#scrub club records

[quinton-reviews]

Hi Quinton!! I have been a HUGE fan of your stuff since a friend sent me the Tobuscus Fallen Titans (I used to watch him back in high school and was like "huh, wonder what happened to him after those allegations") and I gotta say, it is REALLY FUNNY every time my fiancé and I watch the iCarly videos again, because when you cover Gibby's stunt double breaking his ribs, you cut to a clip of The Official Podcast. I used to play D&D with one of the main dudes from the podcast, so when he talks during that clip I do a goddamn double take literally every time.

Anyways, I remember an original Patreon stretch goal being a Fallen Titans on Homestuck! I was really big into Homestuck in my early 20s, and was wondering if that's still on the table at some point? If not that's fine, I understand plans change! I just love Fallen Titans lol, the Fred episode and the Neil Cicierega unFallen Titans are some of my favorite videos of yours!

That's a real funny story!

So here's the rundown on the Homestuck video. When I first started making long videos, they were actually inspired by the relationship I had with other YouTubers at the time. I used to watch, like, H3H3 and Filthy Frank, etc; and I'd always see people obsessed with the versions of creators from the past. Like, "Oh 2015 H3 was the best" and "Oh 2012 Frank was peak." So I had this idea that it would be crazy if H3 posted, like, a video he spent a decade on and you got a new video with 2015 H3 10 years on. (I don't watch H3 anymore ironically)

So the original idea for the "long video" format was that it would be cool if, throughout a long, analysis/review/recap video, you kept noticing someone get older. Maybe my months, maybe by years. That's why I always like to get a haircut when I start one of these videos. If you scrub through and you see my hair get longer and messier as it goes on I think that adds something magical you can't fake.

So... My pitch to the Homestuck video was that it would be funny to work on it just once per year. To record one segment, say "That's it for 12 months", and then come back around to it. And when I was making the iCarly and Victorious videos I actually recorded a few minutes of the video! I think it was two segments in total. But then I had a bunch of personal stuff happen and my work drive has been much lower, so any "back burner" video hasn't gotten much attention since then.

Now that the iCarly mini-series is done with, I want to focus on some short one-off videos I can make before April. But once that's done with, I would REALLY love to start work on a few more long-term projects which will take months or years to finish. I think returning to work on the Homestuck video, to at least get the first 20-30 minutes done, would be a great idea this summer.

Now, if you want to know my pitch for that video, here it is. The video is not a recap of the creative history of the franchise. I do not get into drama, community hell, lawsuits, or other YouTubers. My idea is this: you always hear about Homestuck as an outsider but you never hear about the actual content. Most franchises on Earth I know something about, even and especially if I've never been interested in them. I can tell you a bunch of facts about wrestling and MLP and the Fast and the Furious simply through cultural osmosis and having friends who are into those things.

I can't tell you the plot of Homestuck, who the characters are, what the themes are, nothing. I've known a lot of people who were into Homestuck but nothing about the series!

So I thought it would thus be funny to make a video about a bunch of people who know nothing about the series starting from the beginning and giving their reactions, even if it's been years since it all started. I call this part of the video the "Homestuck Book Club." So the next step is me picking out the members (who all have to have no history with it) and making sort of a podcast setup. We'd then read and record every six months or so, IDK.

This is why the video has been stuck in production hell! Everyone who wants to work on it and messages me about it already knows the franchise. I don't want spoilers, I don't want people writing for the video who get it already. I want to capture the "what the fuck is this" energy of three dudes just getting in the middle of it.

Also, I think that I really like the theme of the video capturing our lives as they go by, capturing us aging and changing. If you came back from the future and told me this video comes out in five years, I'd say great. If you told me it comes out in ten years, I'd say awesome. Until then, the latest edit will always be on Patreon, even if you have to dig a little.

[nom-nommmm1]

EURONYMOUS - ONE SHOTS

Masterlist for more !!

A/n: this is just something small while I work on my request pls be patient with me :(

Content warning !!: it’s all just fluff and some swearing

Euro tries to act tough in front of the guys but when he’s only with you he is the sweetest little thing ever

He totally keeps snacks EVERYWHERE “just in case” idk why I think he does that buttt he does in my mind

If you have a different native language than him he will totally learn the basics of it, like I love you, good morning, hello, goodbye

He isn’t a huge fan of cuddling but he knows you like it so he cuddles as much as he can with you

In public he stays a little ways away from you, but when you get closer to him he always has his hands on your shoulders, arms, waist, always.

SHOULDER KISSES.

When he’s in public he will be going behind you and hold you by the waist whilst kissing your shoulder softly

He’s absolutely whipped for you and tried his best to hide it from the guys because it wasn’t “metal of him”

Even before you guys were even a thing, before you even met Euronymous he would stare when you came to one of his friends parties. Of course his friends noticed and told him to shoot his shot

You guys love to play pranks/jokes on your friends, like just trick them to think something

Very mischievous duo, you two

You’d tell Faust that there was going to be a party in downtown but when he got there he went into the quiet house, all he found was a note that read ‘thanks for being gullible, we love ya - Euro & y/n’

Stupid pranks like that

Now Euronymous is very big on the metal scene but I think if you had different style then him but the same music taste as him he’d be very interested in you, he’d watch you (not in a creepy way) he just wants to understand your style more.

If you had the same style and music as him he’d love it too. He’d rant to you about “the bullshit some people in the scene call music” and all of his work problems

Euronymous wakes up very late every single day, and when he does so he just keeps you in bed with him, almost suffocating you while you’re just trying to get up and go to work.

I think the first few weeks of the relationship Euronymous would’ve been cold, not because he didn’t like you but he was afraid he’d mess up by opening up and you’d leave him just like that.

But when he realized you would never leave him he clung onto you for dear life

He loves movie dates. I feel like he’s super anxious around even though you’re his partner he gets very conscious of what he says around you, and movie dates are perfect because you can exchange very little words to each other but still sit in comfortable silence and enjoy each others presence

I think he also counts cleaning his shop every once in a while with you a date. You guys just cleaning for hours together.

You sigh, you’d been scrubbing the floors of Euros shop for hours. “You ready to get out of here babe?” He asks coming over to you once he’d finished reorganizing all of the records in the shelf’s and setting up with display. You stand up before turning to face him “yea let’s go” he brushes a stray hair out of your face as you hand him his keys. You guys lock up and head off to your house for some movie watching and giving over some lyrics he had thought would be good for a song.

Speaking of lyrics for a song, he always makes you read and listen to his song before he puts it out to the public. He trusts your judgment more than his own when it comes to music.

He has a special blanket he puts on his bed everytime you come over because he knows it’s your favorite.

You give this man stuffed animals? Yeah he keeps them on his bed, his shelf’s for decor? You name it he’s got it there. He loves to stare at them and just think of you.

OBSESSED WITH DRIVING YOU AROUND.

Especially at night, this man doesn’t care if you’re going to a club or Walmart to get something to make a midnight snake he LOVES it. He loves just being there with you making casual conversation while having his hand gently placed on your thigh.

If you get insecure about yourself when you put your hair up he will put his hair up like yours and keep it that way till you take yours down.

He adores matching with you, so you guys basically do it everyday, even it’s just something little like having the same slayer pin on your shirts. He loves it so much

He loves rubbing his fingers along your knuckles, it’s almost like a nervous tic he does. In public when he gets overwhelmed while holding your hand he’ll just sit there and play with your hand until you guys have to let go

He loves eating meals you cook bc it makes him feel proud that one day his children will have you as a parent

If your not happy he’s not happy, he can’t be happy when your suffering because his whole life basically revolves around you

Thank you for reading !! :)

Enjoy!

[teecupangel]

Desmond being bored and deciding to make a retelling of his ancestors for shaun or historians of the assassin's. Except he 'accidentally' makes it public and it goes viral, given that sometimes its Desmond and other times its his ancestors from the bleeding effect

The Assassins desperately needed a win.

After the Great Purge, the Assassins were left imprison in a sinking ship.

William Miles and Gavin Banks tried their best to protect and hide what was left but it was a losing battle.

It made people desperate.

Desperate enough to place their fate in Desmond Miles.

Desmond Miles, the runaway son of William Miles.

Desmond Miles, the descendant to Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Ezio Auditore.

The golden boy of the Assassins.

He didn’t really care much about him.

Rebecca Crane was his tech support so he never even met the great Desmond Miles.

He was stuck here, in the basement of a loud club in Berlin, doing his job as one of the contact persons of Erudito.

Most of the time, he just helped Erudito fuck Abstergo’s shit up.

Or try to anyway.

Abstergo does have one of the most impressive security system money can buy.

They were slowly chipping on it though.

Most of Erudito were still trying to throw rocks at the digital bullet proof system Abstergo has while he and the best of Erudito hack into another company who uses the same system to find its weaknesses that they can use against Abstergo.

They were so close to a break through.

And he may have drunk 6 or 7 energy drinks for the last 62 hours so he actually thought he was hallucinating for a moment when he clicked the link one of the Erudito hackers he was working with had spent with the message “dude, isn’t he one of yours? O.o”.

It was a youtube video.

Of Desmond Miles…

In that motherfucking (should certainly be) secret hideout in Italy.

With that motherfucking statue of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad behind him, completely clear on view.

“So you wanted to know what Ezio was doing while he was looking for Cesare Borgia, right, Shaun? You went out and I know I’ll be back in the Animus by the time you get here so I’m recording this so you can watch it while I’m stuck in the Animus.”

“So… Cesare left Roma after he failed to kill Ezio and got sent to Castel Sant’Angelo.”

He blinked.

Was…

Was Desmond Miles giving a history lesson???

Oh, fuck, he was.

And he just namedropped Machiavelli and Leonardo as Ezio’s companions who were also looking for where Cesare was transferred after he escaped and got captured again in Firenze.

And…

He had started to speak in Italian.

Not only that…

His entire demeanor, even the way he sat had changed.

He had only heard about it.

The Bleeding Effect.

Desmond Miles was bleeding as Ezio Auditore in a fucking video in the internet.

His second phone began to rang and he prayed to every holy and demonic being that it wasn’t William Miles.

No matter what William Miles say, he cannot just scrub that video from the internet.

It was obvious (6 millions views! What the fuck!!!) that someone out there had already downloaded this video and taking it down would just spark more controversy.

He looked at the number and knew exactly who was calling him.

He accepted the call and said immediately, “What the fuck, Crane. Why did Miles upload a video to fucking Youtube?!”

Rebecca groaned and he could hear Lucy Stillman and Shaun Hastings shouting in the background, most probably ripping Desmond Miles a new one.

“The phone he used to record it automatically uploads to Youtube.”

He blinked.

“That is bullshit.”

“It’s true! It’s one of Lucy’s burner phones and she didn’t even change the settings at all! It defaulted to that kind of setting!”

“No phone has an automatic upload to Youtube and you know it.”

“I know but this one does! It’s so weird! It’s like… something weird is going on here!”

“I’d believe it more if you said Miles wanted to publish it as unlisted but fucked up.”

Rebecca groaned once more.

A phone that automatically uploads to Youtube.

That was such bullshit.

.

.

(Rebecca is telling the truth. The phone is a weird one and Lucy can’t even remember where she got it. Almost like… it was always there. Dun dun dun)

[effloradox]

i forgot that you existed; dracula.

track one of LOVER

pairing: dracula x f!reader

synopsis: you share dreams of past lives with your soulmate

word count: 3.4k

Your dreams have always been a source of confusion amongst your family. They’ve always been vivid, and almost always been the same. Flashes of dancing in crowded rooms with people wearing extravagant clothing at parties running until way after the clock struck midnight. Your soulmate’s always been the sole person you’ve danced with in the dream, and even if you can’t make out his face, you can tell from the way the other dancers look at him he must be handsome. His presence seems to command the attention of everyone in the room, and if it were to happen in this life then you know you’d be much too nervous to have everyone’s eyes on you to enjoy dancing.

Being able to connect to your soulmate via your dreams has always been a strange system. You get flashes of past lives together but can’t physically see what your soulmate looks like until you reunite with them in this life. You have a few clues; you know that your soulmate’s tall, like over six foot tall, and it seems like in a past life he was rich if your suspicion that the ball you’ve been dancing in every night is in honour of your soulmate.

Your dreams have been getting increasingly darker though, with flashes of things that you can’t quite place but leave you waking up crying or screaming. It’s started to worry your parents when they call to see how you are and it’s clear you’ve not been sleeping. There’s no medicine to suppress soulmate dreams and sleeping tablets leave you feeling trapped in lucid dreams, aware it’s a dream and yet unable to escape to the safety of the waking world.

So far you’ve been to multiple soulmate specialists and they’ve been unable to help with the problem, and you’ve resorted to setting a plethora of alarms through the night, allowing yourself to rest without ever falling into your REM cycle. It’s been worrying your friends, especially Jack, which you’re chalking up to his occupation as a doctor, but if nothing improves then it’s currently your only way to stay sane and rest without having a nightmare. It’s not been particularly helpful in keeping a steady job either, since your permanent exhaustion leaves you with heavy brain fog most days. It’s not been the easiest earning the money for rent, and whilst Jack has assured you that he’s earning enough to cover you for rent for at least a little while, you can’t help but feel bad that more of the financial burden has fallen onto him.

In a way, him offering you a chance to apply for the research program at the Jonathan Harker Foundation feels a bit like a lifeline. You don’t expect to be chosen, so when you get the phone call asking you to come in, you can’t help the surprise that leaks into your tone when you tell the woman on the phone you’ll be ready to head there as soon as possible. Jack was out at a club when you got the call, and you’re not expecting him to be there so you quickly grab a small overnight bag, and wait for the car they’re sending to show up. The journey there is quiet, and you pass the time scrolling Instagram, only stopping when you see a post from Jack’s friend Lucy announcing her engagement. It makes you wince slightly, you know Jack’s had a crush on her forever, you can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now. You send a quick text asking if he’s okay, putting your phone away just as you pull up to the foundation, thanking the driver as you get out of the car and head inside. Signing in for the process is easy enough, it’s mainly just a nurse asking if your medical records are up to date whilst you change into a pair of scrubs. The last thing she gives you before sending you on your way is a small lanyard that has your blood type on before you’re led into a small auditorium by another member of staff.

The presentation starts not too long after you’ve sat down, and the video of the recent exploration of the Demeter fills the projection screen. There’s only a handful of people sitting, maybe 20 at most, and the video is only disturbed when some more people walk in. You turn slightly, and are surprised to see Jack walk in with Dr Van Helsing. The woman giving the presentation continues after a small interlude, and then the video shifts to them finding a coffin that had been on the Demeter. You lose interest slightly as she talks about how unusual it was that the coffin was unchanged after over a century, and your attention only shifts back when they open the case and you get a full look at the body stored within it.

The frozen body of Count Dracula shown on screen immediately demands your full attention, and you can’t help but feel like you know that face. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s familiar though in what way you wouldn’t be able to say. The woman giving the presentation continues on to say about how well preserved the body was, and the speech only takes a shift when the diver on the screen places a hand too close to the teeth of Dracula. The water is immediately filled with blood and the video pauses on the image of the diver’s finger caught in the mouth of the Count.

“The body was not preserved. Dracula was, in fact, alive, though dormant. Apparently, in some restorative coma in which he would have remained if I hadn’t been stupid enough to feed him. So, in case you’re wondering, vampires bite.” The presenter lifted her arm at the end of her speech, showing off a cast on her arm that she had concealed until then. A few of the people around you let out a nervous chuckle, but the sombre mood returns as the presenter continues to speak. “You need to know what you’re signing up for. We will keep you safe but this isn’t just about giving blood. It’s not just another student drug trial, there is a reason it is better paid. Now, you will have controlled exposure to a vampire, are we clear?” A general murmur of agreement passes through the other volunteers in the room, and the presenter seems to look closely at you all for any signs of hesitation or regret. When she is apparently satisfied, she continues with her lecture.

“Obviously at this point, having triggered his revivification, we opted for a tactical retreat. We resealed the box so nothing could interfere with the process, and we monitored from the shore. It took Dracula another ten hours to fully revive and, of course, we were waiting for him on the beach. He was brought here shortly after, but not before he had killed someone. We are not telling you this to scare you, but you have to be aware of all of the risks that can come from being part of the programme.”

“How can you guarantee our safety?” The voice comes from behind you, and most heads in the room turn to face the man who spoke.

“Dracula is currently sealed in a solid steel and glass prison cell, above which is a roof that retracts and allows sunlight inside which we can direct to keep him in place. You will only enter the room when the sun is up so if he were to act out in any way, the sunlight would immediately put a stop to it. There are also multiple armed guards stationed within the room at any given time. There will be risk, of course, but we will do everything in our power to keep you safe. Does that answer your question?” The man who spoke up nodded and the presenter leant back on the table. “Does anyone else have any questions?”

“Does he speak English?”

“He does. When he spoke briefly to Doctor Van Helsing, he said that the blood he consumes allows him to access memories or skills that the person feeding him possesses. When I fed him, he learned how to speak English.” The presenter answers a few more questions before more researchers come in and escort all the volunteers out. You’re quick to make your way to Jack’s side as they ask you all to separate according to your blood types, leading the various groups down a maze of corridors leading deeper into the facility.

“You certainly took your time getting here.”

“I wasn’t expecting to get the phone call at - in the morning.” With everything that had happened, you’d forgotten that Jack had been on a night out when you’d been picked up. You winced slightly at the lapse in your memory.

“How’re you feeling? I saw Lucy announce her engagement on Instagram.” You watch as Jack’s expression falters slightly at the reminder of the night’s bombshell and you can’t help but reach out and squeeze his hand. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Probably for the best. We never would’ve worked out anyway.”

“You don’t know that, Jack.” The smile Jack sends your way is full of sadness, you both know that he’s thought the silhouette in his dreams was Lucy for the longest time. You can’t even begin to imagine how it feels to find out that they aren’t destined to be together the way Jack has hoped for. You try to change the subject over to how well Zoe’s looking, all things considered and, once the conversation is on steadier ground, it’s easy to pass well over an hour in the waiting room chatting quietly with your friend until a man in a lab coat walks into the room, a clipboard in hand.

“Miss (Y/N)? We’re ready for you now.” You feel the eyes of everyone in the room land on you as you stand slowly. You try to hide it, but you can feel your legs shaking slightly with anxiety. You feel Jack squeeze your hand gently before letting go as you make your way towards the door and leave the other volunteers behind. Whilst they’ve guaranteed your safety, you can’t help but feel like you’re walking towards your own execution. You know you’re finally there when Zoe is standing outside a door waiting for you. She looks much more relaxed than you do, like this is an everyday occurrence for her rather than some freak miracle.

You’re not sure what to expect when you’re led into the holding room for Dracula. It’s been described to you in detail, but it’s still strange walking into the room and seeing the glass prison for yourself. The Count himself is lying down on the cot they provided for him, arms crossed behind his head, and when the door closes behind you, he doesn’t move.

“You’ve brought yet another lamb to slaughter then?” The voice makes you jolt and you hear a quiet chuckle from the cell. “Oh it’s another jumpy one then?”

You can’t help the anxiety on your face as the attendant guides you to the door of the cell. You watch as the guard shifts the sunlight, blocking Dracula from getting to the door as the attendant unlocks it. They give you a slight nudge to encourage you to walk in and you force yourself to take a deep breath before stepping into the cell, listening as the door is closed behind you. The vampire hasn’t moved to get up yet, and, despite the barrier of sunlight separating the two of you, you can’t help but look nervously over to Zoe who’s watching closely from outside.

“Count Dracula, I believe it would be rude for you to ignore your guest. Again.” The vampire let out an exaggerated sigh before moving to stand up.

