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#high-quality content articles

madhukumarc · 8 months

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Are Blogs Articles?

Yes, blogs are a type of articles. In fact, they are one of the most popular forms of online content.

Blogs are essentially a collection of articles that are published on a website [either owned by individual or business entity], usually appears in reverse chronological order.

The purpose of a blog is often to engage readers, encourage discussion, and build a community around a particular subject [topic or niche].

"Do you know? 77% of internet users read blogs" - Writesonic

When you think of an article, you might imagine a piece of writing that provides information or expresses an opinion on a specific topic.

Well, that's exactly what a blog does. It can cover a wide range of subjects, from personal experiences and travel tips to professional advice and industry news.

What sets blogs apart from traditional articles is their interactive nature. Most blogs allow readers to leave comments and engage in discussions with the author and other readers.

This creates a sense of community and fosters a deeper connection between the writer and the audience.

Another characteristic of blogs is their conversational tone.

Unlike formal articles that are often written in a more academic or journalistic style, blogs are typically written in a more casual and relaxed manner. [This further vary if focused from an SEO perspective].

This helps to make the content more relatable and accessible to a wider audience.

Blogs also tend to be more personal and subjective compared to traditional articles.

While articles strive to present an objective viewpoint, blogs often incorporate the author's personal experiences, opinions, and anecdotes.

This personal touch adds authenticity and allows readers to connect on a deeper level with the writer.

Do you know? - “The typical B2B article is 1,460 words compared to B2C articles, which are 1,300 words (Orbit Media)” – Ahrefs

Furthermore, blogs are highly versatile in terms of format and structure.

They can include text, images, videos, infographics, and more. This multimedia approach makes the content more engaging and visually appealing for readers.

In addition to providing valuable information and entertainment, blogs also play a crucial role in digital marketing.

Many businesses use blogs as a way to attract and engage their target audience.

By creating high-quality and relevant content, they can establish themselves as industry experts, build brand awareness, and drive traffic to their website.

“70% more traffic went to articles with at least one video versus articles without videos” - The State of Content Marketing 2023 Global Report by Semrush

Blogs vs Articles:

Here's a tabular format outlining the most important differences between blogs and articles:

Remember, while these differences are generally fine, there can be some overlap and variation depending on the specific context and purpose of the blog or article.

In conclusion, blogs are indeed a type of articles. They share some similarities with traditional articles but have their own unique characteristics that make them stand out.

Whether you're looking for informative content or want to express your thoughts and opinions, blogs are a fantastic medium to explore. So go ahead and start reading or writing some amazing blog articles!

Here's related information that you may also find helpful – Why Blogs Fail? [Top 7 reasons along with pro-action plans for success].

#blogs #articles #content writing #high quality content #article writing

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how-to-work · 1 year

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5 Tips for Writing Engaging Blog Posts

Blogging is a powerful way to connect with your audience, share your thoughts and ideas, and establish your authority in your niche. However, writing engaging blog posts that capture your readers' attention and keep them coming back for more can be challenging. In this article, we'll share five tips for writing engaging blog posts that will help you connect with your audience and grow your blog.

Know Your Audience

The first and most important step in writing engaging blog posts is to know your audience. Your blog posts should be written with your target audience in mind, so it's essential to understand their interests, preferences, and pain points. To get to know your audience better, you can use tools such as Google Analytics to analyze your blog's demographics, interests, and behavior. You can also survey your readers and ask them about their preferences and feedback on your blog posts.

Write Compelling Headlines

Your blog post headlines are the first impression that your readers will have of your content, so it's important to make them attention-grabbing and compelling. A great headline should be concise, descriptive, and intriguing, and should capture your readers' attention and make them want to read more. To write compelling headlines, try using strong action verbs, posing intriguing questions, and emphasizing the benefits of your content. You can also experiment with different headline formats, such as lists, how-tos, and guides, to see what resonates with your audience.

Create High-Quality Content

To engage and retain your readers, it's essential to create high-quality content that provides value and solves their problems. Your blog posts should be well-researched, informative, and actionable, and should offer a unique perspective or insight into your niche. To create high-quality content, start by doing thorough research on your topic and gathering relevant data and examples. You should also use clear, concise language that's easy to understand and avoid jargon or technical terms that might confuse your readers.

Use Visuals

Visuals such as images, videos, and infographics can help to break up your content and make it more engaging and memorable. Visuals can also help to illustrate your points and provide additional context and information for your readers. To use visuals effectively in your blog posts, try using high-quality, relevant images that are related to your topic. You can also experiment with creating infographics or videos to help explain complex concepts or data.

Encourage Interaction and Engagement

Engaging blog posts should be a two-way conversation between you and your readers. To encourage interaction and engagement, make sure to include calls to action (CTAs) in your blog posts that encourage your readers to comment, share, or subscribe to your blog. You can also ask your readers for feedback or opinions on your blog posts and respond to their comments and questions in a timely manner. By engaging with your readers, you can build a loyal audience and establish yourself as an authority in your niche.

Writing engaging blog posts requires a combination of creativity, research, and understanding of your audience. By following these five tips, you can create blog posts that capture your readers' attention, provide value and insights, and establish your authority in your niche. Remember to always focus on creating high-quality content that speaks to your audience's needs and interests, and to engage with your readers to build a loyal and engaged community.

#tips #how to #Write #Engaging #Blog #Posts #Content #Creators #Article #Top #Creative #High quality #Quality #Quick

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getyourway · 1 year

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How to write high quality content 10 ways 2023

(1) keyword research: -

Whenever you write a blog post, do not write it like this means without keyword research. If you want to write an article on any topic in your blog, then first do keyword research. With this, your article will be quickly indexed and ranked in Google. While doing keyword research, you should see the search volume, keyword difficulty, cpc etc. of that keyword, the lower the keyword difficulty and the higher the search volume and cpc, the higher your content will be high quality content and your chances of ranking will increase.

(2) Research for the article: -

Whenever you write an article on your blog, do a good research on that topic by watching videos on YouTube or gather a lot of information about it from 3-4 other blogs, then go and write your blog, keep in mind that you just get ideas from there and Have to take accurate information and write blog by yourself and not copy paste.

(3) In as many words as possible:-

If you want to write a high quality content, then you should write your article in maximum words, at least in 700 words and if you can write your article more than 1000 words, then it is better, try that you Write the article in more words than your competitor.

(4) Give accurate, correct and complete information:-

If you are writing your content on any topic, then try to always give complete information in your blog, as well as give accurate and completely correct information, due to which users will get high quality content on your site, their trust will increase and more. More users will come to your site, which will increase your user interaction, due to which Google will also trust your site and rank your content and site quickly.

(5) Do not copy paste: -

You should never put content copied from anywhere else in your blog, because of this, your blog will never rank in Google, nor will you get the approval of Adsense, because Google never ranks blogs that do copy paste. Therefore, whatever you write, write it on your own, yes, you can definitely take the idea from somewhere, but Google never ranks the copy pasted article by making it in your own words and considers it as low value content.

(6) Use long tail keyword: -

If you want that you write a high quality content that ranks in Google, then you should use long tail keyword instead of short keyword because it has less comptetion than short keyword, which increases the chances of your content to rank in Google. And the content written on this keyword is also high quality content in the eyes of Google.

(7) Do interlinking: -

While writing a blog, interlinking should also be done in the blog post with a low competition and high search volume keyword and a good article. Interlinking means giving a link to your other post in that blog post where there is something related to it. The user who came to the blog will go to that article, which will increase the user engagement and traffic of your blog and your content will also come in the category of high quality content.

For full article visit on my blog link is below👇🔗

#articles #content #high quality content #blog #blog post #blogging #bloggers #tumblelog #tumblr #likes #10000 likes #comment #share #india #internet

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mindfulstudyquest · 14 days

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❥﹒♡﹒☕﹒ 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 ( 𝗮𝗰𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 !! )

𝟭. improve your writing skills ( ✒️ )

i feel that not everyone has the perception of how important it is to know how to write. you don't have to be a poet, nor the new emily brontë, but fluid, conscious, rich writing makes the difference. really. you could write a page without saying anything at all, but if that damn page is written good and smoothly, then you can be sure that you will get extra points. take the time to improve your writing skills, the best advice i have for doing so is reading. read as much as you can. read novels (non-fiction in this case doesn't help because the content is preferred rather than the form), read contemporary authors – you don't necessarily have to read sophocles' tragedies, but read quality stuff. expand your vocabulary, your knowledge of syntax, learn to use punctuation! and then write, tell stories, write love letters, write reviews of films, books, cultural festivals, open a blog on tumblr and write to practice, reread what you write ad nauseam, until it is perfect, until the form of your essay is pulitzer prize worthy.

bonus some of my favourite authors (tell me in the comments about yours!): ian mcewan, banana yoshimoto, haruki murakami, george orwell, josé saramago, albert camus, khaled hosseini, hanya yanagihara

𝟮. develop critical thinking ( 💭 )

if you have always studied passively by absorbing information and vomiting it onto a test sheet then you have wasted your time. taking on information is not enough, you need to know how to rework it and develop your own idea about it. especially in the arts and literature one may disagree with certain information provided by a textbook. developing critical thinking is not easy, especially due to the school system that teaches us to standardize thinking. always consult all available sources on a given topic, compare them, analyze contradictions. it might be difficult and tiring – our brain spends more energy processing two conflicting pieces of information than processing two pieces of information that agree – but it will be worth it. by practicing critical thinking and improving your argumentation skills, you will not only be able to improve in your studies, becoming able to present complex topics and make interdisciplinary connections, but also in daily life, you will become much less influenced and manipulated by external information.

𝟯. find yourself an interest ( 🌷 )

it could be anything, but find an interest that excites you and you enjoy and do research about it. watch videos, documentaries, read articles. it doesn't have to be school-related, it must be an external topic that you are passionate about and that allows you to rediscover the joy of studying and learning every time school seems to suffocate it. sometimes i'm not in the mood to study for exams, so i dedicate myself to my personal research and finally find my spark, my seek for knowledge. for example, my interest is true crime, it has always fascinated me since i was little, but yours could be wild animals, makeup, comics, ships, planes, ocean flora, literally anything. there is no constraint.

𝟰. analyze your mistakes and recognize your wrongs ( 🫒 )

there is no shame in making mistakes. everyone makes mistakes, we are human, but the real sin is getting bogged down in mistakes, refusing to acknowledge them, and continuing to make them again and again. we should be continually growing, continually discovering ourselves, both intellectually and emotionally. how many of you were the "gifted kid" when you were little and then grew up into burned out high school / uni students desperately seeking academic validation? there comes a time when talent isn't enough, you have to put in the effort, and this doesn't make you less intelligent or gifted, in fact, quite the opposite. dedicating time and attention to your personal and intellectual growth also means having to ruminate on your mistakes. it's scary, but it's the most effective way if you really want to improve. take a notebook and at the end of the day reflect on the highlights and the wrongs, what you could have done better, where you would like to push forward tomorrow, what you achieved today. did you make a mistake? first ask yourself why and then look for a way to solve the problem, make every bad moment a lesson, a brick on which to build the version of you you wanto to become tomorrow.

𝟱. don't be afraid of doing researches ( 🧃 )

the amount of fake news and misinformation online is appalling. opening any app like tiktok or instagram we are inundated with information that is often (not always, but not so rarely) inaccurate. don't be afraid to conduct your own research, if you have time to mindlessly scroll through tiktok you will also have five minutes to read an article regarding that information provided. don't know the meaning of a word? look it up before using it. not sure about a piece of information? check it before using it in your argumentation. in the age of immediate access to data we have no excuse to be superficial.

𝟲. master communication ( ♟️ )

mastering communication is essential in both personal and professional realms. it's the cornerstone of building meaningful relationships, whether it's conveying ideas effectively in academia or fostering connections in the workplace. developing strong communication skills not only enhances your ability to articulate thoughts but also empowers you to listen actively, empathize with others, and resolve conflicts constructively. ultimately, honing these skills cultivates confidence, credibility, and success in all aspects of life.

𝟳. push yourself out of your comfort zone ( 🧸 )

build your confidence. confidence is uncomfortable. don't be afraid of it. you are young, this is the right time to experiment, take risks, discover who you really are. this is the best time for you to do those things that you would otherwise never do, you don't want to regret later in life that you didn't accept that scholarship, that trip abroad, that job opportunity, because you didn't feel comfortable enough. do things that take you out of your comfort zone until everything becomes your comfort zone. go on solo dates, be a social butterfly, tell the girl at the bookstore you love her t-shirt, go to the theater alone, eat at a restaurant alone, take that trip. if it goes badly, you'll only have one funny story to tell.

𝟴. stay informed about the news (but not too much!) ( 🌍 )

this might be controversial, but: stay informed about the news, just don't overdo it. personally, i am an easily influenced person and i realized that being constantly exposed to the bad things happening in the world had drained me and made me terribly depressed. don't get me wrong, you need to be informed about what's happening in the world and in your country, just being constantly surrounded by horrible news repeated ad nauseam on TV programs is of no use. be aware.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months

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The Coprophagic AI crisis

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TORONTO on Mar 22, then with LAURA POITRAS in NYC on Mar 24, then Anaheim, and more!

A key requirement for being a science fiction writer without losing your mind is the ability to distinguish between science fiction (futuristic thought experiments) and predictions. SF writers who lack this trait come to fancy themselves fortune-tellers who SEE! THE! FUTURE!

The thing is, sf writers cheat. We palm cards in order to set up pulp adventure stories that let us indulge our thought experiments. These palmed cards – say, faster-than-light drives or time-machines – are narrative devices, not scientifically grounded proposals.

Historically, the fact that some people – both writers and readers – couldn't tell the difference wasn't all that important, because people who fell prey to the sf-as-prophecy delusion didn't have the power to re-orient our society around their mistaken beliefs. But with the rise and rise of sf-obsessed tech billionaires who keep trying to invent the torment nexus, sf writers are starting to be more vocal about distinguishing between our made-up funny stories and predictions (AKA "cyberpunk is a warning, not a suggestion"):

https://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-static/2023/11/dont-create-the-torment-nexus.html

In that spirit, I'd like to point to how one of sf's most frequently palmed cards has become a commonplace of the AI crowd. That sleight of hand is: "add enough compute and the computer will wake up." This is a shopworn cliche of sf, the idea that once a computer matches the human brain for "complexity" or "power" (or some other simple-seeming but profoundly nebulous metric), the computer will become conscious. Think of "Mike" in Heinlein's *The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moon_Is_a_Harsh_Mistress#Plot

For people inflating the current AI hype bubble, this idea that making the AI "more powerful" will correct its defects is key. Whenever an AI "hallucinates" in a way that seems to disqualify it from the high-value applications that justify the torrent of investment in the field, boosters say, "Sure, the AI isn't good enough…yet. But once we shovel an order of magnitude more training data into the hopper, we'll solve that, because (as everyone knows) making the computer 'more powerful' solves the AI problem":

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

As the lawyers say, this "cites facts not in evidence." But let's stipulate that it's true for a moment. If all we need to make the AI better is more training data, is that something we can count on? Consider the problem of "botshit," Andre Spicer and co's very useful coinage describing "inaccurate or fabricated content" shat out at scale by AIs:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4678265

"Botshit" was coined last December, but the internet is already drowning in it. Desperate people, confronted with an economy modeled on a high-speed game of musical chairs in which the opportunities for a decent livelihood grow ever scarcer, are being scammed into generating mountains of botshit in the hopes of securing the elusive "passive income":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

Botshit can be produced at a scale and velocity that beggars the imagination. Consider that Amazon has had to cap the number of self-published "books" an author can submit to a mere three books per day:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2023/sep/20/amazon-restricts-authors-from-self-publishing-more-than-three-books-a-day-after-ai-concerns

As the web becomes an anaerobic lagoon for botshit, the quantum of human-generated "content" in any internet core sample is dwindling to homeopathic levels. Even sources considered to be nominally high-quality, from Cnet articles to legal briefs, are contaminated with botshit:

https://theconversation.com/ai-is-creating-fake-legal-cases-and-making-its-way-into-real-courtrooms-with-disastrous-results-225080

Ironically, AI companies are setting themselves up for this problem. Google and Microsoft's full-court press for "AI powered search" imagines a future for the web in which search-engines stop returning links to web-pages, and instead summarize their content. The question is, why the fuck would anyone write the web if the only "person" who can find what they write is an AI's crawler, which ingests the writing for its own training, but has no interest in steering readers to see what you've written? If AI search ever becomes a thing, the open web will become an AI CAFO and search crawlers will increasingly end up imbibing the contents of its manure lagoon.

