scaryfangirl

[prettyoddfever]

Panic! at the Disco’s shows in August – September 2007

I love this season even more in hindsight because it’s nothing like the Pretty. Odd. era, yet nothing like the Fever era either. This whole year was basically an in-between phase (so it’s actually kind of nice that the second album got bumped to spring 2008 because each of the band’s phases fits neatly into its own year now). The shows at Atlanta and Summerfest earlier this year felt like the band had ditched the Fever era, but hadn’t decided on a new direction yet… so August was the first time that we really got a sense of where the guys were heading. 

update: the new songs in August had absolutely nothing to do with the cabin album. the band had already scrapped that & started over in July.

NEW SONGS YAY

The band played their new cover of The Weight by The Band at shows this season and that stuck around for a long time… they even played it at shows during the Pretty. Odd. era. Spencer told the Toronto Sun in 2008 that “We knew we wanted to do a new cover song and for whatever reason we just watched The Last Waltz and wanted to cover that song. We love playing that song.”

They also added rough versions of two new songs: Nine in the Afternoon and When the Day Met the Night. We had no idea what those songs were actually called, though… the most common names were Back to the Street(s) and Middle of Summer. (And I know those are just random names that fans gave the songs, but I’m still going to say “Middle of Summer” for the earliest version of WTDMTN because I loved it so so so much and really cemented that name in my mind… plus the early version is different anyways). 

Ryan introduced Back to the Streets as “Nine in the Afternoon” at Decaydance Fest, so that correction started spreading earlier. Many fans initially thought the band was singing about “night in the afternoon,” which IS pretty cool… I’m kind of sad that wasn’t a song ha. There also was a decent amount of debate over the lyrics in the bridge for Middle of Summer. Some people thought it said “to this day they’re sipping tea” (or something similar) but I agreed with the “to this day they’re seventeen” idea so strongly that I still can’t properly hear the examples where Brendon is very clearly singing “to this day they’re sipping tea” lol. (although I LOVE those lyrics too. a lot. they just exist in an alternate reality for me). Here’s the same bit from Reading. A couple articles said that the song was called When The Moon Fell In Love With The Sun… so the info about that song was definitely less consistent. There were still articles being written at the end of January 2008 that called the song Middle of Summer.

The band also began regularly mixing Roxanne into Camisado after Virgin Fest (they’d also done it for a short time after the NRWC tour ended). They had talked a lot about being tired of playing their same old songs by the end of the Fever era, so it was fun to watch them find ways to make their set feel different.

VIRGIN FEST (August 5th)

here are some pictures

the Spin interview

MTV often chopped up their interviews to use in different news segments, so here are two parts.

some videos from the show

P!ATD played on the second day of this 2-day festival in Baltimore. Here are a few highlights from reviews.

This was the first time that the band played Nine in the Afternoon, Middle of Summer, and the new cover. Spencer said that he and Brendon messed up the new songs, so evidently those aren’t exactly what the earliest versions were meant to sound like… but it still sounded great for something they wrote within the past few weeks.

The two new songs had a waaaaay better reception than It’s True Love. Some people were still confused about why the new songs were obnoxiously happy, but even those types of comments were nowhere near as harsh.

Ryan told the crowd that the band had eaten “like 300 crab cakes” and Brendon said he felt nasty from it. This blog post / interview is still up where Brendon said something similar.

The band hadn’t started adding Roxanne to Camisado yet (for this season), but maybe that was fortunate since The Police headlined Virgin Fest and played that song themselves ha.

I know it seems like the Pretty. Odd. era in 2008 must have come as a surprise since it was so different from the Fever era, but Virgin Fest in 2007 was actually the biggest shock for me. Everything after this point felt like it was building on the new direction that had been established.

I don’t remember seeing better pictures of this moment, but a fan said Ryan got tp’ed:

DECAYDANCE FEST (August 21 – 22)

here are some pictures

the band wasn’t at the August 19th show in Germany, but they were at the one in Paris on August 21st and the one in London the next day.

Fall Out Boy played last and P!ATD played right before them. Cobra Starship played first, followed by The Academy Is… and then Gym Class Heroes.

a lot of the fan videos from these shows have sadly been deleted or made private… but here’s a playlist of some of the leftover stuff.

one review said “Urie wore his talent lightly, but couldn’t hide a truly extraordinary voice - Freddie Mercurylike in its effortless ability to switch from delicate falsetto to gritty rockout mode.” 

Jon & Ryan were talking way more onstage now.

Ryan’s habit of picking a few girls to stare at super intensely was still going strong haha. 

People were lined up since sunrise and the doors didn’t open until that evening. Some fans said that part of the band was able to come outside… it sounded like Jon & Spencer were walking to a shop and Ryan offered soup to fans.

this interview happened on August 22nd and the same soup story was mentioned.

here’s a random blog post that’s still up.

the band went up the Eiffel Tower one night. It sounded like other Decaydance band members might have gone too, but it was hard to pick out which stories were definitely true because some fans were overly excited that the guys were all hanging out (cue the fanfiction).

I heard that one of the shows was filmed for a dvd, but idk what happened with that.

THE KERRANG AWARDS (August 23 in the UK)

here are some pictures.

Fans could vote earlier this year for these awards. P!ATD was nominated for Best International Band but lost to My Chemical Romance.

here’s an interview from the Kerrang video podcast.

here’s a fan video from afterwards.

Kerrang’s coverage of the event listed this in their timeline: “6:53 pm – Panic! at the Disco arrive, minus Ryan Ross, who’s ill with tonsillitis. Will drummer Spencer Smith hit anyone if the band doesn’t win? ‘No no, of course not,’ he splutters. ‘We may throw over a table… if no one’s in the way.’ Rock and fucking roll!”

The band was also mentioned in Kerrang’s article about the aftershow: “first to the bar was one of the young scamps from Panic! at the Disco. Four-stringer Jon Walker…”

READING & LEEDS (August 25 – 26 in the UK)

here are the pictures I’ve posted so far

they played Reading on Saturday, and Leeds on Sunday.

BBC had the 2007 Reading show up on their site, so that became a popular file to pass around. You can still watch it here! (Also: it looks like someone recently put that file on youtube as “Leeds,” but it’s definitely Reading). That’s not the full set that P!ATD played btw… it’s just the parts BBC aired.

Some of the better quality fan videos from Leeds: one, two, three.

here’s an aerial view of Leeds and Reading.

here’s BBC’s interview and NME’s interview from Reading.

Brendon was interviewed after the Leeds show (and omg he had changed/grown so much in just half a year… it also felt like he’d been put through media training or something).

some videos from the Reading signing booth: one, two, three.

some videos from the Leeds signing: one, two, three 

My main takeaway from NME’s blog was that Spencer liked couscous and Ryan’s floral shirt was a poly-cotton blend. The most interesting thing that BBC said was “Brando Urie.” I’m sure these are very useful bits of info…

It felt weird how journalists were still trying to call P!ATD emo when the band had completely shed the makeup and were literally wearing jeans & normal street clothes onstage this month. One journalist for NME who ate lunch with the band said “I should be painting my face considering the hunky specimens I’ve been hanging out with” as though the Fever era was still going strong.

Kerrang’s Reading Special said that “After getting felled by a single hit last year, the joyous tidal wave of missiles that welcome Panic! at the Disco this time round seems almost like a display of affection. That they’ve toured this long on the back of a single record is impressive, but while their vaudeville emo-pop melange gets a faultless execution, without the circus stageshow trappings or any unexpected drama it feels like something’s held back. They are however, a Ritalin bomb compared to the Red Hot Chili Peppers…”

there were a lot of jokes made about the bottling from 2006, but nothing as dramatic happened this year. 

NME’s blog post about The Academy Is said “we’re convinced they were conceived at a record label board meeting entitled Bridging The Gap: How We’re Gonna Make Money Between Panic! At The Disco and Fall Out Boy albums.”

Ryan’s at the end of this TAI TV episode

On August 30th the band posted a journal entry that said “Just wanted to thank everybody over in Europe for showing us a great time as always. Decaydance Fest was great, and Reading made us feel very welcome once again. As much as we love it over there, we are very glad to be home continuing to work on the new record. We also have 2 shows for you west coasters coming up soon… That might be it for the rest of the year, so pllease make sure to come out if you can and say hello!”

RYAN’S BIRTHDAY (August 30)

Ok, this wasn’t a show (or even a big deal), but I’m sticking it in this post anyways since the current fandom seems to have turned it into a notable event. The whole Ryden Seattle story isn’t real btw. 

