#( ~paragraph. )

[lesbinewren]

we need to make using chatgpt embarrassing bc sorry it really is. what do you mean you can’t write an email

[spooksier]

passages that make you whisper "oh my god"

[simplyfroggy]

me when a movie is bad: 👎

me when a movie is good: 👍

me when a movie is mediocre:

[fluentisonus]

☞ THUS

[pepsinister]

tw: broken frontal bone tw: broken left parietal bone tw: broken right parietal bone tw: broken left temporal bone tw: broken right temporal bone tw: broken occipital bone tw: broken sphenoid bone tw: broken ethmoid bone tw: broken mandible tw: broken left maxilla tw: broken right maxilla tw: broken left palantine bone tw: broken right palantine bone tw: broken left zygomatic bone tw: broken right zygomatic bone tw: broken left nasal bone tw: broken right nasal bone tw: broken left lacrimal bone tw: broken right lacrimal bone tw: broken vomer tw: broken left nasal conchae tw: broken right nasal conchae tw: broken left malleus tw: broken right malleus tw: broken left incus tw: broken right incus tw: broken left stapes tw: broken right stapes tw: broken hyoid tw: broken left scapula tw: broken right scapula tw: broken left clavicle tw: broken right clavicle tw: broken sternum tw: broken left rib 1 tw: broken left rib 2 tw: broken left rib 3 tw: broken left rib 4 tw: broken left rib 5 tw: broken left rib 6 tw: broken left rib 7 tw: broken left rib 8 tw: broken left rib 9 tw: broken left rib 10 tw: broken left rib 11 tw: broken left rib 12 tw: broken right rib 1 tw: broken right rib 2 tw: broken right rib 3 tw: broken right rib 4

tw: broken right rib 5 tw: broken right rib 6 tw: broken right rib 7 tw: broken right rib 8 tw: broken right rib 9 tw: broken right rib 10 tw: broken right rib 11 tw: broken right rib 12 tw: broken cervical vertebra 1 tw: broken cervical vertebra 2 tw: broken cervical vertebra 3 tw: broken cervical vertebra 4 tw: broken cervical vertebra 5 tw: broken cervical vertebra 6 tw: broken cervical vertebra 7 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 1 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 2 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 3 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 4 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 5 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 6 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 7 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 8 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 9 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 10 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 11 tw: broken thoracic vertebra 12 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 1 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 2 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 3 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 4 tw: broken lumbar vertebra 5 tw: broken sacrum tw: broken coccyx tw: broken left humerus tw: broken right humerus tw: broken left radius tw: broken right radius tw: broken left ulna tw: broken right ulna tw: broken left scaphoid bone tw: broken right scaphoid bone tw: broken left lunate bone tw: broken right lunate bone tw: broken left triquetral bone tw: broken right triquetral bone tw: broken left pisiform bone

tw: broken right pisiform bone tw: broken left trapezium tw: broken right trapezium tw: broken left trapezoid bone tw: broken right trapezoid bone tw: broken left capitate bone tw: broken right capitate bone tw: broken left hamate bone tw: broken right hamate bone tw: broken left metacarpal 1 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 2 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 3 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 4 bone tw: broken left metacarpal 5 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 1 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 2 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 3 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 4 bone tw: broken right metacarpal 5 bone tw: broken left proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 5 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 5 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 1 tw: broken left distal phalanx 2 tw: broken left distal phalanx 3 tw: broken left distal phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 5 tw: broken right distal phalanx 1 tw: broken right distal phalanx 2 tw: broken right distal phalanx 3 tw: broken right distal phalanx 4 tw: broken right distal phalanx 5 tw: broken left innominate bone tw: broken right innominate bone tw: broken left femur tw: broken right femur

tw: broken left patella tw: broken right patella tw: broken left tibia tw: broken right tibia tw: broken left fibula tw: broken right fibula tw: broken left calcaneus tw: broken right calcaneus tw: broken left talus tw: broken right talus tw: broken left navicular bone tw: broken right navicular bone tw: broken left medial cuneiform bone tw: broken right medial cuneiform bone tw: broken left intermediate cuneiform bone tw: broken right intermediate cuneiform bone tw: broken left lateral cuneiform bone tw: broken right lateral cuneiform bone tw: broken left cuboid bone tw: broken right cuboid bone tw: broken left metatarsal 1 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 2 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 3 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 4 bone tw: broken left metatarsal 5 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 1 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 2 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 3 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 4 bone tw: broken right metatarsal 5 bone tw: broken left proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken left proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 1 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 2 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 3 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 4 tw: broken right proximal phalanx 5 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 1 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken left intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 1 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 2 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 3 tw: broken right intermediate phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 1 tw: broken left distal phalanx 2 tw: broken left distal phalanx 3 tw: broken left distal phalanx 4 tw: broken left distal phalanx 5 tw: broken right distal phalanx 1 tw: broken right distal phalanx 2 tw: broken right distal phalanx 3 tw: broken right distal phalanx 4 tw: broken right distal phalanx 5

tw: bruising

just had a bad accident

[waywardstation]

Look for anything (or anyone) that could be familiar

For part two:

❤️ 300 likes

🔁 70 reblogs

Reblog with the hashtag:

🔼 for Ingo to find Emmet

🔽 for Emmet to find Ingo

[oars]

[tadfools]

You guys are commenting on the fics you read right? You’re at least leaving kudos on the Astarion smut and the pairs that have less than 20 fics for them too? You’re bookmarking stories you really like that are still being updated and ones that haven’t been touched in over a year right?

