#he can’t lose Bernard

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

Instead of going for Tim, Jason goes for the easiest way to utterly destroy his Replacement and kidnaps his civilian boyfriend to demonstrate just how easy it is to lose something (or someone) you love in this line of work.

And while the whole “make the Replacement beg” part of the plan is going amazing…. Jason really didn’t plan the whole “keeping a conspiracy theorist teenager hostage” through to the end.

Bernard just wants to know what the new crime lord’s deal with Robin is. And why— and how— exactly he’s supposed to be a bargaining chip when he can count the times he met Robin on one hand. oh! and could someone maybe tell his boyfriend, Tim, that he’ll be late for their coffee date on Tuesday?

#Jason and Bernard #I aim to make that a glorious tag #anyway #I stick by it that Bernard has golden retriever energy #too precious for this cruel world #but also kickass when pushed #but it happens once a century so… #Bernard ‘this crime lord seems sad I need to help him’ dowd #Jason ‘stop trying to feed me chocolate and make me talk about feelings’ Todd #Bernard subtly trying to manipulate Jason into NOT trying to kill Robin #Jason absolutely sees through it but— it’s hard to say no to those puppy eyes okay? #meanwhile Jason is also feeding Tim with horror stories about what he’s doing to his ‘precious bf’ #Tim is so wrecked he downright resorts to begging on his knees #he can’t lose Bernard #he just CANT #TimBern #TimBer #jason todd #batfamily #batfam #robin #tim drake #Bernard dowd #fanfiction #prompts

[daddyslilchickenfingers2]

Kinktober (reuploaded)

Forced Orgasms (Matt)

Request: handcuffing & blindfolding matt on his birthday. his gift is reader herself. she goes down on him & whispers filthy things in his ear. putting her boobs in his face. riding him. but he can't see or touch the entire time. so he gets so overwhelmed out of pleasure & all that?

Warnings: smut, use of handcuffs/vibrator/blindfold, minimal squirting, daddy kink, idk what else to put lol

Matt’s pov

Today was our 20th birthday, it was Sunday morning and I woke up to the smell of vanilla and coconut. It was Y/n, our hometown best friend who now lives near us in LA, I’d know her smell anywhere. See, I may or may not have a huge crush on her, so I was pleasantly surprised to be woken up by her. “Good morning Matthew, happy birthday!” she said excitedly as I rolled over in bed, “Don’t call me Matthew” I groaned into my pillow. “C’mon get up! Me, Madi, and Laura have a surprise for you guys, go brush your teeth” she tried pulling me up but failed, “Okay fine” I agreed, getting up and going to brush my teeth.

She covered my eyes as we walked downstairs to the living room, I heard Nick complaining to Madi when we got there and assumed we were just waiting on Chris. I was right as a couple of minutes later we heard Chris come upstairs and all of our eyes were uncovered “Surprise!” we heard a bunch of people say. It was our parents, Justin, and Nate, that was a really good surprise. We walked over and hugged everyone, thanking Laura, Y/n, and Madi afterwards because they knew we missed everyone. We had a pretty chill day, going out for a late lunch around 4pm because our parents and Justin were jet lagged as fuck. Nate was staying with us and he wasn’t really that tired anyways.

We got home around 6:30pm, Madi, Y/n, and obviously, Nate came back with us. I felt like everyone knew something that I didn’t because Chris and Nate kept smirking at me while Y/n, Nick, and Madi kept whispering shit to each other. I was confused but I just ignored it, chilling for an hour and a half before I went upstairs to change, for some reason, Y/n followed me. “What are you doing?” I questioned her, she grabbed one of my hands, making me nervous as she played with the couple of rings I had on. She looked at me with an adorable shy smile, “I have another gift but it’s only for you, pack some clothes and stuff, it’s a surprise” she said shyly, letting my hand go as she sat on my bed. I was still confused but I packed a bag anyways, we headed downstairs and Y/n said bye to everyone.

I was literally so confused, where are we going, what are we doing? I thought to myself as I too said bye to everyone. “Bye Bernard, have fun, and don’t get mad at me for exposing you!” Chris shouted as we left. “What is he talking about?” I asked Y/n, “Don’t worry about it, but you can’t get mad at me if you don’t like it. It was Chris’ idea, I just agreed that I liked it” she once again said nervously as we got into her car. We arrived at her apartment but before going inside she put a blindfold on me, dragging me inside “Wait here for two seconds I’ll be right back” she said, running up the stairs.

Coming back down after a few minutes, she grabbed my hand again and helped me up the stairs, we made it to her bedroom. I could smell her favorite vanilla candle burning which was calming but I got nervous again when she started speaking, holding one of my hands again. “Promise me that you won’t beat Chris’ ass for telling me this and don’t yell at Nate and Nick for telling me something else” she pleaded, now I was concerned because what the fuck did they tell her?

“I promise to try not to beat his ass” I nervously laughed, still not able to see anything, “And you have to promise not to get mad at me because I’ve almost backed out so many times because I don’t want to lose you as a friend” she said kinda fast. That’s something she does when she’s really anxious so I pulled her in for a hug, she had definitely changed shirts since I could now feel her shoulders but I just ignored it “I could never get mad at you” I honestly told her. “You have to promise me Matt” she mumbled, “I promise Y/n/n” I said as she pulled away, standing off to the side of me.

“Okay then take your blindfold off” I did as she said, blinking a few times before realizing what was laid out on her bed. There was a black silky blindfold, two sets of fuzzy black handcuffs, and a vibrator on her bed. Confused I turned to Y/n to ask, “What is all that f-“ but I quickly cut myself off, when I saw what she was wearing, “Woah…” I said as I felt my cock start to get hard. There she was, wearing an all black, lace lingerie set and she looked fucking phenomenal. “Do ya like it Matty?” said asked while biting her lip, my eyes raked over her body, “Love it” was all I could manage to say.

Y/n stood in front of me, “So Nick and Nate have been saying you have a little crush on me…” she teased, “And Chris really did you a solid” she continued. I blushed because it’s true but I was also confused as to what Chris told her. “What did he do?” I asked, Y/n stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, making my breath hitch. “He told me that you wanted me to blindfold you and handcuff you to the bed. And that you wanted me to ride you and tease you all night” she said in a seductive voice. Moving closer to my ear, she whispered, “Is that something you really want Matty?” she asked before stepping back.

I couldn’t believe what she just said, I was only able to let out a breathless, “Please” which made her smile. “Yeah? Then strip down to your boxers and sit on the bed for me pretty boy” she said. Placing her hand over my cock and giving it a quick squeeze before she sat on the corner of the bed. I stood there processing everything until she snapped me out of it, “I’m waiting Matty” she spoke in a condescending tone. With that I quickly got undressed and sat on the bed, Y/n came and sat on my lap “You really wanna do this Matt?” she asked sweetly.

Y/n’s pov

Matt put his hands on my waist and looked at me with his bright blue eyes, “More than anything, please I want this so bad” he said before moving one hand to my cheek and pulling me in for a kiss. I started grinding down on him as the kiss got heated, I grabbed one set of handcuffs and cuffed his right arm to the bed frame. Matt bucked his hips up and whined as I did the same with his left hand and he pulled away. “Holy fuck this is already so much hotter than I could have ever imagined” he panted, already looking so fucked out.

Before I could say anything, Matt spoke in a low voice, “Chris left one thing out, I want you to force me to cum until I physically can’t anymore. Don’t stop unless I say the color red. No matter what, do not stop” “That’s fucking hot” I smirked at him. I placed my lips back onto Matt’s while rubbing my hands up his sides, biting his lip as I pulled away. “Are you ready for the blindfold daddy?” I asked, remembering Matt once said he had a daddy kink. He let out a deep groan “Wanna see you get naked first” considering he’d be blindfolded for most of this, I decided to be nice.

I got off the bed and turned around, teasingly taking my panties off so Matt could see my ass before I went back to straddling his lap. I unhooked my bra and dropped it off the side of the bed while Matt’s eyes stayed glued to my chest. He was also biting his lip so I gently pulled it back from his teeth, “Is this better?” I asked as I grabbed the blindfold. “So much better” he replied, “It’s a shame you won’t be able to see it” I smirked as I slipped the blindfold over his head and got up, remembering I forgot to pull out my lube. “What are you doing?” he questioned but I just ignored him, throwing the lube on the bed and sliding his boxers down.

I knew Matt was going to be big, but I wasn’t expecting him to be this big, “You never told me you had such a big dick before” I teased him, watching his cock ooze with precum. “You never asked” he replied back, trying to be a smart ass but quickly humbled himself as I grabbed onto his cock. “Don’t be smart mouth with me, Matthew” I replied, moving down to tease his cock, licking a bold stripe from his balls all the way up to his tip. His breath hitched as I moved back to sitting on his lap, grinding my wet pussy against his cock. “Don’t tease me Y/n/n” Matt groaned, thrusting his hips up in hopes of sliding into me but failed.

I kissed my way down Matt’s body, fully taking all of his hard cock into my mouth at once causing Matt to let out a surprised moan. I licked all across his shaft, digging my tongue into the slit which caused Matt to buck his hips up and make me gag. I continued sucking him off until, without a warning, Matt came down my throat. I moaned around his cock before pulling off and swallowing, “That was- wow that was amazing” Matt panted out. “Want me to ride your cock daddy?” I asked while kissing his neck and rubbing his thigh, causing him to get hard again. “Please do. I want your wet little pussy around my cock so bad baby” he groaned, desperate to fully live out his fantasy. I moved to straddle his lap, lining up my hole with his dick and slowly sinking down, whimpering at the big stretch.

“You’re so big Matt! Making me feel so full” I whined. Slowly, I started to move on his cock, “Goddamn babe, you’re so fucking tight” Matt groaned, bucking his hips up slightly. I started moving at a pretty decent pace, loving Matt’s moans and grunts from beneath me. I removed my hands from his shoulders and started playing with my tits, making sure to let out loud whines and moans to tease him. “I bet you wish you were the one touching my tits right now huh?” I teased, shoving my boobs in his face. “So badly Y/n/n, fuck- I want you to cum around my cock so bad” he said, I moaned as he started thrusting his hips up, causing me to get closer to the edge.

“S-So close daddy” I cried out, “Be a good girl and rub your clit for me” Matt ordered, I started bouncing faster and rubbing my clit. “Fuck Matt, I’m gonna cum! Need you to cum inside of me” I told him as started to cum around his cock, moaning loudly. Matt let out a grunt before filling me up with his cum, I slowly got off his cock and ran my fingers through my folds to collect all the cum. Once my fingers were coated with a mixture of our cum, I brought them up to Matt’s mouth. “Suck my fingers for me Matty” I asked nicely, rubbing the tips of my fingers across his lips, Matt obliged and sucked all three of my fingers clean. He wasn’t hard again yet, but I still started cleaning the cum off his cock with my tongue, slightly overstimulating him. Slowly Matt got hard again, whimpering as I started to kitten lick the tip, making him involuntarily thrust his hips up.

“Too much Matt?” I questioned in a teasing tone, “No! Feels so good, I can definitely cum more for you!” he whimpered out desperately. I started to give him head again, deep throating him the best I could while massaging his balls. I ran my other hand up and down his stomach, lightly scratching the skin and making him shudder at the feeling. “You’re doing so good Y/n/n, making me feel amazing! I always knew you were a slut for my cock” Matt groaned, both praising and degrading me. I moaned around his cock which caused him to thrust his hips up and let out a guttural groan as he came down my throat with minimal warning. All I got was a whiny, “I’m g-gonna—” before he was shooting his load into my mouth.

