#this is probably the first and last time i will use that tag. it feels weird and wrong.

[whisperedmeg]

ECHO CHAMBER ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

summary: spencer doesn’t talk after his last case. doesn’t sleep, either, just echoes. until he finds his way back to you — the only place it ever goes quiet.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort

w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, implied panic attack (spencer), established relationship, using sex as probably not the healthiest coping mechanism but oh well it worked, fingering, oral (f receiving) ((like only sort of because he won’t stop yapping)), spencer calls reader angel, unprotected piv, floor sex, aftercare, spencer being a nerd at inopportune times, light dirty talk (again with the yapping!)

a/n: thinking about comforting spencer with your body makes me feral so here’s a peek into how I imagine that playing out 🙂‍↕️ also, if you enjoyed this, my requests are open!

You hadn’t been sleeping so much as hovering at the edge of it — and when you turned and found the space beside you empty, your stomach sank. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had disappeared in the middle of the night after getting home from a tough case, but it still felt like something was missing, like the weight of him was the only thing that ever let you sleep at all.

You padded out into the living room quietly and found him exactly where you knew he’d be: sitting on the floor in front of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, fingers tugging at his curls like he might come undone if he let go.

He didn’t look up when you approached. Just sat there, legs drawn in, spine curled forward, his face lost in shadow.

You said nothing. Only sank slowly to the floor beside him, settling in shoulder-to-shoulder. Your thigh brushed his, and still, he didn’t pull away.

The silence between you stretched.

Then he exhaled — slow and quiet — like it was the first sound he’d made in hours. You turned your head just slightly, a silent invitation. He leaned into it.

His temple came to rest against your shoulder, and this time, the sigh that escaped him sounded almost like surrender. Not defeat — but relief. The kind that only comes when you realize you’re safe.

You let a beat pass before speaking, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head, and you didn’t push. Just stayed with him. And when his lips found your collarbone a few moments later, you let it happen. It wasn't just out of desire — it was out of gravity. Like he was being pulled towards the only thing that made him feel alive.

He kissed up the line of your throat, slow and aching, until his mouth met yours in a deep, trembling kiss. Not lustful, not yet — just desperate. Desperate to feel. To be.

The rug was soft beneath you where you sat, and the quiet of the room wrapped around you like a second skin. Neither of you made a move to shift, not to the couch, not to the bedroom. Just this: grounded and close, where the silence felt like shelter.

Eventually, he turned to you more fully and reached up, cradling your jaw like you might vanish. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, reverent.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you murmured. Then, gently, “Are you?”

His answer was a breath, not quite steady. “No. But I will be.”

He leaned back in, and the kiss turned heavier. Clothes slipped off one layer at a time, discarded in a heap against the floor, and his hands moved like he was memorizing you — knuckles grazing ribs, palms against hips, fingertips dragging slow lines along your skin.

Maybe this wasn’t the healthiest way for him to cope — reaching for you instead of talking, chasing sensation instead of sleep — but you didn’t stop him. You let him anchor himself with your body. Forgave him the impulse before he even asked.

When his mouth found your chest, he groaned low in his throat, like the taste of you was healing him. Then, against your breastbone, he murmured, “Did you know that the skin has over four million sensory receptors?”

You blinked down at him, breath caught halfway to a laugh. “Is that really what we’re talking about right now? Science facts?”

His thumb traced a lazy circle around your nipple. “It’s relevant data,” he mumbled. “Your body is a highly responsive neural system. Every time I touch you—” He pressed a kiss just beneath your sternum. “—your brain creates a cascade of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin. Pleasure, connection, trust.”

You stared down at him, stunned by the tenderness in his eyes. “You’re trying to make this a chemistry lesson?”

“No,” he said, voice thick. “I’m trying to tell you how good I’m about to make you feel.”

Then his fingers dipped between your thighs, slow and reverent, and your head tipped back with a gasp.

“I need you to know,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “exactly how much you affect me. Every part of me. Mind and body.”

His touch was expert but unhurried, every stroke deliberate, sacred. Then his mouth followed — lips brushing the inside of your thigh, tongue circling your clit with aching precision. His fingers kept moving inside you, slow and steady, and your hips trembled under the weight of it.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, mouth hot against you. “Heart rate elevated… pupils dilated… and your breath—” He sucked gently, pulling a ragged sound from your throat. “—sharp and shallow.”

