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dilatorywriting · 1 year

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Heroes vs. Villains : The Staff [Part 2]

Platonic GN!Reader x NRC Staff vs. RSA Staff Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. NRC Staff Version (Part 2: Crewel and Crowley)

ie. Mr. Rogerson has awesome dalmatians and his wife makes even better cookies. Meanwhile, Crewel continues to be an emotionally constipated mess, and Crowley is... himself.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

You were met at the door by a pair of over enthusiastic dalmatians—the chaotically cute duo sending you ass-first to the office floor in a merry greeting that was more of a graceless tackle than anything else.

“You brought Poe and Perdy!” you exclaimed, laughing past the face kisses.

“Well, they’d never forgive me if I didn’t,” Mister Rogerson huffed good naturedly. “Do you know how much this little nutter cried when I came home the other day and he realized you’d been by? Ages, I’m telling you. Thought he was going to pout me into an early grave.”

You squished both of them affectionately and showered the lovely, spotted, beasts with every compliment under the sun.

“Oh! Before I forget…” the professor rustled around in his leather messenger bag and retrieved a neatly packaged pastry box all bundled up in a colorful, twine, bow. You accepted the treats happily and removed yourself from the dog-pile to take your usual place on the well-worn piano bench. “Annie made you some more cookies, seeing as you liked the last ones so much.”

“Did you help?” you asked.

“Hmm? What makes you say that?”

You held up the first treat from the pile—half-singed on one side and squishy with raw dough on the other.

“You caught me!” he laughed, and retrieved a second box. “These are from Annie. Those are my failures.”

“Such horrible lies,” you tutted, dramatic. “Trying to trick an innocent victim into ingesting poison just so that you can keep all the good ones for yourself.”

“Hey, they’re not that bad!” he defended, taking a large chomp out of one of the less charred looking of his creations. Immediately his cheeks went nearly green. “Or… maybe they are.”

You pushed a water bottle in his direction which he accepted gratefully. There was always a stash of them just to the left of his composer’s stand, and another hoard in a conspicuous looking storage cube closer to the piano at which you’d perched yourself. There were more sweets hidden in his desk drawers too, for when something stronger than water was needed to wash away whatever awful thing he’d tried to ingest. You knew where a lot of ‘secret’ things were in this room. It felt nice, to be so privy to all its little treasures.

“You know,” he smiled, finishing the last of his water with a final gulp. “Annie keeps pestering me to have you come by for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” you hesitated, looking around the room where so many of your little odds and ends had already started to accumulate. Empty mugs, the patch that had fallen off your jacket, the thread which you’d intended to use to fix said patch. Just… little footprints showing you’d been by. “Well, any more at least.”

“Nonsense,” Mister Rogerson laughed. “You’re more than welcome! But we don’t mean to pressure you, of course! Especially if you’re busy! Just something to think about if you’d like. Anyways, how has your day been?”

And thus began your afternoon ritual. You would sit and split Annie’s delicious cookies as you rambled about your various grievances. Mister Rogerson would inevitably come and take a seat beside you on the piano bench and start playing some gentle strains of this or that—‘just little things he was working on,’ he’d said. Occasionally you’d accidentally lean on the keys, throwing the whole thing into a cacophonous mess. But he would just chuckle and replay whatever the piano had just screeched, calling it a ‘fascinating addition’ and merrily jotting bits of it into his notes. It was nice. Better than nice. And you didn’t realize just how comfortable you’d become in your daily chitchats until you’d become perhaps a bit too comfortable.

“It’s just been so exhausting. And on top of all the other ridiculous things, I’m so sick of that fact that it’s like my job to be their personal punching bags or whatever when they’re Overblotting all over the place, and—”

The piano cut off abruptly.

Mister Rogerson’s hazel eyes had gone wide, as if he was spooked. Immediately you realized that you’d said something that you should not have.

“There are students at Night Raven College who have Overblotted?” he asked, slow, like he couldn’t even believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

“What? No. Of course not!” you lied, like a liar.

“Kiddo,” he frowned, stern. “You just said—"

“—I mean, no one’s actually Overblotted, Overblotted,” you spluttered hastily, rifling frantically through your brain for every plausible excuse you could cough up. “It’s more that I’ve heard a lot about Blot, and how it becomes a—you know—Overblot. Which sounds really scary, and like something that I never, ever, want to actually see! And it’s just that everyone there is a mess, so I guess I should I have said that I’m more just worried about Overblotting.”

A pause.

“Which, again, I’ve never, ever, actually seen.”

More silence.

“…Ever.”

Mister Rogerson sighed, apparently relieved by your bullshitting, and slumped forward over the piano keys.

“That’s… That’s good. You really scared me there for a moment, kiddo. Overblots are no small matter. They have to be reported to the proper authorities and dealt with accordingly. It’s a whole fiasco, and paperwork and legal proceedings aside, it’s dangerous.” He laid a gentle hand across your shoulder. “I’m just glad you haven’t been anywhere near something like that.”

You swallowed a chunk of wayward cookie, hoping you didn’t look horrifically guilty. But then some other part of what he’d just rattled off stuck in your head and that shame was wiped away by panic.

“They’d be taken away?” you whispered, something unpleasant and nervous curling in your gut.

Mister Rogerson looked down at you with a sympathetic wrinkle to his brow. He squeezed your shoulder reassuringly.

“I know it sounds scary, kiddo. But that’s what we have to do to keep everyone as safe as we can. Does that make sense?”

You thought of Riddle, crying into his hands after years of emotional neglect—and then of the pair of you sitting in the Heartslabyul gardens after all was said and done, eating strawberry tarts with your fingers like little children. You thought of Leona, miserable and bitter as he was, finally breaking after an entire lifetime of feeling like nothing but a failure who slunk about in his brother’s shadow—and then how just last week the beastman had been lounging in the sun with his head in your lap, grouchily demanding your leftovers. You thought of Azul, and his bullies, and his stupid desire to take on the world just to prove he could. You thought of all the friends you’d made, and of just how many of them really needed a goddamn therapist. You thought about them being taken away to who-even-knew-where. Where you’d probably never see any of them again. And where you wouldn’t even know what was happening to them.

General grumpiness with the lot of them aside, your friends were the one, genuine, beacon of warmth in this miserable, cold, new world. Sure, they were all assholes. Mega assholes. But you knew that they’d stand by you through anything—do anything, if you needed the help.

And the idea of giving up on them? Just like that? Because it was protocol?

Your stomach roiled and you set the cookies off to the side.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Mister Rogerson frowned, taking in whatever unpleasant expression was no doubt twisting your face into knots. “We shouldn’t talk about it anymore. It’s not a fun topic.” He slid a new page of sheet music across the piano’s sleek, black, shelf. “Here. I started writing this the other day. What do you think?”

