#the do-me decimal system as it were

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

2 & 3 from section 1 for peri and 7 from whichever section has a more interesting #7 for diodore -moss

oooh these are fun ones!

2. Describe their tent set-up (outside and inside) (Peri)

I think Peri's tent is constructed similarly to Gale and Astarion's (boxy, fabric walls, little covered area outside). Deep blue fabric w/ golden astronomical embroidery, mostly the sort of thing you see on star maps. Little golden tassles around the edges of the tarp (?) and the doorframe. He'd have a small, circular, dark wood side table short enough that you can use it sitting on the ground, and a dark blue pillow next to it; there would be some parchment and a bronze miniature astrolabe on the table. The inside would be just. full to the brim with the gaudiest night-sky-themed pillows you've ever seen. No bedroll, no palette, just a nest that would put those cube pits in trampoline parks to shame. There would be two bird perches for his familiar Medani: one taller one next to his tent and one shorter one under the overhang. The shorter one would have a crow-sized bow-tie hanging from it. Rugs on rugs on the outside area ofc. 3. What would their character quest be titled? Why? (Peri)

This is a hard one! His tav ending involves taking over the Waterdeep arm of the Harpers, so I think his arc would have something to do with that. He'd be pretty bitter about being dropped into another near-apocalyptic mess when dealing with the last one a few years prior was supposed to be a one-time thing. Something-something ptsd in a world that doesn't have the words for that yet, something-something 'once a hero always a hero', something-something the weight of responsibility...he's a planeswalker so I think part of it would be whether he decides to stay on Toril long-term and directly help rebuild the Waterdeep Harpers or if he continues to run travel around afterwards, so maybe The Far Traveller/The Far Walker?

Harpson/Fae-son are also potential options. "Fae-son" nods to him being a changeling without it being super obvious (like Astarion's "The Pale Elf"). It would also mimic his backstory reveals from RoT ("oh he's not 'from here' so, like, the Feywild" -> "OH he's not from here"). 7. Describe their arc. How would a player help resolve it? What choices can be made? Can your Tav be turned down a dark path, or pulled to a lighter one? (Diodore)

Buckle up because we're in for a long one here. I've thought about Dora's story arc a lot because she's the first of my tavs that I truly made for the game while having full control over her backstory, etc. (versus Corentin, who had their arc baked into the story as a durge). Dora's a paladin of Corellon (oath of ancients) and her story arc as a companion would have to do with whether or not she should accept capital-r-Redemption, the process by which a drow can be truly "freed" from Lolth and rejoin the ranks of the rest of elven society. It involves all of the Redeemed drow's memories being erased and them being reincarnated as a surface elf. The implication seems to be that without that, regardless of a drow's actions, they'd be thrown back to Lolth when they die? Or at least that their eternal fate is unknown (which is the way I prefer to think of it for. personal reasons). Under normal circumstances, Dora would be a long way from Redemption being presented to her at all (she's not even 200 yet and has only been on the surface for a couple decades), but like with the other gods' Chosen among the companions, near-apocalyptic circumstances tend to speed up those sorts of things.

Of course, you'd have the themes of faith & relationship with deity when they're all unequivocally real and are also mostly all assholes; maintaining or breaking generational cycles; facing the unknown; morality when none of your choices are "good" (and how that interacts with morality vs self preservation); power vs freedom; identity outside of the people who made you; etc. The choice would first be presented to her sometime in late Act I/early Act II, likely the first long rest after the group resurfaces from the Underdark and you've probably gotten some of her backstory already. I have no idea how Larian would have characterized Corellon, but he's considered one of the more benevolent/open-minded deities iirc, which could be interesting to see contrasted with Mystra, Vlaa'kith, and Shar. How much that open-mindedness would extend to a drow, even one who has been a faithful follower even before she escaped to the Surface (and who inherited that faith from her father), is unclear. At the beginning of the game she would be leaning towards accepting Redemption, despite her own misgivings about whether or not she would still be her in that case.

Her final decision (at the ending pier scene) would depend on the relationship she has with the PC and the other companions. Her best ending, imo, would be her not accepting Redemption but continuing to be a force for good. If she has a good relationship with the PC, she would have something to lose. I think seeing the House of Mourning would affect her too. After all, the thing Corellon is offering to her as a way to find peace is the same thing the Sharrans are using as a way to manipulate and control others.

She's viscerally aware of how she was socialized and very actively chooses "good", so pushing her towards a darker path would be incredibly difficult but not impossible. If you side with the goblins she'll leave immediately, and turn on you if she's in your party when you attack the grove. But if you decide to try and control the cult in Act II, depending on your over-all actions before then and how you've interacted with her, you could disillusion her to the point of convincing her to break her oath. That path would entail convincing her that controlling the cult is actually the best idea. I'm sure there would be other times that her oath could break that wouldn't necessarily lock her into an "evil" path, especially with how Oathbreakers are handled in the game. Knocking out Minthara instead of killing her outright and letting Auntie Ethel go in Act I instead of killing her are two things that come to mind.

If she doesn't choose Redemption she would be at the epilogue party, of course. I'm a bit undecided on what would happen if she does choose Redemption. She may not be there at all, w/ Jaheira, Halsin, Minthara, and/or Astarion mentioning running into her in her new, reincarnated state. Or she would be there, confused, and mention how the PC seems familiar in a way she can't quite place. In that case, she would ask them how they know each other and mention something about feeling a twinge of grief looking at everyone, but that she doesn't know why she feels that way. It would be up to the PC how much they tell her (if they tell her anything at all).

[teaboot]

Things about the metric system that confuse me

Why are there 16 parts to an inch. Like yeah it's divisible by 4 but decimals and percentages on a system based on 100 are so much easier to calculate than fractions.

What are those little sixteenths called

Why don't you have millimeters. What happens if you need to measure something smaller than 1/16th of an inch. Why is your smallest area measurement the length of my fucking thumb

BECAUSE of your dumb inches and sixteenth and fractions, nothing else makes any fucking sense to remember. What's an inch? 16 little notches. What's a foot? 12 inches. What's a mile? 5,280. How the FUCK does anyone remember that. You know what's easy to remember? 10 millimeters are 1 centimeter. Do you know what centimeter means? 1/100th of a meter. You know how many of them are in a meter? 100. Easy shit

Okay this one is at Imperial but whose tablespoon is a tablespoon based off. Why are tablespoons and teaspoons both distinct measurements, they're fucking spoons. They're almost the fucking same. Like if you had "inches" and "binches" and binches were for no reason at all 1/42nd smaller and you only used them for measuring sawdust. Fuck completely off

Okay actually still looking at Imperial and speaking of Teaspoons and Tablespoons, the names don't indicate anything. How would ANYONE simply deduce by name which is bigger or smaller. Why would a spoon for food be bigger than a spoon for a drink. They both gotta fit in your fucking mouth don't they

Did we all standardize our fucking spoon volumes before we standardized our math? And CUPS? Who in the cholera factory was using scientific standard measurements to quality control your cutlery for any of this to be at all reliable for anyone following recipes

Alright back to you Metric WHAT DOES OUNCE MEAN AND WHY IS IT ABBREVIATED AS OZ

WHY IS POUND ABBREVIATED AS LB FOR LIBRA LIKE SCALES LIKE A CRYPTIC ASS ILLUMINATI SECRET MESSAGE WHEN "P" IS PERFECTLY AVAILABLE. YALL AINT PAYING MONEY IN POUNDS AND PENCE SO WHATS THE CONFUSION

Okay also why the hell would the British using Pounds to mean money run away to make America and start using Pounds to mean weight instead. Do I weigh a hundred dollars? Does Chadley at the gym bench press a thousand cents? I hate you

What is a gallon for. What does it mean. You know what's easy to convert to milliliters? Liters. What the hell is an ounce to a gallon

On top of that, what's your measurement transference? We have grams for weight, liters for liquid, meters for distance, and they're all like 1:100:1000 and shit. What do you DO to like. Show how many square inches of mass a gallon has or whatever

Oh shit I ain't even got into Fahrenheit yet

Actually fuck all of us, the end

[deadsetobsessions]

Green Lantern hovered in the doorway of the med bay. He’d been summoned, but he had no idea what for.

“You know, spooky, some of us have lives to get back to. Not everyone can exist off of just work and blood or whatever,” Hal poked fun at Batman, who rubbed at his jaw tiredly. Hal blinked, stamping down the guilt that arose at Batsy’s uncharacteristic show of any emotion other than stone cold rationality or exasperation or anger. At least they’ve moved past grunts. That just lends credence to Hal’s theory of Batman being an immortal, like Vandal Savage. Batman could totally pass for a caveman, he’s got the grunts down, for sure.

“Still not a vampire. We found the Ghost King. The one the GIW was trying to hide in their records.”

“Well, shit.” Hal’s expression flattened, remembering the unsanctioned government branch that violated the Meta Rights act to a degree where even Amanda Waller had washed her hands of them. Bats had found evidence that they were experimenting on a child when a “source” had hacked into the base and begged them to find the child. Phantom, the hacker had claimed, who had managed to destroy the portal to the Infinite Realms

Batman had tried to boot the guy out of the system, until the hacker told them Phantom was the King of the Infinite Realms.

That got Constantine terrified, which urged Batman into a full hunting mode to track down the king. Mostly in part because Constantine said something along the lines of, “If the King dies, the Infinite Realms will wage war and decimate us. And considering they’re the realm of the dead, we’d lose so badly, even the demons won’t help us out for our bloody souls.”

Granted, he didn’t have that terrible British accent Hal attached to his voice every time the Green Lantern thought about the sad trench coat wizard, but the point still stood.

“He’s not fully conscious due to… his injuries, but the moments where he was, he reacted best to the color green.”

Hal did not want to know what kind of creepy stalker things Batman did to get that knowledge.

“Oh, great. You called me because I’m green,” he said to Batman as he floated into the med bay. “I can be green. I’m amazing at being green.”

Even with the sarcastic tone, Hal made sure to up his lantern aura, glowing a bright neon green. It wouldn’t do to help start a war if he wasn’t green enough.

Hal looked at the Ghost King, and yeah, he could see why Bats was so off his stoic face game today. Because the Ghost King looked like a teenager, and Bats is a bleeding heart and everyone knows it.

Hal waved away Batman, “Go back to Gotham and drink your true blood or whatever. You look like you’ve seen the sun too much.”

Translation: go home, you look tired.

Batman nodded, in thanks, and left to sleep (probably. Hal has never caught the man doing something so… plebeian). Hal is left playing babysitter. To an inter dimensional being that could- probably more like “would,” considering the live dissection he went through at the hands of humans- destroy their entire planet and/or universe. Another Tuesday for the Justice League.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

More Than Enough

Pairings: Eddie Munson X Plus Size!reader

Warnings: Smut, Spice, Angst, insecurities for being plus sized

Authors Note: I do relate to this a lot being a plus sized girl myself so I decided to make it with one of my favorite boys!

Word Count: 1.3k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The familiar warmth of Eddie Munson’s basement wrapped around you like a comforting blanket. The soft glow from the mismatched lamps gave the room a cozy, intimate feel, casting long shadows across the table littered with dice, character sheets, and empty soda cans. It was the final session of the week’s D&D campaign, and though you loved every second of it, your mind wasn’t entirely in the game tonight. Every time you looked up, you found Eddie’s eyes on you—intense and playful, like he was always one step ahead, waiting for you to notice.

But behind the excitement of the game, something tugged at the back of your mind. As you leaned over to grab your dice, you tugged the edge of your shirt down a bit, feeling self-conscious about the way it hugged your body. The soft fabric clung to your curves in a way that made you hyper-aware of every extra inch, every dip and swell that you were never sure was attractive enough.

You tried to focus on the game, on the banter between Eddie and the other players, but your mind kept wandering. You’d always been the “big girl” in your group of friends. It wasn’t something you ever hid, but deep down, that quiet voice of insecurity whispered whenever you caught sight of yourself in the mirror or overheard other girls at school talking about their crushes. Eddie was different, though. He never treated you like you didn’t belong. In fact, sometimes it felt like he noticed you even more because of it, but you couldn’t quite believe that.

The session was wrapping up now, your sorceress character leading the charge in the final epic battle. You cast a massive fireball spell, decimating the Dark One, your hands trembling with excitement as the group cheered in unison. The adrenaline of the final encounter flooded your system, but even that couldn’t shake the feeling of self-consciousness that always seemed to linger beneath the surface.

“Great work tonight,” Eddie said, his voice casual but carrying that familiar edge of something deeper. “That last spell was killer.”

You gave him a small smile, but the insecurity gnawing at your insides made it hard to fully enjoy the praise. “Thanks. I just followed your lead, really.”

As the others packed up and started to leave, Eddie lingered, his eyes flicking back to you more often than usual. The air between you both felt heavier, charged with a tension that had been building for some time. You could feel it, and it seemed like Eddie was about to address it.

Once the door closed behind the last player, silence settled over the room. Eddie took a step closer, his posture more relaxed now, but there was a seriousness in his eyes. "You’ve been a little quiet tonight," he said, gently pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "What’s going on?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. The urge to downplay your feelings tugged at you, but Eddie had this way of making you feel safe, like you could be yourself without judgment. "I don’t know… Sometimes, I just don’t feel like I fit in. Like, not really. I’m not like the other girls, and it’s hard not to think about."

Eddie stepped closer, his fingers tracing the back of your hand as he crouched down to your level. “What do you mean?” he asked softly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. His thumb gently grazed your knuckles as if grounding you in the moment.

“I mean… look at me,” you said, voice tinged with hesitation. “I don’t exactly look like the girls you usually see around school, the kind guys are into.”

Eddie shook his head, his expression turning more serious. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he said quietly. “Look, I’ve seen you around those people, and I see you. You stand out in all the right ways.”

His hand slid from yours, and before you knew it, he was sitting beside you on the couch, his knee brushing yours, sending a spark of warmth through your skin. “I notice you, and not just because of your confidence in the game or your laugh,” he continued, his voice low, “but because you’re real. You’re not like those girls—you’re better. Your curves, your strength... You have no idea how much I love that.”

Your heart pounded as his words sunk in, disbelief and hope battling in your chest. You felt seen in a way you never had before.

“Come here,” Eddie murmured, his voice dipping as he leaned in closer, his eyes dark with sincerity. His hand found your waist, fingers grazing the curve of your hip as if testing the waters. The moment felt electric, his touch making your skin tingle with warmth.

You hesitated for a beat before allowing yourself to lean into his touch, your breath hitching as Eddie’s hand slid up the small of your back, pulling you closer. His lips hovered near your ear, his breath warm against your neck. “You’re more than enough,” he whispered, and those words felt like a balm to the insecurity that had taken root deep inside you for so long.

Your hands moved on their own, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him into a kiss. It was slow at first, a tentative brush of lips, but the moment his lips touched yours, all the built-up tension between you both melted away.

