#me: *drops off these shitty quality gifs*

[avenging-fandoms]

im not to sure how into edging and punishment you are and if not feel free to ignore. but joel miller trying to get a handle on his girl who’s just been sassing him all day. nothing to crazy but she’s being a little brat and it’s driving him up the walls to put her in her place. like his palms are itching to spank that pretty ass til she’s crying in submission. then he’ll edge her again and again and again. maybe he’ll let her come maybe he won’t. but best believe she’s learned her lesson. by the end of it they’re all cuddled up after he’s cleaned her up and given her some water like “has someone learned their lesson”

**set pre-outbreak** *really dirty?

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

"Yn, sweet girl, it's time to wake up" Joel's lips kissed your jaw, hand on your lower back. You groan and turn your head, Joel peeling the comforter off your back slowly and kissed your bare back.

"Leave me alone, let me sleep in" You whine and his smile slowly dropped, his hand making you roll onto your back.

"Baby it's 10, I let you sleep in plenty. It's time to start the day, you're helping me at work today" you roll your eyes and sit up, stretching and giving Joel a full view of your bare chest.

All day at work, you would gripe and whine and it drove Joel insane. And he couldn't do anything about it, because he was surrounded by coworkers.

Finally, 8 hours had gone by and you both got in the truck. "That was literally the worst day I've had in my whole life"

Joel started the truck, nearly breaking the key. "Yeah, I had a pretty shitty day too. The person who agreed to help me whenever I needed it, was whining the whole time about wanting to go home"

"I'm sorry that you promised me a weekend for us and your job once again ruined it. I asked for quality time at home, not your job" You rolled your eyes and Joel gripped the steering wheel, his hands wishing they were ripping your shorts off, leaving his hand print on your ass.

Joel pulled into the drive-way, putting it in park and shutting off the truck rather aggressively, slamming his door. He came around to your side and opened the door and you look at him. "Get out" Your eyebrows furrowed a bit and he huffed. "Damn it, Yn. I'm tired of your games. Get out of the truck"

You cross your arms over your chest and look forward. Joel moved his jaw to the side and grabbed you by the waist, throwing you over his shoulder and slamming the door.

Joel kicked the door with his foot and kicked it closed, your hands hitting his back as he took you to the room. Joel threw you on the bed, grabbing your jaw. "You have been so aggravating today, and I wanted to punish you for running your mouth so bad, but you got lucky. There was people around. But now," Joel flipping you on your hands and knees. "Now we're alone"

Joel's hand rubs over your ass and lays a hard smack on your right cheek, making you jump. He pulls your shorts and underwear off, spreading your legs a little bit as he spanks you over and over. "Look at this.. all for me" Joel's fingers rub up and down your folds, your teeth biting the bed sheets.

He slides his middle finger into you, groaning as he watches you react. You push your ass back and Joel spanks you hard again and you whimper. "Patience. You don't deserve more" he spanked you again, and you gripped the sheets. Joel's fingers moved slowly, pulling it out and moaning as he made you lick his finger clean. "Beg for it, baby. Tell me how bad you need me"

His fingers rubbed up and down your pussy, and you could barely form words. His hand repeatedly smacked your ass, tears pouring from the corner of your eye. "J.. fuck. Joel, please, I need you. I need you fill me up with your fucking cock, Joel, please"

Joel was satisfied. He pushed your hips down and flipped you onto your back, dropping to his knees and pulling your hips towards him. You whimper as his beard rubs against your thighs, pressing his tongue flat against your pussy.

Your fingers immediately grip his hair, Joel pushing two fingers into you as his tongue flicked your clit slowly. "Yes, Joel, oh my god" your hips move against his tongue and he pushes you down, holding you still.

Joel moved his fingers and tongue at a fast pace, and you felt your orgasm approaching. Joel could feel you tightening around his fingers, and pulled himself away. You let go of his hair and look at him with desperation.

"You think I would let you cum that easy?" Joel's hand slapped your pussy and you jump, Joel smirking. He flipped you back onto your stomach, ass perched in the air as he smacked your ass harder than he has before. "You embarrassed me today," smack. "In front of all my coworkers," smack, cry, smack. "You were such a fucking brat." smack, loud cry, smack, smack.

"Joel! Joel, please" you sob and he grabs your chin, making you look at him as you rolled to your back. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for embarrassing you" You were out of breath, voice shaking as Joel's eyelids were low with his hand softly touching your stomach. "I'll never do it again. I said I would help and I.. I.."

"Shh, I forgive you, sweet girl" He whispered and kissed you, your hand holding his face as you roll on top of him. Your fingers push under his shirt, sliding it off his body and scratching down his torso.

Joel slammed you back under him with a little chuckle from the back of his throat. "Not gonna happen, baby" Joel pulled away from you, standing up and taking his pants off. Saliva filled your mouth as you looked at his hard dick. You sat up and smiled at him, getting on your knees in front of him.

You open your mouth and Joel grips your hair, shoving his cock into your mouth. The sudden jolt made you gag, which made Joel go crazier. "Yeah, take it, I'll make you stop complaining" He huffed as he repeatedly thrusted his dick into your throat.

Foam forms at the side of your mouth, saliva sliding down your chin and falling in your lap. Joel pulled you away and you gasp for air, your boyfriend put you back on the bed and pushed your thighs, your knees against your chest. Joel sloppily took the saliva from your chin and slapped it on your pussy, pushing himself into you.

"Is this what you wanted? Huh? You wanted to be fucked so bad you can't form words?" His words were choppy as his hips pounding into yours, his fists directly next to your head. Your nails dug into his biceps, veins popping out of your neck as you couldn't catch your breath with Joel hitting every spot.

"Y-yes, fuck!" You scream and Joel pulls away, moving his four fingers flat on your clit back and forth. You scream his name, begging, pleading. "Please, Joel. Please let me cum, I'll be a good girl, I promise" You plead and he laughs in your face.

"You should've been a good girl all day," He flipped you onto your knees and palms. "You would've had all the orgasms you wanted" Your face buries in the pillow as he pounds into you, reaching back to hold his wrist while his left hand held your hips. His right hand spanked you a few times before grabbing your other hand, holding both wrists in his left hand down on your back as he pounded you further into the bed.

You were gasping, tears rolling down your nose as he fucked you better than he ever had. This gave you ideas to be a brat more, but the denial of orgasms and all the spankings were too much. This was definitely going to help your attitude.

"Complain some more, baby. Come on. You had a lot to say today" He taunted you and you could barely open your eyes that were rolling to the back of your head. "What's the matter?" He smirked devilishly, picking you up as he knelt on the bed, holding you to face him as he bounced you on his dick. Your tits moved with every bounce, Joel admiring you and kissing in between your breasts.

"Fuck, Joel, fuck. It hurts so bad, please. Please let me cum, please" You wrap your arms around his neck with your nose squished against his, choppy breath hitting his lips as he bounced you.

"You've been taking every punishment so well, I think you deserve it" Joel pushed you on your back once more, his hips smacking into yours so loud you were sure the house would start to crack. His fingers rubbed your clit rather fast, his left hand on your chest. "Cum for me, baby. That's it, I can feel you clench around me, so tight baby"

Joel was close, you could always tell when he was. His eyebrows would furrow, his top lip would twitch and his chest would puff out. "Cum in me, Joel. Fill me with your fucking cum" You look directly in his eyes, and it was like he was lit on fire from the inside. "Joel! FUCK!" You scream and push him away, Joel smiling in victory.

His fingers slide into you as he continues your orgasm, using both hands to work on you. You slap the bed, pull and bite the sheets, even slap Joel's arms.

But you never used your safe word.

You let out another scream as you orgasm again, only this time you were twitching and whimpering like you never had before. "Maybe I should deny your orgasms more often" Joel was dripping. He made you squirt.

Your cheeks turn red and he smiles, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed as he slides himself in again slowly. Soon the overstimulation went away and it was back to pleasure. Your fingers found Joel's neck and pulled him down, kissing him passionately.

"Fill me with your cum, Joel. I want all of you in me" Those words were enough to send him over the edge. He grunted lowly, pushing his hips deep into yours as he makes sure every last drop was in you.

"I'll be right back" You nod and he throws a robe on and leaves the bedroom. You head to the bathroom and do your business, freshening up a little bit before heading back to the room and putting on one of Joel's shirts and boxer shorts.

Joel comes back in as you sit on the bed, kissing your forehead as he gives you a glass of water then changes into his comfy clothes. His fingers fall under your chin, making you look at him as his thumb rubbed your jaw. "Did you learn your lesson?"

"Yes, Joel" He smiles, his thumb pulling down your bottom lip.

"What was the lesson?" He whispered and you lock your eyes with him. All he had in them was love.

"To not be a brat or I'll be punished like one"

"Thata girl" He smiles and kisses you soft and slow. You gulp nearly the whole glass and put it on the side table, Joel doing the same and meeting you in the middle with open arms. You smile happily as you snuggle into him, head on his bicep with your arm draped over his side as you both fell asleep.

[phntmeii]

♡ Dating Corey Cunningham Headcanons:

❝ If I can’t have her… No one will. ❝

[SFW Headcanons + No Gendered Terms]

Content Warnings: Yandere Behavior, Stalking, Mentions of Murder/Violence, Possessive and Obsessive Behavior, Manipulation/Gaslighting, Mention of Previous Abuse.

A/N: Call me Saul Goodman the way I’ll defend this man. He did nothing wrong. He was simply being silly!!!!

Post-Michael Era:

> Corey knows how to disguise himself to look harmless which is how he wants you to view him. No one else’s opinion matters on him besides yours.

> He doesn’t know what it is but you somehow made him feel normal and yet so… alive. That’s what made his life turn to you completely.

> Corey appears like a regular dorky, shy, boy next door type. That’s what made him so charming. He wouldn’t want you to know how dangerous he really was.

> After a shitty day, he just wants to sit down and talk with you. Over the phone or in-person, he finds your voice to be comforting.

> He sometimes secretly records your voice to replay it over and over again to soothe him if he can’t get to you.

> Corey somehow can always bump into you. It’s funny. It’s almost like he’s stalking you or something. And of course, it’s because he is and memorized your schedule the moment he saw you.

> Corey can’t help but claim you as his even before you two began dating because in his mind, no one could save you like he could. He was your hero. He’d make you see that soon.

> He’s always sweet to you. Showering you in affection and slowly manipulating you to believe only he can help you. You don’t need friends. You need him.

> Corey needs to feel needed by you. When he starts seeing you rely on him more and more, he knows he’s won. He has you just as he liked.

> Friends aren’t spending as much time with you recently? He’s right there to vent to. Parents getting on your ass about something? Hey, he knows what that’s like. Partner making you feel insecure? Corey will have you feeling like a precious diamond.

> And once you’ve realized Corey is the one, he’s more than overjoyed but he just gives a small smirk and wraps his arms around you.

> He’s the definition of “hates everyone but you” type. Everyone else is insufferable to him but nothing you do can bother him.

> Now that he has his love, finding targets becomes so much easier. Anyone who bothers you simply becomes a missing person who Corey led to Michael.

> Corey wouldn’t tell you about it until it became a true achievement in his mind. Say you had an abusive ex or a cheating ex, something along those lines. Corey would lead you to his “surprise” of that ex’s corpse and proclaiming his absolute love for you.

> Because to him, being willing to kill and going through with it is the ultimate form of devotion.

> Corey’s main Love Languages to give are: Acts of Service and Quality Time.

> Corey wants you to feel like you need him and can’t live without him. So he makes you dependent on him.

> He’ll go out of his way to make inconveniences for you so he could fix them.

> Your car somehow broke down and you have no idea how? Corey’s there to save the day. You swear you had your alarms set that morning but they didn’t go off? Corey can pick you up and drop you off. “Accidentally” got food poisoning so now you’re sick for a few days? Corey is there to take care of you.

> He’s always just conveniently there and so helpful! It’s all because he knows you so well.

