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lawrites · 4 months

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Rubens Can Suck It!!

Sweet Gotham S1! Edward Nygma x Plus Size! Female Reader

You are having an awful day when someone leaves a note on your desk, describing your figure. It sets you off, and Ed is the one who seeks to comfort you.

This fic features a LOT of insecurities, specifically around being plus size. It talks about the feeling of being seen by others and how shitty some officers at the GCPD are. But Ed is sweet. No warnings beyond that EXCEPT some dirty thoughts from Ed 👀.

It's been an awful morning and it's only 8 AM.

As a woman who works in a field primarily made up of men, especially a plus size woman, you have made your confidence into your armor. Yeah some of the officers could be pigs, (most of them, actually), but you do love your body and how it looks, so it doesn't bother you.

You enjoy wearing bold colors, pretty dresses, structured pant suits, and even pencil skirts to work most days. They make you feel infallible, and you KNOW you look cute in them. No matter what those tiny men say, you can get through the day feeling good.

And usually...it works. There are some days that you think everyone struggles with their looks, no matter their size. It's what happens when your society is constantly screaming "YOU CAN BE BETTER BUY THIS PRODUCT" at you from all angles.

And so, while you are beating yourself up for letting your confidence slip, you decide to go ahead and make yourself more comfortable while you get it back. Especially because trying to force it wasn't working.

Every glance in the mirror was followed by a critical voice, today. Your hair just didn't sit right, your chosen outfit was too tight and the textures were bothering you, and the high heels you sometimes wear would clack and bring eyes to you. All of that sounded just...exhausting, especially when you just want to get through the day and go home without drawing any attention to yourself.

While usually a pair of eyes on you wouldn't bother you, the thought of Harvey Bullock only staring at your tits when he talks to you, or Jim glancing up and down in what he thinks is a subtle way, or any of the officers giggling when you walk by...yeah it would take only one thing to set you off today, you can tell.

So, while it isn't the most flattering outfit you own, you throw your hair into a ponytail and pull an oversized sweater and linen pants on. Comfy, cozy, still professional enough, and properly disguising your body from any eyes, appreciative or insulting.

After that rollercoaster of emotions while you were getting ready, you don't have time to stop for coffee on your way in, which just adds to your mood. And, of fucking course, some guy decided to begin terrorizing Gotham at 7 in the fucking morning, so all public transport is delayed.

You barely manage to get to your desk by 8 AM with no coffee and already in a bad mood. Setting your stuff down, you dig your palms into your eyes, trying to fight off the urge to just leave. A small slip of paper in neat handwriting makes you smile just a bit, though.

What is always found on the ground

But never gets dirty?

You struggle for a second, your brain moving at a slow pace thanks to the lack of coffee. That is, until you hear footsteps and something blocks the lights streaming in from the windows. You gasp and turn towards Edward Nygma, who is standing right next to you and casting a...

"Shadow!" You blurt out.

He gives you one of his sweet, tight-lipped smiles and nods. "Correct!"

You force a cheery tone to your voice so you don't spoil his mood. Ed may be a bit...odd, but he is one of your best friends here, and he doesn't deserve to be brought down just because you aren't in a good mood. "Great! How many is that so far, Eddie?"

He immediately recites, "That would be 85 riddles correctly guessed out of 90 I have shared with you. 3 you needed a hint for and 2 you did not solve entirely."

You cross your arms in mock anger. "Hey! I did my best! Those ones were hard. It's almost like you wanted me to fail or something."

He hurriedly scrambles to get the next sentence out, "Oh! Oh I would n-never! I j-just..."

Whoops, guess your bad mood made that "mock" anger sound more like actual anger. You take on a placating tone, "Ed, it's ok! I know you just enjoy riddles. And sometimes that big brain of yours makes up a new one that stumps me."

You laugh, maybe a bit bitterly, now, as your bad mood forces itself to the front again. The next sentence is nearly mumbled, "I mean, it must be difficult, sometimes, making puzzles for someone who isn't as smart as you."

Ed seems confused more than anything, now. "I'm...I'm not sure what brought that on, but writing down riddles for you every morning is f-fun for me!"

You sigh, twirling a pen from your desk in your hand to avoid eye contact. "It's just...it's just one of those days, Ed. I couldn't find an outfit that made me look nice..."

Ed interrupts you with his insistence, but he still stumbles over his words, "B-but you always look n-nice!"

Your smile comes out as a grimace, "You're sweet, Ed, but everyone doesn't think so." You glance around to make sure that your next words aren't overheard. "I know that I can usually brush cruel insults away, because I try to tell myself I'm beautiful..." You choke out the last part of your sentence, cutting yourself off before you get too emotional in the middle of the office.

You get up and decide to leave the main lobby to get some of the shitty coffee from the break room. At least there you could better disguise the tears in your eyes. "It's really not a big deal, Ed. I guess I'm just not myself, today. Give it a day or two and I'll be more amusing."

And without waiting for a response, you hurry off.

He stands there awkwardly for a few moments, unsure how to respond to the dismissal you just gave him. Usually the two of you would talk for at least 5 more minutes.

Wracking his brain as he walks away, he tries to think of something to cheer you up.

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Rubens

Flashes of his paintings fly through Ed's mind as he attempts to type out a sweet note to you. Every time he gets a glance of a plush thigh or your soft belly, he thinks of how he painted Venus, the Goddess of Beauty.

A voice he's been trying to avoid for a while now pipes up, Yeah, Goddess of only beauty? I'm sure that's all you're thinking about, Ed. How about Goddess of Se-

Ed cuts the voice off before it can finish that thought, but now he is unfortunately thinking about it, even at work. Rubens didn't paint all of his women clothed, especially Venus. Her nude form fuses with yours in Ed's mind, haunting him, taunting him.

There's just...so much he can play with. Your body...so much he can sink his long fingers into. He goes back to your belly, what he has ascertained to be the main source of your insecurity. He empathizes with that, but all he can think of whenever you wear something tight is bending you over in the medical lab on site and holding onto that plush belly as he-

Again, he cuts himself off. He would like to think that the other voice took over again there, but those thoughts were all him. He adjusts himself a bit as he sits at his desk, trying to be subtle.

Then he looks back at the screen in front of him, remembering your mood today, and that hits him like a bucket of cold water. He curses the tears in your eyes from old insecurities popping up again. He has seen you become more and more confident in your time at the GCPD, learning to ignore the pigs that giggle at everything that isn't "normal" to them.