I obviously swallowed and then pressed my lips against Matt’s, smiling into the quick kiss. I licked up the side of Matt’s neck, nibbling on his earlobe before asking, “How’s the birthday boy enjoying his surprise gift?” resulting in him whimpering. “He’s enjoying it more than he should be…” he moaned, “That’s good, is it too much yet baby?” I asked, wanting to make sure I wasn’t making him cum too much in such a short amount of time. “No, I want more… Actually, I need more. Please! Remember what I said?” He squirmed as I ran my hand across his inner thighs “You want me to force you to cum until you can’t anymore and say the color red” I replied with a giggle.

“That’s correct and I don’t remember saying red yet, so get back to work” he ordered me, “Matt you’re really not in any position to tell me what to do, you know? If I wanted to I could just leave you like this, hard and needy” I teased him. “You wouldn’t dare” he growled, moving his legs to wrap around my thigh and pulling me closer so he could grind himself up against my thigh. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting him to do that but it was really fucking hot. “Wow, I didn’t know you were so needy for me daddy” I said as I pulled my thigh away from his dick, “Take off the fucking blindfold” he tried to sound authoritative, but he honestly just sounded like he was begging.

Instead of giving him what he wanted, I grabbed the lube and opened it, squirting some directly onto Matt’s hard cock. “Fuck, that’s cold” Matt whined before I started jerking him off, spreading around both the lube and the precum on his cock. I was moving my hand at a fast pace and since Matt was already extremely oversensitive so I wasn’t too shocked when he started cumming a bit, but I didn’t stop this time, I kept going. I was enjoying how much Matt was squirming and whimpering under me and I knew it was starting to become too much for him.

Matt surprisingly came a lot for this being his 5th orgasm in such a short amount of time, shooting out cum onto his stomach and my hand. “Have you ever used a vibrator before Matt?” I asked while he was panting from his orgasm, “Yeah, I have one. They feel good, are you gonna use yours on me?” he asked out of breath. “Can I?” I asked, not wanting to push it, “You can, IF you take the blindfold off and let me eat you in the morning” he explained. “Okay fine, only because I wanna see those pretty blue eyes” I agreed.

I slipped the blindfold off, letting Matt’s eyes adjust to the light, watching as they scanned the room before looking at me and staring to get hard again. “Look at that, all I have to do is look at you to get hard” he chuckled before adding, “Make out with me for a minute, yeah?” I giggled at his cuteness but complied, cupping one side of his face and pressing our lips together. We had a heated makeout for a few minutes before I pulled away, Matt bit my lip as I did so, making me whine. “If you want me to cum a lot, you’re going to have to use the vibrator on my tip mostly” he said quietly, blush spreading across his face.

I kissed his neck, mumbling a quick “Got it” before sucking a few hickies onto his collarbone. “This is definitely going to be the last time I’ll be able to cum so I want you to ride my thigh and use that vibrator on me. I need to mark you up too, it’s not fair” he told me. I grabbed the small vibrator and sat on his thigh, slowly rocking back and forth before I turned it on and enclosed my fist with the vibrator around the tip of his cock. Almost instantaneously, Matt started whining as his thigh flexed under me, causing me to moan in return.

“Feel good Matty?” I asked, already knowing the answer, “Mhmm, please uncuff my right hand, wanna rub your clit and make you cum!” he begged and who was I deny that? As soon as he was uncuffed, his two fingers were inside my mouth, having me get them nice and wet so he could rub my clit, noticing we were both getting close. Matt pulled his fingers out of my mouth and immediately started rubbing my clit while sucking hickies into the skin of my neck and breasts. “Fuck daddy, ‘m so close already!” I whimpered and Matt just hummed in agreement, speeding up his movements.

Not even a minute later, I was squirting all over his thigh due to the stimulation on my clit, which led to his orgasm and it was indeed bigger than the last two. I was out of it and didn’t realize I was still holding the vibrator against him until his hand came up to lightly slap my face. Not hard enough to hurt, more like a tap to get my attention back, “R-Red” he said hoarsely, not being able to reach the vibrator himself. “S-Sorry Matty” I said turning it off and tossing it somewhere on the bed behind me “S’okay” he said softly.

Without getting up, I unlocked the other handcuff, Matt’s left arm came down to wrap around my waist like his right one. Matt started leaving kisses up my neck, sucking a few more hickies across the otherwise clear skin. “Best. Birthday. Ever.” he said between kisses, that were slowly moving up towards my lips until we finally shared a lazy but passionate kiss. “Can we go to sleep Matty, ‘m tired” I yawned, even though he should be the tired one.

Matt nodded, helping me lay down before grabbing his shirt off the floor to wipe the cum off both of us. He threw his shirt back onto the floor, moving the vibrator to my nightstand, and handing me my phone to turn the lights off. When I unlocked my phone I laughed, “Chris wants to know if you enjoyed your surprise” “Send him a picture of me kissing your neck right now, it’ll teach him not to be so nosey” Matt mumbled back before kissing my neck.

I snapped a quick picture, not really capturing my face, and sent it with the caption of: ‘Matt said stop being nosey’ and waited for his reply. I turned the lights off as Matt pulled my back against his chest, resting his head on my shoulder as we cuddled up together, only opening our eyes again when we got a response. From Chris: ‘I just threw up’ Matt just kissed my neck again as I turned my phone off, “Well then he shouldn’t have fucking asked” he said tiredly.

I hummed in agreement, grabbing his hand that was around my waist and holding it. “Goodnight Matty, I know it’s technically Monday now but happy birthday handsome” I told him. “Goodnight my beautiful girl, I hope you know you’re mine after tonight and that I love you” he whispered into my ear, “Don’t forget Imma wake you up tomorrow by eating you out” he added. I giggled before replying with an “I know and I love you too” before we both drifted off to sleep. I guess you could say I made a pretty good birthday present.

#matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo x you #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplet smut #sturniolo x reader #smut

[nicomoon69]

there’s a viral video of Spider! Bernard losing his shit after a D-tier villain destroyed his suit. in the video he complains about how expensive university is and how it’s already bankrupting him and now he has extra costs for fabrics too

of course Bernard, being who he is, can’t leave it at that and goes on a tangent about how capitalism is destructive and how Gotham would probably be a better place if they didn’t try to be so greedy etc etc

the video ends abruptly when the police arrive to arrest the villain, which might’ve been a blessing because at that point Spiderman had been complaining about capitalism for roughly 15 minutes half naked

the internet ends up dubbing him “Spider-Comrade” and there’s way too many edits using clips from that video

#spiderman benard dowd #spider! bernard dowd #spiderman au #spiderman #bernard dowd #dc hcs #dc #dcu #dc comics #dc x marvel #marvel x dc #my brain

[gudfornuthin]

Hi I was just wondering of you can make a Bernard x reader and maybe just a little lime or smut please thank you so much ❤❤❤

Sugar and Spice

Bernard the Elf x reader

Working as a baker at the North Pole was no easy task. Especially when the overbearing head elf is breathing down your neck. When true feelings are brought to light, how will you deal with them?

Thank you for the request! It’s not really smut as I’ve never written that before so it’s not intense but I’ve mixed this fic with an idea I already had. I kinda went off the rails lol. Hope you enjoy❤️

( gif credit to @corrodedcoffins )

It was an as always cold, winter morning at the North Pole. Elves scrambling around, making sure everything was complete and ready for Christmas. Less than two months to go and they were falling behind. Santa had only checked the naughty and nice list once, the workshop needed major renovations and three of the reindeer have fallen ill. Safe to say that everyone was on edge. Especially head elf, Bernard.

Striding across the grounds, his expression was anything but happy. Having a less than pleasant conversation with Curtis, he needed time away from the chaos, just for a moment. Bernard hated to admit, but he didn’t do well with stress. The constant pressure put on his shoulders, always feeling like if anything goes wrong, it’s all on him. It’s tough. And he needs some time to relax.

Making it to the front doors of the bakery, he walks through, immediately hit with the smell of fresh cookies and gingerbread. Bernard continues through to the main area, dodging elves holding steaming trays. He arrives by the ovens where he finally sees you. Messy hair, flour down your apron, and what appears to be sprinkles stuck to the sleeves of your shirt. Raw dough scatters the once clean tabletop and Bernard rolls his eyes at it. Mess was never good.

You turn around and spot the head elf, smiling wide. “Oh hey Bernard! Wasn’t expecting to see you this early.”

“Y/N,” he replies in a less than cheerful tone. “Working hard I see?”

“Well I was decorating some of the gingerbread houses and realised there was some icing left over from the cookies, so I had an idea,” the young elf’s eyes light up. “Rather than wasting time and making more red icing, I’ll just use the remaining green icing I already have for the gingerbread houses and have it all matching!” You breath out and spread your arms, happy with your work. Bernard, less so happy.

His eye begins to twitch and his teeth clench. He didn’t want to lose his temper, but the day had already set him on that track. “You can’t do that. You have to follow the recipe exactly as it’s written. You can’t change it without consulting the others otherwise the other bakers won’t make it like you have.”

You blink, taken back by his blunt response. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it would be a big deal. It’s changing one colour and better yet, saving ingredients. Which I thought you’d be all for.”

Bernard knows you’re right, but he can’t seem to drop the sudden grudge he’s holding against you. He grabs for the icing. “No, there’s not enough time to change things so just stick to what you’re supposed to do.”

Sadly, you were equally as stubborn. Furrowing your brow, you snatch the icing away. “Who put coal in your stocking?” You jest, but the metaphorical question still stands. You’d been in a pretty good mood until Bernard showed up, seemingly ready to put up a fight with anyone who got in his way.

He reaches for the icing once more, but you pull back. This continues on, both of you acting like a young child unwilling to share their new toy. The other elves in the room have stopped to watch the display you’re both apart of.

“Y/N this isn’t funny either give me the icing or I’ll have to ask you to leave the bakery for today.” “Make me.”

You both glare at each other. Bernard pulls one last time on the bag and you squeeze, the icing pouring out fast and covering both of you in the sugary treat. The elves gasp. You both stand there in shock.

“Bernard I’m so sorry I didn’t meant to-” you’re unable to finish the sentence before the head elf turns and walks away, leaving through the back doors, slamming them in the process. You stand alone, feeling defeated and childish. You didn’t meant to go off on him. It all just seemed to blow out of proportion. Grabbing a kitchen towel and trying to wipe off the icing, you dash after Bernard.

———

You find Bernard in his office, using a worn rag to rid himself of the mess caused, muttering over and over again. You knock on the door and he looks up. His face turns blank. He huffs out and nods, you taking that as your sign to enter. The place is filled with tension, unsure who should break the silence first. You take the leap.

“You ran out of there quick. Didn’t give me any time to apologise.”

“It’s fine, just needed to clean myself up.” Bernard scrubs his top vigorously, the icing unwilling to leave. You make your way further into the room, arriving in front of him with your towel. “Here, you’re just making it worse.”

Bernard admits defeat and allows you to swab at the remaining sugar. He avoids eye contact, looking anywhere but you. Whether it was because of the scene you both caused, or the current close proximity, you didn’t know.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Bernard whispers, still looking off into the distance, “your idea was really smart, helpful. It’s just been a rough few days.”

“It seems to me that you only ever have rough days,” you stop what you’re doing and look up at him, “you can talk about it you know. Never bottle these things up.”

There’s a silence for a while, the only sound heard from the towel rubbing the icing off a shirt which definitely needed a proper wash.

