During Occasions Where Batman Is Really Needed And Dick And Bruce Are Both Unavailable For Some Reason,

In reference to this post, I do legitimately wonder what exactly Nick Fury’s expectations of Steve were.

Assuming his two primary sources for Steve Rogers Anecdotes were Howard and Peggy (and I think they were), there’s no way he would have gotten anything approaching an accurate account for who Steve was as a person.

I honestly don’t think Howard knew Steve well.  All his reminiscences are going to be fundamentally colored by the fact that, despite the epiphany he comes to in the S1 finale of Agent Carter (he says something like, ‘he was good before I got my hands on him, wasn’t he?’), Steve’s successes as Captain America are in part his successes because he helped make Captain America.  So all the stories Howard could tell Fury (and, sorry about your horrible childhood, Tony) are going to portray Steve in a very specific way, turning him into the ultimate war hero, the ultimate super solider, the ultimate weapon that Howard helped create.

I doubt Peggy’s telling a lot of truths either but for different reasons.  Or, well.  Peggy doesn’t lie about Steve, but there are certain things she doesn’t say about Steve.  Because everyone knows and mourns Captain America, but she’s one of a small handful of people who actually mourn Steve Rogers.  There are things about him she keeps private and safe for herself.

Like the fondue story?  I am positive that never made it into the global Captain America narrative.  I also don’t think it’s a story Tony or Sharon ever heard.  Howard doesn’t tell it because it’s not a Cap Story, it’s a Steve Story, and Howard’s far more interested in the former than the latter.  Peggy also doesn’t tell it because it’s a Steve Story, and the world isn’t owed any more of Steve Rogers than they already have.  They can keep Captain America, but Steve is hers.

But I honestly believe that if Nick got half a shot of whiskey in Colonel Phillips, he would spend literal hours dragging Steve Rogers through the mud.

“Rogers?  Biggest pain in my ass that ever lived, and that’s before Stark and Erskine got their god damn hands on him.  I’ve had a hemorrhoid or two tried to compete, but nope.  It was Rogers.

“That son of a bitch probably spent six weeks AWOL altogether thinking he knew better than me, the SSR, and all the Allied powers put together.  At the end of it, he’d come into my office, stand at attention, salute.  Then I’d maybe get one ‘yes sir, no sir’ out of him before he started arguing with me about whatever damn fool thing he’d just done.  Which, I shouldn’t have to tell anyone, is not how the god damned United States Army works.  Rogers never did manage to grasp that concept.

“Don’t ask me about vehicle requisitions.  I don’t even know how many cars those idiots wrapped around how many trees.  I finally had to order the motor pool to stop giving him motorcycles at all.  He kept throwing them at the enemy.  That worked for maybe a month.  He started stealing them, and I gave up.

“Once I ran into Barnes just staring at a wall looking whey-faced, terrified, and madder than a hornet.  So I said, “What did that captain of yours do this time?” and he says, “He charged a fucking tank,” and I say, “Of course he did,” and he says, “Dumb bastard wasn’t even wearing his helmet,” and I say, “I don’t understand how you kept that boy alive long enough to con his way into the army in the first place,” and Barnes says, “You’ve got no god-damned idea, sir, you really don’t.”

“You know Carter shot at him once?  I’ve never envied another human being so much in my whole life.

“Steve Rogers gave me most every grey hair on my head, don’t you let her tell you any different.  I had a full head of thick black hair in 1943; by ‘44 I looked like someone dropped a pound of drywall on top of me.  I aged a year for every hour I spent in Rogers’s company.  When I die, if the coroner doesn’t list my cause of death as Steven Grant Rogers, it’ll be god damned perjurous.

“I could have court-martialed that jackass on at least 16 separate occasions, and we wouldn’t have won the war without him.  God rest the son of a bitch.”

….so we have to assume that Fury never talked to Phillips I guess.

