#non accessible spaces

[wallflowers-garden]

as a disabled person who uses a mobility aid, i am literally begging store owners, landlords, etc. to make sure their handicap doors are ACCESSIBLE AND ACTUALLY WORK

today, i got stuck not once, but TWICE. i went to cvs (i had not been to this particular one with my mobility aid before) and had difficulty entering, as the automatic door had been blocked by stairs. as a cane user, i was able to navigate them, but decided i would take a different route to exit (into a shopping mall). as i went out through the alternative entrance, i was met with two sets of doors with an accessible swing. i pressed the first button and got through just fine, but when i pressed the second on the inside… it did not work. i tried leaning against the door to see if my weight would be enough to budge it but it was not… i was left stuck between the two sets of doors (as the accessibility buttons only worked ONE WAY) until someone came to help me.

the second has been an on going problem. my apartment has a swinging door that has been working great for me…. except for the past week and a half. for some reason the door with the swing is broken and has yet to be repaired. this has left me STRUGGLING to get into my apartment. thankfully, when exiting, i’m able to move the door with my weight, but entering the building is so difficult, as i struggle to keep the door propped open while i move past it with my mobility aid. what makes things worse is when able-bodied people just STAND there and watch me struggle rather than help. it INFURIATES me to no end knowing they have the ability to hold the door and help me but actively choose not to.

i am actually begging. please, please, please advocate for more spaces to be accessible. and if the measures in places don’t work, fix them or advocate for fixing them. and finally, if you see a disabled person struggling DO NOT TURN A BLIND EYE! HELP THEM! if a door is falling on them or they cant find an accessible entrance/exit, use your able-bodied privilege to aid them.

(FOR CLARIFICATION, that does not mean coddle/baby us if we’re doing fine. we don’t need help if we’re moving down the street/existing. only when we’re actively struggling/working to navigate an able-bodied world)

[cloud-ya]

we're getting more supplies, check your sei... uhm. hm

[sillyturtleenjoyer]

nems from anemoia!tale by @bloobluee!! such a silly lad, bro radiates pure chill. not sure i quite got that here but he does look very dapper (and mildly scraped)

[rooshappy]

Crutchie in my modern au does theatre, and im having trouble thinking what his dream roles would be. Thoughts?

Crutchie in Newsies...! Some of his dream roles would maybe be Seymore from Little Shop of Horrors,Jack from Into the Woods, Dickon from The Secret Garden, One of the gang from West Side Story....Actually there are so many roles I think he would like to play! What do you think? I think he would get cast as Toby from Sweeney Todd and Archie from 13 the musical lol. I think he would maybe face a lot of discrimination because of his disability and not be cast fairly (or at all) I think he would speak out on that.

[ezratheunready]

My disabled ass at the airport, in wheelchair, the disabled seating area TAKEN BY SOME FUCKERS BAG.

LOVE IT HERE !! 🥰

[familiaanteomnia]

Vesp 100% is prone to editing details, not always just in terms of lying but lots of "Does the planet/century and location really matter to this connecting with somebody else over the topic of climbing rocks as kids?"

-Prefers to keep it vague, universal type of things and avoid lots of assumed to be common knowledge things. Which is also an interesting speed bump given how much enjoys hearing about moments in others lives & sharing personal tales. The bonding of it- is also an go to in crises to help regulate emotions.

-Things in common though? Rock/tree climbing, running around, book reading, splashing in water, bedtime stories and so on. Plus it's usually safe to mention things like "Oh I've read that book on your shelf, was laying around so I borrowed it from my parent and gave up on chapter 3 till I gave it an real read later on in life."

[hopecel]

I understand what you mean but in that case I'm afraid no one except people living in New York with disposable income would get to experience it live

[orcelito]

Feeling some buyers remorse for buying 2 shelves yesterday online. But it's getting eclipsed by the excitement of thinking about where I'm gonna put them and rearranging my apartment a little bit

Is this what it's like to be an adult? Lol

[reesiereads]

I need ya’ll to realize running back to TikTok like nothing fucking happened is exactly what this motherfucker wants. He wants you to run back and to be grateful. He wants you to forget that the Supreme Court has just passed something that indicates they can pursue intense censorship and remove our access to free speech and non-propagandized/monitored spaces whenever they want. He wants you to be so focused on all this that you completely forget that he’s about to pass at least a hundred horrific policies stripping us of our rights as soon as this week. He wants you to stop talking about Palestine who is still in danger and is in desperate need of aid despite the ceasefire. He wants you to turn your attention away from all the people in LA suffering thanks to the fires.

I don’t want to say it’s just an app, because it’s not. I was incredibly sad about losing TikTok yesterday. Many of us had a community that meant a great deal to us torn away suddenly and I am not saying we shouldn’t be upset about that. But I am saying that as much as the Supreme Court has more important things they should be focusing on over banning TikTok we have more important things to do then run back to an app that was obviously used for a publicity stunt by Trump and will inevitably be influenced by him and his fascism.

We’ve been discussing boycotting Instagram, Facebook, Twitter/X, and other Meta platforms due to their connections to Trump and his posse of billionaires. TikTok must be treated the same way so long as the CEO and company is in Trump’s pocket.

[veal-exe]

EDIT

This has gotten a lot of traction so I’m gonna be rude and say that if anyone here has the means, that my spouse and I need help to not be homeless and hungry.

my paypal is Lahoreling@Gmail.com

END EDIT

———

I was discussing the incident mentioned later in this piece with my wife yesterday and I saw another post by someone earlier doing something mentioned in here and I'm finally going to say something about it.

There is a serious problem in leftist spaces, especially online, especially on Tumblr, when it comes to language.

The way people are expected to speak just to even enter these spaces is incredibly complex, to the point of being outright hostile to those who haven’t already spent time in them. And it’s not just newcomers; people who have important things to say, people speaking from lived experiences, people who don’t have English as a first language but still deserve to be heard, are constantly talked down to or even pushed out entirely for not using the "right" words.

This gets even worse when you factor in how often new terms are coined in English, and then people are shamed for not immediately knowing or using them.

I saw someone reblog their own post saying something like, "I know for a fact more than half of y’all didn’t understand a fucking word I said here."

And honestly? That stuck with me, because yeah, I’ve felt that before. Not because I don’t value critical thinking! because I absolutely do! I just made a post on that too! but because so many of these posts are written in a way that makes them Functionally Inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t already have the right background knowledge. And at a certain point, if you actually want your words to have an impact, if you actually want to create meaningful change, then you’re going to have to accept some things:

People will not always use perfect language.

2. People will not always know the exact terminology you personally prefer they use when engaging in discourse.

3. Dismissing or attacking people for how they say something, instead of engaging with what they’re saying, is actively harmful.

And more than that, if you genuinely want people to understand and engage with the things you’re talking about, especially people who don’t speak English as a first language, especially people without access to higher education, especially people who don’t even know where to begin when it comes to self-education (because yes, that is a skill that has to be taught) then you are going to have to be the one to adjust sometimes. You are going to have to let people say things imperfectly. You are going to have to take a step back and engage with the message rather than just the words being used to express it.

One of the experiences that made me realize that I, as a non-native English speaker, was not welcome in Tumblr leftist spaces was when I spoke about real-life oppression I had experienced. I left one word out of my post, a word which honestly, was not even important when talking about an incident that had Happened To Me, not theory, not hypotheticals or any what-ifs of oppression, a story, a story about something that happened to me.

And because of that, people sat in a Discord server, picking apart my words, accusing me of awful things, and then came into my askbox throwing jargon and buzzwords I’d never even heard before, then got mad at me for being frustrated that this was happening.

Think about that. People who are directly impacted by oppression are being pushed out of spaces meant to discuss it because the way they speak doesn’t conform to certain expectations. That is not justice. That is not solidarity. That is not progress.

There is a fundamental disconnect here between theory and praxis. Ironically so many of you do not know what praxis is, because most of you engage with a lot of theory, and not a lot of praxis, you use the word praxis a lot, but, ironically, you have no idea what it means.

{to put my money where my mouth is, it means Doing Something, in the simplest possible terms}

In theory, leftist spaces should be accessible. They should be places where people can speak openly about their experiences, learn from each other, and work toward meaningful change. But in practice? There’s a gatekeeping of language so intense that many people, particularly those who are marginalized in ways beyond just their political beliefs, are outright excluded.

And this is something I need people to sit with: The assumption that the "right" language is easy to learn, or that anyone who doesn’t use it is being willfully ignorant, is an inherently privileged stance. Knowing where to find information, how to process it, and how to integrate new terminology into your vocabulary is a skill that is largely tied to education. Having the time to engage with leftist literature and theory, to stay up-to-date on every new term that gets introduced, is also a privilege. And the fact that so many people refuse to acknowledge this, that they expect perfect articulation from everyone, regardless of background, and punish those who don’t measure up, is a huge problem.