Strains of upbeat jazz threaded through the room and Perdy and Poe came over to mouth playfully at your ankles—no doubt begging for crumbs. Soon enough you were laughing along, clapping off beat and making jokes at the expense of his nonsense lyrics. You still liked Mister Rogerson. You liked him a lot. And you didn’t doubt that he was a genuinely kind person.

You’d just… maybe have to be a bit more careful about what you let slip.

“It’s kinda like being in therapy,” you explained to a very frustrated looking Deuce. “Like, how you want to say just enough to get help but not enough for them to throw you into an asylum. You feel?”

“What in the fuck are you on,” Ace gaped.

“See, if any of you actually even knew what therapy was, you’d get it.”

“I still can’t believe that’s where you’ve been every afternoon,” Deuce frowned, poking at his lunch with a consternated sort of look on his face. “Don’t you—I don’t know…”

“What?” you asked.

“Feel horrifically guilty and maybe like you should be burnt at the stake?” Ace complained, reaching over to swipe a fry from your plate. Grim hissed and swatted at his fingers—his little mouth stuffed too full of your half-eaten burger to yell much of anything else. “You’re a traitor, that’s what you are. Prancing around with those goody-two-shoes in their stupid, shiny, building every damn day like a—like a—”

“A frog?” Deuce suggested.

“What, no. Dude—”

“Frogs prance!”

“Frogs fucking jump, you ingrate—”

A heavy box landed on the table with a THUD, sending the quarrelling duo into silence. A mountain of homemade chocolate chip cookies stared back at them, nearly sparkling in their brilliance.

“Yes,” you intoned, stern. “It’s worth it.”

“It’s worth it,” Grim and Ace agreed heartily, already busy swapping their lunches for sweets.

Deuce sighed and reached for his own cookie. “If you’re sure...”

Being called into the Headmaster’s Office was not something with which you were unfamiliar. In fact, Crowley not having summoned you into his gloomy chamber over the past few weeks was more of an anomaly than not. Normally he was hurling new jobs at you left and right—organize this event, Prefect. Pick up my groceries, Prefect. The main hall is looking a little dirty, Prefect. Go stop my students from committing mass murder, Prefect. Maybe your wave of insults had rattled him enough to leave you alone for that little while. Or maybe he’d just been biding his time until he could think of something equally as nasty to say back.

Of all the things you were expecting upon trudging back into that office, a scowling Professor Crewel was not one of them.

You blinked owlishly, taken aback.

“Good afternoon, Professor.”

His lip curled, sour, and you fought the intense and suicidal urge to ask him just who’d pissed in his cornflakes that morning because damn. You hadn’t even done anything. That you could remember. Maybe. And besides, if either of you had any right to be acting all bitter and pissy it was you. Not Mister ‘I Have No Intention of Playing Parent to Anyone.’ The memory had your eyes stinging and your blood boiling all over again. When neither of the men deigned to greet you, you cleared you throat irritably and crossed your arms.

“Can I help you with something, Professor? Headmaster?”

“It has come to our attention that you’ve been sneaking off campus in the evenings,” Professor Crewel declared, with all the civility of an off-grid hermit. “Which I’m certain that you are fully aware is against school policy.”

Crowley just nodded, stiff lipped and robotic, and his silence immediately had you suspicious.

“Well?” Crewel snipped. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

You took a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Then another.

You smiled, icy. “Then I’m sure this is just another infraction to add to my file. Which I’m very sure totally exists. Right, Headmaster?”

Crewel’s dark glower swiveled in Crowley’s direction, and you watched the Old Crow audibly gulp.

“Because of course, you keep proper records on all your students here,” you continued, happy to push your luck. “Especially the ones in special circumstances, and whose documentation is therefore not automatically forwarded to you by their previous schools. Right, Headmaster?”

You’d never seen a more apt demonstration of the expression ‘sweating bullets.’ It was intensely satisfying. Professor Crewel looked like he was heavily debating turning Crowley into a feather boa. After a too-long moment where you were pretty sure you were about to witness a murder, the two-toned professor sighed and turned back to you with a stiff sneer.

“It’s not safe,” he said, and you gaped at him.

“What?”

“It’s not safe,” he repeated, practically grinding his teeth. “What were you even thinking? Leaving Night Raven when you know full that you have no other connections in this entire world! Running off with a complete stranger on top of that.”

“Mister Rogerson isn’t a stranger!” you defended, resentment bubbling beneath your skin. How dare he? Now he cared? Now you weren’t just a leech, or a brat, or—or—No. It wasn’t fair. “And it’s not like I ran off into the woods or something! I’m at another school!”

Crowley slammed his clawed hands down onto his desk with a metallic BANG!

“AH-HAH! YOU ADMIT IT!” he howled. “YOU’VE BEEN GOING TO THE ROYAL SWORD ACADEMY BEHIND OUR BACKS!”

“I left you a note telling you that was exactly where I was!”

“YOU’VE BEEN CONSORTING WITH OUR ENEMY! AND AFTER I’VE WORKED SO HARD TO RAISE YOU AS MY OWN!” He wailed, inconsolable. “ARE YOU TRADING OFF MY GRIMOIRE TO AMBROSE, TOO? WOULD YOU STOP AT NOTHING TO SHATTER MY POOR HEART?!”

“I don’t even know what that means, but I wish I was!”

“Enough!” Crewel snarled, cracking his pointer across the desktop. “Both of you!”

“But he—!” you defended.

“Detention!” he barked.

“What?! That’s no fair!—”

“Detention!” he snapped again. “Three weeks!”

“Are you joking?! I didn’t even do anything!—”

“Four weeks,” he growled.

You pressed your lips shut, feeling your mouth wobble and your eyes warm with frustrated tears.

“Yes, sir,” you finally managed to grit out, and then turned without another word and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind you.

‘That may have been too much,’ Crowley had the gall to say to him, after Crewel had just watched the man have an entire meltdown in his desk chair and accuse you of outright subterfuge.

‘That may have been too much.’

The alchemist had watched, carefully stone faced, as your eyes had welled and you’d glared him down with a look that was a step or two past betrayed. Something tightened uncomfortably in his chest, and he refused to put a name to it. Naming things gave them power, allowed them to grow and spread. Like a tumor. This was all your own doing, and the subsequent punishment was clearly for your own good. So, what? He steps a bit too far and says something that’s perhaps just a bit too cold, and you go running off to—to Cliff Rogerson of all people? Pettiness is not an excuse for making poor, stupid, unsafe, decisions. And he would have certainly responded to any other student in exactly the same fashion.

‘That may have been too much.’

Crewel grit his teeth and fought the urge to run his hands through his hair in frustration. Normally he could use Badun as a stress ball, but he’d stopped bringing the dogs to campus when you’d continued to refuse to show up to his office. It had stressed them terribly, and it was unfair to force them to sit through the same, dull, solitude that he had to endure just on the off chance that you may change your mind and come wandering in. Jasper hardly acknowledged him at all anymore—only grumbled at him miserably when he returned in the evenings before curling up by the fireplace for the rest of the night.

