#and the only way dick has left to know him is to mourn him

[aviatrickss]

*takes a deep breath and leans in so close that my lips touch the microphone*

the tragedy of dick and jason’s relationship as brothers is not that they hated each other and then jason died, or that they were super close and then jason died. the tragedy is that dick did not know enough about jason to know how to mourn him. were they brothers? were they rivals? dick sure doesn’t know, and jason doesn’t either! but it’s fine bc they have plenty of time to figure that shit out, they don’t need to know each other right now bc there will be time to know each other later.

except.

[mochinek0]

Time to Go

Marinette had known since she was born that she was the only daughter of Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul. She was also Damian's little sister, by three years.

When the strike on Ra's Al Ghul was taken, Talia quickly hid her away. Marinette knew her family's lives were on the line. She knew Damian would be on the front lines and prayed for his safe return. Although she knew she wasn't her grandfather's favorite, she still mourned his death. Damian seemed to take it especially hard.

Talia had told Marinette and Damian that they would be seperated for the time being. She needed Damian to go with his father to continue his training, while she picked up the pieces of the League.

"What about me, Mother?" Mari questioned.

"You will be on a mission, all of your own." Talia explained, "You're mission is to go undercover. You will act as a daughter of other people. This will keep you safe. Not many know of your existence, but I need to make sure all that wish to harm us, are gone."

"I do not approve of this." Damian snarled.

"I understand." Talia whispered, "I have folders for each of you with detailed instructions. Until you are in your new lodgings, you are not to open them."

Marinette nodded sadly and cried herself to sleep in her big brother's arms. She knew it would be a while before she saw him again. Talia gave them their moment. It hurt her dearly to tear her children apart, but Slade had to pay for his crimes. The League had to be rebuilt and become stronger than ever to give them both their inheritance. With Ra's gone, she would train Marinette to become as deadly as her, when she came of age.

Marinette smiled at the envelope in her hand.

'Another letter from mother. I wonder what my orders are this time.'

Marinette,

The time has come for your father to pick you up. He and Damian will pick you up in three days time. Prepare for his arrival.

Marinette smiled, happily. Lila had been a pain in the ass, as of late. Sabine and Tom took everything her so-called friends said at face value. They would laugh at the implications over dinner. Marinette would tell them all of the lies and how brainless the class truly was. They both knew that if Marinette was really bullying Lila, she could have done far worse. Tom and Sabine had disagreed with Adrien's decleration, but told Mairnette to keep the piece while they reached out to Talia. Only her mother's orders were absolute. If her mother said she could kill her, they wouldn't stand in her way.

"Maman. Papa." Marinette called out.

"So, what did the letter say this time?" Sabine asked.

"Father and Brother will be here in three days time to retrieve me." she answered.

"Well, let's start pulling you out of that horrible school and get ou all packed up." Tom laughed, "I'm sure they will be happy to see you."

'Damian, perhaps. Father; I don't know if he even knows of my existence. Surprise, Father.'

Bruce sighed, "What do you mean you have a sister?"

"It's just as I stated." Damian declared, "Mother has insisted it is safe to retrieve her."

"You've been talking to Talia?" Dick questioned.

"No." the young Wayne heir answered, "She gave us both instructions before we left."

Damian held up the letter.

"There are certain dates for me to open these letters." he explained, "Most of them coincide with our birthdays. Today is Marinette's; she turns fifteen."

"So where is she?" Jason asked.

"Paris, France." Damian stated, "She has been under watchful eyes and was assigned to live as a normal child. No assassin work. Grandfather wasn't too happy that he didn't have two grandsons. Mother taught her self-defense, but she helped out around, mostly as a servant. I was to ignore her if I saw her unless we were alone."

Bruce rubbed his head.

"I have already prepared another room, Sir." Alfred smiled.

"Please, don't let there be two of him." Tim pleaded as Bruce stood up and walked out of the cave to pack.

Marinette handed over her ledger of Lila Rossi to Bruce.

"The school needs to choose their staff more carefully." she spoke, "Tom and Sabine have tried stepping in with the Principal, but I bellieve the Board needs to know what is going on under their noses.

Bruce looked at it and quickly read through it.

"I agree." he snarled, "I'll be taking it with me to the board. I need to legally sign you out of that school, anyways."

Marinette turned to her brother and hugged him.

"I missed you." she whispered.

Damian said nothing, but held her close.

Tom and Sabine stood by as they watch the girl they help raise, reunite with her family. Marinette let go and realized they were holding something.

"We have a copy of all of the recipes we've made over the years." Sabine declared, "Both in the bakery and just for the house."

"Family eyes only." Tom smiled.

"Thank you." Marinette replied, taking it and holding it close to her chest.

"I will make sure it is handed over to our grandfather and he will keep it locked up and safe." Damian declared.

Tom and Sabine smiled.

"I need to take my stuff back to the school." Mari spoke up.

"Go." Damian replied, "Father should return soon. I will tell him where you are and we will meet you there. I will put your belongings in the car so we can leave immediately."

Marinette walked into class and handed her class books over to Ms. Bustier.

"Marinette, why-" Caline began to question.

"I resign as class president." Mari announced.

"What?" Caline whispered in shock.

"Marinette?" Adrien called out, "Are you okay?"

"Is this why you haven't been in school?" Alya asked.

Caline laughed awkwardly, "Marinette, I'm sure-"

"I will be leaving this school, as of today." she announced, leaving the class stunned.

"Oh, Marinette!" Lila called out, standing up, "Did I do something? I only wanted to be friends!"

"Yeah!" shouted Kim, "What the hell?"

"I'll be moving in with my birth father and older brother." Marinette stated, "Mother says it is time for me to go with them."

"Sabine kicked you out?" Adrien questioned, confused.

"Sabine and Tom are my guardians, not my parents." Mari declared, "My birth father listened to me. I have always had a keen eye for detail, as many of you know from asking me to design for them."

"Are you till going on about 'Lila stealing from you'?" Alya asked, "We know it was you who stole!"

Lila paled and sat back down in her seat.

'What?'

Marinette looked at Lila and smiled, "Why do you think Ms. Bustier doesn't want me to stop being class president? It's because I make detailed plans for all the school trips, fundraisers, plan the fire drills, and escape routes. I even know where everything in this school is, including the security cameras. I have kept a record of every lie you said sice you got here, where and when. My father turned the evidence over to the Board of Governers."

Lila's jaw dropped.

"If the cameras aren't working, then they'll just go after that gullible man. Pretty sure embezzlement won't keep him in position." Mari shrugged.

"Huh?" asked Nino.

"How many times do you think the mayor pays him to look the other way when Chloe's being a bitch?" Marinette declared.

"Excuse me!" Chloe shouted.

"Maybe Lila can lend you her hearing aids." Marinette retorted.

"This is why you're a bully." Alix glared at her.

Marinette simply smiled.

Bruce and Damian walked in. Chloe smoothed her clothes and fluffed her hair, quickly. She stood up and smiled.

"I'm-" She spoke.

"Your voice is like nails on a chalk board." Damian commanded, "Be silent."

Chloe closed her mouth and sat down in embarassment, leaving everyone speechless.

Marinette giggled, "You always did know how to make an entrance, Big Brother."

Chloe's jaw dropped.

'She's a Wayne!'

Marinette turned and smiled at Chloe, "Goodbye, Daddy's Little Princess." before turning back to her family, "Father, I am ready to return home."

"Very well." Bruce spoke.

All three of them left the class without another word. There was a lot they had to discuss. As far as Bruce knew, Marinette had no idea about him being Batman and Damian being Robin. She had grown up with some semblance of a normal life and he wanted to keep it that way.

The class looked at the door confused.

"Chloe?" whispered Sabrina.

