nightingfright

[nightingfright]

it’s also fucked up that fat people literally fear going to the doctor for anything because they know the first thing out of their dr’s mouth no matter what their ailment is, is gonna be “lose weight lol” broken leg? lose weight. rash? lose weight. whooping cough? lose weight binch!!!!! like we get it. but can you just write my prescription you bitch so i can go eat a salad and not call you again until im about to die of the plague????

[nightingfright]

caught rabbit.

[nightingfright]

More tomorrow because I need to go to sleep but—

Price with a younger wife who never slept around, never went out very much, never dated much at all. And he’s half worried about taking away your chances to experience those things and half deeply glad he’s around to keep you from getting hurt experiencing those things.

But still, he thinks, you’re young. You deserve more. You should still get to feel the thrill of being chased, being courted and seduced by men who know you’re far out of their league and are pulling out all the stops to impress you. You should get to have an entire rolodex of lovers at your beck and call.

Luckily, he knows three bachelors whom he can trust implicitly with this mission.

[nightingfright]

Part 5 of Men at Work!!

Content: mentions of previous injury and reference to past torture.

You stare at your hand in a complex mix of awe and trepidation. Or, well. Not your hand exactly. You’re gawking at the thing in your hand. It’s much bigger than you expected, and heavier.

“Why is it so warm?” you mumble, thumb caressing a hard ridge.

“Because it was in my pants, bienchen.”

You flick a nervous glance at Krueger’s amused expression and shift, a fine tremble in your fingers. You didn’t think it would make you this nervous.

“It’s… not going to go off is it?” you ask, wrapping and rewrapping your fingers to get a feel.

“Only if you keep playing with it like that,” he chuckles.

You jolt, nearly drop it altogether, but he barks a laugh and catches your hand between both of his. Your eyes dart down again, enraptured by the roughness of his palms, how much bigger they are around yours. Stronger, more confident.

“I kid! It’s not loaded. See?”

He guides your wrist to the side, gentle but firm, and pushes a smooth button at the bottom of the trigger guard. He catches the magazine as it ejects, showing you an empty clip.

“And then, just to be sure…” He pushes the magazine back in with a movie-perfect click, then braces your hand while he pulls the slide back. “Nothing in the chamber.”

He releases it, letting it spring back into place.

“Even if it was,” he taps the side of the gun again, showing you a little switch, “it is not live. The safety is on - and it stays on unless you intend to shoot. Understand?”

Assured of everyone’s safety, fascination crowds out the trepidation as you hum an affirmative.

“Red means you’re dead, right?” you muse.

He chuckles. “You watch too much fake crime, but yes.”

“I saw it in a YouTube video,” you explain, “when I was first doing research. They never talk about how heavy these are.”

“It is why getting hit in the head with them hurts,” he explains.

“Pistol-whipped,” you supply turning the handgun this way and that.

You note how the lights catch it, how the grip feels against your naive skin. The scent too - you realize you’ve smelled it all over your neighbors’ house, all over your neighbors. Gunpowder.

You kick your feet in the open air, let your heels tap against the cabinets beneath you. Shithead is standing on the counter next to you, just at Krueger’s elbow, head cocked curiously to observe.

“Why does it say HK?” You ask. “Your initials are SK.”

He laughs again, but you recognize this as his more genuine (you dare say even charmed) chuckle.

“It is the brand, Heckler and Koch.”

You make a noise of understanding, flipping it around the other way to inspect it from the other side.

“There’s no safety on this side?”

“It’s right-handed.”

“There are guns for different hands?”

Krueger settles in closer, his hip pressed against your knee.

“Nikto has a left-handed one. We will have him bring it for dinner, hm?”

You nod. Tentatively press the button to eject the magazine again. You turn it this way and that, then try to put it back - with no success.

“More force, little one. Mean it.”

You bop the heel of your hand against the bottom and get that satisfying movie noise.

“Can you shoot it one-handed?”

“I can. You might have some trouble. Four pounds of pressure to pull the trigger.”

You perk up, make grabby hands for your notebook, abandoned on the other side of the counter when Krueger offered to let you hold his gun. Eyebrow cocked, he brings it to you, gently nudging Shithead’s paw away when she bats at the ribbon bookmark.

There’s already a bullet list of facts and statistics listed out from his initial explanation. You scribble out the new additions with one hand, balancing the notebook on your thigh with Krueger’s help.

“Do you guys ever decorate your guns?” you wonder.

He clicks his tongue. “Konig does. Like a schoolboy.”

“With what?”

At some point, he gently takes the gun from your cramping grip, tucking it back into his waistband while you continue scrawling details. He doesn’t move away. If anything, you’re vaguely aware that he’s leaning closer, inspecting your messy handwritig. His voice goes lower and quieter the closer he gets to your ear, a pleasant rumble that you try (and mostly fail) to ignore.

