#failing as an artist alley business and in life

[md3artjournal]

4:32 AM 12/11/2022

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Yesterday, I was still thinking about videogames since The Game Awards 2022 was so recently. And I think I was thinking about all these new Witcher announcements from CD Project Red and how they premiered a trailer for that new DLC for Cyberpunk 2077. I went from a thought tangent thought about poor CD Projeckt Red, to my own business. CD Projekt Red had such a good reputation because of their work on The Witcher videogames. And then that reputation was all lost, because Cyberpunk 2077 crashed and burned. But I heard about it recently getting better. They patched and patched and patched that thing. Maybe they've achieved the No Man's Sky type of redemption. When I hear about No Man's Sky now, people gush about how good it is now, despite all the disappointments at launch. And now, the YouTube algorithm is once again autoplaying Jenny Nicholson's Evermore video essay. And I"m rewatching it. Again. This video essay is also about a project that floundered and disappointed people, made mistakes, and got people angry. So I began to think, that maybe despite all the mistakes and possible bad reputation that my small art business has gotten, maybe I too could possibly still make a living off of art, if I just fix my mistakes, while going forward, and don't give up.

I really hope so. Because with my lack of basic human socialization skills and common sense, I'm just not cut out for even the "easiest" of "regular" jobs. My last office job, I was crying every Friday, and it didn't even deal with external customers. I don't think I can do any other job besides "small business artist working alone".

Lately, I've been thinking about how maybe my artist alley studio might have a worse reputation than I was aware of. While I was still working artist alley tables at AX, before the pandemic, I had heard maybe 2 people pass by my table and whisper about my polymer clay charms breaking too easily. I thought they were outliers, but what if word has spread so much farther than I'm aware of and maybe people are avoiding my brand like the plague? They were putting my polymer clay charms on their keys, expecting simple crafting polymer clay to stand up against thick jagged metal. I think I heard a person say they put one of my large hanging polymer clay sculptures on their bag, instead of hanging it as wall art, like I expected. I was astounded that people were expecting polymer clay to have the same durability as industrial plastics. Even if big chain stores considered such plastics to be cheap trinkets, it's still a whole other category whose expectations shouldn't be applied to polymer clay. And my sister, who had always been helping encourage my business, assured me that no one would pay so much for my sculptures, only to treat them as roughly as industrial plastic trinkets. I had been selling my polymer clay charms mostly as jewelry. But I after a couple years, I started offering them on smaller charm straps. I had been testing my polymer clay charms as a phone charm for a while, and it stood up against all my phone handling. So I thought my polymer clay charms were suitable for some moderately rough handling. But still, I didn't expect them to be put on keys! I thought people would hang them on pinboard collections. Or at the very least, put only the small charms on their phones or bags. I didn't expect them to treat polymer clay so roughly, especially after spending so much on it. And now, there were people passing by my table, gossiping about my terrible product quality. All my excitement about product concepts, all my designing, all my painful physical labor in restocking, etc. all for naught because my materials weren't durable enough. And maybe there were many more than those 2 I heard in person. Maybe my entire business venture is doomed online. Maybe I have a blacklisted reputation, and I don't know about it.

But I realize now, I was wrong. People expect the same durability as cheap, industrial plastic trinkets. People will put charms on keys. People will take short charm straps and put them on keys. Apparently, my material testing wasn't accurate to how rough people would actually be. And maybe if I had done more research, I would have learned that people don't recommend Sculpey III for durability, BEFORE I had bought sooooooooooo much of it already. x~x;;;; Still, I was bolstered by my own phone charm test. I was encouraged by my sister. But maybe I should stop expecting people to be so careful. All my durability testing after making sculptures turned out to be nothing against what real people would do. Maybe if I had more experience with real people, I would have had a better concept of what to expect the to be like. And I can't keep "sunk cost fallacy"'ing myself into continuing to use Sculpey III, just because I already spent so much money on it. I can't keep having confidence in it, just because it was durable enough for my personal use testing, when my real life customers are expecting more. I can't just blame them for "using my products incorrectly". The next time I sell sculptures, they're going to be made of something strong like resin.

So even though I love sculpting, so much more than illustration, I think I may have to abandon it for my art business. ;_; I'm getting too physically tired for the labor anyway. And no one wants to pay for the actual amount of hours I put into my sculptures. When I underpriced my 8-to-11-hour-labor sculptures at $40-$66, everyone was fine with buying them. But when I started pricing them closer to what I actually should be compensated, no one wanted to pay even $70. (Except for the Sora Wayfinders. But those ended up so labor intensive, that I dread the physical pain I'd have to put into making more, to the point where I just can't get myself to make them anymore.) And then on top of all that, turns out my materials will just never be durable enough. I've lost all confidence and motivation in the art I love. I've lost all drive to make or even design it anymore too. Maybe I'll be able to transition into more durable resin sculptures someday. But until then, polymer clay sculpting will just be for me (DIY figurine accessories) and my family's Christmas gifts.

I've always been envious of illustrators in artist alley anyway. At every event, if they want to restock, they can just send some files to a printer, and get products to stock their tables, 20+ at a time. I've seen illustrator artists go from one big con, to another con they didn't expect, ON SHORT NOTICE, and still have stock! Because restocking is so much easier for them. That's something I've barely been able to do as a crafter. When you don't outsource to anyone, restocking is a multi-month struggle. Each item is starting from scratch all over again. Like, imagine those illustrator artists spending 40 hours to draw one illustration, having to do that for each and every copy of a product they sold. That's what crafters have to do. Getting sold out of one product at one con, means that it may not have more than one item restocked and ready for the next con, even a week later. I have always been so jealous of illustrators just ordering their acrylic charms, stickers, prints, standees, etc. They don't have to push through the physical pain---hunched over desks while sculpting, ruining my neck and back, rolling out stubborn clay like I was working out my arms with a gym exercise machine---of making each and every individual item, ALL OVER AGAIN. So I've always wanted to be able to just restock so easily, just like drawing fanartists. So switching to illustration-based art for my small business---even though I've always preferred the feel and satisfaction of 3D crafting more---may be be a welcome change.

The problem being that I can't draw well. But I've been working on it. I've found that practicing everyday works for me, despite all the YouTube videos saying that daily drawing is unnecessary and maybe even detrimental. It works for me. When I don't draw everyday, I feel this paralysis in my hands and my mind, and it's so difficult for me to start drawing, even the simplest things. And I've finally found a chibi style that comes naturally to me. I've ALWAYS wanted to draw cute chibi! ;u;!!! I'm doing daily drawing challenges every month. And I think I'm getting faster and finding a style that might work for me. And I just got my first touchscreen laptop a year ago, so I can learn digital drawing. And though I haven't had a working stylus for a few months(?), I'm finally starting to learn vector illustration, like the cute/kawaii art style I love from Instagram artists. I'm making breakthroughs. Like realizing that maybe the monochrome, silhouette, minimal faced figures I had been drawing for witch OCs, might be good for fanart too. I'm figuring out that colored ink lines might work better for my illustrations, and that even my purely linework, monochrome, spiral or hatchmark filled drawings are well received too. I feel so close to getting the hang of illustration, so that it's good enough to sell in artist alley or online. Maybe I can finally outsource to printers and make my living as an artist. I have hope now.

As long as I can get past my bad reputation. But I think I just have to be like CD Projekt Red and No Man's Sky. If I can just move forward and do better, maybe I can fix this. Maybe I can still do this. My sister said once, that she doesn't want to see me give up being an artist because of one bad experience with a customer. And I really considered giving up art over it, especially because I was at fault. My art broke, my art wasn't durable enough, I promised to replace it, I felt too much physical dread to make it all over again to actually make a replacement, and when I tried contacting the customer again, they didn't want to deal with my products anymore. I failed. I'm a failure. But maybe even a failure can still keep trying. This isn't "do or do not". My life is all about just TRYING. And trying again.

Though I don't know how much longer I can try. I'm going to be honest here: I've been living off my parents. My mom said that unmarried "good Asian girls live at home", and I was fine with that. I'm antisocial and can't have friends, so I don't have the peer pressure of being "ashamed of myself" for living with my parents. I have a lot of social anxiety, so I don't have many mental/emotional secure places besides my parents. I'm certain the only reason I was able to pay off my student loans and my car so quickly, was because I don't pay for rent or groceries, because of my parents. And I wish America didn't have this culture of "kick the kids out at 18", because I hear too many horror stories of people running themselves ragged, trying to pay for rent, and student loans, and groceries, and their car, all without help. I wish more parents helped their kids for their whole lives, the way mine do. …But that also means that I'm really worried about what to do when that support disappears. My dad has not been vaccinated against COVID, even once. He has this history of strong reactions to vaccines, that have gotten him almost killed before. And he's talking almost like an anti-vaxxer now. And this is on top of him being in 2 high risk groups for COVID: elderly, and chronic illness (diabetes). It took me a while to finally accept that I can't stop him from living his life as risky as he wants, and my past attempts to talk to him about this were disasterous. My social anxiety can't stand up to be a child trying to lecture your Asian parents. My sister has encouraged me to accept that he's just going to die. I mean, even without the pandemic, it was going to happen anyway. But I can't just be only sad about that prospect, because I also don't know if I can financially support myself alone without him. I don't know if I can afford to keep trying to make a living as an artist.

My art business has been so dismal. I don't put enough effort into it. I'm so afraid to try new things. I'm afraid to try commissions or even opening an online shop. It's been 10 years and I still don't have an online shop! I don't have enough confidence in myself. I don't have confidence in my art. I already have so much failure in my art reputation among customers, that maybe I've been blacklisted already. I haven't succeeded in making a regular income with art, even after 10 years. What makes me think I can make a living off of it?

I've always been dealing with my own suicidal ideation and aversion to thinking about the future or even acting like I have one. Everything reminds me how I'm just not cut out for this whole "being alive" thing. That's why sometimes I think about going back to an office job. …But then I remember how that exasperated my suicidal ideation, even though I had everything everyone said I needed to be happy: excess money, a healthcare plan,… And yet, I still found myself self-destructive (with money and physical self-harm) and thinking of dying, for seemingly no reason. That's why I decided that art needed to be my career. If this office job stuff left me too tired to do things after work and after my commute, to do things that made life feel worth living, then the only solution is to make my job the activities that make my life feel worthwhile. I HAVE to make art my job. I don't' want to return to that self-destructive path again. I remember thinking back then that if the only thing I get out of that job is money, then I had no choice but to try to get my self fulfillment through money. Hey, consumerism seemed to be what everyone else was using for self fulfillment anyway. But I just ended up financially self destructive. I wasn't even happy with the things I bought. I was buying $40-$90 plushies for series/characters I didn't even care much for. I was buying $50 jackets just beause my sister told me to buy it as a joke. And I wasn't happier with any of it. I need to make art. Even if I'm bad at it. And I need to make it my career, because I don't have the any other time or energy for it. And trying to squeeze it alongside an unfulfilling job for financial reasons was mentally putting me in mortal danger. I haven't got much choice:

I have to keep trying and moving forward with my art business. Even if I'm bad at it. Even if I've been too afraid to make much progress for 10 years already. Even if my reputation is shot. I'll rebrand. I'll keep trying. Because even if I financially die from this attempt, how is it any different than if I become financially sustained but suicidal anyway? I have never been happier than this past 10 years of my life. No more school meant no more regular suicide attempts twice a year (then twice a month during college). No more office job meant no more waking up and wishing I never had, trying to think of a reason life is worth living and getting up for, but lying in bed for 3 hours and coming up empty, only to trudge to work, cry every Friday, get bullied for the first time in my life, by supposed "mature adults", and end up emotionally unfulfilled and (financially and mentally) self destructive. Art as my job is the only path for me besides death.

#venting #please ignore my idiocy #self doubt #failure #failing as an artist alley business and in life #suicidal ideation trigger warning

[venusjeon]

angel in the marble

after you fail to pickpocket him, the famous yet arrogant artist Jeon Jungkook takes you off the streets to make you his servant, and the more you know him, the more you realise he's not as detestable as everyone claims he is.

♔ PAIRING: michelangelo!jungkook x servant!reader

♔ GENRE: high renaissance au, angst, smut, humour

♔ WORD COUNT: 8k

♔ WARNINGS: homelessness, stealing, mild swearing/violence/drinking, 90% of this is bickering lmao, mentions of minor characters' death, jealousy and kinda possessiveness?, referenced unconsensual groping (not by jk), a bit of blasphemy, making out, groping, fingering, rough angry sexxx, choking, slapping

♔ AUTHOR'S NOTE: fun fact this is mostly historically accurate! jk's characterisation, the grocery list doodles, the sack of rome, the beef with his brother, the encounter with his rival (raphael)... are all taken from michelangelo's actual life, even some stuff is quoted from his letters lol. man was fanfic material.

1529, Rome

“How much for that one?”

“No, that one’s sold already.”

It was a lively morning. After days of heavy rainfall, those of high social class were eager to get out and meet under the gentle sun of spring, whose glare reflected on the precious stones of their jewellery; while those of low, out of necessity, couldn’t wait to reopen their businesses or set up their stalls and get back to work. You liked to eye them all as you strolled the streets of Rome.

“To whom?”

“Your friend Taehyung.”

“Agh… How much is that prick paying you?”

The point of the matter was that it was bustling, some colliding if they looked away from where they were going for more than a breath. It worked in your favour for it was then easier to make yourself scarce right after stealing bags of coins, such as those of the three men seemingly bargaining by a workshop’s entrance out of which a large block of marble was being dragged. Perfect.

“Three ducats.”

“Three?! He’s robbing you of two ducats. I’ll pay you the five it’s worth.”

You kept your head low as you approached the pair that seemed wealthier and with those stealthy hands of yours unfastened the bags tied to their belts. After all, pickpocketing was a skill you’d had under your own for some years now, so this was bound to go smoothly.

Because you didn’t realise there was a guardian with them, perhaps you’d grown arrogant.

“I’m sorry, maestro. It’s reserved.”

“But it’ll become a waste in his possession!”

As you slipped away into the crowd, mouth watering at the fresh-baked bread you were going to devour as soon as bought, this brown dog leaped up at you out of nowhere, ignoring your desperate efforts to shake him off. If anything, they caused him to bark.

No, no, no…

The three men turned to the scene playing out not so far, and thinking his dog was bothering you one of them shouted, “Bam, come here, boy!” but as he obediently ran to his owner, you were too slow to hide the bags in your hands. It only took the pair a second to make them out, check whether theirs still hung on their belts, find them not, work out you’d stolen them, look back up, and find you not either.

Of course, you’d made your escape by then, dived into the sea of people and swum through them as quickly as possible, only stopping when you reached an empty vaulted alley to catch your breath.

That was ridiculously close. If you weren’t more careful next–

Your train of thought was interrupted by someone grabbing you by the arm from behind and pushing you against the nearest wall. A grunt accompanied the thud, and a gasp followed at the sight of the two men from before—dog included. Pinned in place, it’d be a bad idea to fight back or attempt to run away again. Fuck’s sake.

“Do you know what happens to thieves?” the one cornering you asked so close that when the cold breeze rustled his hair, some strands grazed your face. You looked away to avoid the tickling rather than out of fear, or so you wanted to believe. “They have a hand cut off. Seems fair, doesn’t it, Jimin?”

By contrast, that Jimin didn’t look intimidating, otherwise still catching his breath from the chase, but he did snatch the coin bags from your hands. “It doesn’t have to be so, maestro. We got our money back. She’s… just a girl.”

“And that exempts her of crime?”

“Please, don’t report me,” you begged, humiliating as though it was.

“Why shouldn’t we?” the maestro scoffed. Maestro… You were being threatened by a damned craftsman, the other one probably his assistant.

“Because I don’t want to lose a hand?”

“Oh, but we wanted to lose money, did we?” You rolled your eyes, and he released his grip only to step away. “Take us to your father, brat. He’ll answer for you.”

It took you a moment to respond, “I don’t have a father, or anyone... Only I can answer for my actions.”

“You’re a beggar?” Jimin asked, taking pity as he studied your appearance for the first time. Dishevelled hair, tattered dress, unpleasant smell… Yes, they should’ve guessed.

“She doesn’t beg, though, does she? She steals.”

“Only from cunts.”

His head snapped to meet your glare, and Jimin laughed, “You seem to not know whom you speak to.” He could be Jesus for all you cared. Uninterested, you petted the dog, Bam, seeing as he’d leapt up at you again. “This is Jeon Jungkook.”

You froze. The Jeon Jungkook? The famous artist who painted and sculpted for the Pope? Whom faraway kings and even emperors commissioned? The one whose genius was said to be changing the world?

At the lack of attention, Bam returned to his master, and that snapped you out of your shock to ask, “Then why do you whine?” The two men frowned, having clearly expected an apology paired with the usual bootlicking. “As if you need that bag more than I!”

“What nerve,” he scoffed again, making you wince by grabbing your arm tighter than before and starting to drag you into the next street. “You’re going straight to the authorities!”

“Wait,” Jimin intervened, thank God. “Weren’t you in need of a servant, maestro?”

“So?”

Jimin pointed at you with his gaze as though it was obvious. “You’re in need of a servant, she’s in need of a roof.”

“I would rather have a hand cut off.”

“I would rather have her hand cut off too.”

Jungkook tried to resume dragging you, but Jimin blocked his way with a soft smile. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N…”

“Do you know how to take care of a household?” Slowly, you nodded, melancholy engulfing you at the memory of cooking or sweeping the floor with your mother once upon a time. Somehow, she always found a way to make chores fun... “Then you qualify for the job. You’ll have three meals a day and a bed to sleep on. And you, maestro, a servant who’ll work her hardest, lest you fire her and she ends up in the streets again.”

Both you and Jungkook reluctantly glanced at each other. Truth be told, you didn’t prefer losing a hand to living with him, you just didn’t like him. Despite being a celebrity, he was a stranger. It just wouldn’t work.

But then, why were you holding your breath, hoping he’d accept?

“We shouldn’t have left Namjoon’s workshop. The marble is about to be delivered,” he said walking away. The air left your lungs in disappointment. It seemed you were to remain a stray cat. Jimin pressed his plump lips apologetically as he gave you enough coins to buy that bread, and you nodded, grateful all the same for his trying. You watched him rush to Jungkook’s side but when this one saw him, he turned around. “Hurry up, brat. If Taehyung gets that block of marble, I’ll not take you in.”

Since the first day, you could attest to Jeon Jungkook’s nature being as rough and uncouth as the rumours claimed, and after living alone with him for two months still believed gossip such as that he’d got the scar on his left cheek in a tavern fight—in which, if you’d chanced to be present, you would’ve rooted for the other individual.

It appeared it wasn’t just others Jungkook was harsh to. However rich his talent had turned him, he behaved like a poor man, consuming food and drink sparingly and out of necessity instead of pleasure, spending only the money required to live decently, sleeping little in order to work on commissions from dawn to midnight…

Why he chose to take little care of himself was a mystery to someone who previously had not been allowed a choice, even if putting work before all was in order to thwart Kim Taehyung’s plans of ruining his career, as he claimed. You doubted his rival was obsessed with him so, but had learned to agree with whatever Jungkook grumbled to avoid disputes. Most times.

Deep down, you had a feeling your boldness amused him. Who else dared get on his nerves?

“I think all you artists fluttering around the Pope are no more than slaves to money,” you let drop once while making his bed. Bam was sleeping peacefully under the window, while Jungkook leaning against the door’s frame behind you, offended to the core. He could help, you thought, or at least loosen my corset a little…

“I, a slave? I’ll be damned… There is an angel inside every block of marble, and I’ll have you know I carve to set it free.”

“Is it the angel that charges the Pope, then, master?” You could feel him barely restraining the urge to throw you out the window, smiled as you finished smoothing out the blankets.

“You missed a wrinkle there.”

Hands on your hips and frown on your brows, you examined the neatly arranged coverings of his bed. “Where?”

“On your face,” he muttered before making his leave.

Not his finest jibe, but the metaphor did stay with you. An angel inside the marble… It perhaps applied to Jungkook himself, though you’d never tell him.

One instance it came to mind was recently, when his assistants and apprentices were invited over for dinner.

Usually, he’d tell you which meals he liked and you’d ask at the marketplace which ingredients to buy, but now that about ten meals were to be cooked a list was needed. So there he sat on his desk in his study, inking said list as you waited in front of him, fiddling with the undershirt that peeked out of your dress’ sleeves. Given that your eyes were fixed on it, you only learned Jungkook was done when the sound of his quill scratching the paper ceased.

“Be back no later than dusk,” he ordered, “I bet there are still Germans and Spaniards lurking about.”

A year had passed since the Sack of Rome, but the mention of it sent a shiver of fear down your spine. Whatever the political reasons for it, you hated everyone involved, for Hell itself would’ve been a more beautiful sight to behold those nine months when the Tiber’s waters remained painted red…

You were lucky to make it through. Your family wasn’t.

“Yes, master.”

“Here,” he said handing you the paper, then picked another letter from a pile of correspondence he’d been going through before your arrival. Jungkook was about to snap its wax seal when he looked up to realise you hadn’t moved an inch. “Why are you here? Away with you!” He saw the reason in the way you avoided eye contact. “You can’t read, can you?” Met with a silence charged with embarrassment, he leaned back in his chair and sighed, “Give me the list.”

Getting hold of the quill again, Jungkook began… doodling?

You tilted your head but couldn’t see well what he was drawing until he finished and returned the list to you. Then, your lips parted. Each item on the list was illustrated next to its name: ten loaves of bread, a jug of wine, tortellini, four anchovies, two fennel soups…

“I’ll teach you to read when I have time. This will do for now.”

“You’d do that?” For me?

Jungkook ignored you, before he went back to reading his letters complimenting the good gesture with an irritated, “Hurry up.”

That night his co-workers arrived one by one, Jimin the first. The sight of him when you opened the door brightened up your mood.

Unlike a certain someone he was always sweet to you, genuinely interested to know how you fared even if you were just a servant. He claimed that mattered not to him, that you were both commoners and thus equals.

“Look at this place, it’s spotless! And you know I’m furtive, so I won’t get in your way,” you told Jimin as you escorted him through a hallway, bright from the torches hung on the walls that you’d lit up earlier.

He laughed, “I cannot make you my servant, Y/N, you’re maestro’s.”

“But he’s going to drive me mad… To tell you one of many examples, he often falls asleep in his clothes, and who but I is to take his boots off so they don’t get the sheets dirty? If the chalk on his fingers or the dust from the chiseling on his hair won’t already. Bam is far cleaner…”

Jungkook had a workshop he barely set foot in, preferred his team made use of it instead to not be bothered by their idiocy. His words. So it was in a chamber on the ground floor of this house he gave way to artistic insanity. In your book, that meant constant cleaning.

Jimin looked at you fondly. “Sounds nightmarish.”

“It truly is!”

As soon as the two of you entered the dining hall, Bam ran from Jungkook’s side by the fireplace to Jimin, who was as excited to see him.

“Good night, maes–”

“Do you think I’m deaf, ungrateful brat?” Jungkook interrupted him to bark at you. “Rome is full of people begging to get a piece of me, so if you don’t like it here, I’ll just get someone else!”

“You say that and yet keep me like a prisoner!”

“As if you don’t have it better here than anywhere you’ve burdened with your presence before!”

“There, there…” Jimin interjected to de-escalate, kneeling to better stroke Bam. “Maestro, I’ve seen your latest sketch of the Virgin and Child. She resembles Y/N.”

Both you and Jungkook failed to fight off the embarrassment, gazes unable to find a place to settle. Sitting down on the large table, he explained, “It was just one time… I had used Yoongi as a model, but the Madonna looked too masculine... and rather than going through the trouble of finding some girl and hiring her, I had Y/N pose for me… So what! Why bring it up out of nowhere…”

“Because maybe you just need a bit of distance from time to time. With permission, I too would have Y/N pose for m–”

“Absolutely not.”

“Now, why the hell not?” you groaned stamping your foot, startling poor Bam. Hope had been born inside you in a second and cruelly crushed in the next.

