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tvitr · 11 months

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A Little Treat

Part One

Words: 3,012

Pairings: Grusha/Katy

Synopsis: On the morning of her divorce, Katy finds herself daydreaming about her handsome colleague. On a spur of the moment, she invites him back to her place later that evening.

AO3 Version

Well.

That was that then.

It certainly had been nice whilst it lasted, Hell, had you asked her ten years ago how she thought this would pan out, she'd have said they'd be together forever. Till death do us part and all that.

But of course, nothing ever ran smoothly, and here she was now, three years after it all started going wrong.

Divorced.

She’d secured the day off from her gym work, Geeta had honestly been surprisingly understanding of the whole situation, but the bakery still needed to be tended to. Not that it bothered her much; baking always helped her relieve stress, it’s why she’d pursued it as a career after all, and usually she’d cherish a day where she wouldn’t be dragged to the gym every half hour...

Katy just wished today’s circumstances were... different.

Today was at least busy enough to semi-distract her. Honestly, it was busy to the point that she’d have taken time off from the gym regardless. They’d acquired a backlog of orders somehow (“somehow”, she tried to convince herself this wasn’t down to her absent mental state recently), and though it wasn't enough to affect their reputation, it was certainly enough to ensure she'd be cutting her breaks short.

She'd decided to man the tills today, just in case any of their customers today decided to get ratty over their order being delayed, or the service being slow. It was not her favourite job, honestly it was probably nobody's favourite job, but she'd rather take the heat for any shortcomings than make any of her employees handle it. After all, they were perfectly capable of manning the kitchen without her, and most of them were talented bakers in their own right anyway. She was merely the face of the business.

Katy was good at diffusing customer rage anyway, she didn't know how but they always seemed to calm down the moment she stepped onto the scene. Perhaps it was her minor celebrity status, she didn't know. But it was useful, at least.

Thankfully she hadn't had to exercise her special talent today. Despite their backlog and the ever-growing queue at the till, everyone she’d dealt with thus far had been perfectly civil. None of the staff had said anything for fear of jinxing the calm, but the relief in the air was tangible.

“Who’s next?”

To her surprise, a familiar face stepped forward. "Hi, I'm here to pick up-" His voice trailed off, something apparently interrupting his thoughts.

She smiled. "Good afternoon, Grusha."

She could almost see him reeling in his wayward thoughts. "Is it bad I completely forgot you worked here?"

"One of those days, huh?"

"Not even, took today off because I had some stuff to do and-" He ruffled his hair loose from its ponytail. “Guess it’s just been a long week. Lots to do, you know?”

“Yeah it’s been… it’s been long for me too.” She snapped herself back to reality before she got too lost. Despite being colleagues, Grusha was still a customer at the end of the day. She couldn't quite justify burdening him with her life issues. At least, not here anyway. “Anyhoo, your order’s under Ibáñez right?”

“Wouldn’t be under anything else.”

Perhaps it was down to him having been the first real celebrity she’d ever baked an order for, or perhaps it was just down to his uncommon name, but she’d always been able to remember every order she’d made under the name Ibáñez. She could still remember that first order, from his parents it seemed, to celebrate him being selected for the Paldean team for that year’s Winter Bellic Games. From then on, she’d apparently been his family’s go-to bakery, to the point she knew the names and birthdays of his parents and two siblings, his parent’s wedding anniversary, that his older brother was now pursuing an acting career in Galar, that his sister had recently graduated college…

It was a nice feeling, having a well-known regular, and it had certainly helped with publicity back in those early days of the business. Perhaps she should surprise him with a thank-you cake sometime. She’d baked enough orders for him now to know what he liked after all.

“So who’s this for?” She dropped the cake box onto the counter, readying the PIN machine. After all, it wasn't anybody's birthday soon, and his sister had picked up the anniversary cake last month-

“Oh, it’s just something for my old coach. It's his fifthtieth soon, thought I might surprise him."

“I see!” Come to think of it, he’d never ordered something for his coach before. Honestly she was surprised he’d remained in touch, though admittedly she’d never been the sporting type. Perhaps it was common to remain in touch after one's retirement, though something told her it was probably best not to pry. “Just tap your card there-”

As he rooted in his pockets for his card, Katy felt herself daydreaming again. It seemed odd to think about, but she'd never paid attention to how… fit Grusha was. She'd seen him out of his winter sports garb many a time at League meetings or nights out, and of course on any official League trips, but she'd never properly… studied his physique. He was beautifully built, with a broad, muscular chest that slimmed into a trim waist, and by God his arms were massive. And his face! Oh he had such a pretty face; big, long-lashed eyes, high cheekbones, and plush lips, gosh, what a wonderful little specimen of a man he was. Pretty and extremely fit, such a rare combination indeed!

What would it be like… to kiss those plush little lips? How would it feel if he held her tight with those big, powerful arms? What if they… what if they…

I can now.

I'm single.

The very thought sent a shiver through her. Her, and him! She knew women who'd kill to even be around him as much as she was, let alone able to spend a night with him-

… Did she really want to do that? He was younger than her after all, she didn't know by what margin, but would he be… up for it with an old divorcee like her? Should she risk him turning her down?

You won't know if you don't try.

That was true.

You deserve it.

That was also true. These past few years had been awfully hard for her after all.

Perhaps she was due… a little treat tonight?

"Your card machine's broke."

Katy jolted back to reality, shooing her daydream away (for time being). "Sorry it's been funny with me all day, uh-" Customer handling mode engaged. "Do you have cash?"

He looked around, raising his arm to point towards the nearby PokéCentre. "Not on me, no, but I saw a cash machine on my way-"

An idea suddenly hit her. "Oh, our till’s not working either, I know it's been an absolute nightmare all morning, are you free later by any chance?"

Grusha side-eyed the clerk next to her, apparently working the till with no problem. "I mean, I was going to hit the gym when I got back home, but after that-"

"Oh perfect, so you'll be free then?"

He shrugged. "I guess so?"

"Good, call back later. You know my address I’m sure." She sent him off with a playful wink.

***

What have I done.

Katy hadn't known what had come over her earlier, honestly. Inviting a colleague over! Thank goodness she hadn't said anything suggestive to him, she might’ve winked (oh God, did she really wink at him?), but she could at least hope he didn't see that.

Maybe he wouldn't even show up. Maybe he'd text her and say it's too much hassle and he'd just send her the money instead. She should've asked him to do that, really. In fact, she should probably just message him now, save him the trouble of coming all the way down to Cortondo just to hand over whatever he owed her. How much did he even owe her anyway? She hadn't taken note. It was too late to go find the receipt now.

Or maybe he would show up, and she could just take the money and send him home. It was an awful long way for him sure, but she was fairly certain he had a solo fliers licence, and she knew he had that Altaria, hopefully it wouldn't be too much bother for him, or hopefully he wouldn't even bother coming-

There was a buzz from the hallway.

Now or never.

She held her breath as she walked to the door. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was her neighbour, wanting to borrow some sugar. Maybe it was a delivery guy, knocking on the wrong door. Maybe it was the boy next door, asking if he could retrieve his football from her garden again. Maybe it was-

She opened the door.

Grusha stood on the porch, still sweating and flushed from his evening workout. Or maybe he'd just showered, she didn't know. Either way, his shirt clung to his frame, showing off his chiselled muscles, and his long hair was damp and held back in a messier than usual ponytail. A sports bag was slung over his shoulder.

"Came here straight after the gym. The human gym I mean, not the-" He took a deep breath and laughed breathlessly, hand running through his hair, tousling it further. "You know what I mean."

Katy didn't know how, but somehow he was even more attractive than he was earlier. It was probably the shirt, the way it hugged his frame, showing off his toned body underneath. Or maybe it was the fact he'd been working out, how he glistened with sweat in the evening sun. She wondered how he would smell right now, or even how his skin would taste, so warm and salty, like a summer's sea breeze-

She shooed her thoughts away, for now. "Do you want to come in for a bit? You're looking very flushed."

He seemed to think for a moment, before nodding. "Yeah, that would be… that would be nice."

He stepped in, dropping his bag by the door with a loud thud. Following the bag to the floor, her eyes passed over his lower half; his ass and thighs were currently shrouded by his shorts, but if his calves were anything to go by…

“Sorry, my shoulders are aching-” He flexed his glorious arms and back with a satisfying series of clicks before hoisting his bag up again.

Katy mentally shook herself to avoid staring for too long. Lord knew she'd die if he caught her ogling. “The kitchen’s just over there, make yourself at home.”

As she watched him enter the kitchen, and heard his bag thud down a second time, she took the time alone to gather her thoughts once again. Was she doing this or not? How did she even go about asking him? Should she test the water first? What if he was already taken? Goodness, she hadn't even thought of that-

"Katy? Where are you?"

"Just having an issue with the door, I'll be with you in a second." She slammed it a few times, fiddling with the lock and handle for extra effect.

“Need any help?”

“Nope, it’s fine.” With one last (hopefully convincing) slam, she hurried over to the threshold of the kitchen door where he'd disappeared to.

Here we go.

Katy took a deep breath, thankful that Grusha at least had his back to her right now. That at least gave her time to plan her next move. Perhaps she should’ve put something nicer on? Or even showered?

It doesn’t matter now, just go for it.

She sauntered into the kitchen. He didn't seem to notice it, instead rooting around in his pockets. "So how much do I owe you?"

"Oh, nothing actually." She tugged at the buttons on her dress, trying to loosen them to flaunt some cleavage before realising they were purely decorative. "Though you could say I could use a little…"

Goodness, what was the word?

"Fun, tonight." Yeah, that was it! Fun. A bit of fun. Just a bit of fun. A nice bit of-

“What?” To her mild horror, Grusha was staring at her with his mouth slightly agape and a look of abject confusion on his face. “Katy, what are you talking about…?”

Oh no.

“I mean you can…” Her nervous hands fumbled with her braid, trying to release it with no success. “Pay me in other ways, perhaps?”

The staring continued. "No offence, but have you been drinking? You're being… weird."

“Baby, I’m stone cold sober.” She tried to hoist her leg up onto the countertop, before realising that it was both far too high, and that her skirt couldn’t stretch enough for it.

It was safe to say Grusha was looking veritably dumbfounded by this point. "Listen, how about I just give you the money and leave, I promise I won't tell Geeta about this. Swear on my Cetoddle’s life."

"Don't you get it?” She marched over, trying to corner him in his chair before again realising her skirt wouldn’t allow the stretch. “I want to make love to you, I’ve been thinking about it all day, I don’t know how else to say it so I might as well just be upfront about, I… I…"

An aggressively awkward silence fell between them as the bemused stare off continued. No, no, no-

A loud sigh. “... Alright, where’s Iono?”

Katy blinked. “Wha-”

“She’s set you up to this, right? This is all part of a prank for her channel?”

“I don’t under-”

“Okay so…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting out another, more annoyed, sigh. “This is a bit embarrassing, but one time when we were watching you battle and you said something like, ‘oh, let me knead you into submission’, and I said to myself ‘man I wish she’d knead me into submission’, and I thought I was being quiet but it turns out Iono heard me because of course she did, and ever since then she’s basically… blackmailed me by saying she’ll tell you I said that if I don’t give an interview on her channel.”

He took a deep breath, ruffling his hair till the tie keeping his ponytail in place was only clinging onto a few stray locks and static. “So where is she? She's gotta be hiding somewhere right? Ready to jump out and embarrass me, yeah?”

Katy stumbled back, hand behind her reaching for a countertop which never came. He thought this was a joke. He thought she was leading him on for a joke. She should probably play along, save her all that embarrassment, act like Iono was hiding in her pantry or something, after all if word of this got out, then her gym job and even her patisserie could be in jeopardy, and-

"Hey, you alri- Hey!” She heard him bound over, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders and holding her steady, those big eyes of his looking deep into her with an unusual amount of concern for his usually miserable face. "Man, are you okay? You've been acting real weird since I got here."

“Yeah, I-I’m fine.” The room felt like it was spinning, and she teetered even in his firm grip. “I’ve just…. I’m just…”

“Hey, easy, easy…” He guided her to the chair he’d been sitting on, kneeling down next to her and taking her hand. “Just breathe, okay? I don’t know what to do if you faint or something.”

"I'm not going to faint, I promise." She said that with a lot of confidence for someone who felt like she was leaning sideways. "It's just… I've really embarrassed myself here, haven’t I? Inviting you out here for no reason and giving you all that, and… and now you think it was all just a joke and I’m leading you on and-”

“Breathe, breathe...” A hand landed gently on her back, rubbing a circle in between her shoulders, whilst his other hand gave hers a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry, I don’t really know what else to say, just like… try to stay calm. I won’t tell anyone about this. I promise.”

"Okay." Something in his voice told her he was being sincere. That was one weight off her mind at least, and her breathing began to slow to a less erratic pace. "Okay."

"Good, good." With one last affectionate pat on her back, he stood up, hands diving into his pockets. "So uh… why did you invite me here anyway? Don’t say it was for the cake because I know your cash till was working earlier."

Katy dried her eyes “Guess I have to come clean then, eh?”

“Did you really invite me down here for… you know…” He pumped his hips jokingly, eyebrows bobbing. That got a weak laugh out of her at least.

A deep breath. Just admit it. "Yes. I did."

He paused. "Huh. Never knew you thought about me that way. I mean, I'm not offended or anything but still, it's surprising."

“It was… a spur of the moment thing." Goodness, what a situation this was. At least he wasn’t going to blab about this. “It’s been really, really rough for me recently what with the divorce and all, and I saw you earlier when you came by the bakery, and I thought I'd maybe treat myself to-"

She realised too late how that sounded. “Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry, you must think I’m such an old-”

“Pft, don't worry about it. I've heard worse. Trust me." He bit his lip, swaying on his heel. "So… you still down? It's okay if you're not, I can just go home."

Katy thought for a moment. "Are you?"

Grusha raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Weren’t you paying attention earlier?"

Oh no. "What... what do you mean?"

He leaned in close, lips barely gracing her ear. "I've fantasised about making out with you for a long time."

#part two will naturally be. way more :^) than this version #hell i might not even post the whole fic to tumblr i might just post the ao3 link and leave it at that #pokemon scarvi #gym leader grusha #gym leader katy #grusha pokemon #katy pokemon #pokemon grusha #pokemon katy #i also have an sfw fic for this ship lined up too i'm starting to think he and tulip aren't compatible with my interpretations lmao #granted the fic i'm writing with them is a blast but still #grusha x katy #katy x grusha #brumatashipping #grusha #my writing #pokémon #gym leaders

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dean-samw67 · 3 months

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Jill Valentine x f!reader smut fic please 😈

Scandal

Jill Valentine x Fem!Reader

(A/N: Hell yeah now we are talking! Jill Valentine, my love. I got my prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting here on tumblr! ALSO THIS IS A WLW POST IF MEN COME IN HERE AND BE CREEPY YOU WILL BE BLOCKED)

Prompt: “We should probably leave, before we start a scandal.”)

Words: 1929

How you got here? Not a single fucking clue. But you were in your office at work, tongue practically down Jill’s throat as your hands grasped at her light blue top. Jill pulls her lips away from yours, gasping for a second of breath. You didn’t want to lose the contact so your lips found the skin of her jaw and latched onto that.

“We… we should probably leave. Before someone sees us and starts a scandal.” Jill manages to make out in between gasps and soft whines.

“What might that scandal be? The fact that you like women? You haven’t told anyone yet, have you?” You couldn’t help but tease her. You knew about Jill’s struggle with coming out and you never pushed her. But you did like to tease her about how you were her “little secret” for now.

“I just… ngh… fuck.” She was fighting back from making too much noise. And you loved it. She was squirming under your touch. Your hands find her thighs and pick her up to sit her on your desk, causing some papers to fall off and onto the floor. That was later you’s problem.

“Can’t even make out a sentence. I have barely done anything yet.” You chuckle as you kiss her neck and your hands slide up her thighs, the fabric of her jeans making your hands tingle just a bit as you rubbed it. “Tell me now if you want me to stop and I will.”

Jill couldn’t bring herself to though. She wanted this just as much as you. So she just reaches up, cupping your face in her hands and pressing her lips to yours. You can’t help but chuckle against her lips, knowing she actually likes the idea of someone catching her like this with you. The office was mostly empty at this hour so you had no worry that someone would catch you. But Jill was cautious.

You understood. She wasn’t out yet and she wanted to come out on her own terms. You’d never want to take that from her. You remember how nervous you were before you had come out.

Your lips move against hers with a passion you never had found with another person. Maybe it was the fact that your relationship was a secret and that's what caused it. But you believed it was more than that. In reality the way you felt for her as a whole was just so much more than you’d experienced in the past. Your hands move to her hips, fingers curling over the waist of her pants, sitting in between her hips and the fabric.

The back of your fingers brush over the fabric of her panties, sending goosebumps all over Jill’s body. You slide your hands across the waistband of her jeans until they reach the button at the front. Your teeth nip at her lower lip, earning a moan into your partially open mouth. Oh, how you loved those noises.

Your fingers fiddle with the button of her pants and pop it open, pulling her zipper down. The taste of her mouth fills yours as you slip your hand past the band of her panties and your middle and ring fingers find her bundle of nerves. She lets out a gasp and her hands grip at your shirt.

“Better make this quick if you don’t want to risk being caught.” You breathe out against her lips, barely pulling away to talk.

“No…” The whimper that escapes her lips makes you smirk.

“No, what?”

“Don’t rush it. Please.” Her plea struck something in her. Fuck that soft spot for her. You groan, knowing you would give in. You pull your hand out of her pants just to yank them down her legs as you push her to lay back on your desk. You close your eyes, thinking for a moment. You knew there were still some people working late at the office. You grunt as you stand up and grab one of the chairs in your office. You place it in front of the door, lodging it under the door handle before returning to Jill.

You crouch down and pull her boots off, dropping them on the floor before pulling her pants off the rest of the way. You kiss her ankle softly, earning a gentle gasp from the woman on your desk. You were fully prepared to give her a quickie here in your office. But now from a few simple words, you would take your time on her and pray to god no one in the office will need you at this hour.

Your lips leave a trail of kisses up her leg, savoring her soft skin under your touch. Jill shivered as she looked down at her lover in admiration. As you make your way up she reaches a hand out to caress the side of your face and a bit of your hair. You lean into her touch, closing your eyes and sighing in relief. She did this to you. Made you a soft mess. And you loved every second of it.

Your hand slowly trailed up her other leg, fingertips light on her skin. You reach her thigh and rub circles on her flesh with your thumb as you return to kissing your way up her leg. You pull her thighs apart and kiss her inner thigh, pushing her leg up as you do so. Her foot is placed flat on the desk in order to open her legs and allow you further access. Your lips latch at the flesh of her inner thigh and sucks at it, quickly leaving a dark mark on her skin.

You lean back to admire the way the hickey stood out against her thigh, you smirk a bit before your head leans against her thigh as you look up at her from in between her legs. Jill runs a hand through your hair as she meets your eyes. You let out a sigh that would absolutely give away the fact that she had you whipped. You knew it and she knew it.

You lean in, kissing her pussy over top of her wet panties. Jill loved every second of the worship you provided to her. You close your eyes as your nostrils flare at the smell of her right under you. It wasn’t strong but just enough to catch your attention and turn you on further.

Your hands move up to push her panties to the side, enough to lean in and drag your tongue along her wetness. Your eyes practically roll back as you taste her. She was like your addiction. Her hand grips at your hair as your tongue makes contact with her dripping cunt.

You are quick to reach your hands up and take hold of the sides of her panties, pulling them off and getting them out of the way. You take a hold of her leg and drape it over your shoulder, leaning forward as you let yourself bury your face in between her legs. The noise that greets your ears and spills from her lips encourages you. You suck on her swollen clit as your tongue flicks at it in a repetitive motion. Jill’s head falls back onto the desk as the room is filled up with her whines and whimpers from the attention you gave to her clit.

“Shush, you’ll get us caught.” You pull away just enough to breathe those words out before returning to pleasing her. Jill places her hand, that wasn’t tangled up in your hair, against her mouth as her hips buck against your face. One of your hands held her thigh, that rested on your shoulder, tightly. The other found its way up her stomach and under her top, fingers light over her skin as they find her waist.

Your hand holds her waist and fingers caress in an up and down motion as your mouth and nose are buried in her cunt. Jill couldn’t help as she moaned against her hand, knowing her covering her own mouth didn’t do much. Your senses were filled with her. Her taste, her smell, her sounds, the feeling of her. In this moment, you couldn’t care anymore who might know what was happening. She was the only thing that mattered.

Your mouth moves lower for just a moment, tongue slipping into her hole as it passes over her g-spot and is coated in her essence. You look up at her, admiring the way she squirmed. It was so easy to tell what she liked. Her body reacted beautifully. A moan breaks through your throat, sending vibrations against Jill which only makes her moaning increase in sound. A slight smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as you return your attention on her clit.

Not once did your eyes leave her. You followed the outline of her jaw as her head was tilted back. Occasionally you got a glimpse of the sides of her face as she squirmed around. Your pupils dilate as you stare up at your girlfriend while eating her pussy.

