devilfic

[devilfic]

civic duty

[devilfic]

damian wayne i would die for you

[devilfic]

I think one thing that is so interesting about the penguin show is how it inadvertedly reinforces a theme that we see in the batman movie. Which is that batman is a fucking weirdo.

The movie makes clear time and again how people think batman is a freak and the camera constantly frames him as a creepy guy that is just out of place. Why is this adult walking around dressed like a bat all over crime scenes?

So then the penguin show comes in and we get 8 hours of gritty, realistic, grimy, down to earth criminal violence. Is all so grounded and dirty. The stakes are so realistic, the human drama so immediate and visceral. It feels like batman cannot be part of this world. If the batman were to show up at any point in this story it would feel as out of place as the batman showing up in the wire.

But it also emphasizes how much of an out of context threat the batman is for criminals, how much of a nuclear bomb he is on the criminal proceedings of the city because the fact remains that he could show up at any minute. That is just how he operates, while sofia and salvatore and oz are all running around trying to put their ducks in a row batman could have at any moment burst out from the fucking ceiling, beat the shit out of everyone and ruin everyones month.

Oswald and sofia have to plan so much to try and outsmart each other, they are constantly having to maneuver and pull whatever threads of influence they have. They desperatly improvise and play these elaborate games of chess around each other and their families and the city to get a single inch.

They pay so much attention to what muscle they have, and their money and their conections and their reputation. At any given moment how many people you have around you and their guns and your money are vital to keep track of. The batman doesnt care about any of that. No matter how many goons you hire or how feared you are on the streets, the batman can just come and brute force his way through all of it and leave them upside down tied to a light pole.

With all this in mind going through this show felt like a kind of tragedy, not because of the moral putrefaction of the main character, because ultimatly when you watch a show about the penguin you expect that. It felt like a tragedy because i knew that no matter how hard oz tries, and no matter how clever his plans get, and no matter if he wins in the end and he defeats his enemies and triumphes in conquering the city... the batman is waiting for him at the end of this all. It will all prove to be completly futile, because the fate of the penguin is to get his shit pushed in by the batman.

And i say tragedy, because that is what it felt like as i watched the show. But when i reached the end... well lets just say by the time i reached the end i was begging for the batman to come in, my one biggest consolation from watching this human wasteland of a show is that oswald cobb wont get to enjoy this for long because batman will come as the righteous hero as well as the only force in this city capable of stopping him, and will have him taste the mean end of a batarang.

Truly this show did for the penguin what heath ledger did for the joker

[devilfic]

Everyone is fighting a tough battle so reblog to give previous a sword 🗡️

[devilfic]

To all of my Muslim followers, I am sending you love and hope for a calm, happy, generous and blessed Ramadan.

[devilfic]

we’re eating chicken chicken chicken chicken™ chicken at chicken chicken chicken chicken™ near the crossroads of wolfing and fucking in fucking, austria

[devilfic]

the love i have for this show knows no bounds

[devilfic]

daredevil is? catholic

Catholic king of premarital sex can’t smoke a joint?

[devilfic]

Hey pookie you got any game recommendations like blooming panic perhaps 😋

ya! here's some things for ya

a list of games similar to BP

BP fan games

another chatsim we made called "seekL"

[devilfic]

❝domesticated❞

plot: on valentine's day, bruce leaves you high and dry. you don't forgive easy. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: established relationship, a little suggestive, reader tortures bruce for superheroing on date night, minor violence (reader presses on his bruises but, of course, he's into it), yearning bruce, he wants that cookie so mf bad. words: 1.4k.

a/n: just like bruce I am also late for valentine's day :D dealing with major writer's block but I was reminded of the bed scene in challengers and couldn't shake it.

Bruce rarely allows himself to be like this. Even when he’s got a knife gut-deep, cornered on all sides, he never lets himself get this weak. This mindless. This depraved.

But here he is, and here you are—smiling tightly. It gnaws at his pride, begging him to be honest with himself as he collapses on the foot of the bed. The pain of landing on his bruises does nothing to sober him as he begins to crawl up to you. Your knees are pressed to your chest, but the closer he gets, the more they part, allowing him to drag his upper body up and into your lap where he rests. His face presses into your stomach. You can feel the low rumble in his chest. One of your hands sinks into his hair and he nuzzles a little closer to you, “Bad day?”

