#justifying it by saying he would stand like that

[twilightkitkat]

Why do I prefer Poolverine over X Reader ships?

I love Logan and he's genuinely my type, but the issue I tend to have with x reader fanfics is the power dynamic? Like Logan will be this dominant older guy and Y/N is his princess and that's cool but... why does he like me? I'm not offering anything in this dynamic, he's just doing everything while I blush and squirm a little.

The main appeal of Y/N is supposedly her looks and kindness. But he can find that pretty much anywhere, so why me? And it fails to resonate with me because I'm not exceptionally pretty or outstandingly kind. Not enough to justify him letting down his walls and choosing me of all people, when I wouldn't understand his trauma if I didn't see it on a screen.

The thing is this: while I love him as a character and he's my type, there's no way he'd choose me or I'd choose him. I just can't see it realistically happening. I'm not a violent person, I couldn't keep a foothold in his world or hold my own. He'd have to protect me but I couldn't even offer much in return because I wouldn't understand him. I couldn't break down his walls and I wouldn't have the patience to do that. A "normal" person would have no shot with Logan.

And that's why I ship Poolverine. Because Wade matches Logan in a way no "normal" person or love interest could. He's violent and insane and meets Logan's snarling with a grin. He understands Logan's trauma, has been through human experimentation himself and knows how to calm him down from a nightmare or PTSD episode. He can empathize with his struggles and relates to Logan in a way I never could. He shares Logan's grief and fear of losing people, and the two are able to move past it together because they understand each other so well.

Logan is a tired, lonely, and pessimistic immortal asshole who's sick of the world. Who's sick of losing people. He closed himself off because he couldn't handle another loss or liability. He's able to move past that with Wade because Wade is immortal, too. He doesn't run the risk of losing him when he's here to stay.

Most importantly, Wade looked past Logan's violence and prickly demeanor to see the empty and wounded man he really was. He was able to push past the vitriol and the death threats and the fighting to reach out to Logan and get through to him. With brute force and a strong will, Wade pulled Logan out of his shell. Then he looked at him, stripped bare and vulnerable, and cradled him in his arms while bringing him into his home.

Could we say the same? That we'd disregard our own safety and life to try to reach out to someone who only cursed us out? That we'd be willing to look past Logan's surface-level act when our neck was on the line? That we'd be willing to incur his wrath or stand beside him in the face of danger to begin with?

Here's the thing: Wade isn't a hero. But he saved Logan anyway, just because he wanted to. He was willing to sacrifice himself for Logan even when he had a family waiting on him. He'd fight for him. He'd die for him.

Wade might not be the prettiest or the kindest, but he's Logan's equal. And that's the thing Logan needs most.

[scribbling-dragon]

cor cordium

summary:

in one's heart of hearts

phrase of heart 1. in one's inmost feelings.

(ao3 link)

(5,554 words)

It is the moment between one wildcard and the next.

The utter silence that settles around Scott is…unsettling. The stillness of the air feels wrong, too empty compared with the chaos from mere moments before. His life has been filled with nothing but movement and motion for the past eternity; it has been so long, so hectic, that he is not certain when he last had a moment to simply…stand. To sit and appreciate the sun as it rises over the horizon. To sit and watch as the world springs into life without looking over his shoulder every other moment.

Each second he stands here, unmoving, is another moment that is lost. There is beauty in the tranquillity of it all, something that he thought might be lost. Something that he still hasn’t regained, even with the apparent peace that follows.

He cannot help but glance over his shoulder, even as he misses the moment the sun peeks over the horizon line, turning from a soft glow into a full-on burst of sunlight when he turns around again. There is no longer a snail to dog his steps, to lurk around each shadowed corner and stalk him into submission.

He can feel the exhaustion tugging on the edge of his mind. Can feel the way his eyes droop with exhaustion, and still he does not sleep. Impulse had been the first to crash after the snails returned to wherever they came from, announcing abruptly that they won’t see him until the next wildcard is announced, and that anyone to wake him up before then would be meeting with the business end of his sword.

Cleo had laughed, but they had been the next to disappear as well. Scott hadn’t missed the way they’d looked at him, one eyebrow raised in question, lips tugging down into a frown – he’d waved them off, dismissed them easily as he turned back to the stars and the lightening sky. They had waited beside him for a few moments, questions radiating off their posture before exhaustion seemed to win out there too.

It had been just him and Pearl, after that.

He wasn’t surprised. Pearl had stuck to her odd hours; he’s still not sure what’s wrong with her circadian rhythm, but she sticks to it happily, watching the stars slowly move over head. The moon had been at Scott's back as it set, and Pearl sat facing away from him to watch it descend, and, eventually, disappear.

No words had been exchanged between them – it’s still a little uncomfortable; each poorly timed joke feels as though it is a blade dragged over a scarcely healed wound, opening it back up for infection to sneak its way back in.

Scott can't see this ending well. Can't see any of this ending well – it never does, so why should this time be any different? He may have resolved his hurts with Pearl, may have taken a step forward with mending relations between them. He was almost eager to begin looking past the tattered memories of their soulbond, of being cast aside so callously, and of the hurt he delivered in return.

In the moment, he could say that it was justified. That he had a reason, a good reason to be reacting in such a way. Looking back, he cannot help but feel as though it was an overreaction, one driven by the cold and the fear and the pain and the hurt.

