squeezing him harder than anyone ever had, and shrieking. His teeth went cold. 

Your limbs tingled, weightless, and you moved and breathed on instinct alone. Bruce’s arms were around you, but you didn’t quite feel them. Presence and dissociation carved out your stomach. 

You pulled away, a dead, empty feeling bloated with adrenaline to keep you moving. A brightness filled your chest, but like a glowing hot poker. Explanation spilled out of you like you couldn’t breathe, like you were hyperventilating, but you weren’t there. 

Bruce cupped your face, but you saw him through gray mist. Alfred popped out and said something, but the waves of shock drowned him out. 

“I should’ve fucking gone, I was supposed, I planned to fucking go,”

Bruce guided you to the edge of the bed through your bursts of anger. He crouched in front of you as you listened to the other voicemails. His hands warmed your knees, his attention unwavering. 

‘Tried to call, but I’m on the way to the hospital now…’

You barely registered what you agreed to until you were halfway down the road; you didn’t react when Bruce fought the car against endless hydroplaning, but jolted back to a portion of the moment with the splatter of hail on the passenger window.

Tears flooded your lap like the monsoon outside. The buildings changing to greenery on the side of the highway choked reality down a bargaining throat. A realization that this was a moment you had to be there for, present for. You sniffed up a wall of tears. You could disappear after, if she didn’t wake up.

His hand moved to your knee. You blinked at how calmly the conversation went. Shaking hands finding delayed flights, and the complete lack of fight when he told Alfred to find the nearest operational jet. A prickle of it found you now in the form of guilt, weighing on you like the weekend bag in your lap. In a blip of lucidity, you’d asked him why he was packing a duffel. He said you were in no state to be alone right now. That if he could help, he would. That he’d leave whenever you asked, but not until you were at the hospital. 

‘fell’, ‘unconscious’, ‘waiting game’. You leaned your head to rest on his shoulder. You squeezed your puffy eyes shut, body wracking with choppy, sobbing gasps. Bruce laced his fingers between yours, giving you a gentle squeeze. He didn’t say it would be okay, or that everything happened for a reason. He let you be sad. He just let you cry.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

What do you think about Cerise in season 6?

For those not up to date on canon, Cerise is Lila's new name. As far as we know, it is just another fake identity. Her real name is still not know. Where she came from is still not known. Her motivations are still not known. For the sake of saving us all a headache, I'm just going to keep calling her Lila.

I'm writing this post after four five season six episodes have aired (episodes 2 thru 5 plus 11 to be specific). I haven't watched these episodes, but I did read the transcripts that are out on the wiki and I've picked up on details second hand from the few fandom blogs I follow. From everything I've heard, read, and seen, civilian Lila isn't really in season six? She makes brief cameos where she's scribbling in a notebook and saying vague threatening lines, but she doesn't interact with anyone or tell us anything new about her character. Almost all of her screen time goes to Chrysalis, her villain form. I like the way Chrysalis is written. She feels more manipulative than Gabriel which makes her feel more interesting:

Chrysalis: Hello, Maya. Forgive my intrusion, but, I seem to feel a huge disappointment. No one's interested in your drawings when they're so pretty! Do you feel ignored? Like no one sees you? Maya: Yes. It's no fair! Chrysalis: I think I know what would be fitting. For no one to be able to ignore your drawings anymore. I can give you this power. Only if you agree, of course. Maya: Yes! (stands up) Chrysalis: And what should I call you? Maya: The Illustrhater!

But her being more interesting is just an illusion. Nothing meaningful has changed. Gabriel's tactics got the job done so who cares if Lila is a little better at manipulating people? She could have Gabriel's skills and nothing about season six would change. Her tactics aren't leading to better akumas so who cares if she sounds cooler and won't tell people her name?

Yeah, that's apparently a thing in season six. Lila is being a little smarter about her identity than Gabriel was. The Illustrhater has Marinette acting like this is a big deal:

Marinette: Nothing! We know nothing! It's even worse than before! Alya: (yawning briefly) Is that so bad? I mean, we didn't know a lot about Monarch either, but he still got busted. Marinette: That's not true! We know lots of things about Monarch! He was an adult male, he akumatized 212 people in total, 99.8 percent of them in Paris. His goal was to seize Cat Noir's and my Miraculous so he'd be granted one wish. Now we have a supervillain we know nothing about, who akumatizes whomever, whenever, and who knows why! This is a disaster!

But when you get down to it, none of this ever mattered. Marinette's limited knowledge didn't lead to Gabriel's identity being outed. Gabriel's identity was outed by shear dumb luck and someone else handing Marinette the answers, so this isn't a case where Marinette has to come up with new tactics to find the villain because her old tactics no longer work. She never had any tactics to begin with!

Tracking down the butterfly would be new behavior for her character so I don't care that Chrysalis is "better hidden." It's not selling me on watching the show. Chrysalis' name being unknown just feels like an indicator of how little the writers had to work with to make her feel more threatening. There's basically nothing the writers can do to actually make her a bigger villain and so they're left with meaningless displays that the characters have to directly say are big deal to try and make the audience think that Lila is a bigger threat.