Anything I post will end up in this tag. The pictures made it look like this night was mostly about Keltie and her fellow Sugar & Spice members tbh. This article is still up! And here’s the article where Rolling Stone talks about how Keltie found a bunch of pictures of Ryan online to decorate with. Perez Hilton also posted a picture from Ryan’s birthday party and said “Uhmmm, dude, that headband is totally gay. And that’s not a bad thing” and then filed the post under “gay gay gay.” 

BUMBERSHOOT (September 1)

here’s some stuff I’ve posted so far

here’s a basic playlist

this was at Seattle Center. A one-day ticket cost $35.

Panic headlined the mainstage at 10pm. Their set was supposed to go until 11pm.

Spin’s coverage said “Even more disappointing was Panic’s headlining set, which wrapped 15 minutes shy of its prescribed 60-minute allotment – including an encore – and felt extremely tossed off, especially after Gym Class Heroes charming, engaging show just prior. But with so many additional options throughout the day and amazingly reasonable ticket prices ($35 per day, $10 for kids aged six to ten, and even cheaper if you purchased them long in advance), there wasn’t much value lost – at the Disco. Plus, several thousand screaming Panic fans behind us didn’t seem to care much.”

One review said that “I was anticipating Panic! At the Disco to be a favorite for Bumbershoot, and I’m not the only one. The turnout was overwhelming. The show sold out, as in… even if you got a Bumbershoot ticket, some people were denied entrance to the stadium.”

an interview from Bumbershoot

THE VMAs (September 9)

this got a separate post

SAN DIEGO STREET SCENE (September 22)

here are some pictures

a playlist of some videos (I put a couple good ones towards the top)

Most news articles earlier in the year were saying that P!ATD, The Killers, and Muse were headlining this festival. Panic played at 8:45 for an hour right before Muse.

P!ATD played on the first night. 2-day tickets started around $120.

Ryan had been talking more onstage throughout this season, which led to complaints that he was too deadpan & boring. I thought it was just nice to see him way more comfortable & confident.

This article that’s still up had a nice summary of the day and spelled Brendon’s name right: “The crowd reacted really well to Panic! Almost everybody was up out of their chairs dancing and singing along. And when front man Brendon Urie said “bitchin” – which was the pre-established code word for the crowd to scream – the crowd went crazy.”

AOL AMP’d UP (September 24) 

this was an invite-only benefit at the Nokia Theatre in NYC, so there weren’t too many fans there specifically for P!ATD. Gym Class Heroes also headlined this event with Panic. 

here are some pictures

here's one video and another.

UPDATE: I literallly cannot comprehend this mind-numbingly boring event… like I cannot focus on the concept. So I am going to just summarize some descriptions I saved because I honestly still don’t 100% know what this event was lol. Soooo apparently Advertising Week (which is a thing?) made the GeneratioNext Fund in 2006 to establish new internship & mentoring programs in NYC… some media called it a college fund. The concert on September 24th was usually referred to as “AOL AMP’d UP” and was one of 3 components of GeneratioNext 2007 (the other 2 being a golf thing in July and a Tribeca closing block party on 9/27). Ughhh there’s a lot of other info about advertising & crap, but the point is that P!ATD was there, the end.

Angels & Kings held a karaoke contest after this show and listed the P!ATD guys on myspace as the judges.

Rolling Stone was still confused.

Panic at the Disco’s AP cover article in spring 2008 said that the band’s performance at a pre-Grammy show in early February was “their first public appearance in more than a year” and made a big deal out of that. I have no idea why anyone would say that… it’s like they just blanked out 2007.

THE MAIN POST

[reunitedinterlude]

celebrating 20 years of amazingphil [18/20]

Phil: All of those decisions and things that happened in my life led to who I am today, and I quite like who I am today. And it scares me that if I made one change, I'd be a completely different person now.

[cloversdreams]

Alphabet Prompt List 4

♡ ♡ ♡

A. "Are you cosplaying [character]?" "Yup! They're my favorite!" "Wow! I love that series, I've never met anyone else that's seen it!"

B. "Boobies. Huhuhu." "Turn your calculator right-side up and pay attention."

C. "Cat pajamas, huh?" "Yup. Aren't they super cute?"

D. "Don't be mad..." "What'd you break?" "Nothing! ...it broke itself..."

E. "Every time I glance your way you seem to be staring at me. Care to explain?"

F. "Five more minutes." "...I didn't say anything." "But you were about to."

G. "Give me your hand." "Okay. Now what?" "Nothing. I just wanted to hold it."

H. "How's the sweetest, most precious, single most stunning creature in the whole world doing today?" *Not looking up from phone, sighs* "I'm fine." *Holding back a snicker* "Good to hear but I was talking to the cat/dog."

I. "I didn't think-" "That's your problem! You never do!"

J. "Just give me a second." "No time. Jump."

K. "Kiss toll! You may not pass until you pay up!"

L. "Let's take a bubble bath together."

M. "My kitchen, my rules."

N. "Now what are we supposed to do?" "Wing it. Come on."

O. "One more round." "You've already lost three games." "Those were warm ups. This time I'm ready."

P. "Power move." "No, that's just a normal move. You really haven't played chess before, huh?"

Q. "Quiet. Shh. You hear that?" "Hear what?" "It's the tickle monster!"

R. "Raining again? Must it be so miserable outside?" "I dunno, I think it's kinda romantic."

S. "Sooo... come here often?" "I work here."

T. "Tonight's the night I drink you under the table! Prepare yourself!"

U. "Ugly. Stinky. Bad boy/girl." "The seagull will never feel bad about stealing your snack no matter how hard you try and shame it. Go buy a new one."

V. "Very rude. Just down right spiteful." "What is?" "The fact that it's been more than five minutes since you last hugged me."

W. "Wow." "...?" "Sorry, I was completely stunned by your beauty once again." [Optional addition- "You dork."]

X. "Xylograph class went great." "Couldn't you just have said woodcut class?" "Show some respect she has a government name."

Y. "You're telling me that between the both of us we'd never be able to figure out an escape room?" "Considering you'd just cry and I'd have to figure it out alone? Yeah." "Rude. Rude and simply untrue!"

Z. "Zoo time!" "Huh?" "New babies! Let's go see them!"

part 1, part 2, part 3

[creaturefeaturecommando]

Just thought of a SuperBatJokes thing based off that song Crazy Possessive where Supes is seen hanging around Bats more and Joker gets jealous and he and Supes get their own P.O.V's with the lyrics when Joker confronted Supes with some sort of kryptonite weapon he stole from Lex Luthor

Joker: I think I'm crazy

I think I'm going out of my mind

You call me crazy

I thought I saw you touching my guy

Are you crazy?

Maybe I should take you outside

And show you crazy

Ohhh I got your crazy

Supes: A little hazy

Maybe I'm just losing my mind

I think you're shady

I know that you've been calling my guy

Are you crazy?

Now I'm gonna take you outside

And show you crazy

Ohhh I got your crazy

And both of them fighting is just: CALL MY MAN AGAIN AND IMA FUCK YOU UP AND IMA FUCK YOU UP AND IMA FUCK YOU UP ! TOUCH MY MAN AGAIN AND IMA FUCK YOU UP AND IMA FUCK YOU UP !

And Bats is just watching from the sidelines with Damian because this shit is kind of entertaining and Damian calls Dick, Tim, Duke and Cass up to watch, and Tim is taking a video for Alfred and it's just a messy and eventually eyes fall on Bruce cuz he has two very different types of men fighting over him like it's some sort of CW high school drama show and All Bruce can do is go like-

[trickster-tabby]

UHHHHH superbatjokes but they're all some flavor of trans

[pichirobi]

Terrible Influence Tour Song Lyrics

(because this earworm is driving me crazy! transcribed from these recordings x x x)

We saw you from across the Internet, and we really liked your vibe I might just have to parasocially dedicate my life How'd I ever live without this warm feeling inside? So many ups and many downs, but hey, it's been a ride We're sorry for what we did to you We gave you love, we gave you abuse You wrote it in pen, I got the tattoo You blocked me, I want to introduce my family to you

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me

I can't get you out my head My first thought in the morning, my nightmares in bed You ruined my life, you kept me fed If it weren't for you, I would be dead What's theory, what's real, what's just fiction? Is it queerbaiting, or homoerotic friction? Endless greed, ruthless ambition Commissions open for the naked depiction

Is it them, or is it me? Am I dedicated, or fucking crazy? Too much, too young, too fast, it changed me But now it's terminal, this shit can't phase me

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me

#LOVEYOU, #AD #CANCELLED, #DADS It's not illegal, it can't be bad You changed my mind, you made me mad

Is it them, or is it me? Am I dedicated, or fucking crazy? Too much, too young, too fast, it changed me But now it's terminal, this shit can't phase me

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me

It's been a lot, it's been a time We need to move on and forgive the crimes This is our space, our time to thrive It's us against the world, together we'll survive

T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E Say it to my face, you want to influence me Content, consume, you say it's crazy But I-D-G-A-F because it saved me (x2)

[deathclassic]

viewers pick our outfits

click for better quality

[rawish-moonstone]

I'm just gonna leave this here

source

[drarreckyninja]

Understand My Ship #2

@anxious-multishipper

[zzxid-deactivated20220516]

List of canon LGBT Transformers

(warning: spoiler heavy)

People don’t believe me when I say Transformers: MTMTE/Lost Light is really gay. JRo confirmed is an homonormative society, so here a list, anyways:

____100% confirmed____

Chromedome (gay): Is married to Rewind. Had other husdbands before him and used to date Prowl too.