"Shit!" Chloe screamed, slamming her fists onto the desk.

"Chloe, are you okay?" asked Kim.

"No!" she yelled back, "Do I look okay? So you know-You don't know who they are? Of course you Pea Brains, don't! That was Bruce and Damian Wayne. Which makes.....Baker Girl is one of the richest people in the world."

Lila sat in her seat, enraged.

'What?'

"What?" questioned Alya.

"They have more money than mine and Adrikins' family combined." she scoffed, "Her father could buy Daddy's hotel like it was nothing!"

"But-" whispered Mylene.

"Marinette is a Wayne." Chloe stated, "The Waynes own an international business and have their hands in everything. They are old money. Bruce Wayne practically owns a whole city and just doesn't wanna be mayor."

"What about her brother?" asked Alix.

"He's known for being violent and lashing out. He hates the press." she remarked, "One thing about him on social media and he hunts you down and sues you."

"That's illegal." Alya claimed.

"Sorry. Would you prefer to be thrown in jail or settle for a million dollars to delete what you have?" the heiress questioned, "The Wayne family is known for the high IQ and attention to detail, which means....we're all screwed."

The class learned that everything Marinette had said was true. Lila's lies were all exposed. She was expelled and taken to a juvenile detention center, ontop of being sued by various people. Principal Damocles had been fired, as he had zero authority to expell anyone. Their teacher, Caline Bustier, was fired for not doing her job. She never informed the nurse about Lila's illnesses or disabilities, so there was never any confirmation that any of those were true. She also never sent Lila any homework during her 'travels' and so she was far behind the class in her studies.

Chloe believed she was suffering the most. Adrien was no longer in school with her. The people that let her do what she wanted was removed from the school and she was being forced to sell clothes out of her closet because her mother was upset by how much she 'embarassed them' in front of the Waynes.

'Stupid Marinette! This is all her fault! If she had just acted rich, like me, everything would be the same as it always was.'

The class was in disarray. Not only had Ms. Bustier let Lila slide on so many things, she was behind on their lessons as well. They now had mandatory after school tutoring and study sessions. Adrien Agreste had been pulled out of the class due to his high marks. He was also at the level they all should have been at.

"Dude, how did you pass?" Nino asked, "We all listened to Miss Bustier! You're higher than anyone, including Max!"

"Well, I was homeschooled and Natalie was a tough teacher compared to Miss Bustier. Also, I wanted to be at the same grade level as Chloe. I sorta knew mostly everything, already." Adrien admitted, "I actually could have skipped a few grades if I wanted to."

Nino was surprised, "Would you be willing to tutor us?"

"I wish I could but the board made me take a test and Father demanded I answer every question I knew correctly." Adrien sighed, "I'll be going to high school and if I continue the way I am now, I'm set to graduate in two years."

They realized it would never be the same. Everyone else still had four or five years until they graduated. 

Bruce thought that another child would tip the balance of the manor, but he was wrong. It felt like all they had been missing, was her. She adjusted perfectly to the chaos. His sons insisted that Marinette learn self-defense, at the very least. She refused to walk in their footsteps and become Robin or any other sort of vigilante. It hadn't taken long for Marinette to be announced as Bruce Wayne's daughter and Damian's long lost biological sister. Marinette had taken Gotham by storm as Gotham's Angel and was designing under a new alias: Serpentine. She was taking the fashion world by storm.

Everyone loved having Marinette around, but Damian Al-Ghul Wayne knew better. Marinette was as deceiving as their mother. She looked innocent in everything she did, but her mind was a war zone. Their grandfather never appreciated her mind, but he had gotten some of his best stealth mission ideas after talking with her. He could see her slithering into every crack in their new home. She was flexible like Grayson, loved motorcycles like Todd, talked business with Father and Drake. She even won over Alfred, Brown and Cain with her cooking and baking skills.

Damian watched as Marinette smiled at her computer. The look at the screen, the smile; it was his mother's smile. He could see Gabriel stocks were plummeting after their reunion in Paris. Style Queen was barely hovering above water. For Marinette, it was never about becoming Robin. It was about ruling the world and she was going do it through fashion.

Damian would never tell anyone, but he was scared of his little sister and he would take it to his grave. The smile that would lead anyone to death: The Arabian Helen of Troy.

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[thevirgincherry]

ROTTEN LUCK !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. smut, kidnapping, leon is like mentally gone icl, references to past assault and trauma, non-con, manipulation, suicidal thoughts/reference to an attempt, general leon self destructive behaviour, physical abuse, power dynamics, throatfucking, choking, breath play, somno, 1 instance of drugging, unmentioned age gap, anal, he puts duct tape on your pussy ok just once promise it’s not bad, religious references, 1 mention of vomit and piss not in a sexual way, slight misogyny, panic attack

tumblr has started to remove fics that use tw non-con, tw incest and any nsfw tags in general. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags so i can have the same reach as other authors, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

anyway, please ignore typos :3 rbs and feedback is very appreciated :3 my medical knowledge sucks, so keep in mind that all of this is off LMFAO crossposted to ao3 (user clitkiss)

two

Lucky. Leon hates that word. He wasn’t lucky to get out of Raccoon City, he was just barely capable, you have to be unlucky to get into that situation in the first place. You’re a lucky guy, Redfield had told him once, Chris not Claire. Claire isn’t daft. And Leon wonders what is so lucky about him. He’s forty-six and all he’s got is his trusty Matilda, his mother’s old Bible, and a failing liver. His luck is preordained by God and it’s a total sham.

Leon Kennedy’s the one who showed up to drill sessions smelling like sweat and cock. Kennedy’s the one that rolls over onto his front and takes it like a good doggy. Kennedy’s green behind the ears, pretty in the face, and that don’t fare well in a boot camp full of men twice his size. Kennedy’s the one brushing shoulders with the President, got the USA’s most prized dick in his mouth and everyone knows that he wouldn’t dare bite down. Golden boy Leon fucking Scott Kennedy would just go ahead and use his tongue to clean up Graham’s ballsack. And you’re calling that lucky? Bullshit.

The DSO’s modus operandi is strikingly similar to that of the BSAA. He is but a cog in a well oiled machine. There’s one difference, not a dog tag to his name. If he dies, then he’ll die nameless, and he’ll be cremated by something nuclear, and it’ll all be for nothing. Ain’t that just the luckiest thing you’ve ever heard?

He has tried to kill himself once or twice or thrice. He lost count after the fifth. The gun jammed once, a bad joke. Left Matilda rendered useless. Was meant to be him, not her. And if Leon’s being honest, every day is an avid attempt, as in the drinking and praying his liver gives out. Once he managed to get halfway there. Doesn’t remember a lot. Just blood. Lots of blood. Why couldn’t you be quiet about your grief, Leon? Claire’s expression had asked, how I am, how Chris is, how Jill is.

‘Cause he couldn’t. He had to go ahead and splatter his grief all over the linoleum floor. Maybe then someone would find him, and they’d mourn him, and they’d feel sorry for him ‘cause he’d pitied himself enough. Leon told her a joke, yapping away like one of those butterscotch lapdogs. Claire said that in South Korea you’re allowed to snip a dog's vocal cords to stop them from barking. Lucky I’m not in South Korea then. She handed him an orange prescription bottle with his name scrawled on it, and that was that. They didn’t speak for a few months.

Once upon a time Sherry needed him, now he needs her more. Needs her to laugh at his jokes, she’s the only one that does. And he needs her to tell him, I love you, Leon. She’s the only one that says that. No one puts up with him like Sherry does. She puts up with him in the way most women do their fathers. Love their dads unconditionally and nothing can ever fix that. Terrible illness that is. So, yeah, Leon Scott Kennedy is far from lucky. Lonely? Oh, for sure. God. He’s so lonely he feels sorry for himself. That’s one thing Leon has always been good at though. Lending himself a shoulder ‘cause no one else will.

