#reason i do like the idea of a sideblog

[7cfc00]

hello! im a beginner artist and i recently found your blog! ive found inspiration in your art (if that's okay) and i really like your shading style but cant really replicate it in a way i like.. (hopefully this isnt inappropriate to admit) do you mind doing a brief tutorial? many thanks! your art is very lovely

HIII sorry it took so long to respond i was kinda busy... but THANKS! heres some process pics and also a long winded rant about art... hope its helpful

i used this piece cus its one of my recent artworks that i did a lot more rendering for... usually its a bit more condensed than this, but yeah. gradients are. poggers

ive only recently gotten comfortable w this "artstyle" so i'm not exactly the. authority here. but yeah! just some notes and thoughts... wish you all the best on your journey soldier. firm handshake.

[knightelf-archive]

we NEED more films made in the 70s. for carpet. where are the wood panelled walls

[sukugo]

MOOT YOU LIKE EXO????????

I DO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! they're one of my fave groups!!!!! i'm pretty lost in regards to them right now (and kpop in general) as i tend to only focus on one thing at a time (being jjk/anime rn so) but YEAH I LOVE THEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[rorsry]

i made the other account so i'm queue'ing posts from myself then i see it in my activity page and go who the fuck is this asshole spamming me

[supercreig]

'It's a Jersey Thing' will forever be one of my favorite episodes of SP fdd8gudtbcgasdct

[fathomlessgaze]

wait since when did tumblr let you reply on posts as your sideblog???

[musical-chick-13]

I really do think I need to make a For Real permanent pinned post, because people keep coming on this blog expecting me to be Normal™ and I, for the love of all that is good and sane, do not know what I ever did to give off that impression.

[navybrat817]

Any thoughts for WETnesday with Bucky?🤭🤭

Okay, Syd. I wrote this after work for Wetnesday and promptly fell asleep. So, I'm posting this on Thirsty Thursday! And that has to be Mr. Barnes before you two are married.

Dinner Plans

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn't want to be late for dinner, but you don't seem to be in a rush to go.

Word Count: Over 2.8k

Warnings: Established relationship, quick unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, lovelies), possessive behavior, a bit of humor and fluff, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I love this couple, okay? @targaryenvampireslayer and @starlightcrystalline, I hope you enjoy! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was still early in the evening as Bucky got ready for dinner. Checking his watch once he put it on, he sighed. If he was late, Steve would give him a hard time. And if Steve gave him a hard time, Sam would only give him the gasoline to fuel the fire. Just the thought of it had his face shift to his grumpy stare you loved.

His gaze softened when you went to the vanity. Would the guys give him a hard time if he said he was in love and wanted as much alone time with you as possible? How being with you was like floating on a cloud and being pulled back down to earth all at once? He didn’t care if they’d call him out for being sappy. He sure as hell suffered enough in his life that he could afford to be appreciative of you and maybe a little selfish when it came to you.

But checking the time, he grumbled. “We were supposed to leave five minutes ago,” he said.

He would’ve rather gone to a hole in the wall kind of place or a diner to have dinner, but it wasn't his turn to pick the dinner out with some of the gang. Plus it was nice getting to dress up with you since you liked how he looked in suits. To be fair, you said he looked good in anything and he felt the same way about you. How you always managed to look like a goddess, he’d never know.

You hummed. “We still have a few minutes to spare,” you said, which he wasn’t sure how you knew since you hadn’t looked at the time. “And you are not dressed yet, so it’s not like we can head out the door.”

He paused to stare at you. “Neither are you,” he pointed out, licking his lips as you leaned forward a bit more as you applied your makeup. He shook his head after a moment, trying to snap himself out of the spell you always managed to put him under. “I’m bringing you one of my cardigans to put over your shoulders in case you get cold.”

Because the weather was nice for the evening, you picked out a sleeveless dress. He didn’t know if the restaurant would be cold though, and he didn’t want you shivering through the meal. You likely had something to match your dress, but putting one of his cardigans over you was like that extra touch of belonging to him in case anyone got any ideas.

“You just want one of your shirts draped over me like a big neon sign that says I’m yours and you don't want guys checking me out on my dress,” you said like you knew exactly what he was thinking. There was no reason to deny your words since it was the truth. “But I appreciate the thoughtfulness.”

“I do like my clothes draped over you,” he smirked. He liked having his smell on you, too. “But you know what I don’t like? Steve and Sam bitching if we’re late. It’ll spoil my appetite.”

“Aww, my poor super soldier,” you teased, smiling at him in your reflection and making his heart skip a beat. “If we’re late, you can just blame me. I won’t let them give you a hard time, okay?”

Bucky couldn’t blame you though. Not entirely. You were late getting in the shower thanks to him insisting on the two of you staying in bed. Serum stamina or whatever you wanted to call it, but he felt bad some days for his almost constant need. You didn’t seem to mind though.

“They won’t believe me,” he said, staring again when the strap of your bra slipped from your shoulder. “And baby, you know I adore you, but you need to quit distracting me so I can finish getting dressed.”

Ever since you moved in, you’d been a distraction in a wonderful way. He often found that he’d pause to look at photos or little touches you incorporated into the place, giving him a chance to reflect on memories you made together and even learn more about who you were before you met. Hearing your laughter or voice call to him from another room also made him drop whatever he was doing, too. Sharing a space with someone could be daunting, but it was easy with you, like you had lived together for years. It made him look forward to more.

“Me? Distracting you?” You turned your head toward him and gave him an innocent glance. You were anything but innocent. “I'm not doing anything.”

Bucky almost snarled. Like hell you weren't doing anything. Swaying your hips and prancing around in your lingerie before you sat to get ready, lingerie which barely covered your gorgeous tits and sweet cunt. He wanted to rip it to shreds or tear it off with his teeth. You wouldn’t mind, right? He could always get you more to destroy.

“Not doing anything? Look at you,” he said incredulously as you turned back to the mirror and pushed your bra up. He should’ve been holding your breasts. “Why aren't you wearing a robe?”

You tilted your head. “Well, you said before I got in the shower that we were in a slight rush, so I figured putting on the robe was a waste of time. At least I have my underwear on, though I know you’d rather I be naked.”

If Bucky had his way, you’d be naked all the time. At least, when you two were at home. Logically he knew he couldn’t have that at work, functions, or anything of that nature, but the image in his head was nice. “For such a rush you seem to be taking your time.”

“I'm not taking my time. I'm finishing my makeup,” you argued, carefully applying your lipstick. “Like it?” you asked, blowing him an air kiss. It was a pretty shade. It would look even prettier smeared around his cock.

He closed his eyes with a groan. Some days he felt like a caveman with the thoughts that consumed him. “You look beautiful,” he said once he opened his eyes. Like always. “Now get your dress on so I can show you off before I put the cardigan on you.”

“Show me off?” You slowly stood from your chair and gave him a generous view of your backside. His cock twitched in his pants, and there was no reason to hide the pure lust in his eyes when you turned to face him. “You flatter me, Mr. Barnes.”

He chuckled. It always did something to him when you called him Mr. Barnes. It was something affectionate, sweet. “I think you’re the one flattering me, Mrs.-” he exhaled before he could finish, and he heard the hitch in your breath across the room.

“What was that?” you asked breathily.

He adjusted the watch on his wrist and avoided your gaze. You were his girl, yeah, and the love you had for each other spoke volumes, but you weren’t his wife. Not yet. God, how he wanted you to be- for you to take his last name, wear his ring on your finger, be his partner in all aspects of life. He wanted it to be more than just a dream.

“I didn’t say…” He cleared his throat and put on a blank face, only because he didn’t know how you’d react. “Anything.”

Your eyes raked over him before you beckoned him forward with a finger. He swore no one would ever control him again after HYDRA brainwashed him, but you could’ve commanded him to do anything. It didn’t frighten him because you would never harm him, never take advantage of him. Taking him into your care and maintaining his trust was one of the ways you showed you loved him.

Once he stood in front of you, barely an inch away, you whispered, “Were you about to call me Mrs. Barnes?”

He swallowed hard, his heart racing. It was one thing to say you loved each other, to want a future together, but what if you weren’t ready when he popped the question? “I was,” he whispered back.

You smiled, not looking the least bit put off or afraid. He should've known it wouldn't bother you, especially with you being the one to say “I love you” first. “I think that has a really nice ring to it,” you said, your hands moving to unbuckle his belt.

“You think so?” he asked, forgetting for a moment that he was capable of breathing. “You like the idea of being my wife?”

Bucky would no doubt be the kind of husband who’d brag about you. He’d find ways to insert “my wife” in conversations just to let others know that you picked him out of everyone else on the planet. Not just that, he wanted people to know how proud he was to be your man and that he’d find reasons every day to be proud of you.

“I love it,” you confirmed, sighing when he ran his fingertips along your arms. “Makes my heart race,” you admitted. He could hear it. “Makes me wet.”

Bucky arched his hips and pressed up against you. “Baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, not stopping you as you unbuttoned his pants. He was thinking of just cancelling dinner so he could throw you on the bed and stay inside you for the rest of the night. “We need to-”

“Oh. Now might be a good time to tell you that Steve pushed the reservation back by a half hour,” you cut in, mouthing over his racing pulse. “He figured he’d message me since I’m better about checking my phone, and-”

Bucky picked you up with ease and tossed you onto the bed. Your wide-eyed expression as you bounced nearly had him busting out of his pants, and he didn’t hesitate to crawl over you and pin you down. Relishing in the moan you let out when he lightly bit your neck, he did it again a little harder. “No wonder you took your time and teased me,” he smirked when you squirmed beneath him. “My future wife.”

“My future husband,” you moaned, bucking your hips up. “Need you in me. We can be quick.”

You got a hand in his hair and forced his head up to yours, your tongue impatiently pushing into his mouth. He groaned in understanding, feeling just as desperate as you. Knowing how turned on you were at the thought of being his wife turned him on, and he could barely form a coherent thought as he took his cock out and gave it a couple of quick pumps.

“Say it again,” he demanded, shoving your panties aside and rubbing the head of his cock along your slit. He took his time earlier today stretching you, and he wanted nothing more than to feel you around him again.

And the way you reached between your bodies and gripped the base of his cock, he knew you wanted the same when you said, “Fuck me, my future husband.”

He eased in gently, making you whine. He thought he’d whine, too, for a second because of how good he felt. God, how good it would feel to hold your hand one day and feel his ring against your skin. “You okay?” he asked, dragging his thumb along your lower lip once he was fully inside you. You were tight still, so wet, and oh, he was going to fuck you and make it quick, but he wasn’t going to hurt you.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, starting deep into his eyes as you clenched around him with purpose and brushed his hair back. He tried to be still, tried not to thrust like a wild animal. “Are you?”