Rewind (gay): Is married to Chromedome. Before him, he was married to Dominus Ambus.

Cyclonus (gay): Falls in love with Tailgate.

Tailgate (gay): Falls in love with Cyclonus.

Brainstorm (gay): Fell in love with Quark but it was unrerquited. Heavily implied he has feelings towards Perceptor. Then confirmed by JRo at the end of LL.

Perceptor: Any interaction with Brainstorm during and after the Time Travel arc heavily implies he has feelings for him. Hints go until being confirmed in the ending of LL.

Drift: Have ship tease with both Rodimus and Ratchet, Lug and Anode mistake Rodimus for his boyfriend,and had bigger hints with Ratchet. Gets with Ratchet at the end.

Ratchet: Cares a lot for Drift and is implied to be attracted to him. Canonized as the ending of LL.

Skids (bi): Flirts with Firestar not realizing she is a “she” and not a “he” but doesn’t change his opinion on her. Had romantic feelings for Nautica but that arc was dropped for a platonic one.

Pipes (gay): Flirted with Drift as he explained him his very specific type and his interest in getting in a relationship (during a time there were only men in the ship), shown interest on Tailgate, had a crush on Riptide.

Prowl (gay): Chromedome’s ex.

Getaway (bi): Like Skids, he also Flirted with Firestar and seems to don’t have problem flirting based on gender.

Anode (trans lesbian): Changed her body after leaving her planet and realizising she is a girl. Married to Lug.

Lug (trans lesbian): Trasn girl, didn’t changed her body. Married to Anode.

Crankcase (gay): Has an internet alien boyfriend (cons4eva - right). 

Cons4eva (gay): The internet boyfriend.

minor characters: Dominus Ambus (Rewind’s first Conjunx), Proxima (Married to a lady),

____Hinted in canon / but only confirmed by word of god____

Rodimus: It’s implied he is attracted to Drift, Anode mistook them for a couple, so apparently implied Magnus, when asked if Rodimus would officiate the Drift/Ratchet wedding JRo answerd “There was a conflict of interest”. The LL ending shows him supportive of Drift relationship with Ratchet. JRo confirmed him and Drift were more “friends with benefits”.

Ultra Magnus (Minimus Ambus): It’s implied he is attracted to Megatron, Rodimus thinks they’re a couple, when asked if Minimus had a crush on Megatron, JRo answerd “only if life were this simple”, script comments mentions he wanted to be held by Megatron in the christmas comic.

Megatron: Had ship tease with Ultra Magnus (read above), some of his interaction with Optimus can be read as romantic.

____not mentioned in canon, but confirmed by JRo____

Cerebros, Fortress Maximus and Red Alert (gay): Confirmed to be a poly relationship.

Nickel (bi): Confirmed she had a girlfriend back then in her planet. She is shown flirting with Roller too..

____IMPLIED____

Roller (bi): Shown rather touchy feeling with Springarm during the little pages they’re together. But he also flirted with Nickel.

Springarm: ^.

Optimus Prime / Orion Pax: It’s implied was in a Relationship with the Senator Shockwave

Ten (gay): Implied to have a crush on Ultra Magnus.

Whirl: Consideres Chromedome, Rewind, Rodimus, Cyclonus, Tailgate and Rung attractive, but haven’t shown romantic interest in any of them.

Swerve: Has a crush on Blurr, but Skids calls it a “celebrity crush”.

First Aid: The way he describes Sringer heavily implies he has a crush on him.

____non-MTMTE LGBT Transformers____

IDW: Knock Out & Breakdown (canon m/m), Arcee (trans lesbian) & Aileron (lesbian), Blast Off & Onslaught* (m/m), Needlenose & Horri-Bull* (m/m), Greenlight & Lancer (f/f), Dust Up & Jumpstream (f/f).

TFP: Knock Out*

Shattered Glass: Windblade & Strongarm (canon f/f)

[characters/relationships with a “*” are examples of LGBT representaion that I don’t find positive and won’t give credit given that their attraction/gender where based on negative stereotypes/tropes.

[simfur]

Since you’re including a few non-mtmte examples now, I’ll just mention that Bazooka and Crazybolt in Beast Wars Uprising (two dudes) become conjunx endura at the end of the story Intersectionality!

Also there’s some stuff from Ask Vector Prime but I feel like opening the AVP can of worms is inadvisable

[scaryfangirl2001]

No More Mothball Wigs

@f5fest

Summary:

While out on the town with her new friends, Carolyn is harassed but immediately defended. (Aug.)

Fandom: King of the Hill

Relationship: Jeff Boomhauer/Dale Gribble, Bill Dauterive/Hank Hill, Peggy Hill/Carolyn

Tags: 2006 (Year), Episode: s11e01 The Peggy Horror Picture Show, Transphobia, Protectiveness, Crossdressing

Words: 2,001

PROMPT: wolfsbane

CONTEXT: Feeling unfeminine, Peggy meets Carolyn (secretly a transitioning drag queen). Hank and Bill have been married for 2 years; Dale and Boomhauer have been married for 5 years (6 in December).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/78774071

The humidity of an August night in Arlen, Texas, clings to the skin like a damp wool blanket, but inside the neon-lit sanctuary of "The Velvet Spur," the air is thick with the scent of cheap hairspray, spilled domestic beer, and the electric hum of a world Peggy Hill is only just beginning to understand. The world feels like it is tilting on its axis. Peggy sits at a circular booth, her posture as rigid and academic as ever, yet there is a softness in her eyes as she looks at Carolyn. Carolyn is a vision in sequins and expertly applied foundation—a woman who, in Peggy’s estimation, possesses the kind of effortless femininity that Peggy has spent forty years trying to brute-force into existence.

Peggy feels a strange, fluttering warmth in her chest, a kinetic energy she hasn’t felt since the early nineties. She thinks of her ex-husband, a man she now realizes was far more "fluid" than the Arlen school board would ever approve of, and she wonders if she is catching a bit of that bug. Spending time with Carolyn reminds her of how she felt when she and Hank were in their honeymoon phase, long before Bobby was born. It is a crush, Peggy realizes with a jolt of pride, and she decides then and there that her capacity for love is simply too big for one gender to contain.

Beside them, the guys are gathered in a rare display of domestic harmony. Hank and Bill, married for two years now, share a pitcher of Miller Lite. Bill looks healthier than he has in a decade, his bald spot gleaming under the disco ball, while Hank wears his wedding band with a quiet, stubborn dignity that says he’ll kick the ass of anyone who has a problem with it. Across from them, Dale and Boomhauer—the veterans of the group with nearly six years of marriage under their belts—are a study in contrasts. Dale is noticeably more grounded than in years past, though no less intense. Ever since Boomhauer had sat him down shortly after the wedding—agreeing to go to therapy himself if Dale would just talk to a professional—the Gribble-Boomhauer household had achieved a precarious but functional peace.

The ADHD medication kept his thoughts from splintering into a thousand directions at once, and the anti-psychotics had smoothed out the sharper, more terrifying edges of his paranoia. He still believes the government is up to no good, but now he plans his counter-offensives with a terrifyingly clear-headed focus. He vibrates with a controlled energy, his fingers tapping out a precise, rhythmic code on the table, while Boomhauer leans back, looking every bit the relaxed spouse.

"I’m telling you, Carolyn," Peggy says, her voice rising above the thump of a remix of a Dixie Chicks song. "Your application of eyeliner is nothing short of surgical. I am a woman of many talents—Substitute Teacher of the Year, three-time Boggle champion—but I find myself a humble student in the school of your vanity."