His fingers brush yours in the record store. The hairs on the back of his neck stand. Jesus. Is it getting that bad? Leon’s been without a fuck for a few months and he’s already itching. That’s a new low. When Leon looks up to catch sight of who made his dick swell with their fingertips, he catches your eye briefly. A mousy little thing. Easily spooked it seems by the nervous smile you give him.

You’re on the phone, I don’t know what he likes anymore, dad, yeah—I’m trying to find it—Yes, I know who sang Sex and Candy, dad, Kurt Cobain right? Is that the one he likes? Dumbass. No, I’m not wrong, could you put mom on the phone—Hi mom, yes, I know he’s my brother, mom—Ever since he turned fifteen he stopped talking to me properly—I don’t know what she thinks, mom—

A mommy, daddy, a brother, a sister too he assumes. You’re what they call lucky. Nasty undertone you’re using with your parents. If Leon’s mom was still around he’d talk to her so sweet. She’d tell him to pray and Leon wouldn’t resist. Alright, Ma, Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus Tecum— then his voice would trail off, and he’d pretend to mouth the rest of the hymn ‘cause he remembers fuck all.

He wants to knock you around. Shake you till your brains scramble. Wants you to flinch even when he’s being nice. Leon’s nostrils flare when you raise your voice in the slightest, even if it’s playful, it’s plain rude. How dare you? He can’t even begin to fathom how incredibly lucky you are. The thought crosses Leon’s mind once, twice, thrice. Just how suicide did that day back in September. If you can kidnap the President’s daughter from her bustling college campus, throw her over your shoulder like salt, why can’t you kidnap Miss Nobody from a street corner in D.C?

Your figure is distinguished by a single, flickering street lamp. He sees your shadow. Recognises the silhouette by the shapely legs and how your belted coat flares out to create a dramatic hourglass, Leon’s got a good eye for detail. Oh, it’s kinda sexy watching you in the spotlight, like a makeshift cabaret show, go on babe, bust out the flapper dress, he knows his stuff, he read Gatsby back in high school. He listens out for the tap of your heeled boots, click-clack, click-clack, there you are, you don’t even know what’s about to happen, do you? And it really is that easy. Just like throwin’ salt over your shoulder.

Temazepam, loprazolam, lormetazepam, diazepam, nitrazepam. Some melatonin too. Magnesium’s supposed to help with insomnia. How’s he supposed to know what your body reacts to best? Leon’s not your fuckin’ GP. Chloroform does the trick for everyone. Should’ve invited you out for drinks and roofied you instead.

Leon had gone for an old-fashioned method, listen, he was desperate. He doesn’t usually resort to such bruteish tactics unlike the older Redfield, not that Chris would use a morsel of his strength to harm a lady, but it had to be done. Yes, he choked you out. No, he’s not proud of it. He’s actually pretty disappointed in his lack of preparation. Oh, cut yourself some slack, Kennedy, it’s your first time kidnapping someone, and it was a heat of the moment type thing. To Leon’s dismay, that doesn’t last long, duh, he should know better.

While you regain sluggish consciousness on his couch, Leon’s tearing through his kitchen cabinets for anything to settle you down. Ah. That’s right. Ketamine. Ain’t it horse tranquilliser? What’s that doing here? Honestly, he’s got to stop raiding the infirmary for all they’ve got. A high enough dosage will knock you out for sure. If it kills you, then so be it. Beer for guys, wine for the ladies, and Ketamine for random sluts he picks up on street corners.

You’re blinking to clear your hazy vision, feeling around your crushed windpipe to assess the damage, he leans over you like a nurse from hell. The needle breaks your skin easily, so tender, before you have the chance to kick up a fuss, your eyelids turn to lead and close like a toy babydoll’s do when you lean them back.

Fifteen to twenty minutes, google says. Leon gets down to business, strips you of your clothing, takes you to his room, throws you on the king-sized bed that’s warmed only by him. He kept your panties on. They’re light blue and sensible briefs. A buzzer rings out in his head, bzzzt, boring. A million bitches in D.C. and he picked out the most vanilla one. Just his Kennedy luck ain’t it.

One minute. Leon presses his nose to the fabric of your panties, sniffs like a pig does in its trough, isn’t that just the sweetest smell? Fresh cunt. He licks up the print of your pussy, tongue landing on the hardness of your clit.

Five minutes. With your panties soaked with Leon’s spit, he decides to move ‘em to the side, and he groans in delight when he parts your cushioned lips to find that you’re stickier than toffee pudding, drooly cunt reactive to the pads of his fingers, to the tip of his tongue. He pushes back the hood of your bud, gives it a kiss, then another.

Ten minutes. He’s opened you up, gaped you around three thick fingers, Jesus, you’re so tight. It’s like your cunt’s vacuum sealed. Leon’s fingers prod at the squishy opening of your cervix, his thumb circles your clit, presses down like a button and he’s rewarded with another gush of slick. Beer on tap.

You rouse from your forced slumber at fourteen minutes. Huh. He’ll have to up the dosage next time. “Hi there, sleepin’ beauty.” Leon says in a rather cloying voice, amping up the sweetness when in reality he is less than fond of you. The lucky girl. He strokes your head soothingly, hovers over you to keep you in place. The panic sets in almost immediately, flailing limbs, asinine attempts at sentences that crawl up your throat and spill over. Who are you, get off me, get off me, please. What did I do? I’m sorry, please, let me go, let me go, please, I’ll do anything. Albeit your words are slurred, Leon chooses not to hear you.

“Aintcha just the sweetest thing?” He cups your cheeks, gaze so gentle it’s disarming. “I opened you up, didn’t wanna break ya, just wanted you to wake up before we got it on, I’m a real gentleman, you see.” Before he rapes you, he makes sure to ask: you got a rubber by any chance, sweetheart? Oh, and you don’t like that, you really don’t. ‘Cause your face falls fast like a drop tower ride.

The chance to scream is lost on you when he shoves his fingers in your mouth, pushes them down your burning throat till you choke and drool in an unflattering manner. Your jaw is too lax to clamp down on him. Leon takes this opportunity to smear his leaky, fat tip over your folds, pushes past the barriers of resistance and slides into your pre-gaped cunt. Lucky bitch. Lucky fucking bitch. Getting yourself a piece of Leon S. Kennedy’s dick. He reserves that for only the finest ladies, aka any girl that has a nice set of tits and dark hair, greying roots are a new preference.

He’s fully sheathed inside of you, head rubbing painfully against your cervix. Bruising it from the look of discomfort on your face as you make stupid-sounding noises around his fingers. “Fuck, yeah, that hits the spot.” When’s the last time Leon had his way with a girl, wanton fucking, pulling hair, slapping— they all want it soft and sappy these days. And so did he up until a certain point. Up until he tried to kill himself maybe. Something must’ve flipped in his brain, now he’s overcome with the need to mess your pretty face up.

Leon’s forehead presses to your clammy one, your sweat is salty on his tongue when he kisses your cheek. Slightly sour scent, ugh, what’s he saying? Acting like he’s a fear-smelling B.O.W or some shit. Fuck off, Kennedy. His hips aim upwards when your body shifts due to the thrashing you’re doing, with each thrust he bottoms out with a wet squelch, rolls his hips into you at a force that knocks any chance of breath out of you.

“If you were a good girl,” Leon smiles, all teeth. They glint in the muddy darkness of his room, black-out curtains drawn so not even the moon gets to see what he’s doing to you, “then I’d be fuckin’ you real slow, real nice, rub that little clit till you came.” Your wrists are both cuffed within his grip, pinned over your head as he drives into you, as if his intention is to tear straight through you.

