#or give you a liquor license

[jimblejamblewritings]

An Observation of Humankind [thinkpiece number: 1]

Every girlie (nonbinary, women and men of all orientations included) is a type of Marauder and their partners are marauder love interest — fandom version included.

James Girlies:

either like sports or play sports, especially soccer/football or rugby

bad eyesight

defends everyone

himbo and ditzy but we love them for that

fanfiction reader/sharer

have had several short-term but very intense crushes

surprisingly not always high school sweethearts (which yeah odd cause of Lily)

nature bros

calls their journal a diary with no shame

are always outside and can't sit their ass at home for too long

love bouquets

own at least one pair of converse

loves pop music and Hozier

have scaled a fence before

might be able to play the guitar

handwriting could be nicer if they tried

didn't get their drivers' license right away

take their coffee any way that isn't straight black coffee

definitely think all people are hot even if they don't swing that way (think lesbians love Thor)

loved Merlin the tv show

James Girlies love Regulus and Lily people, which means:

cold people, smart people, black cat people, painters, polite people, readers, homebody people, gothic people, hippie people, people with beautiful handwriting, black coffee drinkers, whisky lovers

Sirius Girlies:

dog people and cat people equally

doc martens

loves coffee and tea equally

fanfiction writer/reader

gorgeous handwriting, probably cursive

might know or has had an interest in calligraphy

an astrology and/or astronomy girl

speaks at least two languages

plays an instrument, any instrument... but their parents definitely suggested piano

leather jackets

denim jackets

wears way less black than people think

fantasy nerd and has played dungeons and dragons

was a superwholockian

usually the only child or older child

doesn't smoke but everyone thinks they might

cocktails or whiskey and beer, no in between

virgin till like freshman year of college or later, to everyone's shock

looks like a black cat but is actually a golden retriever

however they could kill you don't get it twisted

has trauma but won't trauma bond

crooked smile and not perfect teeth but gorgeous anyway

perfect hair that is deliberately messed with

motorcycles and vespas and small cars

listens to every genre of music

tattoos (even if just one small one)

journal person

can quote certain movies by heart

unfortunately turned on by sweater vests

fashion girlie

Sirius Girlies love Marlene, Remus, and other Sirius people, which means:

warm people, confident people, tall people, flirty people, musicians, readers, intellectual people, fancy people

Remus Girlies:

sweets lover

probably likes dark chocolate the most as well as hot chocolate

owns sweaters, probably vintage, some handmade by their Sirius girlies

plays chess

can draw

mismatched socks

waits till the last minute to do laundry

is more of a cat person but also loves dogs

didn't have strict parents and ended up giving themselves curfews and discipline and only late realized the reverse psychology

keeps a notebook about everything their partner likes

messy cook in the kitchen

loves tea a bit over coffee

is probably the actual smoker of the group

doesn't make their bed

good kissers

always carries a jacket or wears a shirt under their sweater so they can give it to their partner

can hold their liquor a bit too well perhaps

has trauma and might trauma bond

great fashion sense but will wear literally whatever is clean

Remus Girlies love Sirius, Pandora, and Dorcas (hear me out) people, which means:

black cat looks and golden retriever personality, weird people, people that pour their pain and emotions into their art whether music or painting or drawing, people that take time to care for themselves in the morning, witchy people, smiley people

Peter Girlies (pretend there was no betrayal):

underestimated

asks the most off-putting questions without realizing it

takes a camera everywhere

loves board games

tea drinker all day every day

baker

sends selfies at literally any angle because they don't care

always pays attention to everyone

loves breakfast food eaten not at breakfast

had a ukelele phase

cleanest of their friend group

Peter Girlies love Mary people, which means:

sunshine people, almost always happy, excitable people, pda lovers, carefree topeople

[blackopals-world]

What's the NRC staff's experience at ♨️!Yuu's bath house? I don't believe you've ever written about it in detail; only mentioning it on ♨️!Yuu's initial post. Then again I may have missed it since Tumblr is being rude right now. Feel free to gloss over this one if it doesn't seem like something you want to answer.

I haven't written about this yet.

The staff are in the unique position of having free access to the Onsen and its service. In exchange, it gets to operate without an alcohol license.

Yuu has promised that all the drinks are watered-down to the legal requirements and no one is getting drunk (which is only half true.) Keeping the faculty in the loop keeps Yuu out of trouble.

The Onsen has a private spring designated for VIPs and faculty. It has unlimited food and bottle service.

The main reason the adults use it is because it's the only place to relax away from students. Say what you want but standing all day, and being surrounded by unruly brats is exhausting. The onsen is perfect for getting away.

Everyone has a reason to go and it differs for everyone.

Trein

He's old he needs a good soak in the mineral baths. He usually drinks a strong soju and talks to Yuu about his younger days. Grandpa has a lot of wild stories before he became a teacher. He also goes on and on about his wife and how they fell in love.

He treats Yuu like a grandkid and goes to the onsen mostly for the atmosphere.

Crewel

He completely changes when he's relaxed. Yeah, he is worried about Yuu but when he is tired he needs to cut loose. He will literally let his hair down for one thing. He smokes even if Yuu gives him the stink eyes and tells him to take it outside.

He usually let's Yuu mix him a cocktail or a house wine of their choosing.

He uses the spa services the most. Facials, manicures, pedicures, and hair treatments.

Behind all that, if you get him in at the same time as Sam he's a college student again. Roughhousing, drinking, and telling vulgar jokes. If Yuu isn't there to see it.

Sam

The only reason he's still allowed is because he supplies the Spa and bar. He doesn't ask questions either.

He orders hard liquor, dark. Whiskey, vermouth, and Adictivo Doble Reposado (a favorite in my family) He once tried to get away with ordering absinthe and was poured a glass of water.

He enjoys the steam room says it feels like a hot summer Louisiana day by the bayou. (Trust me you with that was true. Louisiana summers can be amazing but the swamp is no joke)

Sam likes to goad the others into drinking more before challenging them to a few rounds of cards. He doesn't play any of the workers because Yuu trains them on how to win or lose games on purpose. Those girls could whoop your butt.

Vargas

He needs a good ice bath and massage after training. He views the onsen as an important part of taking care of your health. Taking time to relax the muscles and taking care of your body is key to a long life and healthy mind.

That being said he orders tons of beer and food. We can't all be perfect. He falls asleep sometimes and snores like a bear.

He likes to play ping-pong in the game room but he's really bad at it. No one tells him because he's so determined to win. It's doesn't matter because if everyone is drunk they all suck but think they are playing the best game of pong ever.

Crowley

Banned.

Fine. He's allowed. Begrudgingly.

He isn't treated badly but Yuu would rather he leave. But the onsen would be shut down he didn't agree to let it stay open.

He takes off the mask for once and scared Yuu.

"Who are you?!"

"What are you asking? It is me your dear headmage."

"You're lying! Where is the bird man?!"

Yeah, no object permanence here.

Crowley will get wasted off his ass and join in any chaos the others create. Children, the lot of them. He drinks just about anything. It's whatever suits his fancy that day.

He gets his hair done while he's there along with his nails. Yuu finds it weird that his hair creates a natural black oil like some species of bird and his nails are as hard as talons and just as sharp.

[libraford]

Tw, police brutality.

A woman was killed by a cop at a grocery store near my house this past week.

She was caught stealing liquor. The cops got in front of her car and she accelerated. They shot her through the windshield. She swerved, collided with the building. The cops attempted to resuscitate her. She died at the hospital. She was pregnant. The child did not survive.

They are not releasing the names of the officers involved. It took them three days to release details of the story.

"You think she should have just run the cops over?"

No, I think the desired outcome would be that they either shoot the tires to immobilize the car, or get out of the way so they could get the information from her license plate.

It wasnt necessary to kill her. If you think its necessary to kill someone instead of immobilize them or slow them down, then you need better training.

I think she should have lived to regret shoplifting. Because she was young and young people do stupid shit. You're supposed to give people a chance.

But now she doesnt get a chance to do that.

One person was killed, and the only thing that was protected was 50$ worth of liquor.

How many bottles of liquor are worth a human life? Turns out, not many.

[fishcat480]

Bad Day

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries

Pairing: Damon Salvatore x Plus size! Reader

Warnings: None

Description: You’re having a very bad day when Damon Salvatore decides to make it worse, but then maybe he also makes it much better.

It was one of those fucking days.

You know those days when everything just goes completely, spectacularly wrong?

You shouldn’t have even been surprised. Once you’d woken up and your favorite sweater had had cat puke on it, you should have given up there. But no - you just had to power through and continue your day.

You got a call right after breakfast that your car payment hadn’t gone through, and now you’d have to pay a late fee you couldn’t afford. While running errands, you’d managed to knock over your Starbucks in the middle of the aisle of Target, forcing you to have to buy another coffee. And once back home, you were greeted with a passive aggressive note from your neighboring apartment asking you to close your door “just a tad quieter”.

By the time you had to get ready for work, your ‘fucks to give’ meter was dangerously low.

You quickly tossed on your uniform shirt and broke several traffic laws driving to the Grill, because of course you were late. At a red light, you tossed your messy Y/H/C hair into a ponytail, griping at your reflection as some asshole in a sports car cut you off. Really? Who the hell drove sports cars in Mystic Falls? You’d only ever seen one person do that, and that was Damon Salvatore.

You scanned the license plate. Then you squinted to see inside the drivers seat and swore loudly. Damon fucking Salvatore. And he waggled his pale fingers at you before peeling off at top speed.

He was there at the Grill when you finally clocked in, tossing apologies at your manager and ignoring Matt’s teasing grins as you settled behind the bar and counted up your liquor. The day bartender threw you a goodbye and a sympathetic look.

Once finished your count, you sauntered over to Damon, who was enjoying a scotch on the rocks with a self righteous grin on his face.

“You cut me off.” you said, placing your hands on the bar.

He shrugged. “Did I?”

Damon had been drinking at the bar of the Grill long before you worked there, but somehow after you started you felt as if he was suddenly there all the time. You’d had an easy relationship at first, due to your infamiliarity. He was a flirt, you were determined to make good money. You flirt with Damon, he gives you a twenty on top of his tab. That was how it had always been for you, and for the other bartenders before you.

But something had changed, and you remembered the day that it did almost as well as you remembered Damon’s drink order.

It had been a slow night, with only Damon and his buddy Alaric holding down the fort. Most of the other drink orders came from tables, and those were practically empty too. You elected to pass the time with Damon and Ric, talking about nothing and everything. That quickly nosedived into a pissing contest between the two men and which one could do a handstand when you mentioned offhand that you were able to perform a fancy little trick, and that had been your downfall.

“There’s no way!” Ric was crying, his words slurring out of the side of his mouth. “You prove it right now.”

You folded your arms across your chest and shrugged, your grin too confident. Damon’s eyes were laser focused, and he took a long drag of his scotch, watching you intently.

“Don’t tease us…”he said finally.

You sighed, and cursed yourself.

Normally, you wouldn’t mind showing this particular party trick off for customers. It happened sometimes on raucous nights, when people were coming from or on their way to parties, looking to boost their mood and spend their money. It felt good to do it and see the looks of awe on their faces, sometimes even lust.

But you were feeling very self conscious at the prospect of doing it for Damon Salvatore.

You couldn’t deny he was attractive. His face, yeah, but his swagger was practically debilitating. He had the confidence of a much older man, which was funny considering you were the same age. There weren’t guys your age acting like him, of that you were sure.

It fueled your desire toward him as much as your flirtatious little routine did.

But Damon was always on the arm of the skinniest, hottest girl in the room. He’d chased after Elena Gilbert for a while, and she was less than half your size. There was no way his flirting had anything more to do with you than you wished. He liked to have fun, plain and simple.

Ric was slamming his fists on the table now, demanding you not to leave them hanging.

You mustered up all your courage - they knew what you looked like, you thought. They were asking you to do it.

So you lifted yourself up onto the bar in a much more fluid motion than you might have ever expected from yourself, and in one easy rotation you were doing a handstand.

You could feel the fabric of your shirt rising up, but you ignored it. You carefully started placing the majority of your weight on your left hand.

You could hear Ric and a few customers oohinh and aahing at you, and it spurred you on. You lifted your right hand into the air, and separated your legs a bit. And then you were doing a handstand on one hand.

You held the pose as Ric hollered and cheered, and then easily flipped backwards and onto your feet again before jumping back behind the bar, standing once more on your own two feet.

“Am I drunk or did I just witness cirque de soleil?” Ric asked.

“You’re drunk.” You told him, as you wiped off the spot on the bar where your feet had been. “But you did witness something pretty cool.”

Your eyes flitted over to Damon, curious to see if he had any kind of reaction. What you saw stopped you in your tracks.

His eyes were dark - darker than you’d ever seen them. There was something hungry in their expression, like you were dessert and he had saved plenty of room. His lips were covered by his tongue as it slowly lapped over it, before he closed his mouth and swallowed.

“Let’s do a shot.” Damon decided, reaching out and placing his hand on top of yours. “I’m buying.”

“Shots!” Ric called, and you internally groaned. He definitely did not need another one.

But you were glued into Damon’s atmosphere, and you watched as his thumb stroked along your hand. “You want me to do a shot?” you asked.

“That was hard work you did up there.” He encouraged. “You must be thirsty.”

You flushed, hoping Ric couldn’t see the effect he was having on you. When you glanced over, he was exclaiming happily as a Bruce Springsteen song came on, completely ignoring you. Your blush must have been crimson, and your cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

Damon’s thumb was still marking its path on your skin. You needed to get away fast.

“I’ll get those shots.”

“Sounds good.” Damon said.

“I’ll need my hand to pour them.”

He let out a sound of displeasure, but withdrew his hand from yours and you robotically turned away, pouring three shots of Bulleit bourbon. If your hand was shaking and you spilled one, that was between you and the security camera.

You, Ric and Damon cheersed, tapping your glasses on the bar top before throwing the alcohol back. Ric sputtered and coughed, and you giggled as he tried to compose himself.

“Well that’s me!” he said, standing up and lurching dangerously to the left. “I’m tapping out.” He went to put his card down, but as usual Damon stopped him. He started waving his card in your direction, but you made no move to grab it.