“What does it feel like to shoot it?” you ask finally.

“Like shooting a gun.”

“That’s not helpful.”

In the corner of your eye, he shrugs.

“Well… well could you take me to try it?”

He grunts. You can’t discern an answer from that, so you tilt your face towards his. He’s somehow even closer than you expect. Eyes you now realize are gunmetal gray smoldering as they trail down to your mouth, a sweet slow burn.

“You want to learn to shoot?” he asks, slower and rougher than you think the question warrants.

“I just want to know what it’s like,” you mumble, cheeks warm.

“No.” He twists until he’s facing you, crowding you. Not between your knees, but hipbone pressing against one. He taps your chin with an index finger, expression simmering with something that makes your heart stumble. “You learn proper. You do not try. It is not for fun. It is a tool for killing.”

“Oh.” You feel stupid and childish. Tears of embarrassment prick at the corners of your eyes. “Sorry.”

He huffs quietly, the line of his brow softening. He curls his finger along your jaw, unexpectedly comforting. “Do not be sorry. Learn. We want to teach you.”

“We?” you breathe, momentarily distracted.

“Konig has been whining about teaching you for weeks and Nikto thinks you need protection.”

You stutter for a second, caught up in the warmth of his gaze, and the revelation that they talk about you when you’re not around, and that those discussions include teaching you to shoot guns. And that they want you to be safe, they want you protected.

It’s all enough to make a poor romance author swoon.

“Well?” he prompts, arching one of those sharp brows again.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay?” He teases.

You blink. “Please.”

He grunts, pinches your cheek gently. “Anything for our sweet little bee.”

You roll your eyes to hide the steam that must be coming off your face by now. You’re so flustered you’re damn near sweating and there’s not a thing you can do about it. Not when the cause is still looming over you, one big hand planted tantalizingly close to your thigh.

“Now then.” He reaches over and past your head, and you’re overwhelmed by the metal-gunpowder-cologne scent of him. “We start on dinner, yes?”

It’s Konig’s turn to help with lunch. Well, technically he’s helping with a part of dinner - kneading dough for the homemade bread rolls to accompany some nice steaks - but you digress. Konig’s in your kitchen, all six-foot-something of him, sleeves scrunched up and gloves gone, big hands in a bowl of dough and making you think sinful thoughts at noon on a Wednesday.

“What about that one?”

“KA-BAR knife. I was protecting my neck.”

You take another slow sip of punch, eyes perusing the uneven tan lines and spackling of scars that decorate his skin.

“And that one?”

He twists his wrist to glance at the outside of his arm, half hidden by flour.

“Bomb shrapnel.”

He says it so casually. Like he scraped his knee roughhousing or something.

“You got blown up?”

“Nein, or I would not be here for you to interrogate.”

He shoots you a sideways grin, assurance that he’s just poking fun and not actually annoyed. You didn’t think otherwise, but it’s sweet that he wants you to know.

You huff. “Yeah, I’m sure this torture.”

He hums, eyes on his work so he thankfully doesn’t see how the sound makes your eyes flutter. Christ, you must be ovulating or something because you should not be this affected by that rich, warm voice echoing in that thick chest.

“I would know,” he agrees.

Wait, what. “You would?”

He clicks his tongue as his sleeve slips down his arm, threatening to get in the dough. You automatically reach to fix it, rolling up the fabric so that it won’t come down again.

“Danke,” he says, “Will you do the other?”

You round to his other side, get distracted by the tiniest sliver of… ink?!

“You have a tattoo?!”

He glances down, as if he could have forgotten it’s there.

“Oh. Yes. Krueger’s idea.”

You coo in delight, tugging gently at the fabric hiding it. You’ve seen Krueger’s tattoos of course - flaunting them about shirtless and sweaty as he does. (Not that you’re complaining either.)

“Can I see?”

“I don’t think the sleeve goes up that far,” he replies, pausing to let you try.

It doesn’t. You’re teased by dark lines, the bottom of what might be… feathers? You’re terribly curious, but you can see Konig’s face steadily flushing darker the longer and harder you look.

“What is it?” you inquire finally, not quite to the point of demanding he take his shirt off. (Even if you want to.)

“You will have to wait and see,” he replies, turning back to the bread.

You frown. “Wait for what?”

He winks at you (despite the bright pink at the tips of his ears) and it shouldn’t be so endearing but it is, so you spin on your heel and busy yourself with the last of the lunch items.

You don’t stop thinking about it, though.

“How many do you have?” you ask as you pour him a lager.

He slides you a half-amused, half-exasperated (yet still so fond) glance. “Three.”

“Where?”

“You will see.”

“Well, that’s ominous!”

“Mm. Watch your head, Biene.”

You poke your head around his elbow as he’s cutting chicken.