Your tone is just slightly mocking. Just enough to agitate him, but not enough for him to regain his sense. He grits his teeth and nods, and the action has his cheek rubbing against your warm skin.

When he props his chin up, you’re not looking at him but the book in your other hand. You’re close to the end judging by the last half-inch of paper steadied between your fingers. His deep sigh does nothing to stir your sympathy. “It was all gone.”

“Hm?”

“The panna cotta. You said you’d save me some.”

“Oh,” you say belatedly, clearly in the middle of a rousing scene, “sorry, must’ve ate it all.”

“All of it?”

“I invited my friends over after you left. Guess I just lost track of it.”

He knew that, and you probably knew that he knew that. No one came and went in the penthouse without him knowing. He’d gotten the notification that several of your close friends had arrived a quarter to nine, and had only left an hour ago. The timing was impeccable. Of course you knew him well, and of course you’d make sure it was just the two of you when he inevitably came back from patrol. It doesn’t make the craving he'd looked forward to satiating go away.

And he knows he has no right to be upset. He’d left the panna cotta (and you) behind for—he twists his arm a bit and it twinges with a sharp pain—for this.

You don’t even look his way when he lets out a pained gasp.

Bruce presses his cheek to your stomach again, and his fingers travel under your sweater to sap the warmth for his own when you abruptly pull your hand from his hair to shove his away. He freezes, only hearing your voice grumbling out a “’S cold.”

Fuck. “I’m sorry.” He forces his fingers into the duvet to warm them, but he isn’t confident you’ll let him try again even if they were warm enough. His head in your lap was all he could get, apparently. All he could get without an apology. A proper apology.

Of course, his pride resurfaces then. He wants to be stubborn about it. You knew the city was important to him, that it was a priority. He’d hero’d away from plenty of dates to save the city from collapse and you’d always understood. Why was now any different?

But deep down, past the thorny pride and hunger and longing, is the truth: a burning city and patrol as usual were two very different things. Especially on February 14th. He’d fucked up.

When his fingers are significantly warm enough, he places both hands on your thighs, pressing his thumbs into the meat of them and rubbing in circles. He turns his head just in time to catch your eyebrow twitch, but otherwise, you continue to ignore him. He presses his chin into your stomach and hums against you. “Did you have fun?”

He sees you swallow, then smile. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t want them to leave.”

Something indignant pulls at his insides at that. “You should have them over more often.”

“It’s hard.” The hand that had been in his hair, that had shoved him away, rises and he thinks you might touch him again, but it floats past him to flip to the next page in your book. “The timing and all. I never know when you’re gonna be here or not.” And finally, finally, you look at him. Oh, you’re really pissed.

“I can… I can try—“

“Can you?”

Your tone stings, piercing him right between the ribs. He wants to burrow into you and hide, but instead he catches the whine rising in the back of his throat and shifts against the sheets. You watch him resist a squirm, but he knows you can feel his grip on your thighs getting stronger. You go back to reading your book.

With his heart beating fast against the mattress, Bruce groans low in his throat and drops his lips to your inner thigh, placing hurried kisses against your skin. He hears you call his name but he doesn’t respond, except maybe to spread his kisses to your navel, traveling across to the other thigh. Eventually, he feels your hand in his hair again, but it’s yanking him away from your skin and he is determined not to let you. He grabs your wrist and kisses that instead, traveling up to your elbow as he begins to crawl over you. It takes your thumb pressing into the bruise on his shoulder to shock him out of his stupor. He breaks away with a hot whine that he wouldn’t dare let anyone else hear. On good days, even you wouldn’t hear him making sounds like this. Looking gutted like this. He is well and truly fucked.

You grip his face in two hands, holding him far enough away that he can’t swoop in for a kiss again. He lets you manhandle him, falling against you with all his weight. “Say it or I’m going to bed.” His ego makes another appearance underneath the yearning. You must see the internal conflict because your eyes narrow. “You’re unbelievable—“

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, a little muffled from the way you’re squishing his cheeks together, “I shouldn’t have left.”

You hold, perhaps waiting for an excuse to follow, and that sours him even more. Welllllllll and truly fucked. “Yeah? Why not?”