“I’m okay,” he promised, easing his hips back. “Just hold on while I fuck you.”

Your back arched when he slammed himself back in nice and deep, your cry bouncing off the walls. Here in the comfort of your home you didn’t have to smother any noises, didn’t have to keep quiet. He wanted to tell you how much he loved you, how you were the queen of his world.

Being inside you all he got out was, “You feel so fucking good.”

And because you could read him like no one else could, you tenderly smiled. “I love you, too.”

He threw his head back as you clutched his arms, determined to make you feel good, determined to show you how much he loved you even as he fucked you. “Gonna put you on your hands and knees after dinner. Make you watch in the mirror while I fuck you,” he groaned. “Can imagine it's part of our honeymoon.”

“Please!’ you moaned, trying to meet his thrusts.

Bucky grabbed your thighs to lift you higher, uncaring if he ruined his pants for the evening. Watching you tremble beneath his, a vision of ecstasy, he was happy to stay there forever. Wrapped up in you was where he always wanted to be.

“Gonna come,” you moaned, reaching up to pull his hair again, your body quaking. “Bucky, please.”

Bucky groaned. He hadn’t rubbed your clit how he wanted to. Didn’t get to tear your bra off and tease your nipples. He did promise to fuck you later though, and he’d do all those things and more. “Then come for me,” he smirked, leaning down to say against your lips, “Future. Mrs.. Barnes.”

You got impossibly tight and the flood of wetness that gushed around him triggered his own orgasm, a rush of heat filling him as he filled you. His mouth fell open as you clung to him, and he heard you moan his name as your eyes went glossy. He wanted the image of you getting off to taking his last name etched in his brain for all time. He wanted his name to fall from your lips again and again on your wedding night.

The cloud in his mind began to lift. You, his future wife, were beneath him, still shaking, still holding him like a lifeline. He didn’t want to let you go either. “Holy… shit…” you panted.

He braced himself above you, trying not to crush you as the euphoria slowly faded. It never really went away though. Not with you. “Holy shit,” he agreed. He stayed inside you, your sweet mewl making him smile as he kissed you. “Is this a new kink?” he asked, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, touching his cheek. “New kink unlocked.”

Touching your lips with his once more, he chuckled. “You ruined my pants,” he teased. It wouldn’t have been the first time. The first time you rode his thigh and got your release all over it, he nearly came, too. “Good thing I have a few minutes to change.”

He cradled you close when he shifted to the side, making you moan again. “Yeah, well, you ruined my panties. Fair is fair.”

“I did,” he smirked, running his fingers along your spine. “Hey.”

“Hey what?”

“I love you,” he whispered, wanting to say it as often as he could. They weren’t just words, but a declaration, a promise.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back, tracing one of the buttons on his wrinkled shirt.

His lips brushed your forehead. He’d never get tired of hearing you say that. “If I asked you to marry me right now, would you say yes?”

He wouldn’t propose right this second. You deserved something more romantic. But in his heart, he just wanted to hear you say that you’d say yes.

You giggled, your eyes full of love. “I would say yes in a heartbeat,” you replied, kissing him gently. Your answer relieved him. “And I’d marry you anytime, anywhere.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But?” he asked, sensing a “but” in there.

“But don’t ask me right now, okay?” you smiled, in sync with his thoughts. “I mean, I’d like to think my pussy would make you propose now-”

“And it would,” he smirked.

You giggled again. “But ask me when I’m not expecting it… Whenever it feels right to you.”

“I will,” he promised.

“Looking forward to it.” You snuggled closer and missed his look of adoration. “Hold me for one more minute before we get ready to go?”

As if he could ever deny you. “I’ll hold you as long as you want,” he whispered.

He no longer cared if Steve or Sam gave him shit should they show up late. If you wanted him to skip dinner just to hold you, he’d do it. If you wanted him to surprise you when he proposed, he would. And no matter when Bucky asked you to be his wife, he’d make sure it was perfect as it could possibly be.

AHH! I love them so much. How do you lovelies think he proposed? ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[froggiewrites]

hi I had another idea for a request! dealer’s choice on the character(s) (but if you’re stuck for an idea maybe law?), but maybe the reader gets hurt in a fight and their (slightly in denial about being in love) future love interest nurses them back to health? can be fluff or smut or whatever you want I’m not picky I just love seeing your words

thank you I still love your work please keep it up

This request is from @toadmakes, on anon since it's her sideblog! I thought this idea was so sweet, so I just made a really fluffy, self indulgent little piece. Also, I let Law be cool last time I wrote about him so of course I had to make him a flustered little nerd in this one. I hope you enjoy it!!

A Helping Hand

Pairing: Law x Reader

SFW

Summary: You get hurt protecting Law, and he's not pleased. Warnings: Fluff, Lots of Banter, Very Little Hurt/Lots of Comfort Word Count: 1.3k

You don’t remember throwing yourself in front of Law, or being carried back to the Tang. You don’t remember the screams of your friends, or the shaking hands that so carefully bandaged you back up. But that’s alright, because they were all too eager to tell you how stupid you had been once you came to.

“–disgustingly irresponsible! Not to mention unnecessary! What good reason could there possibly have been to do that?” Law is the most furious you’ve ever heard him, and you fear it may be because he’s the most scared you’ve ever heard him. You don’t know how close of a call it was, but you know you hurt all over, and his eyes are shining with something someone who didn’t know better might confuse with tears.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” You try not to say it like an excuse or a plea. It’s simply fact.

His eyes shoot away from yours. You swear you see a hint of red on his cheeks, but just as quickly as you notice it, it’s gone. He clicks his tongue with displeasure before continuing. “I wasn’t going to get hurt. I could have very easily moved out of the way. You–” he sighs. “Don’t do anything like that again.”

“Well I don’t think I’ll be doing it anytime soon.” You try to give him a wry grin, but it turns more into a grimace as you shift, pain shooting through you. You’re covered head to toe in bandages, every part of you sore and bruised. You’re surprised you’re upright and conscious right now, honestly. “Can I get some painkillers?”

“You’re on enough to take down a horse.”

“But it still hurts.” You pout, and he grits his teeth and looks away from you again.

“Yeah. Almost dying tends to do that.” Even with the gruffness in his voice and face, his hands are gentle as they begin to fuss with your bandages, checking over every inch of you to ensure you’ve been properly taken care of. You could swear he hesitates slightly at checking the bandages around your thighs and chest, but he perserveres, ever the professional. You wince a few times when his hands brush a particularly tender spot, yelping when he makes slight contact with your ribs. He fiddles with the IV in your arm, and you feel a flood of relaxation and relief hit you. Looks like he found a reason to give you more painkillers after all. “You’re going to be out of commission for a long while, y’know.”

“How long?”

“At least six weeks, but probably longer.”

“What?”

“That’s nothing compared to what it could be. You have a couple broken ribs, not to mention all of the cuts and bruises. You’re lucky your organs weren’t crushed.”

“Can’t you like…shambles it away?”

“No.” His voice is flat. You look at him with wide, pleading eyes, and he scoffs at you. “Well, more like I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“If I just fix it you’ll run off and do it again, and next time you might not be so lucky.”

“Oh…so you’re just worried about me?” You giggle, filled with warmth at the idea. And maybe the pain meds. “You could just say so.”

“That’s not–” he lets out a soft choked sound when he realizes there’s no way to deny it without insisting he doesn’t care about you. As grumpy as he can be sometimes, he would never say something so unkind. Not to you. “Shut up.”

“Hey Captain?” You feel your tongue loosening with things you would never say, but you’re too out of it to stop yourself.

“Yes?”

“Do you like me?”

There’s definitely a flush to his cheeks now. “What?”

“I think you like me. A lot.”

“I–No!”

“You don’t like me?” Your voice cracks a little, tears coming far too quickly. Whatever he gave you is powerful stuff.

“That’s not–I–agh!” He roughly runs his fingers through his hair, desperately avoiding eye contact with you. “I like you. As a crewmate.”

You puff your cheeks out a bit with displeasure. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.” 

“I’ll believe you if you look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

“You’re looking at the headboard over my shoulder, Captain.”

His eyes flick to yours, and he turns an even more brilliant shade of scarlet. “I li–” His shoulders tense and he suddenly shoots up and turns away from you. “I can’t believe I’m arguing with you about this. You’re high off your ass. I bet you won’t even remember this when you wake up tomorrow.” You can see the tips of his ears burning as he gathers his things and prepares to leave.

“You’re gonna abandon me?”

“I have work to do!”

“I’m a patient, I am work!”

His voice is rising with frustration. “You’re already set up, what else is there to do?”

“I don’t know, Captain, I’m not the doctor here!” You try to raise your arm to reach out to him, only to let out a soft whine when you can barely move it.

“Please stop trying to use your broken bones.” He comes closer to gently hold your arm down, concern clear.

“It doesn’t feel broken.”

“It will soon.”

“You’re gonna let me hurt? On purpose? You’re so mean to me, Captain.”

He sighs. His thumb starts rubbing small circles onto your hand, though he doesn’t seem conscious of the action. “If I fix you up, do you promise not to do anything like that again?”

“No.”

The affectionate movements stop. “What?”

“I can’t promise that. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m strong, I can take a little pain.”

“But I don’t want you to.” You know you sound petulant and childish, but you can’t stop yourself. “I don’t want you to hurt at all, I don’t care if you can handle it. You shouldn’t have to.”

“So you should?”

“Yes.”

“That’s stupid.”

You huff. “You’re stupid.”

He can’t help but break into a rare laugh, a chuckle that rumbles through him and makes your heart skip a beat. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s lost himself until he looks up to see you staring at him, eyes wide and cheeks red, mouth slightly agape. “What?”

“I really like you, Captain.”

He grows horribly flustered, but for once he doesn’t pull away from you. He keeps looking you in the eye, even as every part of him screams to run and avoid his embarrassment. “You do?” His tone is heart-wrenchingly hopeful.

“I do. So, so much. You’re the most beautiful and wonderful person in the world.” You can feel your smile grow dopey and lovesick. “I’d take a million hits for you. A billion, even.”

“What if it’d make me happier if you didn’t take any hits at all?”

“Then I would say you shouldn’t have let me join your crew. Getting hit is part of the job. But that’s okay. You’re worth it.” You lean forward, begging him for a single touch, since you currently can’t lift your arms. You can feel your eyes drooping, but you fight to keep them open long enough to receive what you want.

He sighs, but you can see the affectionate smile creeping onto his face. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, resting a hand against your cheek so tenderly you could weep. “Get some rest. I’ll fix you up in the morning.”

