They are killing people on the streets, in the prisons, in their homes, in their cars they do not fucking care.
Another man was MURDERED today. They shot him 10 fucking times even after the fact he was laying on the ground clearly unmoving they continue to fire into his body.
You cannot sit here and look me in my eyes and tell me these are just people doing their jobs, no these are people who have waited their entire life to commit murder and now they finally have the chance to do so without any repercussions.
And this shit is starting to sound really fucking familiar. I thought we all learned about this in history, did we not?
About the men who would March the street plucking people from their homes and from their businesses and from their cars. About the men who would shoot you fucking dead if you stood in their way for any reason. About the men who would take these random confused humans and shove them into little tight cramped spaces hauling them off to God knows where just so they can torture and kill them then?
This isn't something new, it's not something we just came up with on the spot because frankly Germany got to it first and now we're just copying off their homework.
This is FAR from anything i have EVER posted but am so fucking angry at everything going on and i fear not enough people are angry with me.
We all talk I'm a revolution but nobody actually has the balls to try one, and I'll be honest me included.
I am so sick of sitting on my ass waiting for something to happen or waiting for my life to and so i don't have to deal with this shit. We all have more power than we realized.
You have a voice, so fucking use it.
And to all of my fellow artists out there, start drawing shit that sends a message. Paste it anywhere and everywhere you can find.
It's the type shit you can Mass print and plaster all around your city.
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Who Fell First and Who Fell Harder? (Girls Edition)
Barbara Gordon
You fall for her first, because how can you not fall for her dry wit, her sharp intelligence, and that loving and strong heart of hers? But Barbara? Oh, she falls so much harder without ever really meaning to. Maybe it’s the way you match her wit that always brings a smile to her lips. Maybe it’s the way you seem to weave yourself so effortlessly into her life like you’ve always belonged there. But if you asked Barbara what it was that made her fall so much harder for you? She’d have to say that it was how easily you still let her have her independence. You don’t let your relationship with her define you; you’re your own person and she never tries to take that from you. And in turn, you never try to take her identity from her, either. You love her work as Oracle and you’re always the first to bristle a little when someone challenges her, but you never fight her fights for her because you know she doesn’t need you to. You never doubt her and you never assume she needs your help with things if she doesn’t ask. And that’s the thing. She does ask because you give her the room to be herself without trying to change anything about her or her life. She comes to you for help because she knows that you know she’s capable of almost anything she puts her mind to. If she’s coming to you for help there’s never any smug comments or jokes about her not being able to do something on her own. You just give her that easy smile and nod, sitting down beside her and ask, “What are we doing, then?” It’s easy with you. You two are your own people, never defined by each other, but always there in each other’s orbit when you need each other. Barbara values her independence greatly and you’ve never tried to take that from her or make her feel like you thought she needed help she never asked for. So that makes her feel safe to actually ask for help. And that means more to her than anything else and it’s what makes her love you so fiercely that sometimes she hardly knows what to do with herself.
Stephanie Brown
She falls first. She’s a true yearner at heart and she tumbles into love with you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And really, it is easy for you both. But you fall harder. You fall so much harder when she comes home to you, bruised and bloody but still giving you that gorgeous smile like you’re the best thing she’s ever seen in her entire life. She’s brave and passionate about what she does and it’s something you see written all over her body, in the bruises she lets you ice and the scars you trace in the middle of the night when sleep escapes you. It scares you sometimes when you think about her out there at night, defending a city that’s only half thankful on the best of days, but it always leaves you a little breathless when she still comes back home smiling. She’s resilient. You wonder sometimes how she has the strength to keep getting back up time and time again. A part of you envies it. Mostly, though, in a way you covet it. It’s a part of her that you want to curl yourself around and protect, if only because you feel like she deserves someone who fights for her, too. So yeah, you fall a lot harder. Stroking your fingers across her cheek in her sleep, following the outline of bruises. Letting your thumb drag across split lips or stitched up gashes that make your heart ache and soar in equal measure. You don’t know how to hold all those feelings sometimes. You don’t know how to ever truly hold the entirety of your love for her in these quiet moments, her asleep in your arms as daylight slowly creeps into the sky while she sleeps away the aches and pains of the night. But god, you’d never trade them for anything.
Cassandra Cain
Cassandra fell harder without ever really trying. It’s not that you were hard to fall for because you definitely weren’t. The intensity of it all just really took her by surprise. The thing about you that seems to always leave Cass a bit in awe of you is just…how gentle you are. Not that you’re fragile; you’re certainly far from it. But there’s a gentleness inside of you that, in all honesty, she’s not exactly used to seeing in everyone. Especially people in Gotham, of all places, where sometimes the city seems to try and drain people of any ounce of goodness inside of them. You have a strong heart that you wear on your sleeve and because of it, you’re always easy to read. Cass does like that about you. What really gets her, though? You’re gentle with her. Not because you think she needs you to be gentle. You’re very aware that she doesn’t. You just want to be gentle with her, like she’s something precious you want to nurture and protect. It’s not in some clingy, overbearing way. It comes so easily to you; pressing a soft kiss to her temple when you pass her breakfast in the morning or massaging her shoulders when you notice just a bit more tension in them than normal. You like to wash her hair for her in the shower when you share one and she always lets you, drifting in some soft place in her mind as your comforting voice accompanies the gentle massaging of your fingers against her scalp. You know it’s still a little bizarre to her sometimes, but you can see the way she melts into it but you never comment on it, never make her feel silly or small for wanting this softness. You give her the room to be the strong vigilante she is and make sure she has somewhere soft to land when it’s all over and that, more than anything else, is what made Cass fall headfirst into love with you like it’s all she knew how to do.
Kate Kane
Surprisingly, it’s you who falls harder. Kate doesn’t really make it that easy, not at first. She can be hot headed and cold at times, mean and downright irritating at the worst of times. It’s exciting when it’s good. It’s downright miserable when it’s bad. Not that she’s a bad partner because she really isn’t when she puts her mind to it. She’s attentive and notices things about you that you’re not used to partners noticing. She can read you like a book which is both annoying and charming, depending on the citation. She also has a lot of patience when it comes to you which is sort of a miracle on its own, considering she never has much patience to begin with. But what was it, exactly, that made you realize you’d fallen so much harder for Kate than you planned to? The way she shows up when she knows she’s in the wrong. It’s one thing for her to snap at you when Gotham has her at her limit. It’s another thing for her to swallow her own pride and admit that she was being unfair or mean or rude. But the thing is, she does it. She’s not all talk with no follow through. When you tell her something she does bothers you, it may take some time for you two to talk it out properly, but she does change the behavior. She doesn’t even make a good show of it to get any sort of loud recognition. She just…does it. Like ensuring your comfort and safety in the relationship is as easy as breathing to her. You’re not really used to people sticking to their word or changing their behavior when you tell them it hurts them. You’re used to fighting and yelling and messy break ups that leave you sour and sniffling on the bedroom floor. But Kate doesn’t let that happen. Even when you fight for real, and she’s really giving Bruce a run for her money in the ‘annoying as all hell’ department, she never, ever gives you a reason to doubt that she still wants the relationship to thrive. Kate shows up, even if it takes her a little bit to get it through her head. And that, above all else, means so much more to you than you’d ever say out loud.
Selina Kyle
You fall harder and god, you told yourself you wouldn’t. You told yourself over and over that it was a bad idea, that you were in for some form of heartbreak eventually. She’s just so…her, you know? She’s a wild spirit that you always thought couldn’t be contained. And in some ways, that’s true. Her heart and her sense of what’s right take her to some pretty dark places that honestly scare you to hear about. But there’s goodness in what she does and in the lives she saves on her own terms, and you’d never fault her for doing what’s right, even if it earns her the Bat’s ire from time to time. You just…worry sometimes. Like maybe one night she’ll get herself into something she can’t get out of. Like maybe one day she’ll vanish from your life like she was never there at all. She’s good at that, after all. But then she shows up in the dead of night or the break of dawn, body tired but those sly eyes brightening at the sight of you. She never tries to soften what she does when she tells you about it, washing the city grime away in your shower while you sit nearby to listen. She respects you enough to not want to coddle you when it comes to the things she does. She always tells you and you always listen and when you get that little worried frown on your lips, Selina presses a soft kiss to your forehead. A reminder that she’s home, safe and sound. She doesn’t say it outright but the words are always there in the way she holds you at night, the way her fingers run through your hair as you both let the early morning city life lull you to sleep; as long as she draws breath, Selina Kyle will always come home to you. And until then? She soaks up every moment with you. It doesn’t ease the fear. Maybe nothing ever really will. But she tells you everything you want to know and doesn’t hide the wounds and the darkness that creeps in from you. You’re woven so deeply into her life, and so easily, that it never really ceases to leave you breathless. Selina Kyle loves you enough to not shield you from the truth and to always, always ensure you know that you’re her only home. That, above all else, is what makes you fall so much harder for her.
Divider by: @/cursed-carmine
please do not copy or repost my works onto other sites
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coming home after an exhausting hero shift, you expected nothing more than a quiet evening to collapse on the couch, but momo had a far sweeter, more commanding surprise waiting in your bedroom. sitting on the edge of the bed in her original u.a. hero costume, the red fabric stretches taut over her filled-out adult curves—struggling to contain her heavy chest and thick thighs. taking complete charge with a confident, soft-dom purr, she coaxes you onto your knees, using her iconic outfit to tease and worship you right up to the edge 𐔌🎀
from slick thigh jobs and breathless breast worship under her soft guidance, the sweet control quickly shifts as the heat in the room boils over. unable to hold back any longer, you flip her onto her back, switching the dynamic to take control and pin her to the mattress in rough, relentless missionary. her once-poised composure completely melts into whiny, needy sighs, leaving momo trembling and unraveled under you through multiple rolling climaxes long into the night 𝜗𝜚 ‧₊ ꒱
you unlocked the door to your apartment, the heavy click echoing in the quiet hallway.
another fourteen-hour shift at the agency had left every muscle in your back aching, your hero suit feeling more like a cage than armor. the city never seemed to stop needing you these days. post-u.a. adulthood was an relentless treadmill of patrol schedules, agency paperwork, media appearances, and late-night emergency calls.
you had built a life together, but lately, that life felt like two ships passing in the night, leaving hasty notes on the kitchen counter and sharing tired kisses at three in the morning before one of you rushed back out into the fray.
you kicked off your shoes, letting out a long, heavy exhale as you stepped into the dark entryway. the apartment was usually silent when you got back this late, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. you stretched your neck, feeling the joints pop, and started unbuttoning your tactical vest, ready to collapse straight into bed.
"you're home early," a soft, familiar voice murmured from the living room.
you paused, your fingers resting against the front of your vest. the voice was momo's, but there was a distinct, playful cadence to it that you hadn't heard in months—maybe years.
"earlier than expected," you replied, your voice raspy from a long day of shouting instructions on the streets. "the night patrol wrapped up fast."
you turned the corner into the living room, and the words caught entirely in your throat.
the room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the warm, flickering glow of a few scented candles scattered across the coffee table and the low, golden light filtering in from the balcony city skyline. the warm light cast long, dramatic shadows across the hardwood floor, but your eyes didn't linger on the decor. they locked onto her immediately.
momo was standing near the edge of the sofa, leaning back slightly against the armrest, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.
she was wearing her original u.a. hero costume.
the sight was an absolute shock to your system, a sudden, electric burst of nostalgia and raw arousal that wiped away every shred of exhaustion in an instant. the crimson and white open-front leotard was unmistakable, but it looked entirely different now than it had when you were sixteen.
back in school, the suit had been functional, designed purely to accommodate her creation quirk by leaving ample skin exposed. it had always been a bit provocative, sure, but on a teenage student, it was just part of the job.
now, on a fully matured, adult woman in her mid-twenties, it was breathtakingly lethal.
her body had filled out dramatically over the years.
her shoulders were stronger, her waist narrower by comparison, and her hips had blossomed into full, dangerous curves that flared out beneath the high-cut leg openings of the suit.
the thick, crimson fabric was stretched impossibly taut across her frame, straining against the generous swell of her chest. the dramatic center slit of the costume, which exposed her sternum down to her navel, was practically overflowing.
the deep, rich cleavage was framed tightly by the stiff white collar and the red panels, every rise and fall of her breathing pushing her pale skin against the material until it looked like the seams were crying out for relief.
the utility belt—the heavy, golden band sitting low on her hips—cut into the soft flesh above her thighs, accentuating the dramatic hourglass silhouette that had made her one of the most striking pro heroes in the country.
her long, dark hair was freed from its usual tight ponytail, cascading over her bare shoulders in thick, raven waves, framing the exposed skin of her chest and upper back.