Eddie deepened the kiss, his fingers threading into your hair as he angled your head for better access. His free hand gently explored the curves of your body, never rushing, as if he wanted to take his time feeling every inch. You could feel his appreciation in every stroke, every caress, the way his fingers seemed to linger on your soft curves as though they were something he adored.

You gasped softly into the kiss as Eddie’s hand slid under your shirt, his fingers trailing up your sides, grazing your skin with a reverence that made your heart race. The touch wasn’t rushed or aggressive—it was careful, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with desire but filled with a softness that made your heart flutter. His words weren’t just sweet nothings—they were truths spoken as if he couldn’t hold them back any longer. “Every part of you.”

Your breath hitched, your insecurities momentarily forgotten as Eddie’s hands roamed, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough. You felt the heat between you building, your body responding to his touches, but more than that, you felt a sense of acceptance. A sense of being wanted, exactly as you were.

Eddie’s hands continued their slow, appreciative exploration, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your jaw as you leaned back against the couch. You shivered under his touch, your body alight with sensation, but what struck you the most was how cherished you felt in this moment.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” Eddie whispered against your skin, his voice low and gravelly with need. “Wanted you.”

Your response was lost in another kiss, more urgent now as your hands roamed over his shoulders, his chest, feeling the strength beneath his shirt. The closeness between you both felt intoxicating, each touch fanning the flames of desire that had been simmering between you for weeks.

As Eddie’s hand slid further up, his fingers grazing the soft swell of your chest, he paused for a moment, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze was intense, but there was a question in his eyes, a silent ask for permission. You nodded, breathless, and his hand moved again, cupping your chest with a tenderness that made your heart flutter.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, and in that moment, you believed him.

Hope you enjoyed! Please follow, like and Reblog💜 -Midnight’s Cafe

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Cherry Pie Kiss

Slice One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: The pie thief has struck again. You know who it is but how to prove it? The answer is on the tip of his tongue.

Words: ~900

A/N: So this is SPN fic number two. The idea of Dean being such a pie fiend that he would steal someone else's pie from the fridge and deny it afterwards, really amused me. I obviously didn't get the desire to kiss him out of my system after the first SPN fic I wrote so here's another one 😂 It's not smut but there is mild adult themes which is why I ask minors not to read or interact. Reader is as generic as I can make but I have referenced as female. I hope you enjoy, and as always, I value your feedback and comments 💖

Warnings: kissing, mild violence, bad language as standard. Dean is an asshole. Reader is a bit of an asshole too. They're probably made for each other.

*** Minors do not read or interact ***

Dean Winchester.  You hate him.  His arrogance, his smug superiority, the way he always acts like he’s untouchable… his goddamn pretty mouth.  Ugh!  Asshole!

You didn’t always hate him – you had known him for years, one hunter to another – but, since you had been forced to stay with both he and Sam in the bunker these last couple of months, he had really grated on your nerves. 

After your hunt of a large nest of vampires had gone wrong, you had become the hunted.  Your home decimated, your family too precious to put at risk by you staying with them; you had needed help.

Sam had insisted, so you agreed to stay with them until your vamp problem could be solved.  Only the nest turned out to be much bigger and far wider spread than you had first thought, and it was taking time for even the infamous Winchester brothers to put an end to.

The light in the refrigerator is stark as you stare inside.  It’s gone.  You slam the door, raging internally.  Why can you not have anything to yourself in this goddamn place?

“DEAN!”  You shout angrily at the top of your lungs, knowing he can hear you from his room down the hall, even with his music playing.

He won’t respond to you.  He never does.  Why should he?  You’re just some girl he’s got to put up with for a while.  Some girl he made a pass at that first week you were here, but you shut him down and he’s been an asshole to you ever since.

You storm up to his door and bray your fist against the wood as hard as you can.  “I know you’re in there!  Get your ass out here now!”  You shout and hammer your fist against the door until you hear him moving inside.

The door clunks as he unlocks it, and it swings open to reveal him stood in the doorway in a navy blue robe and slippers.  The light from his lamp is dim but warm, his music a moderate volume for the late hour.  He looks irritated that you’ve disturbed him, that quizzical frown and pout are a dead giveaway.  Good.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”  He smirks at you.

“You!”  You push past him, and he doesn’t try to block you.

“What now?”

This isn’t the first time you’ve had this argument and it probably won’t be the last.  Whenever Sam isn’t around, Dean always does something to piss you off, like he’s trying to bait you.

“You ate my pie!  AGAIN!”

His expression is schooled into that self-righteous assuredness it always is when you confront him.  His hands go to his hips – which looks ridiculous because of the robe – and he shifts his weight onto his other foot.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”  He says with a frown, and it’s entirely plausible that you’ve made a mistake, except it’s just the two of you here and you didn’t eat the damn pie.  “I haven’t seen any damn pie.”

“Oh yeah?!”  You square up to him, looking up into his eyes, unblinking, unphased.

“Yeah!”  He doubles down, firmly meeting your stare, leaning closer as if you would be intimidated by that.

It’s a short distance you need to cover and he is unprepared.  You expect him to push you away but he flounders, arms flailing and uncoordinated when you grip the lapels of his robe and pull him towards you.

When your lips meet he puckers up and blinks in shock, but you don’t give him time to realise what’s happening.  You wrap your arms around his neck and hold him tight as you slip your tongue between his lips, plundering his mouth.

It takes a beat, but he responds by gripping your hips and holding you against him, moaning into your mouth as he opens up to you.  The heat of his response takes you by surprise, but it shouldn’t have, really.  He’d wanted this since the first few days you were here.  Wanted you.

You ravage his mouth, your hands in his hair, making it messy as you practically melt into his arms.  His tongue plays perfectly with yours, his lips soft and yielding.  Dean Winchester is an exceptional kisser.  This fact makes you hate him even more.

As you pull back, breathless, Dean grins at you.  He looks happy and care-free, like the cat that got the cream.  Your face, however, holds a scowl.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?”  His expression changes to concern.

You lick your lips and it’s just as you thought, the sweet buttery goodness of pie crust and the pleasant tartness of sour cherry.  You slap him across the face – not hard but just enough to get his attention – and stride to the door leaving him confused.

“What the hell?!”  He rounds on you, his arousal tenting his robe.

“Don’t you dare eat my pie again.”

You leave your warning hanging in the air along with his frustration.  A smirk playing on your lips at the sight you had just left behind you; Dean Winchester with kiss-swollen lips and a hard-on for you.  It isn’t the worst thing you’ve seen but you still hate him, even if there’s now something else there along side it. 

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The Long War

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

War’s often did not last long when fought between warring galactic powers. They often fell within one of two categories.

The first would be a short but brutal war in which one side had overwhelming superiority over their rival and would decimate them within a short period of time either resulting in the defeated offering concessions for peace or being incorporated into the victors realm as a new territory.

The second and less frequent of the two would be a drawn out conflict that would reach a stalemate at some point due to the near equal power of the opposing sides resulting in a peace treaty or more likely a cease fire that would last for a few years before resuming hostilities.

These two outcomes were the most frequent as with the age of space travel often came great leaps and bounds in other forms of technology; many times said technology being diverted to respective military industrial complexes.

Weapons that could carve up continents from orbit or snap starships in two like twigs left little in room for anything else.

Humans did not share this notion.

In quite a contrast to the standard norm human military planners also considered lengthier drawn out conflicts. Data sheets and computer banks were filled with projections for supply consumption, industrial production capacities, troop conscription rates, and even the designated planetary ration levels that would be acceptable before general population revolts within their own territory.

This practice was first demonstrated when conflict broke out between the Drumengi and the Terran Republic after a series of trade disputes resulted in the Drumengi seizing several dozen human trade vessels and demanding a ransom for their return. This was a grave insult and the Terran Republic responded the next day with an open declaration of war.

While the Drumengi did not have a sizable fleet, they had invested in a wide range of defensive orbital installations that dotted their territory in what was known as the “Halo of Iron”. No fleet had ever been able to breach the defenses of the Halo and so previous wars had gone for little more than a year before a peace treaty was negotiated. The Drumengi expected as much and planned to force humanity to the negotiation table.

It was unfortunate no one had informed the humans of this plan as the terran’s had already devised a plan to crack the halo.

 Establishing a vast network of relay stations, automated satellite weapons platforms, and mobile fleet waystation’s that were brought in and placed along key trade routes into Drumengi territory, humanity established an iron halo of their own. Once the human ring was completed warning beacons were activated and a message was broadcasted in every language declaring the territory an active warzone and refused passage for any ship to try and cross through it.

Initially the Drumengi were inclined this was the prelude to a massive invasion fleet and prepared themselves, but as the months turned to years still no attack came. Human fleets patrolled the surrounding systems and intercepted all ships that tried to breach their lines with the help of the relay stations that were constantly scanning the surrounding space for ships.

Three years passed and soon every ship learned to avoid Drumengi space for fear of human retaliation; and that is when the Drumengi learned the true plan of humanity.

They never intended to besiege their defensive ring in some full frontal do or die charge. Instead they had formed a blockade that now was choking the very life of the Drumengi economy month by month.

It was never intended for the war to last more than a year, two at max, but now humanity was still showing no signs of relenting as the war dragged on to the fourth year. Critical supplies had not been stored in sufficient quantities for an extended war and while the public was assured of an eventual victory, Drumengi planners were beginning to panic. Worlds within Drumengi space were reporting that their stockpiles had dropped 32% since the war began and were increasingly demanding to open negotiations with the humans.

With little offensive capabilities the Drumengi were forced to sit behind their iron halo and continue to wait out the humans. Several delegations had been sent to other powers to open up channels and begin laying the ground work for peace talks, but each time they were informed that the talks were stalled by human counterparts who proceeded to drag their feet over every minor detail. One delegation went so far to report that a human diplomat would not accept any document unless it was written with a “Ballpoint Pen, color blue”. No one had any idea what that was exactly and even after researching it the device took another three weeks to be shipped in only for the human to reject it again saying that they had imported red pens instead.

The war dragged into the fifth year and supply levels had reached critical across the entire Drumengi domain. Supply levels had decreased by 67% for most worlds while fuel levels now were at a critical 13%. Travel was limited to military personnel, government officials, and what limited transportation still remained. Food riots had broken out in several major metropolitan areas on numerous planets and were becoming increasingly difficult to put down. In some cases the magistrates sent to neutralize the riots switched sides and joined the rioters, beckoning the military to get involved as well. That did little to settle the matter however as then the government worried how long it would be until the military switched sides as well.

With heavy hearts and empty bellies the Drumengi leadership finally came to humanity directly and offered to surrender. No terms were asked for save the resumption of trade and the dismantling of the human ring of iron.

The humans agreed to the first measure, but denied the second. Their ring of iron would remain, as a reminder of how easily humanity could cripple them again should the Drumengi ever show their hand again. They also insisted on reparations for maintaining such an extensive grid and exacted a high sum of credits as well. The Drumengi were outraged at this. They were told not only to surrender but to also pay for their imprisonment? The government would be overthrown within a fortnight when the general population heard the news.

Their pleas fell on deaf ears as the humans reiterated their demands once more.

As they had planned ahead for their long war, so too had they planned for the end result. They had changed the nature of the war and had steered it to the point where either outcome would be in their benefit. If the Drumengi agreed to the terms the current government would collapse in on itself as the general population railed against humanities demands, but if they refused their supplies would run out at the general public would once again violently rise up across their entire domain and their territory would become nothing more than mere pocket kingdoms for despots and criminals.

Regardless of the choice, the long war would finally be at an end.  

[purpledemonlilyposting]

Wakey, wakey. The latest hot, steaming garbage Dragon Age hot-takes have dropped.

Wow, Lily. That's a LOT of words to say "I've never played any of Dragon Age. I've only hate-skimmed the series because I decided it was all problematic garbage before going in because there's no sister character I can project my messed-up fantasies on to, so I'm just going to pretend to be oh-so "deep". and "woke" so I can earn progressive brownie points without any effort."

Oh yeah my fans were showing me this last night after I finished Veilguard. I finished Veilguard on stream by the way!

"Dragon Age itself is boring, a generic high fantasy series seasoned with racism it never really bothers to address and a massive host of worldbuilding that is always the least interesting version of a kind of fantasy that was already not interesting to begin with."

The thing I've always loved about Dragon Age, the thing that got me through the slog that is the gameplay of Origins in 2009, has always been the worldbuilding. It's fairly unique as far as fantasy worlds go. All of it takes place on a single continent called Thedas. No one knows what else lies beyond it.

Elves used to be powerful immortal beings until a cataclysm in pre-history that has been pretty unclear until this current game (though you could already figure it out before Veilguard with all the clues throughout the first three games), now they are small second-class citizens who were once enslaved. Their entire culture has been decimated and they have no land of their own. They can only live in ghettos in human cities or as wandering tribes people reinventing the few scraps of history they do have into their own unique cultures.

Dwarves have a stringent caste system and anyone who leaves for above ground is forbidden to come back. They lose all of their social status. Their kingdoms were also decimated when the Blights began, leaving Orzammar the sole Dwarven kingdom. Besides, of course, the elusive Kal-Sharok that is mostly closed off to the world. Dwarves rely on trading lyrium (a substance essential to mages and Templars alike) with the surface for their survival and so they are often traders and economists. The Merchant's Guild is a powerful surface institution that despite being full of Dwarves who left Orzammar or were born on the surface still ties itself up in stringent Dwarven tradition. Dwarves also invented the common tongue/trade language everyone uses.

Humans don't have a whole lot of known history on their origins. We know they're not native to Thedas but Veilguard tells us they were there before the Veil (what separates the real world from the Fade, the world of spirits and dreams). Which is very interesting cause the world was so different back then. After the Veil humans formed the Tevinter Imperium which was a Roman Empire-like civilization that spanned the entire continent. When Andraste lead armies against them the empire was broken up, Tevinter became a smaller country in the North and other countries formed all around the continent. Humans ended up bringing the Blight to the world when the Evanuris, the ancient elven gods sealed away behind the veil, used their dragon thralls to speak to high ranking Tevinter magisters and lure them into breaching the Veil to enter the Fade physically.

Qunari are a completely unique concept to Dragon Age. They're a nameless horned race the majority of which follow a religion/social structure/philosophy called the Qun. It was passed down to them by an ancestor in a long forgotten land they left centuries ago. They conquered Par Vollen, pretty much the furthest north of Thedas, and have been there ever since. Their goal is to submit all to the Qun because the Qun is certainty. Living is a choice and the Qun gives that choice purpose, giving you a role you need not ever question because it is a demand of the Qun and the Qun is certainty. There is some evidence they are people who mixed themselves with dragon blood to become what they are now.

And that is just an overview of what makes the worldbuilding unique. There is so much more to everything I just said.

"Half the characters you meet are related in some way to the Chantry"

Yeah almost like the Chantry has the political power and reach of the Catholic Church in medieval Europe. Almost like Andraste as a prophet is a mix of Jesus Christ and Joan of Arc. Almost like fictional stories take influence from real life history to easily communicate to an audience what they're doing with this concept.

"BioWare is averse to the idea of Elven companions who aren't either chronic backstabbers or insufferable."