“Because I say so. And watch your tone with me.” As usual, the mutual glaring would trick anyone into thinking the next step would be murder. Jimin, who knelt there awkwardly, certainly thought so, at least until the bell rang. “Now go answer the door!”

What happened later, though, rendered the fury Jungkook had evoked in your heart nonexistent and instead seized the thing in a clasp of distress.

In the morning, he walked in when you were sweeping the kitchen. At once you forced the sobs to stop and turned around so he wouldn’t see you wipe your tears.

“It’s past nine, where’s breakfast?” he asked in shock that you hadn’t even started making it, the table there empty.

You swore under your breath before leaving the broomstick leaning against the nearest wall, flushed face kept out of Jungkook’s sight, then in a haste fetched a plate, a knife, and a leftover bread loaf. “Apologies, master, I forgot. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”

Sniffling betrayed you, at which Jungkook frowned. “Are you crying?”

Great, the question just about especially designed to make one well up. Not trusting your voice anymore, you shook your head. Jungkook approached, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the task at hand, now cutting a few slices of the bread.

“Have you broken something?” You shook your head again, the suppressed sobs making your chin tremble. Jungkook took a deep breath before asking with a surprisingly soothing tone, “Then what’s wrong?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Within an hour, he’d summoned a meeting consisting of all who’d attended dinner the previous night.

A seemingly calm Jungkook was sat at the head of the table, elbows sunk on it and fingers interlocked. You stood behind him, head still low out of shame. A tense silence had fallen in the chamber some time ago, and sick of it, Jimin shattered it.

“Have you anything to tell us, maestro?”

“I was waiting for Biagio to do so.”

The man was one of Jungkook’s favourite assistants who had worked with him for years, even longer than Jimin. And if it was possible for your position to be trickier, he belonged to some noble family.

“Me? But I’ve nothing to say, maestro.”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair. “My servant will, then. Y/N?”

Bastard. If you are going to fire me, why make me go through this?

“Last night, w-when I left this hall to go refill the wine jug… Messer Biagio followed me into the kitchen, and… h-he trapped me from behind, and started t-to touch me…” Your vision soon blurred, hence why you couldn’t see clearly how concerned Jimin was for you, or how Biagio jumped up in outrage. “I managed to push him away, and ran upst–”

“How dare you slander me, wench? Maestro, you do not believe this!”

“Do I not?”

“She’s lying! I caught her stealing sketches from your study, likely to sell them, so she’s trying to get rid of me!”

You almost scoffed. Only an idiot would choose the one occasion guests had come over and her absence would be noticed to carry out a theft.

Jungkook tilted his head. “I thought you had nothing to say. Why would you keep such a thing just now?”

Biagio gulped. “I deemed it best to mention it later, in private... You won’t believe a pickpocket before an old friend, will you?”

Silence returned, your breath still as you saw all the assistants and apprentices visibly take pity on him. The only one who didn’t was Jimin, but even on his face there was a hint of hesitation. Jungkook’s, you couldn’t see from behind, but after an eternity he stood up and walked over only to put a hand on the shoulder of Biagio, who smiled in relief.

A quiet sob broke through your lips, heart sinking. You’d needed Jungkook to believe you in this. Not because of the consequences his protection as your master could save you from, but because, like it or not… he was the closest thing to family you had.

It turned out he did believe you, judging by the punch landed on Biagio’s jaw out of nowhere. And the next one on his cheekbone, and on his nose. Before everyone around the table had barely stood up to stop Jungkook, he’d already thrown Biagio down and straddled him, pulling his doublet’s collar in a close, tight grip as he continued beating him up. Blood was drawn, but for once, you didn’t mind having to scrub it later.

Jungkook’s influence trumped a whole noble house’s, you learned in the course of the months Biagio tried his mightiest and failed most miserably to have him arrested. Perhaps because of the Pope sitting on his shoulder.

That he’d taken your side was still hard to believe, all he’d grumbled with a shrug when you thanked him while tending to his wounds from the fight being, “I’d been waiting for the chance. I always thought Biagio was a weasel.”

With the matter resolved, life returned to normal—well, whatever that meant in Jeon Jungkook’s household. Because calling for you at the top of his lungs like a madman was not normal. The first time he’d done it you’d raced downstairs, afraid something horrible had happened, only for him to have you close a window as it was getting chilly. Devil rot him. You rushed no longer after that, much to his complaints.

Today, he didn’t notice right away when you appeared under the cased opening, and good thing he didn’t, for he was polishing a bust with sandpaper… shirtless.

Product of hours carving stone into his desired shape or occasionally beating someone up, he could brag of having muscles, which the current task had covered in a layer of sweat and dust. The way they flexed with each movement had you compelled, wanting to reach out, feel if his skin was as hot as the blood pumping through your veins faster and faster. Then your gaze moved to the bust and whatever spell you were under broke.

Hardly an angel was that widowed noblewoman, whom you wished had stayed trapped inside a block of marble. Her name was Madonna Maddalena, and she’d come some weeks past to make a commission covered in pearls, gold, and boldness.

“My friends refused to accompany me today. You’re said to be… disagreeable, which I’m sure is untrue. However, all of them do want to know if you’re as fine-looking as is also rumoured, maestro” she told Jungkook within minutes of meeting him, still by the entrance!

Now you can tell them he’s not, you bit your tongue before it remarked, as this wasn’t Jimin but a patron not to be scared away by your bickering. It wouldn’t be true anyway. All your master lacked in manners, he made up for with looks… Which you’d never say out loud. You’d never say either that he looked even better when irked.

“I’ve heard many rumours about myself, most of them nonsense. My appearance was involved in none.”

She smiled seductively. “I suppose I’ll have to be the one to spread them.”

“The weather is pleasant today,” Jungkook changed the subject, flustered beneath the formal demeanour. “Shall we have wine in the garden?” You left to prepare it not before catching Maddalena raise her brow at you in disapproval. She must’ve been able to tell you thought she was a pompous cunt.

The beautiful flowers you cared for tried their best outside, but the air didn’t get any better.

Sat around a small table, Maddalena explained she wanted a bust of herself by his talented hand to decorate the main hall of her palazzo. You served them wine, not really listening until Jungkook started playing hard to get. The hundred times you’d told him it wasn’t a good tactic to make his labour out to be too prestigious had apparently fallen on deaf ears.

“Any other artist could carry this out, Madonna. I am working for the Pope these days…” he subtly scolded her, a mere mortal, for wasting his precious time. And he wondered why he had a reputation for being arrogant.

Maddalena put his thoughts into plain words, “So why should you stoop to taking commissions from an insignificant widow?”

“Correct,” you said under your breath, luckily heard by none from the background, where you stood holding a wine jug until the madonna raised her cup and you approached to refill it.

“It is then fortunate I’m to marry a nephew of the Pope’s.”

Swayed by her future influence, Jungkook smiled back. “So it is.”

“But not for another week. ‘Till then, I belong to no man.” The suggestion in her tone almost drove you to spill wine all over her. No, better yet: order Bam to sic on her. He’d do it.

Just, who did this woman think she was? And why did Jungkook not kick her out right afterwards? It made you wonder whether he’d enjoyed the flirtation. Whether he would’ve been the one to take things further had his inconvenient servant not been present. It was common for men to have affairs and lovers, but it didn’t sit well with you that Jungkook might. Not that you ever imagined him doing any of that, for goodness’ sake–

“What took you so long?”

Jungkook’s voice brought you back to the present, under the cased opening.

“I was lazing about, as always,” you quoted his favourite false reprimand, making him roll his eyes, your own dropping to the floor when he walked closer.

“In that case, prepare a bath for me.”

“Yes, master.”

You sighed at all the work ahead. That being a servant was worlds better than living in the streets didn’t mean you looked forward to collecting gallons of water from a well, carrying them back, heating them, transferring them to a tub, then washing Jungkook—because you did wash him.

Biagio had hurt his left shoulder bad and ever since, he’d needed assistance in certain activities. Curious how he could otherwise chisel a goddamned bust without problem.

Jungkook’s full nudity only made you blush if you stopped scrubbing, so knelt with tucked up sleeves before the wooden tub he was reclined on, scrubbing away the dirt on his skin with lavender-scented soap you were. Maybe all the stupid feelings you’d been suffering lately stemmed from there…

Head resting on the edge, he was exhausted from the long day of work, taking your rubbing as a relaxing massage. You, however, couldn’t ignore the stinging guilt, what with the scar on his shoulder right in front of your face. He probably felt your breathing on it.

“I’m sorry you got hurt…”

Jungkook fought heavy lids only to see you avoid him. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable in front of him was embarrassing, as when he’d caught you crying, but he didn’t take advantage of the fact to humiliate you. Jungkook may be an ogre, but he wasn’t cruel.

“I’ve received worse for less,” he assured you in a calm, low voice. It sounded soothing to your ears.

“That, I don’t doubt,” you scoffed, glancing at his other scar on the cheek. “Did you also get that one in defence of some lady?”

“You’re nowhere close to a lady.” It could be done, you mused. Drowning him. “This was courtesy of my brother.”

“You have a brother?” It dawned on you how little you knew of him. Surely, most had heard it all about the divine Jeon Jungkook, but you’d never cared enough to learn past the shell of gossip, even after months of living with him. In fairness, he’d never asked about you either. You preferred it that way.

“Brothers,” he corrected you. “The one who did this to me was a wayward fool. Had to teach him a lesson.”

“Looks like he taught one to you.”

“I left with a scratch, he with a limp.” The conception of two brothers hurting each other so harshly widened your eyes for a second, and Jungkook noticed, for he added, “He was whoring around, wasting the money I worked hard to send, bullying our other brothers as well.”

Much made sense about Jungkook all of a sudden. Not his personality, that was incomprehensible. But why he killed himself to earn money and yet barely spent it… He had a family to provide for. Once again, you were reminded of his metaphor. Could an angel be in there?

Carrying on washing Jungkook, you dragged the sponge over to his neck. Then his collarbones, his chest, his abs just peaking above the water... They did look like a sculpture’s, especially wet and soaped, reminiscent of polished marble when the light of the torches reflected on them. Swallowing hard, the back of your fingers gingerly graced Jungkook’s muscles, both soft and firm. Slippery. Whatever possessed you to keep feeling them, you lacked the will to expel from your body, and so without realising your grip on the sponge loosened until it fell to float away, fingertips now free to roam over his abs.

You were slowly trailing downwards, past the water’s surface, when your wrist was seized and held in the air in a warning manner, the startle almost making you scream.

Sat upright, Jungkook was glaring at you so fiercely you feared for your life. But he didn’t say anything and instead just breathed hard, jaw clenched… almost as if he was holding back. Your rising heartbeat was deafening in the silence waiting for something to happen, anything, but what did wasn’t what a side of you anticipated with excitement.

Jungkook just let go of your wrist and returned to his previous position, and you got hold of the sponge and finished washing him, albeit holding your breath the entire time.

Days later, you came dangerously close to being fired.

The Pope had summoned Jungkook—something about a portrait commission—and you were to carry his bag filled with sketches for him due to his shoulder injury. As you navigated the ever-busy streets of Rome with him, the cold autumn breeze made you regret not putting on an overgown. The cioppa you’d bought with your own salary and not stolen. It brought a smile to your lips that faded at the realisation your mother would’ve reminded you to put it on before going out.

The sorrow pestering you turned to confusion when Jungkook stopped walking and tsked, telling you loud enough to be heard by all, “Look at him, the chief of police, with such an assemblage.”

A well-dressed man and what appeared to be his entourage walked in your direction, halting near enough. You didn’t have to ask to know this was his rival, the renowned painter Kim Taehyung.

“Whereas you, like an executioner, walk alone,” he mocked Jungkook, then noticed you standing behind him like a timid child. “Not completely, my mistake. Maestro, where in your barren soil did you plant such a flower?” He walked over to you, intentionally bumping Jungkook’s wounded shoulder as he passed, causing him to grunt lowly. From up close one was bound to marvel at how handsome Taehyung was, but you didn’t need proximity to tell he was a prick. Miles away, you would’ve known. “Why don’t you come work for me, flower? I’ll make you my muse.”

Jungkook scoffed again, “What, for your horseshit paintings? She’d be a fool to.”

Taehyung turned around to face him, feigning confusion with a smile. “But, maestro, how could they be so if you were once heard saying that all I have in art, I got from you?”

"You naturally have to resort to plagiarising my master’s genius if all you do is horseshit,” you countered, earning surprised looks from every man present, some laughs too, you were proud to say. Jungkook was certainly smirking. Taehyung opened his mouth, but you walked past him uninterested before a response came out of it.

“Good girl,” Jungkook laughed while leaving the crime scene, and for some reason your cheeks burned hot.

The incident happened once inside the Vatican.

Its grandiose corridors alone made you feel small, too unimportant to walk them, whereas Jungkook did so with determination, knowing he belonged at the top of the world. What with your tempestuous relationship, it was easy to forget he was famous throughout Europe. His feet would still never be kissed by you. Someone had to humble the man, right?

At some point the two of you arrived at a door flanked by guards, and averse, you grabbed the sleeve of Jungkook’s doublet.

“Do I have to go in?”

“Too good for the Pope, are you?” He shook you off. “Come on.”

“Damn you…” you muttered.

“What did you just say to me?”

“After you, master.”

Telling himself he’d be late if he scolded you, Jungkook turned and nodded at the guards, who opened the door of a chamber whose walls were frescoed with angels and saints, likely by Taehyung, giving off the impression one was in Heaven. When you saw him sat on a golden chair, old and grey, enjoying the tune of a lute player, you felt as though you’d just entered Hell.

The audience lasted for ever. While you stood by the door, Jungkook showed the Pope some sketches of the portrait for him to choose his favourite and then they talked and talked of politics. All you could do was fix your gaze somewhere on the floor and sigh.

“Yes, Your Holiness, this is the servant I mentioned…” A frown proceeded your looking up to see Jungkook somewhat embarrassed, scratching his nose as if to hide his face. He talked of you to others? Doubtless to complain…

With a sweet voice as if he was talking to a little girl, the Pope asked you, “What is your name?”

“None of your business, Your Holiness.”

The musician’s tune ceased abruptly, allowing Jungkook’s faint gasp to be heard. Then fell a short silence spent by the Pope blinking, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Jungkook was quick to fake a laugh, though sweat formed at his temples. “A jest! She meant no offence, Your Holiness, but to make you laugh.”

You held the Pope’s glare in defiance, indifferent to the fact he was the most powerful man in the whole of Christendom.

By some miracle, he let it go, and you left that chamber minutes later with your head as yet attached to your body. Your arm wouldn’t be for much longer, though, given Jungkook was forcibly dragging you all the way out to the streets, pushing you into the first alley he saw.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he shouted, towering over you menacingly. Unlike the day you’d met, you weren’t scared, rather furious as him as you stood your ground. “That was the Pope, you fool!”

“So?”

Jungkook was in utter disbelief. “He could’ve ordered your execution– mine too!”

“Well, nothing happened!”

“Nothing?! I’m sure to fall out of favour!” He paced around, anxiety quickening his breath. “Years of pouring my soul into my craft, of grovelling before the right people, all thrown away! Good God, your attitude may cost me everything…”

“And what about me?! Everything lost to me does not matter?!”

Jungkook stopped to frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”

It was now you who walked up to him. “I didn’t have a job, or a reputation, or admirers. I had only a family, and I never wished for anything else! That monster you work for took them from me. When the foreigners’ armies came and everyone rushed to Castel Sant’Angelo, he gave the order to close the gates as soon as he was safe behind them! You must have been there with him, weren’t you? Well, we weren’t. We were left outside to be slaughtered. And I wish I had been, like my parents, so I didn’t have to suffer the likes of you any longer!”

Tears were streaming down your face by the end, Jungkook just staring back at you. It didn’t surprise him that your parents were dead or that they’d been killed during the Sack, but that it was so deep a wound left festering in your heart that you didn’t mind being put out of misery. He surmised your disrespectful behaviour towards him was also fruit of your pain, especially if you deemed him an ally of the one who caused it.

“The few things I own… They’re wasted on me. Throw them away or give them to your next servant,” you sobbed, taking for granted you were fired. Anyone with half a brain would indeed have you dismissed, and part of you knew it was bound to happen, that you would go back to breaking in fucking churches to spend the night.

So you turned around into the main street, set on wandering until your legs became too sore not to collapse. With any luck, a carriage would run over you. But warmth then surrounded your hand, and you looked down to see Jungkook’s holding it tight enough to force you to halt. Though still mad, a hint of compassion sparkled in his eyes.

“Let’s… Let us just go home.”

Home. His house had felt so for a while now, truth be told. Himself too.

After that, you non-verbally agreed on a ceasefire—avoiding quarrels, that is, which was quite the task for both.

Such as now that Jungkook had you inking down a letter in his name. First of all, did you look like a scribe? If you’d known in advance the lazy arse would teach you to read and write for this, you’d have chosen to remain illiterate. And second, this was your short break before making dinner, intended to be spent playing with Bam. The poor thing was also in the study, at least being stroked by his owner, who was sat beside you on the desk.

“… I send you my regards, may God keep you from all harm. Jeon Jungkook in Rome,” he finally finished dictating, and you recording. “Give it to me, I’ll seal it.”

He was melting the wax with which to do so when the bell rang, to his surprise. Sighing, you stood up and went to open the door to whom turned out to be Jimin. The sight of him brightened you up, and yours stretched his lips into a smile.

“Evening, Y/N.”

“Good evening! I didn’t know the master was expecting you.”

“He isn’t…” You welcomed him in, brows joining at how he continuously chewed on his aforementioned lip and breathed deep through his nose as he followed you. Had something happened…? A decision to eavesdrop was made en route to the study.

Though Jimin requested for you to stay once there, and nothing could have prepared you for the reason why.

“This actually concerns Y/N…” You and Jungkook exchanged confused looks, him leaning against the desk and crossing arms as though he didn’t like the sound of that. Jimin fixed his already perfect clothes before addressing him, “I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.” Your jaw dropped. “I know it’s sudden at the lack of previous courtship, but I thought I should ask for your permission before engaging in it, maestro. She’s a lovely girl… and I think she’d be happy as my wife. Worry not, I won’t ask for a dowry or for her to stop working… Although on second thought, fewer hours of service would be ideal.”

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be happening.

Jungkook must be thinking the same, for he squinted to ask, “Are you drunk?”

“N-No, of course not.”

“Are you sure? You want to marry a servant with little to her name.” He had a point, so you weren’t offended. If politics weren’t the reason for a union, did this mean… Jimin had feelings for you?

“Maestro, you say it as if I were a lord,” he chuckled. “I don’t care about Y/N’s possessions, I’ll provide for her anyway. I’ve… always been fond of her. And I dare say she shares the sentiment.”

Betrayal hid safely behind a look that asked if there was any truth to that. Obviously not! There was no romance in your own fondness for Jimin. If anything, you had thought he saw you as a younger sister to look after, therefore as a protective older brother you saw him. But so shocked were you still that no words managed to come out, and Jungkook’s gaze shifted back to Jimin.

“I’ll think about it. You may go.”

A curt tone was the norm for Jungkook, it was not being granted his blessing that disappointed Jimin. He knew for a fact he was an honourable man, so why wouldn't he entrust you to him?

“Quite well… I’ll show myself out.” he uttered, before making his leave failing to hide his low spirit by giving you one last shy smile you hadn’t the heart to return.

An awkward silence filled the air that even Bam daren’t break. Only once the front door was heard shutting did you walk closer to Jungkook.

“You won’t agree to this, will you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I have to get rid of you at some point.”

“Rid of me? Like I’m a burden?” you asked, voice rising. How a servant could be so was unknown to you until, like wooden ship toys did when you’d submerge them in a bucket of water as a child, certain guesses surfaced in your thoughts. Trying to pickpocket him, the constant clashing, Biagio, that bath, the Pope… Yes, you may perhaps be described as a burden. But you didn’t want to leave. With a calmer tone, you pleaded, “I’ll behave from now on. I won’t cause any more trouble, I swear.”

Jungkook didn’t deign to look your way as he left, followed by Bam. “You have to marry at some point, Y/N. Otherwise people will gossip.”

Since when did he care about what people said of him? And why should you?

Winter having dropped its anchor, nightfall arrived early. Not early enough, you brooded as you cooked dinner, longing for the day to end once and for all. With any hope, all of this was a nightmare and upon waking up in the morning life would go back to normal. You didn’t even know why you wanted to stay with Jungkook, as the occasions in which you’d begged Jimin to employ you to leave this house were countless. The only certain thing was that you were upset.

Later, after washing all plates and cups, you began to put off all torches lighting the house, finding out in the hall that Jungkook hadn’t moved from the seat he’d dined in. You considered carrying on with your job and leaving him in the dark, but he wouldn’t find it as funny. Instead, you stood before him.

“Will that be all, master?”

The coldness in your expression made him sigh, “Y/N–”

“I shall retire, then.” You turned to leave but were made to stop in your tracks.

“It’s an advantageous proposal for you,” he lectured to whom he must believe an idiot. “Jimin works for me, he’s wealthy. A better match than you could ever aspire to. And he asks for no dowry because he doesn’t want money, he wants you…” His words were tainted with resentment. “He’ll take good care of you.”

Skirt of your dress swirling along, you faked a smile. “If you think so, master, then it must be so.”

He shook his head as he leaned back in defeat. “Suit yourself, but I won’t be the one to reject Jimin. You crush his heart.”

A laugh escaped you. “If you genuinely cared about him, you wouldn’t let him marry a woman in love with–” Oh no. It only hit you as you were saying it.

Jungkook had appeared annoyed, but now he was mad. “Who?” He stood up abruptly—chair’s feet scratching against the floor making you wince—and walked so close you were backed against the wall, face forced to turn to a side. In a low, deep voice, he repeated, less as a question and more as an order this time, “Who.”

There was no way in the nine circles of Hell you’d say it, when you didn’t want to believe it in the first place. For fuck’s sake, why? Jungkook only ever made you want to get away from him. That was the case right now, but then… why were your feet frozen?

Some unreasonable part of you seemed to have prevailed upon the others, casting away all resistance from your body and allowing yourself to indulge in Jungkook’s proximity. You met his eyes without fear, held his dark gaze. It didn’t take him long to work it out, yet he kept close, so close your unsteady breaths mingled, the effect akin to intoxication. He was visibly trying to hold back, telling himself it’d be a bad idea, but you prayed he wouldn’t care.

By God or the Devil, your prayers were heard.

Jungkook finally smashed his lips into yours, devouring them with a hunger you shared and felt growing as he gripped your waist to press you against him. A minute ago, you wouldn’t have imagined his tongue belonged inside your mouth, swirling around your own, and now you wanted it all over your body. As if reading your mind, Jungkook broke the ardent kiss to move down to your neck, which he licked painfully slowly before sucking hard, making you hiss with pleasure. He knew that would leave a mark, the bastard. You wondered if it was meant for Jimin, so he’d see you were Jungkook’s, and in such case you didn’t mind, let your eyelids close to enjoy it.

Steered by the lust possessing you, one hand grabbed his soft hair in a fistful, keeping his head in place where he was sweetly abusing your neck, while the other travelled southwards until it reached his crotch and held it over the trousers, feeling his cock stiffen. Jungkook groaned—a vibration to your skin—in retaliation lifting your skirt. You’d thought he'd take his time, tease you, but after ensuring you were wet enough by gliding his middle finger along your core, he slid it inside and began making beckoning motions.

“Master…” you moaned, legs shaking. Jungkook forsook your neck to pull back, watch how you struggled to keep it together as he added another finger, curling and uncurling them both, hitting all the right places, and unwilling to give him that satisfaction without consequences you groped his erection with the same vigour. Although he was in good control of his expression, his breath quivered against your lips, so he kissed them again, biting hard into your lower one.

He exhaled, “You’re driving me to sin…”

Indeed, the same fingers that held the brushes when he painted religious artwork were buried deep inside your cunt, bringing you the most sinful ecstasy. It made you chuckle. Jungkook took that as the mockery it was and, crossed, pulled his fingers out of you to drag you by the arm to the edge of the table, where he had you sit. Without delay he lifted your skirt again, only this time he also pulled down his trousers to reveal his cock, thick and throbbing, which he pumped as he watched you spread your legs eagerly, ready to take all of him.

