#with the poorest lighting and cars screaming in the background

[barneswilsonrogers]

Interview with Lindsey Mckeon (2017)

[overwatchladieslover]

The Moon Circus chapter one: La fille du soleil

She was tired. Undeniably tired. Under her eyes were bags larger than those she had packed when leaving Switzerland, in her hand, a paper cup of lukewarm coffee. Her hand had cramps from holding her pen for so long.

“Ziegler, we need you at the drive-through!” Yelled her boss in her shitty earpiece, which matched her equally shitty fast-food uniform. She nodded, running over to her post. “Good evening! Have you made a choice yet?” She asked, trying her best to sound welcoming and happy. Her French was perfect, from the accent to the pronunciation. Perks of being Swiss.

Even if she had barely slept in three days, even if she got the shakes from her caffeine high. She had just gotten back from her college, where she was studying the medical arts, she barely had the time to trade her blouse and skirt for an orange and bright yellow uniform, she was already getting yelled at by five different persons. Angela Ziegler kept her voice even and joyful for the rest of the evening.

“Good evening! Have you made choice yet?” Her throat was dry, she was tired, and her voice slightly raspy, yet her interlocutor did not seem to mind in the slightest. Excited babbles of children could be heard, chanting ‘circus’ with enough energy to bring a melancholic smile to Angela’s lips. She remembered, when her little world was covered in snow, as her parents, holding her hands, stood by her sides, leading her to the circus. She fondly recalled the feel of her mother’s hand against her gloved one, or how her father laughed when he gave her piggyback rides.

She was brought back to the moment by her colleague, Hana, who looked at her with compassion. Decembers always were trying times for Angela since her parents had passed away. Sighing sadly, she resumed working, trying to keep herself focused.

Her service had finally ended, after dragging out slowly like a dying snail trying to reach its final destination. She simply could not wait to take a shower and pass out on her couch with some silly TV show playing in the background. On her way out, she waved goodbye at Hana, who was in charge of the night shifts. It was pretty cold outside, but Angela had had worse. Plus, she welcomed the freezing breeze like an old friend, as it seemed to dance with her blond hair. Angela Ziegler liked the calm, she checked her phone, it was almost midnight. She hurried back to her apartment. If she liked the Lyon nights, she certainly was much less fond of the dangerous back alleys.

She opened the door to her small lair. It was nothing fancy, but given the fact that she was living in the third arrondissement, right next to the docks, she was lucky. It had a living room with a kitchenette, a decently sized sofa who could serve as a bed in case Lena got in trouble with her girlfriend, Emily. Angela’s room was small, but efficient. A small bed, a bedside table drowning in books, notes, and a glass of water that had been sitting there for way too long to be drinkable. There also was a small desk, equally messy, with a small plant, which she lovingly named Freud, for she loved to pour water on little green Freud, chanting ‘drown, drown’. She let her bag fall to the ground, as she kicked her shoes off, jumping on the sofa, turning on TV, as she stared at the ceiling. Lord, was she tired.

She eyed the pack of cigarettes on her table. Lena gave them to her, as a ‘thank you’ for letting her stay over a week. Angela was not a smoker, not a regular one, but she could use something to take the edge off, and the smell of fast food oozing from her made her too nauseas to drink any of the cheap liquor she kept stashed in her cupboard. Grabbing a cigarette, she opened her window, pulling a lighter from the empty ashtray sitting on the windowsill. As she was smoking, her mind wandering, paying no attention to the political debate in the background, a blaring noise echoed through the street, she almost dropped her cigarette.

“What is that?” She muttered, leaning over the railing to see what was going on. “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen! Le Cirque D’Andromède is in town! Head over to Place Bellecour, and witness the impossible! Under the big top, you shall find us! Our first representation is going to be public, and completely free!” Enthusiastically spoke man in a megaphone. He was standing atop a car, which was blaring an obnoxiously loud circus music. He waved a top hat around.

Angela chuckled, he had cliché long moustache, a white cane and a black tailcoat, complimenting his pristine white shirt. The med school student checked her phone. Lena could definitely use something fun to do tonight. She called her, the brit answered almost right away. “What’d’ya need, Angie?” Asked Lena, upbeat as ever. “There’s a circus in town, first night sounds free. Want to check it out ? Bellecour isn’t that far from your place, is it?” Angela was already stripping for her shower, holding her phone with one hand, letting the cigarette fall down. “Please, I live in Bronc, that’s right next to the Jean Masset train station. I’ll be over in a second, meet me there!” Chirped Lena cheerfully. “I’ll take a quick shower and I’ll meet you at the station. Bring popcorn!” “Will do!” Angela hung up, before getting in her shower. She felt all the stress of the day wash off pleasantly. Sure, she was still tense, but she got used to this weight on her shoulders a long time ago. As soon as she was out of the shower, she tried to figure out what she was going to wear. Was it going to be casual, or classy? She had like, one good dress, and that was it. Her paycheck didn’t really cover much over the essentials.