Worse still, the same people who act as gatekeepers of this language often fail to communicate their ideas in a way that is accessible at all.

This doesn’t mean that complex ideas should never be discussed. It doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t strive for accuracy in their language. But it does mean that if your goal is to educate, if your goal is to spread awareness, if your goal is to help people understand and join the movement, if your goal is to engage with fellow oppressed people, then you have a responsibility to meet people where they are. You have a responsibility to make your language understandable.

Because if people can’t even process what you’re saying, then what’s the fucking point?

And before anyone says, "Well, people should put in the effort to learn!" Let me make something very clear: They do.

People who are new to leftist spaces, or who are coming in from different linguistic and cultural backgrounds, are often trying their best to engage. They are listening, they are learning, they are processing. But if the response to every mistake, every slightly off phrasing, every unfamiliarity with a new term, is immediate hostility,

or even if it's just 'hey I see you're sharing a personal moment, but can you change your language to make me, personally, more comfortable with you discussing your oppression?' then you’re not teaching.

You’re just making sure only the people who already think and speak exactly like you get to stay in the room.

Your language, your terminology, your theory? none of it means anything if you can’t make it accessible to the people who actually need it. And it means nothing if you use it to Exclude rather than Include.

[arolesbianism]

Vibrates. Normal. I'm normal. I'm so normal.

[tumble-tv]

ICE raids are happening.

Any immigrants, no matter how long you have been a citizen of the USA, is at risk of being deported either out of the country as a whole or into what are basically concentration camps. Raids starting in Chicago, Illinois. and spreading to other major cities with high POC and Hispanic populations. The US Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and Customs and Border Patrol (CBP) have started raiding homes and families in California.

There are no "protected locations" as of January 21, 2025. Hospitals, schools, and churches are all at risk of being raided, where before these places were deemed safe and off limits to raids.

When it comes to spotting an ICE agent, look for these:

Weirdly neat/well kept hair (shaved heads, side parts, military burs for men; low buns, high ponytails, close cropped bobs for women)

Oversized jacket (long and bulky outerwear makes it easier to hide tools/equipment without being suspicious)

Both hands in pockets

Many undercover agents/cops buy cheap plain clothes off the racks so they aren’t seen in their own clothes. This can make their outfit seem awkward

Sweatshirts with the hood up

Sports apparel (warm up jacket, sweats, etc) with non-sports clothes (jeans, cargo shorts)

Cargo pants/shorts (usually full of items like their badge, flashlight, taser, pepper spray, backup handcuffs, zip ties)

Military or hiking style boots, sometimes chunky sneakers (extra points if none of it matches anything in their outfit)

Outline of a gun in their pants/shirt (easy to see when bending, leaning, or raising arms) (NO NOT SAY ANYTHING)

Overly friendly

Overly inquisitive

“How old are you” and “what do you know about this happening” are both red flags, along with generally odd and personal questions

Don’t fit in

Mismatched pairs in public spaces (usually cops do these things in pairs. They don’t talk to each other or acknowledge each other much, if at all)

DO NOT SAY ANYTHING UNTIL YOU ARE 100% SURE

YOUR BEST BET IS NOT TO SAY ANYTHING UNTIL THE SUSPECT STARTS ACTING OFF AND GETTING PUSHY

COPS ARE NOT OBLIGATED TO TELL YOU THAT THEY ARE UNDERCOVER

COPS CAN AND WILL LIE TO YOU

SCREAM “LA MIGRA” AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS

For protesting:

N95 masks

Respirator/gas mask if you have access to one

Water water water water water (I hate to say it, but disposable one use bottles are best here. If it comes to it, you need to be able to drop and run.) Use for flushing wounds, flushing eyes of tear gas, and of course drinking.

Snacks! You'll be doing a lot of walking and/or running and need to keep that energy up. Trail mix, dried fruit, nuts, granola bars, crackers, jerky/meat sticks, fruit snacks, candy, etc. Think of it like packing your lunchbox for a field trip.

Eyedrops (teargas is a bitch)

Goggles (I bring my old snowboarding goggles)

If you are wearing a t-shirt or have exposed skin, put on fake/temporary tattoos. If you are brought into something and they say you were there, showing a picture of you with the tattoos, show them where that tattoo would be and how there’s nothing there. How would you get rid of a giant flower on your forearm in 2 days anyways?

Wigs fall under the same category as tattoos. The person they're claiming to be you has a blonde bob and you have green hair past your shoulders.It also makes it possible to go with a completely different color without the use of hair dye. This means if they try to arrest you later and try to prove it was you by taking your hair and testing for dye, it won't come back the way they hope. (Thank you @violetrosepetals for this addition!)

Hide your hair. I tuck my hair into my beanie since it’s short. If you have longer hair, try to do the same or tuck it into your shirt. Balaclavas are also a good choice, as they cover both your face and hair.

Power bank

Chargers

Helmet. Any is fine, my personal choice is a skating helmet since they’re rounder and can take more damage, but tactical is also good

Hand sanitizer

Gloves with hard knuckles (tactical gloves). These pack a good punch even if you don't have the correct form. Don't have those? Wrist guards for roller skating/skateboarding work kinda like that too. More of a slapping motion, but still hurt like a bitch. Extra points if they're all scuffed up from use and falls.

Bandanas. Somebody might need one for their face or hair, maybe you need to get dirt off somebody’s face, maybe somebody got injured. They’re great for anything and everything.

Cash (try to stick to cash, your card can be tracked)

Medications if you take them. If you get arrested or happen to somehow be away for longer than expected after the protest, it’s always good to have emergency meds

FIRST AID ALL THE FIRST AID (Tourniquet, Quikclot, chest seal, trauma shears, gauze, bandages, duct tape, and all the usual stuff you’d have in there)

Good shoes. Boots and sneakers are your best choices. Not heels, not platforms, not sandals. Good boots or shoes that won't come off your feet too easily when you run. Steel toed shoes are a great option. Your toes won't be squashed, but also it'll hurt someone a lot more if you start kicking.

Spare socks. Trust me. You can use them to stop bleeding if it comes to it, but also you can put rocks in there and boom weapon. Also if the socks you're wearing get wet.

As much covering clothing as you can handle. Plain jeans, plain hoodie, plain t-shirt, keep yourself as anonymous as possible. Black and baggy is best.

Photocopy of your ID, not your real one.

Sunscreen!

Make sure your clothes have pockets, even if you have a bag. You want everything to be easily accessible.

Do not wear contact lenses. If tear gas is used, that will make everything so much worse. Wear your glasses or go blind. If you have overly unique or identifiable frames, goggles are your friend here. Get some goggles that will fit over your frames, preferably ones that are tinted.

If you use mobility aids, cover defining features. Logos, brand names, colors, stickers, all of it. Take some old plain t-shirt and tie it around your wheelchair’s backrest. Wrap your wheelchair frame in cling wrap, then duct tape, or plain black self adhering medical tape. Cover stickers on your cane or crutches the same way. Electric chair? You have a little more work, but you can do it. Wrap it up. Same idea. Walker? Same thing. Cover. It. All.

If you are bringing a bag, make sure that bag is as plain as possible. No pins. No patches. No keychains. Except maybe a pride flag so people know which team you're playing on.

Scarf or keffiyeh if you have one. They have many uses!

Write a reliable phone number (of someone who is not at the protest with you) on your body. On the off chance you get arrested, that is your emergency contact.

Pocket knife.

Pepper spray/mace/bear spray

if you get tear gassed, shake around first before using water. Most tear gas is more of a powder and water has a high likelihood of just spreading it around. (Thank you @actually-a-bread-loaf for this addition!)

Tennis rackets also work wonderfully for chucking tear gas canisters back at those throwing them. Anybody asks, you're going out to play tennis with friends later. Baseball bats also work! (Thank you @azul-nova-24 for this addition!)

Anything you can throw. Soup for my family.

IF YOU CAN, LEAVE YOUR PHONE AT HOME

IF YOU HAVE TO TAKE IT WITH YOU, TURN OFF LOCATION SERVICES ON ALL APPS AND TURN OFF BIOMETRICS (FACE ID AND FINGERPRINT) SO YOU CAN ONLY UNLOCK YOUR PHONE WITH YOUR PASSWORD

COPS CAN FORCE YOU TO OPEN YOUR PHONE WITH YOUR FINGERPRINT OR FACE ID

MAKE SURE SOMEBODY KNOWS GENERALLY WHERE YOU ARE

If you see a potential or active raid, take pictures and note the time and location. Post online if you can, as well.