“I sometimes wonder if I’m good enough to be head elf.”

His response shocks you. Sure the last few months seemed to have Bernard on edge, but he’d always been able to handle it in the past. Hearing him question his abilities made you feel sick, wondering how long he’d felt this way.

“Bernard, you are an incredible head elf. We’d all be in shambles without you!” He shakes his head but you continue on. “Everyone looks up to you; you make sure deadlines are met and the elves are at ease. Santa wouldn’t be able to do this job without your help.”

You take his hands and he finally looks at you, a slight blush covering his already rosey cheeks. “Bernard, you don’t need to do this by yourself. You can’t put all this pressure on you when things fall slightly behind. And you certainly can’t quit as head elf. We all need you,” you take a deep breath, “I need you.”

Bernard’s eyes grow wide, as do yours, shocked by what you just said. Sudden thoughts rush through your head. You’d always known there was something there when it came to the head elf. You found him attractive, and blushed anytime he was near. But saying it out loud now felt strange. You felt vulnerable. You felt stupid. Coughing awkwardly you step back.

“That was out of line, I’m really sorry if that’s made things awkward I didn’t-” before you can muster up a lame excuse, Bernard steps forward, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you in for a kiss. It takes you a moment to understand what’s happening, but soon after you place your hands on the sides of his face and kiss back. He pulls you closer, the movement forcing you to stand in between his legs while he leans back against the desk. You hate how cliche it all feels, but sparks were truly flying. One of your hands moves up into Bernard’s hair, slightly pulling at the curls, eliciting a moan from his mouth. He turns you both around, now with your back against the desk, as he lifts one of your legs to wrap around his waist. It was intense. It was surprising. It was definitely long over due. Who knew slightly switching up a recipe would result in this?

Bernard moves his kissing down your neck, biting hard and more than likely leaving a mark. You pull harder on his hair and tilt your head, giving him more access.

“God, you’re amazing,” he says in your ear with a slight husk. “I could stay in here with you forever.”

Sadly he doesn’t, as there’s a sudden knock on the door, throwing you back into reality. A small voice is heard from outside the room. “Bernard, you’re needed down in workshop.”

He pulls away from your hold, turning to the door and clearing his throat. “I’ll be right down, thank you.” There’s a slight wobble in his voice and you smirk, knowing it’s because of you’re previous activities. He looks back at you, reaching for your hand and smiling timidly. You smile back and shuffle your feet, a sense of awkwardness setting. Bernard doesn’t know what to say, but thankfully you beat him to it.

“It’s okay, we’re okay. We can talk about this later tonight,” you move closer, winding your arms around his neck and playing with the shorter hairs at the back of his head. “Go be the best head elf the North Poles ever seen.”

His smile widens, and he leans in for one last kiss. After a few moments, you both let go and he strides out the door with a spring in his step, feeling a lot better than he did earlier. You can still feel his lips on your neck and his hands on your waist. It was definitely a good way to start the morning.

#bernard the elf x reader #bernard x reader #x reader #the santa clause #david krumholtz #the santa clauses

[zorilleerrant]

Tim is fine with being protected. It comes from being the least trained in a family full of people with borderline supernatural skills, it comes from playing backup, from being the eye in the sky during so many missions when he has more support skills than those better equipped to be boots on the ground. It comes from being on so many teams with so many people with so many powers and it comes from being practically family to household names. It comes from being the one Robin that’s always there for Batman to play it safe with.

Tim is not fine with a civilian putting himself in danger. It’s not because it’s Bernard, he tells himself, over and over again. It’s any time it’s someone with less training, less armor, less experience in the field. Anyone with fewer weapons, anyone with fewer allies, anyone who can’t see the split second decisions the villains are making with someone else’s life on the line. Anyone who didn’t devote themselves to this, who didn’t look at the symbol of the Bat and agree to be part of the venture, paring off every extraneous branch on the journey until the pike is honed smooth, ready to throw.

It’s every civilian, but it’s one civilian, one with a lopsided smile and the most textbook perfect punch he puts his whole weight behind, a body at peak physical health but without the kind of reflexes scarred in day after day he needs to stand his ground. Smooth skin, few scars. Hands soft despite the callouses and gentle, carefully applying stitches, bandages, injections they’re not yet used to holding. One civilian with ridiculous, almost unintelligible good luck wishes, and no fashion sense, who talks too fast to keep himself safe when he’s in someone else’s sights.

But Bernard knows people, he knows places, he has a name with weight where Robin’s doesn’t matter much and Tim Drake’s even less, and he’s willing to throw it around Tim like the shield it is. He puts his body in between Tim and harm, and still that easy smile, still those eyes shining with some kind of hidden plan, some words unspoken because you know that once they are, they’re going to be good. He doesn’t tell Tim the way out. Tim isn’t supposed to have the kind of skills he needs to navigate a situation like this, so why let him in on the secret?

From everyone else’s perspective, Tim is soft and small and spoiled, Tim is the kind of kid who doesn’t even know himself enough to be sure he wants to hold hands. A rich kid who’s never gotten his hands dirty, a pretty little trophy on the arm of someone whose gaze holds the weight of the world when he carefully measures his words. Someone there to giggle when Bernard asks if they’re absolutely sure they really want to do that.

Bernard knows who he is. Bernard knows what Tim would throw himself bodily between, knows how much he would give, how much he has given, for his friends, and his family, and Gotham. How much he would give for Bernard. He knows that Tim would fight tooth and nail, and how well he knows where each tooth and each nail fits for maximum damage, to keep himself alive those few seconds long enough to wait for help. Bernard knows what Robin can do, would do, will do again once they’re out and safe and free.

But Tim knows just how fragile the human form is. How many bones there are to break and how many pints of blood there are to lose, how deep scarring has to go before it’s impossible to move. He knows the spots that hurt and the spots that harm, and he knows that the bravado is just a façade. That if anyone sees through Bernard’s act, sees through his ploys and appeals to an authority that scares him as much as his audience, that Bernard has just as many points of vulnerability as anyone else who’s lain broken and cold before him.

Tim will be the princess in the castle, and Bernard his knight, but for all the things he knows a dragon can do. Tim can count the dragons around them. Bernard can, too. Bernard’s been a dragon on his own, or else the child of one, and he knows firsthand the burns they leave, and still he sweeps across the ash like it isn’t even there. It’s Robin who can do something, Robin the wizard with ancient tomes and sage advice, but Tim is the only one here, and no one ever wants the princess to rescue herself. He has to let Bernard be his knight.

But Bernard speaks the magic words, and Tim does trust him, places his life so carefully in his lover’s hands and closes his eyes against the chill, and Bernard takes that gift for what it means, carries it with all the weight it has and tucks it up so gently against his own heart. Tim isn’t always the one with the way out, and he isn’t always the one who can do the protecting, and he’s used to that. But he slips his fingers through the one hand he thought he’d always be able to hold without being led by it, and lets that perfect image shatter. There’s no keeping Bernard away. He’s already involved. More involved than Tim ever was, in some ways, and less in the ways that Tim can still keep him out of it. Not safe, none of them were ever safe, but not as fragile as the snowglobe he was trying to frame the picture with, and there are more angles than he was prepared to watch. Still, Tim has contingencies. And the contingency, now, is to let Bernard protect him for once, just like he promised he would.

#look i said something #my writing #fanfic #batman #timber week 2023 #tim drake #bernard dowd #timber #timbern #I don't know what writing style this is I'm not sure it's actually in Tim's voice I guess I'm in a weird mood #slowly chipping away at these. probably eventually get there

[sixhours]

Alma

Rated: PG Length: ~4k

Notes: Post-episode for Milagro; the aftermath. Milagro remains one of my favorite episodes; this is my interpretation of what happened after. Huge thanks to @perplexistan for the beta, the glowing feedback, and for wrangling my dialogue's syntax. :)

Originally posted on AO3 10/1/2014

~*~

The first thing he sees is the blood.

He doesn’t remember the sound of his own footfall, doesn’t remember kneeling or reaching out, all he can think is that he’s lost her. The thought is cruel and terrible; you lose a bet, you lose your car keys. You don’t misplace your best friend’s life between the cushions, you don’t lose a person.

And yet, she is lost.

Her eyes are closed, her chest is still, her shirt is the color of dirty rubies. The smell in his overheated apartment is heavy with her last breath.

Scully.

His heart is racing in his chest, but hers has gone missing.

Oh, Scully.

He reaches to check for a pulse, and suddenly he’s staring into eyes of blue crystal, shocked and surprised as his own. She shudders against him, the roar of her breath an echo of reassurance. Her arms are a welcome vise grip, pulling up, clawing at his back, and he holds on for dear life.

That was too close.

When he finally speaks, her sobs have dulled to hiccups, but her fingers are tight through the fabric of his shirt. “Are you bleeding?”

She shakes her head, and he eases back, gently disentangling them. “Did he…”

“Hurts,” she mumbles.

He pulls back. “Just gonna look, ‘k?”

She nods her consent, closes her eyes. His fingers fumble at the buttons at her stomach, swallowing thickly at how soaked her blouse is. His hands are stained by the time they work the last button free.

Shit, it’s deep…

He moves tenderly along the underside of her sternum, surprised to find only bruises, the outlines of someone else’s fingers where they bored under her ribs. She winces when he grazes the skin.

“It’s a contusion,” she whispers, auburn lashes to ivory cheeks, like wildflowers pressed between dusty tomes.

He shakes his head. “Uh uh. Be right back.”

The 9-1-1 operator recognizes his name and address before he can give him the badge number.

He returns with a glass of water to find her struggling to her feet.

“Jesus, Scully, you shouldn’t—“

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just sore.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, hard. “Then let me help.”

He’s careful to avoid her left side, where the bruising is worst. She is warm and solid against him, but he can feel the tremors like tiny earthquakes along his side.

“What happened?” he asks, helping her ease down to the worn leather cushions.

“He came at me after you left,” she says, flat and dry, as if talking about the weather. “I fired...I fired twice? Three times?”

“It was four,” Mulder says, handing her the water. “Checked your clip.”

Her words ring hollow in the glass as she sips. “I must’ve missed.”

“You know you didn’t,” he whispers, leaning over her to grab the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over her shoulders to quell the trembling. “Called for backup. Paramedics are on their way.”

“I don’t need—“

“Don’t say it,” he threatens gently. She scowls but sinks back and closes her eyes.

The response team is quick this time. The lead EMT, his name tag reads Bernard, makes a feeble joke about putting in a station next door, a private service for the guy whose bad luck always follows him home. Mulder doesn’t laugh.

He leaves her side only to show the investigative unit to the basement. The cops kneel over Padgett’s body, exclaiming and making wisecracks about love stories gone awry, so cavalier it makes Mulder’s stomach turn. Not that he has any sympathy for the dead writer, but he can’t stop imagining Scully with her heart in her hands.

They’re examining her injuries in the living room when he returns, so he takes the phone to the bedroom. Skinner is characteristically gruff, but he softens when Mulder explains.

“You think Padgett’s responsible?”

“Yeah, but he won’t be penning his memoirs anytime soon. They found him in the basement. It’s just like the other victims.”

“Of course,” Skinner sighs. “Alright. I want you in my office first thing tomorrow. And Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

The other man lowers his voice, a gesture of mutual understanding. “Don’t let Agent Scully out of your sight. If this guy comes back—“

He won’t, Mulder thinks, but he’s distracted. Her voice carries through the plaster; she’s giving the EMTs hell.

She’s going to be fine, sir. She’s feeling well enough to fight.

“Agent Mulder,” Skinner barks into his ear. “Did you hear me?”