"momo..." you breathed, your voice dropping an octave as you took a step closer, completely rooted to the spot. "what... what is this?"
a flush of pink crept up her neck, dusting her high cheekbones, but she didn't look away.
instead, she tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips.
there was a subtle shift in her posture—a quiet, confident authority that she had cultivated over years of leading operations and commanding respect on the battlefield. it was a soft, elegant dominance, wrapped in her natural warmth.
"do you recognize it?" she asked softly, her voice smooth and rich.
she uncrossed her arms, letting them rest lightly on her hips, which only served to flare the suit further and push her breasts together beneath the narrow fabric strip. "i was going through some old storage crates in the spare room today while taking a rare afternoon off. i found my old high school gear."
"i definitely recognize it," you said, your gaze dragging deliberately down the front of the suit, taking in the pale expanse of her stomach, the tight line of her inner thighs exposed by the high cut, and the long, muscular legs leading down to her shoes. "i just... i don't remember it fitting quite like that."
momo let out a soft, melodic laugh, though the blush on her cheeks deepened.
"it... well, it doesn't fit like it used to, to be entirely honest," she admitted, her tone carrying a teasing bite.
she reached down, running two manicured fingers along the thick gold edge of her belt, tugging slightly at the taut crimson fabric against her hip. "i had to use my quirk just to create a few subtle extension panels in the back just so i could zip it up. it seems my body has changed a bit since our hero course days."
"changed is an understatement," you muttered, taking another step forward, the heavy click of your own shoes echoing in the quiet room. "you're bursting out of it."
"is that a complaint, hero?" she purred, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you. her stance was poised, effortless, her hips swaying subtly as she closed the distance. "because after three weeks of barely seeing each other for more than twenty minutes at a time, i thought you might appreciate a little... tactical distraction. a reminder of where we started."
"it's definitely not a complaint," you said, your eyes tracing the curve of her exposed waist. "it's a miracle the seams are holding together."
"then come here and test the durability," she commanded softly. it wasn't a shout or a harsh order; it was a low, velvet instruction that left no room for argument.
you didn't hesitate.
you closed the remaining distance between you two until you were standing directly in front of her. the faint, intoxicating scent of cherry blossoms and warm skin filled your senses, completely overriding the stale smell of the city street air that clung to your jacket.
up close, the visual was even more overwhelming.
the heat radiating from her exposed abdomen was palpable.
you reached out, resting your hands firmly on her hips, right over the cool metal of her utility belt.
the contrast between the smooth metal and the soft, warm curve of her skin above it made your fingers twitch. you squeezed gently, feeling the lush fullness of her body pressing back against your palms.
momo rested her hands against your chest, her fingers tangling in the front of your unbuttoned uniform vest.
she leaned up on her tiptoes, bringing her face inches from yours. her dark eyes were gleaming in the candlelight, blown wide with a mix of lingering shyness and sheer, unadulterated intent.
"you look exhausted," she whispered, her thumb tracing a light line across your jawline, her touch feather-light against your skin. "you work too hard. you let the agency consume you."
"pot, meet kettle," you replied softly, your hands sliding around to the small of her back, feeling the bare skin exposed by the low cut of the costume's rear design. "you've been working double shifts at the creation logistics hub all week."
"which is precisely why tonight is strictly off-duty," she murmured, leaning in to press her lips against the sensitive skin right beneath your ear. her breath was warm, sending an immediate shudder down your spine. "no calls. no agency updates. no patrols. just you, me, and a severe lack of restraint."
she pulled back just far enough to look you in the eyes, her expression shifting from soft comfort to a playful, smoldering focus. she brought one hand down to your chest, giving you a firm, steady push backwards.
"sit," she ordered, pointing toward the large leather armchair behind you.
you backed up slowly, your knees hitting the edge of the cushion, and sank into the chair without breaking eye contact.
momo followed you immediately, stepping between your legs. she placed one hand on the headrest above your shoulder and the other on your chest, bracing herself as she swung one leg over your lap, straddling you effortlessly.
the weight of her landing in your lap sent a jolt straight to your core.
the smooth, cool fabric of her hero suit slid against the dark denim of your pants, her full hips settling tightly against your thighs. the extra weight she carried as a fully grown woman felt incredible—heavy, warm, and entirely present.
"momo..." you gasped, your hands instinctively gripping her thighs, your thumbs digging into the soft, unclad flesh right below the high-cut line of her suit.
"hush," she whispered, leaning down so her chest pressed directly against yours. the soft, plush pressure of her breasts against your chest was almost overwhelming, the thin fabric of her costume doing virtually nothing to lessen the heat between you. "i've spent the last three hours preparing this room, waiting for you, thinking about how long it's been since i had you all to myself. you don't get to talk right now."
she slid her fingers up into your hair, gripping it firmly—not enough to hurt, but just enough to hold your head steady—and brought her lips down onto yours.
the kiss was intense, hungry, and completely devoid of the polite restraint she usually maintained in her daily life.
she parted her lips instantly, her tongue sliding against yours with a deep, possessive stroke that made you groan into her mouth. all the stress, the physical fatigue, and the mental burden of the past few weeks melted away, replaced by a sharp, burning focus on the woman in your arms.
you tightened your grip on her thighs, lifting her slightly to pull her closer, pulling her flush against your center.
she let out a low, breathless hum into the kiss, her hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate motion that pressed her core directly against the growing hardness beneath your pants.
when she finally broke the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connected your lips for a split second before snapping. her chest was heaving, the deep cutout of her suit expanding and contracting rapidly, exposing even more of her pale skin with every deep breath she took.
"better?" she asked softly, a wicked little smile playing at the corner of her lips as she looked down at you, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark with desire.
"much better," you rasped, your hands sliding up from her thighs, tracing the sharp curve of her waist, and coming to rest against the exposed skin of her stomach.
her skin was velvety soft, burning hot under your touch. "though i think this costume is going to cause a serious safety hazard if you keep moving like that."
"let it," she whispered, leaning back slightly and taking your right hand in hers. she guided your fingers up her abdomen, placing your palm directly over the taut, straining fabric covering her left breast.
you could feel her heart hammering violently against her ribs beneath your hand. "i built this suit to withstand physical combat, but right now... i think i'd rather watch you tear it off me."
"don't just stare, hero," she purred, her voice a low vibration that seemed to echo in the space between your heartbeats. she shifted her weight, sliding off your lap with a slow, agonizing grace that left you feeling suddenly cold. "follow me."
she didn't lead you to the bed, but to the oversized ottoman in the center of the room, gesturing for you to sink to your knees on the plush rug. as you obeyed, she stepped toward you, the high-cut lines of the red suit framing the powerful, sweeping curves of her thighs. the lighting caught the subtle sheen of her skin, highlighting the muscle and softness that had developed since her school days. momo didn't hesitate, stepping forward and pressing her inner thighs against your shoulders, locking you into a warm, velvet vice.
you let out a shaky breath, your hands finding the back of her calves.
you started slow, your lips grazing the sensitive skin just above her shoes, trailing upward. you lingered at the swell of her calves, tasting the salt of her skin, before moving to the thick, plush expanse of her thighs. every inch of her felt like a revelation—firm, yielding, and radiating a heat that threatened to consume you. you pressed a lingering kiss to the soft dip where her leg met the edge of the crimson fabric, then another, your teeth grazing her skin just enough to leave a blooming rose-colored mark.
momo’s head tilted back, a soft, shaky moan escaping her as she felt your devotion. "that's it," she whispered, her fingers tangling in your hair to guide your movements. she shifted, sliding one thigh over your shoulder and pressing the other firmly against your chest, her hips rolling in a slow, rhythmic cadence. the friction of her smooth skin against your uniform was electric. she leaned down, her breasts swaying precariously over the edge of the costume's cutout, her eyes hooded. "do you like how much space i take up now? tell me."
"you're... perfect," you managed to rasp, your hands sliding up to grip the undersides of her thighs, squeezing the lush fullness of them. you leaned in, your tongue tracing the crease of her leg, your breathing heavy and erratic. the sensation of her thick thighs clamping around you, controlling the pace of the friction, had you seeing stars. she let out a triumphant little hum, her hips picking up speed, the controlled pressure of the thighjob pushing you closer and closer to the edge while she watched your expression with a predatory, loving intensity.
you let your hands slide further up, your palms molding to the heavy, velvet warmth of her thighs. you spent an eternity just there, tracing the powerful slope of her muscles, marveling at how the crimson fabric of the suit acted as a frame for the lushness of her skin. you leaned in, your lips finding the soft, sensitive dip where her thigh met the hip, leaving a lingering, dark mark that stood out vividly against her pale complexion. momo let out a jagged breath, her fingers tightening in your hair, her hips rolling with a slow, instinctive hunger that drove you deeper into her.
the friction was agonizingly perfect.
as she clamped her legs tighter around your shoulders, the sheer mass of her thighs created a pressurized heat that felt like it was melting the very air between you. you focused on the sensation of her—the way her skin felt like silk stretched over iron, the rhythmic squeeze of her muscles as she guided the pace. you worshipped every inch, your tongue tracing the line of her inner thigh, moving upward until you were practically tasting the edge of the suit. she watched you from above, her chest heaving, a look of absolute, smug satisfaction crossing her face as she saw you completely undone by her.
"look at you," she purred, her voice a low, vibrating command. "completely wrecked before i've even started."
she shifted, sliding off your shoulders with a fluid grace and guiding you upward until you were eye-level with the straining fabric of her chest.
the open keyhole of the costume was barely holding on, the red panels pushing aside to reveal the heavy, trembling swell of her breasts. you didn't wait for permission, leaning in to press a series of hungry, wet kisses across the valley of her cleavage. the heat radiating from her sternum was staggering, and the scent of her—warm, feminine, and intoxicating—filled your lungs.
you focused on one breast, your mouth enveloping the soft, plush weight of it. you teased the underside, your teeth grazing the pale skin just enough to elicit a sharp, needy gasp from her lips.
you worked your way across the slope, leaving a trail of blooming hickeys that marked your territory, your hands cupping her from below to feel the sheer, heavy volume of her. she arched her back, her head hitting the ottoman behind her, a soft, whiny sound escaping her throat as you worshipped the fullness of her.
you didn't stop at the surface, your mouth seeking the very core of her warmth as you focused on the heavy, trembling weight of her breasts. the crimson fabric of her suit felt like a fragile barrier, a thin line of red that was losing the battle against the sheer volume of her curves.
you cupped her from below, feeling the dense, plush fullness of her chest fill your palms, and leaned in to swallow the slope of her breast. you worked with a slow, deliberate hunger, your tongue tracing the underside of her breast before you pulled the skin taut between your teeth, leaving a dark, blooming mark that made momo’s entire body shudder.