You have the right to remain silent. State that you wish to remain silent. Avoid giving information about anybody's immigration status. You have the right to refuse to sign anything before speaking to an attorney. You have the right to refuse searches of your car, your home, and yourself. Schools do not collect a child's immigration status.

I do not want to scare anybody, but this is what life is right now. That man does not care how long you have been a citizen of this country. If you are not a white, cisgender, heterosexual, Christian male, you are seen as less than by men in power. You are not less than. You are a threat to them, and they are scared. Keep it that way.

Even if you're not currently protesting, it's good to know this just in case. Things are happening very quickly, and there is a very high chance of it changing very quickly within the next four years.

Here's the link to my post on what to bring in terms of first aid.

If you cannot attend protests, that’s fine. Do what’s best for you. Even just reposting information helps.

This is an updated version of this post,

Updated January 27, 2025.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Flight Response.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 5.7k.

TW: Non/Con, Dub/Con, Fem!Reader, Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment/Isolation, Mentions of Stalking, Age Gap (Reader is Mid-Twenties, Bruce is Late Forties), Obsessive Behavior, Suicidal Ideation, Non-Graphic Suicide Attempt, And Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three]

You could hear them through the walls.

Jason’s voice was clear – crystal, even. You doubted you’d ever be able to forget the sound of it, the way it dipped at the edges as he moved between his family’s authoritarian barking and the last remaining traces of his downtown Gotham drawl, how it reverberated against your throat as he muttered some fractured version of your name. Dick took a little longer. You tried not to think of him when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but it would’ve been hard not to recognize that confidence, that carelessness, that charm layered on so thickly, it was hard to believe he wasn’t choking on it. If you hadn’t already felt so sick, you might’ve gagged.

“It’s bad. Barbara’s keeping him occupied with surveillance footage, but that’ll only buy us another hour or so.” They were talking about the manor. Bruce must’ve gotten home, by now. “Where is she?”

“Things aren’t going so fucking great here either, man.” They were getting closer. “She’s in the bedroom. It felt the safest – fewest ways out.”

You balled a sheet in your fist, aware for the first time that you were, in fact, in a bedroom. It must’ve been Jason’s apartment, but you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here. There’d been the fairgrounds, the backseat, but nothing else. You guessed it didn’t really matter what came that. Your life had already ended. The landscape of your purgatory was inconsequential.

Fighting against the soreness, you pulled yourself up. The space was sparsely decorated save for a few cardboard boxes and a corkboard dotted with grainy pictures, but there was a door near the foot of your bed and, more importantly, a window on the other side of the room, made accessible by a plastic, fold-out card table. It took a few steps to remember how to use your legs, but finding the latch was easier, the glass pane sliding upward with only a slight amount of resistance. The opening wasn’t huge, but you could fit your shoulders through, and it opened up into an utterly deserted, utterly desolate alleyway. Judging from the fire escape on the opposite wall, you were a few stories up – four, at least.

The frame bit into your stomach as you leaned out, palms planted on the exposed brick of the exterior wall. Your feet were on the card table, and then, they weren’t – your body hanging unsupported in the air, levitation before free fall. You shut your eyes, but you never quite reached the plummet. An arm was already around your waist, a chest already against your back. You were jerked out of the window and onto the floor unceremoniously, the fall broken only by Dick. Jason was still in the doorway, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Dick, if nothing else, had the decency not to look so surprised.

“Was she trying to…?”

“She was trying to run,” Dick finished, and just like that, Jason’s expression lightened, relief taking the place of abject horror. They really were family, no matter what either of them might’ve said. A few words from his older brother, and what the younger knew to be true was rendered false, replaced with a more palatable reality.

“Can’t let you out of our sight for a second, can we?” He was talking to you now. Great. With an airy grunt, you were lifted off of the floor and deposited back onto Jason’s cot of a bed, your shoulder resting against the metal headboard. Dick knelt in front of you, smiling. That seemed to be his resting expression, as annoying as it was. “Your apartment’s not far from here, right? Don’t tell him I said anything, but B still pays the rent. I think he wants you to have somewhere safe to run off to if you ever decide to leave home.” He paused, laughed. “Not that you’d have a reason to. He’s just worried, like that. Fuck, he’s worried about you right now, even though you’re safe with us.”

Dread coiled in the pit of your stomach. You should’ve begged them to take you back to the mansion, back to Bruce, back to someone who could protect you. You should’ve made a run for the door – fight, kick, scream until you got out and caught a cab to somewhere far, far away. You had to go back, but you couldn’t go back. He could keep you safe, but he was going to kill you.

They were going to kill you.

Your gaze moved to Jason, silent and pleading. He didn’t notice, his own eyes locked on the floor. “Don’t expect much. I’ve been getting the silent treatment since—”

“Since you fucked her.”

Not the word you would’ve used, but you weren’t really in the mood to correct him. Jason set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Since that.”

Dick hummed. “Could you step out for a minute? I’m just going to do a quick check-over, make sure nothing’s damaged.”

Immediately, Jason bristled. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Not if it means leaving you alone with her.”

For the first time that could remember, Dick’s smile faltered. He glanced over his shoulder, resting a hand on your knee in the same motion. “You called me, little wing. Do you want my help or not?”

You watched Jason intently, never once looking away. He played the role of a cornered creature well – shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms only to let them fall to his sides a second later. When he did answer, though, it came a little too easily, a little too painlessly for the act to be believable. You couldn’t believe you’d ever fallen for it, before. “Do what you have to, but I’m staying.”

For a split second, something like hatred flashed across Dick’s expression. It cleared up quickly enough, though.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugged, pushing himself to his feet. “Just don’t move. You’ve already scared the poor thing half to death.”

You were wearing Jason’s jacket. Your shirt had been torn beyond use, and your bra was probably still on the floor of his car – in the same tangled heap as your panties, most likely. Dick eased the zipper down with care, letting the fabric slide off of your shoulders. Skin exposed to cool air, you moved to curl into yourself, but Dick caught you by the arms, holding you in place as his eyes raked over your collarbones, your chest, the string of dark, bruising marks trailing from the base of your throat to your navel. A few were from Bruce, a few from Jason. It was hard to remember which. Apparently, they liked the same spots.

Dick let out a low whistle. Your shorts were next, pulled low on your thighs, allowed to drop to your ankles only after Dick spared a glance in Jason’s direction. He fell onto the mattress next to you, arm wrapped loosely around your waist. His thumb dragged over the bruising, following the path down until he reached your—

“Don’t,” you muttered, hoarsely. “Please.”

“So she can speak,” he laughed, pressing a kiss into your temple. If he’d heard what you said, it was deemed too unimportant to acknowledge – his hand slipping between your thighs. You thought about screaming, but didn’t. You considered trying for the window again, but decided that if they were just going to stop you from toppling over the edge, it wasn’t worth the effort.

What Jason did to you hurt because you hadn’t expected it. It’d been dumb of you not to, sure, but you hadn’t. It hurt because you expected him to be better than that, expected him to care about you more, expected him to be different from the family he took such surface-level pains to distance himself from. When two of Dick’s fingers dragged over your slit, gathering the remnants of slick and cum Jason had left behind, it hurt differently – more of a cold ache than stabbing burn. You’d never liked Dick. Of all the things he could violate, your trust wasn’t on the list. This hurt because you’d known it was going to happen and tried to stop it. This hurt because it meant that you failed.

You didn’t realize you were still staring at Jason until Dick caught your chin, turning your head towards him. “It’s just you and me,” he murmured, circling your clit once, twice before forcing his digits inside of you. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s already gotten his time with you.”

You opened your mouth, but the only thing that escaped was some strangled, alien noise as Dick spread you open. There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. “You don’t have to say anything – you know I’ll always be here to look out for you, right? It doesn’t matter what kind of—” Calloused pads grinding against the walls of your pussy, his voice low and easy in your ear. “—messes the others make, you’ve got me. Since the first day B asked me to walk you to work. Tim just wants something to point his camera at, and Jason would love anything that smiled at him, but me – I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

Jason grunted. “You’re a dirty fucking liar.”