Pearl’s back pressed to against his own, a wall of warmth at his back (guarding him, some part of him whispered, keeping him safe. Watching his back where he himself cannot watch it – he was watching her back too, in a way), felt like an olive branch. Something extended in an offer of friendship; something held out in memory, a peace offering of remember how it used to be?

Scott takes it. Because he is a coward and because he misses it. Misses their house, tucked away in the forest, safe from most anything atop their tower. He misses the easy laughter and the friendship, the silent camaraderie that they had held and taken for granted; hates the silence that fills the moments between them now, how each conversation feels as though they're skipping around the delicate topics, wary of pushing the other too close to an edge.

Pearl had left with the setting of the moon, and Scott remained. Pearl hadn’t questioned his decision, hadn’t tried to cajole him towards his own bed. She simply stood, a whisper of cloth, pressed a hand to his shoulder, and then left him to it.

The trees begin to light up with the sun, smooth rays of light brushing over their leaves. They seem brighter today, unburdened by the shadows of the days that came before this. The days of fear and tension. Scott has never understood the feeling of a prey animal before now, and he doubts he will ever feel such a primal fear again. It had pushed him further than he likes to reflect on, had made panic gather in his throat and weigh heavy upon his chest.

His heart gives an odd little jump with the thought, lurching forward as though it might leap right out of his chest and land on the floor in front of him. He wonders if it would continue beating with his panic, pulsing in time with a body it is no longer a part of. He feels a little sick just imagining it.

“Scott oh Scott, can you let down your hair?”

Scott leans a little further over the edge of the wall, just enough that he can look down at Martyn below. He stands pressed up against the base of the wall, hands spread upwards and out, grinning. He looks a little worse for wear, hair mussed and the purple around his eyes indicating his lack of sleep. Scott doubts he looks much better.

“I wasn’t aware you needed permission.” He leans his chin into one hand as he speaks. “You normally invite yourself in.”

“Didn’t think it would be wise to sneak up on you today,” Martyn laughs. There is something nervous about it, something unsettled. His face is turned upwards, not glancing over his shoulder every few moments. Scott still notices the way his hands shake, how his shoulders twitch at the rustle of leaves as the wind rushes through the trees. “I've seen the weaponry you carry with you.” Martyn smirks, and Scott grins right back at him.

“If you can climb up, you're more than welcome to join me.” He calls back. He doesn’t ask where Ren is, nor does Martyn ask where the rest of his teammates are. Perhaps Ren is asleep too, has crashed after the stress of the snails and everything they entailed.

He is surprised to see Martyn here; seeing him alone is even stranger – he and Ren have been more attached at the hip than usual recently, so to see one without the other feels as though he’s only seeing half the picture.

Martyn hauls himself onto the wall from the ground, fingers digging into the gaps between the cobbles, leaning an elbow on Scott's dangling foot when he gets close enough. Scott kicks at his ribs, half-hearted at best, but Martyn swings away from the wall, almost seeming to slip, and-

Scott reaches forward, grabbing at the shoulders of Martyn's hoodie. The fabric bunches up beneath his fingers, his nails digging in too deep. He can feel the flesh of Martyn's skin beneath his hands, can feel the life that runs through him, still.

Martyn laughs. “Did you really think I’d fall?”

He still has a grip on the wall, Scott realises. One foot wedged into the cobbles, digging in deep enough that he stands there quite happily, Scott's hands fisted in the fabric of his clothing, uncaring or unknowing of how easily Scott could twist him around, leave him hanging upon the wall and finally retire to his bed.

He does not do this.

He continues to hold Martyn, continues to hold his hoodie even as Martyn pulls himself up. He does not react outwardly, tries not to, as Martyn skims a hand over his leg, up it, feigning difficulty reaching the top of the wall, fingers dancing across the stone teasingly as he searches for some purchase on the unyielding rock.

Scott releases him once Martyn is comfortably on top of the wall, one leg still hanging below, but secure enough that he won’t fall backwards and break himself on the forest floor.

(The drop is not a particularly large one, but he doesn’t want to test anyone’s limits right now. Not when everything seems so much more fragile, when exhaustion weighs at everyone’s bones and slows the mind, when one flailing motion could be the difference between life and death. Scott has seen enough death in the last few hours, has watched his friends get slaughtered by a slow, immovable force. He has stared death in the face several times today, and each time he walked away with shaking hands and a frantically beating heart.)

“You know,” Martyn starts, conversational, “I wasn’t sure you'd be able to catch me.”

“Hm.” The sun is higher in the sky. Everything seems so much brighter than usual to his overtired eyes. “And why wouldn’t I? Have you suddenly lost faith in me?”

“Certainly not.” Martyn shuffles to the side, shuffles closer until their shoulders are a whisper apart. A single movement threatens to press them together from hip to knee. Scott resists, but only barely. He can feel the warmth radiating off Martyn from here. “You’ve had a few changes this season, that’s all. Unless those eyes are purely cosmetic?”

He can feel Martyn's eyes on the side of his face, so intense that he suspects Martyn is reading his mind right now, peering into the depths of his brain and gathering the thoughts together to turn over and examine. There’s not really anything interesting going on in there, just thoughts of the sunrise and how tired he is and how close Martyn now sits next to him, and whether he can shuffle just a little closer, press them shoulder to hip to knee to ankle and play it off as a casual motion.