“Did they hurt?”

He shrugs those big shoulders. “Some. I have had worse.”

You hop up to sit on the counter, waiting for things to finish cooking.

“Do you plan to get more?”

His lips twitch with amusement. “Maybe.”

“Where?”

He steps closer, giving you a put upon sigh. Even sitting up here, he’s just a little taller than you, head tilted indulgently at your antics. You stomach flips and lands low in your abdomen. (It reminds you too much of Krueger teaching you about guns.)

You make your expression as guileless as possible until he breaks on a chuckle.

“I see where the bubchen gets it from.”

You glance at Little Guy, who is indeed giving Konig a similar expression in the hopes of getting scooped up. (Nevermind that he’s been threading between Konig’s legs since he came through the door, and was making “biscuits” on the counter in solidarity while you were asking about scars.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

He clicks his tongue. “Krueger has them too, you know. Why do you not ask him?”

You scrunch your nose. “Maybe I will.”

He narrows his eyes in amusement, opens his mouth - just as Krueger and Nikto enter. With you distracted, Konig scoops up Guy and escapes.

“Sebastian, how many tattoos do you have?”

“Many.”

“Will you get more?”

“Eventually. Why? Do you wish to give me one?”

You blink, dangerously intrigued by the idea. “What?! No!”

He grins wickedly as Konig shakes his head. “I could get your name right over my heart, hm?”

“Absolutely not!”

But he does tug the short sleeve of his shirt up so that you can inspect the crossed daggers on his tricep.

“What’s the 2-8 for?”

“My unit when I first joined the KSK. This was my first tattoo.”

You trace a finger over the simple outline, noting how the ink looks slightly faded, almost bluish now. You thumb the 8, mostly just enjoying the excuse to touch.

You turn to Nikto, currently trying to hold Shithead at bay without disrupting Rasputin’s perch on his shoulder. “What about you?”

“I did.”

You frown, about to ask but think better of it as you remember the glimpse of his face he entrusted to you. Right. You can put two and two together, no need to ask and possibly bring up painful memories.

“Why this sudden interest, bienchen?” Krueger asks.

“I noticed one of Konig’s but he’s being mean about it.”

Krueger glances over your shoulder (presumably at Konig) then barks a laugh.

“Ah, you see the truth of him now. He is a sadistic bastard. Not nearly as sweet as old Sebastian here, hm?”

You drop your hand from his arm. “Nikto is my favorite.”

“You little—”

First | Previous | TBC…

Masterlist

[nightingfright]

this blog hates donald trump

Look how many people hate him. I’m pretty damn happy about that 😁😁😁😁😁😁

[nightingfright]

Okay so we have this huge problem with forgetting about everything that’s happened by the time the next election rolls around so I’d like to keep a running list of things as they’re happening to help remind us when the 2026 midterms roll around. And please add to this if I’ve missed anything.

January 2025:

Donald Trump pardoned 1500 people who participated in the insurrection of January 6th, including those who violently assaulted and nearly killed police officers.

Donald Trump has declared that trans and non-binary people don’t exist.

Donald Trump is working towards firing everyone in the government who isn’t loyal to him.

Donald Trump has effectively fired everyone who he claims is an “illegal DEI hire” …whatever that means

Donald Trump pulled out of the Paris Climate Agreement and the World Health Organization

Congress are trying to pass the Laken Riley Act to, effectively, round up every immigrant in the country, including LEGAL immigrants

Donald Trump removed caps on prescription drug prices.

Donald Trump wants to withhold federal aid to help combat the LA wildfires and help the thousands of people who have been displaced and lost their homes.

The Department of Justice has put a hold on all civil rights cases.

Donald Trump has cut off aid to Ukraine.

Laken Riley Act has been passed by Congress and is awaiting being signed into law by the President. Here’s the breakdown of the votes: House Senate

Donald Trump purged a dozen inspectors general from the federal government and intends to replace them all with people loyal to him.

Pete Hegseth has been confirmed as Secretary of Defense. Here’s the breakdown of how the Senate voted. Note, it was a 50-50 tie that JD Vance had to break.

Donald Trump imposed a 25% tariff on Colombia after the Colombian government turned away two airplanes carrying migrants. Columbia has retaliated by imposing a 25% tariff of its own on US goods.

Donald Trump has also issued a travel ban for Colombian citizens and revoked visas from Colombian migrants coming to the US.

Donald Trump has now backed off the tariffs and other threats against Colombia. Note for future reference: this comes just hours after Trump made the threat in the first place and he and the Colombian president got into a big fight on social media.

Nearly 1,000 migrants were arrested mostly in Chicago on January 26th by ICE and ICE has been told to meet a quota of 75 migrant arrests every day.

