#you just KNOW this is Canon Sue fic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

si1verghosts · 6 months ago

Note

Hi!

3. A kiss on the forehead😌

helloooo dear anon!! i am sorry this took so long i could not for the life of me figure out to write but then ! i wrote this on the 4th and i realized it could work... maybe... sorta. this may not be what you were expecting/wanting but there's forehead kisses in there.... somewhere 🫡 also, if u are not american i apologize for giving you a july 4th fic 😭 but the holiday is relatively inconsequential here like theres no patriotism it's just a backdrop if u know what i mean.... anyway, i hope u enjoy <33

you taste like the 4th of july

di leon s. kennedy x fem reader (no use of y/n)

wc: 3.5k

18+ | cw: mentions of drinking | tw: thoughts about death and dying

tags: established relationship; fluff (i guess??); slight changes to canon to suit author's headcanons

read on ao3

a/n: for the past few months i've been working on this very insane multi-chap post di leon fic 😵‍💫 this was written with that in mind But does not have a place in that story... probably.... idk!!! either way, i think it can be read as a standalone just fine

additionally, there is a scene in here where leon picks the reader up. i would just like to say like... he gets thrown into concrete walls on a biweekly basis and gets up and walks it off without issue so i think he can lift anyone no matter their size or shape!!

not beta read or proofread - sorry if any of it is gibberish i've had a wicked migraine the past few days... will maybe attempt to proofread once i can see correctly again 🚬🧍‍♀️regardless, all mistakes are my own

i do not own leon or any other resi character mentioned, etc etc, please don't sue me <3

please do not use my work to train any sort of AI chatbot and/or writing generator.

-----

"It was a good day, wasn't it?" Leon asks, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stand over the patio table, cleaning up the abandoned plates and platters.

You hum. It was; a beautiful, cloudless July 4th, spent with Leon's friends in the backyard of your home. The only ones missing were Ashley and Ingrid; the former having a standing family commitment and the latter planning to spend her holiday on the beach, away from the country and your fiancé.

Typically, Chris hosted the Independence Day cookout, but Leon offered up your new home as this year's venue, citing your in-ground pool and the plenty of extra space you have for guests to stay. In reality, he just wanted the chance to out-grill Chris - he'd been preparing since Memorial Day; testing different spice and sauce combinations as well as stocking your freezer full of large cuts of meat.

He'd started before you were even awake, chopping and seasoning in the kitchen, slowly loading up the smoker. You'd joined him on the patio a few hours later, watching from your pool floaty as he poked and prodded at various things.

You don't even eat meat, didn't know the whole thing was so involved, but you did enjoy the view; worn blue jeans hugging his frame as he crouched to check a thermometer.

You had taken a short break from the water, tying up lights and setting a few little decorations around before your guests arrived. Rebecca was the first, tucking her jugs of pre-made cocktail and platter of deviled eggs into your fridge before joining you on the patio.

Chris wasn't far behind, unloading two coolers filled with beer and containers of homemade potato and pasta salads. He'd handed one off to you, grinning, "Claire made one just for you this year."

You'd thanked him, making another attempt to get him to share his family's recipes with you. It was futile, you probably couldn't even waterboard it out of either of them.

Claire had arrived on her motorcycle shortly after, pulling a bundle of fireworks out of her saddlebags. "Sorry I'm late," she said - even though she wasn't - dumping the pile on the ground, thankfully far away from the grill. "Had to stop for these."

Leon had crouched down to inspect them, listening intently as Claire told him about all the different varieties she'd purchased while you relaxed back into the pool.

Sherry arrived next, Jake trailing behind her. She'd left both him and her bags of chips at the table, giving Leon and Claire quick hugs before immediately joining you in the water.

She'd slipped in right beside your floaty, grabbing your hand to get a look at your engagement ring - she'd yet to see it, having been so busy with work. Her eyes widened at the ring as she pushed her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head, "Leon picked this out? Our Leon? Leon Kennedy? Are you sure?"

You'd giggled at her astonishment, "Ashley helped him out; took him to one of her favorite jewelers."

"I should've guessed," She nods. "For my 20th Birthday, he bought me this crazy cute pink tennis bracelet and I was like, 'no way you picked this out alone.' He fessed up that he got a little help from a friend named Ashley.

"At the time, I thought it was just some girlfriend - or hoped, I guess. Back then, I spent a lot of time hoping that Claire and Leon weren't just… working; I liked to think they were taking time for themselves, that they were happy," she had trailed off then, looking off to the tree line behind your house for a minute. Blinking the mist from her eyes, she shrugged, continuing on, "Anyways, I'm thankful to Ash for that bracelet, it was there with me though… a lot. And I'm thankful to you for making him happy, like I always wanted him to be."

With that, you slid off the float to give her a hug, holding her tight as you whispered your thanks. You had worked to bite back your tears - if she didn't cry, neither would you.

Luckily, Jill had walked in a few seconds later, providing a distraction in the form of the most ridiculously large watermelon. "Hey, Kennedy," she shouted, pulling Leon out of his conversation with Claire as she gestured to the melon tucked under her arm. "Can't burn this, can I?"

Leon had thrown his head back with a laugh - in previous years, Jill had always brought boxed brownies with extra crispy edges and Leon invariably had to make a comment about them. "I don't know," he had shrugged, "When it comes to you, Valentine, I'll never say never."

Jill had reared the watermelon back, acting as if she was going to throw it at him. Leon had thrown his arms up, shielding his face, causing everyone to crumble into laughter at the scene.

"It was nice," you agree, reaching to pick up the barong machete he had given Jill when she asked for a knife to cut the melon. "We do have kitchen knives, you know," you scold mockingly, gently waving the blade around.

"I know," he says, releasing you to reach around and pluck the machete out of your hand. "It's good to exercise these every once in a while, though."

You roll your eyes at him, "It's a machete, Leon, not a horse."

He waves you off, slipping through the patio door to wash the blade in the kitchen sink. You take the opportunity to speed clean, knowing it'll be a much harder task once he returns and wraps his arms back around you.

Thankfully everyone had taken care of their own plates and cups - they'd tried to stay and do more but you had ushered them out of the backyard, wanting Chris, Sherry and Jake to depart before the traffic picked up with the crowds leaving the city following the fireworks shows. Jill, Claire and Rebecca had taken up on your offer to stay, at least, piling into your guest rooms. You were glad to have them, secretly plotting to drag them to brunch once you all woke.

You finish piling the platters as Leon makes his way back outside. Before he can get his hands on you and derail your progress, you point to the stack, "Take those inside."

He frowns, "Can't it just wait until tomorrow?"

"We'll get ants; come on, five minutes and it'll be done."

He sighs, but doesn't protest further, carrying the heavy plates inside as you follow him with the utensils. You stack everything by the sink before turning to him, "Is there any of Becca's cocktail left?"

He cocks his brow, tilting his head, "You really want to try that again?"

It's a valid question - you had given it a go earlier and despite everyone's warnings to take it easy, you had thrown back a large mouthful right off the bat. You ended up wincing in pain, "Fuck, that burns. What'd you put in there, Becca?"

She'd shrugged, "Oh, you know, a splash of this, a splash of that. And," she teased, drawing out the vowel, "A bit of my own creation."

"Your own creation…" You had muttered, trailing off before it hit you, "Test tube alcohol?"

She had giggled, grinning, "Takes some getting used to."

You had tried another, much tinier sip. You were able to enjoy the sweetness of the juice for a moment before the burn kicked in again, causing you to curse once more, louder.

Leon had shifted his attention from Chris to you at your exclamation. Seeing the jug of Rebecca's cocktail in front of you on the table, he quickly pieced together what was happening, calling over to Rebecca from his place by the grill, "You trying to kill my fiancé, Becks?"

"Absolutely not; that'd be a stupid thing for me to do," she'd shot back. "She's the only one who can keep you in line, and we kind of like you like that."

"Well," you start, rolling the word around your mouth, "No. But yes - there's gotta be some sort of trick to it, right? Everyone else drank it just fine."

"The trick is," he starts, voice low, reaching out to grab ahold of your hips, "To not drink it. Let me make you some tea instead."

"Fine," you pout, relaxing into his grip, not bothering to argue - tea won't make you hate yourself in the morning.

He moves his hands from your hips, sliding his fingertips along your spine. "Go wait outside," he says, releasing you with a featherlight kiss to your forehead, "I'll bring it out."

With a brush of your lips against his cheek in thanks, you slip away from him, heading back out to the backyard and pulling off your shorts, settling onto the ledge of the shallow end of the pool. The air has cooled with the setting of the sun, becoming a comforting warmth instead of an overbearing heat. You dip your legs into the water, thankful you insisted on having a pool when you and Leon were house hunting.

Someone is still setting off fireworks; they're a few miles away, though - you can hear them more than you can see them. Resting back on your palms, you close your eyes, imagining what bursts of color may be accompanying each sound.

Leon joins you a few minutes later - just after the fireworks had died down - sporting his swim shorts and carrying your tea. He bends, setting the mug next to you with a kiss to your temple, nosing at your hair. "Earl Grey," he reports before drawling, "How terribly unpatriotic of you."

"You going to arrest me for treason, Agent Kennedy?" You laugh, reaching up to squeeze his thigh below the hem of his shorts. "You're the one who made it; they'd nail you as an accomplice."

He falls into a crouch, leg muscles bunching under the pads of your fingertips as he shifts closer to touch his lips on your cheek. "They can hang us together, then," he remarks, voice a bit too serious for it to be just a joke. "Side by side, off the same branch."

You sit back just enough to get your eyes focused on him, reaching your other hand out to thumb at his bottom lip. "Dulce et decorum est pro cor mori," you whisper, tacking on a hum in question.

He cocks his head at the unfamiliar words, nipping at your nail playfully, "English please, baby."

You consider him for a moment, the translation of the true phrase running through your mind; how sweet and honorable it is to die for one's country. The old lie, it's come to be known as - fittingly.

It's a similar sentiment to one that's grown to become your fear; that he'll die for the sake of the country, under orders from the government, believing it was his duty.

But you think your spin on it may be true; would be willing to find out.

You don't want to weigh him down with the thought, though, choosing to reel him in for a kiss instead. "I love you," is the answer you settle on, laying the words down right on his tongue.

He seems content with your translation - the method of delivery likely having something to do with it - humming into your mouth. He kisses you back lazily for a long, languid moment before he pulls away, "As much as I'm enjoying this, I've been wanting to get in there all day," he says, nodding his head towards the water.

"Go," you chuckle, giving him a gentle push away from you with the hand still resting along his face.

He lays another quick peck against your lips before standing, padding around the edge to the steps. He pauses for a moment to pull his shirt over his head, skin honeyed under the soft glow of the lights you'd hung around the patio.

A second later, he slips under the surface without hesitation; kicking off the steps, moving quickly to the deep end. He almost shimmers as he glides along the floor of the pool, the rippling of the gentle waves he'd created making him seem like some sort of mirage as he passes by you.

He comes up for air once he hits the far wall, tossing his hair back, smoothing the water from his eyes. He doesn't rest long, though, beginning to swim short laps across the width of the deep end.

You observe him, sipping your tea slowly, appreciating the way his back and arms work with each stroke. He continues long enough for you to nearly drain your cup, stopping short when another trio of fireworks set off in the distance.

Setting your mug down, you eye him, preparing to slip into the pool to soothe him if you have to, but he relaxes once he connects the sound to the flashes in the sky. The tension that had flooded the line of his shoulders drains into the water as he shifts to wade backward, moving closer to where you sit.

You finish off your drink as he starfishes out across the surface of the water, floating just a few feet in front of you. You wonder if you could use him as a floaty, pinning up a note in your brain to try it out sometime.

"I'm glad you insisted on a pool, sweetheart," he sighs, breaking your companionable silence.

You hum, pleased, kicking your legs out gently and causing the water to lap against his skin. More fireworks sound out; he doesn't tense this time, but he does get his feet back under himself, moving to where you sit along the ledge.

Sliding his hands up your legs, he pillows his head in your lap, wet hair fanning out across your thighs. You shift your weight back onto your right hand, laying the other along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed as you brush your thumb along his cheekbone and the scar that runs beneath it.

He picks at the tie of your bathing suit absentmindedly, tugging at the strings when you slide your hand into his hair, scratching at his scalp. "Sherry said something to me earlier."

He makes a noise urging you to elaborate, not bothering to open his eyes.

"She told me that when she was younger, she hoped that you and Claire were living your lives; that you were doing more than just working, you know? She said she wanted you guys to be happy," you explain, working to keep your voice even.

He cracks his eyes open, picking his head up to watch you as you continue. "She thanked me," you swallow thickly, "for making you happy, like she always wanted you to be."

He smiles at your words, and it's a beautiful thing. You still get all twisted up inside with how gorgeous he is; neurons overclocking themselves with the thrill of being the subject of his attention.

"I owe you a thank you, too, baby," he starts, pausing to nose at your wrist.

"You don't owe me anything, Leon," you tug at his damp strands still between your fingers, highlights catching the yellow glow from the lights around the patio.

"I do," he says, the words sending a jolt through you. You never intended on getting married, yet here you are now, eager to hear the phrase on the altar.

He kisses the thin skin of your wrist, lips lingering as if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat; knows that the pace has picked up under his affection. "All this," he pulls back, taking a hand off you to gesture to the pool; the backyard; the house; to you. "It's something I never thought I'd get.

"Sherry's right - you're behind basically every bit of happiness I have now, sweetheart; I owe it all to you." He reaches up, untangling your grip from his hair, thumbing gently at the ring he put there, "Thank you."

You can't respond verbally, will burst into tears if you do. In lieu of speech, you lean forward, pressing your lips against his insistently.

He seems to get the message; understands that the pleasure is all yours, that you'd give him anything and everything you can - knowing he'd do the same for you.

He gets his arms back around you, continuing your kiss as he lifts you from the edge of the pool and into the water with him. You wrap your legs around his waist, safe and secure in his hold.

His teeth catch along your bottom lip and the neighbors down the street set off fireworks, the bright bursts of color painting your backyard in reds and blues and greens and oranges. The sparks reflect off the surface of the water as he slides his nose against yours and not for the first time, you think this may all be a dream. Maybe you died four years ago and this whole thing has been some sort of afterlife; you aren't sure you'd done anything worth this treatment, though.