You know that even the smallest interactions are like cocaine to fic writers right? You understand how important a string of emoji hearts left behind on a chapter at three am is right?? Right????

You’re treating AO3 like a community and not a content factory….right?

[lovelyghst]

just imagine ghost getting his Jacob's ladder piercing while he's dating you and after it's healed yall have sex for the first time and it's just like sensory overload

i know absolutely nothing about piercings, but this idea is simply too good to pass up. my brain is melting.

hmmm, thinking about ghost who, despite not being able to properly get off himself, is still so attentive to his sweet girl throughout the whole healing process; offering you his mouth and fingers whenever he notices your focus beginning to drift off and shift elsewhere, having you rub yourself up on his jean-clad thigh when you can’t seem to shake the burst of energy.

because while you never outright asked him for anything of the kind, he just knew.

and even if you were the one so insistent on following the piercer’s advice—taking each and every precaution possible in avoiding the risks that simon shrugged off as ‘not gonna happen.’—you still felt bad. though, he couldn’t resist your stern pouting for long, turning weak the moment you cocked your head and promised him a sweet treat when he’s all healed up.

so, of course, ‘whatever you say, doll.’

anything to put your pretty mind at ease. he is a soldier, after all. he can wait, even if it kills him. it got pretty damn close to it, too.

which is what makes the first time back so fucking good. that reunion, and the return of that glimmering look you get in your eyes every other time he presses his pink lips to your collar and gently hikes you up the mattress after a long time away.

and truthfully, he was done in the moment you tapped him on his shoulder and told him to guess what day it was.

“shit, baby—” he grits out with a heavy breath, eyes trained on your own as he watches you reverently lick up the underside of his cock. your fingers tighten around the base when his abs pull taut, tongue gliding over the cool metal.

taking your time in feeling each and every barbell leading to the tip, making him twitch in your hand at the hot and wet drag over his sensitive skin. a heavy breath seeps from his lungs, his jaw clenching as he fights to hold off. jesus, you’re too good to him.

a sweet fucking treat, indeed.

you giggle before taking the head of him between your swollen, spit-stained lips, reveling in the quick hiss he sucks in through his teeth as you whine at the familiar taste of his pre leaking onto your tongue. your other hand slips up his thigh while you squeeze your own together, your freshly done-up nails leaving little, pink crescent shapes in his thick skin.

“fuck— not gonna last ‘f you keep that up,” he warns, a struggle in and of itself, and it’s an utter miracle he doesn’t collapse to the floor when you only hollow your cheeks and suck in response. he hardly manages to stifle an embarrassingly whorish moan at that.

god, you look so pretty down there, on your knees for him. so fucking debauched, and so, so perfect.

the way your thumb toys with the piercings as you have your own fun, and how you preen in his hold like a sweet cat when he slips a hand to the back of your neck. he’s going to miss it when he forces himself to pull you away, frowning at the pout you give him as he’s lifting you off your feet and carrying you over to your bed.

“’m sorry, sweetheart… just too fuckin’ pretty for yer old man anymore— didn’t want it t’go to waste.”

he kisses your temple, mumbling his apologies in your hair. you hardly even register your bare back making contact with your sheets, so wrapped up in his hold, before he’s kissing his way down your neck.

“wanna fill yer pretty cunt,” he murmurs, and it’s nearly incoherent as his lips press against your racing pulse point. “make ‘er cum ‘round my cock… know y’missed it too, sweet girl. a proper fuck…”

he’s talking more to himself than anything, and a small gasp from you follows soon after when his arm is snaked between your bodies and his fingertips make contact with your swollen, little clit. won’t even stretch you out with his fingers; he’s had his fill of that over the course of the last month. let him feel how much you missed his cock.

“poor thing’s soaked f’me, baby.” he groans as he adjusts on his forearm and regains his bearings, dick twitching against your thigh with every noise squeaked out from your throat. “cunt’s gonna take me just right, lovie… so fuckin’ well…”

he rambles a lot when he’s needy, you’ve come to learn.

you whine when his hand leaves you to take his cock in a fist, your nails digging into his chest and shoulder when he presses the head to your messy pussy. just the tip in and you’re already seeing stars, the shared moan between the two of you raw and pornographic.

he’s gritting out his swears before you try to shush his dirty mouth with a kiss, and he accepts it greedily, almost too eagerly.

your body reacts to his, simultaneously craving more and trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation all at once. your brain is fuzzy by the time he’s nearly bottoming out inside you, ears deaf to the unabashed sounds spilling from your lips as the feeling of his fresh piercings dragging against your every sweet spot burns itself into your memory.

and before you can catch your breath, a thumb is being pressed up against your sensitive bud once again, your legs constricting around him involuntarily as you jolt with a cry. heat prickles at your skin, his teeth at your jaw making your spine tingle.

he’s telling you to cum, begging you to make a mess of his cock.

his hand picks up its pace, hips grinding against yours sloppier than ever as he pleads right up against your temple for you to use him, just finish him off, fucking cum for him.