They can't just make her a bigger threat by having her do something new because Gabriel was willing to do anything to win. That makes it almost impossible for Lila to be an upgrade. What's she going to do, threaten Adrien? Akumatize Adrien? Try to akumatize Marinette? Try to break up Adrienette? Oh no! How evil! We definitely haven't seen that before...

It's not even like her tactics are harder to resist. Episode four already featured an akuma rejection:

Chrysalis: Hello. Forgive my intrusion, but..I sense a great deal of guilt preventing you from making friends. Sabrina: NO!! (breaks the connection with Chrysalis, rejecting her akumatization, as the ultrakuma flew back out)

And, while the heroes don't know this for sure, the audience already knows that Chrysalis is once again after the ladybug and the black cat because of course she is:

Chrysalis: On the other hand, if you give me Ladybug and Cat Noir's Miraculous, I'll let you keep it... forever!

Remind me, why should I care that she replaced Gabriel?

Outside of that, I think it's kind of telling that civilian Lila is barely in the show even though she's the big bad. The writers never knew how to write her well and so going the route of keeping her off screen is probably the only way to play her. I'm curious how many episodes will see her civilian form interact with so much as a single member of the main cast. My guess is not many. Get ready for a boat load of delaying tactics where the show tries to make things feel important while maintaining the status quo and keeping everything about Lila a secret.

Her character's motivation not being known worked when she first showed up, but now? It just feels like the writers don't know what they're doing. Sure, season six is a soft reboot, but it's still season six and she's been here since season one. We should know her goals by now! Hinting that she's planning something without ever giving those hints any substance just screams, "there's no actual substance! Gabriel was the better villain!"

Cerise (voiceover): Nothing. Nothing! You'll know nothing about me, about us, about them. I'm everywhere. I'm nowhere! I'm a chameleon. Nowhere! You won't get anywhere...

Sure, babe. Sure. You're super threatening and totally not just a knockoff Gabriel. I'm sure your motivations will blow us out of the water once they're revealed. After all, the reveal of your three mothers was just so amazing! Best writing in the show by far! (that was sarcasm)

Only thing that could kind of fix this is if Lila got a team or larger organization she was working with, but I'd be really disappointed if that's where the show is going. Once again, it's season six and she's been here since season one! The time to set that kind of thing up was at least two seasons ago. Without so much as a hint that such a thing exists, the introduction of it would feel like the writers are just pulling shit out of their ass and that is not the kind of story I enjoy. All my favorite stories have clear evidence that the writers had a plan from day one and stuck to it, making something beautiful. I think it's abundantly clear that Miraculous will never be that kind of story.

Fun fact: by random luck, this post was originally scheduled for the 21st, the day episode 11 aired. I delayed it a day to see if civilian Lila finally interacted with someone or revealed her goals, giving me something to comment on. Surprising no one, she still isn't really in the show. Place your bets on how long it's going to be before civilian Lila gets a motivation or even just a chance to interact with the cast! My money is on late season six at the earliest.

(Feel free to let me know if I missed something about Lila's presence in season six. The transcripts aren't out for all the episodes so it's entirely possible that she's done something I don't know about. I just didn't want to make anon wait longer since this ask is already a month old.)

[lady-lani-1707]

"Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever- present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur."

- Margaret Atwood

Sabrina carpenter, let's talk about her.

She's one of many well known pop stars, and a sex symbol of Hollywood and western media, which in turn ends up influencing even developing nations. A child actor into a popsinger who released her new album "Short 'n sweet" which has gripped the charts.

The title obviously alludes to her height, something heavily refrenced by sabrina herself and reinforced through her branding.

This "sexy baby" trope is nothing but a pedophilic fantasy. In her concerts, sabrina will ask, "Have you ever tried *this* one?" And contort her body into a promiscuous pose that reveals her undergarments or even use male dancers to position herself in a manner referencing sex. That's not the concerning part. It's called the "Juno" pose, a movie about a pregnant teenage girl, and she refrences teenage pregnancy as some sort of joking leeway to sexualise herself. Additionally, the first image above is Sabrina carpenter recreating the classic image of Lolita, a young girl lusted after by a grown man.

So clearly 2 things are emphasised.

Her sexual attractiveness.

And her petite and small figure.

As said herself in her improvised catchphrases on her tours :

"I'm full grown, but I look like a niña/ Come put something big in my casita/ Mexico, I think you are bonita!" (February 2024)

Or how about...

"Gardens by the Bay, I wanna go there / Then, I'1l take you somewhere that has no hair / Singapore you're so perfect, it's no fair!" (March 2024)

Notice how both quotes emphasised sabrina looking like a "niña" (meaning little girl) in particular and being hairless.

It seems that in the modern day feminism, adult women co-opt girly femininity as proof of their sexual attractiveness. Adults who are regressing with frilly socks and bows on pigtails and endless aesthics like bimbo/softgirl/tradwife all promoting girlhood from the school girl clothing to the childish attitudes as the perfect woman. Endless girl-math, girl-talk, girl-dinner and plenty more sub categories demeaning women into girls. Using a pedophilic manner of embodying a teenage girl in all their perceived ditzy, naive, high-pitched soft and feminine talk and then turning around and telling us that no - actually that's what's sexually attractive for women to emulate.