Maybe it's more supernatural in origin; an intricate hallucination weaved by a Djinn that's got you chained up in some dark, damp basement as it feeds off your blood. Or maybe you just went crazy and the pool is actually a padded room, Leon's mouth against yours a product of your mind working to distract itself from your reality.

Whatever the case may be, it certainly feels real when he shifts his hold on you, hoists you up higher to get at your neck, laying kisses up and down the column of your throat, nipping at your jaw.

But before he can venture much further, the neighbor's fireworks show grows into an extravaganza, the relentless popping and bursting becoming a nuisance, shattering the illusion of your teeny-boppy movie moment.

"Jeez," Leon mutters, breath hot against the saliva cooling on your skin, causing you to shudder. "Did they buy out a whole tent?"

"Did you check that Claire actually went to bed?" You ask, shaking yourself free of his hold. "She could've joined them; brought everything I wouldn't let her set off here."

He hums, letting you down into the water, considering your words - even though you said it as a joke, it certainly is a possibility. You seem to come to this realization at the same time, eyes narrowing at each other as the spray of fireworks continues overhead. "We should…" He starts, nodding towards the stairs.

"Yeah," you agree, already beginning to move.

You pause to grab your towels, wrapping your own around yourself, throwing the other over Leon's shoulders when you catch up to him at the patio door. Stepping inside, you hear someone knocking around your kitchen.

Luckily, it's Claire. She steps back from the cabinet she'd been rifling through to face you and Leon with a frown. "Isn't this shit ridiculous?" She remarks, pointing to the ceiling in reference to the fireworks.

"You're one to talk, Claire," Leon shoots back. "Didn't you just set off about five hundred dollars worth of them in my backyard a few hours ago?"

"Yes, a few hours ago," she reiterates. "Nothing should be set off after the show at the Capitol is finished - after that, you're done; you missed your shot; better luck next year."

"Exactly," you nod in agreement at her reasoning, "They should put you in charge."

She grins at your words, moving to continue on, but Leon cuts in before she can start; "What is it that you were clawing through my cabinets for?"

She sighs, displeased with his interruption, setting her hands on her hips. "Where do you keep the ibuprofen?"

Leon shoos her out of the way, padding across the kitchen to get the medicine himself. Claire relents without argument, attention immediately shifting back to you as she leans over the counter. "So," she wiggles her eyebrows, "It seems like that pool was a good investment, huh?"

You bite at your lip, ears burning with embarrassment that she'd seen you and Leon necking in the water like teenagers - even though you shouldn't be flustered; it is your house, after all.

Leon sets the bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water down in front of Claire, annoyance evident with the way he uses a bit more force than really necessary, causing the items to clack against the marble.

"What?" Claire questions, glaring at him. "It was cute."

Leon huffs in response, unable to hide the flush that crawls up his neck at her words. You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you, enjoying the way they bicker like siblings.

Claire leaves Leon to stew, tossing you a grin as she collects the bottle and glass, bidding you goodnight once more before she leaves the kitchen.

You move around the counter to Leon, steps careful in an effort not to slip on the water that has dripped off him and onto the tile. The neighbors must've ran out of fireworks while you were distracted by Claire as it's silent when you wrap your arms around him, tucking your face into his neck. "Still a good day?" You ask, voice muffled against his skin.

He slings an arm around you, fingers fanning out along the small of your back, "Still a good day."

#if anyone would like to see the ring i literally had a mockup created #because im crazy #its not exactly what i was thinking so i may have another one done.... we will see #also if my latin is incorrect just ignore it pls #its been over 4 years since my last latin class #my hs latin teacher would be mortified to know i had to google declensions #and still probably fucked it up #sorry mr. d.....#(inbox)#(writing)#leon kennedy #leon s. kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s. kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s. kennedy x you #what is The leon x reader tag #i've yet to figure it out

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heavenlyakin · 7 months ago

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Burning For You

warnings: Fem!Reader is a mortician for the Demon Slayer Corps, loosely canon-compliant, pajamas mentioned are traditional jinbei so they’re time-accurate (I do the weirdest research for these fics sue me), BLOOD, fingering (f!receiving), reader calls kyo daddy, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, reader rides kyo, and other general smut warnings, creampie. Minors DNI. (also not edited so forgive me or correct me hehe)

wc: 1.4k

–

You’re reading in your bed, a candle used for light rather than the lamp beside it. It’s softer, making it easier for you to get tired while you read and try to keep your mind off anything but him.

Everything you’re feeling tonight is the exact reason why you didn’t want to involve yourself with a corp member, let alone the Flame Hashira. His life is not his own, nor is it yours. He is devoted to the Demon Slayer Corps and always will be until he meets an untimely end or ages too far to fight. Even then, he wouldn’t step away, you know this about him.

It’s something you’ve struggled to come to terms with, but it’s not like you can ask him to step down. It would go against everything he believes in and you don’t think you could forgive yourself if he actually did it. So you cope, the best you can while he’s gone on a mission.

Every noise outside your house drags you away from the words on the page, but you insist on keeping it open and in your hands. It will at least make time pass faster. The clock on the wall ticks away, just as slowly as usual. Your eyes dart to it every few minutes, despite your best efforts.

An hour passes and you feel your eyes getting heavy, your book falling on your chest, crinkling the pages you were on. Just as you feel the haze of sleep upon you, a crashing sound jolts you awake.

Kyo stands in the doorway, blood dripping from a gash on his chest, his clothes torn around it soaked in blood. The smile on his face contrasts the way he must feel, absolutely wrecked. You throw the covers off you, getting ready to jump from the bed when he raises his hand.

“-----,” his voice is hoarse as if he’s been yelling.

The mission he’d been sent on wasn’t supposed to end this way. He’d only been asked to inspect a village of some rogue demon sightings, but no one had gone missing or been killed. There was much debate about whether wasting the time of a Hashira was even worth this.

Whatever had happened, must have been brutal if Kyojuro was this cut up. Luckily, they sent him instead of another member of lower rank.

“What happened?” You ask, sitting up as he drops his swords by the bedroom door and sheds his haori and then his uniform.

“Shhh,” he hushes you, his palm caressing your cheek. “I’m okay.”

“You’re bleeding,” you plead but his lips meet yours before you can say more.

His lips are rough, moving against yours with the force of missing you. You grab his shoulders, holding yourself close to him. You feel him shudder as your pajamas rub against the cut on his chest. You try pulling away, but he grabs you and pulls you tighter against him.

“I didn’t say it hurt,” he tells you against your lips, his forehead against yours.

You nod gently as his hand reaches for the bow you’ve tied your top together with. It falls open, revealing your breasts to him. You gasp as he cups one in his hand, biting your neck before licking over it. His tongue is hot on your chilled skin, making you arch into him for more warmth.

His fingers pinch your nipple, dragging a groan from your lips. Gently, he lays you down, crawling over you and kissing down your collarbone. Blood drips from his chest onto your stomach, the warm droplets igniting something in you you’ve never felt before. You try and push it away, but each one makes you burn hotter.

His tongue circles your right nipple, his right hand caressing the other breast. You moan, closing your eyes and arching your breast, pushing more of your breast into his mouth. He sucks gently, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud. Your nails dig into his skin as he does, making him smile against your skin.

“I’ve been thinking about this my entire journey back to you.” He tells you, looking up at you as his hand wanders between your bottoms. “What you would do when you saw me? How you would sound when I did this,” his fingers slip between your lips, finding your clit and slowly rubbing circles.

Your breath catches in your throat, making you sound out a loud gasp.

“Just like that, actually,” he answers himself as he slips a finger inside of you. “You’re even wetter than I imagined.”

You smile, letting him finger you as he pleases and enjoying every fluid movement of his fingers in you. He knows your body better than you do at this point, so why would you ever ask for more? He will give you exactly what you need.

“D-daddy,” you moan, the word slipping from your lips earlier than you usually would have allowed it.

“That’s it,” he grins, kissing your cheeks. “Are you gonna cum for me?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut tight as you feel that burning between your thighs. He kisses you, his tongue slipping between your lips and past your teeth as he devours you. His fingers curl inside of you, and you come undone beneath him.

“That’s my girl,” he praises against your lips as you cum, your thighs squeezing together around his hand.

You open your eyes to see his, a smile on his face. His eyes glow with pride and admiration, something you’ve come to crave every time you’re with him. You pull his face down to yours, kissing him forcefully as you use your hands to push him down on the bed on his back.

As you slip your pants off, you notice you and him are both sticky with his blood, but he’ll be fine for the next few minutes at least. You straddle him after pulling his underwear off his body. He’s hard against you as you grind on his cock, letting your slickness coat him.

He moans as he grabs your hips, letting you maintain control for now. You know it won’t last, but for now, it’s all you want. Guiding his cock inside you, you sit down on him, moaning at the fullness of him inside of you.

“Fuck,” he curses, his eyes rolling back before he closes them and thrusts up into you.

You take this as a good sign to start moving up and down on him. Leaning forward, you place your hands on either side of his head, watching his face contour with pleasure as you slowly ride him. His fingers dig into your hips, but you don’t mind. The bruises are always sweet reminders of the times spent with him.

Part of you wonders if that’s all you’ll have of him one day, but you push that away.

He starts to guide you, thrusting to meet each movement you make as you come down on him. Your breathing becomes heavy and you feel yourself coming close again, but you don’t want to cum too soon. You want him to cum first.

“God,” he groans. “You feel amazing, baby.”

“So good, daddy,” you moan, kissing him after.

He grins against your lips as he thrusts harder into you from below. You gasp and he bites your bottom lip, eager to pull more and more noises out of you. It works, every time. You give him what he wants and he gives you what you need.

“Need you to fill me up,” you moan against his lips between breaths. “Want to be so full of you.”

His grin is all you need to know he’s going to do just that. He cums, a loud groan coming with it. You hold onto him and kiss him through it, letting yourself cum with him and clench around his cock.

He pulls you off of him, and you lay beside him. Laying quietly you listen to the sound of his steady breathing. It’s become the most comforting sound you are familiar with. That, and his heartbeat.

His eyes start to close, so you shake him. “No way are you sleeping before I clean you up.”

“Baby,” he whines.

“Infection,” you warn. “You need stitches.”

“Only after I’ve covered us both in blood and made you cum a few times do you actually care about my injuries.” He grins, sitting up and teasing you.

You shrug, “A girl has her needs. Besides, you started this.”

He kisses your cheek before you get up to go search for your medical supplies in the bathroom.

#rengoku kyoujurou x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyoujurou rengoku x reader #kny x reader #rengoku kyojuro smut #rengoku kyoujurou smut #kny smut

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knifeforkspooncup · 11 months ago

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Displays of affection I think would Aziraphale and Crowley's canon relationship and characterization (Part IV):

Part I here

Part II here

Part III here

Aziraphale taking Crowley to the observatory to look at the stars. Aziraphale doesn't look at the stars so much as Crowley's awestruck face as he jabbers away ("oh hey, I created that one!")

Aziraphale asking about the plot of James Bond movies just to watch Crowley explain the action scenes like he explains stars being formed.

Aziraphale leaving James Bond novels in conspicuous places around the book shop to try to tempt Crowley into reading them.

Crowley having already read all the James Bond novels when they originally were published and lovingly shelving them back in their rightful place whenever he finds them left out (ofc hes not gonna yeet James Bond novels).

(I rightfully find it hilarious that Crowley is such a dork about James Bond ok, sue me)

Both of them sitting at a Cafe people watching, and Crowley suggesting they make up stories about people. Aziraphale objects of course (it's rude to speculate) but then he ends up getting WAY too into it, making up like entire back stories for them in great detail and Crowley's just like "no - that's not - nevermind, angel" (someone please just write me a fic of this already.)

Aziraphale going to the shop for groceries and Crowley trailing behind him just to watch as Aziraphale runs into various people he knows. Crowley wordlessly putting a box of sugary cereal in the cart because the box says there's a toy prize within.

These are turning more into scenarios oops. If you use these in fics (please do!) I'd love to read them, send them to me!

#aziracrow #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #love sick that is #why do i do this to myself #they deserve this and more

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choccy-milky · 10 months ago

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bruh i need to vent about a rude comment i got on my recent chap and also about clora, cuz its something thats been on my mind for a while now. it has spoilers to my most recent chap tho so im putting it below

so in my most recent chap clora gets hit by the killing curse but thanks to seb sacrificing himself for her, it doesn’t work/she survives. and I got a rly rude comment about how that’s super cringe and that clora is a "shoe horning of every possible manifestation of Mary-Sueism I have ever seen." theyre dropping my fic after almost 500k words bc apparently THAT’S where they draw the line and that "just somehow pulling it out the bag and surviving a killing curse from the power of love. In simpler terms, it’s absolutely cringe worthy" and "forgive me if I rolled an eye at the yet again invincible nature of Clora Clemons-the-one-eighth-Veela-extraordinaire"

BUT LIKE LMAO TELL ME U DIDN’T READ/WATCH HARRY POTTER WITHOUT TELLING ME. that’s literally what happens to harry??but its only cringe when it happens to our "mary-sue" clora? like yeah sure love magic might be a bit cringe but IM LITERALLY JUST PULLING FROM THE SOURCE MATERIAL. of all the things to take issue with in my fic and interpretations, theyre taking issue with something that’s canon BAHAHA.

and since im on the topic of clora being mary sue can I just say I hate the misogyny/internalized misogyny that i've seen some people (NOT A LOT, THANKFULLY) treat her with. like i get it, im not pale and blonde and as conventionally pretty as clora is, but even if I was, is that a reason to hate me?? and does being beautiful and well-liked = mary sue? bc as far as I know, mary sue is a chara who is just naturally amazing at everything and doesnt need to try hard and theyre just inexplicably great for no reason (like mc in the base game BAHHAA) if anything the mary sue in MY fic is seb LMAO (but hes a boy so its ok). like clora has worked hard and studied magic all her life due to being a squib and wanting to make up for not being able to DO it. she isnt good at flying, seb is still better at her than duelling, shes really short sighted when it comes to doing/thinking whats best for others and can be a huge idiot.... and like. the only guys that have even shown interest in clora on a real scale have been seb and leander (and then lawley for blackmail purposes, and also bc he hates seb) so its not like literally everyone is falling over themselves for her?? like her interactions with the main cast of boys (ominis, garreth, amit) theyre all indifferent to her LMAO but still, the fact that shes pretty and guys here and there might look at her and go o shes cute! doesnt make her a mary sue SORRy thats just called being attractive idk its just annoying that ppl automatically see a nice kind beautiful female character without any VISIBLE flaws and go SHES TOO PERFECT!! MARY SUE!! WAH IM JEALOUS! and like I get it bc when I was younger I probs would have been annoyed by clora as well due to my own insecurities and internalized misogyny but hey, how about u just realize that’s ur own problem and your own jealousy, and not a real one HAHAH anyway ive since evolved bc I used to be a ‘not like other girls’ type girl back in highschool. trying to be super tomboy-y bc I thought being feminine was cringe and too basic but now ive embraced it and love girly things and dresses and charas like clora who are still strong and showcase their strengths and weaknesses in subtler ways, and I want to smooch her and make out with her. get behind me clora ill protect you🤺🤺🤺

#choccytalky #finally using that tag #tho its more like CHOCCYRANTY holy this is so long BHAHAHA #also one more thing idk why ppl think its ok to give unsolicited criticism to fanfic writers. like these are stories we're writing for US #and for free like u dont have to rudely declare how unhappy you are with it and that youre stopping. like what do u want me to do #do u want a refund?? BYE!! JUST GO!! like. i also wouldnt want unsolicited criticism or critiques on my visual/drawn art #and ppl understand that. so whys it so hard to understand ppl ALSO dont want it on their writing? both take effort #and giving actual valid criticism is a skill (which is why it was literally a CLASS when i was in uni)#i need a drink #and by that i mean COKE ZERO BABYYYYYYY #AND MORE DRAGONS DOGMA 2

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bl00dlight · 8 months ago

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A Song of Shadow & Flame

CANON Dark! Aemond Targaryen x OC niece Targaryen. | SERIES

All NSFW warnings apply in future chapters.