His nose scrunches. “…I promised I wouldn’t be back late.”

“And what time is it now?”

His eyes flicker over to the clock on your bedside, reading back 3:20 in analog. “Late.”

You shift to holding his face with one hand, pressing your nails into the skin of his cheeks. The other hand goes for one of his bruises again and he only has the heart to writhe a little bit before you’re pressing on it. “And was it worth it?”

Bruce shakes his face from your grip, dropping his mouth to your shoulder to kiss (and bite, especially when you don’t stop digging into his bruise). His head is foggy with guilt and regret and the milk and honey of your earlier bath. He’s not usually this crass, but he hisses out a “hell no” that gets his feelings across just fine.

“It won’t happen again, will it?” That gives him pause. You feel him still against you. Forcing him back to see his face, you notice he struggles to hold your gaze. He’s making an attempt, you can tell, to think about it. “Bruce.” He looks at you helplessly. “Am I asking for too much?”

You’d told him time and time again that if he wanted this to work, an hour was what you needed. One hour, however he could fit it in. Tonight, he’d promised you that, and couldn’t even follow through.

You’re not asking this because you’re worried. He can hear the quiet threat underneath, the meaning that lines his veins with ice: that, if it was too much, there was only one solution.

Once upon a time, the answer would’ve been simple. His pride knows that, knows that’s why it rallied and roared even as it now weakly gives into you, curling into your palm. Domesticated. You’ve done something irreversible to him.

He’s sure you can see the moment he concedes, laying down his weapons at your feet, because you finally let up on his shoulder. You’re the one who swoops in for a kiss this time, taking his tongue into your mouth just as he settles fully above you. He feels something shut off in his brain, something that would have been gnawing at him until it reached bone before. It’s quiet. Sometimes, he forgets the numbing pleasure that giving into you offers until it warms his skin again.

[devilfic]

CHARLIE COX as MATT MURDOCK 3.07: Aftermath

[devilfic]

I think your Right Place, Right Time series re-wrote my brain chemistry.

Like holy shit. Im dying. Its so good?!

How dare you make me simp for another fictional man. The gall.

my goal in this era of my life is to make as many people want battinson!bruce as possible because maybe it’ll make part II come out faster

[devilfic]

❝domesticated❞

plot: on valentine's day, bruce leaves you high and dry. you don't forgive easy. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: established relationship, a little suggestive, reader tortures bruce for superheroing on date night, minor violence (reader presses on his bruises but, of course, he's into it), yearning bruce, he wants that cookie so mf bad. words: 1.4k.

a/n: just like bruce I am also late for valentine's day :D dealing with major writer's block but I was reminded of the bed scene in challengers and couldn't shake it.

Bruce rarely allows himself to be like this. Even when he’s got a knife gut-deep, cornered on all sides, he never lets himself get this weak. This mindless. This depraved.

But here he is, and here you are—smiling tightly. It gnaws at his pride, begging him to be honest with himself as he collapses on the foot of the bed. The pain of landing on his bruises does nothing to sober him as he begins to crawl up to you. Your knees are pressed to your chest, but the closer he gets, the more they part, allowing him to drag his upper body up and into your lap where he rests. His face presses into your stomach. You can feel the low rumble in his chest. One of your hands sinks into his hair and he nuzzles a little closer to you, “Bad day?”

Your tone is just slightly mocking. Just enough to agitate him, but not enough for him to regain his sense. He grits his teeth and nods, and the action has his cheek rubbing against your warm skin.

When he props his chin up, you’re not looking at him but the book in your other hand. You’re close to the end judging by the last half-inch of paper steadied between your fingers. His deep sigh does nothing to stir your sympathy. “It was all gone.”

“Hm?”

“The panna cotta. You said you’d save me some.”

“Oh,” you say belatedly, clearly in the middle of a rousing scene, “sorry, must’ve ate it all.”

“All of it?”

“I invited my friends over after you left. Guess I just lost track of it.”

He knew that, and you probably knew that he knew that. No one came and went in the penthouse without him knowing. He’d gotten the notification that several of your close friends had arrived a quarter to nine, and had only left an hour ago. The timing was impeccable. Of course you knew him well, and of course you’d make sure it was just the two of you when he inevitably came back from patrol. It doesn’t make the craving he'd looked forward to satiating go away.