BUT OH GOD DO I WISH HE HAD

1 & stucky

Bucky insists on putting their furniture together on his own, no help from anyone.

Steve knows why, of course. It’s the same reason why everyone on the team has hand-knitted scarves and hats and gloves. Same reason why their apartment is decorated in an odd mismatch of arts and crafts; pottery and homemade potpourri, random photographs in handmade frames, a wooden rocking chair that Bucky made at the Tower on a particularly bad weekend.

“It feels good,” Bucky told him one late evening; he only ever confessed these things at night. Steve understands. The darkness has been their secret keeper for as long as either of them can remember. “Rememberin’ that I was made for more than just killin’ people.”

So, yes. Steve knows exactly why Bucky prefers to do things himself but sometimes, well. Sometimes he just wishes Bucky would be practical about things.

Like now.

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Your thoughts on sex pollen? Maybe Steve gets dosed on a mission and he needs *someone* to help him take care of it, but he and Bucky aren't together yet (just both in the mutually pining stage). So Bucky volunteers to take a bullet for Steve, to get to have him this close (but not really). Steve's crying out "I love you, I love you" the whole time and Bucky just tries his best to ignore it, because it's just the drugs talking, right? And after, Steve must feel so bad for "taking advantage."

My thoughts on sex pollen are “hell yes,” tbh.

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I headcanon that Ichigo can smile like Unohana, but he just doesn't do that, because he's scowling and irritated often, but not cold-like angered or raged.

Trully angered Ichigo is cooooold and quiet, but the most terrifiyng part begins when he *smiles*

And when Urahara aka mad-scientist-extraordinaire decided to see how far he can make Ichigo angry-

He saw in every detail how the scowl slowly faded and watched in crippling horror how the edges smoothed and the softest, sweetest smile he's ever seen appeared on Ichigo's face.

The shudder ran down his spine when Ichigo proceeded to say in the gentlest way possible:

"I'll plug out your spine and hang you on it in three, two-"

And then no one saw Urahara for the whole week.

Do you mind writing more canon compliant!stucky cockwarming Ps love your blog

I don’t mind at all :D

Scenarios to consider:

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I was rereading My Ananke and got to chapter 5. Literally all I can think about now is Obi-Wan and Anakin together on the study abroad program and how much TORTURE Obi-Wan would be in. Anyway, I love that fic. Thank you for writing!

🤍 So this is an infographic on my old school’s Rome study abroad program. Let’s investigate and see all of the ways that Obi-Wan would suffer!! I imagine that all of these Problems immediately flashed through his mind as soon as Quinlan made the suggestion.

1. Housing—Possibly be placed in an apartment near Anakin, and run the risk of seeing Anakin glistening and panting coming back from a jog in the morning. Very probably would end up walking to or from the apartments to the Rome center with Anakin, strolling through the Eternal City with a beautiful boy. Unacceptable.

2. Espresso—Guarantee that Anakin will learn Obi-Wan’s routine and preferred places and want to come stand very close to him at the bar and drink his espresso. Anakin might even get a cappuccino and get foam on his face, like the whipped Frappuccino debacle of the previous spring. Unacceptable.

3. Lecture—The Rome center is a converted fifteenth century castle, and the classrooms are filled with beautiful frescos. Anakin reading Greek in a spare classroom with fluorescent lighting is a familiar disaster, but hearing him read Latin instead, giving voice to the Aeneid or some Odes in a beautiful palace. Unacceptable.

4. Lunch—Campo de’ Fiori houses a market during the daytime, well-known for its flowers and fruit and vegetables. It would be like going to the farmer’s market near the university on with Anakin, except worse, because Anakin speaks zero Italian and would look at Obi-Wan hopefully for him to translate for him, and then gratefully when he does. Unacceptable.