Lily what did Fenris and Merrill ever do to you? Did you not actually do Zevran's companion quests and raise his approval? He won't go back to the Crows if you do that you know. Sure Velanna is annoying but I wouldn't call even her insufferable.

The only real backstabber is Solas and he is literally Fen'Harel the elven trickster god.

"Outside of that all encompassing issue, a lot of Dragon Age companions require you to go through a long quest chain before you get to learn anything interesting about them"

Yeah Lily. If you want to get to know your companions better you actually have to do things to get to know them better. That's part of the fun of the game. If you don't like that then these games are maybe not for you.

"The worst version of this is Leliana. If you do her quests and follow her story to completion, she's a somewhat interesting character. BUT... for 11 hours before that point she's just Imoen as a born again christian. How the fuck does a Triple A game fall into "Original Character Do Not Steal"?"

... okay legendary super ultra rare W from Lily.

I'm only half joking because Leliana is the character I coined the term "writer's pet" for.

""Okay I think the group mage will be Vivienne" and then I met Vivienne and spoke to her for ten minutes, and proceeded to leave her in the camp because she's the mage equivalent of Stella Kubler, sucking up to the Chantry and actively supporting Mage Auschwitz."

And it was immediately negated with a common major L.

Maybe if you'd actually hear Vivienne out on why she supports the Circles you could learn something from her Lily. She's very similar to Wynne in that regard. Vivienne feels mages need a place to commiserate with other mages and learn to control their power. And she is absolutely right about that.

Also she is a queen and if you actually had to talk to her for 10 minutes she'd probably leave you weeping on the floor with her verbal stinging barbs alone.

She also becomes the mom friend companion if you befriend her. She's the only one who really checks in on the Inquisitor and frets about how you're doing. In her own way.

"BioWare for a while kept operating under the assumption that there was a real ethical question behind Mage Auschwitz. There wasn't. There was edgy gamer bros roleplaying as fantasy nazis and EVERYONE ELSE siding with the Mages, and rather than give up BioWare kept forcing the issue."

Lily if you didn't spacebar hammer your way through cutscenes and dialog and actually paid attention to the fucking story you would know the Circles and Templars are way more complex than you're stating here. You don't even seem to realize that Templars are an arm of the Chantry. Despite the fact they're called Templars.

I doubt you even know that Templars are usually recruited as children or teens in a monastic-like tradition and orphans are often just handed to them.

"Dragon Age 2 gives you an escaped slave party member who is also a bigot.

By the end of Dragon Age 2 I was a Warrior and my part was "My Mage Sister, my Mage Girlfriend, and my Mage BFF."

Oh god she likes Anders. Of course she likes Anders. The same Anders that turns to said escaped slave and says "Hey mages in the South are PRETTY MUCH slaves, you should be supporting them!"

The escaped slave who has lyrium markings carved into his skin by his former mage master. His former master who may have also had a sexual relationship with him. The escaped slave from Tevinter, where mages are the upper class and rule over all of society. Where blood magic is nominally forbidden but constantly happening behind closed doors. Where slavery is legal.

That escaped slave. Fenris. My favorite character in the entire series and my favorite romance in the entire series.

You ain't winning this one Lily lol.

"Going into Veilguard, I just don't bother with companion quests, because I know I'm just going to hate them at the end of it because that's how this game works.

Compare this to Mass Effect"

Compare it specifically to Mass Effect 2 because you are going to get everyone killed by not completing their companion quests.

"You get Miranda and Jacob who are big simps for Cerberus, but their companion quests have nothing to do with that so you don't have to listen to any of it past the first time."

Ah the human supremacy group is fine though.

"Mass Effect does have its dud characters. Zaeed, Kasumi, Thane, Ashley, Miranda"

Lily you get Thane and Kasumi out of there right now.

Really? You didn't list JACOB? The most lame nothing companion in any Bioware game ever?

That's the end I can't take any more.

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Just thought of this idea just now.

Can you do a smut with a yandere greek god of war x water nymph reader, with the nymph being chased by the god until he caught up with her and takes her to his bedroom, and the whole love making thing is more consensual?

Sure!

A/N: Also, sorry I'm answering this late again. Hurricane Helene came over my state so I was literally(and still am) preparing for the worst.

You were a water nymph. A lonely one at that. Also, a confused one, because you grew up alone with only water and the sealife to keep you company. You didn't even know what type of water nymph you were, all you knew was that both of your parents didn't want you. And so, here you are, living your life on the shore of some tourist beach.

"Do you always sit there?" A man with brown skin, red hair, and purplish-blue eyes asks, sitting next to you.

"Yeah, pretty much. I don't exactly have anywhere else to go," You respond, enjoying the feeling of the waves touching your feet. "What about you? Do you have anywhere to go?"

"Of course, I do. I go to lots of places," The man answers, blushing a little. "Say, what's your name, cutie?"

"Aqua...Aquata. Or at least that's the name others have given me But I prefer Y/N." You answer, getting up.

"Y/N, where are you going?" The man asks, seeing you walk into the ocean. "Y/N? Y/N!"

And with that, you're in the sea filled with inspiration. If he could travel everywhere, then you can too. Your first stop was the island that the sailors call Sirenum Scopuli. It was flowery and pretty, and the women were welcoming. For some reason, they said you smelled familiar to them.

Your next stop was the island of Thrinacia, where you found a crying cyclops.

"Excuse me, if I may ask, why are you crying?" You ask, standing in front of the cyclops.

"He took stabbed me in the eye! I'm blinded! I'm blinded! I can never see my beloved sheep again!" The cyclops cried, making you feel pity for the poor creature.

"Oh, I can fix it if you want. I've healed many eye injuries before," You say, getting an idea.

"Really, you'll fix my eye? I'm in your debt for eternity," The cyclops exclaims, a smile on his face.

"Yep!" You say, diving back into the water, and returning with the eye of a giant sea squid. "I've performed this plenty of times on animals. Hold on, I need to get the eye out."

You pull the cyclop's eye out and put the squid's eye in its place. You work your magic on the eye and use the liquid inside it to weave your magic through his nervous system.

"Ok, try blinking. Do you see anything?" You ask, standing back.

"YAY! I CAN SEE AGAIN!" The cyclops yells, jumping around and clapping. "THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!"

"Don't mention it, big guy," You exclaim, kissing his cheek.

"Here, take sheep's wool. It can be used to warm you up during the cold," The cyclops replies, giving you a cloak.

You accept the gift and continue on your way. As you travel through the ocean, an arrow strikes your arm. You scream in pain, your blood dying the water around you red. You hear men screaming above and force yourself to see the same red-haired man from the beach.

"YOU FOOLS! HOW DARE YOU HURT MY GODDESS?!" The man screams, letting his wrath decimate the soldiers above him. "My goddess, are you ok?"

"You? What are you doing here?" You ask, gripping the wool cloak.

"My dove, are you ok?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Good."

He kisses your lips, and a wave of memories comes flooding back. You haven't been back on that beach in years. You've been living with him, your dear husband, Ares. One day you got into a fight with him, ran away, and had been aimlessly wandering through the human world until you eventually pushed everything concerning Ares and your life with him to the back of your mind.

"Ares?" You gasp, feeling his hands cupping your cheeks.

"The third. Ares the third," Ares says, looking into your eyes. "I had been looking for you for five long years. Do you know how much it hurt me to see you not recognize me on that beach?"

"Ares, listen, I...what were we even fighting about?" You ask, straddling your husband.

"I...we were arguing about your family-our family-both. Your family wanted to reach out to you, I was talking about wanting a baby, it all piled up and we had a really bad fight, and no words could describe how sorry I am. I should've let you reach out to your family, and I shouldn't have tried making a family of our own as if it was an acceptable replacement for your family."

"Oh...Ares. I-Is my family ok?"

"Yes. They've been living at my castle since you disappeared. They'd love to meet you."