He clears his throat, looks over his shoulder, drawn to her rising tones. “Got it, sir. I gotta go.” The phone clicks off before Skinner can lay into him. He’ll get his ass handed to him tomorrow, but tonight he has more important things to worry about.

She has her hands on her hips, facing off with the senior paramedic, who looks like he got more than he bargained for.

“I’m a medical doctor, I know the symptoms, and I don’t have them. You said it yourself, my vitals are fine, there’s no swelling.”

“Ma’am, you know very well that a hemorrhage might not present until—”

“It’s Doctor,” she says icily. “And if I have symptoms, I’ll go to the hospital. Until then, I’m refusing medical treatment beyond a cursory physical exam.”

The other guy looks pointedly at the blood smears on the carpet, then toward Mulder, as if to ask for help.

But Scully is looking at him, too, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Daring him. He opens his mouth to take the dare, to tell her to go to the damned hospital because she would demand the same of him, but something in her eyes holds him back. Her posture is strong, but there’s a subtle tremble in her chin that gives it away.

He, too, softens in the face of her fire.

“It’s uhh, it’s OK guys,” he mutters. “We’ll take it from here.”

Bernard blinks. “Agent Mulder, with all due respect—“

“She said she’s fine,” he says, his tone sharp, though his eyes don’t leave his partner.

The other man presses his lips in a line and begins re-packing his bag, muttering something about the loonies at Hegal Place. Mulder sees the paramedics out, letting the door slam just a little too hard, all the while thinking he is a lunatic for letting them go.

He comes back to find her buttoning up her shirt, reaching for her jacket.

“Do you want to get cleaned up—“

“Home,” she says, frowning at the floor. “I want to go home.”

There’s a pause. She won’t look at him, won’t meet his eye.

“Right,” he swallows, “I, uh…I’ll drive.”

He steals glances at the passenger seat as he maneuvers the car through darkening streets. Scully rolls her head on her neck and stares out the window, diminished in her silence. She’s distant, set apart; something vital inside her has torn but doesn’t bleed. Padgett’s psychic surgeon failed to seize her heart, but he’s taken something else in its stead.

When he reaches over to take her hand, she doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge him, but the bones of her fingers hold fast to his, reflexive in their icy grip.

Her apartment is cool and smells like her; vanilla and cinnamon, familiar and exotic. Her voice is drawn and husky when she speaks.

“I’m going to shower. Help yourself.”

He does. He makes tea because he knows where she keeps it—third cupboard from the left, middle shelf, next to the honey. He finds the kettle, puts the water on to boil, and tries not to think about the blood (her blood) congealing on the floor of his apartment.

He finds a lemon in the back of the fridge, the contents of which are similar to his own—heavy on the condiments, a lone half-gallon of milk, carrots in the crisper whose stalks have wilted to gray-green dust.

When was the last time one of us ate a meal that didn’t come wrapped in foil?

There’s the creak of the floorboards as she moves about on the other side of the kitchen wall, the groan of the building’s pipes as the shower comes on; the bedroom door is ajar, and soon steam wafts from within, fragrant and humid.

They’ve spent the last six years living side by side in adjoined motel rooms, but she never leaves the door open.

He takes a seat on the couch to wait, tipping his head back into the cushions. His mind goes back to Padgett, the last of his fatal novel’s pages curling in the ashes…

…the things he wrote about her.

He rubs at his eyes, exhales sharply.

She’s a grown woman. You’re not her keeper.

Keeper.

The couch is soft, the running water is white noise, and sleep teases the edge of his consciousness.

Keeper. Keep her.

There’s a scream, a forlorn wail that wakes him with a start; he’s on his feet before his eyes can adjust to the darkened room, stumbling blindly toward the source.

“Scully? Scully!”

The forgotten kettle pops and hisses on the stove; he rushes over to shut off the burner. He’s dimly aware the scream came from the kettle, not his partner, but his pulse doesn’t believe it. They live in a world where the sick imaginings of a lonely man can come to life and kill you, after all.

Was she lonely, too?

He leans back against the counter, blinking, trying to ignore the feeling of dread coiled in the pit of his stomach. Something feels off. The refrigerator hums and chuckles at his side, there’s the tick of a clock from across the room, but otherwise, the apartment is quiet…

The shower isn’t running.

His hand goes to his holster on instinct as he makes his way to the bedroom. There’s no sign of her, save for her ruined shirt, a spilled pool of sullied cotton on the floor.

“Scully?” his voice comes out as a whisper. He feels like a trespasser.

The bathroom door is also open, bleeding light onto the plush carpet. He creeps to the threshold, listening for movement. She should be toweling off, maybe brushing her hair, applying one of those god-awful green mask things to her face—anything but heavy silence.

Seconds tick by in an agonizing crawl, but there is only the sound of his breathing. He feels himself raise the gun before he realizes he’s going to do it, and swings his body into the doorway, tasting tin and salt on the back of his tongue.

Oh. Oh…

She’s sitting in the shower stall with her back to the door, so still.

Her hair is a dark brown stain down her back, her skin a shimmering pearl silhouette. He can see the upper half of her tattoo at the base of her spine, a haze of reds and blues through the mottled glass.

So very, very still.

Oh God, not again…

He’ll find her blood on the floor, her still-beating heart in her hand…

Her shoulders shudder and tense, her head tips forward, and he is baptized in relief.

“Scully,” he breathes, lowering the gun.

A thready gasp as her head snaps around, and he glimpses the slope of her nose, the pink in her cheek, the subtle furrow in her brow, delicate as a watercolor portrait. The sight takes his breath.

“Mulder?”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean…I thought you were…that he—” he says, tripping over his words as he tries to gather his wits.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she sighs, her voice as bruised as her ribs. A million sarcastic responses perch on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them like medicine. She doesn’t stand, doesn’t make an attempt to cover herself.

“I’m fine, I’ll be out in a minute,” she repeats when he doesn’t leave. He’s fixed in place, irrationally terrified she’ll fade away if he can’t see her.

Don’t let her out of your sight.

He recalls the way her fingers wouldn’t let go until they’d parked at the curb, the confusion and fear in her eyes when he’d disentangled them.

Not fine. Not this time.

He turns in a half-circle and lowers himself to the floor with a grunt, his back pressed to the shower. “No can do,” he says. “I’m under strict orders from the boss to keep an eye on you tonight.”

“Oh? I don’t think this is what Skinner had in mind,” she mutters, but she doesn’t ask him to leave.

“You know me, Scully. I follow orders.”

She snorts. He imagines he can feel her shivering through the glass. The tile floor is hard and cold, the warmth from the steam has dissipated, but their silence is comfortable. He thinks of the tea water cooling on the stove, the lemon shrinking in its paper skin, her heart thudding against her ribs like a prisoner seeking escape—

“Do you fear death, Mulder?”

Only when you don’t answer your phone.

He swallows, stalling. “Have we had this conversation?” 

“I asked if you’d ever thought about dying, not if you feared it—there’s a difference.”

“If we’re going to argue semantics, you should put some clothes on,” he quips. “We’ll be here all night.”

He hears her shift behind him, imagines he can feel the plane of her back pressed against his own, the steady beat of her heart like a bird fluttering against his right shoulder. She’ll wait; she’s strong enough to wait forever, if that’s what it takes. He sighs in surrender.

“I fear dying without knowing the truth...without closure,” he admits, dancing lightly around the whole of it; that she is as much a part of his unfinished business as any conspiracy. What lies between them is a spirit he can only glimpse in his peripheral vision; when he confronts it head on, it disappears.

He’s come too close to meeting her ghost tonight.

There’s a smile in her voice. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You got me. I’m predictable,” he says, casting a glance behind him. He can see the milk-white skin of her back, a dark curl of auburn hair kissing the slope of her neck. He turns away and coughs, unsettled at the intimacy. “Do you? Fear death, I mean.”

“Spiritually, no,” she says softly, “but on an instinctual level, I do. I think what I fear more is the threat, and how the constant threat changes us, more than the act of dying itself.”

He frowns, chews at his lip. “I don’t follow…”

Another pause, longer this time. He bites at the edge of his cuticle until it’s raw.

“I love this job,” she whispers. “We’ve given so much to this…this work, and I accepted the risks. But sometimes…” she pauses, there’s a soft click in her throat when she swallows. The quiet draws itself around them, and he grows still as stone, as if any movement might frighten her back to the hollow place she found in the car. When she finally speaks, her words are curiously detached and small, like a child’s.

“Sometimes I don’t like what it’s made me.”

“And what’s that?” he asks, closing his eyes, unsure if he’s ready to hear it. The irony isn’t lost on him, that for all his seeking, some truths are better left unfound.

“You learn to assume the worst of people. And when you don’t, when you’re foolish enough to let your guard down…” she trails off again with a shaky breath. “…Well. Here I am.”

“You had no way of knowing Padgett was going to end it like this.”

“Didn’t I?” she says, and the bitterness in the question makes him wince. “As investigators, we’re trained to rely on our instincts, yet I ignored everything mine were telling me—everything you were telling me—against good reason.”

“You didn’t know—“

“I did. And why? To become the object of a sad man’s perverted fantasy? As if I were as lonely as he wrote me,” she scoffs, and he hears her nails kiss the shower floor.

He tips his head back, feels the plates of his skull meet the cool glass wall, heavy with the weight of her unrest. In a moment of striking clarity, he understands that this isn’t the first time she’s sat like this, walled in glass and berating herself for some self-perceived failure, but it’s the first time she’s let him bear witness.

He doesn’t know whether to feel touched or guilty, but the guilt is an old friend, so he lets it in. Part of him wants to leave, grab his jacket off the back of the couch and run. Every time she gives a piece of herself, it makes it that much harder to look at her as a friend, and not something more.

But it’s too late; she’s talking, her words gaining momentum. An object in motion stays in motion, and he isn’t strong enough to stop her.

“Do you know what they say about ‘Mrs. Spooky’ when they think I’m not listening? That I bring it on myself,” she says, a grating whisper. “That I must be a masochist to stay, to do what we do…or…” she trails off.

Or you wouldn’t come back to me, he thinks, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I do the job because being an Agent is part of who I am. But it’s also the reason I can’t remember what it’s like to be…to be just…Dana.”

He swallows dust, numbly nods an assent she can’t see, and listens. He remembers as a boy, the pain of a blister under his thumbnail, how his father showed him to use a screw to make a hole and let out the blood. She’s doing it now, her words as honed and meticulous as a drill bit against supple flesh.

“These men, these creatures...they never really die. They follow me home every night, and I can only thank God that I’m strong enough to withstand living with them. I wish I could say the same for their victims.

“But I’ll never have that…that simple, unwavering faith, that at the end of the day, the world is a better place for what we do,” she whispers, her voice low and thready and ready to break. “I just know I have to do it. There’s no other choice.”

He closes his eyes and wonders when she became as brittle as him; if the change happened slowly, over the course of weeks and months, measured over miles and cases, or if this is the definitive moment, and she’ll emerge from her glass chrysalis a new creature, a changed thing.

Six years have graced him with a multitude of useless facts about his partner. He knows how she takes her coffee, her favorite shade of lipstick, and that she eats the yogurt with the pollen so she can justify the extra doughnut he’ll buy at lunch.

He knows that when they’re on a case and she can’t sleep, she’ll visit his motel room to share leftover pizza and watch noir films, and she cries at the sad parts when she thinks he’s not looking.

He knows she colors her hair, because her natural strawberry blonde waves are beautiful, and beauty doesn’t intimidate the good ol’ boys at the Bureau the way a glossy burnt auburn can.