you squeeze around his cock like a vice and pull him straight under with you, arms locked tight around his neck as your pretty cunt utterly wrecks him. making him throb and twitch, fucking himself dumb through his high and wringing him dry of everything he’s kept pent up for you. at least for now, anyway.

his and your panting rings out in the room as he sits back on his knees, his cock still hard as he gently pulls out of you. watching his pearly cum bead from your slit, your chest gradually slowing down within the time he takes to drool over the sight of you.

it’s not long before simon has you laying on your tummy with your head in the soft sheets, a pillow slipped underneath your hips to prop you up. not making you do an ounce of work as he uses your warm, pliant cunt as his sweet cum dump for hours on end.

fucking you gently, lovingly, all while trying his best to keep his weight off your back. he kisses behind your ear, cooing praises and choked grunts that make your tummy flutter with butterflies. you can only giggle into the pillow nestled in your arms as he makes up for all the lost time.

filling you with load after load, the number becoming lost on your fuzzy mind after a certain amount, until your belly is achingly full and his cock is numb from overstimulation. only to coax you onto your back, easing your limp legs apart to watch his cum leak from your pretty hole. pressing a flat palm to your lower tummy, sighing in time with your strangled noises as your sensitive pussy drips more of his spend. leaning forward and licking it all up like some starved mutt; groaning at the taste, arms tightening around your hips as he eats his mess out of his pretty girl.

[inkskinned]

the thing about some men is that they want you to remember, at all times, that you are underneath them. that with one word or look or "joke", you will stay beneath them. that even "exceptions" to the rule are not true exceptions - the commonly cited statistic that one in eight men believe they could win against serena williams.

women's gymnastics is often not seen as real gymnastics. whatever the fuck non-euclidian horrors rhythmic gymnasts are capable of, it's often tamped down as being not a sport. some of the most dominant athletes in the world are women. nobody watches women's soccer. despite years of dancing and being built like a fucking brick, men always assume they're faster and stronger than i am. you wouldn't like what happens when they are incorrect. once while drunk at a guy's house i won a held-plank challenge by a solid minute. the party was over after that - he became exceedingly violent.

what i mean is that you can be perfect, and they still think you're ... lacking, somehow. i hope you understand i'm trying to express a neutral statement when i say: taylor swift was the possibly the most patriarchy-palatable, straight-down-the-line woman we could churn out. she is white, conventionally attractive, usually pretty mild in personality. say what you will about her (and you should, she's a billionaire, she can handle it), but a few things seem to be true about her: 1. she can write a damn catchy song, and 2. the eras tour truly was a massive commercial success and was also genuinely an impressive feat of human athleticism and performance.

i don't know if she deserves the title of "woman of the year," i'm not debating that in this post. what i am saying is that she was named Woman of The Year, and then an untalented man got onstage at the golden globes and made fun of her for attending her boyfriend's football games. what i am saying is that this woman altered local economies - and her dating life is still being made into a "harmless" punchline. the camera panned, greedy, over to her downing a full glass of champagne. congratulations taylor! you are woman of the year! but you are a woman. even her.

fuck, man. write better material.

a guy gets onstage at a college graduation and despite the fact like half the crowd is made up of women, he spends a significant proportion of it warning these people - who spent possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars on their education - that they were lied to. that the "real" meaning of femininity is motherhood. that they shouldn't rest on the laurels of that education-they-paid-for but instead throw it away to kneel at a man's heel. imagine that. sweating in your godawful polyester gown (that you also had to pay for!), fresh out of 4 years of pushing yourself ever-harder: and some guy you've never met - who knows nothing about you - he reminds you this "win" is a pyrrhic one at best. you really shouldn't consider yourself that extraordinary. you're still a woman, even after years of study.

god forbid you are not a pretty woman, but if you are pretty, you must be dumb. god forbid you are not ablebodied or white or cis or straight or good at swallowing. you must be beneath a man, or else they are not a man. the equation for masculinity seems to just be: that which is not a woman or womanly (god forbid). anything "feminine" is thereby anathema. to engage in "feminine" things such as therapy, getting a hug from a friend, or crying - it is giving up ones manhood. therefore women need to be put in their place to ensure that masculinity is protected.

this is something i have struggled to explain to terfs - they are not doing the work of feminism, but rather the patriarchy. by asserting that women and men must be (on some secret level) oppositional and in conflict, they also assume that being a woman is akin to being another species. but bigotry does not stem from observational truths or clarity - that is what makes it bigotry. there was nothing in my childhood that made me fundamentally different from my brother. we are treated differently nonetheless. to assert there is some biological drive that enforces my gender role is to assert that women have a gendered role. men do not see women as equal to them not because of biological reality - but instead because the core tenant of the patriarchy is that women aren't full, realized people.

we are told from a very young age to excuse misbehavior as a single man's choice - not all men. it is not all men, just that one guy. all women are gold-digging bitches who belong in the kitchen - but if a man is mean, bigoted, or violent to you, it's just that particular guy, and that means nothing about men-as-a-whole. it is only one guy who got mad when you gently rejected him. it is only one guy who warns her this trophy is heavy, are you sure you can hold it? it is only one guy who smashes her face into the cake. it is only one guy talking into a mic about hating our bodily autonomy.

i have just found that they often wait until the moment we actually seem to be upstaging them. you sit in a meeting where you're presenting your own findings and he says get me a coffee? or you run to the end of the marathon and are about to finish first and he pushes your kids out in front of you. you win the chess game and they make some comment akin to well, you're ugly away. we can be the billionaire and get the dream life and finally fucking do it and yet! still! they have this strange, visceral urge to say well actually, if you think you're so great -

it's not one just one guy. it's one in eight.

