#random drabble

Whumpee stiffened, tears starting to form in his eyes at just the thought. He was already so cold…

“Here, follow me, it’s just down the hall here.” Caretaker led the way, and Whumpee followed, confused.

In the house? Wouldn’t that make a mess?

Caretaker opened a door, and he looked around for a hose, maybe a stall or something but-

“I think a bath will do you some good,” Caretaker was already leaned over the tub, getting the water started, “It’s not like we’re in a rush.”

He paused, eyes flicking around from Caretakers hand, testing the water, to the tub, to the rest of the room. He knew what a bath was, theoretically, but…

Wasn’t it a waste?

“Is that…okay?” Caretaker had seen his expression, and he hurriedly nodded.

“I’ll do anything you’d like me to do, sir.” He was ready with his answer, this question was easy-

Wait.

Caretakers brow furrowed and they straightened up. “Well, that’s fine, but I’m asking about you, bud. You okay?”

He swallowed hard. “I- I mean, you could just, spray me off with the hose, I don’t need- I don’t deserve anything special or anything, sir…” He tried not to let on how much he wanted this... That wasn’t important.

“Spray you- What? No, no no no,” Caretaker waved their hands, shaking their head, “You’re not a dog, you- You deserve a bath, a real bath, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you or-or anything, sir…”

“None taken, just…” Caretaker turned off the water, now that it had risen over halfway up the sides of the tub, “Just take your time, get warmed up, and- and get used to it. No more hoses, okay?”

He tried to speak but his words got stuck in his throat, so he nodded frantically and hoped it was enough.

Thank you, thank you thank you thank you…

“Alright. I’ll leave some clothes outside the door for you.”

And with that, they were gone, and he was alone.

His numb hands struggled with his shirt buttons, so after undoing the top one, he just pulled his shirt off over his head, the rest of his clothes joining the pile soon after.

Carefully, one hand gripping the edge of the tub, he stepped into the water.

Two tears hit the waters surface as he climbed the rest of the way in, the warmth soaking all the way to his bones.

It was better than he had even hoped.

The water lapped at his shoulders, easing the ache in his knees, his hips, across his back. He leaned against the back of the tub and let his head fall back, eyes closing.

He could have stayed like that for hours.

But, he knew he didn’t have that kind of time, and he wasn’t about to push his luck any further.

It was still luxurious though, to scrub the dirt and grime from his skin slowly, carefully around cuts and bruises, instead of just trying to get as clean as possible under the cold spray. To work the soap through his hair and rinse till it came clean, to not be half blinded by water and soap in his eyes.

Caretaker knocked, calling through that they’d found him some pajamas.

“Thank you, sir, thank you so much-“ his voice cracked, and he wished he had a better way to express just how grateful he was.

He’s done too soon, the water gone grey, but he sits for just one more moment. Just a little longer.

His eyes rest on the door. On the other side of it, there were clean clothes for him to wear… and someone who had been very very kind to him for no reason.

The smarter, more cynical side of him knows he should be suspicious, but…

Please… please let me be enough to stay.

He’d do anything they wanted, he’d go so far, it was already worth it, please just let them want something he could give.

Anything.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself up and out of the water, shivering as he dried off and dressed. The pajamas were warm, only slightly too big, and soft, softer than anything he’d ever worn before.

he pretends he doesn’t care but secretly he does; slyly checking if you’ve ate, making sure you’re taking care of yourself and ensuring you don’t overwork yourself. he tries to be subtle about it — but sometimes the paternal energy just radiates off of him.

“that’s enough training, get some rest for the mission.” passing it off as him just making sure his squad doesn’t fuck up a mission, but secretly he wants you to be okay.

of course, he’ll never change his ways — he’ll always be aloof and awkward emotionally; but he tries his best, and that’s what really matters.

satoru and you getting tipsy off some tequila, on the floor of his apartment after a long mission, trying to get the edge off and he’s making shitty jokes and you’re laughing and you’re eyes stay on each other for too long, the warmth of the alcohol settling under your skin, his apartment warm and bathed in amber and you end up kissing. his tongue licks into your mouth, and you moan softly at the wet heat and then you feel the accidental spill of his drink down your chest.

“fuck, sorry,” he breathes into your mouth as you both look down and he sees the way the tequila drags down your skin, between your tits. “you spilled on me toru,” you murmur and he hums low, eyes focused on the the way the tequilas soaked your button up, clinging to your tits in a way that makes his cock throb. “better clean it up shouldn’t i?” he murmurs and before you can speak, his mouth drags low, chasing the stream of alcohol, drags his tongue and hums low at the taste of tequila and the salt of your skin.

his mouth dragging low, mouthing over your chest, your fingers threading into his hair, gasping at the feel of his hot, greedy mouth, as he slips the buttons of your blouse free, drags his mouth down the centre of your chest, looking up at you from under pale lashes, half lidded eyes from the alcohol, eyes on you the whole time as he drags his mouth over your bra, mouthing at it slow, laving his tongue over the thin lace, making your fingers pull in his hair. he moans, and you feel the vibrations against your skin, and his teeth tug down your bra cup and he drags the flat of his mouth over your nipple, sucks it into his mouth and groans low. and you’re breathless and flushed, watching as he sucks and bites, tugging at your nipple with his teeth hard enough to make you gasp his name.