“I don’t even bother running you up a tab anymore. Damon’s always got it covered.” You admired that about Damon. A lot of people thought of him as kind of shitty, but you knew better. He was loaded, and he always spent the majority of that money on other people. Even after Elena had rejected him for good, he still came in and covered her tab from time to time. He’d done it for all of their friends. He’d even done it for Matt - despite their apparently rocky history.

Ric sighed in defeat. “Me and my teacher’s salary are very thankful.”

Once Ric had left, it was you and Damon. Alone.

Never before had you felt so nervous serving him by yourself. Whatever you’d seen in his eyes after your little show had altered the atmosphere between the two of you. It thrilled you and scared you all at once.

“How come you never told me you were so flexible?” Damon asked, as you cleaned Ric’s empty glasses. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you, and you were avoiding meeting his gaze like the plague.

You shrugged. “I didn’t realize you had any interest in my level of flexibility.”

“If it’s about you, I’m interested.”

Since when did he say things like that to you? God, and if his words didn’t just send shockwaves straight to your core. Had you stepped into an alternate reality where Damon Salvatore was horny for you? No, that couldn’t be right. He was a flirt, and he was probably still heartbroken over Elena picking his brother.

“Damon.” you said finally, meeting his eyes. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He frowned. “And why not?”

You gave him a knowing look. “I know you.” He was looking for a rebound, and you wanted more than that.

His frown deepened, and within a few moments Damon had gone from sad to furious. There was something working beneath the surface, and he looked….hurt.

“Well, fuck you very much.”

He stalked out of the bar, and your jaw was on the floor. Never did you ever expect Damon to get mad when rejected. How many girls had said no or called him names or even slapped him while you’d watched, bemused, from your side of the bar? And every time he’d smiled or shaken his head. He’d thought it was funny. So what made you different?

The next time you’d seen him, he’d asked for a drink and didn’t say a word to you other than a hi, bye or check, please.

And then this morning he’d cut you off, as if he somehow knew you were having a shit day and wanted to make it even fucking worse, as only Damon Salvatore could do.

Which sucked, because you’d spent weeks wishing that he would man up and talk to you, and explain why he’d been so hurt that day. You’d spent weeks wanting to have Damon back, cracking jokes and flirting with you and being your best customer.

So you confronted him. It was going to be another slow night, and you more than had the time.

“You cut me off. And you did it on purpose.”

This got his attention. He looked up from his drink, his nostrils flaring.

“I cut you off because you’re not a very good driver.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, come on! I wasn’t even moving!”

“And yet, your inexperience was glaringly evident.” He downed the last of his scotch and shoved the glass toward you. “And I’ll take another whenever you’re ready to work.”

Oh, he had another thing coming if he thought he was going to speak to you like that! You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth and moved quickly to pour him a shot - you were on the clock after all, even though you’d much rather leave him hanging - but not the top shelf he was used to. Oh no, you were pouring him the cheap stuff.

You slammed the glass in front of him and slid it over, glaring. He gave as much as he got, giving you a wicked little smile before taking a sip.

And promptly spitting it out.

“What the fuck is that?” He asked, rising to his feet. He grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins and dabbed at what he’d spilled onto his shirt, but the damage was done.

“Oh, sorry, were you looking for something specific? Unless you specify, we typically just give customers the rail.”

You had no issue being bitchy bartender tonight. In fact, it was kind of fun to dish it out. And he deserved it for being a jerk.

“What the hell is your problem?” He yelled. “I cut you off. It happens. I’m kind of an asshole sometimes.”

You groaned in frustration. “What about the whole silent treatment for three weeks? I tell you I don’t want to sleep with you and you act like a child!”

He bristled violently at that, and then looked around for a moment. You weren’t really sure what he was doing until he grabbed Matt by the scruff of his neck and brought him around to your side of the bar.

“Y/N needs a fiver. You’ve got this covered, right?”

Matt sighed, but started cleaning pint glasses. You were about to protest when Damon began dragging you off, and Matt smiled apologetically.

“Just go with it! It’ll be a lot easier!” He tells you, and then he’s gone and you’re being dragged through the back of house and out the back door.

Once outside, Damon released his grip on your arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” You ask, incredulous. “I’ll get written up if I’m gone too long.”

“Look.” Damon says, ignoring your pleas. “You…you hurt my feelings that day, ok? You said something kind of mean, or implied it at least. But…I shouldn’t have handled it like that. I’m working on that stuff.”

“Mean?” You asked. “What did I say that was mean?”

He sighs. “Do I have to spell it out?”

You nodded. “All caps, double spaced, please.”

He laughed despite himself. “You basically implied that I am some womanizing creep that wanted to use you for your body.”

You blinked. And then blinked again.

“Ok, two things… the first: are you NOT a womanizing creep that uses women for their bodies?”

He raised his eyebrows, and his head tilted in thought. “Ok fair point.”

“And the second: that’s not what I meant at ALL.”

He brought a finger up to his mouth and placed the tip on his lower lip. “……you didn’t?”

“No. Damon, what I was trying to say was that I’m not your type, and that you probably just wanted me for a night because you were drunk. Which is great and fine, but that’s just not what I’m looking for. I want a relationship.”

There was confusion in his too-blue eyes, and he took a step toward you, entering your personal space.

“What do you mean you’re not my type?”

Oh lord, this was exactly what you didn’t want to talk about right now. You blew out a steadying breath, choosing your words carefully.

“The girls you date are usually of the same variety….both in looks and in size. So I just figured I wasn’t really your type.”

Damon’s entire face changed. Gone was the confusion and the mock anger, replaced with a quiet rage. He flexed his knuckles, and you involuntarily stepped back. He kind of looked pissed.

“You think I didn’t want to sleep with you because you’re not skinny?”

You struggled to get words out. “I mean, yes? In a way…”

“Are you fucking stupid?”

Did he really want an answer to that? Based on the dangerous look in his eyes, it was probably in your best interest to stay quiet.

He was now fully in your space, standing with you toe to toe. His arms were crossed over his chest, which was absolutely heaving. He was very, very angry and it was kind of turning you on.

“I have been throwing hints at you since the moment you started working here. I tip you double the amount I tip anyone else, I always call you pet names, I’m constantly flirting with you…and you really thought I just wanted one random night of fun because you were warm and available?”

His words were like shockwaves to your system. Now that you were faced with it, you realized that no other bartender had ever said anything good about Damon’s tips. Anytime you were switching shifts, he never called anyone else “darling” or “sweetheart”. He flirted, sure, but you were always different….

“Oh my god….” You said quietly. “Oh my god, I didn’t even realize…”

His hands were on your hips, and your senses were assaulted by him. He smelled good, clean with a hint of spice. His eyes were making you melt with the heat of his gaze. His fingers, too, worked over your skin in delicate little circles, and you knew that given the chance those fingers would drive you wild.

“I do want to sleep with you.” He says, and you sigh but he places a finger on your lips, shushing you.

“I do, and I’m not afraid to say it. I got…overwhelmed when you did that sexy little handstand, and I moved too fast. But what I really want is to take you on a date.”

You tentatively wrapped your arms around his neck, your forehead resting against his. “Yeah?” You ask.

“Yeah.” He breathes.

You don’t answer, just press your lips against his and let yourself drown in him. His lips are like brands against yours, and you can imagine steam coming off you both as your mouths battle for dominance, slotting and slanting over each other again and again until you’re breathless.

“Ok, but if you bring me here for our date there will be actual hell to p-“

He cut you off with another searing kiss. A promise.

So maybe it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

II. of niceties and awkward second meetings.

parts: previously / next plot: bruce makes an offer you actually can refuse... at first. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, bruce wayne is still a masochist, bruce wayne is ALSO reckless :). words: 3.5k. edited: 2/28/24.

After every surgery—good or not so good—when you’re rinsing off and getting patted on the back for a job well done, you elect to feel hope. And then you hurry to lock yourself in your office and try to catch your breath.

The weight of a life on your hands follows you from room to room, from work to bed, from daydreams to night terrors. Even when it’s good, it rarely ever feels good. Questions bloat your brain: what if there’s something you missed? What if, despite it all, it’s not enough? Is the blood on your hands, then? Is the life yours to save or the patient’s to endure?

There was no solid answer. All you could do was wait for full recovery and try not to let it consume you.

Maybe tonight was a night for Thai. Maybe you’d call up your old roommates and get together at your place. Maybe you could finally tell them about the night Batman broke into your house, and how you stitched up his bullet wound, and then fell asleep 20 feet away because you had to meet Bruce fucking Wayne the very next morning and God help you if you embarrassed your boss by being late. So far, the only person who’d heard about it was the old lady who lived in the apartment below you, and all she’d done is pray for you.

You’d assured her you were fine, but she’d insisted on anointing your doors and windows before you left for work. The “demon of Gotham” she’d called him, herald of vengeance. The fact that you’d saved his life meant that you’d be spared in the reckoning... or whatever little old ladies learned in Sunday school.

Whatever she believed, you had no reason to think you’d be struck by lightning twice. Batman would not be returning to your home any time soon.

The thought almost made you sad.

There was no reason for him to return. Batman probably had a team of doctors waiting to tend to him if his arsenal of weaponry was any indicator of wealth. He wasn’t just any ol’ run of the mill vigilante, that was for certain.

You were just a blip. A freak accident. A glitch in the matrix. The chance that you’d been in the right place at the right time when Batman needed you most was just that: chance. And you were no gambler, but you could bet on your license that that man would never darken your doorstep (or window sill) again.

Maybe you’d stop by the liquor store too on your way home.

You’re rounding the corner when you collide with your boss, frantic as usual.

“Oh! Finally, there you are,” he grips your upper arms like a vice, eyes frenzied as they look you over, “why do you look like that?”

You imagine he’s referencing the dew of sweat on your skin and your scrubs out of whack. “I finished an operation fifteen minutes ago.” You answer, unimpressed. “I was just heading back to my office.”

Your attempt to sidestep him—to free yourself of the shackles that were his hands—proves useless. He spins to keep you in his grip, “You can’t! Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“You have a visitor.”

You frown, “A patient? No one’s on my schedule.”

“I’d like you to make an exception for this one.” His voice drops to a whisper. He readjusts your shirt sleeves as if dressing you up, prettying you for the highest bidder, and that sets you on edge, “Just trust me.”

You almost (almost) flinch away when he pushes you to your office door—now, a looming boulder instead of a gateway to your safe haven. Before you can even ask just who is waiting for you on the other side, your boss is rushing off down the hallway to do God knows what.

As if disarming a bomb, you slowly open the door to peek inside.

It scares the both of you, clearly, if the wide-eyed look he gives you says anything.

It’s like it hasn’t been a week since you’d last seen him. Bruce Wayne is wearing what looks like the same suit he’d worn last time, tie and collar stiff, jacket open underneath his billowy coat. But he looks awkward standing in your modest little office. He looks like he’s not supposed to be here, or at least not without his right hand man and the fanfare to follow.

He keeps his hands in front of him to show you he means no harm, “Your boss said it was okay to wait here for you.”

You’re still bracing yourself against the door, trying to figure out what he could possibly be doing in your office, what he’d possibly be waiting around for you for.

You think about the last time you’d seen him, when you’d grabbed him out of nowhere and his companion (Alfred, was it?) looked like he would have no problem breaking your spine if you dared manhandle him again. Oh God, he wasn’t going to sue, was he?

You swallow, “Uh, right. Can I help you?”

Bruce straightens up. His hands fall to his sides. You search his face to predict his next move but you’re puzzled to find that he’s just as clueless as you.

You didn’t know much about Bruce Wayne, that much had been established. What little you did know was some amorphous figure of nobility, the “prince of Gotham” as the press dubbed him.

Yet, standing before you in your simple little office, Bruce Wayne feels less like nobility and more like a stranger in foreign land. He keeps his hands in front of him and you’re able to make out purple dusting his knuckles. Bruised. Not bloody. Not recently. This piques your interest.

“How long have you been a surgeon?” Is his first question.

You slink into the room and debate on shutting the door, deciding to leave it open a crack; whether it is so you can escape or for him to feel unwelcome, you’re not entirely sure. “Four years. Not including the 12 years of school and residency.”

Bruce perks up just a tad to your bewilderment. “Did you study here in Gotham?”

“I did. I considered Metropolis.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Cheaper tuition.”

“Do you like it here in Gotham?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Wayne,” your voice comes out clipped—nervous—all the same, “I just got out of a surgery and I didn’t even know you’d be here so I haven’t got the faintest clue what you want-”

“I’m sorry.” Bruce apologizes, “I can come back another time.”

Come back? You assess his face once more, double checking for any sign of where this conversation is going, “Come back for what?”

For the first time since you entered the room, Bruce takes a step forward. A few, actually, ‘til he’s standing only a foot away and his whole deer-in-headlights deal is on full display. “A proposition.” Your head swims with big ideas. You’re thankful you’re still standing still. “I’d like to hire you.”

If Em could see you, she’d be laughing her head off at the look on your face. The emotions you're hit with are akin to blunt force trauma.

Bruce catches onto your distress and begins to explain, glancing away from your eyes to give you room to breathe, “Due to the nature of my job and the... events that transpired last November, I’m careful about my position in the public eye. I’ve decided to have a doctor on call, someone I can rely on in the event that something drastic happens again. It would be more menial work, but you would, of course, be greatly compensated: full benefits, triple your salary here. Nothing is out of the question.”

As the last word melts in the air, he finally locks eyes with you. Less deer-in-headlights now, more spotlight. More "I eagerly await your response".

You couldn’t even fathom the price point: triple your salary? You already made good money here, any more would be excessive. And then there’s the reality of the situation. You would be employed, solely, by Bruce Wayne. At his beck and call—perhaps moved into a nicer place within chauffeur distance of Wayne Tower—the support staff of the upper echelon.

Your mom wouldn’t bug you about moving out of Gotham ever again.

This all felt too good to be true. So good that your intuitive pendulum swung violently in warning. Bruce awaits your reply, wringing his hands before him and those glaring purple knuckles catch your attention again. How a CEO had managed those was a question you hesitated to entertain. Something else was going on here.

You knew Gotham was a corrupt city. It festered with crime in every aspect, that much the Riddler had made clear last Halloween. The late mayor, the DA, the police commissioner... and amongst his targets, Bruce Wayne had survived. Something else was definitely going on here.

“...I serve the public, Mr. Wayne. I reserve my skill for the citizens of Gotham without the... ability to seek better. I’m flattered you would consider me and I would be more than happy to point one of my talented colleagues your way in my stead. But I’m sorry, I can’t accept your offer.”