The heat in his gut uncoils, but he’s timed himself well enough, pulls out ‘cause god forbid he knocked you up. Knowing Leon’s luck he’d manage it. Then he puts his cock in your mouth, “I got some pliers out back.” He says in warning as he jerks the shaft and your lips hesitantly close around the tip when he gives you a mean look. Total lie by the way, no matter how abnormal Leon is he does not own a pair of tooth-pulling pliers. Shoots his load down your throat, you splutter and push at his abdomen to get him off.

He pulls out in his own time, lays beside you. All of his chakras are aligned. Apparently there’s seven, but Leon’s only got two. And they’re entirely dependent on whether he’s sucked and fucked till he’s thoroughly satisfied. By god he is. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. That’s the rest of it right. He remembers now. You might just be his saving grace, Lucky Girl. His very own Sancta Maria, Mater dei. Damn, you hear that, ma? Leon’s got it down to a T. Maybe some more pussy will get him singing out the rest of the prayer. He can get rid of that statuette on the mantle, swap it out with you.

He doesn't get a word out by the time you’re vomiting a vile mixture of acidic yellow and his seed down the front of your chest. Retching as you choke on the gift he’d given you.

Leon takes you to the bathroom, forces you into the shower cubicle as he sprays you down, not even waiting for the water to go warm. “Dry yourself off,” he gestures mildly to where there’s a few towels stored.

You don’t come back out of the bathroom for five minutes, then ten, then twenty. Don’t even answer when he knocks. Goddammit, Leon. Leave your kidnap victim alone in the room with all the razors, why don’t you? Fucking idiot. When he opens the door, you’re huddled in the corner by the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl and sitting in a puddle of your own piss. Stupid fucking baby. Is this what kids are like these days? When he was your age he made it out of Raccoon City alive, and no one made it out of there. No one lived to tell that story. And you’re here pissing your pants ‘cause he’s given you a nice, hard fucking? He pimp slaps you so hard your teeth clatter.

It takes two weeks for his Lucky Girl to be broken in. Not as long as he expected, so he’s pleased. And when Leon’s pleased, he’s nice. So today you get some screen time. You’re curled into his side, the way a baby bird does under its mother’s wing, squinting at his sixty-five inch TV, egregious really, who needs a screen that big? He’s flipping periodically through the channels whenever an ad break comes on. The 7.45PM news is on. He settles on that and you watch mindlessly, no objections.

The speech blurs like white noise to him, Leon’s not focused until your picture pops up on screen, and he just turns to you with this shit-eating grin. Graduation cap and robe on, all dolled up as you make eyes at him through the screen.

“Baby,” he grins wolfishly, ruffles your hair in a teasing manner, “you look so damn cute there!” Leon watches bright-eyed, suddenly enthralled, they list your name, your height, your weight, all stuff he actually didn’t know ‘bout you. Never bothered to ask. You don’t need a name, you’re just his Lucky Girl. “Don’t like the red lip on you,” he comments flippantly, “A red lip is for whores, don’t you think, baby?”

He was right. You got a daddy, a mommy, a brother and a sister. You’ve got it all. Lucky fucking Girl. A broken sob is torn from your throat, jagged and scratchy as you fling yourself halfway across the room, on your knees as you put your grubby fingers all over his shiny screen. Leon lets you. He finds it hilarious actually. Who’d you think you are? Carol Anne from Poltergeist? Like you’re gonna get sucked into the screen, crawling out the other end like Sadako, back into your daddy’s arms.

Our daughter—My girl, she had her whole life ahead of her—My sister wouldn’t do this—She was so excited to move on after graduation—She’s not the type to run away—My daughter—My sister—Our sister—

Your mother is a mess, barely able to get words out with the way she’s blubbering. “She’s layin’ it on a bit thick, don’t you think, babe?” Leon picks up his beer from the side table, slightly heated under the burn of the lamp. “You look like your daddy, cry pretty like your mama though.”

You stare at him horrified. Jaw hanging open as if it’s unhinged, not in the way a snake does when ready to swallow its prey whole. More in the way of a screaming corpse. When the rigor mortis has worn off, secondary flaccidity sets in, and the mandible drops open. Jeez, tough crowd tonight it seems. Don’t make him sew your mouth up, Lucky Girl. Leon wouldn’t dare, that mouth, that throat is precious to him.

CCTV footage plays on the screen, another sob racks your brittle frame, you didn’t know it was him that day, Leon realises. “Oh, baby, that’s where we met, ain’t that funny?” A blurry image of you on the phone, prattling away to your family like the Lucky Girl you are, he’s just out of shot.

We miss her—Please, if you know anything, if you find anything—Please—

“God, let me get my phone, darling, they look so upset I can’t stand it. I might have to call them up and turn myself in. Give ‘em an early Christmas gift, don’t you think?” If Leon went missing, who would look for him? Hunnigan with all her sharp edges, or Claire with her unwilling loyalty to him? Lucky Bitch. It’s making his temper flare, that’s enough TV time for today.

The screen fades out, goes black when he switches it off. “No, no, no,” you chant, “no, no, no, no, please, please—“

“I’m disappointed in you, baby.” Leon says honestly, sips his beer and laughs mirthlessly. “I thought you’d started to like me.”

You’re not listening, too busy fitting on the rug, grasping at the screen as if you can pluck your family out of it and reunite with them on his living room floor. Leon did think you were getting used to him though. Family’s family, blood is thicker than water. Cum is also thicker than water. And that’s what he’s pumped down your throat nightly in hopes of it clogging up your brain, so you think of nothing but him. Those dogs in South Korea, the ones Claire told him about, he’s got his own special method to take care of your vocal cords. No snipping, no surgery needed. Just the throat training method.

“C’mere, lucky girl.” He clicks his tongue as if he’s calling out for a dog. You lay unmoving, rocking back and forth, whispering to yourself like a crazy person. Bit creepy. Leon stands, he grabs you by the hair and drags you to sit at his feet near the couch. Simple and effective. Backhands you for good luck. He needs it. “Stop your cryin’ I’m getting sick of it.” Leon says, brows wrinkled as he lowers his sweats, brings your head down to rest on his thigh. Your tear-stained cheeks turn him on, the doleful eyes, runny nose. It’s hot. His sad little girl.

“Suck it.” Leon taps the tip against your pouty lips, swollen from his earlier kisses, coats them in his pearly pre, “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.” You open your mouth, take him like clockwork. He don’t like that attitude. So he pushes your head down on his cock, watches your throat bob, uncomfortably full. Leon pinches your nose, listens to how you panic so nice around a mouthful of dick, gagging in a way you never have before. Not a gag that indicates inexperience, but one that is full of sheer terror, nails leaving red marks on his thighs as you drag them down his skin. Ouch. He’s gotta trim those down.

“You get it now, babe?” Leon hums, he lets you off this time, “Do what I say and it’ll be fine, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Leon,” you nod furiously through gulps of air, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” Fuck. Another one of your panic attacks. He’s not got the patience to deal with this. “I won’t—“ A wheeze, “ I won’t do it—“ A croak, “I won’t do it again.” You’ve learned to handle yourself. Rub your chest with your right hand, stare at the ceiling till you calm down. Leon’s dick is still rock hard. Ready to crack open a walnut.

“Good girl,” he nods, “then get on with it.”

There is nothing you’ve done in particular to set Leon off. He’s just had a bad day. Hunnigan’s senses are much too acute, she thought something was off with him. That put him on edge. So he’s like a ticking time bomb. Just waiting for you to make one wrong move. And you do. You say no to him, pleadingly so, shaking your head as you look at him with your fairytale fawn eyes. Meekly admit that you’re sore and achy and it hurts.