“I’d hardly call it rude Dr Van Helsing, do you make a habit of looking your food in the eye before you…”

The vampire's words trail off as he finally looks at you. In a second, he’s up on his feet, standing just before the barrier of sunlight. He’s looking at you with a kind of reverence you have only ever seen in your dreams, and things suddenly slot into place in your mind. It’s him. He’s the man who’s been haunting your dreams for as long as you can remember. Time seems to grind to a halt for both of you as your dreams flash through your mind, this time with his face crystal clear in your mind.

You take a step forward without even thinking, working purely on instinct, before a pair of arms are wrapped around you and you're pulled back to the door of the cage. Dracula’s expression shifts from reverence to fury, as he snarls at the person holding onto you. You watched as he moved towards you, seemingly forgetting about the wall of sunlight separating the two of you until it had come into contact with his skin and he instantly recoiled back into the shade, rage still evident on his face. The two of you continue to look at each other even as you’re pulled out of the cage and the door is slammed shut. You realise that the person who pulled you out is Zoe, her face scrunched with fury as she glares at the vampire. She gives you a quick once-over to check that you’re not hurt, frowning at the slightly dazed look you’re sporting. She turns back to the vampire, who’s eyes haven’t left yours.

“What did you do to her?” If he hears Zoe, Count Dracula gives no indication of doing so. He walks towards the wall of the cell to be as close to the two of you as possible. When he next speaks, he ignores Zoe completely, his focus solely on you.

“Well, this is a surprise, isn’t it? After all this time, I assumed you would have passed me by. I have crossed oceans of time to find you, my dear. I suppose I crossed a literal ocean as well.” To Zoe’s credit, she seems to work out what has happened quickly and, once she understands, she’s quick to grab you once again, pulling you back to the door leading to the rest of the facility. You’re not sure if it’s the sheer exhaustion of not having one of your naps or the shock of meeting your soulmate but you can barely find it in you to fight against the harsh grip on your arm, and you allow yourself to be pulled out, keenly aware that Dracula’s voice is getting more aggressive as he yells for Zoe to let go of you. You can still hear him even when you’re halfway down the corridor, Zoe’s grip still acting like a lifeline to a reality that doesn’t seem to make any sense anymore.

Whilst you don’t know Zoe very well, she knows Jack much better than you after all, you know that there’s no way she’ll let you go back in to see Dracula after finding out you’re his soulmate. She’s good enough to get someone to drive you back home so you can try and get some rest and then you're being gently escorted out of the facility and back into the harsh reality of the world. It occurs to you that Jack has no idea about how earth shattering the day has been for you as well as him and you send a text to him letting him know you’ll meet him back at the house and you have news to tell him before he worries about where you’ve gone. It’s all you can do to not fall asleep in the car and when you close your front door you head immediately to your room and all but collapse onto your bed. You set a timer giving yourself an hour to rest and then take a well needed sleep.

It’s quiet when you wake up. It’s never particularly loud in the house, but you’d expect to hear the gentle thrum of the boiler if Jack had come home and turned the heating on, or maybe just the sound of him moving around downstairs but it’s weirdly silent. You’re always groggy when you’ve had a nap (definitely a result of you avoiding any real sleep), so your first port of call is to grab your phone and head downstairs to make yourself a coffee. You make your way slowly down the stairs, checking for any messages. You have two texts; one from Jack, and one from Zoe. The message from Jack says he’ll be home soon and is excited to see you, which is somewhat strange since it was sent almost as soon as you fell asleep and he’s still not back. You finish making your coffee and you take a moment to process the last 24 hours before checking Zoe’s text. Reading it makes your blood run cold.

Dracula has escaped. He took Jack’s phone. We’re sending someone to pick you up.

The implications of the text are unnerving to say the least. You’re not sure if it means that Dracula of all people was the one to reply to your message or he took it after Jack replied to you but you make a mental note to ignore any messages from Jack and only keep in touch with Zoe.

The knocking on the front door makes you jump, cutting through the eerie silence that was dominating the house and pulling you out of your thoughts. You put the empty mug in the sink, pocketing your phone before opening the door. You don’t recognise the man on the other side, and he doesn’t strike you as a scientist. He looks almost nervous for some reason, and you noticed that his hand shook slightly as he shifted his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t quite look you in the eye when he finally looks at you.

“I was sent to collect you.” There’s a small part of your brain that doesn’t trust the man in front of you, but you wouldn’t be surprised if the Zoe had specifically chosen a driver you hadn’t met before so you’re quick to grab your house keys, locking the door behind you and following the man to the car with blacked-out windows that he heads to. The drive is in silence again, and when he pulls up on the drive of a moderately sized house rather than the Harker Foundation, your anxiety spikes immediately. It’s an area you don’t recognise, and it occurs to you that you wouldn’t be able to make your way home unaided.

“I thought I’d be going back to the Foundation.”

“This is a safe house. It’s where I was instructed to drop you off.” You let out a soft acknowledgement, pulling your phone out and sending a message to Zoe that you’re at the safe house before climbing out of the car. You can sense the driver watching you as you walk to the door, testing the handle and letting yourself in when you find it to be unlocked. It’s dark inside, reflecting the setting of the sun outside. You walk into the main room of the house, and your only source of light is a small candle. All the curtains have been drawn and you can’t help but feel like this is some kind of trap. When you hear something shift behind you, you’re quick to turn and you let out a scream when you see the looming figure of Count Dracula standing in the doorway. He doesn’t react to your scream except for a small smile appearing on his face.

“Now, there’s no need to scream, dearest. You know I won’t do anything to harm you.” You back away, immediately feeling like a deer in the headlights. You only stop when you feel the wall against your back and you have nowhere else to go.

“What did you do to Jack?”

“Nothing. He misplaced his phone at the institute, I merely found it and happened upon your number.”

“How did you find where we live?”

“Jack very helpfully had it labelled on his Google Maps.”

“And the man outside?”

“My lawyer. He’s been rather helpful in helping me to adjust to modern living.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I’ve done nothing but dream of you for over a century my dear. I think it’s high time we get to know each other.” The vampire steps towards you, in a move that feels like he’s sealing your fate. In what feels like a recreation of one of your recurring dreams, he stops in front of you, and offers you one of his hands. “May I have this dance?”

[scarlett-v-the-fox]

WarioWare Move It! Japanese profile entires part 1

As of today, there are only a few profiles of the characters. These are Wario, Jimmy T, Mona, Ashley, Red, Dr. Crygor, Mike, and Penny. I am sharing what they say to you in English.

Disclaimer: My Japanese isn’t perfect, and I had to look up some of words used. But I’m confident 95% of this is correct!

President of the very great Wario Company

WARIO

CV: Hironori Kondo

(Translator’s notes: Wario uses the first person pronoun “ore” and uses the suffix “sama” after it.)

[Image of Wario in front a pile of gold] Today is also a great day! I'm cool, intelligent, and handsome!

WAHAHAHA! You had a good idea that you were interested in me! Take a close look at me from my head to my butt!

This is my profile!!

Favorite letter of the alphabet:

W

Most hated letter of the alphabet:

M

Charm point:

You’ll know it when you see it! Everything!

What made me happy recently:

I went to scrub myself today, and what a surprise! I lost 20 kilograms! That’s amazing!

What surprised me recently:

There was a type of canned food that I thought was delicious and became addicted to, but when I looked closer, it turned out to be for dogs! I got angry!

Things I am not good at:

Nothing! I am perfect!

Recommended movies:

There’s “The Wario Movie” starring me! ...Hmm? There’s no such movie? Hey Nintendo! Make it quickly!

Favorite proverb:

Be on the toilet bowl for three months.

Future aspirations:

Hey! That's enough! That's it for my profile!

~

Energetic high school girl

MONA

CV: Ruriko Aoki

(Translator’s notes: Mona uses the first person pronoun “atashi.” She also uses the “ojisama” suffix for Wario and Dr. Crygor.)

[Image of Mona in a city with her pets in the background] Isn’t Wario wonderful!? That nose and mustache!

Hi~! I’m Mona! I'm busy with my part-time job and club activities every day, but I'm going to run through it with high energy today too!

Profile:

My dream for the future:

To become an adventurer!

Person I admire:

I guess I’d say Wario after all! That big and wild nose… super awesome!

Transportation:

[Image of Mona’s bike. Below it reads “Mona Bike!”] Dr. Crygor made it for me!

Part time jobs I’ve done:

I've done a lot of things! I was a gelato shop clerk, a diner waitress, a pizza delivery girl, a rock band's vocalist and guitarist, a Chinese restaurant's poster girl, an amusement park staff member, a reporter, a cameraman, and even a spy... Oops, maybe I shouldn't have said this? [picture of strawberry gelato]

Family:

My papa is an artist and my mama is a supermodel! I'm an only child, but I wish I had an older sister.

My favorite animal:

Baby moth larvae with fluffy fur!

What I’ve been into lately:

I keep an observation record of the flowers I saw today! I like that they’re bumpy, hairy, and shiny!

Introduction from the president (Wario):

Mona thinks I'm cool, and I'm a guy with quite good taste! …however! As an adventurer, she’s not even close to my level! Even if she finds treasure, it's mine, of course! Because the president is amazing! Wahahaha!

~

Cool dancer

JIMMY T.

CV: Yuma Kametani

(Translator’s notes: Jimmy uses a lot of English words. He also uses the first person pronoun “boku.”)

[Image of Jimmy on a lit up dance floor] Oh YEAH~!! Let’s dance together until the morning, YO!

Everybody! I’m glad you came to visit my page, YO! Let's get feverish with COOL steps!

Profile:

How to spend the night:

Dancing until the morning at a nightclub, YO! [Image of Jimmy P]

Hobby:

Checking my emails! YEAH!

Special skill:

I might be second to none when it comes to high-speed flick input on smartphones.

A little boast:

For some reason, cats tend to like me, YO!

Relationship with Wario:

He’s my email friend! We are also childhood friends!

Favorite way to spend my weekends:

Watching the pigeons in the park, YO! And those kids there have some pretty good BEAT and VIBES, YO!

A secret I’ll only share here:

Actually, my afro, well… No, it’s nothing. Forget it.

Introduction from the president (Wario):

Jimmy is my e-mail friend and childhood friend! He teaches me how to make money with blogs like “Afro Eight” and is a very helpful guy! That's why I made him a special employee of the company, but I’ve never paid him a salary! Wahahaha!

~

Apprentice witch

ASHLEY

CV: Ayaka Fukuhara

(Translator’s notes: She speaks using third person in Japanese at times.)

[Image of Ashley with a mansion in the background] …I’m Ashley, the world’s witch.

…I’m Ashley… What do you want? …If I don’t have any use for you, can I use you as an ingredient?

Profile:

Hobby:

…Research on cursed magic.

Specialty:

…To make magic and potions.

What I think is cool:

…Monsters and carnivorous plants.

Things I don’t like:

Cute dresses… sweets… colorful things… I hate them.

Eating style:

…I eat what I like for last.

What I want most right now:

…Frie—… Nothing really.

How many times have you been called cute?:

Tsk…

Introduction from the president (Wario):

Ashley is always with her familiar, Red! She may be a bit perverse, but she's actually lonely!? Since she's an employee of the Wario Company, I'll take care of her! Looks like she can use magic to find treasure! Wahahaha!

~

Ashley’s partner

RED

CV: Mako Muto

(Translator’s notes: Red uses Kansai dialect, and uses the first person pronoun “ore.” He also talks like a kid.)

[Image of Red with Ashley in the background] Alright! Leave the transforming to me!

Yahoo! I am Red! I am Ashley’s partner, as well as her best friend! You came all the way to visit us, so take your time!

Profile:

Where I live:

In a haunted mansion on the edge of town! But I'm actually really scared of this place...

Special skill:

I can transform into something about the same size as me! Like a magic wand or broom! It’s amazing, isn’t it?!

Personality:

I am quite skittish…

What scared me recently:

When I saw my own reflection in the mirror, I freaked out… Eep…

What I think about Ashley:

Ah, it looks like she’s really shy. She remembered her parents from back home and looked into the distance.

Recent thing Ashley did:

She was practicing smiling in front of the mirror the other day! She was so scared! Ah, this is definitely a secret I should keep!

The scariest thing in this world:

Ashley when she’s angry…

Introduction from the president (Wario):

Even though Red is a monster, he's still taking care of Ashley! And I don't know where he learned to speak Kansai dialect! ...That means he might have some talent for business! Okay, me. Let's sell your game all over the world! Of course, we won't give him any rewards! Wahahaha!

~

Mad scientist

DR. CRYGOR

CV: Kensuke Matsui

(Translator’s notes: A gappori machine is a machine that gives loans in cash)

[Image of Dr. Crygor in a green lit laboratory] People call me a genius scientist... And I am actually a genius!

Here... it seems like you got lost on my page. This must also have something to do with me. Could you let me use your body as a test subject?

Profile:

Occupation:

I am a genius scientist that everyone recognizes.

Someone you hang out with often:

My granddaughter Penny, and my assistant Mike.

Hobby:

Dancing flamenco for inspiration.

My secret to youth:

Modifying my own body and wearing a life-prolonging suit. However, I forgot to extend the life of my scalp and ended up going bald.

Recent research:

I am devoting all my energy and research into promoting my hair regrowth.

Representative inventions:

Wario’s Bike, Wario’s Car, Mona’s Bike, Dribble’s Taxi, Kat and Ana's high-tech swords, 9-Volt's skateboard, Jimmy's cell phone, the Karaoke Robot Mike... You can see how genius I am.

About Wario:

I see him as an interesting research subject. I shall do some human experiments on him someday.

Introduction from the president (Wario):

Dr. Crygor is an old man, but he seems to be doing well! He is also the inventor of my Wario Car and my Wario Bike! But it's disgusting that he’s still bragging about that! ...Well, whatever. Someday, I'll have him make a gappori machine that will give me an infinite amount of money! Wahahaha!

~

Karaoke robot

MIKE

CV: Ryota Suzuki

(Translator’s notes: Robot characters use katakana in their visualized speech. They are also polite and use simple sentences.)

[Image of Mike in a room full of viles] I want to sing more and more!

I’m the karaoke robot Mike! What do you think, would you like to sing a song after?

My profile, lyrics and music by Mike:

Creator:

I was created by Dr Crygor.

Body structure:

I have microphones on my head and speakers on my body.

Hobbies:

I like cooking! My fruit punch is very good.

Special skill:

Karaoke, obviously. But for some reason, when I start singing, everyone covers their ears.

My dissatisfaction:

Why does the karaoke robot have to do all the cleaning?

A secret I’ll share only here:

I want to be independent.

Things I’ve been curious about lately:

Those meal serving robots for family restaurants...

Introduction from the president (Wario):

Mike is Dr. Crygor’s assistant! He seems to be good at cooking and doing the laundry, but he seems to have run away from home in disgust once! If he's going to be used badly, he'd be happier being used by me! Next time you run away from home, I’ll use you as my butt wiper! Wahahaha!

~

Future scientist

PENNY

CV: Maya Enokichi

(Translator’s notes: Penny uses the “chan” suffix for her grandpa. She also uses the term “scientist’s egg” which just means she’s a future scientist)

[Image of Penny in a park] My dream is to become the best singing idol scientist in the world!

Hello, nice to meet you! My name is Penny! My grandpa is a fantastic scientist!

Profile:

Occupation:

I’m a Diamond City junior high school student! I’m also a future scientist!

Someone I admire:

Dr. Crygor! He’s my grandpa!

Hobby:

I love singing in front of people! I wish I could be a singer...

My invention masterpiece:

"Sparkly Voice Ultimate" allows anyone to have a beautiful voice!

Things I’m not good at:

Actually, I'm not good at reading music sheets... just looking at the treble clef makes me dizzy...

About my hair accessory:

You can take the heart-shaped hair clip I'm wearing!

A secret I’ll share only here:

I've been checking all the information about idol auditions, but I'm scared. I haven't been able to apply yet...

Introduction from the president (Wario):

Penny is Dr Crygor’s granddaughter! She's a future scientist, but for some reason the minibike she sent to me ended up turning into a mini-mini myself while riding it! What on earth does that mean!? Well, she also has a geeky side. However, if she comes up with an invention that will make money, I will make a lot of money! Wahahaha!

[preciouslandmermaid]

from high above, Gotham glows (battinson x f!reader)

Note: First Time writing Battison lol and uhh this one really got away with me so there’s a decent amount of Plot and Yearning before you get to the smutty stuff. LMAO. Takes place pre-movie with some generous fuckery with the timeline and off-hand original characters.

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. Dubious consent drug use (reader is required to take the drug to keep her cover secret). reader suffers from claustrophobia/fear of tightly enclosed spaces (only mentioned/experienced during the "fear scene"). established childhood friends with Bruce. cursing/explicit language. minor hurt/comfort. enthusiastic consent during sexual content. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. 

prompt: cockwarming, clothes ripping, balcony/window | pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list  

“You’ve got Gotham under your nails, girl.” Falcone hisses, close enough to smell his shitty cigar breath, “More than that. You’ve got her in your blood. I can tell. And I could use a girl like you.”

You ignore your roiling, empty stomach that sloshes with alcohol. Someone leans down to whisper in Falcone’s ear – some goon, you gather – and it’s just enough time for you to slip away from the crowded booth. Your hands are clammy, and you wipe them off on your short dress.

Your bones practically vibrate beneath the thumping bass of the club’s techno music. The lounge is an assault on every sense. Sight: nauseating flashing lights. Sound: the music that rakes claws down your spine. Touch: sweaty, clammy hands reaching for your dress, your arm, your shoulder. Smell: cigars, and marijuana, and sweat, and cigarettes. Taste: harsh, clear vodka that burns and strips layers of your throat going down.

You stumble out into the misty and glossy Gotham and press your hand to your racing heart.

Was the intel you gathered about Falcone worth his grubby hands and gross breath? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. You eagerly get into your car and verbalize everything Falcone told you into a tape recorder. You’ll write down the rest when you’re home.

*********

Home is a single-bedroom apartment that’s only redeeming quality is the little balcony that views the sunrise on precious mornings. When the sun touches Gotham, it paints everything a reflective orange and yellow, igniting the city on fire without a touch of smoke. More often than not, you went to bed on the couch, watching that sunrise, watching Gotham burn.

You don’t bother scrubbing off your glittery makeup or removing your tight dress. Your fingers itch to fly across the keyboard. This frantic determination is what earned you the nickname “Quicksilver” back when you were a pulp journalist writing about missing cats and happy birthday columns.

Despite your hard work, both in the field and out, the Gotham Gazette refused to promote you. In attempt to prove yourself, you singlehandedly wrote an article that revealed the corruption of several Arkham State Hospital doctors. When you dropped the story on your editor’s desk - they fired you. You went freelance after that.

It’s a shame the Gazette wiped your files and withheld your work laptop. Your current laptop wheezed to life; their fans mimicked a jet engine about to take flight. Corruption ran into the very veins of Gotham. Her blackened, wet streets were littered with petty crime and shady corporations. Sometimes it felt like you and the Bat and Gordon were the only people left with a shred of moral integrity.

You click on the multi-colored lights that framed your balcony window. You are the only one in the building that kept the lights up year-round. They are your very own, personal bat signal. You flipped them on whenever you had important news to share about Gotham.

The blue light of your computer screen frames your face as you start transcribing your notes from your tape recorder. The soft click-clack of the keys and the sharp, heavy ‘clunk’ of the play and pause button are the only sounds that fill your apartment for a long, long time.

Batman’s voice is gravel scraping against your skin, “what’ve you found?”

You jolt. “Jesus.” Your gaze narrows at him, “we talked about knocking, didn’t we? Just a little tap-tap on the glass will do.”

“I don’t have time, Silver.”