“Spencer,” you gasped, clutching his curls. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I believe I am,” he said, voice wicked and reverent all at once.

Then, quieter: “I think about this when I’m gone. The sounds you make. The way you shake when I touch you like this.”

You whimpered, bucking into him, desperate to keep him close. “Tell me more.”

“I think about how soft you are. How you always let me take my time. How you never rush me, even when you’re falling apart.”

He watched you unravel, watched your mouth part and your eyes flutter. He whispered things to you — not facts now, but sweet, filthy things:

“I love how wet you get for me.”

“Every time I touch you, it’s like you bloom.”

“Do you know how fucking beautiful you are when you come?”

You were close — he could tell by the way your thighs trembled, by the tight, needy grind of your hips. And for a second, it felt like he might let you fall over the edge right there, coax it from you with just his fingers and his mouth and that low, aching voice.

But instead, he slowed his pace. Let you hover there, breathless and blinking. Then, deliberately, he pulled his fingers from you and slid them into his mouth with a moan.

Your body ached at the loss, hips twitching, but the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

“Not yet angel,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to feel it when you break.”

You reached for him, dragging him up your body — and he let you. Let you kiss him messy and unguarded. Let you grind against him, bare and aching, like your body was the only tether he had left.

But he didn’t enter you right away.

He hovered instead, your foreheads pressed together, his breath catching where it mingled with yours. Your spine arched beneath him, every inch of you straining toward contact. And then, finally — with a soft, broken moan — he sank into you, slow and deep.

You both gasped.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, body trembling like he could shatter from the inside out. Then he began to move — careful, reverent, every thrust measured like it meant something. Like it had to.

You kissed him hard, overwhelmed. His grip tightened on your hips, his voice catching against your skin as he whispered, “I don’t deserve you.”

You hated when he said that. Hated that he still couldn’t see himself clearly.

“Yes you do,” you breathed. “You always have.”

His pace built gradually — never rough, just more. More contact, more desperation, more whispered nothings as he moved inside you like he was chasing heaven in the way your body opened for him. His forehead pressed to yours, breath catching warm between you. Every slow thrust felt like a question.

And you answered him — first with the way your body yielded, then with your voice.

“Yes,” you whispered — and in that one word, you gave him everything:

Yes, I’m here.

Yes, I want this.

Yes, you’re safe.

Yes, I love you.

He cupped your face in both hands as his hips stilled, eyes wet, voice wrecked. “You’re the only place I don’t echo.”

His thumbs swept softly along your cheeks, like he was still anchoring himself. “When I’m out there, everything I feel just ricochets around inside me. Guilt. Fear. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done — it’s like shouting into an echo chamber. Everything just comes back louder.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “But with you… it stops. The noise quiets. I don’t have to be anything but this.”

You barely had time to breathe before his lips found yours again, hungrier now, as if speaking the truth out loud had unshackled something in him. His hips shifted, his rhythm deepening, and his mouth grazed your cheek.

“You like that?” he asked, hand slipping between your bodies to stroke your clit again. “Being filled so deeply you forget everything else?”

You whimpered, and he smiled against your jaw.

Your orgasm built steadily, not sudden or sharp — but inevitable. Spencer continued on with his whispered praise, with his perfect rhythm, with the kind of touch that felt like a vow. His hand never stopped, his fingers dragging tight, wet circles with slow, devastating precision.

“Every time I’m inside you,” he murmured, thrusts slowing, “it’s like my mind pauses. Like your body was designed to hold me steady.”

You gasped his name when it hit you — the wave cresting and crashing in a swell of heat and light. Your thighs trembled around his hips as your back arched off the rug, clutching him tighter, needing him closer. And he gave it to you, groaning into your skin, the sound low and reverent.

“That’s it, angel,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Let go. Fuck—look at you. You’re so fucking perfect when you fall apart for me.”

You were still pulsing around him, still reeling, when he came with a gasp, burying himself deep as his body shook with the force of it. He held you like he was afraid he’d shatter, like if he let go, he’d lose himself entirely. One arm locked around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, pulling you tight against him as he spilled inside you with a broken, desperate sound that felt like surrender.