This problem has been a long time coming. Just over a year ago, Jathan Sadowski coined the term "Habsburg AI" to describe a model trained on the output of another model:

https://twitter.com/jathansadowski/status/1625245803211272194

There's a certain intuitive case for this being a bad idea, akin to feeding cows a slurry made of the diseased brains of other cows:

https://www.cdc.gov/prions/bse/index.html

But "The Curse of Recursion: Training on Generated Data Makes Models Forget," a recent paper, goes beyond the ick factor of AI that is fed on botshit and delves into the mathematical consequences of AI coprophagia:

https://arxiv.org/abs/2305.17493

Co-author Ross Anderson summarizes the finding neatly: "using model-generated content in training causes irreversible defects":

https://www.lightbluetouchpaper.org/2023/06/06/will-gpt-models-choke-on-their-own-exhaust/

Which is all to say: even if you accept the mystical proposition that more training data "solves" the AI problems that constitute total unsuitability for high-value applications that justify the trillions in valuation analysts are touting, that training data is going to be ever-more elusive.

What's more, while the proposition that "more training data will linearly improve the quality of AI predictions" is a mere article of faith, "training an AI on the output of another AI makes it exponentially worse" is a matter of fact.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/14/14/inhuman-centipede#enshittibottification

Image: Plamenart (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Double_Mobius_Strip.JPG

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #ai #generative ai #André Spicer #botshit #habsburg ai #jathan sadowski #ross anderson #inhuman centipede #science fiction #mysticism

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becomingthatgirl111 · 1 year

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the "superfoods" you should incorporate into your diet

first of all, what are superfoods, and why are they so beneficial to our health? are those that in addition to feeding us have beneficial properties for health and are 100% natural, their origin is mainly vegetable and raw consumption, have a high content of fiber, minerals, proteins and vitamins, many of this help strengthen the immune system and promise the extension of a long healthy life.

and these are some of the foods you should incorporate into your diet.

goji berries: high in vitamins and minerals

acai berries: beneficial for overall health and boost performance. high in antioxidants, vitamins, minerals, and essential fatty acids.

chia seeds: high in vegetable fiber, omega-3 fatty acids, and high-quality protein.

ginger: it is attributed with properties against digestive discomfort and headaches. it also has an anti-inflammatory effect.

avocado: high in healthy fats, antioxidants, it has numerous micronutrients among which are vitamins C, vitamin B5, and vitamin K.

green tea: accelerates metabolism, detoxifying.

matcha: rich in antioxidants, polyphenols, and EGG, responsible for helping to protect against heart disease, helps regulate blood sugar, and accelerates metabolism.

quinoa: high protein concentration, rich in fiber and vitamins.

spinach: high concentrations of vitamins C and A, flavonoids, omega-3.

curcuma: increases serotonin production, helps regulate menstrual cramps and headaches.

walnuts: source of omega-3, protects our heart and cholesterol, we will get protein, vitamin E, fiber, healthy fats and lots of energy.

broccoli: very low caloric intake, rich in vitamin A and beta-carotene (a great antioxidant), vitamin C, fiber and folic acid.

seaweed: all are alkalizing and a good source of dietary fiber, antibacterial, anti-inflammatory, and antioxidant properties. contain healthy fatty acids and provide plenty of calcium, iron, and iodine.

and many more…! i am getting into the world of healthy eating to incorporate it into my day-to-day and I will continue to bring you posts related to this so that you also know about it and you can have a really healthy diet 🤍

this article has been written with the help of different sources.

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astro-royale · 10 months

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「Astrology: What Men find attractive」

A man with Moon in Aries likes brave, strong, capable women subconsciously seeking a leader in her; Venus in Aries provides preference for women with crew-cut who go in for sports, are slightly muscular, skinny and even bony. Such man also likes a woman to “ get “ him.

A man with Moon in Taurus likes affluent women, good cooks, women who are thrifty and who economise; with Venus in Taurus he likes plump women with pronounced feminine characteristics, courting takes place over a good meal without fail…

A man with the Moon in Gemini likes talkative, intelligent women, he goes for a “ good conversation”, likes women who look and act young and enjoy going for a spin and short trips. Venus in Gemini produces preferences for women of a very narrow waist, fine hands and shoulders …

A man with the Moon in Cancer likes women who cry easily, are stay-at-home types, good housewives and subconsciously, in a woman he seeks his mother. Venus in Cancer expresses preferences for nice breasts, provocative cleavage and likes to see his woman looking nice even at home.

A man with Moon in Leo likes successful women in high places from well-known and reputable families, he likes to be proud of his wife. Venus in Leo – a woman must be dressed exceptionally well as if she was about to take part in a beauty contest …

A man with the Moon in Virgo likes diligent women, pedantic and neat, the ones who take care of their husband’s health …Venus in Virgo provides special liking for sexy belly button, fine tummy and ordinary clothes…

A man with the Moon in Libra likes sweet and good-looking women, models, politicians, lawyers, women active in public life. With Venus in Libra he is very much receptive to women’s buttocks …

A man with the Moon in Scorpio likes women who came into a property of some kind, women with pronounced sex appeal who do not hide their charms, women whose looks and appearance imply “ a straightforward offer “…With Venus in Scorpio he likes see-through dressing style and goes for gipsy music …

The Moon in Sagittarius produces a man with a special liking for women who follow the fashion and in their appearance resemble the women from foreign countries; he likes educated women with university degree who go in for sports, especially tennis … Venus in Sagittarius makes him responsive to long legs, short skirts, shorts …

A man with the Moon in Capricorn goes for a darker complexion, dark-haired women of a serious and even melancholic expression; he also likes older women…Venus in Capricorn produces liking for conventional clothing style, women wearing leather and dressed in darker shades.

A man with the Moon in Aquarius likes outgoing women; his motto is “ friends first, relationship later “, he likes intelligent women …With Venus in Aquarius he likes eccentric-looking women of an eccentric style, is responsive to women’s legs, and especially calves.

A man with the Moon in Pisces likes mysterious, withrawn, shy women who always seem as if they are in need of protection…Venus in Pisces produces liking for fine stockings, shoes, lingerie …

What’s your opinion🤔✨?

If you want to support this blog as well as my research there’s a Tip option in the bio. Or CashApp me £astroroyale .This way I can keep posting high quality content for you as it encourages me in the process <3 :) Thank you & Much love

Original article link, by Nikola Stojanovic

#astrology notes #astrology observations #astrology #astro community #aries #pisces #gemini #taurus #cancer #leo zodiac #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #aquarius #capricorn #horoscope #moon signs #venus signs

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affordablepunk · 4 months

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How to DIY energy drinks for cheap

First, required reading: link to article

Energy drinks have a few vital components:

>sweetener

>flavor

>water

>caffeine

>bubbles (i never do that and don't know how)

Here are some of my favorite things to use:

>granulated sugar (sweetener)

>stevia leaf or granulated artificial sweetener (sweetener)

>kool aid (flavor, sweetener)

>loose-leaf herbs (flavor) (try hibiscus petal, chicory, even lemongrass and mint can be nice)

>lemon juice (flavor, preservative)

>kool aid (easiest flavor/sweetener combo)

Supplies you might need:

>kettle or pot for heating water

>tea strainer ball to keep your leaves out of the final product

>a nice ragu jar or old Gatorade bottle for pre-made stuff

>funnel for pourin

>ladle for scooping liquid into the funnel

Kaffn-8 or any other such liquid caffeine product will do you for caffeine. That brand is super easy and convenient. Kaffn-8 is my favorite for the quality and ease in dosing, as well as the value (15 bucks has lasted me 2 months of daily use).

I like to make a sugar-flavor concentrate, then assemble each glass as I need it. Sugar tastes better when melted with heat than when dissolved without heat, even once chilled. This also allows me to tweak caffeine content. Here is how to make it:

Fill tea ball with herbs (use about a handful or 1/2 cup for every quart of water, you're making it strong)

Heat water and pop the tea ball in

Simmer or keep hot for 10 min

Remove tea ball and turn off heat

While hot, add as much sugar as you had herbs, and mix until melted.

Mix in as much lemon juice (or other assorted acid or preservative) as you can stand. The more preservative, the longer it'll keep

Allow to cool enough to handle

Jar it up, put it in the fridge for later use. You can and should re-use all manner of bottle, just be wary of melting anything plastic or burning your hands w hot water.

A note: the smaller your batches, the less you waste. But high concentrations of acid and sugar keep it good for up to a month in the fridge.

To use: mix water in a cup with your syrup, tweaking concentrations until it tastes good. Add caffeine, measuring your dose carefully.

Then, do bubble magic to add carbonation if you can do that. Maybe you found a soda stream somewhere. If you don't have bubbles, you'll just have to enjoy your energy drinks flat.

And, you're all done!

Now, where to get everything:

(Grow your own herbs if you are mega brave. Mints are nearly indestructible little plants.)

Lemon juice, dollar store. Quality is the same, you've just got to shake it up.

if its a foreign grocer, they likely have herbs cheap. If its a Mexican grocery, they 100% have the best herbs. (Aguasfrescas drink mixes are cheap and THE BOMB, and hibiscus flower always comes in mega bulk) .

Herbalist and spiritual shops have herbs too, and are likely to have tea balls. Branch out! Catnip has been my favorite oddball herb.

Farmers markets also have some (like three if you're lucky) herbs, and you may have to dry them yourself. Since it's punk to reach out to your community, ask around at the farmers market to see if you can get any herb or dried flavorant that's on your mind- small businesses love consumer feedback! You just might have to wait for the plant to grow, heh, but if you're friendly then you'll make friends. Some examples: ask the jam bottler for dried fruit peels, the farmer for mugwort

I get my artificial sweeteners on closeout, my stevia from herbal shops, and my sugar at Walmart (bite me, its cheap and I'm poor).

Kaffn-8 can only be found online, as far as I'm aware. I promise I'm not sponsored, just a grateful caffeine addict.

Do Google your herbs for drug interactions if you take meds. Healthline has good info on herbs. Dried grapefruit rind can mess with my psych meds, for example.

Again, be careful about caffeine. Always dose your caffeine. Having high levels of caffeine on tap is a bit of a big responsibility: I know I nearly bit the dirt from the all-you-can-eat espresso bar at my college. Immaturity could kill you, caffeine is a drug. Count doses, never go above 500 a day, try not to go more than 200 in the same hour.

Now take that money you've saved and give it to a charity to blow a very mean raspberry at nestle. Or, yknow, feed yourself. Its a tough world.

#energy drinks #diy #diy energy drinks #frugal living #i am poor

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luvly-writer · 5 months

Text

“XOXO”

Ch. 3 Part-Time lovers, full time problem

—•—

Tim Drake x reader

Fic + social media Au

warnings:

taglist: @w31rdg1rl @mxtokko @loonymoonystuff @grandstrangerphantom

Author’s note: One thing i love about Christmas is all the free time i have to write new stuff after finals 🤭 (she said as she still has a few finals to finish 😍). HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS CHAPTER!

For those wondering about “BOCM” i am having such a hard time finishing it. When my phone got changed the notes i had on that story got deleted and so i had to improvise a little cause i forgot its ending and it’s so frustrating cause i always want to give you guys quality content. I am scratching my head trying to finish it so i’ll continue this one and update slowly so that i can finish it correctly. Love you all and thank you for your patience.

Masterlist:

“Absolutely insufferable, she is,” said Tim to himself as he ran his hand through his hair. He had been begrudgingly cleaning his apartment. He was tempted to leave it dirty just to take a piss at Yn but he was sure that wouldn’t look good for his reputation so here he was. He would have hired someone to do it for him but recalling all the things he had regarding his alter ego, he knew he would have been fucked and he really couldn’t risk someone else knowing.

Finally, he finished ensuring everything looked great and sat back on his couch with his laptop. "There must be something about her that I can find. I refuse to be outdone and unprepared for this," he said, searching for any leverage he could hold over Y/n's head to bargain for his secret to remain so. Thirty minutes later he had found absolutely nothing. Unlike her two best friends, Clara Dupont and Satine Abbott, who were known to be found in scandal after scandal every week, Y/n had a clean slate. Satine was constantly partying during some fashion week or getting caught sleeping around with some governor's son or a married businessman. Clara has been known to pay off people to do her bidding, caught buying off police, lawyers, teachers, professors, judges and so, to run the city however she pleased. Yet, Y/n had nothing against her. Every article he found was about a charity she had worked on, a program she had opened, or an award she was given; and were all of them legit. She seemed like the angel in their group, but Tim knew better than to trust the all-too-shiny act. He has some recollection of them during high school though; he was a grade above them. They were known for their tight and exclusive group of three. He remembers how girls would do anything to become one of them. If it meant they had to step on someone else to appease one of the three, they would have done so. After all, having them as a connection moved mountains. Tim quickly grew frustrated. No psycho exes, no drug addiction, no jail time, no one dead, no bribes, nothing that could have stained the Vanderbilt name.

Throwing his head back, he heard his phone ring. Y/n was here. He sets his laptop on the coffee table and walks to the door, opening it and revealing a dazzling young woman in an outfit he thought someone as flashy as she never would wear. White Converse, comfortable mom jeans, a laid-back button-up up, and a cozy long brown coat. Her hair was loose and her face fresh with little makeup. Even after spending hours looking at pictures of her during his search, she still managed to take his breath away every time he was in her presence.

"I know I'm mesmerizing, but can you please let me inside? I'm freezing here," she said with her nose a little red.

He rolls his eyes with a laugh and lets her in. "I was gonna go more for repulsive but if that helps you sleep at night."

"Says the one that looks like sewer trampled rat" she quips back.

Tim couldn't help the snort that came out of him. She was an endless supply of good comebacks. He wonders how an interaction between his brothers and her would go, maybe he finally found someone to go head-to-head with Damian. She takes her coat off and lays it on the couch, together with her Burberry bag. He takes notice that her coat is also Burberry and decides to tease her a little. "And here I thought you were actually looking a little humble, but the coat and the bag ruin the look," he says as he scrunches his nose. He feels laughter bubbling as he catches the deadpan she gives him. "Whose less humble, me for wearing it and not saying a single thing or you for identifying it rather quickly and feeling the need to point it out?" she asks as she places a hand on her hip smirking at him.

"Touche"

She nods satisfied at his response and sits on the couch in front of him. "Ok. First order of business-"

"First order of business is giving me the reason as to why you are doing this." Tim interrupts her. She sighs and looks up, "God give me strength to not strangle him" she whispers and Tim tries to hold back a smirk.

"I wAS going to get to that before you so rudely interrupted me. The first order of business is giving you the context I am sure you are dying to hear." she pauses to look at him and he gestures for her to continue. He sees her look down and seem almost embarrassed. He can tell she is hesitating so he tries his best guess, "Are you trying to make someone jealous?"

"No, it's not that, it..." She takes a deep breath and spills it out. "My parents want me to marry a man who is very much too much older than me with the idea that it will help solidify the family lineage which I think is absurd because my sisters are right there AND THEY ARE MARRIED already to someone they love. But because Aurora and Charlisse keep on fighting to become the next CEO, my parents think it is only right to marry ME off to a very wrinkly and truly disturbing man who i am sure 20 years older than me because someone should continue the line whilst the other two are focused on their careers and making something out of their lives. SO, I needed to find a boyfriend who would be suitable for their standards whilst Aurora and Charlisse sort it out so that when they do, the attention and pressure of continuing the line will go back to them and not me." Y/n finishes breathing out. Tim was taken aback. Not only the normally composed girl he was used to seeing, spoke 7 words per second, but he was blown away by the information she had just given him.

"I need...a drink? Do you want one?" he said standing up and heading to the kitchen. No wonder she said this might take a while.

"Yes please" she said with a tense smile. "do you have wine?"

Tim made a sound of confirmation as he poured some scotch. He wasn't much of a drinker, but years of being part of the business world made him earn some appreciation for the drink. Especially on times like these. He poured some wine for her in a glass and walked back with both drinks. He gave her the glass and sat down. "Isn't that a little medieval?"

"Old money has habits that are tough to kill, unfortunately" she mutters dejectedly to her glass. "So, Timothy, any questions?"

"A few actually"

"Go ahead" she sad as she leaned back and got comfortable.

"Whose the old man?"

"Mr. Morris."

"You are fucking with me!" Tim reacted horrified, making Y/n laugh. If he hadn't been so shocked he would have delighted in her laughter but atlas, the situation did not give him the flexibility to do so. "Y/n say you are lying! That man is too old"

"I know, next question."

"Why me?"

"You are a good candidate and a lucky coincidence. I was going to ask Satine and Clara to help me but, that frankly would have ended in a disaster. I believe that as long as a plan stays between the parties involved who have something to lose, it will be successful. Satine would have chosen some random man who she's probably been involved with and Clara knows everything about everyone in the city-"

"Everything?"

"Except this of course, as I was saying she probably would have created a fake identity, assigned it to someone then, bribed them into playing the part."

"Much like you did?"