Adult women so detached from that humiliating isolating experience of being a teenage girl that they now regress and try sexualise that experience.

On the other hand, young girls are hearing the wrong message. Adults are telling them that sexualising themselves isn't a good thing yet these same adults praise and invest in their favourite celebrities and pop media that all sell a harmful idea. They see sexualised women in media get all the positive reinforcement and have that socially programmed craving for male validation and attention.

Now to young adolescent girls, they want to rush into womanhood. They dress and try to act like the Caricature of a Catty 20, something rich socialite. The rise in sephora teens paying hundreds for makeup and clothes not made for them. Adult women are regressing, and young girls are trying to grow up too fast to be taken seriously for once.

For as much as many adult women feel heartbroken at the statistics of harm and harassment and child sexual abuse young girls face, it seems to be very shallow. They support industries that make girlhood into a hypersexual pedophilic caricature that only leads to harm of real girls.

Of course, they don't want to be girls anymore. They think growing up gives them agency, being taken seriously. I feel so bad for the little girls who grow up and realise... that never ends. That humiliation and demeaning from boys in their classes continues well on as an adult.

If adult women are too busy role-playing as hyperfeminine teenage girls and glorifying girlhood, and teenage girls are oversexuliaing themselves and wanting to escape girlhood for womanhood then WHO is protecting little girls?

It can't be the adult men who are the main consumers of child sexual abuse material and the pimps and groomers and traffickers.

It can't be the government's who don't crack down on female opression worldwide.

It can't even be adult women, who cater to pedophiles and pedophilic men by making themselves seem as petite and feminine and small and girlish as long as they physically can. Never wanting to age or be dare caught bare faced unless they have dozens of surgeries to look as youthful as they can naturally.

No. Nobody cares, it seems. The world seems to revolve and center male fantasies. Money is a the resource used to trade girls around - the real currency and delicacy that unites men from all over the world.

If adult women keep funding and praising idolculture that promotes pedophilia, than those adult women shouldn't call themselves feminists. It's one thing to listen to their songs, but buying merch and renting tickets and keeping that industry well fed is a disservice to all women.

You might say, so I just watch nothing? Do nothing? There's no radical feminist singers, and not everyone fits my viewpoint. Surely it's unrealistic to expect change? That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that if someone cares enough, change happens, and you must give things up.

There's many ways to go about this, for one ignoring celebrities and celebrity culture, you might download their songs so as to not give them money for their work. And just in general, ignore them.

Death of celebrity culture is death to the beauty industry who all promote pedophilic beauty standards and profit off of womens desire to look youthful.

If you can't send money to save young girls, deny money to these celebrities that cater to pedophilic men's wet dreams.

Of course it's going to be hard, it's feminim.

You have to prioritise women and girls safety over fitting in. Ignore celebrities, reject the normalisation of gross pedophilic and misogynistic standards.

And remember, we are NOT the weird ones, everyone else is desensitised because pretty much every main industry benefits from the exploitation of the female people.

My dear sisters, don't worship female celebrities, they pander to pedophiles.

- Lani, your Lady

[ghostinthegallery]

This scene wouldn't leave my head, so congrats it's the world's problem now.

In which Ratchet has a graveside chat with Wing, aka the dead guy that fixed his husband for him.

“I want to be very clear.” Ratchet placed the small cup full of engex at the base of the stone plinth. “I don't believe in ghosts or spirits or any of that nonsense. When we die, we die. That’s it. No Primus or Guiding Hand or cushy afterlife and definitely no looking out for the living. Got it?”

The grave did not respond, which was good. It was what Ratchet expected. He sat down, legs crossed, careful not to crush any of the shimmering blue flowers beneath him. 

“I'm just on the fragging necroworld, and I'm not above respecting the local customs.”

Sunlight warmed his back plating as he settled into place. It was a nice day. Most days on the necroworld were nice, when nobody was trying to kill them. Not a place Ratchet would want to stay long term, but it made for a decent rest stop. Even with all the reminders of how fragile life was. The death flowers and the graves.

Carved into this grave was simply the name Wing.

“He really wanted to find you, when he found out what this place was.” Ratchet said. “Drift, I mean. Or Deadlock, you might've called him that. Got all excited at the idea of visiting. You’re one of the only things in his past he'll talk much about.”

He stared at the engex he'd offered, then pulled a flask out of his subspace. No sense making the ghost—who did not exist—drink alone.

“Since he probably never mentioned me, I'm Ratchet. Medic. Drift's conjunx, but that’s a recent development.”

Had he seriously just introduced himself to a rock? Maybe he'd gotten knocked in the helm and forgotten about it and this was all processor damage. Still, it felt right to speak, so he did. Not like anyone else was around.

“I saved his life once, a long time ago. He stood out to me. To this day, I don't understand why, but maybe you saw it too. Maybe you saw something in him that made you want to help. Sounds like you did a lot for him. Probably more than me, if we're being honest. I got him back on his feet, but after that…” Ratchet sighed. “He was still poor as scrap. He still watched enforcers shoot his friend. He was still angry.”