‘That may have been too much.’

It… It really, probably, was. And he really should… apologize, shouldn’t he?

Divus Crewel could deny it all he liked, but he knew well and good that he wouldn’t have treated your classmates in such a manner. That unnamed twinge behind his ribs may have influenced his reaction a bit more than it should have, especially when he himself had so clearly relegated your place in his life to ‘by professional association only.’

So he forced himself to straighten his fur coat and start the trek to Ramshackle. It was a grueling walk, with broken pathways and rivers of mud. No wonder you were always running late to things. Perhaps he should bring this up to Crowley, and—

A familiar face stopped him in his tracks, and a wave of red-hot irritation worked its way through his veins as efficiently and viciously as one of the poisons he was so keen to brew.

“Oh,” Cliff Rogerson blinked back at him, “Divus! Good to see you.” It was not. It didn’t sound like Cliff thought it was either.“No need to call campus security or anything. I’m just here to pick up the Prefect for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Crewel repeated. It sounded bitter in his mouth.

“Annie’s making lasagna,” Cliff stage-whispered, like a secret.

“Can we get going?” you called and Crewel startled, noticing you off to the side for the first time. You looked so… small, for some reason. Hunched, maybe. Just, not your usual larger-than-life self—the Otherworldly Hero who showed up swinging to every fight, always armed to the teeth and ready to duel any monster, every horror. It made something in his gut twist unpleasantly. “I’m starving.”

“Of course, kiddo,” Cliff laughed and tossed an arm across your shoulders.

“How lovely,” Crewel interrupted, trying and failing to force the steel from his voice, “But I think that maybe you should reexamine your professional priorities. That hardly seems appropriate.”

“Oh, come now,” Cliff smiled. It wasn’t friendly. “It’s only dinner. And besides,” he chuckled, and gave your arm a fond squeeze, “Annie and I have always wanted kids.”

‘I have no intention of playing parent to anyone.’

A deep, cold, sort of dread rattled through Divus Crewel’s bones and settled all the way in the pit of his stomach. It was similar to the sensation that had been slowly clawing its way through him these past few weeks—the very same unpleasantness that he had refused to name.

‘You know,’ Crowley’s grating voice swam through his head once more. ‘That really may have been too much.’

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #My Writing #NRC Staff #NRC Staff x Reader #Divus Crewel x Reader #Dire Crowley x Reader #The NRC Staff's Horrible Parenting #Heroes vs. Villains #Crewel x Reader #twisted wonderland OCs #twst ocs #Divus Crewel #Dire Crowley #Heroes vs Villains The NRC Staff Part 2

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alienbabydraws · 4 months

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I drew this hot Karkat and totally forgot to post him!

ain't he perdy?

#homestuck #doods #karkat vantas #karkat #homestuck art #homestuck fanart #you can tell this is older cos I draw him like...completely different now #ah well #kinda still love his hair tho

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astroninaaa · 1 year

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twitch

“and, by logic, by what we feel, what we think, Richarlyson is a player. That’s why I joke around every once in a while by calling him “Ricardão”, because here in-game he’s my egg-son, but in real life he’s probably some I don’t know how many years old dude playing Minecraft. But, bro, the motherfucker won’t get out of character. He’s always being Richarlyson and calling me “dad”. So I’m literally starting to think he’s my egg-son, you know? If my egg-son dies, I’ll be- and if I can never again- be around him, do things with him- I’ll cry so much, man. Fuck, I will- like- at first, I thought: “damn, look at that. There’s someone being paid to be an egg.” And I thought that was funny. Now, I’ve simply accepted that this egg is my son, and, if he dies, I’ll cry, because I’ve lost an egg-son, bro. The- the plot twist, you know? The blame is on me. I am the joke, it’s not- it’s not Richarlyson that, man, his job is to be an egg.”

“[...] e pela lógica, pelo que a gente sente, a gente acha, o Richarlyson é um player. Por isso que de vez em quando eu brinco chamando ele de “Ricardão”, mano, porque aqui no jogo ele é meu filho ovo, mas na vida real ele deve ser um mano aí de sei lá quantos anos jogando Minecraft. Só que, véio, o filho da puta não sai do personagem, mano. Ele ‘tá o tempo todo sendo Richarlyson e me chamando de papai, mano. Então eu ‘tô literalmente começando a achar que ele é meu filho ovo, cara, ‘tá ligado? Se o meu filho ovo morrer, eu vou ficar- e eu nunca mais puder- ficar com ele, fazer as coisas com ele- eu vou chorar muito, mano. Porra, eu vou- tipo- a princípio, eu pensei: “caralho, ala. Tem alguém sendo pago para ser um ovo.” E eu achava engraçado. Agora, eu simplesmente aceitei que esse ovo é meu filho, e, se ele morrer, eu vou chorar, porque eu perdi um filho ovo, mano. O- o plot twist, ‘tá ligado? The blame is on me. Eu que sou a piada, não é- não é o Richarlyson, que, mano, o trabalho dele é ser um ovo.”

#qsmp #qsmp forever #qsmp richarlyson #qsmp brasil #qsmp br #qsmp brazil #OOF #PSYCHOLOGICAL TORTUREEEE IM TELLING YOU #forever player

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 3 months

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x g l a s g o w g r i n n e r

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!OC / 2.1k words

Soap’s always been a little too comfortable playing at violence, always gone-bright when he can turn the threat of it into a promise. Joke’s on the world at large: Special Agent Bordelon’s into that shit.

Or: Soap pulls a knife on a stranger for being a creep, because he’s from the brutal street stabbing capitol of the UK and that’s just how you say “Hi, hey, hello—back the fuck off.” And a million kisses to @lunarvicar for encouraging my bullshit! LOVE YOU NAT 🫶

It is never hard to run with Soap and keep his breakneck pace—the only thing that had been difficult was adjusting to the fact that someone else could finally keep up with hers. It’s a stomach-thrilling shock to look from the corner of her eye, and find the blur of his burly shape there, winking and clicking his tongue without breaking a sweat.

Bordelon is soft for the Scot sook, god forsake the shit out of her.

He’s landed in D.C. on medical leave, a broken collarbone leaving his arm in a sling, and the first thing he’d done—after kissing his way up her neck to the spot behind her ear that made her skin sing and her palms sweat—was sling his good arm around her neck, pulling her in close, and nibbling her earlobe. “Christ, s’it always pishin’ it doon here, too?”

“Naw,” she laughed back, reaching to tangle their fingers together on her chest, his backpack slung over her shoulder, “just October, couillon.”

“Ohh, talk that dirty, fake French to me, mah cherry,” he mock-growled, which just earnt himself a pap! of the palm to his cheek. All play, no sting, and he beamed.

That night burns down to the coals—traipsing back to her apartment, showing off the ugly bruise that bleeds does from his neck to his bottom-rung rib, kissing and touching and figuring out a way to fuck that doesn’t hurt him too-too much.