Bruce’s face falls for just a second. After all, if he were to wear his emotions on his face all the time, you doubted he’d be much of a successful businessman.

You’re thankful that he takes a step out of your personal space and doesn’t fuss, doesn’t try to shove a wad of cash at you, doesn’t throw more offers at you until you concede. “I appreciate your consideration, but that won’t be necessary. I should let you return to your work. Thank you for your time.”

You nod a little dumbly, the weight of what has just transpired starting to settle fully on you. Em would be far too angry at you to laugh, now.

With the grace of his pedigree, Bruce Wayne nods silently to you and leaves.

You notice once the muscles in your shoulders stop shaking that there’s something in your office that wasn’t there before. There, on the loveseat where Bruce Wayne had waited for you, was a business card.

You shakily approach the seat and collapse beside it, reaching out to read what adorns the back of the Wayne Enterprises logo.

Bruce Wayne CEO P: 212-XXX-XXXX

It takes the clatter of ceramic to pull you out of your reverie.

Beside you, Em hovers, “And here I thought you weren’t a fan.”

At the puzzled look you give her, Em jerks her head toward where your eyes had been focusing, mindlessly stirring in the events of the afternoon. At some point, the TV’s channel had changed from Days of our Lives to the Gotham News. They were running a story on a charity event downtown. Bruce Wayne was shaking hands on camera, the tagline “Bruce Wayne makes dazzling appearance alongside controversial mayor”. How fitting.

“‘m not,” you grumble, pushing your lunch around in yellowed Tupperware, “just thinking.”

“About?”

You glance at Em. Too little too late, your boss had clambered into your office shortly after Bruce left, pestering you about the conversation you’d had, disappointed when you’d told him you’d turned down the offer. “Imagine the press we’d get, one of our very own working for the CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” he’d argued, “you’ve got to reconsider.”

You hesitated to tell your tale again, fearful that you’d suffer the same reaction, but Em was not your boss. She would never let the topic rest. And it wasn’t like you signed an NDA, a truth that had only hit you hours after the fact, “I got a job offer today.”

Em’s eyebrows shoot up, “From West Mercy? Arkham?”

The very thought of working in Arkham Asylum had you abandoning your lunch altogether, “God, no. It was more like... on-demand. Concierge. A very rich patient wanted to hire me as their private doctor.”

“Wow... was it one of your patients?”

“No, I’ve never examined him in my life.”

“Him?” You recognized that tone of voice. A slew of questions were on the way if you didn’t elaborate fast enough.

Besides yourself and Em huddled in a corner, the break room was relatively empty. One of the ER nurses was napping, another engrossed in a game of Sudoku on their phone. You doubted they would hear even if you raised your voice above a whisper.

Quietly, because you clam up at the thought of saying his name out loud, you fish out his business card and slide it across the table to her.

It takes her but a moment to process. First a deep inhale, then her hand slaps the table (the Sudoku nurse glances up at you both and then changes his mind), then she’s gripping at your scrubs and shaking you violently in your chair, “Shut the front door! Please tell me you said yes!”

You frown, “No, I didn’t.”

“Why the hell not? I know you don’t keep up with the times in this city, but this guy is loaded!”

“I do keep up with the times. I just don’t give a rat’s ass about Bruce Wayne. A crime punishable by death, apparently.”

“But why in the world would you want to keep working here when you could be... having lunch on a terrace? Discussing lab results over Pinot Grigio? Jetting off to the Bahamas to check his vitals on vacation?”

You snort, “Exactly what I told him: I serve the public. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Could always do both.”

You tried to imagine it, for Em’s sake. The terrace lunches, the Pinot Grigio. You imagined the nice apartment from before and the esteem that your boss was sure you could bring the hospital.

And you imagined Bruce Wayne, with a limp. With bruised knuckles. Always looking at you with those big eyes that somehow told you everything and nothing at the same time. Like an open book in a dead language. You thought about the night that Wayne Tower caught fire and the world that had been crumbling down in Gotham had started to feel truly broken. Politicians die all the time, but the uber rich? Even you had watched the sky in horror.

And now that same man had asked you—you, of all people—to be there in case there was a next time.

You thought about the Batman. Would you say yes if he asked you the exact same question?

You hadn’t considered both.

You’re unaware that Em is leaving until her chair scoots loudly across the laminate, “Think on it. Seriously. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.” Her hand brushes your shoulder fleetingly. Then she’s leaving and you’re left to think again.

It was a bit ironic that his next visit took place as you were perusing apartment listings.

You hadn't seen him get inside your home the first time. He’d just been there, as if he’d always been there and you just never noticed. This time, he doesn’t have the urgency to break in. He waits at your window… staring in at you. No knocking. Not even a muffled “Can I come in?”

You don’t know how he expects anyone to invite him inside their home with those kinds of manners. You set your laptop aside and walk over to the curtains, his figure becoming clearer, more menacing as eyes silently follow you. By the time you reach the window, your heart is beating at an unhealthy pace. You had been able to get that adrenaline down before. How did you manage that again?

Batman waits patiently. Your hand presses to the glass, the warmth of it leaving behind a visible print as you push up on the glass, “Don’t tell me,” his head cocks to the side as you begin, “another bullet?”

If he is suffering from a wound like the last, he doesn’t look it. He’s crouched on your fire escape with his cape billowing behind him and the light of your apartment giving off just enough of an ominous glow.

After last time, you’d sneaked some extra supplies back to your place under the paranoia that something might happen again. And, let’s be honest, no one would raise a brow at having everything you need to clean a gunshot wound in this city. You couldn’t say it was entirely just for him, though.

The silence goes on uncomfortably long. You start to wonder if he even heard you, the way he stares you down, unmoving. He resembles a stray caught stealing from a trashcan, seconds from sprinting in the opposite direction to avoid being caught.

Eventually, your heartbeat spikes again. What had he told you last time? To run if someone tried to break in? Maybe he had wanted you to sprint the second you saw a human looming on your fire escape, regardless of their vague bat shape. Was he angry? He kind of always looked angry.

“Have you noticed anyone following you?” His question causes just the briefest alarm.

Living on the not-greatest side of Gotham, you had learned how to keep your head down but your eyes everywhere. If some mugger were looking to jump you as you got out of your car, you’d know. You shake your head, palms beginning to sweat.

Batman assesses you for a bit longer. You can’t tell if he’s reading you for a lie or if his instincts are just telling him otherwise, but eventually, he accepts your answer.

And begins to leave.

“Wait,” you stutter out against your better judgement, when he’s already stood to his full height, one boot positioned on the railing to propel himself below. He looks over his shoulder at you very slowly, “how’s your... side? Wound heal okay?

He looks down to where you’d stitched him, where his armor had been mended. “It’s better.”

You sigh, relieved. “You’ve gotten it looked at, then.”

“Someone looked at it.”

His wording gives you pause. “What about your stitches? Did you get them redone?” He hesitates. “You... did get them redone, right? Better. Preferably by someone who wasn’t worried about you dying on their living room floor.” Your skin prickles when you see his guilty look. “Batman, if you’ve been fighting crime every night for the past week with the same stitches I put in you days ago-”

“I’ve been through worse.”

“So you keep saying.” You really don’t mean to grit your teeth at him, practically stomping your foot because you’d, at the very least, expected him to be a bit smart about a bullet wound.

But, then again, you were talking to a man dressed as a bat.

You crawl out onto the fire escape, chilly and biting and unforgiving as the night may be, and watch Batman turn halfway toward you. You have to resist the urge to brush your hand against his side, an act far too intimate with Kevlar in the way. You look up at him, “Don’t suppose you’d let me take another look at it?”

The first time, sure, he let you because he was close to dying. With a motto of “I’ve been through worse” at his disposal, you doubted he would let you do it again unless the circumstances were dire.

Sure enough, he moves defensively away from you. You take heart in that it seems less like he distrusts you and more like he’s got a bravado issue. Not great, but better. Easier to fix.

You think of the medical supplies in your apartment and wonder if you’ve got what it takes to coax him inside. “I thought that you might not come again. Guy like you fighting crime every night must have people on hand for stuff like this, right? You’re not just any vigilante. Couldn’t be.” His unsettling glare makes the cold seep into you just a little bit more, “You don’t. Do you?”

He doesn’t answer you. His eyes shift from yours to the cityscape. Looking for a way out, maybe.

But if he wanted to leave, he would leave. Why would he hesitate?

“I just want to look. Make sure it’s not infected. No poking or prodding, I promise.”

“It’s not. I had someone look at it.”

“A doctor?”

“...No.”

“Someone who knows what they’re looking at, at least?”

He looks down at you. There’s something there that he’s keeping close to his chest, too much information for a stranger (even one who’s saved his life). You wait to see what his decision will be. “You work at Gotham General.” Batman states, matter-of-factly.

“...I know you were bleeding to death when I told you, but you’ve got to keep up in this city.” You see a hint of a smile on his mouth that is just as easily written off as a scowl. “What about it?”

Again, that look.

Just as you’re certain that you’re about to break through to something, a siren goes off in the distance. Sure enough, when the both of you look to the sky, his emblem is carved out in the clouds, beckoning him down to the streets once more. Your heart sinks. You were so close.

Batman waits a beat, positioning himself on the railing again. His eyes find yours over his shoulder, cape fluttering with the promise of taking flight, “They’re lucky to have you.”

He leaves. It feels even colder when he does.

taglist: @yikes-buddy​ @alexxavicry​ @moonlightreader649​ @maryx0107  @vainillasmil157​

[cameronspecial]

Thorn In My Side, Rose In My Hand (Part 2)

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Under Age Drinking, Violence and being alone with a dangerous man. If I missed one just tell me.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 3.6K

Summary: Y/N isn’t much of a partier, but the promise of books gets her out of her room. What happens when a dangerous guest feels to make his presence known?

Masterlist

Parties are not Y/N’s definition of fun. They are noisy, crowded, sweaty, smelly and if her brother is the host for the evening, then she always manages to get roped into helping with the disastrous clean the next morning. The only time you could only ever find her at a party is if Lacey and Mason have bribed her with the offer of a free book.  

This is one of the times where the promise of a book spree has led Y/N to be in the car waiting for her brother at the liquor store on the Cut that doesn’t card people. She honestly isn’t even sure the store has a license. Marvin and Cassie Y/L/N are away for their yearly couples getaway that they have been going on since the twins were old enough to stay home alone. This year they are in Bali. Marvin is a corporate lawyer and Cassie is a successful author, so it is nice to get some time together, away from all responsibilities. Y/N doesn’t mind being on the Cut side of the island. She is not one to particularly care about the Pogues vs Kooks war. 

Mason makes his way back towards the car carrying multiple different bags. He puts them in the trunk and hops back into the driver’s seat. “Did you at least get me some hard kombucha or some sort of seltzer?” Y/N questions. The car starts moving and Mason glances towards his sister, “Of course, dude. I know you. Plus, I feel better knowing that your drinks are in a can. Less chances of someone tampering with it.” “You know, Mace, you are kinda sweet when you are all big brothery,” Y/N teases as she gives her brother a light punch to the arm. Mason smiles at his sister and the car falls quiet for a few minutes with the only sound coming from the radio. 

“You know Rafe really is trying to be more friendly to you,” Mason begins to break the silence but regrets it as soon as he sees the disapproving look on Y/N’s face, “Okay well he is kinda trying.” Y/N pauses the conversation to think about how she is going to answer. “Well, he’s doing a horrible job at it. It’s not that I despise him. I just hate the whiplash he gives me with the two personalities he has when he is around me,” she explains. Mason's face turns to confusion, “What do you mean?” “I mean that one minute he is annoying the shit out of me and then the next he does something nice for me. Like the other day with my phone or when we met or when he stole my cookie. For as long as I’ve known him, he has either been caring or a nuisance. Never just simply one or the other. Plus, I don’t love how he treats the pogues,” Y/N complains. “Right,” Mason agrees dully. All he wants is for his best friend and sister to get along. 

“It’s also his constant flirting with any female that so much as looks in his direction. Like I get that he’s hot but he doesn’t need to act like he is god’s gift to humankind,” Y/N continues. Mason completely understands what his sister means by that because Rafe is the stereotypical playboy, “Yeah, I get that. Dude, it’s not like I’m asking you to marry him. I don’t even want you guys to be in a romantic relationship, anyways. It would just be nice to not have to play advocate for you guys.”

——

Y/N is getting ready in her room while the boys get the alcohol prepared in the kitchen. “So your sister is coming tonight too, right?” Rafe asks Mason. Although he loves to tease Y/N, Rafe had an ‘only I can mess with her’ type of view. Also, Mason and Rafe had an unspoken agreement that Rafe would always keep an eye on Y/N whenever Mason couldn’t. It is important to both boys that she is safe and Rafe would rather cut off his left leg than let anything happen to his unconscious love. “Yeah. I’m going to be out, like, $200 because of the book spree I promised her but she agreed. “Okay, cool,” Rafe says and even though he tries to sound nonchalant about it, Mason could see the flash of excitement that went through Rafe’s eyes. 

He may not like to admit it, but Mason knows Rafe has an interest in his twin sister. However, he wasn’t sure if it was just lust or something deeper and more romantic than that. Either way, Mason is not going to risk his sister’s heart just in case it is the former. With what he saw from his best friend’s dating history, Rafe could never be the right person for Y/N because he has never taken any of his relationships past the friends-with-benefits/hook-up stage. 

Yet, Mason couldn’t possibly know what is passing through Rafe’s mind at that exact moment. What is the best way to keep an eye on Y/N without making her feel uncomfortable? How could he make sure that no boys make unwanted advanced toward her? Is there anything he could do to make her safer? Would she wear the carpenter pants that she loves because of all the pockets it has? Or would she wear the new dress she got last week that she was so excited about showing Mason when she got back home? How many different places could he hide her book if she brought one down with her? Could he trick her into drinking beer, which he knows she doesn’t like the bitter taste of? Rafe shakes his head as he tries to get himself out of the rabbit hole he’s gotten himself into. 

——

The Y/L/N residence is filled to the brim with Kooks and Tourons lucky enough to be invited by an island native. Music pounds into Y/N's head as she hands out drinks to anyone that asks. She finds it easier to stay in the kitchen and play host than actually try to engage in meaningless conversations. 