You hum as he uses his palm to gently push you back down, his other hand on your shoulders to recline you slightly. You’re fading fast, finally losing your fight with sleep, but before you go, you swear you feel the ghost of his lips against your forehead.

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece

[fuckyesbrucewayne]

I was debating on whether to make this post or not, but then I realized that if I cannot be annoying about Bruce Wayne in my Bruce Wayne Sideblog™ then what's the point. So here are basically my thoughts on why Bruce's characterization on Batman and Robin: Year One doesn't work for me, especially on this last issue.

So without further ado, let's begin!

First things first, I'm going to show the panels that are the whole reason I am making this post first, and then analyze what is happening and why I think it doesn't work for a young Bruce that is just beginning. And yes, I will be using as a basis Golden and Silver age Bruce, because he's the blueprint whether Mark likes it ot not.

(To give some context Robin got himself kidnapped, but he saved himself. Alone, I might add.)

This scene begins... with not much promise. This whole comic makes it a point that Bruce is not only clueless about raising Dick (an idea I'm not entirely against) but also makes it seem like he's kind of forced to take care of the kid? For some reason?? The comic treats it like it's a chore he has to do, and that it falls more on Alfred's shoulders than anything... and Alfred is also not very good at it, but that's another story (I'm not completely against that as a characterization choice on Alfred's side).

My whole problem with this basis is that if Bruce is not only clueless but also kind of not interested in raising Dick... Then why did he even take him in in the first place? Like, what was he thinking, and more importantly, what am I supposed to get from this? Because I'm going to assume that the reason he took him in was because he saw himself in him, right? So... it was just a selfish act?? On a whim?? That's it??? You'll understand why I feel that idea is kind of shallow, at the very least.

But going back to the page at hand, we can see that Alfred is making a point of not interfering and letting Bruce figure himself out, but also letting it be known that he... Kind of doesn't like Dick either (which is surprisingly in character with Dixon's Robin origin story, so I guess there's some basis there).

Robin's first question when they're left alone is that if he's going to get fired, which I find "fascinating" that so many modern retellings focus on, because the idea of firing was not that important in the original stories. Like, the fear of being fired was less important than the fear of being abandoned by Bruce or being replaced, that last one was very common... But firing in and of itself wasn't necessarily that big of a deal, and it never was until that infamous story of Nightwing's second origin (which I think you can guess it's not my favorite, not when the first one was so good already... But also because Max wrote himself into a corner with that one. So you're telling me Bruce fires Dick because he doesn't want a young partner and then immediately accepts 12-year-old Jason. As his partner. What.). Anyways, Bruce's answer to that loaded question is "not yet", which is. A choice. Because what are we doing here, why is Bruce taking in an orphan who has lost every semblance of family he had but is also making his position in his household so... flimsy. There was a time when it was literally only the two of them against the world, and I understand we cannot do that anymore because of Alfred, but even then writers have made it a point to write about how these two were a set, a "do not separate" team. They're the dynamic duo for fuck's sake, why is Mark making a point to write Bruce reaffirming Dick's fears about his position being temporary, what am I supposed to understand here about Bruce's character as a caregiver. And also why is he making Bruce separate himself from Dick by saying that he is rich, that the money is his, not theirs. Why are we giving the 12-year-old or however old he is supposed to be here financial insecurity.

I know you will be surprised to know this, but Bruce has always been kind of a workaholic... but not surprisingly, and contrary to what everyone wants you to believe, in his earlier years it was not so exaggerated. He used to do a lot of fun activities with Dick! If Dick wanted something he would cave like a house of cards because that was his little boy.

They went fishing a lot, they had pillow fights, they went to the lake, to the beach, camping, they had fun a lot of the time, HE USED TO TELL DICK TO TAKE IT EASY!!!! Hell, they didn't even go looking for cases most of the time, they would go to a museum or try to relax and a bomb would fucking explode.

So... why are we making a point to show Bruce IN HIS FIRST YEAR WITH DICK telling him that "yeah actually every day matters and if you are not doing something productive you deserve to suffer or whatever". What is going on here. I'm not saying that Dick's workaholic tendencies don't come partly from Bruce, but we all forget that Dick has been a child star athlete since he was five at the very least.

Hell, this comic literally goes into a tangent in the next page about this.

And here we arrive to my last straw with this comic. I'm going to kill someone I fear. In what universe, in what fucking universe, is Bruce Thomas Wayne telling Richard John "Dick" Grayson that he made a mistake in taking him in. Why are we accepting and even praising this characterization. I'm not even going to say anything I'm just going to leave comic panels here.

But yeah this was the page, the panel, that ended it for me. We're not coming back from this. And if you think next page fixes it because Bruce is known to be very autistic blunt and say the first thing his brain is thinking without realizing it can be misinterpreted... Just look at this.

What is this, what is this supposed to be. What the fuck. In other circumstances the idea of "we're here to help each other" is something I wouldn't be against, but it's just the whole conversation before it that ruins it. So basically, after Bruce threatens to throw him out, reaffirms Dick's fears that his position is temporary and that Bruce has all the power in this dynamic, THEN he's like "we're here to help each other yippieeeee help me child" are we stupid. Are we stupid.

Basically I think I've made my point clear. But if not, my biggest problem is this: if Bruce has been a cold-hearted paranoid jackass since the beginning... then what's the point.

What's the point of Jason's death, of the accidentally good storytelling of Bruce going through traumatic event after traumatic event (Jason's death, Knightfall, No Man's Land, Fugitive, Identity Crisis, etc., ETC.) and coming out of them more cynical, more changed, more broken. If he's always been cold and callous, if there was never any fun, any whimsy, any love... then how did Dick become so devoted to him.

Why do they both miss the good old days if there is nothing to miss.

What am I supposed to be understanding here, about the dynamic duo's relationship. And most important of all... What's the point. If this relationship is based on abuse, if this relationship has nothing good going for it, if Bruce has been always an abusive monster and Dick a poor victim that didn't know any better, then what's the point. What is the point of Batman and Robin, if this is all there has always been. Is this all Bruce is allowed to be using this toxic view of masculinity as his basis. Is he not allowed to be fun, to be loving, to feel anything outside of anger or annoyance.

Why does he barely smile at Dick in this comic, even when they're out of the suit, if he is supposed to be in his first few years? Where's the tragedy then, in knowing he used to make him laugh.

Why does he suddenly not seem to like Dick for who he is? Because that's the thing, it just seems like he doesn't like him, like there's no reason he took him in other than a sudden whim, like they are not the fucking dynamic duo, like they are not the blueprint. They just feel like two people that don't even like each other and are forced to live together. And how is this dynamic more interesting, how is this supposed to be better than what we had. What's the point, man.

What's the point.

[noonwardmoss]

Late Night Snack ♡

CW: somno (m receiving), oral (m receiving), blink-and-you'll-miss-it daddy kink, service reader(?), slight powerplay

Summary: Butcher and you haven't been intimate for a while, so your thirsty ass takes matters into your own hands.

Tags: @angelically-yours @konartiste-sideblog @chocolategiverzombie @bobabilbil @frank3nfag @tsundere-queen @daydreamingdarl

Notes: this is not beta-read don't kill meee

Smut below cut

Butcher didn't exactly remember how this dynamic started. All he knew was that it'd been going on for a while. You were a young thing prancing about like he'd sculpted the Earth. He couldn't not get a taste. And after that first one, he got another. Then another, and another, to the point you two were semi-frequently having sex.

He'd told you that you could come to him any time you needed it. He hadn't expected you to take that literally.

The day went relatively normal—they'd gotten a good amount of work done and retired at a semi-reasonable time. You were a tad more fidgety than usual, but it didn't raise any concern.

It clearly should have, though.

Not much time passed between Butcher falling asleep and waking back up—his body grousing awake at the feeling of clumsy fingers trying to grip his length from underneath his boxers. A soft voice sounded a small whimper. Your voice.

His eyes popped open, and he immediately came face-to-face with the figure mouthing at his pelvis. You must've been at it for a bit because he was already half-stiff in his sleep-slurred state.

Was he still asleep? On his luckiest nights, he'd dream of you like this—desperate for him, initiating…

“Oi,” he croaked, voice thickened with rest, “fuck're ‘ya doin'?”

At his words, your eyes fluttered to him. You made a pretty sight, hunched over his crotch and straddling his knees. He could see your pupils fluctuating in the dark, trying to discern his reaction as your cheek went to rest against his bony hip.

“Needed it,” was the only reasoning you provided, tone that of a whining pup. He could tell you were tired, too—but apparently not enough to prevent you from doing whatever *this* was.

A gruff, almost amused scoff shook through Butcher's chest. You always were a pouter.

“Yeah? And this is how you decided t’ get it?” There was a lazy playfulness to his demeanor—one that only encouraged you. As you nodded, one of his large hands found its way to the back of your head, carding through your hair.

“You said anytime.” He smirked at your defense.

You'd never been the one to initiate before. But now, you were the one who came to him—needy and desperate. He had to admit, he liked the sudden boldness. It made him feel wanted. Your sex lives were in no way vanilla by now, and he'd talked about it being on the table before.

Was that why you were so twitchy today? The idea was a bit humorous, you have been on edge from being horny and wanting him. A whining pup, indeed.

His thumb found its way to your lower lip, pushing inward to feel the soft heat of your mouth. In his current hazy state, it didn't feel real.

“That I did, pet,” he hummed, tone only slightly breathless. God, you made such an image… His cock had fully hardened now to strain against the cloth of his boxers. “Just didn't expect it to actually happen.”

His finger hooked against your bottom teeth, prying your jaw open just a bit more.

“It's been too long,” you admitted. His digit in your mouth made the words slur together. “I needed to taste you, sir.”

He nearly groaned at that word—sir. It seemed to be something you uniquely called him. No one else garnered such a tone of respect and reverence from you. How he earned it—placated you—he'd forever be clueless and impressed to.

“How long was too long, princess?” His dick twitched at the sight of you being so uncharacteristically greedy. He'd usually be pissed over being woken up so late in the night, but the prospect of you itching for him all day was a bit… flattering. A toxic bubble of pride welled up in him, even though any reasonable person would've been concerned.

“It's been weeks,” you huffed, and even in his half-asleep state, that surprised him. He tried to wrack his brain for the last time you two had sex, but his focus was more on the fact you hadn't done anything about your desire until now.

“You been aching for me for weeks, pretty thing? Couldn't find anyone else to help?” He tutted mockingly. As expected, you shook your head.

“No. Only want you.” You nosed into his length again, and he stifled a groan. Despite knowing that'd be your answer, he still felt a wave of satisfaction at your insistence. His hand tightened in your hair as he tilted your head back.

“Been a proper good girl, have you? Only wantin’ your daddy to take care of you…”

You nodded the best you could in his grip, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his cock through the cloth.