And he knows he has no right to be upset. He’d left the panna cotta (and you) behind for—he twists his arm a bit and it twinges with a sharp pain—for this.

You don’t even look his way when he lets out a pained gasp.

Bruce presses his cheek to your stomach again, and his fingers travel under your sweater to sap the warmth for his own when you abruptly pull your hand from his hair to shove his away. He freezes, only hearing your voice grumbling out a “’S cold.”

Fuck. “I’m sorry.” He forces his fingers into the duvet to warm them, but he isn’t confident you’ll let him try again even if they were warm enough. His head in your lap was all he could get, apparently. All he could get without an apology. A proper apology.

Of course, his pride resurfaces then. He wants to be stubborn about it. You knew the city was important to him, that it was a priority. He’d hero’d away from plenty of dates to save the city from collapse and you’d always understood. Why was now any different?

But deep down, past the thorny pride and hunger and longing, is the truth: a burning city and patrol as usual were two very different things. Especially on February 14th. He’d fucked up.

When his fingers are significantly warm enough, he places both hands on your thighs, pressing his thumbs into the meat of them and rubbing in circles. He turns his head just in time to catch your eyebrow twitch, but otherwise, you continue to ignore him. He presses his chin into your stomach and hums against you. “Did you have fun?”

He sees you swallow, then smile. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t want them to leave.”

Something indignant pulls at his insides at that. “You should have them over more often.”

“It’s hard.” The hand that had been in his hair, that had shoved him away, rises and he thinks you might touch him again, but it floats past him to flip to the next page in your book. “The timing and all. I never know when you’re gonna be here or not.” And finally, finally, you look at him. Oh, you’re really pissed.

“I can… I can try—“

“Can you?”

Your tone stings, piercing him right between the ribs. He wants to burrow into you and hide, but instead he catches the whine rising in the back of his throat and shifts against the sheets. You watch him resist a squirm, but he knows you can feel his grip on your thighs getting stronger. You go back to reading your book.

With his heart beating fast against the mattress, Bruce groans low in his throat and drops his lips to your inner thigh, placing hurried kisses against your skin. He hears you call his name but he doesn’t respond, except maybe to spread his kisses to your navel, traveling across to the other thigh. Eventually, he feels your hand in his hair again, but it’s yanking him away from your skin and he is determined not to let you. He grabs your wrist and kisses that instead, traveling up to your elbow as he begins to crawl over you. It takes your thumb pressing into the bruise on his shoulder to shock him out of his stupor. He breaks away with a hot whine that he wouldn’t dare let anyone else hear. On good days, even you wouldn’t hear him making sounds like this. Looking gutted like this. He is well and truly fucked.

You grip his face in two hands, holding him far enough away that he can’t swoop in for a kiss again. He lets you manhandle him, falling against you with all his weight. “Say it or I’m going to bed.” His ego makes another appearance underneath the yearning. You must see the internal conflict because your eyes narrow. “You’re unbelievable—“

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, a little muffled from the way you’re squishing his cheeks together, “I shouldn’t have left.”

You hold, perhaps waiting for an excuse to follow, and that sours him even more. Welllllllll and truly fucked. “Yeah? Why not?”

His nose scrunches. “…I promised I wouldn’t be back late.”

“And what time is it now?”

His eyes flicker over to the clock on your bedside, reading back 3:20 in analog. “Late.”

You shift to holding his face with one hand, pressing your nails into the skin of his cheeks. The other hand goes for one of his bruises again and he only has the heart to writhe a little bit before you’re pressing on it. “And was it worth it?”

Bruce shakes his face from your grip, dropping his mouth to your shoulder to kiss (and bite, especially when you don’t stop digging into his bruise). His head is foggy with guilt and regret and the milk and honey of your earlier bath. He’s not usually this crass, but he hisses out a “hell no” that gets his feelings across just fine.

“It won’t happen again, will it?” That gives him pause. You feel him still against you. Forcing him back to see his face, you notice he struggles to hold your gaze. He’s making an attempt, you can tell, to think about it. “Bruce.” He looks at you helplessly. “Am I asking for too much?”