With his free hand Jungkook cupped your cheek, thumb caressing your lower lip, coated with saliva and reddened still from when he’d bit it. He could sense your desire, that you craved him inside, had for a while. Desperately. And however much tempted he was to make you beg for it, his own arousal led his cock to your entrance and eased it inside already, another groan hitting the back of his bared teeth. You didn’t have time to gasp, his thrusts so quick they earned only moans, so wonderful did it feel.

Jungkook’s hand on your cheek then wrapped around your neck. “Do you know how often I’ve fantasised strangling you?”

You chuckled again as you slapped him across the face. Jungkook halted his movements in shock, glared at you. “And I slapping you?”

It took him a moment, but he scoffed and pushed you back so that you were lying down, climbing next atop you, confident that the wooden table was sturdy enough to hold both. So legs hooked around his torso and arms around his neck, you welcomed his thrusts, rough enough to make your eyes water. But it felt heavenly, how he ravished you... The mutual irritation and tension building up for over half a year translated into indescribable pleasure.

He kissed you again, flicking his tongue against yours as he pounded into you without mercy. Overwhelmed by the sensation, all you could do to express you were nearing your limit was sink your nails into Jungkook’s biceps at each side of you, moan inside his mouth. He took the hint and fucked you as fast as his body would allow, within mere seconds your walls clenching tight around him. The sight of you collapsing under him, overcome with bliss, made him reach his own highest shortly, spurting his warm seed inside you.

As his movements gradually ceased, so did your panting. Before a complete silence fell, you asked, “Am I still to marry Jimin?”

Jungkook grabbed your face and growled against your pouted lips, “You’re not going anywhere.”

#bts au #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfiction #bts scenarios #bangtan imagine #bts smut #jeon jungkook scenarios #bts fic #jeongguk #bangtan #bts x you

[lunarsilkscreen]

Affluenza

There are two affluenzas, the first is the ignorance of how people live that are lower than you on the totem pole. I say lower on the totem pole because even the middle class doesn't know what it's like to be in the lower class, and the lower class doesn't know what it's like to be impoverished, and the the impoverished don't know what it's like to have 0 ability to make money at all.

But then there's the second sickness. The mental health issues that comes with being higher up on the pole. (WHAT MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES COULD YOU HAVE IF EVERYTHING IS PAID FOR!? I hear ppl on both sides of the aisle screaming.)

One of my trailer trash friends from childhood gave me an important piece of information, that I definitely should have kept closer to my heart: "You don't have friends when it comes to money or business."

Some people include life-partner in there, meaning "they'll f* your partner and won't even tell you about their infidelity". Which means you're down two more friends.

Nigerian Princes exist in America too. Always finding a way to make that money through making other people sorry, or having a business idea that they only came up with in order to ask for funding.

Some people made a career from panhandling. The newest "undercover millionaire" (I dunno if that's the name of his show, or even if that's what that show is about, but I figured it'd work as an example) who set out to see if he could replicate his success, started with panhandling. Not "sidewalk artist" panhandling, you know playing some music, or drawing stick figures, just straight "homeless begging for change" panhandling.

Not that I think that's not a thing you should do if you need it.

You do what you have to.

A million dollars, if you set aside 32k a year (current median wage, minimum wage at $7.25 is like 15k) will last 30 years. That's not including inflation that will definitely shorten that time span.

Alternatively, you could try to start a business and pay 30 people 32k. For one year, and be out of capital since a small business will oftentimes take longer to get off the ground than a single year.

No matter how much money you throw at it.

I know, There's exceptions to that rule, but take a look at a franchise which costs $52k - $300k to startup, and a ten-year contract where everything is out of pocket should you fail to recoup your costs

Anybody that so much as hears about somebody that even 30k lying around will be up your alley looking for a handout. How dare you be so successful.

The real reason that lottery winners who started poor and wind up poor again, is because they have no affluent connections, and all their friends and families sob stories. Each of them either hasn't done the calculation, or doesn't care to.

Money doesn't grow on trees, and even if it did, that tree would be bare in a week.

People above you trying to get paid, people below you begging for change.

"we've been trying to contact you about your vehicle's extended warranty."

If you own that special edition harry potter book set, anybody that sees it will be drooling over it because "they heard about how much it costs". They wouldn't be able to find a buyer, but pawn stars might give them $300.

I wish I lived in the old world where nobody cared about nerd collectibles, then I could display them without people getting jealous. Or you know: play vintage MagicTG.

Commodification. Kids used to steal cards because they couldn't afford them, now adults do because they're valuable. (DON'T CORRECT ME)

Who needs memories anyway?

I just wanted to decorate my abode with my nerd hobbies. Now all I got are these scented candles from the Yankees.

You know, there used to be a fear of every room being pristine, with nothing to decorate the walls because the death of books and physical media.

Now it's because your neighbor will take it from you. Because they "need to make that bread".

What happens when there aren't enough jobs to go around? When there's not enough money to go around? You're forced to be distrustful of everybody you meet.

So much so that you can't have any nice things at all.

So much for the American Dream.

[paintingdragonfeathers]

Whew! Survived Nekocon 2022! But no rest for the wicked—I immediately went home to finish packing things for the movers this weekend. Then I can get back to creating AAAARRRRTT.

Thank you everyone who stopped by the Painting Dragon Feathers booth in the artist alley and either taking home some art or signing up for commissions, and thank you everyone who came to the “Dragons, Cryptids, and Dinos, OH MY!” Panel. While it was only my second time ever vending at Nekocon, and my first ever pro-row booth, it was one of my most successful conventions to date! And thank you cosplayers for showing off your craft!

Special shoutout to my stellar friends and booth beard for all their help manning the booth and keeping us all sane over the weekend.

I also had a chance to meet some new faces and make some new friends. And I had a humbling interaction with a particular congoer—a young man approached my booth and said he came to the con specifically to see ME and my work after seeing it on social media.

This is already heartening as it’s proof my social media posts don’t end up yeeted into the void, lol.

Anyway, this young artist came seeking advice on how to pursue a career in the arts as he heads off to college. Now, I’ve looked out for and helped newbies and first-timers in artist alleys over the years, but this is the first time someone made a pilgrimage to talk to me. I can remember when I was in his shoes, and now with close to a decade of experience between college and cons, I had a split-section realization of “Oh crap…I’m an ADULT ARTIST and can offer this kind of advice.”

So, I didn’t sugar coat it—I was frank that I was very fortunate to have a foundation of supportive friends and family to pursue the arts in school, and as a career I’m at the point where it’s still feast or famine, but I encouraged him that perseverance is key. A lot of times something worth doing is a long gambit and requires patience since stuff rarely happens overnight. A typical rule of thumb I go by is for small businesses of most ilks (including creative work) they tend to either gain traction or “fail” between 4-6 years. Fun fact, until the pandemic hit and set EVERYONE on the planet back, I started gaining traction as a professional artist at years 5-6 of Painting Dragon Feathers. It’s good to be ambitious, and it’s healthy to be pragmatic; I’ve seen so many talented writers and artists flounder because they lack a lick of business sense and don’t know how to apply their skills. And that a lot of skills, whether creative or business-y, can be learned.

I told him that there are so many resources—books, online groups, etc.—that can help him make connections, study artistic principles, and learn the trade to make life as an artist easier. And when he showed me some samples of his art, I could tell based on his expressive line work and composition that he has the creative chops. I recommended him which digital art programs (something he asked about) and tools best emulate traditional media, yet emphasized that it is just a tool, and that you still need to know the principles of art—shading, hue, tone, composition, etc.—whether you’re picking up a paintbrush or a stylus.

All in all, I count myself blessed that I have had excellent guidance and mentors myself over the years from bigger, “adultier” artists, and that if I can hand down some of those sparks and advice to make younger artists coming after me walk a smoother path while I’m still learning and bushwhacking the road for myself, then I’m doing something right at the end of the day. I have no doubt that that young gentleman is gonna go on and create cool stuff.

Go forth and make cool things young artists. The world needs them, and you never know who’s watching your work. And my digital mailbox and art booths are open if you want some wisdom too. ;)

#nekocon #nekocon2022 #nekocon24 #convention #anime #animeconvention #artist #artistalley #cosplay #cosplayparade #costume #fursuit #furry #lifeadvice #paintingdragonfeathers

[paragraphica]

The Unseen Hero: A Tale of the Street Punk

In the heart of the city, where shadows danced along graffiti-covered walls, there existed a punk kid named Ryder. His mohawk stood defiantly against conformity, and his leather jacket bore the scars of countless rebellions. Ryder haunted the streets like a specter, his laughter echoing through dimly lit alleys, sending shivers down the spines of passersby.

Fear was his currency. He reveled in it, feeding off the startled glances and hurried footsteps of those who dared cross his path. The old ladies clutched their purses tighter, and children whispered tales of the menacing punk who prowled the neighborhood.

But one fateful afternoon, destiny wove an unexpected thread into Ryder’s chaotic existence. As he leaned against a graffiti-covered wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, he witnessed an elderly woman—a grandma—struggling to cross the busy intersection. Her frail form battled against the relentless flow of traffic, her cane tapping a desperate rhythm.

Ryder’s first instinct was mockery. He imagined the headlines: “Street Punk Laughs as Grandma Fails to Dodge Traffic.” But then something shifted—a glitch in his rebel code. Perhaps it was the vulnerability etched on her face or the memory of his own grandmother’s eyes. Whatever it was, Ryder stepped forward.

He didn’t hesitate. Dodging cars like a seasoned daredevil, he reached the trembling grandma. Her eyes widened as he guided her to safety, his leather-clad arm shielding her from the chaos. The world held its breath, and for a moment, the graffiti faded, revealing the hero beneath the punk facade.

The truck roared, its metal jaws hungry for tragedy. Ryder’s heart pounded, adrenaline surging. He pushed the grandma out of harm’s way, his body absorbing the impact. Pain exploded—a symphony of broken bones and torn flesh. The truck screeched to a halt, its driver wide-eyed and trembling.

As Ryder lay there, blood pooling around him, the grandma knelt beside him. Her trembling hands cradled his head, and tears blurred her vision. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re my angel.”

The neighborhood buzzed with disbelief. The menacing punk had become a legend—the boy who defied stereotypes, who traded fear for courage. News outlets spun the tale: “Street Kid Saves Grandma from Certain Death.” Ryder’s mohawk became a symbol of hope, and the graffiti artists immortalized him on the very walls he once haunted.

But the true revelation came later. As Ryder healed in the hospital, the grandma visited him daily. She brought homemade cookies and stories of her youth. Ryder listened, realizing that beneath her wrinkles lay a lifetime of resilience. She’d survived wars, loss, and heartache—the same streets that now bore his rebellious footprints.

And so, the moral emerged: Never judge a punk kid by his leather jacket or menacing glare. Beneath the defiance, there might be a hero waiting to emerge—a hero who defies expectations, who transcends labels. Ryder learned that day that courage wore many faces, and sometimes it hid behind a mohawk and a mischievous grin.

As the city changed, so did Ryder. He traded his graffiti cans for textbooks, his rebellious spirit channeled into community projects. The grandma became his mentor, teaching him about life’s hidden layers. And when the sun dipped below the skyline, Ryder would sit on the same graffiti-covered wall, staring at the intersection where he’d saved a life.

Remember this, dear reader: Heroes don’t always wear capes. Sometimes, they wear leather jackets and carry the weight of a thousand misconceptions. So next time you see a punk kid haunting the streets, look beyond the surface. You might just find an unseen hero—a mohawked savior who defies the odds and reminds us that courage knows no boundaries.

And Ryder? Well, he became the city’s guardian angel, his laughter now echoing not in fear but in hope. 🌟🖤

[michelle-is-writing]

A Proposition, Nikki Sixx

GIF not mine

Word count: 2.6k~

Every child has a dream, or at least, that’s what everyone says.

Growing up, I never had a true dream that was set in stone. Upon seeing everyone else around me plan for the future, I didn’t really know what to do. I had always been told that an idea of what I wanted to do would come to me eventually, and going by the fact that I lived my life by going with the flow of everything, I believed this.

Now that I’m in my twenties, I’m not mad at the fact that I’m a waitress. I chose to take a break year after high school which then turned into three long years of traveling around the US with my ultimate destination goal being the beautiful city of angels. Although, despite its magical name, Los Angeles is far from the city of angels. It‘s the city of drop-outs, failed artists, breakthrough-seeking musicians, and in my case, people who live life without a plan.

Sure, paychecks are low and the apartments are crappy, but I enjoy my life. I have fun, and I have friends. A majority of the customers who come into the diner I work at are nice as well. Although, four young men who always come in after their shows are my favorites.

These four are definitely unique in their own little ways, and yet, they all seem to get along with each other in their starting band. The goofiest and loudest one of the group would have to be the drummer, Tommy. On the other hand, the quiet one who always minds his own business is the main guitarist, Mick. The flirty one would have to the singer, Vince. Lastly, the smart ass one is the bass guitarist, Nikki, who can also be a bit flirty too.

Now, Nikki is the one I actually enjoy the most. When he’s not with the rest of his group, he’ll still come in and see me, which usually leads to us sharing many conversations that distract me from my work. He always comes in with the same order, and each time, I bring it to him with the same line always falling from his smiling lips in response. “Thanks, babe,” He’ll say, making me smile in return, but push my feelings down farther. I know Nikki is a rockstar player - hell, they all are - and that’s I why I can’t let myself continue falling for him.

“Hey, boys,” I greet the usual four as they walk through the diner doors, tiredness written all over their face alongside smeared black eyeshadow and face paint. They look like they played in a back alley way - not a bar.

“Hey, (Y/n),” they all respond in unison, sitting in their usual booth toward the back. They’ve been here so many times that they don’t even need to look through the menu. Actually, they’ve been here so many times that they don’t even need to tell me what they want. I already know what items on the menu they like and don’t like - but really, the boys will eat anything.

Without wasting any time, I head over to their table with my pen and order book in hand. “What will it be today?” I ask them, ready to write down everything from memory. Tommy will want pancakes, Mick will want an omelet, Vince will want a burger, and Nikki will want a Jack and Coke - although, I’ve never actually seen him drink the soda.

“Actually, we have a proposition for you, (Y/n),” I hear Mick say, making me look up from my pen and pad with a bit of confusion. Sure, I’ve shared many conversations with the four, but they’ve never actually offered me anything. Of course, Vince has offered plenty of things to me in his own way, but that’s besides the point.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, ready for some funny joke they’re about to tell me. “And what could that be?”

“We want you to be apart of our band,” Tommy states, making me look at him with wide eyes. Immediately, he retracts his statement. “Not like an instrument player or anything!” He reiterates, “but we know that we’ll need someone to make sure we don’t fuck things up too bad when we’re on the road and stuff.”

At his comment, I let out a small laugh. “You guys couldn’t pay me enough,” I tell them, shaking my head. In response, Nikki chuckles. He knows what I’m saying is the truth.

“But we would though! We would pay you a lot!” Tommy quickly states, Vince nodding in agreement.

“How do I know that? I’ve never even seen you guys play,” I point out, “besides, what happens if your band flops and I can’t come back here to work so I have to turn to... I don’t know - stripping?”

“I’d pay for you,” Vince announces, causing me to look at him with a curved eyebrow. Although, before I can do anything to him, Mick beats me to it and smacks him in the back of the head.

“Ignore this jackass,” Nikki speaks up, giving a little sigh afterward. “We’re actually pretty good, so I wouldn’t say that you’re taking a catastrophic chance doing this,” he tells me, making me stop for a second and think. Nikki is always very genuine and truthful whenever we talk to each other - he never sugar-coats anything, and he surely doesn’t lie to make himself or anyone around him seem better than they actually are. He might actually be telling the truth.

“Show me,” I finally state, smirking as I raise my pen and pad back up to write down their order. “I’ll be over tomorrow after three - and you don’t have to tell me where you guys live,” I tell them, “I hear about your ‘legendary’ parties all the time in here.”

At that, Nikki breaks into a small smile, his dark eyes looking at me with the same gaze they always hold when he’s here. “We’ll be eagerly awaiting your arrival, babe,” he tells me, causing my heart to practically skip a beat. I guess the whole “babe” thing isn’t just limited to when I take his orders.

Smiling back at him, I turn my eyes to the rest of the guys before speaking up. “Now, do you guys want your usual today?”

The rest of my shift is filled with other diners walking in and wanting their orders right away - the usual. Although, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to hearing the guys play. In fact, I could barely focus while working the rest of my hours. The possibility of having a higher paying job than what I’m working now is fantastic, and being able to do that job with guys that I actually like is another bonus. Plus, getting to see Nikki on a daily basis might not be such a bad thing.

With a full nights rest and more comfortable clothes on, I head over to the guys apartment and stop in front of their door before knocking. Looking around the hallway, I feel myself begin to feel a little creeped out. The hallways itself is slightly dim, and it’s not like the guys’ dirty door isn’t helping the abandoned-theme the apartment complex is giving.

Thankfully, it isn’t long before a familiar blond is opening the door, the smile on his face dropping almost as soon as he sees me. “What happened to the cute waitress uniform?” He asks, making me sarcastically smile as I flip the finger at him. Vince just can’t hold himself back for one day, can he?

“Move, asshole,” I hear Nikki’s familiar voice say as his head of crazy black hair pops up behind Vince. “Stop berating her and let her in for fuck’s sake.”

With that, Vince is nearly pushed to the side which then frees up the doorway for a short second until Nikki steps onto the spot where Vince once stood. “It’s good to see you, beautiful,” he greets with a smile, causing me to smile back at him with burning cheeks. It may be hypocritical to feel flattered by Nikki’s comments and not Vince’s suggestions, but Nikki’s always been sweet and never sexual unlike the currently pouting blonde.

“Are you just going to stand there and eye-fuck her or are you going to let her in, Nikki?” Mick yells from the back of the room, standing off to the side a bit. In response, Nikki’s smile turns strained as his eyes fall closed. I don’t have to be a mindreader to know that Nikki is currently planning Mick’s death in his head.

Smiling back at him, I step into the messy apartment, but not before kissing Nikki’s cheek. “It’s good to see you too, handsome,” I tell him, flashing him a smile before walking further into the living room. Although, I have to admit that seeing the big smile form on Nikki’s face added a little extra pump in my step.

“Okay,” I murmur, turning toward the boys. I watch as they all move to stand around their instruments, the dirt covered carpet beneath them providing a makeshift stage for them. “Show me what you got!” I cheer, grinning as I clap my hands beneath my chin. I know these boys are good when it comes to their music. The stories I hear about the infamous Mötley Crüe are endless and crazy, and as they start to play their music, I come to the realization that soon I’ll be witnessing those crazy and endless stories myself.

With my clothes and essential things packed, I quit my job at the diner and start working for the boys. Every night is entertaining, but it’s not always bad. Vince has only started one fight in the two weeks we’ve been on the road and that wasn’t hard to stop once the venue owner grabbed him and the man fighting. The only other problem is the guys incessant attempts to throw shit out the windows from their hotel rooms, but Doc usually takes care of that for me. However, things can’t always remain calm.

Tonight was definitely a crazy night, but it turned even crazier after the show when the guys decided to go to the bar for a couple drinks. I went with them, and as I went to go get a drink for myself, a guy next to me decided to get a little too friendly with me. Despite me telling him no several times, his actions never halted, and as he grabbed me by my arms, I found myself overwhelmed by all the possible ways to get out of his grip.

Thankfully, he let go without me having to do anything, but at the same time, it was Nikki going up behind him and smashing his empty beer bottle against his head that made him get off me. The creepy guys friends didn’t appreciate that, and soon everyone in the bar was fighting. I managed to get the guys out before they could add to the already growing chaos, but Nikki had been punched a few times before I could do anything about it.

“You know, I can remember you guys giving me this job with the responsibility of keeping you guys from doing stupid shit,” I point out, placing the bag of ice next to Nikki’s jaw as it starts to turn blue. “But it seems as if I’m just picking up the pieces after you guys fuck up.”

Nikki doesn’t laugh thanks to his currently swelling jaw, but he does smile and look up at me. “I couldn’t let that guy put his hands on my girl,” he murmurs, taking the ice in his hand as I move back to my first aid bag. Whereas nothing physical has happened between us in these two weeks, the tension has grown and it’s been pretty miserable.

“Your girl?” I ask, turning back with an alcohol pad for his split eyebrow. He hisses as I clean it, but remains quiet nonetheless. “I thought I was just the girl who you guys hired to be a full time babysitter,” I wouldn’t say I’m angry because nothing has occurred between us, but I am definitely growing impatient.

A small laugh escapes his mouth at that. “Your much more than that,” he explains, “I’m glad you’re the one doing this job, though,” Nikki murmurs, his mouth barely moving as he tries to avoid moving his jaw. Turning away to grab a few butterfly bandages for his cut, I feel his eyes linger on me until I turn back to him to which his eyes quickly flicker back up to mine. “I don’t think I would tolerate anyone else telling me what to do,”

Smiling, I begin working on Nikki’s eyebrow as he continues speaking. “I’m being serious - I don’t listen to what anyone tells me,” He continues on, causing me to nod in agreement. “You know, you could tell me to do anything and I would do it without giving it a second thought,” Nikki further confesses, his voice turning into more of a whisper than the deep octave it carried mere seconds ago.

Slowly, my hands come to a halt before I pull them away from Nikki’s face and to my sides. Keeping my eyes on Nikki’s, I keep expecting him to say ‘just joking’ or something to that extent, but instead, he stays quiet as his eyes stare back at mine and his smile remains on his lips. In that moment, various thoughts fill my brain.

Is this why Nikki has always been sweet and kind to me? Because he’s attracted to me for me and not my body? If he wanted me for something he can simply pluck from one of the groupies, then he would’ve given up a long time ago. I met the boys around a year ago, and out of that year, I’ve been working alongside with them for a very short amount of time. Granted, if Nikki wanted me for sex or something quick, then he would’ve tried a long time ago - and he would’ve tried something a little more risqué rather than an almost romantic admission.

“If I asked you to do anything, you’d just do it? No questions asked?” I reiterate, “You’re not joking are you?”

“No, actually. I’m being completely serious,” he tells me, his face matching the tone of his voice. “I’m not high or drunk either, if that’s what you’re wondering. I wanted to do this tonight - well, not with me getting into a fight right before, but I wanted to tell you that I... I really like you, and I have ever since you worked in the diner.”

With that, I find myself looking down with blushing cheeks and my lips in between my teeth. “In your state,” I begin, looking back up at him, “would it be too much to ask you for a kiss?” I ask, crossing my arms with a smile.

“Babe, I wouldn’t mind if you’d ask for more,” he chides, making me laugh before he connects our lips together. Without even thinking about it, I move my hand up to rest on his face and accidentally cause him to wince from the new pressure on his jaw. Immediately, I pull away to apologize, but Nikki beats me to it.

“I’m fine,” he assures me, pulling me close to him with his arms wrapped securely around my waist. With very little space between us, Nikki smiles at me, and for once, I can smile back with the reassurance that his flirting isn’t just empty words. “As long as I have you, I will be... more than fine, to be honest,” Nikki promises, pressing one more kiss to my lips before giving a small hum. “My girl~”

#nikki sixx x reader #nikki sixx imagine #Nikki sixx imagines #motley crue x reader #motley crue #motley crue imagine #tommy lee x reader #Nikki sixx #Tommy lee imagine #Tommy Lee imagines #Douglas booth x reader #Douglas booth imagine #Douglas booth imagines #the dirt imagines #the dirt x reader #the dirt imagine

[harrydracobang]

Harry/Draco Big Bang Week #1 Round-Up

Below you'll find a round-up of all of our amazing submissions that have posted during our first week of @harrydracobang​! 

We hope you’ve been enjoying all the novel-length Drarry and amazing art so far, and we want to thank everybody who has been following the fest and supporting our participants with comments, kudos and recs! You are amazing and we know for certain our fantastic artists and writers appreciate all your support! <3

The next fic will go up tomorrow, and we still have one more week of amazing fic and art, but for now, check our first week below to make sure you didn’t miss anything. Don’t forget to leave some love for our participants as you make your way through the submissions!