"yes... just like that," she whimpered, her voice losing its poised edge, replaced by a raw, needy vibration. she arched her back, pressing her chest deeper into your mouth, her fingers digging into your shoulders as she pushed herself against you. the sight was intoxicating—the way her breasts overflowed the costume’s open front, the pale skin flushed a deep rose, the heavy sway of her as she breathed. you shifted your focus, switching breasts to devour the other side, your mouth enveloping her with a greedy intensity that left her gasping for air.
momo’s confidence shifted, the soft-dom purr in her voice becoming a ragged command. "don't stop," she breathed, her hips beginning to sway in a slow, rhythmic motion. she reached down, her hand guiding your head, pressing you firmer against her as she began to use the plushness of her chest to envelop you. you let out a choked groan, the sensation of her heavy breasts rubbing against you—a rough, wet friction that felt like being swallowed by warmth—driving you to the brink.
she watched you through hooded eyes, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips as she saw how completely she had unraveled you.
the heat in the room seemed to thicken, the scent of candles mixing with the musk of arousal as you transitioned from worship to a desperate, driving need. your hands slid down from her chest, tracing the dip of her waist before locking onto the powerful, sweeping curves of her thighs once more. you pulled her closer, your lips finding the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, tasting the salt and the heat.
you left a trail of hickeys that climbed higher and higher, marking the pale expanse of her skin until you were practically tasting the edge of the crimson fabric.
momo let out a long, shaky sigh, her legs clamping around you with a sudden, fierce strength.
the pressure was immense, her thick thighs locking you into a velvet vice that left you breathless. she shifted her weight, rolling her hips in a slow, agonizingly perfect cadence that pushed her core directly against yours. the friction of the smooth skin against the rough fabric of your uniform was electric, a slow-burn intensity that made your vision blur. you could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, her breath coming in short, jagged bursts as she took complete charge of the pace, guiding you toward a peak that felt inevitable and overwhelming.
you shifted, your hands sliding from her waist to the heavy, velvet warmth of her thighs. the crimson fabric of the suit acted like a high-contrast frame, highlighting the creaminess of her skin and the powerful slope of her muscles. you didn't just touch her; you worshipped her, your lips tracing the line of her inner thigh with a slow, agonizing deliberation. you lingered in the soft dip where her leg met the hip, your tongue tasting the heat of her skin before you pressed a lingering, dark kiss there. momo let out a jagged, shaky breath, her fingers tangling in your hair to ground herself as you marked her territory, leaving a trail of blooming rose-colored hickeys that climbed higher and higher toward the edge of the suit.
the sensation of her thick thighs clamping around your shoulders felt like being swallowed by a warm, living vice. she shifted her weight, rolling her hips in a rhythmic, possessive cadence that pushed her core directly against you. the friction of her smooth skin against the rough fabric of your uniform was electric, a slow-burn intensity that made the room fade away until there was nothing but the sound of her ragged breathing and the feel of her power. "do you like how much space i take up now?" she whispered, her voice a low, vibrating command that resonated in your chest. "tell me."
"too much," you managed to rasp, your voice breaking as you pressed your face deeper into the plushness of her leg. "you're too much, momo."
she let out a triumphant little hum, the sound vibrating through her entire frame. she guided you upward, her movements fluid and commanding, until your face was level with the straining fabric of her chest. the open keyhole of the costume was barely holding on, the red panels pushed aside by the sheer volume of her breasts. you didn't wait for permission, leaning in to envelop the heavy, trembling slope of her breast with your mouth. you worked with a greedy intensity, your tongue tracing the underside of her breast before you pulled the pale skin taut between your teeth, leaving another dark mark that made her entire body shudder.
momo’s poise finally began to fracture, the soft-dom purr in her voice turning into a raw, needy whimper. "don't stop... god, don't stop," she breathed, her head hitting the ottoman as she arched her back. she reached down, her hand guiding your head, pressing you firmer against her as she began to use the plushness of her chest to envelop you. you groaned, a choked sound of surrender, as you transitioned from gentle worship to a rougher, more desperate friction. you played with the heavy weight of her, your mouth and hands working in tandem to adore the warmth of her, feeling the way she trembled beneath you.
the friction had become a fever, a slow-burning fuse that was finally reaching the powder keg.
you felt the shift in her—the way her confident commands started to fray into breathless whimpers, the way her fingers gripped your shoulders not to guide you, but to hold onto something solid while she drifted. you didn't want to let her go, but the need to feel her completely, to move from the periphery of her skin to the center of her heat, became an all-consuming roar in your ears.
you didn't give her a chance to order you further.
in one fluid, powerful motion, you gripped her waist and flipped her, the momentum sending her back against the plush surface of the ottoman with a soft, muffled thud.
the air left her lungs in a sharp huff, her raven hair sprawling across the fabric like a dark ink spill.
before she could even blink, you were over her, pinning her wrists against the cushion. the shift in dynamic was instantaneous; the soft dominance she had wielded so elegantly was swept away by the raw, driving urgency of your return.
momo’s eyes went wide, her chest heaving, the red fabric of her suit straining to the absolute limit as she looked up at you.
a small, needy sound escaped her throat—a half-sob, half-moan—as you settled your weight between her thick, trembling thighs. the sight of her, unraveled and flushed, her poised composure completely melted into a look of desperate longing, was more intoxicating than any drink you'd ever had.
"my turn," you rasped, the words barely a whisper against the shell of her ear.
you didn't waste another second.
you descended on her with a relentless hunger, your lips crashing against hers in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation.
you felt her body arch beneath you, her hips tilting upward instinctively, seeking the pressure you were finally granting her.
you moved with a rough, intensity, your body sliding against hers, the heavy denim of your pants rubbing against the slick, tight crimson of her suit. every movement was a reclamation, a physical answer to the hours of teasing and the weeks of distance.
the friction of the denim against the crimson fabric was no longer enough.
with a sharp, frantic movement, you stripped away the remaining barriers, the sounds of fabric tearing and zippers snapping echoing through the quiet room.
when you finally pushed into her, the sensation was an absolute shock—a wet, tight heat that threatened to snap your composure instantly. you pinned her wrists firmly above her head, locking her into the mattress. the poise she had worn like armor for the last hour was gone, replaced by a raw, wide-eyed vulnerability that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
you didn't give her time to adjust.
you drove into her with a heavy, relentless rhythm, each thrust deep and uncompromising. momo’s response was immediate; she didn't command or purr now. instead, she let out a series of high, whiny whimpers, her voice cracking as she called your name. the contrast was intoxicating—the legendary, composed strategist of the pro-hero world reduced to a trembling, needy mess beneath you. her head tossed from side to side, her raven hair tangling in the sheets, while her legs locked around your waist, pulling you deeper into the void of her warmth.
as the pace intensified, the visual of her was almost too much to bear. the red fabric of her suit was pushed up and skewed, framing the frantic rise and fall of her heavy chest.
her skin was a map of blooming roses—the hickeys you had carved into her thighs and breasts now vivid and dark. with every deep, thudding contact, her breasts swayed and bounced, the sheer volume of her curves overflowing the suit’s constraints. she was completely open, completely exposed, and utterly overwhelmed.
the first peak hit her like a tidal wave.
momo’s eyes blew wide, her back arching off the mattress in a violent, beautiful curve. a loud, shattered cry tore from her throat, and her internal muscles clamped around you in a series of rhythmic, crushing spasms. she sobbed into the kiss, her body shaking with a rolling orgasm that seemed to go on forever, leaving her breathless and limp for a fraction of a second.
but you didn't let her drift.
you didn’t let her drift.
before the echoes of her first cry had even faded into the velvet silence of the room, you shifted your grip, sliding your hands from her wrists to lock firmly around her hips.
you hauled her closer, eliminating every millimeter of space, and drove back into her with a renewed, punishing depth.
the sudden, heavy impact of the second wave caught her off guard; momo let out a sharp, strangled gasp, her eyes fluttering open, glazed with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated pleasure. the composed hero was gone, replaced by a woman who was utterly at the mercy of your rhythm.
the sound of the friction was visceral—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin and the frantic rustle of the ruined red fabric of her costume.
you focused on the sight of her: the way her heavy breasts were crushed against your chest, the way her thick thighs trembled as they squeezed your waist in a desperate attempt to anchor herself. every thrust was a deep, grounding claim, a relentless pace that refused to let her recover. you weren't just taking her; you were unraveling her, peeling back every layer of her poise until all that remained was the raw, honest need of her body.
momo’s voice had devolved into a series of broken, whiny sighs.
she wasn't commanding you now; she was pleading, her voice a fragile thread as she whimpered for more. "please... please don't stop," she sobbed, her head lolling back against the pillows. the contrast was staggering. this was the woman who coordinated city-wide evacuations and stared down villains without blinking, yet here she was, reduced to a shivering, needy mess, her breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches.
you felt your own edge approaching, a mounting pressure that threatened to snap your control, but you pushed through it, determined to drive her further.
you kept the rhythm steady and heavy, an uncompromising force that pushed her deeper into the mattress.
you watched as her expression shifted from bliss to a kind of overwhelmed desperation, her pupils blown wide, her chest heaving in a frantic struggle for air. she was overstimulated, her nerves frayed and firing, the sensation of your depth becoming too much for her to process.
then, it happened again.
the second wave didn't just hit her; it consumed her.
as you drove home with a final, devastating depth, momo’s entire frame locked. a sharp, guttural cry broke from her lips, echoing through the room as her internal muscles clamped around you in a frantic, crushing rhythm. her eyes rolled back, her consciousness slipping into a white-hot haze of overstimulation. this wasn't the elegant, calculated release of a strategist; it was a total collapse of a woman completely undone.
you didn't grant her a moment of peace.
while she was still shaking, still sobbing into the crook of your neck, you maintained the pressure, your hips continuing to grind against hers in a slow, heavy friction that kept the fire burning. you could feel the heat of her skin radiating through the mattress, her heavy breasts heaving against your chest, the red fabric of her costume now little more than a few tattered ribbons of crimson clinging to her curves. the sound of her breath was a series of broken, desperate hitches, a whimpering litany of your name that sounded like a prayer.
"you're... you're not letting me... breathe," she gasped, a small, needy laugh bubbling through her tears. she tried to push against your shoulders, but her arms had no strength left; her fingers merely curled weakly into your skin. the role reversal was complete. the woman who had started the evening with a confident, commanding purr was now a trembling, unraveling mess, her composure shattered into a thousand pieces beneath the weight of your desire.
the sight of her was a masterpiece of chaos.
her raven hair was a wild halo across the pillows, her pale skin flushed a deep, vivid rose from the heat and the marks you'd left.
the sheer volume of her—the thick, powerful press of her thighs against your hips and the plush weight of her chest—felt like they were absorbing you whole. every deep, rhythmic thud of your body against hers served to drive her further into a state of mindless bliss, her mind unable to keep up with the sensory overload.
you felt your own climax mounting, a tidal wave of pressure building at the base of your spine.
you shifted your grip, sliding your hands beneath her lower back to arch her further, tilting her pelvis to meet every thrust with maximum impact. the friction was blinding, the wet, slapping sound of your union filling the air. momo's voice climbed an octave, turning into a high, thin wail as she felt the peak approaching again. she was trapped in a loop of rolling climaxes, her body reacting to you with an instinctive, desperate hunger that refused to be sated.
the world narrowed down to the point of impact.
you weren't just moving within her; you were anchoring yourself to her, the heavy, rhythmic thud of your bodies echoing like a heartbeat against the mattress.
every thrust was an erasure of the distance the last three weeks had created, a brutal, honest reclamation of every inch of her. momo was no longer the poised tactician or the commanding presence who had greeted you at the door; she was a raw, pulsing nerve, her composure completely incinerated by the friction. she looked up at you with eyes that were glassy and unfocused, her lips parted in a silent, desperate plea, her entire existence distilled into the sensation of you filling her.
you tightened your grip on her hips, your fingers digging into the plush softness of her skin, hauling her upward to meet every downward drive.
the contrast was staggering—the sight of her adult, matured curves, framed by the tattered remains of her childhood hero suit, shaking violently under the force of your momentum. she was a symphony of contradictions: the strength of her thighs clamping around your waist, and the fragile, whiny quality of her voice as she sobbed your name into the quiet room. she was utterly unraveled, her dignity replaced by a hungry, helpless need that only you could sate.
the second wave of her release had left her drifting, but you refused to let her find the shore.