Dick didn’t seem to notice him, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. You jerked away from him on reflex, but his free hand shot to the side of your head, drawing you into his side and forcing you to rest your head on his shoulder. Proximity seemed to be his main goal, your body pressed into his at every odd angle, his face buried in your neck and his hand tucked between your all-but shut legs. He reminded you of Bruce, like that – so convinced that everything would be alright if he could just pry open his ribcage and stuff you inside. Or, maybe, Dick was the opposite, desperate to burrow a hole in your flesh and live there. Either way, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your abused cunt empty, throbbing and confused. Absentmindedly, you glanced towards him, and your mistake was swiftly punished by the feeling of teeth against lips, his mouth against yours as he took you by the waist and dragged you onto his lap. You shook your head with as much strength as you could manage, but again, Dick played oblivious, only groaning into your mouth as he rutted against your hips, grinding into your cunt through the denim of his jeans. Jason raised his voice, barking something unintelligible, but Dick was already fumbling with his fly, already—

The lights cut. There was the sound of shattering glass, a rush of cool air before they clicked on again, flooding the room with brightness.

The first thing you noticed was that Dick was standing – leaving you alone on the cot while he scrambled to his feet, a child dropping the toy he wasn’t supposed to play with. The next thing was Jason, suddenly rigid at the foot of the bed, the remaining color drained from his pale face.

Finally, you twisted towards the window, following both of their eyes. There was a spray of glass and wood on the floor where the pane had been broken away, the frame itself now filled by an amorphous, black shape – identifiable only by the aura of pure, unadulterated rage radiating off of it.

Ah.

You’d been wondering when Bruce would come for you.

~

The drive back to the manor was short, endless, and quiet. Dick and Jason promised to find their own way back, meaning you were alone with Bruce. That was fine. At least, this way, you’d have the mercy of a private death.

For the first leg, he didn’t talk to you at all. He kept spare clothes in one of a thousand bottomless compartments – sweatshirts, drawstring pants, loose-fitting articles that could be handed out to those who’d been forced out of their homes by fire and flood without the chance to dress themselves for Gotham’s bone-deep chill – and you shuffled into something thick and shapeless while he drove. It was only after he’d slipped out of the city and into one of the many darkened, lifeless tunnels that connected his estate to the city that he sighed, let autopilot take over, and turned to you.

“Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m dying.” And then, with a shallow exhale, “I should be fine.”

He pursed his lips, resting a hand on your thigh. Involuntarily, for the first time that you could remember, you flinched away from him, throwing your body against the passenger-side door. Suddenly, it seemed like too much to be trapped in a car, too much to be so close to another person, too much to be searching for a handle and not able to find one and—

“Breathe.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. You sucked in a few staggering breaths until the pulsing in your lungs was manageable and you could think about something other than throwing yourself out of a vehicle going well over ninety miles per hour. Bruce didn’t recoil, but his grip tightened around your thigh – any pretense of affection lost in the wake of his control. “How do you feel?”

“Jason, he—I didn’t want to, but—”

“I know what happened. How do you feel?”

“Bad.” You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head. “And stupid. And so— I knew this was going to happen. I just thought, because the others were so much worse, he wouldn’t be the first to crack. And, god, he practically called me his mom right before it happened. I don’t even think they have a word for that.” You weren’t crying, but you wiped at your eyes before resurfacing. “Are you going to do anything?”

Bruce didn’t respond, not immediately. He’d already taken off his cowl, but he was still wearing the rest of his pitch-black suit – still recognizable as the hero you loved, rather than the man you hated. The scales tilted a little further towards Bruce, though, as he leaned towards you – wrapping an arm around your shoulders and locking you against his chest. You felt him bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. As if there was any way you didn’t reek of someone else’s, by now.

“Jason was missing, and you were gone. For half the night, I had no way of knowing if you were alive or dead.” Warm air fanned over your scalp. “This can’t happen again.”

“Does that mean you’re going to…?”

“We’ll see.”

He held you for the rest of the drive, and you let him. It was only when you pulled into the open, underground chamber he shared with his vigilante hell-spawn that he reluctantly let you go and stepped out. Bracing yourself, you followed shortly after.

You’d only seen their hideout (hideout, because you weren’t going to call it the ‘Batcave’, no matter how many times you were asked to) once, the night Bruce first brought you to the manor. That day, it’d been empty, his kids still keeping a measured distance and Bruce still too wary to let anyone get that close to you. Tonight, though, Stephanie and Tim haunted the outskirts of the sparing ring while Barbara and Harper held court in front of the largest computer you’d ever seen – scrubbing through security camera footage from outside Jason’s apartment. Duke lingered nearby, and spared you an apologetic smile as you came into sight. You weren’t sure how much he knew, but it couldn’t be a lot. The poor kid probably thought you’d been kidnapped, or better yet – actually managed to get away.

Dick and Jason were already here. They kept their distance, tactfully positioned just behind Stephanie and Tim, but you still made sure to keep Bruce between you and them. As if that’d ever done you any good.

Bruce wasn’t so thankful for the space. Raising a hand, he gestured to Dick, already moving towards the elevator. “Nightwing. Upstairs. With me.”

You flinched into yourself. “Bruce, I really—”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

It might’ve been more reassuring if he’d stopped to smile, to squeeze your shoulder, to glance at you at all. Instead, you watched as he and Dick disappeared behind titanium elevator doors, neither of them ever looking back.

The cave suddenly felt a little smaller than it had, a few seconds ago. A little more crowded.

Unsure where to go or what to do, you stayed where you were – arms crossed anxiously over your chest. Your mind drifted back to the car you’d arrived in, to the tunnels that connected you so intimately with Gotham proper, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Behind you, Steph mumbled something to Tim, nudging his side. He cleared his throat before saying something to Jason, nearly too muted to be heard. “So, do you know if we’re good to…?”

“To do what, Drake?”

“You know.” And then, after a beat of silence, “What you did.”

You weren’t facing them, but you didn’t have to be. You could feel the drop in the temperature, the tension in the air. You ducked your head half a second before Jason’s fist barreled into Tim’s check, knocking him to the floor. Jason was on him before he’d even hit the ground.

The others rushed past you – Stephanie’s shocked laugh, Barbara’s raised voice, Harper’s barked threats. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to hear beyond the beating of your own heart and the violent collision of skin against skin. You might’ve stayed there forever, until they killed each other, until someone was kind enough to kill you if it hadn’t been for a feather-light hand wrapping around your wrist, a gentle tug forward. You raised your head and found, surprisingly, Cassandra. Of course. You couldn’t blame yourself for not noticing her before – she tended to keep to the shadows, like that.

“Come on.” Again, she tugged at your wrist, as if it was only natural that you’d follow after her. When you failed to react, she grinned and without making a sound, pulled you into an effortless bridal carry. If you had any faith at all in the idea of safety in numbers, you might’ve screamed, thrashed, done anything to stop her. Right now, though, you just wanted to be alone, and being alone with Cas was about as close as you were going to get.

The elevator was empty by the time she reached it, Dick and Bruce having disappeared into some other part of the manor. You let her carry you to the bedroom you shared with Bruce and, rather unceremoniously, drop you onto the foot of your bed. Whatever she was looking for, it required a lot of touching to find – a palm pressed against your forehead, two fingers underneath your chin, checking your pulse. When she reached for your wrist, you waved her off, not bothering to hide your agitation, your discomfort. There wasn’t a point in playing nice, anymore.

Cassandra wasn’t so downcast. Light on her feet, she fell into a crouch, staring up at you from a little over a few feet away. “Bruce was scared you were hurt. Terrified.” Her smile never wavered. “Should be calming down, now. Jason’s safe – part of the family.”

You dragged your knees into your chest. “That’s what I thought, too.”

She started to shake her head, but didn’t get a chance to spit anything out. The bedroom door swung open and Stephanie barged inside, shutting it again after taking a discreet look down the hall. Her attention shifted to you, next – her smile nearly as bright as Cas’.

“Tim’s getting his ass handed to him.”

“Good. I hope he and Jason tear each other’s throats out.”

“Someone’s grumpy.” She fell onto the mattress next to you, arms crossed behind her head. “Is it just ’cause Jason lost his cool?”

Shrinking into yourself wasn’t enough. You were on your feet in a second, riffling through the contents of a writing desk in another. Cas turned her head, owl-like, and Stephanie rolled onto her side to watch you. “You can be honest with us. Who were you hoping for? Dick? Tim? Me?”

“A mouthful of broken glass.”

“That wasn’t one of your options, sweetheart.” You pulled open a drawer, finding little more than scraps of paper and a few abused pens. You left it open and moved onto a bedside table. “I would’ve gone with Tim. He’s the voyeur type – very hands off.”

Nothing in the bedside table, either. You grabbed the closest corner and pushed as hard as you could, but the damn solid oak only swayed once before falling back into place. Fucking rich people. You couldn’t even take your anger out on their furniture.

“Do you hate us?”