> Also any time of the day is time to spend with him. He’s incredibly clingy and feels just off if you aren’t beside him.

> Like everything is dimmer when you aren’t around so he has a tendency to sneak off during his lunch breaks to stop by to see you.

> Late at night, he’ll text to look out your window and there he is: flower in hand and a sweet smile as he invites you on a night out.

> His favorite is anywhere with a nice overhead view of the lit-up city. Maybe a rooftop or something and he just has you in his arms, right where you belong.

> Corey’s favorite Love Languages to receive are: Physical Touch and Quality Time.

> Before you actually got into a relationship, Corey CRAVED your touch. He’d go out of his way to get it. Having his hand linger on yours if he gives you something, insisting for a hug when you vent, etc.

> Now that he has you, there is nothing better than feeling you.

> When you grab his hand if you feel nervous or scared, he’s over the moon. He wants to be your protector and the fact that you know that is perfect to him.

> He likes to be littered in kisses in reward for him doing well. Corey becomes more like Pre-Michael era when it comes to affection. Just an absolute puppydog looking for attention.

> Corey doesn’t like being away from you. It’s kind of like a separation anxiety where he’s worried being away from you means you’re in danger.

> So the best way to make him happy is to surprise him with your presence!

> Casually stopping by his work, claiming your car needs to be fixed when everything is fine just so you can see him.

> Asking for him to hang out randomly for no reason at all other than to be beside him. He’ll immediately swing by and pick you up the moment he opens the door to cuddle with you.

⤷ divider credits: @cafekitsune

[preciouslandmermaid]

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

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

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

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

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list  

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

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

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

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t have time, Silver.”

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes meet yours over the lip of your laptop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “you’ve got enough.”

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

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

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Batman grumbles lowly.

“I can handle Falcone from here.”

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

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

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quicksilver’s seen worse.” He grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sips his tea.

“How much did Alfred tell you?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m listening.”

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

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

You balk. “What?”

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

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

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

He says, “it doesn’t matter.”

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

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

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

“Alfred already told you why,” murmurs Bruce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce shrugs.

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce deadpans, “no.”

“What about Alfred?”

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

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

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

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

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

You tease. “Always a gentleman.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scream, “Bruce!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What did he give you?”

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

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

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

It lands on him.

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

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

*********

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

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

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

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

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

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

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

Gordon mutters, “he mentioned that.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend in black.”

You sit up in bed, “he’s alive?!”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

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

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

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

“Are they okay?”

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

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

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

“Of course.”

“Can you call my boss?”

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door creaks open.

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

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

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

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

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

“Me?” He rumbles, “what about you?”

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

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

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

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

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” Gordon clears his throat.

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

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

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

“She can stay with me.” Offers Bruce.

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

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

“I have a guest room, yes.”

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

“Can I leave now?” You ask Gordon.

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

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

Bruce looks quizzically at you, “your laptop?”

“Mhm.” You nod, “for work.”

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

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “I got lucky.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh.

*********

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

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

He says, “you should change your password.”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles fondly, “I see.”

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

“I’m just pleased you’re here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You asked me to check on him.”

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He responds, “what do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You think it’s a prototype.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you may.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says, “stay very still for me.”

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

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

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

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

You say, “please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

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

*********

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

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

“Hi.”

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

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, “hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

He starts, “you don’t have to—”

“Close ‘em.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

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

“You should be icing it.”

You chuckle. “You sound like Alfred.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce says your name, freezing you momentarily.

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

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

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

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

Hell, you hardly understand it yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart squeezes like a vice.

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

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

And you are more than persuaded to indulge him.

(Part two)

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

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

[agentkeegan]

Exile -- John price x reader

Pairing : John price x Nb! Reader Warnings : Hardcore Angst Wordcount : 1143 Summary : It wouldn't have worked. No matter how hard you tried. The signs were there since the beginning, you gave him signs, that he couldn't see. You've seen this go down before. And you never liked the ending. So pack it up, and go. [PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] ----------------------------------------------------------- <3

“JOHN,WAIT!” You wailed, choking on a sob mid sentence. You got up from your chair to race after him. “FUCK OFF!” He hollered, slamming the door shut behind him. The walls shook, just like you were. You were shaking and crying. It was another fight. The ones that happened every time he got home from a mission. The ones that happened every time he came home drunk. The fights that happened if you asked him what was wrong. The ones that happened daily. It honestly started to become too much. He acts like you can read his mind. But, nobody has super powers. You walked back to the table, tears trailing down your face. Your eyes, bloodshot, and the mascara that was smudged made you look like you did a shitty job at applying it in the first place. Crossing your hands on the table, you dropped your head down onto them. Trying to muffle your cries. You have done everything to make it work. You have made him home cooked meals, cleaned the house, got him gifts. But was that never enough? You have understood his job. You didn’t care he would be gone most of the time. You prayed to whatever god was up there that he would return home. But, he never returned the favor. He wouldn’t care if you left, he wouldn’t listen to you when you asked for something, he didn’t even want to share a bed anymore. Bringing your hand to your ring finger, you tugged at the precious rings given to you. The ones that heard the vows said on your wedding day. The ones that reminded you of those vows. Those empty vows. Tilting your head up, so you no longer faced the wood table, you looked at the pictures that filled the walls. One of him and his team, all huddled together. The photo next to it, of you and him on your first date. It was at a little diner. Poor quality selfie, but it was an amazing moment. You smiled to yourself, as the memory of that day came flooding into your head. —---------------------------------------------------------------- <3 The bell went off as you entered the diner. Letting people in the diner know you were there. “Welcome in!” A lady shouted from the kitchen. You scanned around the diner, where was he? Maybe you got there a bit early, so you found a booth and sat down. You shifted your feet nervously, and looked around again. Not here. Hearing a chime from your purse, you unzipped it trying to find the source of the noise. The source being your phone. Flipping it open and looking at the notifications. In big bold letters read “JOHN, CO-WORKER”. It was a message from him. You lifted your finger to press the notifications. It opened, and it read the following. “Sorry! Traffic caught me. There was a road accident. I’ll be there in 5 minutes. :)” The smiley face at the end made you chuckle. He was so sweet… And just like he said, 5 minutes. The bell rang, you looked over to see who it was. It was him. The beard, the build, his cheeky smile as the woman welcomed him in. The smile you fell in love with. He moved his head around in search of you, and when he found you, your eyes locked. Before he closed them to give you a huge smile and wave. ---------------------------------------------- <3 The tears began to flood your face once more. You both were so happy. Why did it have to come to this? Why couldn’t things just be talked out and fixed? Why couldn’t he just listen? The promises to defend one another. The promises to always be by each other's sides The promises to never betray one another. The empty promises in those empty vows. They weren’t always empty. Once they were filled with hope, with love, and with light. Yet it's empty and filled with dust .—----------------------------------------------------------------- <3 Now here you are, a few days later. A Divorce paper in your hand, and the rings off. You place the paper on the table, and the rings beside it. “It’s for the best.” You whispered to yourself. John went out on a mission after the fight. He didn’t say anything about his leave. He was just gone. You found out when you woke up to John's stuff gone and his door wide open. Not a single goodbye. Not even a note.

But, you're better than that. You actually leave a note. Maybe it's not long. But the divorce papers cover that. The note was on a flash card, 12 words. One sentence. All for him. Your stuff was already packed up. Everything you owned, which was most of it. Since, he basically just slept and ate there. Took showers as well. But other than that, it was a ghost town. You looked at the apartment one last time. All the photos on the wall. All the memories. Good and bad. The apartment was bland. No more bright colors. But that was no longer your problem now, was it? —----------------------------------------------------------------- <3 John got home a few days later. It was a rough mission. He was half asleep, looked like a zombie, and couldn’t wait to get home. Or maybe he didn’t. His partner would probably pick a fight again. Nothing, some whiskey couldn’t drown out later on. He pulled up the drive way, and parked his car. Your car wasn’t there. That’s fine, probably went to hang out with some friends. He opened the car door and grabbed his stuff from the passenger seat before grabbing his keys. And jingling them into the lock to open them. The door opened with a squeak, it was dark and quiet. Nothing unusual.  He knocked off his shoes and threw his bag down on the floor. He reached his hand towards the wall feeling around for a light switch. Once he found it he flicked it on, took a hot second for them to turn on. But once they did. John was no longer a walking zombie, no longer half awake. Your stuff is gone. He quickly looked around, running to the bathroom looking for anything that was your own. He couldn’t find anything. But the stuff on the table. He sat down and picked up the rings, the ones he gave to you when he proposed and when he married you. The ones that carried those vows that tied you to one another. The divorce paper underneath it. The one you signed and left for him to fill out. And the note. The note that will stick with him. He sighed, looking down at the stuff once more. The person he held dear that he pushed away left. And The note that said that one sentence. I have seen this film before, but I didn’t like the ending. --------------------------------------------------------------<3

A/N : This was kinda rushed??? I'm still new at writing but I wanted to start a series. Saw @redactedhimbo asked someone to make a anyone from 141 x reader based off the song exile from Taylor swift. I got major ideas so I decided to start a series based off of it.

[animehouse-moe]

Shangri-La Frontier Episode 1: What Do You Play Games For?

What happens when a gamer who only plays shitty games decides to pick up a so called god-tier game? Shangri-La Frontier is the answer to that and provides an insane opening episode for the concept. I'm just so excited to get 2 whole cours of this, and I really want to explain why.

Also, SiM's vocalist (MAH) on the OP with FZMZ? And Chico on the ending song? This series was made for me man.

First of all, C2C is an incredibly underrated studio considering the quality of the projects that they enjoy. This is one such project. Right from the start the quality is insane. 2D camera movement, detailed animation and character acting, the whole nine yards. Just look at this walking cycle! There's no 3D and their shoulders move!

It's just crazy to see the detail they put into these pieces early on. Walking cycles are super neglected due to how "plain" they are, but there's just something incredible about seeing that effort put into it with stuff like these examples.

And then there's this (sort of misleading) litmus test. Does your anime have really good art for a random cut? Odds are the production's doing really well. And, well, there's this really good looking beetle shown early on in the episode.

Anyways, to Shangri-La Frontier the game. The direction understands the assignment right away. This is a video game, we need to know it's a video game. So they show us it's a video game. First person perspective is our very first cut shown in the welcome screen and once we enter the world, setting the tone perfectly for what's to come.

But of course, a video game has more to it then just first person perspective, and of course C2C grasp that as well. Slow motion (which you'll see later), and more importantly camera movement are important in establishing that feel. The slow draw towards an endless expanse of world, the bird's eye view of a landmark or feature as the camera slowly rotates. It gets it, and it's able to create a living, breathing trailer for Shangri-La during the episode because of that.

And then, there's the fact that it's a video game. There's talks of skills and abilities and levels and whatnot, but I think most understand that that's a "staple" and that C2C/Shangri-La handle it quite well.

Let's talk about the good stuff, let's talk about action. C2C nails it. They put incredible effort into video game-styled choreography, and it pays off in spades. The slow motion, the harsh camera angles to accentuate the fight, the camera rotation, the way that attacks linger in the air. It's incredible stuff that's augmented by insane animation and visual effects. Seriously, pay attention to the fight and you'll see that they did an impact frame for a crit. Not in the traditional sense, but that the impact frame was the crit. This sort of stuff just makes me so excited because of how well it's handled.

And then there's the worldbuilding. The OP comes into play as well of course, but the details are super great. The enemies Sunraku faces in the starting forest are (mostly) beginner enemies. A goblin with a stone axe and some sort of large pig seem to be the "typical", but there's more to it than that. The Vorpal bunny is a "rare" enemy which makes sense, but the pig enemy only appears as Sunraku ventures closer to the second town rather than the first.

There's considerable detail and effort placed in the creation and appearances of these creatures in the world. The Vorpal Bunny featuring a better crafted weapon than the others that most likely came from somewhere else. Don't forget - we saw a rabbit in the opening.