Donald Trump rescinded an anti-discrimination executive order from Lyndon B. Johnson

Donald Trump signed an executive order banning trans people from serving in the military and also ordered that people who were discharged for refusing to get mandatory vaccines be reinstated.

Donald Trump has frozen all federal grants to institutions.

After pressure from state governments, activist groups, and the general public, the White House has rolled back some of the freezes on federal funding.

This.

Donald Trump is trying to fire all federal employees who don’t want to return to the office (work-from-home saves the federal government millions of taxpayer dollars in overhead). He also sent an email to federal employees saying that if they’re not loyal to him, they’ll be investigated.

Donald Trump has signed the Laken Riley Act into law.

Donald Trump has said he doesn’t think Palestinians should be allowed to return to Gaza but instead should be sent to Egypt and Jordan.

Also this.

I’ll keep adding to this list as new things come up and, again, please feel free to add anything I’ve missed. I know that in this world of constant news it’s easy to forget, so let’s give our future selves a little help!

[nightingfright]

I want you to remember:

The fascists hate you too and they just will pretend otherwise until after they've killed the rest of us, before they turn on you.

[nightingfright]

domesticity with Johnny is you pausing each others youtube videos you sleep with so you can only hear your own

[nightingfright]

Happy holidays!!

Here’s what you could get the 141 for a gift ;)

MDNI

John Price wants to see you in lingerie. A nice home cooked meal while he just thinks how much he wants to devour you instead. Expect him to put you on the dinner table afterwards and give you a proper thanks.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick wants to tie you up in ribbons and have his fun with you. Satin red winding across your skin, pulling you into whatever position he wants, able to see every part of you.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish wants to spend the night making “home movies”. Don’t worry bonnie, he’s got all the toys and costumes he wants to see/use on you all lined up. Just lay back and let him get all the videos for when he’s away.

Simon “Ghost” Riley similar to Johnny, he wants something to have while he’s deployed. However, he’d never want to jeopardize your safety, so he wants pictures. Your face is carefully cropped out of every one, but your body is on full display.

No matter who, it’ll end with cum coating your body, both of you exhausted and sore, but a night to remember.

[nightingfright]

Ghost lives loves likes to see his cum dripping out of you. He sits for a few minutes after he finishes keeping your thighs apart, watching your used hole twitch and drool out your shared release.

If he’s not getting the reaction he wants from your body, he’ll tease your hypersensitive sex, until your hole is clenching around nothing, and he can watch the puddle beneath you grow.

[nightingfright]

Nikto who nibbles. Tender bites.

Your fingers are small and soft in his mouth- so harmless and sweet. Yet he still glowers down at you with intense eyes with blown out pupils as you pet his tongue and marred lips. Your touch is a cooling balm. A treat.

He did well today. Please, indulge him.

He's insistent, possessing no hesitancy to calm his appetite. His teeth are tender and blunt against your skin- mindful of the pressure he indents into your skin.

Teeth marks adorn your ring finger. Little indents in your skin, painless, yet just as aching.

He admires them. Lathers his tongue over the welts as if to soothe the wounds he left behind, yet they're anything but wounds. They're promises.

They're pretty. He thinks. They'll make do until he can replace them with a ring.

[nightingfright]

Simon “Ghost” Riley is a munch for his own pleasure.

Cw/Tw: somnophilia, dubious consent but established relationship, cum eating

MDNI

He’d eat you morning, noon and night. You’re the first thing he has in the morning, and the last before he sleeps.

He doesn’t mind having a taste while you sleep, being much more gentle so you don’t wake, loving the uninhibited sounds you make while you sleep, when you aren’t worrying about sounding attractive. as if everything you do doesn’t get him going

He almost completely ignores you sometimes when he’s between your thighs, his mind silent for once as he laps at your dripping hole, suckling on your clit.

He always seems to stop or change his rhythm right as you’re about to finish, sometimes denying you a proper orgasm for hours. It’s not intentional most of the time, you know that, but it sure seems like it.

You two had sex too, of course, his cock buried to the hilt inside your eager cunt, stretched taut over the large intrusion. Every thrust and grind against your cervix made your thighs twitch, moans falling from your lips, low grunts from his. His cock finally stilling inside you as thick ropes of his seed filled you. He stayed there for a moment, before pulling out.

You’d thought he was done, that he’d go grab you a towel to clean off with, but instead his arms hooked under your hips, lifting you halfway off the bed, your over sensitive cunt brushing his lips.

His lips pressed against your mound, inhaling the scent of your mixed fluids greedily. His dark eyes found yours, teasingly licking a stripe between your folds, ignoring your protests.

His tongue dipped into your used hole, moaning at the taste, gathering up a glob of the mess, he dropped your hips enough to shove his tongue into your mouth, forcing you to taste what has him so obsessed.

You can’t deny that it’s a little hot.