You both lay tangled on the rug, sweat cooling between your skin. The room smelled like sex and quiet and something else — something like relief. He was still inside you, but neither of you moved to change that.

Spencer shifted eventually, just enough to brush your hair from your face. He kissed your temple, your jaw, the delicate hollow at your shoulder. Every inch he could reach, like gratitude in the shape of a mouth.

“Hey,” you whispered, fingertips tracing the slope of his back. “You okay now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath and tucked his face into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist as if trying to fuse your bodies together. You held him just as tightly.

Eventually, he eased out of you with care. You shivered at the loss of him, and he immediately pressed a hand to your thigh, grounding you.

“Don’t move,” he murmured. Then he disappeared down the hall for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, almost reverently — his touch tender, his gaze careful not to drift too far from yours.

“Oxytocin release after sex promotes emotional regulation,” he murmured as he ran the cloth gently through your folds. “Which is a long-winded way of saying… Yeah, I feel human again. And also, I love you.”

He helped you sit up slowly, then reached for your shirt and eased it gently over your head. Found your underwear next and slid them up your legs with quiet care, pausing to press a lingering kiss to your hipbone. Only then did he pull on his own boxers and flannel pajama pants, looking tousled and sleepy and utterly yours.

“Come on,” you said, reaching for his hand. “Let’s get back into bed.”

The bedroom was quiet and dim, moonlight pooling softly across the sheets. You pulled back the covers and slipped in first, expecting him to slide in on his side behind you like always.

But instead, he lay on his back and opened his arms.

You didn’t hesitate. You climbed over him, settling half on his chest, half beside him, one leg draped loosely over his hip. He folded himself around you instinctively — one arm wrapped firm across your back, the other reaching for your hand. He threaded your fingers together and pressed them to his sternum like he needed the contact to breathe.

“I know I don’t say it enough,” he whispered into your hair. “But this — you — you always bring me back.”

You tilted your face to his throat and kissed the pulse there, steady and calm beneath your mouth. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be the one who quiets the noise.”

He didn’t respond with words. Just held you tighter.

A hush settled over the room, warm and thick. You felt his breathing slow, his muscles soften beneath your weight — like the echo chamber inside him had finally gone still.

And when he finally drifted off, wrapped around you safely, his breath rose and fell in perfect rhythm — the sound of peace, at last.

ᝰ.ᐟ

[selfproclaimed-moviecritic]

From Across the Hall- Doctor Robby x Reader: Part One

Summary - You accidentally try to get into your neighbor's apartment when you mistake it for your own after a night out. Our beloved Doctor notices you have a few cuts that need mending. While taking care of you, things become a little...heated.

Warnings: *I will be adding warnings as I go, this part of the series doesn't contain any smut but it WILL in the future*. AU, blood, idk some medical stuff, mention of witnessed homophobia (not experienced by reader), mild violence, reader has tattoos, dirty thoughts from reader, one singular use of Y/N (there will not be more in future parts), Robby uses a nickname for reader, verbal praise (he calls her a good girl a few times), mild dirty talk, kind of a darker Robby if you ask me, MILD manhandling at one point, Reader can be any size, race, ethnicity, gender, etc! Robby insinuates reader could use her body to repay him(??) not sure how to tag that one. TBH This one is pretty tame but I had to set the stage everyone ok bear with me it'll be FILTHY in the next one.

Authors Notes: I am new to the fandom and this man has taken over my brain the last few days!! I have written a few fics (couple of one shots) before but I'm venturing into the multiple part territory. I'm excited to write this filth! Shout out to @toxicanonymity for inspiring and encouraging me always, this would not exist without her! Enjoy!!

As Dr. Michael Robinavitch (or as many people called him, "Robby") sank into the couch after his 12 hr shift he wondered what he should watch this evening. Something fun and positive or something darker to match his current mood? As he flipped through the various streaming services, feeling like on autopilot as the choices were becoming seemingly endless, he heard his door handle begin to jiggle. He turned his head around to see it slowly turning back and forth. He heard a female voice curse from outside the door. He raised an eyebrow and got up from the couch. He peered through the peephole to find a very confused looking woman trying to get through the door. He unlocked the door, and opened it. 