You roll your eyes. No time for pleasantries, huh? Not even a shred of basic, human decency. You’re not sure what you expect from a guy who runs around dressed like a bat. Still – he’s your ally. You turn the laptop around to show him your notes.

“It’s worse than I thought.” You say, brow furrowing, “I thought – I theorized that Falcone was just using the girls to run drugs, maybe help establish meetings, but he’s – he’s got them testing some kind of psychoactive drug for him.”

“LSD?” Batman rasps, his shadowed eyes scan the screen.

“Something else.” You drum your fingers against your coffee table. It’s always a little silly seeing Batman, decked out in his heavy armor and big cape, in your cramped living room. It’s big enough for a couch, a coffee table, and your overflowing bookshelf – but that’s it. Batman swallows the space like a hungry black hole.  

“Injected – is my theory – based on his linguistic tell.”

His eyes meet yours over the lip of your laptop.

“He mentioned Gotham being in my veins. Said he could use someone like me.” The term ‘use’ was slang for junkies when they blissed their brains out with drugs. You look down at your exposed skin, at the translucency of your inner elbow, where a needle impresses, where wandering, greedy hands at the club try and grab. You suppress a shiver.

Batman’s question comes as a surprise; “How long were you with Falcone?”

“Few hours.” You shrug. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary. There is some truth to Falcone’s words. You were born and raised in Gotham. And very little in this city could scare you. Hell, when Gordon introduced you to Batman in a dark, shadowed alleyway, you merely blinked at Vengeance and proclaimed you needed some food if you were going to have this conversation.

You start to pace, because moving helps you think, “he didn’t give up much. He was too busy trying to impress me with expensive drinks and flattery. But he threw the word opportunity around a lot. He kept mentioning how he was the one on the ground floor of this thing.”

You fold your arms across your chest and stare out your balcony sliding glass door. “We know Falcone is involved in a drug trafficking, and maybe even human trafficking too. I’ll go there again tomorrow—”

“No.” The word tears from his throat. You spin, expecting him by the table, and your heart gallops in surprise at his close proximity. He practically looms over you. You peer up, and the second surprise comes in the color of his eyes, striking and watery blue, smudged with some type of black paint or makeup.

He says, “you’ve got enough.”

You almost laugh. “I’ve got shit.” You shake your head, “I don’t have anything to pin Falcone with. I’ve got conjecture. I’ve got a half-remembered conversation thanks to all the booze they plied me with. I don’t have names, or details, but if I go in again—”

“You said he wanted to use you.” Up close, you see the chest plates of his body armor flex when he inhales deeply. “You could get hurt.”

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stare into Batman’s impassive, stoic expression and his tense, tight jaw. Your resolve flares white-hot. The girls working for Falcone are actively getting hurt, being hurt, the longer you take to crack this case. Yeah, sure, you’re just a freelance journalist. But lots of people in Gotham read your articles. A big enough article should garner enough public backlash to cause the Gotham PD to investigate. That was your hope anyway. And if not—well—you had Batman in your living room. You’d give the evidence over to him.  

You lift your chin and set your shoulders, “I can bear the pain if it means saving others the trouble.”

Something ripples across his half-masked face. Something – you think – like empathy? Until his eyes drop pointedly to your mouth. Your thoughts dry up, your mind a wasteland, and a new, sudden pulse reverberates across the muscles of your heart. You slowly release your lower lip from your teeth. If you had any space to move, you would slink around him, return to the solace, and comfort of your couch and start digging through Falcone’s contacts. But – tiny living room, big Bat. Outside, you hear a deluge pattering on the balcony railing and the rooftops below. A low and distant rumbling thunder vibrates through the skyscrapers.

Batman edges impossibly closer and the front of your chest brushes against his armor. Your neck aches from craning upward to look at him.

“Don’t go back to the lounge.” Says Batman.

“You’re not my boss.” You quip. “No one is. That’s kinda the point.”

“What about Gordon?” His lips thin. “I thought you worked for him.”

“Nope!” You respond brightly, “I just dig around in sketchy business and stir the pot, so the PD gets off their assess and does their actual jobs.”

Batman grumbles lowly.

“I can handle Falcone from here.”

“I’m sure you can, Vengeance.” You agree with just the barest touch of sarcasm.

Handle Falcone? Yeah. He’ll probably go break a few of Falcone’s ribs. Effective for intimidation, but not effective for the truth. You’ve seen Vengeance in action more than once (he’s got a pesky habit of turning up in the same circles you’re investigating). But would his technique of busting skulls help the girls in trouble? No. It wouldn’t. Based on your assumption of Falcone, if Batboy was busy fighting, then Falcone’s men would just transport the girls – and the drugs – to another location.

You reach behind yourself and tug the door handle, “I’ll call you with an update.” You slide the door open and burst of wind pushes chilly rainwater onto your floor and your back. “I promise.”

Batman glares down at you. He looks ready to say something else but thinks better of it. You step to the side to let him pass. You release a relieved sigh once he’s gone. What was that? Why did it almost seem like he was going to kiss you? You shake the foolish thought from your mind. You and Batboy? Hah! In your dreams maybe.

*********

A single phone call changes the trajectory of your entire day. You find yourself at Bruce Wayne’s Tower. You never thought you’d be here again. You use a tissue from your car’s glove compartment to try and wipe off the residual clumped mascara from last night. You aren’t as blue-blooded as the Wayne family. But the closeness in age, and the friendship your mother had toward Martha Wayne, meant that you and ‘Brucie’ were set up for playdates when you were old enough to talk. You despised him instantly.

On your first playdate, you bit him. The Bruce-Free days only lasted so long before the mothers decided to try again. On the second, he wouldn’t give you your favorite toy back. This caused quite a rift. He was forced to handwrite an apology. You still have it – somewhere – in a shoebox.

By the third or fourth playdate, things changed. Bruce stopped some older kids from picking on you and shoving your face in the dirt. He earned a busted lip and your unwavering, childish loyalty. You started looking forward to those scheduled, routine meetings in his big, fancy penthouse.

Until his parents were killed and whatever fondness that was born beautifully between you as children grew distant and cold.

You frown and count backward on your fingers. Jesus. It’s been years since you’ve seen him. Granted, it’s not like you tried to reach out either. After the years of ignored calls and radio silence in the fresh, tender years after his parent’s death—you gave up on trying. Was it shitty behavior? Maybe. But you were like ten. You didn’t know how to handle the grief of losing anyone either.

You smooth the wrinkles on your slept-in shirt and pop a piece of gum in your mouth to calm your nerves. Oh, well! You can’t hide in the car forever.

You’re led inside his glossy, gothic penthouse. Your eyes snag on the polished, wooden table holding a vase. You’ve got a tiny, white scar from where you smashed your face into that exact table from running through the hall. Alfred gives you a polite, well-mannered smile before pouring tea.

He says, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks.” You accept the pretty, floral teacup, “can’t say I was expecting a phone call from the Wayne house.”

“Hm. Indeed.” His eyes sparkled, “I, myself, was quite surprised when Bruce told me to contact you. He said he could trust no one else with it.”

You squirm a little in your seat. “Being vague to a pseudo-reporter is like the literal worst thing you can do. Care to enlighten me as to why I’m here?”

The only tidbit of information Alfred gave on the phone was that Bruce had a job for you. Although it felt a little weird to be meeting up with your old childhood friend under the blanket of professionalism and employment opportunity, your pathetic bank account is two overdraft fees away from being closed completely, so you really couldn’t be prideful or finicky.

“I’m afraid I cannot. He will explain everything.”

In that moment, the man of the hour decides to bless you with his presence. Your teacup clatters shakily against the porcelain saucer. His damp hair hangs in wet, slinky tendrils along his pale forehead. A shadow of dark stubble crests over his square, handsome jaw. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping based on his hunched posture and the dark half-moon circles under his baby blue eyes.

“Did you not consider getting dressed, sir?” Alfred tuts and shakes his head. Bruce sinks into the chair opposite to yours with a sigh. His dark, large hoodie and gray sweatpants drape over his frame like a blanket. His feet are bare which you find both funny and startlingly intimate.

“Quicksilver’s seen worse.” He grumbles.

You smile at the old moniker. “You’ve been following my career have you?”

Bruce’s lips quirk, something boyish and bashful crossing his features for a mere second, before he tamps it down.

“Here and there.” He shrugs, reaching for his tea, “I heard about you leaving the Gazette.”

“I wish it had been a more dramatic exit.” You sigh, “I can see the headline now. Sacked journalist gags Gazette with gory tell all of Gotham’s crime grime!” You drag your hand across the air as if smearing the headline into space.

Bruce exhales through his nostrils, a short and huffy sound. “Does it have to rhyme?”

“No, but it’s more fun if it does.” Your heart flutters when you look over at him (when did the gangly boy who hid behind pillars at charity events get so handsome?) You look away and focus on the ever-blooming pink roses on your teacup.

“Which brings me to my next point – why am I here?” You ask.

He sips his tea.

“How much did Alfred tell you?”

“Close to nothing.” You half-heartedly glare at the doorway where Alfred exited. “Said you had a job, said you asked for me.” Your heart does a strange twist. “Said you’d only trust me with it.”

Bruce stiffens. You notice it in his shoulders hidden beneath his baggy clothes. You’ve never known Alfred to lie but his statement, however true or not, made Bruce uncomfortable. You attempt to read his exhausted, sullen face, but it’s like trying to read a street sign within the reflection of a puddle.

Bruce avoids your eyes, “it’s about Arkham.”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. How did Bruce hear about that? Or was this unconnected? You shift in your seat again, sitting upright, attentive, and a scent not unlike blood fills your nostrils. Your old editor used to say: ‘Quicksilver, you got the instincts of a fucking shark.’ It’s a shame the bastard didn’t bother to fight to keep your big story afloat. Before Bruce even opens his mouth again, you can taste it—The Story. There’s something under the soil waiting to be dug up and brought to the light.

“I’m listening.”

“I heard about the story the Gazette wouldn’t publish.” Bruce sucks in a breath, “I want you to write it.”

The floor dips out from underneath you. You’re glad you’re not holding the expensive, delicate teacup because otherwise it would be shattered on the hardwood floor.

You balk. “What?”

“Write it.” He says with more certainty this time. “I’ll pay you.”

“Bruce.” You shake your head, immediately worried for his reputation, “if people find out you’re footing the bill to uncover Arkham’s dirty laundry…”

Something scared and small inside of you cringes at the idea of going into Arkham again. Then, abruptly, the face of one of Falcone’s drugged-out girls surfaces to your mind. Shit. If you do this, you’ll be fighting two monsters. Falcone’s dangerous corruption and obvious viciousness, and Arkham’s cold, claustrophobic corridors and placid doctors who – if you’re honest – have plastic smiles that freak you out more than some of the dangerous patients.

He says, “it doesn’t matter.”

God, he’s dumb. He’s all that’s left of the benevolent Wayne family name, and he wants to spend his days a shut-in recluse paying an ex-journalist to write a story no one wants? You want to shake sense into his shoulders.

You nibble your lower lip before asking, “why me?”

Bruce actually looks at a loss for words (not that he’s been a man of many words but whatever). His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left. His eyes narrow imperceptibly. You twist the tiny sugar serving spoon between your fingers for the sake of movement, so you don’t start pacing in his parlor.

“Alfred already told you why,” murmurs Bruce.

All air whooshes out of your lungs in something that resembles a chuckle but is far too warbled to be an honest laugh.

“Even if I write the story, Bruce. What happens next? If I post it online, people will call me a conspiracist, or a liar, or both! And if it comes out that you’re involved, they will drag your name through the mud for supporting it.” You explain a hurried rush, desperate for him to understand, “there’s no way in hell the Gazette will publish it. And none of the smaller papers either would risk the Gazette’s wrath.”

You continue, “And this is all assuming my old contacts will even speak to me.”

You had walked in, ready to accept the job offer with a smile on your face, and now you were arguing against it. Why? Because you don’t want Bruce to have his name slandered? Because it looks hopeless? Or because you don’t want to face Arkham again? Or because you already have your hands full with the Falcone drug ring investigation?

You are uncertain of the answer. It feels like a little of everything.

“Write the story first, then we’ll figure out what to do with it.” He slides his palms down his legs, from his thighs to his knees. “There are papers outside of Gotham. As for your contacts…well…the ones who won’t speak to you are likely paid off by the Gazette, right?”

You blink at him. Holy shit. He’s serious. He wants you to rewrite the story. The damp, musty air of Arkham clings to the vessels inside your lungs. Can you do it? Can you tell both stories? Save the girls from Falcone and save the patients in Arkham? It’s a Herculean task.

But it’s not impossible. You told Vengeance last night that you’d suffer pain for the sake of others. And ‘others’ included the criminally deranged patients in Arkham.

You pinch the upper bridge of your nose and close your eyes. “Fuck…”

“You’re going to say yes.” Although you’re not looking at him, you can hear a faint smile in Bruce’s voice. A molten, nostalgic, and hungry heat unfurls through your bones. Goddamnit. At the end of the day – it’s Bruce, the scrappy boy who took a blackeye and busted lip for you – that’s who is asking you for a favor. You can bite and bark all you want. But you know you’re going to agree. Doesn’t explain how he knows it, though.

You meet his steely, blue gaze, “how do you know?”

Bruce shrugs.

You groan. “Fine, fine. Yeah. Yes. I accept. Show me the paperwork to sign.”

The rich bastard does actually have paperwork for you to sign. Which is like – hilarious and also ridiculous and your leg bounces under the table with each shiny, wet signature you leave behind. It’s basic non-disclosure agreement and ownership stuff that you’ve seen a hundred other times. You mutually agree to not reveal whose paying you, you keep your contacts private and secure, and Bruce agrees that once the article is complete—it’s his. You can choose to strip your name from it completely. He’s free to sell it to the highest bidder outside of Gotham.

Though, with minor hassling, he agrees to consult with you beforehand before it goes anywhere to print.

Once the business is done, you find yourself falling into sort-of-easy conversation. It’s mostly one-sided because Bruce’s life is incredibly fucking boring. He’s unlike the other rich elites of Gotham – those with their smiling, plastic faces on glossy magazine covers.

“What?” Your prompt, leaning your elbows on the table, “Not even a single torrid and gut-wrenching love affair to share with your old friend?”

Bruce deadpans, “no.”

“What about Alfred?”

“No.” A little line appears between his eyebrows. It’s cute. You stifle a giggle in the back of your throat. “Unless he’s keeping secrets.”

You lean back in your chair, “I’ll ask him on my way out.”

You talk about work because it’s easiest. You tell him about your other articles – both published and tossed aside. You tell him about your brief period, post-Gazette, as a private investigator (“It was mostly trying to find out if partners were cheating on each other and I got bored fast” You clarify, “money was good though”). You tiptoe around any topic that implies you have a life outside of your work. Simply because you don’t. You fall asleep staring at your computer screen, up to your neck in research, and you wake up staring at the same screen. It’s a little…embarrassing…to consider how hollow your life is, but Bruce doesn’t leave his house. It’s not like he can judge you and you’d give him hell if he tried.

A notification on your cracked phone screen informs you that you need to go. You’ve got a meeting with Gordon in an hour. You already passed information off to the Bat. Now, it was time for Gordon to follow-up with you on the leads you gave him last week.

“I’ll walk you out.” He offers, falling into quiet step behind you.

You tease. “Always a gentleman.”

His lips twitch. You think he almost smiled. Now, It’s not perfect. You’re not slotted together at the hip like you used to be when you were kids. And he’s practically your boss now. But at least you’re talking again. At least it’s something. That’s better than the years of static and loneliness and complicated, yearning feelings you endured in your youth.

You press the button for the lobby with a short wave to Bruce in farewell.

His long pale fingers suddenly wrap around the silver, polished elevator door and he stops it from hissing shut. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips, and the arch of your brow. He looks …haggard – a little wild…like whatever he’s about to say or do is being ripped from his ribcage. Bruce is on a flimsy tether and he’s one rough pull from unraveling.

His voice dips low, stoking at an ember you weren’t aware of in the depths of your belly.

“You always used to close your eyes before saying yes to me.” His eyes pin you, their gaze darkening, and the rumpled slump of his shoulders tightens.

You grin. “That’s because you were an insufferable brat who always got his way.” You rapidly press the ‘close door’ button a few times. It doesn’t do anything, of course, because Bruce is white knuckling the door.

“Anything you need…” He trails off, then finishes his sentence with a gruff, “– just call.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave a hand, trying to be as nonchalant as possible with your heart trying to fucking escape from your chest like an Olympic acrobat. “I’m on the payroll now. Got it.”

You’re about to become the Queen of Multi-tasking.

*********

Fuck this fucking club, you think, as Falcone places his arm around your waist. It sends a clear message to the other creeps in here. He’s interested in you. Everyone else better back off or they’ll lose an eyeball. Your skin crawls. You put on a brave face. You giggle at his jokes. You pet the front of his blazer, curling up next to him in the booth, enduring his cigar-breath and fingers groping your thighs.

“How ‘bout we get outta here, sweetheart?” He asks, “I got something I wanna show you. Something that’ll make you feel good.”

You flutter your eyelashes, playing dumb, “really?”

Gordon followed some of Falcone’s cars to the shipping district and confirmed that Falcone was keeping the missing girls somewhere else. Gordon couldn’t breach the private warehouses without a warrant. And Batman has been MIA for the past two nights. You hope and pray that Falcone is planning to take you there now. You’re desperate for a lead.

“Yeah, baby.” He grins. “Remember how I was telling you that I’m getting into something big? Something groundbreaking? Well – tonight, you get to have a taste of it.”

You don’t want to be too eager. “Can’t we just go to your office?” You wine.

“No, no, baby.” He takes a long pull of his cigar, “I don’t keep it here.”

He signals for one of his boys to bring a car around. You don’t bother to hide your nervous and bouncy excitement. You mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the car ride. So far, you’ve avoided Falcone’s mouth by dodging and playing coy and leaving before things get heated—but he’s a brute and a criminal. He’ll take advantage of the small space of the backseat. You’re sure of it.

Plus, he thinks you’re a runaway who is desperate for her next fix. He thinks you’re vulnerable and weak. He has no idea how wrong he is.

You hold the image of the missing posters at the forefront of your mind. You repeat their names as Falcone shoves his tongue between your teeth. You climb onto Falcone’s lap so he can’t reach between your legs and fantasize about Batman punching into Falcone’s slimy face.

Thankfully, it’s a short ride. You make a big show of pouting when the car door opens and then giggling as if you’re drunk at Falcone’s goon. Falcone leads you past some of the warehouses and into a small receiving office. You’re confused until he opens the door at the far end of the wall which leads into a narrow staircase.

Your lungs shrivel. It’s underground. You take Falcone’s offered hand and follow him down the stairs, counting each step, counting every breath. You hope the stairwell will open up into a larger space. You never did well in tight, confined spaces. You swallow thickly. You repeat the girl’s names over and over again like a mantra to salvation and sanity. Nearly halfway down and you start to hear low, echoing moaning. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting. Falcone doesn’t look back at you.

The universe is downright cackling at you when the stairwell ends, and you’re confronted with a wider-than usual hallway pocketed with doors. The air is chillier than above and you’re in a black mini dress and fighting off a panic attack.  A full body tremor wreck through you. The urge to bolt, to run upstairs, digs its claws into you.

Falcone misinterprets your trembling, “don’t worry, honey.” He nods to one of his boys and they open one of the doors, “you’ll get what you want.”

You come face to face with one of the missing girls. Her cherry blonde hair is mussed over her damp, tear-streaked face. She’s curled on a mattress and muttering, quietly, to herself. It almost sounds like a song.