[nightingfright]

John Price likes to pick your outfits. He leaves a full set on your chair every morning, relishing in the fact you trust him like this.

It’s not malicious (mostly), he just loves you relying on him for something. Your side of the closet is set up so you have outfits hanging up for when he gets deployed. He asks for you to send him a picture of your outfits everyday, and gets grumpy if you miss a day or wear something he didn’t preselect.

Simon “Ghost” Riley finds you in one of his shirts when he came back from a mission, and something clicks in his mind.

Slowly, you realize some of your clothes are missing, nothing you wear too often (you couldn’t remember what was there anyway) , but there’s a noticeable gap between the fabric.

Of course, it’s obvious what’s happening when the normally very clean, very picky, Simon Riley starts leaving his shirts around more. They all had his name embroidered on them somewhere, and you correctly assume that he likes seeing his name on you.

[nightingfright]

About Me

MDNI 18+ ONLY

Minors/Ageless blogs WILL be blocked.

Please put an approximate age, year or something that says you are an adult.

My name is Night or Fright, she/they, 20s. LGBTQ+

Currently dipping my toes into writing after reading for so long.

I don’t take requests, but am always open for horny thoughts!!

I write potentially dark content. Please tell me if you would like a tw/cw on a post.

Currently writing for: CoD, OC stuff

Important Tags:

#FRIGHTS FAVS for my favorite posts by other creators!

#FRIGHT WRITES for my own creations!

[nightingfright]

Simon “ghost” riley is a watcher. he likes to stare a lot, at your face, your body, but especially when you’re masturbating.

Some days he just doesn’t feel like a person worthy of touching you his angel so he becomes his moniker, walking around your shared flat like a ghost.

It was a complete accident the first time, you hadn’t heard from him that he was back.he wanted to just come home and sleep, to wake up to your face and warm breakfast and shake off the horrors of his job.

His mind was still on autopilot, steps silent, as he pushed open the door to your shared bedroom, he’d expected you to be asleep. Instead, you were splayed out on the bed, fingers deftly pleasuring your sex, your phone playing a home movie the two of you had made a few days before he was deployed.

You didn’t notice him at first, lost in the pleasure that had you dripping arousal onto the sheets. He hasn’t expected that sight. Sure, you’d got off in front of him before, but somewhere back in his mind, Simon preened at the sight of you watching those videos for your own pleasure.

He finally moved into your line of sight, and after the brief flicker of fear that there was someone in your room, your eyes lit up.You moved to go greet him, but he stopped you with a hand. “keep going, love.” He wasn’t your Simon just yet.

He watched with analyzing eyes as you laid back, parting your thighs just a bit more so he could see every dip and swell of your body, committing every twitch and moan to his memory.

[nightingfright]

crack baby

wc ; 3089 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; brief mentions of death, neglect, mentions of smoking, curse words

prologue, one, two, tbc..

You were a fool.

It had been a few days since your conversation with Bruce, and yet here you still were, sat in your bedroom with a few dollars to your name. 

How foolish you were to believe that your father would remember to give you anything, that he’d remember you at all. You feel so helpless, like that pitiful child who would hide in this very room, their knees to their chest with only their deep loneliness for company, the morose feeling of nothingness cradling them close, hiding them from the sight of a family that could’ve been.

Gritting your teeth, you push your face into your pillow, muffling your groans, your hands curl around the sheets, annoyance rising in each of your organs, they tighten in a way that makes you cringe. You were given a chance by fate, for some reason she had chosen you to go back in time, to fix your foolish mistakes once more. So why do you feel this familiar bile crawling up your throat? Why do you feel like that child once more? Why can’t you escape the void of solitude, the desolate ache in your hollow bones, numbing everything else from your mind.

You hate this feeling of vulnerability. Despite having the power to change everything, you’ve been unable to do anything but embarrass yourself, cry and then cry some more. But wallowing in self-pity will do you no good! You need to get up off your ass.

If you were going to survive, you needed to toughen up, no more pissing about! You get up with a newfound determination, you won’t foolishly rely on your ‘family’ anymore. If they don’t care about you, that’s fine! No worries! It doesn’t matter, you’ll do what you need, get out and live a happy life!

Easier said than done, how the fuck do you buy a house? At sixteen, no less, funds are one thing but finding a morally-correct landlord in Gotham is akin to being told to find a needle in a haystack. Impossible.

And every single half-right landlord you do find is somehow connected to Wayne Enterprises, you grumble, tapping on your phone with frustration, fighting the urge to throw the damn device against the wall. That wouldn’t do you any good, a phone is essential when buying a house, or so you’ve read from the multiple sight’s you’ve been consulting on help for house hunting.