“That’s not your decision to make, sweetheart.” Leon informs you, he grabs a roll of duct tape from the kitchen, nicks at the edge with his teeth and tears a strip off. You bristle, completely still, a thousand thoughts running through that pea-sized brain of yours. “But I’ll be nice today, been waitin’ to fuck your ass anyway.” He puts the strip on your cunt, over your chubby lips to hold them together, it feels strange and icky. The last thing Leon wants to see is blood. He sees enough of that daily. So he’s generous when it comes to prep, busts out the cherry-flavoured lube today, squirts a decent amount on his fingers, cock, and your tighter hole.

You squirm, he watches the unreadable expression on your face carefully, the rise and fall of your chest. You’re nervous, but you’re wet, and that makes his chest swell in pride. Lucky Girl finally gets it. One finger slips past the ring of tight muscle, Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, there’s one last line he’s missing. It’ll come to him. Two fingers in, he scissors you open, spits on it just ‘cause it turns him on to see it run down your crack.

That’s enough, Leon thinks when he fits the third. He wants to make it hurt a little. Wants to feel like a big, strong man. He sits back on his knees, flips you over onto your front, he likes you this way. Just takes you in, how your tits hang low, brushing against the mattress when Leon presses a hand down on your back to keep you from arching. He takes his dick in hand and in he goes, easier than he thought. He wonders if you can cum just like this, with his dick pounding your ass.

He fucks like an animal, you gasp and yelp below him, unable to handle it as his hips smack against yours. The duct tape is starting to peel ‘cause your pussy is fucking soaked. That alone makes his balls tighten as he turns you back over to do damage control, and ‘cause he wants to see your face while he fucks. You look like you’re lovin’ it. Alright. So you’re an anal slut. Got it. He pushes back into your ass, groans when you clench around him, the duct tape peeling at the corners, he can’t handle it. Et in hora mortis nostrae. Leon’s mind blanks when he cums, fills your ass and his limp cock slips out. Shit. A-fucking-men. That’s right, he remembers. That’s how you end a prayer.

You don’t cum. He tears the duct tape off clean. You let out a loud ‘Ow, Leon!’ and frown at him. Beads of arousal stick to the piece of tape, your pussy is pulsing, walls fluttering around nothing. Leon kisses your swollen clit, rubs it steadily till you cream on his tongue, sweeter than molasses his Lucky Girl is.

“Leon?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you.” You tell him shyly, gaze at him with this dumb fucking smile on your dollface that makes his heart squeeze. God, he’s gotta keep you around, his lucky charm.

[ghostbsuter]

Twins, minus the Demon (Part 1)

.・゜-: ✧ :-

When Damian and Danyal were created, it was not to become the League's successors, but to be the children for the trio to raise.

It didn't work, eveyrhting shattered when Ra's Al Ghul found out about the heirs.

Their Umi, Talia, went back to the League when the two were taken, Mother and Father none the wiser.

And so, they were trained carefully beneath the watchful eye of their grandfather.

Until they were 10.

Talia, Umi, revolved against the leader of the league and sent her boys to Gotham. She kickstarted a war with a battle cry, holding her sword up and chin never lowered.

Knowing Umi would be back, because she always did come back, they separated and planned.

Damian left with Father, Danyal with Mother.

Neither knew of the other, lest they ruin the suprise after all.

Like cats on a mission, truly.

—

Studying his self-proclaimed blood son, he noticed with sadness that he had Talias eyes, her tan, and walked just like her.

Yet he also reminded him of Selina, with the swiftness of a cat, eyes never straying and only satisfied when succeeded. He mildly notes he had her unruly curls with amusement.

He was a mix of demon and cat, but also with the spice of bat.

Stubborn like him, never backing down and always fighting.

He wonders why Talia left them, hiding a secret child along.

The spot for Robin was free, Tim having renamed himself with a new hero alias and finally flying from the nest.

Bruce should tell Selina, with his new Robin by his side.

—

While the man mourned, Selina had been enlightened when her eyes met his.

It was bittersweet in a way, to know the woman you loved had hidden a child from her and Bruce, but it also brought hope.

Because wherever talia was, this, this proves she didn't leave for nothing.

Selina sees the similarities between her and Danyal, he was quick-witted, let his emotions in the moment lead, and loves just as fierce as Talia does.

She also sees his hair curl just like her own, blue eyes that can only be from Bruce, lighter in shade than Talia is and with the matching paranoia of the bat included.

And she sent her son to her.

Their son.

Because she couldn't take care of him right now, something happened, and it forced her hand and focused on protecting the child first.

It meant one day, she would come back.

To her, to them.

She needs to introduce him to Bruce.

—

While Robin had his fair time as vigilante sidekick, Ragdoll robbed the rich and made sure to tease the other as much as possible.

It wasn't until they met, that the light was flipped and the truth revealed.

(For being such a old guy, Danyal really tips his head to Dick, the guy figured him out in a second, not far behind was Tim.)

(He really should have concealed his eyes, would have been more fun.)

They met on a rooftop, Catwoman leaning on a gargoyle as her little helper stood by her side.

(Catwoman wasn't fooled as easy, it took just a few longer glances that she'd figured out the switch.)

The bat's and birds on the other side, and soon enough, Batman gestures to his Robin, who steps forward.

Mirroring the bird, so did the cat.

"This is Robin." He introduces, and selina bites her laughter back, because–

That's her boy, or apparently, one of her boys.

"Ragdoll." She gives a fleeing smile, tilting her head to her apprentice.

"Okay, so, Nightwing, Red Robin and Black Bat immediately figured it out." Robin speaks up, two firm grips on his costume, and one tug has him dressed as his cat counterpart. He seems sheepish.

(Dick in particular is leaning forward with a wide grin, dragged behind him is Jason, interested but stubborn.)

"Tt," Ragdoll throws his own costume away, revealing Robin. "You need more practice. It took catwoman only 3 hours. I win."

The boy walks forward to his twins side, it seemed to amuse catwoman even more.

"Nuh uh! Technically speaking Batman didn't even know!"

Both pointedly look at the clad in black outfit wearing man, frozen stiff and looking between the two.

"Really, father?" Another 'tt' and Robin grumbles. "Fine, I'll take you to the stupid milkshake cafe."

Cheering, Ragdoll is throwing his arms around Robin's neck, dangling in front of his, the older twin having a secure grip on the black collar, lest Ragdoll fall.

"I get my milkshake!" Robin only seems more exasperated at his behaviour, shaking his head.

With delight and literally vibrating from his spot, Nightwing jumped at the two, staring between them with curiosity.

With his lead, so did the other birds and bats, teasing and playfully giving them head pats.

"Twins?" Batman's gruff voice breaks through the little gathering they have.

"Yes, father." The firstborn easily replies, the second only following behind. "Umi didn't want to overwhelm you and Catwoman when she sent us here. Don't be mad?"

"Now that we're talking about this, neither explained your circumstances nor why now?" She nears them with her cat like dance, slipping next to Batman and leaning into his side.

Both twins share a look.

"Umi was adamant that we'd meet and get along first before bringing in our situation." Robin explains, his voice is steady yet unsure in the way only a child with recent loss could sound.

"It's not that she didn't trust you," Ragdoll explains to Batman when the man looked like he wanted to interject. "Umi knew you'd help us regardless of our blood connection."

They share another look, one fiddles with his hands, the other having a steady grip on his hilt.

"This is no conversation for anyone to hear, we can't risk being found because we slacked off in security."

The twin wearing leather and cat ears snorts, mischief twinkling, and jumping forward to give Red Robin a pat on the chest.

A smile only a cat could wear takes over, and with joy he hollers. "Tag! Your it!"

Not even a second later, he was thrown over Robins shoulder and both skedaddled to the cave.

"Tt, truly experts, to freeze like that on a rooftop. Assassins could have easily killed all of you in that moment."