Ed knows that feeling, and especially the taunts from those cops, well. He's off, to them. He never quite knows when to start or end a conversation, and he injects his interests even when he knows people are tired of them.

And that's why he likes (loves) you. You always smile and try with his riddles. You even continue to talk to him after, and are interested in who he is outside of work! That's rare. And if he could return that joy you have given him every day, it would be worth it for the possibility of you figuring out his true thoughts.

Unfortunately, while he has a mind for riddles, analytics, and all things mathematical, he has not been as blessed with poetry. So he wants to type this out...if nothing else than to keep you from feeling like you owe him something.

He types and deletes and types and deletes, looks at the clock, drums his fingers on the desk, and then types slowly this time. Reading it over, he nods at what he has written. It's not amazing, but he hopes it will make you feel like there are people in the office that are on your side, maybe even a secret admirer.

-------------------------------------

And now you're soaking wet. You just wanted to escape your desk and get a simple sandwich and the sky decided that it was a perfect time to begin a deluge right before you got back to the GCPD building. Why? God hates you, apparently. There's no other explanation that would satisfy your overdramatic mind at this point in time.

Luckily you managed to keep your precious food dry by stuffing it under your coat, but the rest of you is definitely not so lucky. You huff and start towards your desk. Bullock sees you on the way, starts a sentence of some sort, (most likely to quip at your condition), but the glare you send his way shuts him up immediately.

You end up collapsing at your desk and peeling off your outer coat, feeling the air conditioning of the building start to combine with your wet clothes to make a chill seep into your bones. Trying to ignore it but unable to suppress a shiver, you place your food on your desk...wait...is that? It is! Someone left a little typed note to you under the bag.

You pick up the note, giving it a quick glance to see if there was anything to connect it to someone. There are no initials or name...hmmm.

Your eyes read over the words on the page once...twice. And your heart shatters. How could...why would...how could someone be so heartless that they would taunt you today of all days?

There is a group of those rude, awful officers that like to congregate together around the water cooler, gossiping and laughing at anyone who wasn't them. But right now, one of them is talking while looking directly at you, and when he stops he throws his head back in laughter, with the rest following.

Holding back a sob, you crumple the letter in your hand and get out of the room as fast as you can without running. As soon as you are out of their sight, tears start streaming down your face and you run to a nearby empty room. It doesn't even matter what it is, you just care that it's empty and safe and lock the door behind you, collapsing against a wall and trying to catch your breath as you gasp for air.

You hold that position for only about 30 seconds, trying to muffle your sobs so they couldn't be heard by anyone outside, but apparently you weren't quiet enough. A quiet knock sounds on the door.

Tap tap tap

You do your best to school your voice, but it still comes out shaky as you reply "Please find another room."

But the voice that filters through the door is one you recognize well.

"Y-you looked cold, so I brought you an emergency blanket. Oh! And a-also your lunch."

You let out a sob, unable to stifle it. "T-thank you, Ed." And you walk over to the door to unlock it, opening it just a tad so he can't see your state.

But Ed is observant, and even with what little you present to him, he can see you are massively upset. Your eyes are bloodshot, and you are trembling, whether from the cold or from your current emotions, that he can't tell. He tries his best to gather some courage.

"W-would you mind if I sat with you for l-lunch?" He holds up your bag of food and you notice that his own lunch is clasped in his hand behind it.

Quickly, you try to consider if you are ready to fully cry in front of Ed, but his kind, if nervous, smile and his own insistence on joining you made you certain that he wouldn't be too judgemental.

You turn your head to the side to try and hide it a bit more as you step back to open the door. Your arm sweeps over to gesture to where you were sitting. "Be my guest, Mr. Nygma."

This makes him let out a nervous chuckle, but he enters anyway. You close the door behind him and lock it.

"I hope you don't mind, I just don't want anyone to see me...well..."

He nods, "That is perfectly understandable."

You both stand awkwardly for a few moments, but you eventually feel the floor calling to you again, so you nestle against the wall where you previously had collapsed. Ed slowly settles down at a respectable distance from you, his gangly limbs shuffling until he finds a comfortable position.

When he hands you your bag of food, he decides it's better to talk about what happened than sit in silence. "M-may I ask why you are upset?" You glance at him, and your eyes start to fill with tears again. He hurriedly starts to stutter through another sentence, "Oh! B-but if you p-prefer not to talk about it, t-that's ok!"

You shake your head, glancing down at the floor. "I just...I guess people like to take advantage of you when you're down sometimes, Ed."

You sigh, but begin feeling more angry than sad. "I mean, I've been in a bad mood all day, I got rained on when I was just trying to get some food, and then some asshole leaves me this."

You open your hand to reveal the crumpled note to Ed. He keeps his face as neutral as he can, recognizing it. Oh no, you fucked up, Ed! The voice in his head gleefully taunts.

Your sniffle brings him back, and you look down at the note, spreading it out so you can read it out loud.

"While you are not seen by others as a beauty

I cannot keep myself from glancing at your desk.

Your figure is full, and yet one word sticks truly,

I can only describe you as such: Rubenesque."

Ed ponders over the poem, while a bit rudimentary, it was full of his true compliments to you. But your face crumples when you get to the last word, stuttering it out.

Your eyes look to him, "I mean, Ed! How could someone write this?"

You see his face scrunch in confusion. "I admit, I do not quite understand. I see nothing wrong with the note?"

Feeling frustration well inside of you, you gesture with your hands wildly. "Nothing wrong? It's that word, Rubenesque!! It's an insult, I know it, especially with how those assholes were glancing at me as I read it, laughing once I was done."

Ed seems to be more confused now. "I was not aware it was an insult?"

You nod, and remember all of the times you have heard it in the past, "It's always been used by people who want to try and appear to be kind, but truly aren't. They call me Rubenesque in this snide tone, like it's something they can barely stand to spit out of their mouths."

Ed tries to interrupt, but you continue, softer now. "I just don't know Ed. The whole note seems to be mocking me...calling me full figured and not a beauty. Am I really that bad?" He shakes his head while you feel tears starting again, so you look down at the floor.

Now at a whisper, you barely get out the next words. "I just...I don't even want someone to like me anymore. I just want them to leave me alone." With that vulnerable confession, you sob, and bring your hands to your face, trying desperately to cover it. A shiver runs through you again.