Your knee’s crack as you get up with a huff, deciding that online surfing is no good anymore – you need to go get some fresh air. It’s still light outside, so it’ll be relatively safe. And with that you set off. Walking through the Manor after that strange interaction with Bruce earlier was strange, the walls suddenly felt different – each fancy painting, trinket and portrait feeling like a direct mockery towards you. As you’re huffing, stomping through the halls in an almost childish manner, you’re suddenly met with a familiar sight. Your younger brother, Damian. He’s looking at you with a familiar glower, one you’ve seen one too many times, it doesn’t bother you anymore, what does bother you is when his hand snakes out to grip your wrist in a tight grip.

“What the–” You cut yourself off when he squeezes your skin tightly, a spike of pain running through your arm as you glare at him. You had forgotten how vengeful Damian was to you for some reason, it mellowed down as you grew older but at sixteen he had it out for you.

Probably out of strange superiority complex. You shared the same father, but his mother was a key figure in the League of Assasins and your mother was some lucky broad who managed to get lucky with Bruce Wayne.

Plus, the whole lack of vigilantism, but to you that's an afterthought.

You didn’t have time to deal with this, not today! Time was a-ticking and the Gotham housing market wasn’t getting any younger. You were sick of the walls around you, the walls which seem to mock you, belittle you for your shortcomings, you needed a change, hopefully changing your surroundings will change your person – or however the quote goes.

Though, you digress.

“Is it true?” Damian asks lowly, his eyes trained on you in the same way Bruce did, it’s eerie. Like he’s picking you apart in his mind. This is– odd. Usually, Damian would sneer at you, threaten you, degrade you. That’s what you were familiar with, that you were expecting to be true, You are not prepared for is the chilling look in his eyes. “You’re planning to leave?”

“What– What business is it to you?” You hiss, ripping your arm from his grip, rubbing over the aching skin in a soothing motion, a hand-shaped bruise pulsing against your skin. “You dare to try and leave? How foolish can you be, you can barely stand on your own two feet.” He says, a sardonic edge to his voice as he assesses you. What is his problem!? Your head was reeling, a small conversation with Bruce is one thing, you can rule it to some strange coincidence or whatever the hell it was.

But Damian seeking you out? To have a conversation? That is strange. He’s definitely the sibling you’ve interacted with the most, of course, not in a good way. Nothing in this manor was ever in a good way. 

Damian’s always been hostile, seeing you as some sort of anomaly, inferior to him, to everyone in the family. He made a note to remind you of that fact every time you’d bump into each other. His words always struck you deeply, the cavern in your chest growing, urging you deeper into despair at his cruel words, despite that, a small, skin-hungry part of you looked forward to seeing him as you wander around.

His words were cruel, but it was better than the dismissive eyes, he insulted you but he didn’t ignore you. He kicked you down but he made you feel human, he made you feel seen. Even if you had stared at the mirror with disgust after you’d cross paths, desperate to rid yourself of any physical connection you share with him, courtesy to your shared DNA.

“I’m– I didn’t ask for your opinion.” You huff, the nerves in your stomach knotting together, weaving an intricate pattern that has your head spinning. 

“This has gotten too far, your pathetic attempts for attention were amusing at first – but you’re taking it too far.” He states with all the certainty in the world. Is this what he thought it was? You splutter at the incredulity, the one time you’re not doing something for attention is the time he takes notice of your efforts outside of his snide remarks?

“This isn’t a ploy for attention, I’m moving out because I want to.” You say, surprising even yourself with your even tone. You’d never spoken to him– no, you’d never spoken to anyone in your family in such a sure tone. It felt almost nice to stand up for yourself, “I’m allowed to do things because I want to, I’m a person outside of my surname.”

He seems taken aback by your comment, his brows furrowing in a way reminiscent of Bruce, his hands twitch – itching to reach out and remind you of your place. How dare you speak back to him? To Damian, family was everything. The paramount which molded him into what he was. With his parents both having legacies he has to live up to, expectations he needs to meet. Without his family, what is he? Without his Mother and Father, both powerful figures, he’s just Damian. His family dynamic is important. He’s shaped his everything based on the roles everyone plays, from Richard, to Jason, to Drake down to you. Even you, as useless and pathetic as you are, maintain a role in it all.

Your threats to leave breaks that apart, he’ll have to pick up the pieces and scar his hands once more to rebuild it. He doesn’t want that to happen, you can’t just leave without any warning, you’re much too weak-willed to survive without the family shielding you. Can’t you see, (Name)?

“Why don’t you try to actually converse and communicate your thoughts before immediately running away like a coward?” Damian asks, his hands clenching as he breathes through his nose. It’s not worth losing his temper now, not over you.

What he didn’t expect is the harsh laugh that emanates from your throat, “That’s – shit, that’s really funny, Damian.” You say between huffs, your head tilting back. Was he for real?