“Can I please, then?” You murmured, looking at him through your lashes as the vibrations of your voice traveled through him. He gave a low hum.

“You don't need to ask.” His answer came with a gruff tone, as though saying ‘obviously’.

He pushed the blanket completely aside and shifted so he was sitting properly against the headboard, pulling the fabric of his boxers as some sort of encouragement.

“Go on, pet,” Butcher huffed. “Take what you want.”

Your fingers eagerly found the hem of his boxers, hooking in and pulling them down. His length bobbed, hitting your cheek from the proximity, and you made a small noise.

You'd think after all the hookups you've had so far, the shock of it all would wear off and he'd just sit and enjoy it. But no. Every time he felt the gentle touch of your hands, it was like a goddamn dream. In an idle fantasy in his head, he'd often imagine you like this. Needy, almost desperate. Somehow, the reality was better than anything his mind could have fabricated.

You lapped at his tip near instantly, and he hissed through his teeth. Your eyes returned to his at the sound, mouth opening wide to tap him on your tongue. Christ, had he taught you that?

“Yeahh.” The word tumbled from Butcher's lips with a groan, fingers rooting in your hair loosely enough not to scratch your scalp. He wanted to be selfish and buck up—to take—but you were taking rare initiative. He wanted to savor the change in dynamic.

A low moan slipped from both of you when you wrapped your lips around him and swirled your tongue. While you lavished the tip with attention, your hand found the base and stroked.

A breathless puff of laughter was pulled out of Butcher, and he shifted his hips down a bit for you. A million things were going through his head, and they all involved you. All of this—this whole scene—was ripped straight from one of his more daring dreams of you.

“Just like that,” he praised, hand running through the strands of your hair. It only encouraged you to take a bit more of his length. You swallowed around him before bobbing experimentally, teeth just barely scraping the sensitive skin in the way you knew he adored.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, and his hips tilted forward. The mix of your enthusiasm and inexperience was sending waves of heat down his body.

A low ‘tsk’ escaped his lips at the grazing. “Teeth, baby, remember?”

You hummed again as an answer, the resulting vibrations making him jersey his hips. You gagged, but managed to keep yourself on him. The vixen you were, you knew how he loved the danger from the pressure of your teeth.

And well, if you wanted to play like that, he could certainly provide.

His large hands tangled tighter in your hair, pulling at a sign of encouragement. His pelvis stuttered before he pushed himself further down your throat, a breathy groan leaving him.

“You're doin’ good, sweetheart.” The praise was laced with strain, low and cracking. You moaned around his dick, picking up enthusiasm again.

If it wasn't enough for you to look so damn good, the sounds were driving him further insane. He let you control the pace momentarily, an itch to control bubbling under his skin with each moment.

“If you were in such a rush, y’ shoulda come to me sooner.” The low growl was punctuated by a push of his hips, fingers tightening in your hair to keep you in place. You drooled around him, sinking down a bit more with hazy eyes. And the two of you were too similar in this way—you both got pleasure by giving it to your partner in bed.

Your nails grazed his pelvic bone, barely digging in. There was an electricity that buzzed just under the surface of Butcher's skin, a tingling heat that began to cloud his mind. That, coupled with the fact he was still half-convinced he was asleep, created some feedback loop of fuzzy pleasure. The sharp sting of your nails had him bucking up into your warm heat, lolling his head back with a harsh groan.

You choked again, taking deep breaths through your nose to somehow willpower yourself to stay on his dick. Then, once you'd gotten your gag reflex under control, you sank all the way to the base, nose nuzzling his public hair. Your throat fluttered with the effort, dragging a breathy moan from the man under you.

“Ffuuuck yeah—yeah, good girl. Stay just like that for a bit, darlin’,” came his murmur, voice just barely more than a rough growl. The last of his breath was pushed out almost like you were taxing him, and with his praise came the soothing pet of his hand through your hair. You blinked the tears away to keep your eyes on him, face flushed in the dim lighting. You swallowed around him ever-so-often as you obeyed, staying flush to his pelvis.

And those teary eyes staring at him with so much desire nearly made him lose it.

There was a moment where he just felt overwhelmed—a rush of a million sensations he didn't know how to name rushing to his head and making it spin. A shuddering sigh spilled from his lips at them.

“Look at you.” His voice was but a ragged breath now, hand running down from the top of your head to your cheek to brush away stray tears that had fallen. “Such a pretty thing, you are, doll.”

His touch made you keen as you decided that was encouragement enough to continue. With a long drag up his length, you released a small noise from your throat. Your sounds weren't helping Butcher's current state much.

“Don't stop. Fuuck—yeah. Jus’– Just like that, sweetheart,” he rumbled with another groan. The feeling was enough to make his legs feel unsteady—and that feeling had him rolling into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He was embarrassingly close embarrassingly fast—but in his defense, it'd been a while, and he was barely awake. Not that you seemed to mind either way, though. The thrumming in your veins was nearly unbearable, the desire to please having been melting you for days. You wanted to please him tonight—which might've come at the cost of your own pleasure considering he could be too exhausted to do anything else.

His grip on your head tightened, his breathing growing increasingly shaky and his hands shaking with the effort not to just fuck your throat with wild abandon.

“Just like that, baby– Just like that… Shit, I'm gonna– F-fuck–” He was cut off with a harsh, breathless moan as you doubled your efforts. You needed to see him contort with the pleasure you knew he deserved again—almost as much as you needed air. His hips stuttered into your mouth with his thrusts, long and shallow with tire.

You pulled off, much to his displeasure, leaving your mouth open wide as your hand returned to his cock. Quick, hot breaths left you as you rested him against your tongue while you stroked him to completion.

When he came, you gave a small, sweet moan. His spend coated your tongue and lips, satisfying your taste buds in some cruel way that made your loins burn. Your hand gradually slowed as you swallowed, lapping at him lazily afterward until he was completely flaccid and hissing with overstimulation.

“I needed that,” he exhaled once you stopped, a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. The grip in your hair released, fingers soothing over your scalp as if apologetic for how hard he'd tugged. Then, his hand returned to its place on your cheek, wiping the drool from your chin. His eyes fluttered shut as he did so—it seemed he truly was, in fact, dead tired.

“Such a good girl, huh?” His eyes flickered down to your shifting thighs, catching the way they searched for any relief. He wiped some of the mess he'd left from your bottom lip, and you sucked his thumb into your mouth. Your tongue swirled it clean before you released the digit. The action caught him off-guard, a sharp intake of breath resulting. God, he wished he had the energy, but he was already struggling to stay awake.

“You make it goddamn difficult to last, princess. Can see how wound up you are,” he huffed, amusement and disappointment toward himself laced through his tone. You pulled yourself up, tucking him back into his pants before shifting to curl up into his side. He sighed as his arm went to wrap around you. Despite the fact you'd needed him for weeks apparently, you seemed content to ignore yourself for a little longer.

“You– mmh… don't want me to take care of ya, love?” He asked, a teasing lilt to his voice. He wasn't going to complain, but he'd certainly make up for it later. For now, though, he was well and fully exhausted. And the bed was comfortable. When you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, he hummed.

“I'll take that as a no, then. A bloody shame, but I s’pose you've tired me out.”

“Tomorrow?” Came your whisper after another moment, and his lips twitched upward.

“Whenever you want, baby.”

[ethosiab]

we've been here before, 5 or 6 times

Etho and Tango hang out. A new game is soon to begin, so they talk.

They find it’s not exactly a matter of if they’ll join, but how soon.

beta read by @silliest-sideblog and partially inspired by these fics by @oh-snapperss

(read on ao3 - archive locked)

----------------

When they receive the message, Etho and Tango are hanging out in their corner of the shopping district, in the bowels of Ravager Rush. Sheets of paper are scattered about everywhere at Etho’s feet where he’s sat sifting through them.

They could have chosen a better spot to be doing this, but hey! If Etho gets an epiphany about one of the numerous bugs he’s been dealing with since deciding to rework the scoring system, the game is right there. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them has abandoned the other on one of their so-called ‘dates’ to fix a redstone issue.

(Pearl likes to call it that- a date. Even though neither of them are really interested in that sort of thing, and they spend the whole time barely saying a few words to each other, content to work on their own projects as long as the other is nearby. They don’t really mind it though, so maybe Pearl’s onto something when she says it.)

Etho flips through a stack of pages, each scribbled with notes, ideas, and small diagrams that he’s jotted down quickly in between doing other tasks around Frogger and his base. Generally, he’s able to keep his notes more organised than this, but between fixing all the bugs as they came up after the game’s opening, and redesigning the scoring system after the other hermit’s competitive insanity, he hasn’t had much time to sit down and simply sort through them.

Tango, meanwhile, sits a couple metres away from him, lying on his stomach. He’s propped himself up on his elbows and is currently staring very intently at a document open on his communicator with a sour look on his face.

“I can’t believe I missed some of these. What sorta redstoner am I?” Tango says, lifting a hand to flick through the list. “I mean, surely if I’d been less lazy when I got into this I wouldn’t have half of these bugs.”

Etho looks up from the papers. “If it makes you feel better, I spent hours trying to figure out why the game wasn’t turning on last night,” He says, “It turned out a silverfish had burrowed into a stone block and broke the redstone on top of it when it came out.” That was a new one. The kind of bug you only get when you’re placing redstone while half asleep. Bdubs had been around, and even then phantoms can’t get to him underground, so there hadn’t been much reason for Etho to actually sleep. Unfortunately, he doesn’t function well when tired, and acknowledgement of that fact has not magically fixed his sleep schedule.

Tango makes a variety of exasperated and unbelieving noises at the confession. “Wh- Yeah that does make me feel better!” He pushes himself up from the floor, and leans back onto his knees. “What are you doing building on natural stone for, man! That’s disgusting!”

“Look, I was−”

Tango interrupts him. “Gah! Can’t believe we gave Joel all that flack about not using smooth stone or wool, when you Mr Hopper Clock himself, can’t even be bothered to-”

He stops when the holographic display of the bug list he had open in front of him fizzles out, and the touchscreen of his comm stares up brightly at him in its place.  In the same moment, Etho’s own comm materializes at his hip.

The devices chime with an incessant and annoying note, designed to grab the players’ attention—and keep it—until they do what it wants.Etho hasn’t heard that sound in almost a year. He silently wishes that year had lasted longer.

He doesn’t need to unlatch it from his belt and open it to know what it says. He does so anyway.

<████> Join the Game?

He can’t read the IGN of the player who sent it. They gave up trying to figure that out a few games back.

Etho swallows back a lump in his throat. “It really couldn’t give us a rest for a little longer, could it?” He says, chuckling a little. It wasn’t funny.