Perhaps Martyn really is reading his thoughts – or maybe Scott is just tired enough that his wants are written across every inch of his face – because he shuffles closer. Presses his shoulder to Scott's own, a line of heat along the left side of his body. He hooks their ankles together, their legs swinging back and forth together, as though they are one.

“They aren’t.” Scott answers, a little belatedly. The exhaustion makes him slow, makes the thoughts in his brain move like molasses and his tongue weigh heavy in his mouth. “I…well, I guess the forest took a little piece of me when we welcomed BigB in; replaced that missing piece with a little bit of itself.”

“Mm.” Martyn continues to watch. His gaze is warm on the side of Scott's face, watching, cataloguing. Scott wonders if his eyes glow in the light, if they brighten more, turning molten in the face of the sun. He feels warm and heavy beneath the gaze, slow to move, slow to react. He finds that he does not particularly mind. “Then why don't you freeze up when I watch you? You still move, your joints still bend, and your heart still beats.”

“I am not a creature of the forest.”

“But the forest is a part of you, is it not? It has changed BigB, and yet you remain the same, save for these.” The first touch of Martyn's hand to the paper-thin skin beneath his eye is careful, gentle. He touches Scott like he is something delicate, something precious.

He turns into it, leaning into the touch. It turns a little heavier, pressing into his cheekbone. He can feel the pulse of Martyn's thumb, the slow thump of a calm heart behind it. Scott wonders if Martyn can feel the way his own heart races, the way it rabbits in his chest.

His eyes begin to slip shut, half-lidded as he turns towards Martyn. Martyn watches him back, expression shuttered and hidden behind something unreadable.

“Do you like it?” Scott finds himself asking. It’s not what he means to say, and definitely not what Martyn expected him to say. It leaves the two of them just as surprised as each other; it’s just enough to chip away the first corner of Martyn's unreadable mask, leaving something a little more genuine beneath it; something a little more alive.

“I…yeah,” Martyn breathes. He swipes a thumb beneath Scott's eye again, before he shifts his hand to settle it fully against his cheek so it cradles his face; pulls him a little closer. The warmth of his hand threatens to scald the skin, to leave an imprint there; Scott worries, for a moment, that the shape of Martyn's hand will truly burn into his face, that he shall have to return to his teammates and explain away the sudden, hand-shaped marking on one side of his face. “Your eyes have always been my favourite part of you,” Martyn murmurs, voice low, as though this is some scandalous confession.

“I know,” he laughs, muffled, leaning in to keep this secretive air between them. They breathe the same air this close. “I've noticed.”

There’s a light flush of colour along the high of Martyn's cheeks, he notes from beneath lidded eyes. It is like the slow rising of the sun, a slight blush along the sky as it approaches, a precursor to the burst of colour that explodes outwards at the first hint of the sun truly rising.

In a similar fashion, Martyn's flush quickly travels down his neck and across his ears; he looks faintly embarrassed, abashed even as he continues to hold Scott's face within the palm of his hand.

He feels as though he could fall asleep here; simply lean his head a little further into the touch and close his eyes entirely. The skin on Martyn's palm is calloused, a little rough and torn around the edges, but each of the grooves and bumps are something that Scott knows, he has spent hours cataloguing each of the blemishes on Martyn's hands, studying the valleys on the palm of his hand, tracing the individual lines back and forth until Martyn relents and squirms away with a short it tickles as explanation.

Scott raises his own hand to Martyn's risk, encircling it within his own grip. He feels the way Martyn tenses fearing his hand being pulled away, before relaxing once more as Scott simple holds onto him. his fingers lay across Martyn's pulse point, though he does not press hard enough to truly feel it. He watches it instead, eyes on Martyn's neck as it thumps with the steady, hard beat of a heart.

Scott's own heart beats in tandem.

“Your pupils are so bright like this,” Martyn tells him. Scott knows, had spent several hours bent over a small hand mirror when the changes first settled. Had peeled back his eyelid to see how far the orange spread, whether it was the entirety of his eye of simply the most visible part. Even the colour of his veins had changed, glowing a bright gold beneath his skin rather than the usual blue. “I like it.”

“Well, I'm glad. I'm certainly stuck with this pair of eyes for the foreseeable future, until I can switch them out again.”

“Ugh, don't say it like that,” Martyn uses his grip on Scott's face to wiggle his head back and forth gently, chastising. “Makes it sound like you're just going to pop these eyes out and pick your next pair from some gross eye-shop.”

“Maybe I will. Some of the newer eye cybernetics are quite fascinating,” he jokes.

“Don't you dare,” Martyn laughs. “I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye ever again if you did that!”

“Mm. You certainly wouldn’t be looking into these eyes if I did that.”

“Can't you just take a compliment? Why’d you have to make it all weird – I was being nice. I was being charming, even! And then you had to go and ruin it.”

Scott laughs at the frown on his face. “Poor thing, I've ruined it all for you now, haven’t I?”