[evercelle]

a story that can't be obtained again

[moeblob]

I genuinely have a "hear me out" for Alex/Shane and have in fact told someone (who doesn't play SDV) and they said it was a pretty convincing argument so I think I'm onto something.

[why-the-heck-not]

understanding academic concepts got me blushing swinging my legs giggling

[onismdaydream]

thinking about perv yuji (like i always do) who sneaks into your room when you're sleeping because the panties he stole no longer smell like you or your laundry detergent. they feel nice around his cock, sure, but he wants to smell you, wants to pretend he can taste you. so he goes to get new ones. he even sees a pair that doesn't look familiar from when he looks up your skirts (he swears he doesn't mean to, it's just that your skirts are so short and well, he's right there...)

he takes them in his hand, feels the smooth and silky fabric and thumbs at the little bow. they're cute. he hopes you don't mind if he borrows them for a bit.

but then you stir. a quiet rustle of sheets and a soft groan as you get comfortable, but yuji's perks up at the sound. his gaze actually settles on you, now that his eyes are adjusted, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight. you just look so peaceful and pretty.

and of course he can't help it if his eyes drift down to see your body. the tank top is loose on you, enough that yuji can get a good look at your cleavage. that's one thing he wishes you would show off more — he'd love to get a more accurate representation of you in his mind when he jacks off.

another quiet noise and his gaze moves back to your lips, slightly parted and so damn kissable. if only yuji could feel your soft lips against his...

against his better judgement, yuji takes his cock out, promising himself he can only look. he strokes himself as he watches you sleep, getting himself to full hardness. he knows he has to be quick and quiet — there's no way he could talk himself out of the situation if you woke up. but the sight of his leaking tip so close to your pretty mouth makes him dizzy.

it takes a pathetically short amount of time before he cums in his hand, a few drops falling to the floor of your bedroom. you're still blissfully unaware of what your friend is doing, still in a deep sleep as he carefully swipes his thumb along your bottom lip. a small smear of his cum for you to taste when you wake up.

[acid-ixx]

ch.2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

*"XX/XX/XXXX, entry no. 13.

i hate everything. i hate my family. i hate my father, i hate my brothers, i hate my classmates, i hate alfred, i hate this place, i hate my mom, i hate everyone.

why can't i ever get what i wanted? what do i have to do? i tried so hard to be everything for them, but why do i only amount to nothing? it's been a year, or two, i don't know. it hurts trying to remember when was the last time i saw him. saw, not talk, because he never talks to me, bruce never even looks at me. and i hate myself for trying to get him to look at me.

is he disgusted at me? does he see my mother in me? does he hate me that much? i don't know, i don't want to know, it hurts to know. i don't know why i'm trying anymore, i don't know how longer i can last in this hell. i can feel it, the longer i stay here, the more i lose a part of myself. i don't want to be here.

i don't want to pray anymore.

so if there's any god out there watching over me, then i wish for you to burn, to suffer, to go through the same thing i have been experiencing for years— all for putting me in this place. i would've been fine living in the streets with my mother. i would've been alright providing for our small family, i would've known to never get my hopes high, but you took her away from me!—

i hate you."

"master (name), are you awake? dinner is ready."

you had to shut your diary at the sound of the knock and alfred's voice.

"alfr-"

a cough, hoarse and croaky, cuts you out from calling his name. it was accompanied by uncontrollable sniffles, mucus blocking your nose from breathing properly. your room was dark, save for the lamp that lights up your bedside, where you currently were seated on your bed to write another entry, grip on your pen unknowingly harsh. you didn't even have to look at your reflection from your phone laying beside the diary to know that hiding your tears were fruitless.

salty were the crystalline droplets that streaks your face, but bitter were the emotions that had your heart ache.

you hear a sigh from the other room. before he could muster a reply, you beat him to it.

"i'm not eating dinner, alfred," you hate hearing your voice, sounding so obviously scrathy from the hours of wailing. "at least not with them. i don't want to get out at all."

"then may i at least bring them over to you, master (name)?"

his answer was final, you have no choice on retaliating and starving yourself like you did for the past few days. but it wasn't your fault that you had forgotten your body's needs. it wasn't your fault that your mind blanks itself out on the dinner table. it wasn't your fault that bile quickly crawls up your throat at hearing their voices.

you simply lost your appetite seeing them happy without you.

alfred pennyworth would never play favorite.

it was drilled into his head ever since he had sworn to serve the wayne family and its extended members— he is to serve anyone and everyone, regardless if they respect him or they do not; as long as they do not pose any danger within the manor, then he is to attend to them.

you'd think that in his decades of service for the wayne's - with all the contrasting personalities he had to deal with - he would maintain professional standards and tell everybody in the world, "i, of course, do not favor anyone within the family, i live to serve and that is truth." when in fact, he wouldn't hesistate to admit that he does, in actuality, have a favorite.