(The man likes a little ache in it, here and there. Calls dichotomy in that blessed, rock-fall accent. Ratios of sweet to sour, black to white, sun and night. As if he had any more concept of balance and moderation than she.)

He lies across the bed in that silly-ass sling, watching her bitch her smart TV a blue-streak while wearing one of his threadbare navy t-shirts and nothing else. Rubs the spot at the bottom of his sternum, listening to rain slap heavy sheets against the old windows, and says, “Perdita.”

“Don’t you full name me,” she warns, shaking her head, because it is an ill-fitted address. For him, she is Hen, or Perdie, in much the same way he is her Johnny, Jean, or John-boy. A thing you love is all in how you name it, and their names are softened and held close; in the way of lovers who began as friends, once they were strangers no more.

“We’re getting married ‘fore I ship back tae Glasgow,” is how he finishes his thought, and Bordelon turns on her hips, back and forth, vaguely pointing the remote at the screen. He gives her a challenging tooth-sharp smirk. “Thought I should warn you.”

“Mhm. Yeah.” She wonders if she should count this a proposal, or call his bluff, and then she thinks—might as well nail both options to the fuckin’ wall while she’s got the knife. “We go our way onto the courthouse tomorrow. Keep it simple, ça c’est bon?”

International marriage is never that simple, though, and they’re both the wiser to it. But the sentiment is pretty, and it sparks amongst the hard-bought bonfire that lives in the depths of her chest, flames rising and licking to glorify his name. So, they call it an engagement, and Soap pulls a turn-around she doesn’t expect, turning his phone off to pull a shade of night over only the two of their heads.

He’s no family to call, apart from his 141, and even then, there’s a hesitance to his hands. Her man—her bombastic, beautiful bastard—could not stand to be a burden, no. A nightmare that is for him, himself. Even if he were to reach out with the utterly, desolately rare delivery of good news (a phenomenon grown so rare that Neptune would sooner complete circuits around the sun these days), it would make his skin crawl.

Were he to have his way, his burdens would never leave the span of his shoulders to weigh down another’s back, even something as small as what might be an inconveniently timed but otherwise benign or even welcome call.

Come the gray and misting morning, he’s handsy and all-paws, even short a limb, groping for Bordelon as the woman rolls upright on the edge of the bed, pushing her sleep-tangled hair away from her face before it irritates her to death. His hand is warm, callused, and heavy with insistence as it settles into the dip of her violin hip, trying to pull her back into the warm expanse of his hard-packed body.

“Perdie, Hen,” he grunts, tone shading toward playful complaint, “the fuck’re y’doin’ awake?”

“Startin’ off,” she croaks, shaking her head, pushing at his fingers as they crawl closer to her cunt. “Stop that—arrête ça! You’re mangy this morning, T’Jean,” she laughs, pushing more firmly at his grip. “No, get up. Got a friend, knows her way ‘round immigration policy, and she always got an envie for brunch.”

“Brunch?” he questions, flat as buried flounder, falling back into her mountains of mismatched pillows with a dreadful look on that handsome face of his. “Darlin’, am no getting my fat ass outta bed, even for brunch. Feel kinda fruity even sayin’ it.”

“Even for to get us married?” she darts back, turning to look at him, drawing her fingers in circles through the hair on his lower stomach, cooing ridiculously in her rasp-rough drawl, “Even for me.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, throwing baby-dog eyes her way. “I mean, was hopin’ you’d take it serious—cannae tell wi’ your ass—but.” He swallows, one of those corny, I’m-about-to-fuck smiles threatening the corner of his mouth, the one that makes him all coy and keen, looking down at her pale, spidery fingers drifting closer and closer through his thick, dark body hair to his fattening cock. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in bed? Cold morning like this, I could keep you warm.”

She just barely brushes her fingers over his cock before she’s snap-sliding out of bed, copperhead quick, tossing over her shoulder, “Nope! Already sent an email, she knows we on the schedule,” on her way to the shower.

Soap drops back against the bed, rubbing his stubbled face, grunting, “Bordelon, you arsehole.”

But he can’t withstand the siren call of watching her in the shower, so, ever-faithful and ever-horned up, he follows after.

D.C. is about as filthied up with the sorrows of addiction and homelessness as any other place, Bordelon supposes. Can’t tell if it’s better or worse than any of the time she spent down New Orleans or Baton Rouge way. Colder, mostly. But it’s not all the time you need to know about the homeless or the drug addicts—keepin’ eyes on them, keepin’ them in your ears, at least at the sides.

Sometimes, it’s the fella in the khakis, with a puffer jacket and prescription glasses, his behaviors making his Rolex look cheap shit.

Bordelon and Soap slide last into the car before the doors pull shut, close to standing-room early in Crystal City as lunch hour approaches. All the suits are out their offices, scrounging for edibles, droning loud and monotone on their cells. Whole car is damp and humid from the downpour, human body heat causing an intense mugginess that crawls under the clothes to irritate the skin. It’s damn near enough to make Bordelon’s head spin, neck uncomfortable with sweat the way it was all them years down deep, deep in the south.

“No, sit doon,” Soap says, flapping the good arm great and wide, trying to get her to pop a squat on the only empty seat left, shaking his head. “Dinnae try bossin’ me, talkin’ wi’ that spooky-arse agency voice. Want away from you a minute.”

He dresses up chivalry as dismissal, and she can’t help but grin, even as she dawdles on sitting.

“What? You don’t like how Tiffany sounds? I swear, she’s perfectly nice. And outstanding in her field. She’s an accomplished agent, and her superiors are recommending her for a promotion,” she says, in that self-same agency voice of which he’d complained—rich and clear, dialect: nonregional, speech pattern: nondescript.

“Oof, fuckin’ hate that, stop,” he snorts, faking a shiver, but he does complain, “Hey, what? Where you goin’?” when she actually does move to sit down, tugging her up by the collar of her shirt just a bit to pop a grinning kiss against her mouth.

She doesn’t realize, at least not right away, that the tug at her collar disrupted her shirt. Just enough to make a few buttons slip, exposing more of her right tit under her open coat. Wore a thin top today, loose, but figured the dark fabric would hide any transparency. Hated tight clothes, hated bras, and never wore one; just figured her rack had spent thirty-three years being nothing to comment on.

Well. More than half a tit exposed was enough to catch the attention of the man who cheapens his Rolex by being the one to wear it.

Soap likes strange things because he, himself, is a strange thing, and Bordelon had thought to take him the two hours north to Philly to hit the Mütter Museum to see their medical abnormalities, because once their brunch is out, they’ll have an entire day to themselves. She’s busy showing him pictures, enticing him, when the woman next to her taps her thigh.

Like an alarm hollerin’ in her head, she starts running two tracks instant-like, leaning without looking as she whispers, “Yeah, chere?”