She ultimately decided that she was too lazy to dress up, plus Lena had seen her at her worst caffeine-fueled extravaganza at 4 AM, trying to turn a semester of slacking around. She opted for dark jeans, a blue top which really brought out her eyes, and some light mascara and eyeshadow, just to pretend she actually made an effort. TV: turned off. Purse: Grabbed. Makeup: On. Ready to roll.

The streets were pretty calm for the 3rd district, which was known to house some of the city’s poorest students and people who didn’t have enough money to move to the suburbs. Still, it was a nice place. She lived Rue De Marseille, where shops almost never closed, except during Ramadan, where everything was quiet during the day, but so lively during the night ! Children playing soccer in the dead of night, under their mothers’ and the moon’s supervision. Teens smoking on the docks, carving their names in every available surface, or graffitiing the walls. Lena was a pro at that. Her nickname, ‘Tracer’, was almost everywhere in the borough, to her utmost pride. The train station was her favourite. The brit liked to go on trains, especially when she had no idea where they were headed, and just leave. Emily hated that, she once had to get Lena back from Valence, the brit still had not lived that one down.

Angela ran up the stairs to Jean Macé, where Lena was laying on a bench, watching something on her phone, kicking her crocs-clad feet in the air. “Hi there!” “’Sup Angie!” The brit greeted her with a hug. “When’s the train getting here?” Asked the blonde, sitting on the bench, as her friend let her feet lay on her lap. “Shouldn’t be too long now, I s’pose.” Lena looked as tired and dead inside as Angela, she too had to work a part time job, but it was far less classic than Angela’s. “How are things?” Miss Ziegler knew that Lena did not exactly enjoy bringing her adventures as a ‘criminal’ (after all, poor Lena Oxton wouldn’t hurt a fly). “They’re good, Jalel and I just lounged up in the HQ all day, not much traffic. Even enough time to actually turn in my assignment in time, for the first time like, ever!” Jalel, Lena’s boss, was a dear, but was not to be messed with. He was like a teddy bear which would turn in an actual bear if provoked. He /adored/ his assistant, and always made sure not to drag her into overly dangerous tasks. “Sounds great! But I am afraid your professor might have a heart attack when she realises that you were actually one time, for once.” Lena was studying animation, and her art teacher, in spite of her appreciation for the very much loveable brit, was growing more and more exasperated each time she turned assignment in late. Her current high score was two months late, she had had to dodge the teacher’s incessant calls, emails, and even had to hide in the boys’ bathroom to escape the animation teacher’s wrath. “Are we going by TGV, or are we going the wild way?” Asked Lena, knowing fully well that there were no TGVs scheduled for the day, only trains carrying merchandise or materials for the ever-expanding city that was Lyon.

“Wild way, I imagine.” Grinned the blonde, cracking her knuckles. Lena started stretching, before a distant light warned them of the train arriving. Angela sucked in a shallow breath, she had gotten slightly used to it, but before the big jump, she always got stressed out. Lena took her hand, squeezing reassuringly. They stepped back a bit, waiting for the perfect opportunity. The Brit whistled, and the two girls broke into a sprint, jumping on the train. Angela looked down as she jumped, it felt like time itself had slowed down, the tracks moving fast beneath her feet.

In this moment, she felt everything, the wind in her hair, the blood hammering her temple, the adrenaline running wild in her veins, just like the train speeding through the city. She landed on her knees, but she didn’t feel any pain. She just felt relief and joy. “Not bad, Angie!” Yelled Lena, barely audible over the wind rushing around them. The blonde giggled in response, grabbing Lena’s extended hand, pulling her to her feet. She opened her arms against the wind pushing against her. “Wooohoo!” The tiredness in her bones left, replaced with cheerfulness. Lena imitated her, the two of them started a screaming contest, knowing that nobody could hear them. They screamed in unison, in their heads, they screamed against mean bosses, late nights on papers they knew were going to be awful, failed romances, against a world that kept trying to bury them, yet, here they were: on a train, in the middle of the nights, surrounded by the city’s lights coming from the cafés, the rooftops lit with fairy lights.