Each tug she made at your hair earned a moan against her clit as your tongue swirls and flicks at it. She must’ve liked the moaning so much by how she began to pull your hair over and over. You had no complaints, just obliged and moaned against her flesh as your mouth worked at pleasing her.

“Y/n!” She moans out from behind her hand as her back arches, even in her shirt you couldn’t help but admire how her tits sat so nicely on her chest. Granted she was wearing a bra, but even without one you had always loved how pretty her tits were. You could feel how her leg shuddered on top of your shoulder and under your hand. It made the grip on her thigh only tighten.

She was a moaning mess. Surely someone was hearing this. But you were practically drowning in her pussy and hadn’t a care in the world about what was happening past this desk. The longer this went on the messier it became. Her wetness was making a mess on my desk and you didn’t care. It showed how much she loved what you did to her. Your face was coated with her essence.

Finally her head lifts up, heavy eyes meeting yours. “I’m gonna… I-” She couldn’t even finish what she was trying to say. You didn’t need her to. Within seconds of her warning she is cumming on your face and your tongue is greedily lapping at her cunt, not wanting to waste this. Moans leave your lips as you savor the taste of her cum coating your tongue. Your nails softly dig against her thigh as she rides out her orgasm, grinding against your face as she does so.

Her body finally seems to deflate as she lets out heaving breaths. You slowly lower her leg from your shoulder as you lean back from her pussy, licking your lips. Jill took one look at you and her cheeks flushed even more red than they were from what you just did to her. Your nose, lips and chin were coated from her intense orgasm. You chuckle as you wipe your face and stand up, placing your hands on either side of her head. You hover over her and lean down, placing a gentle kiss to her lips that lasted a few seconds. You let out a chuckle before meeting her eyes.

“There definitely will be a scandal.”

Masterlist

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suzukiblu · 8 months

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i am literally for real obsessed with your timberkon pink kryptonite fic so i definitely would love to see another sneak peek, but i'm also loving all the superfam stuff you're putting out!!! something that i wish you would write because i love your works (and have since the darcy lewis stucky days) and i think you would do amazing things with the pairing is jaytim, but i know thats not everyones cup of tea

(i realize now that you were probably aiming for an ask rather than a reply so here it is in your inbox too hskdhsh)

Thank you! ❤️ And oh, asks and replies were both fine for this, no worries. I try to just specify in-post whenever I have a preference but it's not gonna bother me either way.

I DO like JayTim to read, but I've never really felt a particular bug to write it myself? At least not yet, anyway, that may one day change. Though I miiiiight still put Kon in the middle because I am who I am and all, haha.

I'm planning to update the pink K fic on AO3 tomorrow, though I'm pretty sure I've already posted enough of chapter two in excerpts on Tumblr to have posted basically all of it by now and I'm trying to avoid doing that with chapter three, sooooo instead please accept the beginning of this very niche Superfam omegaverse pack dynamics AU instead. I've been looking for an excuse to post this whole big long thing anyway, lol.

Read-more for length, 'cuz there's kind of a lot here, haha.

The representative from the wet nurse agency shows up fifteen minutes early with an unusual-seeming omega who can't be a day over nineteen, being generous. Bruce makes a note to look into the agency's hiring practices a little more closely. The current situation is something of an emergency, unfortunately, and he's only had time to run the intermediate-level background checks so far.

Maybe this isn't the prospective wet nurse, he halfheartedly hopes, and they're just another representative; one who's in training or just here as backup. The kid smells like milk, though, and also why the hell would the agency send out an omega representative? Omegas are typically secretaries and clerks and almost all do in-office jobs, where they're "protected" from the outside world.

The practice is stupid and demeaning and borderline abhorrent, but it's a step up from the days when an omega couldn't get any job that wasn't as a nanny or a sex worker or some fucked-up combination of the two. Clark being an actual reporter is something that was practically unheard of two lousy generations back, and even now Clark is still an unusual exception in his field. Typically, an omega writing for a newspaper would be doing gossip or advice or something domestic, not investigative journalism.

So no, there's no way that this particular omega is anything but a wet nurse candidate, unusual-seeming and concerningly young or not. And Bruce had insisted on the candidate coming to meet them in person, even when the agency had very unsubtly implied that it would be better to just have the milk delivered.

Bruce is absolutely looking into this agency's hiring practices. An omega this age should barely be presented. One who's already allegedly producing enough milk to be a viable wet nurse for what they're requesting . . .

It's concerning, yes.

"Master Bruce, the representative from the Waterton Agency and her associate," Alfred introduces politely, gesturing between Bruce and their guests. He doesn't look or smell disapproving, even in the mildest notes, but Bruce knows he is.

Of course he is, with an omega who might be being either abused or taken advantage of or outright trafficked in the manor.

Bruce should've run a better background check.

"Hello, Alpha Wayne. My name is Ellen Travers," the agency representative greets tightly as Bruce steps into the parlor. She's a harried-looking blonde beta with graying hair who looks very unhappy to be here and is doing a very bad job of hiding the nervous dissatisfaction in her scent.

She doesn't introduce the omega.

Bruce puts on his stupid "Brucie" grin and strides right up to Travers, sticking a hand out to shake. She puts on a weak attempt at a polite smile in return and takes it.

"Hello there, Beta Travers, thanks so much for coming out here on such short notice!" Bruce greets her with a lie of cheerfulness, but Travers continues to smell nervous and upset and her smile is no less forced. And the omega . . .

The kid smells downright sullen, which is not a typical scent to catch off an unfamiliar presented omega and doesn't do anything to make him seem any older.

And yes, he's definitely unusual. He's much taller than Travers–about Bruce's own height, in fact–and has a very broad build and a surprising amount of muscle on him on top of that. Bruce knows full-grown alphas who'd kill to be built like this kid. He's also much more "handsome" than "beautiful", and frankly couldn't look less like the kind of sweet and pretty little things the agency had advertised on their website if he tried, much less the soft and maternal type Bruce had been expecting to actually have show up, given the specific requests he'd made.

Well, it does make sense. Bruce obviously wasn't going to provide the agency with either a Kryptonian genetic profile or a Kryptonian pup's exact dietary needs in search of a suitable wet nurse, but the nutrient requests that they'd made would likely necessitate an omega of a similar build to Clark's to supply–hell, the kid even resembles him a bit, funnily enough. They've already had four agencies tell them that they simply didn't have an appropriate candidate on staff, and the milk samples they'd been able to provide hadn't proven very helpful.

Bruce has no idea how the Kents ever fed Clark, but Martha had at least had the advantage of having a pack bond with him. A packmate's milk always does miles better by a pup than a stranger's or any kind of formula ever could.

Though she'd had some very odd cravings while nursing him, she'd told them. And Clark had still grown up underfed, even with formula and yellow sunlight to supplement–the Fortress had observed marked evidence of childhood malnutrition in him, he'd said.

Occasionally Bruce wonders what a properly-nursed Kryptonian raised under a yellow sun from infancy would've actually turned out like.

The thought is . . . well. A thought.

A thought that still makes him leery of how Jon Kent might grow up, sometimes.

Those concerns aside, though, the really unusual thing about this omega isn't either his physique or his face. Bruce is perfectly used to omegas with "nontraditional" looks after knowing Clark and Diana this long, to say nothing of various other Justice League members or other superheroes and villains he's known, or of both raising and reuniting with Jason. But this omega isn't as demurely dressed as mild-mannered Clark Kent would be; he's wearing opaque sunglasses and an alpha-cut studded leather jacket and alpha-style jeans and an inconveniently inaccessible plain black T-shirt with no sign of a nursing bra underneath it, nothing soft or appealing in either his clothes or his posture. If anything, he looks aggressive; tense and guarded and ready to start some shit. Even Jason usually puts up a temporary illusion of traditional omega mannerisms when he's meeting strangers as a civilian, if only so he'll be underestimated. This kid isn't even pretending to make the attempt.

And the kid smells completely and undeniably stray, too. Bruce can't catch a single note of packscent coming off him. Not even the scent of whatever pup got him milked up enough to qualify for this job. Unbred omegas sometimes lactate in heat or when under stress or if someone in their pack either has or adopts a pup, but a stray who doesn't smell particularly distressed or anything like he's on his cycle shouldn't be producing any milk at all.

At least not without using the kind of stimulants that Bruce explicitly forbade when filling out the agency application, anyway. Those medications are necessary for some omegas, obviously, but in this situation . . .

Kryptonian pups don't respond well to getting anything like that in their milk, they've already very thoroughly learned.

The omega also has spiked stainless steel piercings in his ears, snake bites under his mouth, and two curved barbells in his left eyebrow. All his other jewelry is heavy alpha-styled rings and bracelets, and his nails are painted a chipped black. And he is, notably, not wearing any kind of collar or necklace, and his neck is completely unmarked.

Bruce is in no way oblivious to the obvious message that an uncollared and unbitten omega's neck presents when left so obviously bared. Especially on a stray one who's dressed like an alpha and standing like he's expecting a fight.

He cannot imagine why this kid is working as a wet nurse.

None of the theories that come to mind bode particularly well, though.

"This omega is our most fitting candidate for your needs, Alpha Wayne," Travers says, her smile turning increasingly forced. Bruce thinks he can safely translate that expression as that of a beta who did not in any way agree with that assessment but was stuck following orders. "She fulfills all of your nutritional requests, including the necessary iron content and the prioritized fats and proteins, and, of course, is not taking any manner of lactation-inducing stimulants or supplements."

"He," the omega corrects, sounding dubious. Travers's mouth tightens. Bruce knows a lot of old-school traditionalists who won't call a male omega "he" or a female alpha "she", no matter what said omega or alpha's preferences happen to be, and makes another note about looking into this agency more thoroughly.

Much more thoroughly.

"She isn't available for direct nursing, unfortunately, but her milk is a perfect match to your requests and she produces both excellently and reliably; her supply will be more than enough for your needs," Travers continues as if the omega hadn't spoken, and the omega's lip curls in obvious annoyance as he rolls his eyes with no attempt to hide his exasperation even in the presence of an unfamiliar alpha.

Bruce thinks of Jason with a brief pang, and pushes the thought aside. It's not the time.

Maybe he could've asked Jason for help with this, if he'd been a better father. A better alpha. A better . . .

But he wasn't, so now there's an annoyed stranger standing in his parlor instead of a content packmate curled up in their nest.

"Really?" he asks, tilting his head and blinking down at Travers with a deliberately surprised expression. "The consultant made it sound like you'd need multiple donors, for the amount we're asking."

If one goddamn barely-presented kid is actually producing enough milk to even half-feed a Kryptonian pup . . .

"This omega produces sufficient quantities for your needs, Alpha Wayne," Travers replies with another forced smile. She must know how ridiculous a statement that is, when she's talking about a stray kid and not a fully mature omega with at least a couple of litters under their belt who's well-established in a stable pack, but she says it with conviction all the same.

"Oh, good!" Bruce says brightly, because he's supposed to be a stupid knotheaded playboy who wouldn't know a damn thing about nursing either way. "That'll be convenient, then."

Frankly, he only wishes one omega could produce what they need right now, but requesting that much milk from one agency for just one pup would be immediately flagged as suspicious, and definitely turned down outright. They're still looking for other candidates under false names, but at the rate they're going, they're going to need to keep supplementing with formula, which already hasn't been going well.

If Clark could get milked up himself, this wouldn't be a problem, of course. A Kryptonian omega could easily produce more than enough for one Kryptonian pup, especially under a yellow sun. Clark nursed Jon without a problem for years and was actually overproducing when he was, Bruce knows very well.

Unfortunately, that's not an option anymore. Not since . . .

Clark would never forgive himself if something like that happened again.

Never.

And Kara and Karen are both alphas, and Jon's a beta and only ten anyway, and the only other living Kryptonians they know of are either remorseless criminals imprisoned in the Phantom Zone or the sickly little pup who's slowly wasting away upstairs.

Formula and concentrated yellow sunlight haven't been enough. Clark can't get milked up anymore. They haven't been able to synthesize any appropriate supplements either in the Fortress or in working with the Justice League or STAR Labs or even in collaborating between them.

And the pup is just getting weaker, and quieter, and sicker.

A human wet nurse probably won't even help that much, at this point, but . . .

Well, it's the best chance they have to keep the pup alive until they can synthesize something. Maybe the only chance, now.

"We strive to provide to our clients' convenience, Alpha Wayne," Travers says, and the omega rolls his eyes again. Bruce is less and less convinced of him being an adult in any way but the presentation of his pheromones.

It's rude to address an unfamiliar unpacked omega directly, especially as an alpha. Technically Travers is chaperoning them in a professional situation, though, and Bruce has increasing suspicions about this omega's personal standards so far as "manners" go anyway.

And everyone knows Brucie Wayne is stupid and shameless, of course.

So he flashes the kid a grin, and he says, "Well, it's great to meet you, we appreciate you making the trip! What's your name, Mr. . . .?"

The kid blinks at him, clearly surprised both to be spoken to and to be called "Mr." instead of "Miss" or "Ms." or even "Omega". Travers looks absolutely scandalized.

Bruce really doesn't approve of the kind of traditionalists who won't introduce an omega or use their stated pronouns, though, so fuck if he cares.

"Her name is Carly, Alpha Wayne!" Travers interjects quickly, her tone a little bit too bright to be genuine. "Short for Caroline."

"Just Carl," the kid corrects, shaking his head. Travers's mouth tightens again. It's not a very typical omega name, so no surprise.

It occurs to Bruce to wonder if Carl might be a trans alpha, which he probably should've thought to wonder as soon as he saw how he was dressed and got an impression of his personality. Obviously the kid's at least not currently on HRT if he's working as a wet nurse, but that doesn't rule out the possibility of him being transgender all the same.

Actually, affording gender-affirming care is definitely a reason that a kid like this one would be working this job, especially if said kid's family weren't supporting them. Wet nurses make more money than most other fields that omegas without a diploma can expect to get into, at least short of sex work, and Carl is very obviously too young to have graduated college yet.

Actually, Bruce still isn't even sure if he's old enough to have graduated high school yet.

He's going to burn down this whole damn agency if they're knowingly employing a minor as a wet nurse.

"Nice to meet you, Carl," he says easily. Carl's eyes narrow consideringly, and then he folds his arms and smirks, crooked and casual.

"Sure," he says. "Nice to meet you too, Wayne."

Travers looks agonized. The last non-alpha stranger who called Bruce "Wayne" instead of "Alpha Wayne" was a beta terrorist who was in the middle of kidnapping him, and he's not sure any omega who wasn't an active supervillain ever has, so he's not surprised by her reaction.

Carl is still watching him with the same cocky smirk, though, an obvious challenge in the expression and his posture both. Bruce puts another point towards the possibility of him being a trans alpha, though he's not stupid enough to actually ask if he is, especially not in front of someone the kid works under. Presentation aside, Carl might not be out, and Travers is currently at least professionally following traditional manners, so Bruce doesn't have much hope for this agency being all that progressive and doesn't want to accidentally get the kid fired.

Though if Carl is a minor, Bruce is going to have to see if he can't slip him a business card and find him another job. Especially if he's going to be burning down the agency he's working for.

"Why aren't you available for direct nursing, if you don't mind me asking?" he asks in a curious tone, because he still can't smell a pup on the kid and most wet nurses who aren't nursing their own pups do direct nursing, and he wants intel about the agency's typical practices. Carl shrugs.

"Stubborn tits," he replies, pushing his chest out as he gestures at himself with no apparent sense of shame or self-consciousness, and Travers looks increasingly agonized. Bruce is just increasingly missing Jason, himself. "Milk flows too slow and the pups always get all fussy and stress out about it. Which, whatever, pups are weird anyway, they're not really my thing."

"'Weird'?" Bruce repeats, carefully noting the lack of possessives in reference to any potentially dysphoria-triggering anatomy. Still not a confirmation, but another point. Carl shrugs again.

"I'm afraid Carly doesn't bond appropriately with pups, Alpha Wayne," Travers interjects quickly, and Carl scowls at her. "She has an unfortunate detachment disorder."

"I 'attach' fine," Carl grumbles sourly, jamming his hands into his jacket pockets. "I just don't like kids."

Travers grimaces. Bruce keeps pretending to be an oblivious idiot. He has met omegas who don't like children. They exist.

They're just all deeply, deeply traumatized people. Or clinically insane.

Or both, frequently.

So . . . "detachment disorder" seems likely, yes.

Bruce doesn't consider either sex or gender to be the end-all be-all of a person, of course, but there are certain biological imperatives that no one can deny as existing, and a lactating omega faced with a theoretical hungry pup–really, just about any omega faced with a theoretical hungry pup–is not ever going to say they "just" don't like kids. Usually the problem with omega wet nurses is them liking kids too much, in fact, and getting distressed or depressed when the parents wean the pups and they won't be seeing them again. The decent agencies have psychological support for that in place and typically offer paid leave between long-term clients. The Waterton Agency does up to a month, which is one of the reasons Bruce chose it.

So yes, Carl is almost definitely traumatized.

Though really, a wet nurse who won't be around much isn't the worst thing, considering. Neither Clark nor Jon started developing any especially noticeable powers until they were older, but they can't assume anything based off a sample size of two, especially when said sample size is made up of biological relatives. And even if they didn't have to worry about that, well, the manor is frequently full of vigilantes and the cave is right underneath it. There's a lot that a regular guest could notice, especially over however long they might need to be nursing. Especially because nursing is a quiet, out-of-the-way activity that takes a while, and it would be very easy for someone to forget to keep their voice down or to not do a damn quadruple-backflip off a chandelier at the wrong moment.

And there's a reason Clark and Lois brought this problem to the shadows of Gotham, as opposed to staying in bright and sunny Metropolis with it. They've got something to hide right now, and a lot to figure out.

Plus if even a molecule of kryptonite gets involved in this situation, even secondhand . . .

Power Girl and Supergirl and Steel are the ones taking shifts watching Metropolis right now, and everyone is just going to leave it at that. Superman isn't coming out for anything less than the apocalypse.

"Well, the Lane-Kents will probably want you to meet the kiddo either way, if you don’t mind," Bruce tells Carl, offering an easy shrug. "Peace of mind, you know how it is."

"Not really," Carl says. Bruce debates slipping the kid a psychiatrist's business card, but he'd probably take it as an insult.

"Er, yes, Alpha Wayne," Travers says awkwardly. "Actually, we were expecting Alpha Lane to be with you . . . ?"

"Lois is currently stuck in Metropolis traffic thanks to Metallo bashing up half of downtown this afternoon and Clark is upstairs getting the kiddo around. Little guy just woke up from his nap," Bruce replies with a pleasant smile, making another note of how Travers left off the omega member of the couple's last name, and also apparently doesn't expect to be meeting said omega at all. He is increasingly regretting choosing this agency, though he may yet manage to do some good in the world by subtly dismantling it. Or maybe just by buying it outright and doing a little restructuring.

Or a lot of restructuring.

"Wait, it's not your kid?" Carl asks, wrinkling his nose with a puzzled expression. Travers looks pained. The Waterton Agency isn't Gotham-based, so Bruce isn't sure why she apparently expects Carl to be up on the Wayne pack's current members, especially considering how she keeps talking over and outright ignoring him. Bruce has a hard time picturing her bothering to provide the information herself, at this point.

"Oh, no, just doing a favor for some visiting friends," he replies smoothly, still wearing the same pleasant smile. Which is a lie, of course, because actually the Lane-Kents are part of his secondary pack and "visiting friends" therefore in no way covers what they are to him. The Wayne pack is both his primary and his family pack, obviously, and the Justice League is a loosely-connected tertiary pack, but his secondary pack lacks both an official name and public recognition, because explaining to the public why Brucie Wayne's secondary pack is two award-winning reporters from Metropolis, a random museum curator in Gateway City, a decorated Navy SEAL, and occasionally a cat burglar with commitment issues is just not going to work out for anyone's secret identities.

And that even without counting how everyone knows about Lois Lane and Steve Trevor's respective very public connections to Superman and Wonder Woman, much less ever explaining anything about Selina. Bruce, meanwhile, still isn't sure how he ended up in a pack with any of these people. Clark and Diana definitely have a lot to answer for either way, though.

Mostly he blames Clark. Diana has more decorum. Clark is just . . . Clark, so now Bruce gets a scarf and cookies from Martha Kent every Christmas, never mind that he's technically Jewish, because God forbid he ever tells her that and she starts sending him Hanukkah presents instead. He cannot handle eight nights' worth of Martha Kent's colorfully-wrapped scarves and lovingly-packaged cookies. That's just not a thing he can do.

He doesn't even celebrate holidays, except when Dick cons him into it. Which admittedly he's been doing more often again the past few years, but–

This is off-topic, Bruce reminds himself, but then gets distracted as Carl cocks his head a little and frowns over something. Bruce instinctively wants to brace himself for trouble at the sight, because that frown actually very strongly reminds him of Clark's "what the hell weird and concerning thing did I just notice with my super-senses" frown, but A) Carl doesn't have super-senses and B) Bruce just heard the stairs creak, which means the actual Clark is finally on his way down to meet them. No one else in the manor would ever make the steps creak any way but deliberately except for Lois or Jon, and Jon is out on a walk with Damian and Titus while Lois is, again, currently stuck in Metropolis traffic. So: Clark, definitely.