You’d spent your entire life with only a sullen shadow to keep you company, forced to follow behind a pitiful loser such as yourself. It’d cradle you close, threading your fingers and coaxing you to reach out for a mirage of a family you could’ve, no, you should’ve had. It holds you close, squeezing your heart in it’s hands, you had nothing but loneliness to keep you company, despite your cries for more.

In that sullen time, you reached out, cried until your throat was scratchy and your voice hoarse, until the words of pleading for affections became so natural you’d utter them in your sleep. The loneliness became so unbearable, you would try your very hardest for someone, anyone to look at you with even a slither of warmth.

You picked up many extracurricular activities, drowning yourself in sports, gymnastics, writing, choir – trophies and medals stashed under your bed – a testament of your failure to be seen. You’d skip home, a pretty, golden medal around your neck, only for each of them to walk past you, to ignore your efforts. It was soul-crushing, the loneliness you experienced.

How dare he stand there and accuse you of not communicating? Was the small child, pawing at their legs for them to merely look at you not enough? The mere accusation, the prospect of this whole thing being a ploy for attention, and not your own personal development was enough to make your skin crawl with anger, your flesh thumming as you fight the urge to reach over and show him just how communicative you could be.

“You don’t get to say anything like that to me anymore, I’m done trying to chase after all of you.” You reply, a sickly feeling groveling through your throat – rage simmering in your stomach. “I’m leaving because I am my own person, because I’m no longer content being just (Name) Wayne.” Damian watches as you push past him, your footsteps hard and heavy as you stomp away, his eyes trail on your back and he distinctly wonders if the nagging feeling pulling on his heart is the same way you felt all those years ago.

“We won’t let you go.” Those were his parting words, echoing in the Manor’s walls, the eyes of each painting, each portrait staring at you. Only at you.

‘We won’t let you go’, how disgustingly egotistical. You weren’t some possession, you were your own person. Living in this loveless Manor is what got you killed last time around, you don’t want that to happen again.

But there was a strange finality in his words that made your head ache, a sense of impending doom encasing your neck firmly, like a warning – a rope that threatens to pull you up if you stray too far. It was terrifying, and it had you second guessing everything.

The future had changed, and you had a nagging feeling that this time around, you’ll be centre stage.

And for once, you hope you’re not.

By the time you reached the Manor’s doors, the exchange with Damian was still heavy in your mind, you couldn’t help the nagging feeling that something is off. This isn’t how the future is supposed to go, you’re supposed to stay as a figure in the background, you’re not supposed to converse with Bruce or squabble with Damian.

Whatever had happened, it couldn’t have been that big if you missed the catalyst, so those weird exchanges should be the end of it all. What’s two conversations with your family? You’re overthinking everything, again!

That’s all that’ll change, you hum, reaching for the door handle.

“(Name)!”

Oh, what the fuck. Who now?

As you turn around with a scrunched up expression, you almost faint. Dick Grayson, your big brother is running towards you – a sickly sweet smile plastered on his face.

A bitter taste fills your mouth, you’re acutely aware of how warm your saliva is – how your throat seems to close up and plug all your scary emotions deep inside you. This is really odd. Never in your life had Dick spoke to you first, what was going on? You barely fight back the urge to combust into tears as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug.

What the fuck?! You’re too dumbfounded to notice the way he subtly shifts your body so that he’s between you and the door, your face pressed against his chest.

This goes beyond simple conversations, you cannot recall a single time you’ve ever been embraced by anyone in your family. What the fuck!? Your mind blanks for a few moments before you attempt push him away.

He pulls away slowly after a moment, his arms staying planted on your shoulders, heavy – restricting. “What are you doing down here, you heading somewhere?” He smiles, but you can see the way it doesn’t reach his eyes. What does he want from you? What the actual hell is going on?

“I was going out for a walk.” You mumble, your eyes looking everywhere, everywhere except Dick. His attention, in the last timeline you’d probably drop to your knees and thank whatever deity has graced you with such benevolence, thank the stars above that your big brother just hugged you. But right now, all you feel is an oppressive, overbearing anxiety.

Your heart punches against your rib cage, threatening to break free and spill out, it was so intense you felt in your ears, in your lungs – everywhere, down to your very fingertips. Each breath felt like a dozen blades being shoved down your throat, the anxious feeling in your stomach reaching forward to encase your throat, squeezing until you can’t breathe. “A walk? I’d love to join!” Dick declares with a strange tone of certitude, throwing his arm across your shoulder, but you stay firmly in place – refusing to move a single inch. This wasn’t good, your brother sent you a confused expression at the silence coming from you. This wasn’t like you, a few years ago – even the promise of hanging out with you had you cheesing from ear to ear.

So why did you look so– terrified?