Make Yourself written by @anyaelizabethfic​ with art by @zigster-ao3​ [Explicit, 103k] Summary : Harry just wants to be safe within the freshly painted walls of Grimmauld Place, with his friends around him. But when he hears Draco Malfoy has been spotted at the local soup kitchen, he can't help but encourage a different type of stray to come under his roof. -Zigster's Tumblr Art Post 1 -Zigster’s Tumblr Art Post 2

sweeten to taste written by @bigblackdogfic​ with art by @babooshkart​ [Explicit, 51k] Summary: It starts with Draco's buckwheat crepes with honeyed oranges. Or maybe it starts with his porridge with toasted walnuts and homemade apple butter. Or perhaps it starts with the cinnamon buns Draco made from scratch with mascarpone icing. Harry just knows he's hungry for more. -Babooshkart’s Tumblr Art Post

Graceless Heart written by @orange-peony​ with art by @chuckalart​ and @secretartlair​ [Explicit, 132k] Summary: Harry is lost and broken after the war. He has gone to countless funerals, broken up with Ginny, moved back into Grimmauld Place—which feels darker and dirtier than ever before despite how much he tries to fix it. He feels lonely and desperate, but he won’t ask for help, and he still can’t cry.

When he agreed to help the Aurors at Malfoy Manor over the summer, he thought that he would be breaking dark curses. Harry never thought that he would actually spend his days sorting out dusty books with Draco Malfoy, or teaching him how to cook.

Little by little, as they begin to navigate their life post-war, Harry and Draco become intimate…in more ways than Harry could have ever expected.

See How They Run written by @harryromper​ with art by @inveigler81​ [Mature, 51k] Summary: Harry’s living above the shop in Knockturn Alley, working as a private detective after a failed stint as an Auror, when he gets an invitation from Luna Lovegood to the last place he could have imagined: Malfoy Manor.

As Luna and Draco’s friends gather for the weekend, it isn’t only memories of wartime violence that surface. It seems that a lot of the guests have things they want to hide, including murder.

It falls to Harry to solve the mystery, and while he’s at it, to untangle his feelings for Draco Malfoy once and for all. -Inveigler81′s Tumblr Art Post 1 -Inveigler81′s Tumblr Art Post 2

Brave Though The Stars They Make Me written by @dwell-the-brave​ with art by @puncertainty​ [Mature, 108k] Summary: After the events at the end of his Sixth Year, Draco Malfoy has been kept all but prisoner in his childhood home, Malfoy Manor. Alone, terrified, and desperate for some way out, he begins to have strange dreams - dreams of Harry Potter. Are they a trick of his mind? Or are they a way to change his fate, and a chance at redemption? -Puncertainty's AO3 Art Post -Puncertainty's Tumblr Art Post

Nor All That Glisters written by @sweet-s0rr0w​ with art by @deancebra-art​ and @fantalf​ [Explicit, 110k] Summary: Lonely and frustrated on house arrest, with no prospects for the future, Draco begins brewing Felix Felicis in an attempt to improve his lot. Just in the short term, of course. He isn’t a total idiot.

But before long he finds himself with a thriving business, a nice flat, some actual (albeit irritatingly Gryffindor) friends, and a very satisfying sex life. What’s more, no-one is hexing him in the street. And Harry Potter is single, and gorgeous, and giving Draco decidedly interested looks.

Stop taking the Felix? You must be joking… -Fantalf’s Tumblr Art Post

spins madly on written by asofthaven with art by @iaooa​ and Monotremata [Teen, 56k] Summary: As part of his probation, Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts to complete his N.E.W.T.s. Gobstones, the political machinations of the Hogwarts student body, and one Harry James Potter captures Draco’s attention instead. -Iaooa’s Tumblr Art Post

Chasing Shadows written by @manixzen with art by @avaeryn [Explicit, 93k] Summary: The murder of Lucius Malfoy seems impossible—no cause of death, no traces of spell-work, no potions in his system. The only leads Harry and his partner have are the trail of missing wizards the deeper they go. That and the help of the victim’s estranged son who now spends his time bartending at a queer-friendly Muggle pub.

A case fic featuring a closeted Harry Potter, an out-and-proud, tattooed Draco Malfoy, and a murder mystery that seems to lead to more questions than answers.

Home Truths written by @skeptiquewrites​ with art by @fantalf​ [Explicit, 67k] Summary: In the off-season Harry decided to fix up Grimmauld Place and found that Draco Malfoy was the only person who could help him. A demanding career and unrelenting press scrutiny were enough to deal with before Harry added a house with a mind of its own, family history, and a tense, flirty, complicated relationship with his childhood nemesis to the mix.

On professional Quidditch, magical houses, hard choices, Life Debts, and inconvenient truths. -Fantalf’s Tumblr Art Post

The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets written by @iero0​ & @ladderofyears​ with art by @egggnoodles​ and @faevorite-main-blog​ [Explicit, 287k] Summary: Hogwarts is the very last place that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy want to return to after the war. The Castle feels claustrophobic and stifling. Both feel trapped within its walls.

Harry is traumatised by the war, by his sudden breakup from Ginny, and by the knowledge that his friends all know what they want to do with their life.

Meanwhile Draco is reeling. He has narrowly escaped an Azkaban prison sentence and is struggling under the strict rules of his probation. He doesn't know where his mother is, and finds himself a pariah among the other students.

The last thing that either student wants is mandatory Mind Healing. What has happened to them feels so big and devastating, that writing to a stranger feels farcical.

Even so, they are not given a choice.

Harry and Draco are both given a shared magical diary, and soon they begin writing letters to an anonymous fellow student.

Their letters, terse at first, grow longer as the days pass. Before long, each wizard confesses their secrets and their fantasies, their wishes and their dreams.

What will happen when their true identities are exposed? Will their vulnerable new relationship be destroyed before it has even begun? -Egggnoodles Tumblr Art Post

A Sense of Scale written by @fantalf​ with art by @dragontamerdame​  [Mature, 71k] Summary: Potter merely shrugged, as if it was nothing. After all, it wasn’t his life’s work. “You can try to win it over.” Draco snapped, “What?!” “The school. Win it over.” “How the fuck do I win a school over, Potter?! It’s a bloody school, not a person!” And he didn’t win people over that easily, overall. “I don’t know. Use your charms. I know you to be very inventive.” —— In which Draco spends an obscene amount of time thinking of new nicknames for The Living Git, lying to himself and using his charms to seduce an extremely uncooperative sentient school.

Independent Art: Homage by @cambiodipolvere​ [General] Summary: A space between dangling feet, less than a foot.

#drarry #drarry fests #drarry fest #draco x harry #harry x draco #drarry fic #drarry art #harrydracobang #2021 fest #weekly roundup #mod post

[johnsamericano]

❃ Welcome to the new edition of 23 days of NCT! In celebration of my 1k milestone, I decided to make a compilation of short stories of each member, starting from the youngest and ending with the leader. All these stories have the same theme: how they realized they’d fallen in love, though they all have different genres. Send a message if you’d like to be added to the taglist. Happy reading! ❃

☞ taglist: @morningsunandnightsky @soberhani @aaasteroidsky @chenlewifey @piaozhisheng @doeilovr @aedreamzy @multistan30 @legbouk

☞ [Release date: October 22nd]

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Ꭰąվ 𝟙

➱ Ƥɑɾƙ Jísմղց

Jisung is a shy boy, someone who can’t tell the difference between love and simple affection. It isn't until his partner starts to drift away from him that things finally start becoming crystal clear.

Ꭰąվ ϩ

➱ Ȥհօղց ƇհҽղƖҽ

Between all the banter Chenle had with his best friend, he fails to notice how his heart starts beating faster at your presence, how his cheeks turn rosy as if he’d run a marathon. A fool in love is what people would call someone like him.

Ꭰąվ Ӡ

➱ Jմղց Տմղցϲհɑղ

As a new member of NCT, Sungchan hasn't had the opportunity to meet every member of the staff. One fortunate day, WayV’s makeup artist shows up to get him ready for a photoshoot, causing his heart to beat uncontrollably at every accidental touch you give him.

Ꭰąվ ५

➱ Ơsɑƙí Տհօեɑɾօ

The owner of the coffee shop he visits every morning seems suspiciously interested in the Japanese boy, but considering his busy schedule, Shotaro avoids any giving her any hopes. All the emotions he'd tried to suppress hit him like a truck as her eyes start drifting to other people.

Ꭰąվ Ƽ

➱ líմ Ƴɑղցყɑղց

Being a foreigner has never been easy for Yangyang. Everyone seems to be running away from him, except for a funny stranger. Friendship slowly starts turning into something else, and the Chinese boy fears you don't feel the same.

Ꭰąվ Ϭ

➱ Ɲɑ Jɑҽʍíղ

Jaemin’s the most popular guy on campus. Having a body count almost equal to the number of students there, he's sure he can get whoever he wants in bed. That is until a stubborn, fashion student refuses him.

Ꭰąվ 7

➱ lҽҽ Ӈɑҽϲհɑղ

His partner for the biology final project seems to be a pain in the ass, but Haechan soon finds the source of her behavior. And the situation seems to be more complex than he ever imagined.

Ꭰąվ 𝟠

➱ lҽҽ Jҽղօ

A vampire falling for a human? That kind of thing could only happen in movies.

Ꭰąվ ९

➱ Ӈմɑղց Rҽղᴊմղ

The company takes all of the members to the beach for a new edition of NCT life. During his time there, he meets another tourist, with whom he’ll develop a relationship bound to end in tragedy.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙⊘

➱ Ẃօղց Ƙմղհɑղց

A little someone keeps visiting his dreams, delivering pleasure beyond imagination. But what happens when the one he thought was a product of his imagination bumps into him on the busy streets of Seoul?

Ꭰąվ 𝟙𝟙

➱ Xíɑօ Ɗҽᴊմղ

A one-night stand turns into a regular occasion, and you can't help to catch feelings, feelings that Xiaojun would never reciprocate.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙ϩ

➱ lҽҽ Ɱɑɾƙ

You met on a rainy night at a hidden bar in a dark alley of Itaewon. Your encounter seemed like a pure coincidence, a kind gesture of the universe. But when you meet for the second time, it feels as if you were meant to be.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙Ӡ

➱ Ẃօղց Ƴմƙհҽí

Yukhei isn’t one to fall for those he sleeps with, but you, a stranger he met by chance, manage to steal his heart with just a few smiles.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙५

➱ Ƙíʍ Jմղցաօօ

Monsters like Kim Jungwoo should never have the chance to fall in love, but faith has put you in his path, and he’s willing to let go of his past life as long as you stay by his side.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙Ƽ

➱ Ɗօղց Տíϲհҽղց

Sicheng has spent most of his life with you, the girl next door. Now, on the eve of leaving for college, he realizes how afraid he is to lose you.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙Ϭ

➱ Jմղց Jɑҽհყմղ

The new manager of dream is nothing like the ones they’d had before, and Jaehyun can't help but follow her around like a magnet.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙7

➱ Ƭҽղ lҽҽ

A new brand starts paving its way in the fashion industry, and the young, lively owner, seems to be oddly interested in Ten.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙𝟠

➱ Ƙíʍ Ɗօყօմղց

Falling for the smartest student at school wasn't your best idea, especially when you were the exact opposite of him.

Ꭰąվ 𝟙९

➱ Qíɑղ Ƙմղ

Having spent 12 years as a single father, his little girl means the world to him, so when a new woman enters his life, he has no other option but to listen to his daughter, who was an odd hatred towards his dad’s girlfriend.

Ꭰąվ ϩ⊘

➱ Ɲɑƙɑʍօեօ Ƴմեɑ

Yuta is offered a place to stay with his cousin during his time as an exchange student. What he doesn't expect is to have a third roommate, who seems to be ready to jump on his bones any time.

Ꭰąվ ϩ𝟙

➱ Տҽօ Jօհղղყ

Best friends’ younger sisters are out of limits, right? That's what Johnny kept repeating to himself as time went by, and you seemed more and more distant.

Ꭰąվ ϩϩ

➱ Ɱօօղ ƬɑҽíƖ

His feelings get number with every day he spends by your side. Wondering if his burning love for you will ever come back, he decides to ask for a break. But his doubts soon crumble down as his bed becomes colder without you laying there.

Ꭰąվ ϩӠ

➱ lҽҽ Ƭɑҽყօղց

Taeyong has a busy life. Barely being able to take care of himself, he finds it hard to open up to someone else, even if that person's only interest is to take the weight off his shoulders.

#nct au #nct imagines #nct ot21 #nct smut #nct x reader #nct #nct scenarios #nct 127 #nct angst #wayv #wayv smut #wayv angst #wayv fluff #wayv imagines #nct ot23

[bigwhispersbluebird]

Look into my eyes, and lie

Synopsis: Taehyung and you have been dating for years, serious enough to announce it publicly. Everything was perfect until he starts ignoring you and the only thing that breaks the silence is a rumour that might be the end of this relationship as you know it.

Angst, written from OC's perspective

Warnings: Insinuation of cheating

Author's Note: This will be a two-shot, hopefully.

I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing off the hook. Even though I usually turn it to silent before sleeping but last night, I had consciously kept it on the highest volume in hopes that he would call.

Taehyung and I had met when my company was contracted to serve as publicists of Bangtan. Being attracted to one of the members went beyond every code of ethic that I had etched in my brain but there is little to be done when the only thing keeping you sane is a certain boxy smile and its owner's persistence. After a couple years of dating, Taehyung wanted to make it official by announcing it to ARMY, first and foremost. That was when the realisation had hit me that this relationship meant as much to him as it did to me.

While the media had tried to turn the situation against BTS, it was the faith and support of ARMY that helped in finding stability and an easy way through it all. Things had been great since then.

Until now.

Taehyung was out of reach, out of contact for days. Eventhough he had always made time before or atleast squeezed in a call, he had not even bothered to reply to my texts for days. More than angry or upset, it was worry that overtook my senses.

"Perhaps he was busy and finally got time", I thought suddenly when the phone rang again.

I sprang up and immediately started searching for it; hands splayed on the mattress, reaching out for him.

Although, as soon as I saw the notifications, my heart dropped. It was a bunch of calls from my company and hundreds of Twitter notifications. This could only mean one thing: another rumour or scandal.

I unlocked my phone, swiping left on all the notifications, searching for only one that I was looking for. But it wasn't there.

However, there was a message from Namjoon. Simple yet something that scared me to bits.

"I am sorry. Talk to me whenever you can."

What was he sorry for?

I tentatively opened Twitter, and soon I wished I hadn't. Ignorance is bliss and I would give anything to be the fool I was a few seconds ago still waiting on a call from the only person who had the power to shatter me like he just did.

"BTS's Taehyung spotted with a blond through the back alley of his private apartment. Unless Y/N has suddenly had a change of style, we smell something fishy."

Attached was a blurred shot taken through night vision camera. And if I hadn't memorized all the contours of his body, I would have second guessed who that person was for the sake of my sanity. However, one look and I knew that it was him. His arms around the waist of a blond I hadn't seen before. Her face was not visible but she seemed too close to him for my liking.

No, Y/N! Stop acting all paranoid. You know he is not like that. There must definitely be a reason for this image and the situation. And just because someone calls it an affair, doesn't mean it has to be. He would never disrespect you like that. Get a grip.

Repeating the same words in my head, I got up from my bed, ignoring the notifications that were still chiming on my phone. I almost believed what I was telling myself but the lack of explanation on his behalf made me question myself.

Shouldn't he have called me after seeing this? After knowing how it would affect me? Or maybe it is true and he doesn't have the nerve to accept it? Or perhaps, it is too much of bullshit for him to pay attention to it?

Questions after questions popped in my head as I got dressed for work, maybe he would drop by there? Amongst it all, the thing that was worrying me more was not the picture or the news but his absence from my life for so long that he hadn't even bothered replying to me. Whatever happened or didn't happen was about the night before so what was the reason of his anger before that?

Before leaving, I unplug my phone from the charger and once again scrolled through all the notifications. Messages from my friends, even his friends but none from him.

Frustrated, I climb into my car and turn on the music at the highest volume, hoping it would quiet down my brain.

*****

"Everything that has been reported is nothing but a misunderstanding and yet another manipulation of a simple situation to relay a story of your choice. Taehyung and I are still together and very happy and have only to be grateful to our fans that have believed us without reason. He is busy with his work and I am indulged in mine but please don't worry about us."

I turned off the television after watching myself strut inside the office building after giving a speech I wish I had believed with as much confidence as I had faked. But something had to be done about the reporters that had not moved from the building for the last four days. What didn't help the case was that his label had not come out with ANY statement nor were we spotted together. Everyone had assumed that we had broken up after Taehyung cheated. No matter what, I would not let a scandal tarnish his career.

My anger filled speech could not be nitpicked by even the most observant of people. That is what you get after years of being famous and now the head of the leading artist representative label.

But as I sat in my office room, overlooking the city, I could not mute the sound of my heart breaking.

I glanced at the frame on my desk. A picture we had taken on our trip to Rome. A simple one of us on the bike we had rented. Me holding on to his waist and him holding on to me, genuine smiles painted on our lips.

When did everything go so wrong?

I didn't even notice I was crying until my secretary knocked on the door, opening it simultaneously in urgency but soon halting noticing my state.

"It is okay, Kai", I waved at him, wiping at my face with the other.

"Um, apologies ma'am but Mr Taehyung is waiting for you."

My mind went numb. I didn't expect him to come anymore. Not after he had ignored my existence for so long now, acting like we meant nothing.

But he was here. He was here and I wish I had the courage to turn him away but I did not. I wanted to see him. Desperately.

Unable to voice out my thoughts, I just nodded at Kai who understood as he walked out, probably to lead him inside.

I immediately glanced at the mirror on the wall, my self respect intact enough to not let him know how much his indifference had hurt me. I would never give anyone that satisfaction.

But as he walked into the room, his familiar scent overtaking everything reminding me how every part of my own office was full of him. The picture on my desk, his guitar leaning on the farther wall, my side table still full of the lavenders he had bought me a month before, the coat hanger where his baseball cap still stands when we decided to leave our disguises and go on a sudden date. And well me, his from every aspect, body and soul. My heart almost stopped and my brain lost all reasons it had to put up a facade. I just wanted to run to him.

But all the emotions made me so exhausted that I kept sitting there, planted as if I would combust into ashes if I tried moving.

So I stayed, looking at him. Dressed like his usual self, a plain shirt with flared pants and a vitange coat. His hair styled like he had come straight here from work. He must have, I realized as I noticed what time it was.

"Tae...", I tried breaking the silence but all that came out was a meek croak. Clearing my throat, I tried again. "You came here from work?". Again, silence.

"Were you crying?", he said. His expressions stoic but worry shining from his voice and I wanted to burst into tears but I only had my dignity to hold onto right now.

"Not really. Kinda sick I guess so I might look red but I am fine".

I knew he didn't believe me but thankfully he let me live it down.

Moving forwards, he tentatively sat in the chair placed opposite mine and I knew how neither of us failed to realize how foreign that action was when usually he would grab a chair and place it right beside mine, pulling me closer to him until I was between his knees or how he would settle himself on the sofa and pat on it and I would rush to occupy the space beside him.

I tried to swallow another lump forming in my throat. This was his way of showing that things were different. And I wanted to know why. Was it someone else? Or did we just reach the end and I didn't see it coming?

I watched him as he looked down, fumbling with the belt of his coat, which he had not taken off, not expecting to stay long. His face which was always stoic failed to hide how desperately he was searching for words to make everything go away.

I saw it too and it was the only reason why I fought through all my resolve and spoke, not bothering to hide how vulnerable I felt.

"Taehyung, I don't want any explanations", I noticed as his eyes met mine, slowly, all his attention on me, "I don't want to know anything that happened before or anything that happened after you stopped talking to me". I stopped, my heart beating so fast I could hear it thump in my ears. His eyes fixated on me, his expression mimicking mine- awaiting what I would say next.

"Just tell me they lied", I spoke but it came out as a plea, my voice cracking as I tried to maintain eye contact with him through all the tears that were now brimming my eyes. "Tell me that nothing happened between you and the woman in that picture. Just say that and I will never talk about this again. I'll forget that these last few weeks ever occurred in our lives."

Taehyung's eyes did not leave mine, his expression unreadable now. As I continued speaking, his head fell low, trying to hide the tears that were in his eyes too.

"Tell me and I will take your word over everything. Please," I begged, " Please...".

I did not have the energy to continue as emotions overtook me and I helplessly sobbed, my entire body shaking and tears chasing each other down my cheeks. I covered my face with my hands, crying into my palms until I felt familiar warm hands on mine, pulling them to reveal my face.

My teary eyes met his and before I could try to understand what everything meant, he broke the silence, saying each word without breaking  eye contact so I could believe it, "They lied. I can't...I didn't cheat on you...".

As soon as his words reached me, my eyes failing to find a lie, I couldn't hold it in as I burst into tears throwing myself in his arms which were quick to catch me, enveloping around my body tightly showing that he won't let go.

So I cried into him while I felt his own tears dropping on my shoulders.

Nothing mattered. Neither the several days of not talking, nor the reports pouring in since that night. I knew that he was not lying and that was enough to make me let go of everything else.

For now.

#bts #bts reactions #bangtan #namjoon #kim namjoon #fanfic #fic #canon #angst #kim taehyung #v #taehyung #reader #oc x canon

[psychewithwings]

Relflections

hello, hello,

welcome to the dark side... this is my second collab with bnharem. Please, please, read through the rest of the collab list HERE. I am so grateful to be working with so many other talented writers and artists on this. Special shout out to @doinmybesthere for beta reading and for @kuso-deku whom I dedicate this piece fror giving me the Mirio brain rot...

TW: NSFW, 18++++ Villains, dub-con moments, sex, violence, YANDERE MIRIO, two crazy people, inter dimensional travel, killing, mentions of blood, dirty talk, some cum play

Around 7000 words

Breaking news: We have yet another report to add to the slew of attacks this month, this comes just days after we broadcast rumours of villains running rampant over the city. This spate of attacks has put the entire metropolitan area at a standstill, road closures and damaged property making it difficult for commuters to get to work in the morning. Road maintenance endeavour to do its best to keep the city running, but it seems futile when these attacks continue to increase. The entire city was brought to a standstill by the mysterious villain who has still not been named, but reports show they are nothing like we have ever experienced before. Where are the heroes now? Who will save us from the terror overwhelming our city? Every day the crime toll continues to rise and we have no one here to protect us. The Hero Public Safety Commission assured us earlier in the week that the crime rate would go down, that the top Heroes are out there protecting our city, but if so, where are they? Is it really safe to go out anymore, who can we trust? Would you put your life in the hands of a Hero today? When they have proved our streets are no longer safe. We still have no information on what is going on, or who is involved but we must remain observant. We will continue to report the latest news as we receive it, but for now, we must implore you to heed the warnings of the city-wide curfew that is soon to be implemented. If anyone has any information on these occurrences in the city please send them to us or contact the police, you can remain anonymous. The safety of our citizens is what is most important, stay vigilant and don’t go out unless it is absolutely necessary. One thing we know for sure: we can no longer rely on Heroes to protect us. The streets of our once-great city are no longer safe, we are no longer safe.

You flip off the television and rise from your seat on the couch. Your roommate and the object of your affection had already left for the night. Mirio would never obey that curfew, not as long as there were people he could be saving. That’s Mirio for you… always being the hero, even if he’d lost his quirk ages ago. But ever since the onslaught of new villains, and heroes turning to the darkside you’re patching him up more than normal… He returns with wounds more serious now, the scars abundant on his once smooth skin. He is becoming a reflection of the ruin and carnage that floods the streets. This is why you had come up with, planned out, and prepared for a way to fix everything. You could never stop him from being a hero, it was who he was… but you can get his quirk back… 

You check your pocket one last time… it’s there, wrapped in that small blue handkerchief. You examine the strange item one last time, careful not to prick yourself with it by mistake. It’s shaped like a sewing pin, only slightly larger. One prick, that’s all it takes, one prick and it will absorb the power from the first thing that it touches. Then one more prick, and the next thing it touches will absorb the gathered power. One chance, that’s all you have. 