Also Clark tends to make the stairs creak a lot louder than either Lois or Jon do, given the very notable size difference there.

"Has Alpha Lane authorized you to make decisions for his pup's care, Alpha Wayne?" Travers asks with another forced smile. Bruce is resolving to check specifically her background too, at this point.

"No, no, that won't be necessary, good ol' Clark's right here," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "It's his pup too, and he knows much more about ones this age than I do anyway."

"Yes, well, omegas tend to get a little . . . irrational about the idea of sharing their pups with a wet nurse," Travers says "politely", like she thinks she's stating a fact. Bruce would say something cheerful-sounding and subtly insulting back, typically, but Carl's frown is deepening and he looks a little bit . . . odd, maybe, or . . .

There's a strange little pup-call from the stairs, very quiet and echoing in unusual registers but still recognizably one all the same, and just as recognizably resigned-sounding. It's a pup-call that clearly expects to go unanswered, at this point, which is something that Bruce would like to never hear again in his life, given the option.

Though it's better than a pup who's given up on calling at all, he supposes.

He tries not to grimace at that thought, though he's sure Clark's grimacing enough for the both of them right now after hearing a call like that. The pup is starving, and they just can't feed him properly. At this point sending him back where he came from might be kinder.

Honestly, if Bruce didn't know exactly who his parents were, he might've already insisted on that.

It's just–

The pup calls again, even quieter. Travers looks perplexed.

"Er," she says. "I apologize, Alpha Wayne, but is the pup ill? We can't be around them if they are, it's against agency policy."

"Oh, the kiddo just sounds like that," Bruce replies dismissively, and then lies, "Vocal chord deformity, apparently. We're not sure what caused it, pediatrician thinks it's something genetic."

Well, it is genetic. Jon calls in exactly the same registers, and according to Martha and Jonathan so did Clark.

So it's genetic, yes. Just not a deformity.

Carl's expression looks–odd, still. Bruce isn't sure what to think of it, but it makes him a bit wary. A detachment disorder doesn't imply an actual negative reaction to the presence of a pup, obviously, but . . .

Clark steps into the parlor with Lor-Zod sitting on his hip, the pup no older than two or so and looking small and listless in his arms, his dark skin all washed out and his previously bright eyes gone dull and tired. When he first crash-landed in Metropolis in the rocket he'd been wrapped up inside, Clark said he'd popped out of it energetic and excited and clamoring for attention in toddler-level Kryptonian, but he's been slowly fading ever since, wasting away without the nutrients that they just can't provide him. He's probably only made it this long thanks to the sun.

Again, Bruce has no idea how the Kents ever fed Clark, though he was already at least three by the time they got him, which probably helped. A pup Lor's age is capable of eating solid food, obviously, but milk or formula is still a major part of a pup's diet until they're four or five, if not older, and the longer the better. Hell, most kids still at least semi-regularly nurse for as long as their dam can manage to stay milked up, or even until they present themselves. No one can wean a damn toddler and expect them to thrive.

Or even survive, in Lor's case.

Lor opens his mouth in another weak, resigned little pup-call, and Clark's own mouth tightens as he restrains himself from answering it and giving the pup false hope for milk he just doesn't have, and Bruce steels himself to–

Carl croons.

Travers startles. Bruce is . . . surprised, a bit. A detachment disorder doesn't really imply the kind of omega who'd croon at a pup they've never seen before in their life, after all.

It's an unusual and unpracticed croon, as if it's a sound Carl doesn't make very often, which Bruce supposes would make sense. Lor responds to it immediately, though, shifting weakly in Clark's arms and pup-calling again.

Carl, with absolutely no manners or decorum whatsoever, sweeps right past Travers and Bruce and Alfred and just plucks Lor straight out of Clark's arms. Which–forget the kid calling him "Wayne"; that's a damn etiquette breach. Hell, Clark probably only didn't take Carl's head off for snatching up his pup without permission because he's so clearly dumbfounded that he actually did it.

Bruce is slightly less dumbfounded due to having spent five seconds in the kid's presence, but still, what is he–

"Carly!" Travers chokes in horror. Carl very obviously doesn't even hear her and just starts purring at Lor and cuddling him close in a way that really doesn't even slightly imply "detachment disorder".

And then Bruce figures out what was "odd" about Carl's expression, before.

"Huh," he says, a little bemused. "Did he just go into feral drop?"

"Alpha Wayne, I assure you, this is not the Waterton Agency's standard of behavior!" Travers sputters, sounding even more horrified, and Clark just blinks and tilts his head.

"I think he did, yeah," he says, looking perplexed. Carl continues ignoring everyone in the room except for Lor and just purrs louder at him as they both nuzzle into each other. Lor makes more very distinctly Kryptonian pup-calls at him, and Carl croons back with no apparent concern over their strangeness, sounding absolutely goddamn enamored.

That is definitely not a detachment disorder, Bruce thinks. There is no possible way that an omega with a detachment disorder just went into full feral drop over a pup at first sight.

Or possibly first sound, he's realizing.

Bruce is perfectly aware that omegas can feral-bond with distressed pups whether they mean to or not, but he's never seen it happen this fast outside of a warzone or a natural disaster. He's heard hearsay and read studies about particularly compatible sets that have done it under less stressful circumstances, but distressed and starving pup or not, he wouldn't have even expected a human omega to be capable of bonding with a Kryptonian pup like that.

Or at all, frankly. Deliberately created and carefully cultivated pack bonds are one thing, but . . .

Lor chirps, the sound still a little quiet and fragile, a little weak, but also undeniably hopeful, and Carl gives him a low, rumbly purr in reply and yanks up his inconveniently-cut T-shirt to expose his chest with no trace of hesitation or modesty. He's already leaking sweetly-scented milk, already adjusting his grip on Lor to let the pup get at his chest as easily and comfortably as possible, and Lor latches without a moment's hesitation and immediately starts to nurse.

And then Lor purrs. Carl just watches him with undeniable adoration, still paying no attention whatsoever to anyone else in the room.

Alright, then, Bruce thinks carefully.

Well, that just happened.

"Thought you didn't like kids, Carl?" he inquires casually, putting on an easy grin, and Carl finally seems to come up enough to remember that the rest of them exist, though he still doesn't actually take his eyes off Lor.

"I would literally become a supervillain if this kid asked me to," he replies dreamily, keeping Lor cradled in one arm and tracing a finger down the pup's cheek with a soft, besotted expression that's unmistakable for what it is even with the sunglasses on. He looks like he might just burn down the world if someone tried to take Lor away from him right now, and his pheromones are so all-encompassing and so cloyingly sweet that Bruce genuinely might need to see a dentist after this.

"Well usually I'd say we keep Batman in the loop on that kind of thing around here, but if the kiddo asks, it only seems fair," he jokes with a laugh.

"I would drop-kick Batman off a roof for you," Carl informs Lor lovingly as he strokes his cheek again and then skims a fingertip along the little barely-visible scar splitting his eyebrow. Lor keeps purring sweetly and Alfred coughs to conceal a low chuckle. Clark looks a little pained to be watching one of his pups nurse from another omega so easily and eagerly, but his mouth quirks in amusement at the comment anyway. Bruce doesn't dignify any of them with a response, because he is an alpha with dignity and also is in no way threatened by a passing comment from a barely-presented kid who clearly isn't even combat-trained.

. . . although he also isn't going to be stupid enough to try coaxing Lor away from the omega he just feral-bonded with just yet either.

Then Tim walks by the doorway, takes one look at Carl with Lor, and trips over literally nothing and into a full faceplant on the foyer floor. Bruce pauses, then raises an eyebrow.

"Alright down there, Timmy?" he asks. Tim scrambles back to his feet, looking more genuinely mortified than he's ever seen him.

"Fine!" he blurts. "Fine. Everything's fine. All the things are fine. Uh. What? Who?"

"This is Carl," Bruce says, gesturing to the kid. "Wet nurse from the Waterton Agency. And his escort, Beta Travers. Carl, Beta Travers, this is my son, Tim Drake-Wayne. And also Clark Lane-Kent and his pup, Chris Lane-Kent, who I'm assuming you've figured out are your prospective clients."

"Yes, Alpha Wayne," Travers says with a grimace. "We gathered."

"Ngh," Tim says, looking at literally everything but Carl and Lor. His face is bright red, which is an unusual amount of embarrassment for him to be showing just over tripping. Typically he masks that kind of thing a lot more effectively. Bruce would almost think he was actually embarrassed by watching Carl feed Lor, but Tim's literally never been affected by anything but passing curiosity when seeing a pup nurse before, so that seems unlikely. And he's a male beta, if still an unpresented one, so it's not like he's got any reason to care all that much about it anyway.

So his reaction does seem a little odd, yes.

Hm.

"Chris," Carl coos adoringly down at Lor. Bruce is in no way stupid enough to think that he absorbed any of the rest of that introduction or has even noticed Tim's presence at all. He wouldn't even put money on him having noticed Clark's presence, in fact, except as a pup-delivery system. The kid is very clearly in love with the pup in his arms and doesn't give a damn about any of the rest of them at all.

Detachment disorder. Sure.

#bruce wayne #kon el #clark kent #chris kent #tim drake #superfamily #timkon #lowkey but it's there lol #omegaverse #not sfw #this-was-a-terrible-idea #rinfic #wip: the wet nurse omegaverse

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call-sign-shark · 2 months

Text

Following the heart-wrenching posts of @red-riding-wood, @kittenonpluto and @aurorag98 I feel like I have to write this. By no means I have experienced traumatizing interactions with @mrkdvidal1989 aka Killian Vidal but this whole situation and what he did to girls here make me enraged.

First of all, I want to reassure all the beloved mutuals who have been reaching out to me or who have been worried about my well-being because they saw me interacting a few times with Killian. I am perfectly fine and I'm not much here this week because I have been working a lot.

As for my relationship with Killian... Well, we were barely talking to each other actually. I know I am bad at replying to my DMs but this is not the reason why I ghosted him -- I purposefully did so because, like many of you, the guy gave me the biggest red flags. We talked a few times, and he called me hot when he saw the gym pics/selfies I posted. He quickly suggested we meet together to go to the gym and watch horror movies during my stay in the UK and to this I replied positively while knowing I would never ever do so. Right from the start I suspected him to be a liar and I felt he had built up everything about his life. Also, I come from a military family with many relatives working in special units of the French Navy, and let me tell you something: I screamed at the thought of a former soldier (from the SAS!! lmao) spending all of his time writing reader-insert fanfic for a female audience and discussing with Cillian fangirls. I don't say it's impossible, but it's VERY unlikely.

To me, Killian was just an attention-seeking catfish I'd never meet and who I found both boring and childish. In my opinion, I thought he just wanted to have a small court around him to strut around, nothing more. I tried to search for info about him to warn people, I mean I even doubted he was a man... However, I found nothing plus he seemed to be IRL friends with a few mutuals here who actually chatted with him via phone so I didn't want to take the risk of spreading hate about someone just because of a gut feeling. Never in a million years, I would have imagined he was toying with girls from the Peaky Blinders community, collecting nudes, gaslighting/harassing them, breaking them into pieces, promising marriage, and going as far as to promise a life-saving medical treatment to a dear friend of mine. I am devastated by what I have read this morning, and "devasted" is not even powerful enough. Learning from Red that he talked about fucking me when we meet while we never talk about sex, never flirted or anything (we just small-talked once in a while lmao) might be a bit creepy but it's nothing compared to what he has done to girls here.

I am deeply sorry to all the people who have been hurt by his horrible actions and are now facing long-term consequences because of him, some of them being my close mutuals. I send positive vibes, love, and healing to every one of you who had to deal with this psycho. I know a lot of people have already said that but my DMs are opened if you need a safe place. The Peaky Blinders / Cillian Murphy community is a nice place, maybe the most welcoming place I've ever seen on the Internet but we should all keep in mind that it is not safe from ill-intentioned users and predators. Please stay safe and, for the victims, don't blame yourself. You haven't been naive nor stupid or anything. The only one to blame is the person behind Killian Vidal's persona, and for the evil you've done, I hope you'll get fucked with a chainsaw. Or just fucking rot in hell.

Shark.

#PSA #predator warning #Cillian Murphy #Peaky Blinders #Mrkvidal1989

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peach-and-bugs · 1 year

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Hi, I hope you are well, I fell in love with Nat's one-shot, so I was encouraged to ask for a request, well there are two that come to my head with different characters.

"Wow, you really never got out of your angsty teenage stage, did you?" with Teen Shauna (sorry it's just that you see those eyes and they bring back a lot of melancholy).

"Please tell me you didn't hold on to that all these years" with Lottie (1996) and Lottie (2021). I think with this one you can play with flashbacks of seeing what happened in the desert and their relationship in that timeline in 1996 as a reunion in 2021 somewhat angsty.

Sorry the request is so long, although I would like to add that I can imagine both requests with f reader, anyway thank you very much for everything, take your time and take care of yourself. ❤️

💚Flower stems for heartstrings - Lottie Matthews (1996 & 2021) x fem!Reader💚

Fanfiction master list

disclaimer: don't repost my work. I only post on Tumblr and on Ao3. anything else is stolen and should be removed immediately

Summary: y/n finds evidence of her teenage best friend (and secret crush) being alive after all, and a possible way of finding her thanks to modern internet and goes on a personal quest to find her and the truth, all while reminiscing about their teen years...

Warnings: Internalized homophobia, fem reader that dresses both "masc" and "fem", underage drinking and smoking weed, extremely angst but with a good ending

Word Count: 8,758

A/N: woohoo! We've surpassed word count on my longest oneshot with this fic, the record previously being 6,990. And ngl, this might be one of my favorites to date! Lottie is an extra special gal who deserves an extra long one-shot, so of course I'm going to give her extra attention. What can I say, I'm not immune to favoritism. This one was actually so fun! I loved getting to write about excited, young (and medicated, let's be fr) Lottie bc I think we forget just how much the wilderness took a toll on her. She was so lively before, it makes me so sad. But, I hope I was able to give her a little bit of that liveliness back in this fic! I think in the request "desert" was supposed to be wilderness, but I wanted to have the reader be left behind, which adds a whole different kind of angst to the situation. As always, feel free to leave questions or comments in my comments or ask box, and happy reading!💚

Lottie Matthews Tag List:

General Tag List: @summergeezburr

-💚-

You’d only ever felt the way you did now only twice before in your life. Once when word got around that flight 2525 had mysteriously gone down in flames with no trace, and once again when you learned she’s been shipped off to god knows where for some kind of treatment. You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to her then and she was gone.

It was a sickly green feeling that had you kneeling over with weak knees and a stone throat. Lottie Matthews, the girl you’d had your heart set on for all of these years, wasn’t gone. She wasn’t locked away or dead like gossip has always said. She was alive and well and looked like she was thriving. And how did you find this out? Through Instagram, of course. That might have been the worst part of all of this.

One minute you’re mindlessly scrolling through your feed when an ad for a farmers market in some part of upstate New York, rather than New Jersey where you resided. But the ad featured a booth selling honey, and low and behold, there she was. Well, the photo didn’t give a clear picture of her face, but you refused to deny that it was her, despite how it made you sick. How could you forget that smile of hers after all?

You had to put your phone away after that, but it didn’t help you sleep. A few hours into staring up at the ceiling, restless with gnawing curiosity, you decided sleep wouldn’t come till you found an answer. Rather spontaneously you packed a bag and got into your car. Was this the smartest thing to do? Hell no, but you had the weekend off for work anyways, and nothing stopped you from going, so you drove through the nightstand into the morning and drove by coffee, a podcast, and the straining urge that you needed to know what was going on.

-💚-

At some point in the night, you found your mind wandering as your eyes trained on the empty highway before you, highlighted by your headlights. You reminisce a time long before, even more than 25 years ago. Back when you had been a freshman in high school during your lunch period. You moved to Wiskayok, New Jersey late in the year, giving you an even later start to your first year of high school. You’d relatively been left alone and had decided you'd be alright with that. Not everyone can have friends right? So, alone you sat outside on the school's field, picking at the grass underfoot having already finished your lunch.

Some students around you sat on the track or the stadium's bleachers with their friends, enjoying company and comradery or whatever and you didn’t like to admit how it made you jealous. But what was there for you to do to change it? You refused to look desperate and walk up to random groups of people who would probably talk about how lame you are behind your back-

“Hey, you alright?” the sudden voice in your direction yanked you out of your self-deprecating thoughts. Looking up you had to squint your eyes to try and make out who was talking to you as the sun shone in your eyes till they tilted their head, blocking it. After some adjustment from the sunspots in your eyes, you were greeted with a shy yet warm smile.

“Um, yeah, I’m fine,” you uttered awkwardly, swallowing the frog in your throat that had your voice croaking. The girl chuckled and tottered down to the ground to sit beside you in the grass. She dressed well, was one of the first things you noticed. Her pink skirt and tall white socks were very countering to your grass-stained jeans, scuffed hightops, and t-shirt.

“You sure, because you’re all by yourself,” she said rather matter of factly.

“Well, maybe I like being alone. Think of that,” she arched her brow curiously. “And as far as I know you’re alone too,” she chuckled again with a little huff.

“Tuche,” was all she replied, but she had a stupidly shiny grin on her face. Next, she reached out her hand to shake. “I’m Charlotte, by the way. But most people call me Lottie,” you hesitated for a standing moment, only staring at her hand as you kept yours loosely wrapped around your knees till you gave in, shaking her hand in greeting.

“I’m y/n,”

“Well y/n, tell me about yourself,” she spent the rest of that lunch period at your side, asking questions about you in exchange for the little tidbits you were willing to give her. It was so strange, looking back now, how a because girl decided you looked lonely you'd be driving to upstate New York on a random Thursday night due to your desperation to find her again.

Lottie had always been charismatic. She liked people. She looked at them like puzzles made special for her to figure out. Maybe that was her way of avoiding herself, or maybe she just had a natural curiosity for those she didn’t understand. But from that day on, she hadn’t left you alone. She’d excitedly greet you in the halls, and invite you out with her friends and to late-night parties. She was the one who integrated you into the community and helped you find a place.

But she also became your best friend. However, you struggled to feel like you were hers sometimes. She was so bright and colorful, full of life and boy was she popular. She always had someone with her, unless she found the time for you exclusively, which dwindled more and more as high school progressed. Of course, this is a concern you could talk to her about but you didn’t want to bother. In truth, you feared your feelings were driven by selfishness. You thought you'd never voice it, but oh, how you undoubtedly adored Lottie Matthews.

You felt her encase you when she was close and her laugh was enough to have you swooning. You thrived in her presence and basked in the littlest bit of attention she may offer you. Her touch was electrifying and when she grabbed your hand when she greeted you you felt what had to be magic. But of course, you could never tell. Sure, you knew you were gay and you were so fortunate that you’re mother said it was ok, but you’d never tell, ever. Even if the ache felt like it was squeezing you, you couldn’t lose Lottie. You didn’t want to scare her away and be a freak.

Part of you wonders if that’s why you'd lost Lottie after all. You hadn’t been honest with her. No, that wasn’t rational. A secret didn’t take down an airplane.

-💚-

You didn’t arrive till mid-afternoon, late morning, the sun high above as you made your way towards this market. They had their location posted online, so with a quick search and an input to your mapping app you were all set to go. Moments like that reminded you of how on your road trips with your mother growing up she'd have you read the map in the passenger's seat beside her, your finger tailing over the highways towards the little star sticker added on to be your final destination. Strange how so little time felt like it had passed since then yet a whole life as well.

Venders had been set up for some time now and enjoying the comfortable air as they mingled and shopped. You hooked a tote bag over your shoulder to look less conspicuous (although there inherently isn’t anything conspicuous about a middle-aged queer woman at a farmers market, still. You felt a need to keep a low profile). You wandered for some time, looking for a stall that said something like sunset honey, or maybe it was sunnyside. Something involving both the sun and honey, and it looked like the people working wore a lot of purples.

Honestly, it was a very nice market in itself. Had you had ulterior motives for attending you would have quite enjoyed it. That is still you grew distracted by a florist’s stand. The owner had lovely premade bouquets that ranged in a variety of colors and sizes, but what caught your eye where the assortment of white and pastel metal buckets housing small assortments of different flowers, meant to be starters for gardening. In particular stood out the small purple flowers known for growing naturally back home, in Wiskayok. You tentatively reached out to stroke the petals.

You hadn’t formally been invited to the party, but it was one of those words get around kind of things, she no one was actually invited, right? At least, that's what you'd told yourself as you got ready in your room, obsessively messing with your hair in the mirror. It was one of those beer-guzzling bonfire things that the seniors hosted on the outskirts of the woods now and then. This time, however, the justification was the girl's soccer team going to nationals, and after the whole pep rally earlier in the day, it did sound justified.

You pulled back from the mirror to look back down at your clothes. You'd layered a black plaid dress with thin straps over a white sweater that’s sleeves cut off just below your elbow with tights and docs. You tugged at your coller, attempting not to grimace. Sure, you liked dressing feminine now and then, but when it came to events like this you couldn’t help the anxiety, especially with drunk boys. But still, you wanted to look nice, even if the drinks being served were from a beer keg. It just felt like one of those nights, you figured. You sighed and forced yourself to leave as there was a car horn honking outside, grabbing your backpack along the way as you went. It’d be good to have a quick getaway available to you if need be.