It's just insanely cool stuff. The world is already shown to be more broad and deep than "it's a big video game world!". There's all sorts of little pieces like this peppered about, and it's just so damn good. Even the concept of Sunraku's "Wanderer" dropping him in a forest rather than the starter town. The detail to really sell this game as god-tier is so damn good.

But it's important to not forget, the god-tier part of the game is only one part of the puzzle. Sunraku here is famous for playing garbage games.

And it's a great way to offset the story and provide a fun angle, I'm serious. It allows them to add fun commentary and responses in regards to frustration from playing bad games, and at the same time provide a novel and excitable approach to a genuinely good game. The best of both worlds that sets the perfect stage for how they want to explore this story.

So, understandably so, I'm very excited about two cours of this and everybody else should be too. C2C is showing us they've got the potential to make the absolute most of Shangri-La Frontier and it's fun and surprisingly unique concept. Can't wait to see what they bring with the next episode!

[let-it-rip-bear]

It's not that he never learns. It's the opposite, actually. He knows the trap is there and he chooses to step in it.

This post will be exploring the possible relationship that Carmy has with self-harm/self-harming behaviors. If this is a difficult topic, please take care of yourself and skip this post.

Let’s begin with Carmy’s negative self-image. It’s confirmed and stated pretty clearly in “Braciole” during Carmy’s monologue at Al-Anon:

I'm not built like that, man. I, um… I didn't have a lot of friends growing up. I had a- a stutter when I was a kid. I was scared to speak half the time. And, uh, I got shitty grades 'cause I couldn't pay attention in school. I didn't get into college. I didn't have any girlfriends. I don't think I'm funny.

This is basically the opposite of how he describes Mikey:

He was loud. And he was hilarious. And he had this amazing ability. He could just, he could walk into a room, and he could take the temperature of it instantly. You know, he could just, he could dial it.

Where Mikey was loud, Carmy was quiet; Mikey was funny, Carmy thinks he isn’t. Clearly, Carmy doesn’t have a high opinion of himself. The only thing he feels is a redeeming quality is his skill as a chef. This can be seen in his monologue:

[…] for the first time in my life I-I started to find this, uh, this station for myself. And I was fast. I wasn't afraid. And it was clear, and I-I felt… I felt okay, you know. […] I felt like I could speak through the food, like I could communicate through creativity. And that kind of confidence, you know, like I was finally… I wa… I was good at something, that was so new, and that was so exciting.

The wording gives away a lot. Carmy specifically says that he's finally good at something and that it's so new to him. It shows that he felt like he wasn’t good at anything before he developed his skill as a chef. Being a world-class chef is perhaps the only solid part of his self-identity. It’s the one thing that allows him to feel validation. It's the only part of him that he feels is valuable.

People with a highly negative self-image are found to be willing or able to endure pain for longer amounts of time than people with a positive self-image. A study published in 2015 found that the participants that endured pain longer were also the ones who more often "spontaneously described themselves as being 'bad', 'defective' or 'deserving of punishment'". It seems pretty clear that Carmy would fall under that category as well.

I believe that Carmy stayed in the NYC job with the abusive chef because it felt so similar to when he lived at home and was around his mother. I think that Carmy purposefully puts himself in those situations as a form of self-injury, which is his subconscious coping mechanism.

Now, in my headcanon, Mrs. Berzatto is verbally abusive to Carmy. I don’t have a lot to go off of her being specifically abusive, but there are multiple times throughout the show that lead me to that end. The most obvious being in “Sheridan” when he’s talking to Tina and asks if his mother went “full psycho”, to which she responds “She wasn’t calm, but the food was great.” Throughout the show, Carmy also occasionally compares Sugar’s behavior to their mother in a negative context. It’s all pulled together by the moment in “System” when Sugar asks if Carmy has spoken to their mother and he says he hasn’t. It seems like he wants to say something else and that Sugar is waiting for his justification, but the topic drops off quickly. Altogether it gives me the impression that Mrs. Berzatto is a highly emotional person who might experience mood swings or otherwise very volatile states.

I see Carmy as someone with undiagnosed ADHD. The symptoms seen in the show include emotional dysregulation, attention deficit, and Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD). RSD causes people to be more sensitive to perceived rejection and criticism. Mrs. Berzatto likely criticized Carmy a lot when he was younger or at the very least compared him to Mikey and Sugar a lot, resulting in Carmy’s view of himself as inferior and opposite to Mikey. One factor that is theorized to worsen a child’s stutter, or verbal fluency disorder, is a parent’s negative reaction to the stutter. It’s not considered a cause or major factor, but is considered to have some effect on the child’s fluency. Carmy would then become afraid to speak because he was afraid of making his mother angry. There's also Mikey's decision to not let Carmy work or even enter the restaurant, which I believe affected Carmy far more than Mikey had intended due to RSD.

I believe that Mrs. Berzatto's negative influence on Carmy would contribute to him being “scared to speak half the time” and possibly kickstarted his negative self-image. I think that Carmy didn’t come home directly after Mikey’s death and hasn’t spoken to his mother because he’s afraid to face her.

So, why would he want to recreate that environment? Part of it is because he believes he deserves it. It’s a form of punishment or even discipline. Now, why would Carmy seek out punishment? I think Carmy has engaged in self-harm (known clinically as non-suicidal self-injury or NSSI) for most of his life, though most of it is indirect. Through conditioning, self-injury can become a form of pain relief for people with very low self-esteem. This is known as "pain offset relief conditioning". From the same study I cited before:

People who self-injure may unwittingly be tapping into this mechanism...The first time they hurt themselves, they experience unpleasant pain. But when they keep doing it and experience pain relief, they begin to associate...other forms of self-injury with relief, and they return for more. [...] 'The natural and adaptive response is to say, ‘I'm done with this.' But people who engage in self-injury don't necessarily see pain as something to escape from,' Hooley explains. Instead, experiencing pain validates their sense of being a bad or damaged person.

This, to me, explains why Carmy continuously puts himself in environments that actively harm his mental health. This includes NYC and The Beef. For both places, outside perspectives have described the conditions as something negative (Sugar in regards to NYC and Cicero in regards to The Beef) and both times, Carmy admits that he still "enjoyed" it, in a way. Vomiting from stress and anxiety every day before work was a form of self-injury to him, but Carmy felt that he deserved it, and whenever it happened he would get a rush of relief due to offset relief conditioning.

Another side to this coping mechanism is that Carmy subconsciously wants to put himself in that situation so that he can prove to (the proxy of) his mother that he isn’t worthless, that he can pay attention, that he’s capable of speaking clearly, and that he can and will be successful. At the same time, the dynamic is simply too familiar to him—Carmy learned how to avoid his mother’s wrath and fitting himself into a similar situation brings a form of comfort. He knows how to stay out of trouble, so to speak. To quote his monologue yet again, he "wasn't afraid...and it was clear". He knows how to handle people like NYChef (people like his mother) and it's comforting to have that knowledge instead of being uncertain. It's a form of safety for him.

That's also why Carmy is very good at taking a verbal lashing with little to no complaint. He learned that just letting it happen was the way to get through the bad stuff at home. In the opening scene of “Hands”, he’s being intensely berated by NYChef and takes it in stride. Even when the chef says “you should be dead”, his face doesn’t change and he continues working just as before. Similarly, in “Dogs” when Richie and Uncle Jimmy are screaming at each other, he’s completely zoned out. His eyes are distant and he’s seemingly removing himself from the situation. I think he learned that at home.

This is the headcanon that I'm working with to explain Carmy's awful self-worth issues, strained relationship with his mother, and paradoxical enjoyment of harmful environments such as NYC. It acknowledges Carmy's possible ADHD as well as his childhood stutter.

I hope this was coherent! It was somewhat difficult to untangle the connections that I didn't fully realize I had made and lay it all out in a way that isn't just word vomit. Please feel free to ask to tag relevant triggers.

Here's the 2015 study on NSSI: "A New Look At Self-Injury"

[danger-xylophones]

The King's Herald Prologue (Elrond x reader)

warning: she/her, reader referred to as princess, shitty babysitter, protective gil gadad, no elrond yet - this is just setting up dynamics

Summary: As heir to the Noldorian throne, it's about time you learn how to be a proper diplomat. It just so happens that your father's new herald is more than happy to help you settle back into life in Lindon.

Relationships: Gil-Galad + daughter! reader, Cirdan + reader, Elrond x reader

Note: this is a mix of the ROP canon and Tolkien canon

masterlist | elves

"Atar!"

The piercing cry of the young elleth thoroughly startled the High-King, making him drop the letter he'd been completely absorbed by. Gil-Galad looked up just in time to catch sight of his daughter charging towards the head of the table where he was sat. Her little legs a blur as she tried to swiftly cover the distance between him and the entryway.

Realizing her intentions, he scooted his chair back to create a safe landing place for the young girl as she leapt at him. He caught her fast and pulled her into his chest before the small child could go flying face first onto the floor. "Woah, anel!" He exclaimed while the child erupted into a flurry of giggles as she wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight hug. "Where are your caretakers?"

"We're playing hide and seek!" She cheered right into his ear. Gil-Galad felt his eye twitch.

"I see," he said, gently pushing his daughter back but keeping his hold on her lest she fall off his lap onto the floor, "And are they aware they're playing?"

At that, her face fell into a look that told Gil-Galad he'd caught her. The High King had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He'd avoided accidentally teaching her that expression of annoyance thus far - he loathed the day she finally found its power. "Anel," he admonished, "you know better than to run off on them." Her face fell further, taking her head with it. "They're probably worried sick."

"I just wanted to see you." She muttered, retracting her arms from his neck.

Gil-Galad sighed already caving at the sight of her saddened face, though frustrated with his daughter he couldn't bear to see her upset. "Merca alma," he brought a hand to her tiny chin, "lift your head." With gentle prompting, she did but she would not meet his eye. Gil-Galad's heart clenched when he realized it was because she was trying to hide the tears that were starting to gather. "I am not angry with you, anel nin." She tentatively looked at him. "But you must know that this behavior is unbecoming."

"I know..." she sighed, looking away again. "I just...I was lonely, atar. The caretakers never want to talk to me and I never get to see you anymore."

Gil-Galad's face fell. It was true that he hadn't had any time to spare his adopted daughter ever since he became High-King of the Noldor and now he could see lurking in the depths of her eyes that the separation was taking its toll on her. Casting his gaze to the letter detailing the latest struggles of Beleriand, he made a decision. While he couldn't leave the matter be, there was a way to also enjoy some quality time with the girl. "Anel nin, dry the tears in your eyes. I have a task for both of us."

Her head tilted to the side as her undefined brow furrowed. "For both of us?" She echoed.

Gil-Galad nodded. "I have also missed our time together, anel nin. But, until the darkness is gone from this land we will continue to be separated." She frowned but he pressed on. "So, that leaves us with only one option."

"Banish the darkness?" The elfling hazard, voice sounding shaky.

Gil-Galad nodded and lifted the girl off his lap to set her back on the ground before rising himself and snatching the letter off the the table. "Precisely, and we'll start doing that together. Come along." He started walking, trusting that the little girl would find a way to keep up with his long strides. "You are going to help me draft an address, merca alma."

"An address?" Her bell like voice piped from behind him. "What's that?"

"A letter." He amended. "You'll send countless in your lifetime." Gil-Galad turned down the hallway that led to his study.

"Oh." His daughter hummed in thought. "Who are we-?"