you kept the pace relentless, driving her back into the depths with a depth and power that made her head toss wildly against the pillows. you could feel her internal muscles twitching, still reeling from the first peak, and as you pushed through that sensitivity, she let out a high, shattered scream. it wasn't a sound of pain, but of total sensory overload, a sonic surrender to the pleasure that was now too much for her to process. her body arched into a rigid bow, her chest heaving, her breasts swaying with a heavy, hypnotic rhythm as she plummeted into a second, rolling climax.
as she shuddered beneath you, her breath coming in jagged, broken hitches, you felt the dam finally breaking within yourself.
the sight of her—completely spent, eyes rolling back, her pale skin flushed a deep, vivid crimson—pushed you over the edge. you didn't pull back; you leaned in, burying your face in the crook of her neck, your teeth grazing her skin as you gave one last, devastatingly deep thrust.
the explosion was blinding.
you felt the world snap as you surrendered everything to her, your own climax hitting with a force that left you breathless.
you collapsed against her, the full weight of your body pressing her into the mattress, your hearts hammering in a frantic, synchronized rhythm. for several long minutes, neither of you spoke; the only sound was the heavy, labored breathing of two people who had completely exhausted each other.
the silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of salt and the lingering heat of their shared exertion.
for a long moment, the only sound was the synchronized, ragged thumping of two hearts trying to find a normal pace again. you remained anchored to her, your chest heaving against her plush breasts, the weight of your body pinning her into the mattress. momo’s limbs were still trembling, her muscles twitching in the aftershocks of a total systemic collapse. she didn't move, didn't even seem to be breathing, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as she drifted in the white-hot haze of her own release.
slowly, the fog began to clear.
you shifted your weight, sliding out of her with a wet, reluctant sound, and the sudden absence of your heat made her let out a small, disappointed whimper.
you reached for the discarded duvet, dragging it over both of you in one fluid motion, cocooning your naked bodies in a sanctuary of cotton and warmth. the ruins of the u.a. costume were scattered across the floor like red confetti, completely irrelevant now that the skin-to-skin contact had finally been achieved.
momo sighed, a sound of absolute surrender, and curled her body into yours. she tucked her head beneath your chin, her arm draping across your chest, her fingers curling lightly into your skin. the transition from the raw, punishing intensity of the last hour to this sudden, crushing tenderness was jarring, yet it was the only thing that felt right. you wrapped your arm around her, pulling her close, feeling the softness of her curves molding against you.
"i think..." she murmured, her voice a raspy, broken shadow of its former self, "...i think you actually broke me. i can't feel my legs."
you chuckled, the vibration rumbling through your chest and into her cheek. "you're the one who told me to test the durability of the suit, momo. i just followed orders."
she let out a soft, breathless laugh, her eyes fluttering shut as she snuggled deeper into the duvet.
the room was silent now, save for the slow, rhythmic synchronization of your breathing. the air was still thick with the scent of their exertion, the lingering heat of the night clinging to their damp skin. in the dim light, the remnants of the red costume looked like a casualty of war, strewn across the hardwood floor in tattered ribbons.
"it was worth it," she whispered, shifting slightly to look up at you. her eyes were still glazed, her cheeks flushed a deep, lingering rose. "god, i missed this. not just... this, but us. the silence. the way you look at me when you aren't thinking about a crime scene or a report. i felt like we were becoming two different people living in the same apartment."
you tightened your grip on her, kissing her forehead. "the agency has been a nightmare. i felt it too. every time i came home and you weren't here, or you were asleep by the time i walked in... it felt like i was losing my grip on something."
momo closed her eyes, a small, contented smile playing on her lips.
she breathed in the scent of your skin, a deep, grounding inhale that seemed to pull her back into the present. "no more double shifts for a while. i've already cleared my schedule for the next three days. no logistics, no reports, no hero work. just this."
she shifted her weight, her heavy chest pressing against you as she sought more warmth.
the domesticity of the moment was a powerful balm to the exhaustion of their careers. for a few hours, they weren't the world-class heroes the public expected them to be; they were just two people who were desperately in love and profoundly tired.
you felt the tension finally leave your shoulders, the weight of the fourteen-hour shift finally evaporating completely, replaced by the heavy, warm luxury of momo's presence.
just a reminder that this blog is run by someone who:
— is anti ICE & fascism
— is pro-choice & feminist
— supports trans & queer people
— hates generative AI & capitalism
— supports immigrants & people of color
— is pro-environmentalism & social justice
— supports palestine & all other territories unjustly suffering
Would u be able to write genderbent Plastic Man (Plastic Woman/Patricia O'Brian) x male reader smut?
Concept/Scenario: During his lunch break at work, the reader receives a text from his girlfriend to go to the Janitor's room and look out the window for a surprise. The reader spots Patricia's body sitting on the rooftop across the street with her neck stretched out of sight. Patricia's head comes through the vents to show the reader a good time.
Have Patricia use her elasticity while sucking the reader off. Like making her throat tighter.
Content: Flirting. Making out. Oral sex. Deepthroat. Throatfucking. Inappropriate use of powers. Come swallowing.
Lunch breaks normally involve relaxing right?
Plastic Woman x male reader
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Hey…pookie whore normally I’d call you a hoe but I think we are going to be more personal today.
I apologize in advance for how…bad this is. It’s…so bad.
Some disclaimers. I’ve never written smut before. I have no real idea who this character is but after doing some research I’m fully confident lie that I can write this.
Also given I’m not a man I um…don’t know male anatomy as well. Nor have I done…what’s being asked of this request. So,I did some…research. I’m probably on a watch list. This is not proof read because I keep chickening out of writing this. So. I’m just doing it and if it’s…horrid. I warned you.
Like how am I going to make eye contact with people later?
Play song when I say too if you want ig :)
I should be paying attention to this meeting I mean…but gosh talking to hero’s can be so boring or annoying. Working in this call center…sucks I’ll say that much. The worst part once everyone found out that I’m dating my girl…well most were fine with it. Some even are happy for me.
But there’s one person that keeps calling me because of “emergency’s” that aren’t really an emergency.
“Ma’am ? Elongated woman you know you can’t keep calling this line we talked about this.” I say into my headset knowingly when I recognize the number on the screen.
There’s a pause then I hear her voice”what if I have an emergency ? Or do you only answer calls for that lesser elastic-“She starts to say before I interrupt.
“You’re breaking up.” I say as I jingle my headset to make a jarring noise and then as she protests I hang up on her.
I sigh and rub my hands over my face and ignore the amused looks of my coworkers then I get a text. I pull my phone out.
Patricia - Hey you forgot ur lunch at home.
Me - I don’t even live with you?
Patrica - Can’t you pretend for a moment that you did so I can come see you?
Me - I’m a bit busy rn and shouldn’t you be on a mission with Batman?
Patrica - shouldn’t you be taking calls right now?
Me - …
Patrica - come on? Spend an hour? With meeeeeee
Me - 5 min?
Patrica- 40?
Me -30…
Patrica- why are you going lower shouldn’t you meet me in the middle? Don’t good boyfriends let their girlfriends win?
Me -15 min?
Patrica - 👁️👄👁️ why are you mean to me
Me - coming or not I got to get back to work ?
Patrica - I’ve been here for a bit…. You should come find meeeeee
…
…
Patrica - babe?
I sigh and get up and go to the location she sends me as she keeps texting me… now sending me memes…
Why do I love her again is what I’m actively thinking as I stop infront of a janitor closet then I look around trying to spot her.
The door opens I peak in. I walk in. Like an idiot.
“Patrica?” I whisper then once I step in the door shuts and I hear her giggle from the dark room.
I turn my flash light on… I look around…then I see the lil window the supplies are supposed to be covering but I see her hands waving at me and gesturing me over.
I peak through the window as the hands slip through the window and once I crack it open I see…
Part of my girlfriend on the other building laying out on a chair like she’s sunbathing and as I look for her head I about get smacked in the face as she puts her face right in mine.( Use your imagination how she looks genuinely I’m sorry I’m not trying that rn this character has a few versions and all of them look the same after four hours.)
I about stumble back as she smirks at me.
“Falling for me again?” She teases as she rests her head on the window looking in at me over her sunglasses.
I glare at her with no heat behind it.
“Why are you here…and you know I buy my lunch so if you want to lie do it better.” I tell her.
“I missed you?” She says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Ok ok I just…stop looking at me like that. I miss being with you….and you work so much and you are always talking care of me so… I wanted to take care of you.” She says oddly earnestly.
My expression softens at the truth I have been working so much. I give her a look.
“What do you have in mind? To spend time with me? You have…13 more minutes.” I tell her after I check the time. Then I see the way she’s looking at me.
Like I’m edible.((SONG PLAY IT NOW))
My eye brows raise but I don’t stop her. I gesture in a way she knows I’m all hers.
I watch her slip through and raise her head to my face.
It used to be weird seeing her stretch but now…it’s a bonus.
“What are you planning?” I ask her in a more…intimate tone once I notice this darkening look in her eyes. It’s comforting but...intense.
She looks me up and down and then bites her lip making a show of the…stretch before releasing it.
Then she smiles and leans in and whispers. “I want to taste you again…every inch…then tonight…you can return the favor with me. Ok? My love? You’re mine right now the one rule is…be quiet so we don’t get caught. Ok?” She says then once she sees my nod she leans in and kisses me.
Kissing her makes me feel like life makes sense. Feeling her eyelashes press against my face, the warmth of her breath against my lips,feeling her nose nudge mine… I feel like I’m home.
I cup her face and kiss her deeply I let her into my mouth and I let her explore feeling her tongue slip and slide and glide around my mouth effectively claiming me fully.
Even when she stretches her tongue and makes me suck on it as she pulls back with a soft…pop…the string of saliva connecting us even more.
As I attempt to catch my breath she kisses my cheek…then my nose to tease me and as I smile she kisses down my neck nudging my head up gently to expose me more to her…I feel her tongue trace my veins before she nips at one then smooths it to a kiss…making sure to not leave a mark given I’m still at work.
(Terrible smut bellow)
“You should undo your belt and button on these slacks…but leave the zipper to me…” she says in a sultry tone…
I fumble with my belt to her amusement I tug my shirt out from its tucked position and I undo the button but before I do the zipper I watch her move her head down and kiss my hand till I move my hands.
Then she bites the zipper and as she gazes up at me through those dark lashes I love…she starts tugging it down…teasing me.
Then once it’s down she uses her mouth to pull my pants down with my assistance when she gets impatient.
Soon I’m tugging myself out of my boxers.
The way she licks her lips her tongue elongated to tease. She looks…
Hungry
I watch her get close and kiss my tip as I get more excited and then she keeps kissing it…more…and more…practically slobbering over it…drenching it. The noises are just sinful so sinful I use my hand to cover my mouth and my other hand to cup her face.
I watch as she parts her lips more and more as she slides her mouth onto me…taking me…centimeter by centimeter …by inch…by inch swallowing me down. Hallowing her face to tighten around me the way she knows I like it…
Scraping her teeth oh so lightly against the veins to make me squirm and as she looks up at me and smirks around me…all stretched out…
I move my other hand to her face and after one firm caress I look at her for confirmation as she meets the base…and with one small nod.
I pull her back almost to the tip almost pulling off then…
I slam her back down…
Over…
And over.
Biting my lip so hard so I don’t make noise so this won’t stop.
I watch her face making sure she’s ok and the way she’s smiling all happily around me.
Perfect.
I move her faster, more intense,making her salivate more as my pre starts to leak out and I feel her tongue lap it up.
(Ima be blunt not sure what to put here sorry)
I keep going more and more chasing my high fully forgetting I’m at work. Sweat beads down my face.
As I cum I push her far into me…she instinctively flattens and I can see…myself through her and seeing that always makes me cum.
I drop my hands so she can pull away as I cum.
But she says there sucking and milking me and holding me there til I can’t give anything else.
Once she realizes I’m spent she pulls off carefully and then “cleans me”.
Then she glances at the clock.
We are almost out of time and as I see her frown…
And I realize she really misses me…just is hiding it.
I tuck myself away and I go take the rest of the day off. I text her to go home.