Carolyn laughs, a deep, melodic sound that carries a hint of the secret she thinks she’s keeping—the estrogen pills tucked away in her purse, the slow, tectonic shift of her soul away from Jamie, the name she was given at birth, and toward the woman she has chosen to be. She thinks Peggy is a "sister in the struggle," a fellow traveler in the world of drag, and Peggy, in her beautiful, narcissistic ignorance, just thinks she’s found a very tall, very talented best friend. The harmony is shattered when Peggy and Boomhauer stand up to head to the bar.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head, Dale," Peggy chirps, patting her hair. "We shall return with the nectar of the gods. Or at least some more light beer."

As they disappear into the crowd, the vacuum they leave is filled by two men who smell of Axe body spray and unearned confidence. They are "frat-boy types"—thick-necked, wearing polos with popped collars, their eyes gleaming with the predatory boredom of the small-town bully. They loom over the booth, ignoring Hank and Bill entirely.

One of them, a blonde with a jawline like a shovel, leans over Dale. "Hey, Slim Jim," he sneers, his voice dripping with a lewd, oily subtext. "We heard you’re the flexible type. Why don't you come back to the tailgate? We bet you can bend in ways that’d make a pretzel jealous."

Dale doesn’t even look up from his beer. He adjusts his orange cap, his expression one of bored condescension. The medication allows him to process the insult without immediately spiraling into a panic about kidney harvesters. "My husband seems to think so," he says, his voice flat and tinny. "But unless you’re carrying a Class 4 security clearance or a bag of high-grade bug poison, you’re just wasting my oxygen. Move along, Sasquatch."

The bullies’ faces darken, their ego bruised by the ease of Dale’s dismissal. They pivot, their cruelty finding a softer target: Carolyn. "What about you, 'sweetheart'?" the second one asks, reaching out to flick a sequin on Carolyn’s shoulder. "You look a little… experimental. What’s the deal? You got a permit for those parts, or are you just a confused science project?"

Carolyn flinches, her shoulders hunching. She is used to this. In the world of 2006, the "T" in the acronym is often silent or mocked, and she has learned that silence is her best armor. She stares at the table, her hands trembling.

"I asked you a question, freak," the blonde one says, leaning in close, his breath smelling of tequila. "What are your chromosomes? Are we talking XY or just 'Why'?"

Hank Hill hits the table with a fist that makes the pitchers dance. He stands up, his belt buckle straining against his jeans, his face a shade of red that rivals a ripe tomato.

"Now you listen here, you jackass!" Hank barks, his voice cutting through the music like a saw through pine. "Her chromosomes? That’s asinine! You don’t talk to a person like they’re some got-dang petri dish in a middle school science fair. Her pronouns are she and her, and if you had the common sense God gave a piece of charcoal, you’d see you’re talking to a woman! A lady! Now, get your narrow pipes out of this booth before I show you the business end of a Texas-sized-twelve boot!"

Bill stands up beside him, puffing out his chest. "That’s right! I think she’s a very classy lady. She has better posture than most of the people I saw at the DMV today, and her scent is delightful!"

Dale, sensing the tide has turned, stands up on the bench of the booth to gain height. He points a nicotine-stained finger at the frat boys. Thanks to his ADHD meds, his rant is remarkably structured. "Y'know, you have all these so-called whistleblowers claiming the government is putting chemicals in vaccines and food to make you one of them transgenders or homosexuals. Operation Rainbow-Frog is a documented reality in certain sectors of the deep state!"

He leans in, his glasses reflecting the strobe lights, his gaze piercing and unblinking. "But I’ve never seen a transgender person support the government. Not once! They’re the ones the system wants to suppress because they’ve unlocked the ultimate encryption: changing the hardware! And those 'gay frogs'? They’re just nature’s way of saying the water table is compromised by corporate runoff. It makes you wonder what they’re really putting in your protein shakes, doesn't it? All I’m saying is that Chelsea Manning went to prison for telling the truth, and Mr. Rogan is a millionaire for talking about aliens, and in this economy, you always gotta follow the money. You’re just pawns in a game played by men in suits who want you to hate her so you don't notice they're stealing your social security! You're focusing on her biology while they're digitizing your DNA for the 2012 apocalypse!"

The frat boys blink, genuinely stunned by the sheer, logical velocity of Dale’s rhetoric. They look at each other, then back at the skinny man who seems to have a terrifyingly firm grasp on his own brand of reality. At that moment, Peggy and Boomhauer return. Boomhauer takes one look at the tense shoulders, the trembling Carolyn, and the two idiots hovering over his husband. He sets the drinks down with a heavy thud. He stands six-foot-two of lean, tanned muscle, and his blue eyes go cold as a North Texas winter.

"Mm-hmm," Boomhauer says, stepping into the frat boys' personal space. He doesn't shout; he just vibrates with a quiet, dangerous authority. "Man, talk about, dangol, choose-your-own-path-in-line, man youknowwhatI’msaying? It’s like, youdon’talwaysgottaplaythehandyou'redealt, man, sometimesyouget aroyalflush, sometimesyouget nothin', talkin' 'bout kings and queens, man, it’s a beautiful thing you come in here with that, dangol, hate in your heart, man, like some kind of wolfsbane, man talkin' m'bout treachery and misanthropy, you just move on, man, before I, dangol, show you the door, yo."

The frat boys, faced with a man who looks like he could be a Calvin Klein model but talks like a runaway freight train, finally decide the "freaks" aren't worth the hospital bill. They mumble something about "weirdos" and vanish into the night. Peggy immediately slides into the booth, wrapping a protective, large-boned arm around Carolyn.

"Are you alright, sugar? I tell you, some people were raised in a barn and not the good kind of barn where they keep the prize heifers."

Carolyn wipes a stray tear, her mascara miraculously holding firm. "I’m… I’m okay. You guys didn't have to do that. I’m used to it. Really."

"Well, you shouldn't have to be," Bill says softly, reaching across to pat her hand. "I know what it’s like to want to feel… different. I like to crossdress myself sometimes. It makes me feel pretty. Like a different version of Bill. A better one."

Dale nods, sitting back down and reaching into his pocket to check his pill organizer—a habit Boomhauer had helped him establish. "I’m all for it. If the government wants us to be one thing, the most patriotic thing you can do is be something else. It jams the radar. Plus, my therapist says self-actualization is the ultimate defense against psychic intrusion."

Boomhauer nudges Dale with a grin, proud of his husband's progress. "Man, tell 'em, yo, 'member that time, dang'ol, we dressed up like, you know, ladies of the evening, man? For that, dang'ol, operation? Long story, man, but I tell you what, yo, Dale makes a hot woman, man. Talkin' m'bout, legs for days, yo."

Dale winks at Boomhauer, the tension of the confrontation melting into a familiar, domestic flirtation. "Oh, you think so, Jeff? You want me to dig those fishnets out of the crawlspace? I still have the wig. It smells like mothballs and patriotism."

Carolyn laughs, a genuine, hearty sound this time. She looks at this strange, dysfunctional, fiercely loyal group of Texans—the propane salesman, the barber, the exterminator, and the ranger—and she feels a sense of safety she hasn't felt in years.

"I tell you what, Dale," Carolyn says, leaning back and finally taking a sip of her drink. "I’ve got a whole closet and a vanity full of professional-grade makeup at my place. If you’re going to do it, you’re going to do it right. No more mothball wigs."

Peggy beams, her heart full. "I shall supervise!" she declares. "As a woman who has mastered the art of being herself, I believe we have a lot to discuss. Starting with the fact that blue eye shadow is a privilege, not a right."

In the corner of the club, the treachery, the hate, and the misanthropy are kept at bay by a wall of light beer and the unconditional love of four men who just wanted to make sure their friend could be a lady in peace.

[scaryfangirl2001]

No Escape for the Dark Knight

Summary:

Joker calls Batman over to get pounded into a pulp

Fandom: Batman (TV 1966)

Relationship: Batman/Joker

Condensed Tags: Enemies With Benefits, Sexual Roleplay, Sex Toys, Anal Sex, Voyeurism

Words: 3,787

Context: NSFW! 18+ ONLY!

Prompt: Roleplay

https://archiveofourown.org/works/78761906

The dim glow of a single lamp cuts through the haze of Joker's dingy Gotham hideout, the air thick with the scent of old grease and chemical residue from his latest prank concoction. It is November 1966, and the city outside howls with autumn winds rattling the warehouse windows. Batman has been tracking the clown's signal for hours, his cape whispering against the shadows as he slips into position. The phone's shrill ring echoes off the concrete walls, and Joker's voice crackles through the receiver, laced with that signature manic glee.

"Oh, Batman! If I had you here, I'd pound you to a pulp!" Joker cackles into the phone, his pale fingers drumming on the scarred wooden table cluttered with half-empty bottles and bizarre gadgets

He leans back in his creaky chair, green hair slicked wild, imagining the Caped Crusader's stoic face twisting in defeat. Batman steps from the darkness behind him, his boots silent on the grimy floor. His muscular frame fills the doorway, the black suit hugging every ridge of his body like a second skin.