All self-preservation flies out the metaphorical window. Your heels click toward her, you crouch, and smooth her hair away from her face. Her big, brown eyes are glossy and distant. Wherever she is – it’s not here. And you’re thankful for it. Her hair is longer than her missing photo, but you recognize her. Her name is Karina. She broke up with her boyfriend and ran off after they had a fight. Falcone – or one of his people - must’ve grabbed her during the emotional turmoil and fallout.

Now, you’ve found her and there’s a high chance the rest of the girls are in the other rooms. You need to get to them. Gordon might not be able to shut this place down in time. The silver lining is that Falcone has limited security here. This is where he keeps the girls – not where he keeps the drugs. The few security goons you saw only carried pistols. You will get your hands on one. You’ll get these girls out.

You’re a journalist, not a hero. But doesn’t stop you from formulating a plan. If all else fails, you’ll reveal the ace in your sleeve, and tell Falcone about the tracker in your phone. It had been Batboy’s idea. It’s a one-of-a-kind program. Once activated, if you don’t check-in after 2 hours via a passcode, it alerts Gordon.

Come to think of it, it probably alerts Batman too.

“Don’t worry.” Falcone croons, “it’s more than pleasant.”

His goon grabs your arm. You almost jerk away until you remember yourself and let your wrist fall limp in their hands. You flinch at the bite of the needle. The world swims in vibrant, pulsing color. You cling to reality as feebly as you can. Whatever lucid part of your mind rationalizes that the high cannot last too long. Your tongue rests heavy in your mouth. The door echoes shut with a loud bang.

The walls close-in toward you. Shit, fuck, what the fuck?! Is the room collapsing? You press your hands to the concrete with a panicked gasp. Yes, yes, you feel vibrations. An earthquake? In Gotham!? It sounds implausible. Your mind is foggy, formulating thoughts through a haze of animalistic panic, your heart thundering so loud in your ears that you hear nothing else.

You hiccup, unaware when you started crying, your sluggish fingertips clawing at the flat, immovable walls that press closer and closer with every ragged inhale. A swarm of black spots dance like demons in front of your eyes.

You’re not even sure why you say—“Bruce?!” until you realize it’s because an earthquake is happening, and you’re stuck underground and he’s at Wayne tower and it’s going to collapse! And no one is going to be able to warn him and no one is going to be able to save him and no one is going to be with him and—Oh God!

The air is stale. You don’t have enough of it. You’re going to die in here. The realization hits you as the ceiling starts to drop. Tiny flecks of white plaster drop onto your head and into your eyes. They cloud your vision and burn. You want to curl up into a little ball and scream, but you suddenly remember you aren’t alone.

You grab Karina’s addled face, “we have to breathe slowly!” You shout to her over the noise of crumbling walls and plaster. “Slowly!”

You practice the correct slow and measured breathes to conserve oxygen. Karina doesn’t listen. She is crying. Her tears fall, fat and watery down her face. You keep trying to show her how to breathe like a mother teaching her child how to take their first steps. Karina is hopeless. She continues to wail and cry, and blubber apologizes and lamentations for her parents.

You stumble to your feet on the unsteady, shaking ground. Somehow, the metal door has withstood the ongoing earthquake. You’re not sure how this is possible, but you’re not going to spit on the blessing. Your fingers dig into the cold handle and tug. It gives way – unlocked – and you barrel into the hallway with watery knees. Another tremor of the earth and you shoulder into the doorway directly across the hall. Your body flares at the pain of impact.

Someone is screaming. It’s not Karina. Your face turns toward the sound. The collapsing world is a mess of greys and an off-shade blue that’s too unlike the sky and nearly nauseating. Every time you move your head, there’s an after-image of the world prior, like your mind is lagging and struggling to hold connection to your body and your visual receptors.

Batman is standing in the hallway. His cloak is billowing outward, led by an unknown wind, and you nearly collapse with relief. He can help. He can save Bruce and Karina and all the others. You don’t have to do it alone.

You scream, “Bruce!”

He reflectively jerks like someone slapped him. The elbow in his hand, held at an awkward and painful angle, is dropped. You lean your weight against the wall and stumble toward Batman to explain, your tongue still feels heavy, and your lips tingle.

“Bruce – my friend – my friend Bruce - you have to help him.” You grab Batman’s solid arm, heavy and black, but he’s the only thing not crumbling around you.

“There’s been an earthquake—didn’t you feel it?! And he’s on his own and someone has to warn him so he can -so he can get out. So, Alfred can get out. They live in a tower. It’s going to collapse. It’s going to collapse. Please, please, please, please. I can’t lose him again. Please, please, please.”

Your body won’t stop shaking. Your jaw tenses with a wild, deep urge to grind your teeth. “You’ve got tons of gadgets. Do a gadget. Help him. Help him, please.”

Batman is holding your face. When did that happen? You feel the heat of his palms through his gloves. Or maybe it’s you. Your skin is burning up. You feel the heat of it travel all the way down the back of your neck and across your chest. The words are slipping now like big slimy eels. Your tongue struggles to shape them.

“What did he give you?”

“Dunno.” You slur, your eyelids droop. “Karina. Other room. Help Karina. The girls. Help B—Bruce. Please. Please. Earthquake. Tell him. Hurry. Hurry.”

He squeezes your face, “Silver. Look at me.” He demands. “There’s no earthquake. It’s the drugs. Did you see where Falcone went?”

As if to prove him wrong, a piece of rubble falls from the ceiling.

It lands on him.

He collapses like a squashed bug. You shriek. The force of it renders your throat into bloody ribbons. You back pedal with arms flaring, blood hot and sticky on your face, and you trip over your feet. Someone is grabbing you, their grip strong, and they’re talking—but you can’t hear them. The walls are falling, falling, falling. You’re going to be buried alive. You failed. You failed the girls. You failed Bruce. You failed yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut because to look would be unbearable.

*********

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in a hospital. The white and blue gown is itchy and fits poorly. You rub your eyes and work the muscles of your aching, dry throat. Your body feels…mostly fine. There’s some minor discomfort at the back of your skull and your jaw.

Gordon says, “Quicksilver, you gave me a scare.”

You probe your memory and glance to your bedside where Gordon sits. “Take it from the top, Gordon, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You asking me as my friend or as a cop?”

He straightens his shoulders and his mustache quivers, “a friend.”

“Finding Karina in a sub-level below a shipment receiving office. Falcone’s men drugging me.” You chew at your lower lip, “I think…I think there was an earthquake?” Your mind snaps to Bruce and to his safety. The heartrate monitor betrays your unease.

Gordon mutters, “he mentioned that.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend in black.”

You sit up in bed, “he’s alive?!”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I – I saw him. I don’t know if it was the drugs or if it was real…but he was there.” You fuss at the sheets pooled around your waist, “I guess it was all a hallucination. Fuck. What was it?”

“The lab is running an analysis on your blood.” Gordon clears his throat, “we know it triggers the adrenal gland, and it induces auditory as well as visual hallucinations, and based on the other victims, we think it affects cognitive abilities as well.”

You make a mental note to ensure Gordon releases the analysis to you.

“Are they okay?”

“They’re badly shaken, but everyone is accounted for thanks to you.”

You weren’t sure what happened to Falcone and didn’t feel ready to ask, but if you had to guess—he likely weaseled his way out of there.

You relax a little into the pillows, “Gordon, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you call my boss?”

Gordon smiles faintly, “I thought you were freelance. Untethered, I think, was the word you used last time.”

“Fuck off.” You laugh, “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

*********

Gordon gave you the rundown of what happened while you waited for Bruce. Your app triggered shortly after you entered the shipment office. Batman was following you the whole evening (because of course he was! He’s worse than an overbearing grandmother).

When you didn’t check in, he assumed the worst and followed. Batman found you, rambling and sweating and screaming about an earthquake in the hallway. Batman called Gordon who arrived shortly thereafter with EMTs.

None of the doors keeping the girls were locked. A stronger dose, Gordon explained, usually rendered your body paralyzed. He theorized that Falcone must’ve wanted to see how you’d react first, but when Batman arrived, he fled. You decide not to think about what could’ve happened if Batman didn’t show up.

Gordon leaves the room to take a call. You’re left alone with your thoughts.

You rest your cheek along the stiff, bleach-smelling pillow and stare out the window to Gotham’s chrome brilliance. It’s overcast, painting the skyscrapers gray, the big, fluffy clouds reflect on every giant window. They promise rain. And when Gotham’s skies promise rain—she almost always delivers. You sigh.

Bruce hasn’t been in your life for more than three days and he was your first thought when you were in trouble. It is embarrassing. It’s heart-wrenching. You were on a drug-addled hellscape of your worst nightmare and what did you do? You begged Batman to keep Bruce safe. The seasons change, but your candle to Bruce Wayne hasn’t. He’s ingrained into you. The little white scar from his hallway table. The folded apology letter in the shoebox under your bed next to the faded, sun-washed photograph of you two eating watermelon slices.

The door creaks open.

“Hey, no hoodie this time! I’m honored.” You smile and try to infuse as much teasing and normalcy into your voice as possible.

The treacherous heartrate monitor betrays you again. Your pulse is erratic from simply looking at him. Truthfully, he looks like shit. All bedraggled, and sleep-deprived, and pale. He somehow manages to look more hollowed-out from when you saw him last. You wish whoever kept carving out pieces of Bruce Wayne’s heart out of his chest would just stop. But, sadly, the truth is that Bruce is the one holding that knife.

You kick the covers off your legs, standing when he approaches you, “you shouldn’t—” He says, but he’s too late. Too slow. You throw your arms around him. You tremble, hot and biting tears burn inside your lower lashes, and your hands fist the fabric of his heavy, woolen coat. His cologne is earthy, masculine, and warm.

It takes him a minute to wrap his arms around you. But when he does—oh God—when he does that’s when you shatter. You’re not sure how you have the energy to weep after everything that happened, but somehow, against all odds, you do. You cry messy, snotty tears into his expensive wool collar. He clings to you like he might just fuse your bodies together through sheer willpower alone. It nearly hurts. You gasp, muttering his name over and over again, through the salt and relief that clumps your eyelashes together.

“I was so scared.” You admit, voice small like a child, “I was so scared something happened to you and that I wouldn’t be able to reach you.”

“Me?” He rumbles, “what about you?”

You shrug and pull away to look up into his face. “I can take it.”

Bruce’s hand cradles the side of your face. You lean into it. His hands are cool and surprisingly calloused. His thumb catches an errant tear and brushes it aside. He looks at you like he’s about to give you something. His expression so earnest, so pained, that it momentarily steals the breath from your lungs. Your exhale quivers through your parted lips.

He says, quite simply, quiet plainly, vocal chords rough and strained; “I can’t.”

It feels like a declaration. It feels like a confession. The wretched heartbeat monitor has not stopped relentlessly beeping and displaying your desperate, aching heart. Your fingers crawl toward his jaw. His stubble scratches your palms. His pink tongue skirts across his plush lower lip. There is a question lingering in the fathomless depths of his blue eyes. You crane onto your tiptoes, edging closer, and Bruce finally asks the question in his eyes—

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Your eyes close, “yes,” and you nod minutely.

His lips graze yours. You close the barely-there distance between your mouths. He sighs into your mouth. It tastes like inevitability. He presses you snug against the hard, lean muscled strength of him. He is warm, and strong, and safe. You start to pull away, but he chases your mouth with his, humming pleasantly and pleased, you feel the vibration of it from his chest.

His hand on your face slides to the nape of your neck and he holds you, securely, and almost possessively. Your tongue glides against the seam of his lips, and he opens willingly for you. You lick into his mouth with a selfish and needy whimper. This feels right. It feels good.

The door swings open, followed by Gordon’s voice, “They said they’d release—” You wrench your mouth free and hide your face in Bruce’s collar.

“Oh.” Gordon clears his throat.

You burst into laughter, bubbly and bright, traveling all the way up your stomach and through your nose like fizzy champagne. To your immense pleasure and surprise, Bruce doesn’t let you go. His grip relaxes, but he doesn’t release you. You stay pinned to his side. Hip to hip.

You wipe the residual tears from your face, “tell me I’m going home.”

“Under supervision, yes.” Gordon’s perceptive gaze flickers to Bruce. “The side-effects of the drug are unknown. They wanted to keep you here but I – uh – I argued against it.”

“She can stay with me.” Offers Bruce.

“Hell yeah!” You beam, “tell me you have the same mattresses. Please.” The sleepovers were rare, but you had fond memories of those squishy, expensive mattresses and throwing pillows at Bruce’s head. After the kiss…maybe you’d stay in Bruce’s room? A tiny light of hope ignites in your chest.  

Gordon’s eyebrow lifts a notch. You ignore him.

“I have a guest room, yes.”

Well, that hope was short-lived. You stamp down on your disappointment and focus on the positives. You’re staying with Bruce. He won’t be a phone call away. He’ll be a few feet away at most. You can make up for lost time. Lord knows you’ve got plenty of it.

“Can I leave now?” You ask Gordon.

“There’s some paperwork you need to fill out, but generally, yes. You can leave whenever you’re ready.” He regards you, both professional and concerned, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod. “The less time I’m in a hospital, the better.” To Bruce you say, “can we stop at my place so I can get some clothes and my laptop?”

Bruce looks quizzically at you, “your laptop?”

“Mhm.” You nod, “for work.”

“I suggest we keep the Falcone investigation private for now, Quicksilver.” Gordon says with a worried pinch to his brow, “we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. I know you’re not really ‘The Press’ anymore, but you’d be doing us a favor.”

“Don’t get your tie twisted, Gordon. I’ve got other projects on my plate.”

Gordon hums, a deep sound low in his chest, and he gives a knowing glance to Bruce before leading you out.

*********

You try not to internally panic at the reality of Bruce standing in your awkwardly living room. His eyes roams over your bookshelves and to the messy, unkept pillows and blankets on your coach.

“I’ll just be a minute.” Your bedroom door softly clicks shut. You peel off the hospital scrubs they gave you. Your shoulder whines with sharp, throbbing pain. In the mirror above the bathroom sink, you prod the mottled bruises that decorate your shoulder and splatter like paint across your collarbone. You don’t remember hitting the door that hard. You change into bulky, comfortable clothes. You shove enough clothes for a few days into a backpack.

According to your discharge paperwork, the doctors advised you should be monitored for at least 72 hours. You exhale harshly through your lips. Three days with Bruce Wayne. What can go wrong? What can go right?  

Maybe he’ll just hand you off to Alfred and call it a day. You chuckle to yourself.

“Okay,” You swing the door open, “I’m ready—h-hey!” You proclaim, frowning, seeing Bruce holding your laptop open in his hands.

He doesn’t even look up, one hand on the keyboard, the other flat beneath it. “Your laptop is grossly outdated.”

“First of all, invasion of privacy. Rude. I should kick you out.” You sidle beside him and peer around his arm, “secondly, how’d you guess my password?”

His lips curve upward into a smirk. Your stomach swoops and awareness prickles across the nape of your neck. You’re relieved there’s no longer a heartrate monitor to blast your embarrassing feelings on monochromatic display.

He says, “I got lucky.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh.

*********

The sound of your laugh unravels something in him. He’s been so careful, so distant, and yet one laugh from you and he’s weak. He wants to wrap you in his arms again and ensure you’re safe. He wants to drag Falcone by the hair to the steps of Gotham Police. He thought he mastered fear. He believed himself immune to it. He is shadow, and vengeance, and righteous fury.

But, at Falcone’s drug den, he was helpless to ease your suffering. His failure plagued him. It is forever buried into the deep reaches of his mind. Every possibility of what could have been flashes through his mind whenever he looks at you. Losing you would be…his stomach sours thinking of it. He avoids your perceptive gaze and carefully snaps the laptop closed.

He says, “you should change your password.”

Your nose scrunches. His heart pangs within the hollowness of his chest. All at once, he is seven years old again, chasing you in the park, and pretending summer would never end. He’s refined the art of missing you – of your necessary absence – and now all those careful, practiced skills are turning to dust.

“Why?”

He tucks your laptop under his arm, “the code is too obvious.” Said code is his birthday. The password implies that you’ve not forgotten him—despite his distance, his lack of friendship. He recalls your glossy, wild eyes begging the Batman to save him. Falcone’s drugs clutched you in a vice grip of madness and you thought of him. He doesn’t deserve it.

“So?” You shrug, but a nervousness enters your eyes and gives you away. “How many people know we’re friends? Like two people, right? The odds of those two people trying to hack my laptop for information are close to zero.”

He sighs. You’ve got that fiery, determined gleam in your eyes. There’s no winning this argument.

On the walk back to the car, you continue, “besides, all my important notes and files are encrypted with a different password. I browse anything online through a VPN. And—” You keep talking throughout the car ride. You fidget in your seat. You chew at your lower lip.

He realizes, albeit slowly, that the excessive rambling isn’t because you want to prove a point. It’s because you’re anxious. It’s likely because of Falcone’s continued freedom. His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Falcone can’t reach you here.” He says levelly, “you’ll be safe at Wayne Tower.”

“Huh?”

“You’re…” He clears his throat, glancing sidelong toward you, “acting jumpy.”

“Oh.” You rub both of your hands over your face. You go quiet. You turn your face away, watching the city through the rain-speckled windshield. Bruce immediately wants to kick himself. Shit. He wants to comfort you, reassure you, not cause you to withdraw. He fumbles to find some type reply of that’ll get you talking again.

You reach over to the center dashboard and flick on the radio. An old, classic croons through the speakers. You rest your chin in your palm and continue to stare out the window. His fingers flex against the wheel with an errant, foolish wish to stretch across the space and settle his palm on your bouncing knee. The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the rain hitting the metallic roof, and the droning, sorrowful song in his ears.

*********

Bruce is painfully absent once you enter the tower. He doesn’t even explain why. He walks in with you and then vanishes like an impressive magician. You’re half-tempted to go knocking on walls and look for secret doorways.

Dory shows you to the guest room. She’s sweet and fusses over your comfort and keeps saying how nice it is to have a guest over. Alfred helps you connect to the wi-fi signal. He keeps you company in the room you’ve plugged your laptop into (the old beast can’t hold a charge anymore). You take notes about Arkham, you eat little sandwiches and fresh fruit, and force yourself into some semblance of normalcy. Alfred is a decent conversationalist, but you worry that he’s here to keep you occupied so you won’t go looking for Bruce. You push the thought away.

It's not like Bruce is avoiding you, right? He’s just busy doing weird billionaire reclusive stuff. You wrinkle your nose. What could Bruce be doing? Oh, God. Maybe Alfred is keeping you away, maybe Bruce has some freaky, embarrassing hobby. Like roadkill taxidermy and then he uses the taxidermy animals to produce original puppet shows.

Alfred says, “found something interesting, have you?”

You realize you’re smiling from the thought of Puppet-Show Bruce. You shake your head.

“I’m piecing together the etymology of the word Arkham to build my timeline for the hospital and the Arkham family’s influence. I want to see if any of it connects to the current medical board or the staff.” Your fingers continue to click-clack across your keyboard.

“It’s interesting. Usually, surnames will connect back to a specific occupation, or piece of land which you can cross-reference, but for Arkham there’s nothing.” You divulge these findings to a patient and attentive Alfred.

He smiles fondly, “I see.”

“You’re looking at me funny.” You squint at him.

“I’m just pleased you’re here.”

You press your lips together. A pleased, appreciative warmth prickles along your skin.

In the evening, Bruce doesn’t show up for dinner. And you start to wonder if you hallucinated the kiss at the hospital. But there’s no way, right? The drugs were flushed out of your system. You were of sound mind and body. Did he regret it? That is the only plausible and logical reason in your mind for his avoidance. He kissed you, regretted it, and now probably regretted having you in his house for the next three days.

You roll onto your side in the big, comfy bed. You can’t even enjoy it. Your stupid stomach is tied into knots thinking about Bruce-fucking-Wayne. You stare at the dark ceiling. OK. You can’t sleep. Fine. His home is temporarily your home. What did you do when you couldn’t sleep?