I have some…shopping to do.
Plus she’ll need rest for tonight. It’s only what a good boyfriend would consider. Right ?
(Authors note ) hi hoes
Kill me
I don’t-
Idk fun fact this is a song I’ve listened too…so…I do know some stuff💀
Genuinely I think that sucked and I hope no one liked it so I never do that again.
your slime girlfriend loves trying out new things in the bedroom with you.
tw: male reader, soft femdom, choking, monster biology, breast expansion, sensitive breast, boobjob, creampie.
every day, it’s a new thing she wants to try with you.
and she’s rather obvious about it, too. you can tell by the particular smile that creeps onto her face and how she becomes a gooey mess from her thoughts, unable to control her more humanoid form.
she has that mischievous glint in her eyes again today, fingers trailing down your arm as you try to focus on the television.
you gulp audibly, face starting to warm as you look down, noticing how her breasts seem to be spilling out of her shirt.
you could’ve sworn they were smaller yesterday.
“you’re not just going to keep ignoring me, are you?” she muses, cutting right through the charged silence. she purses her lips in an exaggerated pout, looking up at you from beneath her long lashes.
“what—! i was just…”
your words trail off at the end as you catch yourself, wetting your lips as you try again. “i was just, you know. watching the show? i wasn’t trying to ignore you.”
she gives you a look, her eyebrow rising to her hairline. “you were just watching the television and not looking at my breasts?”
she lets out an amused sigh, clicking her tongue. her grip on you tightens as you squirm a bit from her scrutiny. it’s bad enough that she caught you, even though that wasn’t your original intention.
of course, you were going to look—at her face.
she’s your girlfriend, and not only that. she was the one pressing her breast up against you and wearing that top that’s obviously a few sizes too small. so, your eyes might’ve drifted down a little bit.
“oh, what am i going to do about you?” she tuts, wagging her finger at you. she allows the question to linger in the charged space between you both, her smile widening into a sharp grin. “there’s something i want to talk about, actually. something i saw on your phone. you should really close your tabs, sweetie.”
close your tabs?
your mouth hangs open in shock, your face scrunching up like you tasted something sour.
oh, god.
something on your phone? there’s no telling what she could’ve found. it’s not like you expected her to… go through it. you also didn’t expect to have to worry about deleting your history.
looks like you have to go over boundaries, once again…
“well, what was on the tab then?” you suggest, fishing for an answer. you offer her a tight-lipped smile, feeling yourself start to sweat, figuratively and literally.
you’re already dreading what she’s going to say. but she doesn’t seem to be that upset, given the fact that she still seems to be teasing you.
“it was a video with two humans,” she offers, giving you a little something to go off of. “and it was really interesting. i didn’t know that human men were into that sort of stuff. i always thought that it was odd that i would catch you staring at my chest, but i think i know why now.”
her hand leaves your arm, trailing down to your groin.
well, alright?
seems like you’re in the clear somehow. that’s good, right? you’ll go along with it for now. no point looking a gift horse in the mouth. if this blows up in your face, at the very least you’ll get a bit of pleasure out of it.
hopefully.
“the woman was using her breasts on this part,” she admits, words teeming with interest. “i think it’s called a… boobjob? he was making a lot of noise. sooo, i bet it felt really good. and, you want to know what else i think?”
“that we should give it a try,” she purrs, her hand leaving your crotch so she can bring you into a kiss. her lips press hungrily against yours as she wraps her arms around you, fingers caressing the hair along the nape of your neck.
she lets out a moan that’s swallowed by your lips as you grab a hold of her round ass, grinding her panty-clad pussy down against your erection. you can feel her nipples starting to harden through her thin tank top.
you can already feel her start to drip, the coolness of her slime making your skin tingle.
she pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your lips. “now, just wait a minute, mister,” she teases, wiping your lip clean. “can’t have you getting too excited. i haven’t even gotten to the best part.”
she pulls the tank top over her head, her large breasts drooping from the weight. yeah, now that you really look at her. she’s definitely gotten a bit bigger.
everywhere.
“oh, so you finally noticed,” she reprimands, giving you a disapproving look. her lips slip back into an easy grin, a giggle escaping her lips. “either you’re the most oblivious man on the planet, or you’re just being nice.”
“too much of a gentleman to say something about your own girlfriend’s appearance,” she murmurs, sinking to her knees between your legs. she shifts her gooey hair back out of her face, fingers pulling down your sweatpants.
she pulls your cock out of the confines of your underwear, making your cock slap against your stomach. she cups her breasts in both hands, sandwiching your length between them. her eyebrows furrow as she makes them grow to a size similar to that woman’s in the video.
after a bit of concentrating, her breasts are large enough that the tip of your cock barely peeks out. it’s a surreal sight every time she does something like this. you can see the entirety of your length between her gelatinous body.
you grit your teeth as she moves them up and down, letting out a pleased sigh when her tongue graces the tip. that cool tingling sensation comes back tenfold, combined with the warmth of her mouth. it’s something out of this world.
she lets out a gentle hum, eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in the motions of sucking you off. the salty taste of your precum drips on her tongue, and then she feels the weight of your hand pressing her head down further, making her take more of your cock down her throat.
ah, the sounds of your little whimpers are so cute!
that little intake of breath, how your cock throbs against her tongue! the tremble of your fingers as you fight to keep control!
it’s cute. so, so cute!
let yourself to be consumed by the pleasurable feeling of her monstrous body and lose control!
you let out a hiss, hips jerking up, once, twice, as you spill into her mouth. still, she keeps sucking, determined to coax out every last drop. she keeps lapping at the tip, massaging your weeping cock with her full breast.
“oh, please. that’s enough, that’s enough,” you whimper, trying to catch your breath as you pulse weakly in her grasp. you don’t think you can take any more. you’re surprised you lasted that long in the first place.
her body is just… entirely different from another human, sensations included.
you take a moment to admire her, watching as your seed is absorbed into her body. the whiteness contrasts with her skin. you can see it vividly, your release being eaten by her core.
she rubs her stomach, letting out a pleased noise. but she’s still not quite satisfied yet. it was pretty fun to try that out with you, but there’s still something else she needs to do.
“how was that?” she questions, nestling herself against your side. her hand rests on your stomach, fingers circling your belly button. an interesting human trait. “did you like it? was i better than that human woman in the video?”
ah, there she goes again, that not-so-subtle little jealousy.
you’ve always found it a bit amusing, even after all this time. she still feels the need to ask.
“of course, you were amazing,” you reassure, hand trailing down her body. you press your lips against hers, cock giving a twitch of interest. your hand finds her breasts, giving them a squeeze. “you blew my mind, baby. i might… need a minute to give you another helping.”
“a-another minute,” she whines, breath hitching as you give her nipple a pinch. “ugh, i forgot about that stupid human thing.”
she climbs on top of you, smothering your face into her breasts. you go along with her movements, catching one of her nipples between your lips. your fingers delve into her panties, feeling the goo clinging to her labia.
she rocks against your hand, clit throbbing against your fingers. she starts to lose her hold on her form, more of her slime dripping onto your skin. “put your fingers inside,” she moans, more of a demand than anything. “hurry! hurry!”
you plunge them inside three at a time, and her body just takes it. her pussy responds with a gush of gel, drenching your hand in her fluids. it’s cool to the touch, slowly being heated up by the warmth of your fingers.
her nails dig into your shoulders as her hips jerk.
oh, yeah.
she’s starting to do that thing where she turns into a puddle when she’s really feeling it. you withdraw your fingers from inside her, wrapping your arms around the more solid part of her, which is just the upper half of her.
her chest has started to return to its usual size. just a handful if you were to give them a squeeze.
“mmm, so much better now,” she murmurs, her slime enveloping your lower half. it sticks to your thighs, and she takes your cock inside her. she doesn’t really grind. it’s more like she’s massaging your length with her essence as she holds you.
her lips find yours again, her tongue slipping inside your mouth.
this time, the kiss is far more gentle. just the lazy press of lips together as you thrust up into her, still a bit oversensitive, but more than ready to give her the pleasure she deserves.
your hands roam the expanse of her back, drifting down to grip the slime where her ass would be. she lets out a little gasp, breath ghosting your lips as she pulls away, resting her hands on your chest to ride you properly.
her breasts sway in your face as her lower half morphs back into a solid. she plants her feet on the bed, using the momentum to slam herself back down onto your cock. her expression is one of pure bliss, eyes growing half-lidded as she looks down at you.
her goo travels from her body, arranging itself into a makeshift collar around your neck. it squeezes around your throat, making your moans come out as choked gasps.
“oh, look at you, being such a good boy,” she coos, raking her nails down your chest, leaving raised skin in its wake. her fingernail scrapes over your nipple, giving the bud a squeeze like you did hers.
you let out a rather pathetic wheeze. it’s the perfect blend of pain, combined with her squeezing around you like that. you’re already starting to dribble weakly inside her. you doubt you’d be able to fill her up with a nice, big load like you’d really want to.
so, you settle for getting her there first, fingers swiping against her clit in jerky movements as you meet her thrust for thrust, pelvis meeting her ass. “y-yeah, just like that,” she moans, soft thighs clamping around your wrist. “i can feel you leaking inside me. hah, it’s so g-good.”
her clit throbs steadily, mashed against your palm. her eyebrows furrow, teeth biting into her lip as thighs shake, pussy quivering as she drenches your cock in her juices. she stumbles forward, the collar giving away as she hides her face in your neck, still shaking above you.
you suck in air, eyes stinging with tears. “fuck. fuck. you feel so—” you wrap your arms around her tight, lifting her up with your hips as you thrust into her drooling pussy.
“yes! yes! yes!”
she places sloppy kisses on your neck, moaning directly in your ear. “good boy,” she purrs, her voice silky with desire. “come inside my pussy, baby. fill me up.”
and you do just that, shooting ropes of your cum inside of her again. it’s shockingly more than the last one. you figured coming once would’ve lessened the load, but…
regardless, damn, that felt good.
you let out a shaky breath, just holding her in your arms as you finally calm down. “shit, you alright?” you ask, fingers rubbing circles along her spine. “i wasn’t too rough, right?”
she chuckles, rising up on shaky arms to look at you. “i should be asking you that,” she murmurs, just as breathless.
she looks down at your neck, at all of her slime still clinging to your skin. hmm, that gives her another idea, but she’ll let you recharge a bit first.
request could you do a mini series or one shot of batfam finding out about your depression or you having a panic attack?
content john constantine x gn!reader, established relationship, graphic description of a panic attack, panic attack, hyperventilation, dissociation, fear of dying, crying, trembling, self-blame, fear of abandonment, hurt/comfort
word count 3.2k
masterlist
John Constantine had seen fear wear a thousand faces. He had watched it hollow men out from the inside, turning their eyes glassy while something ancient and hungry whispered through their teeth. He had seen it slick across the skin of demons dragged unwillingly into salt circles, had smelled it beneath incense and blood and the scorched-metal stink of failed exorcisms. Fear could be theatrical when it wanted to be. It could rattle windows, split mirrors, make the walls breathe. It could wear the voice of a dead mother or crawl across a ceiling on too many limbs.
John knew fear. That was why, when he walked into the flat and found you folded on the kitchen floor, he spent one terrible second searching for the monster.
The door clicked shut behind him. Rain followed him inside in silver beads, clinging to the shoulders of his trench coat and dripping from the ends of his hair. The flat was dim despite the early hour, lit only by the weak amber bulb above the stove and the cold blue glow of a mobile phone abandoned beside the sink. A mug lay shattered near the cabinets. Tea spread through the cracks between the tiles, carrying small islands of broken ceramic with it.
You sat with your back pressed against the cupboards, knees pulled to your chest and fingers knotted in the fabric over your ribs. Your breathing came in thin, broken pulls that barely seemed to reach your lungs. Each inhale caught high in your throat. Each exhale shuddered out too quickly, chased by another breath before the first had properly ended.
John stopped so abruptly that the heel of his shoe squeaked against the wet floor.