5. Walking Tour—See above re: strolling around the Eternal City with a beautiful boy. Would he forced to continually remind himself that the rest of the class is there too and not just speak to Anakin tagging close at his elbow. Anakin would ask him interesting questions, listen to him explain obscure facts, look at things when Obi-Wan pointed things out and make impressed noises. Unacceptable.

AND YET all of these are relatively small, and fine, because nothing compares in terms of suffering with

6. Dinner by candlelight with abundant wine—Obi-Wan would probably try to artfully sit as far away from Anakin as possible, and then for all his efforts end up sitting directly opposite him down the long table, which is absolutely worse than sitting next to him, and he should have realized but he didn’t. He would have to keep his attention on his plate or the people close by, or else get stuck watching Anakin’s cheeks flush pinker, lips stained red with wine, eating good food and laughing, head tipped back, neck long. He’d be able to feel Anakin’s eyes all evening, more and more as the wine flowed. Would make the mistake of eye contact once, get stuck, the rest of the room falling away, and Anakin would be all he could see. Then they better not be stumbling back to their apartment building together after, or else they might get lost in an alley, against a wall, and allllllllll of Obi-Wan’s years of pining and self-control would be for nothing. Unacceptable.

IM GONNA LOSE MY MIND HE'S ALL I DRAW GOD I HAVE BECOME SO CRINGE!! Anyway, Kittji~! (my brain is rotting-) ALSO THE LAST DRAWING IS ONE I MADE IN THE MDDLE OF THE NIGHT WITH MY MOUSE ON PAINT THIS DRAWING HAUNTS ME-

i got inspired by THIS amazing post 🤠 The room was dim. The only source of light was the soft glow from the streetlights outside, filtering through the moth-eaten curtains. Bruce's hands were gripping Jason's hips, the cheap bed creaking under their shared weight and movements.

Earlier that night, Bruce had been out on patrol, moving across the rooftop with practiced ease. He had spotted Jason below, next to a group of drug dealers bleeding out in the alley.

Bruce had reacted immediately, dropping down without a sound, landing behind him. He couldn't remember the words they had exchanged with each other. It always went the same anyway, stuck in an infinite loop, like a curse.

Jason had thrown the first punch, and soon they had been locked in a dance of violence and bruises.

But the second Jason had ripped his helmet off, revealing his flushed face, unruly hair and dark eyes, Bruce lost the fight.

The rest of the night was a blur after that. They had stumbled into the first hotel they could find, somewhere where no one asked questions. The receptionist had barely glanced up from her phone when they asked for a room, and even if she had, she would be under the impression that Batman was investigating a crime.

And now, here they were. It always ended the same these days. For each time Bruce interacted with Jason, his willpower crumbled more and more.

Jason's Red Hood gear was carelessly scattered across the wooden floor, along with pieces of the Batsuit.

Then Jason leaned in, his lips brushing against Bruce's ear. "Come on, dad..." Bruce froze. His thrusts slowed, until they stopped completely, his body going rigid. The word hung in the air between them, and for a moment, he forgot how to function.

Jason always tested him, pushed his limits, but this—this was different. Bruce could feel his smirk against his skin as Jason pressed his mouth to his neck. "What's wrong, dad?" he hummed against his skin, feigning innocence.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat. He felt a flash of heat roll through his body, his arousal stirring inside Jason. The word ricocheted inside his head, over and over. He shouldn't like it. It was wrong. This was wrong. But his body didn't listen to him.

Jason shifted slightly, leaning back against the pillow, looking up at Bruce with sparkling eyes in the dim light.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a vibrating through Bruce. "You like it." His tone sounded triumphant, taunting, like he took great pleasure in finding out how fucked up Bruce was.

Bruce swallowed hard, trying to regain some sense of control, but every rational thought was drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears, the haze in his mind.

He wanted to deny it, but all he could think of was how badly he wanted Jason to say it again. But to his disappointment, Jason remained quiet now, his legs wrapping around Bruce's waist and tightening around him to try and create some friction, silently telling him to move again.