After a few beats, you feel warmth around you, and you glance up to see that Ed has moved closer to cover you with the blanket he brought. His long arms stay in place in a hug after he positions it, keeping you close to him. You are a bit taken aback, as the most that Ed has touched anyone in the past was maybe a handshake.

He leans down so you can hear him, his voice more sure, now, even if it is soft. "Do you know about the painter, Rubens?"

You shake your head. "Is that where the term comes from?" He nods. Not feeling charitable, you grab the blanket and bring it closer around you as you grumble out, "Rubens can suck it."

He lets out a giggle at that, and you feel your heart warm at the noise. "I understand that you feel it is an insult...would you mind if I explain what it really means?"

You nod, because even if it is as bad as you make it out to be, at least you can hear his voice as he explains it.

One of his hands strokes the blanket surrounding you, right on top of your arm. "Rubens painted many different subjects, but the descriptor of Rubenesque usually refers to his nude paintings of women. Specifically, women like Venus."

You lift up your head to look at him. "Venus as in the Goddess of Beauty?"

He nods, gently. "Yes, among...other things." His eyes darken for just a moment before returning to his informative rant. "The women he paints are known to be full-figured, yes, but they are beautiful because of that, in my opinion."

You sit as still as you can, barely breathing, wanting to hear every word he says. A long finger comes under your chin and guides your face until you are looking right at him. "I wrote you that note. I think you are the definition of beauty."

And with that, he brings you gently forward, looking in your eyes the whole time. You let him, and lean forward to meet his lips. The kiss you share is sweet and short, but it fills you with a giddiness that makes you feel like a teen experiencing her first kiss again.

You separate smiling at each other, and Ed reaches up to kiss your forehead. "I apologize for upsetting you. I was trying to be a secret admirer."

You chuckle, "Yeah, well, it didn't help that I read the note as uncharitably as I could." You glance up at him, "I'm sorry for crumpling it up in anger."

He shakes his head. "D-don't apologize. I'll write you as m-many bad poems as you want." One of his long arms slowly moves down, and a finger traces your hip over the blanket. "Is this ok?"

You feel a warmth spark through you again as he makes contact, and all you trust yourself to do is nod. He nuzzles into your neck, whispering in your ear.

"I want you to know, right now, so there is no doubt, I love your body. These hips, your plush belly...even your soft arms." You feel his warm breath on your ear, and it makes you shudder. "They all remind me of art, and they make me want to..."

He trails off, and brings his hand away from your hip quickly, as if burned. You miss his touch, already, and confusedly ask, "What? Ed?"

You can't tell anything from his neutral face, but he gets up, suddenly, grabbing your lunches together again. "Let's find a better place for lunch, more comfortable...maybe with a table."

You nod, standing up with him. As you position the blanket around you, Ed wraps an arm around your waist.

"A-and...if you would like...have dinner with me tonight. I'll cook for you and...tell you more of my thoughts."

Your cheeks heat up, and his do as well. "Ed, I..." You think for a moment. "I'd love to have dinner with you."

He grins at you, again-one of his sappy, closed mouth grins-and leads you out of the room in his embrace. The two of you chat and giggle, seeking out a proper place for lunch and ignoring all of the stares you get. If you have each other, the rest of the world doesn't matter.

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#lawrites #plus size reader #x reader #reader #plus size fic #gotham #gotham x reader #edward nygma x reader #gotham rogues x reader #gotham edward nygma

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poeticuniversityuniverse · 2 years

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Blueberry True Pie By: @poeticuniversityuniverse ©2022 📚Instagram Poetry is My Elegant, Essence Woman ($9.99 at my website or Amazon for the ebook, physical book $178.00 on Amazon) 📚My Only Serving: (ebook $3.99 at my website EmceePoeticArtist.com link in bio) 📚 Old School Friendship (ebook $3.99 coming soon at EmceePoeticArtist.com My Other Creative Instagram Accounts: @thepoeticpreacher @flowgoduniverse @promptsuniversalspirit @galacticbookreviews @emcee_poetic_artist @poeticsoutherncook @poeticgraphicdesigns @chhworldwidecollaboration #PoeticUniveristyUniverse #bestsellingauthor #blackauthor #blackwriters #writersofcolor #womanwriter #writermom #lawriters #britishwriter #irishwriter #canadianwriter #indianwriter #lgbtwriters #futureauthor #fictionwriter #amwritingfiction #creativewriter #christianauthors #christianwriters #muslimwriters #debutauthor #amwriting #writingtime #writingprocess storytelling #plotter #writingabook #writinganovel #page1 #firstdraft (at London, United Kingdom) https://www.instagram.com/p/CgL9Hxtu7kc/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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finniestoncrane · 28 days

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as a self shipper out in the space it always makes me so so happy seeing you post about connie i am lifting her up and showing her off like simba from the lion king. she’s so cool and im out here cheering you on your self shipping journey :)

everyone should self-ship a little, it's fun, it's free, and it's very comforting to indulge in u-u i'm so glad that this time round on tumblr i embraced the "cringe" and started making ocs and self-inserts because it's made me so happy to share with friends and learn about myself through her ;-; i cry now thank you ;-; 💚

here's some connie art that i have gotten recently that i don't think i've shared!! i will avoid directly tagging people so they're not hit in the face by me being silly but they are all spectacular artists and you should go look at them and support their stuff!!

(from left to right then row by row: @/kotalketz @/wingedqueenlynx @/glorified-monster @/wingedqueenlynx @/worri-wort @/my own doodling ass @/b0wie-st4rdust @/cornetespoir @/lawrites)

#friends being friends #finnie's ocs

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willbtorres · 4 years

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MY FRIENDS, LOVERS, TEACHERS, and FAMILY

By Will B. Torres

For years I've been surrounded by my friends. I stood next to them as equal. My best friend, my lovers, my ex-lover, my first girlfriend (yes, I had one back in the days), my rivals, my colleagues, my co-workers, my mentors, my students. I never saw black as "Them," it was always "Us." I've always stood side by side and never knew what hate against black lives was until 1992.