Her train of thought is interrupted by someone making their presence known to her from behind, “So, Y/L/N, is this your playlist that’s playing because I swear every song just sounds the same and is about breakups.” Y/N ignores the statement made by the taller boy and continues to hand the beer over to the person in front of her. She must be a Touron because Y/N has never seen her before. Y/N feels Rafe approach her as she hands the next boy in line a beer as well. 

Before the boy can grab the drink, Rafe reaches over her shoulder and grabs the can out of her hand. “Seriously, Rafe. What are you, four?” Y/N criticizes as she reaches for the drink, “You really aren’t very original you know.” Rafe could’ve sworn he saw, just for a millisecond, a playful look in Y/N’s eyes before it is replaced again with a serious and unamused look. After a few seconds of no luck, Y/N just reaches down for another can of beer and hands it to the intended recipient. 

Once the other boy is gone, Rafe finally sets the can down and goes in closer to her so that he is just on the edge of invading her personal space. “So, what books are you going to milk dry from your brother?” he asks as he goes to play with the bottom of her hair but thinks against it. He isn’t sure if it would make her uncomfortable. Little did Rafe know, Y/N thought of a way to get back at him for the teasing. She places her hand behind her back on the counter and grabs the beer Rafe just placed down. She quickly brings her hand back around and shakes the can, then opens it. The fizz dirties both of them, but the look of shock and slight annoyance on Rafe’s face makes it worth it. “Really, Y/L/N,” he complains as he shakes the drink off of his hands. Y/N giggles as she walks out of the kitchen to go change, “Maybe you should start keeping clothes in a drawer in Mason’s room. Like his girlfriend would do.” Before she is completely out of hearing range, Rafe shouts, “I’d much rather the drawer be in your room.” 

——

Y/N decides that she isn’t going to return to the party after she finished changing, so she makes her way to the hidden gazebo in the backyard. The music from the party is drowned out and the twinkle of the fairy lights brings her a feeling of calm. She sits in the dangling basket chair put up by her father for her to read and starts to read her book. 

She is so entranced by the book that she didn’t notice that Owen Taleman has made his way out to the gazebo as well. His golden brown hair is slicked back and his green eyes hold a dark look. It does not surprise her that he is wearing a full suit to a house party because the uptight man is rarely seen without one. While Rafe typically teases Y/N in a manner that hints at lovingness and playfulness, Owen’s teasing is laced with cruelty and mockery. No one is safe from the entitled prick; not even little children. Y/N is positive she once heard him insult a toddler’s shoes. “Of course, the little bitch reader is hiding out from the party,” Owen mocks as he struts his way toward her. 

Y/N may have been a reader and quieter than Mason, Lacey or Rafe, but she is not afraid to stand up for herself or defend herself. “At least I’m not an asshole who can't get my head out of my ass,” Y/N retorts. Owen’s face easily turns red and he gets right into Y/N’s face. The boy towers over her with a menacing look on his face. Y/N normally wouldn’t be nervous, but the fact that she is alone makes her understand the danger of the situation. 

Rafe’s eyes flicker through the crowd as he looks for Y/N. He didn’t see her leave her room and when he knocked, she didn’t answer. He begins to get worried as he has a bad feeling in his stomach. He spots Mason going up towards his room with a Touron girl. Rafe threads his way through the people quickly, “Yo, have you seen Y/N?” Even though Mason normally keeps an eye out for his sister, he made sure to give her her space. However, the look of worry on Rafe’s face instantly clues Mason in that something is wrong. Both boys abandon the unknown girl in search of Y/N. 

They searched everywhere in the house and concluded that she must have gone somewhere outside. The sight they are met with makes their blood boil. Owen’s face is close to Y/N’s and his hand is curled in a fist, ready to throw a punch. “Dude, you better back away from my sister before I make you,” Mason threatens as he advances toward the pair with Rafe going ahead of him. Owen distances himself a little from Y/N and turns towards the newcomers, “Oh look, it’s Tweedledee and Tweedledum. I’m surprised you both don’t have your tongues shoved down some whores mouth.” Owen didn’t realize that insulting her brother would anger Y/N into aggression, but he soon would. 

Upon hearing his words, Y/N taps Owen’s shoulder and punches him once he is facing her. When he comes back up, Owen’s nose is bleeding profusely and an embarrassed look is on his face. He is definitely the type of person to throw a fit about losing to a girl. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers for this,” Owen yells as he stomps off of the Y/L/N property. “Go ahead, try! I promise mine are scarier!” Y/N retorts. 

Owen is out of sight when Y/N finally starts to process what could’ve happened if Mason and Rafe hadn’t come looking for her. Owen is a known hothead. Some could say even worse than Rafe. She goes to get comfort from the closest body to her, which happens to be Rafe. She tucks her head into his neck and wraps her arms tightly around his waist, “I think the adrenaline wore off. I was so scared when no one else was around. I didn’t know what to do.”

Rafe quickly wraps his arm around her shoulders and buries his face into her hair. The smell of her lavender shampoo hits his nose. “You’re okay. We’ve got you,” he soothes as he notices that Y/N began sniffling. He gently runs his fingers through her hair and shifts his weight from one leg to the other to rock the both of them. 

Mason is not an idiot. He may have believed his friend wasn’t capable of holding true romantic feelings for someone, but as he watches the domestic scene in front of him, there is no denying the two have some sort of chemistry. Mason could see the concern and love that are in Rafe’s eyes. Mason listens to the soft reassurances Rafe whispers in her ear and sees his sister slowly start to calm down. This is a side of Rafe that Mason has never seen before. 

Rafe’s eyes make contact with Mason’s and an unspoken conversation happens between the two. Mason goes back into the house, turns off the music and turns all the lights on, “Dudes! Party is over so get the fuck out of my house! You don’t have to go home, but you have to get out!” Disappointment can be heard throughout the crowd, but they quickly start filing out of the house because what one of the Kook princes wanted, they got. 

Y/N and Rafe watch from outside as people start to file out of the house. Most of the people are out of the house by the time Rafe leads Y/N back inside and into her room. He stands outside of her door like a bodyguard while he waits for her to change. She opens the door wearing an oversized shirt and some shorts. The shirt looks familiar and Rafe realizes that it is his Led Zeppelin shirt. She must have taken it from Mason because Rafe and Mason borrowed each others’ clothes enough times that they practically shared their closets. 

Rafe feels butterflies in his stomach as he realizes just how much he likes the idea of her wearing one of his shirts. “You know that’s my shirt right,” he smirks as he gets closer to the girl. She scrunches her nose in confusion and shakes her head, “Oh, I found it in Mason’s laundry. And it’s mine now. So you aren’t getting it back anytime soon. It’s comfy.” She wraps her hand around her waist protectively. Rafe slowly makes his way closer to Y/N as if he is approaching a fawn. He gently wraps his arms around her and smiles when she lets him. “I wasn’t asking for it back. You look good in it.” She feels a blush form on her cheeks and turns away from him. She leads him into her room and lies down on her bed. He follows her and waits for her to tell him what she wants him to do. “Can you stay until I fall asleep? I don’t feel like being alone right now,” she whispers as if she is scared of what he is going to say. 

Rafe nods his head and pulls her desk chair closer to the bed. He knows Y/N hates it when people wear outside clothes on her bed. She reaches her hand out for his and he takes it. And they just stay there looking at each other while she falls asleep. Rafe traces patterns onto her hand with his thumb. Once he sees she is asleep, he quietly gets up from the chair and goes downstairs to find Mason starting to clean up already.

Rafe starts to help with the cleanup by picking up the solo cups littering the floors. “So you do love her.” He hears from behind him. Mason stands at the doorway of the living room, leaning on the door frame. “Yeah, I do. I know it’s cheesy and unoriginal and probably wrong to say but I think I couldn’t commit to anyone else because my heart knows she’s the only one that can truly make it want to beat faster and stop at the same time. When I’m with her, time goes by so fast but I just want time to stop,” he confides to his best friend. “Right, and what is it about her that makes you like her?” Mason questions still wanting to make sure his friend’s feelings are genuine. 

The smile on Rafe’s face says it all, “I don’t think I could really pinpoint what it is. But she makes me happy and I love how she doesn’t treat me any differently because of who I am. She’s not afraid to stand up for herself and she’s the most caring and protective person I know. I mean she literally just punched Owen for me just to stand up for me and she doesn’t even like me.” Mason nods in understanding and resumes cleaning up. “Dude, I’m going to try to set you up with my sister. Now that I know how you truly feel, I trust that you will not hurt her feelings. But if she refuses to go out with you, then you have to promise to leave it at that and stop bothering her okay.” 

Rafe gives Mason an unsure look as he thinks the other boy is joking. “Are you sure? I mean I’ll totally back off if she says no once I get the courage to ask. Thank you so much,” he gives his appreciation to his friend. Rafe drops the garbage bag in his hand and runs to hug Mason. “Okay, so the first thing we can do to get you on Y/N/N's good side is finish cleaning the house before she wakes up. Cleaning messes after a party is literally one of her least favourite things when I throw a party. The boys spent a good three hours cleaning the house before they are finally ready to settle down for the night. 

——

Y/N expects the sun from the window to wake her up this morning but instead, she is woken up by the soft sound of music coming from downstairs. She quickly hops out of bed and completes her morning routine before pulling Mason’s swim team hoodie over her head. She thought she would see a complete mess as she makes her way to the source; however, she is delightfully surprised to see the house spotless. The girl finds the source of the music in the kitchen.

Rafe and Mason are in the kitchen making breakfast. “Good morning, Y/L/N. We wanted to make you your fave eggs benedict recipe of Lacey’s but we couldn’t figure out how to poach the eggs. So rather, we went with making waffles instead,” Rafe informs her then points towards Mason with a spatula, “Mason cut the strawberries. If you want bananas, then he is getting it ready right now. I also went out to get the fresh whipped cream and hot chocolate you like from that fancy grocery store.” She smiles at the boys and sits at the kitchen island, “Thank you! It smells so good and it was sweet of you to go to the store. Also, thanks for cleaning the house.” Rafe beams at the girl as he slides the cup of hot chocolate toward the girl. He knows he hasn’t done much to get on her good side yet, but he found it amazing that she is always polite, even to people she isn’t a big fan of. He takes the last waffle out of the waffle maker and sets it on her plate. He adds the fruits and whipped cream then gets cutlery for everyone. Once everything is ready for breakfast, everyone sits down and starts to eat. 

Throughout breakfast, Y/N kept thinking that Rafe would find some way to tease her. Whether it was about the amount of whipped cream she put on her waffle or the way she let out a satisfied sigh whenever she would take a sip out of her hot chocolate, she prepared herself for the worst. She is proven wrong though. Y/N and Rafe are actually able to have a conversation without fighting. Everyone finishes their breakfast and since the boys cooked, Y/N cleans up for them. “Hey Y/L/N, Mace and I are going to head to the pool to get some training in. Do you wanna come?” Rafe asks her. He is hopeful that she will say yes, except he knows she doesn’t particularly enjoy swimming laps. She looks over her shoulder to him, “No, I’m going to go to the beach. We can meet up for lunch though if you want.” Upon hearing her offer to make plans with him later, Rafe becomes overjoyed at the fact that she wants to spend more time with him. But he doesn’t know Y/N spending time on the beach alone leads to an encounter that will rid him of his happiness and hope. 

Taglist: @itsalexwin @sublimepenguinpeach-blog

[priceyprice]

I loved reading the Christmas fic! it was so cute but all I could think about after was reader giving him back the promise ring when he pushes reader away

I love your writing and hope you had a good start to the new year <3

Oh my, thank you so much, my dear! Happy New Year to you too! I hope you have a good start! I apologize for the late reply. I'm so happy people liked the Christmas ver. I dont know if you have read the version of how things would've "ended" for them. Here's the other version.

The part you're talking about would've been like this (derived from the other version):

Prof!Price

Prof!Price as he's in his apartment, beside his liquor shelf, taking a glass of his favorite whiskey already losing track of how many glasses he had poured to himself.

His apartment was dark. The only thing that brought light to the place was the fireplace in his living room.

His mind was fogged with thoughts about her. How the light from her eyes disappeared the moment he spoke, feeling his lips burned as if the three obnoxious words had had some kind of acid in them.

"Let's end things here."

He will never tell her the reason he broke up with her was because the superiors found out about a student in a relationship with one of her professors, causing her to get expelled and getting her student record damaged.

He actually doesn't care if he gets fired or gets his professor's license revoked. He's already a grown man with many things accomplished in his life.

Unlike her.

She's still pursuing her career. How can he be so self-centered and damage all the sacrifice and work she has done so far?

He couldn't find the guts to do that. He isn't selfish enough to throw all her hard work to the cliff just because he wants to be with her.

So now he's here, rotting in only memories of her because he decided to terminate things.

He doesn't want to get used to the silence of his apartment. He doesn't want to get used to the absence of her presence. He doesn't want to get used to her perfume fading away from his sheets. To the phantom of her skin flushed against his, creating a perfect puzzle as if their bodies were made for each other. To the memory of her smile haunting his dreams every night. Fuck he doesn't want anything of this.

But again, he was the one who made the decision.

So he needs to get used to all of this.

His thoughts drifted away when he heard soft sounds on the floor of his living room.

Price knows those footsteps very well, and he memorized them like it was his own heartbeat.

His eyes went up, finding the one who hadn't left his mind, not even for a second. Who has his reason for living in the palm of her hand, between her pretty fingers.

"What are you doing here?"

It's not surprising to find her inside of the apartment since she knows the password of his door lock. And he doesn't have plans to change it either since the password is her birthday.

She just stared at him without saying anything. Even just two weeks have passed since they had talked, but it felt like a year. Everything was going slow for both of them. Everything was going downhill.

Price sighed, dropping his shoulders in a tired expression when she just stood there in silence. "Look, I don't have energy to talk about the reason I broke up-..."

"I'm not here to talk about that, John." He almost closed his eyes when his name rolled out of her tongue like honey. He missed it so much.

She started to walk closer to him until they were in front of each other. He could now see her face clearly. Her eyes were dull, red and puffy, with slightly bags under it. Product of the sleepless nights crying under her covers.

She was broken.

And it was his fault.

He will never forgive himself for that.

"I came to give you this." She opened her hand in front of him, revealing the beautiful morganite ring he gave her on Christmas day. If his heart couldn't be more broken, this time is shattered into pieces.