The chilly air bites your legs when you kick off the heavy, puffy covers. When the thoughts go loud, you go quiet, and focus your mind on something else. Bruce is dodging you, but at least he gave you something to do. Might as well be useful if you’re not going to be unconscious.

You’ve set up in the main parlor/sitting room/whatever-the-hell this room is with its heavy, iron lantern chandeliers and sleek, dark mahogany and bookshelf nooks. Your computer hums loudly to life on the desk and blue light spills across the woven, red tapestry rug. Behind you, the tall, cathedral-like window is sluiced with rainwater and pockets of light from Gotham below twinkle like an inverted night sky. Your files on Arkham flood the screen.

Your shoulders hunch forward, “okay, Dr. Mercer.” You mutter to yourself, “let’s see you’ve been up to.”

*********

He doesn’t know how to approach you as Bruce. He approaches you as the Bat. His cape and cowl do more than protect his identity from criminals. His mask is a shield. If he’s Batman—and not Bruce—he can do so much more. He can be more than just a man.

He watches you from the shadows. You’re hunched over your laptop, bloodshot eyes, fingers drumming on the hardwood, your face hardened and taught with concentration. You worked yourself to the bone, risked your life to save the missing girls. Not because anyone hired you to. Not because of the promise of fame or recognition Not out of ambition to try and get your old job at the Gazette back. But because you noticed a pattern. And you actually care. You brought it to Gordon, who gave what support he could within the confines of the justice system, but otherwise you worked alone. And despite the odds stacked against you, you succeeded.

If not for the tracker in your phone, he doesn’t know if he would’ve found you. Well, that’s only partially true. With the tracker, Bruce doesn’t know if he’d find you in time. But he knows – deep in whatever remains of his heart - if you were missing, he’d tear Gotham bolt-from-bolt to find you. He gingerly steps from the shadows, his cape dragging softly on the floor, and his boot intentionally hit a creaky floorboard.

You look up, eyes wide, and you don’t scream. Your throat bobs in a difficult swallow.

He says, “you weren’t at your apartment.”

“Instead of breaking and entering into my friend’s house—” Your brow pinches together, “you could have called.”

He is prepared for this conversation. The mask hides the slight lift of his brow. He steps behind you and peers over your shoulder to the computer screen. Your notes on Arkham are impressive. He doesn’t know how the ancient thing manages to hold enough memory to store it all.

“You asked me to check on him.”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t an earthquake.” You twist, turning your face toward him. A faint smell of mint toothpaste catches him off guard. The knowledge that you’ve settled into the tower, that you’ve done ordinary things like brushed your teeth and shared tea with Alfred, should scare him. But it doesn’t.

“Besides, I didn’t expect you to actually follow-through.”

He frowns. Has he already lost your trust in him?

“Why not?”

You turn back to your screen, shrugging mildly. “I saw you die.”

His breath hitches. How much pain did you endure from the moment the drug was injected? What other horrors did you see? And yet, here you are, continuing to research Arkham because he asked you to. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Anger rolls through his gut, hot and metallic in the back of his throat.

“You shouldn’t have gone near Falcone.” He grumbles, “I told you—”

You interrupt him. “And I told you I didn’t work for you.”

Yeah, that plan backfired magnificently. He assumed when he gave you the Arkham assignment, you’d step away from the Falcone case. He should’ve known better. Guilt, and anger, and self-loathing churn and mix like a dangerous, erratic cocktail. When you interrupted him, you turned around, and now he’s pinned like a butterfly by your gaze. Your nostrils flare gently as you stare up at him. Your eyes roam. He feels the heat of your eyes as they trail the square of jaw, the cleft of his chin, the shadowed expanse around his eyes.

“For the record, though…” You say softly, “I am glad you’re ok.”

His eyes drop to the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. The T-shirt you’re wearing is well-loved, buttery soft from frequent washes, and a few holes peeking around neck hole hem. His frown deepens. His glove skims the edge of your collar. Your pulse leaps inside your jaw, but you don’t flinch or step away.

He hooks his index finger into the fabric and gently tugs it aside. A scatter of dark bruises splotch over your collarbone and disappear into your shoulder. Everything in him goes tight like a bowstring ready to fire. His heart is thunderously loud in his ears. His eyes cannot move away from the bruise even as he notices your breathing pattern change.

“Falcone?” He says asks, lowly, dangerously.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. “A door, actually.” You don’t pull his hand away like he expects. Your fingers glide over his glove and loosely twine over his. Your hand is much smaller than his. It’s a strange detail to notice in this moment, but it’s the only thing that’s tethering him to sanity.

“I’m fine. I promise.” Your thumb rubs across his knuckles. He cannot feel it. And for once, he’s cursing his layered and protective armor. He cautiously turns his wrist and enfolds your fingers between his. You bite your lip and look away…almost shy. This would be the perfect time to kiss you. The rain gently is pattering against the window. There are no sirens or Bat signals to pull him away. He tilts forward, preparing to drop his mouth to yours…

“I don’t think Falcone is at the top of this pyramid.” You announce abruptly. He blinks.

He responds, “what do you mean?”

You untwine your fingers from his and walk around the desk and toward the bookshelf and the window. You pace back and forth in front of it like a race car on a plastic track. Around and around. Several steps, then pivot, walk the same steps in the other direction.

“Falcone is a sleazeball and an opportunist. I know he deals in uppers. Drugs like ecstasy, drops, cocaine…” You list off, clearly finding comfort in talking your problems aloud, “they’re expensive and addictive. But the drug they gave me and the other girls…that wasn’t a party drug.”

He knows. He has a sample of your blood being tested in the Batcave.

“What’s your theory?” He tracks your pacing form with his dark, smudged eyes.

“I’m thinking about the execution of the drug and its effects. It requires a needle. It induces a panic-like state.” You shake your head in uncomfortable remembrance, “it increases body temperature and effects cognitive functions. Could it be used in a controlled environment for torture? Probably. But that doesn’t feel financially ludicrous enough to tempt someone like Falcone.”

“You think it’s a prototype.”

“Exactly!” You snap your fingers and glow from within. His eyelashes flutter at the brilliance of your smile. “See? This is why we work well together.”

He can see the threads in the air that connect one thought to the next.

“Falcone is working with someone else.” It’s not a completely debased assumption to make. Falcone has plenty of business connections.

You offer him a distracted nod. “That’s my theory.”

A notch forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drops to the carpet, your thumb is pressing into the tempting lush shape of your lower lip. His heart careens into his ribcage in a desperate, love-struck attempt to break free. He can’t be with you as Bruce. Bruce has a secret identity, a secret life. But Batman is freedom. He’s the choice to wake up and try to make a difference. He’s fearless and fear inspiring. There’s only so few hours in the night and he can’t afford to lose them.

************

You explain, “it could be Penguin. It could be someone else. We’ll know more when Gordon has my blood report.”

It feels strangely liberating to talk this through with Batman. You can’t talk about it with Bruce—though you know he’s trustworthy, you’re not sure he’d support the…extremes…you take to uncover the truth. And you don’t want to worry him either.  Hell, there used to be a time when you never kept secrets from him. Where did all the time go.

You sigh, shoulders slumping, and cover your hands over your face. If only Bruce would stop avoiding you, then you’d talk to him! God. You hope he doesn’t wake up and find you having a midnight fireside chat with Gotham’s vigilante. That would be awkward. You smile behind your palms. It would be awkward first, then funny.

Batman says your name delicately as if he might break it on his tongue if he’s not careful. The warm, supple heat of his gloves wraps around your wrists and gently pulls your hands away from your face. You are unsurprised to see the grim, flat line of his mouth, to see the haunted echo behind his cerulean eyes.

“It wasn’t me who saved those girls.” He says, “it was you.”

You find the carpet infinitely interesting. Wow. What is that pattern? Eastern-European? Late 19th Century? Is it Dracula Chic? The detail work is fantastic. The color is so rich and textured—

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “You made a difference.”

You must’ve fallen asleep while working on the Arkham article. There is no way this is real. There’s no way Vengeance is complimenting you. It’s surreal. It’s impossible. His gaze drops to your mouth. His thumb lightly presses into your lower lip. Yes, this is definitely a dream. Your heart is pounding harder than the rainfall against the window.

Batman leans toward you, close enough to feel the feather-whisper of his breath on your lips. His heavily lidded eyes drag from your mouth to your eyes. A low electric pulse strums through your veins. Your finger scramble for purchase on his arm guards and squeeze in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. It could be real, it could be a dream, or it could be the side-effects of the drug.

“Is this real?” You mumble. “Because it seems like you—like you might kiss me.”

Batman’s gravelly voice responds, “I’d like to.”

You press your teeth into your lower lip. Bruce kissed you, but a kiss isn’t always pretense to a relationship. A kiss isn’t a promise to monogamy. Besides, you have your suspicions that Bruce is regretting the kiss anyway. There’s no harm in kissing Batman. You’re not betraying anyone. You touch his stubbled jaw with your fingertips and instinct pulls your eyes closed.

“Yes, you may.”

He sighs unevenly and then, his mouth is pressed into yours with surprising, desperate intensity. You clutch his face, opening your mouth beneath his, and moan softly at the first lick of his tongue against the roof of your mouth. Batman kisses you like he’ll die if he stops, like this kiss is all that stands between Gotham’s salvation, like he’s been waiting to kiss you for years. His tongue drinks in every soft, keening sound that he pulls from your throat. Your spine bumps into the window and you loop your arms around his neck. There is a feeling of complete, utter safety that envelopes you. And you melt into him.

His hands briefly move away from your face, but when they return—they are cool and calloused and firm. He cups your jaw, tilting your head back for him, and pressing the hard length of his body into yours.

He rasps, “I want to touch you.” His lips find the hollow spot of skin below your ear, “can I?” He suckles your skin, kissing his way down the side of your neck, explicitly careful of the bruises that dip below your collarbone.

“Yes, yes please.” Who knew Batboy could turn you into someone who whines?

His fingers hook around your sleep shorts and tug and—you hear and feel the fabric rip. You shiver in his arms, unafraid, and filled with nervous trepidation. Batman covers your mouth with his. You wish you could touch more skin beyond the scrape of jawline and his long, calloused fingers. His knuckles brush against the front of your clit and Batman hisses through his teeth.

Your hips eagerly shift, your blood ignited with desire, your head swimming with dizzying affection. He repeats in light, teasing strokes, back and forth, along your clit. Your finger slide for desperate purchase along the sleek, dark material of his armor. His other hand enfolds your wrists before pinning them together and lifting them over your head. Your knuckles rap lightly against the cool window.

“Ohhh,” You smile with understanding. His mouth latches onto your jaw and a soft hiss is pulled from your lips when his stubble scratches your sensitive skin. “You can touch, but I can’t?”

“Something like that.” He hums. His fingertip swirls over your swollen clit and it earns him another pitched moan from the back of your throat. His index finger glides between your folds and thank God he’s kissing you—thank God—because the sharp, ragged cry that you release would’ve woken the whole tower. He swallows your moans, relishing them. He grunts with pleasure when his finger plunges into you, covered in your arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He pumps his finger in and out of you, the sound of it slick and debauched, stoking the fire from deep within your abdomen.

“Be good and keep your hands up there.” He releases your wrists.

Out of sheer curiosity about what he’ll do next—you decide to listen. He kisses you senseless, kisses you breathless, and you’re certain it must be a distraction technique because there’s another ripping fabric sound from below your waist. Farewell, sleep shorts. You don’t mourn their loss for long because Batman plunges another finger into your wet, aching cunt. His thumb presses onto your clit and there’s something…clumsy…about the way he touches you. Unpracticed. Oddly, it’s a turn on. Batboy might wear a fancy belt, but it doesn’t look like he’s got many notches on it.

“Like that.” You breathe, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, “yes, yes, yes—" His thumb presses firmer, the concentric motion growing frantic, and your body tenses. You forget his instruction to keep your hands to yourself. You grab his face, hold him close, your lips smear messily along his cleft chin and pouty lips. You release a strangled moan when his fingers curl inside you.

“Stay quiet.” He warns with some difficulty. His eyes burn into your warm face. As if you’ve forgotten that you’re in Bruce Wayne’s study getting finger fucked by Batman. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

You choke out, “y-yeah, I k-know.” You squeeze your eyes shut, head lolling backward, his mouth on your throat. The familiar tightening and tensing of your lower abdomen heralds the final peak of your desire.

“I’m gonna—” Your voice pitches higher, “cum. I’m gonna cum.”

Batman gives a sweet little drawl of, “please,” at the hollow of your throat.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You shatter around his fingers, gush over his knuckles, your fingertips like claws on his biceps. Your mouth hinges open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. He hasn’t stopped touching you. His thumb continues to stroke your over-sensitive clit. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds he’s plucking from you like a trained violinist. Your body spasms, twitching, the come down of your orgasm only promising another quick release if Batman keeps toying with you.

“I want to feel you,” says Batman into the shell of your ear, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Fucking hell.” You blink, dazed, and swallow roughly. “Right now?”

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you. “Yes.”

“O-okay.” You nod and are surprised your brain and vocal box can string together a single sentence. Batman turns you to face the window.  Gotham twinkles and shines, gray and bright, as rain travels like independent rivers the windowpane. You flatten your palms against the glass and flinch in surprise at the first touch of his cock near your sensitive folds. He slides his cock back and forth between your folds, not entering you, just slickening his cock with your earlier release. Your eyes roll backward into your skull. Your heart thunders loudly in your chest. Just through the sense of touch alone, you can surmise the girth and length of him. You can already imagine how he might fill you.

You arch on your tiptoes, rocking your hips into his, and whine lowly. His fingers come to settle on your waist.

He says, “stay very still for me.”

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at following directions.” You tease with a lopsided smile.

The rumbling that comes from behind you sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. But, before you can turn back and see if Batman is smiling—the tip of his cock thrusts into your cunt. The world goes white.

“Oh, fuck me!” You gasp brokenly. Batman inches himself deeper, and deeper, holding your hips firm between his strong, calloused hands. He stretches you wonderfully, fills you, and your walls squeeze around him in an instinctive, desperate attempt to garner more closeness. He bottoms out. Your stomach muscles clench. Your frantic breath fogs the glass. The seconds tick by in agonizing slowness. Your body quakes. Your fingers curl with a quiet squeak on the glass. He said stay still but didn’t give a time limit. You wrestle against the instinct to start grinding your hips, desperate for friction, desperate to satisfy the craving that’s burning inside of you.  

You look over your shoulder and Batman’s jaw is dropped open in pure, lustful awe.

You say, “please.”

His striking, blue eyes lift from your joined bodies and his upper lip glistens with sweat. He clears his throat.

“You feel…” He grunts and bows his head, “will you touch yourself for me?”

You nod. Your hand tucks between your legs and finds your swollen, slick clit. Your fingertips brush against the hard, impressive length of him buried deep inside you. Batman groans through clenched teeth. With every stroke of your fingers, your inner walls squeeze his immobile cock, and you try—you really, really do—to not move your hips and start thrusting.

You manage it for like thirty seconds. It’s not even intentional. You’re rubbing your clit, panting with soft little ‘ah ah ah’s. Next thing you know, you’re dragging your hips away, and letting out a deep, unrestrained moan at the feeling of his cock sliding along your walls.

Batman suddenly crowds you, pushing you up against the window, and your breasts squish into the cold glass. Your nipples pebble beneath your thin, old t-shirt.

“I—” You begin to explain yourself, or apologize, but the words rapidly dissolve on your tongue as Batman thrusts into you. You place your both palms on the glass to steady yourself again. At this angle, the head of his cock keeps hitting a deep, toe-curling spot inside you. A collection of stars dance and twirl in front of your vision like fairy dust.

You’ve forgotten the earlier instructions to stay quiet. Your moans punctuate each thrust and Batman doesn’t try to muffle you. At this rate—you’ll take the awkwardness of Bruce walking in if it means Batman doesn’t stop.

Through heavily lidded eyes, you watch down at Gotham as Batman – the masked vigilante, Vengeance, your partner – fucks you like it’s his last night on earth. He grunts from deep within his chest. Your walls squeeze. Your thighs shake. The side of your face presses into the glass, too tired to hold your head upright, and your cheek and flecks of saliva smudges the pristine surface. Everything pulses with white-hot heat and frenzied intensity.

You blindly reach behind you and grab hold Batman’s wrist. His hand twists beneath yours, and for a wild, panicked second, you’re worried you’ve crossed a line, you think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He traps your hand under his and clutches your fingers, twining them together like a Celtic knot, squeezing the delicate bones in tandem with his eager thrusts.

“Oh, oh fuck.” You announce emphatically. Every atom, every nerve, every muscle, is wound up tight inside you like a spring-loaded weapon. Your inner legs are slick with arousal and sweat pools at the dip of your spine. The windowpane is blotched with evidence of your clawing fingertips and haggard breath. All the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone. Your walls grip around his cock. He says your name with feverous reverence, with glimmering absolution, with greedy satisfaction.

Praise drips like rainwater from his mouth, “you’re so good for me.”

In the haze beneath the din of your blissed-out cry, Batman quietly says, “it’s you - you’re - I—“ and whatever else he would’ve said is swiftly pulled into the undercurrent of his bitten-off moan. He buries himself to the hilt, pressing you flat against the window, and shudders as his cock swells and pulses inside you. His arms encircle your waist, your spine rests snug—if uncomfortable—into the hard planes of his armor.

You droop, boneless and sweating, and listen to the rapid, deep, and booming beat of your heart. Batman’s haggard breath fills your eardrums alongside the pouring rain. Your eyes gently open. You are greeted by dark, warm mahogany and weathered book spines, and a woven, expensive rug. Your laptop purrs on the desk behind you.

The room looks the same. Yet, your world has changed. Batman doesn’t move. In the muddled, rain-streaked reflection of your visages, you see Batman tilt forward and rest his forehead in the middle of your back between your shoulder blades. His warm breath slips through the fibers of your t-shirt and your skin prickles with goosebumps.

You hope he doesn’t let go (you’re gonna collapse onto the floor if he does). Your eyes slip closed again, because—what’s the point in keeping them open? You could sleep here for a few minutes. Then you’ll crawl your way to the guest room later after Batboy leaves. You loosen your grip on his fingers and sigh languidly.

If your eyes had been open, you would’ve seen the longing that ensnares his expression.

*********

He wishes he could stay here forever in the warmth of you. He’s carried the memories of you like a candle in the dark. He never imagined, never thought, that he would experience this with you. You fit him so perfectly—it’s maddening. It’s an impossible dream. He catches his reflection in the glass. He can’t forget who he is. He can’t forget his family’s legacy. He’s Vengeance. Allowing himself closer to you would only result in heartbreak. And Bruce made a promise a long time ago to protect you from any pain. This can’t happen again.

He waits until his cock softens inside of you before pulling out. You mumble something completely intelligible. His lips quirk in fondness. You are normally so eloquent—you talk fast, waving your hands in dramatic displays, and piece together missing puzzle pieces at hundred miles per hour. A sense of pride smolders in his gut. He can make you speechless. He pours water onto the ember. This won’t happen again.

He adjusts himself and collects you easily in his arms, one arm beneath the bend of your knees, the other scoops around your back.

“I can walk.” You grumble, your sweaty head falling against his shoulder, “put me down.” He doesn’t bother listening. He walks silently through the dark halls of his home. Your breathing slows and your hand slides off your stomach, dangling to the side.

He crosses the threshold into your room and lays you carefully onto the disheveled bed sheets. His fingers trail across your jaw. He selfishly drinks in the sight of you in the muted, orange glow of the bedside lamp. You are achingly lovely, and clever, and stupidly determined. Your golden lion heart will be his ruin. Your eyelashes flutter in a dream. He hopes it’s a good, happy dream. He hopes you aren’t plagued by nightmares like he is.