“I was being all suave and flirting,” Martyn insists. Scott lets him have it, because he’s certain the awkward, stumbling way he delivered all of his lines was smooth in Martyn's sleep-deprived brain. He's lucky that Scott finds him so endearing otherwise it would have been painful to sit through it all. He strokes his thumb over the soft underside of Martyn's wrist.

“I know, dear.” He assures. “It was very sweet.”

“Thank you,” Martyn preens a little, leaning closer. “Don't you think I've earned a kiss? For all my hard work?”

“And what hard work would that be?” Scott asks, as he leans back just a little. He feels his lips twitch as Martyn frowns. Martyn can be so expressive when he wants to be, when he’s not locking his true thoughts behind a blank mask or hiding them behind an overexaggerated façade. Scott loves the small crinkle between his brow and the way his nose scrunches when he's annoyed, loves to brush those wrinkles away from his face with a soothing touch or a kind word.

“I walked all the way here from my base and climbed this wall to be next to you. That’s hard work, y’know.”

“Oh, yes. You do know there are stairs just behind us, right? Some that you could have climbed to spare you a little of that effort.”

“I prefer taking the more difficult route when it means someone like you is waiting at the end of it.”

“Flatterer.”

“Don't you know it,” Martyn grins. “C’mon, just a little kiss? A small peck, even?”

“When have you ever been content with just a small kiss?” Scott asks. His other hand, the one not currently curled possessively around a wrist, begins to slide up Martyn's side as he speaks. He can feel Martyn's hand at the small of his back, thumb resting just above his hip.

“When have you?” Martyn counters.

And, well, Scott simply shrugs because he has no good response to that. It’s true, certainly. He can think of several moments when their eagerness for contact, for hands upon each other, has been a detriment to themselves and those around them.

He can feel the warmth of Martyn's breath spreading over his cheeks, a ghost of a touch, before the distance is closed and Martyn presses his mouth to Scott's own.

It is a short touch, a press of warmth between the two of them, mouths close and perfectly respectable. Something that lasts all of a few moments as Martyn's hand abruptly moves upwards on Scott's side, slipping beneath his shirt.

He can feel Martyn's smug smile against his lips when they pull back just slightly, away from the moment of intimacy. A breath before a dive.

Scott is the first one to break free from the standstill, eyes slipping fully shut as he slots his lips back against Martyn's, mapping his body out with his touch rather than his eyes as he pushes forward, leaning further and further into Martyn's space.

The hand on his back shifts to his hip, fingers beginning to dig in; any harder and they’ll leave a bruise, Scott tries not to think too hard about that. He doesn’t have to try very hard for long as Martyn presses back at him, recovered from his momentary shock, lips parting as a tongue brushes over Scott's lips.

He sighs into the kiss, a short, breathy sound that he's embarrassed about for all of three seconds before Martyn is drawing the remainder of the breath from his lungs.

He melts forward as Martyn presses another kiss into him, deeper than the one before that, feels his heart stutter in his chest as Martyn bites into his lip, hard enough to draw blood to the surface. The taste of iron doesn’t sway him, if anything it only spurs him on further when they pull apart for a moment, both of their chests heaving from breathlessness and exhilaration alike, and Scott can see the gold of his blood on Martyn's lip, slowly trickling down to his jaw.

He wipes it away with one thumb, succeeding only in smearing it from the corner of Martyn's mouth. It looks like kiss-smudged lipstick and Scott finds that he likes it far too much to be parted from Martyn for much longer than is necessary, pulling him back in.

The heat of Martyn's hand travels up his back, steps over each of the vertebrae in his spine as the moments tick on, seeming to become longer and longer with each moment. Scott can feel the beating of his heart, can feel the thumping of it as Martyn draws a careful hand across the front of his chest, fingers tapping out a rhythm against his ribs.

That rhythm halts, interrupted mid-beat, as Martyn discovers the first protruding shard of bone.

Scott feels the moment he stills against him, all of his loose contentment evaporating as he draws a finger over the exposed bone once more, then again. Scott shudders at the sensation, the sharp drag of skin and nail over the bone travelling right through his body, short frissons of energy bursting out from the site of contact.

“I…what-?”

“You're telling me you’ve never touched a bone before?” Scott asks. “Come on, don't tell me that scares you.”

“It doesn’t,” Martyn insists, loud where he had been quiet before. Both of them wince at the volume and Scott barely represses the urge to glance over his shoulder, check that his teammates sleep on peacefully. If he had woken them, he would most certainly know it. “It’s just…does it hurt? I don't want it to hurt.”

“I don't think you could hurt me if you tried.” He says. Promises, maybe. It feels like the truth to him. Everything feels syrupy and slow, filtered through a haze of amber and gold as he stares at Martyn and Martyn stares back at him, seeking the truth in his honeyed eyes. He smiles as Martyn's face clears, a realisation clicking together in his mind.

“Is…no, nevermind.” Martyn allows himself to trail off, turning his face away.

“Tell me anyway?” he asks. Turns Martyn's face back towards his own with a gentle touch. Martyn doesn’t even feign resistance, all too willing to follow after him. Scott guides his face back towards his own with two fingers pressed to his jaw; Martyn follows behind, blind in his faith and eager to please as a loyal hound might be.

“Is your heart…exposed too?” Martyn asks. His words halting and steeped in hesitance. He refuses to meet Scott's eyes, perhaps ashamed to look at him after asking such a question. Scott does not mind.