His first thought was possession. His second was a curse. His third was that something had followed him home.
The sequence took less than a heartbeat, instinct sharpened by years of surviving things that should have killed him. His hand was already inside his coat, closing around the familiar shape of a lighter etched with protective symbols. His gaze swept over the room, searching for shadows that bent against the light, sigils scratched beneath the table, insects gathering in unnatural patterns. He tasted the air for sulphur and grave dirt. He listened for a second pulse beneath your own.
There was nothing. Nothing except rain ticking against the windows and the harsh, uneven sound of you trying to breathe.
“Love?” John said.
Your head jerked towards him, but your eyes did not quite find his face. They were wide and bright, fixed somewhere beyond him, pupils blown dark enough to swallow the colour. Your lips parted, though whatever you tried to say collapsed into another ragged gasp.
John’s hand fell away from the lighter.
Something colder than supernatural dread slid between his ribs.
He crossed half the kitchen before you recoiled.
The movement was small, no more than a violent tightening of your shoulders and a frantic press backwards, as though you might force yourself through the cupboard doors if you tried hard enough. John froze. His hands lifted immediately, palms empty.
“All right,” he murmured. “Not touching. Got it.”
He lowered himself slowly, joints protesting as he crouched several feet away. The kitchen tiles were cold beneath his knees, damp where rain had fallen from his coat. He barely noticed. You were still clawing at the front of your shirt, fingers trembling so badly you could not seem to get a proper grip.
“My chest,” you managed, the words scraped raw. “John, I—something’s—”
He knew then. Not entirely. John Constantine rarely admitted to certainty where the human mind was concerned; it was a more treacherous country than Hell, and he had maps for Hell. But he recognised the shape of this. He had woken with it crouched on his own chest often enough, though his version usually arrived soaked in gin and old blood, wearing the faces of people he had failed.
“Panic attack,” he said, keeping his voice low. “That’s what this is, sweetheart. Feels like dying, but you’re not.”
Your head moved in a sharp, desperate denial. “Can’t breathe.”
“You are breathing.” John shifted until he was seated properly on the floor, one knee bent, making himself smaller without coming closer. “Not comfortably, granted. Bit of a rubbish job at it right now. But you’re doing it.”
The attempt at humour landed nowhere. Under any other circumstances, you would have rolled your eyes at him. Now you only dragged in another painful breath, the sound whistling faintly between your teeth.
John’s own heart hammered harder. He had no ritual for this. No Latin command sharpened by centuries of belief. No relic to press into your hand, no creature to bargain with, no spiritual parasite he could drag screaming from your body. There was only you, terrified by something he could not see, and John had built his entire life around fighting what could be named.
He could not punch this. Could not cheat it at cards. Could not send it back to whichever infernal pit had spat it out.
The helplessness made his skin prickle. He kept it out of his face.
“Look at me if you can,” he said. “Don’t force it. Just listen if looking’s too much.”
Your gaze flickered over him without settling. He saw the moment you attempted to obey, saw frustration twist through the fear when your attention slipped away again.
“That’s all right,” John continued quickly. “No exam at the end of this. I’m not grading you.”
Your breath hitched. Your fingers had gone rigid where they gripped your clothes, the knuckles pale and bloodless. John watched them, watched the minute tremors travelling up your arms, and fought the urge to reach across the space between you.
He knew better than most what an unwanted hand could become when the body was already trapped.
“There’s no magic here,” he told you. “I checked. Nothing in the room but you, me, and that mug you’ve murdered. Bloody tragic. It was one of the less ugly ones.”
A wet, strangled sound escaped you. It might have been the beginning of a sob. It might have been your body trying to laugh and forgetting how.
John took it as permission to keep talking.
“The windows are shut. Door’s locked. Wards are intact. I renewed the one above the bedroom window Tuesday, despite your slanderous claim that I was only up there to avoid doing the washing-up.” His voice settled into the familiar rhythm he used while weaving spells—not the grand, cutting cadence of an exorcism, but the steady murmur reserved for delicate work. “You’re in the kitchen. Green cupboards. Hideous yellow tiles. Kettle’s behind you, but don’t worry about that. Not asking you to move.”
Your eyes shifted, just slightly, towards the tiles. John saw it.
“That’s it,” he said. “Ugly, aren’t they? Landlord ought to be arrested.”
The air still seemed unable to reach you. Your chest moved too quickly, each breath shallow enough to leave your lips tinged pale. John wanted to count your breathing, but the sharp instruction of numbers could become another thing to fail. Instead, he drew one slow breath himself, making the sound audible.
“In through the nose if you can,” he said. “Doesn’t have to be deep. Deep’s overrated. Just a little slower than the last one.”
You tried. The inhale broke midway, turning into a gasp.
John did not flinch. “Still counts.”
He breathed again. Not exaggerated enough to mock you, only steady enough to follow. Rain traced wandering paths down the dark glass behind him, smearing the lights of London into watery gold. Somewhere below, a horn sounded and someone shouted an obscenity with admirable creativity. The ordinary world continued beyond the walls, indifferent and solid.
You took another breath. It caught, but not as badly.
“There you are,” John murmured.
Your eyes finally found him. Fear struck him with greater force when they did. You looked at him as though you were drowning and had discovered he was the only thing within reach. John had been looked at that way before. By clients. By children in haunted houses. By men bleeding out on church floors. It had always filled him with the same poisonous combination of pride and dread, because people who trusted John Constantine to save them rarely understood the cost until it arrived.
But you knew him. You knew every crooked card in his deck. You knew about Newcastle, Astra, the ghosts that followed him into sleep and the cigarettes he lit when apologies became too difficult to speak. You knew that loving him was less like stepping into a relationship and more like entering a building already on fire.
Still, you looked at him as though he were safe.
“John,” you whispered.
“I’m here.”
“I can’t stop it.”
“You don’t have to stop it.” He kept his gaze steady, though the words tasted unfamiliar. John had spent his whole life stopping things, strangling them before they could grow teeth. “Let it run out of road. I’ll stay while it does.”
Your face crumpled. Tears spilled suddenly, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. The sight of them pulled something tight inside him, an old instinct insisting that tears were evidence of damage, that damage required a culprit and a culprit required punishment.
There was no culprit here.
Only your body sounding an alarm after the danger had passed—or perhaps when there had never been any danger at all.
“Can you feel the floor?” John asked. “Under your legs, I mean.”
Your brow tightened.
“The tiles,” he clarified. “Cold, hard, offensively yellow.”
You swallowed. The muscles in your throat worked visibly. “Cold.”
“Good. That’s real. Keep that.”
His cigarettes pressed against his ribs from inside his coat. Usually, his hands would have found them by now. The familiar ritual of paper, flame and smoke could hold him together through most varieties of catastrophe. He did not reach for them. The smell might make your breathing worse, and he refused to become another obstacle your lungs had to fight.
“What else?” he asked. “Tell me one thing you can hear.”
Your eyes moved towards the window. “Rain.”
“Right. Miserable London drizzle. Reliable as death and twice as damp.”
“Cars,” you said after a moment.
“Good.”
“Your voice.”
The answer struck deeper than it should have. John’s mouth went dry. He glanced away for half a second, pretending to inspect the broken mug while he forced his expression back into something manageable.
“Poor you,” he said softly. “Of all the grounding noises in the world, you get this accent.”
This time, the sound you made was unmistakably a laugh, though it cracked halfway through and dissolved into another sob. Your breathing stumbled with it, but it did not spiral as sharply. John continued talking, spinning nonsense into a rope and throwing it across the distance between you.
He told you the wards were holding. He told you Chas had called him a selfish bastard for stealing his chips, which was unfair because John had left at least three. He described the rain, the kitchen, the damp patch blooming on the ceiling that he had promised to report to the landlord six weeks ago. He spoke about nothing because nothing was safe, because ordinary details carried no hidden blade.
Gradually, your breaths began to lengthen. Not enough to be easy. Enough to become yours again.
Your fingers loosened from your shirt. The crescent marks left by your nails stood red against the skin of your palms. Your shoulders still trembled, but they were no longer drawn nearly to your ears. Exhaustion had begun to seep into the spaces panic abandoned, leaving you heavy and hollow-eyed.
John remained where he was. Every muscle in his body ached from restraint.
“Can I come closer?” he asked.
You hesitated before nodding.
He moved carefully, inch by inch, giving you time to change your mind. When he reached your side, he sat with his back against the cupboards rather than turning towards you. His shoulder hovered near yours without making contact. He placed one hand palm-up on the tile between you.
An offer, not a demand.
For several seconds, you stared at it. John’s hands were rarely still. They shuffled cards, struck matches, drew circles, lied with gestures as fluently as his mouth lied with words. Now he kept this one motionless despite the nervous energy burning through him. His fingers were scarred and nicotine-stained, the nails bitten short. There was dried ink along the side of his thumb from a sigil he had drawn earlier that day.
Your hand crept towards his.
The first touch was barely there, your smallest finger brushing his knuckle. John did not close his hand. He let you decide the shape of the contact, let you rest two trembling fingers across his palm before slowly adding the others.
Only when you curled your fingers around his did he hold on. His grip was warm and careful, so different from the hard certainty with which he handled every other dangerous thing. His thumb moved once over your knuckles, then stopped when he felt you tense. You did not pull away. After a moment, you shifted nearer until your shoulder rested against the sleeve of his coat.
John exhaled through his nose.
“There we are,” he said.
The worst of the attack retreated in ugly little waves. It did not vanish cleanly. Your breathing would steady only to catch again, panic flaring at the sensation and threatening to drag you backwards. Each time, John’s voice found you before it could. He never told you to calm down. He never asked what you had to be frightened of. He simply reminded you where you were and that he was still there.
Eventually, your head sagged against his shoulder.
The kitchen had grown darker. The tea on the floor cooled into a sticky amber stain. John’s trousers were damp from kneeling in it, and one shard of ceramic pressed dangerously close to his boot. Neither of you moved to clean anything.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
John’s fingers tightened around yours. “No.”
The word came out sharper than he intended. You flinched, and he immediately softened his voice.
“No, love. None of that.”
“I didn’t mean for you to find me like this.”
“Well, next time, send a formal invitation. Embossed card. Dress code included.”
You did not laugh. Your face turned slightly into his shoulder, shame making you small again in a way panic had not.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” you said. “You already have so much. Actual demons and curses and people trying to kill you. I can’t—I can’t be another thing you have to manage.”
John went very still.
There were sentences that could slip past every defence a person had. That was one of yours. It slid neatly between his ribs and lodged there.
He looked down at your joined hands. A dozen instinctive responses crowded behind his teeth: jokes, evasions, something filthy enough to make you forget the conversation. Sincerity had always felt to him like standing unarmed in a doorway. But you were trembling against him, afraid not only of what your own body had done, but of the possibility that he might decide it was inconvenient.
John knew what it was to wait for abandonment. He had simply learned to leave first.
“You’re not a case,” he said at last. “And you’re not one of my bloody demons.”
Your silence suggested you were unconvinced.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted. The confession scraped on the way out. “When I came in and saw you, I thought something had got to you. Then I realised nothing had. Nothing I could fight, anyway.” He paused, jaw tightening around the truth. “Scared the life out of me.”
You lifted your head. Your eyes were swollen, lashes clumped wetly together. “You were scared?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I contain multitudes.”
“John.”
“Terrified,” he said, and there was no joke left in his voice now. “Because I love you, you daft thing. Because you were hurting, and for once there wasn’t a bastard in the room I could threaten.”
Something fragile shifted in your expression.
John looked away towards the rain-streaked window. “I’m probably going to get bits of it wrong. Might say the wrong thing. Might hover like an irritating ghost. But I’m not leaving because your brain pulled the fire alarm without asking.”
Your mouth trembled. “You make it sound ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous. Not you. The whole arrangement.” He gestured vaguely towards the human condition. “Bodies are poorly designed. Minds even worse. Any system that can convince itself it’s dying because a mug fell over deserves a strongly worded complaint.”
“The mug didn’t cause it.”