But he’ll never know the person she was before she met him, before their truths became irrevocably entangled. Their physical losses were great, but the scars they can’t see are the ones that linger, and she is marked by him—partners until the very end.

He wants to know when she realized she couldn’t turn back.

As the silence draws itself around them, he knows there is nothing he can offer. She’s drawn her line in the sand and crossed it every time. All he can do is wait for her on the other side.

She has faith and science; he has her.

“Scully?” he says softly, when enough time has passed, when his legs are pins and needles, and the thought of her naked on the cold tile is hurting his sense of New-England-bred chivalry.

“Yeah?”

“My ass hurts.”

She barks a laugh into the narrow stall, but it works. He hears her movement, the door sliding open behind him with a metallic groan. He gets up, careful to keep his back to the shower, even though they’re past any pretense of modesty.

He coughs, rubbing at his thighs to wake them from their prickly sleep. “I made some tea, we could order pizza and watch one of those romantic comedy things you—“

The sob is barely there. He turns without thinking, searching her face, glancing over her nakedness to see through it. She’s standing on the bathmat, eyes downcast, water and salt mixing on the linoleum. The bruise along her side blossoms under her ribs like a black peony.

He reaches for a towel and wraps it around her shoulders, interrupting their careful, sympathetic orbits in an embrace. Her skin is ice, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Another sob, but this one catches in the fabric of his shirt as he pulls her close. Soon his nose damp with the scent of her shampoo.

“You have every right to be angry, Scully,” he soothes at her temple, with a protective ferocity that surprises them both. “But only with them. Not yourself. Never yourself.”

Her breath is sharp, shuddering, and he wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. He doesn’t know if “them” refers to the suits at the Bureau or their indomitable superiors or the citizens of Reticula or God himself. He breathes against her, tightens his grip, decides, fuck ‘em all.

She sniffs, and he can feel the heat of her pressed to him, bare, little more than a damp t-shirt between them. It takes all his effort to let go when she pulls away, and he averts his eyes as she wraps herself in the towel.

She tucks a lock of red-burned hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. “I’m sorry, I, um—”

“If I were a lesser man, Scully,” he whispers drily, and her sudden laughter is bubbling and warm, a salve to their shared wounds.

She tips her face to his, one eyebrow in a slender arc, her eyes damp and wry. “A lesser man, Mulder? What are you implying?”

Her closeness, coupled with the subtle innuendo, catches him off guard. He’s suddenly terrified she might kiss him, more terrified because he would let it happen, a wonderful and dangerous thought.

Something ethereal whispers at the edge of his mind’s eye, and he resists the urge to check the back of her neck for bees.

Instead, he takes a step backwards, toward the door. “I’ll, uh, wait outside. Pizza?”

“No peppers this time,” she agrees, turning away, showing him the line of her back, her shoulders squared. He watches a drop of water roll down the gentle arch of her spine, absorbed by the edge of the towel. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He makes it to the threshold, but can’t resist; has her pull always been this strong? He turns, watches her reflection, a ghost coming to life in the mirror.

“Hey, Scully?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

For coming back. For staying.

He opens his mouth to say it, but in the end, what he wants to say and what he’ll allow himself to say are two different things.

He shrugs. “For…leaving the door open, I guess.”

Her smile is faint, but genuine; enough for now.

The spirit catches his eye and fades away.

#fanfic #the x-files #milagro #fox mulder #dana scully #fox mulder/dana scully #hurt/comfort #old fic is old

[creature-phases]

You guys seemed to really like my post about Bruce being fond of Bernard so I figured I’d elaborate a bit more.

One reason Bruce really likes Bernard is because he’s just a normal civilian and just all around a normal guy. It balances Tim out so well, and Tim may have had other civilian relationships but Bernard really gets Tim out of his own head.

Bernard genuinely makes Tim happy and how could Bruce not love someone like that.

Back on track to the conspiracy aspect, as I mentioned Bruce has hella fun with Bernard’s conspiracy theories. I mean, as Batman he’s always coming up with his own conspiracy theories in a way. It’s fun for him to see it through Bernard’s eyes. He can’t usually talk about this stuff in such a lighthearted manner, especially in a house full of detectives.

Plus Bernard is so creative and passionate about his theories. Of course Bruce knows Bernard is wrong most the time but that doesn’t make it any less fun. Though sometimes Bernard is right and even though Bruce can’t admit that he’s lowkey proud.

Everyone is surprised how much Bruce loves Bernard’s superhero conspiracies. And Bruce does love them, but he also loves using it to screw with his kids.

Bernard:…so with that in mind I think it’s clear that Superman and Batman are dating. I actually think that the younger Superman is their love child that they kept hidden away until he was old enough.

Bruce, with the biggest grin: oh absolutely. Actually I’ve seen him do some moves similar to one of the Robins. Clearly he must have been trained in some sense by Batman.

You can see the gears in Bernard’s head turning as he says “how did I not notice that?!?!”

Meanwhile Tim and Damian are off to the side trying not to lose their minds.

#dc comics #bruce wayne #bernard dowd #Batman #tim drake #damian wayne #timber #batfam #batfamily

[someonetaughtmetowrite]

The Bats on a Ski Trip

Jason’s the guy who simultaneously trips people (Tim) on the hills while also giving little kids and especially nervous folks some gentle advice. He spends majority of the stay hiking around while a small but mighty gathering of wide-eyed, grateful children slide after him, begging him to join in snowball fights and snowman making and the like. And how could he say no to all those puppy eyes?

Tim takes this opportunity to sleep in well past noon (“It’s the warmest time of the day anyway. Go away Steph”). Despite being a native Gothamite, this small man was not built for this cold (“You look like a miserable marshmallow, Replacement.” “I’m wearing twelve jackets and I’m STILL cold, f*ck off”). He’s hopeless at skiing (“You might have more luck if you took off a couple layers-“ “Do you WANT me to die, Dick?”). He spends majority of the time in the lobby by the fire, switching out coffee for hot cocoa (but still drinking at least 5 cups a day, of course), and catching up on some leisurely reading while cuddling with Bernard (of course Tim brought him, and how could Bruce say no?)

Steph is having the BEST TIME OF HER LIFE! She is very much a public safety hazard, shredding the snow, and often going slightly off the path (“YOU FELL INTO A SNOW DRIFT AND DISTURBED A GRIZZLY’S DEN!!!” “Yeah, but the gram has never seen better.” “F@!$?!-“). However, she’ll wind down eventually and spend the evenings cuddling with Cass while the family gathers round the fire.

Cass quietly takes in the winter wonderland, getting up early for admire the way the dawn lights up the snow. She’ll try snowboarding (which she has a natural knack for, of course), but she’ll end up back at the lodge, taking quiet strolls with Bruce or sometimes Jason or Duke. They encourage her to play in the snow like a child, making angels and building snowmen. They love seeing her light up and live a little.

Duke loves snowboarding, but one can only take so much abuse from Jason and Steph before throwing in the towel. He spends majority of his time with Cass or just hiking by himself, enjoying a winter not permanently tinged Gotham Gray. It may be freezing, but he gets all warm and fuzzy when the family gathers, and he’s welcomed as if he’s always been and is meant to be there.

Alfred, much like Tim, spends majority of his time catching up on his reading and enjoying the fire. He also dabbles in photography, and collects a lovely assortment of photos featuring his family at peace in a winter wonderland. However, the kids coerce him onto the ski hill at long last, and let me tell you, they know they shouldn’t be all that shocked, but when Alfred FLIES down the hill like it’s second nature, and then stops with a sniff and strolls back inside like it was nothing, they can’t help but lose their jaws in the snow.

Damian may have braved many harsh climates and training exercises with the League of Shadows, but skiing and snowboarding prove difficult. He almost tears Steph’s and Jason’s heads off in frustration as they ski circles around him. Bruce and Duck finally step in, gently coaching him through it and accompanying him down the hill. He won’t admit it, but he kind of really loves cuddling with his family by the fire at the end of the day.

Dick is in love with the snow. A natural skiier and snowboarder just like Cass, he spends plenty of time racing Steph and Jason while also trying to stop them from killing anybody. However, he takes special interest in skating, and ends up by the lake more often than not, often with Cass and sometimes with Bruce, Damian, and Duke. He insists on herding everyone downstairs to sit together, handing out hot cocoa and blankets and cuddling Damian whether he likes it or not (he does).

Babs loved skiing before the loss of her legs, but she doesn’t let it get her down. She loves watching Cass be a kid, Tim and Bernard be lovey dovey, and stealing away Dick for…holiday fun. She chats with Alfred a lot, and if she thought she knew some secrets, she’s shockingly humbled after a long rant from an Alfred slightly drunk on spiked eggnog. She loosely braids Cass’s and Steph’s hair as they all dog pile on the couch, smiling as Dick cuddles her and Damian closer.

Bruce is just happy to see his kids happy. He doesn’t necessarily hate nor love the snow, but he does love spending time with his kids without having to worry about Gotham or WE (he pulled a few strings and has several leaguers and close friends taking care of things while he’s gone). He loves watching them all be kids again, without the trauma and the villains always lurking around a shadowy corner. In this winter wonderland, they are all made new, innocent and wonder-full, and for once he has no past to hold him back from letting them in and loving them.

🦇❄️

#I think they just need a nice vacation #they should have a nice holiday #batfam #batman #bruce wayne #dick grayson #damian wayne #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #barbara gordon #duke thomas #tim drake #tim x bernard #alfred pennyworth #jason todd #blurb #bringontheweirdworld #dc

[philtstone]

some pairs: peter/gamora, bucky/sarah, han/leia, aishwarya/vikram

some words: literary, aromatic, windswept, proximity

sarah/bucky, windswept

Two Boots River was not ever a river but in fact a marshy channel that got bogged up by water reeds and slime in the summer season. The residents of St. Bernard’s Parish had called it such before there was a parish for St. Bernard anywhere in sight, and at this point it was a long abandoned fisherman’s route; the overnight shacks lining dotting the route were decrepit and all the best spots for crab traps were infested. No one knew by what, but nobody went there anymore anyway, if they were smart. Unless they were taking a shortcut home, to get back in time for a meeting with a potential investor, which Sarah Wilson had scheduled for tomorrow.

“Fuck,” says the woman in question. “Shit damn. This is what I get for being an idiot.”

She isn’t leaning over the side of the boat because that would be terribly unwise in a gale. It could be a hurricane. Nothing about one in the news, but Sarah wouldn’t bet against that just being her luck. 

“Maybe I’ll find those boots,” calls out her companion, over the roaring rainstorm. 

“You will not,” Sarah says. She keeps having to swipe water out of her eyes. God, it is terrible out here, and the St. Grace is stuck. She is in one of those positions where she cannot be thankful that they made enough money in the last quarter for her to be able to buy a second boat – not when they could possibly lose it in a freak storm of her own idiocy. “You’ll find a bunch of ghosts, that’s what those boots belong to.”

He eyes the churning muck below them with a detachedly contemplative precision that doesn’t make sense given the hurricane. “It’s not a hurricane,” Bucky says.

“I’m gonna lose my house,” says Sarah, wiping her face again and holding down a rope for dear life, lest the whole thing pick up and fly away. “Please God let my children be in the neighbour’s storm room. You haven’t lived here.” 

“I can do ghosts,” he says instead of answering her, and then jumps into the water. 