"Birdie?". You jump a little, and snap your head up towards the door. You had been trying to detangle your keys and keychains from each other. "Oh! Dr. Robby. I'm so sorry. I....I thought this was my apartment." you force a laugh. "I wasn't paying attention, I'm so sorry to bother you!" You go to turn away but Robby gently grabs your forearm. "Woah woah. Birdie you're bleeding!" His dark brown eyes scanning your body with concern. You look down to see your busted up knee. The blood slowly seeping out from the torn nylons. Then you remember your lip is bleeding too.

"Oh yeah.....I kinda got into a fight at the bar." You shrug. The adrenaline must still be flowing through your veins because you hadn't really felt anything yet. Robbys eyes widen. "Shit Birdie, didn't really think you were the fighting type." He looks you up and down to check you out again, then releases your arm. "Um. Yeah me neither." You laugh a little and smile. "Well hold on now, let me take a look at you." He says with a slight worry in his voice. You put your hand up "No it's ok, I bothered you enough this evening. It's just a scraped knee and some small cuts. Nothing I can't handle." He gave you a look that said him checking you over wasn't optional. "Please Birdie, I insist." 

He met you over at your apartment with his First Aid kit. Which, of course, was full of things typical first aid kits would have like Lidocaine, various sizes of bandages, syringes, suture kits, specialized burn creams. "Which room has the best lighting? I gotta be able to see what I'm working with" he says firmly. You gesture to the dining room. "Probably over there, it has good over head lighting" He follows you over and you sit down on a chair next to the table. Robbie gets to his knees in front of you. As he crouches, he lets out a small grunt, signaling to you his knees probably aren't what they used to be. 

"Alright, can you take your nylons off for me? But only to your mid thigh. I can do the rest." He sets both his hands on either side of your thighs, looking up into your eyes. You nod, and you feel something stir in your lower abdomen at the sight of him kneeling in front of you. His dark, serious eyes piercing you to the chair. You nod, and reach up under your tight, black dress. Lifting your hips a little, peeling the nylons down your body until you reach where he instructed. Robbys eyes watch your every movement. 

Your nylons are at your mid thigh and he puts a hand up signaling to stop. You pause. "I've got it from here Birdie." He mumbles. His large hands coming up to slowly roll the rest of them down towards your knees. He sighs. "How did you get into this mess?" He reaches down and gently grabs your left ankle, placing your left foot on top of his thigh to sturdy your leg against himself and the chair. You gaze down at him, his fingers working expertly to peel the nylons away from your wound. Ever so careful to try and not get them stuck in the cut. 

"Well, originally my friends and I were celebrating Pride at Pitt. Then afterwards we went to the one goth club. Hence- You pause for a second. "Why I'm dressed like this." You motion towards your outfit. He looks up at you, then down again at your body. The dress you wore was tight, accentuating your curves. There was a zipper that ran down the front, right in the dead center. It started from the bottom of the dress, to the very top, right to the collar. The rest of the dress was adorned with various small spikes and chains. Robbys eyes traveled to your chest, where they lingered for a moment. You just now realized that earlier, you had lowered the zipper to about your mid chest, so your tits were spilling out slightly. You blushed. Robby smirked, shook his head, and his eyes went back to the task at hand.

"Anyways we went to a bar after the goth club. At the bar, I heard this girl calling my friend a slur. I don't stand for that shit." Robby nodded, his fingers had worked your nylons past your cut. He quickly slipped them down the rest of your leg, and off your feet. He tossed them to the side. The blood had run down your left leg, causing quite a mess down your shin and calf. He took a wet wipe, and gently cleaned down your calf and leg. The dried blood coming off finally. His big, warm hand holding you in place. He quickly finished, and was inspecting the wound now. "And then what happened?" "Well I had a few choice words with her and she didn't like that. So, as I was leaving the bar she decided to punch me. Obviously, I fought back." He looked over and examined what all he needed from the First Aid kit, rummaging through it. Your foot was still resting on his thigh. It felt large and muscular underneath it. 

Going to bite your lip at the pain in your knee, you wince as you remember you have a busted lip as well. That girl at the bar had good aim, you reasoned with yourself. He began softly cleaning the wound. You pull your knee back, and hiss. An involuntary reaction to the sudden burning. "Fuck, ow that stings." "Well good, it's doing its job then." He uses his other hand to pull your knee back into its former resting place on the edge of the chair. "Be a good girl and stay still now." He said gruffly. Your breath audibly hitches. Your stomach drops at his words, did he really just say that? He either didn't hear you or was really good at pretending not to have. He spoke again. "Aren't you covered in tattoos? Figured this would be nothing for you." You squeeze your eyes shut as the antiseptic burn continues to spread. 