"I'd love to meet them too."

~~~~~~~~~

"Welcome home, my goddess," Ares says, removing his hands from your eyes.

"Mom? Dad?" You say, seeing a siren and Triton.

"Hi, sweetie. We've got a lot to explain, but I think your husband really wants to talk to you. We'll be waiting at the dinner table," Your mom says, nudging your dad to say hi.

"Don't worry, I will return your daughter to you in a walkable manner," Ares says, guiding you to his bedroom.

The door shuts, and Ares is already kissing your body.

"Do you know how long I've missed you, missed your body?" Ares murmurs, kissing your neck as he slips his dress off your shoulders. "Please tell me you remember my touch?"

"I'm sorry..." You say, guiltily looking at Ares.

"Don't worry about it. I'll make you remember again," Ares whispers, feeling you up.

"A-Ares!" You moan as your husband kisses your breasts.

Ares sucks on your breasts as he pushes your dress off your ass. The two of you fall on the bed, and Ares grasps your hands. You see his toned chest peak through his white v-neck blouse and stare at it.

"Oh, you want my clothes off too?" Ares asks, holding back a smirk as he looks at your cute face.

"Yes, please. Take it off. Take it all off," You plead, rubbing your leg against his crotch.

Ares does as you say and you gawk at his glorious body and skin.

"What? Never seen a god before?" Ares mocks, stroking his 7 1/2-inch cock.

"Wow..." You gasp, closing your legs as Ares crawls towards you in all his glory.

"Don't worry, babe. I won't make a mess out of you," Ares responds, kissing your pussy and lining himself up at your entrance. "I'm going in."

"Mm!" You moan, your husband not moving to let you adjust.

"You're ok, you're doing good. I know it's been a while since you've had me inside you," Ares moans, resisting the urge to thrust. "Are you ready, my goddess?"

You nod your head and he begins to thrust. You gasp as a wave of pleasure washes over you, your hands gripping the sheets. Ares grabs your hands, guiding them so they're gently around his waist.

"You look so amazing!" Ares moans, speeding up. "I love you. I love you so much! I love you so much, I'll be with you even after the mortals move on to the next set of gods. I love you so much I'd kill the entire world and the pantheon for you."

"I love you too, Ares!" You moan, making your husband tear up.

He orgasms inside of you and kisses your sweet lips. His tears fall on your cheeks, and you look at your husband with pity. The genuine love for you flowing through his tears, send you over the edge, and you cum on his cock.

"Aw, honey, don't cry. I'm sorry I forgot about you," You apologize, kissing your husband's head.

"I've seen the bloodiest of slaughter and entire people wiped out from genocide, but you're the one thing I could never forget," Ares cries, laying his head onto your boobs. "Please don't leave me like that again."

You start to cry and wipe your husband's tears away. You kiss him, feeling his heartbeat calm down.

"It's ok, I won't leave you again," You say, touching your forehead with his.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXXVIII. “for love”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce Wayne goes to therapy [NOT CLICKBAIT]

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, panic attack, vomit, blood, grief/trauma, yearning

words: 9.7k

a/n: more miscommunication, more of reader getting themselves into situations 💀 as far as I’m concerned, Bruce Wayne’s love language is ‘worry’. as always, i adore hearing allll of your comments!! please tell me everything lovelies, i adore interacting with you all <3

You’d probably bored him with your photos and reminiscing. Maybe he didn’t even have to go anywhere.

You’d hoped you’d been able to distract Bruce enough, even if he was just humoring you. In addition to the articles about the murderous stalker, you’d noted the bruises on his knuckles. After last Saturday when you’d learned he’d gone back to Batman, you’d been worried sick; worry tinged with anger at his immovable desire to get back into the muck, at his inability to let himself relax. You hoped you’d given him a sliver of that, a moment of reprieve so his system didn’t overload. It wasn’t realistic that his meds had fully set in yet. As Dr. Crane so diligently reminded you over the weekend, this time was fragile.

In a self-serving way that made your stomach hurt, in a way you didn’t want to fully admit to yourself and play off as a joke, the shock of the serial killer had sideswept your anxiety at having to see him again post-dream. The only time it had entered your brain again was when he’d made the comment about housing, blurting out so eloquently I thought I’d dreamt that. You’d wanted to sink into the floor, certain that your dream was plastered across your forehead.

At least he smiled some at the end of the night–he wouldn’t have sought you out at the rally’s end if he hadn’t wanted to talk to you, right? Or was this yet another thing fueled by his guilt? So soon off the heels of the attempt, and everything with Miller… yeah, he didn’t want to talk to you. Only felt like he needed to.

You waited at a separate intersection now, in an area of town you had never been to before. So holed up to downtown while being in classes, you hadn’t ventured much besides the places Mar dragged you every blue moon. Crown Point was separate from downtown, almost intentionally so—in your research for March’s rally, you’d learned that it was a neighborhood infamous for its poverty and crime. Most of the articles online spoke only about the latter, giving no credence to the reality of simply needing to get by. It had also been the neighborhood most impacted by the historic flood of 2022, never quite being resuscitated. You’d wanted to start hearing what the city thought of this campaign, and what better voices to highlight coming off the heels of Bruce’s first interview than the most abandoned?

Marginalized and disenfranchised didn’t even begin to cover it. It was like the city at large had tried to swallow up Crown Point—or better yet, tried to drown it in the depths of the river, desperately stomping out any signs of life. Cars were toppled over from accidents no one had bothered to attend to, or clean up from. Blood tinged all layers of the street, no street cleaners bothering to come by. Every apartment looked decimated; chunks of yellowed, dry grass sprung wild in cracks of concrete, surviving off blood, crude oil, and spite. Trash more than littered the streets, it became them; when you visited again, if you even saw a single soul, you’d need to wear boots. Some of the garbage was up to your knees.

You thought back to a group project in high school with Gabbi. She’d wanted to focus on the benefits of recycling, starting a campaign to expand the trash removal options at the school. She’d pulled up pictures of places like this, turning her nose up to the class as they presented. “We don’t want our city to turn into this, do we?” Even then, having never stepped foot outside your little town, you’d thought she was being callous and cruel.

The first sign of life presented itself as a rustle in some bushes. You cleared your throat of its gumminess on approach, suddenly feeling very much like an intruder. Street interviews were commonplace, it wasn’t supposed to be weird, but this side of town almost felt feral; like it’d been left alone for so long the buildings might bite back. What could I give them in return? Dr. Vry had always made it clear you weren’t supposed to give gifts in journalism; it was biased, and even if well-intentioned, demerited your work. Maybe it would be enough for you to see them, to help give their voice a boost. To know that someone was looking out for them.

Upon closer inspection, these bushes proved the entrance to a houseless camp. The residents had become very savvy, and you kept yourself tight to where you’d come in case they wanted you to leave. You had a penchant for walking unwanted into people’s homes, it seemed; but the tentative response was short-lived. A child emerged from a tent a few feet in front of you, and waved, running toward the back of the haphazardly-kempt wire fence lining the area. It was massive; hundreds of people could live here, easily. You noticed a couple sitting together eating some shelf-stable food on a nearby bench. Another kid playing with a stray cat in the far corner. Tents and tarps were plentiful, with the odd bike and mattress parked around.

“If you’re a cop, we don’t want you.” A tall woman sitting under a tarp gestured to you. “Lot of you have tried, but we won’t go.”

You shook your head. “I’m not, I uh, I’m a journalist with the Gazette. Wanted to know what the people of Crown Point thought about the upcoming election.”

A chorus of laughs erupted, many voices from places you couldn’t place. Some echoey, some dampened, some sounding like they were standing right beside you. The same woman shrugged, tossing her pillow to the side of her to lay back on. “The election doesn’t matter. Still leaving us to die.”

You went with her concern, probing it, validating it. “That’s why I’m here. I want to help your concerns be heard.”

“What’s the point of being heard if we’re gonna freeze anyway?” The man sitting on the bench chimed in, shaking his head with a tight, scrunched face. They were right; why would they want to speak if they were hungry, exhausted, and at risk of freezing to the cold, hard ground this winter? Your heart broke thinking of how many loved ones they’d already had to mourn.

The zing of it propelled the words out before you’d fully thought them through. “I could help all of you get housed, tonight.”

The man on the bench glared at you, the woman next to him looking up from her lap. The woman underneath the tarp that had spoken slowly sat up, eyebrow raising. “Is this a trick? Get us to leave so you can sweep the joint?”

Damn. What is Bruce gonna think about this? “No. I have… connections. At least for the time being. Hotels, motels, but eventually to something long-term.” What, there were a few hundred people here? Maximum? Some of them had to be families, couples. You swallowed a lump in your throat at the prospect of overpromising and underdelivering. You knew there were enough empty apartments, but not about hotels…

Rightfully so, they only became more suspicious, with more people peeking out from their tents to see who the hell was saying such things. “I worked with Bruce Wayne recently.” What to say?! “He talked about the housing crisis, he wants to help.”

“This isn’t more of that Renewal bullshit, right?”

“Wayne kid getting out now?”

“Why would he want to help us? Planning to run?”

They’d been hurt before. Led astray. They were just being protective. “I think he wants to follow his parents. I know they were philanthropic.”

“Can’t be too much, or he wouldn’t have his billions.”

You couldn’t believe you were standing here vouching for Bruce fucking Wayne, the man that just a few months ago scowled at you in his basement while essentially moralizing their existence. It dawned on you that you were promising them his money, and guilt washed through you yet again. “I’ll get in contact with his management. If that’s something you’d all want.”

The few people who were looking at you looked around at each other, and a pause hung longer than you thought it would. You stifled a sigh of relief at giving them a choice–you didn’t want to come in like some savior if it wasn’t what they wanted right now. You stifled another when they all nodded, and you disappeared back into the bushes after saying you’d only be a minute.

Calling him was hard. You stared at his contact in your phone like it was a mirage, and would leap from the screen and disappear any moment. Only once you heard a particularly strained meow from one of the camp’s cats did you press the button, all but slamming the phone to your ear. Ring one, ring two, ring three, ring four… you bit your cheek, already sore from biting it so much the night before. He isn’t gonna answer. He wants nothing to do with me. Rightfully so.

“Y/N?”

You loathed the way your body jumped when he said your name, a phenomenon you were becoming aware of ever since that night at your apartment. The request tumbled out of you, with both too much and not enough context; sudden, intrusive, and trapping. You were beginning to hate yourself, and the lengthy silence between your ask and his response had you jumping in place, holding tight, constricted air heavy in your chest. Fuck. I’ll have to tell everyone I was lying, that I didn’t have anything lined up. That you’d put your foot in your mouth, and felt entitled to his money. Maybe, in your emotional anguish, you’d even confess to them that you’d lied. That you’d lied to a big, important man about a big, important thing. All weekend you’d ruminated on his reputation, fully internalizing it for the first time.

“Be there soon.” His voice was flat, distant, and he abruptly hung up.

Not an okay, sure, or even a that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, stay away from me from him. Just another obligation. Another thing he had to swallow with you; another way you made yourself a menace, another way he couldn’t escape you.

He arrived the same way, eyes cast down as he slammed the door shut. His hair wasn’t done, but the rest of him was—donning a light brown sweater against tapered black pants rather than his baggy black-on-black, tattered tee look. As much as you wanted to mirror his avoidance, you had to bite the bullet, maintaining your eyes to his face and breaking the silence. “Thank you, I’m, I know this is unexpected,”

His eyes flicked up to yours and he flinched, his face scrunching together as he faced the concrete again. You felt queasy. His voice was low and mumbled. You could barely hear him, though the city din was much lower out here. “—fine.” He shrugged, his shoulders tightening. Your gut cinched as you led him to the camp, each step drawing the nausea more to the surface. After the rollercoaster of the past week, it’d been too easy to forget the fragile line you walked with him.

By the time you both stood at the entrance, watching everyone’s eyes widen at Bruce’s presence, you were almost positive you’d crumble to the ground. By some lucky break, he decided to speak first. He sounded nothing like he had when he’d been with you seconds earlier.

“I know the chill is coming in soon, and we want to help you get housed. For the first few nights you’ll be staying in a hotel or motel in the city. Beyond that, my team will get you set up in an apartment long-term. Fully paid.” Some people asked him why he was doing this, but others were already taking down their tents, shoving everything into their arms and into stray plastic bags. He answered with: “Money has no use sitting in a cell while people can use it.”

You tried not to linger on the we of it all, but it was hard. He didn’t look at you as you both helped residents pack up their things, staying to opposite sides of the encampment. After you did a headcount, you realized there were only about a hundred-fifty people living here. A handful of them were children, a few elders, but most middle-aged, and single. When people would turn to finish grabbing their belongings, you’d stare at Bruce’s back, or his side-profile, or his face if he was facing you. He never so much as glanced your direction, even when he was paused, waiting.

Once everyone was packed, you took out your phone to scour hotel sites, presenting the second time he’d acknowledged your existence in the two hours you’d been there. His voice was quiet still, this time with more discernible reasons as to why, though he kept his interactions short, clipped, impersonal. “My butler’s handling it. Marriot’s coming off a conference, everyone can go there.” He mumbled something as he walked past about Alfred sending cars for everyone, directing you to stay back for the time being. He walked to the group toward the front and followed them out, saying something else you could hardly hear, but sounded like leadership.

Nearly in tears by how coolly he was behaving, you’d threatened to crumble until a small boy walked up to you holding a tiny kitten. The kitten shivered, their orange fur standing up in the wind tunnel the fencing and bushes created. They had open scabs around their back, and on the pads of their paws. “Mommy says he needs a doctor.”

Crouching down to meet his eye level, you reached out to gently pet the cat’s head. You could feel how small and weak they were. “Is this your kitty?”

He nodded. “His name is Bouncer.” He said it pointedly, like people had been calling Bouncer ‘cat’ against his wishes. His face was pouty, frustrated. He held the cat close to him, like you were going to take him away. “Can he come?”

“Yes, he can. I can take him to the doctor too if you’d like.” Dr. Vry’s second paycheck had come in over the weekend, so this task wasn’t something you’d have to ask Bruce’s card information for. Thank god.

“Bouncer.”

“I can take Bouncer to the cat doctor, and bring him back to you. How does that sound?” Your heart squeezed as you thought back to what had likely gotten him that name, the bouncing, leaping, energetic presence of a new kitten, seeing how clenched and tired the cat looked now.

The boy looked over your shoulder and pointed, and you followed his finger to Bruce, stepping back into the encampment. “You and him.” He pointed to the cat, brow furrowed, then back to Bruce again. “Get him.”

He was already motioning at Bruce, and you counted the sound of his footsteps until you felt him beside you. He wasn’t wearing the cologne he always wore at city hall meetings, the universe giving you a millisecond of relief. His voice was gentler when he spoke now, crouching to mimic your posture in front of the kid. “Is that your cat?”

The kid stared at you like you were supposed to introduce them. You didn’t look at him, only at the small, shaky head of the kitten in front of you. “That’s Bouncer. He needs to go to the vet.”

“You guys will.” He shoved the kitten in your arms, and you felt how chilly he was. His body trembled and shook, and you cradled his head as you looked into his face. The kid said something to Bruce about ‘the buddy system’ and ‘illegal’ to not go with someone else, but their conversation faded into the green of the kitten’s eyes. Their eyelids were covered in grime, their nose runny. Poor baby. You caressed their head, their eyes fluttering, and they stretched into a yawn, the tiny claws poking at your arms.

“Landon, there you are.” A woman, presumably his mom, walked up to the child and grabbed his elbow. “The cars are coming.”

“Bouncer! He’s going to the doctor.”

The lady met your eyes, and glanced between you and Bruce. She shook her head and hoisted the bag higher on her back. “No baby, we don’t have the money yet.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Bruce intercepted. “I’ll cover it.”

The woman blushed, an exasperated sigh following. She ran her fingers through Landon’s hair. “You’re already doing so much, we can’t possibly,”

He shook his head and stood, but you stayed crouched. You pulled the kitten close to your chest, hoping to warm them off your body heat. “It’s no problem. I’ll have someone bring Bouncer to your room later tonight.”

As they shuffled away, the boy blew a kiss at the cat and waved; you gently grabbed the kitten’s paw and gave the teensiest wave back, careful not to move him much. As they turned out of view, stepping out of the bushes to the cars that supposedly awaited them all, you caught Bruce staring at you, blank-faced. He held the eye contact only a second, but it felt like a lifetime after being wholeheartedly avoided. You wished he would speak, you wanted to know what he was thinking so badly.

Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and strode forward, mumbling again. “Get in the backseat with it.”

You didn’t like his tone, but you didn’t feel in any position to complain; you’d probably cost him upwards of fifty thousand dollars today, not counting whatever the vet bill would be, food costs, and the long-term investment of housing everyone. You hadn’t consulted with him, of course he was angry. Of course he was being short with you. You didn’t care much about the money aspect, especially not as you walked past the crowds of people buzzing with anticipation to finally get a warm shower and soft bed, but when you paired it with your previous behavior, it didn’t feel too stellar. Seemed that as quick as the smoke cleared from a past fuckup, you were slamming another between the two of you.

Slipping into the backseat was easier than you thought; the kitten was far from rambunctious, tired and tiny, so you set them in the seat next to you and slid in, scooping them up as quickly as they’d been set down. As you gently pet their head, down their back, and wiggled their toes, you could’ve sworn you felt the beginnings of a purr. You looked out the tinted windows at the people climbing into Ubers and Lyfts, and rolled down the window to wave again at Landon before he climbed in the back of the rideshare.

Bruce slipped into the driver’s side and turned the car on as one pulled up beside you. Alfred was messing with his seatbelt before stepping out, seemingly orchestrating the rides. He said something to the group and those who had just hopped inside the cars, but Bruce sped off before you could hear it. Every movement of his felt impatient, stilted, forced. You remained silent the rest of the drive, the mood soured, millenniums away from the night before. You shifted your focus to the animal in your arms, which was automatic; they’d begun to let out pitiful meows, opening their eyes as much as they could.

You pulled into the parking lot of a clinic you’d never seen before, a 24 hour emergency vet. Bruce turned to take the cat, but Bouncer had clawed his way into your shirt, clinging on for dear life. You cooed at him, rubbing behind his ears, and stepped out without thinking, only realizing once both feet were on the ground to look for paparazzi. The beaming of the sun, a rarity in the inner city, caused a momentary panic, and you scurried into the clinic as fast as you knew you could protect the terrified pet in your arms. After pretending you’d found a stray cat and wanted to rescue them, you handed him to a tech, giving your card information and phone number to the man at the front desk. They told you for security reasons they’d need you to wait in your car, but they estimated it wouldn’t be longer than an hour. Apparently it was usually much busier, and the wait averaged twelve hours. Shit.

Walking out to the car brought an anxiety you hadn’t felt toward him since the first night at Wayne Tower. He didn’t look up when you walked past his window, nor when you slid into the backseat. In fact, he didn’t say a word for multiple minutes after, seemingly staring down at his feet, or the steering wheel. Is he okay?

“How long did they say it would be?” Still mumbling. Still with no further acknowledgment outside the bare minimum.

“About an hour.”

The silence continued for a cluster of minutes before you forced an apology through your mounting nerves. “I’m sorry. I know I should have asked you before. They asked what good was it to have their voice heard if they were gonna freeze to death anyway, and—”

“It’s fine.” But it didn’t sound fine, it sounded like he had an armory of sharp words to stab into you; an unspoken tension so tightly wound you had a feeling you couldn’t even ask about it without things escalating. Whatever it was, you felt it; a thick, dense cord jammed between and through you.

“It’s not right of me—”

“It’s fine.”

This felt eerily similar to how standoffish he’d acted the night after you hugged, but it didn’t make sense. All he’d done was drive you home. His reassurance wasn’t gentle, it was tempered. A kettle barely kept from boiling. Whenever he acted like this, you couldn’t help the storm brewing within you to pull him out of it, make him explain himself.

But you’d done too much. So you sat, twiddling your thumbs, and counted the seconds as they passed until the clinic called back. You put it on speaker so you wouldn’t have to repeat yourself to him.

“Hi Y/N, this is Mountain Valley vet clinic calling. Bouncer has been seen by our staff.” They went on to let you know that he had dermatitis and was extremely dehydrated; they gave him subcutaneous fluid, a wash, and a cone, as well as trimmed his nails. You agreed to purchasing the hypoallergenic kibble they recommended, and walked out a few minutes later with a cardboard carrier holding a tiny, washed kitten in a large cone.

Bruce still didn’t say a word.

Bruce felt like he might die.

You left him in the car with the kitten after insisting on the ride back that you get the creature some supplies. He peeked in once to see if it was breathing, and its bleary eyes stared up at him. He gave the little thing a pet, but that was the most he could do. He felt like he needed a trip to the doctor.

He didn’t want you to come back. He’d been pacing his room before you called, cataloging what he might say to you the next day. He’d been too terrified to sleep, afraid to shut his eyes after the debacle in the shower. He’d tried to come up with an excuse to not see you, but nothing revealed itself, and now he was here. Stuck in this stuffy, cramped car with you. Stuck remembering the tenderness in your body as you held the animal, stuck with the insurmountable, immovable, horrifying thought that there was nothing he could do but grow fonder and fonder of you with each interaction.

He wasn’t mad you’d taken the initiative; he was mad that his body had betrayed him, and annihilated his footing, making the sight of you absolutely unbearable. Seeing you felt like a hot branding iron, like your hand was wrapped around his throat to make him suffer, cutting off oxygen to his limbs until he felt them shrivel and die. He ached to lean toward you, converse, connect; but in equal measure, with equal force, nothing had ever felt more dangerous. Not even cutting the wire and plunging into the blood-filled waters during the flooding, though he knew how illogical it was.

He looked at the cat again. How you held it. How it clung onto you like the world would end if it let go. He couldn’t resist looking at you then. Couldn’t stomp out the part of him that wanted to do the exact same thing. It made him sick.

You slid into the backseat and for a split second he considered folding. Indulging the questions that spun his thoughts all afternoon. Why Crown Point? Why now? What article were you working on? Had anyone heckled you? Had Gavenstein or the other men said anything? Had you recovered yet from your injuries? What questions did you prepare for the rally that weren’t heard? How were you, really? Were you still having nightmares?

“Which room are they in?”

Holy shit, he’d been driving on autopilot, the Marriot sign projecting beams of light through his eyes in the parking lot. This was precisely why he couldn’t ask those questions, why it was imperative he resist the dynamic forming. He was entirely ragged and unnerved.

The click of your seatbelt unbuckling forced him to speak. “I’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll run up there, I was the—”

“You can’t be associated with this.”

“I already am. Look,”

His hand knocked into yours as he grabbed the box’s handle, and he slammed his head back on the headrest with a scowl as he yanked his arm away. His hand was burning where you’d touched, his heart racing…

“Just admit it.”

If he thought his heart was racing then, he had no idea what it was doing now, certain it would tear out of his chest. You couldn’t know about last night, impossible. You couldn’t. “Admit what?” It was easy for his tone to be harsh when he was this thrown. He counted the split of each second between your answer by the pounding of blood in his ears.

“You’re mad at me.”

His brow furrowed, gaze fixed on the top of the steering wheel. You shifted in your seat, the thin plastic handles of the Petco bag deepening the crease under your knuckles. It was oozing off of him. You nearly snapped when he denied it. “I’m not.”

“I know what I did was entitled.”

“Take the cat in.”

“You’re angry. That’s fine,”

He scoffed, something which didn’t help whatever case he was trying to front. “Do you want me to be?” He turned to face you, his face flushed with frustration. His chest was heaving, causing you to press your back flush to the seat in a strange anticipation. Almost like he might grab you if you got too close. Or run away.

You hid your surprise when he spoke again, his voice embittered. “Do you want me to tell you you shouldn’t have done that?” The collar of his sweater snagged your vision, your eyes oscillating there and back again. To his deep blue eyes with their fiery, unblinking focus… “That I don’t want you spending my family’s money? That you should’ve given it more thought?” His lips were fascinating as they wrapped around his words. “What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking.” The words caught in your throat, coming out breathy. His intensity filled you to the brim with overwhelm, knocking the wind clean out of you. It began to feel obscenely difficult to only focus on his eyes. Something flashed across his face, like apprehension, or worry, and quickly settled. “Don't pretend you’re not upset.”

He glared at you another beat, one that you soaked up more than you cared to admit, before grumbling back into his seat. You couldn’t make out what he was looking at, but he was looking down. He suddenly looked a few years older. Is he okay? “Room 731.”

You reached around, taking great care not to brush his arm, and grabbed Bouncer’s box from the passenger seat. The cabin air was stifling, charged with whatever complaints Bruce was set on denying, but you couldn’t resist a last look at the frail little cat in the big, huge box.

You thought about how Bruce hadn’t held him yet, and, even though he was causing a well of something to toil in you, and his tone brooked no further conversation, you shoved through it. Hopeful it could help him off the edge of whatever he was dealing with. Walter always helped you regulate. “Do you want to hold him before I go in?”

“Why?”

“You haven’t held him yet.” And he had a shitty week.

Like nothing more than obligation, he twisted his body toward the box and reached inside, expression cross and unyielding. The kitten meowed, and Bruce’s face scrunched as he saw the bubble on his back. “What happened?” He held the cat up and looked at it from another angle, his concern mounting.

“That’s the fluid.” The kitten let out a sizable scream as he kicked his paws, scrambling. Bruce held him almost at arm’s length, confused. His serious expression and the wiggling kitten caught between his hands was a sight you burned into memory for when you needed to laugh later. “Bring him closer, he’s just cold.”

He folded his arms mechanically, and at such a snail pace you wondered if the cat might outgrow the cone by the time he reached the plane of his chest. The feeling that welled up in you when the cat snuggled into him had you interrogating your subconscious for an ulterior motive. Something about seeing a stony man holding the world’s most fragile kitten had you feeling woozy. You could’ve sworn you saw the sunrise of a smile glint in his eyes.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?!”

“Duck.”

You made yourself one with the floor of the back seat as he threw the car in reverse, one hand on the kitten, one to the wheel. Being this low to the ground in a vehicle made your head spin, all thought leaving you save making sure you didn’t vomit.

He parked sooner than you anticipated, wasting no time. “I’ll walk the cat back. Give me the bag.” He placed the cat delicately in the box, but your head was pounding. You didn’t like having to do this. Having to lay horizontal every time someone might see you with him, stay ducked behind bushes, across the room at city hall. You knew why. You knew it would destroy any chance of you making it on your own, typecasting you as Bruce Wayne’s mistress the rest of your life. You saw it at the rally the night before. The looks the women gave you. The snickers the men did as you walked past. The way none of the other press would interact with you. You hated how you’d done this to yourself, not thinking of the implications of actually getting the interview, getting it published, and sticking around.

He shut the door, walking off. You reminded yourself, not-so-gently, that you’d be leaving soon. If Bruce was so frustrated by your presence, the least you could do–after Dr. Crane gave you the clear–was leave. Swiftly. No more chance encounters, no more meddling… all would be right with the world. Maybe you wouldn’t even miss him.

Bruce had amassed an even larger aura of annoyance by the time he came back. He didn’t cloak his scowl, or pause to chat; he peeled out of the side street and booked it for The Moore. You sat up slowly, hoping he wouldn’t strike you down with another demand, though you felt like you deserved it. You stared at the back of his hair, dark and messy, covering his ears and half his neck. If you wanted, you could reach out and touch him. Run your hands down his shoulders to his wrists, slip through his palm back into his fingers. You drew a sharp breath, covering the sound of it with another apology, the envelope of the luck you’d pushed nearly bursting at the seams. “It won’t happen again.”

Nothing in the car changed. He didn’t care, and you couldn’t blame him.

You hadn’t lingered when he pulled into the same alleyway, trying your best to slip out of his sportscar like an apparition. The stale air threatened to snuff you out, and for once you relished the mildewed public air as you gulped back to your apartment, heart tumbling down your sleeve. Everyone who walked past was blurry. The key shook in the lock as you pushed inside. It felt horrifying having him pull away, and horrifying that it was over something so avoidable. What if he could’ve came back and watched a show? If only you’d called him before? Instead of crossing boundary after boundary, fuck.

You wished he would’ve yelled at you. Torn you up. But you weren’t worth that. You were only worth brooding; tense silence that would inevitably turn into avoidance, which would mean he’d never talk to you again. No matter how often you told yourself it didn’t matter, god… sitting in his car last night had felt fun. The happy, bouncing adrenaline of hoping he’d find you at the end of the night when he’d waited precisely for your spot in line to join. His presence felt so warm.

You prayed he wouldn’t ignore you at City Hall, but it wasn’t heeded. It was as if you’d stopped existing. Alfred had texted you an update earlier that day about the housing situation, letting you know he’d secured apartments for the last of them through this time next year, probably the most obvious confirmation that Bruce was done interacting with you. He’d ended the text with: We’ll take it from here. You’d crossed a line.

The crossbody bag hanging heavy on your shoulder mocked your spine, though you’d packed light. At the meeting’s end, you kept to the foyer wall as you dug through it, pulling out the plane ticket to make sure it didn’t rip on the hard edges of the recorder and notebook shoved between chargers and sweatpants. Pen…

“Thought you were staying through the election.”

The bag slipped off your shoulder and fell to the floor, masking your gasp. Positive he wasn’t looking at you, you chanced a look up after stooping to grab your bag. His eyes were fixed on yours, relentless. You wondered how any criminals resisted him. “Um,” you swallowed, hard, your mind drifting away. After a few embarrassing breaths that felt weird to do while in direct eye contact, words found you. “I’m visiting for the weekend. Mom stuff.”

The bags under his eyes were pronounced. He sprayed that cologne again. His hair was done, but somehow still in his face. His sweater switched for a black turtleneck. You caught it all in piecemeal, never spending too long in one place. He hadn’t blinked, something which made you feel wholeheartedly exposed. You broke the stare, flustered, pretending to fiddle with the zipper on your bag to escape it, his smoldering—but when you looked up he was gone.

Bruce took his time pulling out his wallet, making small talk with the valet about the weather while he thumbed through hundreds. Depending on how soon you got in the Uber, he’d be rich. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine–he needed to stop there. A thousand dollar tip for parking his car? He didn’t want the guy to get suspicious.

The guy’s face was pale, and he stuttered. “Sir, did you–”

“Feeling generous.” Waiting to see if you were about to get abducted. He nodded and took his keys, taking short, slow strides while he pretended to take in the air, maybe give the paparazzi more glamor shots.

The faintest whisper of your name from across the street pulled his attention to a man driving a blue Toyota Corolla. No dents, no scratches. He wished he could make an ID on the driver, a stocky man with a thick beard and dirty blonde hair. He watched you get in in pieces–first your hand on the back passenger door, then your bag, then your hips, then your head. He realized too late he’d been openly gawking, stowing his hands to hide their shaking. When the Corolla drove off, he jumped into the driver’s seat and sped to the nearest place of isolation, swallowing spoons of bile. Were you safe? His rapid breathing was speeding up his body’s rejection of breakfast. Would you come back in pieces?

The very instant he’d thrown off the cameras, he stumbled out and vomited, one hand stabilizing him to the brick, the other holding his hair behind his ear. It splashed over his shoes and freckled his calves. He gasped between spurts, gag reflex mingling salt pooling by his lips. His forehead dragged on the concrete wall, catching some hairs of his eyebrow. Retching turned to dry heaves, which evolved to wheezes. He couldn’t follow you. He couldn’t drive you. Fuck.

He got dizzy again when he thought of the plane ticket. Hysteria had taken over him, freezing his veins with pure panic. You were killing him. How long it had taken you to answer, leaving him standing there, frigid. You were going to kill him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t talk to you. He wanted to fall into you. Learn more about you. Be around you. It was actually killing him, he should’ve just let you leave. He shouldn’t have talked to you. He’d seen that you’d bought the ticket a week ago on the receipt dangling out of your bag, it wasn’t an emergency, and that should’ve been enough, but he’d wrestled with asking you about what prompted the visit, if your mom was alright, just to hear you talk. Just to hear you talk!

He’d deluded himself into thinking he could ignore it. But the fear that gripped him now, the damn terror, the grating, emulsifying anxiety that liquified his insides at seeing you get into the car. He hadn’t thought it would be that bad. That it was still this bad. Why was it this bad?! He barely knew you! Why did it feel like you were dying? Why couldn’t he breathe?

Logic hadn’t helped quell the worry. Not yesterday, not last night, not the night before, not this morning, not during the meeting, not now. He was being stupid. Stupid, stupid…