"I blackmailed you, not bribed you, get it right. Continuing, it was rather easy to choose you. You are Bruce Wayne's son, and even without that, you come from high society from your biological family, so you know the social cues and the ways of the people I am constantly surrounded by. You have proven to be quite ingenious as well as a good businessman. Knowing your "other me" proves you might as well be honorable too and what hero is not dammed with a savior complex can resist a damsel in distress? It is in your nature to want to influence things to be okay. My parents are friendly with Bruce therefore making things more appealing for the situation. I had the perfect leverage, the perfect candidate, and now I just need the perfect situation. So, lucky me when you bumped into me"

"You mean when you bumped into me?" he asked and she glared at him. "Careful, pretty boy," she said, and the way she said it caused chills to go down his spine.

"Any more questions, perhaps about my clean histoy and my best friend's not so clean image?"

Tim looked at her and she gestured to his laptop.

"What do you have to hide?" ha asked leaning foward.

"Wouldn't you like to know? Next question." she smiled as she also leaned forward in her seat. "What's our story?" he asked looking down at her lips, a little bit stained by the wine she had been drinking. Tempting

"Well, that's why I'm here huh, detective?" That nickname shouldn't have had the effect it did on him, but God, he wanted to hear those words from her again. "Show me why Red Robin is the world's greatest mind, second to Batman's only," she said leaning back and taking a sip of her glass once again.

"World's greatest detective, not mind, and some would say I have surpassed Batman, get it right," he said as he repeated her words in the end. "We need cero plotholes, so much so that it has to be so good that not even my family can find them. We are after all a family of detectives"

"Amazing" she said, sitting up straight, her entire focus solely on him.

"We both went to GA, so that's a starting point, we may not even have to lie. We met at Gotham Academy a few years back, you crushed on me for some time seeing as I was a year above you, and then forgot about me when I dropped out. Years later, we bump into each other on the street, and sparks fly or whatever the fuck will make the crowd fall in love with us, and then we start from there. Depending on how desperate are our odds, we will explain our timeline, but we have to agree on it before going public. How did you react when your parents told you the news?

"It waaaass..messy. A lot of screaming and crying"

"Then you will tell your parents of how heartbroken you were when they told you because you finally get the chance to be with your one true love and"

"Wait wait wait wait! Why do I have to be the lovesick puppy in this and you the prince charming" she said narrowing her eyes at him.

"Whose the one in dire need of escaping the situation?"

"Who's identity is in danger?"

"Who will be recreating the handmaid's tale?"

"You bitch!" She gasped at his insinuation

"Exactly so, puppy love for you it is. As I was saying, you finally got the chance to be with the love of your life, and the moment you are prepared to tell them, they spring this news onto you. So how dare they. We can coordinate public appearances, photos, family dinners, and posts so that everything will flow perfectly. Finally, once, you are liberated, we coordinate and stage a breakup and you hand me all the information you have on me cause I know you made copies of everything and I will eliminate all. of. it. We will just be another famous couple that got together and broke up and moved on." Tim was satisfied with his work. Y/n looked absolutely amazed by him.

"Wow...and you came up with all of that, that fast?" she said full of wonder. Tim felt a tug in his heart due to her reaction. It had been a long time since he had managed to make someone truly amazed by him in a really long time. He had been so used to being surrounded by skilled detectives, assassins, meta-humans, and aliens, that he forgot how great it felt to simply just be and have someone admire you for it. The little praise-seeking self in the back of his mind was thriving on her admiration. "Yes."

"Fuck...I think I couldn't have ever picked a better partner for this if I tried. Your reputation does you justice, Timothy, you are brilliant." she smiled. Y/n felt relieved. She was soon going to be free from her family's pressure. Another scheme has gone perfectly. She cleared her throat and masked her face once again. "We have to make a contract, establish some ground rules."

"By all means," said Tim. "I am serious. First rule, I get all evidence of my alter ego destroyed once it's over. I am doing this only if that is assured."

"Deal. Second rule, no one, absolutely NO ONE, knows except for the two of us." she said and he nodded, "I agree"

"Third rule, Kissing only happens if the situation requires it," she said. He hadn't noticed she had opened a doc in his laptop and was writing this entire thing down. He hummed in agreeance, too busy admiring her....admiring her...WOOP WOOP! EARTH TO TIM! This is a fake relationship and you are already getting fond of her?!?!??! WAKE UP

"Fourth rule, no feelings. This is strictly professional" he snapped, making her look at him strangely. "I think that was already implied but sure, if you want it written, I'll add it" and turned to his laptop again.

He felt a pit in his stomach. This was professional and besides, he just found her attractive, he can anyone attractive and it doesn't mean anything. Plus she is kind of an asshole. She is blackmailing him into a fake relationship...to save herself from being sold like cattle and forced to marry a creepy man which if he thinks of it maybe it is the best way she saw fit. AND AND she was very rude to him and has quite the attitude..although it is so attractive how she goes head to head with him. Tim was sweating' bullets.

"And done. I added a few things such as we have to have some sort of PDA, and how we might coordinate things. You know, some silly stuff that most people think isn't important but might end up being so. Do you have a printer?" She asked to which he nodded and gestured to his office. She sent the paper to print and went to look for it. Tim took a deep sigh, he just needed to calm down. He just found her attractive and interesting like a new case that needed to be cracked.

"Perfect, I printed two contracts; one for you and one for me. I also took one of your blue pens and signed on both papers, here, sign here and here." After it was done, she had noticed that a few hours had passed. "I should get going. I promised Satine and Clara that I would have dinner with them if they kept the paparazzi off me so that I could get here unbothered and we didn't have any issues." She said as she went for her coat and her purse. "Have a nice night, Timothy"

"Tim"

"Huh?"

"My friends and family call me Tim," he said looking at her.

She smiled softly, "Okay...Timmy, have a good night and get some rest." His heart melted at the fact that she took his nickname and altered it to make it hers. She heard her driver arrive outside and walked towards the door, Tim not so far behind. He noticed she faltered her step a little and looked at him hesitating. "Be....be careful tonight" she said but it was more like a whisper.

Tim nodded, "Thank you, enjoy dinner and get home safe," he told her as she went outside and went to her car. He stayed there until she got in the car and it began moving.

As she left, Y/n unfolded the contract from her purse and read the last rule...no feelings...

"you are going to be trouble.." she said fighting off a tiny smile and thinking of the handsome boy with the sharp quips, magnificent brain, and gorgeous blue eyes.

"What was that, miss Vanderbilt?" asked Donnie, her driver.

"Oh, it's nothing, Don. We are headed to L'amico, I'm meeting the girls for dinner," she said sweetly and her driver nodded.

Author's note: What do you think of their dynamic? Liking it so far? Feel free to give me any feedback you'd like.

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madhukumarc · 1 year

Text

What is the importance of target personas while writing an article?

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“Make sure to focus on the pain points and motivations of your persona. These will help you identify high-level topics for your content plan” - Content Marketing Workbook by Semrush

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Pro-Tip:

Image Source - Ahrefs

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Here's related information that you may find helpful – How often should you republish an article on a website?

#article writing #target persona #high quality content #content creation #writing articles #content marketing

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preciouslandmermaid · 2 years

Text

from high above, Gotham glows (battinson x f!reader)

Note: First Time writing Battison lol and uhh this one really got away with me so there’s a decent amount of Plot and Yearning before you get to the smutty stuff. LMAO. Takes place pre-movie with some generous fuckery with the timeline and off-hand original characters.

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. Dubious consent drug use (reader is required to take the drug to keep her cover secret). reader suffers from claustrophobia/fear of tightly enclosed spaces (only mentioned/experienced during the "fear scene"). established childhood friends with Bruce. cursing/explicit language. minor hurt/comfort. enthusiastic consent during sexual content. no physical descriptors are used for the reader.

prompt: cockwarming, clothes ripping, balcony/window | pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

“You’ve got Gotham under your nails, girl.” Falcone hisses, close enough to smell his shitty cigar breath, “More than that. You’ve got her in your blood. I can tell. And I could use a girl like you.”

You ignore your roiling, empty stomach that sloshes with alcohol. Someone leans down to whisper in Falcone’s ear – some goon, you gather – and it’s just enough time for you to slip away from the crowded booth. Your hands are clammy, and you wipe them off on your short dress.

Your bones practically vibrate beneath the thumping bass of the club’s techno music. The lounge is an assault on every sense. Sight: nauseating flashing lights. Sound: the music that rakes claws down your spine. Touch: sweaty, clammy hands reaching for your dress, your arm, your shoulder. Smell: cigars, and marijuana, and sweat, and cigarettes. Taste: harsh, clear vodka that burns and strips layers of your throat going down.

You stumble out into the misty and glossy Gotham and press your hand to your racing heart.

Was the intel you gathered about Falcone worth his grubby hands and gross breath? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. You eagerly get into your car and verbalize everything Falcone told you into a tape recorder. You’ll write down the rest when you’re home.

*********

Home is a single-bedroom apartment that’s only redeeming quality is the little balcony that views the sunrise on precious mornings. When the sun touches Gotham, it paints everything a reflective orange and yellow, igniting the city on fire without a touch of smoke. More often than not, you went to bed on the couch, watching that sunrise, watching Gotham burn.

You don’t bother scrubbing off your glittery makeup or removing your tight dress. Your fingers itch to fly across the keyboard. This frantic determination is what earned you the nickname “Quicksilver” back when you were a pulp journalist writing about missing cats and happy birthday columns.

Despite your hard work, both in the field and out, the Gotham Gazette refused to promote you. In attempt to prove yourself, you singlehandedly wrote an article that revealed the corruption of several Arkham State Hospital doctors. When you dropped the story on your editor’s desk - they fired you. You went freelance after that.

It’s a shame the Gazette wiped your files and withheld your work laptop. Your current laptop wheezed to life; their fans mimicked a jet engine about to take flight. Corruption ran into the very veins of Gotham. Her blackened, wet streets were littered with petty crime and shady corporations. Sometimes it felt like you and the Bat and Gordon were the only people left with a shred of moral integrity.

You click on the multi-colored lights that framed your balcony window. You are the only one in the building that kept the lights up year-round. They are your very own, personal bat signal. You flipped them on whenever you had important news to share about Gotham.

The blue light of your computer screen frames your face as you start transcribing your notes from your tape recorder. The soft click-clack of the keys and the sharp, heavy ‘clunk’ of the play and pause button are the only sounds that fill your apartment for a long, long time.

Batman’s voice is gravel scraping against your skin, “what’ve you found?”

You jolt. “Jesus.” Your gaze narrows at him, “we talked about knocking, didn’t we? Just a little tap-tap on the glass will do.”

“I don’t have time, Silver.”

You roll your eyes. No time for pleasantries, huh? Not even a shred of basic, human decency. You’re not sure what you expect from a guy who runs around dressed like a bat. Still – he’s your ally. You turn the laptop around to show him your notes.

“It’s worse than I thought.” You say, brow furrowing, “I thought – I theorized that Falcone was just using the girls to run drugs, maybe help establish meetings, but he’s – he’s got them testing some kind of psychoactive drug for him.”

“LSD?” Batman rasps, his shadowed eyes scan the screen.

“Something else.” You drum your fingers against your coffee table. It’s always a little silly seeing Batman, decked out in his heavy armor and big cape, in your cramped living room. It’s big enough for a couch, a coffee table, and your overflowing bookshelf – but that’s it. Batman swallows the space like a hungry black hole.

“Injected – is my theory – based on his linguistic tell.”

His eyes meet yours over the lip of your laptop.

“He mentioned Gotham being in my veins. Said he could use someone like me.” The term ‘use’ was slang for junkies when they blissed their brains out with drugs. You look down at your exposed skin, at the translucency of your inner elbow, where a needle impresses, where wandering, greedy hands at the club try and grab. You suppress a shiver.

Batman’s question comes as a surprise; “How long were you with Falcone?”

“Few hours.” You shrug. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary. There is some truth to Falcone’s words. You were born and raised in Gotham. And very little in this city could scare you. Hell, when Gordon introduced you to Batman in a dark, shadowed alleyway, you merely blinked at Vengeance and proclaimed you needed some food if you were going to have this conversation.

You start to pace, because moving helps you think, “he didn’t give up much. He was too busy trying to impress me with expensive drinks and flattery. But he threw the word opportunity around a lot. He kept mentioning how he was the one on the ground floor of this thing.”

You fold your arms across your chest and stare out your balcony sliding glass door. “We know Falcone is involved in a drug trafficking, and maybe even human trafficking too. I’ll go there again tomorrow—”

“No.” The word tears from his throat. You spin, expecting him by the table, and your heart gallops in surprise at his close proximity. He practically looms over you. You peer up, and the second surprise comes in the color of his eyes, striking and watery blue, smudged with some type of black paint or makeup.

He says, “you’ve got enough.”

You almost laugh. “I’ve got shit.” You shake your head, “I don’t have anything to pin Falcone with. I’ve got conjecture. I’ve got a half-remembered conversation thanks to all the booze they plied me with. I don’t have names, or details, but if I go in again—”

“You said he wanted to use you.” Up close, you see the chest plates of his body armor flex when he inhales deeply. “You could get hurt.”

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stare into Batman’s impassive, stoic expression and his tense, tight jaw. Your resolve flares white-hot. The girls working for Falcone are actively getting hurt, being hurt, the longer you take to crack this case. Yeah, sure, you’re just a freelance journalist. But lots of people in Gotham read your articles. A big enough article should garner enough public backlash to cause the Gotham PD to investigate. That was your hope anyway. And if not—well—you had Batman in your living room. You’d give the evidence over to him.

You lift your chin and set your shoulders, “I can bear the pain if it means saving others the trouble.”

Something ripples across his half-masked face. Something – you think – like empathy? Until his eyes drop pointedly to your mouth. Your thoughts dry up, your mind a wasteland, and a new, sudden pulse reverberates across the muscles of your heart. You slowly release your lower lip from your teeth. If you had any space to move, you would slink around him, return to the solace, and comfort of your couch and start digging through Falcone’s contacts. But – tiny living room, big Bat. Outside, you hear a deluge pattering on the balcony railing and the rooftops below. A low and distant rumbling thunder vibrates through the skyscrapers.

Batman edges impossibly closer and the front of your chest brushes against his armor. Your neck aches from craning upward to look at him.

“Don’t go back to the lounge.” Says Batman.

“You’re not my boss.” You quip. “No one is. That’s kinda the point.”

“What about Gordon?” His lips thin. “I thought you worked for him.”

“Nope!” You respond brightly, “I just dig around in sketchy business and stir the pot, so the PD gets off their assess and does their actual jobs.”

Batman grumbles lowly.

“I can handle Falcone from here.”

“I’m sure you can, Vengeance.” You agree with just the barest touch of sarcasm.

Handle Falcone? Yeah. He’ll probably go break a few of Falcone’s ribs. Effective for intimidation, but not effective for the truth. You’ve seen Vengeance in action more than once (he’s got a pesky habit of turning up in the same circles you’re investigating). But would his technique of busting skulls help the girls in trouble? No. It wouldn’t. Based on your assumption of Falcone, if Batboy was busy fighting, then Falcone’s men would just transport the girls – and the drugs – to another location.

You reach behind yourself and tug the door handle, “I’ll call you with an update.” You slide the door open and burst of wind pushes chilly rainwater onto your floor and your back. “I promise.”

Batman glares down at you. He looks ready to say something else but thinks better of it. You step to the side to let him pass. You release a relieved sigh once he’s gone. What was that? Why did it almost seem like he was going to kiss you? You shake the foolish thought from your mind. You and Batboy? Hah! In your dreams maybe.

*********

A single phone call changes the trajectory of your entire day. You find yourself at Bruce Wayne’s Tower. You never thought you’d be here again. You use a tissue from your car’s glove compartment to try and wipe off the residual clumped mascara from last night. You aren’t as blue-blooded as the Wayne family. But the closeness in age, and the friendship your mother had toward Martha Wayne, meant that you and ‘Brucie’ were set up for playdates when you were old enough to talk. You despised him instantly.

On your first playdate, you bit him. The Bruce-Free days only lasted so long before the mothers decided to try again. On the second, he wouldn’t give you your favorite toy back. This caused quite a rift. He was forced to handwrite an apology. You still have it – somewhere – in a shoebox.

By the third or fourth playdate, things changed. Bruce stopped some older kids from picking on you and shoving your face in the dirt. He earned a busted lip and your unwavering, childish loyalty. You started looking forward to those scheduled, routine meetings in his big, fancy penthouse.

Until his parents were killed and whatever fondness that was born beautifully between you as children grew distant and cold.

You frown and count backward on your fingers. Jesus. It’s been years since you’ve seen him. Granted, it’s not like you tried to reach out either. After the years of ignored calls and radio silence in the fresh, tender years after his parent’s death—you gave up on trying. Was it shitty behavior? Maybe. But you were like ten. You didn’t know how to handle the grief of losing anyone either.

You smooth the wrinkles on your slept-in shirt and pop a piece of gum in your mouth to calm your nerves. Oh, well! You can’t hide in the car forever.