He draws the covers up to your chin. The back of his knuckles caress your cheek in a lingering and lonely farewell.

*********

Someone knocking on your door is what wakes you. Not your phone alarm. Not the muted, cloud-struck sunlight bleeding through the big windows. You grumble and make a noise that sounds like “come in.”

You blink in confusion at Bruce standing in the doorway. You were expecting Alfred or Dory. His dark hair lays flat against his scalp and little droplets drip from his earlobes onto his gray t-shirt. Fondly, he reminds you of a drowned rat. You smile.

“Hi.”

Bruce takes that as an invitation to walk in. Your shirt reaches an inch or so above your knee, but when sitting, it’s basically useless to cover below your waist. You adjust the bedsheets to ensure he can’t see your nakedness. You have no clue what Batman did with your shorts and underwear. Did he keep them? It’s not outside the realm of possibility, you think, for a guy who dresses up like a bat to fight crime.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, “hi.”

He fidgets with a bulky wash towel in his hands. He meets your gaze, then avoids it, strangely skittish for the man who shoved his tongue in your mouth in a public hospital room. You open your mouth to comment on it—but he speaks before you can.

“Can I see your shoulder?” says Bruce. Your mouth snaps shut with a comical clack of your teeth. How did he know about that? Then you remember Dory. On your first night, she—due to doctor instruction—waited outside the bathroom when you showered. Her thin, wrinkled mouth pursed when she saw your bruises, but she didn’t say anything. She must’ve reported back to Bruce. You couldn’t be upset with her, though. You liked her too much.

You grin, your tone playful, “what? You want me to take my top off?”

Bruce smirks and looks away from you, sighing indulgently. Your heart melts.

You poke his thigh, “close your eyes.” You immediately register the muscled tenseness of his leg but brush it off. He’s a billionaire hermit who doesn’t skip leg day. Who would’ve guessed.  

He starts, “you don’t have to—”

“Close ‘em.”

He bites his lower lip, briefly, before shutting his eyes. You wince when you pull your old shirt over your head, but you manage without difficulty. You take the sheets pooled around your waist and tuck them under your armpits. In full light, in full view, the bruises follow the curve of your shoulder and into your collarbone. You take a minute to wonder if Falcone’s prototype drug affects blood thinness. You file the thought away for when you’ve got your results in hand.

“Okay.”

Bruce’s breath snags in his mouth. His nostrils flare. Under his scrutiny, his desperate gaze, your skin throbs dully with pain. You swallow roughly as Bruce’s fingers come close to your skin, but don’t touch you. He traces the mottled landscape with his eyes. His sooty eyelashes flutter, blinking away some errant thought, and he peers at you through his wet hair.

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

You say, “I only notice it only if I’m moving that arm.”

“You should be icing it.”

You chuckle. “You sound like Alfred.”

Bruce lifts the washcloth from his lap, “lucky for you, I brought some ice with me.” His hand hovers over the worst bruise, the part of your body that took the full, animalistic force of the door. He looks at you in silent askance. You don’t even need to think about it. You trust him. You bite your lower lip and nod.

He gently, oh-so-delicately, applies the cold compress to your injury and you inhale sharply. His gaze snaps away from your shoulder to your face, his brow furrowed.

“It’s cold.” You press your lips together.

He smiles faintly, ducking his head, and hiding the full sight of his smile from you.

“That’s the point, Silver.” He cradles your elbow in his other hand and methodically places the cold compress on the injury for a few minutes before moving to another section of your skin. His eyes remain focused on his task, only looking at you when you make a sound of discomfort. A prickle of goosebumps flush across your skin.

When the compress comes to your collarbone above your breasts, you lift your eyes to the ceiling, and the cold sensation radiates outward. You shouldn’t feel warm while Bruce is tending to your injuries. Yet, your body – treacherous as it is – hums with warmth and slow, deep throbs of desire.

Even after your…adventure…with Batman last night. It can’t erase how you feel about Bruce. He’s etched into you like the lines on your palms. Your heart has his fingerprints all over of it.  

You try to focus on other thoughts, like Falcone, or the Arkham project, but holding onto your thoughts is impossible. It’s like holding tendrils of condensation that puff in front of your face in cold mornings. It all circles back to him. His gentle hands. The smell of his shampoo. The water dripping into his eyes. The length of his eyelashes. The bridge of his nose. His steady inhale-exhale.

Bruce asks quietly, “will you tell me how it happened?”

Your brow wrinkles, and something akin to grief crawls into your throat, “it’s not a happy story, Bruce.”

His hand, chilly and familiar, caresses your throat. His thumb grazes across your pulse. “I know.”

You close your eyes. “Okay…” you take a deep breath, “it all started when I noticed a pattern of girls from the same age group going missing…”

Bruce listens to all of it. Your dead-ends at other bars and clubs. The connections you made about the girl’s being runaways or estranged from their families. The terrifying close calls with drug dealers, who either wanted to rob you or kill you, or the other criminals—who usually wanted to do worse. The little help you got from Gordon. Your eventual success in getting Falcone’s attention. The shipyard. The drugs. The hallucinations you saw, what you felt, all the terror and panic, and the worry.  

You omit the fact that Batman was there. And has been there since the beginning of your days as a freelance, reckless journalist.

You hate lying to Bruce, but the story is more believable if you say Gordon was following you and just called in the EMTs. That’s easier to explain that then ‘yeah, I work with Batman, and he installed a custom app in my phone to protect me.’

At the end of the story, he says,  “the drugs triggered what happened when we were kids.” And his words floor you. You haven’t thought about that in years. A lightbulb switches on inside your mind, bright and humming, and you gasp with delight and surprise. It wasn’t just a random hallucination. It was triggered by memory, by fear.

“Bruce! You’re a genius!” You grab your tossed aside shirt and awkwardly pull it over your head. If Bruce unintentionally sees a bit of skin, well, it won’t kill him.  

“I gotta call Gordon.” You grab Bruce’s face between your hands and plant a kiss square on his forehead. “Thank you!”

You clamber off the bed, feet nearly slipping on the hardwood, as you snatch your phone from its charging spot near the door.

Bruce says your name, freezing you momentarily.

“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought it was over with Falcone.”

You shrug, then wince. “It’s not over for me until he’s behind bars.”

He slides from the bed, approaching you, and he pins you with his gaze. “But you’re not investigating him anymore, right?”

“I can’t leave this loose end untied.” You clutch your phone tightly between your hands. “I don’t…I don’t expect you…to understand. It’s…”

Hell, you hardly understand it yourself.

“It burns me up inside, Bruce.” You say fervently, “I can’t leave a job unfinished. Yes, the girls are safe. Yes, I’m safe. But Falcone and his associates remain at large. The drugs’ location and his supplier are unknown. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”

You pause, and consider another angle, “I promise I’ll still have time for the Arkham article.”

He holds the side of your face, his expression pained, “you think that’s what I’m worried about?”

“I don’t…” You trail off, searching his eyes, and your mouth goes dry. When did Bruce start looking at you like you were the first sight of land after days lost at sea?

“Let Gordon and the PD handle Falcone.” He whispers.

“But this is important!” You argue, clutching the front of Bruce’s soft shirt, “Gordon needs to know what the drug actually triggered.”

“Fine.” His gaze hardens but raw concern is etched across his face, “you’re going to get hurt if you keep chasing Falcone.”

You smile to yourself. “Another friend of mine said the same thing.”

“I meant what I said in the hospital, Silver.” His thumb crests over the delicate space below your eye. “I care about you. I – I don’t know what I’d do if…if….”

Your heart squeezes like a vice.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then you should know the feeling is mutual.” Your lip quivers. “But lucky for me, you’re a vitamin D deficient shut-in who is best friends with a sixty-year-old man.”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”

You laugh softly and it breaks some of the tension in Bruce’s shoulders.

“I know it looks easy from the outside. I could get a different job. I could work the Arkham article for ten years and drain the Wayne bank account dry.” You smirk, then control your expression into one of seriousness. If Bruce wants any semblance of a relationship with you, then he needs to know this. This is your non-negotiable standpoint.

You say slowly, “but…for me…this is it. This is who I am.”

“A journalist with a death wish?” There is the barest hint of dry humor in his voice.

“A journalist who believes Gotham can change. All the crime and corruption doesn’t have to be the status quo.”

Bruce sighs softly and you know you have him. He can’t argue against your valiant, golden hope for a better Gotham. A safer Gotham. You believe in this truth and nothing, not even the man who holds your heart, can shake you from that conviction.

You lean forward and nuzzle your nose along his. “Be thankful I’m not dressing up and fighting crime.”

“There’s still time.” He murmurs good-naturedly.

You hum in agreement. “Hm. Maybe next year.”

Your lips ghost over his, “I think this is the part where we kiss and make up,” you mutter.

“Is it?” He guides your face to tilt to the side.

“Mhm.”

Bruce kisses you slowly. There is a lazy Sunday afternoon, bathed in golden light, hidden somewhere inside the kiss he gives you. You’re not sure if that afternoon is the near future or the very distant. But you want to discover it. You want to hold it tenderly in your hands, the same way you are holding Bruce’s jaw, and nurture it until it blossoms into a thousand, bright orange butterflies that carry hope with each flutter of their wings.

When you pull your mouth away from his, he asks a simple, modest request, “stay.”

And you are more than persuaded to indulge him.

(Part two)

*************************

((tag list:  @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid ))

[countmothra]

More misc. Abbey operation thoughts because I’m insane.

• There is an Infirmary of sorts within the abbey that will deal with the populations more minor to moderate health problems. But for anything severe like broken bones and serious and chronic illnesses they go to the nearest hospital for licensed medical attention.

• The abbey also has a Nursery/Daycare area because there are obviously kids living in the abbey because some siblings of sin come into the church already with kids or choose to have kids.

•Speaking of which, and going off an old headcannon of mine. Children in the abbey are raised communally, sure they know who their parent(s) are but everyone pitches in regardless of if it’s their kid or not. Only exception is Emeritus kids, they are raised ONLY by their immediate family (parent/s, siblings, grandparents) to make sure they have as much exposure to their future role as possible.

• Some of the siblings plan activity nights. Be it making crafts, watching a movie or playing board games, it’s all meticulously planned with sign up sheets and a suggestion box.

•Every six months there is 100% a day where EVERYONE in the abbey is tasked with deep cleaning. Nobody is safe from cleaning day. Ghouls, siblings, papas, higher clergy member, everyone is put to work scrubbing every last stone in that abbey until it shines. The chapel of ritual stinks like dead human sacrifice and Sister Imperator is tired of it.

• Old lady knitting club. Just a bunch of the oldest sisters of sin knitting and talking shit. Imperator goes on Fridays to decompress and gossip.

•there are secret passages in the abbey that some of the teenage inhabitants of the abbey hide in to do the typical rebellious teenage things like smoke weed and drink the wine they stole off the altar.

•BIG! LIBRARY! Books, lots of ‘em! All over! Just a whole bunch of physical media meticulously stored in a library for anyone to use for any purpose. Books? Hell yeah! Vinyl records? Of course! Cassette tapes? You bet! CD’s? Whole section of them! Film reels? They may not be pristine but they got those too! VHS tapes, DVD’s, they have it all archived.

•jobs for each and every sibling and ghoul are posted on a bulletin board outside of imperators office, just in case anyone forgets.

•piggybacking off my last batch of headcannons, they definitely sell some of their excess produce when the Papas aren’t actively touring. Money is still coming in from albums and whatnot, sure, but it’s nice for the ministry to have that little extra cash.

•The papas teach some of the religion classes and it’s a gamble on who they teach because their class could be made up of adults just entering into the fold or literal toddlers who can’t even spell “cat” yet.

Which brings me to silly scenarios that have 100% happened because I said so.

• Primo had to teach toddlers once. They did not care about the simplified version of how Lucifer fell, all they cared about was the sick new monster truck in the toy chest. Primo did have to admit that this monster truck was pretty cool as it was one of the cars where you pull it back enough and it goes forward on its own. (You know what I’m talking about)

• The old ladies in the knitting club are old enough to remember when each of the Emeritus boys were born. So whenever a rumor spreads about one of those boys, they are the first ones to discuss it. “Did you hear that Nihils youngest boy got drunk and started doing the most bizarre things to the furniture?” “Terzo?” “No! The younger one! Copia I think his name is… oh I remember when he was just a tot…” these devolve into wandering down memory lane.

• When Imperator goes, it’s mostly to gossip and drink wine. She’ll maybe knit a scarf…maybe…

• Terzo taught a class of teens once, and never again. Two teen girls pointed out how damaged his skin was and that he did a shit job covering his grays with box dye. He never wants to do that again.

• During those big cleaning days twice a year, it’s never the chapel that’s the filthiest, it’s the ghouls quarters. It’s always the ghouls quarters.

[satankilledmyghost]

Hello, may I have a eunjang boys with a reader who is straightforward, headstrong, and willing to succeed on her own without help from others? She possesses extraordinary talent, determination, and willpower. shes is the leader of the sports club.

this, this ask right here, she's an antique. it's been, what, a year? more? that this has been sitting here. i apologize for any shit writing; it's going to be rough since i'm getting back into it, so take this while i scrub the rust off of my cranium meat.

enjoy!

eunjang & a take-no-shit best friend

warnings: swearing, female reader, reader owns a cat

You are infamous for being eunjang’s tough, straight forward sports club leader.

You knew exactly what had to get done and when, and you made sure that it got done.

Everyone was intimidated by you to a certain degree.

It’s not like you were heartless, you just didn’t see the point in not doing things effectively and efficiently as soon as they were assigned.

You had grown comfortable in the consistency and solidity of your schedule, and you were in the middle of a peaceful break time when ben park busted into the classroom.

It was after school, so you were alone with an out of breath teenager that was hunched over in front of you.

You didn’t say anything, assuming he stormed in here for a reason, so you just raised an eyebrow at him.

Once he got his bearings, ben straightened himself and smiled brightly at you.

“Hey! You must be y/n, I'm Ben Park! It’s nice to meet you!”

He was the cheerful energetic type. Great. You avoided these types only because they were the ones most likely to dawdle and cause everyone to fall behind.

You kept your body and face neutral as you responded.

“You’re correct. Did you need me for something?”

Ben was visibly surprised at your abrasiveness, but he quickly got over it.

“Yeah, I'm trying to get my friend on the soccer team, but since he forgot to submit his form by the due date he wasn’t let in. He’s been on the team last season, and he’s really good, and I asked the coach to reconsider it, but he sent me to you. So is there any way you could let him join, just this once? Please?”

You nearly snorted at how desperate Ben sounded, already knowing your response.

“No. If your friend couldn’t follow a simple deadline, how are you going to convince me that he won’t skip practice, games, arrive late, or actually not perform well enough to be on the team? I don’t even know his grades or class rank.”

You had hoped that your response was enough to shut Ben down, but that was your mistake.

Instead, Ben's face lit up and he took your words as a challenge.

“Okay, I understand, but if I prove to you that he can be on the team tomorrow, will you let him in?”

You bit the edge of your tongue, mulling the proposal over.

Sure, you understood one bad day every once in a while, and you do like to think of yourself as a fair person so:

“Okay, fine. You have until the end of practice tomorrow.”

You narrow your eyes at Ben as he smiles widely at you, his body language brightening.

“Thank you, see you tomorrow!”

And he runs out of the room and that’s the last that you see of Ben until tomorrow.

The next day, you had barely made it onto campus before the sun was blocked by someone standing in front of you. You squint and look up, being met with Ben Park and a way too cheerful smile for seven thirty in the morning.

"Good morning, y/n! I brought Alex with me this time. Alex, this is y/n!" Ben moves so you're now looking at a different person. His body is more slender and lithe than Ben's heavily worked-on muscled frame. Alex was definitely fast, that much you could tell. He also was a lot quieter than Ben. You remembered him from last year, he was an asset to the team.

You relaxed knowing that your wager with Ben Park wasn't for nothing. You really didn't need to know any more about Alex since his record with the soccer team already speaks for him, but you were still wary about grades.

You took your thoughts and switched your focus from Ben to Alex, giving him a small smile. "Good morning, Alex, it's nice to meet you. Ben has informed me about your late application and your wanting to play soccer on the school's team this year. Is this all correct?" Alexs' eyes widened, probably not expecting to get straight to the point right away. His face dusts with a slight blush as he looks away from you in embarrassment, nodding yes. "Uh, yeah. That's true."

"Okay, how are your grades?" You press, wanting this conversation to be done already so you could head to class.

"My what- oh. uh, I'm in the B, B+ range." You nod. "Thanks, you can take your application to the soccer coach and tell him that I've approved of it and he can let you join the team."

"Wait, really?!" Ben butts in, nearly shoving Alex out of the way.

"Hey! What the hell man-"

"That fast? I thought you needed like his papers or something?" You politely smile at Ben's question and shook your head.

"No, Alex Go has been in soccer before, like you said yesterday. I know his reputation on the team. As long as he keeps his current grades up, there's no issue."

"HAH! Gogo, you sly dog, I thought you said you didn't do much last season?" Ben joked, taking Alex into a head lock. "Get off of me, you lump of muscle!" Alex protests, attempting to free himself.

"Well, if that's all, then I'll be heading inside. Class is about to start so I recommend you two going to class as well." You say, walking away.

"Hey, wait!" Ben called, causing you to turn around. "We're, uh, we're going to play pool after school today by the underpass. Are you busy?"

"No." You admit. "Well then you should join us! Meet us right here after school, we'll all walk there together!"

As much as you wanted to say no, you had already said that you having nothing planned. You sigh, mad that you've dug yourself a hole. "Sure."

Ben gives you a giant smile and waves you off, "Great! I'll see you here after school, then!"

"Good job, y/n." You mutter to yourself, turning away from the giant ball of energy. You were not enthused to be spending your time with a group of guys playing pool when you could be studying, but you weren't heartless.

You kept true to your word when the final bell rang and you collected your things from your desk and headed outside. You were met with Ben and Alex, “Hello, how many more are we waiting on?”

Your question startles the two and Ben is quick to answer. “Hey! You made it! Well, there’s Gray, Eugene, Gerard, Rowan, and Teddy, but I’m sure they’re on their way now.”

You freeze at the list of names. You were never one to enjoy socializing in big groups. "Um, okay. Sounds Good." You nod. It's just this once, then you can be left alone. You reassured yourself.

It only took a minute or two before you heard a new voice. "Hey guys! Sorry we're late!" You turn and see two more boys walking towards you, Ben, and Alex. "Eugene! Gray!" Ben cheers, waving his arms wildly above his head.

Eugene and Gray stop just before you, "Hello, who are you?" You look up and down at your schoolmate. He's short, considering the average size of males, and has an odd color of blue and gray eyes, purple-colored if the sun hits his irises just right, and to end the look, the boy has silvery ashen hair. If he's not Gray I'm going to have to rethink some things, you think.

"My name is y/n-" "And she's joining us for some pool! She got GoGo on the soccer team so I invited her as a thanks, isn't that right, y/n?" Ben nearly yowls, swinging an arms around your shoulders. "Y/n, this is Gray and Eugene." Alex informs you, so I was right. That's good, I don't feel like rethinking things. I'm already rethinking my agreement to go along with this.

"It's nice to meet you, Gray and Eugene." You end the introduction.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You found yourself spending time with Gray and Eugene studying, playing cards with Rowan and Gerard, talking about your cat with Teddy, and enjoying Ben and Alexs' constant banter between themselves.