"Aranel! There you are!" A scolding feminine voice suddenly boomed down the hallway, making both elves pause - the younger of the two taking shelter behind her father's midnight blue cloak. Gil-Galad raised his gaze from the girl that clung to his leg and to her caretaker - Almarian, if he remembered her name right - who was approaching with a thunderous expression. Only to falter when she realized he was there. "Oh, Your Grace," She drew up short and fell into a curtsy. "A thousand apologies, my king," The pale haired old elleth began to ramble, ripping her gaze away from his eye to stare down the young girl still cowering behind him, "The princess managed to slip out of her room without our notice. I hope she hasn't been bothering-"

"Quite the feat," Gil-Galad interrupted, "considering she is but a child and you are four keen-eyed caretakers." Her face paled. "And I can assure you that my daughter is no bother. Not to me," the high king narrowed his gaze at the uncomfortable elleth, "nor should you consider her one." When Almarian failed to respond in a timely manner, Gil-Galad reached behind him to nudge the girl into her line of sight. "My daughter will be spending the rest of the day with me." He said icily and watched as the elleth before him squirmed. Normally, he didn't like pulling cheap power plays like this - but a line had been crossed. "I suggest you return to your comrades and tell them that I will be arranging a meeting with all of you to discuss how my daughter is being cared for. You are dismissed, Almarian." He hissed her name and she at least had the decency to look abashed. "Now," he turned his attention back to his daughter, laying a hand atop her head, "come along, ingaranel."

Turning on his heel, he started to walk, but was stopped after taking a single step by the feeling of his daughter's tiny hand taking hold of his. Gil-Galad looked down to find her beaming up at him, her eyes twinkling as if they held stars within them. "Thank you, atar."

atar - father

alma - flower

anel - daughter

aranel - princess

ingaranel - (lit) daughter of the high king

merca - wild

nin - my

[kytrisz]

why me? | Katya Zamolodchikova

| pairing. katya zamo x reader

Another life, another story.

It is already midnight and you are in the bedroom laying in bed with Brian who is lying on top of your chest. Trapping your waist with his tone arms. Everything is already dark except the lights coming from the TV.

Both of you are currently watching Twin Peaks... Again as per his request. In the middle of the movie, you heard Brian mumbles, who is currently snuggling at your breast.

"Hmm??" You look down at him, furrowing your eyebrows.

He immediately looks up at you, eyes filled with emotions you can't determine. But he still remained silent, looking a bit bothered.

"Did you say something?" you asked him again with a low tone of voice. You raise your left hand to caress his head as a sign of encouragement 

"I-I... Um" 

You smile at him and wait patiently. 

" Wh—Why do you love me? " Brian finally dropped it. Looking straight into your eyes expecting an answer.

And at that moment, the smile you have on your face turns into frown. And Brian saw that: he immediately sat up and pushed himself off you, turned his head away to hide his disappointment, and started to regret what he said.

"I'm just- Um.. curious? I—I mean I have a lot of shits a—and.. Umm shitty person... " Brian cracked, letting out a painful laugh, acting that it was just a joke. 

And for the first time in your life, you saw the person you love the most turn from a solid rock into single dust. 

"I—I'm an addict after all, so why—"

Brian as abruptly stopped when you put your hands on both sides of his face and gently turned him to look at you. You seize your moment studying his face, his face turning red, the way si lips are currently quivering, his facial structure, and your favorite, his eyes. The bluest color you knew. How it always lights up every time he is happy. But those eyes you love the most that sit perfectly in his socket are currently filled with tears, giving you heartache.

Brian just stays still, watching you stare at him and waiting patiently for you to say something.

"That's really hard to answer, B" you finally respond, locking your eyes on his.

Taking a deep breath, you continue.

"I love you, because... Of how you love me. You always never fail to make me happy -every single day. A—and you actually love me for me—My god I'm so bad at this" You chuckled slowly, starting to feel emotional right now.

"But I'm an addict—,"

"My love for you won't stop because of that— and no matter how many flaws you have and you will have. I will always, constantly, and truly love you... I didn't only love you for your good qualities, B—I love you because you're you." 

And all the tears that Brian tried to hold back earlier, started to stream down his cheeks. Letting out ragged sobs, but still keeping his eye contact with you. You carefully wipe his tears, and he immediately leans to your touch, making your heart flutter even more. 

You touched your forehead with his. "I love you because you're you, B." You softly weep, giving him one more smile before sealing a soft and passionate kiss to his lips. 

"I love you and never doubt that." 

[sammyboyimagines]

Road Trip Pt.4

//this is the short drabble following the "Road Trip" series! It is just a sweet ending! 600 words

Warnings: None, fluff.

"Hawkins Lab has been shut down.."

Your ears heard the announcement on the news before your eyes even opened. The television in your room was on. You felt a warm presence. The light snoring told you that it was your new boyfriend/crush/enemy sleeping next to you. Grabbing the remote at the end of the bed, you shut the tv and smiled to yourself.

It was over. (not really)

"Babe, I was watching that.." Steve's tired voice whined at the sudden silence coming from the television. "Shush, go back to sleep." you gently run your hand through his hair, watching him sigh in satisfaction. He absolutely adored the feeling of your soft hands in his hair.

"Only if you go back to sleep." he would never pass up an opportunity to get into bed with you, whether it was cuddling, sex, or just sleeping. His love language was quality time, there was nothing he'd rather do than spend time with you. Hence why it pained him so much to stop talking to you last year. You laid your head onto your cold pillow and turned away from him. It drove him crazy every time you slept facing away from him. He couldn't see your precious face every morning when he woke up from a pleasant dream about going through phases of life with you. Marriage, kids, growing old, getting a house, even college… he wanted to experience it all with you.

He had known you for years. He'd been friends with you for about 5 years and in that time he found himself falling for you harder and harder every day. It made him a flustered mess around you, but he never felt like that for anyone else. He tried to forget his feelings about you but he'd still think about you, his long-term crush. Making up and being your boyfriend was a dream come true. Literally.

"You're doing this on purpose, I can tell." Steve tapped your arm, not dropping it until you were facing him. "Doing what?" your fake, sweet, and innocent voice made him smirk as an idea popped into his mind. "Fine, I'll make you face me." he pulled himself on top of you, his body caging yours. He could tell by your gasp that you hadn't expected this.

"You're a bad cuddler, you know that?" he teases, kissing the top of your head. "You won't show me your pretty face." he pouts dramatically. You'd heard all of this before. Steve rolled off of you and pulled you close to him, arm laid across your torso.

Your mornings often went like this, him begging you to stay in bed, you practically army crawling out of the bed once Steve fell back into a snoring state, him grabbing you and pulling you back. It became routine for you, spending that extra hour in bed. He even told his friends about you. Especially Robin, who was thrilled to meet you when you visited Steve at work. She complained about him gushing over you whenever he'd get the chance. He loved to see you talk to his friends. It made him feel complete.

That's all he had wanted.

The truth was, he still felt extremely guilty for treating you like shit. The day after he dropped you off at home, he came by your house with flowers and a handwritten note aplogizing and explaining everything. He wanted to make up for lost time and make up for his shitty behavior.

And he did.

//okay! the "Road Trip" Series is over!

[starkerhowlter]

I posted 6,017 times in 2022

That's 5,000 more posts than 2021!

79 posts created (1%)

5,938 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@musette22

@gay-jewish-bucky

@khalixascorner

@starker-sorbet

@caps-boo-bear

I tagged 215 of my posts in 2022

#shut up nika - 86 posts

#starker - 74 posts

#tony x peter - 63 posts

#nika writes - 46 posts

#ask nika - 32 posts

#nff - 11 posts

#stucky - 11 posts

#steve x bucky - 10 posts

#ask starkerhowlter - 10 posts

#anonymous - 7 posts

Longest Tag: 99 characters

#chris *looking at all the doggos*: you're buster and you're buster and you're buster and you're....

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

ooooh 35 pls for the thread starter kink thing 😳😆

Absolutely! This one got away from me!! Thanks for the ask @sinditia

Title: Bathroom Floor

Ship: Starker

Rating: E

Contains: d/s notes, choking, public sex, toys, dirty talk

Words: 970

Summary: "I don't know why we couldn't have got to your car, Tony. Like, we already paid, we finished eating..." "Because, Peter, I couldn't wait that long. I have wanted to ruin you all day since we got here and now I can."

Read it on AO3

(click for better quality)

◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆

        "I don't know why we couldn't have got to your car, Tony. Like, we already paid, we finished eating..."

        "Because, Peter, I couldn't wait that long. I have wanted to ruin you all day since we got here and now I can." The older growls and pushes Peter against the wall, kissing him messily.

        "Anyone can see us..." Peter tries, "I don't wanna get caught, I come here too often for us to get caught. They might never let us back in."

        "And if they don't? We'll find a new place. And I'll fuck you in the bathroom of that place too." Peter gasps in reply to the man kissing down his neck.

Despite Peter's protest they end up on the floor, Peter on his hands and knees and gasping for Tony. "Is this okay?"

        "Fuck, yes!!!" He gasps, glitter on his cheeks sparkling under the shitty lighting in the bathroom of the upscale restaurant. Tony pulls his velvet red shorts down, taking his lacey undergarments with them, and pushes his shirt up his back. He glances back at the door, making sure that it is just as locked as he left it.

        “That’s good. Now spread your cheeks for me.” Tony growls, leaning back and unbuttoning his suit pants. Peter gasps as he follows directions, revealing the red and gold plug sitting perfectly in his ass. "Shit, baby, it looks just as good as when I put it there this morning. Are you still as loose and full of my cum as you were earlier?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "Let's add more, shall we?" Tony smirks, pulling the plug out before Peter can even cry out. He revels in the absolute mewl the younger finally chokes out, as he pulls a packet of lube out of his suit pocket. Tearing the corner open and spreading it over his cock. He smirks at Peter, catching the boy's eye as he looks back, sucking his lip at the sight of his boyfriend stroking his cock to full hardness. He drops his hands from behind him, pushing his face off the ground.

        "Did I tell you to move your hands, baby?"

        "I didn't want my face on the ground."

        "That's fair." Tony raises up, laying his body over Peter's back, his hand intertwining with the boy's as he slides in the tip. "Fuck how are you still loose from earlier?"

        "I don't, fuck, I don't know Tones. Just am." He whimpers, pushing back and taking more of the older. "Fuck, I need more."

        "More?" Tony growls and kisses the boy's neck. "I should make you wait. I should pull out and make you lay on the floor presenting all night. I could unlock the door and let everyone else come in and see you. Or, I could take a photo and make it my phone background, everyone will see it and wonder who that pretty boy is. And you know what I'll say?" Tony pauses his hips, "Can you guess baby?"

        "M-mm... mm-mm." He shakes his head, a soft moan passing his lips.

        "No? Well, sweetheart, I would look at them and say, oh. That's mine." Tony growls, pushing in the rest of the way as he finishes the statement. Peter mewls meeting the man's thrusts halfway, punctuating each of Tony's statements with a mew. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be a showboy for my associates? Your pretty ass on display for the whole world?"

        "Fuck, T..."

        "Are you seriously close already? Pathetic little baby. Spreading yourself out for your Sir and that's all it takes? Is that all I am to you? A cock and mouth? Need me to keep you on edge?"

        "Yes! Fuck!" He gasps, whining when Tony gives a particularly hard thrust, pushing against Peter's prostate repeatedly.

See the full post

55 notes - Posted May 23, 2022

#4

Today on fools of AO3... This is a friendly reminder my fics are FICTIONAL about fictional characters in a fictional world.

To this commenter: Honey, if you read the fic you'd know his daughter doesnt exist in this universe and Tony is very much alive and well. If Tony Stark were real he'd be known exclusively for... I think the word you liked was Tomfoolery? also, just in case you werent aware, tony stark is a fictional character, just like this fic. 🙂

Also, Deskwarmer of all fics? Cmon! Some of my other fics have much more tomfoolery! You should try reading those too and get back to me on if those are more his personality 😉

64 notes - Posted June 22, 2022

#3

Sugar Baby Starker

Peter Parker is Tony Stark's newest baby and everyone can tell there's something different about him. Instead of waiting a few months for their relationship to get off the ground, Tony is spoiling Peter with the most lavish treasures possible. But I guess Peter has to live up to his title:

"Tesoro"

(shout out to @cozysafechaotic and @khalixascorner for their help in color choice!)