You grip the chain around your neck and pull the locket out from inside your shirt. You read the engraving on the back, as you always do, and you smile. 

Come back to me ~ Mirio

It had been a gift, something to help you when you were learning how to use your quirk. The going part had always been easy, it was the returning from your travels that had been difficult. You open the locket, one side is a watch, the other a mirror. You check the time and write it down to the second on your arm in biro. 

7:43. 26 PM

You have 8 hours exactly and you fear you’ll need much more time than that. But your quirk’s limits are not forgiving in the slightest. A second longer and you’ll die. 

You take a deep breath, eyes now focussing on the mirror side of the locket. You’d returned this way ever since Mirio gave you the locket, but never once travelled forward through the mirror before. You meet your own eyes and start to feel the familiar pull, your face turning that strange shade of blue. 

Please let this work. Please, take me to Mirio. 

The gravity in the mirror builds and you can feel the surging power of your quirk. You feel yourself meet your reflection, becoming one with it for a split second before you’re absorbed to the other side of the mirror. 

You land in a darkened alley. The smell of stale beer and piss invading your senses, making your head swim even more than normal. The thickness of the summer air does nothing to help. It doesn't matter how many times you use your quirk, it always leaves you dizzy, disoriented. But that was to be expected when travelling to another dimension. Your quirk was dubbed Mirror Image, it allowed you to travel to different dimensions by looking at your own reflection. 

You check your pockets again… it’s still there. The “quirk extractor”, that’s not really what it was called but you’d forgotten the actual name of it. It had taken trying quite a few different dimensions to find something like it. It was very possible that you might never find that place again. You had to treat this like it was the only one in existence, afterall, it was the only one in this existence. But where exactly was this existence?

You blink, vision clearing and you examine the alley. It looks like a regular alley, slimy brick walls, dumpster, broken liquor bottles. A few people walk past on the main street, their laughter echoing off the alley’s walls. A lightbulb buzzes over a shut metal door. But there was no Mirio. The plan was to find a mirror Mirio, a Mirio that had never lost his quirk... extract this Mirio’s quirk and bring it back to your Mirio, the Mirio you loved. 

You had done enough dimensional travel to know that every version of the self was weirdly connected. That’s why you had travelled forward through the mirror he had given you this time. You had hoped it would bring you to another Mirio, since the mirror had never failed to take you back to him… even if you were in a strange corner of the universe. But alas, it was like travelling through any other reflection. As usual, you stand in an unknown location, trying your best to figure out where you’ve ended up. 

You kick a stray tin can in frustration as you walk towards the more populated streets. You laugh at your own stupidity. You knew the real reason you were doing this. Maybe, this act of love, retrieving his stolen quirk would change his mind. Maybe he would take back what he had said all those years ago… the words that would never stop ringing in your ears.

You’re standing on the sidewalk, trying to decide which way to go when the sound of rusty hinges snaps you from your thoughts. You turn to look back down the dim lit alley. A man with shaggy blue hair exits the building, his red eyes gleam and your heart drops. It’s hard to see but you’d know his face anywhere, he’s practically taken over your city, Shigaraki Tomura. Take a few steps to where you’re concealed by the wall of the building. He speaks to someone who is still inside the building. You angle your head to try and hear over the busy street. “They’ve just been getting in the way is all, and I need you to get them out of the way… see?” 

Why did your quirk take you to Shigaraki when you had specifically thought of Mirio? The streetlight’s shadows help to hide your shape. You peek around to see who he is talking to. Your breath hitches in your throat as you see the tall blonde exit from the building’s wall. Mirio. You watch as he leans his shoulder against the brick from which he just emerged. He looks taller, stronger, and still has his quirk… would your Mirio have looked like this if his power had never been robbed?  His grey tshirt is pulled tight around his body and his usually done hair is ungelled, almost messy, bangs hanging just above his eyes. “That’s easy, you have anything actually worth my time?” he jokes. Shigaraki looks unamused, eyes closing in annoyance.

 “Just do it, and don’t make it so messy this time… you tend to leave a trail wherever you go,” Shigaraki scolds. Mirio grins, but it’s not the same warm smile you’d grown to love, this smile is darker, more sinister. “I’ll take care of it boss, sheesh, you worry too much,” he rolls his shoulder on the wall until his back is flush against the brick. He pushes off of it and heads towards the end of the alley. You panic as he heads your way. “It’s that hotel on the corner of Roosevelt and Third,” Shigaraki screeches after Mirio who gives him a wave of his hand. “If you weren’t so useful I’d kill you,” Shigaraki adds. Mirio’s laugh bounces off of the alley walls. “You could try,” he calls as he rounds the corner, just passing you as you crouch near some bags of garbage praying he doesn’t notice you. But he passes you, languidly walking towards the destination he was just given by Shigaraki Tomura. That’s when it hits you… by going through Mirio’s mirror, you have found yourself a mirror Mirio. An exact opposite to the man you know.  

The thoughts are swirling around in your head but there’s no time to sort through them… you have to follow him. You slowly rise from your hiding place and melt into the crowds of people. It’s lucky that Mirio is so tall, it makes him easy to follow from a safe distance away. The crowded main streets turn to less populated side streets and you have to maneuver accordingly to stay well hidden. Mirio approaches a building with a neon sign that spells out HOTEL in red letters. A glowing arrow points to the double doors at the front of the building. He hurries up the steps before slipping inside.  

You follow close behind to make sure not to lose him inside but leave a long enough gap so that it isn’t too obvious. Upon entering, you’re met with the old red carpet that should have been replaced twenty years ago. Dust clings to the fabric of the sofa and cobwebs dangle from the antique crystal chandelier. The floor is well polished however, reflecting the lights that hang from the ceiling. It’s strange that there’s no clerk at the desk but a few people piddle about the lobby. A man makes eye contact with you, furrowing his brow in confusion. A woman in a short, low cut dress slips her hand below another man's belt and whispers something in his ear. No one blinks when Mirio makes a beeline down the hallway to the left. This was not an ordinary hotel. You walk calmly after Mirio and peer down the long dark corridor. There’s not sight of him but you watch the door at the end of the hall close. There. The lights in this section of the hall are off and everything seems quiet, whereas the hall to the right was lit and loud. Sounds of pleasure and partying spilling from underneath each door. You curse Mirio for walking down the more sinister path and follow begrudgingly. 

The hall is dark save one room where hysterical cries seep out. You don’t want to know what was going on and instead keep your eyes trained on the small bit of light that pours from the window inside that end door. Upon closer inspection there is a coating of condensation on the glass. This must be the pool. 

You retrieve the quirk extractor from your pocket and remove it from it’s wrapping, careful not to prick yourself.  You slowly open the door he had gone through just moments ago. You slid inside the door slowly and carefully, making more sound than you would have liked, but it can’t be helped. Any sound easily bounces off the water of the glistening blue pool. The smell of chlorine is overwhelming and you start to realise that there aren’t very many good hiding places in a place like this.... And Mirio is nowhere to be found. You grip the quirk extractor as you hear a door towards the back of the room slam shut. Another exit… your footsteps echo far more than you would like for them to as you head towards the door. 

“Gotchya.”

The voice startles you. Your grip on the quirk extractor falters, coupled with the way you jump… you watch as it slowly descends into the water, effectively pricking the pool. The ball at the end of the extractor emits a green light as it sinks to the bottom. “You idiot!” you shout before you can think better of it. Mirio steps from the wall and quirks an eyebrow up at you. “Me idiot? You’re the one following me with the stealth of one of the 3 stooges.”

He looks even more dangerous up close. A long scar descends from his chin down his neck. And while his eyes are the same colour, there’s a glint in them which your Mirio lacks. He’s faster as this version of himself, and you don’t have time to think before your back is against the cold tile wall. “So gorgeous, gonna tell me what that thing was and why you’re following me… or will I just rip the answers out of you one by one.” You’re too confused watching as he looms over you. His expression is half pleased, half irritated. You inhale to speak but the words don’t come. The smile on his face right now… it’s the expression of someone who has killed and enjoyed it. It’s never something you could have pictured to play across Mirio’s face and it jars you. A chill runs up your spine and goosebumps prickle on your arms. He’s terrifying but also so beautiful. 

One of his hands moves up to grip your throat as he growls, “I’m waiting, bitch.” You flail as his grip tightens, scratching your nails into his arm in hopes that he will let go.  “Please Mirio, I-I’m sorry.” His grip loosens suddenly but his hand stays around your neck. “What did you call me?” You cough and inhale, then meet his eyes. There is a familiar curiosity within his gaze but it’s joined by something else, that same strange glint. Is it amusement or something much more sinister? You can’t put your finger on it. “Mirio, your name is Mirio,” you murmur. A sly smile crosses his face as he moves closer to you, his hips pinning yours to the tile. “Yes, but how do you know that?” 

You stutter, trying to find the right words, a sigh haphazardly escaping your lips as the heat from his body becomes intoxicating. “You been sent to spy by the heroes?” You shake your head and try to wiggle free, but only succeed in grinding against him. A low laugh bubbles from his throat as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and stills your hips with his other. “That’s real cute, but not gonna get you out of trouble with me…” His eyes flick down your body then back up. “Quite the opposite actually,” he teases. Your face feels warm and your eyes dart down and away. “Aww you’re so shy now, makes me wanna eat you up.” Mirio tilts your chin upwards so you’re looking at him. His eyes have softened slightly. “Just tell me,okay? I don’t wanna have to hurt ya.” There's a strange pleading in his tone, a sincerity you didn't expect. “We know each other, Mirio… well sort of,” you match the tone of his voice. A smirk breaks on his face, “are you my stalker?” You roll your eyes, he still had a sense of humour in this universe. It’s nice to know some things never change. 

“No, no we’re friends, but I know a different… you.” He blinks before his eyes narrow. He starts to speak but you continue to explain… about your quirk, the Mirio you know, and how you’d planned to steal his quirk. You show him your locket, the engraving. He still seems suspicious as he turns it over in his hands, examining it. “You’re a crafty little liar, I’ll give you that, had this made and all, but now I’ll have to pull the truth out of you, and like I said, I really didn’t want to have to do that to you.” “Wait… I can prove it, just let me use the mirror… then I’ll leave you alone.” Mirio looks you up and down again before opening the locket and holding it out for you. 

You focus on your reflection and watch as your face turns that strange blue black colour. Guilt seeps from your mind and travels down your spine as you’re pulled towards your reflection. The quirk extractor was sitting at the bottom of the pool, now carrying within it the power of chlorine… You hadn’t helped Mirio, only discovered a dark side to his existence… which wasn’t all that bad it seemed. He hadn’t harmed you at all, just threatened you slightly and even then it had seemed he was teasing and flirting more than anything. Your Mirio had never flirted with you… on purpose. The pull of the mirror became stronger and there was a strange sadness, a feeling that you would miss this version of Mirio. This version of Mirio was void of the sunshine that the original Mirio held within him at all times, but this Mirio seemed to see you. This Mirio had given you more in a few seconds than the original Mirio had in years. You shut your eyes as you began to fall into the mirror’s reflection. The original Mirio’s words that he’d said to you that day still hanging heavy in your heart. You laugh at your own pathetic nature for the second time today. You fantasies of Mirio were just that… just fantasies. In all universes. 

A hand pushes you backwards away from the mirror. The impact is so strong you stumble, but the same hand catches you and pulls you into him. You gasp for air, your head reeling from being ripped from the portal. Mirio holds you close, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just- I didn’t want you to go.” His voice is riddled with guilt, shaking slightly. You fist your hands into his shirt, gripping the fabric as you struggle to stand. “Whoa whoa, hey,” he consoles as he sinks to his knees, bringing you with him. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap. “I really didn’t mean to- I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m okay, I’ve just never been pulled from a portal before,” you stutter. His thumb brushes over your face temple. “You remember your name?” You state your name and he repeats it, “Y/n… I love it.” A smile plays on your features, cheeks heating once again upon hearing the compliment. “Hey, what’s 2 + 2?” 

“4,”

“Damn, well I guess you’re a math wiz.”

Your eyes flutter open and he smiles, “there she is.” You squeeze your eyes shut then open them once more in an effort to stop the room from spinning. “Are you gonna kill me now?” you drawl. Mirio pouts, “well that depends, are you still gonna steal my quirk for other me?” You laugh and roll your head away from him. “I can’t, it’s in the pool now, it’s absorbed the fucking power of chlorine.” Mirio laughs, “well whose fault is that?” You look up at him, there’s an intensity to his gaze when you meet his eyes. Your heart hammers against your chest… “yours.” You start to sit up, his arms still cling to you. “You’re the dummy who let go just ‘cuz I scared you.” You hum considering his words, “you don’t scare me Mirio.” 

His arms relax around you and you move to lay down on the tile floor. Your back relaxes against the floor and you move your arms over your head to rest your head in your hands. “You should be afraid, I’m a whole different me, sweetheart,” he remarks. He moves to lay next to you, mimicking your position. “You’re still Mirio,” you sigh, your eyes taking in the blank space of the ceiling. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, my body count, nothing.” “You’re still Mirio,” you insist. Laying like this you can hear the echo of your words bouncing off of the water. “He’s lucky, other me… to have a girl like you.” His last few words are whispered, failing to bounce around the room. They hang over you, adding weight to the atmosphere. “Ah well, the Mirio in my universe doesn’t see it that way,” you deflect. Mirio rolls to face you, his head laying in the crook of his arm. “I know we don’t know each other… not really, but it’s strange, I feel like I’ve known you forever.” You turn your head to look at him. His eyes are practically on fire now, that small glint having grown into a flame. “In a way we have, I know a version of you… what I’ve come to find is every universe has overlaps of some sort… you and the Mirio I know will share some things… memories even.” Mirio’s face lights up, “yes exactly, I feel like I’ve seen you in a dream or something…” You shrug, “it’s possible.” Mirio smiles, it’s a familiar smile, a sincere happiness that the Mirio of your universe wears often. Much different than the smiles this Mirio had even just a few moments ago. 

“Why are you a villain?” you ask him. Mirio clutches his chest in mock pain. “That hurts, sweetheart… Just because I don’t accept the truths the rule makers of our world have given me… that’s what makes me a “villain”?” You narrow your eyes, “I meant more that you’re a hitman working for Shigaraki Tomura.” He laughs, “heard that did you? Guess you were following me for longer than I’d realised.” He pauses and moves closer to you. “I have no problem getting rid of a few people who won’t contribute anything of value… most lives are a total waste, I’m merely an exterminator… getting rid of the bad to make more space for the good…” He says it so casually that it makes chills run up your spine. “So does that make you the good or the bad?” He laughs again though this time he is less amused with your question. “I’m just a sacrificial pawn, sweetheart… can’t be good to make space for it.” 

You reach out and touch his bare arm. His skin is hot against his fingertips. “You didn’t hurt me… when you thought I was lying, you can’t be bad…” He smiles, “That’s just because I see how good you are and I want to protect that… protect you.” His hand begins to mirror yours, stroking up and down your arm with light fingertips. “If you can see the good, then that makes you good.” 

His fingers grip into your arm and he pulls you closer to him. He reaches for the back of your neck when he notices the smudge of ink on his hand. He examines your arm and finds the numbers. “What’s this?” he asks. You sigh, “it’s the time I have to go…” He pulls your face closer to his, your noses almost touching. “You can’t stay?” You shake your head, “Only for 8 hours, else I’ll be torn apart by the universal pulls… I’m not really supposed to be here ya know,” you joke. Mirio’s face falls, “Can you come back?” You shrug, “I can but the time I can stay is deducted every single time I return to a universe until I can no longer visit anymore…” Mirio’s thumb rubs soft circles into the flesh of your cheek. “What should we do then?” he asks. You smile sadly before sitting up. You give him an impish smirk. “Well, there’s a pool, I say we swim.” 

You start by removing your top, slowly peeling it away and discarding it to the floor. Mirio follows, taking off his grey tshirt. His figure is chiseled, each muscle toned and defined. You start unbuttoning your trousers when you feel the heat of his chest flush against your back. “Can I?” he asks as his hands rest on your hips. You nod and he slowly pulls your pants down your legs. He helps you step out of them before throwing them towards the growing pile of clothes. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs into your skin, trailing kisses up your thighs. You grab his face with two hands and pull him to standing. “My turn,” you smirk, looping your fingers in his belt loops and pulling him towards you. You undo his pants, kissing down his chest. Savoring the taste of his skin. He groans at your touch and you feel the heat pooling low in your belly. His pants removed his stands only in grey underwear, while you remain in your bra and panties. 

You teasingly move away from him and stand on the first rung of the ladder in the deep end of the pool. You look back to where he stands, calling him to you with your gaze. He groans as he moves towards you. “I’m really holding back you know,” he growls, pressing his chest against your back, his a. “Why hold back? You can have whatever you want… Just take it, make it yours.” Mirio trails his lips up your neck, ready to suckle a mark into your skin, when you add, “if you can,” and step off the ladder into the blue water. 

As soon as the water touches your skin you’re swimming towards the other side. You hear Mirio dive in after you and know that this has all been futile. He grabs your hand and slings you gently towards the wall. He places both of his hands on either side of your body, pinning you. You wipe the water from your eyes before wrapping them around his neck. “You caught me so fast… I thought you’d chase me around more,” you provoke. He shakes the water from his hair and moves his body closer to yours. “Chasing you is a waste of fucking time right? I want to have you,” he growls. You open your mouth to say something but are silenced by his lips on yours. 

The kiss is needy, sloppy. He kisses you like he’s starving, finally being fed. His tongue draws circles around yours before sucking it into his mouth. You moan into the kiss and he responds by pulling you closer, grinding on your clothed cunt with his hardening cock. He moves to run his tongue along your bottom lip before nipping at it. You sight into the kiss, turning your head to deepen it. You pull away a wry smile on your face. Mirio’s pupils are blown, that unfamiliar glint in his eye now having a name for it, desire. 

“Miri, I want you,” his hips stutter against yours upon hearing this. “Fuck princess, I won’t be able to hold back anymore if you keep looking at me like that.” You pepper kisses to his face, tasting the chlorine on his skin. “Don’t hold back,” you whisper, “I trust you, you’re good to me, I’m yours if that’s what you really want.” His breath shakes upon hearing this and he presses his forehead to yours. “Mine? All fucking mine? Like this me?” You nod and kiss him again. This time you catch his bottom lip and suck it, pulling on it just to hear him moan. 

He helps lift you to where you’re sitting on the edge of the pool. He peels your panties down your legs before spreading them. He kisses one of your thighs before massaging the other. “So fucking perfect,” he praises, “all fucking mine.” He trails his hand and mouth up the inside of your thigh. He spreads your folds, drinking in the sight of your bare cunt. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he sighs. “I’m gonna make you forget about any other versions of me, you’re going to be all mine.” He presses a kiss to your clit, “gonna be all fucking mine, princess.” 

He drags his tongue, slow, up your slit and circles it around your clit before sucking on it gently. You stifle a whine and you can feel him smiling in pride. “That is princess, lemme hear those sweet sounds.” He does the same move again and this time you don’t hold it in. Your sounds of pleasure echo around the pool, bouncing around and finally landing back on your own ears. But you don’t hear them, as you’re too lost in the pleasure. Mirio grips the wall of the pool with one hand while the other comes up to rest on your lower abdomen. His thumb starts rubbing soft circles on your clit while his tongue circles your hole. “Tastes so fucking good,” he growls and then shoves his tongue inside. The muscle is hot, wet, and he slowly begins to add more pressure to your clit while tongue fucking you. You’re completely overcome with a mind melting pleasure as you fall back onto your elbows, your hips grinding against his face. You aren’t sure how, but you can already feel that familiar knot forming in the pit of your stomach. You’re close and Mirio seems to know as he picks up the pace. “Cum all over my face- wanna taste you-” His permission was all you needed and soon you’re clamping down around his tongue, calling broken syllables of his name. He kisses your cunt as you come down from your high. “Such a good girl for me, cumming when I say.”

He lifts himself out of the pool and removes his underwear. He’s thick, incredibly so and long. The head is red, leaking pre cum. You groan at the sight, cunt aching to be filled. You reach for him, pulling him on top of you. He kisses you, deep, passionate, with lots of tongue and teeth. You can feel his cock, thick and hard pressing into your thigh. He ruts his hips into yours, his cock sliding along your thigh. “Please,” you beg. He growls and flips you to where you’re on top and he sits pressing you to him, cock wedged between the two of you. You grind against him in anticipation. “Please Miri,” you plead. He lifts you and in one swift move, you’re impaled on his cock. 

You cry out, and it echoes back to you. The stretch is incredible, a pleasurable, dull pain that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. He carefully thrusts up into you, and you crumble, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t wanna hurt my baby,” he coos, body stilling. You shake your head, “no it feels good, y-you're just so big.” He laughs darkly, “you love the pain, don't you?” He gives another thrust to test your reaction and this time he can feel it. Your pussy dripping down his cock.He looks down, eyes blowing at the sight, “fuck baby look, I’m not even all the way inside…” You look down and moan, his cock is a little over half inside. It’s too big to fit all the way. “You cute little cunt keeps throbbing on my cock, and when she does, she drools.” He wipes up some of your combined juices with his thumb and rubs into your clit again, just as he had before. Then he starts to move. 

He starts slowly bouncing you in his lap at a gentle pace, but soon his eyes change and his thrusts become harder and faster. “I’m sorry princess, but you feel too good, I need more of you, need all of you.” Mirio fucks into you harder, his cock so big he hits every spot inside of you that makes you weak with each thrust. Your cries become louder and more desperate. His cock kissing your cervix with each thrust causes you to disintegrate in his lap. The lewd sounds of his hips smacking into your ass fills the pool. Mirio’s eyes flick down and he growls. “Look at that baby, ‘m all the way inside now, doing so good, so fucking perfect taking every inch I have to give. God you’re fucking made for me.” You sink your teeth into his neck in a desperate effort to stave off your orgasm, to savor the moment you’d waited so long for. The moment where you and Mirio Togata become one. But it feels too good, the pleasure so intense that you’re pushed over the edge again, clenching tightly around Mirio’s fat cock. “Fuck baby, do that again, milk my cock for me while I fuck you into my shape.” 

His thrusts become sloppier but he manages to continue to hit all your spots, driving his cock into you at a bruising pace. You’re shaking in his lap, body convulsing from your last orgasm as another starts to build. “Fucking hell baby, you’re so fucking perfect, and you’re mine, all fucking mine.” His hips start to stutter but his pace quickens. “I’m all yours Miri, yes, I’m yours,” you moan. He pulls your head towards him and kisses you with that same hunger as before, teeth gripping at your lower lip and him sucking on your tongue. You moan into his mouth as your orgasm washes over you, white hot. It’s too much and sends him over the edge. “That’s it, milk my cock, milk my fucking cock,” he pants, pouring his cum deep inside you. “I’m gonna get you pregnant, gonna make you mine forever,” he growls as his hot ropes of cum still paint your walls. 

Your body is shaking, the post orgasm cold mixed with your wet body has goosebumps prickling your body. He pulls his cock out and groans at the way his cum drips from your hole. He smiles, “you’re even more beautiful now that I’ve claimed you.” You smile against his skin. “I feel more beautiful,” you reply. But Mirio’s words ring in your ears. You sit up quickly but wince. “I hurt you, I’m so-” “No, that isn’t it…” You lay your head in the crook of his neck. “The longer I’m here in this dimension the weaker I become… but I’m okay, don't worry.” You nuzzle into him, trying to steal some of his warmth. He caresses your back, “I wish you could stay…” “I-I have to go back, we can’t be together forever, even though it’s all I want,” when you finally say the words you start to cry. Mirio wraps his arms around you. “You’re cold,” he says. He helps you up holding your hands, “can you stand?” You nod and he walks you back towards the shallow end of the water. He eases himself in first and then takes your hand to help you do the same. 