Even though my 7-year-old self didn't understand what social injustice was, I felt what the four cops did to Rodney King wasn't right. I also wished all the riots happening around my neighborhood would stop. "Violence does not solve any problems," thought my 7-year naïve Mayan self. Unfortunately, America opened my eyes to all the injustice the cops have committed to black lives:

Trayvon Martin (Age 17, D. 2012)

Jordan Davis (Age 17, D. 2012)

Renisha McBride (Age 19, D. 2013)

Erick Garner (Age 27, D. 2014)

Michael Brown (Age 18, D. 2014)

Jamar Clark (Age 24, D. 2015)

Philando Castile (Age 32, D. 2016)

Anton Sterling (Age 37, D. 2016)

Ahmaud Arbery (Age 25, D. 2020)

Breonna Taylor ( Age 26, D. 2020)

George Floyd (Age 46, D. 2020)

AND MANY MORE…

I always thought that my silence and my prayers would make injustice go away… it's still the same. Each year I would say to myself, "This is the last police brutality"… It never was the last.

What I've seen throughout the year has made me angry, has made me upset, has made cry, and yes, has even made me want to burn down buildings because that's the only way society will listen. You know what! we are listening! the whole world is listening!

I feel to the pain that goes through each person marching the street asking for justice for George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor and all the black souls who lost their lives from a dirty, racist cop.

This Mayan man stands up for the right of black lives, so the next generations of brown kids, white kids, black kids, or any kid growing up in America doesn’t witness all the injustice done by cops throughout the years…

I take it back; I want the future generation of kids to know all the injustice black people had to live through. I want the future generations to know that I, nor my friends, lovers, family, and teachers, did not stay quiet and fought for equality for every black human in America. I want our future generations K-12 to learn about all the injustice black people had to endure from dirty, racist cops through a Social Justice Class taught by our black teachers, professors, and doctors.

While I am just a small voice among other great people making a change, today and until my last breath (which is hope is at age 101), I STAND NEXT TO MY BLACK FRIENDS, LOVERS, TEACHERS, & FAMILY.

#blacklivesmatter #writer #lovewins #justiceforgeorgefloyd #justiceforbreonnataylor #lawriter #gaylatino

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tramenapresents-blog · 4 years

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#books #blackauthor #share #lawriter #thisisthelifeichose #amazon #kindleunlimited #blackauthorsmatter #blackwomenwriters #crenshaw #gangsoflosangeles

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poetonstandby-blog · 6 years

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#spilledink #Poetry #poetryisnotdead #poetryislife #writercommunity #poetrycommunity #writerofinstagram #igwriter #igpoem #longdays #timefliesby #manhattanbeach #losangeles #lawriter #bymepoetry #shortpoem #poems #thesedays #instawriting #instapoet https://www.instagram.com/p/BpkYecnFk22/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1w7tar26vrg7k

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infinitechaser97-blog · 6 years

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Graduation The time has come, I am finally done. Done with all the adolescent tests, Done with all the questioning of, “What is the point of the universe?” I am no longer coming of age, I have survived my youth of, The retched teen years, And now I am a million light years away, Higher than ever before, Drifting off into the realms of light, No plugging into superficial fright. The past is out of mind, Out of sight, My mind is set on the heights. The hilltops and ballrooms, Mansions and sets, Life of a tumbling artist. Free and wild, Just like my inner child... Read the rest on my blog!🤗😄❤️ marcusalvarado.com/blog Link in bio ⬆️ Sign up and become a member of my blog community! A safe place where you get to explore and express your inner realms most sacred thoughts and vibrations❤️ 📸 @akinography #poem #poetryblog #blog #blogger #blogging #poetry #poetsofinstagram #poetrycommunity #bloggersofinstagram #blogcommunity #lablogger #lawriter #photoshoot #photography #modeling #model #modelswanted #fashion #urbanstyle #hollywood #lamodel #modellife #instamodels #actor #actorslife #acting #laactor #losangeles #california (at Hollywood Boulevard)

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ericmooreporchkid · 3 years

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okay so, i'm here.

what's going on?

am i doing standup? am i writing?

not fucking really.

am i on twitter seeing people constantly post about all the amazing jobs in comedy and writing they've obtained?

of course.

are some of them more talented than me?

yes.

are some of them not?

sure, who gives a fuck.

i don't really work that hard for anything lately. i'm happy to fuck the hell out of my girlfriend and buy her dinner and sleep next to her and say that i miss her when she's not around. i love her and that's pretty fucking wild and i think i do feel happy lately due to the precise cocktail of

anti-depressant and

booze

and

weed.

but i don't know. can i blame the pandemic anymore? do i actually have the tenacity to get my writing out there? do i even need to get it out there?

can't i just do some poems and writing and songs and be happy with that? a little standup on the side? some acting gigs here and there?

i'm ready to get things moving on this life of mine.

i don't know why but

even though i'm so dang happy with the person i'm with i still keep thinking

this isn't forever

i don't love her like i should love someone that would be longer term

i don't know i love her i just

wouldn't move in with her and

wouldn't marry her?

but that doesn't feel like it's a good enough reason to not carry on.

that's not a good reason to stop enjoying life

to stop breathing and tasting and fucking and typing, even if you aren't typing anythign good.

i know friends like meeee i know life is kkkkkk

okay so taht's all for now. therapy, yada yada yada.

my family is aging and i feel disconnected from them and not necessarily connected to or interseted in anything else so.

okay yeah bye

#justavent #blabla #lawriter #comedian #busllhit #fuck #shit #fu

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joanelizebeth · 4 years

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dreamers: don’t die

I know you think none of this matters anymore. You don’t even care so much to abide by sentence structure. The newest version of the new you could give two shits about what the Oxford comma even is. You don’t write to attain a grade anymore. You don’t write to get into college anymore. You write because……...

Dot. Dot. Dot ...still thinking, uploading, pending, synching. The world you once believed in, the audience still waiting on the last time you gave serious, genuine, interested, effort into your skill...

But something always causes the pen to stop writing before it actually intended on stopping. Suddenly the fingers stop typing at the keyboard...

You look up to kiss him goodnight (you realize he’s filling up his water bottle to head to bed), & so you shrug silently to yourself, “oh, this isn’t anything big I’m working on anyway right now, I can pause this and put it away.” NBD! Easy!

Dot. Dot. Dot.

The laptop closes and we don’t even recognize the severity of the moment. Such a subtle, little... moment, right?

My dad, born in 1953, believed in a lifelong dream of getting a Corvette. He got it when I was like 5. I’d sit in the back and stare up at the Wisconsin stars and think “I’m gonna chase my dreams like this one day, and never stop driving.” I’m 24, he hasn’t driven it regularly since I was 9.