It was Cas, this time, her tone purely curious. You crossed the room to Bruce’s walk-in closet, populated dominantly by the designer suits he’d wear once or twice a month when his socialite reputation forced him to actually show his face in public. He would mention taking you to one of his events, every now and then, kiss your neck and have you try different colognes as he mused how much more bearable the night would be if he had you by his side. It would never actually happen, obviously. Bruce still had reservations about letting you walk through the garden on your own. A crowd of drunk socialites with wandering hands and ulterior motives was never really an option.

“She doesn’t.” Stephanie answered on your behalf. You shoved a hand into one of Bruce’s less frequently worn jackets, then patted down the one hanging behind it. “She’s just a little tense, that’s all. It took us all a little while to come around to family life.”

Jackpot. You felt something hollow and cylindrical through an interior pocket – a pill bottle, the contents untouched and the dosage strong. You could remember Bruce mentioning it months ago, something about staging a scandal to push a story about Batman out of the news cycle. You scanned over the label just thoroughly enough to catch the words ‘anti-anxiety’ and ‘sedative’ before pulling the container into your sleeve, letting it settle against your wrist. Whatever it was, you’d make it work.

You spun on your heels and immediately went still. There hadn’t been any footsteps, any voices, any shift in the lighting, and yet, when you turned around, Cassandra was looming above you, caging you against the wall. If she’d noticed the bottle, she didn’t seem to think anything of it. Her attention was on you – just you,dark eyes prying into the very core of your being. You spared a glance towards the doorway, now occupied by Stephanie. “Go on,” she encouraged, her gaze just as cutting. “Tell (Y/n) what you told me.”

“I’ve never had a mom, before.” She edged closer, and you moved away – your back pressing into the bar. “It’s fun.”

It was annoying. They were annoying –so fast, and so strong, and so willing to ignore your attempts to dart around her as she cupped your face and smashed her mouth into yours. Neither Bruce nor his sons had ever been the embodiment of gentleness, but Cassandra was uniquely rough around the edges, uniquely oblivious to how easily her lips bruised yours. You remembered someone mentioning that her first kiss was with one of the Supers, which made sense. She never seemed to consider that her partner may not be invincible.

Her attention span gave out before your panic-induced paralysis. You felt her teeth against the corner of your jaw, then your neck, her face eventually finding a home in the crook of your neck. Scarred hands drifted under the back of your jacket, pressing into the column of your spine, and then there were more – another pair on your shoulders, Stephanie’s voice in your ear. “I think I’ll have to wait a while longer. In-law rules – we laid them out while you were gone.” Cassandra bit into the base of your throat hard. You could feel her tongue moving over your skin as Stephanie went on. “You don’t mind if I hang around for this, though, right?”

Stephanie giggled, Cassandra’s teeth broke fresh skin, and then, you were on the floor, back slumped against the wall, staring up at Bruce as he held Cassandra by the shirt collar, having forcefully pulled her away from you. She could get away if she wanted to, lash out if she wanted to, but she didn’t seem angry, or surprised, just alert to the abrupt change in dynamic. Stephanie was crouched next to you, still smiling. After making sure you hadn’t blacked out, she pushed herself to her feet, patting Bruce’s shoulder. “Just keeping things warm for you, B.”

She made her exit hastily, despite her bravado. Bruce watched her leave before letting go of Cas. “Find the others.”

Blunt. Neat. Direct. Even that was more than she needed, really. Cassandra nodded once, then she was gone, leaving you and Bruce alone.

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You might’ve, too – raised your voice, scrambled to your feet, seen how far you could make it through the labyrinthine halls of his manor before you were caught by another set of groping hands and gnashing teeth, but all fantasies of such explicit5 resistance abandoned you the second you actually looked at him. He didn’t look cold, or irritated, or any of the awful, selfish things that would’ve made him an appropriate pincushion for the jagged needles of your anger. He looked tired.

And you were tired, too.

He held out a hand, trying to help you up. You stared at it for a second, then another, before finding your voice.

“Please don’t touch me.”

The weariness knit into his expression darkened. Sighing, he leaned forward and took you by the wrist, dragging you upright. As you stumbled onto your feet, your chest ached and the pill bottle burnt into your arm.

You walked ahead of him, back into the bedroom proper. He was still in-uniform, but the armor was slowly falling away – the gloves, the belt, then enough little, disparate parts to leave him more Bruce than Batman in front of you. Eventually, he closed what little distance there was between you. A hand on your hip, another cupping your cheek. He kissed you delicately, as if he suddenly felt the need to pretend you were made of glass. As if you couldn’t still feel the blood and saliva dripping down your chest.

Your borrowed clothes were discarded quickly enough, thrown into some shadowed corner where he wouldn’t have to think about them until morning. Your body was posed on the edge of the mattress, where he could kneel in front of you as he fucked his tongue into your cunt and sucked on your clit – a believer worshiping their idol to absolve themselves of sin. You considered telling him to stop, trying to relish that new freedom. Maybe you did. Like everything else you did, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.

“I think they’re…” He trailed off, pushing a lingering kiss into the inside of your thigh. “I think they’re confused. Disoriented. Dick says he’s in love with you – has been since before I brought you home. Jason thinks you’ve shown some kind of preference for him.”

He usually liked to be on top, favored positions that let him fold your knees against your chest or force you to look into his eyes. Somehow, tonight, you found yourself in his lap, head resting against his chest and thighs straddling his as he guided your hips slowly, carefully. “They’re all so young. It’s not an excuse, but it can’t help.”

“Dick and I are only a year apart,” you muttered, absentmindedly. “We could’ve been in the same class.”

Bruce didn’t respond. There was another kiss, this one pressed into your forehead, and a soft groan as he rolled his hips against yours.

He came inside of you. He usually did, but still. Salt in the wound and all.

When it was over, you let him hold you, counting out the seconds. When you reached a number that felt appropriately innocuous, you squirmed and asked if you could use the bathroom.

Bruce sat up immediately. “I’ll run a bath. There’s a new bottle of vintage downstairs if you—”

“Later.” You smiled, going slack against him before picking yourself up. “Honestly, I think I just need to be alone for a minute. To put things together.”

He hesitated, but not for very long. You could feel his eyes following you as you flitted through the room, picking up a few odds and ends – a hairbrush, one of Bruce’s shirts, your discarded clothes – before slipping into the en-suite, locking the door, and dropping everything save for the little, orange pill bottle.

You got the shower running and stood in front of the sink, fiddling with the child-proof cap. In place of doubt, you felt resignation – pure, neutral awareness of what needed to be done and how to go about doing it. Any hesitation was only reflex, born of some base animal desire not to do harm to oneself. You didn’t like pain, but you’d had a win condition, a clear line between what you would tolerate and what you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t want to find out what was on the other side of that line, either.

The pills tasted bitter. They left a layer of chalk on your tongue, a knot the size of your fist in your throat, but you did your best to wash it down. Tossing the now-empty bottle in the sink, you laid on the tiled floor, pulled your knees into your chest, and waited.

~

You woke up crying.

Not out loud, and not for any reason you could remember, but still – crying. Dried tears formed stiff tracks down your cheeks, saliva wetting the corners of your lips. The inside of your mouth tasted sour, acidic, like you’d thrown up recently. You weren’t sure whether or not you should’ve been surprised by that.

You weren’t in the manor. The ceiling was too low, too white, your surroundings distinctly unrecognizable despite the haze over your vision. You glanced down and found your own body in a similarly alien state. You were wearing a hospital gown, with a small collection of monitors and needles attached to your left arm. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, groaning internally. Somehow, you’d managed to screw up this, too.

You tried to sit up, but only succeeded in sinking further into the paper-thin mattress. Nothing hurt, but your body was beyond your control, still rebelling after your brain’s mutiny. With some effort, you managed to turn your head far enough to see a window, half-expecting to find the Wayne Manor courtyard outside. Instead, Gotham’s skyline stretched on as far as the eye could see – a collection of misshapen skyscrapers and sparkling city lights fighting against the early morning fog. That, if nothing else, caught you off-guard. You’d assumed that Bruce would rather watch you die than trust anyone else to take care of you.

Not that he’d ever let you out of his sight. You felt a weight settle onto the edge of your cot, heard someone let out a deep breath. You didn’t have to guess who it was.

“You took me to a hospital.”

“You didn’t leave us much of a choice.” Us. You wondered who got the privilege of carrying your body out to the ambulance, if there’d even been one. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to rush into the emergency center, your limp form slung over his shoulder, playing the good Samaritan as he rattled off some story about finding you unconscious in an alleyway or unattended in the back of a club. Anything to keep his family’s public image under control. “You put yourself in danger.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

 His thin-lipped scowl deepened. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” This time, when you tried to sit up, Bruce was there to help you – one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder as he guided you into a more respectable position. You might’ve flashed him a smile by way of gratitude, if you’d been feeling more thankful. “You knew what I was afraid of, Bruce. You must’ve been able to guess what I’d do in a worst-case scenario.”