Once their voices had died down, it was almost time to get off the train. “Part-Dieu’s in view!” They got to the opposite side of their wagon, trying to avoid the pieces of wood firmly held by metal chains. As soon as the platform was in sight, they ran and jumped. Their landing was not exactly smooth or elegant, but they managed just fine, rolling onto the unclean ground of the C platform. Luckily, there was no one in sight. They got up and dusted themselves off. “We should hurry, I don’t want to miss the opening!” Lena, hyper as ever, grabbed Angela’s hand, running through the train station. Angie really liked the ambiance in those late nights in the train station. People asleep on the benches, or on their luggage, the brave, daring youth vomiting in the bins, getting chastised by the personnel, or the soldiers patrolling under the Sentinelle Act.

Part-Dieu was a street away from Bellecour. They raced down the stairs, to the surprise of a few young men, trying to soothe the burn of alcohol in their system by laying in the fountains, which were luckily not turned on. They didn’t even have to raise their heads to know where the circus was. Loud music echoed through the street, along with a tremendous cheer, from a seemingly overhyped crowd.

Their steps led them to the place, and the crowd that had formed there was nothing short of massive. All around the titanic place that was Bellecour, were decorations, poles challenging the height of the surrounding buildings, with various strips of coloured cloth twirling and joining the other poles in a whirlwind of undeniable beauty. Thankfully, the spectacle had not started yet. “Oh! Cotton Candy!” Exclaimed Lena, almost running to the small stall, dragging her friend along. “I’ll never get over how ridiculous its French name is. Barbapapa.” Angela shook her head, as her friend grabbed their sticks, handing her the extremely sugary candy. “C’mon, Angie, French is the language of love, shall I say it again?” Lena wiggled her eyebrow suggestively. “Do no-” “Omelette du fromage…” She winked, as if she had dropped the smoothest pickup line known to mankind. An exasperated sigh made them turn around. A woman, clad in tight, dark green leather, and what seemed to be a huge necklace made of various leaves, feathers, and flowers. Her hair, held back in a ponytail which showed her remarkably high cheekbones. “Omelette AU fromage.” Sighed the beautiful woman, walking past them, stopping to catch a side glance at the duo. “Jolies crocs, ma belle.” Grinned the Frenchwoman, fading into the crowd. “Angie, I’m pretty sure my ovaries just exploded.” Whined the brit with a shaky voice. “For fuck’s sake, Lena.” “Exploded!” “Oxton, your gay ass is the reason I can’t take you anywhere nice.” Angela sighed, and resumed trying to eat her cotton candy without having it stick to her fingers, which was frankly impossible. While her friend was off rambling about her ovaries getting destroyed by yet another woman, Angela dragged her towards the scene, trying to avoid running into people too much. “It’s about to start, snap out of it!” Chastised the blonde, lightly shaking her friend’s shoulders. All the lights suddenly went down. The crowd went dead silent, and thank God, Lena shut up. Various noises, resembling those of a forest rose from seemingly everywhere. There must’ve been some speakers hidden in the poles’ cloths. On the scene, rose poles looking like bamboo, in a dim cloud of smoke. The first men appeared. Clad in skin-tight blue costumes, with intricate patterns which looked like scales. They gracefully split across the stage, revealing a huge man, whom looked similar to Poseidon, wearing a similarly blue costume, however this one was cut at the torso, revealing an impressive chest covered in blue tattoos, which ran up to his neck, and got lost underneath his equally impressive beard, also covered in the aqua glyphs. He rose his voice. It was not a language Angela knew, though it did sound similar to a mix of Spanish, Italian, and a few hints of French.

Then, the violins started to accompany him. The subtle melody was sublimed when cloths from the nearby polls were thrown onto the bamboos, as the acrobats started their hypnotizing dance, which consisted of intricate swirls and jumps, getting nearer to the public, studying them with their immense, child-like eyes, before promptly jumping back a few steps, as if they were afraid. Their arms moved in perfect harmony with the song, their long arms wrapped in foliage made them look like brisling bushes, moving with the wind. Then, a bright spotlight illuminated a pole on the other side of the Place. An acrobat was standing there, it didn’t take long for the two girls to recognize who it was. “It’s the ‘crocs’ girl!” Thought Angela. “It’s sugar-tits!” Exclaimed Lena, ever a one-track mind. A line from the pole she was currently standing on, with perfect pointes, as if she were a feline and not an actual human being, was linked to the main scene. Graceful as a feather slowly making its way towards the ground, quick as a leopard dashing on its prey, she pounced on the thin line. She rolled on it like it was solid ground, landing on the tight string, under the public’s delirious applause. Her skin, coloured in blue, seemed to sparkle under the limelight. She stopped for an instant, as if enraptured by the art flowing endlessly throughout her body.