"Yeah well, this feels a little different ok?" He laughs a little at your sass. "Right. I'm sure." You contemplate your next words carefully, but decide to shoot your shot a little. "I uh.....like pain. The pain of getting a tattoo feels really good." You peer down at him. He looks up at you with a brow raised and a bit of a darkness in his eyes you've never seen before. He smirks and shakes his head. "Is that so?" You nod your head. He lets out a low whistle, but continues the task at hand. The wound is finally cleaned and he begins to inspect it again, moving your leg a little from side to side. 

"I think you'll definitely easily recover from this one Birdie." He starts to wrap some gauze around your knee. "Why do you call me that?" You decide to question. He finishes with the gauze, and uses some small surgical scissors to cut the remainder off. "Call you what? Birdie?" He looks back up at you, his one hand rests on top of you knee, just where the beginning of your thigh starts. His opposite hand is parallel to your other thigh, just barely touching you. He shrugs his shoulders. 

"Well when you were moving in I heard you singing a ton. You do it a lot, especially whenever you get home from work." You blushed. You never thought anyone could hear you. "You reminded me of a little songbird. Always singing a little tune." He gives you a warm smile. Different than the playful looks he had given you earlier. "I can call you y/n if you would prefer." You begin to protest. "No no I....I like it! It's sweet. Never had anyone call me that before." His thumb ever so slightly rubs back and forth on the side of your thigh. He gives you another smile. "Good. Now let's see that lip, shall we?" 

He stands up and you get to your feet as well. Slowly, though, as the pain in your knee is starting to radiate throughout your leg. You straighten yourself up and feel his hands come up to both sides of your jawbone. "Look at me, Birdie" he says softly. You peer up at him. He towers over you. He's 6'1 but he feels so much taller. His shoulders are broad. His hands feel warm on your face. You feel your thighs clench together. He's so handsome, and his presence is so commanding. 

His left hand remains at the side of your face, keeping you still. His right hand travels down your face, making it's way to your mouth. His thumb grazes over your bottom lip with gentle precision. "That girl got ya real good. But I don't think you'll need stitches. Just gotta clean ya up a bit." he murmurs, continuing to inspect you. You are solely focused on the way his large thumb feels against your lips. Your eyes flutter a bit as the thought enters your brain of him putting his thumb in your mouth, and making you suck on it for him.

"You have a boyfriend Birdie?" You are shaken from your little fantasy. "Um, what?". "Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend?" Robby is now gently wiping a small antiseptic wipe across your lip, focused on cleaning you but his tone held curiosity. "No, to both. Just enjoying being single at the moment." You avoid his eyes, afraid of what they might tell you.

"Hm. Good to know." You look at him finally and his eyes are focused on cleaning your lip, but his mouth holds a hint of a smirk. You try to smile and are reminded of the pain in your lip. "What did I say? Be a good girl and stay still while I take care of you." He says sternly. 

"Now you're just saying that to mess with me." You almost whisper, feeling your cheeks grow red as you respond to him. "Oh? How so?" He feigns innocence. "Calling me a good girl." you say, trying hard to sound like it doesn't matter to you. He finishes cleaning your lip, and tosses the antiseptic wipe on the table behind you. 

He folded his arms to his chest. "How am I supposed to know you like that? Hm?" You shrug. "I don't know....maybe you're just a dirty old man trying to see what riles me up." He laughs and shakes his head, putting his hand behind his neck, now he's the one blushing a little. "That would be pretty forward of me then. Calling you a 'good girl' just to see if it turns you on." His hand falls from his neck and is back to being folded against his chest. "But, good to know it does." He cocks his head a bit to the side, as if to challenge you. Wondering how far you'll take this. 

You had always found him immensely attractive. His dark brown eyes, his slender but bigger nose. How he carried himself. His strong arms. He was so kind too. He was always helping you carry your groceries inside if he caught you downstairs. His beard was mostly brown still but had some grey streaks to indicate his age. The way he touched and spoke to you tonight had you feeling incredibly turned on, and he barely even did anything. 