“You never came to me about this. You never told me the kids were—”

“I did.” Your voice was muted, strained, but he went quiet as soon as you opened your mouth. He wanted a martyr, not a fight. “Please, don’t pretend this is my fault.”

For once, he seemed to listen to you. Nodding, he drew in a long breath, his expression callousing over into something rational, something beyond emotion. “It would be short-sighted to leave you unattended. During your recovery, especially.” Recovery, like you’d broken a limb. You stifled a laugh as he went on. “As the manor would present too many unknown variables, I’ve found a safe house in the city. It should be ready by the time you’re released.

A penthouse in the city. Just like you’d always wanted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. This isn’t a game.” He drummed his fingers against the over-starched sheets, wrinkling them. “The others have been generous enough to divide their patrols. They’ll be able to monitor when I can’t be there.”

Your heart dropped. “Bruce.”

“They’re as concerned for your safety as I am.”

“Bruce.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.”

“They’re trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” At least he had the decency to sound like he believed it. “They care about you.”

You felt something rise into the back of your throat – sick and acidic and gnashing. You opened your mouth to scream, to cry, to argue, but nothing came out, your desolation silent in its totality. Bruce only sighed, resting his hand on your thigh. A small smile came to rest across his lips – exhausted, but still terrible in its sincerity.

“You’re part of the family, love.”

[gotta-bail-my-quails]

so i realized you can use powerpoints to imagine new ways to organize your furniture

[genderqueerdykes]

prioritizing mentalities like "people who look like cishet men aren't allowed in queer spaces" means putting your mild discomfort before the safety of other queer people and as a result cutting them off from community and resources they desperately need. saying "never transition/boymoding/butch/masc trans women look too much like cishet men and scare the women and enbies" prioritizes your comfort and need to pathologically avoid men and mascs over transfeminine people being addressed correctly and given access to resources. this is transmisogyny. this also conflates nonbinaryhood with womanhood which is also transphobic. saying that "women and enbies" need to be "protected" from "cishet men" is taking a page right out of rad fem ideology and actively endangers transfemmes, trans women, intersex people, non binary people, and other queer people

this is putting your squicks before the genuine needs of someone else. this is you refusing to understand non binary identities. you are mildly uncomfortable- they are fighting for their lives to find safety and community. you are mildly inconvenienced, they are being cut off from things that can save their lives. these are 2 entirely different situations to be in. you're "uncomfy" around tall people with deep voices, broad chests and shoulders, narrow hips, facial and body hair, they're fighting to stay off the streets, find access to HRT and gender affirming surgery, meet other trans people to know they're not alone, and find safety among people who get them.

look beyond the scope of your lived experience. sometimes in life you will be uncomfortable. you must challenge and face that discomfort in order to grow. you being mildly uncomfortable around someone with a deep voice and a square jaw identifying as a lesbian woman is a non-issue, especially when that woman needs to be around other queer women. we all face discomfort throughout our lives. we have all had bad experiences with certain "types" of people. but we must grow and move past our own discomfort, especially when it starts taking away rights from people who have not and will continue to not harm you in any way shape or form by sharing a space with you.

[twilightsumu]

swipe right

connection: s. geto x fem!reader

synopsis: you got cheated on. downloaded tinder. swiped right. and now you’re getting fucked by your one night stand.

content warnings: nsfw, smut (mdni), modern au, non curse au, bartender!geto, kinda fuckboyish (i’m giggling), shoko mention (we are cheered!), tinder (yikes), mentions of cheating, mentions of alcohol, public sex, fingering, oral (fem receiving), edging, unprotected sex, p in v, dirty talk, crude language, mirror sex (ish?)

(1) notification: oh, this was fun! suguru geto, the things you do. you’ll always be famous! and shout out to nasty by ariana grande!

wc: 4.5K

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Your stomach hurts. You have not showered in three days. The bags under your eye are puffy. Your ex’s things are still taking up space in YOUR apartment.

If you inhale hard enough, you could make out the faint smell of cherry blossom perfume. The one that does not belong to you. The one that filled his nostrils when he was out… cheating on you.

Three years down the drain — all for cherry blossom perfume that’s making you feel lightheaded.

You’re laying on your couch, your phone flat on your stomach. Your best friend, Shoko, is standing above you. Her hands on her hips, his lips pursed, and eyes narrowed.

You knew you weren’t going to get much pity from her — she hated him. As did everybody else who came in contact with him. Oh, besides cherry blossom girl.

“Stop moping,” she sighs. Reaching over to grab the phone off your belly. You try to grab it away from her. Hold on to the photos of you and your ex littering your photo album. You can’t move. Well, you don’t want too.

“I’m not moping.” Your voice sounds small and you hate how the end of each word is coming out shakey. You mentally give yourself a shake.

She scoffs, you roll your eyes. Throwing your forearm over your eyes. It’s too bright. Shoko’s narrowed stare is making it hard to just be on your couch, in peace.

“You are,” she huffs. “And for a man who didn’t even make you come!”

“Relationships are more than just sex, Shoko.” Your voice comes out angrier than you intended it too.

You loved him! Just, not the sex.

But, she was right and that was embarrassing.

You are sinking into your couch over a man who didn’t know where your clit was and who cheated on you. Double fucking whammy!

“That is what puritans say,” she mutters. You almost let out a laugh.

You hear the sound of your phone unlocking and you’re sending a silent prayer that she doesn’t go through your messages. Who knows what she’ll message him.

You curl deeper into the couch, trying to disappear. Shoko drops onto the cushion by your feet.

“When was the last time you took a picture without the shithead?”

You lift your arm just enough to watch Shoko swipe through your phone, squinting like it’s a full-time job.

“Don’t even think about it.” You’re shuffling up so that you could have better access to get the phone out of her hands. You know Shoko, she is your best friend. You know she thinks heartbreak needs only one thing for it to be cured.

A nasty, filthy, one night stand. And the holy place to find one… Shoko’s favorite app (which she is now banned from).. Tinder.

You on the other hand — you thought tubs of ice cream and reruns of Buffy the Teenage Witch was suitable for a cure. You’ll even throw in a bottle of red wine. Maybe a yell from the rooftop, late at night to really drive home the fact that you’re heartbroken.

You know, typical romance movie shit.

You shiver at the idea of making a profile. Having men swipe left or right on you…

But, maybe you’ll cum?

“Get your prude ass mind out of your own ass.”

You peer over and she’s favoriting a picture of you in a bikini. The green one that makes it look like you had a boob job.

You curse the smile that ghosts over your lips. It isn’t the time.

“You haven’t came in three years.” She huffs, swiping through more pictures. You grimace when she swipes back to one with you and your ex, swiftly deleting it.

“He gets to fuck some girl… in your house which I may add.” She’s getting angry, you notice by the way she’s gripping your phone.

“I have cam-“

“By your own fingers,” she rolls her eyes. The tinder app is loading up and you feel this weird rush of… excitement? Or maybe guilt?

“I still came,” you bring your arms closer to your chest. You hate that she is right. Or maybe you hate that you haven’t came… who knows?

“Barely… Just look, at least.” She runs her hand through her hair, sighing as if she’s being welcomed home.

You want to tell her it’s just tinder. And if she didn’t send death threats to every person who ghosted her, she may still have her account.

“Have fun. Possibly meet a very cute guy because Jesus, your type is so fucking bad..” You groan, swatting at her arm. “Forget about him for at least a night.”

You stay silent. Just watching her play around with prompts, choosing the best pictures. You would’ve thought she did this for a living. She stays concentrated on that, as your eyes roam around the living room.

“Cum for goodness fucking sake.” She mumbles under her breath. You almost nod your head in agreement… almost.

You look at the whiskey bottles on your bar cart, his whiskey bottles. You have to set a reminder to throw them out on trash day.

It’s just Tinder. What’s the worst that could happen — other than an orgasm that Shoko (and you) desperately believe you need?

“Here,” she sways your phone in front of your face. A cheesy grin plastered on her lips. “This should do it. Get you laid and emotionally validated.”

You roll your eyes at her again, snatching your phone with some force. She laughs and you sink deeper into the couch.

YN

A puritan that just got cheated on. I could become real sinful for someone who has working hands, honest red flags, and a dick. Bonus points if your ex could confirm that you made them cum.

Before you look at anything else, you send her a sideways glance. “Is it necessary to add the dumbass puritan line? They’re going to think I’m Amish or something.”

“Amish porn is big, you might just find the perfect man for you then.”