Author's note • After my recent rant, Ive decided to feed the girlies who want fics that align with canon Aemond. Sooooo Im coming home for my girls with an fire & blood timeline retelling & not just more boring ass Mary Sue × Aemond smut. So we are starting from the beginning. The vibe is, "I could make him significant worse".

Word Count ~ 1.4k

Index

i ● ii ● iii ● iv ● v ● vi● vii ●viii ●ix ● x ● xi ● xii ● xiii ● xiv ● xv

ii ~ 'Age of Hero's'

123 AC

It was not until later that night the young princess saw her uncle again. It took little effort to convince the Kings guard that she was not here to continue to jeer at the prince, but rather to give a sincere apology. At least, that is what she had told herself. It had not occurred to her, why or how men oft bended to her will. In truth, Visenya had little thoughts on such things, for all she knew, she asked and received accordingly – and if she did not receive, she would promptly sway until her desires were met.

It was this very naivety, this innate trust that the world would simply open its loving arms for her whenever she pleased, that worried her mother and father so dearly. Both knowing the ways of men, the violence and sickness that dwelled in her heads, most especially about a Princess of Valyrian blood. Seen less so for her heart and more for her blood born proximity to the God’s themselves. To power of fire made flesh, and of course. The beauty which came with Valyrian blood.

Visenya entered Aemond’s room quietly, and when she came before him, came before his body splayed out upon his bed she swiftly averted her gaze. The princess cleared her throat, a small noise of a disturbance left his mouth as he jumped, swiftly propping himself upwards.

“What are you doing in here? You ought-” His voice laced with outraged as The Princess interrupted.

“Temper yourself. I’ve not come to goad you. I just, I came to apologise.” A small laugh left her, she put her hand up.

“I do not give a shit.” Aemond snapped.

Visenya tilted her head, scanning him, “Fine. But I shall do so anyway.”

“Why?” Asked Aemond, the air teaming with uncertainty as he watched his sly niece walk slowly, stalking through his room like a cat.

“Because it is right, it is what is owed, and I’ve no intention being in your debt.” Visenya sighed, her voice almost aloof, smug. Her eyes look in the space, the perfectly kept books and scrolls upon his desk. The princess reached the dark mahogany desk that was seemly gleamed in the firelight. It seemed the prince had little taste nor need for decor, he seemed to only own objects for utilitarian purposes, he was so… conservative, Visenya thought. In fact, the only unkept thing was an open book, her pale fingers grazed the pages. Clearly, he had taken it from her Grandsire’s personal Library. She looked at the top, small writing detailing the topic ‘Age of Heros: Symeon Star-Eyes’. She had never heard of such a thing, her thoughts interrupted as another pale hand snatched the book away.

The prince’s eyes met hers with a venomous glare as placed the small book back upon his desk, “I find it difficult to believe you care about what is right.”

Visenya scoffed in response as she paced to the other side of the desk, her fingers as cunning as she as they found his book once more, “True. Perhaps I don’t, however it hardly matters. For even if I am saying it to benefit myself, my meaning is sincere.”

Frustration and rage tore through Prince Aemond as he then turned and stepped forward, who was she to dare apologise? After all this time, all these years of enduring her fucking bastard brothers torment? No, no Aemond would not tolerate it, he was not one to embrace pity. “I’ve no reason to accept your pathetic apology and I have no use for the rag of pity you continue to throw at me!” He snapped.

Visenya found herself taken aback by the fire in his eyes, she felt her own frustration boil as she bit back with equal fervour, “Yes, well perhaps you ought to! Since it seems I am the only one who is willing to throw it to you, and actually, unlike what you may think. I have little interest in hating you.”

“Do not lie.” Aemond stepped forward, his voice low.

“It is no lie. I do not hate you, we most certainly do not get along. But, I have little reason to hate you.” She shrugged, Visenya relaxed once more.

Though Prince Aemond could not tolerate it any longer, he would not take another drop of her insolence… her teasing, her lies! He snapped again, “You… you and your brothers torment me for your own amusement.”

“As does Aegon.” The Princess sneered, once again he had gotten himself into a state, she thought.

“I do not give a shit about Aegon! He is a fool and already a drunkard, and… and, well he is also my brother.” The prince wanted to push her, slap that smarmy sneer from her face. He stumbled upon his words, feeling more flustered, more overcome with the memories of all of his sister’s bastard’s torment. Their stupid, arrogant faces.

Visenya, ever cool, raised her brow, “So?”

“So, it is different.” He bit back.

Visenya stepped forward, folding her arms as she analysed him, by the Gods was he bothered. Still, she retorted back, “I dare say Aegon torments you for his own amusement far more than I. In fact, I do not torment you at all. They are mere jests!”

“Mocking me for not claiming a dragon is not a simple jest!” He had had it, the prince suddenly found himself unable to control it anymore, his hands came out before him, connecting with his niece’s chest as he pushed her back.

Visenya stumbled only slightly, she looked down and then swiped a stray hair from her face. Silence fell between them before a moment, a piercing silence. The soft breaths of Aemond to be heard as he tried to temper himself. A slight guilt filled him, but not for what he had done to the Princess, rather what may happen to him if his father found out. Or worst of all… if her father found out. The silence dragged, before shattered with the soft cackles of Visenya. Her face beaming.

“Gods…” She laughed, tilting her head back. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she did tease him for her own amusement. Tis his fault really, Aemond ought to learn how not to be so easily pestered, he ought to enjoy her attention on him. Only the Gods knows how many other boys try and fail to garner her interest. Yet it was him, who truly captured Visenya. A cruel smile rose to her face.

“Just get out!” Aemond snapped again, feeling a slight measure of weakness under her gaze. He reached forward, grabbing her wrist harshly as he forced her to the door,

As he did so, Visenya cackled, enjoying this far too much, she laughed as she spoke, “Very well, I apologize for my lapses, and I will not speak on your lack of a dragon again, Uncle.” The door swung open and Visenya nearly gasped as she felt the firm grip of the Kings Guard outside his chambers grip her shoulder.

“Come, princess. The hour grows late, the both of you ought be in your bedchambers for the night.” The King’s Guard voice rang firm as he began to escort Visenya away, her eyes lingered upon Aemond once more, as she giggled.

The cheeky cackling of his niece could be heard through the prince’s heavy doors, Aemond wore a bitter expression. He was utterly infuriated, utterly exhausted… and utterly ashamed in his own inability to not give in to her teasing. He scanned his room, the firelight casting a soft orange glow, the air was warm, and it’s smell a comforting indication of embers. Aemond sat upon his bed once more, eyes sharp and pained, a part of him wished to crawl into the arms of his mother but he did not send for her. No, he would face this alone, he would not behave as the weak little bellyacher they all thought him to be. He would be strong, infallible; he would be a man.

Upon this thought, Prince Aemond rose up from his bed, approaching his desk once more as he longed to find comfort in the tales of great knights and ruthless warriors; to read of Symeon Star Eyes. Yet, as the young prince’s eyes met the mahogany surface, he felt his gut coil with rage once more.

His book had been swiped.

○iii○

#hotd #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x oc #targaryen #got #rhaneyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #daenerys targaryen #aegon targaryen #alicent hightower #hotd aemond #the greens hotd #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x niece

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lunarriviera · 5 months ago

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the huo daofu round-up post i have been threatening for a really long time now

Thinking about this man, I was just admitting to chat "honestly cannot believe how much life energy i have invested in such a minor character" but the truth of the matter is, I was mildly obsessed with Huo Daofu from Reboot alone; his odd unresolved backstory in Sha Hai just cemented my mental formation. Because let's be real, in a world of overly earnest tomb raiders, this man is a goddamn catty delight. The dainty bitterness! The barely concealed eye-rolling! So many impeccable That Bitch vibes. And his unimpressed snark is honestly such a refreshing antidote to Wu Xie's whole everyone-loves-him Marty Sue thing that even when you discover Huo Daofu secretly ALSO loves him, you don't mind, because by that point Dr. Youtiao is a savage queen who can do no wrong.

And He Longlong clearly made this guy up. In the novels he's just sort of a vaguely beardy guy who drives a truck, that's literally all I remember him ever doing. But someone cast this man, and they gave him some rubber bands and pizza coupons and chewed gum of a script to work with, and he promptly decided: I will make him extremely gay. And staggeringly bitchy. AND IT WORKS. He devours every frame he's in, he steals every scene. It's a performance worthy of Alan Rickman and yes I will die upon this hill.

We all know the bitchy-ex-boyfriend scenes in Reboot—"oh my god I literally can't wait for you to perish from lungs" and then Huo Daofu spends like every moment trying to keep Wu Xie alive, sheltering him uselessly from the rain with his hand, rubbing his back when he coughs, looking (when no one's watching but the camera) like he's maybe going to stop breathing himself, when Wu Xie does.

Apparently Huo Daofu's name sounds very silly in Chinese which I think is appropriate for someone who apparently (?) grew up in Germany (?) and went to the University of Heidelberg (?) (honestly don't waste time trying to figure out DMBJ canon, NPSS has thoughtfully ensured that will only be exhausting and futile). Spurious medical qualifications aside, he's super handy in fanfic, too, when you need a sketchy doctor, as all tomb-raiding mob families invariably do.

[someone once pointed out to me that this combination of degree topics basically translates into "how to dispose of bodies"]

I could also hold forth on him and Yang Hao—like, Su Wan alone makes it REAL clear that Huo Daofu's interest in the kid isn't just avuncular or entrepreneurial:

"Are you working for him, or are you working for him?" And Su Wan should be protective, because Yang Hao is honestly kind of an idiot, and probably doesn't realize he's being assiduously groomed not just as a mob boss but as a potential boy toy. (NB by the way that there are 44 fics in the Huo Daofu/Yang Hao tag, and disappointingly, not a single one of them is in English. Western fandom needs Jesus.)

But the thing is, Huo Daofu SAVES his ass in Gutongjing. Everyone forgets that. There's easily half a dozen times where he grabs Yang Hao's shoulder and hauls him back from danger. And Huo Daofu is the one Jiumen member smart enough to get out ahead of disaster, and to take Yang Hao with him. Here he is looking fabulous in a completely unnecessary but dramatic scarf.

And, at the end, he lets Yang Hao go. Because he's secretly decent.

Sure, he has some vaguely sketchy take-over-the-Huos plans, plans that clearly go awry at some point no matter how dramatically and villainously he makes tea. Sure, he exudes a scurrilous sort of evil. But he's COMPELLING and that's all I care about. Look at his pretty little face here, sourly plotting things, in a windowpane-checked suit which should be ridiculous but just winds up looking snazzy as fuck compared to the rest of the Jiumen. This is a man who understands the value of a pocket square. Thank you so much, He Longlong, we didn't deserve you putting your entire snatch into this very minor performance but some of us are extremely grateful.

So here are seven ficrecs, with a podfic and a meta from AO3. Please let me know if I should add anything (Tumblr meta?)—this post WILL be updated, because I have too much time on my hands and care unreasonably about the mean-spirited little bastard.

‡

Remember how this used to be (3569 words) by achray Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Huo Daofu/Wu Xie (DMBJ Series) Characters: Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series), Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi Additional Tags: Missing Scene, Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Background Wu Xie/Zhang Qiling, Wu Xie being a gremlin, Canon-typical references to illness Summary:

“That wasn’t a no,” Wu Xie said, his smile widening. “I thought you still wanted me.”

Notes: How is this both hot and sad? I don't know, that's the magic of fanfiction. This was the first Wu Xie/Huo Daofu fic I ever read and frankly the genre needs more entries, but this is a good one.

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the rime dictionary of Wu Xie (7433 words) by scherzanda Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Wu Xie/Zhang Qiling, Wang Pangzi/Ye Piaopiao, Wang Pangzi & Wu Xie & Zhang Qiling Characters: Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi, Zhang Qiling, Ye Piaopiao, Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series), Xiao Mei, Wu Erbai, Li Jiale (DMBJ Series) Additional Tags: Piaopiao lives, Post-Canon, Canon Flashbacks, canonical illness, fun with the common cold, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Handwaved SI Recovery, Canon-typical Ershu Infodump, Quasi-History-Compliant, Yuletide Treat Summary:

This is why (even now) Wu Xie shouldn’t be let out alone—one trip out to the provinces, and he comes home with a bad cold and an unsolved mystery.

Notes: this is one of my very favorite Huo Daofu writers and here's why—read this little excerpt. The angst. The PAIN. Wu Xie absolutely broke this man's heart at some point and honestly Huo Daofu is really only himself if he's suffering, love that for him:

“Easy,” he said, when Wu Xie couldn’t seem to stop coughing. “Here—” and reached for the rest of the tea, except that it wasn’t on the table any longer.