One of his hands came up to fidget with the zipper on your dress, which was conveniently right where your chest was. His eyes locking with yours. "You should get some sleep Birdie. You've had quite the night." You watch his fingers. So thick and large. They would feel so good inside you. "Want to come join me?" You connect your eyes back up with his. His fingers pause. His hand falls back to his side. "A bit forward of you to say that, hm?" He teases you. You look away, a little embarrassed at the rejection. 

He notices your disappointment and suddenly puts his hand on your waist, roughly pulling you in closer to him. You're against his chest, and close enough now where you can feel his clothed hardness pressing into you. Your eyes widen, and you look up at him. You can feel he's big underneath those cargo pants he always wears. "Don't think I don't want to Birdie but you're injured and I want you to rest. Doctor's orders." You nod, unable to form words at the feeling of his hard cock against your clothed mound.

"Yes sir. Doctor's orders." You reply, in a soft tone, barely audible. He grins a little dirtily. His deep voice lowers to a whisper, and he murmurs into your ear. "Besides, I think I know of a few ways you can repay me when you're all better." You feel his cock twitch against you and you try to stifle a whimper.

He releases you from his tight grip and bends down to pick up his First Aid kit. "Need help getting to bed?" he asks nonchalantly, as if the last minute hadn't happened. You shake your head back and forth. "I think I can manage." He nods his head, and begins to make his way to the door. "I'll come by tomorrow evening to check ya out again. If you want." He turns around and scans down your body again. His eyes lingering on your chest, and then hem of your dress at your mid thigh. "When do you get off work tomorrow?" You ask. "7pm" he responds. "I'll be here." He smiles, turns around and goes for the door knob. Over his shoulder he calls out as he leaves. "Now be a good girl and get some sleep. You're going to need it."

[distort-opia]

"Bruce's potential mommy kink"

I'm really curious about this. If there's no problem, would you explain more?

Sure! Though to be clear, I'm not arguing that Bruce definitely has a mommy kink or anything; but rather that, if he did have one, it's more likely for it to be a mother-related thing rather than a father-related one.

This was a thought that emerged from a conversation with @fractualized, actually. We were talking about how it's funny that there's way more fics with the tag "Daddy Kink" on Ao3 for Bruce, but nowhere near as many "Mommy Kink" ones... and then it turned from irony to "Waaait a minute." Because thinking about it led us both to go back and forth on how Bruce in many ways idealized Thomas and craved his approval, which at first glance would make one go "Well yeah, and that's probably why a daddy kink is more in character for him." However, precisely because of the high pedestal Bruce placed Thomas on, I don't see him ever projecting this aspect on another man; there's the fact Bruce rather wants to emulate his father (think the last part of 1985 by Bo Burnham). This is part of why personally, I see Bruce as focused on service, when it comes to sexual dynamics: providing for the other person. (If he cares about them, that is. But the essay on my reading of Bruce as demisexual will have to wait another day.)

The other part is... well, the fact Bruce is a mommy's boy. His father issues are about craving approval, but his mother issues are about craving comfort. Praise. Love.

Poison Ivy #25

Batman (2016) #45

Batman/Superman (2019) #18

Batman (2016) #18

Justice League (2018) #52

[looks into the camera] And these aren't even all the examples I could give, but you get the point. A need for approval from his father combined with a need for praise and emotional comfort from his mother combines to produce... a person who thinks "I can only get love if I'm good enough, and if I'm good enough I won't be abandoned." It's not terribly hard to imagine how that would translate into Bruce just wanting to give the person he's with the thing they want, becoming focused on service (a lot of the time to his own detriment). And then it's not difficult to imagine how it'd make him feel all sorts of ways to be told by the right person that he's done well.

But guess who Martha is in an alternate world??

Flashpoint Beyond #4

And guess what mad lad, upon finding out his mother is the Joker in an alternate universe, has another giant Joker card made with her likeness to hang next to his regular one? Yes you got it!

DC: The New Golden Age

But I got so long already. That conversation with Frac actually started from her wondering why there's no mommy kink Batjokes fics, considering that Joker is Bruce's literal mother in another world. Alas, I'll put the rest under the cut.