The image of Drift walking away from the clinic, off to sell his frame to anyone who wanted to use it made Ratchet's tank feel sour. It worsened when he thought about what was actually going on at those clinics. He wondered what he would have done if he'd known.  

“It sounds like I have you to blame for all Drift's spectralist nonsense. So frag you for that. It's annoying as hell,” he continued, eager to change the subject. “Yeah, it helped him sort through things. Even I can admit that. When he's not using religion to hide from his problems, it…it gives him some comfort. Still killed a lot of good bots, but hey, he’s in good company.”

Ratchet had no desire to hunt down Drift’s statue and see how many of the necrobot’s death flowers surrounded it. Or how many surrounded his own statue, for that matter. 

“War’s over, and we’ve all got to move on somehow. Frankly, he’s doing better than most. Brave, resourceful, too self-sacrificing for his own good. You fixed him up nice.” Ratchet studied his flask. “And I get all the benefits. Doesn’t seem fair but, thanks. I guess.”

He sighed and adjusted his position. “He feels real guilty about what happened to you. Thinks you'd still be alive if you hadn't helped him. Maybe he's right. Who knows? But you don't sound like the kind of person that would regret helping someone. You sound better than that.”

Heaviness settled over Ratchet's shoulders as he said, “I don't regret saving him either. I never have, even when Deadlock was a name autobots whispered in the same tone as necrobot. And considering how things turned out,” he chuckled. “I don’t know if that makes me a hypocrite. I’m happier with him. Less tired. He just feels right.” Ratchet added, “Probably don’t have to explain that to you.”

The strangeness of this one-sided conversation hit him again, but not harshly. It was an easy way to unload his thoughts. Like a waking defrag. 

“The swords were a nice touch.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Drift looked good wielding those blades of his. Ratchet didn't mind the view when he trained. Didn't mind it in the slightest.

“He still carries your greatsword. Doesn't use it much, but it's always on his back.” Ratchet took another pull from his flask. “Been hearing some of the other bots say he should fight a duel with Cyclonus and his big greatsword which even I think is a bit sacrilegious, but—”

“There you are.”

Ratchet started then turned towards the familiar voice. Drift, footsteps annoyingly silent, approached from behind. His expression morphed from inquisitive to shocked when he got close enough to read the stone’s inscription.

“You found him,” Drift said softly.

Ratchet nodded and moved aside so Drift could kneel. Drift’s EM field was wild with conflicting emotions. Surprise, happiness, and grief mingled together, and he made no attempt to hide them. 

“I was about to come get you,” Ratchet said, which was technically true. He fully intended to bring Drift to his friend’s grave. After he was done with whatever this was.

Drift’s optics settled on the cup of engex. He smirked.

“Is that an offering?” He gasped with exaggerated shock. “A committed skeptic, bringing a gift to a ghost? Ratchet, is that you or some sort of mimic?”

Ratchet grabbed the finger Drift poked against his chest. “I didn’t want to get slag from you for being disrespectful.” 

His spark jumped as Drift pressed his hand into Ratchet’s and intertwined their fingers. Then, to Ratchet’s shock, Drift swiped the engex cup and downed it in one gulp.

“What was that?” he demanded, surprised at his own offense.

“Wing never drank engex,” Drift said. “He always gave it to me whenever mechs brought him anything. The Crystal City stuff was so diluted I couldn’t even get a buzz, but it took the edge off.”

“Ah.” Ratchet nodded. “Guess you two had an understanding.”

Drift nodded and let his frame lean into Ratchet’s. Silence settled over them. Ratchet ran his thumb over the back of Drift's hand while the latter grew contemplative. His face fell, melancholy overtaking his field. 

“I wish you two could have met,” Drift said. “He would have liked you.”

“I doubt that.” Ratchet replied. “But I’d have liked to meet him anyway.”

A breeze caught the flowers, like ripples over water. Ratchet didn’t interrupt when Drift shut off his optics and took a meditative intake. They stayed like that for a long time, hand in hand, while Drift steadied his field and Ratchet watched and took the occasional sip from his flask. He’d learned to savor quiet moments like this. They didn’t come often.

Drift’s optics brightened and he said, “Is there anyone here you want to see?”

Ratchet waved his free hand. “I get enough trouble dealing with the living. Don't need to invite the dead to cause problems too.”

“So you won’t come and visit Gasket with me?” Drift pouted.

Ratchet groaned. “I didn’t say that.”

With a smile that made Ratchet's internals melt, Drift helped him up. He then paused and offered a spectralist sign to Wing’s grave. 

“Farewell,” he said. “And thank you for everything.”

As Drift pulled Ratchet away, Ratchet dipped his chin towards the plinth and muttered his own nearly silent,

“Thanks.”

[justinspoliticalcorner]

J. Dylan Sandifer at TNR:

Two egos like Elon Musk’s and Donald Trump’s could never share the spotlight if it weren’t for the unifying force of grifter solidarity—two oligarchs teaming up to further tip the scales against everyone else. Just as Trump’s P.R. campaign as a canny dealmaker hid his multiple bankruptcies, Musk’s rogue genius performance serves as cover for the fact that he’s just another billionaire buying up others’ ideas and playing the system with enough of a safety net to repeatedly fail. His whole shtick is built on the idea that he’s a bold, self-made innovator who defies the odds, shuns government handouts, and stands for the unbridled power of the free market. In reality, his empire, built originally on an apartheid emerald mine, has been propped up by public money for years. One of its most consistent sources of income has been Tesla’s exploitation of the carbon credit market.