In that moment, to Lena ‘useless horny lesbian’ Oxton herself, she was much more than simply a pretty face, she was an ethereal vision of pure, unaltered beauty, as she fended through the air, not unlike a falcon seeking its prey. It felt as if her lungs exalted art, in each and every subtle puff she let slip, as she danced across the thin line, her naked feet strutting, carelessly taking dips, standing on one foot, as the other carelessly dangled in the void. “Woah,” Sighed Oxton, her eyes refusing to leave the entranced woman’s lithe figure dancing across the line, her very ears refusing to acknowledge the man starting to sing in the background.

“She looks…” She didn’t even finish her sentence, completely mesmerised. Angela didn’t dare to shake her friend out of her trance, instead turning around to follow the main attraction. The man whom spoke earlier was now singing, his loud voice booming through the audience, enrapturing, enchanting people who knew little to nothing of the quality of the performance they were currently experiencing. Because such a thing shan’t be qualified as a simple performance, nay, ‘twas an experience, one which touches your very essence, leaving it forever altered. The beauty of the spectacle, the sheer elegance, art was dripping everywhere, like honey from a lover’s lips.

Angela was not exactly a patron of the arts. She was quite fond of them, sure, she even took an option in college, yet, no painting, no simple youtube video of a performance could ever match the feeling which flowed through her veins, drowning her sense with a feeling of everlasting satisfaction. Each artist, acrobat, every piece, foliage of the décor belonged there, it had a meaning, it had an IMPORTANCE.

The dancers strutting along the stage, carrying their aforementioned colleagues, whom were once terrified by the public, were now dancing a breath away from them, standing on the brink of the stage. The public, even though they perfectly could have, did not dare to touch them. The imposing man strode forward on the scene, his glorious mane dyed in various shades of blue, aqua green and purple, his voice carrying the strength of the whole company. The dancer they had met earlier jumped on the platform, landing with a graceful bounce, followed by a salto, ending in the man outstretched arm. They swung their hips rhythm for a short while, before a sharp cry stopped the whole stage altogether.

The artists looked around, jumping away from the crowd. The bamboos-like poles seemed to shake. Then, a creature, which resembled the chimera from the Greek Mythology, fell in the middle of the stage, forcing the imposing man and the gorgeous dancer to step away elegantly. “How many people are in this costume?” Wondered Lena, aloud. “Shhh…” Hushed Angela, entranced couldn’t move her eyes away from the scene. A man, shirtless, flaunting his flawless body, rock-solid abs enhancing an already entrancing silhouette. His dark skin was covered in white war paint, he was walking like a gladiator in an arena. He came to an eye-level with the chimera, growling loud enough for Angela and Lena to catch it from where they stood. He raised his fist, preparing to strike, but suddenly, both him and the beast knelt. A woman, clad in dark red and black from head to toe made her way between the both of them. Her face was covered by her hood, in her hands, she carried two lanterns, oozing purple smoke, adding to her already frightening aura.

“We get it, you vape.” Snorted Lena, not even realising that Angela didn’t even hear a word she said, her eyes almost forgetting to blink, too focused on the spectacle. She dismissed the Gladiator with a flick of her wrist, before running her hand against the beast’s flank. The beast seemed to shudder, whining for everyone to hear. The impressive man left the blue-skinned acrobat, trying to push away the wraith-like creature from the distressed animal.

With a twist of her finger, the man fell to his knees in front of her, as his comrades gasped in shock. She flicked his forehead, causing him to stumble backwards. She pointed an accusatory finger at the man, before gesturing to the blue skinned acrobat. The woman collapsed on the spot, her long hair falling over her face. The other dancers slowly stepped back, some of them running towards the poles, climbing them up, resting at the top like lemurs. Just one remained by the fallen dancer’s side, rocking her in his arms, seemingly weeping. The singer wailed, as the violins’ strings joined his voice, in a requiem-like mood.

The hooded woman, with a lift of her pinkie, invited the fallen beauty to rise, which she did, grabbing her companion by the collar, effortlessly flipping him over, her hands around his throat, strangling him. The blue-skinned woman then joined the mysterious figure. The latter grabbed her smoke-oozing orb, bringing it to her lips, inhaling some of it, before letting the smoke go in the fallen beast’s nostrils. It promptly got up, its previously cream-coloured fur turning a twisted shade of grey, before charging an acrobat. He jumped over the ferocious beast, evading his hit. Its lion head roared at the public, before turning tail, exposing his back, which bore a goat head where his spine met its rear, and most importantly its tail, an enormous snake head, which hissed menacingly. “You know what this reminds me of. Eww, that’s why I’m a lesbian.” Commented Lena, still not deterred at her friend’s lack of response. The hooded lady offered the dancer her arm, and they left together, walking among the forest of bamboos, as the man, rose to his feet and raised his voice, now thunder-like. The artists, hanging on their perches, jumped to the ground, bouncing on their feet, as if there were springs underneath them. They started to run in circles around the singing man, the tempo increased, the hammering of the acrobats’ feet on the stage sounding like drums of war, as the impressive man’s voice grew louder and louder.