If Sarah were a better person she’d have stopped him, for the sake of his general health. This kind of bog muck in the middle of a storm can kill a person, just as sure as it can get a boat stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere. Sarah throws the line down anyway and swears a bit more to herself because there is no one there but God and the ghosts to hear. After three minutes of the wind’s interminable howling she is sure Bucky Barnes is dead and she has killed him. Then the line goes taut and St. Grace lurches and Sarah nearly falls so hard she breaks her nose.

“Jesus,” she says. They are moving forward, by inches. The braken sludges away around St. Grace’s hull. She’s gonna miss her meeting for sure. “Bucky?” she calls out into the howl of the storm. “James?” They’re moving forward in earnest now. But she can’t really see him. If they’re moving he hasn’t drowned. Sarah is being practical about it.

“James B you better not be dead,” she says.

Bucky pops out of the water about a yard away, black with mud. He’s the wettest equivalent of windswept, like the gale winds were going at him under the water too.

“Fuck,” he says, and spits out muck. The rope is wound tight around his left arm and she can see the strain of exertion in his neck, under the muck. His eyes look frightened by something that is not the storm. Ghosts, probably. The fool. He didn't think, did he. Regardless, Sarah wets her bottom lip, unnecessarily given the storm, and doesn't know why she didn’t fully believe him when he said he'd pull them out by hand. Wildly, for a moment, Sarah wonders: if were her house really to be blown away, could Bucky build her a new one?

But just now his eyes still look frightened -- they are the only part of his face she can really make out -- so she puts that thought out of mind and calls directions out to him over the wind, so they can find safety together.

Blessedly, he hears her.

An hour later they are sheltering in one of those abandoned fisherman’s shacks. Except it’s not abandoned, as there was a can of beans in the pantry and wood for a fire by the stove, also non-moldy blankets closed up in a pretty modern plastic bin. 

“I feel like I’m camping,” Sarah says. “Guess I’m not the only person stupid enough to take Two Boots. My meeting …” she sighs, trailing off. She is wrapped in one of the blankets but still has her shorts and t-shirt on, as they didn’t take too much damage under her parka. Bucky’s across from her on the other side of the table, wrapped in the two remaining blankets, which he’s mostly using to cover his left side and damp boxers. They watch his sopping clothes drip slow slow slow onto the floor by the stove fire, together. 

“Those are gonna be gross tomorrow,” he says.

“It’s okay,” says Sarah, tired, rubbing one eye and not thinking about it. “I don’t mind you being a little naked.”

She cringes then, because that’s not really fair or appropriate. Bucky came with her because he is technically her employee or something. She’s not sure. Of course he is family, and he isn’t out there superheroing with Sam at present, which he has not called retirement but certainly hasn’t talked much about in a different capacity either. He just showed up one day and Sarah started giving him things to do because Lord knows they needed to be done, and she liked having him around. 

She chances a glance at him and he looks mildly amused, save for the traitorous pink flush on his neck, which she figures he can’t help as a white person. Poor thing.

“Sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine,” hasty. “I’m just – the mud brought back bad memories.” She realizes he is trying to apologize for being quiet, which she now realizes could have maybe been read as taciturn or even completely dissociated, but she was so caught in her own worries she really didn’t notice.

“Oh, James,” she says.

“The house will be okay, you know?”

“Will you?”

He grunts. Looks at her a long time. The fire goes on crackling. She looks at the crates in the corner, which hold the engine parts they’d gone to pick up for a little skiff that’ll help St. Grace with the fishing. Sarah is terrible at delegating; someone else could’ve run this route. At the same time, she seems terrible at refusing help lately, too, specific help from a specific person, and it is making her skin itch. Neither of them should be here right now. What if the house blows away? As if to drive this point home thunder cracks outside, so loud it makes itself known through the wind.

“You better not be here because you’re running away,” Sarah says abruptly. Maybe the thunder scared the words out of her. Or the reminder of his ghosts. It’s very hard suddenly to stop herself from climbing over the table and touching him. It would be a grabby touch, the kind that would hold him in place. The thought is embarrassing but Sarah is grown enough to admit to it, and to be righteously angered by the evidence that compels her in that direction, too.

“Running?” Bucky asks. His hair sticks up at the top, in a tuft, where he dried it roughly with the blanket’s edge.

“Cause you’re not out there, you know, but I think you still like superheroing. I think you’ve always been that kind of person.”

That's not the full truth, but the full truth would be callous. And anyway, he can think and understand what he likes about Sarah, too.

“Is this because I said to come with you on this trip?”

“Yeah, Mr. Helpful. Not just me though. Everyone in town. If it was just me I’d say sure, I know the way you look at me, whatever. Men show they like you with all kinds of stupid. But everyone else, too.”

“I’m not a superhero, Sarah.”

“Then what the hell are you, Bucky Barnes?” To me, she means.

He tilts his head and stares at the floor. The light from the fire carves out his cheekbones and lashes and the smudge of bog muck still covering his temple. Sarah is overcome by the urge to cry. 

He shrugs. “Family man, I guess.”

“You guess.” Oh. The tears do come.

“Sarah?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“I think I love you.”

Sarah wipes hard at the wetness on her face, annoyed that it is persisting even now that she’s safe from the gale outside. She takes a few deep breaths. “You mean, not just like family.”

“Oh. No. In love, I guess.” His voice has gone terribly soft. “In love with you.”

The fire crackles. The wind gales. They can hear the bell on St. Grace dinging outside where she tosses a bit, even tied down so nicely.

“Yeah? I’m halfway there.” Sarah is surprised by the tenderness in her own voice, considering how this has complicated her world. “Maybe two thirds.”

“I know.”

“So why’d you say it? You could’ve waited.”

“I didn’t know I could. Felt good to say it, I guess.”

“What?” She realizes, “love somebody? Oh my God, Bucky, a blind crab could’ve told me you could love someone.”

He frowns, but there’s humour in his voice when he says, “Yeah, but you could tell ‘cause you’re good at it. I haven’t been any good at it in a while.”

And you just thought to try with me? Is Sarah’s next thought, which is more hateful than he deserves. The wind picks up outside quite suddenly and it feels the shack is about to fly away with it.

“Sarah,” he says again. She does love how he holds her name in his mouth. Sarah gets up and goes over and sits beside him on the chair. It’s not really big enough to hold both of them and their blankets, but they make it work. They both smell. And his left shoulder is uncomfortable to lean her head against, so, after a moment of contemplation, she kisses it instead. 

“I’m gonna miss my meeting,” says Sarah, almost in a laugh, and then doesn’t think about much else: the hungry yearning in the room has stopped existing as a ghost. One too many acts of tenderness have breathed life back into it. "Boots are still wet though," she adds, tugging his urgent hands around her waist. The blanket has slipped mostly away from his shoulder now, "yours I mean. Maybe we can split my clothes between us tomorrow."

And it is a silly thought, so they both do laugh, properly this time, like a brighter version of the St. Grace's bell being tossed around in the storm.

#my writing #finally wrote something i like prose wise! #sarah x bucky #fleur de louve #fatws #sarah wilson #bucky barnes #marvel #one word prompts #to this day that last prompt KILLS me. tumblr user ewoktreehouse do u know how many times i have laughed reading it over

[hawkzeyes]

why is everyone against bernard being the question guy wouldn’t it bring more to berdnard anyways

Mmm there are a lot of reasons personally for me! I’m gonna go ahead and say I’m incredibly biased and DC’s recent choices have my eye twitching.

1. Renee deserves to continue as The Question. DC has done this thing again, where an effective and exciting woman hero gets shifted backwards and we just lose all character development for no reason at all. This isn’t the first time DC has done this and it certainly won’t be the last time unfortunately. I’d like to see it fixed tbh and I’d like to see her back in the mask!

2. The Question seems to get just the title of a “conspiracy theorist” which is what I see B*tfam Stans using as a reason as apparently Bernard has had this trait, but that’s a huge misconception (mostly because of JLU love it though) sure he works with conspiracies but mostly because they are linked to corruption, which is really what he actually handles most of the time. Along with Renee! He just happens to be really cryptic about it, giving him that mysterious ‘crack pot’ vibe. That’s the purpose of The Question though. To go where the person behind the mask can’t, to stop the corruption at its core.

3. The DC comic verse has done enough sacrificing other characters for the b*tfam honest to god. Ppl are getting really tired of it. There has been plenty of this talk outside of the b*tfamily circle but it’s generally missed by them because they tend to stay in their circle. Which is totally fine! That’s their space, but the rest of the families/fandoms are irked. The way multiple characters have been altered and changed just to fit along that family is A LOT in the N52/Rebirth situation. The rest of the characters in DC are not responsible for Bernard being more interesting. If writers want him to be interesting they ought to just develop him as a person? Renee doesn’t deserve to lose the mantle because y’all want Tim’s boyfriend to be a cool conspiracy guy

4. If y’all want to see this, write fanfiction about it? That’s what fanfiction is for. What I don’t want is it being pushed at DC because A LOT of writers right now are waaaay too involved in fandom spaces rn (which I find highly unprofessional. Like I’m not saying you can’t be a fan, obviously I would prefer that, but starting fights with fans, beefing over Twitter, and using your power in these comic companies to run over others opinions and or steal ideas from fans is weird) and they do take from it. T*m T*ylor.

5. I think it would actually crush me to see Renee lose the mantle because of fandom space after Vic (who is one of my favorite characters) trusted her with it. The person who has it now respects Vic and the meaning behind the mask, because that very much matters when it comes to The Question, instead of just “lol conspiracies 🤪🤪”

6. If I remember correctly isn’t Vic back confusingly? With the whole Manhattan Flashpoint mess (please don’t ask me to explain I literally never understand the flashpoint LMFAOOO) So if Renee really is done with the mask… and Vic Sage is literally right there (I think) and about a million times better than Bernard would ever be at being The Question since he is literally the original, why should he? Bernard has literally done nothing to prove he would be better than either of these characters or has really done anything to show he deserves the mantle.

#also I would like to say I’m horrible with tone on the internet #I don’t mean any of this as an aggressive way if it comes off that way LMFAOO #I just feel very passionately #I also don’t hate Bernard! #I just don’t think he deserves to be the question #Hawkzeyes #yes I edited that b*tfam word because I always receive like an onslought of messages #whenever I talk about them at all #and I’m really not in the mood #LMFAOOO #like getting anon hate is just so nasty and rude #also I really hope this wasn’t bait #for like a hoard to come in LMFAOO

[apoptoses]

Armand/Daniel pleaaaase <3

(disclaimer- some of these things are things I intend to use in fic! If you want to use any of these ideas to write something of your own, please please please ask first)

•Who is the most affectionate? For little touches? Armand. He's forever fixing Daniel's hair, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt, and leaning against his side on a long train ride. Taking care of Daniel is his love language and he shows it again and again with all the little ways he's touching him and making adjustments to his appearance.

But for big gestures- Daniel. He doesn't care that he's the bigger of the two of them, he's like that St. Bernard that comes over and climbs onto your lap and totally smothers you in the process. At home he'll drape himself over Armand's lap, get his hands on his hips and drag him back into bed, yank his shirt up and rub his back, you name it. He's all over him.

•Who initiates the handholding?

Daniel. The first time he does it is just an impulse thing- Armand always has these rings on, and he's tipsy and tired and curious so he just reaches across the booth, grabs Armand's hand and then forgets to let go. After that it's a thing. Armand won't let him out the door or out of a cab without holding his hand, or at least gripping him by the elbow.

•Who worries more for the other?

Under that cool exterior Armand is forever worrying about Daniel. Whether he's eating, or sleeping enough, or just whether or not he's safe and no other immortals are after him. He's terribly anxious about him and it comes out in his control issues.