and no, it wouldn't be the eldest child, dick grayson, as much as he is alfred's pride and joy, nor would it be the youngest, damian wayne, who had been slowly correcting his mistakes. it wouldn't even be the head of the house, master bruce.

it would be you, (name) wayne, the infamous, yet forgetten child of the wayne family.

it wouldn't be a far fetch for alfred to admit that you weren't like the others. in all of the years that he served the wayne's, you were a contrast of the family.

the first few hours that he had picked you up from the police department upon the news of bruce's secret child, he knew you were more than just a child raised by the brutal streets of gotham.

you pose secrets that speak of the underground.

he remembers your seated form on the stiff chair of the interrogation room, pose unnervingly straight, as if you had solidified yourself against the metal seat. your fingers were the only signs that showed life, twiddling with each other as if it's some form of distraction.

you stared at nothing.

not even at the police as your name was called for pick up.

it took merely a signature of confirmation to dictate the future years of your life.

what's left of your belongings were given to alfred. the police officer, a woman with a kind smile then had to walk across the interrogation table to pat your back, gesturing for you to stand up and follow her and alfred on the way outside of the station, where the car was parked.

you hadn't uttered a word nor snapped out of your dreamlike gaze. not even when you were greeted with a thousand clicks of the cameras, the buzzing crowd that drowns the police station, or the hundreds of voices that yell at you to look at them.

(name) (last name), now formally adopted by bruce wayne, would be (name) wayne. it wouldn't be a shock that your sudden appearance as the child of a scandalous relationship between a prostitute and a billionaire would cause immense reactions. news would be spreading left and right, most of which were negative on your side.

he had to shield you from the crowd of photographers and journalists itching their way to the crowd to get a glance on you.

yet you didn't display any discomfort. you had only sat on the car obediently, fastening your seatbelts robotically and ignoring the lenses that unsettlingly tried to poke through the car windows to take pictures of you.

you were more like batman than you were bruce.

alfred had tried to get you communicate with questions like, "how are you over there, master (name)?" yet you would only mumble unintelligible responses to his questions without any ounce of emotion. he had to look at the rear view mirror to take in your stiff form. again, your eyes were set on nothing, even if they were casted down on the carpeted floorboards of the car.

when he had first met bruce, that child was overflowing with anger and vengeance for his parent's killer, yet you, who refused to explain your mother's disappearance, are devoid of anything.

the silence was defeaning throughout the ride. the only comfort that was provided was the rain that began to patter against the glass windows.

alfred throught you would retain the same behavior the entire day.

yet it was only when you first walked up the steps of the manor did your demeanor change, fingers immediately reaching up to hold the cuffs of his sleeves, pulling it as if you were hesitant to step in.

the first emotion you had shown him was concern, like a switch had flickered you out of your trance. it was the first time in a while that alfred had to do a double take to check if what was happening was real.

"can you... hold my hand?" and it was the first time he had heard you speak, voice unnaturally scratchy from the lack of water. you stared at him with wide, doe eyes that refused to blink, waiting for answers. alfred had to gaze at your entire body to finally notice that you were covered head to toe in sloppy bandages with blood seeping through the grime-filled gauze. your shoes were worn, your clothes were ripped, and other uncovered scars littered your body.

the most conspicuous color on your shirt was crimson red.

yet you do not display pain.

a child, five years of age, had been through more than enough anguish to know how to block their pain out.

you were unlike the rest, truly, you were unwavering of the world's cruelty.

the world does not deserve someone like you.

alfred takes it in himself to always hold your hand after that.

through the mansion doors, inside the kitchen, on your way to school; whenever and wherever, as long as he had time.

even if it were filled with scars and bruises, dirt and grime, he will always hold your hand if it meant guiding you through the darkness of the manor.

you may not consider yourself bruce's child, but you will always be alfred's.

another knock on your door had you snapping out of your trance. time passed by so quickly in the manor. well, it does when you have nothing to do but stare at your diary, draw on your sketchbook or scroll through your phone. yet time would always be the quickest whenever you drown in your own misery.

"come in," you croak out, aware that it would only be alfred who would come by your room. it was long ago since you had given up on awaiting for dick's visits.

a turn of the knob, then the door swings quietly; the hinges creak, you need them oiled sooner. alfred walks in, you notice he holds a tray that contains two cupcakes and a plate of your favorite dish, but you don't notice the small box with a bow hidden skillfully from the back of the tray. from over your seat, you could already smell the aromatic herbs that flutter in the room and see the colorful frosting from both cupcakes; an already lit candle sticking in from one.

the candle at least provides just a split second of light inside your dim room; the moonlight just like your family, absent.

alfred graciously places the tray on your nightstand, on the left of your diary. your room was still too silent.

you could only hear yourself.

"master (name), are you simply going to sit there and stare? or would you rather i spoonfeed you like i had when you had broken your wrist?"

you blink it out again, oblivious to your very own hyperawareness. alfred's still here. you hope that, in the presence of darkness, he wouldn't see just how much of a mess you are. how your hands could barely grip onto anything, hair unwashed, face stained with tears, difficulty breathing through the buildup of mucus, foot tapping up and down erratically— you wished he would pretend to be blind about your suffering for just this once.