It doesn't help that way before Azzarello made Batman's biggest enemy into his mother figure, probably causing Freud to vibrate in his grave, Morrison was going with their whole chest "Batman is uncomfortable with women because he's got mother issues connected to abandonment", in Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth. And sadly it didn't make the final cut, but Morrison also wanted Joker dressed like Madonna.

Do you understand now why I had to write that one fic?

It's not just that Bruce might crave praise and validation for his efforts, to feel like he's good enough. He also has a pattern of seeking out emotionally unavailable women, and relationships that might be doomed from the start. It's for many reasons, including his avoidant tendencies, but also it's about getting the love from the right people. From people he has to chase, to work hard to attain their standards; people who are able to beat him and thus who's respect or praise means something. In a way, the more "dark" or emotionally unavailable the individual, the more a thing in Bruce goes "If I got their love it would really mean I'm good enough." In a sad way, this is the core of what makes many people go "Oh this person is such an asshole, but what if they were nice only to me?"

And Joker is the potential epitome of that. He's the ultimate darkness in Bruce's life and the ultimate... unavailable person, for a thousand different reasons. He proclaims love, but it's not a comforting kind; Bruce sees it as a weapon Joker wields against him, and not something real. So to me, it makes sense that Joker offering (motherly) comfort, praise, love-- safety-- would get to Bruce viscerally in a way he might not even be able to understand.

[cheaploafs]

Ruin each other like star crossed lovers…

[front-facing-pokemon]

[love-3-crimes]

20(xx) - xander

blurred line between blue and pink

[homestuckreplay]

Knighthoods of the Mail

(pages 919-925)

I really like both these panels, the extreme downward angle on Jade who has the disadvantage of being small and the advantage of being alive and angry, and the close up on Grandpa, both of them lit by the strange pink-orange firelight. Fire and burning is a threat we’ve seen for all four kids now, so it creates that parallel, and also a surreal atmosphere from the composition of both images.

Jade is also speaking in the narration on this page – it’s italicized and first person instead of second, written in her register. None of the other kids have done this yet, the narrator is always between them and us. I like the implication that Jade is overriding the narrator but also the idea that the narrator is like ‘you know what, I’m taking this page off, I’m just gonna let her shout’. It’s fun, and I’m interested to see if it’ll happen more.

I am still pretty fucked up over this reveal but personally I would have done it a little differently – the gut punch of ‘He was so much easier to deal with when he was alive’ (p.920) could have been SO much more effective if it hadn’t already been obvious from their Strife that this is not a living man. Even keeping the original sequence but publishing the pages at the same time would have worked, but sitting for a day between the Strife sequence and that line meant it didn’t hit as hard for me.

I do still have a lot of questions. Jade knows Grandpa is dead but seems to still genuinely believe they’re communicating, and who’s to say they’re not? Who’s to say Jade’s powers don’t tell her exactly what Grandpa is saying or would say in this circumstance? If so, it must be a lot harder psychologically to escape his expectations. But even if Jade’s powers don’t come into it, there’s practical concerns – how long ago did Grandpa die, and does anyone besides Jade even know? It’s easy to say Jade should redecorate the house but living so remotely where mail has to be airdropped in balloons, she’s probably not physically capable of that, and can’t get other people to do it for her. Typheus is a little big to captchalogue and where else would Jade even put him?

So I guess I kind of get it? In the sense of Jade keeping the only life and routine she’s ever known, going through the same motions with a stuffed grandpa that she once did with a real one, because the barriers to doing anything different are so high? It’s really easy to adapt to a strange situation when you don’t have a point of comparison to know it’s strange, and when it happens so regularly that it becomes like autopilot.

We cut back to PM, my absolute beloved, one of my most favorite characters. They haven’t been seriously hurt by Jade’s explosive powers but their head wrappings are on fire (btw is the pointy tail of their head covering the shape of the fabric or the shape of their head??) and some of the mailboxes are tragic casualties of the event, which I may never forgive Jade for.

And then one of the metal worms rescues a mailbox! The all important mailbox with the letter to Dr David Brinner in it! Redemption arc for the metal worms who have definitely learned from their predecessors’ mistakes. This is a beautiful, angelic worm deserving of high honors, and PM knows it, giving them an equally metallic heart. If the postal service had an equivalent for a knighthood for a postal worker who goes above and beyond to preserve the integrity of the mail then PM would award that to this worm. I am thinking about PM as a dispenser of justice – someone with a really strong, inflexible moral code who is willing to impartially punish those who break it and reward those who keep it.