You’re led inside his glossy, gothic penthouse. Your eyes snag on the polished, wooden table holding a vase. You’ve got a tiny, white scar from where you smashed your face into that exact table from running through the hall. Alfred gives you a polite, well-mannered smile before pouring tea.

He says, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks.” You accept the pretty, floral teacup, “can’t say I was expecting a phone call from the Wayne house.”

“Hm. Indeed.” His eyes sparkled, “I, myself, was quite surprised when Bruce told me to contact you. He said he could trust no one else with it.”

You squirm a little in your seat. “Being vague to a pseudo-reporter is like the literal worst thing you can do. Care to enlighten me as to why I’m here?”

The only tidbit of information Alfred gave on the phone was that Bruce had a job for you. Although it felt a little weird to be meeting up with your old childhood friend under the blanket of professionalism and employment opportunity, your pathetic bank account is two overdraft fees away from being closed completely, so you really couldn’t be prideful or finicky.

“I’m afraid I cannot. He will explain everything.”

In that moment, the man of the hour decides to bless you with his presence. Your teacup clatters shakily against the porcelain saucer. His damp hair hangs in wet, slinky tendrils along his pale forehead. A shadow of dark stubble crests over his square, handsome jaw. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping based on his hunched posture and the dark half-moon circles under his baby blue eyes.

“Did you not consider getting dressed, sir?” Alfred tuts and shakes his head. Bruce sinks into the chair opposite to yours with a sigh. His dark, large hoodie and gray sweatpants drape over his frame like a blanket. His feet are bare which you find both funny and startlingly intimate.

“Quicksilver’s seen worse.” He grumbles.

You smile at the old moniker. “You’ve been following my career have you?”

Bruce’s lips quirk, something boyish and bashful crossing his features for a mere second, before he tamps it down.

“Here and there.” He shrugs, reaching for his tea, “I heard about you leaving the Gazette.”

“I wish it had been a more dramatic exit.” You sigh, “I can see the headline now. Sacked journalist gags Gazette with gory tell all of Gotham’s crime grime!” You drag your hand across the air as if smearing the headline into space.

Bruce exhales through his nostrils, a short and huffy sound. “Does it have to rhyme?”

“No, but it’s more fun if it does.” Your heart flutters when you look over at him (when did the gangly boy who hid behind pillars at charity events get so handsome?) You look away and focus on the ever-blooming pink roses on your teacup.

“Which brings me to my next point – why am I here?” You ask.

He sips his tea.

“How much did Alfred tell you?”

“Close to nothing.” You half-heartedly glare at the doorway where Alfred exited. “Said you had a job, said you asked for me.” Your heart does a strange twist. “Said you’d only trust me with it.”

Bruce stiffens. You notice it in his shoulders hidden beneath his baggy clothes. You’ve never known Alfred to lie but his statement, however true or not, made Bruce uncomfortable. You attempt to read his exhausted, sullen face, but it’s like trying to read a street sign within the reflection of a puddle.

Bruce avoids your eyes, “it’s about Arkham.”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. How did Bruce hear about that? Or was this unconnected? You shift in your seat again, sitting upright, attentive, and a scent not unlike blood fills your nostrils. Your old editor used to say: ‘Quicksilver, you got the instincts of a fucking shark.’ It’s a shame the bastard didn’t bother to fight to keep your big story afloat. Before Bruce even opens his mouth again, you can taste it—The Story. There’s something under the soil waiting to be dug up and brought to the light.

“I’m listening.”

“I heard about the story the Gazette wouldn’t publish.” Bruce sucks in a breath, “I want you to write it.”

The floor dips out from underneath you. You’re glad you’re not holding the expensive, delicate teacup because otherwise it would be shattered on the hardwood floor.

You balk. “What?”

“Write it.” He says with more certainty this time. “I’ll pay you.”

“Bruce.” You shake your head, immediately worried for his reputation, “if people find out you’re footing the bill to uncover Arkham’s dirty laundry…”

Something scared and small inside of you cringes at the idea of going into Arkham again. Then, abruptly, the face of one of Falcone’s drugged-out girls surfaces to your mind. Shit. If you do this, you’ll be fighting two monsters. Falcone’s dangerous corruption and obvious viciousness, and Arkham’s cold, claustrophobic corridors and placid doctors who – if you’re honest – have plastic smiles that freak you out more than some of the dangerous patients.

He says, “it doesn’t matter.”

God, he’s dumb. He’s all that’s left of the benevolent Wayne family name, and he wants to spend his days a shut-in recluse paying an ex-journalist to write a story no one wants? You want to shake sense into his shoulders.

You nibble your lower lip before asking, “why me?”

Bruce actually looks at a loss for words (not that he’s been a man of many words but whatever). His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left. His eyes narrow imperceptibly. You twist the tiny sugar serving spoon between your fingers for the sake of movement, so you don’t start pacing in his parlor.

“Alfred already told you why,” murmurs Bruce.

All air whooshes out of your lungs in something that resembles a chuckle but is far too warbled to be an honest laugh.

“Even if I write the story, Bruce. What happens next? If I post it online, people will call me a conspiracist, or a liar, or both! And if it comes out that you’re involved, they will drag your name through the mud for supporting it.” You explain a hurried rush, desperate for him to understand, “there’s no way in hell the Gazette will publish it. And none of the smaller papers either would risk the Gazette’s wrath.”

You continue, “And this is all assuming my old contacts will even speak to me.”

You had walked in, ready to accept the job offer with a smile on your face, and now you were arguing against it. Why? Because you don’t want Bruce to have his name slandered? Because it looks hopeless? Or because you don’t want to face Arkham again? Or because you already have your hands full with the Falcone drug ring investigation?

You are uncertain of the answer. It feels like a little of everything.

“Write the story first, then we’ll figure out what to do with it.” He slides his palms down his legs, from his thighs to his knees. “There are papers outside of Gotham. As for your contacts…well…the ones who won’t speak to you are likely paid off by the Gazette, right?”

You blink at him. Holy shit. He’s serious. He wants you to rewrite the story. The damp, musty air of Arkham clings to the vessels inside your lungs. Can you do it? Can you tell both stories? Save the girls from Falcone and save the patients in Arkham? It’s a Herculean task.

But it’s not impossible. You told Vengeance last night that you’d suffer pain for the sake of others. And ‘others’ included the criminally deranged patients in Arkham.

You pinch the upper bridge of your nose and close your eyes. “Fuck…”

“You’re going to say yes.” Although you’re not looking at him, you can hear a faint smile in Bruce’s voice. A molten, nostalgic, and hungry heat unfurls through your bones. Goddamnit. At the end of the day – it’s Bruce, the scrappy boy who took a blackeye and busted lip for you – that’s who is asking you for a favor. You can bite and bark all you want. But you know you’re going to agree. Doesn’t explain how he knows it, though.

You meet his steely, blue gaze, “how do you know?”

Bruce shrugs.

You groan. “Fine, fine. Yeah. Yes. I accept. Show me the paperwork to sign.”

The rich bastard does actually have paperwork for you to sign. Which is like – hilarious and also ridiculous and your leg bounces under the table with each shiny, wet signature you leave behind. It’s basic non-disclosure agreement and ownership stuff that you’ve seen a hundred other times. You mutually agree to not reveal whose paying you, you keep your contacts private and secure, and Bruce agrees that once the article is complete—it’s his. You can choose to strip your name from it completely. He’s free to sell it to the highest bidder outside of Gotham.

Though, with minor hassling, he agrees to consult with you beforehand before it goes anywhere to print.

Once the business is done, you find yourself falling into sort-of-easy conversation. It’s mostly one-sided because Bruce’s life is incredibly fucking boring. He’s unlike the other rich elites of Gotham – those with their smiling, plastic faces on glossy magazine covers.

“What?” Your prompt, leaning your elbows on the table, “Not even a single torrid and gut-wrenching love affair to share with your old friend?”

Bruce deadpans, “no.”

“What about Alfred?”

“No.” A little line appears between his eyebrows. It’s cute. You stifle a giggle in the back of your throat. “Unless he’s keeping secrets.”

You lean back in your chair, “I’ll ask him on my way out.”

You talk about work because it’s easiest. You tell him about your other articles – both published and tossed aside. You tell him about your brief period, post-Gazette, as a private investigator (“It was mostly trying to find out if partners were cheating on each other and I got bored fast” You clarify, “money was good though”). You tiptoe around any topic that implies you have a life outside of your work. Simply because you don’t. You fall asleep staring at your computer screen, up to your neck in research, and you wake up staring at the same screen. It’s a little…embarrassing…to consider how hollow your life is, but Bruce doesn’t leave his house. It’s not like he can judge you and you’d give him hell if he tried.

A notification on your cracked phone screen informs you that you need to go. You’ve got a meeting with Gordon in an hour. You already passed information off to the Bat. Now, it was time for Gordon to follow-up with you on the leads you gave him last week.

“I’ll walk you out.” He offers, falling into quiet step behind you.

You tease. “Always a gentleman.”

His lips twitch. You think he almost smiled. Now, It’s not perfect. You’re not slotted together at the hip like you used to be when you were kids. And he’s practically your boss now. But at least you’re talking again. At least it’s something. That’s better than the years of static and loneliness and complicated, yearning feelings you endured in your youth.

You press the button for the lobby with a short wave to Bruce in farewell.

His long pale fingers suddenly wrap around the silver, polished elevator door and he stops it from hissing shut. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips, and the arch of your brow. He looks …haggard – a little wild…like whatever he’s about to say or do is being ripped from his ribcage. Bruce is on a flimsy tether and he’s one rough pull from unraveling.

His voice dips low, stoking at an ember you weren’t aware of in the depths of your belly.

“You always used to close your eyes before saying yes to me.” His eyes pin you, their gaze darkening, and the rumpled slump of his shoulders tightens.

You grin. “That’s because you were an insufferable brat who always got his way.” You rapidly press the ‘close door’ button a few times. It doesn’t do anything, of course, because Bruce is white knuckling the door.

“Anything you need…” He trails off, then finishes his sentence with a gruff, “– just call.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave a hand, trying to be as nonchalant as possible with your heart trying to fucking escape from your chest like an Olympic acrobat. “I’m on the payroll now. Got it.”

You’re about to become the Queen of Multi-tasking.

*********

Fuck this fucking club, you think, as Falcone places his arm around your waist. It sends a clear message to the other creeps in here. He’s interested in you. Everyone else better back off or they’ll lose an eyeball. Your skin crawls. You put on a brave face. You giggle at his jokes. You pet the front of his blazer, curling up next to him in the booth, enduring his cigar-breath and fingers groping your thighs.

“How ‘bout we get outta here, sweetheart?” He asks, “I got something I wanna show you. Something that’ll make you feel good.”

You flutter your eyelashes, playing dumb, “really?”

Gordon followed some of Falcone’s cars to the shipping district and confirmed that Falcone was keeping the missing girls somewhere else. Gordon couldn’t breach the private warehouses without a warrant. And Batman has been MIA for the past two nights. You hope and pray that Falcone is planning to take you there now. You’re desperate for a lead.

“Yeah, baby.” He grins. “Remember how I was telling you that I’m getting into something big? Something groundbreaking? Well – tonight, you get to have a taste of it.”

You don’t want to be too eager. “Can’t we just go to your office?” You wine.

“No, no, baby.” He takes a long pull of his cigar, “I don’t keep it here.”

He signals for one of his boys to bring a car around. You don’t bother to hide your nervous and bouncy excitement. You mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the car ride. So far, you’ve avoided Falcone’s mouth by dodging and playing coy and leaving before things get heated—but he’s a brute and a criminal. He’ll take advantage of the small space of the backseat. You’re sure of it.

Plus, he thinks you’re a runaway who is desperate for her next fix. He thinks you’re vulnerable and weak. He has no idea how wrong he is.

You hold the image of the missing posters at the forefront of your mind. You repeat their names as Falcone shoves his tongue between your teeth. You climb onto Falcone’s lap so he can’t reach between your legs and fantasize about Batman punching into Falcone’s slimy face.

Thankfully, it’s a short ride. You make a big show of pouting when the car door opens and then giggling as if you’re drunk at Falcone’s goon. Falcone leads you past some of the warehouses and into a small receiving office. You’re confused until he opens the door at the far end of the wall which leads into a narrow staircase.

Your lungs shrivel. It’s underground. You take Falcone’s offered hand and follow him down the stairs, counting each step, counting every breath. You hope the stairwell will open up into a larger space. You never did well in tight, confined spaces. You swallow thickly. You repeat the girl’s names over and over again like a mantra to salvation and sanity. Nearly halfway down and you start to hear low, echoing moaning. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting. Falcone doesn’t look back at you.

The universe is downright cackling at you when the stairwell ends, and you’re confronted with a wider-than usual hallway pocketed with doors. The air is chillier than above and you’re in a black mini dress and fighting off a panic attack. A full body tremor wreck through you. The urge to bolt, to run upstairs, digs its claws into you.

Falcone misinterprets your trembling, “don’t worry, honey.” He nods to one of his boys and they open one of the doors, “you’ll get what you want.”

You come face to face with one of the missing girls. Her cherry blonde hair is mussed over her damp, tear-streaked face. She’s curled on a mattress and muttering, quietly, to herself. It almost sounds like a song.

All self-preservation flies out the metaphorical window. Your heels click toward her, you crouch, and smooth her hair away from her face. Her big, brown eyes are glossy and distant. Wherever she is – it’s not here. And you’re thankful for it. Her hair is longer than her missing photo, but you recognize her. Her name is Karina. She broke up with her boyfriend and ran off after they had a fight. Falcone – or one of his people - must’ve grabbed her during the emotional turmoil and fallout.

Now, you’ve found her and there’s a high chance the rest of the girls are in the other rooms. You need to get to them. Gordon might not be able to shut this place down in time. The silver lining is that Falcone has limited security here. This is where he keeps the girls – not where he keeps the drugs. The few security goons you saw only carried pistols. You will get your hands on one. You’ll get these girls out.

You’re a journalist, not a hero. But doesn’t stop you from formulating a plan. If all else fails, you’ll reveal the ace in your sleeve, and tell Falcone about the tracker in your phone. It had been Batboy’s idea. It’s a one-of-a-kind program. Once activated, if you don’t check-in after 2 hours via a passcode, it alerts Gordon.

Come to think of it, it probably alerts Batman too.

“Don’t worry.” Falcone croons, “it’s more than pleasant.”

His goon grabs your arm. You almost jerk away until you remember yourself and let your wrist fall limp in their hands. You flinch at the bite of the needle. The world swims in vibrant, pulsing color. You cling to reality as feebly as you can. Whatever lucid part of your mind rationalizes that the high cannot last too long. Your tongue rests heavy in your mouth. The door echoes shut with a loud bang.

The walls close-in toward you. Shit, fuck, what the fuck?! Is the room collapsing? You press your hands to the concrete with a panicked gasp. Yes, yes, you feel vibrations. An earthquake? In Gotham!? It sounds implausible. Your mind is foggy, formulating thoughts through a haze of animalistic panic, your heart thundering so loud in your ears that you hear nothing else.

You hiccup, unaware when you started crying, your sluggish fingertips clawing at the flat, immovable walls that press closer and closer with every ragged inhale. A swarm of black spots dance like demons in front of your eyes.

You’re not even sure why you say—“Bruce?!” until you realize it’s because an earthquake is happening, and you’re stuck underground and he’s at Wayne tower and it’s going to collapse! And no one is going to be able to warn him and no one is going to be able to save him and no one is going to be with him and—Oh God!

The air is stale. You don’t have enough of it. You’re going to die in here. The realization hits you as the ceiling starts to drop. Tiny flecks of white plaster drop onto your head and into your eyes. They cloud your vision and burn. You want to curl up into a little ball and scream, but you suddenly remember you aren’t alone.

You grab Karina’s addled face, “we have to breathe slowly!” You shout to her over the noise of crumbling walls and plaster. “Slowly!”

You practice the correct slow and measured breathes to conserve oxygen. Karina doesn’t listen. She is crying. Her tears fall, fat and watery down her face. You keep trying to show her how to breathe like a mother teaching her child how to take their first steps. Karina is hopeless. She continues to wail and cry, and blubber apologizes and lamentations for her parents.

You stumble to your feet on the unsteady, shaking ground. Somehow, the metal door has withstood the ongoing earthquake. You’re not sure how this is possible, but you’re not going to spit on the blessing. Your fingers dig into the cold handle and tug. It gives way – unlocked – and you barrel into the hallway with watery knees. Another tremor of the earth and you shoulder into the doorway directly across the hall. Your body flares at the pain of impact.

Someone is screaming. It’s not Karina. Your face turns toward the sound. The collapsing world is a mess of greys and an off-shade blue that’s too unlike the sky and nearly nauseating. Every time you move your head, there’s an after-image of the world prior, like your mind is lagging and struggling to hold connection to your body and your visual receptors.