Tango gives a frustrated huff from where he’s stood up. He half looks prepared to chuck his communicator along with its stupid join prompt into the nearest wall.

“I’m going outside,” he says, “Getting some fresh air.” His tail flicks side to side with obvious pent up anxiety. The fire in his hair has come to life, and Etho would fear for his low hanging redstone if he didn’t know for a fact that Tango’s flames are practically harmless, not like a real blaze’s fire.

Etho has grown to understand Tango’s large emotive reactions to things like these. He can’t see his own hair, but given the growing ball of static he feels in his chest from the prospect of a new game, he can imagine the clouds are more unruly than normal.

He keeps a hand on the stack of papers he was sorting through, worried the cold breeze would scatter them, and ruin the last half hour of work he’s done. It often followed him, the breeze, especially when he was feeling like this. It’s almost starting to become normal.

“Don’t leave without me,” Etho says, looking up at his friend. The words surprised even him.  He doesn’t know why he thinks the possibility would ruin him.

Tango’s smile is small, but it’s there. “Never.”

------------------

They sit at the edge of Tango’s factory base, legs hanging off the ledge and looking out on the horizon—on the rest of the server. There’s redstone under Etho’s nails, from his work last night. He should really clean it out before he burns himself by accidentally activating it. Doc’s always pestered him about wearing gloves, especially ever since he lost his eye. He does agree, he’d like to never experience pain like that again. Redstone reacting with his blood, infecting an already corrupted wound. Etho’s not a smart guy when it comes to this sort of thing, though. He likes his fingerless gloves. He likes the itch of redstone dust under his fingernails. He finds it grounding.

Tango’s head rests on his shoulder, a similar grounding force. His tail is partially wrapped around Etho, swishing side to side and knocking into Etho’s shoe every now and then. Etho’s not even sure Tango knows he’s doing it.

“Are you going to join?” Tango asks.

Etho huffs a bit in response. Is he? Every game so far has only served to drive him further to the edge. He’s almost reached a tipping point many times. And yet, every time his comm chimes with that unignorable message, he can’t help but consider it. He’s played in death games before, holds the scars of those days gone by, but he’s older now. He should be more level headed about joining a hardcore server designed specifically to drive him to murder and kill his friends. Is he a bad person for considering this?

“I mean, I haven’t missed one yet.”

Tango pauses. “Didn’t they have another one?” He questions, half speaking into the fluff on the hood of Etho’s vest. “Earlier this season? A lot of the guys disappeared on April fools. Something about an ‘out of body experience’. I know you weren’t there for that.”

That makes Etho freeze a little. Of course, Cleo won that one. He missed the join notification because he specifically put his comm as far from himself as possible so he could avoid distractions while sorting through the junk all over his single player world. Did he really forget something like that? “Hm. Yeah you’re right. Had a lot of stuff at home to clean up, I guess. Cleo did mention it though. Said it was fun.”

“Heh, I don’t know if the others all really agreed with her,” Tango chuckles. “Apparently Joel couldn’t stop throwing up for at least a day or two after. Really fucked with his code, that one.”

Etho could relate. He got sick towards the end of the last game and was almost relieved when Scar drew his sword through his stomach for the 3rd time. The rough respawn meant he was stuck curled up in his bed in his Decked Out 2 cubby until Tango found him. He did get up, after a regen potion or two. No death game would stop him from running the dungeon, after all.

(Tango wasn’t happy with him for that. He wanted to force Etho to be on bedrest for a bit. He was convinced in the end though, probably recognizing how late in the season they were, and how disrupting it would be for Etho to miss out on the final phases.)

Etho doesn’t voice his thoughts though. “Maybe this one will be similar. Fun, I mean.”

He doesn’t really believe himself when he says it. Cleo’s game was short, probably didn’t last long enough for anything to really hurt. Something tells him he won’t be as lucky this time.

Tango apparently doesn’t believe him either. He scoffs. “Yeah, right. And I’ll win! We’re saying things that won’t happen now, is that what we’re doing?”

Etho leans back. He puts his comm to the side for now, but doesn’t power it off or tuck it back into his inventory. Tango shuffles to the side slightly, lifting his head to give him space.

Etho turns to look at him. He shifts the subject slightly. “You gonna team up with me?” He asks, once again saying the first thing to come to mind. What the hell is Tango doing to him? “We could uh- really show them what 37th and 39th place could do.”

He adds the second part, almost as an afterthought. A joke, just to keep it- It can’t get too real. 

Tango does him the service of ignoring the crack in his voice, and lightly whacks him. “HEY! 34th place actually!”, he exclaims, “I’ll have you know I’ve moved up in the world since I had you lot draggin’ me down.”

Which does hurt a little, Etho admits to himself. But it’s a joke, he knows, so he ignores the ache in his heart. He just chuckles.

Tango lets his hand drop, actually considering the question now. He’s still smiling, but it’s faltering and he can’t quite seem to look Etho in the eye. The horizon looks mighty fine, about now. They can see a lot of the server from here. Tango’s unfurnished and frankly abandoned steampunk cottage, Gem’s research facility and mountain skull, Skizzle’s pyramid, Pearl’s beautiful orchard. The fact that they’re both so close to abandoning it all for weeks, on purpose, for something that’s only ever hurt them—it sits wrong with him.

Tango continues, “But uh, yeah. I’m not giving those sorts of promises man. We can’t- I can’t control what happens in there. You know that.”

Tango’s voice is quiet as he says the last bit. He looks troubled. Upset at the words he’s saying, maybe. Etho knows they can control what happens in the games, to a degree. They’re not compelled to do wrong by some outside force. He supposes that’s what makes it so scary. It’s easier to think of their betrayal and implosion as inevitable, than to face the prospect of having the choice but choosing wrong every time.

So Etho doesn’t verbalise his disagreement. He nods. “Mhm. I know.”

The message on his comm still sits there, glaring at him harshly in the low light.

Join the Game?

[sparrows4bats]

Hello Sparrow!! I've been reading your writing for a long time, and you are litterly the reason why I got so interested in Jon and Damian's dynamic😭 AND EVEN DAMIAN HEADCANNONS that I really really liked (especially the pretty!damian headcannon which pretty much inspired my latest art post cause wdym when people say damian doesn't have pretty features???) You really inspired me to draw more DC characters it's amazing!! Also my personal ask is that do you perhaps have any more thoughts on the batfamily's reaction to Damian's face suddenly hitting puberty and turning out like Talia?

SINCERELY, LESLIE!!💗

Hi!! Oh my God I saw that!! It was amazing!!

Thank you! I'm so honoured that my ideas inspire any thing

This is a sideblog, so my likes come up as chaoseatsthedark.

I'm working on an instalment of pretty Damian and the Batfamily, so stay tuned!

But Damian, who looks like Talia, gives everyone a little bit of a crisis.

Like all of the Batfamily are unfairly beautiful. To the point that people have accused Bruce of shopping for kids while adopting so all of them are up to Wayne standards.

The tabloid that printed this very mysteriously went out of business.

Damian, as the only bio kid and very noticeably mixed, lives with some very rude and racist comments on his looks for years.

Only for the whole of Gotham to lust after him when he grows up. Especially once he is a successful surgeon, they enjoy claiming it is obviously his fathers influence.

(Bruce is a dropout, Talia graduated med school in Cairo)

The behaviour disgusts his family and they are very protective.

Jon Kent goes to every function just to try and deter the vultures.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

BLOSSOM & BLOOM (1/12)

PAIRING | Steve Rogers x Florist f!Reader

TAGS/WARNINGS | fake dating, fluff, mild angst, mild language, some spoilers for Thor: Love and Thunder??, TW: mentions of character deaths and funerals, non-linear storytelling, and a friendly reminder that this story is not at all canon-compliant.

CHAPTER SUMMARY | On the anniversary of the day you met, bonds of friendship are strengthened in the fires of romantic adversity.

WORD COUNT | 5.3k

NOTES | I honestly wasn’t gonna post this yet, but I feel like it’s been so long since I posted the masterlist and I was also stressing over how many rewrites this chapter has undergone. So, I’m posting to prevent myself from overthinking this any further. I hope you enjoy; it’s also better if you don’t look up the redacted flower meanings because I will reveal them later <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚ SERIES M.LIST | | STEVE ROGERS M.LIST ˚⋆｡˚ ⋆

I do not do taglists. Please follow my sideblog @ficsbyjane for notifications whenever I post.

[1/12] The Proposal: ↳ an Avengers Tower gathering.

BLOSSOM & BLOOM, Rooftop Greenhouse E 40th St / Lexington Ave, NY — present day

Everything feels like a hollow version of itself tonight. 

No matter what kind of day you’d been having, the greenhouse is where you go to unwind, to lift your spirits. The flowers around you seem to droop, however, mirroring your mood as you push around a half-melted pint of Ben & Jerry’s in its carton. 

Strawberry cheesecake, non-dairy—because if your dumb, lactose intolerant ass is going to finish the entire thing anyway, you’d rather not add gastrointestinal distress to your growing list of problems. 

You sit among the lush greenery, the stars blinking lazily at you in the inky black sky beyond the glass walls of your personal conservatory, but you pay little attention. 

Notifications ping your phone, lying face down on a workbench that’s littered with incomplete bouquets and a few other lone blossoms. You don’t bother flipping it over, don’t have the courage to check whether it’s from one of them. 

Instead, every so often you put down the ice cream to pick up some stray lily or solitary rose, trying to bundle them together into something presentable. Nothing turns out the way you want, and so you ultimately give up. 

You try to summon the enthusiasm, grasping the handles of your gardening shears and moving the delicate, fern-like foliage of a nearby aquilegia plant out of the way so you can snip off the finished flowers. 

It does little to cheer you up this time, the spent blossoms falling onto the table, all shrivelled up like your heart. 

“So stupid,” you whisper, not really sure whether you mean yourself or someone else. In reality though, you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself. 

The abandoned flowers sit accusingly before you, and you know you should care more. About the plants, the shop, the emails containing special orders for all sort of special occasions—all the things that used to bring you joy, enough that you made it your life’s work. 

But you’ve spent your entire life trying to make everybody else happy, surely you were allowed to take just a few hours in the night for yourself? 

Violet is at your parents’ house in Chelsea, your shop is closed for the day, and there are no more personal events in your calendar to worry about. You might not get a chance like this again. 

So, you stare up into the sky and try not to think about all the reasons why the things you used to love are making you miserable now. Maybe they remind you that caring hurts, and lord knows you’ve had enough of that to last a while. 

Still, your heart rewinds, showing you memories of all those staged dates. With hindsight, it was such a terrible idea, because you already loved him then. 

But at the time? It was so tempting, so deliciously sweet, because you already loved him then. 