84 notes - Posted September 5, 2022

#2

DeskWarmer

Ship: Starker Rating: Nc-17 (E) Contains: Cockwarming, Technical exhibitionism, Casual use of toys, namecalling, daddy kink, begging, crying Words: 1739 Summary: "Alright, baby, but I have to get back to work so I can't give you my full attention. You'll have to be like a little rent-a-slut at my desk and keep me company."

Read it on AO3

Dedicated to @endgame-ironspider who sent to the Super Starkers Discord "cockwarming cockwarming cockwARMING COCKWARMING" at like 3 am one April night. This is the result. Hope you love it! unbeta'd, any mistakes are my own

The keys jingle in the front door when Peter turns the lock. The sound of the Scantron machine echoes in his head, the repetitive biting of the machine everywhere there's a missed answer. He gently places his backpack down on the bench in the foyer and walks upstairs. The smell of Tony's cologne lingers in the air mixed with the other smells ranging from cigarettes to gunpowder. Peter's head hurts. The stimulus from the world around him is too much, he needs his one solace -- he needs Tony.

He opens the door to their shared bedroom suite and fights the urge to collapse on the bed and wrap the duvets around himself. The older's t-shirt and jeans still lay on the floor next to the bed, a single remaining symbol of the nights before. He longs for that again. The solace that's found in the man's smell and warmth, the feeling of fullness that only he can provide. Peter's trance is broken, however, when he hears Tony's voice travelling from somewhere else in the house. He sounds stressed, anxious, and as though he's also longing for Peter. The younger's eyes flutter shut briefly, muscles threatening to give out at any moment. Instead of indulging his body's cries, he elects to open the drawer on the black chest of drawers underneath the mounted TV. Inside is most of the clothes Tony has selected for him when he feels like this. Soft silks, fluffy sweaters, worn through band tees that have been washed one too many times. He finds a black oversize t-shirt that hangs loose on Tony as well and lays it on the bed. The red flecks of a long-gone logo stare back at him as he strips off his t-shirt and jeans from school and changes into the shirt, not bothering to find a pair of pants before leaving the room.

Peter pads down the hallway, pausing momentarily at the foot of the staircase, nodding at Sam and Bucky guarding the door. The two nod back, permitting him upstairs. Not like their approval would have mattered either way. He hears the sound again, Tony's exasperated laugh coming from behind the large Macassar door. Peter decides it's unnecessary to knock and opens the door slowly. Tony is deep in conversation, brow furrowed at the two people sitting opposite his desk. He recognizes one instantly, Natasha Romanoff with her sub sat at her feet. The other, however, is a complete stranger.

Without a word, Tony glances at the boy and makes a slight come hither movement with his fingers which draws Peter in before he can think twice. He continues listening to the two people, as his young boyfriend sits on his lap and nuzzles into his neck, sighing with relief at the sudden dulling of his senses.

"What do you mean you can't do anything about it?!" Tony asks, ringed hand rising to wrap around the boy's hips, raising the shirt slightly and giving the two people opposite of him a view of the flower tattoo on Peter's thigh.

"I'm sorry, sir. We've tried everything," The unknown man speaks, trying desperately to not show his anxiety.

"Well, Mr Barton, I think we're done here. I advise you to leave before I lose my temper. Send Barnes in." Tony dismisses him with a wave of his left hand, sending the blonde man scurrying out of the room. He continues his conversation with Natasha as he slips his right hand underneath the shirt, fingers playing with the edge of the lace underwear Peter had selected last minute.

"Sir, I--" Natasha begins but stops when Tony raises his left hand and dismisses her.

As soon as she's standing, he turns his attention to the young boy on his lap. "Hi, baby boy. How was your day?"

"It was awful," Peter sighs, dropping his head back down onto the man's shoulder, "There was so much going on and so much to do, I was overwhelmed all day and there were so many sounds and stimuli and..."

"Shhhhh," Tony soothes, running his fingers under the hip band of the lacey panties, "You're away from there now. Would you like to relax? I know you've been missing being full all day."

"No, I haven't," Peter confesses, shifting his hips.

"No?" The man squints slightly, running his hand lower down, moving the undergarment out of the way and poking where the boy's hole should be. Instead of the feeling of skin against his fingertips, he feels the end of a smooth metal object. "Aww, baby, what's this?" Tony wraps his fingers around the end, pulling at it slightly, revelling in the wrecked sound that leaves Peter's mouth, hot breath against his ear.

"W-wanted to try it as stress relief while I was testing. Hoping that maybe it would trick my brain into thinking I was here with you? I even wore your favourite panties and polo to class, hoping it would work.

"And did it?"

"No. It just made me more desperate," Peter confesses, grinding down against the plug and whimpering pathetically.

"Want me to fix that?" Tony asks, removing his hand and unzipping his jeans.

"Please, daddy," Peter begs, whimpering and pressing kisses to the older's jaw. The man smiles, feeling merciful today. He touches the rim of the toy, pulling gently, revelling in the soft noise it makes when it fully is removed. He runs his free hand's fingers through Peter's hair as he opens the desk drawer and removes a small bottle of lube.

"You sure you want this, sweetheart? You know it won't be private. I need you to be okay with it. We can go downstairs if you aren't."

"It's okay, please just... I need it, Daddy, please. I have waited all day." Usually, it takes a lot to make Peter cry this early into sex, but currently, the tears streaming down his cheeks tell another story. "Please," he begs, shallow stuttering breaths ghosting Tony's neck.

"Alright, alright." He purrs, popping the cap of the tube and coating a few fingers. "Thank your lucky stars I'm feeling merciful today, baby boy." Peter whimpers desperately, and wriggles licking and biting at the column of Tony's neck, teeth touching just above the layered necklaces. "Fuck, sweetheart, you can't just decide to do that," Tony murmurs, moving his chin to see his hands. He spreads the lube over a few fingers and presses one to the boy's ass. "Ready sweetheart?"

"Fuck, yes. Please! You can do more than one, I'm stretched! I promise I can take it, Daddy, please just do it!" He presses down, trying to force the man's fingers inside and gasps out a whine when two fingers enter him.

"What a good boy you are," Tony purrs, pressing the third finger in alongside the other two. He begins spreading his fingers gently, revelling in the noises his boyfriend is letting escape.

"Oh, fuuuuuuuuuck," Peter moans, eyes pinched shut and head resting on Tony's shoulder. "More. Please," The younger whimpers a few minutes later, "Please, give me more, daddy I need it."

"Alright, baby, but I have to get back to work so I can't give you my full attention. You'll have to be like a little rent-a-slut at my desk and keep me company," Tony growls in the boy's ear, watching the notifications pop up on his starkpad. He's caught off guard by the punched-out sound the boy releases. "What was that baby? Do you like the idea of that? Wanna be my little toy and keep Daddy's cock warm while he works?"

The softest sound in the room feels like the loudest to Peter's ears as the zipper on tony's black chinos moves over each tooth. The man moves the boy's panties aside and presses the tip of his dick against Peter's stretched hole. Peter gasps, head lolling back as he sinks down onto his boyfriend. The younger fingers grasp at the back of Tony's leather jacket, whimpering under his breath at the feeling of fullness he's craved all day.

See the full post

112 notes - Posted June 9, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Would people be interested in this fic?

Peter having a purity ring and taking it off to hook up with tony in secret and put it back after.But the idea of one day Tony taking it after a particularly spicy scene and putting it on his keyring as a trophy. Cuz peter would be shocked at him taking the band. And tony would be like "I think I earned it"

124 notes - Posted August 31, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[valenshawke]

Because you sighed, now I must ask: Transhumanism Pitch.

Well, you did ask senpai.

Would you believe that I actually wasn't sighing (too much) over this one? If I had to weight the sigh, the first two carry the load. The first story, the title is so utterly pretentious (and I didn't even come up with it) and derivative. The second one, it started out as a Cowboy Bebop-AU of Claymore before I was like, "Huh... maybe I should try to make it an actual story..."

Pitch One: Human enhancement came. But capitalism is going to capitalism. So, much like cell phones, consoles, and every other piece of technology, biotech companies have (essentially) built-in obsolescence of the various technological modifications. So people need to have all their "upgrades' ' replaced every few years, or quicker depending on quality you can afford. And modification begins shortly after one would enter kindergarten. The second issue: The state is going to be the state. And capitalism cannot exist without the state as an enforcement mechanism. So, the surveillance state went into overdrive. Optical, auditory, and neurological upgrades are linked to the internet, they have to be. As a result, the state can and will use the people as a means of surveillance. You just never know if you're the camera today or not.

So, we end up with one world government headed by a Charismatic Leader who got his start a major CEO in Tech and developed a weird cult of personality that led to various rightwing takeovers until we have a Fascist One World State. (You have 3 guesses as to whom I am riffing on and the first two do not count).

The actual story: A main character who is in the lower-classes. As a result of the various upgrades, the vast majority of the people are overeducated and overqualified for the job they work, my main character is definitely this. So, she's on the assembly line in a chip-making factory (why do we still have these jobs? A means of social control). What triggers the story is the MC is talking with another coworker. And they're chatting as normal, they're even friendly until the coworker suddenly drops dead. Hardware failure of various implants. It's not known just what the percentage of failure of these "upgrades" are, that information is kept classified.

But that triggers something within my MC. She didn't know her coworker too well. No one knows people well anymore. The average person lives in a glorified room but has the futuristic equivalent of a smartphone, a laptop, and a television and can watch whatever shitty entertainment is being produced cheaply to numb their brains. No kitchen, but no one cooks at home.

So, you're a built-in tool of the surveillance state, an economic unit whose value is labor power, and you cannot criticize the State because that gets you in trouble. Or counseling as it's called. She's frustrated, she cannot mourn, she didn't know her coworker too well, but has to pretend things are fine. Or to counseling with you (so think Room 101 in 1984). They're not trying to make you believe, we've shown torture doesn't actually change minds. It's simply punishment at this point. Pain to keep you in line. Injuries to make you remember. Scars that will always be with you.

She does not actually go through "counseling" but she is angry. And she wants out of society. So, there are rumors and stories of people that live off the Grid. We're talking Nunavut, Canada, as far north as you can get, off the grid.

At this point, this is where my pitch sort of falls apart. To me, trying to recruit people from the factory where her coworker died due to hardware failure makes sense. How to go about it? The initial pitch had codes written on food menus from the places my main character orders food. Certain letters on the menu are bolded and if you wrote it all down, it's a message. After that, it's a pretty textbook finding-the-secret-rebels-trope. Where I decide to change it is… "left-wing revolution" my main character is a part of, fights for, and manages to see… turns out like every other revolution in history. We replace one ruling class for another and you have, more or less, the same problems eventually. Where I veer off is my main character, who has risen through the ranks of the rebel group into an actual governmental official, is so disillusioned and angry she wants out like she did before. But what is the point of any revolution if the same things happens again and again? So then, it's a stark internal debate with herself: Does humanity deserve to continue if this is its apex state?

And, because of the interconnectedness of everyone because all the revolution brought was slightly better quality upgrades to the masses and maybe a few hours of less work, and some vague project ideas about colonizing Mars, not much changed. The surveillance state still exists and is still used. So is there a means to end humanity? Yes. But she's not thinking, "Drop the bomb, exterminate them all…" but maybe use the upgrades everyone is implanted with to ensure human reproduction drops to zero in a couple of decades.

And this is the internal debate she has while she tries to make the moves to make this happen without getting caught. The only person that can stop her is herself, basically. so, she needs to decide. I don't want any grand speeches by anyone else, I don't want a singular event to make the decision. I just want her to live and see humanity over a period of time. Maybe 20 years. And we don't learn, well… that's it for humanity. Eventually. And by the time people find out. It's too late.