The public saw a grapple falling in the middle of this mosh pit-like circle. The man, holding the line with a death grip, showing off his imposing musculature. The violins simply went insane, the musicians, appearing perched atop the poles all around Bellecour, in an orchestra of grief-fuelled wrath. He rose to an incredible height, the climax of the scene was his vertiginous fall. Right as he was about to hit the ground, the music stopped dead in its track with a final bang, the subjects fell to the ground, leaving him standing there, on one knee, his strong fist against the ground. The crowd was silent. He got up, his hair hiding on of his eye. He walked up to the end of the stage, standing on the edge. “This, is not the end,” He started, his shoulders heaving menacingly with each breath.

“Merely the beginning!” As he ended his sentence, fire sprouted from the bamboo poles illuminating Place Bellecour. The lights remained for a few seconds, before the fire died down. The public was cheering, clapping enthusiastically. The whole stage was in the dark, before some dime lights revealed the whole cast, bowing to the audience. “Where’s the hot chick?” Asked Lena, looking frantically on stage.

A noise similar to one of a zipper made them turn around instantly, ever so mindful of pickpockets. “Why, I do hope you meant ‘me’.” She was standing there, hands planted firmly on her hips. Lena was speechless, just looking at her up and down, in utter disbelief. “Your performance was incredible miss…?” Asked Angela, extending her hand, which the acrobat shook with in a most firm handshake. “Amélie.” Confidence was practically oozing off of her. “A pleasure Amélie, I am Angela, and this is Lena.” She pointed to her lust-struck friend. The brit seemed to regain her composure, extending her hand, expecting a handshake. But the Frenchwoman gently took her hand, bringing her lips to her knuckle, leaving a feather-light kiss upon it. “Heureuse de faire ta connaissance, ma belle.” She smirked, as Lena sported 50 shades of red on her face, ears and neck. “The mine is the pleasure.” Blurted out Lena, to Angela and Amélie’s hilarity. The acrobat reached in her more than generous cleavage, to reveal a sticky note. It had a number written on it. “Gérard is going to give out a speech, it should cover the basics, I do hope to see you around at the Moon Circus.” She stuck the note on the gay mess’ cheek, before kissing the other one, pretty close to her lips.

She turned around, raised her arm to a nearby pole, and grappled away. “I hate to see her leave, but bloody hell do I love to watch her go.” Whispered Lena, in awe. “For fuck’s sake.” Sighed Angela, recovering the sticky note before the brit could forget about it. The man Angela had seen earlier appeared on stage in a cloud of smoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen! We are delighted to hear that you appreciated our opening! However, I must inform you of a most tragic news for us, but a truly interesting opportunity for you! Due to the snow blocking the air traffic, a lot of our artists had to cancel. If you have any particular skill, visit us next Sunday for the auditions. Weeeeelcome to the Moon Circus!” His moustache moved with each word he said, speaking in a microphone bearing a similar one. The crowd cheered some more, as paper and leaflets flew across the sky, shot by some cannons which were hidden under the stage.

Lena caught one, looking it over with interest. “Want to apply, Lena?” Angie looked over her friend’s shoulder. “You could, I mean, you’d be bound to earn more than you do at that crappy MacDonald’s. Didn’t you study this before?” Asked the brit, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “I studied Les Arts Du Cirques back in Switzerland, yes, but I am afraid my level of skill is not what they’re looking for.” “There’s a role you’d be perfect for.” Stated Lena, showing her the leaflet. “And what would that be?” “La fille du soleil.” “Your French is fucking awful, Lena.”

[ellana-ravenwood]

I’ll always be here for you... - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Just a small fluffy story with the Bat I wrote in 6 minutes (I’m a looser, I always check how long I take to write things...AHEM), right before going to work, hope you’ll like it ! As usual, feedbacks are always welcome :-) :

You can find my masterlist here : @ella-ravenwood-archives

_______________________________________________

You hated this.

Oh God you hated it so much. 

You were used to be independent, to never ask for help. 

And that ever since you became an orphan. There were plenty of parentless children in Gotham...After all, it was the city with the highest crime rate in the USA (though those last few years, with the intervention of a certain “Batman”, there wasn’t any orphans anymore...or at least, not because of crime, as sometimes life was just unfair and an accident or disease was quick to happen...).

And because you found yourself alone so soon, and because there were that many orphans in your time, especially since you were from the poorest neighborhood in Gotham...Well you had to take care of yourself. You ended up in an orphanage, and there were way too many kids...