Batman is standing in the hallway. His cloak is billowing outward, led by an unknown wind, and you nearly collapse with relief. He can help. He can save Bruce and Karina and all the others. You don’t have to do it alone.

You scream, “Bruce!”

He reflectively jerks like someone slapped him. The elbow in his hand, held at an awkward and painful angle, is dropped. You lean your weight against the wall and stumble toward Batman to explain, your tongue still feels heavy, and your lips tingle.

“Bruce – my friend – my friend Bruce - you have to help him.” You grab Batman’s solid arm, heavy and black, but he’s the only thing not crumbling around you.

“There’s been an earthquake—didn’t you feel it?! And he’s on his own and someone has to warn him so he can -so he can get out. So, Alfred can get out. They live in a tower. It’s going to collapse. It’s going to collapse. Please, please, please, please. I can’t lose him again. Please, please, please.”

Your body won’t stop shaking. Your jaw tenses with a wild, deep urge to grind your teeth. “You’ve got tons of gadgets. Do a gadget. Help him. Help him, please.”

Batman is holding your face. When did that happen? You feel the heat of his palms through his gloves. Or maybe it’s you. Your skin is burning up. You feel the heat of it travel all the way down the back of your neck and across your chest. The words are slipping now like big slimy eels. Your tongue struggles to shape them.

“What did he give you?”

“Dunno.” You slur, your eyelids droop. “Karina. Other room. Help Karina. The girls. Help B—Bruce. Please. Please. Earthquake. Tell him. Hurry. Hurry.”

He squeezes your face, “Silver. Look at me.” He demands. “There’s no earthquake. It’s the drugs. Did you see where Falcone went?”

As if to prove him wrong, a piece of rubble falls from the ceiling.

It lands on him.

He collapses like a squashed bug. You shriek. The force of it renders your throat into bloody ribbons. You back pedal with arms flaring, blood hot and sticky on your face, and you trip over your feet. Someone is grabbing you, their grip strong, and they’re talking—but you can’t hear them. The walls are falling, falling, falling. You’re going to be buried alive. You failed. You failed the girls. You failed Bruce. You failed yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut because to look would be unbearable.

*********

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in a hospital. The white and blue gown is itchy and fits poorly. You rub your eyes and work the muscles of your aching, dry throat. Your body feels…mostly fine. There’s some minor discomfort at the back of your skull and your jaw.

Gordon says, “Quicksilver, you gave me a scare.”

You probe your memory and glance to your bedside where Gordon sits. “Take it from the top, Gordon, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You asking me as my friend or as a cop?”

He straightens his shoulders and his mustache quivers, “a friend.”

“Finding Karina in a sub-level below a shipment receiving office. Falcone’s men drugging me.” You chew at your lower lip, “I think…I think there was an earthquake?” Your mind snaps to Bruce and to his safety. The heartrate monitor betrays your unease.

Gordon mutters, “he mentioned that.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend in black.”

You sit up in bed, “he’s alive?!”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I – I saw him. I don’t know if it was the drugs or if it was real…but he was there.” You fuss at the sheets pooled around your waist, “I guess it was all a hallucination. Fuck. What was it?”

“The lab is running an analysis on your blood.” Gordon clears his throat, “we know it triggers the adrenal gland, and it induces auditory as well as visual hallucinations, and based on the other victims, we think it affects cognitive abilities as well.”

You make a mental note to ensure Gordon releases the analysis to you.

“Are they okay?”

“They’re badly shaken, but everyone is accounted for thanks to you.”

You weren’t sure what happened to Falcone and didn’t feel ready to ask, but if you had to guess—he likely weaseled his way out of there.

You relax a little into the pillows, “Gordon, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you call my boss?”

Gordon smiles faintly, “I thought you were freelance. Untethered, I think, was the word you used last time.”

“Fuck off.” You laugh, “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

*********

Gordon gave you the rundown of what happened while you waited for Bruce. Your app triggered shortly after you entered the shipment office. Batman was following you the whole evening (because of course he was! He’s worse than an overbearing grandmother).

When you didn’t check in, he assumed the worst and followed. Batman found you, rambling and sweating and screaming about an earthquake in the hallway. Batman called Gordon who arrived shortly thereafter with EMTs.

None of the doors keeping the girls were locked. A stronger dose, Gordon explained, usually rendered your body paralyzed. He theorized that Falcone must’ve wanted to see how you’d react first, but when Batman arrived, he fled. You decide not to think about what could’ve happened if Batman didn’t show up.

Gordon leaves the room to take a call. You’re left alone with your thoughts.

You rest your cheek along the stiff, bleach-smelling pillow and stare out the window to Gotham’s chrome brilliance. It’s overcast, painting the skyscrapers gray, the big, fluffy clouds reflect on every giant window. They promise rain. And when Gotham’s skies promise rain—she almost always delivers. You sigh.

Bruce hasn’t been in your life for more than three days and he was your first thought when you were in trouble. It is embarrassing. It’s heart-wrenching. You were on a drug-addled hellscape of your worst nightmare and what did you do? You begged Batman to keep Bruce safe. The seasons change, but your candle to Bruce Wayne hasn’t. He’s ingrained into you. The little white scar from his hallway table. The folded apology letter in the shoebox under your bed next to the faded, sun-washed photograph of you two eating watermelon slices.

The door creaks open.

“Hey, no hoodie this time! I’m honored.” You smile and try to infuse as much teasing and normalcy into your voice as possible.

The treacherous heartrate monitor betrays you again. Your pulse is erratic from simply looking at him. Truthfully, he looks like shit. All bedraggled, and sleep-deprived, and pale. He somehow manages to look more hollowed-out from when you saw him last. You wish whoever kept carving out pieces of Bruce Wayne’s heart out of his chest would just stop. But, sadly, the truth is that Bruce is the one holding that knife.

You kick the covers off your legs, standing when he approaches you, “you shouldn’t—” He says, but he’s too late. Too slow. You throw your arms around him. You tremble, hot and biting tears burn inside your lower lashes, and your hands fist the fabric of his heavy, woolen coat. His cologne is earthy, masculine, and warm.

It takes him a minute to wrap his arms around you. But when he does—oh God—when he does that’s when you shatter. You’re not sure how you have the energy to weep after everything that happened, but somehow, against all odds, you do. You cry messy, snotty tears into his expensive wool collar. He clings to you like he might just fuse your bodies together through sheer willpower alone. It nearly hurts. You gasp, muttering his name over and over again, through the salt and relief that clumps your eyelashes together.

“I was so scared.” You admit, voice small like a child, “I was so scared something happened to you and that I wouldn’t be able to reach you.”

“Me?” He rumbles, “what about you?”

You shrug and pull away to look up into his face. “I can take it.”

Bruce’s hand cradles the side of your face. You lean into it. His hands are cool and surprisingly calloused. His thumb catches an errant tear and brushes it aside. He looks at you like he’s about to give you something. His expression so earnest, so pained, that it momentarily steals the breath from your lungs. Your exhale quivers through your parted lips.

He says, quite simply, quiet plainly, vocal chords rough and strained; “I can’t.”

It feels like a declaration. It feels like a confession. The wretched heartbeat monitor has not stopped relentlessly beeping and displaying your desperate, aching heart. Your fingers crawl toward his jaw. His stubble scratches your palms. His pink tongue skirts across his plush lower lip. There is a question lingering in the fathomless depths of his blue eyes. You crane onto your tiptoes, edging closer, and Bruce finally asks the question in his eyes—

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Your eyes close, “yes,” and you nod minutely.

His lips graze yours. You close the barely-there distance between your mouths. He sighs into your mouth. It tastes like inevitability. He presses you snug against the hard, lean muscled strength of him. He is warm, and strong, and safe. You start to pull away, but he chases your mouth with his, humming pleasantly and pleased, you feel the vibration of it from his chest.

His hand on your face slides to the nape of your neck and he holds you, securely, and almost possessively. Your tongue glides against the seam of his lips, and he opens willingly for you. You lick into his mouth with a selfish and needy whimper. This feels right. It feels good.

The door swings open, followed by Gordon’s voice, “They said they’d release—” You wrench your mouth free and hide your face in Bruce’s collar.

“Oh.” Gordon clears his throat.

You burst into laughter, bubbly and bright, traveling all the way up your stomach and through your nose like fizzy champagne. To your immense pleasure and surprise, Bruce doesn’t let you go. His grip relaxes, but he doesn’t release you. You stay pinned to his side. Hip to hip.

You wipe the residual tears from your face, “tell me I’m going home.”

“Under supervision, yes.” Gordon’s perceptive gaze flickers to Bruce. “The side-effects of the drug are unknown. They wanted to keep you here but I – uh – I argued against it.”

“She can stay with me.” Offers Bruce.

“Hell yeah!” You beam, “tell me you have the same mattresses. Please.” The sleepovers were rare, but you had fond memories of those squishy, expensive mattresses and throwing pillows at Bruce’s head. After the kiss…maybe you’d stay in Bruce’s room? A tiny light of hope ignites in your chest.

Gordon’s eyebrow lifts a notch. You ignore him.

“I have a guest room, yes.”

Well, that hope was short-lived. You stamp down on your disappointment and focus on the positives. You’re staying with Bruce. He won’t be a phone call away. He’ll be a few feet away at most. You can make up for lost time. Lord knows you’ve got plenty of it.

“Can I leave now?” You ask Gordon.

“There’s some paperwork you need to fill out, but generally, yes. You can leave whenever you’re ready.” He regards you, both professional and concerned, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod. “The less time I’m in a hospital, the better.” To Bruce you say, “can we stop at my place so I can get some clothes and my laptop?”

Bruce looks quizzically at you, “your laptop?”

“Mhm.” You nod, “for work.”

“I suggest we keep the Falcone investigation private for now, Quicksilver.” Gordon says with a worried pinch to his brow, “we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. I know you’re not really ‘The Press’ anymore, but you’d be doing us a favor.”

“Don’t get your tie twisted, Gordon. I’ve got other projects on my plate.”

Gordon hums, a deep sound low in his chest, and he gives a knowing glance to Bruce before leading you out.

*********

You try not to internally panic at the reality of Bruce standing in your awkwardly living room. His eyes roams over your bookshelves and to the messy, unkept pillows and blankets on your coach.

“I’ll just be a minute.” Your bedroom door softly clicks shut. You peel off the hospital scrubs they gave you. Your shoulder whines with sharp, throbbing pain. In the mirror above the bathroom sink, you prod the mottled bruises that decorate your shoulder and splatter like paint across your collarbone. You don’t remember hitting the door that hard. You change into bulky, comfortable clothes. You shove enough clothes for a few days into a backpack.

According to your discharge paperwork, the doctors advised you should be monitored for at least 72 hours. You exhale harshly through your lips. Three days with Bruce Wayne. What can go wrong? What can go right?

Maybe he’ll just hand you off to Alfred and call it a day. You chuckle to yourself.

“Okay,” You swing the door open, “I’m ready—h-hey!” You proclaim, frowning, seeing Bruce holding your laptop open in his hands.

He doesn’t even look up, one hand on the keyboard, the other flat beneath it. “Your laptop is grossly outdated.”

“First of all, invasion of privacy. Rude. I should kick you out.” You sidle beside him and peer around his arm, “secondly, how’d you guess my password?”

His lips curve upward into a smirk. Your stomach swoops and awareness prickles across the nape of your neck. You’re relieved there’s no longer a heartrate monitor to blast your embarrassing feelings on monochromatic display.

He says, “I got lucky.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh.

*********

The sound of your laugh unravels something in him. He’s been so careful, so distant, and yet one laugh from you and he’s weak. He wants to wrap you in his arms again and ensure you’re safe. He wants to drag Falcone by the hair to the steps of Gotham Police. He thought he mastered fear. He believed himself immune to it. He is shadow, and vengeance, and righteous fury.

But, at Falcone’s drug den, he was helpless to ease your suffering. His failure plagued him. It is forever buried into the deep reaches of his mind. Every possibility of what could have been flashes through his mind whenever he looks at you. Losing you would be…his stomach sours thinking of it. He avoids your perceptive gaze and carefully snaps the laptop closed.

He says, “you should change your password.”

Your nose scrunches. His heart pangs within the hollowness of his chest. All at once, he is seven years old again, chasing you in the park, and pretending summer would never end. He’s refined the art of missing you – of your necessary absence – and now all those careful, practiced skills are turning to dust.

“Why?”

He tucks your laptop under his arm, “the code is too obvious.” Said code is his birthday. The password implies that you’ve not forgotten him—despite his distance, his lack of friendship. He recalls your glossy, wild eyes begging the Batman to save him. Falcone’s drugs clutched you in a vice grip of madness and you thought of him. He doesn’t deserve it.

“So?” You shrug, but a nervousness enters your eyes and gives you away. “How many people know we’re friends? Like two people, right? The odds of those two people trying to hack my laptop for information are close to zero.”

He sighs. You’ve got that fiery, determined gleam in your eyes. There’s no winning this argument.

On the walk back to the car, you continue, “besides, all my important notes and files are encrypted with a different password. I browse anything online through a VPN. And—” You keep talking throughout the car ride. You fidget in your seat. You chew at your lower lip.

He realizes, albeit slowly, that the excessive rambling isn’t because you want to prove a point. It’s because you’re anxious. It’s likely because of Falcone’s continued freedom. His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Falcone can’t reach you here.” He says levelly, “you’ll be safe at Wayne Tower.”

“Huh?”

“You’re…” He clears his throat, glancing sidelong toward you, “acting jumpy.”

“Oh.” You rub both of your hands over your face. You go quiet. You turn your face away, watching the city through the rain-speckled windshield. Bruce immediately wants to kick himself. Shit. He wants to comfort you, reassure you, not cause you to withdraw. He fumbles to find some type reply of that’ll get you talking again.

You reach over to the center dashboard and flick on the radio. An old, classic croons through the speakers. You rest your chin in your palm and continue to stare out the window. His fingers flex against the wheel with an errant, foolish wish to stretch across the space and settle his palm on your bouncing knee. The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the rain hitting the metallic roof, and the droning, sorrowful song in his ears.

*********

Bruce is painfully absent once you enter the tower. He doesn’t even explain why. He walks in with you and then vanishes like an impressive magician. You’re half-tempted to go knocking on walls and look for secret doorways.

Dory shows you to the guest room. She’s sweet and fusses over your comfort and keeps saying how nice it is to have a guest over. Alfred helps you connect to the wi-fi signal. He keeps you company in the room you’ve plugged your laptop into (the old beast can’t hold a charge anymore). You take notes about Arkham, you eat little sandwiches and fresh fruit, and force yourself into some semblance of normalcy. Alfred is a decent conversationalist, but you worry that he’s here to keep you occupied so you won’t go looking for Bruce. You push the thought away.

It's not like Bruce is avoiding you, right? He’s just busy doing weird billionaire reclusive stuff. You wrinkle your nose. What could Bruce be doing? Oh, God. Maybe Alfred is keeping you away, maybe Bruce has some freaky, embarrassing hobby. Like roadkill taxidermy and then he uses the taxidermy animals to produce original puppet shows.

Alfred says, “found something interesting, have you?”

You realize you’re smiling from the thought of Puppet-Show Bruce. You shake your head.

“I’m piecing together the etymology of the word Arkham to build my timeline for the hospital and the Arkham family’s influence. I want to see if any of it connects to the current medical board or the staff.” Your fingers continue to click-clack across your keyboard.

“It’s interesting. Usually, surnames will connect back to a specific occupation, or piece of land which you can cross-reference, but for Arkham there’s nothing.” You divulge these findings to a patient and attentive Alfred.

He smiles fondly, “I see.”

“You’re looking at me funny.” You squint at him.

“I’m just pleased you’re here.”

You press your lips together. A pleased, appreciative warmth prickles along your skin.

In the evening, Bruce doesn’t show up for dinner. And you start to wonder if you hallucinated the kiss at the hospital. But there’s no way, right? The drugs were flushed out of your system. You were of sound mind and body. Did he regret it? That is the only plausible and logical reason in your mind for his avoidance. He kissed you, regretted it, and now probably regretted having you in his house for the next three days.

You roll onto your side in the big, comfy bed. You can’t even enjoy it. Your stupid stomach is tied into knots thinking about Bruce-fucking-Wayne. You stare at the dark ceiling. OK. You can’t sleep. Fine. His home is temporarily your home. What did you do when you couldn’t sleep?

The chilly air bites your legs when you kick off the heavy, puffy covers. When the thoughts go loud, you go quiet, and focus your mind on something else. Bruce is dodging you, but at least he gave you something to do. Might as well be useful if you’re not going to be unconscious.

You’ve set up in the main parlor/sitting room/whatever-the-hell this room is with its heavy, iron lantern chandeliers and sleek, dark mahogany and bookshelf nooks. Your computer hums loudly to life on the desk and blue light spills across the woven, red tapestry rug. Behind you, the tall, cathedral-like window is sluiced with rainwater and pockets of light from Gotham below twinkle like an inverted night sky. Your files on Arkham flood the screen.