One day that garage door closed for the last time that he’d ever take that red corvette out, before giving up on remembering why he’d made it such a life goal in the first place...

And suddenly years and years later, so many pauses, so many put away ideas, brainstorming lists, and even frickin potential tweets and instagram captions fill up nothing but receipt space in your Notes app (a habit kept like my mom’s iconic giant black purse, all too familiar: like a landfill of thin crumpled papers, dollars, and big break ideas, always meant to go somewhere someday, right?).

Ideas are only dangerous if you feed them. House them. Watch them age, and help them develop into actions. As an artist, but really as an overthinker; it’s a game within your own creative intellect to balance the test of modern revolutions and trends & the analytical application of methods classically proven to work. We must not think we have to choose one or the other, but learn how to derive new opinions, ideas, and experiments by utilizing both thought-habits to new, peaceful third productive outcome to remain open minded to perspectives of people with much different life experiences and lives, different reality lenses than our own.

Three dots that wait to continue the conversation, as eager as a new college grad awaits the dialog after sending a cover letter. The art of a cover letter? Is that really an art? I find well crafted writing with any purpose other than for the passion that letters themselves inspired one to pursue opportunity, to be a mockery of language itself. Do not exploit my talent, do not disrespect my education, for you have no idea what I’ve learned behind the closed doors of my personal life and interests, of things beyond what the ACT scans for. I might have read AP Chemistry in 5th grade, I might have read my father’s divorce journal during the military, you have no academic acclaim in my eye to judge the motivation behind why I type what I type. What I say and why I say so is something I’m still discovering myself, but I question the validity of my talent, of my career, every day that I realize I don’t have a stupid Bachelor’s Degree Paper saying that I majored in English and also sucked up to the professor’s particular philosophy. I’ve read more books in my lifetime than days I’ve spent in school. I’m not lying. I’m 24, one year out of college, one year a resident in the city of Angels: dying. Dying of Apathy. The same criminal that tried to take me when I tasted a life of comfort.

You need more than ambition now. Now, more than ever, you need to focus. To stop picking up your phone to see if he viewed your story, even if you’re alone in a foreign world and don’t know a single soul who understands your context. You can’t drop the mask now and visit Aunt Linda after church at Starbucks. You can’t force smiles anymore to strangers, trying to convince other people why you moved here with a dream. But why not? You can’t force strangers, you can’t force friends, you can’t force family to believe in you if you’ve chosen to stop believing in yourself. So cheesy, those words must have come from someone from Wisconsin. Regardless, reality.

The months fly by like EXPO tickets at a busy restaurant, once they’re gone they’re forgotten.

So many months, so many days, so many interactions with strangers on the street. Things we don’t think about. It’s been a year, what the fuck have I accomplished? I haven’t even written a Goddamn thing on a computer since I worked at ESPN. When my voice felt validated. I could have stayed. How many nights do I wake up jerking, imagining the best case scenario of an unrealistic positive scenario of the other side of the crossroads we faced when we were only a little bit younger? But I chose to move from Wisconsin to California. I believed in myself when I bought that flight, when I wobbly-handed my debit card to the TJ Maxx cashier for that suitcase, the one suitcase I moved here with. Flyin’ solo sounds more glamorous in quote form. It was really lonely. But day by day things can really, really; really improve.

Those restaurant tickets are forgotten. We take shots at the end of the night with both BOH and FOH together, completely forgetting about that side of chipotle ranch for that lemon lady that was never ran. We move on in life and don’t care about the little details that occur around us as we take in the information overload called being alive.

But among those tickets, among those many little random tickets, big, small, we know the clock out feeling still leaves us smiling, wondering why even if work was hectic, it was worth it. It was and is always worth coming back again, even when we have slow nights. Just kinda like how, even if we haven’t gotten verified on Instagram or Twitter, we still kinda like life in LA.

Tickets fly by like days, weeks, months, even years lived in Los Angeles, and I don’t fast forward through those moments as I previously had. I used to guilt trip myself for not being “critically acclaimed” whatever the fuck that means, yet if I were to forever focus on that rubric as the sole way to define my sense of self, I’d land up where my brain of creative fire fears most: apathy. Not caring. Not having emotion. Make excuses to replace the thoughts of guilt, the thoughts that comfort me into affirmation that my negligence, my lack of work ethic, my dwindling inspiration that was once the sturdy backbone I had as my secret weapon during the fight.

Those tickets don’t matter. A side of ketchup you forgot to run a few days ago that you just remembered doesn’t matter. But the concept of tickets not mattering ever is just as common and dangerous a mistake to make as getting caught up in labels, titles, and details.

The days I’ve been in Los Angeles, I haven’t acted in feature films, modeled free outfits on Melrose, made out with Halsey backstage, or had some magical unrealistic moment where someone wants to read my poetry or script ideas drunkenly on the patio at Berkshire House. At the end of the shift, the restaurant tickets don’t matter, right? Or do they?

At the end of the day, the time I spent in LA without getting a self affirming job doesn’t matter, right? All this time I have spent living in LA with strangers and paying rent that seems so expensive, is it a waste of my life? These days in LA that pass by without me making my “big break” are a fucking waste of time, right? Or are they?

But,

Did you learn Street names? Freeway names? Did coffee shop faces begin to become recognizable by name? What about your favorite parking spot at work? What about when the Uber app recognizes your patterns and little favorite spots? Do you have a coworker you vent to about all the BS banter from certain regular customers? What about the checkout lady at the grocery store where you get your favorite coffee creamer? Has the weight of meaning of seeing a familiar friends’ handwriting on a postcard carried its weight a little differently? All these little things, all those little tickets at work, never seem to matter in the moment, but at the end of the day, at the end of our shift: they’re what makes us feel at home. Habits are what makes the difference between what feels like a house and what feels like a home.

You’ve made what was just a house, now a home. Through habit. Through noticing.

Although Apathy is a real phase we all sometimes experience in life due to comfort and lack of change, apathy doesn’t have to corner us into self imposing a giant change upon our lives, forcing us to lose something we love. We can fight these fits of apathy, of self doubt, of questioning everything, by …

Dot Dot Dot...

Does anyone have an answer?