Tesla, the supposed future of clean energy, isn’t just making money by selling electric cars—it’s making a fortune off a regulatory loophole. In the first nine months of 2024, 43 percent of Tesla’s net income came from selling credits to other automakers that hadn’t met emissions standards. It’s not innovation that’s keeping Tesla’s finances afloat; it’s a rigged system that Musk is milking for everything it’s worth. And all the while, he’s using his newfound power as Trump’s unelected co-president to gut the very government programs that provide working people with a fraction of the support that he’s quietly pocketing. Musk loves to sneer at working-class people who rely on food stamps or unemployment benefits, claiming they’re lazy or entitled. But what’s more entitled than using regulatory credits to boost your company’s stock price and then leveraging that stock for loans to keep your cash flow steady? The hypocrisy gets even more grotesque when you look at Musk’s role in the so-called Department of Government Efficiency—the dystopian fever dream where he’s now helping Trump dismantle social programs under the guise of “cutting waste.” While he’s ensuring billionaires like himself keep their tax breaks and loopholes, he’s working to slash food assistance, disability benefits, and Social Security. The plan is clear: If you’re rich, the government will help you get richer. If you’re poor, you’re on your own. Meanwhile, Musk has strategically positioned himself to undermine public infrastructure alternatives to his products. Musk has started targeting public transit and infrastructure projects, claiming they are bloated and inefficient—while his own half-baked ideas, like the Las Vegas “Loop” (a glorified tunnel for Teslas), receive public subsidies and fizzle out into tech-world vaporware. He is claiming that government spending on social good is a waste, while positioning himself as the one true visionary who should receive those taxpayer dollars instead. Here’s how Tesla’s legalized scam works: Under California’s Zero Emission Vehicle, or ZEV, mandate and the federal Corporate Average Fuel Economy, or CAFE, standards, carmakers are required to meet emissions targets. If they don’t, they have to buy carbon credits from companies that produce cleaner vehicles. Tesla, which only sells electric cars, racks up a surplus of these credits and sells them to gas-guzzling automakers that don’t want to invest in real change. In other words, Tesla isn’t making money because it’s selling cars efficiently—it’s making money because Ford and GM still rely on gasoline. Musk has figured out how to turn regulatory inaction into a billion-dollar side hustle. If Tesla’s carbon credit well ever runs dry—if regulatory standards change or if automakers finally catch up—Tesla’s bottom line takes a hit. That’s when the whole house of cards Musk has built starts to wobble.

Musk’s entire empire hinges on one thing: Tesla’s sky-high stock price. He’s leveraged Tesla shares to take out massive loans, using them as collateral to fund his lifestyle and side projects. This means that keeping Tesla’s valuation high is a matter of personal financial survival. Those carbon credits—essentially free money from the government—make Tesla’s earnings look better than they actually are, which in turn props up its stock price. But this strategy is starting to fall apart. Tesla’s stock is plummeting—down nearly 40 percent this year—due to increased competition, battery technology falling behind, and Musk’s erratic behavior scaring off investors. When a company is built on smoke and mirrors, it doesn’t take much for the illusion to shatter.

A big chunk of Elon Musk’s Tesla income comes from their regulatory credits scheme.

[artisticprocrastionator]

Ok, I was still thinking about the Venus fly Trap and Griefer post I made on community tab a few days ago and I was like “What if I made an AU about that???”

So I made an AU! Everything is not official! Still working things out so expect things to change but for right now I’m calling it the TRAPPED AU (very boring but I can’t think I anything else at the moment and subjected to change), and it involves Griefer! However, I did wanna give him a different name for this AU but I couldn’t find any good names so he’s still called Griefer/Brad in this AU. If you guys have any suggestions then let me know!

Very poor grammar (sorry my writing skills kinda suck but bare with me-)

Sooo what’s it about??

Basically this AU is about Griefer being eaten alive by a Venus fly trap (but rescued) and inheriting DNA and traits of a Venus Fly Trap. The AU follows how Griefer lives with his new form and learns to embrace it.

Sooo how did this happen??? (Story time!)

PART 1: PROLOGUE.

In Turitopulis, the Vemonshank is guarded by the Poisonfang tribe (the Toxic enemies of the game) as they were the only tribe who knew how to weld the power of the Venomshank (other than Shedletsky and Builderman). The sword was given to them by Shedletsky and Builderman as they wanted to separate the power of the swords and prevent them from falling into the wrong hands thus giving it to the Poisonfang tribe who were elite fighters that harness acidic poison, from Venus fly traps, to use in battle. Most of the Poisonfang tribe were part Venus Fly Trap due to their contact with the carnivores plant and seeing the benefits of harnessing the abilities of the plant once they merge their bodies with the Venus fly trap (it is a ritual they do to conform their members).