“Shame. I was prepared to perform an exorcism.”
A small smile touched your lips. John felt it like sunrise after a very long night.
He lifted your joined hands slightly. “Can I put an arm around you?”
You nodded.
He moved with care that would have shocked nearly everyone who knew him. His arm settled around your shoulders, loose enough that you could escape easily, firm enough to feel. When you turned into him, pressing your face against his chest, he gathered you closer.
Beneath the damp wool of his coat, his heart was still beating far too fast.
You heard it.
“Your heart’s racing,” you murmured.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Liar.”
“Frequently.”
John rested his cheek against the top of your head. His eyes closed. For a moment, he let himself feel the full weight of what he had walked into: the broken mug, the sound of your breath, your body recoiling from him as though touch itself might shatter you. Fear lingered sourly at the back of his throat.
He had learned long ago that love was not protection. Loving someone did not place a ward around them. It did not stop death, madness or the thousand ordinary cruelties of being alive. Most days, love simply gave the universe another target.
Yet you were here.
Your breathing warmed the fabric over his chest, slow and uneven but no longer desperate. Your hand remained tangled with his. John held you in the dim kitchen while rain softened the edges of the city, and he understood that staying was its own kind of magic—not the flashy sort, not circles and blood and names spoken backwards, but something quieter.
A choice repeated every second.
“I’m going to get you some water in a minute,” he said. “Then we’ll relocate somewhere less covered in broken crockery. Sofa or bed, your choice. I’ll even make tea, though clearly the last cup died under suspicious circumstances.”
“Stay first,” you whispered.
John tightened his arm around you.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice low against your hair. “I can do that.”
So he stayed.
He stayed while the final tremors travelled through you. He stayed when you apologised again, silencing you with a kiss pressed gently to your temple. He stayed until the kitchen tiles stopped feeling like the edge of a cliff and became only cold tiles beneath your legs.
There was no incantation for it. No ancient text had taught him how to hold someone without trying to fix them. John Constantine, who had outwitted devils and tricked gods, had nothing in his arsenal but his voice, his open hand and the stubborn refusal to go anywhere.
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Fellow white people did you know there's this cool youtube hack where you go out of your way to watch videos made by Black people. And suddenly your video recommendations will have loads of cool new channels. And then you realise youtube was literally hiding videos made by Black people from you because they assumed you wouldn't be interested
request could you do a mini series or one shot of batfam finding out about your depression or you having a panic attack?
content bruce wayne x gn!reader, established relationship, graphic description of a panic attack, detailed panic attack, derealisation, breathing difficulty, fear of dying, intense bodily distress
word count 4.5k
masterlist | bruce masterlist
Bruce Wayne had always been very good at noticing the moment before disaster.
It was not a romantic quality, not in the way the tabloids liked to pretend it was. They mistook attentiveness for charm, mistook calculation for devotion, mistook the way his eyes moved over a room for the ease of a man born into every room he entered. But you knew better. You knew the truth of him by now: Bruce did not simply look. He measured. He weighed. He listened for the half-second hitch in a voice, the wrong angle of a shoulder, the tremor beneath a laugh that everyone else accepted as genuine because everyone else wanted the world to be simple.
You had once teased him about it, curled sideways on the sofa in the study while rain stitched silver threads down the tall windows, saying, “You realise most people don’t assess exits during dinner, right?”
He had looked up from his tablet, one brow lifting by a nearly invisible degree. “Most people should.”
You had laughed then, and he had pretended not to enjoy it, though his mouth had softened around the edges. That was Bruce: a fortress with the lights still on somewhere inside, a man who could make silence feel like shelter when he wanted to. He noticed things because the world had taught him what happened when you missed one detail too many.
So when your panic attack began, of course he noticed.
It happened in the west corridor of Wayne Manor, after midnight, where the house grew stranger and older in the dark. The gala had ended hours ago, the last champagne glass cleared, the last guest chauffeured away beneath the clean, indifferent stars. You should have been asleep. Bruce should have been asleep too, though neither of you had ever been particularly good at obeying the body’s ordinary laws. Instead, he had disappeared to speak with Alfred about some damage to the south garden, and you had wandered from the bedroom with the leftover static of too many voices still crawling under your skin.
At first, it was nothing. A tightness in your ribs. A warmth blooming unpleasantly beneath your collar. Your pulse tapping a little too hard against the delicate hinge of your throat.
You stopped beside a portrait you had passed a hundred times before, one of Bruce’s long-dead relatives watching you with oil-dark eyes from inside a gilt frame. The manor was quiet in the predatory way old houses were quiet, full of tiny creaks and sighs, each one sounding almost deliberate. Wind nudged at the windows. Somewhere far below, pipes clicked in the walls. The air smelled faintly of polish, rain, and flowers left too long in crystal vases.
You inhaled. Your chest did not open.
It was such a small failure, almost laughably small. Your body had done this before. It knew how. Breathing was supposed to be the easiest thing in the world, the one task no one had to earn, and yet your lungs caught halfway like they had snagged on a hook. You tried again, deeper this time, forcing air through your nose, but it came thin and useless. Your throat tightened. Heat gathered behind your eyes. The corridor tilted slightly, not enough for you to fall, but enough for your stomach to drop as if the floor had become an elevator cable snapping loose.
No. Not here.
The thought flashed bright and desperate through you.
Not in his house. Not after his gala. Not where Alfred might find you. Not where Bruce might look at you and see one more broken thing under his roof.
Your fingers curled into the fabric over your sternum. The formal clothes you had never changed out of suddenly felt like a hand around your ribs, tailored and elegant and merciless. You pulled at the collar, but the sensation did not loosen. It spread. Pressure climbed from your chest to your throat, thick as smoke, and your heart began to hammer with such ugly force that you could feel it everywhere: wrists, temples, tongue, the fragile meat behind your eyes. Your hands went cold. Your mouth went wet. Then dry. Then wrong, as if it belonged to someone else.
You took one step, thinking you could make it back to the bedroom before it got worse.
Your knees nearly buckled.
The wall caught you hard against your shoulder. Pain flared, brief and distant, swallowed almost immediately by the larger terror roaring up through your body. Your vision spotted black at the edges. The portrait across from you stretched too long, the corridor too narrow, the shadows beneath the antique tables suddenly deep enough to drown in. You knew, somewhere behind the panic, that you were safe. You knew the manor was locked down, that Bruce had more security systems than some embassies, that nothing in this hallway wanted to hurt you.
Your body did not believe it.
Your body was an alarm bell with no hand to silence it. Every nerve shrieked danger, danger, danger until the word lost meaning and became pure sensation. Your ribs squeezed tighter. You could not get enough air. You could not get any air. Your fingers tingled, then numbed, then prickled with little bursts of static so sharp you thought of needles under the skin. Sweat cooled along your spine. The world turned glassy and far away, like you were looking at it from the bottom of a frozen lake.
You slid down the wall before you understood you were falling.
The floor was cold through the fabric of your clothes. Marble, unforgiving as moonlight. One hand slapped against it, palm skidding, and the sound came too loud in the corridor. Your breathing had become ragged, animal, humiliating. Little broken pulls of air that scraped your throat raw and gave nothing back. You pressed your hand harder to your chest, because something was wrong there, something must have been wrong, your heart too fast, too hard, surely no body could survive that kind of frantic internal beating.
A shadow moved at the far end of the hall. You flinched so violently that your skull knocked back against the wall.
Bruce stopped instantly.
Not froze. Not hesitated. Stopped. There was a difference, and some part of you noticed because some part of you always noticed him. He did not come rushing at you, though you knew every instinct in him must have wanted to close the distance, to get his hands on the problem, to find the wound and seal it. He stood several feet away in the dim light, black dress shirt open at the collar, jacket abandoned somewhere, his hair still neatly combed except for the place above his right temple where he had dragged his fingers through it. His expression did not crack, exactly. Bruce Wayne did not fall apart dramatically. But something in him went terribly still, as if the sight of you on the floor had turned him to stone from the inside out.
Then his gaze moved. Face. Hands. Chest. The angle of your body. The colour around your mouth. The rapid rise and fall of your shoulders. He catalogued it all in less than a second, and you hated that he could see you like this. Hated the wet shine in your eyes, the spit gathering under your tongue, the way your breath kept snagging into small, strangled sounds.
“Okay,” Bruce said. His voice was low. Not soft in the empty way people were soft when they were afraid of you, but steady, deliberate, laid down like a bridge over black water.
You shook your head. The movement was tiny, frantic. “I can’t—”
“I know.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“You’re breathing.” He lowered himself slowly into a crouch, still not touching you. “Not comfortably. Not deeply. But you are breathing.”
Your throat made a wounded sound. “Bruce.”
“I’m here.”
The words should not have helped. They were only words, small and human, useless against the enormous machinery of panic grinding through your bones. But his voice cut through the noise anyway, not stopping it, not saving you from it, only giving you something solid to turn toward. He shifted closer by inches, careful as approaching a frightened animal. It would have been funny, maybe, if terror had not been scraping you hollow.
“I’m going to sit beside you,” he said. “Not in front. Beside. Is that all right?”
You tried to answer. Nothing came out.
Bruce waited. That was what nearly broke you. The waiting. The fact that he did not take your silence as permission, did not let his fear make him careless. Batman could drag a man twice his size through gunfire, could stitch himself with shaking hands in a cave beneath the earth, could turn pain into a language and speak it fluently. But with you, here, he made himself ask. He made himself slow.
You managed the smallest nod.
He sat on the marble beside you, leaving a careful space between your bodies. Not far. Not cold. Just enough that the panic would not mistake him for a cage. His shoulder lined up with yours against the wall, his long legs bent, one forearm resting loosely over his knee. In another life, you might have thought he looked almost casual. In this one, you could feel the restraint in him like a held breath.
“Look at me,” he said.
You could not. Your vision was tunnelling, the hallway smearing at the edges. The lights overhead shivered with faint halos. You stared at his hand instead. Bruce had beautiful hands, though he would never have thought so. Strong, scarred, elegant in the way old weapons were elegant. A split knuckle from patrol. A thin white line along the base of his thumb. The faint shadow of bruising near his wrist, half-hidden by his cuff. Evidence of all the battles he could fight, all the ways he knew how to make his body useful against pain.
His fingers flexed once against his knee. “Can you hear me?”
You nodded too quickly. The movement sent dizziness washing through you, greasy and cold.
“Don’t force a deep breath,” he said. “That’s not the assignment.”
A broken, hysterical edge of laughter tried to claw out of you and turned into a gasp instead.
Bruce’s mouth tightened, not with frustration, but with something like grief forced into discipline. “Small breath in. Smaller than you think. Through your nose if you can.”
You tried. Air hit the back of your throat and stuttered.
“Good,” he said immediately, as if you had done something remarkable. “Now out. Longer than the inhale.”
You exhaled in a shaking rush that sounded awful. Too loud. Too ragged. Your body lurched after it, hungry and terrified, dragging in another breath before he told you to. Panic spiked again, furious at being observed, and your hands flew up toward your throat.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”
Bruce turned his body toward you but still did not grab. “Name five things you can see.”
“No.”
“Four, then.”
“I can’t.”
“Three.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. Tears pushed free anyway, hot at first, then cold down your cheeks. “Please don’t.”
“All right,” he said, and the immediate surrender of that tactic made something inside you loosen by one almost invisible thread. He did not make you perform calm for him. He did not turn your panic into a puzzle you were failing to solve. “No naming. Just listen to me.”
You could do that. Barely. You clung to his voice like fingers hooked through wire.
“The floor is cold,” Bruce said. “The wall is behind you. I’m on your left. Alfred is downstairs. The manor is secure. There are no active threats in the house.”
The list should have sounded absurd, like a mission report delivered to a ghost, but it grounded him as much as it grounded you. You could hear it. The method. The facts arranged against fear. Bruce did not lie to comfort people. He handed them reality, piece by piece, polished clean of exaggeration.
“No active threats,” he repeated. “Just your body misfiring.”
Your teeth chattered once. “Feels like dying.”