“Have fun, hun! Make good choices for me, ok?” your mom called to you from the couch, watching one of her late-night shows while sipping tea and crocheting something as you went downstairs. You smiled, walked up beside her at the end of the couch, and kissed her forehead.

“I will, mama, I promise,” you forced a tiny smile. She hummed her thanks and smiled, opening her eyes to take a look at you.

“Show me this little number you assembled for me,” she said, taking off her eyeglasses and gesturing up and down with her crochet hook as she readjusted in her seat to get a better view. You stretched out an arm, the other firmly holding your backpack to your shoulder, and did a turn around for her. She smiled wide and gave you playful applause.

“Cute! And do you like it? Everything fits well?”

“Yes, Mom, I promise,” you sighed, trying to refrain from rolling your eyes. It was a new dress you hadn’t worn yet and you knew she was only doing the classic mom routine but you had to go!

“Alright, you go have fun. And tell your friend Charlotte good luck at nationals!” she called after you as you shut the door front door and locked it. You turned, illuminated by your porchlight, and waved to your ride. Van had the passenger window of Taisa’s car down and she waved back with a confident grin on her face. You could hear Depeche Mode playing on the radio as you approached the car. You opened the door and slid inside with a quick smile.

“Thanks for the ride, Taissa,” you said, trying not to sound as shy as you felt. She smiled in the rearview mirror, checking her surroundings as she turned down the radio.

“Yeah, no problem girl,” she said with effortless confidence. You didn’t know Taissa or Van, or much of the school's soccer team all that well, but in your mutual connection to Lottie over the past four years you’d tagged along with them quite often and they’d always been nice to you.

“We couldn’t say no after Lottie was so adamant we were nice,” Van joked quite loudly to Taissa, giving you an up and down with that grin again. You stared for a second, unsure of what she was trying to imply till Taissa smacked the goalie in the arm with the back of her hand, hissing her name to make her shut up as she started driving. The redhead let out an undignified yelp.

“She’s being an asshole. And confusing. Lottie wanted you to come and she knew we’d be the best people to pick you up is all,” you still had a confused look on your face, your shoulders hunched inward.

“Um ok, thanks?” you said it more like a question.

“What she means, is that we like you. And we’ll tell you we like you,” Van chimed in again. She wasn’t as helpful to you as she thought she was.

“Right, ok. Is there something else going on that I’m not cluing in on?” Tai and Van shared a knowing look.

“Ok, so the other day Lot kept going on about how she worries that you don’t feel like we’re all friends, and doesn’t want you to feel like you’re just her other friend that tags along, ya know? So we figured we pick you up and tell you that, because some of the other girls on the team aren't the best at communicating, ya know?”

“Oh. So we're friends?” you sounded far more surprised and eager than you would have wanted to. “And Lottie told you all that? About me, I mean?” Van grinned once more, fully turning around in her seat.

“Yeah, dude! I think you’re really cool actually!” you began to smile more than before and leaned back, straightening up your posture.

“And, yes, Lot had all that to say and more,” Tai added on. You were thankful for the dark car hiding any color that might have rushed to your face.

“She talks about you all the time,” Van blabbed on. Tai gave her a look that told the goalie to keep quiet now. Just as she did you pulled up to another house in the neighborhood that has Lottie sitting on the front porch. She shot up when she saw the car but took a last-minute look at the front door like she was waiting for something. Van maneuvered in her seat to hang out the window. “Hurry up slowpoke or we’ll be late to our party,” Lottie all but yelped and ran to the car after that, toward your side of the car.

You didn’t have enough time to move out of the way and before you knew it Lottie had flung the door open with an exhilarated grin, laughing as she climbed in over your lap to collapse in the seat beside you in the back. She’d picked to wear all pink, which was just so fitting for her. You noticed in particular that she was wearing one of her shorter skirts that she giggled to you about hiding from her mother.

“Shut the door and go!” she said through giggles, and once you had the time to process what was happening you did just that, closing the now-opened door to your right, and Taissa was off. Lottie lunged forward in her seat and punched Van in the shoulder, laughing all the while. “God, fuck you! I could have been caught because of that,” she griped as Van dramatically clutched her arm.

“Ugh, what’s with beating on the goalie tonight? I gotta stay fit for nationals and I’ll be covered in bruises at this rate,”

“Whatever. You’re always covered in bruises, and not all of them are from soccer,” Lottie implied, her hands gripping Taissa’s headrest in front of her so she could lean forward and talk to the two girls up front. That is till she scooted back to give you her full attention.

“Well, you’re liking fine as hell tonight hot stuff! Have you been hiding this little number?” Lottie asked, reaching out to touch the material of the dress you were wearing along your leg. You managed to force a laugh and playfully swatter her hand away with shifty eye contact.

“It’s new. My mom got it for me during our last mall trip. She wanted me to expand my wardrobe or whatever,” you played off causally. Lottie gave you a knowing smile and sighed as she turned to look out the window.

“I think it looks great, just like you always do,” she murmured rather quietly. You weren't even sure you were supposed to hear her. Not long after Tai parked and you all got out of the car. Van yelled something at the crowd that had already gotten things started and there was a low collection of howling and yelling in response to her. Lottie got out of the car before you but stopped and waited by your door for you to get out with her. She said nothing but had that perky smile on the whole time as she watched you expectantly.

“So, whatcha wanna do?” you asked. She shrugged.

“I dunno. Maybe get reeeeeally drunk,” she toyed, reaching out to take your hand like it had become second nature. Tai walked up to the two of you from the driver seat of the car, double-checking as she locked it shut and shoved her keys in her jacket pocket. She made a purposefully obvious glance down at your entwined fingers then back up to Lottie.

“Careful Lot, people might talk,” she said with what Lottie took as a comfortable coolness but it sent a shiver down your back that caused you to think about pulling away.

“Pfft! I don't give a flying fuck! Let them talk!” she announced quite loudly, leaning forward with her free hand on her hip. She turned her gaze back to you and wiggled her brows as she grinned. “Come on. Get a drink with me,” she urged, tugging you away from Taissa.

“Don’t listen to her. No one is looking, and if they are they don’t care. What’s wrong with holding hands anyway?” Lottie babbled on as she pulled you in line for a beer with her. She was still holding onto your hand quite tight as she jumped into rambling about something related to her French class. Maybe a recent test? You weren't exactly sure. Despite everything she’d said before, it felt like everyone was looking, but not because of you. Because of Lottie. She was the pretty, popular girl while you were just the weirdo she hung around. With that idea in your head, it was pretty hard to not be self-continuous. You were so in your head that you didn’t notice her shoving a beer in your hand.

“Wha- oh, thanks,” you stuttered. You'd let go of her hand to get your drink, opting to use both hands to hold it. Lottie frowned as she was handed her drink ans thanked the guy passing them out.

“Hey, you alright? Lost you for a sec,” she murmured. She’d become so gentle all of a sudden. Were you really that fragile? She forced a smile and nodded.

“Yeah, I'm great. Just haven't gotten into the party mood yet, I guess,”

“Oh, ok. Do you wanna step away, clear your head a bit?” you shook your head no.

“Nah, I'm good. I’m just gonna grab something from my bag in Tai’s car, ok?” Lottie tilted her head, almost like she was trying to look at you from a new angle.

“I can go with you,” she offered. God, why did she have to be so attentive and sweet?

“I promise I’ll be fine-” you started only for a distraction to catch your eye. “Hey, Shauna and Jackie are over that way. I’ll meet up with you when I’m done,” you offered, dialing up that chipper tone as high as you could. She finally gave in and nodded, making her way over to her other friends while you crept away to dash toward Tai, wherever she was. You eventually found her after dodging around cars and trees listening to Van argue with a group of boys about something sports-related probably. That honestly wasn’t a huge concern of hers at the moment.

“Hey, Taissa. can I borrow your keys?” Taissa arched a brow.

“You’re not trying to use my car to go joyriding or to fuck, right?”

“What? Oh my god- no. I just wanna get something from my bag. It’s in the car,”

“Where's Lot?” why is that relevant right now?

“She’s with Jackie and Shauna,” you began messing with the loose hair falling in your face, averting your eyes from her. Tai gave you an up and down before tugging at Van’s jacket.

“Van, go with y/n to my car, ok?”

“I was just in the middle-” Van started till Tai arched a brow and she gave in. Tai dropped her keys in the redhead's hand and you were off to the car again.

“Do you already wanna leave?” Van asked, walking backward in front of you.

“No, I just want something from my bag,” Van slowed to walk in stride with her hands in her pockets, watching you as you watched everyone who passed.

“Care to share?” you just looked at her and finally managed a laugh.

“I’ll share when we get there,” upon reaching the car and unlocking it, you grabbed your bag and made your way to a more secluded edge over the party where you’d be left alone, Van trailing close behind till you set your solo cup on the ground, sat down saddle style on an old, knocked-over log to rummage through your bag. You pulled out a baggy you’d been holding onto and a lighter.

“Damn, y/n, I didn’t think you the type,” the goalie said as she dropped down across from you. “Where’d ya get it?” she asked, taking the joint you pulled out to share.

“My older brother. He lives with my dad while he’s going to school and I visited him over Christmas and he gave me a few that I use quite sparingly.

“Divorced?” she asked, referring to your parents. You shrugged.

“Kinda, but not really? It’s weird. They still like each other and get along but they aren't exclusive by any means. Dad works in Cali while mom moved here to look after her mom who’s a few houses down from us,” you explained as you fidgeted with the lighter, fixated on the way the flame moved up and down, on and off. Van snatched it out of your hand during an “off” moment to light the joint now placed firmly between her teeth.

You simply watched her process, lighting the joint and then taking in a long breath before holding and letting it go with a sigh as though she was relieved before passing it to you. She did the same, watching your breath in with your eyes shut only to exhale into the dark, finishing off with a small cough before passing it once again. You could see streetlights from the main road from here, you realized.

“You’re into Lot, aren’t you?” her voice was low to not attract attention, but she was confident in what she had asked. You paused, staring out at the lights just a short walk away. Normally, an insinuation that you were gay would have you panicked. It could have been the weed, but maybe you'd relaxed and found some sliver of comfort in the redhead, your new companion.

“I think I do,” you whistled through your teeth at your admission. You turned to meet her eyes when she nudged your shoulder with the side of her hand, passing the joint off again. “Think I’m a lost cause?” Van snorted and shook her head.

“Oh, hell no. That girl’s crazy about you,” Van said with a sigh, leaning back on her hands where she was sitting on the log. “Now, I don’t know what type of way she feels. Sexual, romantic, or just friendship. But there's something there. Lot’s banked a lot on you,” you began to smile again, soft and mellow as you took another hit. After that one, you leaned down to take a chug of your beer. You offered to pass again, but Van had turned her attention back to the party, particularly to Taissa who looked like she was getting shit from Shauna. Even from over her, you could tell she was wasted given how she stumbled around. Van groaned and got up from where she was sitting.

“Keep it. I gotta deal with this,” she huffed as she left. You watched her go, eyes trailing after her to meet with Lottie’s, who was staring right at you, arm crossed over her chest and cup in hand. She seemed to hesitate between you and her arguing friends, but when the debate got particularly loud she turned with a furrowed brow. You watched her go and kept watching till Jackie derailed the entire situation, pulling all the girls away likely to yell at them. With that done, you sighed, leaning back to fully lie on the log, the joint between your lips and legs dangling over either side as you shut your eyes.

“You hiding from me over here?” you opened your eyes. The joint was nearly out as it had just been sitting between your teeth for who knows how long by now. Lottie stood over you, arms still crossed as she held onto her nearly drained drink. you shook your head, sitting up as she sat down beside you on your left, much closer than Van had been. You readjusted, sitting properly with both legs over one side of the log, shoulders hunched. Lottie's arm brushed against yours when she moves. “You didn’t come back,” she simply steed with no malice or accusation in her voice. You shrugged.

“I was getting overwhelmed I guess,” you murmured. “Didn’t feel like talking,”

“You seemed chatty with Van” Again, she simply stated fact. You sighed and leaned down to take another drink. Lottie took the joint from your hand. You watched, then reached for the lighter to give it a second wind. She held it between her forefinger and thumb for you and once it ignited once more it found home between her lips. You watched, sipping your beer. She smoked far prettier than Van had.

“Van’s a good listener guess. Doesn’t talk too much,” Lottie snorted out a laugh at that.

“I don't think anyone has ever said ‘Van Palmer doesn’t talk much’” you chuckled out a soft laugh to match hers. You looked away, out at the lights again. Lottie took another breath in, letting the joint sit between her fingers with her crossed arms. She watched the lights with you, though she might not understand the fixation you seemed to have on them. That is, till she paused, turning fully to watch you. She tilted her head again, unexpectedly brushing her fingers over your temple to guide loose hair obstructing her view out of the way and behind your ear. “Let me kiss you,” she murmured, almost as though she was pleading. You turned back to her. Her hand settled on your cheek, fingertips curiously brushing over the apple of your cheek.

“Don’t kid me,” you whispered, eyes glazing as you darted down to her parted lips.

“Never,” she shook her head ever so slightly. It made her hair sway. You swallowed hard but shakily nodded. That was enough of a yes for her to move in. She immediately dropped the joint in her hand and the hand tracing your cheek found home on the back of your neck. Her now free hand rested behind your ear, stroking your hair as you latched onto her waist, using your left hand to hold you up on the log.

She kissed like she knew exactly what she was doing. As though this had all been part of a longstanding plan. She’d envisioned this just as you had, and fuck was it perfect. Her lisp whereas urgent as your own and had it not been a public space you might have let her do anything she wanted to you right then and there. She scrunched her fist into your hair, unintentionally pulling ever so lightly on your scalp and eliciting a sudden moan from your throat which only egged her on further till she had to pull away with you chasing after her.

You opened your eyes wide, lips still parted as you gasped for breath in and out. And then, of course, you got shy, anxious voices telling you she’d regret this immediately. You began to turn from her but the hand in your hair let go and moved to trace knuckles over your cheek and subsequently turn your eyes back to her. She shook her head, murmuring no over and over, soothing you like a child about to cry. And at that thought, the thought of crying alone, you felt the tears spike in your eyes. She watched your brow crinkle as your lip trembled and she pulled you into her chest, holding you as close as she could.

The hand on your neck found your back as the hand on your cheek moved to cup the back of your head. You buried into your neck as you cried, and she rested her cheek against your scalp, murmuring over and over how it was all ok. She kissed your hair, rubbed your back, and rocked you from side to side as your hands vigorously clung to her sweater, fearing letting her go, because what if the magic would be over and gone when she was out of your hands?

But reluctantly you needed to let her go, and eventually, that point came where you emerged from her embrace, the scent of her shampoo and perfume fading from you quickly as you met her puffed, teary gaze. She moved to hold your cheeks in her hands as her breath shook. You held your hands around hers, kissing her palm with a weak smile. Fortunately, that had her let go of a watery laugh. But neither of you spoke yet. You just sat in warm silence till you readjusted to be side by side once more, your head lulled to her shoulder with her cheek at your temple.

“Fuck, what do we even do after that?” you breathed, eyes training down to the long discarded joint and red solo cups with only sips left of beer in them, though yours has spilled at some point, soaking the ground under it.

“I leave tomorrow,” she murmured back. You dressed your lips together before letting go of another sigh.

“I know… we should have waited” she chuckled sleepily.

“I don’t think so,” you hummed your why. “I’ll be excited to get back here. Well, more excited than I already was to see you,” you chuckled, though your tongue dripped with wordless sarcasm.

“Don’t forget about me,”

“Oh, how could I ever after that?” she teased with another giggle. You smiled, nuzzling your nose into her shoulder. With the change in direction, you got an idea upon seeing a small purple flower growing just beside her shoe.

“I know how,” you started, reaching across her side to pick it, leaving a nice, long stem to tuck behind her ear and in her hair. You sat back to admire your work and smiled. “Purple suits you,” you decided, tucking some of the hair behind her ear for a better look at your work. She chuckled with a sniffle, her fingers gently wrapping around your palm, catching you to kiss your fingertips.

“Mam, are you alright?” you were dragged out of your daydream like a shockwave and had to take several moments to ground yourself again, taking in a deep breath. You blinked repeatedly, shaking your head before forcing a smile.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I was remembering something I needed,” you said with a forced chuckle. The florist smiled, though he seemed a little unsure. You turned back to the flower, petal still gently settled between your fingers. “I’ll take this, while I’m here,” you said as you cleared your throat, gently picking up the small white bucket and giving it to the florist to ring up.

“Ah, Ruellia caroliniensis. But it’s better known as Carolina Wild Petunia. A good choice. Pick it for any reason? I ask everybody that,” he asked, making meaningless small talk. Your eyes stayed focused on the waving petals of the plant as it was gently jostled around.

“It just reminded me of someone I knew, I guess,” he smiled thoughtfully and nodded with a soft hum of acknowledgment before he asked you for cash or charge. You picked charge which resulted in you digging through your purse for your card.

“Oh my god! y/n! A shrill voice called when you weren’t looking and just as you pulled out your debit card. You gave the florist you’re card before turning to look who it might be only to have the Misty Quigley herself approaching you with the wide smile and outstretched arms that you felt you had to reciprocate. She squeezed you quite tight and when she let go her hands remained at your side for a moment as she seemed to look at you in awe.

“Well, what the heck are you doing here?” she asked tilting her head with that smile still plastered across her lips till she gasped “Oh! Are you looking for Nat too?” you furrowed your brow and frowned.

“What? No, I’m-”

“Uh, mam, you’re purchase?” the florist interrupted. You turned from Misty to grab your new belonging, which he had been so kind and bagged for you as well as outstretching your card back to you.

“Yes, thank you so much! I truly appreciate it!” you said as chipperly as you could before ushering Misty out of the man’s stall and towards a clearing. “What, what are you talking about with Natalie?”

“She got kidnapped!” the blond exclaimed, adjusting her glasses. “She was taken from the motel she was staying in back home and we’re here to find her,” she blabbered on.

“Hold on, when did Nat get out of rehab and who is we?”

“I dunno, a few weeks ago I think? So much had been going on and it's been hard to keep track and ‘we’ is me and Walter,” you were still confused about the situation and about to ask who Walter was when the man himself showed up. He’d be trailing behind Misty for some time, just casually in the background. He was so average you hadn’t even noticed him. The man waved and offered a smile. You tentatively returned the wave but still seemed confused.

“I’m not here for Natalie. I didn’t hear about that at all. No, I’m looking for Lottie,” you said rather bluntly. Misty frowned and it was now her turn to be confused.

“Lottie? But she’s been in Switzerland for years-”

“Well I thought that too will I saw this,” you whispered, hissing through your teeth as you frantically pulled out your phone and the screenshot you’d taken of the farmers market Instagram post, zooming in on Lottie and shoving the device into her hands.

“No, that can’t be her,”

“It is. I just- it’s not a great angle but I know it’s her,” you insisted. Misty began to scan the photo curiously, zooming back out when she let out a dramatic gasp and began excitedly smacking at your arm.

“Purple people!” you yelled. “Purple people!” she repeated it to Walter this time, which summoned him to rush over and huddle around your phone.

“The purple people took Natalie!” she explained with far too much excitement for your liking.

“Could they have taken Lottie,” Misty shrugged.

“I dunno, maybe. But only one way to find out!” She shoved your phone back in your hand and began aggressively powerwalking away with Walter tight on her heels. You hesitated momentarily before shutting your phone off and shoving it into your purse, hustling after them.

“Wait! Do you know where to go?”

“Yes! Of course! We found out from the other stalls,” she called back. “Get in your car and follow us!” she sounded far too excited for this whole ordeal, but what other options did you have to find Lottie? You ran back to your car, got in, and started with heavy breath ready to take the next step on this crazy adventure you found yourself on.

-💚-

After quite a bit of driving, they pulled off into a bed and breakfast parking lot and parked. You parked beside them and got out with a frustrated expression.

“We're not going tonight.” Misty rolled her eyes and she pulled her suitcase out of the trunk of what you assumed was Walter’s car.

“Someone,” she was heavily implying someone to be Walter, especially with the annoyed, flat-mouthed looks he gave him “wanted to wait till morning because he thinks the cult will expect us at night,” you gave her a look that asked “really” and Misty threw up a hand, shaking her head as she grabbed onto her luggage.

“I know! Trust me, I know, but captain’s orders,” she huffed as she followed Walter into the B&B. You paused, letting out an exasperated sigh before going to grab your duffle back and your plant. You hear Misty muttering about not using her real name as she and Walter get a room.

“And it's just for one room, right?” the concierge asked. There was an irritatingly comedic back and forth of yes, and no, then both of them settled on no, two rooms would be fine.

“And, um, you can put mine under the name Lady Mallowan,” Misty gave herself a name straight out of Clue or a shitty romance novel and you couldn’t help rolling your eyes.

“Seventeen and eighteen. Up the stairs to the right,” then went back and forth with thank yous as they clumsily took their keys, then started deliberating about luggage when Walter offered to take the suitcase off of Misty’s hands.