"Start pounding, Joker," he growls, voice low and challenging, though a secret thrill twists in his gut at the villain's words.

Joker whips around, his twisted grin splitting wider, eyes lighting up with predatory hunger. He drops the phone with a clatter and snatches a pair of bat-cuffs from his pocket—shiny, reinforced restraints swiped from the Batcave during one of their twisted games.

"Bend over the kitchen table, Bat, baby," he purrs, voice dripping with mock menace as he advances.

Batman complies, heart pounding harder than in any rooftop chase, his broad shoulders pressing against the edge of the rough-hewn table. The wood bites into his palms as he leans forward, the roleplay igniting that hidden fire in him. Joker snaps the cuffs around his wrists, chaining them to hidden bolts beneath the table—part of one of his 'sexual traps' rigged for just this purpose. The metal clicks shut with finality, pinning Batman's arms down, stretching his body taut and vulnerable. He tugs once, testing the hold, but it doesn't budge, leaving him exposed and at the mercy of the madman.

"Gotcha now, Dark Knight," Joker hisses, circling like a shark, his hands roaming over Batman's back, squeezing the firm muscles through the suit.

He grips the utility belt and yanks it open, then hooks fingers into the waistband of the pants beneath. With a savage tug, he drags them down to Batman's knees, the cool air hitting the vigilante's bare ass and thighs. Batman's cock twitches against the confines of his jock, already half-hard from the anticipation, his hole clenching instinctively. Joker laughs, low and dirty, grabbing a thick, ridged toy from a drawer—a silicone plug designed to stretch and tease. He spits on it roughly, then presses the tip against Batman's asscheeks, forcing them apart with unyielding fingers.

"Time to open you up, hero," he taunts, pushing the toy in slow, watching the ring of muscle resist, then yield.

Batman grunts, the burn sharp and insistent as the toy sinks deeper, inch by stretching inch, filling him until his cheeks burn from the pull. The stretch makes Batman's breath hitch, his body tensing against the cuffs, but the ache twists into pleasure, his secret craving for this rough control bubbling up. Joker twists the toy, working it in and out, loosening him further while Batman's mind races with the thrill of surrender. Satisfied, Joker tosses the toy aside and squirts a generous glob of lube from a bottle onto his fingers. The stuff is thick, almost comedic in its slickness, and as he slathers it over Batman's hole, it makes obscene squelching noises that echo in the room like wet farts.

"Hear that? That's the sound of your dignity slipping away," Joker jeers, shoving two fingers inside without warning.

Batman gasps, the intrusion slick and invasive, the lube's cool slide contrasting the heat building in his core. "You talk too much, Joker," he shoots back through gritted teeth, though his voice cracks on a moan as those fingers curl, probing deep, scissoring to stretch him wider.

The banter fuels the fire, Batman's hips bucking involuntarily against the table's edge.

"Oh, I talk plenty, but this?" Joker pumps his fingers harder, the wet slaps punctuating his words. "This is me showing you who's boss."

He adds a third finger, twisting them roughly, the lube squishing loudly with every thrust. Batman's ass clenches around the invasion, the burn morphing into a desperate need, his cock now fully hard and leaking against the wood. The fingering doesn't last long—Joker's patience frays like his sanity. He withdraws his fingers with a pop, the lube stringing between them, and fumbles with his own pants. His cock springs free, thick and veined, already throbbing with sadistic intent. He slicks it up quick, the noisy lube coating every inch, then lines up at Batman's stretched hole.

"Ready to get pounded to a pulp, Bats?" Joker growls, gripping Batman's hips bruisingly tight.

Batman braces, muscles coiling. "Do your worst."

Joker slams in with one brutal thrust, burying his cock balls-deep in the tight heat. Batman cries out, the fullness overwhelming, his ass clenching around the invading shaft as pain and pleasure explode through him. Joker doesn't pause, pulling back only to ram forward again, setting a punishing rhythm—hard, fast, maniacal fucks that shake the table. Each pound drives deeper, Joker's hips slapping against Batman's ass with wet smacks, the lube's squelches mixing with grunts and moans. Batman's body jolts with every impact, his pinned arms straining, cock grinding against the rough surface as the villain's dominance consumes him.

Joker leans over, breath hot on Batman's neck, whispering filthy taunts between thrusts. "Take it, you Bat-bitch—feel me wrecking that hero hole."

The assault builds relentlessly, Joker's pace frantic, sweat dripping down his pale skin onto Batman's back. Batman's mind blurs with the raw intensity, every nerve alight, his own release coiling tight but held back by the unrelenting fuck. Joker isn't done yet, his hands roaming to pinch and slap, drawing out more gasps as he chases his twisted high. Joker's thrusts grow savage, each slam burying his cock deeper into Batman's stretched asshole, the tight ring of muscle gripping him like a vice. He leans forward, pale hands clamping down on the bat-cuffs, yanking them tighter until the metal bites into Batman's wrists. The vigilante's arms strain, veins bulging, his muscular body quivering under the assault.

"Beg for it, Bats," Joker snarls, hips snapping forward with bone-jarring force, his balls slapping wetly against Batman's skin. "Tell me how much you need this pounding, or I'll make it hurt worse."

Batman grits his teeth, the burn in his hole radiating through his core, his cock throbbing painfully against the table's rough edge. He hates admitting it—even in their twisted games—but the rough control sends sparks of forbidden pleasure shooting up his spine. Pretending resistance is part of the thrill, the consensual non-consent they both crave, with that unspoken safeword hanging like a safety net he won't touch.

"Fuck you, Joker," he growls, voice hoarse, but his ass clenches greedily around the invading dick, betraying him.

Joker laughs, a manic bark that echoes off the walls, and rams in harder, twisting his hips to grind against Batman's prostate. The table creaks under the force, lube squelching obscenely with every plunge. Batman's muscles tense, thighs trembling as the relentless pounding pushes him toward the edge, sweat slicking his suit.

"Louder, hero. Beg like the slut you are." Joker's grip on the cuffs turns white-knuckled, pulling Batman's arms until his shoulders ache, forcing his ass higher for deeper access.

The villain's pace doesn't falter, his cock pistoning in and out, stretching Batman's hole wider with each brutal fuck. Batman bites back a moan, but it tears free anyway, raw and desperate. The pain blurs into ecstasy, his body betraying his feigned hatred, hips rocking back instinctively. Joker senses it, his twisted grin widening as he feels the vigilante's surrender building. With a wicked gleam in his eye, Joker reaches into the drawer again, pulling out a thick vibrating dildo, its surface ridged and buzzing to life with a low hum. He slicks it up quick, the lube making sloppy noises, then presses the tip against Batman's already stuffed ass.

"Time to double-team this hero hole," he taunts, easing his own cock out just enough to slide the toy alongside, the stretch burning fierce as both invade the tight space.

Batman gasps, eyes widening, the dual fullness overwhelming—Joker's hot, throbbing cock and the relentless vibrations of the dildo alternating thrusts, one pulling out as the other drives in. His ass clenches around them, muscles quivering, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the intensity.

"Joker—fuck—too much," he moans, voice breaking, but his cock leaks steadily, smearing pre-cum on the table.

"Beg louder, Bats! Scream for more!" Joker commands, his free hand slapping Batman's ass cheek hard, the sting blooming red.

He alternates faster, the dildo buzzing deep while his cock hammers the sides, driving Batman wild with overstimulation. The vigilante's moans turn to tearful, ragged cries filling the room as his body shakes, pinned and helpless. Joker relishes the control, his sadistic desires flaring at the sight of the mighty Batman reduced to whimpering need. Satisfied with the broken pleas, Joker pulls both out with a wet pop, Batman's hole gaping slightly, twitching in the cool air. He grabs a blindfold from the clutter—a black silk strip swiped from some forgotten heist—and ties it tight over Batman's eyes, plunging him into darkness.

"Can't have you seeing my next trick," Joker purrs, then snatches a thick, knotted butt plug, its bulbous knots promising further stretch.

He slathers it in lube, the squelch loud and mocking, and presses the tip to Batman's ass. The plug sinks in slowly, each knot popping past the rim with a burn that makes Batman arch and groan, the blindfold heightening every sensation. Joker twists it, seating it deep, the base flush against Batman's cheeks, locking the stretch in place.

"Look at you, stuffed like a proper Bat-toy," he jeers, then drops to his knees, prying the cheeks wider.