Mayor Thaniyel was an explorer of the rainforest in Turitopulis that collected exotic plants and goods to sell at his plant and tea shop. However, Mayor Thaniyel got lost one day on a trip in the rainforest due to a huge storm. The tribe found him and care for him until help arrived. This would start Mayor Thaniyel’s relationship with the tribe and overtime form a strong relationship with them, both each other doing favors that benefitted one another.

Later down the line, this would allow Builderman and Shedletsky to consider Thaniyel and officially make him the Mayor of Turitopulis.

The tribe lets Mayor Thaniyel know the location of the Venomshank and becomes a guardian of the sword alongside with the tribe.

Then Mayor Thaniyel has his son, Brad, who was celebrated by the town and the tribe. Brad would grow up close with the tribe and learn their techniques and combat. He would also grow his love for plants and often helps at his father’s shop. As the years go by, Thaniyel starts to age and he began a to consider passing the responsibility onto Brad to guard the Venomshank. However, Brad goes through a rebellious stage where he constantly caused havoc in Turitopulis as well the tribe now. The tribe doesn’t want Brad to be the next holder which conflicts Mayor Thaniyel of handing off the sword. He plans to wait until Brad is ready and more mature.

From Brad’s POV, he always saw his father as overbearing and felt as though he could never be his own person due to how much influence his dad had on his life. Though Brad has some contacts in the tribe, his father never let him get too close to the tribe and Brad always felt something was being kept from him. One day, Brad overhears that he may be the next guardian of the Venomshank. The thought of having that type of power fueled Brad and was waiting for his time. Brad although sheltered heavily by his father was gifted with a well amount of wealth that made him spoiled. Brad was thinking his dad was just gonna hand him the sword to which he finds out that his dad plans to not give it to him for a good bit. Frustrated, from not being able to get the sword as well feeling resentment of his father pushing him around all the time, starts his rebellious stage which he caused havoc and potential harm to the people in town and the tribe. This would especially caused a strain in the relationship between Brad and Mayor Thaniyel.

PART 2: TRAPPED.

One day, Mayor Thaniyel decides to confront Brad about his behavior and officially announce that Brad would not be the guardian of the Venomshank. He concluded that his son would not be a good fit. Brad obliviously starts a huge argument with his dad that strained the relationship further. Both unhappy.

Brad is upset and decides to prove his dad wrong by attempting to hold the Venomshank. The Venomshank can only be held by the elder tribe members, Shedlesky and Builderman, and Mayor Thaniyel. After a few days of investigation, Brad figures out the place of the Venomshank and sets out on a journey to retrieve it (which resides in the rainforest far from Turitopulis).

Brad finds the sword anchored to a rock. Brad attempts to pull it out before something incases him. It turns out the Venomshank was set right on top of a Venus fly trap the Poisonfang tribe placed to prevent anyone from getting the sword. Mayor Thaniyel knew as well but Brad didn’t. The hairs of the trap trigger the plant and encases Brad in complete darkness which the sides slowly closing in on him. The small trigger hairs act like little knifes that stabbed Brad and inches deeper into his skin as the walls close in, causing a limited amount of air to breath as well space to move. Brad was able to make a small air pocket in the space to breathe but it wasn’t going to last long as the walls slowly close that gap. He also had some supplies with him but it wouldn’t be long before his stuff would run out. After a day or so, acid slowly starts to pours into the pouch that begins to burn Brad’s skin.

Brad attempts to escapes but fails. He nudges, he fails. He kicks, he fails. Brad tries to use his knife he brought to cut the plants interior, but fails. Nothing works, and Brad is terrified. Alone as he feels he’s skin melting into the acid as it climbs closer to his face with no where to go. Brad waits for his fate, wishing he could rewrite it especially to fix his relationship with his dad. Brad knew that chance would never come nor would he would ever see him again. Just complete darkness and the burning, bubbling, putrid stench of the acid inching even closer to his face.

During this time, Mayor Thaniyel notices Brad’s disappearance and becomes worry. After doing some work, he finds out what Brad sought out to do. Terrified, Mayor Thaniyel and some of the Poisonfang members travel the rainforest terrian to the Venomshank’s residing place. Once they make it, they see the horror of the situation. A huge Venus fly trap encased around something familiar large. Quickly, Mayor Thaniyel, along with the tribe members, work together to open the trap and pull Brad out. Brad at this point was unconscious and barely breathing.

Brad was in the plant for 3 days. Miraculously, his body was still intact but with severed burn marks on 70% of his body (from legs to chest). Brad was a very large prey for the plant, which in real life for Venus fly traps takes longer to digest their food of larger prey. Usually it takes them 7-10 days, which made the plant take longer to digest him. If Brad was in there another day, he would have died.

It was one of the worst things Mayor Thaniyel has ever seen in his life.

…

…

…

Brad is sent to the hospital for his wounds. The tribe also helps out by providing medicine that cures Venus fly traps acid burns. Brad is out for weeks before he wakes up from his coma. Bedridden and in severely in pain, but was breathing. He was alive…How..?