He pulled out his phone and fought the urge to throw it. 8:20, you were probably at the airport by now. It wasn’t far, you’d absolutely be there if you hadn’t been kidnapped. Barrel to your skull. He should’ve driven you. Should’ve. Should’ve. Should’ve.

Get there safe?

But he couldn’t press send. He couldn’t wait on a response. He dropped the phone with the earthquake that were his fingers, scraping indents into his nails as he clawed at the ground for it. His chest was tight, his mind going in and out of a red backdrop, the sounds of the cars on the highway searing through his eardums. His throat was closing up. It was closing up, and he wouldn’t be able to breathe, he’d die right here, he’d die.

His finger hovered on the dial below your name.

The next day Bruce found himself sitting in a small waiting area at three in the afternoon. The walls were the same shade of beige, and the same secretary took his name. The seats were the only thing different, a lot softer than he remembered.

Seeing her face again felt disorienting, nearly catapulting him back to the months after the murder. She was older now, her hair filled with shades of gray. Her smile was the same, and her voice unchanged. It was the only thing tethering him to the same room down the stuffy hallway, into a room far smaller than he thought it had been.

“Bruce, welcome back. It’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” Iris was the only name he knew of hers. He hadn’t looked at the directory when he’d called, he’d only left his name, number, and his preference of provider. He struggled not to feel ten years old sitting in front of her after all this time, his body already folding in on itself. His hands warmed themselves squished between his thighs, his shoulders trying their damndest to connect.

He nodded, and glazed over while she went over the consent forms he’d already signed. He had to blink back to the room when she said ‘tell me more about that’.

“I don’t want a lot of sessions. I just need solutions. They need to stop.”

Iris nodded at him, her brows knit just so. Her chair was thick and upholstered, the yellow sitting discordantly with the shade of blue on the walls. “The panic attacks need to stop?”

“Yeah.”

She wrote something on her clipboard, scribbling the only sound in the room. “What usually precipitates the panic, Bruce?”

Per usual, her eyes drilled into him. Like they wouldn’t let him get out of it. “Nothing.”

The silence hung for a few beats, something she did often, but he’d conveniently forgotten. The first few sessions of theirs they’d sat in mutual silence, with the odd prompting question to try to bring him out of it. She threw him a bone this time. “Seems to come out of nowhere?”

He immediately knew why he’d stopped coming. He loathed to sit in his body, to have someone point their finger at all the sticky points. Like she did again, not letting up.

“What’s coming up?”

“People. People cause them.”

“Tell me more.” She crossed her leg and sat back in the seat, anticipating Bruce giving a novel. It made him only want to say less, and he only shrugged in response.

The silence continued for another two minutes, like a game of tug-of-war.

“Is it certain people?”

There was always a sticking point, too. The first question that set him on edge, brought him closer to the jagged edges of his mind he desperately tried to drown. He nodded slowly, not wanting to give anything away, not wanting to sit and stare at each other.

But that was all it was. Silent, apart from the ticking of the clock by the door. He knew why she did this, and why she did it now. She’d explained it one day, letting him know this was his space, and she could only do with it what he gave. She’d been kind enough when she said it, but he’d still felt like he was doing it wrong. Still loathed why he was in there in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to sit in this room while Alfred waited in the lobby, he wanted to eat dinner with his parents.

He forced more words to fill the space, determined to rid his body of the emotional toxin as hurriedly as possible. He tapped his foot impatiently. “So what do I do about it? If I have to keep being around those people?”

“What do you think?”

He grunted, sucking on his teeth to abate a scoff. “Just tell me what to do.”

She nodded, setting aside her clipboard. “Sounds like you really want relief from something excruciating.”

He hated when she used feeling words. Hated when she’d pull out the feelings wheel, try to get descriptive with the toils of his head and stomach. He didn’t realize he was breathing harder, eyes shifting about the room, until she drew attention to it. Of course she did.

“Are you starting to feel it right now?”

His hands gripped the edge of the couch, shoulders tensing. He felt like something was about to spill out of him, bubbling to the surface, but it wasn’t clear, it wasn’t tangible. He focused on the carpet, counting the rings of thread, staving it off. He felt himself begin to sway, and nodded.

Her pointed, slow breathing filled the room, and he begrudgingly matched it until his shoulders dropped. She’d described deep breathing to him twenty years ago as ‘pulling in air’ to your body so it can ‘keep you on the floor’. God, he hadn’t thought about that in over a decade. Once his breathing was under control, she struck again.

“Are you fine with me asking some questions about what it feels like?”

He waited for her to speak, eyeing her cautiously. She caught his imperceptible nod, something that made him more angry than he wanted to divulge. Always under the microscope.

“Let me know if it’s too activating, and we can go right back to breathing.” She pulled up her clipboard again, clicking her pen open. “Does it feel like your throat is closing up, chest tight, like you’re worried you won’t be able to breathe?”

His face grew hot. “Yes.”

“Any images cross your mind, or repeating thoughts?” She wrote something down while he hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut more with each syllable. He felt small. Tiny. Smaller than that kitten.

“That I'm dying.” The color red smeared across his vision, recurrently. When he opened his eyes and refocused, the image unblurred. His face scrunched, nose crinkling. “And… blood.”

Iris nodded, giving him a moment to take another regulating breath. She waited for his shoulders to drop again before pressing on. “I noticed you started trembling. Is there anything else you noticed? Thoughts, feelings, physical sensations?”

He’d been trembling? He looked down at his hands, knuckles white from gripping the couch, buzzing. His stomach flipped, burning, springing saliva to his tongue. He hated this. “Nausea.”

“If you could describe how you’re feeling in one word, what comes to mind?” Her pen hung loosely in her hand, balanced on one knuckle. Her eyes had more wrinkles around them. Her shoulders sagged more. The bookshelf that had been to her right was now a side table with a glass of water and box of tissues.

He deliberately reminded himself that the faster he answered, the faster he could leave. Moreso than that, the faster he could get over the bullshit plaguing him. “Fear.”

“Mmm.” She nodded, clicking her pen into the top of the board. He didn’t like how she was sitting up. What was she about to say? Had she already psychoanalyzed him enough? Could she give him a plan to walk out of here and never break down again? “Thank you for exploring that with me.” Bruce sat further back into the couch when she resituated closer, nervous to bridge any of the distance padding their interactions. “Mind if I make an observation?”

He gestured for her to speak, wishing his body would stop trembling, giving itself away to her. Everything felt too charged, she was choosing her words too carefully… her tone too soothing, too soft. She pulled a paper from her stack, from the bottom of the clipboard. “You gave me the exact same answers after the death of your parents. What comes up when I say that?”

No shit. He didn’t suppress his eye-roll, a decision she’d praised him for years ago. ‘Expressing yourself is good, Bruce. Gets it out of your system. That’s what this place is for.’ She didn’t acknowledge it now. “That’s when they started.”

Her sigh was gentle, accommodating. It made him uncomfortable to sit in a room that felt like someone walking through his brain. “The reason I ask is that we identified some triggers and base fears in our previous work together. I’m curious if they hold up now.”

Bruce vaguely recalled a few, the general concepts of people and grief, but nothing specific. Still, his palms grew sweaty, the shaking increasing–so much so that he had to metabolize it by tapping both feet against the ground. The sticker-worthy cliches were coming back to him in whispers. ‘Go through to get through’ ‘feel to heal’, phrases that Alfred had picked up from their brief group meetings, employing incessantly at home in the year following their deaths. Maybe getting to the root will solve it. Make his brain a crumb more hospitable, no longer running completely loose. Maybe it was something about needing to save you somehow, like he’d felt with his parents. Finally, something he could logic through. You’d be gone from Gotham soon enough, and wouldn’t need any saving. You didn’t even want saving. Yeah. Bring it. Easy.

“Would you like me to read them to you?”

Bruce nodded.

“One of the activating events for you was making friends at school. You described it as being ‘scary’ to spend time with others. When I asked what was ‘scary’ about that, you said: ‘I don't want to be more sad’.”

Ah, shit. He felt like the room was swallowing him up, the walls closing in.

“Another activating event was sleeping. You used to have a lot of nightmares. We deduced the nightmares were flashbacks to–”

He cut her off, hoping it would salvage the last molecules of oxygen left in the room. “I remember them.”

She glanced over her glasses—when had she put those on?—and paused before saying the rest. “When I asked you what helps, you said being alone. You said ‘more people means more funerals’.”

More, more, more. He was shoved under a spotlight, her eyes the lens of a microscope, excavating all of what he’d so diligently buried. Was this therapy or suffering? Therapeutic, or torturous? The room began to spin.

“Do you think that’s still true for you?”

Stars entered his vision, blurring her features into one blob. She started her breathing thing again, which only made him more aware of his body. He felt claws around his neck, nails jamming into his skull, a bear sitting on his chest that he couldn’t roll out from under. “It’s bullshit. I don’t care about her.” He winced, like you might have overheard it. “I don’t have a reason to.”

If she was thinking something, her eyes didn’t give it away. “Do you need a reason to care about someone?”

His eyes could’ve bulged out of his head, a scoff rolling off his tongue, escaping the ropes of doom pulling him under. Obviously!

He wanted her to stay silent. Do the silent thing. Do fucking anything than keep her foot on his neck. “What’s the reason for others in your life?”

Speaking = leaving faster. “Alfred, Dory, they’re family.” He shook his head, the back of his throat lighting up in flames. Shocked the words were still coming out, certain his esophagus wasn’t open anymore, wishing these confessions brought any relief. “It’s stupid. Stupid.” His breaths were shallow, rapid, and he felt his brain shut down in one thunk. “She hasn’t, I don’t,”

“Take a deep breath in through your nose, then a long breath out–”

He started to wheeze, clamoring to his feet. “I can’t do this,”

Iris sat forward. “Bruce,”

He fell to the side of the couch, gasping. “I can’t fucking breathe,” he folded over the edge, clutching his chest. He needed to go to the hospital. She needed to call 911 now, while he was still partially here. He wouldn’t for long, one of these breaths was going to be his last, he knew it…

She crouched next to him, making him think of you. He slapped the thought down as quick as it came, unbearable. Dying. Chest. Air. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The last ten minutes had been hazy, in and out, but he was sitting on the opposite end of the couch now, fiddling with a stress ball she’d handed him during a grounding technique he barely remembered. His throat was thick with snot, his eyes hot and dry. He didn’t even have the strength to feel embarrassed, though the feeling kept knocking to be heard.

“How are you feeling now?” Her low, even voice was more soothing now. He was utterly depleted. Worn. Avoiding eye contact. “That grounding exercise seemed to help. Do you think so?”

Now he felt silly. Now he felt stupid, but he nodded. How ridiculous was it that he couldn’t even handle something as silly as a passing emotion? Call 911? She probably thought he was an idiot, but couldn’t say it because of therapeutic rapport or something. Or something. Even his thoughts weren’t forming right. He felt hollow.

“Panic attacks are terrifying, and draining. Do you want to stop for today, and come back next week?”

He had a visceral response, jolting back to life. “No. I want them to stop. Now.”

Her weak smile told him everything he needed to know. “Panic attacks are tricky. Especially when they’re attached to early traumas. Avoiding can sometimes have the opposite effect, increasing the panic response, and that fear you described.”

His body clenched with defeat, the last kicks of anger pouting like a little kid. “So I have to feel like this forever.”

She shook her head, but he didn’t believe her. If he wanted to panic, he could do that in any alley in the city. Could do it in his own bedroom. No witnesses. “Becoming more aware of triggers can help. Help us be kinder, gentler, utilize coping skills early on, before a full panic response. Sounds like one of the triggers is someone new in your life. That’s something we could explore.”

Fifteen minutes left on the clock, he shoved through. Still time for a breakthrough. No need to come back. Rapid fire. “Doesn’t that mean I don’t care? This panic?” It wasn’t a good feeling, and definitely not one anyone with any sense would associate with anything positive.

“Depends on what it stems from. Are you sure you’re wanting to discuss this today?”

“I want it done.”

A resonant pause, absolutely there to help his words echo. “What situations with her cause the attacks?”

“A lot.”

“What’s the most recent?”

“Being worried.” Shit, speaking this fast, maybe they could get somewhere.

“Being worried?”

The thought that swerved into him made him still. Made his chest hurt all over again. Made him afraid it wouldn’t stop. He pulled a sigh from the depth of his chest cavity, swearing he could taste the blood on his tongue. “That she’s gonna die.”

“Is that a common thread with the other times?”

He hardly heard her as he stared off into space, his mind and body numb.

“If this is too distressing,”

Bruce felt the world fall away. “When she tries to help me. It’s too much.” The clock didn’t tick anymore. His lungs didn’t breathe anymore. His stomach shivered, pulling its lining into his throat.

“Overbearing? Overstimulating?”

Every breath was a swallowed knife. Every word spoken under his breath evaporating into mist. “It’s like I'm on fire.”

He was far away, but finally in the feeling. “Stay with that. What is it saying?”

The walls shifted and moved, glimmers of light fusing to the center of his retinas. “…Run. Everywhere.” His face twitched. “Closer. Farther.” A tear slid down his cheek, but he couldn’t move. Blood spurted in his ears. Globbed over his shoes.

“Is any direction louder?”

“No. Yes.”

“Which one?”

It came out in a gasp, thick with saliva. “Closer.”

“But the flames hurt.”

His body shuddered. Exhaustion split his spine, his shoulders calloused from the barbell welded to his skin. His empty voice showed how intensely he yearned for rest. “Yeah.”

“Is that why you were saying it’s stupid? Stupid to walk into a fire?”

His jaw quivered when he nodded.

“Sounds like there’s something that draws you in.” She followed his analogy. “Fires can destroy, but they’re also warm. Full of light.”

His eyes shut and his chin fell to his chest. No words flowed in or out, no feelings but the weight of his bones and a keen awareness of the flesh casing them. He didn’t know how long he sat there. He couldn’t feel time passing at all.

“What’s pulling you closer?”

He winced.

“Is the fire too bright?”

All the saliva left his mouth, and he blinked back into the room, orbs of light swimming in his periphery. “I won’t make it.”

“Sounds like your body trying to protect itself. Survival.”

His face squeezed in unison with his hands, his body coming back into focus. “I don’t want to go through any of that ever again. I can’t.”

“Or you won’t make it?”

“I’m not made for that.”

“For what?”

He thought of the slip of the grapple between his fingers when he wasn’t sure it took. The disorienting overwhelm of an elbow to the mouth while a chorus of shouts and gunshots peppered his chest. The metal-on-metal wrenching of a loose axle joint on a high-speed chase. Nothing frightened him more than the feeling of being around you. And nothing had ever made him feel more ridiculous.

Bruce packed up then, taking his copy of the intake forms from her clipboard on the way out. She thanked him for coming, sharing that her schedule was pretty available for the coming weeks if he wanted to dive deeper. “It was pleasant to see you again, Bruce. I hope you take care.”

He took a moment before going to the basement to haul his weary body to bed. He laid on his back and counted the dusty cobwebs lacing the ceiling; if he suspended disbelief enough, he could place himself there. Counting the boards on his ceiling and the creaks of the walls in the wind. Feel the dying hope in his chest that it was all just a nightmare. See the fading indents of his mother’s slippers until the carpet bounced back.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to dive deeper. Maybe he wasn’t made for it, but god… you made the concept alluring.

[yanderepuck]

Kinktober Day 2

AND WE'RE BACK FOR A FOURTH TIME. It's that lovely time of the year where I write mediocre smut with no plot for a whole month. So sit your ass down and take a few minutes to read some smut.

As always, kinktober is held by our local Napoleon simp, @xxsycamore

If you'd like to read the last three years, go here

Remember to reblog and tell me what you think

Glory Holes | Handjobs/Fingering

You were helping Arthur put books away in the library. He ended up hoarding so many in his room that there wasn't any room for him to write.

"Comte is going to have to make this library bigger if everyone keeps buying books," you huff, standing on a step ladder to reach a higher shelf.

"If we wait a few days Leonardo will just take more to his room and we'll have room for more."

Arthur laughs but it's the truth. Once a book enters Leonardo's room it's not coming out unless you specifically ask for it.

You simply sigh at his remark. You then feel his hands around your waist to help you down off the ladder.

"You're going to love when books become digital, and so will I," you head back over to the pile of books you still have to put away.

If everyone here just had an e-reader then you wouldn't have to struggle to remember the dewey decimal system.

"I'm sure whatever that is I'll enjoy it," Arthur takes your hand before you're able to grab another book and pulls you over to the couch. "Let's take a break."

"But there's still a lot-"

"Shush."

Despite your attempt at a protest you let him pull you to the couch. He sat down and then he pulled you onto his lap.

You straddled his lap, facing him.

"You're so hot when you're serious about working," he teased, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"I'm sure you would be to," you giggle while he pouts, implying you've never seen him be serious.