“I know.”
You opened your eyes then, just enough to see him. His face was angled toward yours, shadow cutting sharply under his cheekbones. In the low light, he looked younger and older all at once. Less like Gotham’s prince, less like the Bat, more like the boy the house had never stopped haunting. There was recognition in his eyes, not pity. Never pity. Recognition, and something worse: helplessness, buried deep beneath control.
Of course he knew.
Not exactly. No one ever knew exactly. But Bruce knew what it was to have the past rise up inside the body with teeth. He knew how memory could become weather, how fear could turn a room into an alley, a sound into a gunshot, a heartbeat into a countdown. He had built an entire war out of one terrible moment and called it purpose.
But he could not fight this for you. That was the cruelty of it. He could not disarm your nervous system. Could not interrogate panic until it gave up names. Could not put on the cowl and hunt the thing hurting you across rooftops until dawn. There was no jaw to break, no weapon to confiscate, no wound to cauterise. There was only you, trembling on the floor, and him beside you with all his impossible strength made useless by love.
“Can I touch your hand?” he asked.
You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say no. You wanted to crawl out of your own skin and hide inside his chest where his heartbeat might bully yours into behaving. Your fingers twitched against the marble.
Bruce saw it. Of course he did.
He placed his hand palm-up on the floor between you, close enough that you could reach him, not so close that he reached you first.
The choice was almost unbearable.
You stared at his hand through the blur of your tears. Panic told you that if you moved, you would shatter. Panic told you that if you stayed still, you would die. Panic told you many things, each more convincing than the last, each delivered in the voice of your own blood.
You moved anyway.
Your hand landed in his clumsily, fingers cold and numb, barely able to curl. Bruce closed his grip with devastating gentleness. Not tight. Not trapping. Just there. His thumb settled against the back of your hand, heavy and warm, and you made a sound that might have been relief if relief did not hurt so much.
“That’s good,” he murmured.
Your breath hitched again, but this time the exhale came a little slower. Still ragged. Still painful. But slower.
Bruce did not smile. He knew better than to celebrate too early. He simply stayed, his hand steady around yours, his body warm beside you, his voice low enough that the manor seemed to lean in to hear it.
“Press your feet into the floor,” he said after a while. “Not hard. Just enough to know it’s there.”
You obeyed because it was Bruce, because he had never asked you to do something meaningless when you were breaking. The soles of your feet met the cold marble. The sensation came through strangely, delayed, as if travelling from a very distant country. But it came.
“Good. Again.”
You pressed down.
“Can you feel my hand?”
Your fingers tightened once, weakly.
“Good.”
The praise undid you in a different way. Your face crumpled, and a sob tore out of your throat, ugly and wet and full of all the fear your body had been trying to outrun. Bruce’s hand flexed around yours, the only visible sign that it hurt him to hear it. Then the panic crested so violently you thought, impossibly, that you had been wrong before, that this was the worst of it, this was the moment your body finally snapped its tether.
You folded forward, your free hand clawing at your chest, breath coming in thin, whistling scraps. Your stomach lurched. Saliva flooded your mouth. For one horrifying second, you were certain you were going to be sick all over the floor, all over yourself, all over the perfect marble of his perfect haunted house.
Bruce moved then, fast but not abrupt. He released your hand only long enough to reach for the small wastebasket tucked beneath the antique console table a few feet away. By the time your body convulsed, he had it in front of you. Nothing came up but a bitter string of spit and air, your stomach contracting painfully around emptiness. Shame burned through you, immediate and vicious.
“I’m sorry,” you choked.
“No.”
The word was quiet. Absolute.
Bruce knelt beside you now, one hand hovering near your back. “Nothing to apologise for.”
You shook your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, horrified by yourself. “This is—God, this is stupid.”
“No,” he said again, and this time there was steel under it.
You looked at him, startled despite everything.
His jaw was set, eyes dark with a restrained anger that was not aimed at you. It was the look he wore when someone had harmed a child, when a victim blamed themselves for bleeding, when the world tried to call suffering an inconvenience. “Fear is not stupidity. Pain is not failure. Your body is trying to protect you. Badly, but it is trying.”
A laugh broke out of you, cracked and miserable. “Badly is one word for it.”
His thumb brushed one tear from your cheek, and this time he did not ask because you had leaned into him without meaning to, because your body had chosen before your mind could flinch. Still, the touch was careful. Reverent, almost. The way he handled old wounds and fragile evidence and things he loved too much to trust his own hands with.
“There you are,” he said.
It was barely more than breath.
You started crying harder.
Bruce shifted until he could sit beside you again, closer now. When he opened his arm, he left the invitation unfinished. You took it with a small, broken sound, turning into him until your forehead pressed against his shoulder. His arm came around your back, solid and warm, his hand settling between your shoulder blades. He did not squeeze. He did not rock you like a child. He held you as if he had time, as if the night could empty itself out around you and he would still be there when morning found the bones of it.
Your breathing did not fix itself all at once. It dragged itself down by inches, reluctant and bruised. Every inhale still trembled. Every exhale left you hollow. But the spaces between the waves widened. The corridor stopped stretching. The shadows became shadows again. Your heart still hammered, but it no longer felt like it was trying to escape your ribs. The cold floor beneath you became real. Bruce’s shirt beneath your cheek became real. His breath, slow and controlled, became real.
At some point, Alfred appeared at the end of the corridor.
You felt Bruce notice before you saw him. A slight shift in his body. No tension, exactly, but awareness sharpening.
“Sir?” Alfred asked, voice low.
Bruce did not look away from you. “Water. And the grey blanket from the west sitting room.”
“Of course.”
No panic. No fuss. No sharp intake of breath at the sight of you curled on the floor like something wounded. Alfred simply vanished again, as if midnight emergencies were part of the old house’s ordinary grammar. Maybe they were.
You swallowed against the ache in your throat. “He’s going to worry.”
“He already worries.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched against Bruce’s shoulder. “That’s not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
A small silence settled. Not empty. Not peaceful, exactly. But survivable.
Bruce’s hand moved once down your back, slow enough that you could refuse it by shifting away. You did not. The warmth of his palm bled through the fabric, anchoring you more securely than any instruction could have. You were exhausted now in the aftermath, wrung out and raw, every muscle aching as though you had sprinted for miles instead of sat on the floor losing a war no one else could see.
“I hate that you saw that,” you whispered.
Bruce was quiet for a moment. “I know.”
“You’re always so…” You stopped, because the word perfect was wrong and cruel and untrue. Bruce was not perfect. Bruce was cracked marble and old blood and stubborn hope wearing a black cape. But he was capable in a way that made your own helplessness feel obscene. “You always know what to do.”
His breath left him slowly. “No. I don’t.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him. His eyes were on the opposite wall, but you could tell he was not seeing the portrait there. His face had gone distant in the way it did when memory moved through him like weather.
“I know how to respond to injuries,” he said. “Attacks. Threats. Systems. Patterns. I know how to take a room apart until it makes sense.” His gaze returned to yours, and the helplessness was still there, no longer hidden well enough. “This doesn’t make sense in a way I can control. So I do what I can.”
You stared at him. “Bruce.”
His hand tightened slightly at your back, not enough to trap. Enough to confess. “I don’t like not being able to protect you from it.”
The words entered you softly and struck bone.
There he was. The man beneath all that armour. Not the myth, not the mask, not Gotham’s dark answer to every terrible question. Just Bruce, who had lost too much too young and had never stopped trying to build a world where loss could be outplanned. Bruce, who loved like a vow and a wound at once. Bruce, who could face down gods without blinking, yet looked at your panic attack as if it were a locked room with no door.
“You did protect me,” you said.
His brows drew together.
“You didn’t make it worse.” Your voice was hoarse, scraped raw, but steadier than before. “You stayed. You asked. You didn’t grab me, or tell me to calm down, or look at me like I was scaring you.”
“You were scaring me.”
You blinked.
Bruce looked down at your joined bodies, at the way your hand had found his sleeve and clenched there. “But that wasn’t your burden to manage.”
The simplicity of it made your throat close again, though this time the feeling was not panic. It was something gentler and more painful, a bruise pressed by kindness.
Alfred returned with water and a folded grey blanket. He set both on the table within Bruce’s reach, then glanced at you with the mild, steady affection of a man who had seen every member of this family come apart in one corridor or another.
“Perhaps the sitting room would be more comfortable when you’re ready,” Alfred said.
When you’re ready. Not now. Not immediately. Not because the sight of your distress needed to be hidden from the house.
“Thank you, Alfred,” you whispered.
His face softened. “Always.”
After he left, Bruce helped you drink. He did not comment when your hands shook too badly to hold the glass alone. He simply steadied it, fingers bracketing yours, and tipped it slowly when you nodded. The water tasted like metal and mercy. It cooled the rawness in your mouth, gave your body one more ordinary thing to remember.
Eventually, with the blanket around your shoulders and Bruce’s arm firm at your back, you made it to the sitting room. The fire had burned low in the grate, all ember-glow and gold ash, painting the furniture in soft, shifting light. Bruce settled you on the sofa and sat close enough for your knees to touch. Not crowding. Never crowding. Just present in a way that felt almost architectural, like he had become part of the room’s foundation.
You leaned into him without asking. His arm came around you.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The manor breathed around you, ancient and watchful. Outside, rain began again, whispering against the windows like fingers over piano keys. Your body still trembled in small aftershocks. Now and then, your chest hitched and Bruce’s hand would answer with one slow pass over your arm, not shushing, not correcting, only reminding. Here. Here. Here.
“I’m tired,” you murmured.
“I know.”
“Embarrassed.”
“I know.”
“Still feel a little insane.”
“You’re not.”
You closed your eyes. “You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
A faint smile touched your mouth. “Detective work?”
“Evidence-based conclusion.”
“That I’m not insane?”
“That you’re exhausted, overstimulated, and recovering from a panic response.” His voice lowered. “And that you’re the person I love.”
The fire snapped softly.
You opened your eyes, but did not lift your head. Bruce was looking down at you with an expression so unguarded it almost hurt to witness. He could be careful with his face in front of the world. He could make it handsome and vacant, charming and bored, cold and terrifying. But here, in the dim after-midnight light, he let you see the fear still fading from him. He let you see the love beneath it, too, dark and steady and endless as the cave under the house.
“I’m sorry you can’t fight it,” you said, voice small.
Bruce’s gaze flicked over your face. “I’m not.”
You frowned. “You hate things you can’t fight.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
His hand found yours under the blanket. Warm fingers, scarred knuckles, a pulse as real as the rain.
“I can’t fight it,” he said. “But I can learn it. I can sit with it. I can make sure you’re not alone with it.” His thumb moved over your hand once, slow as a vow. “Not everything has to be defeated to be survived.”
You looked at him then, really looked, and wondered how many years it had taken him to learn those words. How many bruises. How many graves. How many dawns crawling home with blood in his mouth and no victory clean enough to keep. Maybe he had learned them for you. Maybe he was still learning them as he spoke.
Either way, you believed him.
The panic had not vanished. It had left claw marks behind, deep invisible scratches through the meat of you. Tomorrow your ribs would ache. Your throat would hurt. Shame might return with teeth, telling you the old lies in your own voice. But for now, Bruce was beside you, and the rain was gentle, and the fire was low, and your body, traitorous miracle that it was, kept breathing.
Small breath in. Longer breath out.
Bruce’s shoulder beneath your cheek. His hand holding yours under the blanket.
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He didn't steal 10 million dollars. They made that number up as a loss, they never fucking had it. Rockstar has spent more than a billion fucking dollars on GTA VI and will likely make billions more when it gets released.
Uber is a fucking shell game of a company designed to leech investor capital and output bootleg cabs.
Nvidia posted a profit in 2023 of $4.37 billion. This is like someone stealing less than a penny from me.
And they lock this kid in a prison hospital for LIFE?
What with GTA VI going up for pre-order i'd just like to remind everyone that rockstar conspired with the UK government to lock an 18-year-old away for life for hacking them.