A symbol of his love, a part of his heart and soul is in that ring.

A ring he once gave her with the promise of a marriage and a beautiful life together.

But now, it was all gone.

He remembered he told her that if things went south, she could give him back the ring, ending things. He said that with the hopes of never getting it back, but here it is, in front of him shining like it holds the last bit of hope of their now nonexistent relationship.

He took it slowly from her hand. Fingers caressing lightly her skin, feeling that burning sensation reminding both of them those feelings are still fresh, difficult to get rid of them.

He looked at the ring for a few seconds, remembering the joy he felt when she accepted the ring.

"You can keep the ring-..."

"You told me to give it back if something happens and... It happened." Her eyes itched, ready to let tears stream down, but she tried to stay strong. She's tired of crying every night for the same thing.

"Just accept it, John. Please."

His eyes went up to her and saw the pleading look she was giving to him. Price can understand she wants to pass the page and move on for her own good, but a part of him doesn't want her to give up on him. To give up on the devotion he has for her. She will always be his one and only love for the rest of his days. His every breath, every heartbeat will be for her and only her.

So because he loves her so much, he will respect her decisions and let her move on.

He gave her a little smile, making her skip a beat. "I understand. Thank you for bringing it to me."

She nodded without reciprocating the smile. Taking a few steps back, she looked at that familiar spot on the floor in front of his fireplace. The same spot he gave her the ring before saying their I love you's to each other in between moans and kisses. Her gaze went back to him, memorizing those beautiful blue eyes she would always have in her mind, heart, and soul.

"Goodbye, Professor Price."

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

I apologize for any misspelling or mistakes. Any suggestions or requests are appreciated. 🫶

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

The lgbts in Florida and the surrounding area are claiming that the drag show ban will result in women who just don’t dress “in a typical women fashion (ie wearing pants and flannel and ties)” or are even just “not conventionally attractive” will be targeted by police for death just by appearing in public around children (“they’ll be confused for drag queens”, they’re basically claiming a mom who likes wearing pants and baseball caps and shorter hair could be killed for picking up her children from the playground, or a transgender person just walking by children in public could be). On one hand, this is prima facie ridiculous, court trials and innocent until proven guilty exist, people aren’t that stupid, and I don’t think anyone should be around sexual things (regardless of age) period. On the other hand, the police have a bad reputation for a reason, police brutality and such exist, my trust for the government varies greatly, some people really are that stupid, and I am a paranoid person by nature and my mind tends to go towards the worst possible things. But that’s a me problem. I’m pretty sure the law only talks about punishing actual sexual content around children, but I haven’t read the legal text yet. Any thoughts?

So, here's the full text of the most recent version of the "drag ban" law. As with most of these based Florida laws, it's very short, so I encourage everyone to give it a read. But to summarize:

The law never mentions "drag" even once. Instead, it says, and I'm paraphrasing here so read the actual text yourself, that children aren't allowed in any event meant for adults that has a sexual component.

The punishment is directed towards businesses and government agencies that issue licenses for events. Not individuals.

The punishments listed are all fines or license revocations. Specifically Beverage licenses. So if you host an adult event and allow children to attend at your restaurant or bar, the government will come after your liquor license. No jail time is mentioned. And there's certainly no mention of executions.

Again, the law mentions events, not individual actions. So no, this law wouldn't make it illegal for a drag queen to walk past a child in public. That might fall under public indecency laws, or indecent exposure to a minor, but those are different laws that have nothing to do with this one.

So no, it's not at all reasonable to think that this law will lead to ugly women in flannel getting shot by the police just for walking past a playground. Like all left wing overreaction, they're scared of things that will literally never happen. Even the worst, most evil cop who just wants an excuse to kill innocent people wouldn't be able to use this law to justify shooting someone.

The way the media lies about these Florida laws is egregious, even by modern media standards. Never believe a single thing a newspig says about them without reading the law yourself first.

[puckgoss]

okay everyone… the deep dive you’ve all been very patiently waiting for… i recommend putting on the “the departed” “the godfather” or “goodfellas” soundtracks while reading this!

thanks to the anons who sent in info about all of this. huge thanks to the anon who was able to reveal some personal information about the family (from the same town).

when i got an ask saying sway’s gf’s family is (ex)-mafia i went looking for proof, and that sent me down a huge rabbit hole… 

IMPORTANT NOTE: this is currently under editing/review as i add/clarify further info

Links to Alessandra’s IG & Alessandra’s VSCO

Alessandra’s Background

Alessandra is 21 years old, turning 22 at some point this year (2002 birth year). She graduated high school in 2020 (source).

Alessandra’s family is from Leominster, Massachusetts. They lived there for many generations. Alessandra grew up in a home described as a “chateau” with horses and a dog. A picture of the house can be found below, up to you to decide whether it looks like a chateau or not. The town rumor is that they are ~7th Generation Italian Royalty. They used to vacation to their home on the coast of Puerto Rico during February vacation every year. They still go there often, as you can see on her social media accounts.

She now lives and works in the Northend of Boston. Her and her sister (Anina) are in the same big friend group and have both been described as nice, fun, private, and quiet. Her sister works as a “marketing intern” according to LinkedIn. Alessandra’s job is unknown. They and some of the Bruins players frequent Lincoln in Southie in Boston.

Alessandra has been dating Bruins goaltender Jeremy Swayman since ~Fall 2023. Apparently Alessandra and Jeremy are very cute together in public.

Salvatelli Family Background (Maternal Side)

Here is a family tree to help you visualize this:

Alessandra’s mother (Monique) and aunt (Toni) operate Paisano’s Pizza and Spirits, which they have done since 2019, although the business has been in the family for many years.

In 2007, the restaurant had their liquor license suspended for two days after finding its owner (Toni) hindered a police investigation. Here is an excerpt from the article, the link is here but it’s paywalled.

If you guys want to learn how to bypass hard paywalls on Google Chrome, let me know!

Essentially, Toni’s boyfriend got in a bar fight, and Toni (one of the owners) rushed him out the back door then did not comply with a police officer’s request later that night to give him the security video.

In 2023, the restaurant posted on their Instagram account congratulating Alessandra on running the Boston Marathon.

The restaurant is located in a hole in the wall strip mall and has mediocre reviews.

The article linked above mentions that Toni (and Monique) are the daughters of John Salvatelli, a former City Councillor. He and his brother Robert Salvatelli were both city councillors in Leominster for many years - Robert since at least 1999 and John since around the same time. In early 2005 Robert was voted in as City Council president, supported by his brother John.

Robert Salvatelli retired from this role in 2015. John was a City Councillor for 10 years. Previously, Robert was a teacher and principal at one of the town’s elementary schools.

Iacaboni Family Background (Paternal Side)

Note 1: Their surname is sometimes spelled Iacaboni, and sometimes spelled Iacoboni. I found articles using both spellings referring to the same people.

Note 2: David was Frank Sr.'s stepson. His mother is unknown.

1980s & 1990s

source

Frank Iacaboni Sr. was convicted of being a major player in a multimillion-dollar bookmaking ring.

He "has been paying tribute to the Mafia for years", according to law enforcement sources.

In the mid-1980s, Frank Iacaboni Sr. complained that convicted Boston mobsters Robert Carrozza and Dennis (Champagne) LePore ransacked his home and made off with an estimated $250,000, according to sources.

Police say Burton (Chico) Krantz, the region's preeminent bookmaker, mediated the dispute, in which Iacaboni agreed to pay his tribute without complaint, and the Boston Mafiosi agreed not to kill him.

1993

Sources say David Iacaboni, who was adopted by his stepfather, always resented his father's failure to acknowledge him. But they say, the Iacabonis apparently made some form of reconciliation several years ago when David Iacaboni returned from a brief stay in Florida. That rapprochement ended, however, when David Iacaboni and his wife, Lori, were indicted in 1993 for marijuana trafficking.

Sources say Frank Iacaboni tried to file criminal charges against David for allegedly selling a Corvette he had given to Frank. The elder Iacaboni had also blamed his son for a December 1993 fire at his home. No charges were ever filed, however. After David Iacaboni and his wife were sentenced to 10 years in prison last January, David Iacaboni approached US Attorney Donald K. Stern, offering to lead authorities to the body of Richard Tuttle Jr. in exchange for his wife being released. Stern agreed to the deal.

September 1995

A suspected prowler was killed and a police officer was seriously wounded outside of Frank (Alessandra’s grandfather’s) Iacaboni's house.

Frank’s son, David, who I believe is Alessandra’s paternal uncle, was convicted in the murder of a man in July 1995.

(source)

(source)

January 1996: (source)

FBI agents raided the home of convicted bookmaker Frank E. Iacaboni, shortly after the start of the Super Bowl. No arrests were made, but FBI agents, assisted by state and local police, confiscated some cash.

"It was a sad day for gamblers in Leominster," said one source, who asked not to be identified.

Iacaboni's ranch-style home at 640 Union St. was the scene of a bloody shootout in September after a man opened fire on two police officers who were investigating a complaint of a prowler.

Police sources have said the man may have been trying to steal gambling money from Iacaboni. The shooting is still under investigation by state police.

FBI spokesman Pete S. Ginieres said he could neither confirm nor deny Sunday's raid.

However, Leominster Police Capt. Thomas J. Bisol said local police helped FBI agents execute a search warrant at Iacaboni's house.

Bisol said other homes in the city were also searched. Bisol declined to provide any more details.

"This is an FBI matter," he said.

On Sept. 15 1995, two police officers were called to Iacaboni's house to respond to a call of a prowler outside the home.

Officers Dwayne Flowers and Thomas R. Kent found John J. MacNeil in the garage of the house. MacNeil, 47, charged at the two officers, firing from two hand guns.

MacNeil was killed by police after exchanging more than 26 rounds of gunfire. Kent, 32, who was shot in the chest by MacNeil, is still recovering from his injury.

Police sources at the time said they were investigating the possibility that MacNeil was sent to the house by Iacaboni's estranged son, David M. Iacaboni.

MacNeil was a cellmate of the younger Iacaboni at the Plymouth County Correctional Facility. Police sources said they were looking to see if David Iacaboni sent MacNeil to his father's house to steal gambling receipts, or to kill his father, or to do both.

The police sources said Frank Iacaboni was known to keep large amounts of cash in a safe inside his house.

Frank E. Iacaboni was one of 18 people arrested in 1983 on gaming charges as a result of a state police investigation into illegal gambling. He pleaded guilty to 21 counts of using a telephone for gaming and 13 counts of conspiracy to register bets. He was fined $4,250.

Wednesday, Jan 24 1996:

David Iacaboni was sentenced to 18 to 20 years in prison for killing Richard A. Tuttle Jr. of Lancaster in November 1989.

The younger Iacaboni pleaded guilty to manslaughter in Middlesex Superior Court in Cambridge. He told authorities he killed Tuttle during an argument about a drug sale.

2002-2008: Charges laid, legal documents, case notes

In March 2002, Frank Iacaboni pleaded guilty to charges arising out of his operation of an illegal gambling business.

From 1995 through March 1998, Iacaboni conducted an illegal sports gambling operation in and around Leominster, Massachusetts. Iacaboni's business included a few different "offices" headed by individuals hired to take bets from gamblers over the telephone. Iacaboni also ran a "football ticket" business; bettors paid between $1 and $10 per "ticket," a card on which they checked off four or more predictions in dozens of upcoming games.

Aug 13, 2002 - U.S. v. Iacaboni

Oct 21, 2002 - U.S. v. Iacoboni

Mar 30, 2004 - U.S. v. Iacaboni, other source

April 2005: Indictment handed down on charges of racketeering against 12 men

October 2008: Outline of the criminal case below

March 2009: (source) (source)

In March 2009, Arthur Gianelli, Dennis Albertelli and his wife Giselle, and Frank Iacaboni of Leominster (Alessandra's grandfather) were on trial in federal court for numerous crimes.

Mary Ann Gianelli pleaded guilty to 19 counts of racketeering, money laundering, filing false tax returns, and illegal structuring of cash transactions. Under a plea agreement, the federal government dropped an additional 141 money laundering counts against her.

Her husband was Mafia associate Arthur Gianelli. She helped him run his illegal gambling business after he was indicted on federal racketeering charges in 2005 and placed under house arrest.

Mary Ann Gianelli's sister, Elizabeth, is married to John J. Connolly. Connolly is a former FBI agent who was convicted of federal racketeering charges for protecting long-time informants James "Whitey" Bulger and Stephen "The Rifleman" Flemmi from prosecution. He was also convicted of murder in Florida in November 2008 for plotting with the two gangsters to orchestrate the 1982 slaying of a Boston businessman.

Arthur headed a sprawling criminal enterprise whose members were involved in gambling, money laundering, loan sharking, arson, and extortion. Him and his three co-defendents listed above, including Alessandra’s paternal grandfather Frank Iacaboni, committed hundreds of crimes between 1999 and 2005.

Millions of dollars flowed through the organization's gambling operation, which took bets on football games and later shifted its operation from Massachusetts to an Internet operation in Costa Rica. The organization also created phony companies to hide profits. Gianelli had ties to the Mafia, making weekly payments to reputed New England underboss Carmen "Cheese Man" DiNunzio.

Note: for more info on the Patriarca crime family (Carmen is now the boss), there are links at the end of the post under Appendix A.

One of the victim’s of this organized crime crew was Boston Bruins Hall of Fame goaltender Gerry Cheevers. He was threatened by a leg breaker for not repaying a loan.

Gianelli, Dennis Albertelli, and Frank Iacoboni were also charged with arson for allegedly plotting to burn down the Big Dog Sports Grille in North Reading in 2003 in an attempt to intimidate the owners into selling them another bar that they were poised to open in Lynnfield.

November 9, 2009: (source)

Frank Iacaboni was sentenced to 15 years and 3 months in federal prison and fined $10,000 for his role in a gambling and extortion ring.

He was sentenced in U.S. District Court on charges of racketeering conspiracy, extortion, use of fire to commit extortion, attempted arson of the Big Dog Sports Grille in Reading Nov. 13, 2003, and operating illegal sports and football card gambling businesses.

The Judge noted that he received 29 letters on Mr. Iacaboni’s behalf, including those from a state representative and a city councilor. Those two letters were from state Rep. Dennis A. Rosa and Ward 4 City Councilor Robert A. Salvatelli, both of Leominster. (Alessandra’s maternal great uncle!).