You let yourself remember that very first night, sitting next to him on a bar stool in the party room at the Avengers Tower. You turned in the seat just enough so that your knees were knocking against his, bodies angled towards each other. 

Even now, you can’t get it out of your head. The way he smiled, contagious. The way his eyes crinkled so warmly at the corners, devastating. 

Your own laughter felt real and genuine in a way you hadn’t done in the longest time, and looking back, maybe that was the point when you stopped being able to tell where the pretending ended and the truth began. 

Your time together began to blend. Holding hands because someone from the team might be watching, and then not letting go because—well, you couldn't speak for him, but you didn’t want to. 

Murmured sweet nothings exaggerated for an audience of spies and superheroes turned into long, serious talks about nothing… and then about everything. 

What seemed so straightforward at first became a maze of feelings you thought you’d been prepared to navigate, but your traitorous heart constantly turned corners you weren’t expecting. 

You think of how you’ve actually fallen asleep playing his voice in your head, replaying moments that should have felt hollow and empty—but because he was the one with you, they didn’t. 

And then it all came crashing down. You had known it would, quite spectacularly in fact, but you didn’t think it would happen like this. 

You’d stood among the pews next to him in that church, watching as friends and loved ones paid their respects to the late Jane Foster, wondering what kind of fraud you were. 

“I’m grateful you’re here, my friends,” Thor had given you a small smile, his eyes shining with sadness, your throat threatening to close up when his large hand landed heavy and warm on your shoulder, “I cannot tell you what it means.” 

You remember Wanda, her expression a portrait of loss and sorrow even as Vision stood so close, their shoulders bumped. You knew who she was thinking about, a brother lost in battle. She’d confided in you about Pietro before, especially after you shared that you’d lost a brother of your own. 

Tony shushed a fussy newborn Morgan, rocking her in his arms as Pepper rummaged through her purse for a packet of tissues, her eyes red and her nose running. He then handed you the tiny little bundle of joy, the baby nestling comfortably in the crook of your elbow, as Tony turned to help his wife. 

Bruce was in the front row next to Thor when he returned from greeting guests, shoulders hunched and his hands clasped together in his lap like he didn’t know what to do or say. Bruce was a quiet man, but every now and then he reached out to pat his friend on the back, as though he remembered a conversation he had with you about showing affection if he couldn’t speak it. 

Natasha and Yelena reached for each other, their hands coming together in the row in front of you. The sisters leaned against one another, their eyes downcast as Dr. Foster’s casket was covered in white flowers and carried out of the church. As they turned to watch the procession, their eyes met yours and they smiled. They reached for you with their free hands, and you met them halfway, your fingers trembling. 

And the reality of the charade began to sink in. 

You’d forgotten what it was like, having friends. Good ones. After your brother and sister-in-law passed, devastating your family and fracturing it seemingly beyond repair, your priorities shifted dramatically. 

The shop used to be number one, and then your pitiful personal life. But now you’ve adopted your brother’s orphaned child, who needs you more than ever, even if parenthood was never a choice you would’ve made before everything changed. 

As a result, your social life (and your love life, for that matter) fell to the wayside. Your parents, although you knew they meant well, kept insisting that you couldn’t do this alone. 

Maybe it would be better if your niece went to live with them instead, they’d suggested. Or at least, it would assuage their fears if you’d just settled down with someone. 

You acknowledged that being a single parent would be hard, but there must have been a reason your brother, with whom you weren’t particularly close, decided to leave Violet in your care. Your mom and dad weren’t necessarily bad parents, but they weren’t always the most nurturing or supportive. 

Did you want that for Violet? After all, your parents didn’t seem to understand that what you needed wasn’t a spouse or unsolicited opinions about what you could or couldn’t do. 

What you need is for them to see your grief, to acknowledge that you are trying, and to tell you that is enough. 

And the Avengers, who started out as Steve’s friends, had eventually become yours too. When did it become so easy to visit the Tower for a chat with any one of them, so reassuring to see all those familiar faces at whatever event Steve led you into, and so instinctual to pick up the phone at any given time when you were bored and needed someone to talk to? 

Unlike your family, they never judged—well, maybe a tiny bit—but they nevertheless welcomed you into their little group like you were always a part of them. Never mind that there was nothing particularly super about you, a civilian who just so happened to cross paths with them years ago. 

All you did was grow flowers, but somehow they made it feel like you might as well be sprouting magic from your fingertips. 

The initial lie began so innocently, but it threatens to choke you now. The more you got to know them, the more they accepted you, the more your discomfort grew. 

You were being surrounded by sincerity, and it only served to make your own deception seem more glaring and cruel by the minute. 

And so you ran. 

Steve had reached for you, because of course he would. You remember the tug of his hand when you tried to pull away, the warmth of his grasp not matching the cold truth you were always too afraid to face: the two of you were never really together, no matter how real it might have felt. 

You close your eyes, trying to shut out the replay of events but the images persist. That final day, him watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read as you retreated. 

“I don’t know how to be what you need anymore,” you’d said, holding back tears because you had no right to cry. You were the one bailing on him, after all. Steve hadn’t done anything wrong. 

Was that anger you saw in his face? No, not anger. Hurt? Disappointment? You wish you knew. You wish you could have stayed. 

Will you ever see him again? 

You pull your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly and trying to squeeze out the doubt that’s settled there like an unwelcome guest. You did the right thing, you tell yourself, even if it doesn’t feel like it—even if it feels like it might shred your heart to pieces. 

Even so, your fingers itch to send him a message. Just one. Something to make sure he’s okay… or maybe you just want to make sure you haven’t been erased—some assurance that, even though the relationship wasn’t real, not all of it was a total sham. 

Eventually, it gets so late that even inside the greenhouse gets a little chilly. You have to get up early to pick up Violet from your parents’ house in Chelsea, and then prepare yourself for the inevitable verbal smack-down waiting for you there when they realize you and Steve have “broken up”. 

With a sigh, you gather the now empty ice cream carton, along with the trimmings and loose petals you picked off the flower stems earlier. You begin heading down the six flights of stairs, past your second floor apartment, and back into the shop to throw away the trash. 

Blossom & Bloom is dark and still, the sign of the door flipped over to announce that you’re closed, but a flash of movement outside catches your attention. You freeze, watching as a tall shadow drifts across the front window, checking the time to see it’s well past midnight. Who on earth would come by now? 

The shadow crosses again, deliberate, not the random movement of a passerby. Your stomach flips as the motion sensor lights above the door flick on, revealing a familiar silhouette framed by the light of a nearby street lamp. 

It can’t be him, standing there looking like he’s just stepped off a vintage war poster. It’s too soon. And it’s also too late.  

Nonetheless, you’re propelled towards the door by a mixture of fear and longing. He raises a hand as if to knock, only stopping when he sees you through the glass. Slowly, you unlock and open the door. 

“It’s late,” you murmur, even though those are a far cry from the words you’ve longed to tell him. Still, you keep your tone firm and even, as if you weren’t just drowning your sorrows in the most cliched way possible. 

You hide partially behind the door, as though it might protect you from… you don’t know what. Steve would never do anything to hurt you, not knowingly anyway. 

And you’re not his “girlfriend” anymore—you never were, you correct mentally—so then why is he looking at you like that? 

“You’ve been trying to tell me something,” Steve says, sounding slightly out of breath. He doesn't seem angry, hurt, or disappointed at all. In fact, he looks almost… happy. 

Your face heats as you turn away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You’re lying,” he breathes, like he’s still catching his breath, sounding suspiciously like he ran all the way here from the Tower. “Your heart rate just sped up.” 

“What?” You whirl around with wide eyes, incredulous. “Well, stop listening!” 

“No,” he grins, cheeky, as though the last two weeks of silence haven’t happened. Like you didn’t run out of Dr. Foster’s funeral and left him high and dry, no doubt fumbling for explanations to his very confused team. 

You look straight up into his eyes, searching for signs that this might be an illusion, a delusion, but all you can see is true blue. 

It’s such a rarity in your world, the one of flowers, but even though you know this well, you find yourself searching for signs of it ever since you met him. Signs of Steve—reassuring, steadfast, and more beautiful than anything that’s ever bloomed between these walls. 

More than the tiny, almost microscopic petals of the brunnera plants that blossom just after winter’s final frost. More than the dreamy delphinium spires that sway in the humid breeze at the height of summer. More than the lobelia hummingbird havens that grow in full splendour during the spring and fall. 

Those cerulean orbs soften the longer you hesitate. Despite how you’d left things, Steve smiles so kindly, so gently, it makes you ache. 

Hope. Sweet, treacherous hope swells in your chest, because he takes another step forward. He gathers your hands in his, impossibly slow, characteristically tender, and closes the gap just enough to press his forehead to yours. 

You swallow a gasp and close your eyes, afraid he’ll see right through you, that he might find the love you’ve been too scared to speak but have been written all over your face all this time. 

“I… I can’t…” 

And because it’s Steve, he makes it all better with just a few choice words: “What if I promise to say it back?” 

Your eyes snap open, and that little seedling—the one that had been planted between you the day you met all those years ago, the one that had been biding its time, just waiting for the perfect conditions before it could sprout—suddenly chooses that moment to spring out of the earth and bloom in full colour. 

Steve seems to sense the change. He takes a breath. 

And you, a leap of faith. 

❀ Aquilegia┆columbine┆lion’s herb SYMBOLIZES: courage.

THE AVENGERS TOWER, Party Hall 200 Park Ave, NY — May 4, 20XX 

Steve normally looks forward to a quiet night in with the team. 

It’s nice just being with friends, the responsibilities of his shield forgotten upstairs in his room, and to put down the weight of the world that rest on his shoulders—albeit temporarily. 

Lately, however, he’s been going around with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He pauses before turning corners now, carefully poking his head out first to check if the coast is clear, avoiding the members of his team like they’re the plague. 

Because Romanoff seems to have a never ending list of people she thought he should ask out on a date, Tony will not stop mentioning some former client from his time at Stark Industries, and Sam keeps going on about a girl from the VA who’d be “perfect” for him. 

And unfortunately, Steve seems to be running out of excuses now that the ones he’s already given them—he isn’t ready; Avenging is a full-time job; or, honestly, dating is just the last thing on his mind right now—don’t seem to be good enough anymore. 

If their Captain won’t go out and get a damn life, then they’ll get one for him. 

Steve takes a deep, stabilizing breath before stepping into the party hall, dreading all the dodging he’s going to have to do tonight. If only they’d focus that energy into keeping the Tower neat and organized, he’d have a much easier time. 

Well, at least the place looks nice. 

Because Tony never misses an opportunity to throw a party (and spend some hard earned dough), the Tower is decorated to the nines for the anniversary of the Battle of New York.