My answer to Apathy, to a dead soul, to feelings of “why hasn't anyone noticed what I’m capable of yet?” is that the answer never mattered to a dumb self conceited question to begin with.

Remember those tickets. Remember those days. Remember those that laughed at your jokes, asked to take pictures with you, invited you to parties, or smiled at you with a sense of familiar relief when you punched into work. People have been noticing you. Have you been noticing them?

#dreams quotes LAserver artist writer #writer #artist #losangeles #dreamer #restaraunt #labar #bartnder #bartender #creative #writers #lawriter #laserver

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terenceleclere · 6 years

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Excited to begin this year by reading poems with @redlightlit at fav spot @artshare_la 🎙‼️ How’s about some bare souls on this new year’s first Saturday? 🚨📓 #Repost @redlightlit (@get_repost) ・・・ Join Red Light Lit for an intimate evening of spoken word, photography and song at Art Share LA👠Featuring the photography of Shelbie Dimond, musical guest Shannon Lay, and readers Denise Benavides, Peter Thomas Bullen, Devin Copeland, Christine No, Terence Leclere, and Phillip T. Nails alongside a live musical score by David Williams🎸 Doors are at 7:30pm. Show starts at 8pm. Tickets are $15 in advance and $20 at the door. Link in bio🔥 #losangeles #losangelesphotography #shelbiedimond #artsharela #writingcommunity #lawriters #lawriter #redlightlit #livemusic #shannonlay #losangelespoetsociety #losangelespoets #lapoetry #laspokenword #lalovers #spokenword #poetsofinstagram #poetrycommunity #poetry #poetryporn #wordplay #instapoem #poems #wordsofwisdom #writersofig #instapoet #igpoets #poetryisnotdead #homophones #poetryofig #spilledink (at Art Share-LA)

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lawrites · 6 months

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Sweet Thing (NSFW)

Gotham Victor Zsasz x Plus Size! Female Chef Reader

(Honestly is this kinda pwp that resulted from the once scene where Zsasz doesn't get a cupcake, making me feel sad and want to give him one?? Yeah...yeah maybe. Also @finniestoncrane and @riddle-me-ri have made me obsessed with Gotham rogues again so...thanks for that and for inspiring me to write again. 💙💙)

Warnings: some weight insecurities on the readers part (listen I have them so I'm writing them, shush), descriptions of reader's body, Zsasz probably being ooc, smut!!!!

It was...strange...in a way, this relationship you may or may not have with Victor Zsasz. You both work for Oswald Cobblepot, you as his private chef/patisserie and him as...well...one of the most dangerous killers in Gotham. It started when he scared you half to death the first time he snuck into your kitchen in the Cobblepot residence.

You were carefully simmering something on the stove, stirring and scraping the edges to make sure nothing burned, and you turned around to grab some salt only to see a man all in black staring at you from across the kitchen island, obviously well-armed.

You screamed and dropped the salt, of course. It's Gotham and you work for THE Penguin. You assumed the worst. But he just raised one eyebrow and smirked at you, his expression surprisingly...goofy for someone with at least 4 guns on him in plain sight. "Oh, no need to worry. I'm Victor Zsasz, we share the same boss."

You remember nodding, being immediately comforted as you did recognize the name. "Oh! Oh, I apologize for the reaction, Mr. Zsasz." You did your best to smile back shakily, which only made him grin wider. But then he looked behind you and raised his eyebrows, which reminded you where you were and what you were doing. You let out a slightly undignified squeak as you turned back to your reduction in worry, trying to see if anything had burned when you stopped stirring.

Relief flooded you when it was still perfect, and you called over your shoulder, "So what brings you to my Kitchen, Mr. Zsasz?" Waiting a few beats, you were met with silence, so you snuck a glance behind you only to see that he had left just as quietly as he came.

And that was the first time you encountered one of Gotham's finest killers.

Since then, you interacted with him at least once a week, if not every day, in almost the exact same fashion. He would quietly show up, (possibly trying to scare you again), stay for a bit to watch you cook, and then leave just as quietly. You started talking with him to pass the time, being met with vague, cryptic responses laced with occasional names for you. "Sweetheart" seemed to be his go-to, but he also loved "Honey." It was a bit awkward in the beginning...

"So Mr. Zsasz..."

"Sweetheart, call me Victor."

"Oh! Ok...Victor...any hobbies??"

"...crochet, actually."

...but you got into a rhythm eventually. Sometimes you would ask him for a prepped ingredient, a spice, or a measuring spoon if your hands were full.

You have convinced yourself that he must be trying to scare you again, because he loves quietly sliding up behind you and brushing up against your arms as he hands it to you with a softly whispered, "Whatever you say, Chef."

It DID make you let out another squeak the first time, which was met with a deep chuckle from him, but after that it started to create a different reaction. Your cheeks would flame as you would take the item you asked for--the cute names, his slight most likely accidental touches...all of them affecting you.

You do your best to tamper it down each time, not allowing yourself to even start down the path of hope. Being obviously bigger than what lots of men find attractive due to society's standards means that you have either met mainly men who were desperate or mean. It's not your fault, you sometimes really dig your body, you just can't seem to find anyone else who does.

You have no idea why he visits, but his conversations make your day better, so you don't want him to stop. And he doesn't seem to be showing up to frighten or taunt you anymore...you just don't want to let yourself believe that he would be into you. A tiny voice that you think is your conscience pipes up and says he also kills people for fun and profit, but you just remind it that you're in Gotham and honestly you could do worse.

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts a bit, you glance down at the oven. It's later in the day for you, after dinner has been done, and you are prepping desserts for tomorrow. Oswald has requested cupcakes, for some reason, so you are watching them to make sure they don't burn. Easy as they are to make, it wouldn't do to have the Penguin himself angry at you for any reason.

Taking out the tray, you check to make sure they are fully cooked before letting them cool and prepping the frosting. Humming along to the radio and swaying a bit, your thoughts drift back to Victor. He usually would have stopped by before this time, which means you probably won't be seeing him today. It does make your heart fall a bit, but you remind yourself that it shouldn't because he is just a...friend? Coworker? "Possible cryptid??" Your tiny conscious supplies.

You giggle to yourself as you imagine Victor creeping around the woods with Mothman. Shaking your head, you finish placing the frosting in your piping bag only to turn around and feel it slip from your fingers as the form of Victor appears closer than you would have expected. He catches the bag and grins at you, his usual serious countenance turning into something softer as he says "Woah, Chef, wouldn't want your hard work to go to waste."