Zhang Qiling was holding the mug; he had somehow gone around to the other side of the bed, moving in that flowing now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t way that never seemed quite human, to sit down cross-legged on the bed by Wu Xie so that their shoulders touched. Huo Daofu snatched his hand away from Wu Xie’s back as if an electrical current might flow through the double contact.

“Wu Xie,” Zhang Qiling said, and then something else so quiet it was inaudible, holding the tea so Wu Xie could drink.

Looking at the open tenderness on that remote, beautiful face, utterly focused on Wu Xie, made Huo Daofu feel as if his flesh was trying to part ways with his bones. It was a pain his medical texts didn’t have a word for, deeper and more primitive than jealousy or resentment.

Wu Xie, getting his breath back, looked sideways at him with one of those sudden grins. “Sorry, Xiao Huo. You’re still out of luck when it comes to watching me die. Maybe next time.”

Huo Daofu’s voice would not quite leave his throat. Instead, Xiao Mei said crossly “Tianzhen-shu, that’s dumb.” Most of her attention was still on her phone screen. “Why would Dr. Huo want to watch you die.”

Wu Xie looked at him, still smiling.

“It’s a long story,” said Huo Daofu, “and it doesn’t matter now.”

‡

even through hesitation (10407 words) by naiwong_bao Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV), 沙海 | Tomb of the Sea (TV), 盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers' Chronicles - Xu Lei Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Huo Daofu & Huo Xiuxiu, Hei Xia Zi/Huo Xiuxiu/Xie Yuchen Characters: Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series), Huo Xiuxiu, Yang Hao (DMBJ Series), Hei Xia Zi (DMBJ Series), Xie Yuchen, Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi Additional Tags: Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Character Study, Alternate Universe - Fantasy Series: Part 3 of this is where we live Summary:

He’s a boy so Huo Daofu knows from the beginning that there are no expectations for him, he can do as he likes. So he plays, he cries, he does what children do.

Then his parents die.

No one wants him, no one has time for him, so his family sends him to Germany for school. It’ll be a good opportunity, his family says. He can do whatever he wants, be free of the family business, they’ll take care of him over there. He doesn’t want to go, he doesn't know who they are, but he doesn’t get a say.

So he goes to Germany where the language is strange, the food is strange, the people are strange, and he wants to go home so badly that his teeth ache.

Huo Daofu builds a life for himself, but at the first sign of trouble, years and years and years later, he rents out his apartment to an acquaintance, and flies home.

But.

The language is strange, he doesn’t know the slang, the food is strange, the people are strange.

His family is cold and he still doesn’t get a say. --- Huo Daofu between the end of Tomb of the Sea and when he reappears in Reboot. AKA Huo Daofu learns to care a little.

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The Mark of a Man (2279 words) by JhanaMay Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 沙海 | Tomb of the Sea (TV), 盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers' Chronicles - Xu Lei Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Huo Daofu & Yang Hao (DMBJ Series) Characters: Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series), Yang Hao (DMBJ Series) Additional Tags: Loneliness, Found Family even when it makes you want to scream, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Huo Daofu is a mediocre role model Series: Part 8 of The Art of Conversation, Part 7 of The Art of Conversation Side Stories Summary:

When Huo Daofu inducted Yang Hao into the Huo family business, he wasn't expecting to become the boy's de facto babysitter.

Notes: a poignant little vignette in which Huo Daofu has a heart.

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[META] Huo Daofu's Youtiao Stand (739 words) by Thimblerig Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers' Chronicles - Xu Lei, 沙海 | Tomb of the Sea (TV), 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Huo Daofu & Huo Xiuxiu, Huo Daofu & Wu Xie (DMBJ Series) Characters: Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series) Additional Tags: Meta, Worldbuilding, Huo Daofu's Delicious Fried Snacks Series: Part 2 of DMBJ Meta Summary:

Huo Daofu is a supporting character in Sand Sea. Ambitious, wily, hungry, he’s far from one of the main villains of the story but he’s not nice, either. By the end of Sand Sea Huo Daofu has exploited the chaos caused by the ill-founded expedition to Gutongjing to take over various of the Huo Family operations.

When he appears in Reboot: Sound of Providence, he is a purveyor of delicious fried bread snacks. He’s clearly not hurting for money, so why…?

Notes: this is one of my favorite little HDF explorations, theorizing that Huo Xiuxiu busted him down a rank, and I think that's beautiful.

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starting in darkness, like a pure line of light (10167 words) by scherzanda Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Huo Daofu/Bai Haotian, Bai Haotian & Wu Xie, Liu Sang & Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Bai Haotian & Liu Sang Characters: Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series), Bai Haotian, Liu Sang (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi, Zhang Qiling Additional Tags: background pingxie, background Iron Triangle, past Wu Xie/Huo Daofu, Post-Canon, hurt/sarcasm, Fade to Black, Dialogue Heavy, meta-adjacent, Self-Indulgent Use of Chinese, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Summary:

Some emotional loose ends are never going to be tied up, but at least they can be recognized and shared. Or, a selection of the worst best only ways to comfort one another in the aftermath.

Notes: absolutely nothing makes me, a Huo Daofu stan, happier than scherzanda's fics featuring him. You would think this is an odd pairing, but it's really not—the two people who love Wu Xie most and are left behind by him? They have so much in common. Also, this fic has a podfic!

[PODFIC] starting in darkness, like a pure line of light, by scherzanda (701 words) by Thimblerig Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV), 盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers' Chronicles - Xu Lei Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Huo Daofu/Bai Haotian, Bai Haotian & Wu Xie, Liu Sang & Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Bai Haotian & Liu Sang Characters: Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Huò Dàofū, Bai Haotian, Liu Sang (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi, Zhang Qiling Additional Tags: background pingxie, background Iron Triangle, past Wu Xie/Huo Daofu, Post-Canon, hurt/sarcasm, Fade to Black, Dialogue Heavy, Meta Adjacent, Self-Indulgent Use of Chinese, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Podfic, podficcer not a native chinese-speaker but is doing her best, Podfic Length: 1-1.5 Hours

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do the work, love the work (1616 words) by scherzanda Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series), Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi, Zhang Qiling, Liu Sang (DMBJ Series), Bai Haotian, Wu Erbai Additional Tags: Mid-Canon, Missing Scene, Character Study, Post-Canon, Yuletide Treat Summary:

It doesn't always look that way, but Huo Daofu is doing his best.

Notes: once again I just have to excerpt, so you'll GET IT:

The train had nearly reached Hangzhou by the time Wu Xie spoke to him beyond the commonplace. He was still sitting in the corridor, staring dreamily at the growing suburbs, while Zhang Qiling gave Wang Pangzi a hand in the cabin. He looked up as Huo Daofu came back from the hot water dispenser. “Xiao Huo, xinkule. Sorry you never got that chance to watch me die, eh?”

Huo Daofu closed his eyes and looked away from Wu Xie’s smile, unshadowed now with death, brilliant and painful. “I’m sorry too,” he said, eyes still closed, and did not say any of the things he was sorry for.

‡

not only the sugar, but the days (3000 words) by A Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 盗墓笔记重启 | The Lost Tomb Reboot (TV), 盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers' Chronicles - Xu Lei Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bai Haotian/Huo Daofu Characters: Huo Daofu (DMBJ Series), Bai Haotian Additional Tags: Mentions of Death, Healing, Getting Together, Youtiao as a Metaphor, Also Actual Youtiao Summary:

His gaze meets Bai Haotian's, who's trying so hard to keep it together, and he knows that Wu Xie will break her heart when he dies, and it won't even be his fault. He never fucking means to.

Notes: another recent entry in the HDF/Bai Haotian post-canon and I love it unreasonably. They both love Wu Xie SO MUCH and it's just taking them OUT. Their subsequent connection is natural and it's funny as hell, the author loves them both and it shows:

"Are you really sure?" Bai Haotian says softly, and Huo Daofu looks up.

"What?"

"About the week."

"At best," he says, then winces. Fuck it. "It'll be three days," he says, loud enough to carry through the bedroom door, "if he keeps pulling these stunts!" There's a muffled noise and some very clear profanity from Pangzi, which Huo Daofu ignores. "See if I care!" he adds, but it's just not the same without Wu Xie there to grin at him, unrepentant.

He can feel Bai Haotian's hand covering his own, just loosely, where it's half curled into a fist against his thigh. He turns his head. The look she gives him is so full of unquestioning kindness, of understanding, he almost has to close his eyes against it.

"I'm sure," he says quietly, not really looking at her. "But he's proven me wrong before."

He can see her nod as she takes that in, and then they just sit there in silence, her hand over his, not moving.

‡

In conclusion, just because I can, from some of my favorite posts:

[ohyka]

[jeong-guwon]

[januaryisnotanartist]

Please also do not fail to check out the magnificent Dr Mal Practice post, as well as "it's not his fucking birthday" and "I'll fucking do it but christ alive." These users truly understand the essence of Huo Daofu.

PS also don't sleep on Huo Daofu and Liu Sang having a fabulous bitch-off in Hua Mei, a Sha Hai side story ft. haunted Wushanju. Another side story, Ran Gu, also has a swooning Kan Jian. Quality entertainment!

#huo daofu #he longlong #sha hai #the lost tomb reboot #tltr #dmbj #long post #hua mei #ran gu #reunion: the sound of the providence #tomb of the sea #sand sea

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iamnmbr3 · 4 months ago

Note

Cursed Child rant? as a treat? 👉👈

Oh god. Where to even start. Listen, I know some people enjoy CC and I say more power to you. I'm not here to be the fun police and say what people can and can't like or write fic about or derive meaning from or whatever. But for me, personally, Cursed Child is an absolute mess of the worst kind that irritates me on a profound level.

First off, it's completely inconsistent with the canon characterizations and established rules of world building (and JKR didn't even do that much world building so there wasn't that much to keep track of and yet, they couldn't even bother to do that). I mean, Cedric, who tried to give the Triwizard Cup to Harry doesn't win and that somehow causes him to become a Death Eater??? Huh? It's not just ooc. It's bad storytelling. I mean, even if he was a hugely sore loser why would losing a tournament cause him to join an extremist blood purist paramilitary group? That has nothing to do with him losing. It's stupid and childish and nonsensical and SO bad.

And really? That's the best you can come up with? If the point of that whole thing was the tired trope of 'time travel goes wrong and makes things worse' they could've just had the gang expose Crouch earlier but instead of Voldemort not returning he just ends up returning but not using Harry's blood which allows him to do his original plan of growing his power in secret. And idk. Maybe then he takes over and he kills Harry and Harry doesn't come back. I didn't even put any effort into that. It's a bit dumb and inelegant but it gets the job done without wild character assassination and a lack of logic so profound it would insult the reasoning abilities of a fungus.

But ok, let's judge it as its own vaguely Harry Potter inspired thing rather than as an actual sequel to the canon series. You know what the result is? IT'S STILL BAD. It's just. SO BAD. I don't understand how it's a real thing.

It's like a parody of a bad play. It can't possibly be real. Harry suddenly has a phobia of pigeons? Why??? It's so...stupid. And I'm supposed to take that seriously? What? And the dialogue. The dialogue. "Bad" doesn't even cover it. The fact that "Wow. Squeak. My geekness is a-quivering" is a real actual line in the actual play causes me physical pain. WHO WRITES THAT?! AND THEN LEAVES IT IN THE FINAL DRAFT?!?!?

And Delphi. WHAT EVEN?! She's literally like a parody of a bad fanfic Mary Sue. Down to the blue streak in her hair. But we're supposed to take her seriously? As a villain? Tf? She's like a bad Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way knockoff. The whole play is like an unfunny parody of bad writing. But it's not supposed to be. It actually pretends to be a genuine drama. Which is so much worse. I truly think My Immortal is better. And way funnier.

No effort at all went into the story construction. Characters act incredibly childishly and unrealistically and simplistically. The story doesn't feel like it was written by adults. There's no feeling or depth or emotion. It's all plot contrivances and nauseatingly simplistic writing. It isn't a story. It's just some stuff that happens. Because the writers were just like 'eh it's Harry Potter it'll sell.' And that's not art. That's just churned out content. And it bothers me on such a profound level that they did it and got away with it.

I would be embarrassed to write that for myself, let alone to turn that in as a professional writer. It's so inconsistent with the original story that I legitimately think the 2 guys who wrote it didn't even read the books. They just glanced at the wiki and decided they were good to go. Despite being PAID to do this. How sloppy is that? Not to mention Harry Potter meant so much to so many people who were ecstatic to get more content yet the two clowns who wrote this just skimmed the wiki and then vomited out some of the worst lines ever penned in history and called it a day.

#asks #Cursed Child #anti cursed child #Harry Potter

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genevievefangirl · 2 months ago

Text

Gen's Top 100 DBDA Fics - PART 8

For all caveats/rules/backstory, please read the Master Post

tell the saint of lost souls where to find me By: haledamage @haledamage Rating: T Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: When Edwin has a nightmare, he doesn't wake up screaming. Charles didn't understand it, not completely, not until Port Townsend. He didn't know what chased Edwin through his dreams. Some days, he wishes he still didn't know. Not as often as he wishes Edwin didn't. Or: one time Edwin has a nightmare, and one time he doesn't. My Notes: Sometimes it is nice when fics bend canon and this is a great example because the boys having nightmares is a great concept. Featuring CUDDLES!

The Ballad of Saving Graces By: Bythoseburningembers Rating: T Tags: Protective Charles Rowland, Hurt Edwin Payne, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst Summary: Charles feels guilty that Edwin was dragged to Hell. Edwin is afraid Charles might leave him for a better existence elsewhere. Crystal wants it on record that she finds them both idiots. All of this is fixable. Then they get kidnapped by pirates, and for Charles, it might be too late to make things better. Again. My Notes: The boys are kidnapped by pirate ghosts. Do you need to know anything else? Okay fine Charles is also super protective and it's great.

The Case of the Acridid Sprites By: thefinalriotxx Rating: T Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Protective Charles Rowland, Major Character Injury Summary: If Charles could breathe, the air would have rushed from his lungs on impact. If Charles had a heart, it would have broken free from his chest, cracking ribs and hollowing out the space where the core of him was kept. But Charles hadn’t breathed air in over thirty years, and his heart had long decayed, along with the rest of him. So why did it feel like his body was being torn apart? My Notes: What can I say? I like fics where Edwin is hurt and Charles has to save him, sue me! This is another great entry in that genre featuring worried Charles hitting the books.