It took a while to warm up to Ben and his friends saying good morning and acknowledging your existence in the hallways of the schools. And it took even longer for you to get used to constantly being invited to things. But you adapted, like you always do, and found a makeshift family in your new group of friends.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I've been feeling inclined to vent about the general concept of "substance use" and "dependency" recently for no particular reason, and it's probably just my own brain finally processing some of the things that happened to me in The Bad Times but what the hell lets go with it.

I was pretty much straight edge until my mid 20s, no alcohol, cigarettes, weed, nothing. Then I got into a series of abusive relationships, nearly died of Mystery Diseases, and a pandemic happened right after. My life went from barely getting by in the world to bouncing between constant crises overnight. I was in therapy and had been for years, I had self care tools and was using them. I was medicated for all of my diagnosed mental health needs (ADHD wasn't on the record yet, so was still unmanaged, but I was doing my best behaviorally to keep on top of shit, obviously that stopped working fast). I worked full time plus going to school part time plus working part time at my internship for a grand total of about 90 hrs per week of work/school related obligations. I lived with several other people who I worked to support financially and who I needed to also support emotionally, and I still managed to run my household for the most part with minimal support except from wifey who was also working about 60-70 hour weeks at her own job to help us make ends meet and was only barely medicated and managed herself. I genuinely don't know when I slept or rested.

The first thing I tried was weed. I used edibles to sleep without nightmares or the anxieties that would keep me up for the rare few hours I had to rest. It also helped with the constant pain I was in. I would get high as fuck on a weed brownie or a pre roll on the one day off I had each month so I didn't have to think or feel or exist because it was the only way I could find to genuinely relax anymore without worrying about the growing mountain of Life Responsibilities that I could never catch up on. Life eased a bit, and I kept doing that.

One day, I had a rare night off, and wifey was going to go out to a club with some friends. I hadn't been anywhere fun in years. I hadn't had time or money or energy. I was desperate to see people and relax and maybe sance a little. A pandemic was on, and the local clubs were having discounts like mad. We went and got shitfaced on cocktails that cost less than lunch at a diner for a round and I made out with a cute girl and I came home laughing for the first time in years. From then on, we would keep a cheap six pack of something in the fridge and every once in a while I would down 2-3 and get fucked up for a bit between that and the weed. Life felt a bit easier and I kept going.

But behind the scenes the cracks kept forming. It wasn't the substances that were causing them. And they weren't even what was making it worse. But they were letting me pretend those cracks weren't there. Letting me run from a reality I knew I couldn't fix. By the time I realized how bad things had gotten, how deep into the pit I was, I was living in a tent in the woods, cooking my dinners on a campfire with my family, throwing back weed and cheap booze like my life depended on it because god what the fuck else do you have when a creek and a rainstorm are the closest you get to a shower and your bed is a pile of blankets in a military surplus tent with all the warm bodies piled together so you don't fucking freeze at night?

I was still working full time though, and for those hours, I had to be sober. No if ands or buts about it. And I was okay with that line, even if it left me riddled with anxiety and trauma and stress 16 hours a day while I worked my doubles in the ER and came home to try and scrub the COVID off in the creek before I went back to the tent. And then a coworker asked me if I wanted to join her on a cigarette break. I did. I desperately wanted to feel normal. To chitchat and talk about nothing important, and feel the breeze on my face. So I bummed a cigarette and smoked with her. That one cigarette became 3 a day. Then 6. Then, a whole pack. A nervous habit of sucking on a cigarette or a vape whenever I needed to fidget or relax while still being sober. It's been 3 years now and I've tried to quit half a dozen times but here I am in my fucking home office pulling on a cigarette like it's my last hope of comfort.

I don't drink anymore though. My body won't let me. Blah blah allergic reactions blah blah. Fine. I kept trying for a while, allergies be damned. But it stopped being worth it. Sometimes the cigarettes aren't worth it either. I choke on every inhale and my body dry heaves like it knows I'm putting in something it doesn't want. On those days I don't smoke. I don't think there have been many days I've gone without weed. I honestly don't know what to do with myself on the days I abstain. Like I do? I can cope. I just. I'm still so tired.

The part of me that broke all those years ago and said fuck it, lets see what drugs do, is still recovering. It's still resting and healing. Some days are better than others. Some days it does fine and it says "lets fuckin rawdog the day my mans" and I do, and it's great. Other times it's so small and frail that I know if I tried I might break it again, and I just can't risk that.

I've been told before that this is dependency. Maybe even misuse. I've been told by others that this is the point. If it's helping, then let it. I don't know what the answer is. Some days I resent not being the person I was before I started using weed and cigarettes to get through the day. I've tried other things too, and they've never done much for me, so I never went back. Does that mean that I'm not "dependent" I'm "self-medicating"? Is that a good or a bad thing? Does it fucking matter? I honestly don't know. I wish it didn't feel like it mattered. I wish that I could go through my days and feel like I had more of a choice. I actually miss being able to get high lol. Like weed hasn't given me an actual high in years, it just. Helps me get through things a little better. But how much am I really willing to keep living that way? How much of my life do I *want* impacted by whether or not I can smoke or have some thc? Some days it's fine. Some days I'm bothered by it.

The thing that gets me every time though is how at every single point when I made the choice to pick up a new "substance" it was because I was desperate, overwhelmed, and completely without alternatives. I knew full goddamn well every time what I was doing. I had years of both anti-drug war knowledge and addiction/recovery knowledge in my brain and I understood that I was at my most vulnerable, I was my most at risk. That making this choice could be fine or could be life changing or could be somewhere in between and it was worth being self aware as I did it. But I just. I was so tired. I was so broken down. I just needed to rest. I needed to feel something other than the stress and fear for a while. And no one was offering me anything else that made a dent. Trust me. I tried.

I don't say this to suggest to people that Drugs Are The Answer. I genuinely don't think they are. I still wish every day I had never picked up that first cigarette. I still wish that I felt well enough to live my life without needing help to rest and recover. But I can't blame anyone who makes the choices I did. I can't doubt the feelings of need and desperation that often drive us to interact with our support tools the way we do. I've also found over the years, that it's not just "substances" that people will turn to for help with avoidance the way I did. Avoidance is so very very human, and the way I skirted around acknowledging how beyond my capacity for repair my life was getting (even while actively working to resolve those things) had more to do with mh inability to acknowledge that I was failing people I loved than what tool I was using to avoid the acknowledgement. It could just as easily have been my work, or video games, or shopping, or gardening, or anything else in the world that allowed me to isolate myself in a world that felt smaller and simpler for a while so I could take a break from problem solving the way the rest of my world was steadily crumbling around me. I chose weed, alcohol and nicotine. Other people will make other choices. But maybe we all sometimes run away from problems we realize we can't solve until one day we're backed into a corner we can't run from. Maybe that's just human. Maybe the drugs just made me feel less like shit while I ran. And maybe that's part of how I survived to make things right for myself.

I really don't know. I can't know.

What I do know is that I left the relationship that was destroying my life. I'm safe now, and wifey and I are doing much better now that our communication isn't being actively sabotaged. I'm doing much better now healthwise that the food in my home is consistently safe to eat for me and I'm not being left without any food at all on a semi-regular basis. I *am* still the primary breadwinner of the household, but it no longer feels as though I have to run the household itself on top of that, and I *am* consistently supported (encouraged even) to rest when needed, even if that is still hard for me to do. I've stopped drinking, and that does feel better. I spend less time and energy seeking substances and I *do* smoke fewer cigarettes less often even if I do still smoke sometimes. I feel happier and more stable than I think I ever have. My life is. Mostly working? And pretty good now. The cracks have been able to heal in ways that are, if not structurally sound, at least working up to it. I am fragile, but making progress. Does that mean I made the right choices? The wrong ones? Will I ever know?

I dunno comrade. But. We all do what we can, what we must, and what we can figure out. Maybe judgement and shame about all that just doesn't help.

[otdiaftg]

The Raven King - Chapter Eight

Day: Monday, October 9th Time: 11:00 PM EST

October arrived without warning. Neil knew their match against the Ravens was coming up fast, but it still startled him when he realized they were already a week into the month. The game was only six days away. If the Foxes were having a typical season, the match might have drawn a little less attention, even with Kevin on their line. This year, however, they were at an unprecedented six-and-one record. The only game they'd lost was their opener against Breckenridge. They'd won three games by the skin of their teeth, but victories were victories no matter how they got them. The Foxes were pulling together and getting stronger one week at a time. No one expected them to win against the Ravens, but it was obvious they'd put up a spectacular fight. The Foxhole Court didn't have enough seating to accommodate the crowd this game was sure to draw, so the school sold discounted seats in the basketball stadium and promised to broadcast the game live on the scoreboard televisions there. Palmetto State University spent the entire second week preening and prepping for its day in the spotlight. Groundskeepers trimmed every square inch of the sprawling campus. Cleaning teams drained and scrubbed out the manmade pond in front of the library. Student clubs were invited to design and hang banners wherever they could fit them. Rocky Foxy the mascot walked the campus for hours every day and poked his oversized head into classrooms to get the students worked up. The Vixens set up camp in the amphitheater to pass out temporary tattoos and foam paw prints. There was an event every night leading up to Friday.

Art made by me.

(graphic design is my passion)

[inawearyworld]

musings re: wren and the wash crew

(not entirely sure how much time passed within that ynhclt montage, but if it’s enough time for wonka’s chocolate to get super popular, it’s enough time for one disillusioned trophy wife to become a solid part of a found family dynamic)

noodle

• the second the events of chapter iii were over, willy went straight to noodle to make sure she was safe and tell her all about their new ally on the way back to scrubbit’s

• in response he received a flat-out “so, you like her,” followed by a few moments in which the only sound came from the cart he was sitting in as it rolled over the cobblestone streets.

• “…huh?”

• “she’s like the birds we saw tonight, like you said, willy. they want to be free, they just need to see that it’s possible.”

• “that’s what i think too.”

• “and you definitely like her.”

• “…huh.”

• anyway wren absolutely adores her

• the three have this oddly delicate thing going on at first-like the way a younger sibling would react when their older one has their first relationship-but it becomes easier over time bc each of them are sort of all the others have

• she sneaks books from felix’s library, which was mostly used for show before she moved in with him, and brings them to noodle

• and then they talk about what they thought, it’s like a little mini book club

• wren would do just about anything for this girl

lottie

• immediate besties

• Girls With Big Sad Eyes™️ solidarity

• they get lunch together all the time following the events of the plot

• and they go on walks and picnics and stuff and are generally adorable

• each of these little dates breaks the previous one’s record for The GabFest Of The Century

• lottie let wren borrow one of her very few outfits while they were hiding her from scrubbit and she repays the favor by giving her half the clothes in her overfilled wardrobe (the result of two straight years of really, felix, i’m sure i don’t need anoth-yes, i know it’s my responsibility to look-this money could really be-i mean, don’t you think we should use what we have to help the p-sorry, my love, i just meant to say-)

• lottie hums folk songs to herself every so often, and every so often wren joins in on a higher harmony; it’s quiet and simple and beautiful

piper

• as luck would have it, wren’s family back home owned a laundry, so the second she takes her first steps into scrubbit’s washroom (willy had told her of their plight by now) she takes on as much work as she can

• in walks the crew, watching stunned as this woman throws off her hat and gloves and blazer and scrub scrubs with the best of em

• completely focused, she doesn’t even notice people coming in until she hears from behind a bemused “oh, the power of privileged guilt”

• she turns and smiles and pushes her hair out of her face. “hi, i’m wren.”

• the woman she’s facing studies her for a moment, then smiles a little, accepts her very soapy handshake, and the rest is history

• before meeting wren, she thought regarding willy’s stories that this actress was just a planted spy he was naive enough to fall for

• but piper benz is very good at reading people, and she sees that this out-of-breath, smudged-makeup, poised-yet-awkward woman is nothing but genuine. as for wren, she thinks piper is the coolest person she’s ever met.

• their minds are on exactly the same level. when i say the banter is OFF THE CHARTS.

• these women would do anything to protect each other and i’m so sure that piper was a big part of wren coming into her own

• i wanna meet natasha so bad you guys

abacus

• similarly to piper, he didn’t trust her immediately, due to her association with the chocolate cartel

• he is, however, a fan of opera (and they eventually bounce references and snippets of melody off each other all the time)

• once she’s been working with them a while, once a foundation has been built, he confesses that he was disheartened to hear of her marriage-that he knew what they’d want with her, that she deserved better, that he “wished the cartel’s schemings hadn’t claimed such a talent”

• this is touching to her, and she apologizes for not doing more to stop them earlier, then tries to explain

• “i think…i think i used to, at least partially, let myself get swept up. both in naïveté and necessity.”

• he’s quiet for a moment.

• “yes. anything for family, of course.”

• she nods, and he continues:

• “i’m the same way.”

• #GiveTheWashCrewMoreTenderMoments2k24

larry

• the weird fellow-ginger-and-theatre-kid cousin she never had

• she and willy are the new kids, the ones who haven’t heard all of his material, and he for one is delighted with these new ears to practice on

• she helps him get his career back off the ground once they’re all free

• every once in a while you’ll turn the corner to find those two deep in conversation about some facet of the arts or other

• then he’ll turn around and twirl his bowtie and you’ll wonder if it was even the same man

• they trade vocal warmup ideas

• not knowing what else to do, he makes a few terrible jokes at fickelgruber’s expense to cheer her up after the events of chapter iv

• and, despite herself, she laughs

willy

• they often stay up for hours and hours, one carding their fingers through the other’s hair, talking in the dark about their dreams and ideas and random facts and memories and whatever pops into their heads

• she writes him songs and he thinks it’s the best thing in the world

• he simply refuses to involve her in a single bit of his advertising, to exploit her in the same way felix did. but he hangs up posters for her shows all over his shop. they’re so proud of each other

• they dance together. a lot. so much.

• mostly waltzes.

• after months of inner guilt over her dreams of his chocolate-dot freckles, wren can barely believe that she now gets to kiss them and kiss them until she has the whole constellation of his face committed to memory

• they’re so ridiculously in love

anyway. THEY ALL LOVE EACH OTHER AND DEFINITELY KEEP IN TOUCH AFTER THE MOVIE.

FOUND FAMILY. *drops mic*

[salternateunreality2]

What is the Training room on floor 49 used for, other than training? Do the idiots SOLDIERs use it to watch movies? Do they have dance competitions? "Set the target on fire without igniting the highly flammable materials arranged around the target" competitions? Do they put the "Do not disturb" sign and sleep there? Have they ever had a food fight there?

An excellent question.

Let's start off with the thing young, virile, testosterone-laden, active men would do with access to virtual reality on this scale: duck!

Aka training! Training to duck projectiles to avoid penetration! By projectiles!

Oh, you said other than training. Then fuck, they would definitely fuck. The VR club is a thing. The VR mile high club is a thing. The VR tenta- nevermind. Little do they know that SESSIONS CAN BE RECORDED.

Until someone figures it out and there's a whole new problem with exhibitionists BUT BACK TO BEING WHOLESOME...

Movies: Maybe. I'm on the fence about whether Shinra would let anything other than monopoly propaganda be written for his VR tech, unless the tech is done by someone else. I could see him doing limited releases for the rich and famous (for a price), in which case the goofballs professional fighters would definitely steal the films and put them into their training rooms. I could also see him not having enough imagination to let the arts near his tech for anything other than boring propaganda purposes, in which case no one would voluntarily sit through it more than once after being enrolled in SOLDIER.

Dance competitions: oh. Hell. Yes. In canon, Cloudzack mentions that dancing was part of SOLDIER training, so you bet your sweet butt they're having dance-offs in ridiculous simulated locations.

Target practice: most definitely, since that's what the rooms are actually for.

Sleepovers: spicy and non-spicy both. Sometimes Zack will set it to simulate Gongaga and sit in the jungle sniffling a little bit as he rocks himself to sleep because he is homesick AF. He's also brought his friends there to tour and talk about his home. Several other random SOLDIERs will too, but Zack's the one who does it the most.

Food fight: No, and if they did, they had Kunsel wipe the footage and Zack spent hours hand-scrubbing all the equipment. Not that it happened. Because it didn't. And if it HAD and Angeal wasn't there to cover for them afterwards, there would have been hell to pay, so they would be VERY BLESSED by Angeal finding them and not someone else.

That equipment is extremely expensive and it would be a miracle that cleanup duty and 4am drills were the only consequences. So really, if it HAD happened, which it DIDN'T, everyone would be advised to be VERY GRATEFUL if Angeal caught them.

Genesis fully admits to using it as a private reading room.

Sephiroth really likes going with Angeal, Genesis, or Zack to their hometown sims, even if it tears at his heart a little more every time. He loves seeing them so happy and desperately wants that for himself.

Sephiroth, after several years of getting to know Lazard and a lot of overthinking and help from Angeal and Kunsel, invites him on a picnic in there. To, uh, inspect the VR station. For science. Not romance that he read about in Zack's magazine.

Everyone sneaks their buddies/lovers in at some point, and only those who are good friends with Kunsel get away with it. Kunsel accepts payment in ~favors~ and pizza.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Boris Becker Bankruptcy Bad Investments Nigerian Oil Ghana and Internet scrubbing: Just who is Misan Harriman? by u/Maleficent-Trifle940

Boris Becker, Bankruptcy, Bad Investments, Nigerian Oil, Ghana and Internet scrubbing: Just who is Misan Harriman? ​Misan Harriman, Lilly Becker, Boris Becker, Photo: Dafydd Jones: Dafjones.comWe've seen enough of his 'photography' to understand 'mild-mannered photographer' isn't really his 'jam'. Sinners familiar with his 'work' won't be surprised he only took up photography in 2019 when his wife gave him a camera for his 40th birthday.A search of the internet will almost exclusively turn up articles about Harriman's now well known connection to Meghan Markle and Harry, he also photographed Beatrice & Edo for their engagement announcement. You might catch wind of his 'groundbreaking' British Vogue cover or his 'photojournalism' of the BLM protests in Britain, perhaps even his involvement with Sistah Space (of the wildly inauthentically costumed and ill-mannered NgoziFulani fame). Maybe even his Disney photocall for real life small children or how Soho house occasionally promotes his work.But what the internet doesn't want you to read about Harriman seems far more interesting. Prior to his royal related re-invention, Harriman was previously described as a 'business partner' of Boris Becker. Such was Harriman's presence in Becker's life he was quoted saying "‘I’m like the other woman in his marriage’". Boris as you may know has run into some money difficulties over the past decade or so, including bankruptcy and losing most of his fortune, resulting in time in prison. In fact, despite their apparent closeness I could only find one photo of Boris & Misan together (above). Articles connecting the two either no longer exist/have had Harriman's name deleted/are behind a paywall.Curiously, Misan-pre-Meghan, is on the record chatting about Nigerian Oil here: Misan Harriman, The Mastermind Behind the Digital Platform What We Seee - Best blogs about lifestyle, #1 Fashion and lifestyle blogs (zezeonline.com) - amongst other things like his time as a club promoter and digital PR strategist. This is a rather curious connection as, wouldn't you know, it has been reported Boris Becker lost his $178 million fortune 'investing in Nigerian oil firms' - NZ Herald. According to Der Spiegel, "a Nigerian employee of Becker's "prepared a deal in which at least ten million dollars should be invested in Nigerian oil wells".Fellow Sinners, over to you. It's time for some serious sleuthing and an answer to the question: Who is Misan Harriman really? post link: https://ift.tt/tiPjl6q author: Maleficent-Trifle940 submitted: October 01, 2023 at 02:03PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[jiunngs]

떠나자 ✶ CHOI SOOBIN

ft. gn!reader x choi soobin. warnings nothing really? maybe just a little angsty?? you & sb are kind of will-they-won't-they. wc 1.5k

desc ★ sometimes, he wants to run away.

soobin had known what he was getting into.