You place a hand on your forehead, catching your breath a bit as your heart slows down, "Yeah, it's almost like someone showed up out of nowhere and scared me." You grin back at him "But I know that's nowhere near what you meant to do, right?"

His eyes shine with mischief, "Oh, of course not Honey. You're so sweet it forces me to be on my best behavior around you."

He hands you back your frosting with an exaggerated bow and cheesy grin. You roll your eyes but can't disguise your blush as you take it from him, "Victor, you know you don't have to flatter me if you want a cupcake."

He stands up straight, his eyes showing shock. "Me? Get a cupcake?"

Confused by his excitement, you respond with a question in your voice, "Of course??"

He seems almost shy, a word you would never have used to describe him before, and rubs the back of his head. "Oh...it's just...you've never offered before..."

You think back through the past few months, each and every encounter...and then you slap yourself on the forehead, "Oh Victor, I've been holding out on you haven't I? I'm sorry, I should have given you something even the first time you stopped by. I've been remiss in my duties as a Chef."

His shocked face turns softer, but some other emotion that you can't place is also present. "While I can't disagree, as I was definitely hoping something was on offer that day, I can't blame you. I remember thinking what you have was too sweet for a killer like me."

Walking up to your cooled cupcakes on the kitchen island, you scoff at him even though you are secretly preening at his words. As you start to carefully create a swirl of frosting, you respond, "Victor, I'm not THAT sweet." You turn for just a second to wink at him, returning to your previous task to avoid seeing his reaction. "And I'm not sure why you kept coming down here when I wasn't even feeding you! That's usually the only way I make my friends, killers or not."

As you finish the swirl with a flick of your wrist, you see him walk into your field of view across the counter. Feeling proud of how perfect it is, you add the final touch, a perfectly prepped red rose made of icing, and align it just so. And then...after all that work...you gladly pick it up and gently offer it to Victor.

There is a hunger in his eyes, and you wonder how you had managed to not die for the past few months if a cupcake could do this to him. He should have rightly torn you to pieces to get to the apple cider macarons you made last week.

He plucks the cupcake from your hands and examines it, turning it to and fro. "Very nice, Chef, as always." He grins and unwraps the dessert, barely hesitating before taking a big bite out of it. His eyes widen and then close in what you assume is enjoyment. Your suspicions are confirmed only a second later when he actually moans at the taste, swallowing heavily and letting out a soft, "Fuck." Your traitorous eyes trace down the length of his neck almost involuntarily.

Trying to disguise your heavier blush that is most likely down to your chest at this point, you quickly look down to the rest of the cupcakes and focus on decorating them instead of the images racing through your mind. Your pride at your work won't let you keep quiet though, so you have to comment on his reaction. "I don't know if I've had a better reaction to my food before. I'll have to remember to make even better stuff for you later."

You don't see his reaction, but you see him set the rest of the cupcake on the counter after a beat of silence and begin to move slowly towards you out of the corner of your eye. "You would make me, of all people, better stuff?" He takes another step, "Not just discards from the boss's requests?"

You smile, but continue to look down at your icing work. "Your wish is my command! I love making desserts for my..."

Just a moment of hesitation, an instance. You implied that Victor was your friend earlier, but would that be appropriate by his standards? Is he even your friend? And you know that even that would be a lie, coming from you. But as your thoughts race, you feel a firm hand lift up your hand and take the icing bag away, setting it gently on the counter. Then Victor grips into your soft arms and physically turns you towards him, all while you stay silent in shock.

He is staring at you again, but this time with a more guarded expression. "For...who? What am I to you?"

You are stunned and stumble over your words, not expecting his question, "I-I don't know, Victor, I like to think t-that you are at least my f-friend at this point, but I totally understand if you don't think we are there yet. I mean...I do enjoy your company..."

You feel his hands grip a bit harder at your arms, effectively cutting you off, "...And is that all you want from me, Sweetness? Are you sure?"

Your mind is screaming at you, and your heart as well. Both at war with each other. He can't like you that way, but maybe he's noticed your reactions. Why wouldn't he? He's trained to kill, he probably notices everything about you.

He's just trying to put a stop to this before it gets further, your mind screams.

"I-I..." you find yourself unable to form words, a panic rising inside you. You don't want to lose some of the only company you have during your shifts...some of your only company in general, in Gotham. It is near impossible to determine if anyone is trustworthy when working for the Penguin. You usually find yourself walking directly home from work, and having civil conversations with neighbors at most.

It is even more difficult to keep that panic at being alone again from continuing when his dark eyes keep constant contact with yours, never wavering. You can see now how people are terrified of him. All of that focus that he usually uses against his enemies, his...targets...all aimed at you. It makes your mind fuzzy, cloudy. You struggle to think of any words, let alone the ones you need.

But, you decide it would be easier to speak if you weren't looking at him. So you allow yourself to look at your shoes instead. He will be able to tell if you lie, with or without eye contact. There are better liars than you in Gotham that he has matched and ended.

Alternatively...leaving isn't wise, either. It would lead to the same outcome as lying. With a quick breath to steady yourself, you know your only course is to admit whatever you feel.

"I...I don't think I can lie to you, whether or not the both of us want me to. I have thought of...more...with you. But if that makes you uncomfortable, I entirely understand. I know I'm not what most..."

He again cuts off your rapid-fire words by putting a singular finger under your chin to raise your face until it is looking at him. His eyes are searching yours as your heart pounds in your chest with anguish over your confession, and you wait. Seeming to find what he was looking for, you hear him mutter "Fuck, finally," and then he slams his lips into yours.

Shocked, you don't react for a few beats...but then you start to move your lips against his. His hands have moved from your chin and arm, both going to your wide hips. He groans as they sink into the soft flesh you have there, pulling you closer until you are flush with his front. The feel of your soft belly connecting with his slight frame makes you pause and short-circuit, your lips hesitating. He notices and breaks from the kiss.

"I-I...Victor..." his hands release you, a more worried expression taking over his face.

"Sweetheart, is it too much?" He takes a gloved hand and gently sweeps your hair behind your ear, then cups your face to make sure you keep looking at him...gently, though. His hands are more gentle than you expected.

Damn him and his need for eye contact right now. And damn his gentle hands while you're at it. "No, that was wonderful, truly. I loved it." You do your best to show him honesty. "I-I just...oh God...I don't know how to phrase this."