You’d told him time and time again that if he wanted this to work, an hour was what you needed. One hour, however he could fit it in. Tonight, he’d promised you that, and couldn’t even follow through.

You’re not asking this because you’re worried. He can hear the quiet threat underneath, the meaning that lines his veins with ice: that, if it was too much, there was only one solution.

Once upon a time, the answer would’ve been simple. His pride knows that, knows that’s why it rallied and roared even as it now weakly gives into you, curling into your palm. Domesticated. You’ve done something irreversible to him.

He’s sure you can see the moment he concedes, laying down his weapons at your feet, because you finally let up on his shoulder. You’re the one who swoops in for a kiss this time, taking his tongue into your mouth just as he settles fully above you. He feels something shut off in his brain, something that would have been gnawing at him until it reached bone before. It’s quiet. Sometimes, he forgets the numbing pleasure that giving into you offers until it warms his skin again.

[devilfic]

PEE???? CRAZY BABY?

[devilfic]

why does my mother suddenly fail kindergarten whenever she tries to do anything on the computer

[devilfic]

do u hear that??? that’s me SQUEALING at the absolute sweetest treat you have just written for us!!!! i love love LOVE the way you write bruce. I ADORE IT!

YES MORE PATHETIC BRUCE FOR THE MASSES IN THESE TRYING TIMES

[devilfic]

❝domesticated❞

plot: on valentine's day, bruce leaves you high and dry. you don't forgive easy. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: established relationship, a little suggestive, reader tortures bruce for superheroing on date night, minor violence (reader presses on his bruises but, of course, he's into it), yearning bruce, he wants that cookie so mf bad. words: 1.4k.

a/n: just like bruce I am also late for valentine's day :D dealing with major writer's block but I was reminded of the bed scene in challengers and couldn't shake it.

Bruce rarely allows himself to be like this. Even when he’s got a knife gut-deep, cornered on all sides, he never lets himself get this weak. This mindless. This depraved.

But here he is, and here you are—smiling tightly. It gnaws at his pride, begging him to be honest with himself as he collapses on the foot of the bed. The pain of landing on his bruises does nothing to sober him as he begins to crawl up to you. Your knees are pressed to your chest, but the closer he gets, the more they part, allowing him to drag his upper body up and into your lap where he rests. His face presses into your stomach. You can feel the low rumble in his chest. One of your hands sinks into his hair and he nuzzles a little closer to you, “Bad day?”

Your tone is just slightly mocking. Just enough to agitate him, but not enough for him to regain his sense. He grits his teeth and nods, and the action has his cheek rubbing against your warm skin.

When he props his chin up, you’re not looking at him but the book in your other hand. You’re close to the end judging by the last half-inch of paper steadied between your fingers. His deep sigh does nothing to stir your sympathy. “It was all gone.”

“Hm?”

“The panna cotta. You said you’d save me some.”

“Oh,” you say belatedly, clearly in the middle of a rousing scene, “sorry, must’ve ate it all.”

“All of it?”

“I invited my friends over after you left. Guess I just lost track of it.”

He knew that, and you probably knew that he knew that. No one came and went in the penthouse without him knowing. He’d gotten the notification that several of your close friends had arrived a quarter to nine, and had only left an hour ago. The timing was impeccable. Of course you knew him well, and of course you’d make sure it was just the two of you when he inevitably came back from patrol. It doesn’t make the craving he'd looked forward to satiating go away.

And he knows he has no right to be upset. He’d left the panna cotta (and you) behind for—he twists his arm a bit and it twinges with a sharp pain—for this.

You don’t even look his way when he lets out a pained gasp.

Bruce presses his cheek to your stomach again, and his fingers travel under your sweater to sap the warmth for his own when you abruptly pull your hand from his hair to shove his away. He freezes, only hearing your voice grumbling out a “’S cold.”

Fuck. “I’m sorry.” He forces his fingers into the duvet to warm them, but he isn’t confident you’ll let him try again even if they were warm enough. His head in your lap was all he could get, apparently. All he could get without an apology. A proper apology.

Of course, his pride resurfaces then. He wants to be stubborn about it. You knew the city was important to him, that it was a priority. He’d hero’d away from plenty of dates to save the city from collapse and you’d always understood. Why was now any different?

