Hurling



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    He wades in it now, eyes still open, fixed on the speckled ceiling, begging himself not to crave bomb blasts and artillery fire in his childhood bedroom. Although…there might be something beautiful about it all, Johnny supposes, those noises in the thick. The gasps in between discharge that say: I’m here, I’m a part of this song too.

     

    After a near-fatal injury, John MacTavish finds himself back in his hometown in Scotland. Fresh off an untimely discharge, he's forced to cope with disability, his dysfunctional family, and the lingering knowledge that there are some things he's just not ready to leave behind...

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    15 Nov 2025

    Bookmarker's Notes

    God fucking DAMN it. They're so sickeningly cute. I'm gonna start puking from how sweet they are. Someone find me a goddamn Mercedes.

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    There’s a teddy in Soap’s bed; a beaten-up, old brown bear. Well-loved, if the state of the fur is any indication. Ghost lets out a choked laugh, mostly at his own expense. He wishes he was there, suddenly, wishes he was by Johnny’s side as he walked through the doorway and realised that his childhood room was waiting for him like a time capsule. Wishes he got to see the embarrassed scrunch of his face, the way the tips of his ears would flush red.

    Soap has a whole second life, outside of the SAS. He’s got a mother, and a poorly-decorated bedroom, and a bear. All Ghost has is a flat that will be the same it is today as it will be the day he dies, like he was never even here at all.

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    13 Nov 2025

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Ohmyfhuckinfgod. Tender and adorable and again and again and again. Bawling.

  3. Rec *

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    "Were you aware that LuthorCorp was using Wayne technology in their illegal weapons programs?"

    For the first time, Bruce looked genuinely surprised. "Those contracts were terminated."

    "When? Before or after Luthor's crimes became public?"

    Bruce was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. "I'd have to check with our legal department about the specific timeline."

    "So you don't know?"

    Bruce was silent.


    Gotham's drowning, Batman's bleeding, and a nosy reporter won't stop asking why.

    Three years after the flood, a rot festers, born from the stragglers of Riddler's movement.

    The Sons of Gotham, neo-Nazis with mysteriously deep pockets, rise from the grime. Bruce bleeds for a city that keeps sinking.

    Enter Clark Kent: infuriatingly earnest, maddeningly handsome, and asking questions Bruce can't answer.

    When threats grow too big for one city, Batman reluctantly teams up with Superman. Saving Gotham wasn't hard.

    Letting someone help? Letting someone in? Easier said than done.


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    06 Nov 2025

    Bookmarker's Notes

    GOTHAM IS BURNING???? MY HEART IS BURNING. ITS ALL BC OF THESE FUCKASS ADORABLE ASS CHARACTERS. and also a little heartburn but that's unrelated

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Swanwick gave Bruce a level, unamused look. "Mr. Wayne," he said. "Please tell me you know why you're here."

    Bruce shrugged. "Won the lottery, and first-place prize is the government marries me off to an alien."

    (Or: in a universe where Krypton took an extra thirty-odd years to implode, Kal-El was sent to Earth as an adult, in advance of the ship containing the only other surviving Kryptonians; and a quirk of Kryptonian law means negotiating refuge, potential resettlement, and an alliance with the Kryptonians in general is dependent on marriage between a Kryptonian and a human. Bruce did what it took to make sure that that human would be him, instead of some poor unprepared civilian—but his efforts to learn more about the aliens, what they want and why they're here, and how, if necessary, to kill them ... don't go the way he's expecting them to.)

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    18 Aug 2025

  5. Public Bookmark 27

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    Amusingly, I’d realized that he used my perceived comfortability with touch to outsource touching that may be required of himself. He’d have me greet unfamiliar Scotland Yard officials with a firm handshake or a pat on the arm so that he was free to stand stiffly by my side or begin climbing over a crime scene. He’d introduce me immediately to clients so that I could greet them as was proper, leaving him to perch on his chair with his fingers steepled or circle them like some great bird. With myself in tow, he was given permission to touch others less.

    However, he’d continued to touch me more.

    -

    or; Dr. John Watson chronicles Sherlock Holmes' aversion to (and fondness for) physical touch over three decades.

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    01 Aug 2025