The woman is older, in maroon scrubs—some kinda tech, smell of jelly on her says maybe ultrasound—and nonslip clogs. Can’t quite see her name badge, but that seems on purpose, covered up by her fleece.

“That man over there—he’s takin’ pictures of you,” she whispers back, straightening her jacket needlessly as a hint, “just wanted you to know. Maybe tell your man?”

“Oh, no,” Bordelon hums, smoothly pulling her shirt back into place, “I tell him, he gonna light that stupid bastard up like a candle.”

“Who’s lightin’ me up like a candle?” Soap stage-whispers, all play, and Bordelon knows exactly how the next ten seconds are gonna go, and it plays out picture perfect to her premonition. Bordelon tells him don’t worry, I got it, the Good Samaritan in maroon scrubs informs him of the creep, and the smile on Soap’s face turns into a flesh-ripper grin as all the fun burns outta his gaze like a gas fire in a hyperbaric chamber.

“Oh?”

“MacTavish,” she warns him, “wait til the stop.”

“Naw, naw, naw. I’ll play nice, Hen.” That means, sure as shit, he won’t.

The switch knife he takes out his back pocket is deadly smooth, and so is his broad step to the stranger and his budget, Amazon-bought phone case, pushing straight into his man-spread legs.

The fact there isn’t an immediate uproar, but the man’s face is blanched and staring up at him with a shitload of oh fuck on his face speaks to Soap’s own scary-ass career, and Bordelon can barely see the tip of the knife pressing into the spot just below the stranger’s ribs.

“Hey, pal, mornin’,” Soap says, bright and easy as anything, voice not droppin’ even a note, head tilted real friendly. “Do me a favor, eh? Just drop your phone next t’my boot, yeah? We’ll just get this little creeper session done and dusted.”

Can’t even hear the clunk when it slides out of the man’s limp hand, and it’s even quieter when the heel of Soap’s boot shifts over to destroy the screen, grinding it to dust.

“Good man,” he says, pulling the knife back to close it and slide it into his sling. “Next stop, you’re off. But you’re gonna leave your phone on the floor. Hope you dinnae eat shet on the way home to your ol’ lady.”

Bordelon resists the urge to slap a hand over her face, but when Soap kicks the phone back to her, she catches it under the toe of her boot, catching the expression of the tech to her side, unsurprised but impressed. Must have herself a man like Soap, waiting for her to make it home.

“Sorry ‘bout the screen, Perdie. Think you can get in there and delete his shet still?” Soap asks, tone a bottom lip pout, and Bordelon nods, tucking her fingers into the back of his belt before snaking them up under his shirt, swirling her fingertips into his back dimples.

“Hah. You know it, Johnny,” she hums, looking up at him from under her lashes. It’s a tenderness, sweet and true, taking up space between her lungs. Mad bastard. Crazy motherfucker. Loony bitch. When he looks back at her, he curls his fingers under her jaw, looking relieved. Poor thing knows hit dog hollers, and he long ago stopped yelping when he was struck. He’s looking to be told he didn’t do something bad. But she finds his pace, she always does. Of course, she did.

But that goes beggin’ the question: what’s a hellhole-heart like her supposed to do with a love like this?

Tag List: @alittleposhtoad @skinnyazn @dotcie @snail-eggs @parttimeprophet @kastlequill 💖💖

#john soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap MacTavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #soap x oc #call of duty mwii #call of duty #mw2 #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2 #oc: Bordelon #dunno what else to tag this as #my work #enjooooyyyyy 💃👯👯‍♀️👯‍♂️🕺🏻

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i0veless · 1 year

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CELEBRITY CRUSHES :: PABLO GAVI

𖥻 SUMMARY ー [ an interview can lead to a lot ] 𖥻 PAIRING ー [ pablo gavi x fem! actress! reader ] 𖥻 GENRE ー [ fluff, slight angst? ] 𖥻 WORD COUNT ー [ 1.1k ] 𖥻 WARNINGS ー [ idk if there are any - let me know if I missed any ] 𖥻 AUTHORS NOTE ー [ this fic was inspired by @dachher and this short fic of theirs, and before you ask, I do have permission to use it as inspiration, and I hope you enjoy reading this ]

➛ previous | taglist | masterlist | next

The internet is a strange place. It's funny how a harmless clip can spiral into an imaginary romance in the eyes of the general public, even though the two in question had never met. Y/N L/N had never met Pablo Gavi. Sure, she had heard of him - though nothing beyond the highlights of football aired on sky sports late at night. But she knew of him nonetheless, as his good looks led the Euphoria actress to stalk his instagram for a couple hours on a boring Friday night.

So it was safe to say the actress was surprised when she woke up to her name trending next to Gavi's on Twitter. With thousands of people tweeting and retweeting about their supposed 'relationship', but one thing that repeatedly appeared was a clip from what seemed to be an interview. Clicking on the short video with tired eyes, only to be met with the attractive Spaniard's face plastered across her screen as he answered the question that seemed to cause the social-media uproar.

INTERVIEW CLIP :: GAVI REVILES HIS CELBE CRUSH TO BE NONE OTHER THAN Y/N L/N | A POSSIBLE BEGINNING FOR A NEW BUDDING ROMANCE AND A FUTURE IT COUPLE IN THE MAKING

Y/N was now wide awake as her mouth hung open in shock, having to rewatch times the clip several to confirm its authenticity to make sure it wasn't her brain playing tricks on her barely conscious brain. Safe to say, after ten minutes of digging, she could confidently say the video was real. And that was probably why everyone in her contacts was blowing up her phone. And why her manager had sent the star 87 texts and 123 calls.

Gulping at many missed calls, the young actress deliberated even calling Tyler back. But she knew better than to leave Tyler Markson on read as her manager's rath would be harsher if she ignored him. So she sucked it up and pressed the call button. As the phone rang multiple before eventually connecting, "hello", Y/N said, almost whispering out of fear. Don't get her wrong, she loved Tyler and considered him one of her best friends, but he was intimidating when angry.

"Look, it's not as bad as it looks. I don't know that guy; I don't have a crush on him. Hell, I don't even find him attractive." Telling lies had become second nature to the actress, so it took little to no effort for her to convince Tyler that there was nothing between them. And that was true. There was no relationship between them besides some slight mutual attraction, but no one needed to know it was mutual.

"Don't worry. It's all good. I just got off the phone with the Barca pr team, and they want you to come in a do a couple of interviews and promo for them, so be ready in an hour. I'll come to pick you up for the flight, and we'll have the shoot's tomorrow." With that, the conversation was over, and the call was cut. And with that, Y/N thought long and hard about what she would do as she packed her bags for the flight ahead of her to Barcelona, Spain.

If Gavi wasn't panicking before, he sure was now. News that a particular actress was coming to be a new celeb face in the ranks of Barca alums, the Spanish man knew precisely who they were talking about. And he was panicking, and it was clear as day to everyone that saw him.