“Mm. Why don't you find out?” he invites.

Martyn hesitates for a moment, then two, before he pushes his hand a little further, brushes over more and more of the rib bone, tracing along the curve of it with a reverence that should be reserved for something holy. Scott shivers under the careful attention, averting his eyes when he feels Martyn look upwards from where he's bowed himself over Scott.

The sun reaches higher into the sky, and yet the server is quiet. Scott cannot help but be thankful for this, unwilling for any of his friends to come across the pair of them like this. He cannot help but feel as though he is being laid bare beneath Martyn, even though his shirt hasn’t even come off and Martyn remains similarly clothed.

He swallows as Martyn's finger reaches the end of the bone, circling the point of it curiously for a moment. He feels an inhale catch in his throat, bubbling there as he tips his head back, facing towards the sky. He cannot bear to look at Martyn a moment longer, cannot bear to observe the source of the warmth that presses against his bones with such delicacy, as though they might snap beneath hands, as though Scott is made of delicately woven glass.

He is made of stronger, sterner stuff than that. Only, in this moment, he feels as though he is being unwound, spooled across the ground. No longer a single cohesive being but several parts that have lost communication with each other, sending sensations to his brain that only serve to muddle it further.

Martyn's hand dips into the cavity of his chest, feeling out the edges of it with his fingers, teasing at the skin there with a soft brush of his fingers before moving on.

“You know,” Martyn breathes, a laugh on his tongue, “I didn’t actually believe you.”

“And how are you feeling now?” Scott rolls his head to one side, peeking at Martyn from beneath one eyelid. Martyn finds his eyes anyway, seeking him out easily, as though he’s always aware of when Scott's eyes rest upon him. He can feel the heat in his face, can see it reflected back at him from Martyn.

“Curious.”

Martyn leans up, towards his face once more. The hand inside his chest is still, simply resting there. He presses a kiss to Scott's neck, whisper-soft, then another to the edge of his jaw. He cannot help the way he tilts his head backwards, tipping his chin back to expose more of his neck.

Another gasp shudders its way out of his chest when something brushes against the edge of his heart. He feels the way his heart spasms at the sudden contact, seizing in his chest at the new sensation. He feels the way it bubbles in his chest, expands in his throat until he can scarcely breathe.

He feels Martyn's eyes on him, can feel the way he's waiting for Scott's reaction until he makes another move.

“Are you going to leave me hanging?” He asks. Chokes out, really. Martyn's kind enough not to mention it.

“Just want to make sure your heart isn’t about to give out on us.” Martyn chuckles. “Might be a little awkward to explain to your teammates.”

“I’d leave that part to you.” Scott says. “Please, continue.”

“Only if you're certain, Martyn starts.

“I am.” He pulls Martyn closer, drags him up so he's close enough to kiss back into breathlessness. He shouldn’t be the only one that feels as though his heart is about to burst out of his chest, and Martyn's slow, careful explorations have left him feeling as though his nerves have been set alight. “Come now, don't you want to feel how my heart beats for you?”

That seems to do it. Scott's not quite sure what exactly it was; maybe the wording, or maybe the way he said it. Or maybe it was the small tug of Martyn's hair that spurred him into motion once more, resettled his confidence and allowed him to push through his uncertainty.

All he knows is that in the next moment Martyn's hand surrounds his heart entirely and he feels as though his world has whited out, leaving nothing but the sensation of Martyn's hand and the thumping of his heart behind.

It feels as though his entire being is cradled within the palm of a single hand; like his whole world has shrunk down to just those sensations, that warmth that coats his entire being. It is like being wrapped in a warm blanket, or the feeling of a warm drink travelling down your throat on the coldest day of the year.

He must gasp, or make some kind of sound, because the sensation is retreating just as quickly as it came, leaving him disoriented and near-crying with the loss.

He reaches out with an empty hand, grasping onto the first thing he comes into contact with. It is warm and solid beneath his hand and he curls himself towards it, seeking more of that warmth from before, missing how it had surrounded his entire soul so carefully.

The morning sun does little to battle the chill that settles over him, and he shakes even as a hand smooths over his spine, down his back. It leaves a trail of heat in its wake, but it is still not the same as before, not the same as that all-consuming warmth that he felt for a few moments and perhaps never again.

“Scott?”

He hums in response, feeling too tired to even open his eyes. The exhaustion from the past few days catching up with him, no doubt.

“Geez, man. You can't do that to a guy.”

“Don't call me man,” he mutters into a faceful of fabric. Martyn's shoulder, he's pretty sure now that some of his senses are returning. “You just had my heart in your hand.”

“I, yeah, all right, whatever.” He feels Martyn press his forehead against the top of his head. Feels the sigh he releases into Scott's hair. “That was weird, right? Not just for you but for me as well – I thought you were dying honestly, the sound you made was like a wounded animal.”

Scott snorts. “If this is your idea of being comforting, or even nice, you're missing the mark by a few miles.”

“I'm being worried.” Martyn retorts. “I thought I’d killed you just because I wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Mm, quite the opposite, actually.” He can't think of a moment where he was more content than that one, with a hand around his heart, cradling him in warmth and safety and comfort. He doubts anything could recreate such a sensation, and he has no idea how to put it into words. “It made…hm. It was like being wrapped in the warmest blanket, ugh, no, that’s not right. It was…comforting? Something nice, or safe. Like the idea of comfort and safety bundled into one and then turned into a sensation.”