•Who is more likely to ask for help?

Daniel. Armand hasn't asked anyone for help since the very last time he hid under Bianca's bed.

•Who is the one always losing the keys?

God, they're both awful Armand because keys mean nothing to a being who can unlock doors with his mind, Daniel because he grew up a mama's boy who never had to keep track of anything for himself and thus is now a scatterbrained mess. Without Armand's abilities they'd be screwed with how much money they'd have to spend on a locksmith every month.

•Who leaves little love notes for the other?

Daniel leaves them for Armand. It's not a thing until after he's moved back in at Trinity Gate. He starts leaving a little post-it with his whereabouts if he's the first one awake because he knows how much Armand worries about him running off again. But it becomes a note saying he's gone uptown to feed and also that Armand looks so pretty when he's asleep in one of his old t-shirts. And then a note saying he's out shopping with Louis and a paragraph about how he was thinking about when they first kissed and then-

Well. Let's just say Armand learns to sleep in not for the extra beauty rest but for the little letters that await him when he wakes.

•Who can’t sleep unless the other is there?

Bold of you to assume either of them are willing to go to bed alone after Daniel is turned. They've been edging the whole 'waking up together' thing for years, once they're able to sleep in the same space they're never willingly sleeping apart again.

•Who is more likely to propose to the other?

Daniel has, at least three separate times when he was mortal and wasted and in an affectionate mood. The first time Armand laughed him off and tucked him into bed. The second time Armand humored him and asked him what kind of wedding he wanted until Daniel passed out mid-sentence at the party.

The third time they were in Vegas, and what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. So completely off his face on mixed drinks, Daniel sat in the passenger seat of an old convertible while Armand took him to a drive-thru wedding chapel. Elvis was the officiant. Daniel received on of Armand's rings, Armand got a little plastic ring Daniel had bought from a coin operated toy thing. Polaroids are somewhere in Night Island, waiting to be discovered and hung in Trinity Gate.

•Who introduced the other to their family first?

So. In my heart Daniel was raised in an upper middle class suburb outside Philly. His dad commuted into the city for his office job, sometimes if Daniel was good they'd go downtown as a treat. And every year for Christmas they took the Amtrack into NYC to see the tree at Rockefellar Center.

Which means the day Daniel and Armand move to NYC, Daniel actually picks up the phone and remembers to call his mom. He mentions he's in the city. She says that's great, your father and I have tickets for the MET opera this weekend, why don't we drop in? He tries to hold her off. Ma wins.

It'll be fine, they'll come by beforehand, it'll be daylight. Except they don't come over until afterwards, when Armand is lurking in the kitchen and welp- cat's out of the bag. They try to lie and play Armand off as an exchange student Daniel is friends with. It's a one bedroom apartment. Mom knows. And she assumes this is why Danny never calls, not that, you know, his boyfriend is a 500 year old supernatural being that keeps him on the hop.

Dad gets awkward, Ma gets sappy, Armand charms them both and Daniel gets them out the door without throwing up from anxiety. They move to the Night Island soon after so that Mrs. Molloy doesn't start dropping in at random and noticing Armand just doesn't exist during the day. But after that they get holiday cards forwarded to Daniel via his publisher that read "to Daniel and his special friend".

•Who is more likely to play with the other’s hair?

They're equally all up in each other's business in this way. Armand loves lulling Daniel off to sleep by playing with his hair, Daniel loves the times he's asked to get the clippers and help with Armand's desired style for the night. In the shower the hair washing is mutual.

Also Armand totally kept Daniel's hair from his last mortal haircut on the plane and had it encased in a glass brooch, like the morbid Victorian he is at heart.

•Who makes sure the other has meals/stays hydrated?

Look- Armand tries, okay? He tries to remember what mortal needs are and that Daniel has them. But every now and then he gets caught up in the thrill of the evening and doesn't notice Daniel is starving until he's gone pissy with hungry-anger, and he has to run him to the nearest diner for a quick meal.

•Who is more likely to stand up to anyone for the other?

They're pretty equal in this way too. Armand would never let anyone survive the experience of harassing Daniel. And Daniel, growing up a queer kid in the 60s/70s, has developed a mean right hook and he's not afraid to use it.

(and he did, one night in new york when Armand got catcalled in an ugly way. He knows Armand can take care of himself but it happens like a reflex, he lays the guy out and then, when they get home, gets laid out himself. Armand has never had anything get him worked up like seeing Daniel get violent on his behalf.)

•Who is the most likely to prepare a surprise for the other?

I mean, the predictable answer for this is Armand. When wasn't he surprising mortal Daniel with either gifts or experiences or travel?

But post-turning I think Daniel would give as good as he's ever gotten. At first it's intimidating because Armand has more money than god and can get anything he wants, whenever he wants- so how do you surprise him? But it's the little experiences he might have missed out on in life that Daniel hones in on. He surprises him by taking him to theme parks or arranging private tours of the zoo at night. Having a proper birthday party, complete with goofy activities to earn prizes. It's all fairly mundane in his opinion but Armand loves it.

•Who makes the other pinky promise not to do certain things?

Armand. It's a modern gesture, he gets obsessed with it and uses it inappropriately. Daniel gets up to go to the bathroom? Pinky promise me you'll come back. Daniel runs to the store for cigarettes? Pinky promise you'll buy milk too, there's a recipe Armand wants to try. Daniel goes to grab some ice cream out of the fridge? Pinky promise- jesus christ Armand, this isn't how that works!

•Who puts a blanket over the other when they fall asleep on the couch?

Sometimes Armand drifts off. He can't help it, he's had a long life and sometimes the best thing you can do is have a disco nap to get away from the trauma of it all. And that's fine with Daniel. It's creepy that he doesn't breathe but the slack look on his face is sweet and sometimes he sleeps with his mouth open. He's compelled to wrap him in a blanket every single time.

#armand/daniel #apoptoses answers #vc headcanons #the devil's minion

[yeetus-feetus]

Clone baby WIP

random piece of something i'm currently writing where Kon dies and Bernard and Tim get into some cloning shenanigans because neither of them are good at grieving their missing 1/3.

also Luthor trying to be a slightly better man and taking this as a second chance sorta thing.

featuring Dick Grayson.

-

Joren reaches out toward Dick, trying to say his name. He softens as Luthor hands the small boy over to him.

“...Now Tim's moving away, and Bernard's going with him, so there’s no reason for him to be in Gotham anymore. He wants to change his hero name and everything, start working at the W.E. branch in Metropolis, and it feels like I'm losing him again.” The young man continues to rant.

Joren grabs at his Dick's and he lets out a soft laugh.

“I don’t even know why I'm telling you all this.”

Luthor smiles. “It’s the baby. People seem more comfortable opening up when there’s a baby around, so I’ve found.” he replies, and Dick huffs another laugh.

“So you brought Joren in here with you to manipulate me into talking about my feelings?” Dick asks in an investigative tone. “And here I was thinking you were acting out of character.”

Luthor puts his hands up in mock surrender. “You caught me”, he smiles slyly. “Anyways, think about it, the fresh air would do them all some good, don’t you think?”

Dick huffs. “They don’t have to move to Kansas for fresh air.” Joren babbles in his lap and Dick can’t help but smile again as he takes in just how cute he is. “Plus, I think you have an ulterior motive in offering them up your childhood home”.

“Oh?” Luthor asks.

Dick looks back up and grins at him. “You want to coddle what’s left of Kon just as much as I want to coddle Tim. We both have a lot of regrets when it comes to our familial relationships”.

Luthor looks almost surprised, huffing out an impressed breath of air. Of course Dick could read him that easily, he’s Batman’s son.

“Right well, lunch will be ready soon. You and Joren should join us once you’ve come to terms with your brother’s decision.” He smiles as he stands up, giving a small wave to Joren before walking back through the sliding door, leaving Dick behind with the babbling baby.

#fic wip #timberkon #clone babies #dick grayson #lex luthor #currently dead kon el #he comes back later tho

[blueangelflights]

Okay but imagine love triangle Tim Bernard Kon and Bernard is the future he could have and Kon is the past he can’t shake and Tim never moves on he doesn’t when so many people he loved died he stopped at nothing to bring them back Tim can’t let go of anything Tim is like Bruce in that aspect and all the people he lost, he lost after he became robin unlike dick, Jason and Bruce he didn’t already carry loss with him before getting into this life and Kon knew robin before Tim but Bernard knew Tim before robin and Bernard is definitely better for Tim an escape from the hurt from the past from losing people and Kon is the past he can’t ignore the past he can’t escape Kon is alive but I bet tim feels like he's a ghost sometimes he looks at Kon and still feels the pain of losing him and Kon can't possibly be good for Tim after all that happened but just how Bruce will never really move Tim might just follow in his steps and it might not be the best choice for him but it might just be the one he makes anyways

#I’m rambling and jet lag is terrible and this is probably all wrong but I’m having thoughts #Tim drake is Argentinian btw he told me #don’t flame me if I got it all wrong🤧🤧 #timkon #dc comics #young justice 1998 #conner kent #tim drake #young justice #kon el #kon el kent #batfam #dc comic

[ambeauty]

I’m in a 🤡 girl car, pulling up. Kory is in the med bay, recovering. The team is with her, Bernard too. Dick’s by her side, holding her hand, internally losing it, but trying to be calm on the outside. Rachel and Gar tell the rest of the group to clear the room to give DK some privacy. They all clear the room and Dick just looks at her for a few seconds with tears in his eyes and he says softly, “You scared us. We thought we lost you. We’re a team can’t do this without you. We need you. Kory, I need you.” Kory looks at him tenderly and says” I didn’t mean to scare you.” She moves over slightly and pats the space she made for him in the bed. They fall asleep holding each other. The End.

This is exactly what I need. Omg I’m unwell! We’re all manifesting this so I believe it’s gonna happen. Or some aspects of it 😭😭 just ready for Dick Grayson to stop playing with our feelings be fucking for real and go get his queen!!

#anon answered #only 4 more days y’all #4 MORE DAYS #dickkory

[gellavonhamster]

Hi! I know almost nothing about Arthuriana, except some few stories that we read ten years ago in Middle School in English class. I would want to know a little more about the historical context, the origins, the meanings and the orders of all those legends, but I don’t know where to begin. Do you study them in school/uni or do you research about them on your own? Thank you!

Hi! No, I've never really studied Arthuriana, though we touched upon it a little at university during some of our English Literature classes, but in very broad strokes. Plus our professor made us read the book she wrote on the similarities between Arthuriana and the Latvian epic Lāčplēsis (don't know about my classmates, but I read it - it was pretty interesting, but I still found it funny that she was essentially forcing people to read her book). Frankly speaking, I wouldn't say I do research about it now either - I just read whatever works I find available online, choosing them based on what I've heard about them and what links I find floating around on tumblr. Regarding the historical context and origins, some years ago I read a pretty comprehensive book that was like a summary of previous research on the historical origins of Arthuriana, but it was in Russian - "Меч короля Артура. Так рождалась легенда" (The Sword of King Arthur. So the Legend Was Born) by Vadim Erlikhman, so I don't think it will be of much use because it is hardly translated into English. It has a long bibliography which includes a lot of books and research works in English, but I don't know which of them are the most useful.