He cradles you to him, “but you can go back to other me, and when you make love to him, you can just think of me… we’re the same.” You look into his eyes, face pleading, “that’s just it Mirio, you aren’t the same at all… he will never love me.” Mirio’s face darkens, anger, pure anger resides in his features. “Why not?” You take a deep breath. These were the words that haunted you from the moment the other Mirio had spoken them. “He told me, I will always love you, but I will never, ever, love you like that.” You whisper this secret to him.

Mirio can see it, the weight you’ve carried in your heart. That Mirio might save people all day long, be an actual hero, but he’s the one that’s more fucked… evil. Breaking the most perfect girl he has ever known into small pieces. No, Mirio could never let such evil exist, even if that evil was technically himself. “I’m gonna kill him,” he vows as he cradles you protectively. 

Your eyes widen, and you grip onto his face. He looks at you, smiling. “Miri, do you really want to be with me forever?” He nods and kisses you, “more than anything, you’re mine now, I’ve claimed you, you belong to me.” “I belong to you,” you echo and press your forehead against his. “I think I know a way,” you inform, the grin breaking over your face. He awaits an explanation with wide eyes. “You can come back to my world with me.” Mirio narrows his eyes in confusion, “won’t that kill me? Like it kills you?” You shake your head, “no… that just has to do with the limitations of my quirk… I’ve brought someone back with me before, the only thing is… that there’s already a Mirio in my universe, which could technically throw time and space out of balance. But there’s a small window where it wouldn’t… and if you really want to kill him… then there would only be one again.” You smile and hold his face, peppering it with kisses. “You can kill him and take his place!” 

You’re met with Mirio’s grin and another sloppy kiss. “I knew I was right about you, you’re perfect.” You both climb out of the pool and dress in your clothes again. You put the locket around your neck and open it focussing on your reflection. For the first time, holding the mirror, you don’t feel the weight of the other Mirio’s words. This Mirio, now your Mirio, has filled the void that the Mirio of your universe put inside your heart. You wonder now if you’d really loved him all this time or if it was a disguised hatred and rage. You’d always found blood somewhat disturbing but now you were excited to see it. Excited to watch the man who hurt you bleed out and be destroyed by the man you loved. Excited to watch him die. 

 You grip Mirio’s hand in yours, finger interlaced. “Just don’t let go, no matter what, okay?” Mirio kisses your hand. “I won’t, swear,” he confirms. 

Your face begins to change and you feel the gravity sucking you back into your reflection, but this time, you won’t be returning to him alone and in pieces. You’ll be returning to him whole.  This time… it would be him lying in pieces on the floor. 

#mirio #mirio togata #mirio smut #bnha #mha #bnha mirio #villain mirio #bnharem collab #bnharem #villain au

[madamewriterofwrongs]

9-1-1 Criminals Au?

Ps Your blog is awesome! 🤩

Thank you <3 I initially read this as Criminal Minds but I am way more excited about the FireFam entering the criminal underbelly of Los Angeles. 

Let’s Go!

Albert - Hacker. It may seem cliched, but daddy’s money buys a whole lot of tech and a whole lot of boredom. What started out as a hobby became a full-time job when he moved in with his brother and he has to admit: being a master criminal is way more fun.

Athena - Madam. No matter how these men and women find her, she will make sure you are taken care of. There is always a place to sleep, food to eat, and you are free to leave at any time - but why would you want to leave the oldest profession known to man? If you mess with one of hers, they will never find your body and she won’t lose a wink of sleep.  

Bobby - Capo for the LA Mafia. He’s been in this game long enough that he saw the transition from analog to digital. Gone were the days of selling drugs on the street and bribing the local PD to look the other way (though there’s still plenty of that). Now, it’s Craigslist and Internet scams. Frankly, he misses the old days but it beats a 9-5 job.

Buck - Soldato (Kidnapping). You might think that kidnapping and intimidation are easy but it takes a lot of people skills and no small amount of creative thinking. Not every wealthy socialite will walk down a dark alley alone. And not every kidnapping happens in the comfort of your home. But he can find you anywhere.

Chimney - Soldato (Drugs). When his buddy suggested running drugs as a side-hustle between jobs, this was not the path he imagined his life taking. But damn, does it feel good to be a part of a family, to have a purpose, and to find something he’s really good at (like, crazy good). You want to know anything about any street drug, he can tell you the composition, the country of origin, and who sold it to you with the smallest taste.

Eddie - Soldato (Arms). As a former solider, Eddie knows the damage a gun can do in the wrong hands. But as far as he’s concerned, everyone is the wrongs hands. Military connections make it easy to buy and sell the latest technology and every cent of it goes to keeping his son safely hidden from the world he freely inhabits.

Hen - Soldato (Protection). She knows how the world works. She knows how the world underestimates her. So why not use it to her advantage. She doesn’t need a gun to let you know that if you don’t do what she asks, people will get hurt. Besides: having a friend on every street corner who’s too afraid to speak up, comes in very handy in her line of work.

Maddie - Master Thief. Quick on her toes, and clever in a pinch, she claims to be able to steal anything from anyone at any time. She’s yet to fail. Though she is generally a freelance artist (and what she does is certainly a form of art), if you’ve got a big enough score, she’s up for any challenge.

Michael - Bodyguard/Killer for Hire. He’s secretly a softy, he just likes hurting people. They make a nice loud *crack* when something breaks. He met Athena when she hired him to protect her employees and even though he takes jobs all over, if one of hers calls him for help, he’ll drop everything. Loyalty is number one in his books.

Bobby basically runs this side of Los Angeles. With his four soldiers, they deal in everything from drugs, to money, to guns, and back again. Hen and Bobby both met their wives through Athena’s call business (though, under slightly different circumstances), and Michael has roped them all in under his banner of loyalty. Of course, a family that commits crime together, stays together (or so Maddie and Chimney raised their siblings to believe). 

The mob doesn’t normally get involved in high-profile thievery, preferring to keep their business as under the radar as possible. But when Michael’s boyfriend suggests the score of a lifetime, it’s too good to pass up. 

Metropolitan hospitals have everything a criminal could want: drugs, money, and desperation. Plus, a local businessman has just re-entered the country from Africa, complaining of stomach pains, and someone needs to alleviate him of his extra appendages. Sure, there’s a few special circumstances to work around, but imagine being able to steal from under the nose of the government. 

Athena gets the names, Albert makes the passes, Maddie gets them inside and Buck gets them out. They are a well-oiled machine until a nurse gets away and tries to alert the authorities - but that’s why Michael is waiting outside the door to take care of any potential problems. 

It’s the biggest score of their lives and it takes months to off-load everything they get away with (which leaves some of them a little antsy until they have the cash in their hands).

They’ve never done a job like this before (and they likely never will again) but nothing brings people together like the threat of prison and a building full of riches.

Family is everything. But money is pretty damn great, too.

Prompt Me with AUs

#911 fox #911 on fox #mafia au #alternate universe #au #prompts #bobby nash #athena grant #hen wilson #chimney han #evan buckley #eddie diaz #maddie buckley #michael grant #albert han #cj writes things #midnight-raven #cj answers things

[mundungs]

ϟ.  → robert sheehan : genderfluid : he/they/she : dealer of illicit objects and substances : the raven by the alan parsons project ϟ  did you see mundungus fletcher ? you know ,  31 year old halfblood who was formally in ravenclaw. some say dung can be quite furtive but are known to be unreliable. they are aligned with the order .  maybe that’s why they remind me of naming stray cats, flicking a lighter over and over again, falling asleep on the subway. ϟ 

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ciannán o’donnell is a flighty man, one of many relationships and flings and little loyalty, and so his affair with maeve fletcher does not last long. when she tells him she is pregnant, he moves on to a different woman, and maeve has her son alone, with her sister on her side. and thus, mundungus is born (and giving an arguably atrocious name).

he grows up with his mum – a halfblooded witch and by far his favourite person in the world – in limerick, attending muggle school there. he knew who his dad was, but wasn’t quite sure how to feel about — his father is a criminal, a prominent member of the irish mob. 

he meets his dad for the first time at age seven, and was nothing but impressed. his dad showered him with gifts, his mum watching with a furious look on her face but biting her tongue. that moment was a switch for mundungus; he felt the need to impress his dad. he stole some sweets from a store on his way home from school a week later, fished some pennies out of the pockets of his classmates a few months later. when he phoned his dad to tell him, his laugh was warm and filled with life. his relationship with his dad got better as his behaviour got worse. the thrill of stealing, of doing stuff he wasn’t supposed to, lit him not only on fire because it was exciting, but also because he knew his dad would adore it. 

but ciannan, a flighty man, pushes and pulls. and so mundungus was fed disappointment by his father, liking love off a shiny knife rather than a spoon ( silver or plastic, what the fuck does it matter ). details omitted, long story made short: his dad sucks and his mother tries, but mundungus is pulled towards that what smells of danger.

DRUGS MENT. at hogwarts, dung is sorted into ravenclaw. not at all the booksmart type, he falls more into the chaotic-creativity, random-bursts-of-wanting-to-learn-everything-about-something type of ravenclaw. there’s two worlds, then: the muggle world, where he slowly dips his water further in criminal waters, and the wizarding one, where he’s chaotic and messy but a student. when he grows older, these overlap: dung starts selling some of his dad’s weed at hogwarts, and soon gains a reputation of being able to get people less-than-legal shit. 

not getting high off your own supply is not a sentiment he agrees with. not then, not later, not now. dung is fun, always in for a party and willing to supply the goods to throw it. if some rich purebloods lose a few galleons at said party, well, it sure isn’t him! END OF TW

he graduates with two newts, in herbology and potions, failing his dada and charms exams. he’s not an academic.

falling into the family business after graduation is easy. mundungus is attracted by the criminal underworld, both that of muggle ireland and that of the wizarding world. knockturn alley was a place frequented in teenage years, but now becomes more his place. he makes connections, exchanges strange potion recipes for other things. makes an odd wager on a bunch of stolen brass scales and turns a profit. 

a career is not something that interests him; he is more interested in bending rules and making quick money. thievery, selling illegal shit, heists, fraud, fuck-all. mundungus is not limited by one descriptor, one kind of criminality. he just does what he wants and hopes to make a good penny.

but then he almost gets sent to azkaban over some, in his frank opinion, bullshit. it’s dumbledore who talks the wizengamot out of it, saddling dung up with some community service and persuading him towards the order. he’s twenty three. the war is still fresh. he has no interest in it, but he owes the old man. fine.

mundungus does vehemently oppose blood purity and any kind of discriminatory ideals, an anarchist in his very bones, but he is also cowardly. to side with self-proclaimed rebels is not in his blood and yet it’s where he ends up, bringing shady ties to the underworld to the table and a sheer ability to sneak around and fuck the law. and maybe, amidst the ranks of the order, dung finds something he’s not very familiar with: a large family. and dung? well, he’s the stoner, gay, super-fucking-chaotic cousin.

personality

if jesper fahey and kaz brekker had a child, it would be dung. 

other character parallels: fezco ( euphoria ), boris ( the goldfinch ), doug judy ( b99 ), jason mendoza ( the good place ), chris miles ( skins ),  nick miller ( new girl ), creed bratton ( the office ), scott lang ( marvel ), lillian ( unbreakable kimmy schmidt )

technically he’s homeless. he’s got a bedroom at his ma’s place, has a ton of squatter connects in the muggle scene and couch surfes aplenty, but dung doesn’t rent a place. why? landlords are evil. he could afford a place, just doesn’t see the point. life’s better with some adventure.

appears very neutral in public as it’s beneficial to his role in the order??? 

.... tortured artist. writes poetry and loves to draw and paint. 

tattooed the fuck up. some are his own designs.

can usually be spotted wearing The Coat, a rly expensive, vintage long coat that he once stole of a pureblood. he’s enlarged the pockets with some handy spellwork and pretty much carries everything he owes in there, like his produce and his money and his second pair of shoes and his art supplies and probably some random trash. 

loves animals. he loves stray cats especially <3 they are his kin. 

an anarchist. a bit of a punk. a deep idealist with a cowardly heart so constantly betraying himself (and sometimes others?)

queer! enby! genderfluid! i used he/him pronouns throughout this intro but dung truly doesn’t give a damn what u use. loves to dress up in feminine clothes. 

has a ton of aliases, lol, the most important one being marigold fincher. 

cusses too fuckin much to be healthy :/

oh no he is a big sad insecure kid deep inside :/ dont tell anyone how embarrassing!!!! shhhh!! it’s a secret.

quick connection ideas

victim. wow please. if your character is rich. let me steal from u. pick ur pockets. break into ur house. get some of ur stuff and drop it on the black market. 

customer. dung sells. whatever u need. drugs. weird magical things. ask and ye shall receive. his prices are whack but he does deliver <3

pal. party friends! order friends! random encounter friends! dung has a trashmouth and loves to talk pls let him chat u up and u will never be rid of him <3

couch. he couch surfs. a lot. if ur character trusts dung enough to let him into their home (which they shouldnt) then pls let him sleep over for a night. he will leave a strangely expensive necklace on ur kitchen table as a thank u. or wilted flowers. no in between.

skeptic. ur char is in the order and thinks dung is a liability and maybe they have a point. a point mundungus would rather not face :)

dmle bitches. dung hates anyone authoritative but esp the coppers at the ministry (hit wix & aurors) (yea he calls them coppers sorry he doesnt respect them enough to call them aurors <3). give me that doug judy/jake peralta dynamic. or just someone in the dmle who is like ... sigh this guy again??? 

fwb/one night stand/fling/etc. he’s a bit slutty <333 give him some ppl he’s hooked up with / will hook up with.

#muddywaters.intro #intro. #this one <3 this one has so much dumb energy in one body <3

[hopetofantasy]

Culture, parallels & meta - S3 E1

Previous season Prologue: Vlogs (1) - Vlogs (2)

°

Zaterdag 21:43

The time lapse already showing us a string of places that will be important later, like the dark alley, the Meir with Noor’s workplace, the university neighborhood, the Scheldt river where the boys hang out, ...

Perfect parallel: 

The second season starts Zoë’s POV with a (washing machine) door, whilst the third opens with a door to a party that Robbe attends.

Robbe glances back at Noor passing through the shot this episode, an action he repeats when he spots Sander in the second episode. - A very subtle hint to where his love life may lead.

The first one starts with two unknown LGBT+ girls kissing at a party, the last episode shows two known LGBT+ boys (Sobbe) kissing at their own party.

The aerial shot through the floor to introduce us to Robbe’s POV here and the aerial shot through the roof to say goodbye to him in the last episode.

Moyo saying “No one would do you” to Aaron in this episode, Aaron realizing “No one here wants to do me!” in the last.

Where’s Wally? Noor greeting Marie, accompanied by Jana and Britt. Max dancing with Keisha in the crowd.

How ‘meta’ of you: Newsflash, yes you are!

Nod to the OG: 

The deliberate messy POV: following everyone that we know already and then slowly settling on the Isak version in a tub.

Robbe saying Noor looks like ‘Natalie Portman’, which is what people said to the OG Emma when they flirted with her. Everyone, except Isak, that is.

Oop, there it is, the homophobia / heteronormativity: Moyo keeps pressuring Robbe into explaining what type of girl he likes. The boys laugh it off when he answers that ‘he doesn’t have a type’.

Lost in translation: Moyo mocks Noor’s Dutch accent, making his ‘g’ and ‘st’ sound harsher, while also adding ‘hoor’ at the end - a typical word used by the Dutch to emphasize a point.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jens is playing with the weed bag. Keisha is one of the girls that Moyo mentions as Jens’ ex-girlfriend or ex-fling. Not only did Noor nót flush the toilet, but she didn’t used any toilet paper either!

°

Zaterdag 22:44

C is for culture: 

Noor rescuing Robbe on her scooter - In Belgium, you’re allowed to drive a moped or scooter once you’ve reached the age of 16. Nothing is needed if the vehicle doesn’t go above 25 km/h. If it stays between the range of 25-45 km/h and max. 50 cc, you need to pass a theoretical exam, 4 hours of driver’s ed and a practical exam to get the license. Anything other than that, has a whole new set of restrictions, types of driver’s licenses and minimum ages.  Noor and Robbe are, however, still breaking the law. As long as you’re not 18, you’re not allowed to have an extra passenger with you. Especially if they’re not wearing a helmet. (Plus they ignored a red light. Those rebels!)

“You do know that you always have to have it with you?” - The Belgian law states that everyone above age twelve, has to get an ID to identify themselves. Some might have had a Kids-ID already - for travel purposes - but that’s not mandatory. However, once you're fifteen years old, you’re obligated to carry your ID with you at all times.

Perfect parallel:

Luca being all jealous whilst staring at Noor and Robbe making out in S3, her glaring at Maud and Robbe every chance she got in the last season.

Robbe and Noor having fun on the scooter while screaming and Robbe filming their adventure in this episode. Robbe and Sander doing a similar thing, but on their bikes in a later episode.

Wink to other remakes: Robbe sporting a brown jacket. (Eliott, anyone?)

Surprise bitch, guess who: It’s Willem Chanterie, the on-set costume designer and social media production assistant!

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Noor has a ‘Fuck Trump’ sticker on her helmet. Robbe says “Hey, it’s red” in a very clear Antwerp accent. 

°

Zaterdag 23:11

Hello from the outside: The garbage truck they sprayed, still drove around the city regularly. The art piece itself is named ‘#Genoeg mama' (= ‘#Enough mommy’). It blames the consumer society as toxic, making young people its victim.

Oopsie: Inside the graffiti den, Noor suddenly sports a tote bag with supplies, even though we never saw her wearing that in the previous shots.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Noor has black combat boots. The photographer is obviously Sander, in case you have missed that subtle clue.

°

Zondag 13:41

Lost in translation/Oop, there it is, the homophobia / heteronormativity: 

“Check die pekie’s”. The word ‘pekie’ is actually Amsterdam slang for ‘beautiful girl, girlfriend’. In recent years, more and more Dutch slang are making their way into the Flemish dialect, because of the Dutch rap songs gaining popularity with the youngsters.

“Vamos, flikkers”. The word ‘flikkers’ can mean ‘wussie’ as well as a derogatory term for ‘homosexual’. Again establishing the fact that the boys use a lot of homophobic or toxic words for each other.

Robbe’s clumsiness meter: +1, him tossing the bag behind Jens instead of into his hands.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: There is a football right next to the skateboards.

°

Maandag 16:04

C is for culture: “The whole art school was talking about it” - 

Secondary school is divided in four sections: general, technical, art and vocational. Which section you choose can have effect on further education. In one of these sections, you pick what you want to study from your first to last year (‘directions’). That means that you have some courses purely focused on the direction and others that are obligated for everyone, regardless.

Art high schoolers can choose to go to work or study a specialization afterwards. Their coursework isn’t solely art based, there are general required courses too. That’s why some foreigners - including the Dutch - come to Belgium, since they’ll get a more rounded and higher level of art education than in their countries. ‘de!KUNSTHUMANIORA’ is the high school in Antwerp Noor goes to and is known for having students with unique styles.

Perfect parallel: 

Noor waiting outside the school for Robbe and him reacting somewhat confused here, Sander doing the same and having an instantly happy Robbe in a later episode.

Robbe having no problem kissing a girl ‘as a straight guy’ in front of the gates in this episode and scared for what might happen if he kissed a boy ‘as a gay guy’ later on. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The insta caption underneath the art work says ‘An inspirational message on a Sunday! Just discovered this in Antwerp city today. Artist unknown... Can you remember when you last called on your mother?’ (That last sentence, oooofff, the symbolism!)

°

Dinsdag 14:57

C is for culture: 

“Yes, mini enterprises are so chill.” - Mini enterprises are often used as a tool for Economics in the fifth/sixth year. The goal of these is to ‘learn whilst doing it’. Like the name specifies, mini enterprises are actual miniature companies set up by a group of students. During the school year, they’ll try to work together on commercializing a product. All aspects of entrepreneurship are at play here: writing a business plan, holding meetings, doing bookkeeping, marketing the product, produce and sell it, ... If the enterprise idea is good or well executed, it might even win a national prize by the company making this education formula.

“What if he contacts child protection services” - Actually, those services doesn’t really exist in Belgium. There are, however, other youth organizations for these types of things, like JAC - Youth Advice Centre, CLB - Centre for Student Guidance and the Centre for Mental Healthcare.

Perfect parallel: The boys hyping Aaron up to walk over to Amber and talk to her - yet he fails in this episode, them doing the same and he succeeds (after some fails) in the last episode. 

Oop, there it is, the homophobia / heteronormativity: Jens saying “Damn, seems like someone is on his fucking period”, after Robbe snaps at him due to the difficult telephone call with his dad.

Lost in translation: Jens saying “Mijn kop staat er niet naar” (= “My head’s not standing there”) can actually mean different things: I’m not in the mood, it’s not the right time, I don't want to do it, my head’s all over the place, ... It depends on the context, on which interpretation would suit the situation the best. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The girls are all fawning all over Britt’s cellphone, so there is a good chance that they’re discussing (pictures of) her boyfriend, Sander. Also, Jana’s braces are gone! 

°

Donderdag 17:13

Perfect parallel: Robbe stating that he can’t talk to his dad or he’ll fight and Zoë getting that, as she said a similar thing to an understanding Senne about her parents in S2. 

How ‘meta’ of you: Ah, yes, fandom ship names in SKAM. We applaud!

Oopsie: If you look really hard, you see that the body type and hair of Robbe’s dad, doesn’t correspond with the version waiting at the restaurant later on.

Wink to other remakes: This shot reminding you of a certain S3 trailer?  👀

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The numerous references to Zoënne’s relationship in their room (relationship pics, Senne’s guitar). The paper Milan gifts to Robbe is the written permission by his parent to live with them, as is obligated by law.

°

Vrijdag 20:04

Perfect parallel: 

Senne pulling Zoë up after a kiss here, just like with their first kiss in S2.

Robbe pushing Milan away after thinking he wanted to kiss him at the party in S2, them hugging it out in after talking about it in S3.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Zoë and Milan making some healthy party snacks like cauliflower and cocktail sauce, cheese with tomatoes and salami squares. She pulls back the bottle of gin that Milan wants to steal. Senne also bought paprika and tortilla chips from Colruyt (a discount store).

°

Vrijdag 20:54

C is for culture: “Noor, Robbe’s girlfriend” - (Teen) dating culture is different in Belgium. Usually, if you have kissed, hung out, texted or just said/did something to show your mutual interest, you’d pretty much consider yourself in a relationship. It can go from 0 to 100 very quick. Unless there is, of course, an agreement that what you’re doing is no such thing. Also, nobody really ask you to be their gf/bf. It just implied or stated to their family or friends. 

Perfect parallel: 

A reluctant Robbe pushing himself to do stuff to Noor (playful dancing, kissing, riling her up) as far as putting his hands on her bra here. A totally different, excited Robbe not even thinking twice about doing these things to Sander, even licking his nipple during their reunion.

Noor pushing Robbe on the bed and climbing over him, whilst Robbe looks all sad in this episode. Him pushing Sander on the bed and being happy as Sander crawls over him during their reunion.

Oop, there it is, the homophobia / heteronormativity: Robbe tries to convince himself into liking heterosexual sex with Noor and fake laughs with his friends about having it.

Where’s Wally? Keisha laughing with Amber and later dancing with Marie.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jens is talking to Senne. The decorations behind Milan saying ‘Welkom Robbe’ (= ‘Welcome Robbe’). Noor has a beautiful tattoo of a pin-up girl covered with butterflies on her lower arm.

#wtfock #wtfam #skam #skam belgium #cpm rewatch

[justforbooks]

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet, artist, activist and founder of San Francisco’s famous City Lights Bookstore, who has died aged 101 of interstitial lung disease, was the least “beat” of the Beat Generation. In addition to a political commitment that blended anarchism and ecology – he loathed the motor car, calling it “the infernal combustion engine” – he had an instinctive business sense, founded on the philosophy of small is beautiful. City Lights, which he started in partnership with the magazine editor Peter Martin in the early 1950s, is still among the most welcoming of shops, with its tables and chairs, sheaves of magazines, and signs saying: “Pick a book, sit down, and read.”