Brad slowly turns to his left where he sees his father sleeping next to the bed in a chair. Griefer gently wakes up his dad waking his up and quickly turning towards Brad with noticeable baggy eyes. Thaniyel seemed to murmured smt before he hugged Brad sending Mayor Thaniyel into hysterical sobbing as he embraces his son. Brad also finds himself sobbing in his arms. He was alive.

PART 3: REHABILITATION. (Short section)

Brad stays in the hospital for a few months. During this time, Brad is forced to reckon with his new body and weird changes. Mayor Thaniyel tells Brad of these changes now being part Venus Fly Trap. Mayor Thaniyel helps Brad to adjust to his body allowing them to make amends and reconcile their relationship.

Brad suffers from claustrophobia which resulted from the traumatic experience of the incident. He also became insecure of his body due to the amount of burns and cuts on his body. His designs covers most of it.

However, after self reflecting and doing well on his rehabilitation, Brad slowly finds himself again but this time a better version of himself. Brad decides to call himself Griefer and embraces the Venus fly trap design into his clothing as well finding appreciation in Venus fly traps (even tho one tried to eat him). Griefer actually owns a Venus fly trap named Chompers. Brad although seemingly intimidated is more soft than he was before especially for his dad. However, he still maintains his cocky and confident persona for those to see.

Griefer becomes closer to the tribe as they teach him how to manage his new form. They actually give Griefer another chance and after extensive training, they reconsider Griefer as being the next guardian of the Venomshank. Griefer is given a warrior rank among the Poisonfang tribe.

Now Griefer works as a warrior and protector for the tribe, protecting them from bandits and creatures that may harm them and their trades with Turitopulis. Griefer built a reputation with the bad guys for being overly annoying and constantly griefing their stuff of spray painted signatures from him. You can probably say Griefer is a Vigilante in Turitopulis.

____

That’s it! If you read through all of this then good for you! I plan to expand more on this universe and definitely make more content on this. Again, everything is still a work in progress so if change are made I’ll let you know. Here are some extra doodles for reading all that!

[see-y0u-space-c0wb0y]

.

[lotus-pear]

rewatched madoka magica again today bc i fucking hate myself and to absolutely no one’s surprise i went through all five stages of grief in a single evening

[daincrediblegg]

Guys you have to start going to brick and mortar stores again instead of buying every little damn thing online. I am so serious

[hollowsart]

-cracks knuckles-

I don't have twitter and I've never drawn a Miku before in my life, but I adore that trend happening rn and wanna drop down my two cents, so let's go with the research to make a Hatsune Miku: but she is from my family (hard to explain, but it's absolutely Texan)

[themyscirah]

Does anyone know if there was simonjess crumbs in the justice league book at the time or is it like just in their solo (meaning I need to reread that book again which I was already planning on doing but like still)

[thatdisasterauthor]

👀 i would be interested in hearing the deviantart points rant

Alrighty, the deviantART points rant. For context, I had a dA account from the time I was 12 and used it steadily until I was about 20. I was also a volunteer moderator with them for about a year, and they even offered me a job at one point. (But there was no way in heaven or hell they could've paid me enough to move to southern California, and god forbid they offer remote work.)

dA was one of the original social media behemoths. Never quite to the level of Twitter or Facebook, but if you were an artist you were on deviantART. It was a fantastic site back in its heyday. Artists got their start on there, recruiters were on there, art directors were on there, the community building features were fantastic. Yeah, it had its share of weird shit, but point me to a website that doesn't.

Multiple famous artists got their start on deviantART. Back then, it was a place you got real, legitimate work from. A place you could use to build a real, legitimate audience. The titans of early 2000s digital art that pretty much everyone knows (in the West, anyway), the ones who still have a massive effect on art styles today, basically all got their start on deviantART. It influenced the entire western culture of what art looks like on the internet, and that bled out into what art looks like everywhere else because these people made beloved shows and comics and movies and books and everything else.

But one of the best things about deviantART was that it was created at a time before everyone decided social media had to be slimmed down to its barest bones. It was a complex site, and there was a lot to it. That made it really easy for all levels of artists (and just plain art enjoyers) to use, and easy for them to make it function in a way that worked for them. This fostered a great environment where people of all skill levels could interact, share knowledge, and just absorb skills from one another.

Now, one area deviantART didn't initially cater to people was built-in payment options. They had a print shop you could upload your work to, but it was like Redbubble or Printful; merch selling, not custom work selling. So if artists wanted to offer commissions, they'd have to take payments elsewhere. (Usually Paypal.) Which was fine! That worked great!

But, well. Corporations gonna corporate. I forget the exact year, but one day they launched a new feature called Points. Points were a site specific currency, and they were one of the first (if not the first) to have such a thing. There were also some other things launched with it, including the ability to accept commissions with points as payment. You could also use points to buy site subscriptions, badges, stuff from the print shop, etc., or you could gift them to other people. You could also cash them out for real currency, for a fee (I wanna say the fee was 10%, and less if you were a subscribed user, but I can't remember exactly).

The conversion rate for Points was 1 Point=1US cent. Which seems fine on the surface! But the problem was psychological, because what they didn't do was actually make it look like that. Points instead looked like dollars, because there was no equivalent to actual CENTS in the Points ecosystem. So, for example, lets say you want to charge one dollar for something. That would look like this:

$1

P100.