“Fuck off,” you whine, looking back at the profile. She lets out a cackle.

There are five pictures of you — all where you felt beautiful. A little sexy in some. The bikini selfie from earlier, a group photo of you and friends at a bar. And some random selfies, ones you forgot you even took.

“Now all you have to do is swipe right,” Shoko says. She is leaning forward, her elbows on her thighs. “Or left if the man looks anything like your stupid ass ex.”

“Noted.” You want her to stop talking about him.

You start to swipe through the catalog of men. No one is really catching your attention as of yet.

There’s a man with a scar on his lip, broad chest. Flirty grin. He looks a little scary.

An emo looking guy, grungey and dark. Looks a little too emotional.

“Sho-“

“Cut the bullshit and swipe,” she cuts you off. “Or I’ll swipe for you.”

“No thanks. You’ve done enough.” You sigh. Scared of who she’ll choose. Or better yet, what she’ll message them first.

You stare back at your phone screen, multiple faces staring back. You feel silly being here — swiping right or left like you’re trying to find a new song on a jukebox.

And after what felt like two hours, but was really maybe fifteen minutes. Your finger stalls on a profile.

Shoko notices immediately, falling back so that she could look over your shoulder.

“Swipe right.” She mutters, her eyes following your fingers as you swipe through his pictures. “If you don’t, I’ll tell your mom you tried shrooms our senior year of college.”

“Blackmail? Really?” You turn your head to face her, her eyes still burning into the profile in front of you.

“Anything to get you to cum.”

You roll your eyes, turning back to your phone. You’ll be lying if you said the man on your screen wasn’t beautiful. As if you couldn’t envision him fucking you-

You shake your head. Crossing your legs.

“He looks like he’s at the bar on fifth.” You mumble, as you pulled the phone closer to you. You know, for science. To get a better look.

Make sure, you’re not swiping right on a very sexy neighbor you may bump into when you throw those whiskey bottles out in your pajamas.

Suguru

Bartender.

Currently accepting praise, nudes, and well-worded compliments.

He has four pictures. One showing his side profile, long black hair cascading this back. His jaw clenched. Gauge in his ear. You breathe in through your nose.

Next one, he’s in between a blonde and silver haired man. In the bar on fifth. He has a white cloth thrown over his shoulder. The two friends holding drinks. His grin is easy, welcoming. His board shoulders bumping into theirs.

You hear Shoko start to snicker. You swipe to the next photo.

A shirtless photo and you internally groan. He is in a gym, a mirror behind him. His long hair tied messily behind him. That easy grin on his lips still there.

You don’t even have the power to look at the fourth picture. Your finger automatically swiping right.

IT’S A MATCH!

You gasp, Shoko claps. Those earlier feelings of guilt are replaced with a full blown gust of excitement. You don’t even think, before going to message him.

You: tell me I shouldn’t go out to that bar on 5th tonight?

Suguru: if I say you shouldn’t, I won’t be able to show off my hands and working dick

You: thank god for the hands indeed!

Suguru: they have rave reviews from exes if you even care

Suguru: I could gather some information and create a PowerPoint. You know? To really sell this.

You: stats review and then experience right after? wow talk about a great work environment

Suguru: lmao

Suguru: it’s all in the name of fun

Suguru: also your ex is a fucking moron

You: most men are

Suguru: not going to argue with that

Suguru: so. Should I be expecting to see you tonight?

You: wouldn’t I be distracting you at work?

Suguru: not that I would complain

You: you have lots of things to show me, huh?

Suguru: let’s see how much ground we could cover on my break.

“Get in the fucking shower.”

The hallway is narrow, his footsteps are fast. The music booming through the walls is dying down with each step you take as you follow him. Your heart is jumping out of your chest. 

His eyes glance back — narrow and sly. A grin to match. Your jittery palm pressed into his sweaty one. You barely made it in the bathroom before your back hits the wall and his hands have found warmth on your hips — the short black dress Shoko helped you pick out rising in the process. 

You almost want to be embarrassed. 

The bathroom is small, faintly lit, and smells like rubbing alcohol. Muffled bass and pointless conversations slowly thump through the wall. It’s quiet in here, just his heavy breathing and your thoughts running loud. 

You ignore his stare and the warmth rushing to your cheeks. Your eyes tracing over his body. The white shirt clinging to his broad shoulders just perfectly. The apparent tent starting to grow in those black jeans. 

His eyes wavering with lust, the clenching of his jaw, his slender fingers gripping onto you like he’s been waiting for this. A wisp of a bang swinging lightly over his left eye. You can’t help but let the moan escape. 

He smells like the fruity drinks he’s been mixing all night. That, and something manly like sandalwood. You’re just happy it’s erasing the cherry blossom smell from your senses.

Everything he is doing is fucking with you. You haven’t felt this much passion in three years, you almost feel lightheaded. The staring from across the bar all night. His light smirk whenever you went over to order something. The way he is gripping onto you now. And the wetness pooling in between your legs, soaking your panties. 

He presses closer. The back of your head lightly thudding against the wall. Your breath shudders with his as his hands slowly drag up your thighs. You voluntarily open your thighs a little wider, giving him more room to firmly place his body between yours. You feel just how much he wants you. 

You don’t have much time to think about anything. Your chest rises a little more rapidly, the heat in your stomach making its way down to your pussy as you try to lightly clench your thighs as best as you can. Hoping he feels it, hoping he gets the memo. 

Suguru laughs. You do, too. Noses brushing each other one second, his mouth crashing against yours the next. It’s heated, like he’s been waiting all night to do this — teeth, tongue, the tickle of his bang against your cheek. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s greedy.

Your back is pressing harder into the wall, but you don’t care — one of his hands is already between your legs, dragging your underwear to the side like he doesn’t have time to bother with them. You don’t even realize you were that wet until his fingers are practically centimeters away. 

His other hand cups the back of your neck with some force, holding you still as his mouth trails down your jaw. His tongue lapping down your throat — sucking marks into your skin like a man starved. You can barely think. 

His voice is low and hot in your ear, words tangled between groans. You hear yourself moaning. God, you haven’t sounded this desperate.. like ever. 

“Should I start my hand presentation?” 

You whimper as a response. Your hands finding their way to his broad shoulders.

His fingers are so close, barely touching you. And yet, you’re already clenching around nothing, desperate and fluttering, hips twitching toward him — your body begging to feel him.

“Nah,” his eyes are locked on to yours. His smirk teasing. His index finger presses on your folds and you buck your hips up. His smirk grows even wider. “I need to hear you.” 

“Y-yes.” Your voice comes out in a thick whisper. You swallow the lump in your throat. 

“I think you could be a little louder than that, no?” 

“Yes,” your voice comes out louder, still a little shaken. He hums in approval. 

He drags two fingers up your slit, slow and filthy. Teasing. His eyes still locked on your face, hungry for every little reaction. You gasp, loud and wet. 

“This for me?” he whispers, mouth ghosting over your cheek, lips curled in a smirk. “You get this wet from just being dragged into a bar bathroom, baby? God, your ex must have failed you.”

His fingers are sliding your slick through your folds. Occasionally finding your clit, and then moving back between your lips. Your hips are bucking uncontrollably. Your groans loud. Suguru’s smirk is huge. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your nails are biting into his shoulders. The white cloth he used to clean up the bar is still on his right shoulder, offering him some protection. 

Your head leans into the wall as you feel two fingers curl inside, fast and deep. You let out a broken gasp and he hums. With his lips a few inches away, you somehow feel the vibration. 

You feel just how much he wants you. His hard dick pressing into your thigh. His jeans acting as a barrier. 

“So fucking tight..” he whispers. The hand still on the back of your neck grips a little tighter. Your hair flowing over his fingers — giving him the perfect grip. 

The stretch burns, but it feels so good. Better than anything you’ve had in years. You could cum right here and feel refreshed for the next three hundred and twenty days. 

His fingers curl again and your knees buckle — your thighs clamped around his wrist like you’re trying to trap him there.

“Shit, you’re greedy,” he groans into your neck. “Clenching already? I’ve heard my fingers were good, but damn.”

“J-just fuc-“ your broken moan is cut off. 

“I want to take some time with you,” his lips ghosting over your jaw. “I think you need it.” 

“How long is your break?” You ask. A moan littering behind it. Your thighs are trembling as you try to steady yourself. 

Suguru’s thumb finds your clit right at this moment. Circling it lightly. You try to grind down on his strong hand, giving you some more friction. He moves his thumb, his fingers stilling inside of you. 

“Oh, fuck.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He grins, sending you a slight shrug. You shiver. His voice is heavy and you think the bathroom is starting to feel even smaller. Pushing him closer, his fingers stilled in the most perfect angle. With a buck of your hips, you groan. 