“Or, as I like to call it, the day we kicked a god’s ass,” Tony smirked when he made the announcement a few weeks ago.

There is a champagne tower in the corner, a full spread of hors d’oeuvres laid out on tables lined with cloths that probably costs more than the average rent, and the floors are so shiny Steve can see his own reflection in the tiles. 

The opulence of the room makes it hard to believe that just a handful of years ago, Loki and his alien army had nearly destroyed the city. There are no signs of that destruction now, even though at the time the damage had seemed so insurmountable. 

Blossom & Bloom, the flower shop just a few blocks away, is looking brand new as well. The cartoonish Steve-shaped holes in the wall and broken glass window have long since been repaired and perfectly replaced—once again courtesy of Tony’s more than sizeable bank account. 

It just goes to show how far one can go, and how quickly, with the right amount of green. And he’s not talking about the Hulk. 

Although, maybe the Hulk too. Tony has definitely threatened to release the big guy if contractors didn’t cooperate. 

Speaking of the flower shop, Steve sighs with relief when he sees you by the refreshment table. He bypasses the team, giving them a casual wave as he approaches your side, the only person in the room who won’t give him a hard time for being, as Sam likes to put it, “single as fuck”. 

“Jesus,” he breathes when he is finally in the safe zone, “did Tony leave any flowers for the rest of New York?” 

“I think he plans to buy them all eventually,” you laugh, piling food high onto your plate, while Steve nods at the abundant bouquets scattered around the room. “Though, I’m definitely not going to complain about the business.” 

“Sorry, that’s not what I mean. They’re nice,” Steve says, leaning over to admire the brilliant red-orange blossoms that bleed into a bright yellow at their centres. They smell faintly of liquorice, perfectly arranged among clusters of glossy green leaves. “What are they?” 

“Rosa foetida,” you pronounce in Latin with a flourish of your hand, the fork you’re holding almost stabbing him in the eye. God, you are such a nerd, and yet Steve can’t help but smile. “The Austrian copper rose. Aren’t they stunning?” 

Steve doesn’t say anything back though, just plucks a mini quiche off your plate and shoves it nervously into his mouth. You look up when you get silence in return, rolling your eyes when you see him engaged in a staring contest, the usual battle of wits, with Natasha and Sam. 

Poor guy. Doesn’t he know he doesn’t stand a chance?

“Still avoiding the others, then?” You ask, and he mutters something unintelligible with his mouth full. “You know, the solution is very simple, Rogers.” 

“An’ wha’s that?” Steve mumbles, somehow managing not to spray you with crumbs in the process. 

“Get yourself a girlfriend,” you say matter-of-factly, and you hear him scoff. “Sorry, or a boyfriend. I don’t actually know what you’re into.”

“Like it’s that simple,” he says after he swallows. 

”Okay, first, I want it noted for the record that you didn’t deny the boyfriend thing,” you grin triumphantly and he rolls his eyes, signalling for the bartender and quietly ordering a glass of whiskey for himself and a Diet Coke for you. 

The life he leads isn’t an easy one, even before he spent the better part of a century frozen at the bottom of the ocean—before the war, even. 

A frail, sickly boy spending most of his nights in bed, battling scarlet fever or painful stomach ulcers, didn’t exactly scream relationship material. People rarely even looked at him back then, and when they did, it was almost always platonic… or simply because they wanted to impress his best friend. 

And then seventy years later, a hyper focused super soldier with little else on his mind but the next mission, the next global threat, or the next existential crisis that would always take precedence over date night or meeting the parents, doesn’t sound much better either. 

“And second, when you look like that,” you gesture to his entire body with a pair of mini tongs, smirking when Steve averts his eyes shyly, his cheeks reddening, “it kind of is that simple.” 

Fine, he will admit it, the effects of the serum certainly gets him noticed. As inexperienced as he was, Steve isn’t completely oblivious. He has no problem turning heads now, you’re right, and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t enjoy some of the attention. 

Still, anyone of substance, any person he could ever see himself really falling for, would want more than he would ever dare to offer. 

“And you’re sweet or whatever, I guess that’s always a bonus,” you add teasingly before taking a big gulp of your soda. “Anyone with half a brain would jump at the chance to date you, so what’s the problem?” 

The problem is, he can’t promise he won’t ever need to leave at the drop of a hat. He can’t even promise that he’ll always have the chance to call or get in touch first, or that he would come back from every single mission safe and sound. 

“Just doesn’t seem fair, is all,” Steve shrugs after explaining, “especially not to someone I’m supposed to care about.” 

“Wow,” you smile at him and Steve bristles. Not because he’s uncomfortable, per se, but because there’s something different about that smile in particular. 

Every now and then, you get this strange look on your face, something unfathomable and unreadable, missing all the usual playfulness and slight sarcasm. The most preposterous idea pops into his head sometimes, that maybe you only ever wear that look around him. 

But just as quickly as it happened, the moment’s over and you reverted back to your usual self, “you are such a sap. It’s adorable.” 

“Shut up,” Steve rolls his eyes again, knowing how much you enjoy poking fun, so he doesn’t take the comment personally. “So, how’d it go with your parents?” 

“Ugh,” you wince, the memory evidently not so pleasant, “don’t remind me.” 

“They’re still giving you a hard time, huh?” Steve asks as the both of you head over to the bar to sit, you awkwardly balancing your mountain of food as you go. 

“Evidently, Violet needs a father,” you scoff, changing your voice to mimic who he assumes is your mother. You shake your head before speaking normally again, “never mind how often I try to remind them she already has one.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve frowns, his fingers toying with the rim of his glass. You don’t talk about your late brother very often and he doesn’t ask, knowing it’s a sore subject. By now, he’s heard more than a handful of times that your parents keep insisting you find someone to settle down with, even though you’ve made it perfectly clear that it wasn’t a priority. 

“It’s whatever,” you shrug, casually dismissing the matter with a wave of your hand. Steve can tell that isn’t the case, judging from the way you heave the biggest sigh, your food untouched for now, “it’s fine.” 

“I think you’re doing great,” Steve says, and he isn’t just saying it. Not everyone is capable of stepping up the way you did, adopting your orphaned niece and deciding to raise her on your own. “Violet’s a good kid, and she’s lucky to have you.” 

“Yeah,” you agree, your annoyance melting away to be replaced with a small, affectionate smile, “I’m the lucky one, though.” 

“How come you didn’t just bring her along?” Steve asks, already missing ten-year-old Violet’s youthful enthusiasm and charm, even if she does occasionally make him feel like a recently-excavated dinosaur. 

“It’s apparently uncool to be hanging out with her aunt now,” you joked although he can see the slight twinge of angst in your eyes, “besides, she lost all interest in attending when I told her Thor wouldn’t be here.” 

“Hurtful,” he jokes, pretending to sulk into his glass. You pat his shoulder in a placating gesture, and when he looks up he sees the rest of the Avengers huddled together. He’s sure they’re scheming right now, coming up with all sorts of ways to get him out of the Tower and lure him into an unsuspecting date.

He doesn’t know why it comes to him right then, but the idea hits him like a freight train. The rational part of his brain tells him to shut the hell up, because it is a terrible idea and you’ll probably smack him for even suggesting it.

The other side, the seldom seen irrational Steve—although, was it particularly rational to lie his way into the army, take an experimental super serum, punch his way through WWII, and then crash land a plane into the Arctic?— is blurting it before he can stop himself.

Because if his friends are going to scheme anyway, why not play at their game and scheme right back? 

“You could do it,” he says. “Be my girlfriend.” 

Your fork pauses in mid-air above your plate, and you look at him like he’s just sprouted a second head.

“Not like that,” he rushes to explain. Your features twist into one of mock offence, and he quickly backpedals, “No, that’s not what I mean—listen, you’re great, I just—hear me out, okay?”

All he needs is a date to a handful of special occasions dotting his calendar over the next few months, just long enough to convince his well-intentioned but annoying as hell friends that he is, in fact, doing just fine in the dating department. 

And it somewhat makes sense! Because you and him have been friends for ages now—how many years has it been now?—and Steve wouldn’t decide to date just anybody at this point. He does spend a lot of time at your shop, with Violet, and it isn’t strange for any one of them to see you around the Tower making a delivery or stopping by for a visit. 

When the time comes, the two of you would “break up” amicably and go back to being just friends—no harm, no foul. He would feign just enough disappointment that the team would be too sympathetic, too sorry to see you go, that they would hopefully stop pestering him about his love life for the foreseeable future. 

If nothing else, it will buy him at least a few months of peace, and god knows he could use some of that.

“What do you think?” Steve asks, hopeful. You press the back of your hand to his forehead, looking even more puzzled. 

“I think you’ve gone crazy, Steven,” you mutter, while he tuts and bats your hand away, “did you get hit in the head on your last mission?” 

“Think about it, it’s a win-win for both of us,” and even though you are still a bit hesitant, Steve can see the wheels starting to spin in your head. “You help me get these jackasses off my back—” 

“Steve—” you admonish. 

“—and I’ll help you ward off your parents for a little bit,” he continues, undeterred. And the plus side? Steve does genuinely enjoy your company, even if you can be such a smartass sometimes.

He recalls the day you met, during the Battle of New York, and maybe it isn’t exactly one for the storybooks, the both of you have come such a long way since then. 

Most importantly, you deserve better than having to rush into a relationship with some random guy you’d meet on a dating app—which is the direction you’re headed if your parents have anything to say about it.

And because you are friends now, and because Steve knows you are much sweeter and more agreeable when you aren’t faced with the mortal peril of an alien invasion, your shoulders are already slumping in resignation. You won’t turn him away in his hour of need, he knows, not when he’s come to you so many times to vent about his nosy teammates. 

“Just for a few months?” You ask slowly, already starting to come around, just as tempted by the idea of silence. And your parents wouldn’t have anything to complain about if you’re dating Captain America.

Well, maybe his dangerous job, but you take some, you lose some.  

“That’s it,” he promises. 

“And we don’t involve Violet in this,” you point a finger at him and he’s already nodding. Lying to his friends is one thing, but lying to your niece is a whole other. He won’t ever ask that of you anyway. “As far as she’ll ever know, we’re just friends.” 

“Of course, we’ll come up with something,” he readily agrees, because of all people, his team know how complicated the superhero dating life can be, even without kids involved.

Steve prepares to shake your hand to seal the deal, but stops short just in case anyone’s watching.

“Might as well start selling it, Cap,” you say with a sigh, grabbing his hand anyway and lacing your fingers between his, much more intimately than he’d intended. You lift your fork with your other hand, feeding him a bite from your plate. 