The Case of the Couples Retreat By: juliasfanart @juliasfanart Rating: T Tags: Slow Burn, First Kiss, Couples Therapy Summary: It should have been just another case for the Dead Boy Detective Agency - a pair of missing ghosts to find - if not for the fact that they had to investigate a luxury resort dedicated to couples counselling... for ghosts. And what better way for Edwin and Charles to infiltrate it than to pretend to be just another couple needing to revive their relationship? A brilliant idea according to Charles, but for Edwin it might have been more than he can chew... My Notes: This is my biggest fluff recommendation! Technically it is a case fic, but the case is pretty loose and the fic is more about them sorting out their issues in therapy (but in a fun way I swear!)

The Case of the Looping Kiss By: elisasmileygirl @hey-its-elisa Rating: T Tags: Getting Together, Case Fic, First Kiss, Fluff, Romantic Fluff Summary: When Charles decides to confess his feelings to Edwin, it makes Edwin the happiest he’s ever felt which is a good thing…right? Crystal and Niko now have to figure out why the boys are stuck in a time loop of their first kiss and how to get them out of it. My Notes: Such a creative use of a time loop! Their first kiss here is so adorable.

The case of the warlock By: TheRamblingsOfaMadWoman Rating: G Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Protective Charles Rowland, Protective Edwin Payne Summary: The gang come across a warlock. Charles is quite taken with him. Edwin is distrustful. Whose instinct is right? **Charles hurts Edwin My Notes: Charles being forced to hurt Edwin via possession and then later banging on a magic wall demanding Edwin let him out so Charles can save him??? Do I need to say more???

The Case of What Comes After - Series By: HowYouDoing (FancyMeetingYouHere) Rating: T Tags: Post-S1, Traumas, Hurt/Comfort Summary: Working It Out - “And you think you’re your dad,” Crystal fills his sudden silence, tear-tracks on her angry face, “and that Edwin would be your mom, and that you’re somehow destined to have the exact same relationship as them if you ever admitted to yourself that you’re in love with Edwin.” Or, Crystal pops the question about whether Charles is in love with Edwin or not, and Charles proceeds to go down a full rabbit-hole of feelings and trauma. Thankfully, Edwin shows up to help. Us - Edwin once suggested that he does not deserve Charles, then shut the topic down by saying it was a conversation for another time. Charles, very unanimously, decides this is that time. My Notes: Charles dealing with how he doesn't want his and Edwin's relationship to be like his parents' hits my deep in my heart. And in the sequal Edwin gets to deal with some of his truama too.

The Ghostly Potion Debacle of '24 By: NuriaSchnee @nuria-schnee Rating: M Tags: Romance, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Protective Charles Rowland Summary: Charles gets hit by a potion that makes your biggest worries disappear. The good news? The witch that made the potion is a little incompetent, and the potion is faulty. The bad news? Charles had been obsessing about how to confess to Edwin for months, and the potion has made Edwin completely invisible to Charles. My Notes: Charles really goes through it in this one. He is forced to face his inner worries and deal with them directly. The whole thing is very stressful! (in a good way!)

The Hour of Separation By: Safaia @safaiagem Rating: M Tags: Case Fic, Revenge, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Protective Charles Rowland, Protective Edwin Payne Summary: The problem with solving big, flashy cases and going international is that you become well-known. Word came down about everything the Dead Boy Detectives managed to do in Port Townsend, and they have never been busier. The problem with becoming more well-known is that you don't always draw the kind of attention you want. You might jump onto the radar of someone with a grudge just looking for an excuse. Technically, it is part of a series, but it can be easily read as a stand-alone. My Notes: The tension in this one is strong, as well as the protectiveness of the boys. Also, slight spoiler so if you don't want that stop reading, I appreciate that the boys get together in the middle rather than the end! It is nice to see them face the final threat as a couple rather than having them get together at the end.

The lamps are going out By: CasiHuman @technically-human Rating: T Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: Evil spirits, vengeful spirits. At the time, he didn't yet have the words to explain what had happened to him –even though, without a frame of reference, he could still tell something was wrong– They formed when a ghost felt an awful injustice had befallen them, and few ghosts could claim to have been as wronged by everything as Edwin Payne. He just hoped the boy from the attic wouldn't put two and two together. My Notes: Any fic that expands on ghost lore is great and this one is no exception! I like the idea of Edwin being a vengeful spirit and having there be something wrong with him. It adds something to the boys dynamic that is really interesting.

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preciouslandmermaid · 1 year ago

Text

like dead-eyed sharks, Gotham watches (battinson x f!reader)

Note: This takes place pre-movie and you can find the rest of this series. (Part 1 here) (part 2 here)

Safety notes/Warnings: The Kinktober prompt was "blood kink/i just wanna see a man all beaten up and bloody" I have never written for that before and honestly...i think this fic got like away from me tbh. so im sorry if this isn't want u wanted lmao

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. established childhood friends with Bruce. confessions. secret identity revealed. canon-violence. cursing/explicit language. explicit consent during sexual content. smut. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. (and yes, dr. crane is absolutely cillian murphy/nolanverse dr. crane sue me)

prompt: blood kink pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes. bonus: on ao3, i split it into two chapters for ease of reading. the first half is plot, the second half is smut. ;) enjoy.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

You lean on the railing of your small balcony and watch the streaks of red and white lights below. The cool night air kisses your skin and tousles your clothes. Gotham’s air has a burning singe to it too malicious to be reminiscent of a campfire. It’s more akin to a cigarette lit by the gas stove combined with cheap perfume. You toy with the invitation between your fingers. The swooping, gilded text is embossed across the creamy card stock and you rub your fingers over a specific sentence: This invitation a courtesy by Johnathan Crane, M.D.

Arkham hospital is having a charity auction.It’s an opportunity. One you maybe wouldn’t have gotten while working at the paper. But what’s the catch? What purpose would Crane have to invite you?You replay your short interview with the enigmatic, intelligent doctor. The man has secrets but who in Gotham doesn’t? This charity provides an opportunity to snoop around Arkham and talk to Dr. Mercer’s co-workers who refused to meet with you earlier. Below, several cars beep at the same time and it creates a strange, dissonant melody. Youcan’t pass this up.

You wonder if Bruce will front you some cash. It’ll be easier to blend in if you can pretend to try and buy a piece of artwork or maybe a little stone statue to use as a door stopper. You chuckle to yourself at the idea and brush the idea aside. You won’t use Bruce’s money to spend on frivolous artwork and sculptures that you cannot possibly fit inside your one bedroom apartment. That settles it. You have to attend. The soft pitter patter of fresh rainfall tings against the high rise windows, railings, and roofs. From high above, Gotham is shiny chrome and long dark shadows.

You wonder if Vengeance is in those shadows tonight.

You haven’t seen Batman since your failed chemistry experiment. Your lower stomach clenches at the memory and you willfully push the lustful thoughts aside. You and Vengeance have little reason to see each other right now. It’s been nothing but dead ends since Falcone avoided arrest. According to Gordon, the evidence locker was recently flooded due to a pipe burst and the analysis of your blood samples—containing whatever Falcone did to you—were destroyed.

So, you’ve been busy working on re-writing your Arkham article under Bruce’s employ. Your time as a vigilante journalist has dwindled. Yes, there are other stories in Gotham that need your attention, but none are as urgent as reviving the Arkham story. Plus your instincts keep telling you that it’s connected: Falcone. Dr. Mercer’s death. Arkham. The mysterious drugs.

There’s a thread here. You just have to find the right one to pull.

You flick your thumb against the card’s corner. You should tell him. Batman needs to know about this. If you want your plan to snoop around Arkham to succeed—you’re going to need Batman’s gadgets. You bend down, the wind and rainwater tickling the delicate skin at your temples, and click on the multi-colored lights that frame the balcony window. Your own secret call to the Bat.

You return inside, leave the sliding door unlocked and wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce gets a call from Alfred while driving down fourth street. His voice crackles warmly over the headphone inside Bruce’s ear, “she’s got her lights on.” Alfred knows to periodically check the security cameras they installed across the street of your apartment and Bruce is grateful for his vigilance.

He pivots his motorcycle and takes a sharp turn through an alleyway as a shortcut. Someone on the sidewalk shouts profanities at him.

The rainwater ricochets off his helmet and spins like a hyped-up Ferris wheel around the tires. He’s seen you a handful of times for coffee dates or short walks in the park. Never lingering. Never doing more than kissing you. No matter how badly he wants to. It’s stupid. He’s fucked you twice as Batman, felt your walls quiver around his fingers and cock, listened to your sweet cries and watched your pretty eyes roll back into your skull. And yet...

It’s Batman who you call for in the middle of the night. He suspects that Bruce—in your mind—is at home, maybe asleep, maybe pacing his study, maybe watching some black-and-white foreign film. He wishes he could invite you over, sleep next to you, show you how he feels about youwith slow kisses buried between your thighs, but he can’t. The night is for him. For Vengeance. Gotham never sleeps so why should he? He needs to be awake and on the prowl. He needs to be ready for anything and that includes answering your silent and iridescent call.

He stows his motorcycle in the usual safe spot within the alleyway and uses his grappling hook to ascend to your floor without entering the building. His heart pounds as it always does when you’re in close proximity. Like his heart is trying to escape his chest and offer itself to you.

He sucks in a breath before sliding open the door. One of your downstairs neighbors is boiling cabbage, there’s a pair of wet socks on your radiator, and a candle on your coffee table flickers with the influx of air from the balcony door. The sight and smells of your apartment are achingly familiar. He prefers it—this tiny, homey space—compared to his large and extravagant penthouse. But then again, he prefers anywhere where you are.

He wishes he could remove his cowl and lay his head in your lap, but he folds his arms across his chest and says, “what did you find?”

“Take a look.” You toss a card onto the coffee table and the laptop illuminates your face in a blue-white glow. “I’m rubbing elbows with the right people it seems.”

“Crane?” He mutters to himself while examining the fancy, expensive card stock. A charity at Arkham. It’s strange that they’re hosting at the hospital instead of a fancy hotel. He makes a mental note to check the guest list.

“Several of Dr. Mercer’s co-workers talked to me before Mercer died. And now they won’t talk to me. That means someone or all of them are dirty and in someone’s pocket.” You explain and your eyes are lit furiously from within, “I hoped I could use Dr. Crane to reach the other employees of Arkham and this is my chance.”

“Do you think Falcone is involved?”

You shrug, “if not him then it’s another one of Gotham’s criminals.”

Bruce considers this information. It’s a decent lead. You aren’t looking at him. Your eyes are glued to the computer screen as your fingers move across the keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He could watch you for hours but those are hours he doesn’t have. Gotham needs him. As much as he wants to linger in your presence and kiss you—those are luxuries he cannot afford despite his generational wealth. He sets the invitation back onto the table.

“What’s your plan?” He asks.

“It’s simple. I go to the charity, talk to anyone that I think is involved, then we meet up during the auction itself.” Your eyes flick up and down, but he gets the distinct sensation that you’re not sizing him up in a flirtatious manner. Your expression, your tone, and body language is cool and professional. It reminds him of the early days working together...before he kissed you and pressed you against the windows of the Wayne penthouse.

“I assume you’ve got a way to enter Arkham without being noticed.” You return your attention to the screen, “we can snoop through their offices.”

“They’re likely to increase security during the event.”

You wave a hand, “that’s why I’m telling you now. It gives us time to prepare.”

He clenches his jaw. You are an unstoppable force when a story is involved. Your safety might not matter to yourself, but it matters to him. He can do this alone. He can visit Arkham while the charity takes place and discover whatever Crane or Dr. Mercer’s associates are up to. You don’t need to put yourself at risk. Even the small risk of arrest makes his heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. He can’t protect Gotham and you at the same time.

He says, “I’ll go alone.”

“And do what?” Your nostrils flare, “punch some confessions out of doctors? No way, Batboy. I’m not letting you try and take this one from me. This is my story.”

“All you need is evidence.” He counters, “I can get that for you.” You stand from the couch and place your hands on your hips. You’re shorter but you glare up at him with the heat and intensity of a car lit by a Molotov cocktail. He holds your gaze and cherishes the burn he feels prickle across his skin.

“I need firsthand accounts.” You say, your voice firm and unyielding, “you could rifle through their paperwork and take pictures of every record available and it would take us months to find what we’re looking for. And who knows! Maybe Arkham will smarten up and wipe everything clean before I have the chance to publish.”

“You think people will talk to you at the auction?”

He watches your chest rise a little with your inhale. The way your eyelashes flutter close. You always closed your eyes before saying ‘yes’ to him. He wonders if you ever notice this little tell of yours—if it ever registers that the boy you scraped knees with and the man standing before you in black armor are the same.

“Yes,” You reply while opening your eyes, “I do.”

“Fine.” He bites out. Arguing with you is akin to arguing with a brick wall. “But, I’m not sending you in there without protection.” He won’t let what happened with you and Falcone happen ever again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You toy with the little black bracelet on your wrist. A gift from Vengeance. It’s simple and straightforward. All it takes is one little press of a button near your wristbone and it releases an electric shock more painful and debilitating than your average taser. He explained that he wanted you to have something in case anyone got ‘too close’. Honestly, you hope you don’t have to use it.

Arkham’s charity event is being held in the new wing of the hospital. There are currently no patients, but it’s the perfect location for the chairmen and board members to show off the latest technology, the new rooms, and convince Gotham’s rich and powerful to make donations.

You let out a small breath of relief as you take in the freshly painted walls and large windows covered by thin, latticed metal. At least it’s spacious.Some of the other wings within Arkham State Hospital tended to trigger your claustrophobia. The murmurs of conversation float through the circular room above the music of stringed instruments by the door. The windows within the high ceilings look down at you like large black eyes as they reflect Gotham’s dark skies.You think, they should’ve made this a daytime event. It would’ve been more remarkable.

The pamphlet in your left hand boasts about the ‘benefits of natural light while providing safety, comfort and security for our patients’. In other words—Arkham has patients that can’t go outside due to the security risk and this newly built wing is their solution.

The two other exits lead into hallways but those doors are closed and guarded by security. A sign is posted nearby that reads: For Private Tours – Inquire with Director Susan S.

“I was wondering if you received my invite,” a smooth voice says from your right side. You turn to see Dr. Crane wearing a tuxedo, his brown hair slicked away from his angular face and shining beneath the warm florescent light bulbs.

“Did your secretary not pass along my RSVP?”