Pitch Two: Val has read the Dune Chronicles too many god damn times and it fucking shows. Main character, pure Paul Atreides-route: Don't have an idea on male/female/genderfluid/nonbinary. Shares, mostly, the backstory of how the one world state came to be I mentioned previously but this one focuses on the government. Which is your typical bureaucracy. But, since it's a Totalitarian Dictatorship, there's a question on succession because immortality has yet to be achieved. But same general issues as before: Tech upgrades on humans start at four years old-ish, upgrades every few years, overeducated/overqualified people working dead-end jobs. People dropping dead due poor quality upgrades. The surveillance state as outlined in pitch one still exists.

The main character here is the offspring of a higher up official in this government. The parent is a popular person, who could be interpreted as a threat by the CEO (yeah, it's a placeholder title). The CEO has no genetic offspring. So, each of the division heads curry favor and vye for power in hopes that one of them (or perhaps their educated offspring) gets named to be a successor should the CEO ever step down or die (the latter of which is the only real possibility). The key here is because they're part of the Power Elite, they have MUCH better upgrades and the ability to "disconnect" entirely for a limited amount of time a day. Usually, this is reserved for government meetings or family business meetings where all the participants are at least logged as attending somewhere, but after that, you can disconnect and not be under surveillance/used for surveillance for a couple of hours a day.

CEO tends to reassign those he views as threat to a R&D Division on one of the islands of the world, that actually manages to produce actual useful things (what, hell if I know) to keep up appearances. But this is where people go if the CEO views you as a threat and wants to kill you and your whole family line (and maybe Division as well).

My main character's parent gets such a reassignment, but the parent is wise enough to know IT'S A TRAP and tries to make plans. One of which is an escape plan for the child. The other of which is to try to make allies with other divisions and commit to an overthrow. Let's just say the latter doesn't work, a typical betrayal story until the child is smuggled out and meets those living off the grid (same place as the first pitch.

Here, I play it completely orthodox as above. The revolution succeeds and the new government is in place and our MC is now at its head... And well, you can look at history to see what happens there. However MC is completely aware of the trap of what happens to a revolution. Invariably, the ideals and goals are betrayed and you end up with a new ruling class that does, more or less, the same shit.. So something has to be done. But can anything be done? This is where this version of the pitch ends because I don't have a fucking clue where to go that isn't a fucking rewrite of the original Dune Chronicles. The only alternative I have is... MC decides humanity needs a technological and informational reset and, effectively, sends humanity back to the stone age to try development again. How to go about any of this? Hell if I know.

[leenows]

#7ToEternityWithBTS — we are not seven with you.

happy 7 years to the 7 boys that made me fall head over heels in just 7 days.

[ivybucky]

slippery when wet - s.r. x reader (*s*)

Summary: Steve returns home from a long mission and finds his girl in the shower. A steamy, steamy shower. 18 +, n/sfw

a/n: so this fic was literally first written about 6??? years ago?? it was posted on an old blog of mine *that no longer exists* and i figured i could salvage it as best as i could. please ignore the probably shitty quality and any grammatical errors i was tired when i was doing the rewrite.

cw: unprotected s*x, sm*t, shower s*x, p in v, or*l s*x (m/f receiving), f*ngering, slight ch*king, slight sp*nking, possessiveness, dom!steve vibes, let me know if theres anything i missed

masterlist

add yourself to the taglist

join my discord

author: abby<3

words: 1250

The running of water in the en suite bathroom could be heard the moment he set foot into the shared bedroom. A muffled hum of his girl echoed through the closed door.

Steve smiled to himself, setting down his duffle bag near the closet. It had been a two week mission, entirely much longer than he wanted it to be. He missed her, her presence, her smile, her touch. So of course he made his rightful way to the bathroom, shucking his clothes off along the way.

She was too distracted to hear the door of the bathroom shut behind him, or how he opened the shower door. A gasp fell from her mouth as his arms wrapped around her middle and buried his face into her neck with a deep breath.

“Baby?” she hummed softly, a smile playing on her lips. “I didn’t think you’d be home just yet.”

His hold on her tightened, thumb circling soft patterns into the flesh of her waist. “Thank god there’s no speed limits in the air.”

She snorted before craning her neck to look back at him and to plant a kiss to his cheek. “You okay?”

He sighed heavily, nodding his head into her shoulder. “‘Missed you, doll.”

She chuckled, hand reaching up to weave her fingers into his hair. “I bet you did. Two weeks alone, with Tony? Must’ve been torture for you, dear.”

He pulled her further against him, his raging hard-on pressing into her back. “You have no idea, sweet girl.”

“Steve, please,” she moaned quietly. His only appeal was pressing his hips roughly against hers, grinding his naked flesh to her back. The shower’s spray just barely hit the tops of her thighs. Steam fogged the glass door and the mirror of the vanity.

“Wait a second, sugar,” he mumbled, now kissing her neck. “You need to get wet first.”

“Already there, Rogers,” she huffed with impatience. He chuckled before lightly biting the tendons in the crook of her neck. She hastily pulled his mouth up to hers, mumbling, “Maybe you need to get a little wet.”

She dropped carefully to her knees on the shower tile and took his length in her hand, doe eyes keeping eye contact with him. He nearly groaned at the sight, fingers sweeping her damp hair out of her eyes.

“Y/N, you don’t-” he started before she cut him off.

“But I want to, Steve,” she hummed. She pressed him into her mouth, swallowing as much as she could. She hollowed her cheeks while she pressed her tongue to the bulging vein on the underside of his cock.

He moaned and shuffled a bit, causing him to almost slip. Y/N pulled his body down to sit on the tiled bench that sat in the shower. His legs fell open, creating ample space for her to continue. She adjusted her position between his legs and started bobbing her head steadily. One of his hands flew to the side of the seat, while the other went to her hair. She moved her hand to the base of his cock and stroked what her mouth couldn’t get.

“Y/N, honey, if you keep doing that, I won’t last,” his head fell against the shower wall.

She stopped her movements and crawled up to sit on his lap, wet bodies and skin sliding smoothly against each other. Once she was close enough, Steve moved his hand to her throat, grasped it, and brought her lips to his for a wet, sloppy kiss, still tasting himself on her tongue.

As they continued with their kiss, her hips started rocking against him for friction, any friction. A moan ripped out of her throat when one of his hands found her center and started dipping into her natural wetness. With more energy, she continued rocking against his hand, and whined when he removed his hand and brought it to his mouth.

“I gotta taste more of you, sweetheart,” he moaned as his fingers trailed from his mouth.

He adjusted both of their positions, him now kneeled on the floor and her resting on the bench, and he pulled her legs over his shoulders. He nipped at the inside of her thighs, marking his way up to her center.

Her arms clutched whatever surface she could find purchase on, eventually landing in his short blond locks as his tongue lapped herr center. In her seat, she jolted when he delved inside her. Only after that did he give any attempt to her clit. At first he only gave it a few flicks of his tongue. Then he started sucking.

"S-Steve," the broken begging of his name dripped from her lips. “Steve, please.”He moaned against her at the tug of his hair for emphasis.

He moved his fingers to her entrance, putting all of his mouth’s attention on her clit, wrapping tightly around the bud. At first his fingers moved slowly, back and forth to warm her up, even though it wasn’t needed. He sped up his fingers and she could feel pressure building up in her lower belly each time he hit your g-spot.

“Steve!” she moaned loudly as she came hard against his fingers. Slowly, his movements came to a stop, but his mouth continued to lick her clean. She panted as he crawled up her body pressing kisses to her chest and neck.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart,” he muttered into her ear, pulling a whimper from her mouth. He sucked a mark on her neck and lined up his cock with her cunt, rubbing teasingly agasin her opening. “I’m not done with you until you’re practically begging me to stop. You belong to me.”

And then he sank in.

His pace was relentless as his big cock pounded into her. His handgripped her waist and the other was firm against the cool tile of the bench. She wound a hand into his hair again, tightening her grip with every deep thrust. He growled and gave his mouth’s attention to the crook of her neck again, distracting him from going too hard.

“Don’t hold back Cap,” she urged in a moan, his full potential well-known. He looked in her eyes for confirmation before he flipped her on her hands against the seat, and, somehow, managed to go faster, grunting with every thrust. Her head fell forward onto her forearms as his large hands fell to her waist, undoubtedly leaving bruises. This new position caused his cock to reach deeper and hit her g-spot every time. A yelp left her lips when one of his hands lightly slapped her ass before gripping the cheek. Stars danced along her vision, jolting with the rhythmic movement of his strokes.

A strangled moan left her mouth as she came on his cock. His thrusts became erratic and uneven, as he shot his release deep inside her with a curse of her name.. His movements stilled and rested his forehead against her spine, both of them silent and panting.

He helped her stand shakily, and let her rest her weight against him as they turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. She chuckled as he pulled her into his grasp yet again. “And people say shower sex is difficult,” she mumbled into his rising chest.

He pressed a kiss into the side of her head, pulling away as he grabbed her hand. “So is wall sex,” he winked and pulled her into the bedroom.

tags for this fic : @irelanddesires @lizzz2967 @greeneyedblondie44 @calling-the-angels @lovelybucky1 @arsonhotchner @hamiltonwrite12 @fab-notfat @mcueveryday @agent-laufeyson @nanners-the-great @mcubuckyandsteve @captainfile @charlieandindy @patzammit

[chamomileteainabuttercup]

Thoughts on The Book of Boba Fett Chapter 6

Well, we could get almost anything in terms of quality this week. Will we see Din, or has he fucked off into the background again? Will I have to tolerate the Mods? How are we one episode from the end of this season when so little has actually happened in the present timeframe? What has Boba named the baby rancor? Can we look forward to another appearance by renowned jizz musician Max Rebo? Let's see.

I just checked with me and I've officially given up hope of seeing Cobb Vanth, and that's mostly because there isn't time to do anything interesting with him, not without abandoning all sorts of other things that I accept should be given narrative priority because they were raised first (not because I find them more personally interesting than Cobb Vanth, hubba hubba). I will now relocate my hope for him to The Mandalorian season 3.

If the whole of Boba's show has just been used to set up the events of the next season of Din's show, well, Boba's a supportive friend and I love that about him, but it would be unfair and it would leave a bad taste in my mouth.

Presumably we will see more of Boba this week than just in the Previouslies. PRESUMABLY!

oh god I just thought of the worst thing

what if they kill Boba Fett and season 3 is among other things about Din avenging him

jesus why do I have to think of things like that

fuck that thought!

Temuera Morrison is hot

(that thought functioned as a palate cleanser)

we've got a shitty desert, we've got some goons in pixie hoods, we've got a Hamilton Beach ice cream machine full of... something

FUCK ME THAT'S COBB VANTH

oh jesus Cobb you have no armour you're practically nude and you're ALONE now I'm afraid YOU'RE going to die you're just going to be bumped off in the first minutes of the episode I have it paused in genuine dread please don't give me more and more bad feelings, show

ugggghhhhhhhhhhh

aw he's made up a meaning for his stripey belt buckle, that's adorable

I like how vague his boundary-drawing is, "out there" to "out there"

please be safe Cobb

incidentally how did Cobb get here

the pixie goons have a car, I don't see his bike or anything, he no longer has a jetpack enabling him to drop down from the sky, apparently he just approached them on foot in the open in broad daylight and they didn't notice until he talked.

Cobb, you are a diplomat

and they... demonstrated a lack of critical thought, given that the sexy cowboy was posing them no inconvenience and allowing them to depart unharmed

yes, retire, retire to a lovely little moisture ranch with your Mandalorian gentleman friend and live in peace and contentment (and abundant moisture)

WELL it's the opening titles AND Cobb is not yet dead! Superb!

okay, I realise that the spice is loose in a box that can be flipped open without even operating a catch to make it easy for Cobb to overturn it with his foot, but if spice is a valuable commodity, why is it loose in a box that can be flipped open without even operating a catch

do they not have plastic bags in space

no bras and no plastic bags

also we're seeing a lot more of Cobb's neck than previously - saucy

CHAPTER 6 - FROM THE DESERT COMES A STRANGER

bugger me days, that's Din Djarin

fucking seriously, if we don't get Boba for another whole episode, I will riot

I say this as someone who loves and cherishes both Din and Cobb

but Boba has earned this

anyway nice pointy hills

okay, there's Artoo, now why when finding a Jedi was such a production before can Din now just go directly to Luke's hideout? Did he stick a tracker on Grogu, like Spock sticking one on Kirk in The Undiscovered Country? Or are they going to retcon it to say that Luke did leave a forwarding address?

ugh I hope Luke looks better than he did last season

I say this as someone who loves and cherishes Luke Skywalker!