“Just one room under y/n l/n is fine, please,” you said simply. You saw Misty and her new boyfriend exchange an appalling look and you had to refrain from laughing.

“Room nineteen,”

“That’s great, thanks” You dropped your things upon entry, but gently placed your plant in its bed on the nightstand before collapsing on your bed with a long sigh. Of course, you'd need to get up and change, but for now, lying on your back in a bed that wasn’t yours was all you could feel like doing. That is till you got up from said bed and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a small paper cup of water that you set on the nightstand as you sat on the edge of the bed. You tentatively opened the bag that held your plant and took it out, setting it on the stand to be out and in the fresh air. You gave it a light drink from the cup before you returned to the bathroom for a shower.

-💚-

You were woken by Misty’s knock at you’re door bright and early at seven-thirty and back on the road by eight after grabbing complimentary breakfast to go. It was a rather long drive to wherever you were going, but you once again found ways to fill the time. That is till Walter took a screeching u-turn that almost caused a car crash on a winding, wet wooded road, but that was a conversation for later. You pulled up beside them and followed as they now stood excitedly outside a green gate that happened to have a matching bee on it. All you carried with you was your tote bag with your plant tucked away inside. Why you felt the need to bring it, you weren't sure, but it felt necessary.

“The bee is where the purple people are!” Misty insistently explained.

“Ok, do we need to call them ‘the purple people”

“Well, yes, but that's only till we get a better name for them. But anyway,” without another word of it, Misty ducked under the gate herself and began walking up the road.

“Ok, we’re getting hit by a car if we do that-” you started but she shook her head.

“It'll be fine. It looks decently short,”

“Well what about my car?” you urged.

“Just lock it! Who’s pulling over in the rain to rob an unattended car out here?” you sighed with exasperation.

“I dunno, maybe people from the cult we’re actively visiting,” you mumbled to yourself.

“What was that!”

“Nothing!” you huffed, following after Misty and now Walter, who had started moving shortly after her. She’d been right though. It was a rather short walk with no cars. You found yourself in what looked like a parking lot in the middle of the woods blocking off yet another road with an even larger fence in front of it. Misty and Walter were actively messing with an intercom system that seemed to have worked as they excitedly returned to your side.

“Alright, so the man on the other end, I think his name was Jack or Jackson- anyway, he’s getting Natalie and she's coming to meet us here,”

“But what about Lottie?” Misty adjusted her glasses and folded her arms with a shrug.

“I thought we could have Natalie confirm that, because we know she’s in there-”

“You don’t believe me,” you interrupted as she began trailing off.

“Well, we do not want to be making outlandish accusations to strangers, I mean-” she got easily distracted by the sound of someone walking down the pebbled path.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nataline started with heavy irritation.

“Oh, thank God you're safe,” Misty would have hugged her by now had the gate not been in her way.

“Safe? What are you talking about?” her attention turned to you and her eyes widened with further confusion “Hi, y/n,” she added tentatively. You awkwardly waved as she gave you a nod.

“And who the fսck is this?” she gestured to Walter now.

“Walter,” he simply introduced himself with a wave and a light chuckle before going on. “I've heard nothing but wonderful things about you” Natalie scrunched her nose, clearly not caring all that much about what impression Misty had given him of her upon first meeting.

“We're here to rescue you!” Misty eagerly interjected again. “I mean, you-you were kidnapped, right?”

“No. Uh, yes, technically I was, but it's no big deal, okay?” the notion that Natalie’s kidnapping wasnt that big of a deal was bewildering to Misty as seen on her face, but honestly you understood her reaction.

“Lottie sent some people for me, but I'm not being held against my will,” she muttered, twisting her neck as she spoke. “Well, not anymore” It was now your turn to perk up.

“I'm sorry, Lottie?”

“I told you she was here,” you hissed through your teeth at Misty, moving closer to the fencing.

“Wait- as in Lottie? Lottie, who was committed to a mental institution in Switzerland? That Lottie?”

“Yes, Misty, that's the one,” Natalie turned to you once more “I'm assuming you had your theories or whatever?”

“Oh, I’m not here with them-” you paused. “Ok, originally I was coming here all on my own, but we ran into each other, and well,” from there you gave up.

“Wait, Natalie, Natalie!” Misty derailed the conversation once again. “You're gonna have to elaborate,

“Look, she runs a place here, and she's helping me reflect or whatever. So, you and your Hardy Boy can go home,” she looked Walter up and down again about Hardy Boy.

“But…”

“I'm doing a fսcking thing here, Misty. I don't need you getting in my way,” she’d lost patience with the blonde’s interruptions and persistence and in all honestly, you felt bad for her given how she shrank back at the raised tone. But she quickly toughened back up, turned on her heels, and marched back in the direction you'd come.

“She seems nice,” Walter tried to lighten the mood. Natalie sighed with either exhaustion or irritation, watching them go before her eyes drifted to you, still standing in front of her. “You’re not done too?”

“Natalie, I need to see her,” she let out a scoffish chuckle and sighed through her nose.

“Oh, I’m sure you do,”

“I’m serious, Natalie,”

“Oh no, I can tell you are, don’t worry. Just- just give me a minute, alright. Let me ask my guy,” she began to turn but waited for you to nod before actually leaving. You stood still, turning to check your surroundings once more just to be as sure as possible. Natalie returned quite quickly with a man behind her. She shrugged, seeming surprised by the verdict herself as the gate’s electric lock began to unlatch letting you in.

“Uh, my car is still parked with some of my things,” Natalie was already shaking her head.

“We can have someone come and retrieve it all later,” Natalie’s companion started ad Natalie turned, already heading up the hill for a second time.

“But you're not gonna need it!” she yelled behind her. Due to her eagerness to leave the scene, you were left walking beside the strange man who let you in.

“So, I'm assuming you’re Jack or…” you drawled off but he chuckled, appreciating your intention.

“Jeferson,” he cleared.

“Right, ok. Nice to meet you,” you nodded, your hands clutching quite tight to the straps of your tote bag. “Look, I don’t mean to sound rude, but I’m only here to see Lottie not join your… well join whatever you're up to,” he laughed again and nodded.

“Don’t worry. She knows you're here,” a shive rushed down your spine as you realized what was happening. “I’m instructed to take her to you, actually,”

“Oh. wow, that’s just great. Yeah, great,” you whispered to yourself as you bit your lip, questioning if this was going to be a good idea after all. When you looked up again, taking a deep breath you were met with quite a beautiful scene before you. It was a nice, well-organized camp on a lake with cabins and what you assumed were social areas all around and throughout the woods. You paused for a moment to take it in and wonder, did Lottie make all of this?

“Charlotte is waiting this way, Ms. l/n,” Jeferson interrupted your wonderings.

“Mhm, I’m coming,” you had to manually tell your feet to move before you could follow him to the separate cabin that must be Lottie’s. He had already walked up the stairs by the time you approached the porch, taking a moment to appreciate its handiwork before trudging up the creaking wood. Jefferson opened the door but didn’t enter, only gesturing for you to go in.

“Charlotte will be here as soon as she can step away,” he explained as you cautiously walked in. You nodded, turning around to give him your thanks but he was already shutting the door, leaving you to your own devices. For a moment you stood completely still, watching the wooden door anticipating her walking in at any second, but after a few seconds of stillness, your foot began bouncing with building anxiety squeezing at your chest.

“Shit,” you hissed, turning to look around your surroundings and find something to help you calm down. You put your bag on the table, but take the time to take the plant out and set it beside your bag. You rubbed your sweating palms on your pants and began to wander around the single room you found yourself in. Her main space was split into a small lounge-ish office space with a kitchen on the other half.

You assumed the bathroom and her bedroom were down in the back of the cabin and with a craning of your neck you could see in one of the rooms but you decided it best to leave that be. Wandering around the office space you ran your fingertips over the edge of her desk. You peaked over the edge, curiosity winning momentarily before you restrained yourself, instead turning to the art hung on her wall featuring deer and other wilderness things before resigning yourself to the couch facing her desk.

You flopped down rather unceremoniously but couldn't help sitting stiff, hunched forward with your knee bouncing in anticipation. Your eyes trained on her desk again, which was mostly bare of anything decor-like other than the two small picture frames. You forced yourself to look away till your nerves kicked in again and you were back up and taking the large one into your hands. It featured a classic team photo of the soccer team back in high school, but earlier on during your sophomore year.

You chuckled lightly scanning over the baby faces your old friends used to have. Having something familiar to look at was relaxing, you decided. Maybe not the most morally correct thing, but this was an exceptional situation. So, you moved on to the small one, thinking none of it till she got a look and your heart dropped again. Pressed pristinely against the glass was an all too familiar flower, nearly identical to the one you'd been carrying for the past day and a half. Only this one had far more wear to it, clearly showing its age. It had faded in color over time, taking on hues of parchment brown rather than the vibrant purples you’d been familiar with. You traced over the shapes of the petals, likely dry and dusty to the touch by now over its safety net of glass. That is till you heard the carbon door abruptly shut.

And oh, she was perfect. She was sickeningly, stunningly perfect but all you could do was freeze where you stood, grip tightening around the small wooden frame in your clasp out of fear you might drop it if you didn’t squeeze tight. And she stood just as stunned at you. Age had encompassed her face all this time, but it was still her face. The one you had ingrained in your mind, so much more detailed than any photograph. You felt your chin begin to quiver.

“Please tell me you didn't hold on to that all these years" You had to force it out with your breath ad your brow bowed with the strain of keeping it together. And then she laughed. She laughed her laugh, now blossoming with the beautiful thing that is age, just as every other part of her was. She moved toward you as though she was floating. She took her caftan off so smoothly it was like the breeze itself removed it for her. And before anything else, she took the frame from your hands, fingertips brushing together only for a moment. She returned it to its place before shakily turning back to you, tears drizzling from her eyes as she smiled.

“How could I not,” she murmured with a laugh full of exasperated joy as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her hands hovered over your arms as though she feared touching you would break the illusion, but with the way your lip trembled and tears rolled from your eyes as you held back a strangled sob she couldn’t refrain herself. It all felt so new and old all at once and oh, how overwhelming she was, her hands cupped at your face, thumbs stroking at your tears as you let it all go, sopping into her.

Just as she had years before she murmured sweet nothing promising that you were safe and you were here, but not only you. After so much time she needed the reassurance of reality just as much. She pulled you in, just as before and your nose found its rightful place in the curve of her neck as her cheek found your scalp. She held you up and close as your knees began to shake and you had to grip onto her shoulder blades for what felt like dear life. You needed to feel her to truly know that she was here, she was real and she was yours, as were you.

#fanfiction requests #fic request #◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ kay's at it again♡#yellowjackets fanfic #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets requests #yellowjackets #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #yellowjackets spoilers

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

Note

Im writing a ficlet to post here on tumblr and I got inspired by ur writing but everytime I read the mere start it's just a big no no What do i do???

first of all send it my way if you like!! second of all you have a few options:

1. Just Keep Going

remember you can go back and fix things!! if you keep writing you’ll stumble into a flow, and then you can go back and edit the beginning or middle to fit your vision.

2. Fuck Beginnings

the number one obstacle i had with writint when i was first starting out is that i could never think of a damn beginning. even now i struggle with it. best way to handle that: fuck beginnings. wherever you have a scene, start: in the middle of an argument, the middle of a scene, hell, the middle of a damn sentence. wherever the start of your idea is is the start of your story! don’t force something that doesn’t exist. (that 10k will angst fic i just wrote? started w the sherman & will argument scene! i had Nothing beforehand! and you’ll notice a lot of my stuff starts in the middle of a conversation, cause it’s easier!*)

3. Start Over

sometimes i’ll try so hard to make something i’ve already written work, even if i’m stuck, because i’ve already sunk so much time in it that starting again feels like a waste of time. but, dude, trust me — if you’re that stuck, just start over. maybe not the whole damn piece, but you can definitely rewrite a paragraph or chapter. personally, i tend to cut and paste whatever isn’t working into a new doc so i don’t lose it (in case i manage to reuse it elsewhere) and then i begin again, with uncluttered space.

4. Post What You Have

i should really link y’all to the first post i ever made. it was Hot Stinky Garbage. i don’t care. it Helped, you know? it started me out. maybe your thing isnt perfect — post it anyway. maybe nobody cares — post it anyway. (took like two weeks for someone to care about what i was posting on this account, and i posted daily. my first fic had zero notes for eight days.) you might even find that you’re just being too hard on yourself!

5. Dialogue Prompts My Beloved

dialogue is so so easy for me to write. it’s WAY easier for me to script a conversation and then build facial expressions, emotions, actions, and intention behind it, because i never shut up! i have a lot of practice. as you may have noticed i’ve been using the @p0ck3tf0x 100 ways to say i love you list — i’ve put it in a spinner wheel lol. so i spin the wheel and write the prompt, then i don’t have to make a decision. if i don’t like what comes up i spin again.

good luck!! wish you all the best!!

*it is a thousand times easier to build exposition through context. example:

Kayla walked up to her brother, who was sitting morosely on the porch. “Hey, Will. You good?”

Will shrugged. “I’m okay.”

vs.:

“Will. Hey. You good?”

“‘M okay.” He tried for a smile. “Thanks though, Kayla.”

see the difference? in the first, i am outright telling you that 1) kayla is walking over to will 2) he is sitting on the porch 3) he is sad 4) he is answering her question. this are all stated things, either by the narrator or by the dialogue. this is clunky! this is so clunky!

but why?

you know all these things. you know ‘hey’ is a greeting — so obviously kayla is newly approaching will. kayla calls will by name — you know who she’s talking to. will mumbles, and ‘tries for a smile’ — both things that indicate he’s feeling morose. he responds to kayla by name, so you know who he’s responding to. when you over-explain or state too much in your writing, you’re telling your readers twice, which can feel awkward.

#would y’all be interested in like a quick writing course #or am i being presumptuous #anyways #writing advice #writing #ask #longpost

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xxavengingangelxx · 7 months

Text

As the Rush Comes 1/1

Ya'll! I posted this fic a while ago. It was the post that took my Tumblr virginity. However, I was dumb back then and I'm still dumb now, honestly and I thought Tumblr had a low word limit so I removed some scenes like a director in a movie that's too long and I think that really took away from the quality of the story.

With Graves coming back, I figured now was as good a time as any to repost this. Although this time, I'm posting the whole thing. It came to me after a reading a fic by halfmothhalfman on AO3. Beginning is kinda boring but it sets things up for some good smut ;)

Summary: A female mercenary and Graves meet in a bar. @bellgraves because you asked for it ;)

Tags: Porn with plot, gun kink, hair pulling, borderline hate fucking, friends to enemies, blood and injury, shooting, top!Phillip Graves.

Tagline: You had 74 hits under your belt. A man named Phillip Graves would make 75.

TRIGGERS: Alleged/referenced child abuse, referenced suicide/self-harm, triggers for domestic violence, possible character death. MDNI, 18+ only.

I hate you.

That was the first sentence you said when you were 3 years old. You screamed it, shrieked it, to this towering man standing right in front of you. While you don’t remember exactly what had transpired, you know that you both were standing over your parents’ dead bodies and that your pajamas were sprayed red. The man in front of you did not know how to respond. It was almost as if he had never been around children so young.

You were perceptive like that even when you were 3 years old.

Sirens in the background seemed to pull the large man out of his reverie. You saw panic in his green eyes despite the fact that the rest of his face was covered in a black mask.

Then he took you.

***

And the rest is history. You learned from him later that he grabbed you because the police were on the way, you were clearly verbal, and you might make a good witness. He admitted later that he had not been around any children much less raised one. My childhood was a shithole, he would tell you.

He told you eventually that the initial plan was to avoid doing the ‘hit’ when you, a toddler, were in the home but that the timing had not given him any other alternative. He mentioned his boss told him that if the child, you, were in the home, to avoid doing it in front of you. But if shit hit the fan, then, hell, he said he had been given the green light to get rid of you, too.

He told you many times, sometimes when he was drunk, that there was no way he could kill any child, much less one that’s not even school age. So he did the only thing that came to him. He eliminated the witness without killing you. He couldn’t just throw you into foster care or abandon you because then you could be a witness. Plus he mentioned to you a lot that foster care was fucking awful. You learned that when you spent almost 6 months in foster care after he was accused of abuse. He’d burned your fingerprints off when you were 10 and the teachers were shocked when they tried to do a science project that involved fingerprints. You denied abuse, saying you were a disturbed child (you really were disturbed so it was half truth) who’d done it to herself. You were happy to be home with him however dysfunctional the home was.

He raised you. He raised you the only way he knew how. He actually never really abused you. Sure he’d beat the shit out of you if you acted up. You tried running away once and he almost put you in the hospital with the beatdown he gave you. He smacked you across the face if you got smart mouthed with him. You saw your first murder/hit when you were 10. But you didn’t consider that abuse. You considered it being put back in line. He raised you and taught you the only thing he knew.

Murder for hire.

He’d given you the name Raquel, after one of the avenging angels of heaven. You never knew your real name and to be honest you didn’t really give a fuck. You were apparently born in California and he hauled you all the way to the miserable, lonely town of International Falls, Minnesota to grow up. No one would bother looking in the nation’s ice box.

Businesswise, all you knew is that he was paid by someone else. He was hired by different people to do different hits. His own boss, your boss’s boss, ran a PMC on the side or so you heard. That was your goal: to be a PMC contractor. You’d been all over the world with your job with countless identities. But PMCs got to go to the really fun places. You’d sniped once or twice but wanted to do it more often.

So now you did what he did. Kinda. You’d have to work your way up the ranks. You’d been killing since you were 18. He was ‘nice’ enough to not make you kill before you were 18. Besides, you’d be fuckin’ sloppy anyway. At least when you both thought you were about 18. You did not know your actual birthday and neither did he. Neither of you gave a fuck. You had 74 hits under your belt, all done in the last 15 years. About 5 kills a year and the rest off to do whatever the hell you wanted whether that be party and get drunk (no drugs allowed or you risked getting a target put on your back) or whether it was nothing in a hotel room. You needed 100 hits to be considered for PMC.

A man named Phillip Graves would make 75.

You never asked the why. You never asked if they worked for him before and they had gone rogue. He made it a goal to not let his soldiers know about each other in case he had to order a hit on one of his own. The why was simply not important.

So, Phillip Graves. Someone above your boss had ordered the hit.

You were told to be careful, that he was the CEO of his own PMC. He was dangerous, you were told. You’d have to be on your toes.

I want to make your 75th special, he had told you. Try not to die. We could use a woman in the PMC. Ya’ll get to do stuff men can’t. And definitely do not let him recruit you. It’d be treason to me. Pays $50,000.

The hit was not ‘immediate’ which meant you needed to gather some basic information from him. When the final order came down for the hit to be carried out to “full term” you were to kill him. But not until then.

***

You initially met Phillip Graves in a bar.

You wore something revealing. A hot, tight black dress with thigh boots. Your hair curled over your shoulders and you had your fuck me makeup on. One of the ways you would attract your mark’s attention was to wear a black silicone wedding ring. And it worked this time, too.

“Your husband know you’re here?” A man with a Southern drawl called from behind you. Before you faced him your smirked to yourself.

“I’m not married,” you snapped, turning to face him.

“Coulda fooled me,” he shrugged and nodded towards the ring on your finger.

“Maybe I wear it to stop creeps like you from talking to me,”

“Ain’t gonna stop me, sweetheart,” he moved to sit on the stool next to you, removing dark aviator sunglasses. His blue eyes shone even in the low light of the bar. “Are you?” His cologne smelled intoxicating in a way. There was a slight smell of…gunpowder.

Hot motherfucker, ain’t he?

“Nope,” you replied.

“Name’s Phillip,”

“Ariel,” you lied.

“I’m just gonna ask, ma’am,” he started eyeing your body up and down without shame. “Are you for sale?”

You scoffed. In a way, you thought.

“What makes you think that?”

He huffed a laugh.

“Pardon my language but you’ve got fuck me written all over you.” His eyes focused on yours, looking for a reaction. “Hell several men in here are actively eye fucking you.”

“You mean that disgusting fuck in the corner?” you signaled to an overweight 50 year old eyeing you like you were prey. “Ugh,”

“He seems like the rapey type,” Graves added. “You can either hook up with him or me,”

“Or neither,” you rolled your eyes. “And no I’m not for sale, sir.”

“Sounds good to me because I don’t pay. If I see someone I like I get ‘em.” He paused. “Even if that means using force.”

You scoffed. The only reason you took him half seriously if because this is Phillip fucking Graves. “You come off a deployment or somethin’, man? You seem desperate.”

His blue eyes flashed anger and you could swear he was resisting the urge to smack you across the face. He seemed like the type that didn’t have a problem hitting women. Or killing them.

“It’s been longer than I’d like,” he admitted.

“Whatever,”

“Playin’ hard to get?” his blue eyes were dilated now. He liked the thrill of the chase.

“Start over,” you snapped.

You saw when he gritted his teeth. This man was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted to.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he smirked.

***

You led him back to your motel room.

You didn’t have to wait or ask for him to get things started.

He shoved you against the door, one of his hands tangling in your soft hair and the other gripping your ass in an almost bruising grip. He detangled his hands from your hair and your ass and then used them to tear your short dress from the bottom up.