“She didn’t,” His sharp blue eyes drop to your shoes and then rise to your face, his look appraising and yet distant, “but she’s new and you look gorgeous so I’ll let it go.” Dr. Crane offers you his elbow and you politely take it, sliding your hand into the crook of his arm and allowing him to lead you through the swarm of well-dressed and perfumed bodies.

Youdon’t know how Bruce stomached these events. His parents were socialites and humanitarians who believed in a brighter future for Gotham.Youwonder what they’d say about Arkham's recent addition.

Crane passes you a flute of champagne and you use the opportunity to ask him how he’s settling into Arkham. His lips tug into a smile that feels secretive. He bows his head toward you and his breath ghosts along your cheek and neck.

“Some of my co-workers dislike me,” says Crane, “but I don’t take it personally. Every place has their hazing routines, their cliques, and established loyalties.”

You notice the discreet looks being tossed your way. Bored, inquisitive, jealous, and others are outright scandalized. You suspect that someone’s told Crane who you actually are by now which means he invited you for a reason. Time to find a thread to pull, you think.

You ask, “did you invite me as your plus one to disrupt those routines and loyalties?”

His eyes glimmer, “I did.”

“I’m honored.” You press the rim of your champagne glass to your lips, then lower it, watching Crane’s gaze as they follow your every movement. “Why me, though?”

“I see myself in you,” Crane guides you to the middle of the room where some of the guests are dancing in slow waltzes and whispering business deals to each other. The dark sky of Gotham—light pollution never allows for twinkling stars—peers down at you like the eyes of a shark. You can guess where this is going. The music and conversation provides enough white noise to muffle your conversation as long as you and Crane continue to whisper. You set your champagne glass on a nearby tray.

Crane gently takes your hand and your black bracelet slides on your wrist. “I’ve done my homework after our first meeting.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t do research prior to our first meeting.” You chastise as one of your hands settle on his slim shoulder, “I gave your secretary my real name.”

“A mistake I intend to never repeat.” He leads the dance. It’s a simple box step that doesn’t require much effort nor skill, “thank you for that lesson.”

You smile. “The first one is free.”

His hand slides to your lower back as he nudges you closer, “you really are determined to uncover Arkham’s secrets, aren’t you?” He whispers into the shell of your ear. You glance around the room, ensuring no one is watching—and if they are—well, all they’ll see is Dr. Crane getting close to an attractive woman. He’s good at this. Something in your gut urges you to be careful and play it safe.

“I’m here for the auction, Crane.”

“You’re here for more than that.”

You avoid his keen perception and change tactics.

“You said I remind you of yourself. That’s a bold statement considering we’ve spoken once.” You narrow your eyes over his shoulder at a familiar face. A part-time nurse named Jessica who refused to speak to you after Dr. Mercer’s death. The color of her dress washes out her complexion and the necklace around her throat sparkles like freshly fallen snow. Crane pivots and you lose sight of her.

“I’m a good judge of character,” he replies without missing a step. “In fact, you and Dr. Jacobs...”

Dr. Jacobs. He was on your list as one of Dr. Mercer’s associates, but you never had the chance to interview him. In fact, you planned on following up with Dr. Jacobs after Mercer’s death, but the man wouldn’t return any of your calls. You chalked it up to grief. But now...

Crane continues, “you both have an inner fire that cannot be understated.” He slows his step and tilts his head back to meet your eyes—steady and true. Dr. Crane looks at you as if he’s gazing into a house fire. You swallow.

“They called you ‘quicksilver’ didn’t they? At the Gotham Gazette?” You sense his questions are rhetorical. “I found that fascinating. They named you after a chemical element, a Roman God, because you--” he says your name “—are a force to be reckoned with.”

He leans in, speaking low, “and I pity anyone who underestimates you.”

You comb through his compliments, his lingering looks, and piece together your response. His hand on your lower back threatens to burn through the fabric of your clothing. What will Crane gain by helping you? Does he know that Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer knew each other? And if he’s not helping then he’s...merely pointing out that he sees your ambitious nature...and signaling that he’s the same.

You reply, “maybe I’ll talk to Dr. Jacobs tonight and find out if we’re as similar as you say.”

“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Dr. Crane sighs, “I believe he mentioned a family obligation conflicted with this event.”

Good. His office will be clear to search.

“That’s too bad.”

Dr. Crane smirks lightly, “indeed.” He leads you to the edge of the circle, “I believe I’ve monopolized enough of your time tonight.” He took your co-joined hands and pressed a polite, chaste kiss against your knuckles. Your gaze darts away from him. “I need to speak with a few of my colleagues.”

Finally! The sooner you can snoop the sooner you can leave Arkham.

“Of course,” You step aside and try to not let your eagerness show on your face, “I should go to the ladies room before the bidding begins.”

“I’ll save you a seat.” Dr. Crane says.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arkham’s security is not without its flaws. He and Alfred decided it would be more useful and less disruptive to hack into the system and program the cameras to play a loop of footage rather than try and disable the system from the outside. Thankfully, you needed access to the doctor’s offices which were far less patrolled and monitored than the area where Arkham housed its full-time patients.

An alert pings on his device. That’s his cue. He cuts through the skylight with a thin, blue laser. Then, using a handle with a glass-safe suction cup, he pulls the glass free and carefully sets it aside. Ideally, he’ll return through this skylight once the job is done.

He stands from his crouched position by the window and tests the tension in his repel line.It feels good, secure. He drops into Arkham State Hospital with a faint ‘zzzziiippp’ sound and lands behind you.

“You made it.” You whisper, relieved.

“Worried I wouldn’t?”

“More worried someone would catch me wandering the halls.” You smile a little and his heart squeezes, “I can only use the ‘I’m drunk’ excuse so many times before it gets suspicious.”

“We’ll be quick.” He checks the time, “Alfred said the camera feed will give us an hour, but we should plan for less.”

You set off toward the offices while holding up the flashlight on your phone, “we need to check out Dr. Jacobs’ office.”

The wood-paneled hallways are dimly lit and the only light source is the exit signs glowing red above doorways. The thin dark green carpet helps to muffle your footsteps. He takes a moment to appreciate you walking in front of him. He loves how efficient you are, how fearless, even when it threatens to give him a heart attack. And your ass looks incredible.

You stop in front of the metal double doors. A key card reader glows a muted yellow on the wall.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Why Dr. Jacobs?” He asks while approaching the key reader. He inserts a featureless key card into the slot. It’s attached to a device in his hand by a wide and thin wire and several numbers rapidly scan across the screen and illuminate his jaw in a greenish glow.

“Crane mentioned him.” Your rub your hands over your upper arms, “he said that Dr. Jacobs and I are similar because we’re ambitious. I don’t know. Crane doesn’t strike me as the type of person to say something without it meaning anything. He’s too smart for that.”

Bruce ignores the twinge of jealousy in his stomach. You aren’t interested in Crane. He knows that. You’re using Crane. But it still feels strange to hear you mention another man with a hint of admiration in your tone. He clenches his jaw. Crane isn’t that smart.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the device. “And you think he’s involved in Mercer’s death?”

“Mercer and Jacobs worked together and I never had the chance to interview him before Mercer died.” You lean in to watch the gadget in his palms, “I figured we would search the most likely suspects instead of digging through everyone’s desk.”

You continue, “we start with Jacobs, then Crane, and lastly Haywood.”

He mentally reflects on your files and notes. He should have known that you wouldn’t remove Crane from your list of suspects. Just because Crane wasn’t at Arkham at the same time as Mercer didn’t mean he was off the hook. You regarded everyone at Arkham with a low-level of suspicion. It didn’t matter if they were a groundskeeper, security, or head of the boardroom. Falcone’s payroll is the greatest mystery and it served to err on the side of caution when dealing with a dangerous criminal.

“Jessica Haywood?”

“Mhm.” The device beeps, the light turns green, and the doors click unlocked. “The jewelry she’s wearing tonight is well above the pay grade of a Per Diem nurse.”

Bruce unhooks the device from the reader and opens the door for you. You slip past him and for a brief second—the air lingers with your scent. His eyelashes flutter. It’s getting harder and harder to be this close. He pushes the thoughts from his mind and follow you into the personal offices of the doctors.

He says, “if Haywood is a part-time nurse, then she won’t have an office.”

“We’ll check HR for pay stubs and the nurse’s station log to see which floors and patients she’s worked with.”

Bruce grunts.

“You’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

Your smile threatens to topple the walls inside his heart and drag his loyalty Gotham into the ocean.

“Mostly.”

Dr. Jacob’s office smells like cigarettes. Together you meticulously comb through his files, check under seat cushions, and search for false walls. Bruce plugs a USB into the ancient computer desktop. In ten minutes, he’s obtained the contents of Dr. Jacobs hard-drive and sent it to Alfred for decryption.

On the way to Crane’s office, he asks, “are you still going to re-interview Mercer’s patients?”

“Assuming my relationship to Crane allows me access then yes.”

His heart ignites, burning hot inside his chest, and he exhales sharp through his nostrils.What happened tonight between you and him?He clears his throat and says, “relationship?”

You laugh quietly. “Professional relationship, Batman. Like us.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You realize how silly your words are the second they leave your mouth. Batman stops short and pins his steely blue gaze on you. You shouldn’t have compared you and Crane to you and Batman. They are completely different. Your relationship to Batman almost borders on friendship. Or maybe it’s more like...co-workers who never dated, but did hook up and now have underlying sexual tension.

“Okay, not like that.” You lift your hands, “I’m not out fighting crime with Dr. Crane.”

Some of the tension in Batman’s jaw lessens. “We don’t fight crime together.”

“Well, that’s because you haven’t taught me to fight.” You wiggle your bracelet wrist, “and honestly you’ve been overprotective lately.”

“You’re a civilian.” He counters gruffly.

“So are you.” You lean your shoulder against the wall as Batman crouches at Crane’s door to pick the lock. “Unless you’ve recently been hired by the PD?”

Batman looks up at you and all that dark makeup around his light blue eyes highlights their color and depth. Your skin prickles, hot and sharp and painfully—painfully aware of what those eyes look like during the throes of desperate and sweaty sex. You want to kick yourself. You’re loyal to Bruce, you want to be with Bruce, but that doesn’t erase the attraction you feel towards Vengeance. His eyes drop back to the doorknob and he leaves your question unanswered.

Dr. Crane’s office doesn’t smell like anything which is a relief to your nostrils after the toxic and cloying scent of stale cigarettes in Dr. Jacobs. There isn’t a desktop in Crane’s office which leads you to assume that he takes his laptop home with him. You start with the filing cabinet that Crane glanced at during your interview with him. Batman searches his desk. And you work in comfortable silence. The anticipation gnaws at your stomach.

Come on, Crane.You need something tangible so you can start putting pressure on the doctors and nurses who are involved. Yourfirst article proved that the corruption within Arkham travels all the way to the administration. Mercer said they were powerful which means other doctors are involved. They have to be. So what did Jacobs do? Why did Crane mention him?

You step from the filing cabinet and pace the small office with your arms crossed.

“Dr. Mercer was afraid. He didn’t want to keep giving the police drugs and administration told him to stay quiet. His patients spoke highly of him. His co-workers liked him. Mercer dislike how the administration ran things.” You repeat the story to yourself in the hopes that you’ll find the piece you missed.

“Then, he dies two weeks after I present my article and the Gazette fires me. That’s not a coincidence.”

Batman opens one of the filing cabinet drawers. You let him continue his work as you talk yourself through the file details. There were plenty of co-workers of Dr. Mercer that have issues with Arkham but they were typical standard labor complaints—not enough holiday time, staffing issues, or personality clashes with other doctors. Who else could you talk to?

“I can try Jessica. She stopped talking to me after his death, but I know she idolized Dr. Mercer. Maybe I can appeal to her. Find the humanity.” You pause and press your fist against your lips.

There’s no way she could afford that necklace. Either she has a very wealthy partner or she’s accepted a bribe to stay quiet. But why? What does she know? Or are they just afraid of anyone who MIGHT talk?

A low ‘thump’ noise comes from Batman’s corner of the room.

Batman asks, “what’s Dr. Jacobs title?”

“Chief Psychiatrist.”

You hear him move closer and you turn to meet his stormy eyes. “Quicksilver, you need to see this.” The filing cabinet drawer is open, but a hidden inner compartment is unhinged and Batman grips a thick manila folder.

He opens the folder on Crane’s empty desk. Your heart bottoms out into your shoes and you clamp your fingers over your mouth to muffle your gasp.

“Holy shit!” you breathe.

The file spills out with evidence of experimental trials on patients. Experiments aren’t uncommon at Arkham. Sometimes drug companies and Arkham will partner up to test treatments, but it goes through a whole process of licensing and legal clearance. But this--? You steady one palm against the desk and your knees threaten to collapse from under you. The experiments involved sedating the patients with experimental manufactured opioids and then exposing them to high-stress situations—like torture—to see if their bodies and minds could withstand the pressure while on the experimental pain medication.

“Dr. Mercer…” His name glares in black ink like a gallows noose tightening around your neck. He was involved in this?!

You recall his final words to you before his death, “The guilt,” Dr. Mercer said, his expression pained, “I think it might eat me alive, Silver. I can feel it’s teeth in my heart.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift your phone to take photos of the files. The tests, the results, the sign offs of two prominent doctors: Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer. Your eyes scan through the dates. Eventually, Dr. Mercer’s name stopped appearing. The files shift into another direction. The pain medication is no longer the focal point. Instead, the abstract of the experiment is: ‘To discover the effects of hallucinogens on recovery and behavioral control.’

“Wait,” you flip the pages and count the dates, “what happened to the pain medication trials?”

“It looks like they started a new project.” Batman’s hard and armored shoulder brushes against your body and you tremble for an entirely different reason. You bite your lip and refocus your attention.

“Why didn’t Dr. Mercer tell me? He said he was giving drugs to cops not--” You let out a frustrated sigh, “subjecting mentally ill patients to torture and experimental off-market drugs.”

Gotham, even on her worst days, manages to surprise you. Youbelieved Mercer was one of the good ones. He wanted people to get better. He wanted to help. How could this get so twisted?

“Why does Crane have all this?” he grumbles.

“What do you mean? It’s obvious.”

Batman turns his head toward you, his eyes questioning, and you close your eyes.

“Dr. Jacobs has some big skeletons in his closet. There’s no saving his reputation from this. Arkham will have no choice but to fire him to save face and claim they knew nothing about this. And an internal investigation will likely take place after Jacobs is fired.” You gesture to the files on the desk. “That means Crane, the new blood of Arkham, has the perfect opportunity to apply for his position.”