“s-satoru—“ you gasp and satoru hums low in his throat, mouth moving, his other hand coming up to your cup your other tit, squeezing it in his large palm, fingers tugging at your nipple, playing with you—mouth working, moving, greedy and your head rolls back into the sofa, letting him use his wicked, filthy mouth on you, your hand in his hair.

she had a mission that involved being out of orbit for a few days and you were left with too many thoughts. you often told your girlfriend every single thought that graced your head. after all, she is your girlfriend. why wouldn't she hear you babble on?

and as odd as it may soon to some, caleb needed to hear all your thoughts. she was given the opportunity to be the solace of your thoughts and she wouldn't dare push that away. she loved it. she loved it more than anything.

however, she didn't enjoy missing you nor not knowing where you were. she'd grumble under her breath and tighten her gloves too many times. you loved her enough to make his soul never lonely because she saw that no matter the soul doubts in her head, you loved caleb.

more than anything.

she’s only been in the room for fifteen minutes, had barely changed and you had already crawling into her personal space. caleb can't help but stare as you talk. your legs over her own and she can't help the love that ooze from her eyes.

"i missed you."

Martha Wayne: it's a miracle we stopped after Bruce, imagine what other creatures they'd come up with.

Thomas: Batman and Owlman are bad enough, Mothwoman?

Martha: If we had a child who went by Skunkman I think I'd need to flick them.

Thomas: our boys would probably stick to the flying creatures.

Martha:...

Martha: If we hadn't died that night, we'd have never known Tommy wasn't a stillbirth. Bruce wouldn't be the man he is, and our grandchildren wouldn't be here in our house. The one we planned to fill with little feet.

Thomas: As much as I wish we could see him grow up, it's about time we acknowledge it was for the best.

Martha: At least we can haunt him together my love.

Thomas: At least until Alfred comes and joins us, im sure he has much to complain about.

A young, thirteen year old Sherlock comes home after slipping on some ice, ice that must have melted slightly due to the warm temperature than the previous days. That was the only logical explanation for not only why he’d slipped, but also why he’d went sideways instead of forwards or backwards. Currently he must of looked like quite the sight as he’d gotten stares from those whom he passed.

They were seeing the extent of his slip, what he couldn’t currently see; His lower lip was swollen on the side where he had bitten into it in his fall, had scrapes on his chin and a few scrapes on his cheek with an accompanying bruise on the skin surrounding it. All of these injuries being on the left side of his face.

Sherlock wasn’t hurting too badly, the only thing that was smarting was his outer thigh where he’d landed on it. Which he was sure, annoyingly, would be quite bruised.

The only reason Sherlock had returned home at all, instead of figuring out somewhere else to go and tend to his wounds is because he knew his parents would not be home, they had gone out to some dinner or show. Sherlock hadn’t really cared in the moment to listen as his mother had come to tell him when he was reading up an old newspaper he’d found, specifically a tabloid about a serial killer who’d ran rampant in a small town within the early 1800’s.

What Sherlock was unaware of though, as due to the fact it was a week before Christmas, Mycroft had come home from University. Sherlock hadn’t expected it, He’d assumed Mycroft would be home by the weekend at the earliest.

Well, both brothers were surprised when Sherlock had walked into the door. Sherlock at Mycroft’s presence, and Mycroft at the utter state of his little brother.

Mycroft immediately went into action, guiding him into the kitchen while he shucked off his coat, questioning him as Mycroft grabbed the needed supplies. Thinking that he’d gotten into yet another physical altercation. “I didn’t get into a fight.” Sherlock mumbled out as he held gauze to his bleeding lip. Using part of it to try and wipe the blood that had dripped onto his hand previously.

Mycroft obviously deduced he wasn’t in fact lying, this time and that he’d truly slipped. Tutting at him for getting so banged up from a fall that it looked as if he’d gotten jumped.

Thankfully, the injures sustained weren’t severe at all and nothing needed stitching, nor was he concussed as he hadn’t hit his head when he fell and thus no visit to the hospital. Once Mycroft wiped away the dried blood with a wet paper towel, the injuries overall looked much better than they had when he’d first walked in the door.

Once Mycroft had finished completely, the 20 year old had sighed and saying something in exasperation.