"no—" came your sudden reply, "i can- yeah, i can eat by myself."

it's harder to lie to yourself than it is to others.

he looks at you with doubt, it makes you shiver.

despite you wishing for company inside the manor, you could never be used to attention. it would never be normal for someone like you. though, you wish it was. you wish you never hesitated when someone gives you attention.

you hear your mattress creak, there's a dip on your bed. alfred sits beside you, only then did you realize just how quickly you lean into his side, craving for warmth in the solace of your empty room.

everything hurts, it truly does.

you wish you were strong enough to cease the sudden burst of tears when his one hand circles your shoulder and the other holds the cupcake with a candle near your face. and you wish that you weren't so weak in the presence of another, trying to find a semblance of your worth in their attention.

you at least try to stifle your sobs—

"happy birthday, master (name)."

— but you were always weak, yet alfred never seems to mind, patting your back to console you from your wailing.

you blow the fire out with a single promise to yourself, crying a bit more when alfred had given you a gift box, laced with a ribbon of your favorite color.

it was one of the few gifts you would cherish, fondness seeping into the cracks of your heart.

though it wouldn't erase the bitterness that fills your being either way, knowing your family is still downstairs, unaware of the anguish the torment that they have put you through— it's still enough to let you hate alfred a little less.

"alfred?"

it was your meek voice, one that was always drowned out by the sound of the dishes clanking.

"yes, master (name)?" yet alfred could always strain out the sound of anything just to hear your talk. after all, you were a silent kid throughout your childhood.

"—if i move out of this place; would promise you wouldn't forget about me?"

... (name) wayne was full of surpises.

even at the ripe age of seventeen, and in the near fourteen years of raising you, alfred could never predict your words nor your actions.

you had always said things spontaneously, carrying an aura of awkwardness in your tone, reminiscent of someone who had their personal growth (moreover their social life) stunted.

but now, with the way you had said your resolve so confidently, it felt like he was looking at a different version of you; all the more confident and resilient.

except... you were behind him when you had said that - so he wasn't really looking at you - eating the first batch of his cookies whilst he was polishing the dishes with a cloth.

when he had turned around to look at you, though, you were still the socially inept child he knows and love, sitting on the breakfast bar and twirling around the stool as you attempt to not get crumbs everywhere. you were still so young in his eyes.

it's just, the way you had looked at him expectedly like you needed his approval that shocked him. it was always your eyes that had expressed the most emotions, glazing with anticipation for his response.

he knows it when you lie, and right now, you were dead serious in your resolve.

alfred had to relax the crease on his brows before he ages faster than he already is.

"well, master (name)," he continues, turning back to wiping the dishes clean before he could fully face you. "i would fully support you in your... journey, but what warranted you to be suddenly motivated on moving out?"

alfred had finished setting aside the dishes, but he still doesn't look back.

"i mean, i thought i already told you? i have a scholarship for college but it's on the other side of gotham and...

— i kind of don't want to be chauffeured by a limo around the campus everyday, you know? so the next best thing is to get a dorm."

alfred knows it when you lie. and right now, your hesitance tells him everything he needs to know.

you may have proved a point, but that point was an entire lie. with a person name wayne flaunting across a city whilst riding a limousine, you might find yourself into more trouble than anything else.

but he had always been the one to pick you up and drop you off from elementary and halfway through your highschool life— and you never seemed to mind until now.

it doesn't take a genius to know that you had already deviced a full plan of moving out and taken it into action; all you had to do was confront the only man in the manor who had cared about you enough to raise you about your worries.

it wasn't enough to convince him to let you go, though, especially not right after an incident that had occured prior to you highschool life. if he allows you to gain independence in gotham, he wouldn't know how long you would last.

but when he looks back at you again, he couldn't bring it in himself to oppose to your whims. you need a new environment; one that provides you a way to gain independence and, most preferably, social skills. staying cooped up in a manor with barely anybody talking to you does more harm than good.

and being ignored by your own family for almost fourteen years wouldn't be a great way to celebrate your already nearing eighteenth birthday.

alfred doesn't want to admit it, but if he keeps you here any longer, you would never grow up. one person could only do so much.

he whips out a sigh, looking at you with resignation in his eyes. but you know it in yourself that he swears his life on the promise.

"master (name)," he walks over to you, eyes darting at the cookie crumbs that litter around your mouth making a note to scold you on your manner later. he sits directly in front of you, hand patting your head as you merely stare at him expectedly.

"i have raised you for almost fourteen years, it's like you are my very own child. i would never forget you." he takes your hands in his. "but you have to also promise me to stay safe out there, master (name). call me once you're there."

alfred would find a way to get you to come back eventually, even if it meant utilizing your family's neglect, which was primarily the reason why you had moved out on the first place.

he just hopes you wouldn't connect the dots and pin the blame on him once you're back and safe in the manor.

and now, it had only been months since you had gotten away from the manor. he was proud of your development, of your choice and overall, you, but he wouldn't lie and say he doesn't miss you.

he misses hearing your voice directly, the line on the phone being too blotchy to properly hear you. he misses it when he would sit on your bed as your only audience whilst he watches you paint on your canvases, drawling on and on about highschool's latest drama. he misses it when you would always be the first to taste his dishes, face lighting up whenever the food was seasoned up; now he has to constantly remind you to eat a nutritious diet, even offering to send you money whenever you mention you were short on it.

in the good of your heart, you would always decline, even going as far to deny him of any liberty to track you down and bring you a meal himself.

alfred misses you.

does he regret allowing you your freedom? not really, no. but he knows it in himself that a greedy part of him prefers it if you were would visit the manor occasionally during your vacations, at least to bond with him. but you simply chose not to, even going as far to legally change your name once you had become eighteen so you wouldn't be associated with your father's last name.

but that wouldn't erase the past you had tried to meticulously cover.