You had to learn how to handle shit by yourself, you had to find ways to avoid problems when you got yourself into trouble (and oh my your big mouth, sassiness, sarcasms and wits got you in plenty troubles). 

You took care of yourself. You stood up to bullies, even if you ended up getting a beat down. Hell, you took care of the weakest ones, the outcast, the weird ones that nobody wanted...because that’s how you are. That’s the reason it clicked so fast with Bruce actually, the reason you two fell for each other so hard. You both wanted to help, you had the same kind of background etc etc...And he loved that you always spoke your mind (unlike the people he had to deal with as Bruce Wayne), never afraid of the reactions. How you were always fair, but strict if you had to. How you were just never taking shit from anybody ! Your independence was something he loved and valued (though sometimes it was a bit frustrating how you’re refuse him to help you to do something...Also he was one of the only one you’d allow to help on very rare occasion though...like, ok, sure, he could carry you to the car and back home if you had one too many drinks). 

You’re independent, but cannot stop yourself from helping others. You got out of your ways a hundred time just to help someone...But someone helping you ? No. That wouldn’t do. 

Even now, as, after a motorbike accident, you broke one of your leg and one of your arm, as well as a few ribs. 

You know you should call one of your sons, your husband or Alfred. You know that. You know you actually need your help but...No. You just can’t. 

You always took care of yourself, and it’s not now that things are gonna change. Besides, you didn’t want your children, nor your Bruce or your surrogate father to think you were weak...Though this was probably the most ridiculous thing you could come up with. 

You ? Weak ? They would never dare even think it. You were the strongest woman they ever met, and you needing their help would never change that for them...but in your head ? Well, in your head needing help was a sign of weakness, and you grew up in a World were any sign of weakness would eat you alive, would throw you to the wolves of Gotham’s crime club... 

And so today, with an arm and a leg in a cast, and ribs that hurt whenever you even just breathed lightly, you didn’t call for their help as you were trying to get into a warm bath you had drawn for yourself. 

The first struggle was to sit down on the side of the bath and actually turn the water on...AND WHY WAS THIS DAMN BATH ONLY HAD TWO TEMPERATURE FOR ITS WATER  ? It was either “Mordor” or “Hoth”, no in-between, extremely hot, or extremely cold...fighting with just one arms and your damn ribs, balancing yourself thanks to the cast on your leg, you bend over to basically put half hot water and half cold water in the bath, hoping it would give it a manageable and pleasurable temperature...And you were right. 

The water was just perfect. 

The second struggle was getting your close off...Still sitting on the side of the bath you took your pants and panties off only God knew how, wiggling yourself out of them. Your shirt was more...Complicated. It took you literally an hour of frustration before finally being able to get it off, one inch at a time...You thought you’d never see the light of day again when your head got stuck in. 

Your bra...Oh well your bra was a nightmare. You twisted your healthy arms in so many ways you felt you were gonna break it too, and then ended up tearing everything apart out of anger. 

Finally, naked. 

You wrapped your leg and arm in a plastic bag, so the water would touch it, and you almost broke your neck getting in the bath...but you were in. And you did it by yourself. As it should be. 

You stayed in there for a long time, when the water started to run cold. You tried to add some hot water but ended up burning yourself pretty bad and wasn’t able to muffle your scream of pain. 

You hoped to God none of your family members heard and...Heavy steps running into your bedroom and then to the master bathroom shattered all hopes you had. 

Bruce. 

And the worried look on his face as he almost broke down the door getting in the room made your heart beat faster. 

He looked around, panicked, until he saw you in the bath and creased his eye brows. He approached you, looking damn perfect in his black suit (one of your favorite), and crouched down next to you. 

You looked gingerly at him, biting your lips slightly as you just knew what he was going to say. And sure enough, he started : 

-You’re impossible you know that ? How the Hell did you even got in there with your injuries ? Did you hurt yourself further ? 

With an annoyed sigh (you really hated when people worried too much about you, even though it also made your heart race with happiness to know someone was caring this much about you...Sometimes, you were a walking paradox) you say : 

-No I didn’t hurt myself. I mean I did, but not getting in the bath. I just...I just burned myself. 

You show your hand that got burned and...oh damn that man. He gently takes your hand in his, and kisses your burn, before slowly starting to suck on your fingers...you shiver. 

Hot. And it’s not just the burn...

Tenderly, he puts some stray wet hair out of your face and smile. You can’t help but smile back. He takes your fingers out of his mouth, and kisses your cheek. 

He doesn’t say those dreaded words, he doesn't ask : “Can I help you ?”, no...he just does it. After brushing his fingers on your cheek, kissing you softly on the lips, and making sure your burn wasn’t actually too bad, he went and grabbed a bottle of shampoo. 