His tongue darts out, licking a hot stripe over the plugged hole, teasing the sensitive skin around the base. Batman shudders, the wet heat of Joker's mouth contrasting the unyielding plug, licks turning to sucks and probes, rimming the edges with sloppy enthusiasm.

"Feel that? That's your ass begging for my tongue," Joker mumbles against the flesh, the vibrations of his words sending jolts through Batman.

The roleplay deepens their twisted bond—Joker loving every second of dominating his rival, Batman secretly craving the humiliation, though he'd never say it aloud. Joker's rimming grows fervent, tongue fucking the rim while his hands knead Batman's thighs, drawing out more muffled moans. But he isn't done. With a grunt, he loosens the cuffs just enough to flip Batman onto his back, the vigilante's blindfolded face flushed, body limp from the assault. Joker spreads Batman's legs wide, locking ankles into a metal stretcher bar—cold and unyielding, like those used in labor rooms, forcing his thighs apart obscenely, exposing his dripping cock and plugged ass.

"Perfect view, Bats," Joker says, slapping Batman's muscled chest hard, the impact jolting through the suit, nipples hardening under the fabric.

He yanks the plug out roughly, tossing it aside, then lines up his cock and thrusts deep, balls-deep in one go. Batman's cry echoes, the stretch renewed, his hole clenching around the familiar girth. Joker pounds hard, hips slamming forward, the stretcher keeping Batman splayed and vulnerable. His free hand fists Batman's asshole around his thrusting cock—three fingers joining the fuck, stretching the rim wider, invasive and raw.

"Feel that? My fist and dick own your shithole," he banters filthily, twisting his fingers with each plunge, the wet slaps mixing with Batman's gasps.

"You bastard—ahh—stop talking," Batman pants, but his body betrays him, cock bouncing with every thrust, the dual invasion pushing him over.

Muscles tense, ass quivering around the cock and fingers, he comes raggedly—cum spurting in thick ropes across his abs, shuddering waves ripping through him as Joker keeps fucking, unrelenting. Joker grins down at the spent hero, not slowing his brutal rhythm. His laughter erupts like shattered glass, a maniacal cackle filling the dingy kitchen as he keeps slamming his cock into Batman's ravaged hole, his fist twisting deeper alongside it. The vigilante's body jerks with each thrust, cum still streaking his abs, muscles twitching from the aftershocks.

"Look at you, Bats—my perfect prisoner!" Joker boasts, his voice dripping with sadistic glee, pale face twisted in triumph. "I'm the best warden Gotham's ever seen, pounding you to a pulp just like I promised. No escape for the Dark Knight in my cell."

Batman babble incoherently, words dissolving into guttural moans and gasps, his mind frayed from the relentless assault. The burn in his ass, the stretch from Joker's invading fist and dick—it all blurs into a haze of overstimulation, his cock already hardening again against his will. He trusts this madness, the enemies-with-benefits dance they play, but the intensity leaves him adrift, pretending hatred even as his body arches for more. Joker leans down without breaking rhythm, his hips grinding forward, fist pumping in sync with his thrusts. Hot breath ghost over Batman's exposed cock before Joker's mouth engulf it harshly, lips sealing tight around the base.

He sucks lewdly, tongue swirling the sensitive head while teeth scrape along the shaft, nipping the veined length all the way down to the coarse pubes. The villain's green hair tickles Batman's thighs; his sucks pull vacuum-tight, drawing out beads of precum that the Joker slurps greedily. Batman buck, overstimulated nerves firing wildly—the dual penetration in his ass, the brutal mouth on his dick.

"J-Joker—fuck—can't—" he stammers, blindfold still in place from earlier, heightening every scrape of teeth, every wet pull.

His hole clenches around the cock and fist, leaking slick lube and his own arousal, the roleplay's edge sharpening the consensual non-consent thrill. Joker bites down suddenly, teeth grazing the base of Batman's cock just hard enough to sting, a silent command flashing through his system—cum for me, now. The pressure builds unbearably, Batman's body seizing as orgasm rips through him again. He comes hard, profusely, thick ropes of seed flooding Joker's mouth while his anus spasms, milking the intruding fist and cock with desperate squeezes. Joker swallows every drop, throat working around the pulsing shaft, humming approval as he drains the hero dry.

Finally, Joker pulls back, lips shiny with cum, and withdraws his fist and cock from Batman's trembling hole with an obscene squelch. The vigilante's ass gape, twitching in the aftermath, cool air soothing the raw stretch. Joker crawls up Batman's body, straddling his chest, their eyes locking—Joker's wild and possessive, Batman's hazy but steady beneath the blindfold's edge, which slips slightly. Batman exhales slowly, chest heaving, the nod he gives subtle but clear—permission for more torment, their twisted trust unbroken. The emotional undercurrent hums between them, enemies bound by this raw intimacy, the rough play a balm to their chaotic lives.

Joker shifts higher, planting his knees on either side of Batman's head, his hairy ass descending to smother the vigilante's face. "Breathe me in, prisoner," he growls, shoving his dick down Batman's throat in one rough thrust.

The hero gag briefly, then relax, lips stretching around the girth as Joker fuck his mouth harshly, hips bucking with manic urgency. Batman's nose presses into the musky cleft, inhaling the sweaty, earthy scent of Joker's ass, tongue working instinctively to lap at the balls slapping his chin. Joker's hands grip the table's edge for leverage, pounding deep, the head of his cock battering Batman's throat.

"Take it all, Bats—swallow your warden's load," he pants, the roleplay fueling his dominance, sadistic joy in the hero's submission.

Batman slurps obediently, throat convulsing around the invading dick, breathing shallowly through his nose, buried in the hairy ass. The overstimulation lingers, but he trusts Joker, the bondage holding him fast as the villain chases his release. With a guttural roar, Joker comes, flooding Batman's gullet with hot, thick spurts of cum. The hero gulps it down, not spilling a drop, the salty flood coating his tongue as he nurses the softening cock. Joker grinds down once more, savoring the wet heat of Batman's mouth against his ass, before lifting off, allowing the vigilante a ragged breath.

Their eyes meet again, Joker's grin softening just a fraction in the afterglow. He leans in, stealing a deep kiss, tongues tangling with the taste of cum shared between them—rough aftercare in the form of this brief tenderness. Joker nips Batman's lower lip, pulling back as he reaches for the cuffs, fingers lingering on the welts they leave. Joker's grin lingers, a razor-sharp edge to his satisfaction as he finally pulls his softening cock free from Batman's mouth with a wet pop. The vigilante's lips swell, glistening with saliva and remnants of cum, his chest rising and falling in heavy pants. Joker savor the sight, his dominance unchallenged even in this moment of pause—the Dark Knight pinned and spent beneath him, their enemies-with-benefits bond a twisted lifeline in Gotham's shadows.

He reaches down, fingers deftly untying the blindfold first, letting it fall away to reveal Batman's hooded eyes, dark and dazed but flickering with that familiar mix of defiance and desire. "There you are, Bats," Joker murmurs, voice low and mocking, though a thread of genuine care weaves through it.

He unlocks the cuffs next, the metal clicking open with a finality that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Batman's arms fall slack, red welts blooming on his wrists from the restraint, muscles trembling from the ordeal. Joker does not rush the release; he keeps his weight pressing down on Batman a beat longer, asserting control even in freedom. Then, with rough efficiency, he tends to the hero's body—hands kneading the tense shoulders, thumbs digging into knotted traps to work out the strain.

Batman's skin slick with sweat and lube, warm under Joker's palms, and the villain feel a surge of possessive affection, the rough aftercare a silent acknowledgment of their pact. He massages lower, palms sliding over Batman's abs, tracing the streaks of dried cum, wiping away the evidence with a nearby rag in brusque strokes. As Batman's limbs loosen, going slack and pliant, Joker leans in close, capturing his mouth in a deep, invading kiss. His tongue plunges past parted lips, tangling fiercely with Batman's, tasting the mingled salt of their releases. It's no gentle peck—this raw, demanding, Joker's teeth nipping the hero's tongue before he pulls back, leaving Batman breathless and marked.

"Good boy," Joker whispers against his jaw, the roleplay's edge softening into something almost tender, their emotional tether pulling taut in the vulnerability.

Batman exhales a shaky sigh, his body finally uncoiling from the table's grip. Joker shifts off him, standing tall, his pale frame casting a long shadow. With a theatrical flourish, he presses a hidden button on the kitchen wall—a concealed panel sliding open to reveal a sleek, see-through shower stall, its glass walls crystal clear under the dim lights. Steam vents hiss faintly, promising relief.

"Time to wash off the night's fun, prisoner," Joker says, gesturing with a sweeping arm. "Can't have Gotham's guardian stinking of my cum when you slink back to your Boy Wonder."