"Amigo, calm down," Perdi said, rubbing his forehead as he watched his best friend pace around the changing room. But Pablo didn't listen and continued walking back and forth like a madman until Lewandowski placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down, Gavi"; with that, the young Barca star was seated. "Look, you will be fine." Frenkie De Jong chimed in.

"But what if I'm not? She's going to think I'm weird."

"Gavi, go talk to her after. Maybe even ask for her number."

"What are you talking about? I can't just go to her and say hi can I have your number? She's a huge actress."

"And? you are a huge footballer."

But before the duo could argue any further, Xavi said it was time to go and greet the guest. As they filed out of the room, he caught a look from his manager as if to say, 'don't do anything stupid, kid.' as the Barcelona players all walked to the field, they were met with the sight of the actress and her team stood on the grass getting ready to shoot the promos. Gavi was speechless - she looked even more beautiful in person.

But a cough from Lewandowski stopped him from embarrassing himself further, as he completely ignored the girl as she waited for him to introduce himself. "I'm Gavi," he finally muttered awkwardly, making all his teammates want to strangle him or facepalm into the pitch. "I know who you are, Pablo Gavi" with that being said, the Spanish boy turned red as his Spanish national team shirt.

But his response was cut short by the camera crew who wanted to start filming. As they began to shoot a couple of videos, the players were pleasantly surprised that Y/N was immensely talented. Not that they thought she wasn't, but they assumed her talents only extended to acting, and the fact that she knew three languages (English, Spanish and French) and was decent at football impressed them more. And god, did Gavi look like an idiot as he watched her speak Spanish.

He couldn't help it. Something about how his mother tongue sounded on her made him lose it. And when it came time to give the actress her personalised Barcelona jersey, he wondered what she would look like with his number and name on her back. By the end of filming, all the players could sigh relief as they could finally escape the love-drunk Gavi and run to safety.

And to be honest, Pablo did the same, with his tail in between his legs, dying from embarrassment because of how he acted in front of his crush. And as he wallowed in the sorrow of running his seemingly only chance with the girl of his dreams. He felt a rustle of something in his pocket. Dipping his hand in to see what it was, he was met with a small piece of paper. Pulling it out, he was met with a surprising note from the one and only Y/N L/N.

'Let's forget the clip and start from a blank slate. Call me xxx-xxx-xxx - Y/N <3

He was smiling like an idiot for the rest of the week, and everyone knew why.

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gabs-magical-abs · 11 days

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Xena and Gabrielle Relationship Timeline (official)

Xena fell for Gabrielle pretty early in Season 1 but didn't act on it because she was dealing with her whole "Woe is me, I'm bad and evil and Gabrielle is pure and good" drama.

Gabrielle, meanwhile, was suffering some serious comphet and it wasn't until Girls Just Wanna Have Fun when she realised GIRLS ARE HOT and that she didn't just want to be Xena, she wanted to be WITH Xena.

That end scene in GJWHF is basically Gabrielle propositioning Xena and in my head canon, they become FWB after this because a) Gabrielle is a baby gay and b) Xena is scared of commitment.

Gabrielle then got guilted into marrying Perdicus because he threatened to kill himself (classy dude that one), but also because of gay panic and the fact that Xena wouldn't agree to make their relationship more serious.

If Ulysses is actually a real episode and not a fever dream, it definitely happened after ROC but before The Quest, where X and G are still in their weird FWB but not willing to admit they are actually girlfriends stage. I have no idea what Xena would ever see in such a boring dude but whatever. Something something hurt feelings about Perdy and maybe some more internalised "I'm getting too close to Gabrielle and I will hurt her, better to hurt her now by latching on to this boring man" thinking.

Then The Quest happens and they admit they love each other (gay) and then they're officially girlfriends and they get married after A Family Affair and honeymoon in India.

#xena #gabrielle #xwp #otp: heterosexual life partners #abs words of wisdom #what a fever dream of a post this is #who let me back on tumblr #anyway they are gay your honour #well Gabrielle is a lesbian #and Xena is bisexual

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pablitogavii · 11 months

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Hii, so I have this idea where the reader and pablo are secretly dating and she is perdis sister so one day she invites her Friends to a pool hang out and the reader was whearing a red little bikini not knowing that Pedri was also inviting his friends over. So when pedris friends see you they start making comments about how good the reader looks in the bikini and other stuff like that , and then Pablo started to get jalouse listening to his friends talk about his girl right in front of him.you can write the rest and in don’t mind if you change anything

Thank you❤️❤️

Best Friend's Little Sister Pt. 3

Pablo's POV

Another week have passed and we still haven't told Pedri that we are together. Whenever I think it's the right moment, something just comes up like trainings, a bad game or event. And I think I'm using all of that as an excuse cause I'm terrified of his reaction.

pedri: pool party at my house tonight. you coming?

I re-read that message over and over again knowing that she will be there..in a swimsuit nevertheless. And I am just supposed not to look at my own girlfriend? Ugh this will be torture!

pablo: yea sure. see ya

A few minutes before leaving the house, I checked Instagram seeing that she posted a new story. I opened it immediately feeling my swim trunks tighten at the sight of her...damn that bikini looked so perfect on her body.

y.n.bebe

ready for the pool party!

Yeah, she was ready alright..but not for the pool party but for mission 'torture your boyfriend when you know he can't react' little minx!

I sighed knowing that I had to take care of my newly acquired problem before leaving so I texted that i will be a few minutes late. Damn in bombon!

Your POV

You've noticed people starting to show up, both your and Pedri's friends but there was no sign of Pablo. Was he going to bail last minute?

"Hey, is Pablo coming?" you ask Pedri who accepted that the tow of you because closer friends since you called the truce not knowing you did a lot more than that ;)

"Yeah, said he is going to be late a few minutes" Pedri answered joining Raphina in the pool and you smirked taking your phone and going into your room to text your man.

amorcito: I'm waiting for you papito..where you at ;)

pablitoo: it's your fault i'm late amor! that bikini!!

amorcito: just for you papi ;)) hurry up!

You smirked proud of yourself before joining the others at the party and soon afterwards Pablo joined as well wearing sunglasses which made him look ahh that much more hot! This won't be easy!

The boys were sitting on their own by the bar while the girls spent their time at the pool chatting about newest gossip that didn't intrigue you much. All you could think about is Pablo shirtless at that bar and then an idea popped into your mind.

This was your party and as every good host, you should ask them if they wanted any drinks. Like his personal little bartender ;)

"Can I get you anything to drink chicos?" you walked to them when Pedri left inside for a moment standing right besides Pablo and placing your hand on his shoulder. He tensed up and you smirked looking around and taking what everyone was saying.

Some wanted another beer, others cocktails but Pablo was staying quiet with his jaw clenched probably too focused on your hand on his body. You were playing with fire but it was so fun!

"And what would you like? Hm?" you turned towards him slowly stroking his shoulder and he gave you a warning look saying another beer would be fine as you gave him a teasing smile.