(name) wayne may have been a name forcefully deleted off of the face of the internet, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have its conspiracies of its own. nobody knows who you are beyond the blurry, unsolicited pictures of you. it may have been a photograph of your back, or articles published in unknown websites and buried at the far end about a kid leaving a police station and entering through the fancy gates of the wayne manor.

and most importantly, you are a product of a one-night-stand.

but they don't know who the mother is, don't know your age, or where you come from, and what business bruce has with the woman to guarantee your adoption at the instance she had disappeared without warning.

your existence was a mystery most would like to solve. after all, it was your picture that was plastered all over the newspapers and articles, it was your name that journalists whisper and it was a silhouette of your face that the underground knows by heart. every known information about you was shared discretely yet efficiently like some sort of virus.

you were a target for interest, a large sum of money if they will. and alfred had taken it in his hands to make sure there would never be a repeat of what had happened before.

it was a clumsy mistake, one that cost you your memories, and one he swears on his life he'll never make again.

the first course of action he needs to arrange, which may seem difficult for most; he needs to confront bruce.

after all, your freedom is your doom.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, could only be described as this palace overflowing his its abundant history and fame.

it was a castle that houses a boy who had lost his parents and became gotham's very own vigilante who stalks through the night to lessen the very evil that devours its citizens. it was the training grounds where the robins, sidekicks dressed in colorful attire, opposite to batman, were raised to be worthy enough to stand by the dark knight's side. but most importantly, it was a home for troubled children who were in their journey of their very own personal struggles.

yet even in its exterior splendour, it would always be innately overcome with loneliness.

for someone like bruce wayne, he embraces this desolation just as he embraces his alter-ego, batman, who wears a suit of black and dons an aura that demanded fear.

even if he carries the persona of 'brucie wayne' a ditsy, playboy who enjoys galas and sleeping with women every other night, he prefers solitude over the sea of interviewers who throng around him like he was a piece of meat.

it would be the only time he could focus on his countless of stacked paperworks to sign and his plans to ransack another criminal's master plan.

before winter could cover gotham in its sheet of pure, white coldness, rain would always terrorize the skies. he finds this the perfect atmosphere; dark grey clouds prevent the sun from peaking through, droplets of rain would pelt against the vast windows that surrounds his study, and there was enough background noise to block out any sounds that would pass through the door.

bruce wayne was focused on his work, and that meant disturbance wasn't allowed inside the manor. thankfully, it was a quiet, uneventful afternoon today.

in fact, it was all too abnormally quiet.

his scarred hands work through signing papers effiently and effortlessly, practiced fingers signing papers after he would meticulously scan over the paragraphs of texts that scale from business deals to partnerships to buying a piece of land. then later, once the moon rises, he would have to patrol with damian and disrupt another drug trade that had been recently dealing with children on the alleys of gotham.

that means he has to sign or reject at least half of the papers before evening falls through, so he could have alfred send them over through the post office tomorrow morning.

he was at least a quarter way through his work, though, when his flow was disrupted by a courteous knock by the mahogany doors.

he didn't have to look up or ask who it was, knowing it was alfred, his butler.

"master bruce, i have your tea ready, along with news to bare," bruce could hear the tone of urgency and a tinge of sullenness in alfred's voice. it was rare for alfred to be emotionally distressed, as he was typically the most composed out of everyone in the family.

"come on in, alfred," bruce's vocal chords were gruff, raspy whenever he's too engrossed in whatever he was doing.

but he was piqued at the news alfred was eager to share, the butler expertly turning the knob and entering with a tray that holds a hot serving of tea.

bruce stopped signing the papers, putting down his pen as he watches alfred, composed as always, place the tray down on his desk, not a single clank that was produced from the metal sheets. he watches as alfred reflexively pours him a cup of tea.

it was only after that action that the two share eye contact, alfred stationing himself to the right of bruce's desk.

if he wasn't a detective, he wouldn't have noticed the furrow of alfred's brows, which was uncharacteristic of the composed butler.

he reckons he should address the elephant in the room.

"what is it that you want to tell me, alfred?" bruce swivels his chair to face alfred, fingers tapping the mahogany desk rhythmically.

"master bruce, i figured you should have known this for quite a long time ago, but your third child had moved out on their own and now lives at the opposite side of gotham. right now, they may have been struggling to make ends meet."

huh?

"what do you mean, alfred? you're aware that tim is currently living in the manor—"

"no, master, i am talking about your third, not fourth child; master (name)."

... (name)?

ah, his... other child.

alfred looks at his seated form, expecting the befuddled reaction from bruce.

it doesn't take long for bruce to recover from his thoughts, eyebrows furrowed the same way as alfred as he leans against his chair.