Batman pushes himself up slowly, rolling off the table with a groan, his legs unsteady but his posture straightening into that iconic resolve. He stretches, arms overhead, muscles rippling under the tight suit, thoroughly enjoying it despite the ache. The vigilante peels off the top half of his costume, revealing a chiseled torso marked with faint bruises and bite marks—souvenirs from their play. He keeps the bat mask on, the pointed ears casting shadows over his eyes, knowing full well how it drives Joker wild, that symbol of justice bent to villainous whims. Mask notwithstanding, Batman is naked from the waist up, pants still pooled at his ankles until he kicks them free.

Batman steps into the shower. The glass door seals with a soft click, enclosing him in the transparent cube. Water cascades from overhead, hot streams pounding his skin, rinsing away the grime and slickness. He tilts his head back, letting it soak the mask's edges, soap lathering over his broad chest, down to his spent cock and the raw, tender hole that still throbs faintly. Joker watches from the table's edge, his twisted grin returning as he settles into a chair. The voyeuristic thrill ignites in his gut—the Dark Knight on display, vulnerable yet powerful, water sluicing over every curve and scar.

He grabs the vibrating dildo from earlier, still slick with lube and Batman's juices, the toy humming to life in his grip. Without hesitation, Joker shoves it up his own ass, the stretch burning deliciously as it settles deep, vibrations pulsing against his prostate. He spread his legs wide, hand wrapping around his hardening cock, stroking slowly and deliberately. Batman's movements are methodical, hands scrubbing his arms, then lower, fingers tracing the welts on his wrists with a wince that Joker drinks in. The hero's ass flexes under the water, the faint redness from the pounding visible through the glass, and Joker pumps his fist faster, pre-cum beading at his tip.

"Look at you, all clean and pretty," Joker calls out, voice laced with taunt and hunger. "Bet Robin's waiting to get his turn, but your ass was all mine tonight."

Batman glances over, water dripping from the mask, a smirk tugging his lips despite the exhaustion. He doesn't reply, just turns to rinse his back, the motion arching his spine in a way that makes Joker's breath hitch. The villain's strokes quicken, the dildo buzzing relentlessly inside him, building that familiar pressure. Their eyes meet through the steam-fogged glass, a silent promise hanging between them—enemies by day, this raw connection by night, the roleplay's afterglow stretching into something deeper.

Joker's mind races with plots for next time, the shower's rhythm syncing with his hand's urgent pull. Batman will leave soon, off to whatever heroic nonsense awaits, maybe even tangle with the Boy Wonder in ways that twist Joker's jealousy into fuel. But for now, in this hidden lair, the vigilante's body gleams under the water, and Joker feasts on the view, dominance unchallenged, their twisted bond humming like the toy buried in his ass.

[scaryfangirl2001]

Every Romantic Comedy Trope

Summary:

Boomhauer returns to Arlen, and Dale meets him at the airport. (Aug. 16)

Fandom: King of the Hill

Relationship: Jeff Boomhauer/Dale Gribble

Background Relationship: Bill Dauterive/Hank Hill

Tags: 2008 (Year), Episode: s13e20 The Honeymooners, Meet-Cute

Words: 1,038

Context: Boomhauer left for Canada to visit relatives on August 1. Dale and Boomhauer have been married for about 7.5 years. Hank and Bill have been married for four years.

Prompt: Meet Cute

https://archiveofourown.org/works/78753191

The humidity sits over Arlen like a wet wool blanket, the kind of heat that makes the tarmac at the airport shimmer with mirages of gasoline and grit. Dale Gribble stands behind the security glass at the arrival gate, his reflectors shaded against the terminal's fluorescent glare. He is wearing his best high-crown Mack hat—the one without the grease stains from the Bugnebago—and a windbreaker that is entirely too heavy for the Texas summer, but necessary for the "persona" he has spent the last forty-five minutes perfecting. In his trembling hands, he clutches a sign made of neon pink poster board that reads “I ❤️ MY SOLDIER” in glitter glue, despite the fact that Boomhauer has merely been visiting cousins in Manitoba.

When the glass doors finally hiss open and the trickle of weary travelers begins to spill out, Dale’s internal radar pings. He sees the flash of a pristine, popped collar and that signature golden-tan skin that even the Canadian sun couldn't dull. Jeff Boomhauer steps into the terminal, dragging a designer suitcase that looks far too sleek for a man who spent two weeks in a cabin.

Dale doesn't just wave; he launches into the performance. He lets out a high-pitched, cinematic squeal that causes a nearby family to recoil. "Jeffy! Oh, sugar-cube! Over here! Your princess is waiting!" Dale shouts, his voice cracking into a frantic, breathy falsetto.

He begins to hop up and down with an exaggerated, girlish enthusiasm, swinging the glittery sign so violently it nearly clips an elderly man’s ear. He is channeling every romantic comedy trope they have ever scoffed at over a sixth alley beer, mocking the clingy, over-the-top reunions that usually make Boomhauer mutter something about “dang ol’ unrealistic expectations, man.”

Boomhauer stops dead in his tracks. He looks at the sign, then at the frantic man in the orange cap, and a slow, effortless smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head, his silver watch catching the light as he adjusts the strap of his carry-on. He knows exactly what Dale is doing. It’s a bit, a defense mechanism, a way to bridge the gap of fifteen days of silence with the familiar language of irony.

"Yo, man, dang ol’ Gribble, talkin’ m‘bout crazy-ass sign, man lookin’ like a dang ol’ fool in front of everybody, Yo," Boomhauer says, his voice a low, melodic rumble that instantly cuts through the terminal noise.

Dale is about to deliver a biting retort about "the emotional needs of the modern woman," but as Boomhauer closes the distance, the script evaporates. The proximity changes everything. The scent of Boomhauer—expensive cologne mixed with the faint, cold smell of airplane upholstery and something uniquely Jeff—hits Dale like a physical weight. The mocking grin on Dale’s face falters, then softens into something raw and terrifyingly sincere.

The poster board drops to his side. The irony is gone.

As soon as Boomhauer is within arm’s reach, he doesn't wait for a punchline. He reaches out, dropping the handle of his suitcase, and pulls Dale into his space. The contact is firm and grounding. Dale’s hands, which had been so busy being frantic and performative, find their way to the small of Boomhauer’s back, clutching the expensive fabric of his shirt as if he’s checking to make sure he isn't a holographic projection sent by the UN.

"I missed you, man," Dale whispers, his voice dropping two octaves, losing the squeak and the sarcasm. He buries his face against Boomhauer’s neck, the stubble there scratching against his cheek in a way that feels like home. "The alley is too quiet, Jeff. Ever since Hank and Bill hit their four-year anniversary, they’ve been in this weird cycle of domestic tranquility that’s frankly suspicious. Hank’s polishing the grill every ten minutes just to avoid 'emotional intimacy,' and Bill’s been crying over the wedding album in the middle of the lawn. It’s a madhouse."

Boomhauer huffs a soft laugh, a vibration Dale feels in his own chest. He wraps his arms tight around Dale’s narrow shoulders, squeezing hard enough to crack a rib, or at least to let seven and a half years of marriage speak through the silence.

"Dang ol' missed you too, Dale," Boomhauer murmurs, his thumb tracing the line where Dale’s hat meets his neck. "Talkin' 'bout big ol' empty bed, man… dang ol' cold up there, yo nobody talkin' 'bout no dang ol' conspiracies at three in the mornin' just ain't right, man. Glad ol' Hank and Bill stayin' together, but dang ol' miss my own husband, yo."

They stand there for a long moment, an island of genuine, messy affection in the middle of the 2008 Saturday morning rush. Dale pulls back just an inch, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. He looks up at his husband, searching the tired lines around Boomhauer’s eyes. The mock-girlfriend persona is dead and buried; there is only the reality of a man who hasn't felt entirely whole for the first two weeks of August.

"Did you bring the Canadian cigarettes I asked for?" Dale asks, though his eyes are shiny with a sentiment he’d never admit to. "The ones with the warning labels that look like a Cronenberg film?"

Boomhauer chuckles, reaching down to reclaim his suitcase. He hooks an arm around Dale’s waist, pulling him along as they begin the walk toward the parking garage. "Got 'em in the bag, man talkin' 'bout dang ol' lung health, yo, but yeah got your weird-ass smokes, Dale."

"Excellent," Dale says, leaning his head against Boomhauer’s shoulder as they walk, oblivious to the stares of the people around them. "Now let's get out of here. I’ve got a perimeter sweep scheduled for the basement, and I’ve been holding off on the heavy lifting until my 'muscle' got back into town. Plus, Bill tried to make a 'welcome home' casserole that I need you to help me dispose of before it becomes sentient."