Your shoulders hunch forward, “okay, Dr. Mercer.” You mutter to yourself, “let’s see you’ve been up to.”

*********

He doesn’t know how to approach you as Bruce. He approaches you as the Bat. His cape and cowl do more than protect his identity from criminals. His mask is a shield. If he’s Batman—and not Bruce—he can do so much more. He can be more than just a man.

He watches you from the shadows. You’re hunched over your laptop, bloodshot eyes, fingers drumming on the hardwood, your face hardened and taught with concentration. You worked yourself to the bone, risked your life to save the missing girls. Not because anyone hired you to. Not because of the promise of fame or recognition Not out of ambition to try and get your old job at the Gazette back. But because you noticed a pattern. And you actually care. You brought it to Gordon, who gave what support he could within the confines of the justice system, but otherwise you worked alone. And despite the odds stacked against you, you succeeded.

If not for the tracker in your phone, he doesn’t know if he would’ve found you. Well, that’s only partially true. With the tracker, Bruce doesn’t know if he’d find you in time. But he knows – deep in whatever remains of his heart - if you were missing, he’d tear Gotham bolt-from-bolt to find you. He gingerly steps from the shadows, his cape dragging softly on the floor, and his boot intentionally hit a creaky floorboard.

You look up, eyes wide, and you don’t scream. Your throat bobs in a difficult swallow.

He says, “you weren’t at your apartment.”

“Instead of breaking and entering into my friend’s house—” Your brow pinches together, “you could have called.”

He is prepared for this conversation. The mask hides the slight lift of his brow. He steps behind you and peers over your shoulder to the computer screen. Your notes on Arkham are impressive. He doesn’t know how the ancient thing manages to hold enough memory to store it all.

“You asked me to check on him.”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t an earthquake.” You twist, turning your face toward him. A faint smell of mint toothpaste catches him off guard. The knowledge that you’ve settled into the tower, that you’ve done ordinary things like brushed your teeth and shared tea with Alfred, should scare him. But it doesn’t.

“Besides, I didn’t expect you to actually follow-through.”

He frowns. Has he already lost your trust in him?

“Why not?”

You turn back to your screen, shrugging mildly. “I saw you die.”

His breath hitches. How much pain did you endure from the moment the drug was injected? What other horrors did you see? And yet, here you are, continuing to research Arkham because he asked you to. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Anger rolls through his gut, hot and metallic in the back of his throat.

“You shouldn’t have gone near Falcone.” He grumbles, “I told you—”

You interrupt him. “And I told you I didn’t work for you.”

Yeah, that plan backfired magnificently. He assumed when he gave you the Arkham assignment, you’d step away from the Falcone case. He should’ve known better. Guilt, and anger, and self-loathing churn and mix like a dangerous, erratic cocktail. When you interrupted him, you turned around, and now he’s pinned like a butterfly by your gaze. Your nostrils flare gently as you stare up at him. Your eyes roam. He feels the heat of your eyes as they trail the square of jaw, the cleft of his chin, the shadowed expanse around his eyes.

“For the record, though…” You say softly, “I am glad you’re ok.”

His eyes drop to the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. The T-shirt you’re wearing is well-loved, buttery soft from frequent washes, and a few holes peeking around neck hole hem. His frown deepens. His glove skims the edge of your collar. Your pulse leaps inside your jaw, but you don’t flinch or step away.

He hooks his index finger into the fabric and gently tugs it aside. A scatter of dark bruises splotch over your collarbone and disappear into your shoulder. Everything in him goes tight like a bowstring ready to fire. His heart is thunderously loud in his ears. His eyes cannot move away from the bruise even as he notices your breathing pattern change.

“Falcone?” He says asks, lowly, dangerously.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. “A door, actually.” You don’t pull his hand away like he expects. Your fingers glide over his glove and loosely twine over his. Your hand is much smaller than his. It’s a strange detail to notice in this moment, but it’s the only thing that’s tethering him to sanity.

“I’m fine. I promise.” Your thumb rubs across his knuckles. He cannot feel it. And for once, he’s cursing his layered and protective armor. He cautiously turns his wrist and enfolds your fingers between his. You bite your lip and look away…almost shy. This would be the perfect time to kiss you. The rain gently is pattering against the window. There are no sirens or Bat signals to pull him away. He tilts forward, preparing to drop his mouth to yours…

“I don’t think Falcone is at the top of this pyramid.” You announce abruptly. He blinks.

He responds, “what do you mean?”

You untwine your fingers from his and walk around the desk and toward the bookshelf and the window. You pace back and forth in front of it like a race car on a plastic track. Around and around. Several steps, then pivot, walk the same steps in the other direction.

“Falcone is a sleazeball and an opportunist. I know he deals in uppers. Drugs like ecstasy, drops, cocaine…” You list off, clearly finding comfort in talking your problems aloud, “they’re expensive and addictive. But the drug they gave me and the other girls…that wasn’t a party drug.”

He knows. He has a sample of your blood being tested in the Batcave.

“What’s your theory?” He tracks your pacing form with his dark, smudged eyes.

“I’m thinking about the execution of the drug and its effects. It requires a needle. It induces a panic-like state.” You shake your head in uncomfortable remembrance, “it increases body temperature and effects cognitive functions. Could it be used in a controlled environment for torture? Probably. But that doesn’t feel financially ludicrous enough to tempt someone like Falcone.”

“You think it’s a prototype.”

“Exactly!” You snap your fingers and glow from within. His eyelashes flutter at the brilliance of your smile. “See? This is why we work well together.”

He can see the threads in the air that connect one thought to the next.

“Falcone is working with someone else.” It’s not a completely debased assumption to make. Falcone has plenty of business connections.

You offer him a distracted nod. “That’s my theory.”

A notch forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drops to the carpet, your thumb is pressing into the tempting lush shape of your lower lip. His heart careens into his ribcage in a desperate, love-struck attempt to break free. He can’t be with you as Bruce. Bruce has a secret identity, a secret life. But Batman is freedom. He’s the choice to wake up and try to make a difference. He’s fearless and fear inspiring. There’s only so few hours in the night and he can’t afford to lose them.

************

You explain, “it could be Penguin. It could be someone else. We’ll know more when Gordon has my blood report.”

It feels strangely liberating to talk this through with Batman. You can’t talk about it with Bruce—though you know he’s trustworthy, you’re not sure he’d support the…extremes…you take to uncover the truth. And you don’t want to worry him either. Hell, there used to be a time when you never kept secrets from him. Where did all the time go.

You sigh, shoulders slumping, and cover your hands over your face. If only Bruce would stop avoiding you, then you’d talk to him! God. You hope he doesn’t wake up and find you having a midnight fireside chat with Gotham’s vigilante. That would be awkward. You smile behind your palms. It would be awkward first, then funny.

Batman says your name delicately as if he might break it on his tongue if he’s not careful. The warm, supple heat of his gloves wraps around your wrists and gently pulls your hands away from your face. You are unsurprised to see the grim, flat line of his mouth, to see the haunted echo behind his cerulean eyes.

“It wasn’t me who saved those girls.” He says, “it was you.”

You find the carpet infinitely interesting. Wow. What is that pattern? Eastern-European? Late 19th Century? Is it Dracula Chic? The detail work is fantastic. The color is so rich and textured—

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “You made a difference.”

You must’ve fallen asleep while working on the Arkham article. There is no way this is real. There’s no way Vengeance is complimenting you. It’s surreal. It’s impossible. His gaze drops to your mouth. His thumb lightly presses into your lower lip. Yes, this is definitely a dream. Your heart is pounding harder than the rainfall against the window.

Batman leans toward you, close enough to feel the feather-whisper of his breath on your lips. His heavily lidded eyes drag from your mouth to your eyes. A low electric pulse strums through your veins. Your finger scramble for purchase on his arm guards and squeeze in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. It could be real, it could be a dream, or it could be the side-effects of the drug.

“Is this real?” You mumble. “Because it seems like you—like you might kiss me.”

Batman’s gravelly voice responds, “I’d like to.”

You press your teeth into your lower lip. Bruce kissed you, but a kiss isn’t always pretense to a relationship. A kiss isn’t a promise to monogamy. Besides, you have your suspicions that Bruce is regretting the kiss anyway. There’s no harm in kissing Batman. You’re not betraying anyone. You touch his stubbled jaw with your fingertips and instinct pulls your eyes closed.

“Yes, you may.”

He sighs unevenly and then, his mouth is pressed into yours with surprising, desperate intensity. You clutch his face, opening your mouth beneath his, and moan softly at the first lick of his tongue against the roof of your mouth. Batman kisses you like he’ll die if he stops, like this kiss is all that stands between Gotham’s salvation, like he’s been waiting to kiss you for years. His tongue drinks in every soft, keening sound that he pulls from your throat. Your spine bumps into the window and you loop your arms around his neck. There is a feeling of complete, utter safety that envelopes you. And you melt into him.

His hands briefly move away from your face, but when they return—they are cool and calloused and firm. He cups your jaw, tilting your head back for him, and pressing the hard length of his body into yours.

He rasps, “I want to touch you.” His lips find the hollow spot of skin below your ear, “can I?” He suckles your skin, kissing his way down the side of your neck, explicitly careful of the bruises that dip below your collarbone.

“Yes, yes please.” Who knew Batboy could turn you into someone who whines?

His fingers hook around your sleep shorts and tug and—you hear and feel the fabric rip. You shiver in his arms, unafraid, and filled with nervous trepidation. Batman covers your mouth with his. You wish you could touch more skin beyond the scrape of jawline and his long, calloused fingers. His knuckles brush against the front of your clit and Batman hisses through his teeth.

Your hips eagerly shift, your blood ignited with desire, your head swimming with dizzying affection. He repeats in light, teasing strokes, back and forth, along your clit. Your finger slide for desperate purchase along the sleek, dark material of his armor. His other hand enfolds your wrists before pinning them together and lifting them over your head. Your knuckles rap lightly against the cool window.

“Ohhh,” You smile with understanding. His mouth latches onto your jaw and a soft hiss is pulled from your lips when his stubble scratches your sensitive skin. “You can touch, but I can’t?”

“Something like that.” He hums. His fingertip swirls over your swollen clit and it earns him another pitched moan from the back of your throat. His index finger glides between your folds and thank God he’s kissing you—thank God—because the sharp, ragged cry that you release would’ve woken the whole tower. He swallows your moans, relishing them. He grunts with pleasure when his finger plunges into you, covered in your arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He pumps his finger in and out of you, the sound of it slick and debauched, stoking the fire from deep within your abdomen.

“Be good and keep your hands up there.” He releases your wrists.

Out of sheer curiosity about what he’ll do next—you decide to listen. He kisses you senseless, kisses you breathless, and you’re certain it must be a distraction technique because there’s another ripping fabric sound from below your waist. Farewell, sleep shorts. You don’t mourn their loss for long because Batman plunges another finger into your wet, aching cunt. His thumb presses onto your clit and there’s something…clumsy…about the way he touches you. Unpracticed. Oddly, it’s a turn on. Batboy might wear a fancy belt, but it doesn’t look like he’s got many notches on it.

“Like that.” You breathe, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, “yes, yes, yes—" His thumb presses firmer, the concentric motion growing frantic, and your body tenses. You forget his instruction to keep your hands to yourself. You grab his face, hold him close, your lips smear messily along his cleft chin and pouty lips. You release a strangled moan when his fingers curl inside you.

“Stay quiet.” He warns with some difficulty. His eyes burn into your warm face. As if you’ve forgotten that you’re in Bruce Wayne’s study getting finger fucked by Batman. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

You choke out, “y-yeah, I k-know.” You squeeze your eyes shut, head lolling backward, his mouth on your throat. The familiar tightening and tensing of your lower abdomen heralds the final peak of your desire.

“I’m gonna—” Your voice pitches higher, “cum. I’m gonna cum.”

Batman gives a sweet little drawl of, “please,” at the hollow of your throat.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You shatter around his fingers, gush over his knuckles, your fingertips like claws on his biceps. Your mouth hinges open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. He hasn’t stopped touching you. His thumb continues to stroke your over-sensitive clit. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds he’s plucking from you like a trained violinist. Your body spasms, twitching, the come down of your orgasm only promising another quick release if Batman keeps toying with you.

“I want to feel you,” says Batman into the shell of your ear, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Fucking hell.” You blink, dazed, and swallow roughly. “Right now?”

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you. “Yes.”

“O-okay.” You nod and are surprised your brain and vocal box can string together a single sentence. Batman turns you to face the window. Gotham twinkles and shines, gray and bright, as rain travels like independent rivers the windowpane. You flatten your palms against the glass and flinch in surprise at the first touch of his cock near your sensitive folds. He slides his cock back and forth between your folds, not entering you, just slickening his cock with your earlier release. Your eyes roll backward into your skull. Your heart thunders loudly in your chest. Just through the sense of touch alone, you can surmise the girth and length of him. You can already imagine how he might fill you.

You arch on your tiptoes, rocking your hips into his, and whine lowly. His fingers come to settle on your waist.

He says, “stay very still for me.”

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at following directions.” You tease with a lopsided smile.

The rumbling that comes from behind you sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. But, before you can turn back and see if Batman is smiling—the tip of his cock thrusts into your cunt. The world goes white.

“Oh, fuck me!” You gasp brokenly. Batman inches himself deeper, and deeper, holding your hips firm between his strong, calloused hands. He stretches you wonderfully, fills you, and your walls squeeze around him in an instinctive, desperate attempt to garner more closeness. He bottoms out. Your stomach muscles clench. Your frantic breath fogs the glass. The seconds tick by in agonizing slowness. Your body quakes. Your fingers curl with a quiet squeak on the glass. He said stay still but didn’t give a time limit. You wrestle against the instinct to start grinding your hips, desperate for friction, desperate to satisfy the craving that’s burning inside of you.

You look over your shoulder and Batman’s jaw is dropped open in pure, lustful awe.

You say, “please.”

His striking, blue eyes lift from your joined bodies and his upper lip glistens with sweat. He clears his throat.

“You feel…” He grunts and bows his head, “will you touch yourself for me?”

You nod. Your hand tucks between your legs and finds your swollen, slick clit. Your fingertips brush against the hard, impressive length of him buried deep inside you. Batman groans through clenched teeth. With every stroke of your fingers, your inner walls squeeze his immobile cock, and you try—you really, really do—to not move your hips and start thrusting.

You manage it for like thirty seconds. It’s not even intentional. You’re rubbing your clit, panting with soft little ‘ah ah ah’s. Next thing you know, you’re dragging your hips away, and letting out a deep, unrestrained moan at the feeling of his cock sliding along your walls.

Batman suddenly crowds you, pushing you up against the window, and your breasts squish into the cold glass. Your nipples pebble beneath your thin, old t-shirt.

“I—” You begin to explain yourself, or apologize, but the words rapidly dissolve on your tongue as Batman thrusts into you. You place your both palms on the glass to steady yourself again. At this angle, the head of his cock keeps hitting a deep, toe-curling spot inside you. A collection of stars dance and twirl in front of your vision like fairy dust.

You’ve forgotten the earlier instructions to stay quiet. Your moans punctuate each thrust and Batman doesn’t try to muffle you. At this rate—you’ll take the awkwardness of Bruce walking in if it means Batman doesn’t stop.

Through heavily lidded eyes, you watch down at Gotham as Batman – the masked vigilante, Vengeance, your partner – fucks you like it’s his last night on earth. He grunts from deep within his chest. Your walls squeeze. Your thighs shake. The side of your face presses into the glass, too tired to hold your head upright, and your cheek and flecks of saliva smudges the pristine surface. Everything pulses with white-hot heat and frenzied intensity.

You blindly reach behind you and grab hold Batman’s wrist. His hand twists beneath yours, and for a wild, panicked second, you’re worried you’ve crossed a line, you think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He traps your hand under his and clutches your fingers, twining them together like a Celtic knot, squeezing the delicate bones in tandem with his eager thrusts.

“Oh, oh fuck.” You announce emphatically. Every atom, every nerve, every muscle, is wound up tight inside you like a spring-loaded weapon. Your inner legs are slick with arousal and sweat pools at the dip of your spine. The windowpane is blotched with evidence of your clawing fingertips and haggard breath. All the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone. Your walls grip around his cock. He says your name with feverous reverence, with glimmering absolution, with greedy satisfaction.

Praise drips like rainwater from his mouth, “you’re so good for me.”

In the haze beneath the din of your blissed-out cry, Batman quietly says, “it’s you - you’re - I—“ and whatever else he would’ve said is swiftly pulled into the undercurrent of his bitten-off moan. He buries himself to the hilt, pressing you flat against the window, and shudders as his cock swells and pulses inside you. His arms encircle your waist, your spine rests snug—if uncomfortable—into the hard planes of his armor.