"Coming right up!" you walked away swaying your hips on purpose just to torture him and it was certainly working.

Pablo's POV

My dick was painfully hard and it didn't help that she was purposefully messing with me with that 'drink order' she pulled a few minutes ago.

"Mierda! She is hot as fuck!" Ansu was first to say it and suddenly all the guys started to talk about her body, her hair, her smile, the things they would do..it made me go crazy!

"I would let her bring me drinks every day.." Ferran added and Pablo wished he can tell him to shut the fuck up right now. He was taken for god's sake!

"Hmm I would let her do more than that.." Balde smirked and everyone but me laughed which made them a bit confused.

You're talking about my girl, cabróns! is what was running through my mind but I could exactly say that, could I?

"You're talking about Pedri's little sister..." was what I said instead and they rolled their eyes saying that rule he made was stupid and wouldn't last. Little did they know that I already broke it..

"Here are your drinks chicos!" she came back and they were all eyeing her up and down obviously imagining what was hiding underneath that little bikini but I cut their show short grabbing her wrist and pulling her inside quickly.

"Ow! That hurts!" she said and my hold relaxed while we went into her room locking the door behind us. I need to control my anger now but it was so damn hard!

"What the hell do you think you are doing!?" I yelled and she raised her eyebrows at my little outburst. Ugh! She was driving me mad!

"I wanted to talk to you!" she spat back angrily while I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. This hiding and sneaking around was driving em insane and I was so sick of it!

"Baby what's wrong with you??" she walked to me placing her hand on my cheek and other one on my abs..I sighed in annoyance.

"They were talking about you amor in front of me..about things they wanted to do to you..to my girl! All because you are wearing that and acting all.." but I stopped myself when I saw that she was starting to get mad as well.

Your POV

I couldn't believe he was acting mad when all I wanted was HIS damn attention! I don't care what other players say or think! I wanted to be with him today because he is the only one I want!

"Acting like what!? I wore this for you cabrón! I wanted only your attention when I asked for drinks! Gosh! I even stood and touched your shoulder!" I was frustrated and he was quiet clenching his jawline repeatedly. This boy was driving me mad!

"But I can't enjoy you properly! Not when we are here and your brother is right outside! I have to sit and listen to everything my friend's want to do to you! I can't even kiss you!" Pablo yelled and you felt your eyes watering knowing that this secret was destroying all beautiful you had.

"Pablo.." you said but he just sighed saying he should go home not really in the mood for the party anymore. You rushed to stand in front of the door to block his exit.

"Please, Pablito don't go..I'm yours.." you snaked your arms around his shoulders playing with small hairs while he closed his eyes enjoying the sensation for a few moment..this was all her wanted since he came to the party..just to be with you!

"But I can't claim you out there..I can't shut them up my grabbing your ass and kissing those sweet lips of yours..I can't do that!" Pablo was mad and you were turned on blushing at his words while looking at his lips.

"But you can do that here papi.." you whisper and he clenched his jaw kissing your lips passionately while spanking your ass squeezing it roughly making you moan into his mouth.

After fifteen minutes of making out on your bed, you were on top of him pulling back and sitting up on his lap while he looked at you with a smirk on his face.

"Mm forget about their stupid comments, because you are the only one I would let do all those things to me..only you" you kissed his jaw to his lips before getting off and fixing your hair up.

Pablo's ego was certainly stroked and he got up as well going behind you and kissing your shoulder before fixing his own hair which you messed up badly during your make-out session.

"You ready to go back amor??" you asked and he pulled you closer again kissing your lips before nodding his head feeling much better.

"You go first..and um I'll wait for you in the pool to join me" you smirked and he did as well pecking your lips one more time before walking out and making sure nobody noticed he just walked out of your room.

Pablo's POV

I was in the good mood again knowing that all they can do is wish for what I have..she was mine!

"There you are hermano, everything good?" Pedri brought me back from my thoughts and I nodded knowing that I had to tell him soon, it was getting stupid to hide it any longer especially when I plan to have her be mine forever.

"Let's grab a beer" I suggested and he hugged my shoulder's walking towards the bar again. Pedri was a good friend, he will understand..right??

We both joined the rest of the guys who wouldn't dare talk those things in front of Pedri and I noticed her walking out as well winking at me while getting into the pool.

"It's hot. I'll go freshen up" I said after a few minutes leaving the boys who were busy talking about next games anyways getting into the pool meeting her gaze.

We were talking to each other and to anyone at distance we looked friendly, but the moment nobody else payed attention we went underneath water kissing passionately.

"We're crazy.." I said when we got up for air and she giggled with her red cheeks and sparkling eyes.

"Crazy in love.." she whispered to me before we both smiled at each other not caring how corny we became..from worst enemies..to biggest love story.

"I'm going to tell him.." I said and she looked at me with raised eyebrows not expecting those words to come out of my mouth so suddenly. But I was determined..I loved this girl..I will fight for her..and I will be honest with my best friend about it.

"Are you sure now is the right moment Pablito?" she asked me but I knew that never will be the right moment. We both left the pool and I sighed walking towards Pedri who was standing by the bar still with a beer in his hand. Here come nothing..

"Hermano..." I said and he turned and so did all the other guys who were standing there.

Oooo what will Pedri say??? Comment!

#pablo gavi #pablo gavi icons #pablo gavi x reader #pablo gavi x y/n #pablo gavi x you #fc barca #fc barcelona #fc barça #gavi #gavigif #gavi x reader #gavi x you #gavi x yn #gavira #pablo gavira #pablo martín páez gavira #pablogavixreadersmut

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cas-backwards-tie · 11 months

Text

Chapter One: Seed Uprooted

Heiress of Gotham

Masterlist | Next Chapter

Bruce Wayne x Daughter!Reader

Summary: After the loss of your mother, it feels as if all hope is lost. Fortunately, you’ve been placed in the care of your absentee father. The Wayne name has always been said to come with a few odds and ends that you’d have to get used to, the question is: will you?

Warnings: Angst, Anti-Police themes, Cursing, Death, Depression themes, Orphanage

Words: 1,569

A/N: This has actually been in my drafts and in my docs for... at least three years, I know. It's been rewritten at least twice, and I'm finally deciding to put it out there.

I remember that day. I remember exactly where I was when I’d found out. I remember the moment I met him.

The high-pitched ringing gives permission for us to finally leave the classroom, Mrs. Gurdept’s earlier demand that “the bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do.” did not divert anyone’s attention from packing up. Backpack already strung across your shoulders, you’re out the door along with everyone else. While your friend Daisha talks about how annoying the classmate is that sits next to her in History, it’s the uniformed men coming your way that catches your attention. It’s the BPD: Bludhaven Police Department. Parting the sea of students the police officer’s eyes scan the faces of the students passing them by. Heart rate rising, you try to keep your eyes on Daisha, determined to look engaged in conversation enough to skate past them without questioning.