So Bruce did, picking up the pace again, each movement harder than the last. The sound of Jason's teasing voice still on repeat in his mind.

Jason's breath hitched, his hands grabbing Bruce's arms, digging into his skin. His name was spilled from Jason's lips as he moaned softly, but that's not what Bruce wanted to hear, and he was too ashamed to admit it out loud.

Another moan escaped Jason's lips, and it should have been enough. It should have been.

But it wasn't.

Jason had planted a seed and Bruce couldn't think about anything else.

Jason's head tipped further back against the pillow, exposing the sharp line of his sensitive throat. "Bruce—" He moaned again, his voice breaking as his legs pulled Bruce closer, impossibly deeper. He was doing it on purpose, deliberately withholding the word. Jason could—much to Bruce's dismay—read him like an open book. This was just like another game between them. Jason would push, tease, and taunt, to see how far he could go before Bruce broke. And Bruce, no matter how hard he tried to resist, would always end up playing along, drawn deeper each time, like a moth to a flame.

Jason's hands slid from Bruce's arms to his neck, pulling him down until their lips nearly touched. "Say it," he murmured. "Say you like it."

The words clawed in his throat, refusing to leave him. The pace slowed again, almost coming to a stop.

Jason kissed him. Bruce's blood from his split lip mingled between them, a gift from Jason during their earlier fight.

"I... I like it," Bruce confessed when they broke apart.

Even in the darkness of the room, Bruce could see Jason's smirk, the cocky satisfaction radiating from him. "You like what?"

He was going to make him say it.

"You know what," Bruce muttered, his voice strained. He didn't want to play this game, not when his shame was threatening to consume him.

Jason's fingers tightened around the back of his neck. "Do I?" he teased.

Bruce's heart pounded. The need for Jason to say it was greater than all the other shameful feelings. "I like it when you call me dad," he finally admitted. Jason's smirk widened into a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with delight. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" His voice then dropped even lower. "Are you going to keep fucking me, dad?" Bruce's entire body tensed, a surge of arousal pulsated through him. Jason's hands trailed down Bruce's back as he whispered the word again, "Dad." The sound of Bruce's voice—that word—was all it took. Bruce's movements grew desperate, almost erratic, each thrust deeper into Jason, as his soft moans dragged him closer to the edge. "That's it," Jason groaned. "Just like that, dad."

Bruce couldn't hold back any longer. With one last thrust, he reached his climax with an unexpected intensity, his vision going white and blurry from the sensation.

Jason followed shortly after. His body tightened around Bruce as he choked on the word that had destroyed Bruce completely. "Dad."

For a short minute they were both still, breathing heavily. Bruce finally pulled out, before collapsing onto the mattress beside Jason.

Jason laughed, breathless, his white strands clinging to his forehead. "You're sick."

And Bruce silently agreed with him.

Jason and Dick falling back into being brothers after Jason gets resurrected except both of them keep forgetting that although Dick is still older, Jason is now very much not a small little Robin anymore.

Dick, pointing to an ugly old guy on TV: that’s you

Jason, gesturing to a pug: that’s you

Dick: *flicks the side of Jason’s head*

Jason: do that again and i’ll smash your face in

Dick: bring it on, little wing!

Jason: *jokily shoves Dick off the couch*

Dick: *flies two feet and smashes through a glass table*

Tim and Damian watch Dick try and sneak up on Jason from behind to shove him in the pool but Jason doesn’t even budge, and they see Dick’s eyes widen in regret before he gets judo-flipped into the water. Jason tries to jump in after but forgets how big he is and manages to both land directly on Dick’s flailing body and cause a wave big enough to drench Alfred standing at the other edge. Damian turns dead eyes onto Tim,

Damian: promise me we’ll never be that immature.

Tim: we can learn from their stupidity

Alfred, dripping onto the tiles, Jason and Dick struggling in the background: please see that you do.