As to where to begin... it’s a difficult question, especially since a lot of these legends contradict each other more or less because they belong to different traditions. I think it helps if you already have an idea which characters or events in particular you would like to read about, because then you can start with the texts focused on them and then move to other characters or events if you decide that you enjoy these legends in general. @fuckyeaharthuriana has a lot of useful rec lists (links in blog description), including those sorted by character. I can also suggest some works that I enjoyed the most, but please bear in mind that I am far from being an expert - I read several texts last year in the wake of watching BBC Merlin and The Green Knight, and this year started devouring basically all texts I could find after reading Le Morte d'Arthur, but I haven't read the Vulgate, for example, and some other things that, I believe, are considered basics, while having read some more obscure texts that caught my attention but are not as fundamental. Anyway...

Yvain: Knight of the Lion by Chrétien de Troyes - this one has everything: adventures, love, friendship, active female characters (Lunete my best friend Lunete), an Animal Sidekick, and a happy ending after a lot of tribulations. The main character is Sir Yvain, son of King Uriens and Morgan Le Fay, and the story is about him falling in love with a widow of a knight he killed, managing to win her affection but then losing her trust and having to win it back while doing a bunch of heroic deeds on the way. Quite long but I found it a lot of fun.

The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnell for Helping of King Arthur - I’m linking the translation I read, but there are many of them available online. It’s a short and fun romance in which a knight captures King Arthur and challenges him to find out what women desire the most or lose his head. His nephew Gawain decides to help him and ends up having to marry an ugly lady who helped him find the answer, but then it turns out that her ugliness is actually a curse, which the answer he discovered helps him undo. 

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight - I read it in translation by Bernard O’Donoghue, for the simple reason that it was the one I stumbled upon in a bookstore, but I can’t find it online. There are several other available, however; the one I’m linking is by Jessie Weston. With a movie recently being out, you probably know the gist of the plot: a green stranger arrives at king’s court and challenges Arthur’s knights to give him a blow of an axe and then, a year later, receive the same blow in return. So Gawain accepts the challenge and chops the Green Knight’s head off, but he puts the head back on, and now Gawain is due to lose his head in a year. As he rides off to meet his fate, he stays at a castle belonging to a married couple, where his honour is tested (and things get pretty gay). 

The “Arthurian” Portion of the Roman de Brut by Wace - this one is not one of my favourites, to be honest, even though the language is really beautiful in some parts, but I think it’s important. It tells about Arthur’s ancestors, Uther’s rise to power, Merlin’s origins (which I found the most interesting part), Arthur’s rise to power, various conquests and death. Mostly conquests, which is why I wasn’t too engrossed. 

Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory (Volume 1, Volume 2) - this is one of those foundational works, a XV century attempt to put all the main Arthurian legends together. Arthur’s birth and the start of his reign, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Isolde, the quest for the Holy Grail, the fall of Camelot - it’s all here. There are various editions, but I don’t know which to suggest, because I made a questionable decision to read the original (the one I’m linking) which is not very easy to read because of the old language. 

Prose Tristan and Povest ‘o Trystchane - I love the Tristan and Isolde stories not so much because I like the main couple but because they’re usually a lot of fun. Shenanigans, wild adventures, horniness, the “everyone’s a little in love with everyone” vibes... My preferred version of all I’ve read is Tristan’s part of Le Morte d’Arthur, but these two are also cool. They’re pretty similar until the second one (the XVI Belarusian version) starts diverging greatly (there’s a whole subplot where Tristan, Isolde, and Guinevere travel to save Arthur from captivity, it’s wild).

Morien - a Dutch romance about a young Moorish knight who goes on a quest to find his biological father and ends up having some adventures with Gawain and Lancelot. I like it because searching for one’s father is such a... normal reason for a quest, something perfectly understandable to a modern person, unlike many of the more outlandish ideas that appear in some other romances. 

#sorry it took me so long to write such an unhelpful answer #but hey at least i found some links :D #i've reblogged several posts with links to other works under the 'arthurian legends' tag #but they're probably hard to find now under all the fanart and shitposts #asks #artemideaddams #arthurian legends #gella talks arthuriana #talk talk talk

[westmeath]

got a first for the short story i wrote about an irish navvy working in england in the 50s HEHE a low first BUT. this is the easiest place to upload it so i’m going to post it here if you’d like to read it.. tumblr loses all my formatting but just picture the nicely indented lines in your mind

The Dublin boys and the Connacht boys were fighting again. Over what Bernard wasn't aware and cared little; too focused on his dinner. It was always one of a few things, each as trivial and dim as the last, and all of which boiled down to ‘You're from there and we're from here.’ Likely, it came down to the simple utterance of the word culchie or jackeen.

Bernard didn’t get involved in these arguments, both for the fact Sligo was too far north of Connacht for either side to bother with him, and that he himself simply couldn’t be bothered. He was, frankly, sick and tired of these petty arguments between men who were all here for the same reason; forced by a need for work to leave their homes and venture into the British workforce for the promise of better wages.

Even with the uncertainty of jumping from job to job, city to city, middle-of-nowhere to middle-of-nowhere-but-somewhere-else, not knowing how long you'll be there or how well you'll be looked after, only having enough money to keep you going for maybe two weeks at any given time… It’s not a life most would choose, but it was preferable to whatever lay in wait at home.

But for all the good it brought, Bernard missed the simplicities of home – though he’d left for the same reason as everyone else, a desperate need for work, absence had only made the heart grow fonder. He’d become weary of the back-breaking work, he hated the conditions he worked in, he hated the cities, he’d even grown to hate the people who inhabited the same spaces as him; the pubs filled with the same faces every day, faces of men who would never return to their birthplace, be it through shame, poverty or arrogance, men who would rather slink off over the horizon to die like a dog rather than be seen by their families again, nosing out the least amount of dignity in death.

An elbow slipped against Bernard's arm, knocking both his train of thought out of his mind and the slice of ham he'd just managed to get onto his fork straight back off it again. Martin, a younger man from Lancashire who'd somehow ended up with this gang of Irish navvies, craned his neck to gawp over his shoulder.

‘What are they fighting about?’ Martin looked back between the two men sitting with him. ‘Should I - should we be concerned?’

‘Don't worry about it,’ Christy, a Kerryman built like an ox, mumbled through a mouthful of mash. ‘Just keep your nose out of it.’

‘What's a “Dublin Shackreen”’?

‘Why are you here, Martin?’ Bernard asked. ‘On this job, I mean. There's no other English working here.’

Martin blinked. ‘I needed the money. I weren't going to be picky.’

Bernard hmm'd in response. He couldn't fault him there.

‘I'd rather be out in the fresh air than cooped up in one of the factories, day-in, day-out.’ Martin now idly picked at the peas on his plate, having forgotten the ruckus that was still ongoing behind him.

He finally stabbed the fork down onto a single pea, sending a couple more flying in opposite directions. ‘And anything's better than being down the mines.’

‘Out in the frigid air, you mean. At least the factories and the mines might be warm,’ Christy said.

‘Only depending on how deep the mine is,’ Martin replied. ‘It gets colder first, then it starts heating up.’

‘Send me right down to the core. I'm tired of my hands cracking open with the cold.’

‘Maybe you wouldn't feel so cold if you worked a bit harder, Christy,’ Bernard remarked.

Knocking his chair backwards, Christy leapt up and pulled Bernard towards him by the collar. ‘Look, you-’

‘Are you two heading home for Christmas? You'll be warm then,’ Martin said casually. ‘I'll go back for a couple days, at least. ‘Til they all start depressing me again and I can't take them no more.’

Christy sank back down into his seat, releasing his hand from Bernard's shirt and using it to scratch the side of his face in thought instead. The fist Bernard had reeled back in response slowly returned to his cutlery.

‘I’d say so,’ Christy said idly. ‘I usually do. I've enough saved to stay home for a month without doing a stab of work.’

‘I haven't been home in years,’ Bernard mused. ‘I'm afraid if I go now I mightn't come back again.’

He looked up from studying the remains of his plate and saw two faces staring at him.

 ‘You're thinking of packing it in, Bern?’ Christy asked, voice low.

‘Ah, I-’

From behind them, a roar rose up from the gathered crowd, and a tremendous thump cracked through the floorboards.

‘I think the shackreen lost,’ Martin remarked.

—

Martin saw the two of them off in the train station, waiting to catch a train of his own back up North. He gave them each a roughly torn piece of notebook paper with a company name and address of a job in Birmingham where he might be working come January, if they wished to join him on their return.

The remaining two travelled together on the ferry as far as the port in Dún Laoghaire, where Christy left him with a few claps on the back and a reminder to keep him posted on what he decides to do. For the rest of his journey, Bernard was alone.

He didn't know what exactly he expected to feel; preferably anything, but try as he might, he couldn't conjure up any feelings of nostalgia, or excitement, or longing, or even loneliness. The towns and fields racing past the window blurred into a numb fog in his mind.

It was dark by the time he disembarked from the train in Sligo, and late into the evening by the time he had reached the end of the long walk along the road out of the town.

Under the shadow of Ben Bulben lay the same old house; the same old trail of smoke stretching from the same old chimney, from below which the light of the same old fireplace illuminated the same old dirty windows.

He walked straight in as he always had done, and his mother acted equally as though no time had passed, not even looking up from making dinner on the range as she told him to take his dirty shoes off.

Bernard remarked that it was a bit late to be having dinner, to which his mother responded that it was only for his father’s sake, who was working late this evening.

The dreariness involved in sitting at the table while his mother simultaneously conjured up a stew and updated him on every death in the parish since his last visit, all while being badgered with questions of ‘Have you met any nice girls over there yet?’, compelled Bernard to put his shoes back on and say to her, ‘I'll talk to you properly later on, when Da is home, right?’, and headed back out the door and towards the nearest village.

Having a drink with some of his old mates would surely put his mind right. He had barely stepped foot into the pub when he was accosted by a familiar voice.

‘Get the fuck out of here Bernard, you’re barred.’

‘Ah come on Peadar, I’ve not been back in years.’

‘Fine!’ The grey-haired owner of the pub was already filling a glass. ‘Just this once. But one word out of you and you’re gone.’

Bernard slipped onto a stool at the empty bar, glancing over his shoulder to see who else was around. A number of men populated the darker corners of the little building, none of which Bernard was overly familiar with - except for his father, who grinned at him upon making eye contact and held up his drink in greeting from a table he shared with a few similarly scruffy looking men by the open fire.

Peader slid Bernard’s drink towards him. ‘How’s your sister? D’ya ever run into her over there?’

‘My sister? Is she not here?’

‘She’s been in England for the last 3 years, Bernard.’

‘Oh.’ Bernard paused. ‘Well no one told me.’

Peadar watched him drink for a moment, one eyebrow raised. Bernard busied himself with looking over his shoulder.

‘How’s the rest of them? Francis, Michael, Joe, Steve Óg, those shower - they’d normally be in here this time of day.’

He punctuated each name with a point of his finger at different chairs and tables across the pub; all now either empty or seating the worn older men he’d seen on his way in.

‘All gone.’

‘What? Died?’

‘No, not died, you stupid- …Gone and done the same as you, off to England to find work,’ Peader sighed.

‘Right, right,’ Bernard eased slightly, or deflated; he couldn’t tell.

A chair groaned across the floor, and he looked back up in time to see his father bid his drinking partners farewell and waltz out the door, singing something about dinner being ready for him.

For a few moments he watched the door swing slightly in the draught, knocking against its frame where it hadn’t been shut in properly.

‘Peader,’ Bernard began, ‘You haven’t got a pen and some paper I could borrow?’

‘Only if you give ‘em back.’

Hunched over the bar, Bernard began to write a letter:

Dear Christy -

I’ll see you back in Birmingham.

#poast