You recall Crane’s secretive smile, his perceptive gaze, and deliberate and careful words. His glances at this cabinet during your first meeting were planned. He curated this moment from the start.

“He doesn’t want to be the one to blow the whistle on Arkham.”

“Because it would impact his chance at the job,” Batman guesses. It’s a fair enough assumption. You’d bet money on it if you were a betting woman.

You reply earnestly, “no one likes the person who reveals the truth.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Batman places his gloved hand over yours and gently squeezes your fingers, “Gotham needs people like you, Silver.”

Your lips shift into a grateful yet embarrassed smile.

“I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ARKHAM’S CORRUPTION BROUGHT TO LIGHT. The bold text slams across the headline with a grainy, colored photo Dr. Jacobs being arrested outside the hospital.

Every news outlet whether newspaper or television is reporting the story you wrote. The story secretly bankrolled by Bruce Wayne. Your childhood friend and sort-of boyfriend (you haven’t discussed labels yet). The article was published with an independent paper outside of Gotham. It spread like wildfire online and took Gotham by storm. The rest of the media vultures were forced to scramble to keep up.

And—it wouldn’t have been possible without Gotham’s caped crusader. Vengeance. The Bat. He cross-engineered the pain medication and it matched the drugs on the streets. Then, in a surprise twist, he revealed to Gordon that the ongoing hallucinogenic trial had components that matched your blood sample from your time with Falcone. Was it a little weird knowing Batman had your blood samples somewhere? Yes. But it led to the greater good so you chose to accept the weirdness.

The complied evidence encouraged Gordon to look into it. He obtained a warrant to search Dr. Jacobs home and office. His hard-drive contained copies of patient medical history and backups of all of his unethical experiments. ‘Sadly, the documents we found at his office were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Jacobs little pet projects’, you think.

However, the search for his co-conspirators is in process. It’s likely that Dr. Jacobs provided Falcone with the drugs he used on you and the other girls, but you’re doubtful Falcone will face any justice for it. Falcone is too slippery and influential. It’ll take something big to take him down.

Everything was connected just not in the way you imagined.

You click away from the news article.

Arkham’s official statement is “we are saddened to hear that our chief psychiatrist took advantage of our patients and staff. His actions were never sanctioned by our hospital and our thoughts are with the families of the patients at this time.” A rather magnanimous statement considering they’re scrambling for any good PR coverage lately.

You grab your coat from the edge of the couch and check your phone.

The text from Bruce reads: I’m outside.

You haven’t processed everything that’s happened in the span of a week. Gotham Gazette offered you a job with a pay raise and corner office. Dr. Crane mailed you a thank you note for attending the charity auction. The words were typed, concise, and polite. But you see it for what it truly is—Thank you for taking out the competition. Dr. Mercer’s involvement in the experiments is a tender sore on your heart. You never uncovered if Falcone or someone else killed him and now it’s over. You wish you could have put Falcone and his associates behind bars. But you’re forced to settle for shutting down Falcone’s drug connection.

It’s a victory. Victories are rare in Gotham especially for those on the side of justice. You try to remember that.

Arkham will move on. Gotham will move on.

And you have to move on too. There are other stories to be written, truths to bring into the light. You have a date tonight with Bruce and you’re determined to enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You loop your arm around Bruce’s elbow as you walk down the sidewalk toward his car.

“I appreciate that you came out, you know.” You say with fondness laced through your tone. “I know you prefer staying in.”

He’s a recluse, but he comes out to meet you every time you ask. You’re grateful the paparazzi are too swept up in the Dr. Jacobs story to care about the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. You know how he feels about being in the public eye and you don’t want any unnecessary strain added to this new, budding relationship. Life feels almost normal when you’re like this…There’s no lead to chase, no witnesses to interview, no late night sleuthing through the library archives.

His lips twitch upward. “I don’t mind it.” His clear blue eyes glance sidelong toward you, his sooty eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, “as long as it’s with you.”

“Hmm?” You lean closer into his side and let the expensive woolly warmth of his jacket seep into your elbow and arm. “Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for me, Brucie.” You use the nickname from your youth and Bruce reflexively cringes.

“Maybe,” he teases, “but can you blame me?” He suddenly draws to a stop and cradles your cheek with one hand. You lean into the familiar mounds of his palm, the curve of his fingers. The chilly air of Gotham drifts through your legs and curls around your ankles. Every nerve in your body sings with joy at his closeness. Who knew you’d go from childhood friends, to strangers, to this? The tender display of public affection is enough to send your heart into overdrive and your pulse throbs inside your ears.

He gazes at you, pupils dilated, lips softly parted. You think he might kiss you at any moment. Bruce tends to get this look before kissing you—like he can’t believe it, like he thinks he’s dreaming. Your faces draw imperceptibly closer as if pulled by an invisible string. His breath is warm on your lips. It’s a delightful contrast to the chilled wind that tugs at your coat and sneaks cold kisses behind your ears. Your eyes slip shut.

“Oof!” Bruce exclaims. A blunt pain ricochets into your side. Your eyes spring open. You have barely enough time to throw your hands out and catch yourself as you’re knocked sideways and onto the hard and uneven asphalt. You wince as your skin scrapes against the ground. Bruce is on his hands and knees, his eyes wide, hair falling in dark strands in front of his face. A masked assailant towers above him with a wooden baseball bat. Oh God. Oh God.

“Story should’ve stayed dead, bitch!” Someone shouts before their boot stomps into your lower spine and pins you to the asphalt. Instinct takes over. Fear overrides logic. Your breath comes out in haggard puffs. The dark bracelet from Batman glimmers in your peripheral vision. You just need to get close enough. The boot lifts from your back. Someone grunts. The sound of shoes scuffling on the pavement reverberates in your head. Now is your chance! The boot returns with a swift, hard kick into your rib cage.

The air is forced from your lungs in a pained exhale. Everything feels raw. Your throat constricts. Another kick. The world blurs with tears. Your body instinctively curls like a wounded creature. One arm wraps around your stomach and the other to your head. The bracelet dangles like a cherished heirloom in front of your eyes. Batman showed you how to use it, but you can’t activate it from this position, can you? You need your hands free. The next kick hits your shinbone. The pain is acute and travels up your knee. You squeeze your eyes shut. What about Bruce?! You hate this stupid parking lot. You hate that no one is stopping to help or intervene. You hate that you can’t think and that your body is tense and trembling in preparation of the next blow. You hate the helpless feeling that’s building inside your chest and shaking salty tears from your lashes.

Someone is laughing. A slurred, drunk sound. “This one’s got some fight in him!”

“Whadda you think we should we do with him?”

“Just knock him out!” The one above you yells, “we’re here for her. Not him.”

Three. Three voices. There’s three of them. The next kick hits your shoulder and your forced onto your back. There’s no time to prepare, no time to cry out, as the boot presses into your throat. Fuck! You glance quickly to where Bruce was and see that he’s fighting—you gurgle as your assailant applies pressure to your neck and glares down at you through the holes in his ski-mask. A ski mask? What a cliché. An unexpected, hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. You flail and scratch your nails against his denim covered leg.

“This is what happens to nosy journalists in Gotham,” he sneers from above, “you should have just kept your pretty mouth shut and wrote stories about missing puppies and shit.” Several white dots dance around your vision.

Bruce grunts in pain. Your worry for his safety abruptly overrides your fear and hysteria. You don’t care if these guys are here to kill you or scare you, but you aren’t going to let them keep hurting Bruce. His only crime was being close to you. If he wasn’t here with you...then this never would’ve happened. You aren’t powerless. You aren’t helpless.

You release your hands from the thug’s leg and grab your bracelet. Muscle memory takes over. You presses into the spot near your wristbone and the bracelet hums to life. Two prongs like a spider’s fangs eject from the edge of the bracelet near the back of your hand. You slam the fangs into your assailant’s leg. They easily bite through the fabric of his jeans. The electric shock throws him off-balance and he convulses with a screech of pain. Your lungs rapidly expand as if to greedily swallow the air you were denied. You roll onto your stomach, onto your hands and knees, before pulling yourself upright. The scene comes to you in broken, jagged pieces.

The leader in the ski mask is on the ground sprawled out and twitching. If he’s dead then good riddance even though you’d like to know who sent him. The other two thugs are on the ground and Bruce is standing over them—chest heaving, his dark hair in disarray, his bloodied fists clenched at his sides, his chin smeared with blood from a split lip.

You exhale, “Bruce.” It’s unclear who moves first: you or him. Your arms encircle his middle and he clutches you to his chest like you’re going to fade into smoke.

“You’re okay?” His voice is raw and trembling, he strokes the sides of your face, your arms, your shoulders with desperate and careful motions, his eyes roam every inch of you, “you’re okay?”

You manage to nod. It’s surreal. You’re no stranger to violence in Gotham. You’ve run from drug dealers, used pepper spray on someone trying to steal your car, veered off the road due to a high speed chance, and not to mention your time with Falcone—your investigative journalism is a high risk occupation. But you’ve never been scared like this before. You can’t help but wonder if it’s because Bruce was involved. You feared for his safety. You refused to entertain the thought of losing him.

“Let’s go—let’s go.” He urges, pulling you by the elbow to his car, “c’mon, Silver.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I’m so sorry.” It’s your fault. Bruce paid for the story, but you’ll pay the price of exposing Arkham for the rest of your life. “I’m sorry...”

Bruce shakes his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t recall the drive to Wayne Penthouse. You sat in the passenger seat with your eyes closed, your hands cupped around your head between your knees, forcing air into your lungs and exhaling slowly until your heart regulated. Bruce is painfully quiet. You don’t register anything until the purring car engine shuts off.

“Bruce,” you begin, lifting your head, “I’m so sorry.” Bruce is staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of his garage, raw knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, his eyes closed. His expression pained and closed-off. Your feel your heart drag across razor blades. He fought for you, bled for you. You’re relieved he could hold his own and grateful that the thugs didn’t bring any weapons besides wooden baseball bats and bare fists. You don’t want to think about what could’ve happened if any of them had a gun.

He rasps, “Don’t.”

You unbuckle and angle yourself toward him. Your bruised skin bristles with pain at the twist of your spine and shift of your hips. You need to explain. You need to help him see. This is an unfortunate part of the life you lead. He once joked that you were a ‘journalist with a death wish’. It’s not true, of course. You have no desire to die. But you have and will continue to suffer for the sake of Gotham’s truth. When you pursue influential people and start airing their dirty laundry, they will use their power, wealth, and any illegal or legal resources to try and scare you away.

Unfortunately for them, you aren’t easily cowed. What was it Falcone said? You’ve got Gotham in your blood. Gotham raised you. She taught you how to read people, and be resourceful, and hungry for truth.

“Bruce—they wanted me. They wanted to punish me for the Arkham article.”

“I know.”

“If you weren’t with me…” You trail off and look at the center dashboard of his expensive designer car. The guilt gnaws at your bones, threatening to break them. Bruce grabs your chin. His grip isn’t painful—it never is—but it is pointed, urgent, and he yanks your face toward his.

His lips press into yours without warning. Your mouth opens for him and a faint taste of copper bites your tongue. You’ve kissed Bruce more than a dozen times. But never like this.

His tongue moves in desperate, messy strokes and each movement sends a hot and powerful spark to your core. He groans loudly into your mouth, cupping the back of your skull, keeping you close, not even allowing you to break away to breath. You inhale raggedly through your nostrils and push your fingers up along his chest. Something fragile and tenuous shatters between you. He’s alive. You’re alive. It was a harrowing experience—but you are here. Together.

“I need you,” He gasps, “please.” He presses his forehead against yours and his sweet blue eyes bleed into yours. Up close, you can see the reddish-purple swell of a bruise forming on his cheekbone. His lips are raw, bloody, the split lip likely re-opened and aggravated from kissing. You close your eyes to collect your thoughts. You know Bruce. You know him like the lines on the sidewalk outside your childhood home. You know him like the curved handle of your favorite coffee mug. You know Bruce isn’t lying when he tells you he needs you and you know he’s not exaggerating either. You’ve wanted him for years. Ached for him. And this moment might not be perfect, it might not be what you imagined, but God—you’re not going to turn him away. Not when you need him just as desperately as he needs you.

“Okay,” You swipe your thumb across his bloodied lip, “yes, Bruce. Yes.”

Bruce’s expression crumples with relief and he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is slower this time. You take a moment to savor it. Your fingers card through his silky, dark hair and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth with an appreciative hum.

His cool and calloused hand pushes along your upper thigh.

“Right here?” You guess.

“Right here.” He adjusts and grabs your hips to pull you over the center console and into his lap. Your ass bumps against the steering wheel. At least it’s private, you smile at the thought. No one is going to come wandering into Wayne’s personal garage. Except for maybe Alfred? But you assume the old man has enough sense to give you and Bruce plenty of space. Bruce’s lips travel down your jaw to your throat and you angle your neck back to allow him more space to explore. His kisses are light and exploratory, slightly roughed by the dryness of his mouth and gentle scrape of his stubble. It feels better than you could’ve imagined.

Bruce exhales, his voice pitched low and gravely, “I’ve wanted you for so long,” his mouth closes over your collarbone. Your heart leaps at his words, at the implication, at the idea that maybe...just maybe...you weren’t the only one yearning and hoping for years on end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His body is sore. He forgot how much things can hurt when he’s not in the suit. But nothing is going to tear him away from this moment with you. He’s careful where he touches. He knows that low-life got more than a few kicks onto your perfect body and if he had been alone then he would’ve broken every bone in that man’s body as recompense. His anger threatens to boil to the forefront of his mind, but Bruce wrestles it back. Now isn’t the time.

He tugs your dress off your shoulders and his cock twitches at the sound of your pleased sigh. Your breasts are perfect. Perfect shape. And at this angle? The perfect height for him to bury his face between them and trail kisses across your skin. He’s never had the opportunity to worship you like this. To press his lips and tongue against your skin, taste your sweat, feel your heartbeat against his nose. His lips enclose around one of your nipples and you cry out, your fingers entangling in his hair to pull him closer, and he flicks his tongue against the hardened nub.

“Fuck,” he moans, his hot breath pants against your skin, before he cups the breast in his hand and holds it while his tongue and mouth lavishes across your nipple over and over again. Your hips cant into his, seeking friction and release, and he trembles as your clothed cunt grinds into his hard cock.