“Uh-huh.” Martyn sounds distracted, even as he nods against Scott's head. “Um, sorry to burst this little bubble you're in right now, but Cleo’s stood in your doorway glaring at us.”

“I can assure you, she’s only glaring at you.”

“I- ugh, you're insufferable, you know that, right?”

“So you keep telling me,” he uncurls one arm from where it’s wrapped around Martyn (when had that happened? Matter of fact, when had he ended up being cradled against Martyn's chest? Or in his lap?) and waves dismissively in the direction that he hopes Cleo is in. “And yet you continue to crawl back to me each and every time, grovelling at my feet.”

“I haven’t done that since the island!” Martyn yelps, far too loud that close to his ears. Scott still grins at the protest, mind full of the moments when Martyn had pulled himself around the pointless door and begged for sanctuary and allyship. “And I barely grovelled, I only called it that because you were my last hope for a teammate – I’d tried to kill everyone else at that point.”

“You really know how to make a man feel special.”

Martyn isn’t give another chance to defend himself as Cleo speaks up. “You boys all right up there?”

“Peachy.” Martyn calls back. “You can leave us be.”

“So the sound of a wounded, dying animal was someone else?”

Scott stiffens, and he feels Martyn lock up too. No response is forthcoming from either of them, but Scott can feel the way Cleo is staring at his back – she has a way of making her presence known, mainly so she can make fun of him when everyone else turns away. Here, though, it’s worry. Their relationship to Ren and Martyn hasn’t been properly defined, and none of them know where they stand.

For all Cleo knows, Scott could be slowly dying and unable to get a word out. Thankfully, he is not, so he manages to defend Martyn from Cleo’s quickly approaching wrath.

“I'm fine, we were just trying something out.”

“Ugh,” Cleo says. Then, “On the wall, really? Anyone could’ve walked past and seen you two…trying something out.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he tries.

“I don't really care. Or want to know.” Cleo interrupts him. “Go to bed, you're too tired to be fooling around on top of a wall, and if you fall off it and die I'm just going to laugh at you.”

Scott pauses.

“Martyn can come too,” Cleo offers, though the distaste in her voice is clear. “As long as it’s for sleeping and no more experimenting.”

“Well, who can turn down at offer like that!” Martyn goes to stand, only to realise that Scott isn’t going to make a move anytime soon. “Up and attem! C’mon, we've got a grand total of, ehh, ten steps? Maybe twelve? And then you can sleep in an actual bed, all nice and cosied up with me.”

Scott's pretty sure he hears Cleo gag, and that just about seals it for him. Anything to make his friends suffer.

[mxtxfanatic]

I only brought up the Lan Wangji is not caring about anyone else’s opinions because you ended your commentary saying that he might have hoped to save his clansmen’s minds through his actions. I may have misunderstood what you meant by adding that, but I def don’t agree with this added comment. The Lan were absolutely as bad as everyone else. No they didn’t go to the Burial Mounds settlement to verify the truth but… that was their negligence. Not following Wei Wuxian to the labor camp was Lan Xichen’s negligence. (The Qiongqi Path labor camp was also a joint-clan endeavor, but that's neither here nor there.) The Jin were spinning lies about Wei Wuxian and not only do Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen close ranks around the lies, Lan Xichen praised Jin Guangyao for them in private while publicly contradicting Lan Wangji who called the lies out (proof). Lan Xichen is neither ignorant to or naive about any of the Jin's intentions nor specifically of Jin Guangyao's crimes (proof). It is a running theme that leads directly to his narrative punishment and subsequent character growth.

Nobody thought that Wei Wuxian was “building an army.” That is runaway fanon. Their grievances against Wei Wuxian were that he, a mere servant's son was more powerful and popular than them, and the lies they told to justify hating him was that he’d build his own cultivation clan that would overshadow the orthodox clans, thereby challenging their power and authority as the ones who must be given deference by everyone (proof from Wen Qing):

Using the atmosphere, Jin GuangShan turned to Jiang Cheng, “He’s been plotting for a while to go to Burial Mound, hasn’t he? After all, with his skills, it wouldn’t be too hard to set up a sect of his own. And so, he used this as a chance to leave the Jiang Sect, intending to do whatever he pleases in the bright skies outside. You rebuilt the YunmengJiang Sect with so much work. He’s got a few controversial traits in him to begin with, and still he doesn’t restrain himself, stirring up so much trouble for you. He doesn’t care about you at all.” Jiang Cheng pretended to stand his ground, “That probably isn’t that case. Wei WuXian has been like this ever since he was young. Even my father couldn’t do anything about him.” Jin GuangShan, “Even FengMian-xiong couldn’t do anything about him, huh?” He chuckled a few times, “FengMian-xiong just favors him.” Hearing the words ‘favors him’, the muscles beside the corners of Jiang Cheng’s mouth twitched. Jin GuangShan continued, “Sect Leader Jiang, you’re not like your father. It’s just been a couple of years since the reestablishment of the YunmengJiang Sect, precisely when you should be displaying your power. And he doesn’t even know to avoid suspicions. What would the Jiang Sect’s new disciples think if they saw him? Don’t tell me you’d let them see him as their role model and look down on you?”