Summary of Findings

Alessandra’s maternal family is extremely powerful and well-connected in Leominster. They have held/still hold positions of power in schools, government, and local business. Her maternal great uncle vouched for her paternal grandfather when he was charged by the federal government for multiple crimes in association with the Mafia. Her paternal uncle was convicted for murdering a man in 1995.

Her maternal family owns the Paisano’s pizza "restaurant", but this is only the tip of the iceberg. It is very likely that their businesses are all fronts for money laundering, illegal gambling, tax evasion, and more. At the very least, her maternal family has been involved in trying to lessen the charges for her paternal family.

Hope you all enjoyed this deep dive ☕️

Appendix A

Patriarca / La Cosa Nostra Crime Family

The bosses of the Boston Mafia

Alleged Underboss of the New England Family of La Cosa Nostra Sentenced to Six Years in Prison

New England mafia underboss Carmen DiNunzio back on the streets

Old Patriarca Famiglia: The Cheeseman Cometh?

VIDEO: How The Mafia CONQUERED Boston | The Patriarca Family Part 1

VIDEO: How The Mafia CONQUERED Boston | The Patriarca Family Part 2

VIDEO: Current State of the Patriarca Crime Family

[toxicbrothel]

birthday

night walks!joel x f!reader (by night walks)

master list

Joel used your drivers license to make some lines of coke one night so he know's it's your birthday and he's gonna take you out. He catches you on your walk and he's wearing his sexy blazer and low cut shirt and his cock is as gorgeous as ever but you don't see that quite yet. "Hey, what do you wanna do for your birthday?"

"The same thing I want every day and night, your cock. But we could also get some liquor and go stargazing and get high in a field. And you can give me your cock before, during, and after that."

"Really?" Joel asks. It sounds too good to be true.

"Hell yeah," you say. "Plus I'm a bad girl so I deserve some birthday spankings."

"Oh yeah, there's my bad girl," Joel agrees. He pulls down your joggers and shoves you up against his SUV. He spanks you and it stings so good and tells you what a bad girl you are, then when he's done, he presses his hard cock against your ass.

"Gimme your cock, Joel. I think about it all day and night and I can't wait another second."

He shoves his cock into you and you both say "Hell yeah." He fucks you against his SUV in his driveway and you keep saying "Harder, harder, Joel" and he fucks you harder, rocking the car. Then you go to the liquor store then stargazing but mostly fucking and smoking and he goes down on you on the picnic blanket and you look so hot in your tank top and joggers a little sweaty from all the fucking and you say, "Joel, I love how we just fuck and love that you're so mysterious. I never want to know about your job or home life. I just love spending time with you and especially your cock."

"I love spending time with you too, Pumpkin."

[averagewriter777]

Ghost and Doc (Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader)

Masterlist

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

(Chapter Seventeen) @calicokitkattkat… this is for you 🙂

Everyone was slightly confused as to why you were all going to America. Alejandro thought for a second he was going back to Mexico until you announced that if you wanted to see your daughter, Price said you needed to bring everyone along. Except for him, as he was breaking down very little intel that was given on the Hawk.

“So… wanna give us the breakdown?”

You nodded at Soap’s suggestion and closed the book you were reading, sighing heavily. “I’m divorced and have a child with someone. Said person, his name is Shawn, has custody of the child, her name is Kennedy, and I see her when I can. When we got back from Cancún, I’d gotten several- about a hundred messages saying that Kennedy had a seizure and is in a coma.” There were three intakes of breath, and you knew who they came from. “Shawn’s dumbass girlfriend, Kiara, left out a glass of vodka that was easily accessible for Kennedy. Children are curious creatures. Shawn and Kiara said they looked away for a second, and all of the vodka was gone and Kennedy was fine for… five minutes before she seized. My child is now in the hospital, in a coma.” “As for why y’all had to come along… Price said if I go home, y’all come with me just so we’re ready if any information about the Hawk comes up.”

Damn. Soap reached across the plane and clapped your shoulder reassuringly. “It’ll be alright, Doc. We’ll make sure to be on our best behavior when we get there.” There was something in his voice that told you ‘best behavior’ didn’t really mean that, but you didn’t care. You were going for legal reasons and for your daughter.

-

The plane landed on the small airbase in Fort Bragg. It was nice to ‘home’ in a sense, even if you’d only been gone less than a month… new record considering being in the military. You only wish it had been like this before… when you were in third group, maybe you would have seen your daughter grow up more.

“Before we step foot out of this plane… we can wear our uniforms to the hospital- because that’s just how it works… but the gear has to go.” The men blinked at you. “You can’t bring weapons into a hospital unless you’re a cop or you have a license to carry. Y’all aren’t even citizens of this country… so we’ll stop by my house first to drop stuff off so you don’t get into trouble when entering the hospital, okay?”

They all grumbled, but acknowledged that they understood. You breathed a sigh of relief then motioned for them to follow you. Your truck was still in the last place you had it. Since it’s legal in the state of North Carolina for people to ride in the bed of trucks, Gaz, Soap and Alejandro sat in bed with all the ‘luggage’ and gear while you and Ghost were in the front. (He’d called shotgun)

“Don’t worry, boys, my house is only like- fifteen minutes from here. Just- don’t show weapons please. I’d rather not get pulled over and have to explain to the military police what’s going on.” They mock saluted you and got in the bed of the truck, ready to hold onto their dear lives. “My driving isn’t that bad… sheesh.” You started the engine.

It scared your neighbors when you arrived, because they were out sitting on their porch with the baby and your truck’s engine wasn’t exactly quiet. There was also the added three men in full gear in the bed of the truck. Once you turned off your truck, you went straight over to assure the family that everything was okay. “It’s my new team, we’re stopping here before making a trip to the hospital.”

“Is everything alright?” Mary, the spouse of your neighbor who was also holding their baby asked. Worry crept across her face at the remark. “Don’t tell me it has to do with poor Kennedy…”

You nodded. “‘Fraid so. Shawn and his dumbass girlfriend left liquor out that was reachable to her. She drank it all and is in a coma.” Mary set a hand on her chest in surprise. “Yeah. I’m only back because of that, and the team had to come with. I was wondering, if it at all becomes an issue, if Kennedy could stay with you two?”

“Doc! The door is locked and this stuff’s heavy!” Gaz called from your side of the lawn. Ghost smacked his arm and mumbled that you were talking, and to give you a minute.

Mary nodded. “Of course! Kennedy is always welcome over here. You know our contact information, and I’ll let James know.” She grabbed your hand before you could leave, giving it a tight squeeze. “We’ll put Kennedy in our prayers for now, okay?”

It wasn’t that you couldn’t jog to the other side, but it was more of the distance being so short that you just walked. “Can’t I say hello to my neighbors, Gaz?” Said man looked down sheepishly at that, kicking at your wood porch. “And I was asking if her and her husband could take care of Kennedy… you know.” Everyone was silent, so they probably didn’t know. So you stuck your key into the hole and twisted it, opening the door wide. “Welcome to my humble abode, gentlemen.”

Everyone set their things down by the couch in the living room, observing the place you called home. One of the last things you thought was ever bringing a full team here… guess there were extenuating circumstances for this one.

“Bathroom’s down the hall to your right, guys. Umm… we’ll figure out sleeping arrangements when we get back from the hospital.” You ran a hand through your hair. “I’m gonna go change into something else, feel free to raid the kitchen or whatever. And please take off your gear.”

(Part Eighteen)

[laracrofted]

(since I’m feeling greedy) how about “show me how much you missed me” for Rhett 😍

i saw the new lewis content and exactly one (1) rhett picture yesterday, and suddenly, i was inspired to write some filth. enjoy! 🤠

warnings: minors dni, mentions of alcohol, language, explicit sexual content (basically rhett gets blown in the storage room at the handsome gambler... so semi-public oral sex), not proofread. rhett x fem!reader (bartender).

You are working a double at the Handsome Gambler again, an excruciating eleven hours, filled with spilled drinks and scattered peanut shells and rambling drunks who've got nothing better to do than get in a fight in your goddamn bar.

Luckily, Carl is working security tonight and can throw them out at the drop of a hat. You just have to give him the look, and all 200-something pounds of muscle are strolling over and grabbing some drunk out-of-towner by the collar of his brand new Carhartt.

Everything gets a whole lot better when Rhett strolls in around midnight, looking rugged and handsome as hell in an old worn (read: not fresh off the rack like California License Plate's) pair of Levi's and a Stetson.

He's been gone all of yesterday and today, away at an out-of-town rodeo just across the state line in Gardiner.

You wanted to go so damn bad and lose your voice cheering him on from the stands, but the Handsome Gambler needed two bartenders to operate on a weekend night. No one wanted to cover your shift.

You were disappointed, of course, but couldn't blame them. Who wants to work a double on a Saturday?

He braces his elbows on the bar and leans in, enough for you to smell mint and tobacco on his breath, and looks at you with those ocean blue eyes, half-lidded from exhaustion and something else entirely.

"Hi darlin'," Rhett murmurs, rough and pleasant, all smoke and leather. "Can I get a whiskey and a beer?"

An idea develops in your brain – your sleep deprived and cowboy deprived brain, who doesn't care much about your job now that Rhett's here. You cast a sidelong glance down to the end of the bar to make sure Wendy has it covered. She seems fine.

"Sure, but I keep the good stuff in the back, cowboy." His eyes flare at the nickname, black pupils blowing out the blue, flickering down to watch your mouth move around the word. "Wanna come help me get it?"

His lips twitch.

Less than a minute later finds you on your knees in the back room with Rhett's cock in your mouth.

You'd pushed him back against the locked door, hard enough to rattle the good liquor bottles that're kept on the metal shelving unit nearest the door, reaching for his belt buckle and peppering kisses on any inch of available skin within reach.

His strong neck. His collarbone, visible through the smallest gap in the plaid shirt. His jaw, covered in afternoon stubble. His neck.

You'd breathed, "Missed you, cowboy," between kisses, to which Rhett had rasped, "Oh yeah, darlin'? Why don'tcha show much how much you missed me?"

You were on your knees in a heartbeat. You might've actually bruised them.

His fingers are strong and insistent in your hair, guiding you on him, encouraging you to move faster. Take him deeper. He brushes the back of your throat, salty and warm.

You swallow instinctively. A strangled whimper punches out of Rhett's chest.

He lets out a long string of curses. "Shit, darlin'. Love your damn mouth. You're so good to me."

You pull back, running your tongue along the sensitive underside of his cock, licking and sucking at the tip of him, growing wetter with every harsh breath that shudders from him.

You're soaked already, just from the sounds of him, the weight of him in your mouth.

You look up at him, lashes sticking together from the moisture welling in your eyes, and damn, Rhett really is beautiful, eyes closed in desperate pleasure. He is still wearing the damn Stetson, which somehow gets you even hotter.

Idle fingers sneak under the hem of your denim skirt, and Rhett catches the movement.

"God, are you – Touch yourself for me," Rhett instructs, breathing hard, "but don't come. I want you to come on my cock later. Don't come, darlin'."

You desperately moan, vibrating around his cock, and with a half-gasped warning, Rhett comes down your throat. You wipe at your mouth with a crumpled napkin in your pocket, rise to your feet again as Rhett recovers.

He is red in the face, flushed and breathing like a marathon runner. He catches a glimpse of your damp fingers, slick from your own wetness.

Rhett lifts your hand to his mouth and sucks the wetness from your fingers, groaning.

"When do you get off, darlin'?"

"2:30 AM."

"Can you make it until then?" Rhett smirks, knowing, reaching under your skirt and running his index finger along the damp seam of your panties. "Christ, girl."

You think Rhett might be half hard already, straining against his now buttoned jeans.

You smirk back, despite the uncomfortable stickiness between your thighs that'll distract you for the rest of the damn shift. "A better question might be, Can you make it until then?"

His gaze is dark and wanting, but Rhett grins. "Meet me at the motel. I'll get us a room."

[lady-z-writes]

Hopper x reader

A hot day at Hawkins new splash zone proves to be a steamy afternoon.

(Part 4 of this post. Also found on ao3.)

Snippet:

Hop stops mid-sip, gaze raising to meet you ...bikini with a see-through cover, big smile.

He swallows hard.

Behind your sunglasses, your eyes linger over the white tshirt sticking to his skin in the heat. He notices. His breath catches.

"You better not be making a scene, sweetheart." He speaks quietly, glancing around at how much distance is between you and the nearest guest.

"Oh, I won't," you hum, removing the bathing suit cover, tossing it on the chair beside him.

His jaw goes slack, eyes gawking at every inch of you. He grinds his teeth.

"When you've had enough, I'm told the changing station locks."

The heat these last few days has been pure luck for the owners of the new splash zone Hawkins just gained.

The new owners gave exclusive tickets to important townspeople - and, he'd heard, a few lucky winners at some local bars. Drum up business, all that.

He'd gotten tickets and gave them straight to Joyce who planned on taking the kids.

Only, this morning she called and informed him the whole household was down with a stomach bug.

So guess where he ended up on this stifling Wednesday morning.

El was stoked, of course. How could he say no?

But no way in Hell was he taking his shirt off.

He barely fit into his swim trunks anymore so he'd had to buy new on the way there. When was the last time he swam ?

Sunglasses on, trying to sit himself into a beach lounger chair, Hop sighs.

"Complimentary champagne?" The owner was going around, handing out freebies which was pretty awesome, no complaints there.

He'd learned they got their liquor license and planned some adult events after hours.

Oh, he could come up with some ideas for a certain someone...

El's laugh snaps him out of his daydream. The redheaded kid managed to get tickets, probably because her mom was a barfly. He's glad. Now El won't be bugging him to join her in the water.

He grabs his champagne. He hated the stuff, to be honest, but free was free and the drops of condensation off the glass made his lips dry from thirst.

Guzzling it, he joked for the owner to leave the bottle.

"For you, Chief, I would."

Was she...flirting with him? He clears his throat, nods, feels sweat drip down the back of his shirt.

"Oh! There you are! Great seeing you, y/n. Thanks for coming."

Hop stops mid-sip, gaze raising to meet you ...bikini with a see-through cover, big smile.

He swallows hard.

"I couldn't pass up the free tickets, Anne. Congrats on the new business endeavor." You hug the woman, grab a champagne, sip it, with a nonchalant, "Hey, Chief."