“Asshole,” you breathed. “This was expensive, dick,”

He ignored you, wrapping his arms around your waist and hiking you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist. One of his hands went back to your hair, gripping it tight and pulling hard, causing sharp pain and making you hiss.

His teeth grazed your throat. If wanted to he could’ve ripped your throat out with his teeth. You had a fleeting thought, wondering if he’d ever done that to someone. If he had ever ripped a man’s throat out. His mouth moved to your pulse point. You felt him grin when he felt your accelerating heartrate. He bit and sucked. You were sure he’d leave bruises.

“No marks,” you retorted. “I don’t belong to you,”

“No, you do tonight,” he breathed.

He continued biting, sucking. Your boss would call you a fucking whore with a smile on his face when he saw.

You had never been afraid to sleep with the men your killed. It was weird in a fucked up kind of way. Your boss, also known as your caregiver when you were growing up, had never laid a hand on you that way but he’d mentioned many a time that women can use their looks to bait when men usually could not. It was one of the reasons he wanted to accelerate you to your 100 kills…to get you into that PMC. You’d feel a rush when you finished off men as they slept off their tirade. You’d call it a rush coming and it released only when they were dead.

Graves wouldn’t die tonight, though. But he would eventually.

Flirt, fuck, repeat until the order came in to drop him.

You were tossed on the bed roughly, bringing your mind back to the present. He finished ripping your dress open, saying something you didn’t quite get because no sooner than he tossed you on the bed he had unclasped your bra and started biting and sucking your breasts, again leaving hickies and bruises. He got lower…lower…

And lower. He made quick work of your underwear, his hot breath hitting your sex and making you sigh.

“I said, you’re sure moaning like a whore,”

And with that you wanted to hear him beg.

You shoved him, shedded the rest of your clothing and walked towards him. You then knelt in front of him and he was clearly confused by the way you went from shortly dominating the situation to submission. You knew Graves…at least enough about him…to know he got off on being in control. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t have fun.

Your trembling fingers unbuckled his military-style belt and that was when you noticed his sidearm. You were tempted to grab it and just fucking kill him then but not yet. You didn’t have the orders. You easily worked the belt off but he grabbed his sidearm out of your reach.

You got on your haunches, appearing even smaller before him. You look at him through your bangs, through your lashes (real lashes not that fake shit), and you feel your mascara and eyeliner running, initiated by your sweat and the rain outside. You parted your lips slightly and he sighed, his blue eyes barely visible because his pupils were so dilated.

“I don’t trust you, sweetheart,” he grabs his sidearm and yanks it from the holster. Shit…you might have to kill him tonight.

You pouted, attempting to manipulate him.

“You seem like you’re into dark shit,” he grumbled as he freed his cock, the tip of it leaking precum and standing inches from your lips.

“What’s that mean?” you whispered as you licked your lips.

He aimed the sidearm at your head. “You sure as hell know what to do,” he hissed, his other hand stroking himself. “Get to it. Now.”

“Sick fuck,” you mumbled. You took him into your mouth quickly, knowing no man would willingly shoot a woman giving him head in the head or anywhere else. Teeth could be deadly to a man in more ways than one.

“No sicker n’ you,” he moaned. He kept one hand on his sidearm against your head and one hand then tangled in your hair.

You felt as he got harder and harder in your mouth. You moaned around him and he hissed, the vibration apparently rubbing him the right way. It was fucking hot. Here you were sucking cock with a gun to your head. You didn’t mind. Phillip Graves was attractive unlike most of the men you’d handled.

His hand started loosening on his sidearm and you took that as you doing your damn job right. His hips were thrusting into your face and you felt him hitting the back of your throat. Tears escaped the sides of your eyes as you almost, almost gagged.

It was at that point that he tossed the sidearm on the bed to grasp your hair with both hands. He effectively started facefucking you. But that was where you drew the line. He still had his uniform pants halfway on and you gripped the thick fabric, preventing him from bruising your throat. You stopped it all…you stopped using your tongue, stopped using your tongue piercing to get him even harder.

“Beg,” you said after you pulled away from him. His cock was angry…red.

“Bitch, you don’t get to tell me—” he grasped your hair and threw you onto the bed again. “You dress like a whore, you get treated like one.” He climbed over you. You found it hot he was still in uniform and you were totally naked. Well except for your knee boots. Hell, he still had the vest under his shirt on. “I don’t treat a lady like this, but you…”

He settled between your legs, his hot cock rubbing your entrance. You moaned like a porn star because you’d started getting wet the moment you saw him. He was hot. And the fact that you were going to end his life not long from now got you hotter. So easy to manipulate men…

He didn’t even bother preparing you. He slammed in to the hilt, making you cry out.

“Whatever, slut,” he snapped. “Take it.”

He reached for your wrists holding you down as he rammed into you. His eyes looked down on you, focusing mostly on the way your breasts bounced as he fucked you…hard.

He was hitting that special spot inside of you. One few men knew to hit. He ground against you, rubbing your clit in between you both. You had never understood women who couldn’t cum from vaginal sex. How could you not?

You wanted to break your hands free from his iron grip. You were sure he’d leave bruises on your wrists, something else for boss to tease you about. You’re fucked up, he’d likely say. But he never complained because you always got the job done.

You felt that heat building up deep inside of you as he continued his relentless thrusts. He was thrusting faster, deeper, harder. When he leaned forward and bit your lip with his teeth (and drew blood) that pushed you over the edge.

You cried out in his mouth. You finally got your hands loose, tangling them in his short hair. You wrapped your legs around his waist, as you rode out your orgasm. You moved your hands to scratch his back but you felt only unform and Kevlar, no blood like you would have liked.

He broke loose from the kiss, moving to leave another mark just under your jaw.

He followed with his own climax shortly after. You felt him throbbing inside of you and it was at that moment that you realized ya’ll hadn’t even considered safe sex. Not that you cared. Hot men got a pass on that. Ugly ass men had to wear condoms.

His breath came in hurried gasps as he rode out his own orgasm, pulsing inside of you all the while.

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned. He stilled his hips and hovered over you, his dirty blonde hair ticking your breasts.

You were both hot, both sweaty, and you had several marks all over you. Proof of his dominance. It was almost like he wanted to mark you so no one else would touch you. He wanted you all to himself.

“Motherfucker,” you hissed as he pulled out of you and collapsed next to you. “I said no marks.” You observed marks on your breasts and that the bony part of your wrist already had a light blue tint, promising a bruise.

He scoffed, rolling off the bed. All he had to do was pull his pants up and secure his belt. He secured his sidearm next.

“What’re you doing about…” he trailed off.

“About what?” You sat up, your body aching in protest. You felt his essence sliding out of you and onto the cheap motel bed.

He rubbed the back of his head, suddenly appearing shy. “You know what.”

“Pregnancy?”

“I’m actually looking to settle down and have a kid,”

His eyes widened and you saw panic in his blue eyes. His blue eyes had lost the indigo color they had when he had been fucking you. You wondered if that would be the same look in his eyes when you killed him. You weren’t sure yet if you’d use a gun or a knife but the orders said the mark has to be within arm’s reach so that meant no sniping.

“Kidding,” you laughed. “I don’t want no fucking kids.” You sighed before adding, “I’ll get Plan B but I have an IUD.”

He sighed in obvious relief.

“Leaving already?” you asked as he started for the door.

“You know what kinda relationship this is gonna be,” he replied, not even bothering to turn around. He opened the door. “See you next week?”

“Count on it,” you smirked.

***

It had been exactly 30 days since you met Phillip Graves when the ‘full-term’ order came through. You’d learned the basics about him. Some of his habits, that he was ex-military, that he owned his own company although he refused to tell you where he worked.

So you met him at another that Friday night. The Friday night. You met in different places, sometimes hundreds of miles apart. But all were close to a base. The bar was usually filled with uniformed men looking to have a good time and relax. It was colder then and so you wore tight jeans with knee boots. A beanie covered your normally cascading hair. It was sleeting outside. And it was about to turn into snow.

“Hey there,” he drawled.

“Graves,” you smirked.

”It’s gonna be hard to peel you out of those jeans,” he eyed you up and down. Little did he know you did not intend to take your clothes off for him this time.

You followed the typical schedule. Some drinks and then you both left to go to the nearby motel. It’s not like you had a home to take him back to. You’d lived in hotels and motels and extended stay inns since you were 18.

It had started to snow and you watched some of the small furry white snowflakes landed in your loose curls of hair.

“After you, ma’am,” he smirked, holding the motel room door open.

“Such a gentleman,” you purred.

“Not for long,” he sneered.

You had set an alarm on your phone. You’d timed it to go off right before he dragged you to the bed like he always did at least once a week.

“Ugh, my fucking boss,” you pretended to be annoyed.

“What’d you do?”

“None of your business,” you responded to his question about what you did for a living.

“Whore out apparently,” he laughed.

You glared.

“Let me text this asshole and then we’ll get down to business,” you smiled.

“I’m gonna take a piss then,” Graves said nonchalantly as he walked to the bathroom.

Perfect.

You heard as he took care of business, flushed and then went to wash his hands. His back was to you. Foolish move.

So you grabbed a 9mm you kept in your large purse. A 9mm had more recoil than you liked but it definitely got the job done. Especially at close range. You wanted to look in his eyes when you killed him. You didn’t know why he was on a hit list but he had apparently pissed someone off badly enough to want him killed at close range. You’d have to aim for the head because he had his heavy duty tactical vest on today. The one with the wires for communication, the antenna folded several times over. It had an American flag and a patch that read B-23. You suddenly regretted you hadn’t had him use zip ties with you in your month together.

He looked in the mirror and…the cat was out of the bag.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” he laughed. “You were too good to be true.” He turned and walked towards you.

You raised the 9mm.

“Don’t do that. Don’t. Do that,” he warned. He had a different look in his eyes this time. His hand brushed his own sidearm, almost as if he didn’t take your threat seriously, like he knew he’d kill you before you ever got the chance to even try to kill him.

You scoffed. He was a military man. He knew orders were orders.

“You work with a PMC? Or are you a hired slut with a gun?”

“None of your fucking business,” you said through gritted teeth.

“No one needs to get hurt here.”

“You know one of us has to get hurt.” You paused before you added, “mortally so.”

“Let’s not do this,” he said calmly. He knew that his heavy duty vest would catch almost any bullet you fired at his chest.

You shook your head.

“Why the hell are we talking like this is some kind of negotiation?” He demanded. “It’s not.”

“You’re right it’s not,” you stood strong. “I can’t fail. I’ve never failed. He always told me I don’t want to find out what will happen to me if I fail. He just said I’d wish I was dead.”

“Leave,” he snapped. “I like you but I will hurt you if you so much as try.”

You scoffed internally because none of the men you’d killed had put a fight.

You clicked the safety off and before your finger could go from straight to curled over the trigger, he lunged.

Suddenly you found yourself flat on your back with the back of your head hitting the thin, cheap, disgusting carpet with a thud. You saw black spots in your vision. You immediately came back to lucidity. Passing out would be certain death. Or Graves escaping.

“Get off me, you asshole!” you screamed. All the extra gear he had on made him heavier than he already was and some of the gear was digging into your ribs.

He didn’t respond. Instead Graves easily straddled you and pinned you down the same way he’d held your wrists down when he’d fucked you. He leaned forward, his dirty blond hair falling over his forehead. He easily peeled your fingers off the gun and tossed it out of reach.

You shouted, “Ugh, bastard!” before you wrapped your right leg around his waist, feeling bruises forming from his gear. It was usually a lot easier for you to wrap your legs around him but not tonight. Luckily your heels gave you extra height. You dropped your heel on the small of his back, where it was not covered by the vest.

Momentarily startled, he eased his grip on your wrists. You eased your right hand out of his grasp and punched him right in the face. He full on growled with fury as he fell sideways a bit and you shook your hand from the pain, knowing you’d broken something. He stumbled again so you put your right leg in between the two of you and kicked, pushing him off you.

He stumbled, falling sideways once more. “Bitch,” he growled lowly. This was a tone you had not heard from him before. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you. I’ll watch the light leave your eyes.”

You reached for a knife you kept in your boot and taking advantage of the fact that you were both still on your knees, you lunged and sliced.

Graves almost yelped. He pressed his gloved hand to the open cut on his face. On his right cheek. It was sure to scar. Not that it would matter since you’d be killing him tonight. You’d go to his funeral. You were actually going to miss him. If only you’d sliced lower than his right cheek you would have sliced his throat.

“Motherfucking bitch,” he snarled when his fingers came back with his own blood. “Walk away!” he roared. “Last fucking chance before I rip you to shreds.”

“I told you I cant,” You replied simply. “One of doesn’t get any older than tonight.” You reached for a small pink Beretta you kept in your leather jacket pocket. It was your go-to if things got too hot. And things were HOT right now. Not sexually so but dangerously so.

He got in front of you so fast you barely registered.

How did a man that large move so quickly?!

You felt him full on punch you with a closed fist across your face and you heard a sickening, nauseating crack as blood gushed from your nose. A choked sob escaped you despite your attempts to hide it because holy shit he hit you hard. Like he would hit a man. You were losing and losing badly. You stumbled but he then gripped your right arm in a hold.

Another second and he had broken your arm…easily.

You screamed because fuck it hurt and it forced you to drop the gun.

Your boss and caregiver had forced you to be ambidextrous with all your weapons and you silently thanked him for that now.

You reached for your second to last weapon. Another knife. You got it in your left hand and sliced towards him, almost catching his throat when he again attacked you, assaulted you, almost ripped you apart (like he said he would) again. It was so close you yelled out in anger, frustration. You’ve been close two fucking times now.

Two loud bangs and flashes threw you off.

Things blacked out for a second or to and…

You were back on the floor again, on your back, your head hitting it a second time. You immediately spat and coughed blood when you tried to take a breath. You felt a red mist fall on your face and chest. Your ears were ringing, painfully so and you vision had black edges.

What the hell had happened?! Your mind went into panic, something you’d never really experienced before. Your brain switched to a more primal state of survival.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” he repeated a line he’d said earlier. “You there?” he drawled as your hearing went in and out, all while painfully ringing. “That was a big mistake. It did not have to be like this.”

You barely heard him over the ringing in your ears. And…were your ears bleeding?

“Sunovabitch,” he muttered. He said you’d made a grave mistake and some dark part of your mind laughed insanely, because his last name is Graves.

“I don’t usually kill or punch women but you’re an exception to that,” he said cooly. “Fuckin’ idiot.”

You saw him blurrily but you still saw him as he picked up both your firearms and your knives. He then walked up to you. He was getting hurried in his movements. While this was a shady ass motel with gunshots all the time, he knew he couldn’t be found anywhere near there when the police eventually came.

He then grabbed your jacket and dragged you closer to the motel door. You left red streaks as he crudely hauled you. He tossed you into a corner. Probably so when he walked out you wouldn’t have a clear view on him.

“Sorry, soldier,” he commented. “Should’ve kept an eye on the 9 I made you drop earlier.” He laughed. The sadistic bastard laughed cruelly and he added, “Shot with your own sidearm.”

“Kinda a shame,” he continued, his eyes glinting as they caught the bright neon streetlight just outside your room. The blood on his face was now running down his neck, to his shoulder, staining his uniform and vest. It look bright red in places and dark red in others. “I mighta hired ya for some of my less challenging jobs.”

It was probably the first time in your adult life you started crying. You likely had a pleading look on your face. You felt tears of frustration, of pain, or red-hot anger fall from your eyes and slide down the sides of your face. They landed in your hair and they were tinged red from the coughed up blood on your face.

He slipped your Beretta into a pocket, saying, “souvenir,” as he grinned callously. You expected him to hold it to your head and finish you off. You were going to make him look at you when he killed you.

But he turned away.

“You’d better kill me,” you gasped. The effort sent you into a gasping and coughing fit and you were again covered in your own blood. You swore on your fucking life this man would die if you survived this.

He turned back towards you and easily grabbed your cellphone from your jacket pocket, kneeling beside you. He rested one of his knees on your ribs, making you really start crying. You couldn’t stop it…it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad.

“Unlock it,” he demanded of your phone. He held it just out of your reach, almost as if he wanted to see you suffer. “You put up a good fight but fight’s over.”

Cruel, merciless bastard.

You were dying tonight so what the hell. You used your left index finger to unlock the phone.

He creepily knew right where to go. His rust-red fingers danced over your screen, his blue eyes shining bright with the screen’s light. Your screen would likely be caked with your blood and his blood. At least you’d made the great Phillip Graves bleed.

That scar on his face would make sure he never forgot you. But then again if your survived, the scars that would litter your body (the gunshot wounds, the plates probably required to repair your arm) would make sure you didn’t forget him either.

He showed you the screen.

He had gone into your text messages and somehow found your boss’s number.

He had typed: Come get your girl’s body. -Graves

And he hit send.

“You’re very likely as good as dead,” he said before he clicked his tongue. “But if they get to you in time, stay the hell away from me.” He reached down, grasping your hair with a ferocity he had not before. He raised you off the floor and you were pretty sure you lost consciousness for more than a few seconds. But he waited for you to open your eyes again before he asked, “We clear?”

You nodded despite yourself. Hell no you intended to make him suffer if you survived.

“Good,” he drawled. “If you don’t die tonight, I’ll fucking slaughter you if I see you again.” It sounded like a promise. “I’ll have one last fuck and then I’ll paint the fucking walls with your brains.”

He got up and tossed you your cell phone on your chest. You’d seen that curiously enough, weirdly enough he had dialed 911. He stood back up. The movement of air as he stood resulted in scents of blood, sweat, cologne, and gunpowder being sent your way. Usually it was hot. Tonight it almost made you gag.

You tried to roll into the recovery position on your side and you screamed as it felt like your inside were on fire. The phone slid off your chest onto the floor.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

You ignored it. You looked for something, anything that could kill this son of a bitch. Like an attack dog you’d been conditioned since you were a child: Either finish the job or die trying. He had your Beretta and your 9mm and both knives. There was no way you could reach your last resort weapon. He was taking no chances and giving you nothing to strike back at him with. He knew you better than you gave him credit for.

Besides, he was gone.

The 911 operator kept trying to get in touch with you.

You tried to say you’d been shot but could only gasp for air, choking on your own blood. Being in the recovery position helped you not choke and gag as much but you were sure you had bad internal bleeding. You vomited the alcohol you’d recently drank, the liquid burning your inside wounds like lava. Something primal in your brain fought for survival and wanted you to reply to that 911 operator.

You set your head down on your left arm, cradling your broken right. You sniffled because fuck…fuck…FUCK. Phillip Graves had mopped the floor with you. He had beaten you within an inch of unconsciousness and then shot you. All in the span of less than 5 minutes. You’d been cocky, so sure you could manipulate him with sex and seduction. It had worked for all the other men.

But not Phillip Graves. Speak of the devil because you heard him start his pickup truck parked just outside the motel room window.

You opened your eyes again, not knowing how much time had passed. You then noticed something…your 9mm. You thought you were hallucinating so you tentatively reached out for it, choking back a sob of pain and misery. You’d been crying at this point so you gave up on trying to hold back tears. You gripped it with trembling, bloody, sticky fingers. So he hadn’t taken it. When did he drop it or set it down? You had no idea.

“I’m sending police and ambulance to your location,” the 911 operator’s voice echoed in your head and it seemed to reverberate forever.

You ignored her. You grasped the gun and pointed it to the left side of your head on your temple. You angled the gun downwards because you knew that made it more likely for the bullet to take out the basic part of your brain that controlled breathing and heartrate and blood pressure. You squeezed your eyes and pulled the trigger.

And nothing happened. You then saw that the son of a bitch had ejected the clip and the bullet from the chamber.

“Motherfucker,” you whimpered in a whisper.

Your phone dinged. A text message.

You better fucking explain yourself, Raq. What the hell kinda message was that? You lazily read the text message from your boss. Graves better be KIA. Another text bubble. Just because you grew up with me doesn’t mean I won’t beat your ass and put you back in line if you failed me. You couldn’t reply and didn’t want to. A phone call from your boss. Another text message as you wavered in and out of consciousness. You blinked through tears and saw him text again. Answer your fucking phone. Yet another text bubble. You’re pissing me off, Raq. Answer me. I need a sit rep.

Oh well. You were likely going to bleed out anyway.

A fucked up end to a fucked up life. If by some miracle you survived, you might have to go rogue. Missing in action because there would be a hit on you for the failed job. Phillip fuckin Graves would die if you survived. That much you promised yourself.

But you were dying. Fast.

At least it was looking like you wouldn’t find out what happened if you failed.

***

I honestly don't know if she's alive or dead ;)

#phillip graves #cod mw2 #cod mwii #phillip graves x reader #graves x reader #mw2 141

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punemy-spotted · 11 months

Text

A Worthy Grave - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - The Dead Become the Emperors of Memory

Pairing: Federal Agent!Ari Levinson x Witch!Reader

Masterlist; Chapter 1; Chapter 2

Pairing: Federal Agent!Ari Levinson x Witch!Reader

Warnings: THIS IS STILL A HORROR FIC; A Whole Lot of Body Horror; Blood and Gore; Harm to an Animal; Gruesome Murder; Religious Iconography; Straight up Heresy; Christ Imagery; Gruesome Descriptions of Organs; Ghosts; Ghouls; Violence Against Women; Discussion of Grief; Witchcraft; Blood; I Cannot Articulate Enough That This is a HORROR Fic; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat; Seriously so so dead, HEED THE WARNINGS

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: Death was not supposed to visit you in the one place you spent your day speakin’ for it, carvin’ answers out of flesh and bone.