> PM: Bequeath the mailman’s cap to this hero.

[solariex]

im forever going to blame red blog avm cursing us everytime something happens to us at this point /j

[kodokberjamur]

Uhh so I blacked out, and—

[midnightsartcorner]

oc art again

[unusual-ly]

Olaf was very ill in the night and we took him to the vet at 2am, and it turned out he had other problems. We expected a UTI, but he also had arthritis and an extremely high heart rate, and the vet said he would’ve estimated he was way older than 10 if we didn’t know for sure

He could be treated for the UTI but it’s too likely to just come back later on, one of our older cats had the same thing twice shortly before he died, and he obviously had other health issues we hadn’t known about. We decided it was best to let him go

RIP Olaf, my monkey

[triangle-strategy-notes]

Quahaug Concept Art

Quahaug's concept/reference art! Translation notes and image id under the cut.

Translation notes:

"OP sort of powerset" was literally translated as something like "cheat-like." I feel like OP is the more common English term for that sort of thing, so that's what I used, but some of the meaning was probably lost there.

"Older-tween-ish" was specifically a reference to a particular middle school year for children who are about 12-13 years old. Since grades and names of grades vary a lot from country to country, I just went with "older tween."

ID:

[Image id: Several images displaying different parts of 2 pages of the Triangle Strategy artbook, with both the original Japanese as well as versions with English translations. There are several disclaimers noting that the translator doesn't speak Japanese, and that there are likely many mistakes.

On one page, there is a large colored version of Quahaug's canon portrait, along with a smaller, uncolored version. There is an illustrator's note at the bottom that translates to read, "'Manipulating time' is an OP sort of powerset, so though he looks like a child, I aimed to create a look for him that conveyed a sense of unknowable power. (Tatsuaki Urushibara)".

On the second page, there are many drawings of Quahaug, including a closer bust-up portrait in which he's compared to Lyla, with an arrow and label reading, "Mother." There's also several notes that explain the construction of his costume. The costume is labeled as a Greek "phelonion" (a priest's outfit with no real sleeves, just draping fabric). There is a small drawing of this version, with an arrow leading to another drawing that does have sleeves, with the note, "If you can't display this in pixels, use this one." There are several notes that explain how this draping cloth should be considered his everyday clothes, while the ceremonial decoration that goes around his neck is placed over it. There is a close up of the ceremonial dressing's fastenings underneath the metal decoration. Some more notes highlight details on his staff, emphasizing the hourglass on top and the small wheel to the side that can be turned to flip the hourglass. A larger piece of text underneath one fullbody drawing reads, "Character Who Manipulates Time."

On the second half of the second page, there are drawings of some beta designs for Quahaug. He looks much more punk-ish. On one bust-up portrait, there are the captions, "The burden of the time demon caused some of his hair to go gray…." and "All-natural highlighted tips." On the same portrait, he is snapping his fingers, and there's a note that reads, "Manipulating time is as easy as snapping your fingers. You just have to want it or whatever." A speech bubble near his head reads, "I don't think of Anna as a mother." A caption pointing to some green markings on his arm reads, "Demonic time seal on body." In a fullbody drawing of his beta design (which is made up mostly of chains that barely cover him as well as a long roughed-up cloak, there is the note, "Almost naked cloak."

At the bottom of the second page, there is another note that reads, "Initially when we hadn't quite figured out the setting, we had an idea for a more older-tween-ish character as displayed here, but after discussing it with the producers and Mr. Ikushima, we went with his current form. As a boy who manipulates time, I placed an hourglass at the tip of his staff, and his face resembles that of his mother, Lyla. (Tatsuaki Irushibara)". /end id]

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

All the stock images of the 10th Doctor are. Silly. Like geniune white-backdrop, doing some random pose or expression stock images. Like not "this is the picture png stock image that gets slapped on his wiki and other places" but like the if you Google "stock images of people" it's just that. Except him.

[sskk-manifesto]

What a good episode. Maaaaaan

[penitenteyeball]

Dum de dum dum

Gonna add max tags and max characters to each cause who cares

[nobodybetterlookatme]

Once again, my favorite part of my job is pissing off my medic and ruining their day lmao