Behind your sunglasses, your eyes linger over the white tshirt sticking to his skin in the heat. He notices. His breath catches.

"You know each other?" Anne asks.

"Oh. You know: trouble ," you joke, pointing to yourself. Hopper doesn't laugh. Not when he sees the cut of your bikini through the cover, the heave of your breasts when you sigh. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"Chief, y/n and I went to school together; convinced me to take business classes. She's part of the reason today is even happening!" Anne explains.

Hopper swallows more champagne, realizes his glass is now empty.

"Well, aren't we the lucky ones?" he chides.

"Save a bottle for us? We're catching up," y/n tells Anne, points to Hop.

She gives a quick nod, meeting her friend's gaze, acknowledging that there's something here.

"Of course," she hands them another glass. "Meet you out there," Anne nods to the water.

Now alone, Hopper growls low in his throat.

"You better not be making a scene, sweetheart." He speaks quietly, glancing around at how much distance is between them and the nearest guest.

"Oh, I won't," you hum, removing the bathing suit cover, tossing it on the chair beside him.

His jaw goes slack, eyes gawking at every inch of you. He grinds his teeth.

And then he's watching you walk to the tiki bar, lean over on it, say something to Anne while you know his eyes are on you. She points to some small building with "changing station" scrolled on a wood sign.

Your ass looks good in that bikini, he thinks.

When the two of you walk toward the water, Hopper bites his tongue. Anne is in some kinda one piece, but his eyes are glued to you.

You, stepping below one of the sprayers, letting the cool water mist across your chest. You, tensing up when one of the buckets pours down from above; the force gapping your bikini top just a little; making him groan.

He imagines your nipples are hard from the cold water, imagines kissing that spot at the curve of your neck where your shoulder meets, the relief of having your wet body pressed against him in this heat; how he'd rut against you until his cock leaks.

Cock hardening in his swimtrunks, Hopper shifts again, sits forward, places his forearms on his thighs, body in a slouch to sheath him.

Fuck, he wants to touch himself. But obviously not here.

Trying to distract himself, he looks over to find El sitting in the shallow end with Max. Safe, he's glad.

He knows you're putting on this show for him.

"It's so refreshing," you call to him and he notices you walking closer now that your friend is chatting with someone else. You're near him now, standing close enough for him to see the water dripping down your skin. "Come join me."

"I can't, " he grumbles.

"What? Why not?"

Hopper looks at you with a dumbfounded expression.

"You know why."

"Oh!" You lick your lips, sit at the foot of his beach chair. "You hard for me, Jim Hopper?"

His eyes widen behind his sunglasses, "Keep it down. Jesus."

"You can't seem to keep it down, huh, honey?" You speak only a little quieter. "No one can hear us."

He's trying to ignore you, block out the look of your lips when you finish your glass of champagne, the soft hum you make, the chill bumps appearing on your skin when the wind blows.

"When you've had enough, I'm told the changing station locks."

With that, you leave him again.

When he lost control of this whole thing, he'll never know.

He's trying his damnedest to get ahold of himself, but any time his erection starts fading, he has a thought about the changing station or your previous nights together and he's right back at attention again.

It's getting uncomfortable. Between that and the heat, he finds his breathing labored.

When you come back for another glass of champagne, you've got the whole bottle and an ice bucket.

"More?" You ask as you approach.

Fuck.

You're too close, looking like that.

You pour another glass, the condensation dripping down your arms, onto his body, stinging him yet feeling so good.

Fuck.

You sit down in the chair beside him, lean back, close your eyes, and soak up some sun.

You've put an ice cube on your belly, moved it around to cool you down, but now it sits in a puddle on your skin, melting by the second.

Hopper focuses on it, sees you shift those perfect thighs as you readjust.

Fuck.

He bites his cheek, stares at the sky, unable to sit back like that or the neighborhood will be talking about big Jim's hard on at the splash zone opening event.

Talk about a splash zone...

"Y/n..." He hums it, low in his throat, a warning. You need to leave . Or he's going to do something stupid.

You lower your glasses at him, glance over, secretly trying to peek at his little problem .

"They're about to start the raffle. People will be distracted," you stand and he watches the ice cube and water slide down your body, down your thighs...

"Meet you in there?"

He glances up at you, eyes desperate, fingers twitching to just pull you down on his lap, grind himself against you, take you right in the open. With you looking down at him like that...in this chair...he's practically pussy-level.

Before he knows it, he's watching you walk away, seeing the little shrug you give him when you close the changing room door.

He gives it a minute, is tempted to wrap his towel around himself, for fucks sake. He's sweaty enough to have someone believe he was in the water.

Minutes tick by and he's able to settle down a little, focus on the movement of employees, the prepwork going into setting up the doorprizes for the raffle.

He's grateful you're friends with the owner. Maybe that's what you'd been chatting with her about. He doesn't even care if she knows about your little fling. All he cares about is fucking you in that changing station right now.

"Alright! If we can have everyone grab their tickets, we're going to get started with our prizes!!"

Free shit gets people moving real quick. He glances at El who's too engrossed in conversation to notice.

And he stands, crumples his towl in front of him in the least conspicuous way he can, and books it for the changing station.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust, but he sees a wall of lockers, some showers, and you smirking at him.

"You cruel, cruel woman..." he strides toward you, removes his sunglasses, doesn't even care that the door didn't lock behind him.

You squeak when he picks you up, presses your back to the nearest wall as he kisses you roughly.

A moan leaves him at the feeling of your wet bathingsuit against his warm body.

"Hop, the door, baby..." you remind him, trying to reach it yourself.

His hand juts out, swipes the lock shut, returns to kissing you.

"Off. Now." He's pulling at your bikini top, trying desperately to get your tits in his mouth.

"I want you shirtless, Jim," you moan out as he's kissing your chest.

"Mhm. I know, baby. I know," he groans when the top falls to the ground. "First I need to feel you,."

His finger dips under your bikini bottoms, feels you dripping wet, swollen with arousal.

"Oh, fuck..." he can't help but cuss. "That little teasing do something for you too? God..."

You nod against him, "and your body. Fuck, Hop, you in that shirt. I could see the outline of your body," you moan when he inserts another finger into you. "You had to know what you were doing."

He hadn't, but he'll play that way, act like he'd been very aware.

"Cum on my fingers, sweetheart. Cum for me. And then I'll fill you up."

He knows you thrive on the dirty talk, sees you glancing down between your bodies to watch his forearm flexing as he pumps his fingers into you.

When he puts his mouth on your left tit, you arch against him, let out a soft whine. He feels your walls clenching around him, puts more intensity in his movements to help your orgasm along.

And then you're clawing at his shirt, kissing him roughly, sloppy, moaning into his mouth.

Hopper can feel precum leaking, inhales sharply as he sets you down on wobbly legs.

You paw at his shirt and he obliges, removing the sweaty thing and tossing it to the bench beside the lockers.

The room is stifling, fans lazily spinning overhead, but Jim is drenched in sweat.

You eagerly touch him, fondle his love handles, kiss his biceps, grind your lower half against him. Hopper loops his fingers under your bikini bottoms and pulls them down your legs, leaves you completely bare for him.

His swimtrunks are tented, and he feels his cock pulse at the look of you - wet and desperate before him.

"Go start the shower," he instructs.

As he watches you walk there and open the curtain, he steps out of his swimtrunks, pumps a fist over his hardened cock. The slightest touch to his tip has him hissing an inhale.

He follows you there, surprises you when he presses your back to the wall under the spigot, forearm above your head, kisses you wantingly. "Legs on my shoulders," he speaks, lowering himself to his knees.

You're hesitant, he can tell. "Dont worry. I've got you."

His hands cup your ass, holding you up as you lean against the wall, drape your legs over his hunched position, knees on his shoulders.

And then his mouth is on you and you're gasping once more.

Hopper eats you out like you're his hydration for the day. You're dizzy with arousal, you find solace in the metal fall bars on the shower wall.

Hopper can't help but pump his hand around his cock when you've steadied yourself more.

"Don't," you urge, moaning as he flicks his tongue across your clit. "Dont cum. Not yet, Hop. Please. I want you in my mouth."

The growl that leaves him vibrates against your pussy and you're coming on his tongue in moments.

He helps you to the ground, stands, gets pelted in the face by the shower water. As he makes sure you're steady, his mouth drops open at the sight of you on your knees for him.

He throws his head back when you deep throat him, says your name like a curse, doesn't hold back from pounding into your mouth.

"Oh, fuck, good girl. God damn...so close."

His orgasm hits him quickly and he's thankful for the release, finally, gasping out your name. You choke on the amount which he finds so sexy, but you swallow him down. When he's finished, the feel of you swirling your tongue over his corona sends chills through him.

He shudders, feels your mouth pop off him, watches you turn off the water, realizes he's still hard.

"Fuck, I need to feel you," he kisses you, this time more intimate, less needy and heated.

You lean into the kisses, stroke your hand down his facial hair, fondle his torso, press an open hand to his neck in a mock choke.

"Yes, sir."

You lead him away, sit him on top of his towel on the bench, grab two folded towels to place beside him, and straddle his thighs.

His cock finds your opening quickly as you sink down on him; the initial feeling making his eyes close.

He doesn't rut up into you, but instead allows you to move at your own pace.

His hands trail down your torso, landing on your hips and gripping them, helping you along.

Watching you ride his cock, he moans as you slam down on him, hitting you deep.

Your nails dig into his shoulders and he's sure you'll leave marks again just when the last ones faded.

He'd stay like this all day, if he could.

The urgency you feel when someone pulls at the locked door, you feel your cheeks heat up, pull your bare breasts closer toward Hopper's body.

He chuckles, listening to the footsteps retreating, thankful you know the owner.

Your hair is still dripping wet from the shower and he enjoys watching the beads of water trail between your breasts. It's mesmerizing.

You grip his shoulders harder, pull him in for a kiss, moan against his mouth. The sounds you're making alert him that you're coming. He hadn't even realized you were close.

"Mmm, there you go, sweetheart. Oh fuck, so wet for me."

You slouch against him, heavy breaths on his skin.

He loves feeling you this close, enjoys the way you let him manhandle you after you're done.

Hopper tilts your chin up as he lifts and drops you in his lap. The way you're looking at him, the feel of your slick pussy...he can't help but be close.

"Get off," he grunts.

"I did!" you gasp.

Swiftly, he lifts you off of him, sets you on the floor before him.

You're about to protest when you watch his hand cup around his erection, jerking himself off.

You always love watching the muscles move in his forearm when he's masturbating. You understand now what he wants.

You kneel again, get ready, trace your hands over his thick thighs, ghost your fingers over his balls.

Hopper moans.

"Wanna see your tits painted," he huffs out.

It's warm when his cum hits your breasts. Hopper moans loudly as the look of you before him, eager, dick drunk, streaks of his cum sliding down your perfect tits.

He leans forward, kisses you with such passion, such need and warmth, you never want it to stop.

Your knees ache from the tile, but he helps you stand, starts the shower water, helps rinse you off and clean you up.

His hand trailing all over your skin, you're heated once more yet so pleased.

Hopper takes good care of you, almost lulling you to sleep. Between the champagne, the orgasms, and the heat you want a nap.

"You've been so good to me today, baby girl." At his words, you nod. "You fucked out? Too cockdrunk to walk?" He's teasing but, damn, does he love seeing you like this.

"M'fine," you urge, kiss him again while he gets your bikini top clipped.

Your skin looks irritated from the biting and his facial hair, but he can't help kissing your skin again.

"You don't stop now, we'll never leave."

He hums. You're right.

It's decided you'll sneak out seperate.

"Do this again soon?" he asks, grabbing his towel.

"Please," you respond, kissing him once more.

Quickly, Hopper sneaks out of the changing station, sunglasses on, walks calmly to his chair again. He smirks at the look your friend is giving him, nods a 'thank you' her way.

He sits down, cusses at the burning sensation from the chair sitting in the sun.

And he realizes.

He left his shirt.

Fuck.

He hopes El doesn't notice the nail marks on his shoulder.

Moments later, his eyes meet yours before you slide your sunglasses on.

Your knees are still marked, bruised from the tile floor you knelt on. His shirt is pulled over your body, wet spots from where your bikini hits.

He thinks you're leaving, but you approach your friend, grab a glass of champagne, and approach him.

"Thanks for a nice time, sir. Glad Anne made good on your invite she promised me," you wink at him, taking a sip then handing him the champagne.

You little...-

He watches you walk right out of the park.

Until next time.

[haitang-blossoms]

On Differential Methods, Politics, & Intimacy for Early Novel!Cezhou (haitang-blossoms' Qiang Jin Jiu meta)

Note: This analysis goes up to Chapter 42 which is where I had read up to before Lianyin's fantranslation was taken down due to official English licensing by Seven Seas. This is also the source of my quoted screenshots of the novel.

The way both Shen Zechuan and Xiao Chiye weaponise perceived incompetence (through fabricated images of "grateful helplessness" and "devil-may-care hedonism" respectively) is so compelling and really serves to flesh out the realities of the environment they are forced to navigate.

It is a recurring narrative motif that both Shen Zechuan and Xiao Chiye are "beasts" trapped and restrained by the political system of Qudu. However, the difference in social position and status between them is key to why they choose the masks that they do.

Shen Zechuan, both as a by-proxy-traitor to the nation and as the son of a dancer, has always had to keep his head down and not act beyond his station. Thus, it is perfectly natural that he operates within this expected framework: both to survive in the hostile political landscape as well as to conceal his own intentions and moves within the shadows.

Xiao Chiye, on the other hand, was born into relative power. While the Xiao Clan of Libei was never in the favour of the Empress Dowager, they are nonetheless a reputable cavalry with a hereditary title. Xiao Chiye, as the second son, has both less direct political influence as well as responsibility than his father (the prince) or his elder brother (the next-in-line). This is how he is so easily made a "bargaining chip" and assigned to what seems to be a hopelessly dead-end job in order to keep a metaphorical "leash" on any rebellious intent that Libei may harbour. Given his wealth and inevitable position of being constantly in the public eye, the easiest way to cover up the target on Xiao Chiye's back is to present himself as a frivolous hedonist who is too busy chasing after liquor and bed-partners to pose a real threat to the established power dynamics of the capital.