“Miss?” One of the officers steps in front of you, blocking your path. Eyes immediately jumping up to his face, you scowl. “Can you answer a few questions for me?” Rumor has it they’re looking for Perdy Chapman, one of the sophmores who supposedly ran away from home once he’d been ousted as a drug runner for Marin’s gang; worst part was… he was funny, nice, and a straight A student. Officer reaching into the pocket on his breast, the white glimpse of a folded paper is barely seen before you respond. There’s no doubt it was some sappy photo of your classmate that you most definitely don’t want to see.

“No, I’m sorry, Officer. We’re late to practice!” Instantly grabbing Daisha’s hand you tug her along behind you, speedwalking toward the exit. She doesn’t question you; most of the kids know by now: never talk to the police. If you haven’t done anything wrong, then there’s no reason to talk to them. They’re all corrupt anyway.

Sitting on top of the cement blocks blocking off the parking lot from the kiss-and-ride line, Daisha playfully smacks your arm. “‘We’re late to practice’? Are you kidding me? You were so fucking quick with that!” A fit of laughter consumes the both of you, the imagined perplexed looks upon the cop’s faces bringing you practically to tears. It takes a while to calm down, the conversation turning into gossip, and eventually into Daisha sharing some of the memes she’d recently seen online.

“Do you think it’s gonna rain?” The question leaves your lips as your eyes watch the dark, ominous clouds roll through the sky. A wet smell of oncoming rain lingers in the air like the humid and hot summer nights in the Carnaveron District.

“Well… if the clouds aren’t an obvious sign, I’d say yes,” she teases. The three short honks are our signal: her mom is here. Jumping off the cement blocks we head over to the spot she’s parked in line, a soft drizzle makes itself known as the drops plunk the roof of the car. Daisha sweeps you into a quick hug before getting into the car, the duo waving goodbye before driving off. Since you don’t live far, it’s easier to walk. It’s the one part of your routine that consistently brings you joy. The breeze and gentle pitter of rain on your skin help clear your head of all the school drama. Off toward home, you find yourself beginning to get lost in thought about tonight’s homework assignments. It’s only the buzz of the cell phone in your pocket that brings you back to reality. “Auntie?”

“It’s your mother, get to the hospital as soon as you can. Cuidate, mija.” The dial tone signals the call’s ended. Frozen there on the sidewalk, time doesn’t seem to pass; thunder rumbles in the distance, it’s the only thing that reminds you that time is still moving. It starts to sprinkle rain.

~~~Two Hours Later~~~

Technically you were an orphan… at least that’s what you’d thought. Legally they were mandated to send you to a state-run orphanage. Everyone probably thinks they don’t exist today, and yet, there it was… right in front of you, open and waiting: the gates of purgatory calling your name. Though on the borders of Bludhaven and the streets that lead toward the country part of the state, the building looked like any other. Brown bricks, tall elongated windows; it would look like a ghastly warehouse to you from the outside if you didn’t notice the tricycle on the lawn, or the chalk drawings on the sides of the building and sidewalk leading up to it.

“I have to take this call, excuse me,” the social worker steps away from the black hatchback sedan. Lost in your own world, it doesn’t even occur to you to eavesdrop on her call. There’s no possible way that things could get worse than this. Nonetheless, many ‘mhms’ and ‘okay, I understands’ are heard throughout the field adjoining the driveway. The grey clouds finally starting to disperse, it’s quiet out here, the only murmur of your social worker talking and the occasional passing car fill the air. Just as the numbness starts to churn in your stomach at the thought of your Mom, there’s a knocking on the car window.

“Damn!” There’s an exasperated and ludicrous look in her eyes. “Someone’s got one hell of a guardian angel lookin’ out for you, kid. Follow me.” Even if she’s audible through the glass, she doesn’t wait to check as she turns and heads toward the orphanage’s entrance. Though thoughts of running away cross your mind, there’s no logical reason to do so. What’s left out here for me? Nothing.

Once inside of the building you're told to sit tight on one of the wooden benches by the entrance office. Though the social worker chats with the warden, you don't pay them any mind. Their words go in one ear and out the other, your fiddling fingers in your lap far more entertaining as you try and comprehend what the toll of your mother's death will have on the rest of your life. Fifteen, and no longer any semblance of security in any realm of matter toward your future. How did this happen?

It feels as if it's instantaneous, yet the wall on the clock shows over half an hour has passed. Doors creaking open with the cool ocean-ladened after-rain wind, an older man closes the umbrella he'd been holding over the younger-looking man who strides into the building with a sort of conviction that only exists through the air it permeates. They both are adorned in long trench coats and sunglasses, though the younger wears a black hat.

"Lisa! I assume this is her," the broad man addresses your social worker before turning his gaze down toward you. With the click of the door's lock as it seals shut, all noise diminishes in the halls of the orphanage aside from the faint echo of children's laughter in the distance. The building instantly warms by a few degrees and the men take off their sunglasses, pocketing them. Mouth subconsciously falling agape, you recognize him. The man standing before you is one you've only seen on billboards, television, and in magazines: Bruce Wayne. He crouches to your eye-level.

"Yes, this is-" Lisa, the name of the woman you'd only known as your social worker, begins to introduce you. What follows truly feels like some sort of grief-stricken concoction of fantasy, and though it might be dangerous, you follow it.

It isn’t until the car pulls up to the door that you snap out of it. “This isn’t a joke?” He must be tired of it: this most likely being the fifteenth time you’ve asked such a thing in the last hour.

“No. It’s not,” while one might pick up on the disappointed tone in his voice, Bruce Wayne offers a small, sympathetic smile. His hand gently comes to rest on your shoulder, leading you out of the clean, sleek Rolls Royce.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss,” the elderly man states your name in a titular way. Taken aback, he hardly registers in your mind. Too many thoughts and emotions consuming you, leaving nothing but a rapidly beating heart and a million questions tucked inside the body of a young girl. The fields had turn back into factories, factories into skyscrapers, skyscrapers into trees, and by then you’d finally come onto the property. In the dark there wasn’t much to take in; light illuminates windows upon rows of windows that span so far you wonder for a moment if they ever stop. Yet the edge of the mansion can be spotted from your place by the door, too weary to step inside.

"Are you coming?"

"I'm afraid if you stand out there all night you'll catch a cold," the older gentleman, whom you've already forgotten the name of, warns.

"That reminds me, Alfred, please go set up a bath for her. I'll take her upstairs," Bruce delegates. Though you wouldn't know it for months, he decided to give you a moment. Waiting at the door, he remembers the hours and days that followed his own parents' death. He's well aware that this is undoubtedly a big moment for you, and thus, a little patience won't hurt.

"This is..." you can barely even come up with a sentence, let alone a string of thoughts as you take in the palace before you.

"-your new home? Yes." He finishes the thought for you.

~~~~~~~~~

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