Robins tease echoes through the comm and causes them all to unfreeze.

With a huff of laughter, Red Hood pushed Nightwing to RR as sacrifice and bolted after the twins.

A yelp and Nightwing was swiftly tagged, RR disappearing with Spoiler in tow.

When he searches for a target, both Batman and Catwoman are already gone.

"Aw man."

—

In the end, Robin comfortably sits at the chair in front of the batcomputer, Ragdoll on the arm rest with his legs tossed out on the others lap.

"You guys are so slow!"

As the other mile around, Damian and Dnyal exchange hushed whispers, only drawn out when Batman urges them by clearing his throat.

"Okay, this won't be easy," Danny drawls the words, fumbling with Damians hair instead.

The other scowls but does nothing else. "First of all, Umi did not leave you willingly." He speaks loud and clear, mask off and staring at Bat and Cat.

"She never planned on leaving, but complications arose with our birth."

Smiling nervous, Danny takes over.

"You're familiar with our grandfather, yes?" At the nods, he grimaces. "When he heard he had potential heirs, he kidnapped us once born. Umi had to follow immediately, lest one of us dies because grandfather wasn't careful."

"She couldn't exactly flee either, with two toddlers, so what she could do, she did. It might not have been the best childhood, but umi did her best!"

While the children of the bat stay mostly silent, Bruce, without cowl, and Selina don't.

"Why now? Why did she send you two at 10?"

Damian drums his fingers on the others legs laid out on him, humming.

"On our 10th birthday, Grandfather gave us a rather... peculiar mission." He winces at the explanation, those words bring no truth of the situation to light.

"What akhi means, we're twins." Dnany holds up two fingers. "Two people, one destiny. Grandfather did not like that two remained, seeing as only one can become the next Demon head."

Someone took a sharp intake of air somewhere, he can't really focus, the memories are not pleasant ones he'd get reminded of.

"Umi didn't let it happen," Damian drawls, massaging Danyal's fingers with bored expression, the forced nonchalance doesn't fool anyone.

"She swung her sword and declared war on grandfather. It was the start of a civil war in the league, dangerous to us for we were still known as heirs."

Danny meets Selinas eyes. "Umi didn't just send us here because of the chance, it was also for protection. With groups joining the civil war for the throne, some might have the idea to kill off the heirs, us in this situation."

A wince and he starts blabbering. "Not that I'd like to die in the next few hours, or days, or weeks, or—"

"You're rambling, daynal."

"Sorry akhi."

With a wave of his hand, Batman nods at the rest of the bat's and birds, they leave to continue patrol.

Silence in the cave, only interrupted by drops of water and the clicks of the bat's above them.

"Thank you." Her voice is soft as she walks to them, heels clicking on the ground. Her gloved hands ruffle the ebony hair of the two and brings them into a hug.

"We will protect you, love you and wait for Umi to come back," Selina declares with careful words, nails running through thick curly hair.

Damian and Danyal can't argue otherwise, the other not as comfortable as his counterpart with the hug, but leaning in neverless.

This will be a journey, neither parents having had twins before and growing back closer with them.

(When talia left, Bruce and Selina grew apart. It brought tension they'd ignore in publics eye, vulnerable moments only for the other to see and so much mourning.)

(Talia is not back, but her children are. Their children. Wonderful twins that will stomp and smash the tension between them and bring back what Talia took.)

(They cannot wait for the day their third will rejoin them.)

[pluvialpoet]

bergamot

Summary: moments of quiet reflection reaffirm what you both already know to be true- he’s always going to come back, and you’re always going to be waiting with open arms

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader

Requested: no

Warning: idiots in love, friends to lovers, mutual pining, scarecrow's fear toxin, mentions of death and grief, slight angst, fluffy ending, loosely based off of batman: hush (2019)- but no major spoilers

Word Count: 3,930

masterlist

a/n: I know that dick has a tolerance against/is immune to scarecrow's fear toxin, but let's pretend he isn't...for the plot

Sleep is cruel in the way it continues to evade you when you crave it most. Mocking and teasing, exhaustion morphs into desperation. Even with your eyes shut dreams fail you, and nightmares taunt.

A siren wails, bellowing out into the night and echoing caution even after the initial cry has faded. Could be a police car, or an ambulance. Maybe even a fire truck. You try not to consider all of the possibilities, knowing it’ll only starve your slumber, further. With a huff, you adjust the heavy comforter, pulling it up until it bunches just under your chin.

In a few weeks, branches will be stripped of their leaves. Snow will fall, and the city will suffocate under a blanket of white. July was only yesterday, sticky and never-ending- infinite until finite. Now, January lurks around the corner- weeks away, but daunting, nevertheless.

The pillow tucked behind your back is a poor imitation of the brawn you wish feathers and fill could replicate, just as the one pressed to your chest acts as an imposter mimicking the body meant to be sleeping peacefully beside you. It’s impossible to tell feelings of loneliness apart from being alone, and deep down you know that reminiscence is merciless. Memory is wicked. But you can’t help remembering. It’s the only way you won’t forget- and even then, so much time has passed that you’ve begun to fade, and he’s begun to blur. Spiraling further and further away from reality and control, you drift towards hope, feeding each dangerous possibility until you have nothing left to give, but delusion takes and takes and takes…

Answers elude like comfort- and sleep. When, how, and why is lost upon you. He’s been gone for so long. Even so, your life has continued, evolving to accommodate the gaps he used to fill. Though, it’s about as effective as papier-mâchéing an open wound shut. Everywhere you look, everything you do, every time you shut your eyes, he finds a way to bleed into you, one way or another, and you welcome it every single time. All you really have are memories and a space in your bed which has always been his to come home to.

Outside, the wind howls. Angry and violent, the sound rattles the windowpane and you burrow deeper into the covers trying to block it out. Shadows dance across the ceiling, but none of them belong to the ghost you’ve been waiting for. Another frustrated huff fails to quell burning exhaustion, and you rub your eyes with the back of your hand before checking the clock next to you. Neon green flashes, all too pleased to report that it’s well past midnight and you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. Already tomorrow, and you’re still mourning today.

Pushing the covers off, you shiver. There’s a chill in the air and little comfort to be found in the fact that the entire apartment feels cold and empty without him in it. At least it’s not just the bed. It’s the entire room, the hallway, and the kitchen, too. You reach for the light above the stove and begin to search the cupboards for a mug. If nothing else, at least a cup of tea will warm you up. Thanks to muscle memory, you act on autopilot, filling the ceramic with water and placing it in the microwave before picking a teabag and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, always waiting. Three monotone beeps call your attention back before it has another chance to wander away from you, and you retrieve the cup and place the teabag inside. Steeping time be damned.

You can’t wait any longer.

One leg curls under the other as you take a seat and bring the mug to your mouth. It burns the tip of your tongue, a small price to pay for your greed, and you swallow the too-hot liquid regardless of the consequences. The pain barely registers, anyway. With both palms pressed to the vessel, warmth finally finds you, and a barely contented huff passes your lips to blow the steam from the cup. It’s not always like this. It’s not supposed to be, but for so long, it has been. Never months, always weeks. You don’t know how to do this or how much longer you can put yourself through this torture when every sunrise twists the knots in your stomach tighter and tighter. How much longer until you snap?

You’re so tangled up in your suffering that you miss it the first time, until the hair on the back of your neck bristles. Did you imagine it? Silently, you wait, setting the steaming mug down to listen, and this time, you hear it. Faintly, but there. Real.

Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I’m here. I’m safe. Can I come in?

Your feet move before the rest of your body does, and the chair scrapes loudly across the hardwood as you jump from it in shock. A cocktail of excitement, worry, disbelief, and fear bubbles and swirls through you when you spot a familiar glimpse of black and blue through the window near the fire escape.