Ferlinghetti discouraged interviewers and seekers of personal information. “If I had some biographical questionnaire to answer, I would always make something up,” he once said. Different reference books give different dates of birth, and one published story had it that he wrote his doctoral dissertation on the place of the pissoir in French literature. For many years, he listed his dog, Homer, as City Lights’ publicity and public relations officer. The poet recalled that Homer Ferlinghetti received regular mail, but that his public relations career stalled when he peed against a policeman’s leg. For this act of citizenship, he was immortalised by his master in the poem Dog.

Perhaps the facts made Ferlinghetti uncomfortable. He was born Lawrence Monsanto Ferling in Yonkers, New York, to a French mother, Albertine Mendes-Monsanto, and an Italian father, Carlo Ferlinghetti, an auctioneer, who had shortened the family name to Ferling. His parents were unable to care for him, however (sometimes Ferlinghetti said his father had died before his birth, sometimes after), and he was rescued by an aunt, Emily Monsanto. She took him to France, where they lived for his first six years. Returning to the US, Emily was employed as a governess by a family called Lawrence, a branch of the one that founded Sarah Lawrence College. “Then she left me there,” Ferlinghetti told an interviewer in 1978. “She just disappeared one day, and that family brought me up.”

His education was extensive. In the early 1940s, he attended the University of North Carolina, where a professor introduced him to the vernacular voice in poetry. This was a revelation: you didn’t have to sound like TS Eliot to write a poem. After wartime naval service had taken him back to Europe, Ferlinghetti enrolled at the Sorbonne, studying French literature while translating poets and novelists in his spare time. One day in a restaurant, he noticed that the paper tablecloth had a poem written on it, and that it was signed “Jacques Prévert”. He took the tablecloth with him as he left the restaurant, and some years later translated the poems in Prévert’s Paroles, eventually published, under the original title, by his own City Lights Books.

Back in New York again in 1946, Ferlinghetti went to Columbia University, preparing a thesis on Ruskin and Turner. He just missed meeting Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, who by then had either been banned from (Ginsberg) or had dropped out of (Kerouac) the university. Ferlinghetti did not team up with the Beats until eight years later, in San Francisco.

Drawn to Paris once more at the end of the 1940s, he met George Whitman, proprietor of the English-language bookshop opposite Notre Dame, which was first known as Le Mistral and is now Shakespeare and Company. Ferlinghetti looked to Whitman as an example when he opened City Lights Bookstore in 1953. It was the first all-paperback bookshop in the US, and, as Ferlinghetti said, “Once we opened, we just couldn’t get the doors closed.” He ran the place more in the spirit of public service than for profit, and by the 70s was content to live on his book royalties and plough the takings at the counter back into the shop.

Two years after starting City Lights, Ferlinghetti published his own collection of poems, Pictures of the Gone World, as No 1 in the Pocket Poets series, little four by five-inch, black-and-white paperbacks, which continue to appear today – one of the most popular literary lists of modern times. It was at this stage that he reverted to the original family name, Ferlinghetti. The next two Pocket Poets after Ferlinghetti were Kenneth Rexroth and Kenneth Patchen – as a result, both were drafted as “fathers of the Beat Generation”, somewhat to their displeasure – but it was the fourth in the series that ensured the list’s success. And for that, as Ferlinghetti was quick to point out, they had to thank the San Francisco police department.

The book was Howl and Other Poems, by Allen Ginsberg. Ferlinghetti had heard Ginsberg read the title poem at an event at the Six Gallery, San Francisco, in October 1955. On returning home, he sent the poet a message that consciously echoed the famous letter from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Walt Whitman after Emerson had read Whitman’s Leaves of Grass: “I greet you at the beginning of a great career.” The proprietor of City Lights added: “When do I get the manuscript?”

The book was published the following year, in an edition of 1,000 copies. However, after a failed attempt by the police to prosecute the bookseller for peddling obscene material, the reprints could not come fast enough. Ferlinghetti joked that the police “took over the advertising account and did a much better job”. Howl remains the bedrock of City Lights’ success as a publishing concern. It has now gone through well over 50 reprints, often more than one a year.

Ferlinghetti’s own poetry is irreverent, cajoling, casual and loose-limbed, sometimes excessively so. His models were Whitman and William Carlos Williams. In partnership with Rexroth, he took part in many poetry and jazz events on the West Coast, and the two made a record together. Ferlinghetti later became disillusioned with the poetry and jazz combination – “The poet ended up sounding like he was hawking fish from a street corner,” he said.

His verse on the page, though, suggests a spoken origin, as in his poem Underwear:

Underwear controls everything in the end Take foundation garments for instance They are really fascist forms of underground government ….

In addition to his many collections of verse, including A Coney Island of the Mind (1958), The Secret Meaning of Things (1969) and Endless Life (1981), Ferlinghetti wrote two novels: Love in the Days of Rage (1988), which is set during the student revolt of 1968 in Paris, and Her (1960), a more experimental work, a classic “poet’s novel”.

On one of his transatlantic voyages, Ferlinghetti met Selden Kirby-Smith (known as Kirby), whom he had had a passing acquaintance with at Columbia. They married in 1951 and had two children, Julie and Lorenzo, but were divorced in 1976.

In 1971, Nancy Peters, a former librarian at the Library of Congress, joined the company, and as time went on played a larger part in running the business, leaving Ferlinghetti to his creative work. She served as executive director from 1984 until 2007, and then continued to be involved as a co-owner of the business.

Ferlinghetti also had a serious interest in painting, and in 1990 the University of California mounted a retrospective. Many poems feature the names of painters, or employ a self-consciously “painterly” style, such as Short Story in a Painting of Gustav Klimt or Returning to Paris with Pissarro.

Ferlinghetti disliked being associated with the Beats, though he benefited from it, and, despite his love of Ginsberg, was apt to lament the commercialisation of the Beat Generation. Ginsberg, he said, “fabricated the whole thing out of his imagination”. But, happily contradicting himself, he could add, as late as 1996, “It’s still the only rebellion around.”

A collection of the correspondence between Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg was published in 2015, under the title I Greet You at the Beginning of a Great Career. At the same time, a selection of his travel journals appeared, Writing Across Landscapes.

Ferlinghetti expressed disappointment in other Beat writers for their unstructured approach to politics. He decided to travel to Cuba to see the Castro regime for himself and later wrote One Thousand Words for Fidel Castro, which ends, “Fidel … I give you my sprig of laurel.” Another political poem evoked a surrealistic scene by Goya, showing “freeways 50 lanes wide”, with “fewer tumbrils / but more maimed citizens / in painted cars”. In 2012 he declined to accept an award from the Hungarian Pen club, in protest at the policies of prime minister Viktor Orbán.

City Lights, open till midnight seven days a week, was Ferlinghetti’s way of infusing the spirit of resistance peacefully into the streets of San Francisco.

With Peters, he wrote a Literary Guide to San Francisco (1980), and in 1988 was responsible for the renaming of 10 streets after writers associated with the city, including Jack Kerouac Alley, partly composed of City Lights’ back wall. In 1994, he himself was similarly honoured by Via Ferlinghetti, the first time a street has been named after a living writer in the history of the city.

He is survived by his children and three grandchildren.

• Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti, poet, artist and bookseller, born 24 March 1919; died 22 February 2021

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti

[daringyounggrayson]

Here’s part 1 for the fic I wrote for @batfam-big-bang!! Thank you so much to my amazing betas @huilian, @tintinnabulation-of-the-bells and @yellow-warbler and my incredibly talented artists @annasartverse, @noroomforcream, and @zeribip <3

Summary: The double homicide at Haly’s Circus is not Bruce’s first case involving a child, and while there’s no overt indication that Bruce should react differently to this case, he supposes that his previous cases did not involve the witness known as Dick Grayson. On the surface, the Grayson case seems like any other gang case, but the more time Bruce spends with the boy, the more he begins to doubt his own instincts.

Part 1

It starts the way most of these things do: with screaming. Or, Bruce supposes, it doesn’t really start there so much as that’s when people start to pay attention.

The crowd watches in awe as two trapeze performers swing downward, but something must be wrong, because the third performer remains on the platform and starts screaming. When the performers’ bodies reach the ground, when it’s clear that the lines have snapped, the rest of the crowd joins his shock—some screaming, some gasping, others unable to make any noise at all. The youngest performer doesn’t react to the crowd at all, too engulfed in his own nightmare. When Bruce sees him scrambling down the ladder, Bruce runs toward the center ring, planning to cut him off before he can get too close to the bodies.

The ringmaster, Haly, gets to the boy before Bruce can. He holds him tightly in his arms, and while the boy doesn’t fight the hold, he doesn’t stop screaming either. It’s a scream that Bruce will never be able to forget, one that tells the world that there’s nothing anyone can do or say to bring this child comfort.

Bruce calls 911, asking for an ambulance and the police. He’s sure he’s not the only one who calls, but he needs to do something. He needs to intervene.

Unable to take any further action, Bruce resigns himself to glancing between the fallen Flying Graysons and their son, who has fallen in a different way. To an outsider, Bruce looks like any other shocked bystander, but in reality, he’s in full detective mode, filing away every mundane detail. He pays special attention to the survivor, the child, and while he can’t hear much of what the boy is saying between gasping sobs, two things rise above the noise: “It wasn’t an accident!” and “Are my parents okay?”

oOo

A family of three walks into the big top, but none of them walk out. Two are carried out on stretchers, in body bags, and the third, a young boy, is carried out of the big top by a stranger and placed in the back of a squad car.

(Bruce has heard a similar version before: A family of three walks into an alley, but none of them walk out. Two are carried out on stretchers, in body bags, and the third, a young boy, is carried out of the alley by a stranger and placed in the back of a squad car.)

oOo

Bruce has only been Batman for a year, but he’s gained enough experience to be able to look at the Grayson case and suspect gang activity on instinct. Not know that there’s gang activity, he reminds himself, but strongly suspect.

A few hours after the suspected homicide, the crowd has dispersed and the police are gone. It’s at this point that Bruce returns to the fairgrounds as Batman, ready to talk to Haly. He only had an hour to do preliminary research in the cave before leaving again, but in that time, he learned that Haly’s Circus has never had a (reported) run-in with a gang—something almost unheard of in Gotham, especially for a business that has been coming to Gotham for as long as Haly’s has. Bruce reasons that there are two probable explanations: Haly has been incredibly lucky or, perhaps more likely, he has an agreement with a local gang. Either way, something went wrong this year.

The circus is eerily quiet. Everyone is in their trailers with the lights out, leaving the place seemingly deserted and devoid of life. As Bruce walks through the rows of trailers, he can almost sense the grief pouring out of each one. There is no doubt that the Grayson family was widely and greatly loved.

Bruce picks the surprisingly difficult lock on Haly’s trailer and slips inside. He’s barely taken two steps before the lights come to life, revealing Haly, who, despite his pajamas, is aiming a bat at Bruce as if he had been waiting for an intruder.

Bruce instinctively falls into a defensive stance, but before he can voice his assurances that he’s only here to help, to ask a few questions, Haly is relaxing.

Haly lowers the bat and leans against the wall. “Oh, it’s just you,” he breathes, relief evident in his voice.

This is a reaction Bruce has never gotten before as Batman, and this relief at his presence is especially odd considering half of Gotham is still debating if The Batman even exists.

“Who were you expecting?” Bruce asks.

“No one,” Haly says all too quickly. “But as I’m sure you’ve heard, there was an, uh,” he rubs his hand across his chin, “an accident here earlier today. Everyone’s a bit on edge.”

Bruce nods. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“I don’t know whether to be honored or offended on behalf of Gotham that the legendary Batman wants to investigate a freak circus accident,�� Haly says, but there’s a subtle shake to his voice that tells Bruce Haly knows this wasn’t an accident.

“Is that what the GCPD told you? That this was an accident?” Bruce presses. Haly’s still holding onto the bat, and even though Bruce knows he can take Haly out in a matter of seconds, he’d really rather not deal with a swinging bat in such a confined space. He’s already had an exhausting day.

Haly shrugs. “What else could it have been? Everyone saw what happened, even—” he takes a breath, and Bruce takes in the accompanying red nose and damp eyes. The man doesn’t cry, though, not in front of Bruce. And it’s not an act; no matter his potential involvement, what happened tonight wasn’t something Haly wanted to happen. “Even Dick, their boy.” There’s a pause as Haly collects himself. “Unless you think an eight-year-old broke the wires?”

“I don’t think anything,” Bruce lies easily, coolly. “But if you’re trying to say that you gave your star act faulty equipment, or that all three professional performers failed to check the lines, then that would be an interesting explanation.”

Haly points his finger at him, sharp and fast. “No one here was responsible for this, got that? I think it’s best to just lay low for a while and let the police handle this. We’ll be moved on soon enough and we can put this behind us.”

“And the child?” Bruce asks, stepping closer to Haly with each word. “There’s a strong chance that someone tried to take out all of the Graysons tonight. I know you’re not a local, but do you really think the police will be able to protect him?”

Haly pales and curls in on himself, but he doesn’t speak.

Bruce meets Haly’s eyes and stares him down, trying to emulate one of Alfred’s powerful stares. “If the police want to say this is an accident, there’s a good chance one of them is involved or willing to cover for the people responsible. If that’s the case, you need to tell me everything you know, or Richard Grayson might not be here next week.”

Haly swallows, cracking. “You wouldn’t let them—” he stops, swallowing once. “You’ll make sure he’s safe, won’t you?”

“It’s what I do. But you have to tell me what to look for,” Bruce insists.

Haly glances at the door, then back at Bruce. “When we were setting up—this was a few days ago—these three guys came in. They were going on about protection money.”

oOo

“Commissioner.”

Gordon spins around, hand on his chest, “Christ.”

Bruce resists the urge to smile and instead nods at the file Gordon’s holding. “Is that the Grayson case?”

Gordon runs a hand through his hair, nodding. “I take it you already know the basics?”

Bruce nods and takes the proffered file, flipping through it. It’s thin, only containing a few statements. One, arguably the most important one, is from the surviving Grayson, their key witness.

“My guys want to close and write it off as an accident,” Gordon explains. “The kid here, though, he has another theory.”

Bruce notes the names of the two lead detectives and grimaces—they’re not exactly known for working with gangs, but when a case reeks of gang activity, these two aren’t above accepting bribes. A quick read through Richard’s statement combined with Haly’s earlier testimony confirms his suspicions: this is a gang case, and hush money is definitely on the table.

He flips through a few other papers until he finds Haly’s statement. Unsurprisingly, he told the police that there was nothing suspicious before tonight.

“You should know that the kid’s statement was most likely edited,” Gordon says, and Bruce grunts in agreement; he’s already assumed the same. “He probably knows more—probably said more—than what’s in there.”

“Do you know if he gave names?” Bruce asks, closing the file and placing it back in Gordon’s waiting hand.

Gordon sighs and scratches his head, tucking the file back in his overcoat. “I just got in an hour ago, so I wasn’t able to speak to him. I’ll try to find the tape, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s already been tampered with.”

“Hnn.” Of course it has. With their luck, it’s long gone. “I met with Haly earlier. Four days ago, the Zucco brothers paid him a visit. They wanted protection money.”

“Zucco?” Gordon repeats. “Huh. I guess Haly didn’t take him seriously, didn’t even bother to report it. Did Haly tell you anything else?”

“Nothing useful,” Bruce tells him. “He seemed on edge, though, almost like he was expecting someone to come after him. He could’ve been expecting Zucco, but if your detectives convinced him not to say anything, he might have been worried about them too.”

“What do you think?”

Bruce isn’t overly committed to either theory. If anything, his instincts tell him that he’s missing something, that Haly wasn’t telling him the whole story. “I need more time to investigate, but in the meantime, someone should watch Haly.”

“Any chance Haly was involved?” Gordon asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“Unlikely,” Bruce says. He’d considered it, but after speaking with Haly, it seems like a dead end. “Since he’s keeping quiet, I’m not overly concerned about his safety, but there’s a chance he’ll contact Zucco.”

Gordon tightens his eyebrows. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. But he was nervous. If he thinks Zucco will target him again, I could see him agreeing to pay the protection fees.”

“Sure.” Gordon exhales a puff of smoke, thinking. “I didn’t think they’d stay open after tonight.”

“They won’t be putting on any more performances, but they’re staying in town for the funeral. And I doubt Zucco will have a problem collecting from financially insecure people.”

“No, no he will not.” Gordon sighs again, takes another drag off his cigarette.

“The boy will need protection. There’s a good chance Zucco was hoping to take out all three of the Graysons, and if they think Richard’s talking …” Bruce trails off.

Gordon nods and rubs his hand over his mouth. “I’m going to see what I can do about getting different detectives on the case, and I’ll be observing it closely either way. I don’t want to draw any attention to Grayson yet, though, so I’ll hold off on getting uniforms to watch him. Unless there’s something else you’re not telling me?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Do you know what they’re doing with him?”

“A social worker picked him up and took him to an emergency placement. They’re trying to get their hands on the parents’ wills, but I’m not sure if they even exist.”

“Is he safe?” Bruce asks, making a note to run a background check on the social worker and the foster family.

“As far as I know,” Gordon tells him, but it’s not a yes. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“I’ll wait until tomorrow. He’s been through enough tonight.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Gordon says, rubbing his hand over his mouth again.

Bruce doesn’t hear what Gordon says next, if anything. They’ve shared all the information they have and Bruce has had more than enough talking for one evening.

oOo

Bruce doesn’t go to work the following morning. Well, he supposes that much isn’t new; lately, he’s been “working from home” in the mornings, only coming in for afternoon meetings. But today, he didn’t even do that much. Instead, he slept fitfully until two in the afternoon, thinking about the case—the boy—during each waking moment. Cases involving children are always difficult, that much will never change.

“Ah, I see you’ve finally decided to grace the world with your presence,” Alfred greets him when Bruce enters the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Bruce murmurs. “Busy night.”

“Yes.” Alfred still doesn’t like Batman, though he’s more accepting of it as of late. “Did you sleep well?”

Alfred knows he didn’t, Bruce can tell by his tone. “Is there any coffee left?”

Alfred moves out of the way and gestures toward the coffee maker, untouched. “How is the child?”

“I haven’t spoken with him yet,” Bruce says, pouring the coffee into a mug. “I’ll do that tonight.”

“I see,” Alfred says, hands braced against the counter. “Is he nocturnal as well then?”

Bruce takes a gulp of coffee. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Alfred gives him a sad look. “This case. From what you said yesterday, it won’t be easy to close, will it?”

Bruce shakes his head. He has a suspect, but the odds are high that the police will choose to protect him instead of the child—at least without forceful intervention. That’s the way things are; it’s a truth that doesn’t get easier to acknowledge.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

Bruce nods, then takes his coffee and disappears into the cave. He intends to keep his promise and be careful, but he doesn’t know how much that means to Alfred. After all, Bruce has come to realize that the two of them have vastly different definitions of the word careful.

oOo

Bruce arrives at Richard Grayson’s foster home a little after one in the morning. The rest of the household appears to be asleep, or at least tucked away in their respective rooms with their lights off. Richard, however, is wide awake and doing handstands of all things. He makes a note to inform Alfred that the boy may be nocturnal after all.

Not wanting to scare the child, Bruce taps gently on the window. The boy lowers himself from the handstand in a fluid, graceful movement. He faces the window, and, when he sees Bruce in his Batman gear, his eyes go a little wide. The brief flash of surprise doesn’t last, and the smile that follows forces Bruce to question if the expression had been surprise at all. 

Richard walks to the window, unlocking it and sliding it open.

“I knew you were real,” Richard whispers, moving to the side to let Bruce through. “Liam said you were just an urban legend, but that’s what he said about Superman too. He’s always wrong—the look he’ll have on his face when I tell him!” The smile falls from his face abruptly and his shoulders slump.

Bruce opens his mouth, unsure what he plans to say but hoping something soothing will come out nonetheless. His jaw snaps shut when a shadow appears in the corner of his vision, forcing him to turn back to the window and find its source. It’s useless; he finds nothing but darkness. 

He’d felt eyes watching him when he’d surveyed the house earlier, but Bruce hadn’t been able to find anything—anyone—then either. 

He closes the window and turns back to Richard, who is swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Are you going to find the guy who killed my parents?”

“I’m trying to, Richard,” Bruce tells him, promises him. “I was hoping you could help me. Do you think you could do that?” Bruce has been Batman long enough to be able to pick out the kids who will be able to tell him something useful, and Richard is definitely one of them.

Richard nods, saying, “I know who did it.”

Bruce crouches down to Richard’s eye level. “Who?”

“Tony Zucco,” Richard says, scowling.

“Can you tell me how you know?”

Richard nods again, hands curling into fists. “He showed up the other day with a few other guys and they were talking to Haly, the circus owner. They said they could protect him and the circus if he gave them money, but I knew they didn’t actually care about keeping any of us safe, they were just threatening us.”

“Did you hear this yourself?” Bruce asks. This was the same story Haly told him, and while he believes the man, it never hurts to have multiple, independent sources.

“Uh-huh. I was on a break and saw them come in. Haly told me to leave when they asked to talk to him, but they looked creepy so I hid and spied on them,” Richard tells him. “And it’s a good thing I did, because when Haly said he wasn’t going to pay them, they started breaking stuff so I ran and got help.”

“That was very brave of you,” Bruce says. “And smart, too.” He hates to think about what might have happened if Richard had jumped in and tried to stop them on his own. “Do you remember who came to help?”

“Two of the roustabouts, Mr. Le and Mr. Hoffman,” Richard says.

Bruce makes a note to check up on them; if Zucco’s still unsatisfied, he might go after them for further revenge.

“I saw other stuff, too,” Richard says in a small voice. He’s biting his lip now, nervous.

“What did you see?”

“Last night, before the show,” Richard starts, talking faster than before and twisting his shirt, “I saw someone I didn’t recognize messing with the trapeze rig. I tried to tell someone, honest, but no one would listen! My parents kept saying it was just one of the other workers and that I was just nervous because it was opening night. But I wasn’t! I never get nervous,” Richard explains quickly. “We checked the ropes like we do before every show, and they seemed fine. I thought everything would be okay, but I guess whatever they did needed a certain amount of time to work, or a certain amount of weight.

“I really didn’t know,” Richard insists again, desperately, tears welling up in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have let them go if I thought they’d get hurt. I didn’t know.”  

Before he can think, Bruce is pulling the child into a tight hug. Richard cries into his shoulder for a long time while Bruce whispers “it’s alright” and “this wasn’t your fault” over and over and over again until the boy calms down.

“I’m going to do everything I can to bring Zucco to justice. You have my word.”

Richard sniffs, finally pulling away only to shake his head in disagreement. He wipes his eyes, saying, “The police wouldn’t listen to me. They called me a liar.”

This has happened before, but Bruce still doesn’t know how to explain to children that the police are corrupt and don’t always care about helping people, especially when they think there might be a financial incentive waiting for them. “Did you tell them what you just told me?”

“Pretty much. But they kept saying I was exaggerating and wanted to know why I performed if I knew the ropes were going to snap, but I didn’t know!”

“I know, I know.” Bruce runs his hand through Richard’s hair, shushing him before he can work himself up again. “They shouldn’t have said that to you; it wasn’t true. Sometimes the police can’t see things, and sometimes they don’t want to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Richard looks at him with these big, desperate eyes, and they force the truth right out of Bruce’s mouth. “Zucco is a gang leader, and some of the police officers cover for them.”

“Are they gang members too?” Richard asks.

Bruce shakes his head. “But some of them get paid by the gangs to cover things up.”

“Is that why you became Batman?” Richard asks. “Because all of these cops are corrupt?”

“Yes.” That’s part of it.

“But you can help me?” Richard asks.

“I’ve been able to help a lot of people who were in situations similar to yours,” Bruce tells him instead, because he’s been Batman long enough to know he can’t make promises. He’s spoken to Richard long enough to know that he doesn’t want to—can’t bear to—make a promise he might not be able to keep.

oOo

Bruce had ended their conversation by asking Richard about the Stuarts, his foster family, and whether or not he felt safe with them. Richard had assured him that he was okay, but he just shrugged when Bruce tried to press for details; the boy was clearly homesick, not that he was willing to admit that.