Notes: So yes it took me 84 years to update and I'm SORRY. Please take this update as an apology. (also yes this was on Ao3 ages ago… depression’s a bitch, y’all.)

I cannot emphasize enough that this is a horror fic so things are going to get gory going forward. PLEASE read at your own discretion, I'm begging you.

As always, I crave feedback so please let me know your thoughts! Have questions about the lore? Let me know about those too! As a reminder, reblogging fics supports authors so please let me know you want more by liking AND reblogging!

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

The next morning comes with lab results and Ari Levinson bringing you coffee, bright and early.

Good coffee, too, which you note with amusement the moment you take a sip, You convince Janice to upgrade the beans?

Pretty sure she’d tell me asking wasn’t even on the budget. I went to Jed’s.

You go to his restaurant or his house?

You’re teasing him — which you’ll admit is new for you, especially with Ari fuckin’ Levinson standin’ in front of you, sipping coffee and enjoying one of Jed’s famous breakfast sandwhiches — but considerin’ your couch an’ the fact that he slept on it night before last, it’s not like you’re unjustified, is it? A fact which he, to his credit, takes in stride, taking a smug sip of coffee — if such a thing were possible, it would be Levinson to pull it off — and shrugging, Showin’ up unannounced at the ass-crack of dawn’s a privilege I reserve for you, Doc.

You roll your eyes, hide your smile behind the lip of your coffee cup, Just cuz you spent the night on my couch don’t mean I’m gonna be any nicer to you, Levinson.

Shit, Doc, you start bein’ nice to me and I might swoon here and now.

You’d refuse to admit it if he or anyone else asked you to, but that makes you laugh, hidden behind a huff that could be annoyance or amusement, Hope you ain’t expectin’ me to catch you, Levinson.

I learned my lesson last time the Chief tried makin’ us do trust exercises.

Not my fault you didn’t warn me.

He shrugs, you roll your eyes, turning back to the computer as it dings with a message for you to review, You better have ordered me a sandwich too, or I’m bannin’ you from my biscuits for the foreseeable future.

That’s for you to find out in the lunchroom, Doc.

Where the hell’s your apple butter?

In a twist of fate you will not be thankin’ anyone for — least of all Ari Levinson — there is a sandwich waiting for you in the breakroom fridge, labeled and everythin’. You pop it into the toaster oven like you always do with Jed’s takeaway, pouring yourself a glass of sweet tea and taking the time you deserve for yourself an’ your lunch break, having taken great care to make sure there’s not an ounce of paperwork or results to review while you sip tea an’ enjoy a meal to the sound of blessed silence.

Most of the office would be done with their lunches by now, or eatin’ at their desks to avoid traffic in the break room. ‘Course, with your lab, the idea of eatin’ a meal with a frozen corpse in the next room waitin’ for you to finish rummagin’ around in its guts did not whet the appetite.

Least the break room don’t smell like formaldehyde all the time.

So you take your vigil here, disappearing into your thoughts and the quiet joy of pastrami on rye.

Until Ari Levinson, like a bloodhound sensin’ the exact moment you find silence in your life and choosin’ to hunt it down, comes strollin’ in, See you found the sandwich, Doc.

You might’ve been grateful you’d already finished your meal, just sippin’ tea by the time he came by, but you’re already missin’ silence and there’s a good fifteen minutes left before you need to clock back in an’ pretend you’re comfortable ‘round grieving parents, so you’d thank him to forgive you for lookin’ like he made you swallow a lemon. Whole. You bribin’ me with a sandwich to keep talkin’ to you, Levinson?

Is it working?

You open your mouth, poised to continue the time-honored tradition of tradin’ barbs with him, sarcastic quip ready to fly from your tongue, when you see her. Standin’ there in all her spectral glory, mouth open wide in a static scream of horror an’ fury, a livid necklace of purple bruises blooming around her throat, hollow eyes trained on you.

And Ari Levinson, goddamn him and his goddamn training, notices. Notices. Watches you. Makes silent note of how your mouth snaps shut, how your lips fold into a grim line and follows the trajectory of your gaze with a turn of his head, watchin’ the hallway behind him.

Hey Doc, he calls back to you, voice as level as he can probably manage it.

Yeah? You make a valiant effort at doing the same, refusin’ to take your eyes off the specter once known as Jane Doe #117.

I’m assuming you see her?

Sure do, Levinson.

There’s a pause, a moment, Ari’s hands slowly reaching for the gun at his holster and you slowly reaching a hand out to stop him, ears ringing as you try to make sense of the radio static pouring from that endless scream, your daddy’s lessons servin’ you well. Run.

A beat.

Then—Levinson, I need you to get security over to the lab.

The look he fires back at you is pure confusion, hand still poised over his gun and you know in your bones the only reason Jane Doe #117 hasn’t moved is cuz you’ve got eyes on her right now.

Bad deaths. The humanity is rotting out of her by the second, an’ no amount of cornbread offerings an’ promises to do our best are gonna keep her from lashin’ out at the humanity she’s lost, not ‘til the person who took it from her is found and named. Named for her to haunt until they too, turn to rot.

But you don’t got time to think about that right now, not when Ari’s already arguing with you ‘bout leavin’ you alone with an eyeless, bloodless, ghost. Or haint, you ain’t sure what he’ll call it—Doc, I know—

I know I didn’t stutter, Levinson. Security. Lab. Now.

It’s already too late.

Jon Doe #43 is less pleasant lookin’ than the girl whose ID he had hidden inside his flayed jaw — the girl whose radio static warning is still ringing in your ears as you take in the sight of him now, lookin’ leagues worse than he did the first time he showed up on your doorstep… two nights ago.

How quickly things move.

Ari swears low under his breath behind you, both of you frozen in place and trying to make sense of the tableau before you, the sight of a dead man strung up against the wall, arms outstretched and a crown of broken scalpels forced into the exposed bone of his scalp, head hanging low as if looking down at the figure kneeling at his bloody, skinless feet.

Is that…?

It is.

Something sick rises in your gut as you take a look at the blood-bathed figure kneelin’ before the corpse you know she’d been busy trynna put back together into somethin’ buryable, her gloved hands bound into some bastardization of penitent prayer by a line of what you’re pretty sure is John Doe #47’s own large intestine, havin’ been cleaned out after another one of your techs “recovered” it from the tupperware container it’d been found in when the whole mess’d been discovered.

You can’t see her face — part cuz she’s turned away from you, lookin’ up at that flayed Christ, an’ part cuz of the horned thing resting on her shoulders, a shape you wish you didn’t recognize as you take in the sight of cream-white fur stained with drippin’ viscera — but you suspect you know exactly what kinda expression she’s wearin’ underneath that “mask” forced over her.

Blood for blood.

You made a life of it, death. Cornbread offerin’s like your momma taught you the first time you met one of the wailin’ spirits of the woods ‘round your home, let ‘em gorge themselves on the vitality of food the same way a livin’ bein’ might fuel themselves with the actual thing. Tried to make sense of the static the way your daddy would when he stepped off the pulpit and into the graveyard behind your family home, always hissing warnings to the bein’s beyond to keep away from his family.

You made a life of it.

But just like the mountains, the ones meant to keep you safe if you kept ‘em safe, death was supposed to stay way the hell away from you, was supposed to keep its scythe off you an’ yours until they were good an’ ready to travel through that big black door. That was the promise written all over that big ol’ family Bible you spent your childhood copyin’ so you’d be ready for the world outside your homemade Eden, the one you wielded like shield an’ sword against any manner of haint unwillin’ to recognize the darkness in your own blood.

Death was not supposed to visit you in the one place you spent your day speakin’ for it, carvin’ answers out of flesh and bone, woe to you who rend the flesh.

Your lab is now an active crime scene, casting you out to make your calls to next of kin — you know them, you’ve met her husband ‘bout a half-dozen times this past month alone, bringin’ her lunch when her scatterbrain forgot it, got used to seein’ him lingerin’ sheepishly in the doorway and then hollerin’ for her to come out front an’ give her beau a kiss — and try to get used to sayin’ her name in conjunction with, There’s been… an incident.

You’re no grief counselor.

There’s no training for this, but it ain’t right. It ain’t right for someone who ain’t family to call hers, someone who don’t remember laughin’ at her gettin’ giddy over stomach contents. Someone who don’t understand what it’s like to miss the sound of her hummin’ some pop song you ain’t even heard of—

You holdin’ up alright, Doc?

Ari Levinson makes you jump for the second time in as many days, office phone clatterin’ from your hand as you spin ‘round and try not to let your heart beat out your chest, still too busy overthinkin’ to manage a glare, I’ll be fine. You get the security footage from the lab?

Yeah. Got a couple computer guys on it now, trying to figure out what happened.

Well, you sigh, rubbin’ the bridge of your nose as you lean against a metal countertop, We better hope we find out soon enough, cuz I’m ‘bout three seconds from shakin’ this whole goddamn buildin’ apart lookin’ for someone to pin this shit on.

Ari nods, mouth pressed into a thin line as the silence ‘tween you stretches out, eyes wanderin’ over to the closed-off lab, sanctuary swarmin’ with corpse beetles mournin’ the loss of one of their own as they try an’ find out whodunnit.

You know they won’t, ‘course, but it’s enough to let ‘em try.

You’d never admit it, of course — an’ maybe you’d almost forgotten it by now, those childhood truths givin’ way to the kinda truths you needed to keep your callin’ here in these mountains — but it used to terrify you. An’ why wouldn’t it, all ‘em screamin’ mouths an’ radio-static pleas beggin’ you to make sense of the injustices of the world they’d been cut right out of?

Too much, too much pain, too much horror, too much for a girl of tender years to tolerate hearin’, much less repeatin’ to those still grieving.

Problem with the dead is, well, they’re selfish. Don’t care if you’re barely old enough to understand the meaning of death, still meant to be shielded from those things that should long have left this plane of existence an’ passed through that big black door.

Ari Levinson don’t know none of that terror though, don’t know much more’n what you jammed into his head after blowin’ away another one of your ghosts, but he means well. Stands a little to close behind you like he could just peer ‘round an’ see the way your lips twitch as you swallow down blood an’ bile, holdin’ back the shadows of your daddy’s own temper.

You gonna be alright, Doc?

Ah shit.

You’d rather chew glass than tell him you prolly won’t be, tell him you just lost a girl you loved like your own blood, tell him you got cocky and now the very community you called your home was in danger cuz of it.

But there he is, standing in front of you like a fuckin’ sentinel while he waits for you to give him something back. Assurance, more likely, but as much as you’re used to tellin’ lies an’ keepin’ secrets, there are some falsehoods even yoou can’t keep.

Sure, you finally answer, trying to sound convincing and feeling the hollowness bitter itself on your tongue, I’ll live. Gimme a few hours an’ I’ll have somethin’ to say for her.

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson #chris evans #ari levinson imagine #chris evans imagine #chris evans character #a worthy grave

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bigskydreaming · 1 year

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Last reblog - I’ll never forget one of my first interactions when getting into Batfandom again online around 2018 or 2019 or whenever I started being active in Batfandom on this blog.....I was reading a very popular prompt-response fic on Ao3, where one chapter was the author responding to a prompt to do a more cathartic take on Dick reuniting with his brothers post-Spyral.

For whatever reason, this author’s idea of a better version of this still had Dick getting punched by Jason, just then immediately make up with him afterwards, so I guess a speedrun from punch to ‘glad you’re alive’ is better, as long as the important part is Dick still gets punched? LMAO. Yeah, no. I don’t know about the person who gave the initial prompt, but I sure as hell didn’t find anything cathartic about a writer doubling down on the idea that Dick still ‘deserved’ to be greeted with violence because he’d emotionally hurt his brothers and so physical and emotional payback is necessary to balance the scales.

And I didn’t even leave a comment on the fic where it might start something publicly, I VERY politely just private messaged asking them if they’d CONSIDER posting some kind of headsup on that chapter, that it still contained Dick getting punched out on his return from Spyral by one of his siblings....because that’s not something people interested in the specific prompt of ‘cathartic take on Dick reuniting more happily with his brothers post-Spyral’ are likely expecting y’know?

And look, for as much as Batfandom - ESPECIALLY Jason stans, which I’m pretty sure this particular writer was, primarily a Jason and Tim fan even if they did write fic for the whole Batfam - likes to go on about the tragedy and trauma of physical abuse, there is VERY little consideration in this fandom for the fact that abuse....and in specific, mentalities ABOUT abuse - can be triggering as well! Its not just stuff like sexual assault that can trigger people who are abuse AND/OR rape survivors. So I very politely and civilly, without making insinuations, accusations, attacks, etc, tried to point out that for some fans who’re abuse survivors who are disturbed by how casual and even outright permissive DC canon tends to be about physical abuse between family members, reinforcing the idea that Dick was OWED physical harm by his family to make up for his perceived crimes against them in the Forever Evil/Spyral stuff could legitimately be triggering.....

b/c it feeds into and even validates a lot of the exact same bullshit we were fed by family members justifying their own acts of harm or violence against us ‘because we deserved it.’

And I fucking AGONIZED over this message before sending it, FYI. It was before any of my overly aggressive or antagonistic tumblr posts on these topics, with a lot of my ire in those posts born FROM how all this (and other similar events) played out, but I pored over it before sending it, making sure I was being as diplomatic as possible, because I don’t know this author other than her work, I don’t know her experiences, who she is as a person, nor did I particularly CARE....I wasn’t trying to say or presume ANYTHING about that person, I was strictly interested in just getting some kind of optimal outcome from messaging them, ie getting them to reconsider their viewpoint there or at least include some kind of tag or message clarifying what the author meant by cathartic with that chapter & that it might not be as different from canon as readers might assume or hope.

Because literally my only endgoal in sending that message was so hopefully other abuse survivors didnt stumble into the exact sort of fic they - like I - might be coming to because they were seeking catharsis to MAKE UP FOR the fucked up view canon expressed about how Dick’s first encounter with his brothers post-Forever Evil should play out.

Instead of just getting more of the same, with FURTHER validation of how he deserved that.

Of course, no matter how much I tried to ensure my message was received in the spirit it was intended....that’s not the outcome I got.

No, instead this author UNLOADED on me in her response, putting me on blast for daring to call her an abuse apologist and being a toxic stan who would make insinuations and attacks and basically call her a bad person just because I didn’t like how she treated my fave. And she definitely shared this and vented about me to all her friends, despite me making a point to message her in private rather than leave this in the comments for everyone to see, because for WEEKS afterwards I was seeing vagueblogs that were very clearly about my message, even including references to specific phrases I’d included in my message, and I heard from others that there were similar jokes and shit made about me in discord servers, etc.

All because I’d dared ask a writer to give people a headsup that they were doubling down on what some fans felt there was reason to view as validating a potentially abusive instance - ie a character accepting physical violence as penance for how he made his brothers feel.

And this, like that last reblog also said in its own examples - is EXACTLY why don’t like don’t read and curating your own content is BULLSHIT. Because it presumes that people KNOW when they’re endorsing or validating or justifying stuff that other people have ABSOLUTELY JUSTIFIED REASONS for viewing as harmful or toxic....and that they tag or warn appropriately.

And it further presumes that when informed that they might even UNINTENTIONALLY be perpetuating harm with a specific viewpoint or depiction of something.....that there is ever any kind of guarantee that they will accept this information or perspective gracefully, instead of perceiving it as an attack on their PERSON and innate goodness or whatever.

No matter HOW someone goes about trying to convey this perspective, either aggressively or with the utmost attempt at civility and diplomacy.

And nine out of ten times this escalates. Again, no matter HOW a person went about asking for a specific tag or to consider a specific viewpoint - which, y’know, when politeness only earns you escalation from people who won’t let shit go because they feel PERSONALLY ATTACKED by you saying hey maybe you’re not actually unproblematic in every view you’ve ever had....MAYBE there’s a reason why after YEARS of trying politeness or civility, people stop bothering with it and just say hey fuck you for this shitty viewpoint or depiction.....

But from my experience, nine out of ten times even a completely conciliatory approach only earns you vitriol and escalation from people who will absolutely go on the attack, grab all their friends, and freaking dogpile even on self-acknowledged survivors just asking you to consider adding some freaking TAGS....

Because some of you would rather throw survivors under the bus WHILE exploiting the hell out of knowing one who agrees with you (despite our experiences not being monolithic, sure is funny how the ones you agree with have in YOUR eyes the universally acceptable stance on stuff)....

Rather than just....

Sit with the idea that maybe you at some point in your life have unintentionally perpetuated a toxic or harmful mindset that you inherited or learned from previous generations, the media, or other people in your life, and didn’t think to question it because you personally had never experienced a reason TO question it before now.

LOL its funny, and I say its funny when its really not but lol you laugh so you dont scream am I right? Iykyk. But its funny how years later even just THINKING about this one fucking message I sent and what it got me in return has my hands shaking so bad its taking me three times longer than it should to write this post. I’ve had to get up and walk around at least twice to get my thoughts in order so I could finish it.

And here’s the part so many smug assholes over the years just willfully refuse to understand. I’m not TRIGGERED thinking about this cuz I’m oh so fragile. And frankly, it’d be fine if I WAS, whatever that happens to mean in your eyes, I’m just clarifying, its not the case here. LMAO. I didn’t survive a childhood of physical, mental, emotional and sexual abuse, I didn’t survive being gaybashed and assaulted in college, I didn’t survive years of shitty experiences as a sex worker, my fucking jaw collapsing because of longterm physical consequences of being attacked.....

By being nearly as fucking fragile as some people on this site like to convince themselves I am when I get worked up about stuff like this.

My hands aren’t shaking because I can’t handle reminders of what I’ve been through or whatever people convince themselves of while telling each other in their discord server that I really should just stay away from content I can’t deal with.

I’m fucking vibrating like I’m Wally West because years after this stupid, should have been nothing message I tried so hard to make informative and personal instead of aggressive and accusatory......

I’m still PISSED.

At how STUPID all of this is. At how HYPOCRITICAL some of you are. At how I’ve made a point practically my entire time in fandom, to be open and forthcoming about my past and traumas because if I’m going to be in fandoms obsessed with male rape survivor characters and abuse I’d rather at least let my perspective be available as a RESOURCE if anyone wants it than just stew in how I feel every time I come across a post or fic I don’t think has the slightest awareness of how its coming across.....

And the sheer volume of times I’ve had people coo at me and ooh and aww about how sorry they are for what I’ve been through like that’s REMOTELY why I talk about these topics or what I’m looking for.....

Only to see those exact same people turn around and mock me behind my back, spread lies about me, attempt to gaslight me at every possible turn into thinking I’M the problem, if I would just quietly and passively accept that people are going to reinforce and validate the very mindsets that led people to do certain shit to me in the past, that some people are interested in GETTING OFF to these mindsets, well then everyone would just be so much happier....

And meanwhile, I’ve made post after post after post about my experiences or perspectives as a male survivor that I can’t even hit double digits on, note wise, even as the stupidest of my shitposts hit triple digits and more....

When the ONLY reason I post about those topics is not because I’m interested in being any kind of authority on male rape, childhood abuse, incest, etc, or think I ever possibly COULD be just because I’m one person these things happened to, but merely because if the conversations about them are going to CONSTANTLY be happening around me whether I want them to or not, I’d at least rather have my voice be INCLUDED and CONSIDERED in those conversations instead of just having to sit there LISTENING to people offer up uninformed opinions with complete certainty they know everything that’s ever been worth THINKING about in terms of that topic and if there’s anything else, well its obviously not important or else their enlightened asses would have already instinctively known it, wouldn’t they.....

My god. Its infuriating.

And hell, I’m KEENLY aware that even with all that, I’d still loaded to the brim with cis white male privilege, so trust me when I say I TRULY do not understand how some of my friends who have to deal with shithead hypocrisy on axes I don’t have any experience on, on a DAILY basis on this site and others, put up with some of you. And its why I will ALWAYS side with them no matter how ‘aggressive’ they’re being in the face of some faux-civil asshat crying fake tears about how they’ve been accused of being a heinous person which of course justifies anything and everything they say and do in response now.

But yeah. The hypocrisy of people. The fake ‘I care so much about survivors that I’m going to make this one a running joke on my blog because he dared make me THINK about the content I churn out every week to entertain myself and my friends, the GALL.’

That’s the shit that gets me. That keeps me from joining servers myself, that has me wary of even DMing with people I only know from their notifications on my posts, because I’ve got zero interest in having a fun headcanon chat session with someone who will two days later be faux-sympathetically vagueblogging with a friend how its so sad how I can’t move past certain things or let them go even though they’re part of the reason I’m constantly re-exposed to stuff even just in the tags people add TO MY OWN POSTS.

All because some people on here are so fucking TERRIFIED of what they might find if they ever tried a little serious self-examination, they’d rather reduce self-professed survivors to tragic victims while being fully prepared to vilify them the SECOND they say something a little too real or paint a picture someone doesn’t want to see themselves in.