"Hello, friend," said Din Djarin to a droid.

okay, it is getting up my nose that this is apparently no quest at all, Din can just go right directly there. It's as if he could always have looked Luke up on Spacebook. I mean, did Cara or Fennec or Bo-Katan or someone else who actually watches the news tell him, "That dude who just took off with your kid is called Luke Skywalker, he lives on such-and-such planet"? (But if Bo-Katan knew Luke Skywalker was a Jedi and where he could be found, why wouldn't she have directed Din to him instead of to Ahsoka, who isn't taking pupils? Or as well as Ahsoka? So presumably not her?) Why am I having to do so much work to figure out how Din knows where to go, in all the vastness of space, to find some washed-up twink who didn't even introduce himself?

nice beetlebot

the robots are very cute, I am glad they know how to lay a drystone wall, it is a dying craft in many places

Artoo has activated his unhelpful little shit subroutine

once again, Din is wearily exasperated by whimsical bullshit

HE JUST WANTS TO SEE HIS BABY BOY

THERE'S A BABY BOY

okay yes, his face is not MOVING yet but so far Luke looks considerably better than last time

no eat froggy, Grogu - yes, I know, this is boring -

okay catch froggy with your evil powers! I like it!

Grogu's like "aw man, my last dad was fun."

levitate ALL the frogs

only in this way will you actually impress the little ratbag

he's just swooshing Grogu along, which is admittedly cute and solves the little legs problem

Luke, your hair is too brown. Please just get some Sun-In on that. You and Leia being twins doesn't mean you have to match.

Welcome back! You have not remembered what I, as an audience member, am most interested in - who the hell got you out of there and then lost you again

(maul maul maul maul maul maul)

"The galaxy is a dangerous place, Grogu." "No shit, Master Skywalker! Would you like to look at my memories of some of the things that have tried to personally eat me over the past year? How about the times I was shot at? Nearly burned alive? Drained of blood by a mad scientist? The time my dad yeeted himself into a dragon's maw and left me to be raised by a cowboy? The baby shackles?"

Ahsoka's there too? And Din doesn't have an obvious question for her like, "If you're an old friend of Skywalker's family, why did you just send me to a seeing stone instead of giving me a referral? Do you realise my baby got kidnapped by evil robots? And I met my BFBF (best friend Boba Fett), but that is beside the point."

At what point is Ahsoka supposed to have learned this?

What was the point of last season's quest!?

Ahsoka if you stonewall Din Djarin about seeing his baby so help me I will slap the blue and white thing off your head.

at least Din is asking one pertinent question

FUCK OFF AHSOKA look I'm sorry Ahsoka, we go way back, I love you, but STOP DADBLOCKING

HE CAN BE A FOUNDLING AND A PADAWAN AHSOKA IT'S CALLED BEING BICULTURAL IT'S CALLED HAVING A BLENDED FAMILY

STOP IT AHSOKA

you know what Din? It is okay to want to see him for yourself! You love him! It's a good thing! Balance between love and duty is possible and healthy!

bug OFF Ahsoka!

Din please find the self-esteem in your heart to tell her to bug OFF

jesus wept

and so Din just walks away LEAKING BLOOD FROM THE HOLE IN HIS CHEST WHERE HIS HEART WAS

and Luke LETS GROGU WATCH HIS FATHER FLY AWAY WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE TO HIM

LIKE HE'S BOBA FETT

OF WHOM THIS SHOW OSTENSIBLY IS THE BOOK

Grogu - kick his twink ass.

you know what I don't even care that he put him in a backpack, I'm surly now

fuck you Luke that jump was adorable

hey do you remember that Samurai Jack episode with "Not fly. Jump good"?

I love Samurai Jack

wasn't the greatest fan of the continuation/final short season because I didn't feel Jack needed a love interest/didn't find that particularly believable as how Jack in particular would fall in love BUT I am glad he got back to the past. (whachow)

for me the greatest example of who Samurai Jack was is the episode where he gets his hand stuck inside the magic orb imprisoning the fairy who could grant his wish to get home but if he uses that wish to get home she'll be trapped in the orb forever, and he has to have a big fight with only one hand usable, and at the end he just smiles at her gently and says, "I wish we were free."

I love Samurai Jack you guys (this time I didn't italicise it because the first time I meant I love the show Samurai Jack and this time I meant I love the person Samurai Jack)

remember when he infiltrated a rave wearing a Cat in the Hat hat

We are almost halfway through episode 6 of 7 of The Book of Boba Fett and I don't see BOBA FETT. This is a RIPOFF.

I LOVE GROGU BUT WHERE IS BOBA FETT

I'm bored

I wish I was watching Samurai Jack

or a show with Boba Fett in it

I mean Grogu's cute as hell no matter what I always enjoy seeing him but I don't need these time-chewing scenes of Luke giving him Jedi 101, I need to know what's going on with BOBA FETT and his friends Din Djarin and Fennec Shand

I DIDN'T ASK FOR THE AHSOKA AND LUKE SHOW

did you notice how apart from the very first scene the story of this episode appears to have nothing to do with its title

can you WRAP this shit UP

much like the Armorer wrapped whatever that is up

are you two going to even let him have the gift his father brought for him so he can KNOW he's still LOVED and REMEMBERED?

"so much like your father - who murdered many small children, in fact, Grogu's classmates"

DON'T LET THE BABY TAKE A NAP ON A ROCK IN THE MIDDLE OF A STREAM YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT CHILDCARE

and off she fucked, having contributed nothing of benefit and pissed me off to no small extent

okay at least we're back to Tatooine and Din, having checked off his side quest and once again emotionally seppuku'd himself, can go and see Boba

(hug hug hug hug hug hug)

Din just flies straight in through the open garage door without so much as a radio exchange about permission to land because this FORTRESS has no fucking SECURITY is this how KRRSANTAN GOT IN TO NEARLY MURDER BOBA IN HIS BED????????????

would have enjoyed hearing Din talk back in piggy grunts

FINALLY

TWENTY-EIGHT MINUTES IN

BOBA FETT

Fennec, if everyone in the room doesn't already know what you're recapping, you have bigger problems than Din can solve (and he might actually need this recap but isn't in the room yet)

I mean literally your team is Krrsantan, some misfit youths, two green piggy guys, a baby rancor and maybe Danny Trejo, I don't know if he stuck around.

okay so here's what I want

Din walks in

sees Boba with his helmet off all handsome and re-melanined and re-eyebrowed

sparkly filter and "Dream Weaver"

"This is the Mandalorian, Din Djarin" - when did he get there? Why is Boba apparently only noticing and acknowledging his appearance now?

with nothing more than a look and a nod and no visible emotion, when Fennec couldn't stop smiling at the sight of him

Din did you just volunteer Cobb's village for a fight again

I can't be mad, classic Din

that is a really good hood ornament

who the fuck is that inferior Rick Grimes-looking cowboy with a red scarf why does he get a close-up

(although it would be funny if red scarves are fashionable in Mos Pelgo because everyone admires Cobb)

ADORABLE TWINKLY-EYED SMILE FROM COBB

Temuera Morrison can twinkle his eyes like nobody's business, couldn't he have got a little eye-twinkle in the previous scene?

yep, Cobb is immediately impressed with the hot-rod, satisfying

and immediately asks about Grogu because he is a good egg like that

thank you, someone expressing sympathy for Din's loss (even if you did put it on the same level as an admittedly super cool suit of armour)

"more careful" says the man who faced down four armed pixie goons alone in the cold open

yes you can buy him a drink, you can also hold his hand and stroke his hair

oh, they're changing the town name (to what it was in the book that introduced Cobb Vanth)? just in between now and the cold open, when Cobb referred to it as Mos Pelgo?

"that's a city folk fight"

"See, that's what I like about you, Mando. That big smile of yours lets you get away with anything." I love you Cobb. I do.

BUT I'M STILL FUMING ABOUT THE SIDELINING OF BOBA FETT IN HIS OWN SHOW

he'll see what he can do, for you, because he loves you

now for a town meeting, I hope featuring authentic frontier gibberish

this is the stranger from the desert?

HEY JO

be safe Cobb be safe Cobb be safe Cobb

okay, the deputy can get shot, that's all right

HAT

HAT

HAT

CAD MOTHERFLIPPING BANE

shoot him and TAKE HIS HAT COBB

his hat looks a lot smaller than it did in the cartoons

the deputy continues to volunteer for a shootin'

Cobb cannot believe he hired this guy

srsly Cobb maybe Jo, who clearly has a good head on her shoulders, would be a better choice?

is it really sticking your nose into something to ask the name of someone who already knows your name?

at least people are talking ABOUT Boba Fett

BE SAFE COBB BE SAFE COBB BE SAFE COBB

Jo snipe him from the window!

Deputy I don't know what you think you are sneaking forward for but if Cobb gets shot because of you I believe I've mentioned I will riot

MY COBB NO

it looked like it hit his shoulder, it looks like maybe he moved a little? PLEASE BE ALIVE COBB

the subtitles are giving us some terrible extra dialogue like "Something's wrong with the marshal!" no shit, he just got shot!

well now I guess I have to riot

is Max Rebo in tonight?

WHY ISN'T THERE A SHOT OF MAX REBO

oh fuck they're doing a The Untouchables with a bomb in the camtono

SHIT

well now I'm glad if Max Rebo wasn't there

so now Luke lives in a stone beehive

I'M NOT INTERESTED IN YOU RIGHT NOW LUKE SKYWALKER

TINIEST CHAINMAIL TEESHIRT

MITHRIL VEST

Luke you manipulative turd

HE CAN CHOOSE BOTH

GROGU LOOK HIM RIGHT DEAD IN THE EYE AND TAKE YOUR BESKAR

GROGU THIS SCHOOL SUCKS THINGS WILL NOT END WELL HERE

DID

DID BOBA FETT EVEN GET TO SPEAK ONCE IN THIS EPISODE

THIS PENULTIMATE EPISODE OF THE SHOW THAT BEARS HIS NAME

WHAT THE FUCK MAN

and they're still throwing new cards on the table like Cad Bane

Okay I thoroughly enjoyed the Cobb Vanth scenes (other than the parts where I was paralysed by dread) but otherwise, WHAT WAS THAT?

did Temuera Morrison get injured or sick at some point during the shoot and large parts have to be rewritten around his availability?

okay me now, on behalf of Boba and to a certain extent of Cobb:

[wastedyouth-wasteddreams]

Part 3. Whisky and cute. Smutty thoughts.

With one arm still wrapped around her shoulder Vik grabbed the whisky off his desk with his free hand, glove clinking against the glass bottle, and walked her through the back. 

It wasn't much, but he had an old worn in leather couch where he originally thought he would take breaks. But seeing that he usually ate and tinkered at his desk in front of an old fight, the couch was mainly used after closing. It's the kind of couch that's been sat on a thousand times, napped on for hundreds, and was still too comfy to throw out. 

The seats were full of pitts and scrapes from from where he had sat down with something sharp still poking out of a pocket. there was a deep dent on the side that Jackie favoured, all his excited fidgeting had a tendency to leave lasting impressions. One of the arm rests had a strange flat smooth spot where bottles of whisky and beer had been carefully balanced over the years, and the other had a swooping crater where the memory of Viks tired head was left indefinitely. 