“Dick?”

Crossing the room without any memory of doing so, you fiddle with the latch that keeps you from him, and him from you, until finally it clicks. With only one foot through the window, you reach for him, desperate to savor the illusion until mass, warmth and a heartbeat prove it to be real. Upon realizing, your breath hitches. He’s real. He’s real, and he’s here. No longer a dream. No longer a nightmare. No longer a vision only sleep can grant or mold, he stands before you. He takes a moment to properly slide the window shut behind him, returning the lock to its rightful position- keeping the rest of the world and the winter, out- before turning to face you once more. He can’t even get a word out before you’re pressed against him, wrapping your arms around him and holding yourself back from crushing him with the intensity of your longing. Overly cautious of injuries you can’t physically see- mindful of bruises, tears of flesh, and wounds that remain eclipsed by kevlar and moonlight- you embrace him with a hesitancy that severely undermines your fervor. Holding him gently- delicately, tenderly- the way you’ve dreamt about entwining with him on nights when sleep has been generous instead of cruel, you finally look up at him.

A sigh of relief dispels the hoarded tension in your neck, shoulders, and chest when you rest your head against his chest and inhale. Sweat and copper muddle his natural scent, but even when he’s covered in his victories, even when he’s drenched in his defeats, he still smells like home- warm, safe, familiar, and comforting.

He hesitates to envelop you with the same thinly veiled desperation, holding himself back.

Every muscle in his body carries the strain of battles fought and won. His head throbs with the force of his thoughts, and the inescapable dizziness that always accompanies crashing down from a high. Then again, he’s never been one to ease into things gracefully. Tiny cuts and scrapes, angry blacks and blues, and even gaping gashes that are still seeping and tender to the touch hardly register as anything other than a stinging, burning sensation. Everything is dull. Ferocity and intensity both subdued. Through the haze of everything that competes for his attention, you’re the one thing that’s clear. As always, the hold you have on him, both physical and metaphorical, brings him back to his senses, but doubt keeps him withdrawn.

Warily wrapping his arms around you, Dick returns the gesture as best as he can. Cages built of muscle, meant to keep you close, refuse to lock you in place, and he finds it increasingly difficult to resist surrendering to you entirely. Just as his nerves begin to settle they spike once more when the gravity of the past few months finally begins to sink in. As you continue to tremble in his arms, he swallows a lump in his throat and fights the urge to hold you impossibly closer. If he weren’t so afraid, he’d never let go again. But he’s not the same man he was the last time you saw him. Having seen too much, he knows that he can’t let this become something more. Fear is rotten. He’s seen the future, and if he keeps leaning on you then he’s only going to drag you down with him. Regardless of what he really wants, he won’t let this become something more, but then he looks down at you in his shirt and realizes it’s always been something more- and it terrifies him more than anything.

When pink swirls around the drain- a muted severity of soapy lather and remnants of crusted, oozing red- he rests his forehead against the cold tiles and lets out a deep sigh. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a proper shower. Under the trickling scorch, he allows his shoulders to slump forward, letting the too-hot water soothe his muscles like a balm, and it stings in a way he welcomes- a reminder that he’s done it again, he’s survived the worst and now he just has to survive the recovery.

He’s never been good with the after, always losing himself in possibilities of what comes next without taking a minute to catch his breath, but he’s trying to be better. He owes it to you. Not only you but himself, too- but mostly you. So, he tries to forget. He pushes memories too fresh to be forgotten somewhere else, banishing them to the far corners of his mind and locking them away until he’s ready to face his demons at his own pace, on his own terms, but his wicked creations fight back. Even when they’re crafted from delusions, mirroring real-life counterparts with a precision too exact to be a figmented replication, he finds himself engaged in an internal match that never crowns a victor. It’s a conflict that never ceases, even after his own surrender. Still, he’s found that the intrusions are less when copper is overpowered by citrus, and when red, inevitably swirls into pink.

Steam amplifies the smell of sweat and body odor, so pungent that the only word to describe it is bad, and he holds his breath while he reaches for your soap once more. He can’t believe you let him anywhere near you. It’s even more unfathomable that you sought an embrace, despite the remnants of battle that’ve woven themselves into his being- lingering, even long after. He’s repulsed by that which exposes him, a stench so strong that it serves as a testament to the fact that he reclaimed you as soon as he could, coming right back to this haven of sorts without any prior stops, and his stomach churns uncomfortably, the once soothing mist tainting each attempt at air, and a weight teases the aching muscles of his chest which breath does not alleviate.

Through the haze, he sees the truth- when reality remains undistorted by the tricks of his own want and longing, he recognizes fact without his own warped perceptions of fantasy- and he realizes just how careless he’s been. By allowing desire to suade better judgment, he’s put you at risk. Guilt punishes with an onslaught of emotions ranging from frustration to anger, sadness to grief, and even regret to sorrow. His own reluctance to accept how dangerous it was, and always has been, to lean on your affections as a crutch has finally caught up to him. After all that he’s seen, after everything he’s been forced to bear witness to over the past few months, coupled with a lifetime of loss, he’s no longer able to ignore the thought that’s broken free from the shackles of elsewhere. What was once dull, always there but never really forgotten, has become intense and persistent.

Every time he finds his way back to you, he invites peril into your life. He’s hazardous. Even if he’s not, being attached to him- in any way- puts you at an even greater risk of endangerment. Trying to justify something even as tame as a friendship is absurd. You’re so much more than that. Whether he meant for it to happen or not, you’ve found a place within his heart. Every beat echoes your name and carries secrets of his devotion. All that remains of the walls meant to protect both of you is rubble, and Dick stands alone in the epicenter of the aftermath, unsure and torn between chaos and order. Selfishly, he wants. Greedily, he craves. Morally, he knows that he should just walk away- but he can’t.

The scene shifts, ceramic tile falling away to reveal an eerie, yet familiar boneyard, and he shakes his head. It’s not real. It was never real- but it was so vivid. Cold fog obscures his vision, and he closes his eyes. This is a trick. This isn’t truth. He knows what comes next. Forced to indulge in his worst nightmares, the shrill, piercing sound of your terror renders him numb. He can’t move. Paralyzed, he fights limbs of lead, but he can’t act. It surrounds him, your agony, and he can’t do anything to save you. He can’t protect you. With each cry of his name, you plead, but there’s nothing he can do. When silence follows his ragged breaths, he refuses to look down. He hates this part the most, but he doesn’t have a choice. Crimson stains the black and blue weave, and he can taste metallic. He doesn’t have any control over this hallucination, born and bred from his greatest fear, and all he can do is witness the fallout of your shared torture- your blood on his hands, his body slumped against your tombstone, and the triumphant laughter of a clown, a scarecrow, a ventriloquist, and a hundred more that delight in your demise.

He can’t catch his breath. Drifting further and further away from reality, he struggles to claw his way back towards the light. When his vision begins to fade, he reaches for more soap. In for three counts, out for four. In for three counts, and out for four, again, Dick feels lightheaded. There’s no limit to how far he’d go to keep you safe, not a single rule or code he wouldn’t break to protect you from anything and everything- and that’s an entirely different threat, in and of itself. His loyalty has the potential to become his ruin, and he’d let it- for your sake- but would that be enough? Could his devotion be enough to keep you safe from the otherwise brutal fate that awaits you with, and without, his intervention?

The bite of a washrag leaves his skin raw. Lost to his thoughts, he’s been mindlessly scrubbing away at his flesh, dousing himself with bubbled distraction. Another breath fails to alleviate his unease. All he can think about is that which is out of his control, and he can’t help but wonder, is there even a chance for the two of you?

Every thought is a contradiction.