Boomhauer just smiles, the heat of the Texas afternoon hitting them as the automatic doors slide open, welcoming him back to the humidity, the dust, and the only man who could ever make an airport terminal feel like a sanctuary.

[scaryfangirl2001]

A Lil' Spark

@thepromptfoundry,

Summary:

Dale has taken up chewing tobacco instead of smoking. It quickly grosses out everyone, including Boomhauer, his husband of four years. But Boomhauer's got an idea. (Mar.)

Fandom: King of the Hill

Relationship: Dale Gribble/Jeff Boomhauer

Tags: 2005 (Year), Episode: s08e10 That's What She Said

Words: 221

Context: Dale and Boomhauer have been married for four years

Prompt: a little spark

https://archiveofourown.org/works/78748796

The humid Texas air hangs thick around them as Boomhauer leans against the splintering porch railing, watching Dale spit another brown streak into the empty Mountain Dew bottle. The smell of wintergreen and stale spit clings to Dale’s beard, and Boomhauer wrinkles his nose, his drawl sharper than usual.

"Dang ol’… whew, that's nastier 'anna possum armpit, I tell you what. Ain't no kinda way 'round it, man. Just dang ol' rank.."

Dale scowls, defensive, but Boomhauer’s already snatching the soggy wad from his fingers with a napkin, folding it tight. He jams it into the end of yesterday’s *Arlen Bystander*, rolled up like a kid’s spyglass.

"Here, dang ol’, try this," he says, shoving it toward Dale’s face. "Breathe deep, like them hippies with their… their dang incense."

Dale hesitates, but Boomhauer’s grin is wicked under the flickering porch light. He inhales—immediately gags, coughing like a cat with a hairball. "Goddammit, Boomhauer—!"

Then the lighter clicks. Boomhauer thumbs the flame alive, holding it just beneath the newspaper’s edge. "Just a lil’ spark, baby," he murmurs.

The paper blackens, curls. Smoke rises—cleaner, sweeter, carrying the ghost of tobacco without the spit. Dale’s eyes widen. He takes a cautious drag.

"Well, I’ll be… Boomhauer, you’re a genius, darlin’." The ember glows between them, a tiny sun in the gathering dark.

[scaryfangirl2001]

Desperate and Sweet with Grief

Summary:

Ryan is rushed into surgery at the hospital. During the operation, Esposito blames Castle, saying he is responsible for all this, since he pushed Beckett to look into her mother's case, and Ryan got too involved. Castle believes that Esposito has a point and takes it hard.

Fandom: Castle (2009)

Relationship: Richard Castle/Kevin Ryan

Tags: Episode: s04e01 Rise (Castle TV 2009), Angst and Tragedy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt No Comfort, Amnesia

Words: 395

Context: May 2011; NY. At Beckett's mother's funeral, Castle and Ryan had a serious talk and kissed. Later, when Beckett was delivering the eulogy, an unseen sniper shot at her, and Ryan tackled her out of the way, getting shot instead.

Prompt: Amnesia

https://archiveofourown.org/works/78744646

The sterile white walls of the hospital corridor hum with the fluorescent buzz of overhead lights as Ryan’s gurney rattles past, wheels squeaking against linoleum. Blood soaks through the gauze pressed to his shoulder, a slow, stubborn seep, and Castle’s hands tremble where they clutch the edge of his jacket. He smells gunpowder and funeral lilies still clinging to his sleeves.

Esposito’s voice cuts through the numbness, sharp as glass. "This is on you." He doesn’t shout—that’s worse. It’s quiet, deliberate, the kind of rage that simmers. "You pushed Beckett into reopening her mother’s case. You dragged Ryan into this mess." His knuckles whiten around the strap of his shoulder holster. "He shouldn’t have been there."

Castle doesn’t argue. The truth sits heavy in his throat, metallic like blood. He watches the surgeon’s gloved hands flash behind the swinging doors before they swallow Ryan whole. 

Hours crawl by. The waiting room coffee tastes like burnt cardboard, but he drinks it anyway, just to feel the scalding heat punish something. Esposito paces, a caged animal in a cheap suit. When the surgeon finally emerges—gloves peeled off, mask dangling—Castle’s heart lurches into his ribs.

"Stable," the man says, and the word is a benediction. But stable isn’t safe.

Ryan’s awake by evening, propped up on morphine and confused. His eyes skate over Castle’s face like he’s searching for a landmark in fog.

"Hey," he rasps. The heartbeat monitor stutters when he tries to sit up.

Castle reaches out, then freezes, hand hovering. "You remember what happened?" Castle asks, too fast, too desperate.

Ryan frowns. The monitor ticks louder. "...Funeral. Beckett’s eulogy. Then—" He rubs his temple. "Nothing."

A fist tightens around Castle’s lungs. He doesn’t remember. Not the sniper’s muzzle flash. Not shoving Beckett down. Not the kiss—god, the kiss—in the shadow of the church, desperate and sweet with grief.

Ryan exhales, weary. "I need time. To heal. I’ll... call you." It’s polite. Distant. A dismissal. 

Castle nods like his neck’s rusted through. Outside, rain slicks the pavement, distorting the streetlights into smears of gold. He doesn’t go home. He walks until his shoes are ruined, until his phone buzzes with Beckett’s unanswered texts, until the guilt is a living thing gnawing at his ribs. Somewhere, a sniper reloads. Somewhere, Ryan dreams of empty spaces. Castle drowns in the silence between rings.

[scaryfangirl2001]

A Hundred Borrowed Lives

Summary:

"Don't get too close," Sam warns when Al comes home.

Fandom: Quantum Leap

Relationship: Sam Beckett-Calavicci/Al Beckett-Calavicci

Tags: Married Couple, Sickfic, Comfort

Words: 196

Context: February 2005. New Orleans, LA. Sam and Al have been retired from Project Quantum Leap for five years; They are now back in the Navy.

Prompt: "Don't get too close."

https://archiveofourown.org/works/78740616

The front door creaks open with the weight of a rain-soaked January evening. Al steps inside, shaking water from his leather jacket, the scent of damp tobacco clinging to him. Across the dim living room, Sam huddles on the couch like a disheveled ghost—hair sticking up in three directions, blankets piled over his lap, a mountain of crumpled tissues avalanching off the coffee table.

"Don't get too close," Sam rasps, voice frayed at the edges.

He pulls the hem of his floral-print dress—borrowed from God-knows-where—tighter around his knees. It's an old habit, covering up, even after twelve years of marriage. Al pauses, cigar halfway to his lips. The sight hits him like a flashback: Sam in '58, Sam in '72, Sam in a hundred borrowed lives. But this? This is real. He snuffs out the cigar without a word, toeing off his boots before sinking onto the couch. His palm lands warm on Sam's forehead.

"Christ, you're roasting," he mutters, already shrugging out of his jacket to drape over Sam's shivering shoulders.

Sam leans into the touch, exhaling through his nose. "Told you," he croaks, but his fingers curl into Al's sleeve anyway.

[scaryfangirl2001]

Splash of Color

Summary:

Ginger asks her girlfriend why she wanted to date her

Fandom: As Told by Ginger

Relationship: Courtney Gripling/Ginger Foutley

Tags: Fluff, Concern, Self-Doubt

Words: 195

Context: They are 15

Prompt: Opposites

https://archiveofourown.org/works/78706546

Courtney's stomach rises and falls beneath Ginger's cheek, steady as a metronome. The silk of her designer pajamas smells like lavender fabric softener and something faintly chemical—probably whatever expensive moisturizer she applies religiously before bed. Ginger picks at a loose thread on Courtney's pillowcase, letting her fingers trace the embroidered Gripling crest in the corner.

"Hey, Court?" Ginger's voice comes out muffled against warm skin. 

Courtney hums, one hand absently stroking Ginger's ponytail. Outside, snow patters against the bay window of the Gripling mansion's east wing.

"Why me?" Ginger props herself up on one elbow. "Like—you could've dated anyone at Sheltered Shrubs. Cheerleaders. Debate team captains. That exchange student who brought you Swiss chocolates." She gestures vaguely toward the vanity where Courtney's silver-plated hairbrush sits beside Ginger's knockoff Claire's barrettes. "We're kinda... opposites."

Courtney's manicured fingers pause mid-stroke. She studies Ginger's chipped nail polish, the way her oversized Sleepytime Bear t-shirt hangs off one freckled shoulder. "Exactly," Courtney says finally, catching Ginger's hand to press a kiss against her calloused knuckles. "You're the splash of color in my black-and-white world."

Ginger feels her ears go hot as Courtney's Tiffany bracelet catches the light.