—Chapt. 73: Recklessness, exr

And even if he was building an army? The cultivation world sat still while the QishanWen built up an army and trampled over anyone they felt like. The same cultivation world sat still while the LanlingJin did the exact same thing directly after the Sunshot Campaign, despite having the power to do something about it before the Jin became unimpeachable (proof and proof 2). Yet Wei Wuxian is the only one they felt moved to go against. Gee, wonder why.

And even if them thinking that Wei Wuxian had an army was canon? They certainly didn’t by the time they showed up and slaughtered a settlement of impoverished farmers and threw their bodies into the blood pool (proof). None of the participants of the second siege are shocked by the existence of the Wen remnants crawling out of the blood pool, including the Lan. They knew. Somebody smashed Granny Wen's head in, and a bunch of other somebodys watched. The cultivation world isn’t stupidly “choosing to believe the Jin’s lies.” They were active and willing participants in the spreading of these lies with the explicit intent of restoring the classist hierarchy by tearing the “servant’s son” down from what they considered their rightful place on top of the food chain. Just like they all sat back when Xue Yang was running around massacring clans and only Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan stepped in to stop him.

Why Lan Wangji Endures

I breifly touched on this topic before in this post, but I wanted to go more in-depth with it in combination with this post. When Lan Wangji says this:

"...When I went to see him, I told him, ‘Young Master Wei was already in the wrong, why add onto the wrong committed?’ And he said....... He can’t affirm whether what you did was right or wrong. But no matter what, he was willing to shoulder all of the responsibility together with you...."

—Chapt. 99: A Hatred for Life Part 2, boat-full-of-lotus-pods

...he is not making a statement on the morality of either his or Wei Wuxian's actions. In fact, his opinions about the moral righteousness of their actions are separate from his opinions on his clan's (and the greater cultivation world's) meted-out punishments. Why? Because the rules and laws of the cultivation world are now wholly separate from what is moral, and so Lan Wangji has matched Wei Wuxian in cleaving his sense of morality from what is considered acceptable by the status quo. Lan Wangji cannot confirm to Lan Xichen (or the Lan Clan, or the cultivation world as a whole) whether Wei Wuxian was right or wrong because they are not operating under the same understanding of "right and wrong." At the same time, Lan Wangji's (summarized via Lan Xichen's) speech above is not in conversation with his brother but actually in conversation with Wei Wuxian's speech back in Yiling:

There was no such road. No solution existed. Wei WuXian spoke slowly, “Thank you for keeping me company today. Thank you for telling me the news about my shijie’s marriage too. But, let the self judge the right and the wrong, let others decide to praise or to blame, let gains and losses remain uncommented on. I, too, know what I should and shouldn’t do. I believe that I’ll be able to control it as well.” As if he’d anticipated such an attitude since a long time ago, Lan WangJi nodded slightly and closed his eyes. And that marked their farewell.

—Chapt. 75: Distance, exr

Wei Wuxian was put into a dead-end situation where any act of self-defense or defense of innocents was an automatic crime. In the end, he experienced the ultimate consequence of death because his act of self-defense led to the death of an important individual, a death that was seen as "unforgivable" in the eyes of the cultivation world, unlike the deaths of Wei Wuxian and the Wen remnants. Likewise, Lan Wangji's actions in protecting Wei Wuxian against his clan were met with punishment, because even though he had good cause in rescuing the Wen remnants' only protector, going against his clan is "unforgivable" in the eyes of a society ruled by tradition and orthodoxy over morality. This is why Wei Wuxian says that the self must judge the self, and why Lan Wangji is following that creed by enduring the Lan Clan punishment while maintaining an unshakeable belief in Wei Wuxian's righteousness.

It was never about Lan Wangji doubting his or Wei Wuxian's morals. It was never about Lan Wangji putting love above righteousness. It was always about how Lan Wangji so much believed in Wei Wuxian's morality and the righteousness of his actions that he was willing to protect the man when the entire world said he was in the wrong, when his own family stood opposite him. And just like Wei Wuxian eventually accepted the consequences of his actions and used his last moments to attempt to destroy the Stygian Tiger Seal, Lan Wangji, too, endured being whipped 33 times by the discipline whip, then went on to rescue Wen Yuan and raise him and the other Lan disciples with morals so strong that they could transcend the mob mentality that their parents never learned to unsubscribe from. Lan Wangji's steadfastness in the face of the incredible hypocrisy and corruption baked into the system he lived in is why Wei Wuxian is able to resurrect into a world where the new generation can look up to him as a hero and a mentor rather than a scourge and a terror.

This endurance is Lan Wangji's ultimate act of love.

[vortechy]

wretched machine

[faaun]

Jack Marsh (2005), Friendship Otherwise - Toward a Levinasian Description of Personal Friendship

[tenojan-in-tevinter]

Thinking about my Shepard and how much more fucked up it is for a Sole Survivor Shep to be forced to work for Cerberus. Thinking about that personal quest in me1 where you find Corporal Toombs: a survivor of the Akuze tragedy that no one knew about because he was taken BY CERBERUS to be experimented on because he survived the thresher maws that CERBERUS SET UP IN THE FIRST PLACE. Yeah, apparently Akuze was a Cerberus experiment the whole time, and a Shepard who was there and survived is then forced to work for the very people who are responsible for the wholesale slaughter of his entire unit on Akuze. And they have to just act like that's okay because bioware says so. Like Shepard doesn't even mention Akuze when arguing with any of the Cerberus people. There's no option to say anything about it. I am fine.