Your favorite. Of course. It smelled like (your favorite scent), and it was his favorite too...

You flinch as he goes behind you, and settles himself there, on his knees. The man is such a giant that he’s still taller than you even like that. You straighten, and wince as your ribs are acting out again. 

His mouth is at your ear now and : 

-Just relax, I’ll wash your hair for you. 

And as the tip of his fingers dip in the water and he starts massaging your scalp with some shampoo, all your want of resisting disappears. 

You were about to tell him that you were fine, that you didn’t need his help but...oh, oh it feels too good, how his hands caress your hair all the way down to your neck, how all his moves are tender, soft, careful and loving. 

And you realize...You do need him. You really do. 

You will always need him. And he knows how to help you without you feeling like your dependent of him but...You are. 

You are and you don’t care. 

Because you love him. Because he’s everything to you. And because he’s the first one who ever showed you what it was to be truly loved, to know someone cared for you, to be worshipped like a damn princess. 

Every time you looked at him, you just felt his adoring gaze on you, his eyes full of awe and..

-I love you my Broosh. 

You simply say. And you know, even though you can’t see him, that he’s smiling. Of his genuine and full of joy smile he only reserves for you. 

-I love you too. More than you can ever imagine. 

Oh but you can imagine. Because of how much you love him and if he...

-I will always love you, you’re everything I want in this life and more. I love you, and I wish you’d let me love you more. I wish you’d let me show you that I can’t live without you. I wish you’d let me help you more, and my love, it doesn’t make you weaker to accept my help. I love you. I’m here for you. I’ll always be. There’s a million things I could tell you, and I will. But right now, let me just take care of you please, because I love you more than my own life, and I can’t bear to see you in any pain. Just...let me love you. 

You cannot say anything. His fingers through your hair are dizzying. And when he helps you out of the bath, dries you and carry you bridal style to your shared bed...Yes. 

Bruce Wayne is the only one that can make you speechless. 

And here, in his arms, you’re completely dependent of him, you’re at his mercy and...You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

-I love you my heart. 

-I love you too (Y/N), love of my life. So much it hurts. I love you too...

Fin.

__________________

Pardon if there’s any terrible mistakes and if this is bad. I wrote it very fast and had to run to work). 

[hypergraphic-rhino]

The 13 Reasons We Should Actually be Talking About

Aggressively mediocre acting--seriously, some of those scenes neared Twilight-level bad.

Boring--I mean, we are fed this story so slowly, and nothing technically superb is happening either.

“Not Like Other Girls” cliche--so no one ever says this phrase outright in the show, but it’s heavily implied. Oh Hannah’s so eccentric and delightful and she likes old things like tape decks and she jokes around with the guys and not only is she new here in town she’s so different from everyone else here probably because she’s not like other girls--a cliche I am so, so tired of, and one that is, to be blunt, demeaning to women themselves so I’m tired of seeing them perpetuate it.

Half her reasons aren’t even real reasons--i.e. she throws a fit because she “needs” a car for prom (and HER PARENTS ACTUALLY BUY her one--not rent, BUY); she gets upset because SHE made a mistake and her parents yelled at her for it (you know, like legitimately all normal parents do), she loses friends--ok, but who hasn’t lost a friend? I’ve lost someone I was once friends with and she started spreading all kinds of rumours about me to our entire school, her parents are in fiscal trouble and need her help--half of my school is in this situation (granted I live in one of the poorest states in the US, but still, I know literally hundreds of kids who help their parents out financially and they never once complain because that’s just what families do), she complains about not being popular like her mom, but immediately she’s befriended by Jessica and Alex, and before that Kat and this gets her into the popular crowd--even if, after Justin’s picture, she feels more alienated, she was popular. If you want to show how the little things can pile up and be overwhelming--especially for people with mental disorders--then actually show that (see 11)

Unrealistic--first of all, see above. Second, I’m sorry but this much of this kind of stuff doesn’t really happen to one person in one year (which is not to say it cannot happen, just that it usually, statistically does not). I mean, for Pete’s sake: she is complicit in Jeff’s murder/wrongful death, she is repeatedly sexually assaulted, she is full on raped, she witnesses her friend’s rape (which, if there is a guy like Bryce--and those guys exist--multiple rapes by him match up with real life, so when paired, these can get a pass), she has a stalker (all of this male attention/attraction really feeds into the not like other girls cliche reason also)

Romanticises Suicide--No matter what the show’s creators say, it does romanticise suicide. Just because it showed a lot of blood and the proverbial nitty-gritty, doesn’t mean it was less romanticised. Pure and simple, this show, though showing ridiculously graphic  content, does nothing to make its audience think suicide is not the answer. Quite the opposite, it screams to you: commit suicide. Commit suicide and then people will notice you. Commit suicide and then you won’t feel pain (and, you won’t, but you’ll transfer it to everyone else). Commit suicide and then you can finally have your revenge. Commit suicide and people will feel bad and learn from their mistakes (spoiler alert: life doesn’t work that way 9 times out of 10).