of course he had. the real weight that lay behind the stage he’d stood on, the microphone he’d gripped in between trembling, sweaty hands. he’d known it was a lot more than just an audition. that, if he got in, got past all the evaluations and contracts and watchful eyes of the people he was performing for, it would be a lot more than just a club; something he did after school or whenever he had the free time.

it would be his life. contained only within practice rooms, with only wooden floors and his own reflection to look back at, and cramped dorms; dingy and always seeming to run a few degrees colder. it would be the only thing he could do, until either the day he was finally allowed to be given the title of an idol, to be shoved into the public eye in a persona that wasn’t his and handed a reputation to uphold, or the day he was told to pack up and leave—to disappear as if he wasn’t ever there in the first place, to allow his name to be scrubbed off the records and his things to be shoved back into the bags he’d put them in, ready for the next hopeful to take his place and restart the cycle.

soobin had known, and you’d known too.

you’d known since you were sixteen and he’d whispered his plans to you underneath the shared heat from his duvet, legs tangled together as he’d fidgeted with your hands, admitting to you in words lost to the sheets that he was frightened of what was to come.

you’d been there from the start, even when his parents were skeptical and his siblings brushed it off as wishful thinking. even when he’d moved into the dorms fully, throwing himself head first into training and not sparing much time for anything else. you’d still texted, called, left little messages of encouragement anytime you could. you’d simply.. stayed. without being asked to, without needing to.

it kept soobin grounded, to know that you were the one of the only constants in his life. to know you’d pick up the second he’d found a chance to snatch up a few moments of privacy and call you, to sit and be content to listen to you to go on for as long as he was able to stay on the line about anything that came to mind, everything you’d been doing in between the time you’d last caught up.

but the phone calls weren’t enough. none of it was. not the texts left for weeks until he was finally able to reply, nor the fleeting facetimes you shared. he wanted to be with you, lost in the maze of city streets and cold from the night air but happy. he wanted to get away from it all, if only for a few hours. away from the cameras and the staff and recording rooms and hell, even his members. he loved it all to bits, wouldn’t change a thing even if he had the chance to go back to the start of it all, but sometimes he just needed to breathe.

which was what led him to tonight.

he’d found a place, covered up as best he could, slipped the rest a few white lies when asked where he was going, and ran, racing for the car he’d arranged as quick as he could; not wanting you to be kept waiting for any longer than he could control. streets lined with lights and people out wandering sped by as he sat in his seat, leg bouncing while he silently wished the driver would push on just a little bit more, take them the tiniest bit faster. he felt as if the nervous energy was about to reach its peak when they finally came to a stop, and he fumbled with the handle to let himself out in such a rush he nearly got caught in it. 

he fled the car without saying goodbye, leaving the door to slam shut behind him and the driver to look very bewildered at the sight of soobin running out into city streets, head down and trainers hitting the pavement hard.

his chest was heaving by the time he collapsed into a chair at the table tucked into the corner you’d found for the two of you, tugging off his hat and pulling down his mask with grateful abandon. he ignored the teasing smile you hid in the rim of your glass over his short, gasping breaths in place of settling himself properly.

it was only then he took the time to sit back and take in the scenery properly. here you were. safe from the prying eyes of the world while sat on the rooftop of a sky bar looking over seoul, lit up by office blocks and nightclubs, anyone still out looking like ants from this high up.

no words were spoken, not for the minute. there didn’t need to be, not when he was content to finally bask in what he’d been wanting for all these weeks. it was just you and him. soobin and yn. how it’d always been. how it always would be, for as long as you’d be willing to stay and as long as he’d be able to fight to hold on.

some selfish part of him hoped you’d hold on wherever he went and whatever he did. hoped you’d follow him to the end of the earth and back with your smile still on your face.

“if i ran away, would you come with me?”

it was abrupt, out of nowhere. from a place that he wasn’t sure was of curiosity or desperation. you shared a look that went on too long, neither saying a thing. he was on the brink of brushing it off, discarding the question and hoping you’d forget after a few more drinks. you cut him off before he could begin.

“of course i would, idiot.”

that stunned him into silence again, turning round to face you with wide eyes and wondering how you could still look so nonchalant; swirling around the few violet remnants of your drink in your hand and leveling him with a look that felt like you were telling him that it should be obvious.

it wasn’t. not to soobin, at least. to him it was nothing short of a miracle you hadn’t left him back in his trainee days—when he was a livewire ready to snap, anxious and tense and more focused on his end goal than the people that he’d leaned on along the road to get there.

“you—what?”

you rolled your eyes. put your glass down, letting it hit the table a little too carelessly. leaned forward in your chair. repeated it, eyes locked on him the entire time.

“yah, choi soobin, why are you looking at me like that? i thought you knew that already. don’t tell me i’m the only one that’s all in on this.”

this. the thing neither of you had dared to put a name to. it felt too tentative, as if the second one of you tried to bring it up it would fall apart. it had ended up being left to hang, an unspoken weight above both your heads. he was scared. he didn’t want his only constant to bolt because of his own fickle feelings, promises he couldn’t keep.

yet hearing you acknowledge it, however slightly it was, however much skirting there still was around it, eased some tension in his shoulders. made him straighten up a little, lean closer as you had done to him and try for a laugh.

“stop twisting my words! i’ve been ‘all in’ on this since you helped me film my first audition tape, so beat that.”

you scoffed in retaliation, reaching over to hit at him without any force behind it to hurt.

“i think it’s been longer than that. you dragged me into it all when you made me cough up my own money just so you could get a KARA album.”

he sputtered in protest, throwing back another half-hearted retort in an attempt to hide the fact he was almost going giddy from how easy it all felt with you—being able to bicker and laugh with almost no effort needed, no need to keep up an image for the cameras and the interviews.

you went back and forth like that for a while, until it was back to the comfortable silence and shared smiles, both of you turned to face the stars smattering the otherwise pitch-black sky.

it was then, while you were watching the moon and stars above, that you piped up again. somewhere in that stretch of silence you’d ordered another drink, and it sat tall in front of you; untouched for the time being.

“why were you asking, anyway? were you.. considering it?”

soobin made to speak, then stopped. he looked at where he was: sitting, with you, on a rooftop overlooking the entire city. and later, he’d be going back to his members—the ones he loved like brothers, the ones he’d do anything for. he looked at you again, the curve of your smile and the colour of your eyes.

he considered things for a moment. smiled. unabashedly, for what felt like the first proper time that night, eyes creasing up in the corners and cheeks hurting from how wide it stretched. opened his mouth to speak.

“ah, no. it was just a thought. i’m.. i’m happy where i am, i think. for now, anyway.”

and when he said it, it felt like the truth.

✿ unedited again.. whoops. also this might not make sense at all LMAOO 😭 i js had soobin on the brain ok . title from the 1tym song of the same name!!!! its so good omg

[siriuslychessi]

"Just so you know, I'm not up to any funny business here."

Collection AO3 | FF

Detention, something Marlene wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with, but it had been a while since she had landed there. But what was she expected to do? Stay put while maybe one of the 20 staff members at Hogwarts passed by and maybe, just maybe, saved that poor third year from being hexed to oblivion?

She didn’t have the time or the patience for that. 

Why was she the one punished when the others’ actions were worse than just a simple slug vomiting spell? It was absurd, those 6th years were getting what they deserved, what everyone else wanted to give them, she hoped that it the hexes had hit a chord and they wouldn’t bully anyone else ever again, but she wasn’t as naive as to believe that a simple slug hex would stop blood supremacists for pushing on the little guy. At least she hoped that Poppy was giving them the nastiest potion to get them fixed, something that would stay on their tongues no matter how many pastries they would stuff at supper. 

What had been her punishment, you may ask? Cleaning the Potion’s Club cauldrons, muggle way. She supposed there could be worse things, if she had to go and clean the Thestral stables she wouldn’t keep her lunch for long.

She took some gloves, a hard brush and some soap to get things started, if she wanted to finish by dinner time she needed to hurry. She figured that the rage of the injustice she was suffering would suffice to keep her motivated. Anger was usually quite invigorating, especially if you thought the bottom of the cauldron was just one of the nasty faces of her current enemies, it did wonders to finish the first cauldron in record time, making her way to the second one. 

The door opened and she stopped for a moment, she thought it would either be a Prefect or the bullies coming for revenge. But it was neither. 

Sirius Black stood there, his shirt out of his trousers, tie barely tied on his neck, and a blushing right cheek that had seen the end of a fist, if Marlene had to guess.

Marlene looked a little crazy, she had her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, her hair, even if it was in a ponytail, was frizzy and all over the place from scrubbing too hard on the previous item. However, of the two of them, she looked the most composed of both of them. 

Sirius looked like a dog that was deciding to come in or out of the house. Not sure if it was safe enough.

She huffed, rolling her eyes and going back to her working spot, not giving Sirius a second look, a question on why was he there, just minding her own business. She had minded his once before and it had been abysmal. She had learnt her lesson. 

Black wasn’t sure what was happening, it was bad enough that he had been pulled apart from a fight with a Slytherin by one of the professors, but now he had detention with McKinnon? Why did Salazar hate him so much? Oh… right.

He sighed and rolled his sleeves as well, taking a stolen hairband from his wrist he put his hair in a rough ponytail.

You see, they hadn’t been speaking.

Or more accurately, Marlene wasn’t speaking to him.

For Marlene, the reason was founded, she had tried, she really had. She thought they had a good thing, that things could actually be something, be more . But of course she had been delusional, right? There was no other explanation. How could she try so many times and fail and not realise that things were that dire? How did she keep tripping with the same stone and not avoid it all together? 

She knew the answer, she just didn’t want to admit it. She preferred anger, anger was simpler, was less hurtful, was what kept her there scrubbing, harder than before, and what kept her moving these days. Because if she dared to feel what she was actually feeling she wasn’t sure she could keep going. 

Him on the other hand…

Sirius didn’t think he had done anything wrong. He wasn’t sure what Marlene’s problem was, but he was sure that like so many times before, she would get over it and things would go back to normal. 

The issue was that this time was taking longer than usual and, Sirius wasn’t sure why, it bothered him.

"Just so you know, I'm not up to any funny business  here." Black tried to cut the silence. There was nothing he hated more than cold, ruthless silence. He had experienced it so much growing up at the Blacks that actually having to feel like that at Hogwarts felt wrong. 

Marlene said nothing, she just kept cleaning. This time her strength didn’t come for the injustice that some students could strut the halls, and life, without any consequences of their actions. But it came from the annoyance she felt with Sirius. She supposed both correlated, Sirius didn’t care about the consequences of his actions either. 

Sirius sighed heavily and started cleaning his share of instruments. He didn’t mind the tedious work, usually focusing on his hands other than his mind he could calm enough to get back to the dorm and not go punching people and walls. However, having Marlene there and not speaking made it all pointless. 

He tried again to focus on the task at hand, he wanted it to be done before the meal, he had to meet with the boys to plan the next full moon, to make sure that they were all safe. Yet his mind was far away from his mates, at least the male ones. He was centred in the blonde inside the classroom. 

Why was Marlene so upset, did she really dislike Brown that much? That must be it, right? Her not liking Brown for some reason, because there was nothing else that he had done differently. 

Yes Marlene and him had snogged a few times, here and there. But they always did that. They snogged to pass the time, then they went their separate ways when they found someone else to snog, and then they would come back and smoke at the empty hall near the 7th floor where not even Prefects would catch them. Then they would snog again, just to pass the time, just because it was fun and exciting. Because it was electrifying and better than any other random snogger that there was at Hogwarts, and then they would just do other things. Coming and going to the same spot after they got bored of other people. 

But Marlene had not come back for a while. And it bothered Sirius, because if he actually let himself think about it, he missed her. 

Marlene wasn’t dull like other birds at the school, she wasn’t just meek and poised, and waited for Sirius to take the lead. She spoke her mind, and had a fire that not many people had, it made her do and be much more than the rest of the lot. Made her shine through, stand out.

And her sense of humour, she was hilarious. She could be crass, dark, light, but all in all she was witty, and she knew when to stay quiet and when to speak up. 

Sirius remembered that she was one of the few people he felt comfortable with in perfect silence. But this felt different, this was maddening. 

“Would you please tell me why on the bloody fuck you are not talking to me?” He stopped everything he was doing and turned to Marlene, tired of walking on eggshells, waiting for her to get over whatever the fuck it was happening. 

Marlene didn’t even turn around, did he really expect an answer? Wasn’t it obvious?

“McKinnon, I’m tired of this game. You had your time to cool off, so out with it. What is wrong? Is Brown your worst enemy? Was she off limits or something?” He was really trying, he really was, but Marlene had to meet him in the middle at least explain somewhat. 

Sirius got a sarcastic ‘ha’, nothing more. Which got him exasperated. 

He could deal with a lot of people disliking him, he had proven that since the moment he was born, but Marlene wasn’t one of those people. 

“No ha,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders, making her look at him, “You are going to tell me what is wrong, what got your knickers in a twist so we can fix it and just put it behind us.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you! You can’t do that.” she exclaimed, pushing him away. Soap all over the floor, her face flushed with anger and the exertion of the cleaning, “Who the fuck do you think you are? So demanding, I’m Black and I need answers. So off!”

“Or bloody hell, McKinnon, is not like I harmed you, you aren’t even looking at me lately, for some bird? Really? I thought we were friends, friends tell each other things.”

“Are you really that daft?” she asked in disbelief. “You are one of the best of the class, you can be this dumb, Black. Is not because of a girl, it is because of all the girls!” she finally explored, letting the things she wanted out. “You go out with everyone you wish for and then you expect me to be here, the same, without a blink of an eye, like I’m just here to entertain you when you are bored and have no one else to snog. Well guess what, I’m more than a pair of tits.”

“Of course you are more than a pair of tits, Marlene. Who is saying you are just that?” he asked, annoyed, didn’t she know that he wouldn’t search her company if she was? 

“You! You look for a new person to snog, and then ditch me and then you expect me to be there when you come back, to snog me until the next one comes along, and I’m tired of it! You don’t even notice it, do you? I thought we were moving past that, that at least you acknowledge that the snogs were more than that. But idiotic me was mistaken. Go snog Brown or whomever, I don’t care, I just won’t be stupid enough to be waiting for you to notice that you are a total arse !”

“Oh…” he had managed to say, just that.

She took her gloves off, she was leaving, they could give her detention again, but she wouldn’t be there making herself a fool when it was obvious that her feelings were one sided and she couldn’t be near him now. She was too embarrassed. 

“I thought we were both having fun.” he mumbled. It was the truth, it wasn’t an apology because he actually thought that she was doing the same as him. Just passing the time, being fun and carefree, pushing any negative emotion to the side with whatever they could. But Marlene wasn’t doing that. Why would her she wasn’t fucked up. 

The thing when avoiding your feelings was that they always came up at the worst time possible, that was why when Sirius just stated the obvious, that he didn’t think much of it, that it was basically all in her head. She couldn’t take it anymore, she needed to leave, to scream, to cry, to do something other than standing there in front of him. But the damn gloves weren’t budging, she guessed that she was making a new fashion statement out of the dungeons because she would leave there, even if it was the last thing she did. 

Moving away from Sirius she went to take her bag. She needed to get to her room before she exploded.

Sirius’ mind on the other hand was trying to think on how on earth he had missed that he had hurt Marlene. There were things that he did, stupid things, things that most people wouldn’t forgive him for. However, this was something he wouldn’t forgive himself for. 

“Wait, Marlene, no.” he spoke softly this time, he didn’t take her by the shoulders, but he put himself between her and the door.

“Let me pass.”

“I will, but you can’t leave like this, first of all those gloves don’t match your uniform.” he tried joking to alleviate the tension. Her murder look made him understand that it wasn’t helping. Sighing heavily, he continued, “I’m sorry.” he added sincerely, “I didn't realise I was hurting you, I thought we were on the same page.” he admitted, not bullshitting his way out of this one, because he owed Marlene some truth. “If I had known I wouldn’t… well maybe I would’ve, but I would have done some things differently, I really care about you, Marlene, you have to believe that.”

And she did. 

You just don’t care about me as I wish you to. She thought to herself, feeling like losing the last hold on her feelings. “I get it, but I still need to go, please.” she asked softly, not really wanting to go crying to the person she was crying about. 

Sirius didn’t know what to do, he didn’t want her to leave like that, but was he the best person to deal with this? He didn’t think he was. 

So he nodded, and watched her leave. The uneasiness in his chest growing stronger. 

[angelicseven]

jordan ✧･ﾟ☄️･ﾟ✧

23. black. he/they/ask.

full about below the cut !

⌦ basic! ## name: jordan

## age: 23

## birthday: october 30

## pronouns: he/they/ask

## gender: gnc transmasc

## sexuality: bisexual

## ethnicity: black

## nationality: american

⌦ mental!

i am autistic, and i have bpd, and did. i'm brainweird in other ways, but these are the three things i consider the most important to share, since they impact my life in the biggest way, and i post about them quite often.

⌦ system!

## sys name: chiron

## type: pf-did

## active: ~25

## total: 100+ recorded

⌦ boundaries!

## dms: yes

## flirting /p: moots only

## flirting /r: moots only

## teasing: ask

## venting: no

interests ✧･ﾟ☄️･ﾟ✧

(bolded = active interest, italicized = special interest)

⌦ media

atlanta (fx), bad girls club, big brother, community, euphoria, girlfriends, grey's anatomy, it's always sunny in philadelphia, LOST, malcolm in the middle, on my block, one on one, scrubs, shameless, spop, station 19, stranger things, the game

⌦ music

autumn!, bktherula, blackpink, britney spears, childish gambino, iayze, ice spice, izaya tiji, jhene aiko, jvcki wai, lil uzi vert, lil tecca, lil wayne, loona, megan thee stallion, mitski, my chemical romance, nsync, one direction, pinkpantheress, playboi carti, rico nasty, rihanna, slayyyter, slump6s, sofaygo, sza, the weeknd, tinashe, trippie redd, v.v lightbody, vonte*, yeat, zayn

( i do not condone the actions of every single person on this list! music is music it's not that deep to me lmao)

⌦ games

animal crossing, cities, skylines, fall guys, grand theft auto v, minecraft, roblox, stardew valley, the sims (3&4),

comforts ✧･ﾟ☄️･ﾟ✧

⌦ characters

alex karev, andrew deluca, arnaz ballard, ben warren, breanna barnes, callie torres, carla espinosa, cassie howard, charlie kelly, charlie pace, christopher turk, claire littleton, cristina yang, delilah alves, darius epps, earn marks, elliot reid, fiona gallagher, ian gallagher, jackson avery, jo wilson, joe goldberg, john dorian, kate austen, kevin ball, lexie grey, love quinn, lucas sinclair, lynn searcy, maddy perez, malcolm wilkerson, mark sloan, maya bishop, michael dawson, miranda bailey, nancy wheeler, sawyer ford, sayid jarrah, sun-hwa kwon, veronica fisher, vic hughes

⌦ ships

admelia, areanna, benley, brittannie, calzona, charmac, gallavich, goldquinn, japril, jolex, jdox, jdturkcarla, kateclaire, katesaw, marder, mckassie, meradd, merder, mertina, mikejin, rules, sawyid, trobed, troynnie, slexie + a bunch more. everyone is polyamorous and gay in all of my interests :pray:

BYF ✧･ﾟ☄️･ﾟ✧

i reclaim the f slur, n word and r slur and don't tag them

i block often

anon will always be turned off because it triggers my paranoia LMAOOOOOO

⌦ dni

(bodily) under 16, endogenic "systems" and their supporters, proship and anything adjacent to that, terfs/swerfs/etc, frequent lgbt discourser (no one cares it's 2023), idk i'll just block if you rub me the wrong way/are annoying tbh.

⌦ links

discord: halogen#2050

pinterest

twitter

spotify

sys blog

sys carrd