[1o1percentmilk]

i have many thoughts about self hatred, self destruction, existence, the community vs the self, family, duties, ethics, and responsibility, but i struggle to put them into one coherent work

[starchildghost]

[hauntingblue]

Justice for jolyne wdym emporio defeated pucci

[fagziraphale]

itd be cool if the reason for crowley's fall was literally that he tried to overthrow god. like he went all in on the rebellion. he downplays it later like he just asked questions he just hung around the wrong people he just got swept up in it etc bc he cant remember the details a lot and that makes it easier for him to maintain that he didn't even do anything. but like i want the truth to be that he DID do something. and this is not to say he would have deserved it, or that trying to overthrow god is wrong or anything. it would just unambiguously be like yeah, there was a rebellion, he was part of it, he chose to reject god first. and then he AND aziraphale have to come to realize that that still doesn't make what was done to him and the other demons justified

[soubiapologist]

i don't expect any of you to understand the reference but alice cooper. from riverdale. is a little like if a loveless character was really really really fucking funny

[musical-chick-13]

I'm the LAST person to suggest that you have to preface every single comment you make about a character/fictional relationship/etc. you like with a reminder that you Know™ it's pRoBLeMaTiC, but I DO question what the point of acting genuinely for real like there were no problems is.

[fungi-maestro]

The Question #15 (1988)

[postmanlinksbootyshorts]

really funny seeing someone who is the problem commenting on how and why the server died... lol

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for sabotaging my boyfriend's hookup with his girlfriend by filling his sex playlist with DJ Crazytimes

I (28NB, they/he) have known my boyfriend (call him C, 29M, he/him) for some 15ish years now. As long as I've known him, he has been on and off again with his girlfriend (call him T, 29NB, he/him). Respectfully, and with love, C and T are two of the worst and most annoying people I know. I want to marry them both specifically so that I can study them under a microscope like a parasitic virus.

Technically they're monogamous, but they're both hooking up with other people (myself included), usually the same people, because they have the same taste in lovers (bad). I have suggested that they give actual polyamory a try, and they reject the idea wholeheartedly. I think they get off on their dynamic, and far be it from me to try more than the bare minimum to dissuade them from it.

A couple months back, they got into a fight and broke up (again) because T (who was unemployed at the time) stole $50 from C (who works at GameStop) so that he could pay for a tank of gas (using C's car) to go hook up with another guy a couple states over. C was not upset that T was hooking up with another guy (because he was Also hooking up with that guy and knew he would not have a leg to stand on), but because of the stolen money + car.

C and I currently live together, because you can't afford an apartment on a GameStop salary, and also, like I said, he's my boyfriend. I'm making carnitas tacos next Friday, and T is coming over, because despite everything, he has nothing else to do on a Friday night. I know that C and T are going to get into a huge fight, and I know that it's probably either going to end with them getting back together out of spite or with someone's vehicle getting keyed--I'm betting on both.

Here's where I think I might be the asshole. I would really like to get inbetween them. Not in a "I don't want you to date each other" kind of way, but in a "holy shit you are both so insufferable i would like to get in on that" kind of way. I currently have my thing with C, and I've hooked up with T once in the past, but I would really like to make it official with him as well.

My plan is as follows: C and T are going to be in the same space again next Friday. They're going to fight, then hook up, then get back together again. C is one of those cybersexual "i built my own computer and run it on Linux" people, which is to say, he thinks tiktok and youtube are evil, and he he thinks spotify premium is supporting megacorporations. So, his sex playlist for T (we do not have our own sex playlist) is just an actual folder of mp3 files.

While C is at work, I'm going to log into his computer and change several of those mp3 files to DJ Crazytimes' Planet of the Bass, which I play often, and he is frequently annoyed by. My hope is that he'll realize it was me, he'll come and yell at me for ruining their hookup, T will take my side to piss him off, and the tension will get to the point where they let me join their hookup, and I can ask to date both of them after that.

To be clear, I recognize that I'm also Incredibly Toxic for enabling and encouraging this behavior. That said, I feel like I'm justified in this scenario considering C and T are both Also toxic, and furthermore, it is a known fact that I'm dating C right now, so for them to hook up, C would technically be cheating on me. I asked C's sister (a childhood friend of mine) for her take on whether it would be funny or just annoying, and she just told me that we all deserve each other, so I think I should be good. Am I being uniquely shitty here?

What are these acronyms?

[mostly-imagines]

Sugar on the Rim vol. I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the fundraiser rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up? 

No, he’s rich, not royalty. 

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed. 

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget. 

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is. 

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways. 

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty. 

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options. 

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path. 

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit. 

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for. 

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk. 

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room. 

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?” 

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce. 

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received. 

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased. 

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

 “Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.” 

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.” 

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected. 

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.” 

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” 

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much. 

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours. 

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms. 

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence. 

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for. 

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex. 

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—” 

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan. 

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

part two

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