"and what of (name)? why was i not updated about them?"

alfred had to stifle a groan as he then glares at bruce with what he could suppose was exasperation.

"i had already told you about their leave months ago, master bruce. you had simply waved me off whenever the topic is of master (name)." the butler's glare hardened, reminiscent of the times where bruce was scolded as a child. and like a child, he doesn't know what he had done wrong.

"i feel it is time for you to take it into your hands to deal with master (name)'s situation right now. i do not have access to their location and just like you, they are stubborn and refuse to accept any financial aid that comes to them in any form—"

to make matters worse, alfred had the gall to stop midway into his explanation, sighing and blinking unnervingly which catches more than bruce's attention.

"they would rather not admit it, but if they were to fail to pay for this month's rent of their apartment, they would get evicted from their very own living space."

at pretty much the last sentence, bruce's gaze hardened. not at alfred, no, but at the thought of you; his... forgotten child. if it was money that you need, why had you not ask for any allowance in the first place? bruce would admit that, well, it had been too long since he had last seen your face, nor even... remember it—

but you were still a child of his and he wouldn't deny you of an allowance if it meant persuing your... highschool or college dreams...?

shit, what grade are you in?

why didn't he know you moved out in the first place? wait—

"alfred, how long has it been since they had last moved out?"

"roughly six or seven months ago, master."

"ah, but having a place of your own as a minor would be prohibited by law."

"master bruce, they're eighteen. they're old enough to live in their own apartment."

eighteen years old...? how long had it been since he had last seen or heard of you? if what alfred had said was true, that the butler had attempted to reach out to him about you, then why had he not remember in the first place? you were a quiet kid, sure, but for someone like bruce, people would always not be overlooked.

it wasn't in him to easily forget, but he hates how he couldn't muster up a single memory of your face— not even your hair color nor your eyes. did you even... exist in his eyes? there was not a single memory of you that he could come up in his head.

his child was eighteen now, how could he not have known in the first place? how could he not recollect a single birthday of yours? or any celebration or gala that had you in it?

alfred's sigh snapped him out of his trance once more.

bruce looked up, seeing resignation upon alfred's face. he simply stood there, posture straight as always, but bruce couldn't wash away the shame that cages his heart when there was not a single image of you that pops up in his mind— alfred's disappointment merely worsened

the tea in his desk had long since gone untouched, but bruce couldn't bring it in himself to drink a single drop of it, even if his lips were dried and his throat was begging for even a single droplet of water.

he denies himself of any relief.

"i figure i should leave you in your own, master bruce, to at least compose yourself before nightfall. please do take your child into consideration, though, enough time has passed since you have last seen them." alfred states, as if it was a matter of fact. and it was, bruce should've known about your leave, as your father and as the man who took you in, he should've.

so before the butler could even take a step, bruce hastily stands up from his seat, pen long since discarded on his desk and a quarter of the papers are now messily stacked upon each other, but bruce pays them no mind.

"take me to (name)'s room right now, i need to see things for myself."

if bruce couldn't even remember a single instance of you, then maybe a trip to your room would be enough for him to remember.

but if that doesn't work then... bruce would a find a way, he always would.

and as your father, he needs to at least support you, even financial no matter your stubbornness? even if the shame he feels right now is so immensely disturbing, and the migraine is quickly finding its way into his head— he needs to know more about you, his actual third child.

bruce wayne needs to see your face just once.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: 5k+ words. no beta, we die like jason todd with a crowbar. my least favorite part of writing the chapter is literally starting it. i had at least 5 drafts all lined up and it took me an hour in the bed to think about how should i start it. i literally hope you guys enjoy the chapter hehe, and start to yk, notice the patterns and the parallels between your perspective and bruce's perspective bec ur literally his child, u guys share some habits even if u never once talked to him lmao. the most emotionally draining scene was writing the birthday scene, i had to take breaks from typing it out hehe. bruce's descent to yandere-ism isn't as quick as dick's but it would be worst in the next chapter.

also, i hope you guys are able to notice the bad habits that the reader eventually collects because it's important for the next chapters. it would be better if anyone of u could... point them out in my asks or comments, i love rambling about it yk, and a lot of you are absolutely brilliant in making theories that are absolutely right. anyways, i hope u enjoy this chapter because this was one hell of a ride for me and i appreciate all the reblogs and comments despite me not replying to a lot of yall but u guys truly are my motivation so thank u lots :(((<33!

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku, @okaybutfullhomo, @trasshy-artist, @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa, @maicenitas, @ilovvmyhusband, @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony, @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts, @darling006, @starringyau, @rosecentury, @jaythes1mp, @pi1nkl0ver, @i-thirsty-boi, @sharks-r-cool-l, @silverklaus, @samanthathanes, @traumaramacenter, @maddimoon, @anxrq, @thedarknesslord, @h0rr0r-10ver-69, @lazy-idate, @googeecat44, @simpingfor-wakasa, @zvghfgn, @0patito0 (if i had forgotten to put any of u in a taglist please forgive me, it's hard to keep track !!)

[lonelysheepling]

Hollow Knight food concept art I’ve done this before, but I wanted to go into more depth on the processes and ingredients used

I’m slowly amassing the ingredients needed to bake a cake