His eyes don't leave yours, and one of his thumbs starts to sweep against your soft cheek.

Taking a deep breath, you muster up some strength of will. Either way this will be over soon. "I just...I'm big."

He nods as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, "Yeah, Honey, I know." One hand stops cupping your face and moves down to lightly trace your hip.

Sighing at his inability to see, you continue, "So-so...most people don't like that I'm bigger, or that I have a belly, and I'm just nervous that..."

"That I'm most people?" Victor stops gently cupping your face and instead forcefully uses his hand to bring you closer, "Sweetness, I'm Gotham's finest killer, I'm not most people."

And then he slams his lips into yours again, and you find that you don't care to think anymore. His hand drifts from your chin to your throat, gently gripping there for now as he starts to walk you back until your ass is pressed right against the island. He tears his lips from yours, both of you catching your breath, and his other hand moves from your hip to your ass.

His hand traces the excess flesh that spills over the counter and he groans, squeezing it and leaning forward to whisper in your ear, "I've been thinking about getting to dig my hands into this perfect ass ever since I saw you in the kitchen that first day." His thumb on your throat starts to stroke up and down, feeling you swallow and moan at his words.

His grin is back, "That's right, sweetness, let me hear you." His hand moves away from your throat so he can start to trace down your neck with his teeth, but in between bites he continues to talk. "Been wanting to hear the noises you might make for me since then too." He pulls back to give you a dangerous smile, "Do you really think I kept sneaking up on you to scare you?"

Your voice is a bit strained, but sure, as you reply plainly, "Yes." But then a smirk stretches over your lips and your eyes light up with mirth at your tease.

His dangerous smile softens just slightly, and he chuckles, "You DO know me well, then." He hides his face in your neck once more, his hands gripping your ass harder as he presses himself into your front. You feel how hard he is against you just as he bites down on the juncture at your shoulder, and it makes you let out an involuntary whimper, your smirk disappearing.

"Just like I've heard in my fucking dreams for the past few months." He pants against your skin, grinding against your center and licking at the bite he just made. Surprisingly, instead of continuing his trail like you expected, he stops, sniffing at the part he just attended to, and almost lets out a choked sound.

"So fucking sweet." He pulls back, and you see some of the desperation in his eyes. "Your scent, your fucking baking." His eyes close, "Sweetness seems to follow you around, seeping into everything you touch."

He turns you around gently and places your back to his front, settling his chin on your shoulder and speaking softly. "You know, I was planning on just sneaking down that first day, annoying the boss's baker like all the others that came before." He nuzzles his nose against your skin, "...stealing something that wasn't mine."

His hands begin to wander, the first one moves lightly across your collarbone, making you shiver, while the other weaves across your front, hugging you to him and digging into your soft side. The hand that traced your collarbone slowly starts to trail down, arriving at your breasts. His touch stays light. "Maybe I would find some of that excess that others are loath to give me." He breathes in sharply along with you as he squeezes your breast, almost unable to keep himself from doing so. "I can't even fit all you have to give me in my hand, pretty Chef."

Shaking his head, resolving himself, he continues his previous train of thought. "Imagine my surprise when I encountered what I already told you was the perfect ass, still able to be seen through these awful chef clothes you wear." A hint of disdain makes its way into his voice as he pinches your loose work shirt.

Releasing the fabric and smoothing it over, his hand joins the other around your front, almost sweetly hugging you to him with a light grip. He breathes in as he forces himself to slow down so he can speak. "The way you spoke...so unsure, but still trying to be polite even to me."

He pushes himself against you again, as if to remind yourself where you are even with his shockingly sweet words. "And your sweet voice calling me Mr. Zsasz..." His hands dig into your plush stomach, pushing you back but also making you wince again.

He doesn't allow your doubts to get to you, his blunt words stopping them in their tracks, "I had to run out of the room to fuck my own hand as it echoed in my mind."

A bolt of heat goes straight to your core and you moan, grinding your ass against him. A hitch in his breath, and then he whispers into your neck "Yes, I knew you had it in you, good girl. So desperate, hmm?"

You nod, holding back a whine at his praise and trying not to get too heated at work. At work! Suddenly you remember where you are. Slowing yourself down, you reach for his hands and gently pry at them. To his credit, they loosen instantly. Turning around to look at him again, you catch his own blush, his chest rising and falling, his eyes dark...but also saddened by the loss of you against him.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry if I went too far. You don't owe me anything..." His voice is breathy as he now desperately spits out words, "...not cupcakes or yourself or..."

You now hold up a finger to his lips, shushing him. His eyes widen, darken even more, and then look almost dangerous again. Filing his reaction away for later, you saunter over to where he left his cupcake from before, making sure to sway your hips for him. "I know I don't owe you."

You turn around with the cupcake held right in the palm of your hand. "I would be happy to give you whatever you want." He seems almost dazed as he approaches you, leaning down to your hand. With a nod from you, he leans forward and licks through the icing, holding eye contact the whole time.

Your heartbeat stutters and you almost forget where you were again. Damn him and his tongue now, too. Taking a shuddering breath, you finish your thought. "But we are both at work, unfortunately." His eyes fall and he pouts. It's almost adorable to see the serious, dangerous man so...cute??

"Luckily for you..." His eyes perk up instantly. You roll your eyes and your free hand points to the ground. "Down, boy."

He licks his lips in response.

"L-luckily for you, I was just thinking about leaving the rest of the icing for tomorrow." He relaxes his pose and plucks the cupcake from your hand, happily moving to sit at a chair and gesturing for you to do your cleanup.

You begin, only to stop when you hear his voice again. "Sweetness...how long would it take you to make another batch of icing?" Connecting what he means when you notice his eyes staring at the current bag of icing resting on the counter, you pick up the pace even more.

He giggles, actually giggles, at your haste before he bites into the cupcake. "You know I have an appetite for sweet things."

---------------------------

Idk if this was great or not lol. No beta, no proof readers, barely any hint of a story line, just vibes. Also this is very "he would not say that" but let me live within my delusions. Victor Zsasz could like a sweet, plus size girl in MY French vanilla fantasy.

#lawrites #plus size reader #gotham zsasz #victor zsasz x reader #victor zsasz x plus size reader #x reader #gotham x reader #victor zsasz #gotham

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