His fingers start moving again. Slow, deep thrusts at first, his palm flush against you, thumb going back to circling your clit in those agonizing little motions that are making your thighs twitch. The squelch of your arousal is so loud in the quiet bathroom you want to call your ex and have him listen. 

Suguru is breathing through his nose, everytime he lets out an exhale, it brushes against your face harshly. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” He is whispering more to himself than to you. The sound of his fingers moving in and out of your pussy is much louder than anything else right now. The sound is intoxicating. 

His thumb drags firm, fast circles over your clit. Your hips stutter, your thighs feel watery, and you’re almost there. You feel the white-hot brain fog creeping up, your gasps are louder and sporadic. What Shoko has been wanting you to have for the last three years is so close. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

But, his fingers stop their movements, leaving your slack jaw and teary eyed. A broken sob leaves your lips and Suguru just stares at you. 

He pulls his fingers out of you, slowly. His eyes drop in between your bodies as he savors your slick stringing on his fingers. 

“I wanna taste,” his voice is low. His eyes are still on his fingers now moving towards you both. His tongue licking over his bottom lip. 

“I didn’t know that was a part of the presentation.” Your voice is just as low, airy. You’re leaning to the side, your shoulder finding some balance on the paper towel dispenser. 

“I sometimes like to throw in some fun things for pretty clients,” he whispers. He is leaning closer to you. Forehead pressing into yours. His tongue lapping his fingers, your juices shining on his plump lips. 

Your hands start looking for something to do. They shakily drop to his jeans, unzipping him in the process. He groans, his fingers still in his mouth. His eyes are rolling into the back of his head. 

“I knew you’d taste good,” he groans, using the hand that just had at his fingers in his mouth to grab at your wrist. 

With not much care, Suguru drops down to his knees. Your eyes follow as he drops so quickly, it makes your head spin. 

“I want a full taste,” he hums as he hooks one of your legs over his shoulders. His hand pressing into you with so much heat, you let out a whimper in return. 

You barely have time to breathe before his hands are spreading you open. Your dress is bunched up around your hips and panties shoved to the side (again) like an afterthought. He groans when he sees you — wet and still twitching. 

One of your hands thread through his hair and he leans into your touch. Your other hand grips the side of that paper towel dispenser — trying to ground yourself the best way you can. 

You move your eyes from his hooded ones, for just a minute. Finally catching a glimpse at yourself in the mirror in front of you. Dress skewed sideways, your pupils blown out, lips swollen. Suguru’s head was just making the cut off. 

“How,” you look back down at Suguru. Your grip in his hair tightened. His eyes are still fixed on your dripping cunt. His voice intoxicating. “… does man cheat on a pussy this beautiful?” 

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Hungry. 

His tongue drags a long stripe up your slit, then circles your clit with laser focus — slow, then fast, then slower again like he wants to make you cry. 

You almost do. Tears welling at your lash line. You jolt against the wall, whimpering, trying to grab at something, anything, as he licks you like a man possessed. 

He chuckles into you as you yank at his hair and he feeds into the pull. You moan, breathy and sharp. Your hips bucking into his face. He doesn’t stop. 

His tongue lapping at your pussy, it’s louder than the music dying down outside. Your hips are moving, with no rhyme or reason, just like his tongue on your clit. 

He doesn’t stop. His nose rubbing on your clit, whenever his tongue laps at your entrance. 

He groans into you. Like he’s enjoying this more than you. His mouth is hot and relentless, and it’s all tongue and lips and pressure — like he’s trying to win a competition you weren’t aware you guys were involved in. 

Your legs start to shake again, he pulls back, mouth wet and chin glistening. You don’t even have time to blink. Just a meek mewl escaping from your swollen lips. 

“Suguru, please..” You’re begging and he hums into your thigh as he presses a chaste kiss. 

In one swift, strong movement — he’s standing in front of you, his hands grip the back of your thighs and lift you up like you weigh nothing — pinning you between the wall and his body. His face inches from yours. 

His grip tightens on your thighs, lifting you a little higher. The cold wall behind you, the warmth of his body on yours — it’s making you dizzy. 

With you pinned there, your legs wrap around him easily. Hands scrambling to hold on to him, bringing him closer. Pulling at his shirt, his neck, his hair. 

You crash your lips onto his. Your tongue lapping over his bottom lip, he opens up allowing you access. You taste yourself on his tongue and you subconsciously squeeze your thighs a little tighter around him. He moans into your mouth. You pull at his hair, pushing him even closer to you. 

He leans back slightly, spit from on both of your lips keeping you two connected for just a minute. Long enough for him to grab the base of his cock and guide it through your folds — up and down, gathering your slick, teasing your entrance. He’s not even inside yet, and your whole body is shaking.

You grind down, helplessly, and he groans — head dropping to your shoulder for a second before he pulls back with a devilish grin. The buckle of his belt pressing into your ass. 

“Some experience you’re getting,” he chuckles. Chaste kisses on your shoulder. 

Then, he thrust in, slowly and deep. The stretch is brutal and just right all at once. You cry out, your head rolling back to hit the wall, hands clawing at his back. His hands stay under your thighs, holding you steady as he pushes into your cunt — thick, hot, overwhelming. 

“Oh-” you gasp, shutting your eyes. 

“I know,” he grunts. “You’re so tight I’m losing my fucking mind.”

Then he moves. Deep, hard thrusts that make your shoulder bangs into the paper towel dispenser next to you. You don’t feel a thing but his hips against your ass as he pulls back and rams back into you. 

You can’t do anything but feel him. No thoughts processing. No sounds but the sound of his thrusts and heavy groans. You feel dizzy, desperate, dripping. 

“Open your eyes,” you feel his lips brushing near your ear. With some much fight, you force your eyes open — lashes wet, vision all blurry. “Look at yourself.” 

The mirror. 

You. Pressed against the wall. Body bouncing with each thrust. Your thighs stretched around his waist, your legs hooking behind him. Your lips parted in a silent moan. 

Suguru’s muscles flex in his white shirt. His bun becoming undone, wisps of hair flying around. His hips moving at a relentless pace. His face is hidden in the crook of your neck. 

“Watch how I make you cum on my cock.”

He fucks into your harder. One hand gripping your thigh — the other sliding in between your bodies. His fingers find your clit, immediately circling it. 

His circles are fast and rough, matching his thrusts. The pressure is overwhelming, you feel like you’re about to melt into the wall. Your thighs are shaking around his moving hips. Your moans are wet and loud — coming from the pit of your stomach. 

You’re still watching from the mirror. And for some reason, that’s making you clench around him even more. Watching him fucking in to you. How your shoulder is going to be sporting a bruise from the power of it hitting the dispenser. The way your eyes roll back with so much ease, as if Suguru knew from a picture alone just what to do to get you over the edge. 

“Fuck,” Suguru basically growls. Your clench around him a little harder. “If you keep on squeezing around me like, I’m goi-“

A groan leaves his lips. His teeth grazing your neck as you feel yourself about to fall apart. 

“Keep,” thrust. “Watching,” thrust. “Yourself.”

His thrusts become sloppy. His heavy balls smack on the plush of your ass. His fingers, still going at a relentless pace. Your walls clench around him, his cock hitting a spot you didn’t know could be found.

And you watch, with teary eyes and hunger. Watch as the orgasm that’s been withheld for three years finally washes over you. As his face finds home in the crook of your neck. At the way his hips rut into yours. Without even looking down, you know that you’ve left a creamy ring around his cock. 

Your entire body stiffens, mouth open in a silent cry as white heat floods your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your pussy clamps around him so tight he groans into your skin, still driving into you like he’s trying to fuck the orgasm deeper. Reaching for something only he could find. 

“Shit,” He buries himself to the hilt with one final, brutal thrust and you feel his dick twitch. 

He holds you there as he cums with a deep, muffled moan against your throat. His body shudders against yours, heat flooding inside you.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Your back is still pressed to the wall. His chest heaving against yours. His cock twitching as the last waves of his orgasm ripple through him.

Suguru slowly pulls out, your legs unwrapping from his waist. You’re wobbly, legs feeling like jello as you find balance on the wall. His hands are still burning into your hips. His fingertips slightly tapping on your hip bone, like he doesn’t want to let go yet. 

You look down at his jeans, still unzipped, hanging lowly on his hips. A glistening mess, your slick spread. 

“I should call my best friend,” you mumble, still breathless.

He tilts his head, brows raised, a lazy chuckle leaving his lips. His fingers are still tapping, slow and warm. 

“To tell her what?” 

“That Tinder isn’t so bad after all.” 

© twilightsumu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work.