But deep down, past the thorny pride and hunger and longing, is the truth: a burning city and patrol as usual were two very different things. Especially on February 14th. He’d fucked up.

When his fingers are significantly warm enough, he places both hands on your thighs, pressing his thumbs into the meat of them and rubbing in circles. He turns his head just in time to catch your eyebrow twitch, but otherwise, you continue to ignore him. He presses his chin into your stomach and hums against you. “Did you have fun?”

He sees you swallow, then smile. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t want them to leave.”

Something indignant pulls at his insides at that. “You should have them over more often.”

“It’s hard.” The hand that had been in his hair, that had shoved him away, rises and he thinks you might touch him again, but it floats past him to flip to the next page in your book. “The timing and all. I never know when you’re gonna be here or not.” And finally, finally, you look at him. Oh, you’re really pissed.

“I can… I can try—“

“Can you?”

Your tone stings, piercing him right between the ribs. He wants to burrow into you and hide, but instead he catches the whine rising in the back of his throat and shifts against the sheets. You watch him resist a squirm, but he knows you can feel his grip on your thighs getting stronger. You go back to reading your book.

With his heart beating fast against the mattress, Bruce groans low in his throat and drops his lips to your inner thigh, placing hurried kisses against your skin. He hears you call his name but he doesn’t respond, except maybe to spread his kisses to your navel, traveling across to the other thigh. Eventually, he feels your hand in his hair again, but it’s yanking him away from your skin and he is determined not to let you. He grabs your wrist and kisses that instead, traveling up to your elbow as he begins to crawl over you. It takes your thumb pressing into the bruise on his shoulder to shock him out of his stupor. He breaks away with a hot whine that he wouldn’t dare let anyone else hear. On good days, even you wouldn’t hear him making sounds like this. Looking gutted like this. He is well and truly fucked.

You grip his face in two hands, holding him far enough away that he can’t swoop in for a kiss again. He lets you manhandle him, falling against you with all his weight. “Say it or I’m going to bed.” His ego makes another appearance underneath the yearning. You must see the internal conflict because your eyes narrow. “You’re unbelievable—“

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, a little muffled from the way you’re squishing his cheeks together, “I shouldn’t have left.”

You hold, perhaps waiting for an excuse to follow, and that sours him even more. Welllllllll and truly fucked. “Yeah? Why not?”

His nose scrunches. “…I promised I wouldn’t be back late.”

“And what time is it now?”

His eyes flicker over to the clock on your bedside, reading back 3:20 in analog. “Late.”

You shift to holding his face with one hand, pressing your nails into the skin of his cheeks. The other hand goes for one of his bruises again and he only has the heart to writhe a little bit before you’re pressing on it. “And was it worth it?”

Bruce shakes his face from your grip, dropping his mouth to your shoulder to kiss (and bite, especially when you don’t stop digging into his bruise). His head is foggy with guilt and regret and the milk and honey of your earlier bath. He’s not usually this crass, but he hisses out a “hell no” that gets his feelings across just fine.

“It won’t happen again, will it?” That gives him pause. You feel him still against you. Forcing him back to see his face, you notice he struggles to hold your gaze. He’s making an attempt, you can tell, to think about it. “Bruce.” He looks at you helplessly. “Am I asking for too much?”

You’d told him time and time again that if he wanted this to work, an hour was what you needed. One hour, however he could fit it in. Tonight, he’d promised you that, and couldn’t even follow through.

You’re not asking this because you’re worried. He can hear the quiet threat underneath, the meaning that lines his veins with ice: that, if it was too much, there was only one solution.

Once upon a time, the answer would’ve been simple. His pride knows that, knows that’s why it rallied and roared even as it now weakly gives into you, curling into your palm. Domesticated. You’ve done something irreversible to him.

He’s sure you can see the moment he concedes, laying down his weapons at your feet, because you finally let up on his shoulder. You’re the one who swoops in for a kiss this time, taking his tongue into your mouth just as he settles fully above you. He feels something shut off in his brain, something that would have been gnawing at him until it reached bone before. It’s quiet. Sometimes, he forgets the numbing pleasure that giving into you offers until it warms his skin again.