The difference between their methods can also be observed in the way that their preferences are perceived by others:

Xiao Chiye presents himself as genial: he loves to drink, he is sociable enough to go out with friends frequently etc. However, as seen in the quote above, Xiao Chiye's "friendliness" is actually quite distant in that even the people who think they know him well are unaware of his true preferences. Yet he conducts himself in such a manner that they would not even think to ponder such things. It is a very effective approach for gathering intel: make the other party assume you are giving away much more about yourself than you are, opening the door for them to carelessly overshare from a sense of fabricated comradery.

Shen Zechuan is the opposite: going along with how he is forced to constantly humble himself and downplay his abilities, his preferences have to be presented as equally accommodating to the will of others. There are many instances where he seemingly goes along with others, secretly gritting his teeth the whole way, in order to "soften" them up to be played into his hand later.

And this goes into my next point:

Even though Shen Zechuan has an image of seductiveness, his entire method revolves around NOT having openly expressed desires because that would only serve as a vulnerability. Xiao Chiye, by contrast, predicates his mask around devil-may-care hedonism.

In this way, desire is both much more familiar to Xiao Chiye as well as easier to integrate into his established reputation than for Shen Zechuan. 

This is key to why Xiao Chiye is the first to accept his feelings and why he is much more comfortable with unabashedly expressing them. Thus, I think the differences in how Cezhou present themselves and the contrasting methods they use to stay ahead in their environment have bearing not only on the political games of their world but also on their relationship and how they relate themselves to each other.

[qqueenofhades]

Am I crazy for thinking DeSantis is overextending on the cartoonish conservative evil in preparation for his presidential run? I feel like he might have drunk his own kool-aid as far as thinking “things that make you popular on Fox News also make you electable across the US”.

Book bans are not popular. They’re being shot down all over the US even in deep red areas. Taking away the liquor licenses of national chain hotels because they hosted a drag show seems like a good way to make big businesses wary of you, thus putting rifts in the evangelical/big business base of the GOP. People keep forgetting that Trump was a cipher when he ran. He had no record politically so both sides could think he’ll be the worst or the best, but there was no pinning him down. A lot of liberals entertained the possibility that Trump as a former democrat might not be so bad and he definitely caught the wave of people who wanted to try ANYTHING new rather than another Clinton.

Point is, even if DeSantis plays the Trump playbook but in a way more palatable to establishment GOP, that to me seems like a losing strategy rather than a winning one. Trump does not suffer competition and won’t endorse him. DeSantis lacks the decades of buildup of celebrity image and cult of personality. He’s got a an extremist GOP political record with lots of bold moves in a culture war that has NOT been fully litigated yet at the polls and might be less popular than the GOP realizes. I think the GOP is desperate to make him their guy since he’s a governor of a valuable state and he’s “reasonable” unlike Trump but at this point, is it possible they’re overestimating his appeal entirely and he’ll completely crash and burn when actually tested? Here’s hoping, but I’d love your thoughts.

Welp. Honestly, the media's relentless push to crown DeSantis "a more moderate version of Trump" is completely and demonstrably bullshit, since he is already a full-blown fascist and the only reason they think he's moderate is because he went to Harvard and can sometimes speak in complete sentences. Except every other one of those words is "woke," which the GOP can't define as literally anything apart from "something I don't like," and yeah.

The thing about DeSantis is that he's managed to curate an extremely hermetic personal bubble in Florida. He's staffed the state government with toadies and only gives interviews to hand-picked fawning conservative outlets. We're already seeing stories come out (and it's been noted before) that when you take him out of his personal comfort zone and make him answer actual questions from non-Fox reporters, he really struggles. He isn't smart or clever or original. He's just a dyed-in-the-wool white supremacist Christofascist who is willing to be "bold" (read: wildly extreme) and that makes him popular with the establishment GOP, who loved all of Trump's cruel policies but didn't like his personal demeanor. They think they can sell DeSantis to the suburban Republicans who really don't want to vote for Democrats (too liberal! Too brown! Too woke!) but were turned off by Trump's vulgar and criminal antics, and unfortunately, because white Republicans are the worst people in the world, they're probably right.

The problem for the GOP (hahahahhahahahahahaha thoughts and prayers motherfuckers!!!!!) is that Trump's base is still fanatically attached to his nasty orange backside and won't vote for DeSantis under any circumstances, as long as Trump is a factor in the race, because they think "respectability" is a dirty word and Trump's total derangement is what they like about him. He is their personal power fantasy and the living embodiment of their worst and most racist/sexist/xenophobic fantasies, and any hint of becoming acceptable to The Establishment would make them mad. So you've got the establishment GOP who wants to get back into power and thinks DeSantis is more likely to get them there, vs. the TrumpCult who will only ever vote for Trump, even as the establishment GOP is increasingly turning on him and treating him as the electoral liability that he is. (Don't forget the big Dominion lawsuit going on at Fox, which brutally exposed their hypocrisy for EVERYONE, even their own viewers, to see. Welp.)

And yes: America as a whole is not a nakedly fascist, deranged, extreme-right-wing white-supremacist Handmaid's Tale theocracy, despite the best efforts of a despicable minority. The GOP has not won one single meaningful election or federal office since Trump himself sneaked into the presidency thanks to the Electoral College in 2016 (barely squeaking out the House in 2022 and then watching Kevin McCarthy lose fifteen speakership elections in a row doesn't count). A recent poll showed that almost 60% of Americans thought "woke" was a good thing, meaning awareness of social and historical injustices rather than political correctness gone mad. The Democrats have continued to vastly overperform in special and state-level elections alike, including the much-hyped "Red Wave" in the 2022 midterms that turned out to be a Big Lol. Even this year, local Democrats are winning by bigger margins than Biden carried their districts. As I say, the reason Republicans try so hard to suppress, outlaw, and discredit the vote is because their policies/candidates will never win in any fair and legitimate election. They just won't. The only way they can bully their way into power is through fraud, fear, and lies. Of course, they're helped at every stage by the American media and its addiction to the "Both Sides Bad/Horse Race!!!" narrative, but even in this climate, Democrats are still winning.

Anyway: DeSantis is an empty suit who can reliably parrot fascist talking points and use his personal fiefdom of Florida to put them into action, but that doesn't translate to any kind of viable national candidate, especially since he implodes the instant you take him out of that bubble. I don't want to make anyone too overconfident or insist that it will clearly be fine, because the 2024 presidential election will be just as consequential as 2020 and there are way too many people in this country willing to vote for white supremacist fascism Because Gas Prices, but the overall sociocultural and political trends are not moving in DeSantis' direction and we need to work our asses off to make sure it stays that way.

[ineffablydelighted]

[Good Omens, Two weeks after S2 events...]

Nina: *bumps in* Okay, where TF is he, again?

Maggie: Hello, sir 👋

Pub owner: *sighs* Hello. Same as usual. Someone will have to pay the-

Nina: *slams two 50s on the bar* Here, done. *is under the impression she became the parent of a probably immortal being going through his first teenage heartbreak but with a middle-aged man body and a liquor license*

Maggie: *to the pub owner* Sorry about that, she's... Excuse-me... *follows Nina*

Crowley: *wasted**barely understandable**slams an empty Talisker drink on the table* StUuRpId ASSssAnGeL...

Nina: You have to STOP doing that. We have lives, you know?

Crowley: *unnatural lying position* 'nd bery short at tha', yea, I know tha'. Arn't ya' so luckeh?

Maggie: Please, Sir, you need to go home...

Crowley: *dour laugh* Yeaaaa, well, it's not asif I had tha'.

Nina: *sighs* You live in Mr Fell's Bookshop with Inspector-Naivety-Incarnate-something. Remember?

Crowley: Ah, yea, maybe, huh... *pointing an uncertain finger at Maggie* *high-pitched voice* ey, don't ya owe me rent?

Maggie: *ever seen a very pale cinnamon roll? Ya have now* Well, I...

Nina: *would cross her arms if she hadn't done that already**offended**protective almost-girlfriend* I have paid for your "coping method" a couple thousand pounds by now you didn't feel the need to repay me, so I think you should be careful before demanding any rent! Oh, and should I mention I've spent that in the course of A SINGLE WEEK?

Crowley: *looks at her with the sudden need to throw up**or to break something* No nehd to be... To be... Watevah. This is bullshit! *first sentence he somewhat says perfectly for some reason* My, my point is... Is... Bluh. He's so... BLUH!

Nina & Maggie: *look at each other in we've-heard-that-from-Monday-to-the-next-Monday**opposites face expressions though*

Crowley: *faints because he wants to* *hides his face under his 1941 hat*

Nina: Oh, no! No, no, no! That is not happening! *shakes him* Oy, wake up! I do not have all night!

Maggie: *whispers* Be gentle with him, Mr Fell is... you know...

Crowley: *ignores them**but is also listening*

Nina: *out loud* He behaves like my sister Chantel when she learned that Justin Bieber was dating Selena Gomez! Except that, my sister was fourteen at the time, not- I don't even know! How even old are you?!

Crowley: *shows his face again**yells* WHO CARES?! He's... He's... *proceeds to imitate Gollum's voice to perfection* Stupid fa- fantastic Magisshit-

Nina: Okay, enough. *grabs his arm agressively* Get up!

Maggie: *takes his hat from the floor and his glasses from the table* I don't think he can...

Nina: He can and he will! Go on, get up!

Crowley: *makes himself fall back on the sofa**loves behaving like a 5 yo having a tantrum* NEH! I-I I am NOT...

Nina: Do you want us to abandon you here?

Pub owner: *from afar* If you don't put your uncle out, Coffee girl, I swear...

Nina: *points a very menacing finger* Don't you dare "I swear" me! I "I swear" people, not the other way around, especially not when I have to deal with that excuse of a... a... man! *couldn't come up with something better*

Crowley: Imnottha' but...

Maggie: There is no need to fight, we... *looks at Crowley having somewhat of some tears in the corner of his eyes* He's just... heartbroken, you see?

Crowley: *almost inaudible* I'm noot.

Pub owner: Yeah, 'figured. That's no good reason! Whenever he's here, every customer leaves in under ten minutes for some reason and that isn't good for my business!

Nina: Coming from the lad whose only job is to take advantage of other people's misery, that's rich.

Maggie: Nina, you...

Nina: *grabs Crowley by the first ankle she sees* It will mess up your hair but I am ready to make you slide out of here even if that is the last thing I'll ever do.

Crowley: *falls to the floor**doesn't care* I'd like to see tha'

Nina: Fine, you asked for it. *grabs his second ankle**makes him slide for two meters before almost giving up**to Maggie* What are you waiting for? Take him by the armpits if you have to, but help me!

Maggie: *wants to do exactly that**doesn't know what to do with her hands for a second**puts Crowley's glasses and hat on to free them**grabs Crowley by the armpits* Okay, okay, One...

Nina: *holds herself from laughing at Maggie's new improvised look**is not even in the mood to anyway**lifts Crowley up**realizes she's the only one doing so**offended look*

Maggie: I... Sorry. I thought we would lift him up at three and...

Nina: *sighs in I-ve-never-signed-for-this-but-here-I-am* Maggie, Angel, please, you're not helping.

Crowley: *out of nowhere* ANGEL! 'Ngels... arn't vey djust...

Nina: Three.

Crowley: *does not mind being lifted by two struggling humans**mumbles* I 'ate 'is sturpid hair...

Nina: Of course you do. Careful the corner, Mag-

Maggie: *hits her hip* Aouch!

Crowley: *more to himself* AND his stupid fess...

Nina: *to Maggie* Careful, I said! If you really want to hit something, hit him! *looks at Crowley*

Maggie: *passing by the bar**to the Pub owner* Sorry about that, have a good night.

Crowley: *less and less understandable* 'nd 's mooth 'hat says 'turpid sings...

Pub owner: Whatever.

Crowley: 'ike "'omoshun is Ineff-neffably 'wesome wa doon't ya' kom wis meh dishtroy thee uni-universs?"

[The doors of the pub ring their departure]

Nina: We really should *Crowley is heavier than she expected* consider *like, really* create a law to oblige pub owners to have *humpf* bedrooms in the back of their establishment!

Maggie: We're *sore arms but still going strong* lucky he lives *breathless* right across.

Nina: *forces open the Bookshop with her hips that don't lie*

[Yeah, there is no way you can escape the Shakira tune now, is it?]

Nina: *right after Maggie has completely entered* Okay, let's drop him here.

Maggie: The couch is right th-

Nina: *drops Crowley's ankles* He can find the couch himself. As far as I am concerned, the floor suits him just fine.

Crowley: The service her' is terr-terrib-bluh!

Nina: Yeah, well, feel free to contact customer service and leave one star.

Crowley: *raising an invisible glass* Happeh to. *threatens to throw up*

Maggie: *to Crowley* Will you be alright?

Crowley: No-PUHHHH.

Muriel: *runs from God knows where towards the group* Oh my God, how is he?

Nina: Same as yesterday. And the day before that. I think he has an alcohol problem.

Muriel: You can be funny just looking at a bottle? Interesting.

Nina: More like looking at a dozen in three days but, who's counting? Certainly not him.

Crowley: *pointing a finger at the Sky* Ya' owe meh a f***ing 'usical!

Muriel: How can I help him?

Nina: You can't. Not really. He has to get through it by himself, as we all do at some point.

Muriel: I'm... confused. Is he... like... sick, or something?

Crowley: A mu-... A mu... si... *faints*

Maggie: Yeah, I believe you can call it that. It is... some kind of... sickness.

Muriel: Not a human sickness, then? *has forgotten she is, obviously, also a human called Inspector Constable* I-I mean, well-

Nina: Apparently, beings like him can catch those as well. Go figure.

Maggie: Maybe... Maybe put a blanket on him?

Nina: He does not deserve it, but yeah, you can do that.

Muriel: Okay, I'll... Sorry: what... is a blanket?

Nina: *sighs* I'm done for tonight. *leaves**comes back* Maggie?

Maggie: I... I think I'll stay for a while.

Nina: Right. It's not as if you had a shop to run in what? Five hours?

Maggie: You told me yourself nobody ever comes to my shop, so...

Nina: *shrugs her shoulders* Sorry, I'm too tired to apologize. Good night, everyone. *to Crowley* Not you. *slams the Bookshop's doors unintentionally*

[Awkward silence]

Maggie: *to Muriel* So... A blanket. It is... like, a, a cloud... but... rectangle.