“I’m– I suddenly remembered I have homework to do, bye.” You shrug his arm off you, before practically sprinting away, you were sure that staying by his side any longer would have you breaking down. You ignore the indignant shout from Dick, your lungs burning as you speed towards your room. You cannot deal with another impromptu meeting with anyone from your family, your heart cannot take such stress! I mean, you were twenty-one a few days ago, and by trying to live a life away from the stifling Manor, you’ve inadvertently caused some sort of change.

You’ve got to figure out what went wrong, you haven’t made some grand gesture, hell, you haven’t made an effort to even reach out. So what is it that’s happened, what have you done that’s unlocked the branch towards your family? The branch that poor child (Name) was desperate to nurture. Why is it sprouting now?

Dick stays stood in the doorway, his brows furrowed and his mouth gaping. You – ran away? He expected a lot when he saw you leaving, he expected that by embracing his poor sibling, you’d open up to him, tell him your fears so that he can guide you away from a future where you move away, what nonsense.

But instead of crying and looking up at him with those familiar eyes, you looked at him as though he had done something wrong, as if he had scared you. Then you ran away! You! You ran away from him? Him!

His fists clench as he lets out a heavy sigh, soothing the frustration inside him. You looked scared, why on earth were you scared? Could it be you were scared of him?

..

Impossible, he’s your dear, older brother! There’s no way you would ever be scared of him, not when you used to follow him around like a duckling, your eyes sparkling with excitement, clutching onto him no matter how many times he had pushed you away.

So why? Why did you look so terrified? Where was that awe-struck expression? His heart clenches as though someone was squeezing it, pumping it so quickly he’s sure it’s minute aways from popping.

You’re not scared of him – you’re probably just.. shy. Too nervous to speak, that must be it! Poor you, you just don’t know how to speak up properly, to ask for affection. You’ve grown from that small star struck child to a socially inept larger child! That’s okay, he understands. He’s alright with guiding you, like a good big brother should.

It’s not too late, no, he has more than enough time.

You’re one interaction away from ripping your hair out of your head and strangling yourself with it. You could deal with that awkward conversation with Bruce, Alfred probably paid him to check in on you – and squabbles with Damian, no big deal, that’s all a-okay. But Dick! Hugging you? Asking you to go on a walk with him? What happened!?

You groan into your pillow, your hands clutching onto your hair with frustration, with another deep sigh, you sit up and ponder.

What has changed? What happened for this drastic change in your family to occur? Excuses for Dick’s behaviour were stale on your tongue, he did that of his own free will, of his own volition. Fuck, you need a cigarette. Instinctively, your hands reach into your pockets.

Oh right, you’re sixteen. How annoying, nothing good is coming from this ‘second chance’ bullshit.With each passing day, the likelihood of your billionaire father, Bruce Wayne, giving you money is growing increasingly slim, so you have finances to worry about again. You're closer to becoming Batman than you are to moving out.

This is really so bothersome.

tag list (open, ask to be added) ; @estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo

sorry yall i was gonna post this six hours ago but i ended up watching young sheldon instead also sorry for the bum ass chapter im eager to get to the next park

jason and tim r coming dw

[nightingfright]

Can we get some horny headcanons for Saint?👀

You said they're big as fuck and I wanna know how he'd react to a smaller omega (fem) in the pack during his rut🤭

Hiya! I’m gonna use they/them and be vague about genitalia to preserve some of the lovely ambiguity of Saint’s vibe.

But Saint’s a virile Alpha through and through, with a pack of high-energy Omegas so they are horny. These aren’t just headcanons, these are canon canon :)

- kissing their jaw/chin instantly gets them going, esp if it’s messy. They make a noise that’s not quite a purr, not quite a growl. Not all Alphas make that noise, but Saint does. They get all narrow-eyed and relaxed, rolling their hips.

- omegas on top are their favorite position, they love watching their pack take what they need while they coo and praise them

- free use kink, esp for omegas in heat and pre-heat. They secretly love doing something else while their omega gets off, listening to them chirp and purr for attention while they have a conversation or fill out forms. Until their omega gets that’s sweet needy, demanding edge and saint gives them all the attention they could possibly handle.

- it’s a crass term that saint would never use, but “bitching” another alpha is a secret fantasy. They’re a bit ashamed of it, so they only ever really use it as fantasy material during pre-rut and rut, when their inhibitions are lower.

- their scent glands aren’t actually as sensitive as one might expect (due to applying neutralizer so often) so biting down on it, even without drawing blood, will have them moaning and getting close. Being a little rough with them in general is hot, they love scratches and bites and bruises, it’s what they’re built for

- soft dom. Loves to praise. Loves to gently correct. Coos and churrs and purrs while you’re falling apart, holding you close while you cling and murmuring sweet filth in your ear, subharmonics in every word. “I know, I know. It’s a lot but you’re taking it all so well. I knew you would, sweet omega. You can cry if you need to, I know you’re overwhelmed.”