You droop, boneless and sweating, and listen to the rapid, deep, and booming beat of your heart. Batman’s haggard breath fills your eardrums alongside the pouring rain. Your eyes gently open. You are greeted by dark, warm mahogany and weathered book spines, and a woven, expensive rug. Your laptop purrs on the desk behind you.

The room looks the same. Yet, your world has changed. Batman doesn’t move. In the muddled, rain-streaked reflection of your visages, you see Batman tilt forward and rest his forehead in the middle of your back between your shoulder blades. His warm breath slips through the fibers of your t-shirt and your skin prickles with goosebumps.

You hope he doesn’t let go (you’re gonna collapse onto the floor if he does). Your eyes slip closed again, because—what’s the point in keeping them open? You could sleep here for a few minutes. Then you’ll crawl your way to the guest room later after Batboy leaves. You loosen your grip on his fingers and sigh languidly.

If your eyes had been open, you would’ve seen the longing that ensnares his expression.

*********

He wishes he could stay here forever in the warmth of you. He’s carried the memories of you like a candle in the dark. He never imagined, never thought, that he would experience this with you. You fit him so perfectly—it’s maddening. It’s an impossible dream. He catches his reflection in the glass. He can’t forget who he is. He can’t forget his family’s legacy. He’s Vengeance. Allowing himself closer to you would only result in heartbreak. And Bruce made a promise a long time ago to protect you from any pain. This can’t happen again.

He waits until his cock softens inside of you before pulling out. You mumble something completely intelligible. His lips quirk in fondness. You are normally so eloquent—you talk fast, waving your hands in dramatic displays, and piece together missing puzzle pieces at hundred miles per hour. A sense of pride smolders in his gut. He can make you speechless. He pours water onto the ember. This won’t happen again.

He adjusts himself and collects you easily in his arms, one arm beneath the bend of your knees, the other scoops around your back.

“I can walk.” You grumble, your sweaty head falling against his shoulder, “put me down.” He doesn’t bother listening. He walks silently through the dark halls of his home. Your breathing slows and your hand slides off your stomach, dangling to the side.

He crosses the threshold into your room and lays you carefully onto the disheveled bed sheets. His fingers trail across your jaw. He selfishly drinks in the sight of you in the muted, orange glow of the bedside lamp. You are achingly lovely, and clever, and stupidly determined. Your golden lion heart will be his ruin. Your eyelashes flutter in a dream. He hopes it’s a good, happy dream. He hopes you aren’t plagued by nightmares like he is.

He draws the covers up to your chin. The back of his knuckles caress your cheek in a lingering and lonely farewell.

*********

Someone knocking on your door is what wakes you. Not your phone alarm. Not the muted, cloud-struck sunlight bleeding through the big windows. You grumble and make a noise that sounds like “come in.”

You blink in confusion at Bruce standing in the doorway. You were expecting Alfred or Dory. His dark hair lays flat against his scalp and little droplets drip from his earlobes onto his gray t-shirt. Fondly, he reminds you of a drowned rat. You smile.

“Hi.”

Bruce takes that as an invitation to walk in. Your shirt reaches an inch or so above your knee, but when sitting, it’s basically useless to cover below your waist. You adjust the bedsheets to ensure he can’t see your nakedness. You have no clue what Batman did with your shorts and underwear. Did he keep them? It’s not outside the realm of possibility, you think, for a guy who dresses up like a bat to fight crime.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, “hi.”

He fidgets with a bulky wash towel in his hands. He meets your gaze, then avoids it, strangely skittish for the man who shoved his tongue in your mouth in a public hospital room. You open your mouth to comment on it—but he speaks before you can.

“Can I see your shoulder?” says Bruce. Your mouth snaps shut with a comical clack of your teeth. How did he know about that? Then you remember Dory. On your first night, she—due to doctor instruction—waited outside the bathroom when you showered. Her thin, wrinkled mouth pursed when she saw your bruises, but she didn’t say anything. She must’ve reported back to Bruce. You couldn’t be upset with her, though. You liked her too much.

You grin, your tone playful, “what? You want me to take my top off?”

Bruce smirks and looks away from you, sighing indulgently. Your heart melts.

You poke his thigh, “close your eyes.” You immediately register the muscled tenseness of his leg but brush it off. He’s a billionaire hermit who doesn’t skip leg day. Who would’ve guessed.

He starts, “you don’t have to—”

“Close ‘em.”

He bites his lower lip, briefly, before shutting his eyes. You wince when you pull your old shirt over your head, but you manage without difficulty. You take the sheets pooled around your waist and tuck them under your armpits. In full light, in full view, the bruises follow the curve of your shoulder and into your collarbone. You take a minute to wonder if Falcone’s prototype drug affects blood thinness. You file the thought away for when you’ve got your results in hand.

“Okay.”

Bruce’s breath snags in his mouth. His nostrils flare. Under his scrutiny, his desperate gaze, your skin throbs dully with pain. You swallow roughly as Bruce’s fingers come close to your skin, but don’t touch you. He traces the mottled landscape with his eyes. His sooty eyelashes flutter, blinking away some errant thought, and he peers at you through his wet hair.

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

You say, “I only notice it only if I’m moving that arm.”

“You should be icing it.”

You chuckle. “You sound like Alfred.”

Bruce lifts the washcloth from his lap, “lucky for you, I brought some ice with me.” His hand hovers over the worst bruise, the part of your body that took the full, animalistic force of the door. He looks at you in silent askance. You don’t even need to think about it. You trust him. You bite your lower lip and nod.

He gently, oh-so-delicately, applies the cold compress to your injury and you inhale sharply. His gaze snaps away from your shoulder to your face, his brow furrowed.

“It’s cold.” You press your lips together.

He smiles faintly, ducking his head, and hiding the full sight of his smile from you.

“That’s the point, Silver.” He cradles your elbow in his other hand and methodically places the cold compress on the injury for a few minutes before moving to another section of your skin. His eyes remain focused on his task, only looking at you when you make a sound of discomfort. A prickle of goosebumps flush across your skin.

When the compress comes to your collarbone above your breasts, you lift your eyes to the ceiling, and the cold sensation radiates outward. You shouldn’t feel warm while Bruce is tending to your injuries. Yet, your body – treacherous as it is – hums with warmth and slow, deep throbs of desire.

Even after your…adventure…with Batman last night. It can’t erase how you feel about Bruce. He’s etched into you like the lines on your palms. Your heart has his fingerprints all over of it.

You try to focus on other thoughts, like Falcone, or the Arkham project, but holding onto your thoughts is impossible. It’s like holding tendrils of condensation that puff in front of your face in cold mornings. It all circles back to him. His gentle hands. The smell of his shampoo. The water dripping into his eyes. The length of his eyelashes. The bridge of his nose. His steady inhale-exhale.

Bruce asks quietly, “will you tell me how it happened?”

Your brow wrinkles, and something akin to grief crawls into your throat, “it’s not a happy story, Bruce.”

His hand, chilly and familiar, caresses your throat. His thumb grazes across your pulse. “I know.”

You close your eyes. “Okay…” you take a deep breath, “it all started when I noticed a pattern of girls from the same age group going missing…”

Bruce listens to all of it. Your dead-ends at other bars and clubs. The connections you made about the girl’s being runaways or estranged from their families. The terrifying close calls with drug dealers, who either wanted to rob you or kill you, or the other criminals—who usually wanted to do worse. The little help you got from Gordon. Your eventual success in getting Falcone’s attention. The shipyard. The drugs. The hallucinations you saw, what you felt, all the terror and panic, and the worry.

You omit the fact that Batman was there. And has been there since the beginning of your days as a freelance, reckless journalist.

You hate lying to Bruce, but the story is more believable if you say Gordon was following you and just called in the EMTs. That’s easier to explain that then ‘yeah, I work with Batman, and he installed a custom app in my phone to protect me.’

At the end of the story, he says, “the drugs triggered what happened when we were kids.” And his words floor you. You haven’t thought about that in years. A lightbulb switches on inside your mind, bright and humming, and you gasp with delight and surprise. It wasn’t just a random hallucination. It was triggered by memory, by fear.

“Bruce! You’re a genius!” You grab your tossed aside shirt and awkwardly pull it over your head. If Bruce unintentionally sees a bit of skin, well, it won’t kill him.

“I gotta call Gordon.” You grab Bruce’s face between your hands and plant a kiss square on his forehead. “Thank you!”

You clamber off the bed, feet nearly slipping on the hardwood, as you snatch your phone from its charging spot near the door.

Bruce says your name, freezing you momentarily.

“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought it was over with Falcone.”

You shrug, then wince. “It’s not over for me until he’s behind bars.”

He slides from the bed, approaching you, and he pins you with his gaze. “But you’re not investigating him anymore, right?”

“I can’t leave this loose end untied.” You clutch your phone tightly between your hands. “I don’t…I don’t expect you…to understand. It’s…”

Hell, you hardly understand it yourself.

“It burns me up inside, Bruce.” You say fervently, “I can’t leave a job unfinished. Yes, the girls are safe. Yes, I’m safe. But Falcone and his associates remain at large. The drugs’ location and his supplier are unknown. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”

You pause, and consider another angle, “I promise I’ll still have time for the Arkham article.”

He holds the side of your face, his expression pained, “you think that’s what I’m worried about?”

“I don’t…” You trail off, searching his eyes, and your mouth goes dry. When did Bruce start looking at you like you were the first sight of land after days lost at sea?

“Let Gordon and the PD handle Falcone.” He whispers.

“But this is important!” You argue, clutching the front of Bruce’s soft shirt, “Gordon needs to know what the drug actually triggered.”

“Fine.” His gaze hardens but raw concern is etched across his face, “you’re going to get hurt if you keep chasing Falcone.”

You smile to yourself. “Another friend of mine said the same thing.”

“I meant what I said in the hospital, Silver.” His thumb crests over the delicate space below your eye. “I care about you. I – I don’t know what I’d do if…if….”

Your heart squeezes like a vice.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then you should know the feeling is mutual.” Your lip quivers. “But lucky for me, you’re a vitamin D deficient shut-in who is best friends with a sixty-year-old man.”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”

You laugh softly and it breaks some of the tension in Bruce’s shoulders.

“I know it looks easy from the outside. I could get a different job. I could work the Arkham article for ten years and drain the Wayne bank account dry.” You smirk, then control your expression into one of seriousness. If Bruce wants any semblance of a relationship with you, then he needs to know this. This is your non-negotiable standpoint.

You say slowly, “but…for me…this is it. This is who I am.”

“A journalist with a death wish?” There is the barest hint of dry humor in his voice.

“A journalist who believes Gotham can change. All the crime and corruption doesn’t have to be the status quo.”

Bruce sighs softly and you know you have him. He can’t argue against your valiant, golden hope for a better Gotham. A safer Gotham. You believe in this truth and nothing, not even the man who holds your heart, can shake you from that conviction.

You lean forward and nuzzle your nose along his. “Be thankful I’m not dressing up and fighting crime.”

“There’s still time.” He murmurs good-naturedly.

You hum in agreement. “Hm. Maybe next year.”

Your lips ghost over his, “I think this is the part where we kiss and make up,” you mutter.

“Is it?” He guides your face to tilt to the side.

“Mhm.”

Bruce kisses you slowly. There is a lazy Sunday afternoon, bathed in golden light, hidden somewhere inside the kiss he gives you. You’re not sure if that afternoon is the near future or the very distant. But you want to discover it. You want to hold it tenderly in your hands, the same way you are holding Bruce’s jaw, and nurture it until it blossoms into a thousand, bright orange butterflies that carry hope with each flutter of their wings.

When you pull your mouth away from his, he asks a simple, modest request, “stay.”

And you are more than persuaded to indulge him.

(Part two)

*************************

((tag list: @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid ))

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #battison x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n #batman x fem!reader #battison x you #dc fic #the batman fanfic #fic: from above gotham glows

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beingdreeyore · 3 months

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I read an article the other day on how cooking for one is an act of self-love for us single folk and I have to agree.

I have this routine these days. Through the first half of the week I scroll through recipes, typically on the Recipe Tin Eats site. I search for things I've never heard of that are common in faraway places and I tag them. One-by-one I add items to my online shopping cart. By Thursday I place the order for home delivery and then first thing on Saturday morning as the sun is just rising (a decision I regret every week), the groceries get delivered.

In the last six months I've tried new ingredients, new recipes, new cooking methods. There are spices I'd never even heard of before that I'm now comfortable using and recipes for foods from places I didn't know existed that are slowly creeping into my weekly repertoire. My tiny kitchen is now too small for the appliances and utensils that I own. Food has become too big in my life.

It's a weekly routine that I look forward to. There's something soothing about it that I can't quite put my finger on, but I know that it works. Meal prep for work lunches is no longer grilled or shredded chicken with a garden salad.

I mention it today because I woke to a wave of grief and emotion over the men that have come and gone from my life over the years, and I was shocked to find myself feeling that way. But then it clocked what feminine things were occurring in my body at this time of the month and I shook it off. I shook it off because the feeling is mostly foreign these days and I'm so confident it will pass as this stage of the monthly cycle passes. The loneliness and lack of love doesn't drown me as frequently or quite severely as it used to. My life has become this solitary little routine that seems to feed my soul and keep it nourished. The cooking and the preparation seems to be a big part of that and I'm not really sure why or how. I just know that every weekend I prep for the week ahead and the learning, exploration, and then the reward at the end really is such an act of self-love that it has a grounding quality to it. It settles me.

The level of acceptance I have for myself and who I am is so high these days. I still see my flaws and I still work at them, but I also am unapologetically who I am. When I'm not at work, even though I'm mostly alone, I now routinely do all these little things that make me content in my solo little bubble. I wonder at times how a man would ever fit into my life now. What man would be worth disrupting my peace when it took so long (and so much money on therapy...) to create?

So it's a simple thing, this cooking routine, but it is an act of self-love. In the madness that is this new year and the world right now, it's a practice in mindfulness that doesn't involve sitting on a yoga mat with my eyes closed and it gets me better results. It turns out that keeping your body nourished can also be a way to keep your soul nourished.

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blackmoonlightexpress · 11 months

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TTEOTM vs. the Industry: Or Why it's much more than a TV show 📺

A very interesting Zhihu article from an anonymous industry insider responding to the question "is Till the End of the Moon worth watching?"

TL;DR SUMMARY:

The author believes that we're at the crossroads of a new era of TV production. Otters Studio (TTEOTM's production company, a new player) is trying to make waves beyond the show itself by making big budget bets on innovative but risky content.

TTEOTM is full of production flaws, but Otter understands how to excite viewers, something that's been taken for granted. A team that would produce a perfect drama would never dare to touch TTEOTM and make it work.

Everyone in the industry desperately wants TTEOTM to fail. Because that would prove that sticking to a safe formula works. (For context, there's been a lot of internet activity trying to smear TTEOTM and take it down in China, most recently an email campaign to NRTA to get it censored and off air)

I decided to take the time to translate this because it brings home the point the need to embrace risk-taking and look beyond technical flaws to push the industry forward. It's long and I don't agree with everything said (think he's a bit harsh on the actors and other dramas), but I still think it's worth a read! Bolding is my own.

FULL TRANSLATION:

The decision to produce TTEOTM at such a high budget itself indicates aspirations that are beyond what ordinary viewers can understand. Let's talk about its strengths:

比如长月这种类型的剧非用这么高规格投资创作出来，本身说明了投资方的品味和执念都不是我们这类普通大众可以理解的。先说几点优点:

1. Dare to break through. This drama is not intended by its investors to be just like another xianxia. It contains a lot of innovative elements: character design, world view, values, plot development and logic, costume, special effects, which is refreshing. In the next few years, no matter how the drama performs, there will be continued discussion and comparison to TTEOTM. It is extremely risky to put such a big budget behind a piece of work that's trying to push boundaries in every way. Because it is beyond the comfort zone of viewers today.

On surface, Otter's first drama is a big production (but as you can see, there are issues with quality control). In reality, this production has an even more important mission: proving that an outside investor new to content production can break into the entertainment ecosystem with money, such as by openly inviting everyone to make OSTs, showing off its deep wallets (though you can see what the reception and quality of work has been). Otter's ambition is not to be a vehicle for actors or just another producer. It's also not trying to do what LBFAD did by building its brand with a repeatable IP-to-TV production process. Based on TTEOTM, I'm inclined to believe they are playing with something very new, something more ground-breaking. Right now they're still trying to figure it out, piece by piece, even though TTEOTM's final product is already quite remarkable.