Because god forbid some of you figure out how to just say....

”I’m sorry. What you brought up made me insecure and nervous when I thought about how many people I might have unintentionally hurt over the years while thinking I was just having fun with my friends, so I lashed out.”

Or “I didn’t know how to handle not being as thoughtful or informed as I like to think I am, so I made you the enemy instead.”

Or “I didn’t want you to be right so I made sure I believed you were wrong.”

Or “I was immature and not ready to tackle the work this might mean I needed to do on myself, so I pretended I couldn’t see it.”

I mean, after all, the ONLY thing I ever expected or hoped for - or hell, NEEDED - from that one writer I raised as an example, from years ago - was just a simple:

“I’m sorry, I literally just never thought about it that way before but I’ll add a note so people know that’ll be in the fic.”

That’s it. That’s all that was ever needed. I didn’t need or want their life story, their penance, them to fall over themselves making it about me or my trauma just because I brought it up, I didn’t expect them to shift their whole worldview from a single message.

Just a simple acknowledgment that I and my viewpoint were not unreasonable, and hey, maybe they’re not perfect and there’s still more work to be done on some mindsets or viewpoints they’ve always taken for granted.

The end.

(Or at least, it could’ve been).

#have a little rant. as a treat #or dont #my uncensored feelings. let me air them

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not-poignant · 11 months

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Hi Pia

I've seen your posts (and other bloggers posts) about antis, and although i don't agree that anyone has the right to dictate what media people are allowed to enjoy i never actually believed that they could be that bad (since I'd never had any interactions with them) and thought their unhinged behaviour was exaggerated. Until I posted a fic with a controversial pairing and OH. MY. GOD.

I have never received this much abuse (and of such a vicious sort) in my entire life. I guess this serves me right for doubting other creators' claims of how awful antis can be. I could just never believe anyone could be this... this... diabolical. But now I'm experiencing it first and it is wild.

Like I'm receiving actual death threats? Because of a 2,000 oneshot? I'm being told that me and my whole family deserve to die slow and painful deaths because of the characters I shipped?? They're calling me a pedophile and an animal abuser because one of the characters I wrote about is a teenager and the other is a human-animal hybrid??? What?

Like, are these people ok? Are they mentally unwell? This is just... I'm in shock honestly that people actually think and behave like this. Holy hell. It's been a hug eye opener and not a necessarily nice one.

Sorry if this message was unwelcome, I just couldn't think of anyone else to share this with. I hope you're having a nice day/evening ❤

Hi hi anon,

Yeah, this is what it's sadly like, and in the most extreme pockets of anti-communities are people who have literally tried to murder other people over fictional characters.

It's truly unhinged.

You have people who just don't like what other people are shipping, which is fine and normal, we all have notps and things we don't like, and then you have the people who genuinely think it's okay to torment, harass, abuse, and bully another person based over something fictional, and those people need to be blocked.

These people coming after you anon, if they're on AO3, report every single one because it might take a while, but those people get banned from AO3. If they're on Tumblr, block but also consider reporting, because death threats get people banned and all anonymous IP addresses are logged on Tumblr's side. If it's on Twitter, block on sight. Don't tolerate them, don't give them the air to breathe, and make sure you get offline sometimes or go to online safe spaces and spend time with the people who love you for who you are, it's the best weapon against antis who have no idea who you are and feel like you're a great figure to bully and abuse.

Ultimately, at the very base of what an anti is, is someone who believes their emotion of 'don't like that' justifies them bullying and torturing other people over fictional characters. It is at its foundation completely delusional, and even people who get 'logical' about it are still going 'my emotions are real enough to justify hurting you over something that is a figment of our collective imaginations.'

Some of those folks are very young, and will grow out of it, and have just drunk the collective Koolaid, some of them are older and always wanted an excuse to bully others but feel 'righteous' and 'pure' for doing it. Some really believe they're doing the right thing, others know they're hypocrities but can be all the more vicious for it. There are many recovering antis, but they're often silent about the things they've done, or the ways they've tried to hurt people.

I'm glad you posted that story anon, but not glad about the response you're getting. Consider moderating comments if it's on AO3, just to choke out the antis for a while. And yeah, practice self-care, because abusers want to hurt and harm others, and if you feel hurt and harmed, the more you can act to look after yourself, the more you thwart their goal/s and give them the big proverbial 'fuck you' that they so desperately deserve.

They do, usually, die down after a while, especially the more they get starved out. They'll often hunt for more vulnerable people. But in the meantime you also might want to inform folks you trust irl that you're dealing with this right now, because antis are unhinged, and online abuse is serious. Take care of you!! <33333 I'm sorry you had to learn about this pocket of 'society' in such a horrific way.

Antis are the worst.

#asks and answers #purity wank #anti anti #it's definitely sometimes hard to explain what antis are like until you've encountered them personally #because it seems so...ridiculous that people will literally viciously abuse you over fiction #like 'surely they have to have at least *some* kind of reason'#they don't #they see the things they've deemed morally wrong #decided you're a criminal #fully dehumanised you #and then they launch like attack dogs #they don't deserve your time #and remember that any threats of serious harm online is something that almost all ISPs #including the shithole that is twitter #respond to seriously #even if these people are using sockpuppet accounts #they can still be banned #and you can still block them

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tamatama-kilo · 8 months

Text

ok tma spoilers for like a lot of it but istg i need to rant to SOMEONE i need validation

ok so in s4 safe house fics or just jmart fics in general around like s3-5 why the actual hell is jon not as clingy like i get he's worried about being weird (along with literally 7000 other mental and physical and emotional and psychological issues) but this man has literally no connections period. sure, he technically has georgie, but FUCK does she not make him feel literally any better because of saying shit like "just stop doing this and it'll help" GEORGIE. I UNDERSTAND YOU CANNOT COMPREHEND BIG EYE IN SKY. BUT FUCK YOU. anyways jon has no one. not a single goddamn person who gives a shit about him.

well, except martin.

even when he was his ACTUAL SHITTIEST EVER, martin still somehow fuckin managed to make tea for this sopping wet cat of a man and care about him and be concerned even with the "i need to be good enough for him" bullshit which i could go on a whole other rant about THAT but i can do that later but it might be because of what i mentioned earlier, being scared of being vulnerable, being judged, stuff like that, but if i were jon? you bet your sorry ass i would be attempting worship that motherfucker

obviously i'm probably missing a bunch of details but i have so many thoughts happening in my head

CONTINUING ON FROM THIS so i mentioned how martin has this whole "i need to be good enough for him" mentality yeah right so i'm gonna talk about that because i love him and i need to FIX HIM

so we all know his mother is an absolute bitch and she deserves to get her skin flayed in front of her but essentially: she neglected him, held enormously high standards for a child she didn't even really care for, got sick and needed martin to drop out of school at FUCKING 15 and get 2 jobs to take care of her and she could not must up a single FUCKING thank you. and the whole thing with having no present father and all that but im not talkin about that right now

so when martin got moved to the archives he had someone new to impress, someone to get validation from, etc etc and because jonathan sims is the World's Shittiest Boss talks shit about martin ALL the time, is just a menace to him, and is super fucking mean to him calling him useless and dumb and i want to actually murder s1 jon how DARE you talk about my BOY LIKE THA-

anyways because jon is a similar-ISH person to please for his mom, martin has that constant sense of "how can i prove this" "how can i be better for him" "how can i be good enough" because he was so goddamn desperate for literally any validation from anyone and god that hurts me

i have so many thoughts

they all came from an old archived tumblr post basically analyzing jons past trauma up to the kidnapping in s3 and about the trauma from that and shortly afterwards and oh my god i genuinely think you cannot get someone more traumatized than that i mean jonny how the fuck

#i am #so normal #i swear #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma spoilers

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caspia-writes · 11 months

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Writeblrs Appreciation Post

Well, I'm a couple bottles deeper than wholly advisable and should not really be posting anything to any sort of social media.

But is that gonna stop me?

Nope!

Y'know, when I first came to Tumblr, I thought this place was a cesspool of politics and sex. (And hey, nothing wrong with the latter, but as a sex-repulsed aro-ace... wasn't real big on that bit.)

But frankly?

This place is damned cool.

Like, for example, @sleepy-night-child. No one has ever been this enthused about my writing before. You are one hell of a cheerleader. Even when I'm not putting out writing worth a damn, you're willing to encourage me and still believe that perhaps, one day, I will ever finish writing anything at all. You're great. And your story, Black Feather? Well, I'm going to shamelessly plug for it here. I'm usually absolutely against romance stories. But your story... even my aro-ace, romance- and sex-repulsed self thinks it's a bloody good story. It doesn't get enough attention. Good stuff, that!

And @whither-wander-whump. Pardon my French once more, but damn, you're tough. Nothing seems to be able to hold you down. Seriously, how the hell do you do it? I would've gone nuts by now. Frankly, you're a bloody inspiration. And your writing? Look, not to dump on your cooking or your dancing, but your writing boggles my mind. Where does it all comes from? You have a gift, I swear.

Also, @ashen-crest. Publishing a book (or has it been two... or even more)? Either way, that's impressive! Even if I never plan to publish myself... full props to you. You have more guts than I've ever dreamt of having. And while I might be too broke to buy a copy (sadly), I've been following your updates on your potion story for a while, and from the excerpts I've seen... you are good at writing!

Because why not, I'm also going to call out @joyfulpolicehologram here. Continuing to write fan-fics despite widespread disapproval from those close to you? YES. And I can juggle 70+ characters, each with a backstory and the whole nine yards, but the very notion of writing fan-fic makes me want to run away crying. And the only reason I followed you in the first place is because I saw an excerpt of some of your writing, and it was damned good. Keep it up. You've got a talent.

There's also @faelanvance. Sure, we don't interact much. But you really promote other writers! You're willing to share the spotlight on your blog and you've got a discerning eye. If I'm not mistaken, at least some of the writers I've followed I've only learned through your reblogs. You have good taste. And it seems your writing is also downright excellent. Not only an excellent food critic, but an excellent chef as well (to make some culinary comparisons).

One more. @sleepyowlwrites. Where does the endless fount of positivity come from? I don't get it. It's like nothing gets you down. If I were working some of the shifts it seems you are, I'd lose my mind, and I certainly wouldn't have the energy to run an active writeblr blog. I don't have the energy to do that half the time anyway. You might be sleepy, but I admire the heck outta you.

Now, if you're one of my followers and I didn't mention you, please don't take it personally. Like I said before, I'm rather drunk at the moment. These are just the first six people I thought of before my fingers started getting tired. Six seemed like a good number at the time.

I will probably get embarrassed and delete this tomorrow, when I finally wake up.

But in the meantime... thanks, Writeblr. I didn't know what I was missing. You all are great. 😊

#writeblr #rambling #I should not be posting this now #but oh well #YOLO I guess #Seriously #You all are great #Glad I came here #I should put the alcohol down #but someone has to say it #and tonight someone means me #Full appreciation to all of you!#This place is great #Will probably delete later #drunken rant

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safeplacesnupin · 1 year

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Snupin Fanfic Year in Review

Hey friends! So I really want to start promoting more amazing Snupin fanfics and I thought this might be a good way to start. I'm going to go through my bookmarks and select one (or two, or three) Snupin fics I read for each month and bookmarked and recc it in this thread :D Sorry if I don't tag every author but if you know their tumblr PLEASE tag them! *disclaimer* I didn't get an AO3 to bookmark until July so the first few months are just ones I had favorited in my browser until I got an AO3 LONG post ahead! A bunch of Snupiny goodness!

🦔 January - Triquetra by Contrarian_Hedgehog 🦔

Summary on AO3: With the war fast approaching, Snape is forced to rely on Lupin and Black in order to secure his place in Voldemort's circle. Can they get past two decades of hostility? After a month of cohabiting, being around each other gets easier yet so much more difficult. Notes: This is actually a Snackin fic! A poly relationship between Remus, Severus, and Sirius. It has such a fantastic 'I don't want to do this but I have to' into a full blown relationship and it comes with such spicy art and scenes. 16 chapters total. Read: Triquetra

⚔️ February - Lily's Boy by SomewheresSword ⚔️

Summary on AO3: Before his third year of Hogwarts has even begun, Harry faces three whole weeks of unsupervised time in Diagon Alley. In that time he takes a trip to Gringotts - and that changes everything.

Burdened with the knowledge that Dumbledore has been blocking his family magic, and manipulating far more than he ever thought possible, Harry doesn't know who he can trust; but he knows he can't keep going that way. There's a whole world of lore and politics and history to catch up on, and the more he learns, the more Harry realises his true place in the world, and how much is being kept hidden from him. All the while, Dumbledore's twinkling eyes are constantly watching, and Harry can't let on how much he knows.

With help from unexpected places, Harry starts on a journey to end the war, and reshape the wizarding world. With how much he looks like James Potter, people have forgotten one important thing about him - he is Lily Evans' son, and she was one hell of a witch.

Notes: Buckle up for a long, fantastic fic my friends! Lily's Boy is 109 chapters! This focuses a lot on Harry as I'm sure you could guess (Drarry specifically), but Snupin is a huge focal point in this fic and I would not call it background. It's brilliant worldbuilding earn it this February spot!

Read: Lily's Boy

🧁 March - Have Your Cake and Eat It by Cunegonde 🧁

Summary on AO3: Lying in hospital after the Battle of Hogwarts, Remus Lupin has a lovely lucid dream that he's gone back to his school days at Hogwarts. Only the day passes, then another, and another, and soon he must face the terrifying possibility that it isn't a dream — that he has irreparably altered the events of the past.

Please be advised, this one contains Adult Themes. Just, not so much in the fun flirty way, more in the midlife existential crisis way.

Notes: Primarily following Remus around as he gets transported back in time to his school days?! And how he falls for our lovely Severus Snape while trying not to mess up reality. YOU WILL CRY. Bittersweet ending warning on this one but so worth the read. 33 chapters

Read: Have Your Cake and Eat It

🦡 April - For Once Seen by diandrastrikesback 🦡

Summary on AO3: “Get the shutters,” he said stiffly.

“Want to see you,” Lupin whispered into his hair.

Snape’s panic rose. He fumbled with his words as his heart beat up his throat. “No. Erm…oily hair…you know, bad skin,” he stammered quietly.

Notes: A short drabble and first ever time something of mine inspired anything. ToT <3 Set in the summer, Remus sneaks over to Sev's house to have some fun. Sev isn't confident in his appearance though.

Read: For Once Seen

🐍 May - The Heir to the House of Prince by A_LoveUnlaced and elphi13 🐍

Summary on AO3: Summer of 4th year and Harry's all alone, dealing with his grief and the sudden revelation that James Potter is not his father. Support comes in a strange form. The form of Theo Nott, son of a death Eater. A strange friend who says he'll help him find his true father, whoever this Lord Prince might be.

Notes: Back to the long fics; 87 chapters AND this is a part of a currently ongoing series. Sev is actually Harry's father and wow is that a shock to Harry! This fic features Snupin and a Theo/Harry pairing and does a brilliant job focusing on both. Extremely compelling read. Severitius.

Read: The Heir to the House of Prince

🩺 June - Not Quite What the Doctor Ordered by Arionrhod and McKay 🩺

Summary on AO3: Severus Snape is a brilliant diagnostician, but it turns out that Remus Lupin is a very difficult case, in more ways than one.

Notes: I'm not usually one for super AU fics but this one takes the cake. Severus is charactarized fantastically and the story is so very good! This is completely non-magic and the relationship between these two is just chefs kiss! 4 chapters.

Read: Not Quite What the Doctor Ordered

🥇 July - With Every Step I Rise and Fall by @miffmiff 🥇

Summary on AO3: After the war, Remus thinks that all hope is lost of ever reconnecting with Severus. He may be in for a surprise though.

Notes: So I have this secret extra ranking I call 'The Golden Shelf.' It's the best of the best, and while many of these fics in this list hold that rank, THIS is the fic that inspired me to make that ranking at all. The very first fic on my golden shelf! This takes a look at how Severus and Remus grapple with the past and embrace each other. Charactarization feels real and so spot on. 1 chapter.

Read: With Every Step I Rise and Fall

Honorable Mention for another fic I read in July: Because He Really Knows Me by flyfreewithme776 is an AU fic where Remus is a cute barista and Severus is pining even if he keeps making his drinks wrong!

🎁 August - The Great Hogwarts Christmas Gift Exchange Debacle of 1996 by Snegurochka 🎁

Summary on AO3: Ron wants Luna, but Luna wants Ginny, and Ginny wants Harry, and Harry wants Hermione, but Hermione wants Lupin, and Lupin wants… Snape? Oh, what tangled webs we weave, when Dumbledore sets up a little seasonal fun for a group of hormonal teenagers spending their Christmas at Grimmauld Place – with two angsty thirty-somethings who have quite enough of their own problems to be getting on with.

Notes: This was a very long 1 chapter fic that was such a delight to read! The summary doesn't do it justice and I'm not sure that my little notes can either, but please give this a shot! In August like me, or right now; perfect for the holidays! Hilarious misunderstandings and a wonderful ending await you.

Read: The Great Hogwarts Christmas Gift Exchange Debacle of 1996

Honorable mentions for a few other fics I read in August:

Batten Down the Hatches by @diandrastrikesbackk is a heartbreaking, fantastic little fic that pays homage to many other Snupin fics. A look at the life of the Snupin fandom as seen by the duo themselves <3

Drifting Satellite by the_throwaway_account is a slight AU with an angsty Remus trying to cope with his lycanthropy with no supportive family or friends. Enter: Sev

🛶 September - I Lie In Your Charms by KALA @kalainthecanoe 🛶

Summary on AO3: When Severus Snape banked on being dead at the end of a war, it was as much of a shock as a burden to find out he was very much alive. He'd rather welcome oblivion and be known as a hero, than watch himself become a listless ghost of his former self. He never expected his Life After Death would contain much but living an isolated, quiet, life. Instead he somehow ended up returning to Hogwarts to teach, becoming involved in student affairs he'd rather stay far removed from, and most importantly, having copious amounts of sex with his old childhood enemy- Remus Lupin.

Recovery is a fickle and long road, and he certainly didn't expect his would involve accepting Remus as part of it.

Notes: KALA is an incredible writer in every fic they craft, but this is one of my favorites. As the summary suggests, spice fest! But this is no plotless hotness by any means. Who doesn't love using sex as a distraction from trauma? Wonderfully written 12 chapters.

Read: I Lie In Your Charms

🎂 October - October 1984 by @bluesundaycake 🎂

Summary on AO3: Severus knows something is wrong at Hogwarts, but he can't quite figure out what.

A story built from the daily prompts for Snapetober 2022. Accidentally snupin.

Notes: So I loved this one so much I had to draw art for it. Seriously I can't say enough good things about this fic! Snape has an adorable crow friend and has to figure out what the heck is going on at Hogwarts while also pining for Remus. Rumored by BlueSundayCake to be a part of a series! :o 32 chapters.

Read: October 1984

Honorable Mentions for fics I read in October:

A Door Left Ajar by Hera_Invictus takes a great look at Sev and Rem's past when Remus comes to Hogwarts to teach during POA. I don't know if they invented the word sexpilogue but uh, yeah...

Fuel the Pyre of Your Enemies by DivinityInMotion took the 'paired for school project' hook and sunk me in a fantastic story with slow burn Snupin.

🐺 November - Artemisia Absinthium: The Wolf and the Moth by Gertrude_Crow @princeandcrow 🐺

Summary on AO3: When Severus Snape uncovered Peter Pettigrew as a traitor before Voldemort attacked the Potters, it changed the course of many lives - his own included.

Relationships are forged and broken, as those that survived the war now have to learn to live, find new paths, and build new futures. And though their leader is gone, not all of the Death Eaters are willing to accept defeat.

Notes: Part 2 of Gertrude_Crow's Artemisia Absinthium series; READ THEM ALL! This is an AU during the first wizarding war focusing on Snupin with intriguing other relationships. Drama, intrigue, and a few dark spots make this series an incredible read. Part 2 is my favorite, coming in at 30 chapters.

Read: Artemisia Absinthium Series

💰 December - The Inheritance by Shadowycat 💰

Summary on AO3: Things hadn’t gone well for Remus Lupin since the end of the war, so he didn’t think he could afford to pass up an unexpected inheritance from someone he’d never met. Of course it turned out there were a few strings attached, including having to share his surprise windfall with Severus Snape. Not that Snape was particularly happy about that...

Notes: It's a 'we have to live together and go on a treasure hunt and now we love each other' fic! Not going to lie, the writing reminds me of a modern day Jane Austin and the story line is so compelling. A little mystery and some great reading! 24 chapters.

Read: The Inheritance

Horoable Mention for another fic I read in December:

Ne'er-Blue-Well by @diandrastrikesbackck was written for a prompt I gave, but it took my usually serious, not a fan of comedy self and had me laughing out loud with a truely genius string of puns said by Severus Snape himself after a potion accident.

WHEW! Hope you find a new fic to enjoy! This was just whenever I read the fic, but did you have any you read this year that should be on next years list? -or- are you a writer working on one?! Leave them in the comments please! Here's to many more in the new year!

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