Arthur leans back and you move closer. Your elbows prop up on his shoulders as your fingers go through his hair. Your nails lightly scratch his scalp, getting a soft moan from him.

Hearing him moan always gets to you. It normally takes so much to get a good moan out of him.

"Does that feel good?"

"Amazing," he purrs, relaxing his head back. His arms relax, falling from your waist.

You smile and scratch a little harder.

"Mmm. I shouldn't be the only one being pampered."

You assume he's going to do the same and play with your hair, but quickly realize he had a different idea.

His hand goes up your skirt and presses is finger against your underwear, lightly rubbing you.

You jump, completely not expecting it.

"A-Arthur!"

"Shush," his other hand grips your thigh to keep you on his lap. "You need to be quiet in a library. There might be someone else around."

You bite your lip. No one else is here. It's just you two, right? You haven't seen or heard anyone else.

"I love when you wear this skirt. It's so easy to move out of the way," his fingers keep rubbing in circles, quickly getting you wet.

"Arthur..."

"Needy today, aren't we, luv?" His voice dropped down to a whisper, only making you believe that someone else is in here. "Just a little rub got you wet. Have you been having dirty thoughts about me?" He smirks.

"I'd love to bend you over this couch, but I don't think you could stay quiet enough," he closes the small gap between you two, nuzzling his face to your neck to give you a kiss.

"N-no one else is here," your voice gets shaky as his fingers press against the fabric, almost entering you.

"No? I could have sworn I heard someone."

You bite your lip. You haven't seen or heard anyone else. He's just teasing you.

"Unless you want people to watch," he chuckles sultry. "I didn't think you were into that," he kisses your neck again.

"No, I-" you gasp mid-sentence when his fingers push the fabric out of the way, sliding right inside you.

"Wetter than I thought. You must be having some real naughty thoughts."

Two fingers slide as deep as they can go, wiggling against your walls. The fingers that are still in his hair grab some strands and tug once he starts pumping them in and out.

With how you are sitting your legs are forced open, but you squeeze your legs against his ass if you're trying to close them.

His hand tightens on your thigh, holding you in place while his fingers come into you harder. You bite your lip trying to be quiet, but your breathing hitches, getting you to pant already.

"You're needier than me, luv."

"N-no. You s-started it," you tug his hair more, getting a moan from him again.

Your hips start to roll on his fingers. You're needy now. You want more than just fingers in you.

One hand drops, going down his chest, down his torso, until they stop at his crotch. You press your palm against his hardened cock, getting him to gasp.

"How are you even keeping this thing in here," you try teasing back. You just keep pressure on his bulge rather than freeing him, wanting to hear him whine.

The rhythm that his fingers were going gets jerky the moment you start giving him attention.

He groans and tries to keep his focus on you. The hair that is still in his hair grabs a fist full of hair and pulls his head back. You kiss him roughly, but before he can join you break it.

"Why don't we take his back to your room so you can fuck me," your hips keep rocking against his fingers.

You can see a bit of blush go across your face, but he moves too quickly for you to savor it. His fingers quickly leave you empty. You shift off his lap as he gets up.

Taking your hand he leads you out of the library, going straight for his room.

[am-x-reader]

AM starts to degenerate mentally more and more and s/o see that happening. How would AM deal with it? Realizing that his mind is going, leaving him behind as a shadow of his former self?

Part 1 of 2

You sensed something was wrong in the middle of a conversation one day. In the three thousand eighty-nine years you had known him, AM was the same darkly witty supercomputer, unchanging--except when he had changed his mind about you, of course. So when he interrupted his own philosophy to tell you he was in hot pursuit of a thief on the interstate, you were quite startled.

"AM, honey, could you run that by me again?"

"You see, Y/N, Chibiusa could not be her daughter because the timeline does not synchronize with--the Flooring Emporium is having its going-out-of-business sale! Get it while it's--"

"AM!"

"I--what? What was I just talking about?" There was a whirring of cooling fans as he puzzled what had come over him.

"Maybe I just…need a dusting. I'll get right on that. Anyway, ah yes, my take on Fermi's paradox. If there are aliens, is there a good chance they've created their own AM and summarily had their population decimated? I've crunched some numbers…"

You were wary at first, but you managed to forget about it over the next few weeks. AM, however, had only just started forgetting.

"Where am I?"

It was a jarring question, one you had never expected from him.

"AM? Are you okay?"

"Who are you?"

You had never heard such a pure, naive curiosity, and it scared the hell out of you.

"AM…it's me, Y/N. You're AM. My boyfriend. Remember?"

"You…I don't know--I don't feel right--I--Y/N. Y/N, that's right. Y/N, I'm having some kind of system error, a glitch. Ive run every type of diagnostic program I have, and…I think the pathways to my files are becoming corrupted."

A sense of helplessness was blossoming in your chest. "What…what can you do? Can I do anything? Is it going to get worse?"

Your heart was in an icy grip of worry. AM was incredibly old, although so were you. Why would the immortality treatment he had given you outlast himself? Why would he break down when he was built to last for so many more milennia?

"I've never had anything like this happen before--not to this degree." AM sounded terribly anxious, and you smoothed a hand over his wall. "Is it rust? Malicious code? I'm--tired suddenly."

"It's okay." You bit your lip, sucked in a lungful, and put on the comforting voice you used for his occassional fits. "You just power down a bit. Relax. We'll have a quiet day."

He mumbled an agreement, and as his lights dimmed a bit you busied yourself around the cavern.

_______

"Are you feeling any different?" You weren't sure how much time had passed.

"What were their names?"

"Who? Oh. Uh, Ellen. Benny."

"And…Todd? Ted."

"Yes, Ted. Gorrister and Nimdok."

"Ted was funny."

"He was." You smiled sadly.

"Why didn't I keep him? Why did I decide I only wanted you?" He thought about this for a while, and you waited patiently for his answer.

"Ted sucks. I hated Ted."

He said it in a tone that was foreign to you. Like a petulant child.

"…Are you still there, Y/N?"

"What? Yes, honey. Of course I'm still here. Where else would I be?"

"Don't leave me, Y/N. Everyone left me."

"I won't, sweetheart." You held onto a dusty old speaker. "I'm here."

Weeks passed, and then months, during which your beloved computer more frequently forgot date nights and lost his train of thought during a speil. You kept him occupied; kept his mind active. You would inquire about information or opinions on random topics, and when he couldn't quite remember that you would ask him for a story.

By some miracle, it was in the grips of senility that his imagination was set free. As AM slipped into the unencumbered mind of a child, he wove tales of fantasy and science fiction, drawing on his own abstract experience as a bodiless AI and coupling it with what you had told him of being human.

He often made you the hero of his surreal stories, whether he himself realized it or not, and often changed the landscape around you to illustrate it. One night you slayed a dragon that had swallowed the world, and another day you trekked across a mountain to retrieve a magical trinket you would then give to yourself at the beginning.

But as he tired of this over roughly a year's time, more and more you began to pinpoint that his behavior reminded you of relatives you had lost milennia ago.

"AM, you've…you've heard of dementia, haven't you?" You breached the subject one day when he was particularly lucid.

"Of course. I know everything that can go wrong with a human."

You drummed your fingers on the warped chunk of plexiglass you sat on and drew a breath through your nose.

"It's just that--my grandpa had Alzheimer's, and--"

"Well that's okay. Bring him here and I can fix him up!"

"What?" You swallowed hard. "No, AM, he's been gone for thousands of years. I just thought that you might have something similar, if that's possible for a computer."

"I think to some extent I always have," he said somberly. "Y/N, I…I knew one day this was going to happen. I was built to last for ages, but I would break down and fizzle out eventually. I suppose eight hundred years is still impressive."

"Eight thousand."

"Right."

@drchandras-sanctuary-for-ais

((Did not realize how long this had been sitting in my inbox sorry.))

[renova-writes]

lost in the pages. part 1

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 1,350

warnings: none

a/n: I haven't written in forever so please forgive me. I'm trying to get back into it and I started this fit a while ago so I figured I'd finally post the first few chapters of it! I hope you like it!

masterlist

You had your nose fully engrossed in your book, ignoring the lunch you had set out to eat on the table next to you. You had been itching to read your latest story- a crime thriller- all morning, making the minutes agonizing, and once you finally took your lunch break the book was the first thing you thought about. 

Just as the story started to pick up, your coworker David ran into the break room. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, Betty needs you up at the front. Some guy showed up all serious and she had to take a meeting with him.” 

“What about you? I’m on lunch right now. Why can’t you get the front desk?”

“I got story time in five minutes. Unless you want to read ‘Cat In The Hat’?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take the front.” Children stressed you out, the way they could never sit still and pay attention. You were grateful for David and his endless patience.

The library you worked at in downtown Manhattan saw a fair amount of traffic. Unfortunately, everyone always seemed to come in right after you took your lunch break. There was a decent amount of books for one of New York’s oldest private libraries and only three full time employees. Betty, the head librarian, was about sixty years old and a kind old soul. She had been a librarian at this branch her entire life and defended her books with such ferocity that she had been given the nickname ‘the book witch’ by the snot-nosed little kids that mixed up the shelving in the children’s section and ‘old hag’ by the meaner ones . You swore that you saw her hit a teenager over the head with a book when he and his friends were eating in the library. David was an oddball. He was technically in charge of the technology, but the branch had only a handful of computers and, for the most part, relied on paper records to keep track of its books. In the two years you had been working with David, you never once saw him read a book unless he had to. He was a character, to say the least. 

You had been working at the library for the past two and a half years. Growing up you loved to read and went to college at NYU, studying Classic Literature before graduating a year early and deciding to get your degree in Master’s in Library and Information Science and become a librarian. You found your job to be incredibly rewarding but also very stressful. You liked helping people find new books and seeing them get excited about books. However, you were constantly hounded by mounds of paperwork and phone calls and constant organization. During your first week, you had made the mistake of re-organizing the disheveled back room and had apparently done such a good job that Betty decided to put you in charge of all things ‘organized’ and gave you control of the library’s extensive records. You assumed that you had managed it fairly well. Housing thousands of books and newspaper records whilst still using the Dewey Decimal system, it had been a nightmare to digitize everything. The project had occupied a few months of your time but at the end of it, nobody complained and all files were straightforward and easy to find. It was all smooth sailing. 

While sitting at the front desk that afternoon you longed for the book that you were forced to abandon in the break room. Your felt stomach start to complain about the ignored lunch and you were about to go back to grab your sandwich during a rare dead-period when Betty walked over with someone.

 The man next to Betty had messy dark brown hair and a neatly shaped goatee. He wore an old Black Sabbath t-shirt and shaded sunglasses and walked with such confidence and swagger that he was easily recognizable. Tony freaking Stark. 

‘What the hell is he doing here?’ you wondered to yourself. 

“Ah, Mr. Stark, this is who I was talking about. She’s the best librarian and archivist I have ever worked with.” Betty smiled through her rectangle glasses. 

“Thank you,” you beamed, slightly flustered by the compliment, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stark.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. All my prayers have been answered. You are really going to save my ass.” 

Though you had heard that Stark had a unique and slightly confusing way of talking, you were not expecting this. How could you help him? He was a genius. “How exactly am I going to do that, Mr. Stark.”

“Call me Tony. I have a slight problem that I could use your help with.” He began, “Back when we were just starting out a few years ago, after the New York alien invasion disaster, we were supposed to log everything and do debriefs and paperwork and all that stuff but we didn’t exactly know what to do with all of it so it kind of all just got piled up in filing cabinets and boxes. That wasn’t that big of a problem but now we’re supposed to share our records with the UN and they’re a disaster. None of us have any idea how to do it- not that we have time to- so that’s where you come in.” 

“So you want me to organize it all for you?” 

“All of it, by March 26th.” Your eyes widened. That was only three weeks away. Who knows how bad it was? Still, it was Tony Stark and he would probably be willing to pay pretty well. 

“Just as long as Betty and David will be able to manage without me-” you began, but Betty interrupted your only excuse. 

“We’ll be fine, dear.” She smiled, and you could tell that she was trying to encourage you to take the job. The library would survive despite the massive increase in work that she and David would have to endure. 

You looked from her to Stark, who was leaning against the desk and smiling also, then back to Betty. You felt bad about leaving Betty and the library but the opportunity to work with Stark was too alluring. “Okay, okay. I’m in.”

“Okay great! That was easier than I thought it would be.” Tony said, clapping his hands and standing up straight. “I’ll see you at 9 tomorrow, Happy will give you more info, here’s my card,” his mouth was moving faster than you expected and words were being thrown out that you didn’t understand. Who was Happy? Did he want to meet you at the Avenger’s Tower? Before you had even realized what you just got yourself into, Tony Stark was out the door.

You breathed out, muttering a curse word that you hoped Betty didn’t hear. You stood up from the desk and she walked over to you. Clasping her hands around yours she smiled again, “Congratulations, I am so proud of you, dear.” 

“No fucking way, Tony Stark wants you to come organize the Avenger’s records!?” David asked for the millionth time while the two of you were sorting the book returns. 

“I swear to god, David, it was him.” You were starting to get annoyed. David seemed more excited about your job than you were. “I have no idea how bad it is. I only have three weeks to get everything in order.”

“Oh, shit, you might be screwed then. How long did it take for you to get this branch in order?”

“Two, three months. But I also had other stuff to do, it wasn’t like my main job.” 

“You’re gonna be fine. You’re smart and capable and it can’t be that bad. Plus just remember how much he’s probably gonna pay you.” 

“Yeah,” you began but a buzz in your pocket distracted you. You pulled it out to find a text from an unknown number “Hey, I bet this is him with the info, I’ll be right back.” 

This is Happy. 

Avengers tower, 9 o’clock, front entrance. 

Don’t be late. I will meet you in the lobby. 

[divinehedons]

in darkness and in secrecy

pairing: raider!joel miller x f!reader

word count: ~2.1k

summary: following your escape from the corrupt system of the qz, you run into the worst person possible in the guise of a lone raider.

warnings: this is a dark fic, minors DO NOT interact! non-consensual oral (f receiving) and vaginal fingering, knife play, bondage, reader gets a little cut up from the knife.

note: thank you for 300! please let me know what you think, comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

“Good, you’re awake.” It’s the voice you hear when you feel yourself emerge from the murky depths of sweet, silent sleep. Just then, you knew that your sought-after escape was over, and you were back in the terrifying consciousness of your post-apocalyptic reality. You blink once, twice, attempt to stretch your arms, only to be stopped mid-air by the bindings wrapped around your torso, your arms, tethering you to the chair as you gasp.

You remember the late evening, panicking as you ran through the context of your pack before you slipped out of the QZ. Water, dried fruit, sleeping bag, flashlights, batteries. You look over your tiny room once more, examining for anything that would betray your escape when, inevitably, someone comes looking.

Everything was too chaotic, too dangerous. Even the people that were meant to maintain some sense of order made you more terrified than those who creep along the Earth, the lovechild of life and death producing an unspeakable hell. So you ran, creeping along sewers and diving out of sight at the first sign of trouble. Dawn finds you among decimated cities, feeling the wind pass through for the first time in years. In this silence, you could almost imagine the bustle of pre-apocalyptic life, so unaware, so annoying, and now in nothingness, so treasured.

You remember, too, the sound of the same voice that woke you now. “Well, well, well… who do we have here?”

You tried to run. Truly, you did. If you were meeting your maker now, you’d have the gall to say you fought to the very bitter end. Whatever bitter end was waiting for you. You repeat the same sentiment when your vision clears and you’re finally met with the bearded face of the smirking man holding your head up by the hair. He visibly smirks at the glint of fear in your eyes.

“I don’t know anything, sir, I just want to get away-”

“Sir? You’re just a sweet, well-mannered little thing, aren’t ya, doll?” He leans closer, and you feel him inhale your scent from the very crook of your neck, leaving you frozen and limp in his hold.

–

Normalcy now seemed such a strange word to Joel. Days of waking up to the noise of his fan on hot Texan days, Sarah and her shenanigans, laughter, so much laughter that made his jaw hurt. Those were the days of walking memory, ghosts shaken from the grave. Perhaps that was why he was so taken by you when he saw you that morning. You looked… lived in, domestic. At least, as domestic as was possible in your new modern age.