Steve has no choice but to open his mouth and accept the stuffed mushroom, feeling warm all of a sudden even though he’s not wearing a jacket and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. It’s made worse when he hears the surprised squawks of his friends from across the room. 

“Hang on a minute.” Surprisingly, Bruce is the one who starts.

“Hey, what the hell?” Tony mutters, pointing an accusing finger in your direction. 

“When did that happen?” Sam demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh my god, is that why he’s always at the flower shop?” Pepper watches with wide eyes, lowering her champagne flute with interest. 

“So, he was working up the guts to ask her out this entire time?” Clint snickers, and even though it isn’t true, Steve blushes like it is. 

The only one who remains silent is Natasha, her eyes seeming to glow despite the dim lighting. Steve is determined not to look at her, lest he gave himself away. He keeps his eyes squarely on you, trying to stay centred.

“My god, we really need to work on your poker face,” you tell him, throwing your head back and laughing at the sight of his pink cheeks. “Is this how you always react to holding hands?”

“Shut up,” he manages between a tightly clenched jaw, his blood rushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. You continue giggling into your plate of food before Steve finally gives in to your infectious laughter, a small smile tugging at his own lips.

It will be fine, he tells himself. This is you, after all, his best and only friend outside the Avengers; your friendship is strong enough to survive whatever comes at you. Besides, he’s going to do his absolute damnedest to make sure you, and Violet for that matter, emerge from this unscathed.

That’s right, he repeats as he silently promises to protect you, whether it’s from aliens, his friends, or even himself.

Nothing can possibly go wrong.

❀ Rosa foetida┆Austrian copper rose SYMBOLIZES: friendship; █████████.

TO BE CONTINUED.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. Do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. No part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. Minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. Blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[countcait]

I've noticed that I disagree with much of the fandom on something...

(All gifs are by arcanegifs)

I don't think that revenge was ever the true motivator for Caitlyn in season 2. I don't doubt that she was experiencing rage and hatred toward Jinx, but I think that the driving force behind every decision she made in acts 1 and 2 was something else: fear.

During that period, the psychotic and wholly unpredictable terrorist that killed Caitlyn's mother was AT LARGE. She was liable to kill any number of other people, and Caitlyn knew that it would be her fault if she was unable to prevent it. Imagine the dread and the guilt and the overwhelming urgency she would have felt.

My own mom passed away from cancer when I was five, something that I was not remotely at fault for, yet I still suffered from crippling irrational guilt for years afterward.

If my mother had been murdered...

If I'd had the chance to prevent her murder, and the murder of several others, but I'd hesitated because someone I trusted begged me not to pull the trigger...

If every second after the fact was a potential second that the murderer could kill again...

If I'd suddenly found myself filling my mother's shoes and leading a city full of shifty oligarchs trying to manipulate me for their own gain...

If I was made into the face of justice for the murder victims... If the whole city was tapping their watches waiting for me to take the killer down...

I think I would liquify. My skeleton would give up and I'd be a jelly pile.

Incredibly, Cait was able to hide her panic behind a veneer of cool authority save for a few intense outbursts.

I think that Cait's emotionally repressed nature is part of why some people in the fandom so badly misinterpret her character. Maybe on a surface level, it's easy to read S2 Cait as a brooding vengeful bounty hunter archetype. A lot of people refer to Caitlyn's persuit of Jinx as being a "personal vendetta" and argue that Caitlyn's military presence in Zaun was done for purely selfish reasons.

But to me it's clear that Caitlyn was always trying to act in the interest of minimizing harm and avoiding casualties, even if some of her choices were misguided. Her strike team wasn't a way to personalize the takedown of the chem barons, it was conceived as an alternative to the deadly ground invasion that the council was planning.

Caitlyn was always scared that more people would die due to her inaction, that includes Piltovans and Zaunites.

If vengance had been Caitlyn's motivator, then she would have killed Jinx the moment that she surrendered at the commune. Instead, she was willing to entertain the idea that Jinx might no longer be a threat.

Caitlyn wasn't interested in killing a non-violent person. If Jinx was no longer dangerous, then her manhunt was done. Revenge was never her goal.

The last two times that Vi begged for Caitlyn to spare Jinx, all hell broke loose. Yet Caitlyn decided to respond to that one-two-punch PTSD trigger with a profound show of love. She was willing to let Vi free her mother's murderer, knowing that she'd likely never see either of them again. She thought it was worth it if it gave Vi the potential for happiness.

This is to say, Caitlyn's emotional intelligence is fucking legendary. She understandably harbored vengeful feelings toward Jinx, but she never let those emotions take control, and she was willing to give up her own chance at closure for the sake of someone else.

The fact that the weight of fear and responsibility deformed her for a period is no surprise. Desperation and urgency will drive a person to do all kinds of things, and Cait had a mountain of guilt and grief on top of that.

P.S. sorry for getting uncomfortably personal on a fandom sideblog, but my mom's on my mind given what day it is. I never would have thought that the league of legends cartoon would have me catching dead mother catharsis, but that's what uncommonly good TV writing does to a mf.

[seriousbrat]

What your opinion on all this talk of leaving the hp/marauder fandom because it directly/indirectly supports JKR? Do you have any desire to leave?

Well my opinion is that I can understand it completely if people choose to do so, but personally I have no desire to leave nor intention of leaving. I understand that it might bother individual people but I'm not asking anyone to look at this blog; in fact the reason I started to use this sideblog is so I could keep everything HP-related away from people who choose not to see it. While I think HP's cultural relevance today is such that it's impossible to avoid entirely, I do empathise with people who'd rather not see it. If someone wished to block me for continuing to blog about HP, I think that might be the healthiest option for everyone involved.

Anyway, I understand why this is happening and I think it's important to discuss. But that's the point. It's important to discuss, not stick our fingers in our ears.

I think this is a great post about it! Here are my own (long-winded) thoughts:

Personally I fundamentally disagree with the idea that we should stop reading and discussing works written by bad people. I don't believe that's a constructive or healthy way to engage with literature. If nobody's left to discuss something as culturally relevant as HP (or LotR, or whatever) critically, then what is the point of literature in the first place? Is it pure entertainment and therefore easily discarded? Ftr I'm also firmly against banning (even socially 'banning') literature of ANY sort, for ANY reason. "You shouldn't read X because it's morally wrong" is to me ultimately a conservative belief.

Anyway: I find it pretty obvious that JKR said 'if you like my books you agree with me' PURPOSEFULLY to cause this kind of a reaction, because she knew it would cause her detractors to become hyperfocused on pointing fingers at each other and thought policing each other over a kids book rather than focusing on what's actually going on. I don't think we should be playing into it, and I don't think even JKR believes it herself-- I think it was deliberate. And tbh from what I can see it has had the exact effect she intended.

The other thing I'll say is that (and tbf I can't say for sure) but I suspect that the online HP fandom might be exaggerating its own importance a little bit. Tbh I think that even if the online (and more liberal) fandom disappeared overnight there would still be tens of thousands of kids (the target audience, after all) discovering and reading Harry Potter for themselves across the globe. Scores of parents and aunts and grandparents who know nothing about JKR buying those books for the kids in their family. And that's not counting the people who actually do agree with JKR. Yes fandom disappearing might have some small impact, but tbh I think it would be all but insignificant. It would be much more, like infinitely more, materially significant for people in fandom to donate time and/or money to trans organisations in their own countries. ((I also think what would be somewhat helpful is for fandom to take responsibility in encouraging people not to watch the HBO series. The success of the series is imo more contingent on online opinion than the books.))

There are also millions of people still using twitter, instagram, and amazon, despite the very real material damage caused by Musk, Zuckerberg, and Bezos, and that's a MUCH more direct cause-and-effect than simply talking about Harry Potter because using those platforms LITERALLY lines the pockets of those individuals. I will say that if you're on twitter telling people they should stop talking about Harry Potter I simply will not take you seriously loll 😂

I guess there is probably some amount of people who discovered HP through, idk, Marauders tiktok and decided to read the series, but how significant is this number? It's incredibly difficult to grow up in most countries around the world and not come across Harry Potter in some way. For good or ill I do think HP is en route to becoming a children's classic. If tumblr goes down and my blog and all the blogs I interact with on here disappear, I don't think this would change.

On the other hand, simply for posterity I do think there's some value in continuing to discuss it-- all of it, including the reality of who the author is, the cultural relevance of HP, the text itself and what this all means given its significance in our culture. And it's important to discuss it critically, honestly, and constructively. It's remarkably easy with HP to avoid giving money to the author, which is something I believe to be worthwhile, so tbh I can't bring myself to agree with 'it would be better if we stopped talking about it' in a general sense. Personally I don't think the only people left discussing it should be right wing maniacs lol-- again, for posterity if nothing else.

Also I think there's a slightly worrying tendency on the liberal 'left' (which is typically the majority in most fandom spaces) to shut down conversation and discussion in general, particularly if those conversations are uncomfortable. You see thought-terminating clichés frequently deployed in such spaces and I think it's just not helpful. Seeing posts from supposed leftists trying to convince people that it's morally wrong to even THINK about Harry Potter is pretty wild to me, tbh. I think that for a while now there's been much more of a focus among the left on idealism over materialism, to the point where material reality is totally ignored in favour of, essentially, trying to get everyone to think the correct thoughts. To me this just isn't a productive or intellectually responsible approach.

What is the material benefit of all of us simply shutting up about Harry Potter forever? How does this actually help anyone beyond yourself and your own conscience? To me it seems like ultimately a performative and virtue signalling action that is pretty meaningless when you're not doing anything else, and is particularly meaningless when you're not applying this to literally anything else in your life. Fandom isn't activism, but by extension NOT-fandom also isn't activism haha. Personally I dislike Marvel films and think they're barely-disguised propaganda for the American military-industrial complex, but I don't think it's evil for people to write their Bucky/Steve fanfiction or whatever lmao. And I certainly don't think it's wrong to discuss Marvel films, the opposite in fact, I think they should be critically discussed.

So, basically, I think it's perfectly understandable that people would want to leave the fandom. But ultimately I think that's an action you're taking for yourself, and I don't think there's much to be gained from refusing to discuss things deemed 'morally wrong.' I think to a certain extent it's natural and probably healthy to feel some guilt about it all, but also perhaps it's worth questioning why we feel such extreme guilt about this, which is really just people talking to each other about books, and not about the 486948736 other much more unambiguously destructive things we do with our time and money on a daily basis.

As long as we're willing to discuss this topic honestly and constructively, to be conscious and empathetic towards others, and to refrain from spending any money on HP-related products, I don't think it's wrong to remain in the fandom tbh. To deny HP's impact on today's literary landscape would be, imo, dishonest, so therefore somebody has to discuss it. And I'd much rather there be a variety of opinions within that discussion.