Sensationalises Suicide--everyone’s talking about this show, yeah. Which means more people are going to watch it. Many of those people will, statistically, have suicidal tendencies themselves and watching this show will not only affirm suicide is an answer, but it will also give them a “creative��� way to get back at the people they blame for their lives.

“Love Can Save You” trope--this is another whopping pile of BS that infuriates me. Love does not cure depression. Love does not stop other people from acting like jerks. Love cannot stop self-harmful tendencies, thoughts, or actions. Love is not a cure for mental disorders.

They consulted actual experts and promptly ignored everything the experts said--i.e. said experts advised them not to graphically show the actual suicide (because it can be psychologically damaging, it can help sensationalise suicide, it can be elicitive of one’s own suicide attempt(s)/the suicide attempt someone has witnessed/the actual suicide of a loved one). Note, this is just one example of things experts told the creators no to do that they then went and did gleefully. 

Continuity errors--the biggest one that stood out to me was Hannah’s relationship to Tony, that was never explained and the creators just expected viewers not to question it, I guess. Like, I get he was the one that gave her tools to record with, so he’s related to her that way, but we don’t get any backstory on him or on how they met, and if they were such good friends how come he never appears on any of the tapes--not even with a tape directed at him, but at one of her thousands of parties she attends (as more than oh maybe he was in the background as a DJ)--or in any part of her life in some form of meaningful way? I mean your 13 tape, however many hours-long suicide note is kind of a big deal to hand off to some random guy because he conveniently had a tape player. Which leads to another continuity error, this one of an oxymoronic nature: Tony says, “We all let Hannah down” but if the people who let Hannah down are on the tapes either A). Tony didn’t let Hannah down according to Hannah herself or B) he did let her down--but then the whole premise of your show is messed up. Speaking of the premise being messed up: (actually, just see #13)

It doesn’t actually deal with the issues--it certainly talks about a lot of issues, but it never deals with them. It never shows the psychological, physical, emotional, and mental damage these issues and disorders actually have on people. It doesn’t show how rape or depression or bullying actually affects people on the basest level. All it does is show suicide as an escape from that, but then it never shows how suicide, both choosing to do it, and being close with someone who commits it, really affects people, only that there must be a reason (13 to be exact) and it’s someone’s fault (which, ugh gah, see #13).

For people saying how this show brings to light how important our words/actions are: No duh, Percy Jackson. But either you know how to not act like a bag of dicks or you don’t. A TV show won’t change that.

I’m sorry, but it is literally NO ONE’S fault but your own if you commit suicide. Period. I get things build up and I get your world can seem greyer than grey, but no matter how much a douchebag someone, or multiple someones, is/are, it is YOUR choice and YOUR choice alone in how you respond to it. If you choose to commit suicide, then you are choosing to commit suicide. As a person who struggled with suicidal tendencies/thoughts/whatever you want to call it, I can attest to this. No matter what anyone else was doing to me, how I chose to react is, was, and will always be my choice. I simply didn’t choose death. And back to #11, if you choose suicide, it’s no one’s fault, again, no matter how terrible they were; so, the entire premise of her creating this ‘note’ to assign blame--like, what an awful thing to do to someone. Because they may have stopped hanging out with her (e.g. Jessica/Alex), but they did not take out a gun and shoot her, or a knife and stab her→ they did not murder her and since they did not murder her, they did not kill her. It was suicide. She killed herself.

BONUS: Demonises and vilifies professional counselling--everyone who seeks help in this show is brushed off and dismissed by the people trained for such circumstances (the school counsellor, the communications teacher). While this certainly happens in real life, it is not helpful for people who are struggling with their own mental or other disorders to see that no matter how much help you seek, no one is really willing to be there for you. Therapists and counsellors get enough crap from stereotypes about how they are and how they operate, they don’t need more media defaming and demeaning their role. Counsellors and therapists absolutely can help people. They absolutely can aid in recovering and handling and coping with mental disorders. These typifications are only harmful to people that need help and have nowhere else to turn but a therapist or school counsellor--and, after seeing this, they won’t want to reach out to them, because of the projection of negativity on them. Even if the creators wanted to make Hannah unable to get help, that would have been fine if they later showed someone actually being helped by a professional, or anyone in a position of authority.