Before leaving through the window, Bruce had scribbled Gordon’s number on a slip of paper, telling Richard that Commissioner Gordon was one of the few members of the GCPD that could be trusted. He told Richard to call that number if he felt unsafe or if he wanted to talk to Batman again, and Richard promised he would. When prompted, he also promised to be careful.

Bruce hadn’t considered that he and Richard might have different definitions of careful until five nights later when he sees the boy running around Gotham in the middle of the night.

Bruce swoops down in front of the eight-year-old, trying to hide the rage and fear pulsing through him. Richard should be a few streets over, asleep in his bed, not roaming around the streets where someone could hurt him.

Richard doesn’t scream like any other child would, doesn’t even jump. Instead, he’s quiet and calm as he takes in The Batman. And then, of all things, he smiles.

Bruce doesn’t smile back. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Probably,” Richard agrees lightly, rocking back and forth on his heels. Something about him feels different from the last time they spoke, but Bruce can’t put his finger on it. “Uh, I promise not to tell if you don’t?”

Bruce refuses to give in to the smile that tugs at his lips. “I’ll make you a deal: let me take you home without arguing and we won’t tell the Stuarts.” Richard is a first-time offender after all.

Richard takes a step back, expression twitching into a scowl. His whole body tenses up and he curls his hands into fists. “The Stuarts’ house isn’t my home,” he says coldly. “And I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”

“No, you don’t,” Bruce agrees, blinking at the sharp change in tone and how this eight-year-old child looks like he’s willing to fight The Batman. “And I understand that that place doesn’t feel like home, but you’re safe there, and I’m sure the Stuarts will be worried when they find you missing.”

Richard scoffs. “They don’t care about me.”

“Did they hurt you?” Bruce asks, growls, on impulse. He’d done a background check; they seemed like good people. But maybe he’d missed something, maybe he’d—

“No. They’ve been nice, I guess,” Richard says, and it sounds honest. “It’s just, I don’t know—” Richard sighs, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go back, and I don’t need them, any of them. I can take care of myself.”

Bruce notices the drawstring bag on Richard’s back for the first time. An image of Richard at the funeral two days ago flashes through his mind. He was arguing with several people—Haly, the Stuarts, and someone else he didn’t know—and they kept telling him no. He’d been upset, near tears and desperate, but he’d clammed up when Bruce walked over to ask what was wrong. Bruce didn’t need to be a detective to piece together that Richard wanted to go back to the circus with Haly, not back to his foster home with the Stuarts.

Bruce looks at the current Richard in front of him, taking in the dark circles under his eyes. Those had been there two days ago too, but they’ve only grown darker. Homesickness and grief are probably making it difficult to sleep, and each time Bruce has seen the boy, he’s looked more exhausted than the last. Someone should be taking care of him, making sure he’s sleeping and helping him—sitting with him—if he can’t. Someone should be making sure he doesn’t run off in the middle of the night.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Richard tells him, pulling on the bag’s straps.

Bruce glares at Richard, and Richard glares back. Eventually, though, he wilts and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, handing it to Bruce.

“I was going home,” Richard says quietly, sounding more like the boy he met five nights ago. “The social worker and the foster people told me I couldn’t go back; they wouldn’t even let me call anyone from the circus. But they’re my family, and I need to get to them before they leave town in the morning.”

Bruce looks at the piece of paper: a printout of a map with directions to the fairgrounds. “I’m sorry that you’re being separated from them; it’s not fair. But we need to keep you safe, and sending you back wouldn’t be safe right now.” Not to mention that Haly would be charged with kidnapping.

“You said you would help me!” Richard screams, snatching his map back. “You promised! But instead of looking for Zucco, you’re keeping me from my family.”

Bruce kneels, grabbing Richard’s shoulders gently. “Richard, I promise I’m going to help you. This case is my top priority, and I am looking for Zucco, but your safety is more important.”

“No, it’s not,” Richard protests, fighting Bruce’s hold.

“Yes, it is,” Bruce insists.

“I just want to go home.”

Everything about this situation is heartbreaking, and Bruce wants nothing more than to give in, but he can’t, there’s too much—

A dog barks close by, causing Bruce and Richard to turn their heads. Bruce’s instincts tell him to look up, but he sees nothing. Still, something deep inside him screams that they’re being watched. 

He needs to get Richard out of here.

He looks back at Richard, squeezing his arms gently to provide some semblance of comfort. “You can’t stay at the circus. I’m sorry. But if I take you there to say goodbye, will you let me take you back to the Stuarts?”

Richard nods, sniffing once. He hands the map back to Bruce.

Bruce stands and puts his hand on Richard’s back, using his free hand to press a button on his belt to call the car. It arrives and the two climb into the car in silence.

The whole drive, Bruce can’t shake the feeling that they’re being followed.

oOo

Richard keeps his end of the deal, and after a tearful goodbye with several of the circus performers, the two leave. Haly seemed nervous when the two of them showed up, and he asked why they were there several times. Richard’s reaction confirmed that this was out of character for Haly; Bruce files that observation away for later investigation.

“Thank you,” Richard says softly when they stop in front of the Stuarts’ house. “I’m still mad at you for making me come back, but I’m glad I got to see everyone one last time.”

Bruce wants to tell him that it won’t be the last time, but he doesn’t know that for sure. He doesn’t want to make promises he can’t keep.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

“S’okay.” Richard rubs at his eyes. “Are you … are you going to tell Mr. and Mrs. Stuart I ran off?”

Bruce shakes his head.

“Good. I don’t think they’d be happy,” Richard says. “I should probably go in now, huh?”

“I’ll see to it that you are given updates on the case as things progress,” Bruce says.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Richard slides out of the car, waving at Bruce before he climbs up a tree and back into the house through the window. Bruce would wave back, but the kid wouldn’t be able to see him through the tinted windows. Instead, he drives off, pulling up the tracker he placed on Richard’s shoe to make sure he stays in the house.

He stops a few blocks over, parking the car in an alley. He walks back to the Stuarts’ house, and when he gets close, he feels those eyes on him again.

Something rustles in the distance and Bruce turns abruptly, unsurprisingly finding no one. Then he sees it: a shadow, ducking down in the distance. Bruce gets out his grapple gun and uses it to get to the nearest roof. The whisper of motion appears again, and again he runs toward it. He follows the barely-there clues that tell him the person he’s following is real, but said person stays just far enough away to remain unidentifiable.

Five minutes later, the trail is cold. He feels alone for the first time since finding Richard that night, and when he goes back to the house, the presence is still gone. In its place on the Stuarts’ roof, he finds a single, dark feather. 

oOo

Bruce’s mind isn’t quiet by default. He meditates regularly to help with the constant noise, but there are still days when his thoughts hold him captive inside his own head and he’s unable to focus on anything else. Today, like most days as of late, those thoughts are about Richard Grayson. What he’s been through, if he’s safe, and, most importantly, who the hell is stalking him.

His initial theory was Zucco—or rather, someone working for Zucco. That would make the most sense in the context of this case, but Bruce wasn’t able to find them. Not a trace. He’s seen Zucco’s work before; it’s not this clean.

Unable to stop the stalking, his next best option is damage control. That would mean ensuring that Richard is in a safe, secure environment—the opposite of his current situation. Richard’s been able to sneak out of the house on multiple occasions without his foster family noticing, and Bruce doesn’t trust the system to keep his location secure. If Zucco wanted to find him, all he would have to do is bribe the right social worker.

The thought pattern goes like this: Richard is in foster care, and while most foster families won’t be able to offer the protection that he needs, Bruce is in a position to offer that protection. The only way to do that, however, is to be involved in foster care. 

This led to the following conclusion: Bruce needs to become a foster parent. (At least temporarily.)

It’s a good idea to have a foster license in this line of work, all things considered. Even if he doesn’t end up needing it on this case—because maybe something will be easy for once and he’ll catch Zucco quickly and Richard will be adopted by a nice family far away from Gotham—he might need it in the future. Having one is just a smart move, something he should have taken care of when he started this crusade.  

However, there is one potential flaw in his plan: he doesn’t run it by Alfred first. He’s not exactly sure why he chooses to keep his plan to himself. Is he afraid that he might be talked out of it? That Alfred will disapprove? The former is a rarity, and so is the latter in the sense that Alfred’s disapproval has not kept him from making major life decisions in the past (e.g., Batman).

(Of course, he hadn’t told Alfred about Batman in the early stages either. He’d simply informed the man after the fact, when he was already too committed to be dissuaded by one of Alfred’s arguments or disapproving looks. And despite how angry and argumentative and disapproving Alfred had been, it had been too late. Alfred was forced into a position where his permission and approval were not required, one where he could offer nothing but forgiveness. Perhaps by keeping this a secret, Bruce is hoping to obtain a similar result.)

Bruce considers hacking into the Child Protection and Permanency system to grant himself a license, but then he remembers that he has a well-known name and that if Bruce Wayne suddenly has a foster license, one too many people would ask questions. So, he does the legal thing and signs up for online classes.

(He doesn’t think about how it could take months to finish this process or how so much damage could be done—done to Richard—in that time.)

oOo

Bruce checks his phone, internally groaning when the time tells him he’ll have to stay at this party for at least another hour.

He moves through the crowd with practiced ease, smiling to familiar faces as he passes. He walks fast, his speed telling the people around him that he has somewhere to be. And while that’s not actually true, it does decrease the odds of someone pulling him into another painfully dull conversation. His respite won’t last forever, Bruce knows, but this will increase its length a bit.

“Bruce! Oh, I’m so glad you could make it.”

But never by enough.

Bruce turns, forcing a warm smile. “Mrs. Powers, it’s good to see you again.”

She smiles back. “Oh, we’ve known each long enough—Maria, please.”

“Maria,” Bruce corrects himself.

She gives a small nod, then turns to her friend, placing her hand over his chest briefly. “This is Martin, he works in Child Protection and Permanency. I know that area is important to you, so I’ve been hoping to introduce you two all night.”

Bruce reaches out his hand to shake Martin’s. He’s wearing a silver ring with an owl carved into it—Bruce wonders if it’s a family crest, although he doesn’t immediately recognize it. “Hi, Martin, it’s nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Martin says with a laugh. “And I should thank you for all the financial support you’ve offered this past year. It’s made a real difference.”

“Glad to hear that,” Bruce says.

“Oh, there’s Joseph,” Maria says. She finishes the last of her champagne in one sip and waves at Bruce and Martin. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She’s gone before Bruce can even say goodbye, but that’s something he’s grown used to at these parties.

“So,” Martin says, “Word around the office is that you’re interested in becoming a foster parent.”

Bruce knew it would only be a matter of time before his right to privacy was forgotten and ignored. Still, two weeks is impressive. He hasn’t told Alfred yet, although he knows he’ll need to do so soon. Preferably before his case worker shows up for a home study.

“Yes, I’m still in the early stages, though,” Bruce explains. “Much too early for a public announcement.”

“Of course, of course.” Martin laughs again. “I know it can normally be a long, frustrating process, but I’ll put in a good word for you and see what I can do to speed things up.”

Bruce pauses, trying to find the motive behind Martin’s offer. Martin is far from needing financial assistance from what Bruce has heard, and Bruce is already supporting programs that are run through the department. “That’s very kind of you, but I’d really rather do this without special treatment.” Bruce flashes another smile.

Martin waves him off. “Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all, especially for a friend of Maria.” Bruce wouldn’t call Maria a friend, and he knows she feels the same way about him. Until tonight, he hadn’t even known that she’d been aware of Bruce’s donations to Child Protection and Permanency. “It’s really admirable of you to help these kids. Tell me, are you planning to eventually adopt?”

“Just fostering,” Bruce says, using all of his energy to keep his tone light and free of his internal defensiveness.

Martin forces a smile, and the smile isn’t the only thing; something’s off and forced about this entire conversation, his whole demeanor, even. As much as Bruce’s instincts scream at him to interrogate Martin and figure out why that is, he knows this isn’t the time or place.

“That’s fantastic, really. Although, you never know.” He claps Bruce on the shoulder. “You’d be surprised by how many people start out fostering a child and then decide to adopt them. Of course, it all depends on the child’s family situation.”

“I suppose,” Bruce agrees plainly. The odds of that happening in his case are slim to none, but it probably wouldn’t be in his best interest to announce that he’s not cut out to be anything close to a father. If it becomes necessary, though, he’s hoping he can make a sufficient temporary guardian.

“Oh no,” a sarcastic cry interrupts them, and Bruce turns to see Oliver Grant. They went to school together, and now he works for his mother’s company as a CEO. Bruce isn’t exactly impressed with what he’s done for the company, not that he’s done much of anything other than take credit. “We’re not talking business over here, are we boys? You’re going to bring the whole party down!” 

Martin laughs in a way that Bruce guesses is supposed to be casual, but it comes off as somewhat strained. “Just talking. How have you been Oliver?” 

Bruce isn’t proud of this, but Oliver proves to be the last straw on his already stretched out patience—he pretends to take a phone call.

oOo

Bruce leaves the party earlier than he’d planned, but he’ll deal with the repercussions of leaving too soon later. For now, he has a city to patrol.

Since the homicide, checking on Richard has been a regular part of his patrol. He moved from his emergency placement with the Stuart family to his permanent foster placement with the Miller family nearly three weeks ago now, and things seem to be going well. The only incident since moving had been about two weeks ago when a member of Zucco’s gang was spotted near Richard’s foster home. Luckily, Bruce had been in the area at the time and stopped them before anything could happen. He hasn’t seen anyone there since, and even the feeling that he’s being watched while visiting the home has ebbed recently.

But then, of course, there is the ongoing problem Richard has taken to waiting up for Batman.

He’s not the first child Bruce has spotted doing this—several times, Bruce has seen groups of children on rooftops or crowded around windows who will excitedly point and scream when they catch a glimpse of The Batman. He’s learned that it’s becoming a common sleepover activity. It’s not something he wants to necessarily encourage, but at least those children only want to see him from a distance and are more than satisfied with shadows.

Richard, however, is not.

Tonight, he’s not on his own rooftop and instead waiting for Bruce on the roof of a nearby gas station, eating a package of potato chips while seated in a full lotus position. When he spots Bruce, he stands and starts waving.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Bruce tells him, resisting the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Richard shrugs and holds his bag of chips toward Bruce. “Want a potato chip?”

“Why aren’t you at the Millers’?” Bruce asks, knowing now to avoid the word “home.”

“I was hungry,” Richard says, pulling his outstretched hand back and taking another chip for himself. “And I didn’t want to wake anyone up or miss you. Good thing, too; you’re early.”

Questions relating to why Richard is hungry and if the Millers have been feeding him bubble up on his tongue, but he forces them down. “Hnn.”

“Have you found Zucco yet?”

This has been the question Bruce has come to dread each night. He’s been working on the case for almost a month now, but things have been slow. He’s been able to find enough evidence to arrest one of Zucco’s colleagues, but the colleague in question has refused to name Zucco specifically. Additionally, Zucco is in hiding and someone has been sending him information, making it difficult to track him down. Zucco taking up a low-profile also means that other gangs are trying to take his territory, which means that Bruce has had a lot of long nights.

“Not yet.” This is the phrase Bruce dreads saying every night.

Richard’s face falls, but he quickly replaces it with a mask of indifference. “Maybe I could help.”

“You are.” Bruce crouches down to look Richard in the eyes, places his hands firmly on his shoulders. “By offering your testimony and keeping yourself safe so that you can give it during the hearing.”

“There won’t be a hearing if you don’t find him.” Richard doesn’t sound accusatory, but the certainty and not-quite-anger in his voice are painful enough that he might as well have been. Despite the statement, though, the boy isn’t hopeless, he just has a more practical approach to hope compared to most of his peers. Richard is realistic and ready to prepare for the worst-case scenario, but he’s also doing everything he can to increase the odds of reaching the best-case scenario.

“I will find him.” And what happened to not making promises unless Bruce is sure he can keep them?

“Let me come?” Despite his inflection, Bruce knows Richard isn’t asking a question.

“It’s not safe.” This will be the fourth time they’ve had this discussion, and each time, Richard has been more insistent than the last.

“I know,” Richard says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “That’s why I’m asking to go with you. ‘Cause it would be so dangerous out on my own.”

oOo

Bruce is twenty-four years old, he’s the goddamn Batman, he should be able to say no to an eight-year-old. And yet, that night, he can’t. For one hour, Richard rides in the car next to him and acts as a pseudo-partner. Bruce tells himself it will be a one-time event, that this whole situation will be temporary.

Part 2: AO3 | tumblr

#batfam big bang 2020 #dick grayson #bruce wayne #nightwing #batman #batfamily #batfam #court of owls #elizabeth writes

[romeulusroy]

Sheyn Punim (Alfie Solomons Oneshot)

((PEAKY BLINDERS SEASON 4/5 SPOILERS))

Character/s: Alfie, Ollie mention

Word Count: 1,405

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @writerdream22 @death-of-a-mermaid @lotsoffandomrecs @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @theshelbyclan @captivatedbycillianmurphy @creativemayhems @soleil-dor @thegirlwithoutaname87 @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby @riana-jannat

A/N: Just some fluff 💕 Well, as close as I can get :P I'm not the best at writing sappy things, and I'm a sucker for a dark metaphor, but I've had this idea for a while :) Still a lil nervous. Fluff is hard, but I'm givin it a try anyways!!! I've only ever spoken these words in Yiddish, never written them, and I know how Google can be with translations, so I might've made a few mistakes!!! Anyways, I hope you like it loves! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Gif Credit: @bennskywalker :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

Hand sculpted, you were sure. Come together by the minds of a thousand artists, careful not to smear or smudge, cautious to muddy, to rid the world of all his perfect imperfections. The harsh lines drawn across his forehead, the deeply carved creases of his eyes, a tight lipped smile shaded. To the untrained eye this would have been off-putting, jarring, even severe. These features would have been unlikable, an afterthought in comparison to others, but that's what they wanted, what they needed. To be undermined, overlooked. It wasn't cutting in the way that captured the attention of younger eyes. A jaw as sharp as blade, eyes piercing, the pointed tip of a pencil resting in confident hands. It wasn't soft in a sweet, endearing kind of way. Naive and freckled, lulled by oil paints, by grand brush strokes and a starry-eyed sense of wonder. He was another medium, another material, the kind that went unloved and underappreciated if you didnt look close enough, if you didn't appreciate the right features. You might have missed it yourself if you hang taken a closer look. Too many passed by without a second thought.

That's all he ever needed, though.

Sheyn punim. His beautiful face cupped in your hands, in need of a soft touch. His skin worn, aged with experience, the way paper yellows and crumbles if it's not preserved. Tracing his cheek, tapping his nose, kissing his forehead. Waking him when the sun rays fail to, when the bags under his eyes wain, growing hollow. Urging him to bed, to rest, but always insistent on spending time with you. You only had so much. Face to face. Somehow you always ended up here. An arm lazily dropped across your waist, the blankets and sheets twisted around your bodies after a restless night. This was your favorite version of him. The clay of him malleable, clumsy even, not yet hardened by the day ahead. The side of his face squashed by his pillow, a small snore mumbling through him. It would have been laughable, really. A man who emptied the streets before him, who could have made men bow to their feet and kiss his shoe as if he were God himself, sleeping like a baby, so full of coos.

Matók. Sweet. Your sweetness. You weren't sure how it happened, how he became yours, and you his. When you started belonging to one another only that you were hand in hand, never straying too far from one another. Mindlessly playing with his rings, trying them on for yourself. He'd get you a ring of your own one day. Big and clunky, like his own, like the one you'd taken, refusing to take off. Not the prettiest, but, then again, neither was he. An eye for the odd, the obscure, finding beauty where others turned away. Falling for the scraggly alley cats, plucking weeds in place of flowers, joyous when the fog fell across the soil and not a soul could be seen. Mukhl. Forgiving. Forgiving with your love, giving it up absentmindedly. Forgiving with him, his actions, all the terrible things he was capable of. He wasn't a piece of art, but a weapon of mass destruction. He wouldn't have to lift a finger to take a life, and yet, in your arms, he was anything but.

Sheyn balibt. Beautiful beloved. To be reminded of love, as foreign to him as a godless man. To be feared was to be expected, anticipated even. But loved? That he wasn't ready for. And yet, he couldn't picture his life without it, without you. Washing the blood from his hands, the worry from his bones, all of it slipping off the same way his coat did, hanging it where it could never touch you. An abundance of kisses in the doorway, excitement dripping from your words, grabbing him as if he may slip and fall. Talk of your day, he wanted to hear of every second. You made the most mundane infectious. Able to relax, to sink into the cushions with you, his day sugar coated, lightened where it needed to be. He never wanted you to worry. Meyn lebn. My life. Yours. His. It wasn't his actions that affected him anymore. Every decision he made, it had to be an act of protection, all of his proclamation of love to you.

Even if it meant hurting himself.

Narish. Foolish, the both of you. Thinking you could live in a bubble. Shut the world out until it was just the two of you. It didn't work like that, not in his business, not in this kind of world. You felt it before you knew, before Ollie came to you, hat in hand. An instinct, a pain without cause. It had to be him. It always was. Not a lie, but a half truth. Softening reality for the sake of a smile. You'd always known though. Hidden in his office where none could see, none could touch, the door thin, the walls begging for word to get out, to be free. Hearing too much, more than you ever asked for. Your Alfie, believing himself a statue, a keeper of secrets, stone faced, forgetting how effortlessly you could read him. Narish mentsch. Foolish man. You wished he wasn't so foolish, so stubborn, that he could be as vulnerable as he was in those sunrise moments.

Refusing to see you. Lebedik. Alive. You couldn't believe it. Your love alive, but refusing to see you, as if he were already dead. . . Hidden away for reasons you'd never understand, ones a letter would never do justice. Back and forth, your angr, your fear, bleeding into the page. Ollie could say nothing, ordered to keep his whereabouts to himself. Tried to follow, a few times out of desperation, but he was good at his job. You lost him instantly. Every time after that, he always promised, at the bottom of the page, it wouldn't be forever. Egoistish. Selfish. Selfish, vain, childish reasons. A bullet in that sheyn punim, in his beautiful face, that was no longer beautiful. You weren't sure how long it would last. Neither was he. The healing process took longer than either of you wanted. Once inseparable, now you were world's apart. You didn't blame him. Alfie had his reasons for everything, you understood. You just missed him. You missed holding him, being held, looking into his eyes and knowing everything would be okay no matter how uncertain life felt.

Bahaltn. Hidden. He needed to see you, to hear your voice, his cool exterior finally cracking, crumbling. Weeks, months, a lifetime, it felt without you. But he couldn't be seen. He couldn't bear the thought of you turning away from him, disgusted by the man before you. So, he stayed in the dark. The curtains drawn, lights off, safe in shadows. Ollie refused to tell you where you were going or why, only that you needed to come with him. You heard him before you saw him, as you often had in the past, swearing up a storm at nothing in particular. Nostalgic for him, his voice, hating that you were becoming so used to sleeping alone, that you were forgetting all the littlest ways in which he brightened your day. Pushing through the door, into the dark, waiting for you.

Brushing your hand through his hair, fussing the same way that always annoyed him, a last resort to get him out of bed. Still asleep, but stirring, taking your hand in his, pressing it to his chest. Thankful for that heartbeat every day. Getting closer to him, your noses almost touching, catching him open his eyes, sneaking a quick glance at you, pretending all along. You never wanted him to be in the dark like that again, to hide out of shame. Balibt. Favorite. Your favorite person, your favorite smile, your favorite face. The hardened scar tissue growing, settled, streaked across his cheek and forehead. The result of living through what no one was expected to. You didn't see what he did, what he examined in the mirror when he was self conscious, what he tried to avoid looking at in reflective surfaces. There was nothing wrong with it, though. You loved him just the same. No matter what he looked like, he would always be beautiful to you. He would always be yours, and you his. Ale mol.

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