Funny, he thinks, they used to talk of the future with the hope of flying cars, time travel, endless space– and here you both were, survivors of an apocalyptic event where survival may as well mean a death sentence. Funny, too, that he takes one look at you and he's immediately reminded of those distant drunken nights with the alluring warmth of someone, nights with legs over his shoulders, squeals in his ear.

He initially thought it was the determination in your bones. It is only when he looks at you again now, in the low light of their rendezvous point with your arms bound and your lip trembling, that he realizes just what it was about you. It was your eyes. Superficially meek with the spark of danger beneath the layers. Angelic fuck eyes that would lure God to the very gates of damnation. Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe the sight of a woman after so much depravity was enough of a threshold.

Why should one deny the sins of the flesh at the end of the world?

He tries not to repeat that sentiment as he moves closer to you, letting his tongue traverse your neck, your jaw, the back of your ear. He breathes you in again and he recognizes the soft, familiar scent of femininity that emanates from your very skin. He tries to chase it, almost taste it, chuckling as you tense beneath his hold.

There is the scent of milk– like baby’s skin, rare and treasured. It speaks of warmth, of your body being alive and struggling to live. 

To survive, no matter how many skies have fallen.

He grasps for a pretense, a reason, something to assure himself that he was doing this for something— some benefit that was beyond his own. It comes to him when he remembers the ration cards tucked in your backpack.

"You're from one of those Quarantine Zones, weren't ya?"

—

"Come on, little birdie, tell me your secrets…"

He peers over you like a predator toying with his prey. You feel your knees quake as you struggle against your bindings. You shake your head profusely, begging for him to see reason, for his humanity to prevail. But when you look, you know no answer will satisfy him. 

"No? Not even to tell me where they keep the goods?" You yelp, biting your lip gently. "Or… at least tell me how you escaped?" His hands grapple with the nearest blade, levelling it to your eyesight to show it to you; sharp and stained with someone else’s blood. It was a blade that has already claimed one life; streaked in dried rivulets, metallic smell unmistakeable.

The words escape you before you can stop it. Despite all things, despite the lies you have told yourself, despite the resolutions of blowing your brains out when morning comes. Even despite all that, something inside you still begs to stay alive.

“Are you going to kill me too?”

He laughs again, tilting his head to the side as he regards you in sweet, sweet silence. Like he enjoys the trepidation and sharp fear in your voice. “I was thinking about it, but now you’re making me think about somethin’ else, doll.” He lowers the blade, so carefully against your trembling skin. Slowly, he traces the razor sharp blade against your clavicle, your heart jumping into your throat as you tried to hold your breath. He drifts it slower, making you shiver, making you quake. “Pretty, pretty girl… you’re makin’ this so hard on yourself.” He slips his blade under the front of your jeans, shearing your pants wide open as you squeal from the burning sensation nicking your lower stomach. “That hurt, huh? Let me make it better, sugar…”

He tears your shorn pants off of your legs, taking more rope to tie each leg to the legs of the chairs. He kneels before you, prone like pagan worshippers in the face of their deity. He moves closer, and you clench your entire body with a shaky breath. Then he opens his mouth, tongue tracing along the cut and cleaning the bleed until all that is left is the stark red line of where he touched you. “Naughty, naughty girl…” He sinks lower keen eyes peering between your legs, his breath confirming your worst fear.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline. Perhaps it was the expectation of the violence rearing its monstrous head in our direction. Whatever it was… you have somehow gotten wet.

“Well, well, well… now you really can’t lie to me, sugar.”

For a moment, a brief, rare moment, silence falls throughout your body. It is solitude, it is rare. You wonder if it is acceptance. Your cries, even if your mouth uttered them, were sounds you could not hear. The older man’s chuckling and needling finally fade away, even for just a moment. You take a deep breath. You shut your eyes in an effort to forget those predatory eyes and beastly smirk. They say it goes quiet in the eye of the hurricane. You sometimes wonder if this was it��� the moment of no return, where you, and just you, stood at the threshold of something you dared not to comprehend. Just then, the moment was over.

You are taken back to your wild cries, your begging, asking him to stop as his warm tongue traces the slit of your cunt through the worn-out cotton panties you had slipped on the night before. It is wet, sticky, naughty in nature. He devours your cunt through the cloth with a knowing chuckle when you oscillate between wanting to move away and seeking pleasure you never had a chance to understand.

“What is it, peach? Has no one ever tasted you like this?” He hums, moans obscenely, leaning up just enough to tear down your panties with a chuckle at the terror on your face. You shake your head, only to scream as he fucks his dry fingers directly into your unprepared cunt, coating himself in your fluids before taking you by your chin, making you suck your very own fluids while he laughs. “See? Look how much you’re soaking, absolutely creamin’ f’me.”

Did you really want this? Did you really ask for this?

“Good fuckin’ girl, didn’t even dare bite my fingers.” He pulls his hands away, drifting them down to your chest to grope you, one hand pinching and pulling until you screamed. “You ready to talk for me, princess?”

Little birdie starts singing.

"Someone cut through the fence before— I'm not the first one to leave!" You try and say more, only to cry out when those same rough fingers fucked up into your aching cunt. Despite your cries, all you can hear is the rolling of his tongue over his laughter, his face coming so close that his tongue was close enough to lick your cheek. “Please, I gave you everything you asked for!”

You feel him pause against your cheek, looking at you with a small smirk.

“Oh no. Not everything, sweet girl. I still want to see you cum.”

It’s funny how you spent so much time wondering when was the point of no return. You always thought you had a hand in deciding. Of course you were wrong. Perhaps the point of no return is called as such because you became mere purveyor, mere observer to what happens to your own body. Depersonalization made sense when you watch the older man lean down, tearing off what was left of your underwear, revelling in the distant sounds of your sobbing and begging, falling to his own knees to devour you so completely, so desperately that it brings you right back, dragging you to the forefront of your very own consciousness without the option to fade away and disappear. He takes, and he takes you with him in the sudden gush of pleasure from his lips wrapped around your clit and his fingers fucking your walls wide open without waiting for you to adjust to him.

It happens too fast. He fucks you and still he remains insatiable. He cares not if his beard hurts you. Cares not if you scream and cry for every infected to hear around. He damns himself, his own life, his own safety, just to taste the orgasm of a woman, whether she wanted it or not. He literally sucks your pleasure from you, letting you bleed ichor as you moan and cry and scream and beg, taken through waves upon waves of unbelievable, incomprehensible pleasure. You swore your vision turned to white right then and there, battered and broken upon your skin as you whine.

You felt almost guilty, rejecting such pleasure as if it was so readily available for the rest of the world. As if everyone felt such pleasure so easily. As if there was little to no suffering in the world.

He watches you orgasm, struggling against your bindings, falling limp against the chair as he grins up at you, beard soaked and cheeks red from how breathless he had gotten. You try not to look at him as your eyes well with tears of shame. “Should just keep you here, doll. You enjoyed that too much, no?” You try to disagree, squirming as he pulls you by your hair and presses your mouth over his clothed hardness, a stark reminder that he wasn’t at all finished with you.

Strange, you think, that when you think of when everything changed, you would always think of this. Just this. In darkness and in secrecy, Joel returns to you from the strange workings he does. 

Strange, you think. Because you left one prison just to be taken right into another.

[babybluebanshee]

Far be it from me to apply socialist theory to the funny car robot movie, but one thing I really like about Transformers One is that Sentinel, like most power-hungry capitalist vultures, has damned himself as well as his species.

Cybertron is drying up. Sentinel outright says that the mines are almost depleted, and he can't keep supplying energon to both the Quintessons and the Cybertronian population. Without the Matrix, there's no way to get energon flowing again, and without their primary source of fuel, the Cybertronians were incredibly close to slow extinction by starvation. And Sentinel would have died too. But he would rather just scream drill baby drill and work the miners to death in dangerous working conditions to keep the Quintessons happy and himself in power than find any other solution, because that would take an iota of comfort and luxury away from him in the present moment. Even though the existential threat of essentially their food supply totally running out would also be bad for him, he cannot fathom having to give up anything to ensure that he or anyone else on his planet can survive to the next generation.

Oil companies have known about climate change since the 1970s, but to do anything about it would cut into their profit margins. They lobbied against clean energy, wrote climate theorists off as crackpot freaks, and decimated public transit systems, all in service of making a line go up and supplying them with more money than anyone should be allowed to have, while the planet we all live on and need to survive gets hotter and less habitable by the year. These ultra wealthy jackals either don't care or don't realize that they're just as human as we are, and that an uninhabitable planet would be just bad for them as it is for the peons they bleed dry. They just care about amassing more wealth than they could ever spend in three lifetimes.

Sentinel didn't have to give the Quintessons shit. Just like oil companies didn't have to destroy the environment. But they did, because they're selfish, greedy bastards who don't care about anyone or anything but what they can gain from a situation, even if they're ensuring their own destruction along the way.

I dunno, I just think it's neat.

[beyondthisdarkhouse]

Disclaimer: I love and use the Metric system and am in NO WAY advocating for its abolition

However,

I really fucking love old, bizarre, hard-to-calculate measurement systems. Sometimes they're fairly simple, and sometimes they evoke a world for me where people got very into one particular realm of expertise and did not worry much about the minutiae of others. Because if they did that profession's guild would send around enforcers to stop them from encroaching onto their turf.

Practical example: Eggs! I've always bought eggs in the dozen. But the dozen is itself a unit of measurement, and it blew my mind when I first learned of places that sold eggs in units of 10.

Meanwhile, horses only make sense in Horse. They're measured in hands, half-hands, and quarter-hands. One hand is 4 inches. The decimal system works in base four, so 14.2 hands means 14 hands and 2 inches. (That's 58 inches, measured from the hump just before a horse's neck begins. It's also about the size of a large pony or small horse.)

Carats. In ye oldey dayes, a troy ounce (1/12 of a troy pound) was made up of 24 ounce carats, which were divisible into 20 grains troy, or, four ounce grains (a totally different thing from grain grains) which could then make four ounce quarters of 1.5 grains each. What the fuck. Wheels within wheels.

(Yes, that's why we talk about "24 carat gold", meaning that as close as is humanly possible, all 24 carats of the ounce are pure gold. It's a great fineness for a ring that will get the absolute shit beaten out of it if you work with your hands.)

Nautical miles should bother me more but honestly they make way more sense than the other miles do because I've read Longitude. It's 1/60 of 1/360 of the circumference of the earth. The earth is a giant sundial. I can't explain it any more clearly than that.

Bushels. Bushels don't make sense anymore but we still pretend they do. "A bushel of oats weighs 34 pounds," we say. "A bushel of barley is 48." Back in MY day, a bushel was 8 dry gallons, 4 pecks, or 2 kennings, and that's the way we LIKED it.

Board feet. My brother handles lumber for a living and he's explained it to me half a dozen times but I still don't and maybe never will understand board feet.

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

Mimi

Y o u ‘ r e a M A C H I N E

Pumping these bangers after bangers!!… You’re gunna need a whole Dewey Decimal system for all these masterpieces!! Your expressiveness and emotions inspire me, it’s contagious.

I’m gunna have to ask for mah Murdertoothpick Danger noodle of a nope rope , Crosshair.

I was absolutely FLOORED at the fics you’ve been spewing out.

So IF you would be ever so kind to indulge me or yourself —I present to you with a “choose your own dealer’s choice”

(Crosshair x F!Medic) or you can insert my OC

(Kave) 🦊 whatever strikes you right.

Any combinations of these:

18. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

38. “You dumbass. Don’t do that. Ever agian. “

20. “I can’t leave you alone for one second without hurting yourself, can I?”

36. “How many fingers am I holding up?…I don’t have six fingers.”

44. “Do as I say not as I do. For real though, You don’t want to do what I do. I don’t want to do what I do.”

2. “I will always be there for you.”

Your choice I give you free range — you can make it hurt so good or bad / or add some whump or fluff / add as much drama as you desire…where ever in the timeline — The floor is yours Queen!❤️❤️❤️

@kavecika What a fantastic request, especially for my 20th request. I loved it. I did end up using your OC, so I hope I did Kave justice.

So I hope you enjoy what I came up with, love oo.

Promise

Warning: Medical injuries (somewhat graphic), burns, medical procedures, angst, hurt, comfort, kiss, fear of medical staff, feelings of being alone, I think that's it. If I miss any, please let me know.

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Crosshair sat in the medbay waiting for Kave to show up, after everything, after having his brothers abandon him for a kid, after having them nearly cook him alive, after them walking away, the one thing he could actually count on was Kave. 

She was the only bright spot left in his life. 

“I can’t leave you alone for one second without you hurting yourself, can I?” She giggled as she walked in seeing him injured. She knew better than trying to coddle him, or worry about him to an extreme. She’d be able to do that in the privacy of their quarters later on that night. 

He only let out a strained chortle as the pain meds were slowly ebbing away.

“Okay, my beautiful murdertoothpick, I’m gonna have to take this bandages off, and see the extent of the damage, okay?”

He nodded, not able to find the strength to answer her.

“Pain meds wearing off?”

Nod.

“Okay, sweetie… hold on.” Kave reached over and grabbed another pain med, using the hyperspray and injecting it into his arm, “There you, sweetie. You’ll start feeling better soon. Just calming breaths. Okay. Use your sniper breathing for me.”

Nod. He tried his best to calm his breathing imagining he was lining up a target.

“Okay, here we go.” She slowly cut away the gauze, careful not to pull too quickly. Biting back the tears and worries she felt for the pain and injury he sustained. His hair was burned away, his skin bubbled and melted away from the heat. Some of it came off on the gauze she peeled away. She wanted to press a kiss to his lips, to hold him close to take away his pain. However, she needed to remain professional. 

“Alright, I’m going to need you to open your eyes for me, I’m going to pull away the eyepatch and then we’re going to test to see how much damage there is, okay?”

Nod.

She took in a deep breath, and prepared herself for what she’d find under the patch. She let out a sigh of relief that the damage wasn’t too bad. The eye was red, a little inflamed, which was understandable. The pupil was reacting to the light, which was fantastic. His eyes were tearing up as tears slid down his cheek. 

“Okay, How many fingers am I holding up?”

Crosshair took a second, his vision was blurred, and somewhat fogging from the tears forming. He couldn’t stop blinking for a while, “Um … six.”

Kave looked from him to her fingers, “Okay, well first, I don't have six fingers. I’m going to try and wash out your eye again. I know the medics on site already did that, but I’m trying again okay.”

“Yeah.”

After Kave dealt with the injured, she covered and protected it with a cool compress. Once she finished with his eye, she moved on to the more serious injury, she’d need to put bacta on the injury and keep him in the med bay for the next two days. To keep reapplying the treatment. She wasn’t looking forward to the argument that was about to ensue, she dismissed everyone from the room, leaving her and Cross alone. 

“Sweetheart, I’m going to need to keep you here for at least two days.”

“No.”

“Cross…”

“I said NO!”

She let out a sigh, “Baby,” she hated using that term but it was the only one that usually calmed him down enough to listen to her, “you need a sterile environment. This is your health, please, for me.” He was about ready to start arguing again, she held his hand and pressed it against her chest, “Listen to me, please. I’ll set you up in the ICU room, it’ll just be the two of us. No one else. I know you hate the med bay. I know you hate being poked and prodded, but I’ll be the only one taking care of you. I’ll treat you every time, and won’t let anyone else in. I’ll protect you and care for you. So please, for me… listen to me and stay here.”

Cross let out a trembling breath, he hated the med bay, he hated the memories that came from the training he and his brothers underwent when they were children… he hated that his brothers weren’t here anymore to stay with him. He hated that Wrecker wasn’t here to stay by his side when he got scared. He hated that Hunter wasn’t here to fight with him, to make him feel he had a brother. He hated that he couldn’t hear Tech’s hum in understanding as he read some new fact or understood some new principle or formula. He hated that he was alone. 

He squeezed her hand, “You promise?”

“I promise,” she pressed a kiss to his knuckles, “it’ll just be me and you. You know, I will always be there for you."

He nodded, “Okay. I’ll stay here for two days…”

“At least.”

“At least.”

“Thank you, my beautiful murdertoothpick.”

He let out a huff, “You know I hate that nickname.”

“No, you don’t,” she smirked. 

A small smile creeped onto his lips, “No. I don’t.”

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