It had been a week since she was last in. Since he sat her down and told her he cared for her. In all, that wasn't really a shock, he was warm hearted and she knew he cared, he cared for all his friends. Vik was someone you counted on. The shock to her system was how it was said. He wasn't just handing off information, it almost felt like a proposition. As if he was offering her a reason to look after herself.

 She had definitely been thinking, and over thinking on his words. She couldn't just turn up to say "hey" after that. She didn't want to be over eager and under wanted. His birthday was such a perfect reason to pop by though, it wasn't even an excuse-it was an ACTUAL reason.

"You haven't dropped in all week. I thought you might have been avoiding me?"

As she heard the words, a black hole opened in her chest, sucking her stomach and heart into oblivion for a few seconds. His forearm was resting sluggishly on her shoulder as they walked, which was making it hard for her to concentrate anyway...a smell of hot metal, antiseptic and pheromones mixed with a fresh sweat was evaporating from his arm. She could feel an olfactory memory being created each time she breathed him in.

"Really vik?! You are getting old. You don't remember when I came in and paid you every eddy I've ever owed you? Then you took me to dinner? Bought me flowers?" 

She slunk from under his arm and picked her feet off the floor as she threw herself back and shoulders first onto the couch. Her head firmly nestled into the Vik dent.

"Did everyone ask if I was your Dad?" It was a quick response, because it had been something on his mind before. He was an actual age to be her father. It certainly wasn't the only thing stopping him from acting on his desires, but it was a major one. He watched her hair float up as head hot the couch, as if waves were engulfing her.

"Grandpa!" She responded raising her eye brows and giving him a nod as he picked up a leather pouch from the surgical table in the corner.

Vik mimicked being punched in the gut and let out a growling "Ooft kid!" As he planted himself next to her with an empty thud. When his 200 pound of muscle hit the seat, it dropped a good six inches beneath him, and in turn, her hips cooked and she fell into his thigh. 

She steadied herself by wrapping her hand around his forearm. It shouldn't have been as exciting as it was, but his arms did things to her. She could watch him working all day, when his fingers moved and grabbed the muscles just below his elbow stretched and rippled like a machine. He didn't realise it, but she was tracing the movements over his tattoos.

"Grandpa eh? THAT I would have remembered" he swallowed his words as she stroked his arm with her thumb. He wondered of she knew what she was doing to him right now. Her fingers slightly tugging at his tired and sore arm, whilst her thighs pushed against his leg. He wished to have that thigh in his grasp, and her fingers exploring his chest. He wanted to know exactly how much of her he could hold at once. That sweet spot where her thighs and ass met..she was thickest there, he wanted to cradle her and find out how well she would fit in his hand.

He felt his whole body reacting to the though and he swallowed once more, moving his arm ever so slightly trying to reach his exo glove without breaking the skin to skin contact.

"YOUR BIRTHDAY" Came the squeel from next to his ear. She had the lungs of a whale sometimes.

Her hands grabbed his leg and she jumped on her knees next to him, she didn't realise how far down her hands were going go, but she gave him a little squeeze before she bounded off

"I'm gonna get your box!" 

He would have smiled at her giddied charm if he wasn't too busy trying to will all his blood back to its rightful places. She must have realised where her left hand landed. Her finger tips touched so far into his thigh that they grazed the seam of his pants, and if she would have stretched her pinky out an inch, she would have felt a waking dragon, who he had no doubt, would have been stirred from her touch.

As she returned she watched him folding leather around his exoglove. She was wondering if she had made him uncomfortable with her touch, but that fear faded when he flashed her a big Vik smile. Fear that was replaced with butterflies.

He sat the pouch on the soft bit of the arm rest, and felt his heart race as he waited for her to come close again. He expected her to sit next to him, but she walked in front of him, her shoulders square with his, though much more slender. She looked down at her gift and then at Vik without moving her head as she handed it to him. She gave him big eyes, full of wonder and life.  He took the box from her hands, not breaking eye contact for even a split second. 

"The whisky was enough you know, this better be something shitty and little"

"I'm shitty and little" she sounded proud at this realisation.

"Just open it Vik" she said as she grabbed the bottle of whisky and started to unscrew the lid. 

"Haha" he chuckled deeply "Ok, ok. You can be such a brat sometimes" his smile reflecting his adoration of that quality.

She sat next to him again, ankles tucked under herself and watched him fumble with the ribbon and paper.

She took a huge gulp of whisky as he laid his eyes on her gift.

"V" 

Was all he could muster. 

"C'mere" he said as he wrapped his arm around her. His inner elbow caressed the back of her neck and pulled her head to tuck under his chin.

In his hand he held a whisky glass, with a thick heavy bottom and the letter V etched onto the side in a gothic font. A single boxing glove hung off the thin arm of the V. 

"It's a V. For Viktor....And the other has a V on it as well!"

"For Viktor" he laughed and repeated her.

"No, you gonk" she pulled back and looked at him, her face squished, as if he had completely missed something. 

Maybe the other V is for her. For V.

"For Vektor"

She cupped his left cheek in her hand and pulled his face toward her parted mouth. As their skin touched, she pushed her parted lips gently into his stubble, but hard enough to smoosh the side of his face. Her smooth lips left a wetness on his face that he wished he could fell between his own lips.

"Happy Birthday, Viktor Vektor" 

she cooed to him as she felt the heat radiating from his cheek.

"Where the fuck are you at birthday boy!"

Jackies voice boomed from the front door.

"Viky! V said she would meet us here for a drink" Came Mistys call.

He tilted his head back and bellowed 

"IM BEING SHOWERED WITH BIRTHDAY KISSES. ITS HIGHLY INAPPROPRIATE, HELP!"

She gave him a sharp jab in his arm before she ran around to jump onto jackie.

Vik poured himself a whisky. He heard the familiar sound of her body impacting Jackie's chest mid-air.

"AND GET YOUR OWN FUCKING GLASSES" 

[syubub]

BTS SOULMATES WORST HABIT/ QUALITY

Disclaimer: This is for entertainment purposes and only my interpretation of the cards. Do not take it as fact~

Anon, I love this very much!! Thank you for requesting it!

Seokjin

I got: 7 of wands rev., Take a fucking trip ( Go see some shit. Do some new things. Talk to people cooler than you.), Stop obsessing ( You are not the centre of the fucking universe)

So. This person tends to get overwhelmed easily and can be a bit of a workaholic at times.

This is someone who gets so so so focused their failures and faults and stuff that they kinda become blinded by that

I pulled a clarity and got 9 of swords.

This really is someone who spirals in anxiety when things aren't going well and likely snaps at the people around them.

Its absolutely unintended but when they get overwhelmed they kinda detatch from the world and they can only see as far as their nose.

Likely gets so in their head that they forget things about other people and it can come off as being very self-centered, cold, bitchy ect.

Yoongi

Lol

A lot of cards came out.

We have: 2 of cups, Drop the fucking ego. (Vulnerability is hot as fuck.), Ask a fucking expert. (Don't rely on your friends or the Internet. Listen to a damn professional.), Stop fucking whining. (No one wants to listen to that shit. Complaining makes you weak. You have the strength to change your world-so do it.), You need a good fucking cry. (Get the ugly cry on. Let that shit go. Your soul will thank you.)

They tend to romanticize life to the point that they think that something will come and change their life for them

But that isn't how shit works

They have mad issues with getting vulnerable and admitting that they are struggling or that they aren't happy where they are.

Emotionally constipated lol

Definitely has a hard time letting other people in bc of trust issues

They don't really outwardly emote often so it all builds up.

They think that independence means you can't look for guidance and thats bad

Very much ignoring the work they have to do to get to where they want to be but still pretending like they are getting closer to it

Ugh

They have a lot of shit to work out in the emotions department

They also seem to just have a general lack of grounding.

Hoseok

Oki

I got: 10 of swords rev., the tower, Stop talking. (Shut your mouth and listen.) Winning. (You got a good thing going. Don't ruin that shit.)

This is someone who can't keep their foot out their fucking mouth.

Dear god.

Its all good intentions but they say way more than they need too and it can ruin things for them.

They also can be too open.

They also resist change too much.

They fear self change.

They couldn't give a shit about external change but breaking old habits and old patterns is something they just don't like to do

So as a result they don't ever challenge their views internally.

This can leave them with a shaky foundation (putting off that tower moment) of old views and outdated information.

This can make them pretty damn judgmental at times.

They just need to let the tower moment happen and reasses all of their beliefs to figure out what they truly stand for and who they are, not just what has been forced in them (societal, parental. Even friends)

Also likely gullible

EMBRACE INNER CHANGE

Jesus, you're gonna give me a fuckin migraine

Its frustrating because THEY KNOW WHAT THEY HAVE TO DO BUT THEY JUST DON'T WANT TO

I feel bad for your guides, hobi's soulmate.

JUST DO IT

Namjoon

...

I got: Hanged man rev., 2 of swords, What the hell are you waiting for? Get that shit done. (If you were waiting for a sign-well, here it ucking is.), Don't believe every shitty thought you have. (Thoughts can be lying, sneaky bastards)

This is a procrastinator.

They tend to avoid things when they are faced with things that are unpleasant or even really good.

They are frustratingly doing nothing.

Big big big avoider.

STOP DOING THAT

Doesn't really want to do better.

They are content where they are for the simple reason that they don't want to experience discomfort by actively going after what they truly want in life

THIS DOESNT HELP ANYONE

They are also VERY passive when they are procrastinating

Jimin

Bring it.

We have: The magician, You are loved. (You are here for a reason. Don't fuck it up.), Have you eaten? (Your acting like a big ass baby. You need food in your belly. Either fucking taco.)

Well okay then.

I think this ties into jimins soulmate reading so I won't go too indepth about that part. You can read his soulmate reading here (x)

BUT

The thing that makes this their worst quality/ worst habit is because they have every tool and all of the want to help their situation but just don't?

And specifically another thing is that no matter how much someone tells this person that they love them, that they are important and that they matter, this person DOESN'T BELIEVE IT. The actively try to convince themselves otherwise.

Actively

On purpose

Because they don't know what else is a personality trait.

Again go read jimins soulmate read.

It's not that anyone blames them for this or anything but they actively reject help at times and get pissy about their situation.

You know what you need to do to fix your shit. Do it. Don't use it as your fucking personality.

You are more than that.

Dear god.

Theres a lot to say here.

Whatever situation it is, they are so stubborn and determined to do shit on their own and they have every resource but they are scared to lose a defining trait.

Ugh

I have a lot I want to say about this but I'll leave it here.

Taehyung

Oki oki

10 of wands, 2 of cups, you're giving too many fucks. (Give zero) and figure shit out on your own.

So this is someone how tends to overwork themselves.

They don't really know when to quit? They seem to be very determined but to their own detriment at times.

They also tend to carry the burden in any social relationship. People tend to use them?

They go along with it because they have a lot to offer and a lot to give and don't always have the boundaries to keep people from taking advantage of them.

They honestly just give too many fucks.

They value human connection so much that they will let themselves be a fucking doormat.

They feel very isolated even though they aren't (when I do the second soulmate read I think I'll have some more about this then)

Jungkook

Oki

We have: the tower, 7 of swords, eat your fucking vegetables. (Eat some shit made by mother nature), dont talk to anyone. Don't look at anyone. (You need some fucking time alone. And you know why)

First thing. I heard, "The diet of a child" and then "gamer girl" umm.

I have 2 things.

1. They take bad care of themselves when they go through a rough patch and the trend sneak away from everything (probably lie to get out of whatever obligations or do some sneaky shit) and eat fucking lunchables and kids cuisine microwave dinners with energy drinks exclusively

2. They tend to be ridiculously picky irl. Or just can't cook for shit so they only eat coffee pot Ramen.

Pull yourself together.

Their worst habit is withdrawing from everything when things get rough.

They don't take care of themselves and they drink Monster energy drinks like a scene kid from 2010.

That's gross.

Pls stop