Or ten dollars for something:

$10

P1000

Or a hundred dollars for something:

$100

P10000

See the problem? They're the same VALUE, but points just look massively bigger. This was especially a problem for people who didn't know what the conversion rate was because they just didn't know, or they were from other countries and REALLY didn't know because it wasn't related to their own currencies at all. (I think there was also a max amount of points you could charge for a commission, like a couple hundred dollars worth maybe? It was low when you converted it to real currency, if I'm remembering correctly.)

It devalued the art market like a knife to the gut. People were suddenly taking commissions for literal pennies just because the numbers LOOKED bigger. And because deviantART was such a hub for the art community, it bled out elsewhere. Prices started to dip other places too, because people who DID understand the conversion rate knew they could go on deviantART and get shit for super cheap from the people who didn't know or care. Which made other people lower their prices to compete, and it just resulted in a spiral to the bottom.

Would the art market have still tanked in the same way without the introduction of Points on dA? Maybe. But Points were the first domino to fall, and they were a massive one. The art market has never recovered even though deviantART has been 90% dead for going on a decade.

So yes. There's my internet history rant on Points and art values. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

[nanaslutt]

welcome to my smau list!! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

౨ৎ feel free to send an ask to my inbox if u have an idea for a smau (no suggestive prompts for under 18 characters) ౨ৎ

jjk smaus

✿ asking jjk men if you can hold their 🍆 while they pee

✿ showing the jjk men ur new piercings

✿ asking the jjk men if you can peg them

✿ changing “babe” to autocorrect to “whore” in their phone

✿ “shes busy rn”

✿ leaving without telling the jjk guys

✿ “he’s busy rn”

✿ getting ur nails the color of their tip

✿ forbidden relationships

✿ drawing a heart with their tip

✿ baby fever

✿ drunk texting the jjk men

✿ jjk men having a wet dream about you

✿ asking them for a hand pic

✿ jjk mean reacting to their contact name

✿ asking jjk characters what their fav sex act is

✿ telling the jjk guys you spent $200 on tire air

✿ “wrong person” nudes prank

✿ jjk characters reactions to you getting harassed/ hit in

✿ jjk characters finding out you got injured

✿ ass or tits

✿ giving them suprise flowers

✿ asking the jjk characters to take your virginity

✿ telling the jjk characters you want to get them pregnant

✿ getting flowers from someone else and thinking it was from them

✿ getting jealous of you hanging out with someone else

✿ stealing your panties

✿ cuddles after sex

✿ innapropreate package mixup

✿ wax my 😽

✿ sending them porn you wanna recreate

✿ when they drunk text you

✿ them asking you on a date for the first time

✿ sending nudes in the middle of an argument

✿ getting a necklace with their initial

✿ being a woman/man for a day question

✿ controlling your bluetooth vibe

✿ when you leave a kiss mark on them

✿ asking you to stay the night for the first time

✿ the call ending after you fall

✿ “they just left you can come over now”

✿“if i gave you a pass to call me a bitch how would you use it”

✿ “i didn’t finish last night“ prank

✿“i got arrested”

✿ when they find ur smut

✿ editing them to look bad in a photo

✿ accidentally sending them nudes (pre relationship)

✿ the jjk characters sending you gym pics

✿ getting scared watching a scary movie

✿ finding out they punched ur stuffed animals

✿ when they see you in someone else’s jacket

✿ asking them their fav pet name is in bed

✿ when you start your period unprepared

✿ when you see them with another girls belongings

✿ asking them if they like having sex with you

✿ asking them for happy trail pics

✿ when they ask for nudes and you send an unsuggestive pic

✿ asking them if they have a crush on you

✿ when they find ur toy

✿ anxious before ur wedding

✿ taking pics of you when you fall asleep

✿ asking them for a whimper audio

✿ when they cheat on you

✿ having a dream they cheated on you

✿ when they get hit on/harassed

✿ the morning after ur first time having sex

✿ accidentally saying i love you for the first time before ending the call

✿ asking them if they only like you for sex

✿ offering them head to relax them

✿ asking them to kill a spider for you

✿ their reactions to a sexy picture you posted

✿ pregnancy scary

✿ ”sex has been boring” prank

✿ their card declined prank

✿ getting lost in public

✿ asking them if you can stack donuts on it

✿ asking them to pick out a new toy for you

✿ waking up in their body

✿ them reacting to you crying over a dumb video

✿ catching them masturbating

✿ getting a noise complaint

✿ when they catch you masturbating

✿ when they catch you singing

✿ finding a hair that isn’t urs

✿ telling them their nut tastes bad

✿ trying anal

✿ comforting you when you’re burnt out

✿ when they take an aphrodisiac

✿ asking them to find ur 😽 in a lineup

✿ asking them how much money they have

✿ asking about a threesome

✿ what’s their sexual fantasy?

✿ asking them if they’ll put it in soft

✿ slapping their ass and running away

✿ asking them for their friends number

✿ selling their stuff online prank

✿ asking if they’d get a genital piercing

✿ making them sleep on the couch

✿ asking what their body count is

✿ asking them to give you a hickey