1. 敢于突破。这部剧根本不是为了制作一部流水线仙侠而投资出来的，其中包含了大量的“新”东西:人设、世界观、人物价值观、剧情发展逻辑、服化道、特效使用等，都让人耳目一新。未来几年时间，无论剧播出的怎么样，围绕长月的讨论和比较都不会少。像这样一部方方面面求新的作品，本身用这么高规格投资出来就是极端风险的一件事，因为它压根不在目前经过市场检验的观众舒适区里。獭獭文化打出来的这第一部作品，表面上是在出大制作剧（但是你也看到了，品控有些问题），实际上这部剧恐怕还肩负着更重要的使命（比如一家对内容制作市场还比较小白的外来资本，是不是可以借着高举高打摸一圈影视圈的资源链，像直接全面邀歌做OST，写满了大佬有钱，但是各方什么态度、什么水平也是同步一目了然）獭獭的野心绝不在于捧演员或加入目前的内容制作圈，也不是冲着一开始就像苍兰诀一样用一个可模块化流水线化的模式成品打造自己的品牌，从长月看，我倾向于他在玩一些很新的东西，很大格局的东西。现在他还在一块块摸牌，一块块优化骨骼的阶段（虽然长月的成品其实已经非常了不起）。

2. Great for actors. Today's Chinese drama production has become obviously repetitive and formulaic. It's very difficult to give actors an opportunity to demonstrate their talents. Complex characters not only challenge our actors but risk impacting their reputation. There's massive risk in casting and censorship, so most investors play it safe. TTEOTM is different in this regard: in addition to TTJ, the FL is not silly, dumb, and sweet. She is clear-headed about her mission to kill the ML the entire time, which means there's no CP. The 2nd ML is stuck in a philosophical conflict of who he really is. The 2nd FL coldly announces, I don't love anyone but myself. In order to make these characters come alive, you need very strong character molding and understanding. For example, the FL has to demonstrate commitment to her mission as a character that's bounded by a tragic fate, but also show caution and love towards the ML. Or take the 2nd FL as an example. Even though she appears to be a bad person, she actually has a strong need for love and fear of loss, which is why she self destroys any hope to avoid tragedy in the end - this type of person is full of inner conflict.

The conflicting emotions and subtext are the biggest selling points of this drama, but sadly most actors don't quite deliver except the ML. The willingness to realize a screenplay like this indicates Otter is serious about testing its actors. This type of opportunity is rarer than giant pandas in an industry that prefers vanilla characters. But also because of this, we see that there are still big gaps in the younger generation of actors' ability to interpret the screenplay and perform. Overall, the third female lead's scenes are quite good. The ML's solos are also quite good. But there are issues with transitions (of course the director also has no standards when it comes to cinematography). The second female lead interprets her character well, but has acting issues. Won't comment on the others.

2.对演员加成极大。一个团队渴望摸到娱乐圈上限的时候，可能这个团队还没有那么深厚的业内资源，但一定有其他制作方给不了的助力力度。当目前的国产剧制作已经出现明显的人物刻板化，玄幻作品模式化倾向时，无论是大制作还是小制作，其实现在的作品已经非常难给演员凸显水平的机会了，创作复杂性人物考验演员表现能力，还容易造成艺人负面口碑，有极大的选角风险，还容易被审核掉，目前的其他资本这一块都很保守。獭獭的长月，男主澹台烬自不用说，女主完全不傻白甜，从头到尾头脑清醒就是要杀男主，就是无cp糖可磕。男二执着于他不是我，我不是我的哲学矛盾，女二全程冷漠宣言我谁也不爱我只爱我自己，神挡杀神，佛挡杀佛。这些人物其实真正要演绎得鲜活，都需要极强的角色塑造能力和理解能力。例如女主始终头脑清醒的要杀男主，是因为命运只给了这么一条路，她是被命运裹挟着前进的悲剧人物，但又要体现出她面对自己对男主时的恻隐之心和深沉爱意。又比如女二，她是渴爱之人，恶是她的表象，惶恐失去和自闭是她的内核，每次在希望来临前先动手毁灭希望，不让自己看到悲剧，这种人的心理活动是非常激烈和纠结的。纠结的情绪和人物潜台词是这部剧本身的最大看点（虽然很可惜我发现演员几乎是全员不到位的，勉强男主还行）愿意开发这样的本子，其实意味着獭獭正视图用剧对演员进行一定程度的“大考”，能演出来的，还有这样的机会呈现在行业内，可以说在目前偏向塑造完美人设的制作圈比大熊猫还稀缺，是年轻艺人一次极为难得的水平展示机会。也正因如此，我们在长月里也看到了现在的新生代演员对剧本理解和表现能力确实存在极大问题。整部剧女三部分场景不错，男主的单场不错，但大的跨度衔接有些问题（当然，导演对镜头毫无追求也是问题）女二理解没问题但演技有问题，其他人不评价。

3. Super entertaining and discussion-worthy. Don't underestimate this. In today's TV production circle, most dramas are chasing after low risk, high quality output. Take the recently aired xianxias. These works are all living in comfort zone. You can't say they're bad, but it's also not clear what is good, and viewers are not that enthralled. TTEOTM is the opposite. It knows too well how to excite viewers. Putting aside the logic of the story, I would say this is the most audacious hand played in the last 5 years. It's super entertaining. Viewers definitely won't be able to tell what's good about it, other than that it's thrilling to watch. That's actually a very remarkable skill and one that is lost in today's entertainment industry. Otter can fix their production flaws over time through trial and error or by bringing in new collaborators, but it's not easy to figure out what the audience wants.

3.娱乐性和话题性极强。不要小看这点，在目前电视剧制作圈，几乎大多数的作品都在追求低风险高品质的“绝对完成品”。比如沉香、星落，甚至苍兰诀。这类作品一大特点就是都在舒适区里做加减法，拍出来你不能说差，没有什么掉链子的地方，但是问有什么好的地方，也不是很明显。观众就很容易精神上提不起劲。长月却刚好相反，它实在是太懂得怎么刺激观众，抛开剧情逻辑不谈，我敢说这是内娱近五年玩过的最大胆的刺激牌，娱乐性直接拉满。一个个画面和剧情的嗨点山呼海啸扑面而来，观众一定说不出长月哪里好，但是看长月确实很爽。这其实是一种很了不起的本事。也是目前的业内非常缺失的一种本事。产业链的短板可以摸索着补，也可以拉拢志同道合的人一起找，但是找到观众爽点的能力确实是要点功夫的。

Actually, TTEOTM's production has so many problems, to the point that anyone in the industry can find an example to prove that it sucks. Screenplay, director, editing, OST, marketing, lighting, lens, makeup, sets, sound, aesthetics. But what you can't deny is this: a team that can produce a perfect drama could never make TTEOTM work.

Because without Otter taking this first step, they would never allow the battle between demons and god to go on for an hour. They'd never allow the ML & FL to not play the CP card. They'd never allow the ML to be a dark, psycho character. They'd never allow the 2nd FL to say she only cares for herself. They'd never embed a big budget fight scene in a fluffy xianxia drama.

On surface it seems that everyone's trying to take down the ML, but that's not it. The industry needs TTEOTM to flop. Because only its failure can prove that their current approach of playing it safe, sticking to the formula works. You can do the same thing over and over again. Suddenly someone tells you you need to push yourself with something new everyday? Well then I'll break your pot and tell everyone Otter has gotten the wrong read on the market. Look, Immortality has been banned. Look at the horrible casting of TTEOTM, your ML is too thin and injured. Every established player in the industry is trying to trip you over. The platform has given you the worst airing slot. Everyone is bashing the drama.

其实长月的缺点非常多，多到每一个业内都能够找到一水的问题来证明它不行。编剧有问题，导演有问题，剪辑有问题，bgm比较平，营销风格与剧不一致，打光不行，滤镜不行，妆发不行，场景太空，音画不同步，三观有大病等等等等等…… 但是不可否认的是，拍出一水很“行”的作品的团队们，永远不会去拍一部可以“行”的长月。因为没有獭獭走这一步，他们根本不敢让神魔大战在仙侠题材里打1个小时，不敢让男女主不炒cp，不敢男主是个腹黑反派疯批，不敢女二说我只爱自己。不敢用这么高规格的特效在一部仙侠“糖水”剧里。表面上是男主的黑太多，其实并非如此。而是他们都需要长月扑街，只有长月扑街，才能证明他们的稳妥打法，吃存量的做法是正确的。明明可以吃大锅饭，你来告诉大家要卷着天天研发新鲜饭？那我砸了你的锅，告诉所有人獭獭对市场判断的眼光不行，你看皓衣行被禁了吧，你看长月选角垃圾，选了个瘦脱相男主吧，你看男主被打开不了剧吧，你看业内合作方没有不给你使绊子的吧，你看平台不看好给你冷档期吧，你看剧做出来市场上骂声一片吧……

TTEOTM has invited so much drama, controversy, criticism outside the show itself, as though who cares if it's just a shitty drama by a small-time investor. The industry can tolerate all crap productions, but it cannot accommodate a new player that comes with sincerity and money.

Therefore, I am bullish on TTEOTM. I don't think this drama is created to promote the ML or to make money. Quite the opposite, I think we're at the crossroads of a new era. Otter is the Wandering Earth of the TV industry. They're both sore-eyed catfish that's making waves beyond the work itself.

所以长月是妖风四起，争议不断，批评不绝，仿佛哪怕是它只是一部小投资的烂作，业内可以宽容所有的粗制滥造制作方，却绝不宽容有钱还有诚意而来的獭獭。所以我认为，我很看好长月烬明。我不认为这部剧之所以做出来，和捧男主或者营销捞钱有关。恰恰相反，我认为我们正站在一个时代的转角口。就好比流浪地球之于电影行业，獭獭之于电视剧行业，其实也是一条过于扎眼的鲶鱼，正激起一些超出作品本身的浪花。

#black moonlight holds the be script #till the end of the moon #luo yunxi #bai lu #tantai jin #chinese drama #cdrama #xianxia

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solradguy · 1 year

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Dengeki PlayStation F2, April Special Issue, Volume 19 ( April 10, 1996)

Archive.org upload w/webview .PDF and .ZIP of the full resolution scans: archive.org/details/dengeki-play-station-f2-vol19

I bought this magazine for the Guilty Gear beta article (which I hope to translate soon), but it's absolutely loaded with interesting early fighting game reviews/previews as well as a decent Final Fantasy 7 preview article.

Translation of the table of contents with the English title in brackets (where applicable):

[LEFT COLUMN] Dengeki [electric shock/attack] PlayStation April Special Issue F2 SPECIAL REPORT - A volley of big titles! ● Exclusive screenshots of the hottest new wave of fighting games! GUILTY GEAR….8 ● The latest information on the PS version of the latest popular Neo-Geo title!

[SNK Special] The King of Fighters '95….13 Samurai Spirits: Zankoro Musouken [Samurai Shodown III]….14 Real Bout Garou Densetsu [Real Bout Fatal Fury]….15

● Super latest information on very big titles that we can't wait until December FFVII [Final Fantasy 7]….148 ● The latest RPG from the tag team of SCE and MediaVision Wild Arms….154 ● Simulation romance in which a vampire protagonist plays an active role in high school life BLOODY BRIDE ~Imadoki no Vampire~ [Today's Vampire: Bloody Bride]….158

Kiokusoshi [(computer) storage element] F2 Strategy and data of fighting games post-release Street Fighter Zero….74 Toushinden 2 [Battle Arena Toshinden 2]….84 Suikoden….90 Goukouji Clan 2….94 Fire Pro Wrestling: Iron Slam ‘96….98 Don't Lose! Magic Kendo 2 [Kendo Rage 2]….100 Sora Ninku….102 Champion Wrestler: Jikkyou Live….103 …and more―

[RIGHT COLUMN] Unrivaled Lightning Combat! The hottest hand-picked PlayStation fighters of today.

Tekken 2 Tekken 2 for PS is here, with numerous special modes and amazing high quality CG movies, far surpassing the arcade version! Really useful in-depth strategy, Part 1….18

● The PS version of "Tekken 2" has finally been released with a reputation as the best bishoujo fighting game! Advanced V.G. [Variable Geo]….34 ● The latest information on this title that all PS users have been waiting for! Vampire [Darkstalkers]….46 ● Easy controls and a variety of action! A very promising title in the bishoujo fighting genre!! Asuka 120% Special….56 Galaxy Fight….62 Mobile Suit Gundam Ver.2.0….66 Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon Super S. [Pretty Soldier Sailor Moon SuperS: All Members!! Championship Contest]….68

Arcade Special: The arcade wave is sweeping over the PS… ● Report on the entertainment system trade show, which will occupy the entire game scene in the future. AOU Show Reported '96….116 ● A preview of the latest installment in the classic and very popular series. Street Fighter ZERO 2….122 ● The latest arcade fighter on the System 11 board. As expected, a PS port for… Soul Edge….124

[BROWN LOWER BOX] New software schedule….6 [Manga] Tekken 2: Hajimete Monogatari [The First Legend/Story]….106 [Patient Corner] F's Servants….110 Readers' Survey….114 Dengeki Soft Station….127 Software Maker Question Box F2….144 Dengeki News Station….146 Dengeki PS extra issue preview….160 Next issue preview + Game Index….161

#guilty gear #final fantasy #tekken #my scans #guilty gear scans #king of fighters #real bout fatal fury #darkstalkers #playstation #dengeki playstation

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ovaruling · 11 months

Text

@non-suspiciousname @junipercastor i’m not a dietician or doctor disclaimer disclaimer if you have preexisting conditions this may not be for you disclaimer disclaimer i cannot account for every human experience disclaimer disclaimer BUT the easiest way to do this is to first learn what “high fiber foods” means.

and before i begin, here’s how much fiber we more or less need via a helpful Harvard health article.

so, to recap: for women—the ones who matter to me—that’s 25g for adult women who are 50 and under. women 50 and over, that’s 21g.

and i included the extra paragraph about Metamucil etc bc that is important to note. a lot of people do think they’re getting quality daily fiber in these powders.

here’s a helpful article abt the differences between soluble and insoluble fiber. both are important in their own ways!

and just so we’re clear on the benefits of upping your fiber intake:

so!

i recommend a quick google to see the fiber content per serving of a variety of foods that i don’t have time condense here. but, like, beans are a really inexpensive way to do this (add some rice to it and you have a complete muscle-lovin’ protein btw! all the essential amino acids are covered when you combine rice and beans 🫶). beans and legumes are incredibly rich in fiber, and they’re budget-friendly, shelf-stable, and easy to make and easy to incorporate into infinite delicious possible dishes.

but your fiber can be gotten from so many different sources! (my data here is approximate from individual checking. pls allow 1-2g of fiber for margin of error in case i mistype!)

for fruits: 1 cup of blackberries OR raspberries has 8g of fiber!!!!! 1 medium apple has around 4-5g of fiber. an average banana or a serving of strawberries have 3g of fiber. an average avocado has 10g of fiber. and so forth

for grains: steel-cut oats have 5g of fiber per 1/4 cup uncooked (oats are generally rich in fiber anyway, but steel cut in particular). a slice of whole grain bread should have around 3g fiber. brown rice contains 3.5g fiber for every cooked cup. one cup of cooked quinoa (which is also a complete protein!) contains 5g of fiber. bran is almost 15g per one cup serving.

if you’ve got access to chia seeds, a 1oz serving provides 10g fiber. here’s a yummy super easy recipe for peanut butter chia pudding!!!

nuts and seeds provide a lot of fiber too. 1oz of walnuts contains nearly 2g fiber! 1oz of almonds contains 3.5g fiber. peanuts contain 2.5g fiber for 1oz. sunflower seeds are 12g per 1 cup serving (though that’s a lot of them to eat—1/4 a cup would be closer to 3g)

and my fave prunes are 12g per one cup serving. again, that’s a lot of them to eat. 1/4 of that would be 3g.

beans/legumes are king for fiber. 1 cup of cooked black beans contains 15g of fiber. 1 cup of navy beans contains around 19g of fiber. 1 cup of kidney beans contains 11g of fiber.

split peas are i think around 8g per cup when cooked? cooked broccoli is around 5g. corn is around 4g.

i could go on but i’m literally hooked up to an IV for medication rn so i’m one-handed lol i apologize for how cramped this is

but here’s a great list from the Mayo Clinic of high fiber foods and another list of 40 foods from a women’s health mag and also another from healthline, which also has a handy chart for fiber requirements for more specific age groups based on sex

and yes, there are also high-fiber cereals, but beware of the much-touted and rightly-feared ingredient of psyllium husk. it’s more or less used as a laxative and can be outright dangerous for your digestive system and is very painful if not consumed in militant moderation. ask me how i know lol. please please be careful of psyllium husk. like, for real. just stay away from it altogether imo.

sorry this is a lot of discombobulated info, but again i’m one handed at the moment. but hopefully that helps a bit! fiber is linked to longevity and good colon health and that’s what i want for women forever

EDIT: go slow with this! if you’re not used to the recommended daily intake, you will need to gradually work up to this so as not to upset your gastrointestinal system. you may otherwise find yourself in discomfort. GO SLOW. add fiber-rich foods in small portions over time to allow your body to adjust. it is well worth the patience—but don’t overload your system by eating a ton of prunes and thinking you’re doing yourself any good that way. introduce gently and in moderation until you feel comfortable with how it makes your digestion feel!

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