“I’ll give you what you want, Quicksilver.” He promises and you whimper in reply to his words, “Shh.” His bloodied knuckles shine in the light as he kneads your other breast beneath his palm. “I’ll take care of you.”

He wants to make this memorable. He wants it to mean something. He’s outside the shadows with you for the first time. He isn’t hiding behind the cowl, behind his loyalty to Gotham. He is raw, and bloodied, and trembling with anticipation. Your fingers fumble with the hem of his long-sleeved dark shirt and yank it upwards in a graceless motion. He winces as he leans back, his arms overhead, and the shirt is tossed to the passenger side.

“Oh, fuck, Bruce!” You blurt and place your hand above his right pectoral. He winces again at the pressure, but gently places his hand on your wrist. His heart swells with pride and appreciation at his bracelet dangling from your wrist. It saved you when he couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” He looks toward the cut. It’s shallow. Superficial. It likely won’t scar. “Hey, hey, look at me.” He guides your chin, meeting your eyes, and his heart capsizes at the concern pouring from your gaze. “I’m okay, Silver. I promise.”

He holds your chin and kisses you before you have the chance to apologize again. It’s not your fault. It’s his. He got complacent after the article was released. He made a grievous error through his lack of vigilance. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve had Alfred checking the footage to see if you were being tailed, should’ve suggested you stay at the penthouse for a few days until the dust settled. People at Arkham and people connected to Jacobs and Falcone are going to try and settle the score.

He won’t let that happen, though. He feels you relax beneath his touch, feels your lips move urgently against his, how your body arches into him and your hardened nipples press into his bare chest. Bruce shivers. God, it feels so good to be skin to skin with you. He is wholly without armor in both the physical and metaphorical sense and it’s terrifying and electrifying.

He wonders if you know how you affect him. His hands cup your backside, squeezing, pressing you closer into him and pressing his agonizingly hard length between your legs. You make a sweet, soft sound and Bruce swallows back his groan. Everything you do is intoxicating to him.

“I’d like to do this again after we’re inside,” he says to the hollow of your throat, “properly.”

“Properly?” your laughter runs like a vein through your voice, “like with candles and roses?”

“Something like that,” he bunches the bottom of your dress until its hiked up in a ruffled heap around your hips and his gaze snags on the bruises on your ribs. “I’ll leave it to your imagination.” He says with a small grin.

“Ohh, a surprise.”

“Mm.”

He pushes his hand between your legs and discovers the dampened fabric of your underwear. Fuck. You’re always so wet for him. Bruce’s eyes roll back into his skull and he hisses through his teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were worried the sight of Bruce’s injuries would be a deterrent, but it isn’t. His bloodied lip, swollen cheekbone, and the bleeding cut on his chest are proof that he lived. A little scuffed up, but whole and alive and touching you with comfortable ease. You whimper at the first touch of his thumb across your swollen clit. Your body thrums with frustrated desire. He’s already made the tempting promise to continue once you’re inside the penthouse and quite frankly—you want to two things: for Bruce to be inside of you and then to see what he has planned in the comfort and luxury of his home.

“Bruce, please,” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, “don’t make me wait.”

He buries his face between your breasts, his kisses sloppy, and mumbles, “I want you to come first.”

Always a goddamn gentleman!

He arches his neck, leaning his head back against the headrest of his seat, and gazes up at you with fervent adoration. You open your mouth to quip at him, to tell him the car is cramped and you’re feeling impatient, but then the concentric motion of his fingers tightens, adding pressure, and the effect is dizzying. Your mouth lets out a garbled “please” instead of articulating any of the other thoughts inside of your head. You lean forward to kiss him, feeling his nose press into yours and the coppery taste of his kiss blossoms on your tongue. Your hips thrust and chase the movements of his hand.

Your hands glide across his chest, his arms—which are surprisingly sinewy—and your fingertips catch along ridges and bumps that can only be attributed to scars. But scars from what? Before the thought can form, Bruce’s index and middle fingers plunge into your wet cunt and your spine convulses and your walls clench around his digits. The world goes muted and soft. Gotham narrows into two souls in an expensive, black car within a private garage beneath a penthouse.

You pant into Bruce’s mouth, sweat collecting on your temples, as he strokes and coaxes the fire burning low and hot in your lower belly.

Bruce says, “you’re so beautiful.” His words are quiet, bashful. And your neck prickles at the compliment. It means more coming from him than anyone else in the world. You hide your face in the crook of Bruce’s warm neck and pepper kisses along his jaw and the side of his face. The windows fog. The sound of his fingers moving slick and fast between your legs fills your eardrums. Your thighs shake.

“F-fuck.” You choke out, “close.”

“That’s it,” he whispers, “that’s my perfect girl. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm hits you slow and serene and drawn-out. Your neck arches and your chin rests on Bruce’s forehead as the quakes tremble through your body in throbs of heat and euphoria. Bruce keeps his hand there, poised within as your walls rhythmically squeeze around his fingers, and he doesn’t pull away until your head drops against his shoulder and pant onto his damp, bruised skin.

He kisses your temple. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.”

It’s awkward. You lift your hips and your arms tremble as you hold yourself steady. He struggles to unzip his pants. You only get a brief glance of his cock before he positions himself between your legs and motions with his other hand for you to lower yourself. You brace yourself on his shoulders and Bruce looks up, holding your eye-contact, and is unwavering as the tip of his cock slips between your folds.

His teeth bare into a snarl, “Oh, fuck.”

The blue of his eyes are nearly swallowed whole by his pupils. He moans your name like it’s being ripped from his soul. You let out a breathy chuckle, allowing yourself to close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you as Bruce sinks into you inch by inch. It feels so good you don’t want to move. You rock your hips back and forth instead of thrusting and it creates a deep and wonderful sensation that travels from your head to your toes. He fits perfect. His mouth travels hungrily across your chest and neck and jaw. His tongue licks glistening stripes of sweat from your skin. His hands knead and squeeze your ass. You feel as if Bruce is trying to melt your bodies together, consume you, and you find yourself copying his motions. You kiss him, bloodied lips and all, and drink in his low and deep groans. Your hands, even as they smear with the blood from his cut, travel across the muscled expanse of his pale chest and your fingertips occasionally dig in when he thrusts up into you. You’ve passed the threshold of your earlier desperate frenzy to touch and be touched, to feel alive and safe together.

These movements, these gestures, speak to the deep cavern of tenderness that is shared between you. Your throat tightens. Bruce’s fingertips trail along your spine and he turns his head to whisper your name into your ear.

Time doesn’t move. It melts. It shapes condensation on the windows. It pools at the dip between Bruce’s collarbones. It glistens where your bodies are joined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you cradle his face between your hands and touch sweaty forehead to sweaty forehead. Your heart is pounding. Your dress is crumpled around your hips and stuck to your skin. Your bruises pulsate with muted pain. Bruce’s dried blood peeks between your fingers. And yet you’ve never felt more at peace.

He says, “stay with me.”

“W-what?”

“Stay with me,” he repeats, unfazed by your confusion, “for a few days. Maybe a week.”

You swallow. Okay, stay calm. He’s not asking you to move in. Your smile breaks across your face and Bruce’s eyes widen at the sight of it. As if bearing witness to your joy is a privilege and not something he’s earned.

“We’re having this conversation now?”

“Silver,” he chuckles dryly and your smile widens. It’s so wonderful to hear Bruce laugh. “Someday, I’d like to ask you a question and get a straight answer.”

“I’m a journalist.” You roll your eyes, “asking follow-up questions is my forte.”

Bruce takes your hand between his and intertwines your fingers, “and you’re the best journalist Gotham has.” He meets your eyes, “so, will you stay?”

You should tell Bruce ‘no’ from time to time. It’ll be good for his pride. Today, however, is not the day.

“Yes, Bruce. I’ll stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake during the night. Bruce’s bedroom is cozily lit from the bedside table lamp and you reach across his back to shut it off. Your hand freezes in mid-air. They are scars. After you and Bruce left the garage, you meant to ask him about it, but his hands and mouth were...too distracting...and you lost all train of thought. You sit up and analyze the serpentine shape of his spine, the moles totting his skin, the curve of his shoulder blades, the cream colored sheets wrapped around his slim waist.

You resist the temptation to trail your fingers across the scars. You don’t want to wake him.

You hope that those thugs didn’t leave him with any scars. He claimed the one on his chest would heal fine. But, how does he know? He isn’t a doctor. You shift and sit upright. Your instincts flare. A gut reaction hits you like a punch to the throat. There’s blood in the water. There’s bones under the soil. A story. Another thread to pull. You carefully climb out of bed and grab a few pieces of blank paper from Bruce’s desk.

You start with today—it’s fresh in your mind.

The bracelet. Bruce didn’t notice or make comments when you first began wearing it. He didn’t ask any questions after seeing the bracelet electrocute someone into unconsciousness. Okay. A little odd, right? But there’s a few possible answers. Maybe he didn’t see it happen. Maybe he assumed you used a standard taser.

You write ‘why didn’t Batman come for me?’ on the page and stare at the letters. Batboy always has a knack for knowing when you’re in trouble. He didn’t show today. You know you aren’t his first priority. You know he’s got an entire city to look out for. But…

You write ‘Security’ on the page. Alfred told you that the Wayne home has ‘top of the line’ security. How the hell did Batman break-in without tripping any of the alarms? You’re certain that Bruce or Alfred would’ve mentioned something if they were worried about the security of the home.

You write ‘Falcone’. You sketch out the timeline out of instinct. Falcone is well-known around Gotham, but when you and Bruce reconnected, you never explicitly told him you were investigating Falcone. It was better to keep that sort of thing under wraps. It’s safer that way.

After you were released from the hospital, Bruce said something like ‘Falcone can’t hurt you’ right? You rub your hand over your jaw and frown. This is a long shot. You grab your phone and text Gordon the following message: ‘Hey, did you tell Bruce that I was drugged by Falcone?’

You scribble onto the page and let your mind wander. You doodle a little flower. And the memory hits like a freight train. Bruce’s flowers. They said ‘to my perfect girl’. Never in your time together had Bruce used that nickname. Batman, however, did. Your heart leaps inside your throat and your phone buzzes in your hand.

Gordon replies: God, kid. What are you doing awake at this hour? To answer your question, no. When I called Mr. Wayne, I informed him that you were caught in the middle of an active investigation and dosed with an unknown drug. I might have mentioned Falcone while ya’ll were together in the room, but I never directly stated that Falcone harmed or drugged you. Now get some sleep!

You reply a quick thanks and set your phone down. This is crazy. Bruce is Batman? He’s Vengeance? You press your fingertips into your tired eyes and your thoughts circle like sharks. And if he is then why didn’t he tell you? You huff and stare at your quick notes scribbled on various pieces of paper scattered on the carpet.

It isn’t so unusual, is it? He’s grossly wealthy, intelligent, and without a social life which gives him lots of free time. And you recently learned that Bruce can fight! Those scars of his aren’t from kitchen mishaps or car accidents.

“What’re you doing?” Bruce’s groggy voice lifts from the frumpy bed sheets.

Well, it’s now or never. There’s no way you’re going back to sleep with this question hanging like an anvil over your head.

“Are you Batman?”

Bruce sits up.

“Or Vengeance? Whatever you like to go by, I suppose.”

He rubs his hand down the length of his face. His shoulders are stiff. You watch as he swings his legs and clambers off the bed with clumsy grace. His boxer briefs hang low on his hips and as he stands before you in the light of his bedroom you can’t help but notice the scars on his chest.

His eyes scan the disorganized and chaotic papers on the floor. His expression is unreadable. You lay your palms on your knees and wait for his reply. Although you think his silence is answer enough.

“Silver…” He says with a minute shake of his head, “can this wait until morning?”

“No.” You deadpan, “I won’t be able to sleep without knowing.”

Bruce slowly lowers himself to sit across from you on the floor. Suddenly, you are eight years old again and having a sleep-over party at the Wayne’s. His mother is downstairs making popcorn. You both won’t stop arguing over which movie to watch. Your heart clenches. You blink away the memory. Once upon a time, you called Bruce Wayne your best friend.

He sighs.

“Bruce,” you wait until he meets your gaze and you hold it, “I want the truth.”

“I know.” He drags his fingers through his messy dark hair.

“Is that something you can give me?” You swallow the lump in your throat. If he can’t be honest, if he brushes it off or refuses to reply, then you know this relationship—hell, your rekindled friendship—is dead in the water. Even your partnership to Batman will be forced to end. He peers at you through the strands of his hair falling in front of his forehead. You wait. He can agonize over his response all he wants. The truth, as always, is the only thing that matters.

He finally says, “yes.”

“Yes as in you’re Batman? Or yes as in you can tell me the truth?”

“Both.”

You tap two fingers against your papers on the floor, “ha! Knew it.” You scoot closer to Bruce and his eyes widen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You gaze up at the high ceiling, your brow furrowed in thought. You slept with Batman—Bruce – twice and he never thought about revealing his secret? Would he have just continued to live a secret double life while dating? Did he seriously expect that you wouldn’t figure it out someday?

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“After today,” you chuckle, “I think I have more enemies than Batman does.”

Bruce says your name softly, “This is only the beginning for me, Silver.” His hands curl into a fist, “Gotham needs me.”

“Gotham needs me too, you dork. You said so yourself!” You smile. “None of these other freelance journalists have the courage to take down the big fish. We both are driven by our love for this city. We both take risks. If you can continue to do your job and I can continue to do mine then I don’t see any issue.”

He stares at you and his lips part in awe.

“I thought if you knew...” says Bruce quietly, “you’d leave.”

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his curled fist. “Bruce, I – well—I endured several years without you and you know what? Those years sucked.” You smile, a timid and gentle smile, and more vulnerable than you’ve ever given him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Bruce leans in and rests his forehead on your bare shoulder.

He murmurs, “I don’t want to be anywhere else either.”

“Then it’s settled. We stay together and fight crime and change Gotham for the better.”

Bruce lifts his head and levels you with a serious look, “you are not fighting.”

You tease, “okay, you say that now, but I’m already work-shopping costume ideas and team names.” You cup the side of his face, “The Silver Bat? Mercury and Vengeance? Batboy and Journalist Gal?” You ramble off your ideas until Bruce’s serious expression melts away and his lips twitch in a begrudging smirk.

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #happy halloween #battinson imagine #batman x reader #batman x you #dc fic #the batman fic #bruce wayne x you #battinson x you #fic: from above gotham glows #kinktober 2022

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