He could wax poetic to Bruce about love- how precious and fragile and conscious it is- but he can’t even bring himself to act upon his own advice. Even worse than following in a denialist’s footsteps is being a hypocrite, but there are just too many variables for him to take into account- too many what-ifs and maybe’s that enable him to cower behind words left unspoken.

In spite of this, he dares to dream of a future where you’re his and he’s yours, and nothing else matters. Lost to his delusions, a smile threatens to work muscles that’ve remained dormant for months of disuse. It hurts. Stretching, pulling, and manipulating his face to actually convey what he’s feeling instead of trying to veil it, hurts. However, the worst pain follows. As he reaches for the illusion, it slips through his fingers- so close he can almost hold it, yet just out of reach, simultaneously- and just like that, reality distorts the mirage. Pried from him, ripped away and sporting his claw marks, what could’ve been remains what could’ve been- and it’s all his fault.

Fear suppresses his love.

He’s already lost so much, he can’t lose this, too. He won’t. However glutinous, he craves more- even when he knows he can’t have it, he wants with a desire that’s almost too strong to ignore. Almost. Locking his feelings away, he throws away the key, but his ribs begin to expand with the intensity of his longing, and his chest feels tight. This isn’t like before. It seems as if his secrets have outgrown their cages, and he finds himself at a crossroads. His mind begins to drift and he wonders if this agony is why Bruce kept Selina at arm’s length…

A sigh, and a revelation- he’s not Bruce, and you’re not Selina.

Dick’s been going about this all wrong. Despite everything he’s been taught about love and loss, he’s allowed a life outside of a domino mask and kevlar. He deserves to cherish someone, to protect and devote himself to something other than his work- someone to fight for, someone to come home to- and he deserves to be beloved, too. Even if only for tonight. Even if tomorrow isn’t promised and all you have is right now, you’re here. On the other side of the frosted glass screen and plaster, you’re waiting for him. Another smile, less forced and genuine, feels like a relief instead of a burden. His skin pebbles under the frigid stream left in the wake of molten steam. With a shiver, he seeks your warmth, reaching for the faucet and stepping out of the enclosure.

A worn shirt rests atop the counter, the fabric faded from years of wear and wash, folded neatly beneath a pair of fresh boxers and socks likely left behind from the last time, or the time before that, or even the time before…truth be told, he thought he’d lost it, misplaced it, or given it away. Of course, you’ve had it in your care, all along. The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch into a smile. Slipping the towel from around his waist, he begins to dress, wondering when you managed to sneak in without him hearing you. The door used to creak, and he realizes that you must have fixed it while he was gone. It’s hard not to think about what else might’ve changed since the last time he saw you. Would you have stayed with him, if he asked you to? You always have. Six years and counting, he muses if you always will…

His hair is getting long, again. Droplets fall from the overgrown strands at the base of his neck down his back, making him shiver and reach for his towel once more. He pats his hair down, ruffling it with the towel a few times before wiping away at the mirror. Making eye contact with his reflection he’s the first to look away. He’s looked worse and supposes that's a small win in and of itself, though he can’t stand the sight of himself any longer than he has to. A deep exhale and a shake of his head diverts his attention to the countertop where a spare toothbrush has been left out for him to use. Of course, he already knows where the toothpaste is. He helps himself with a growing smile and places it in the holder right next to yours when he’s done. His chest expands with something he can’t quite name when he finds himself surrounded by gentle reminders of your care. A small cup of water and painkillers act as physical embodiments of your thoughtfulness and he revels in the knowledge that you’re letting him know you’re there for him while giving him space to come down from whatever adrenaline rush the past few months have spiked. It’s in those silent gestures of love that he hears it the loudest, echoing and amplifying all around him.

It must be killing you to act so selflessly, and he tries not to be selfish with your affections, but it’s difficult not to feel like a burden when you’ve rearranged more than just a spot on the counter, or a place for him to keep his toothbrush next to yours, for him- giving him a home without expecting anything else in return.

Down the hall, the mattress protests against his arrival, angry springs squeaking from months of disuse before welcoming his weight and warmth on the side opposite of yours- his side, from the very moment, years ago, when he found his way back to you after a night that left him bloody and beaten but not broken. Never broken- not when he’s always had you. Though most memory of the first evening spent beside you remains a blur, the ability to recall details and specifics stolen from him as his wounds wept crimson tears that stained your hands and upholstery, fondness prevails. Despite robbed recollections, tender warmth, and affection remain. Even then, he knew. Without really knowing, without certainty, he was certain- he loved you, and you loved him, and every gentle, devoted gesture has always reaffirmed the one thing he could never doubt. Every silent offering, every selfless sacrifice, and piece of yourself that you’ve surrendered to him further insists that your heart acts in favor of three words never spoken.

His arm finds your waist easily, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to tiptoe around his reluctance to accept what this is, anymore. Not when you’re here. Not when you’re waiting so patiently for him, and snuggle back into his hold the moment he reaches out for you. Some limbs tangle, but not yours- the two of you fit perfectly together, like you were truly meant to be, and the moment that you’re allowed to converge, you press your palm flat against his arm, holding him close to you.

Reacquainting yourself with him after is always your favorite part. Though, your heart cleaves when your fingertips ghost over a new scar- the skin still raised and angry, even if the wound has closed. With something akin to sympathy, an apology for the pain he’s suffered that you can’t take away, you gently trace the new mark in acknowledgment.

Tomorrow, or later today, when the sunlight illuminates the sky, you’ll ask him about it. Or, maybe you won’t. When the first glimpses of warm light threaten to spill over the horizon, you might get answers to the questions you’ve spent the last few months pondering. Or, perhaps everything unasked will remain unresolved. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that tonight, you’ll sleep- safe and protected, at ease and engulfed by all things him- and even if it only lasts for the night, you’ll cherish whatever small moments of intimacy the moon grants before the sun, inevitably, rips them away- a fate you’ve grown to expect, time and time again.

Still, you let your eyes flutter shut, basking in the silence for only a moment before it’s interrupted.

“I love you,” Dick confesses softly, words warm and whispered against your shoulder encouraged by a fleeting moment of courage- and the tender caress of your touch- that prompt the secret to spill from his chest, an accident he fears he may have to render excuses for to salvage whatever broken pieces are left of this unspoken relationship.

“I know,” With your back towards him he misses the stretch of a smile ghosting your lips, and finds himself tensing behind you. Could you have really known? All this time? Is that why he always comes back? Is that why you let him? “I love you, too,”

“No, I mean, I really lo-“

“Tell me in the morning, yeah?” You suggest before he can get too far ahead of himself. Torn between wanting to clarify his confession and realizing that maybe he doesn’t have to, Dick relents. He can’t really argue, anyway- having kept this to himself for so many years, another few hours won’t hurt. With a breath- of acceptance, not defeat or surrender- he closes his eyes and finally relaxes into your embrace.

It’s over.

For now, Dick can rest easy knowing that when the smell of bergamot fades, this tacit love will always remain, and he finds enough comfort in the realization to let it lull him into a peaceful sleep.

a/n: I love him so much!!! this has been rotting in my brain for nearly a year and I just found it in my drafts last night lol! anyway, this started as a challenge to myself where I wanted to see if I could write something with only five lines of dialogue, and I'm curious to hear how you all think it turned out! as always, requests are open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 

everyone who requested to be tagged: @idyllcy @wicked-laugh @ul4lume

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[mysterycitrus]

so the body is a haunted house, right? ur haunted by past pain, ur experiences and regrets, the people you’ve known and lost. ur a living structure inhabited by countless others, and that kind of grief never stops. on a biological scale, we know that trauma rewrites dna and brain matter. we see how monumental loss affects the human mind through generations, how it shapes the way we think. u can track that down family lines to the present. even unseen, u r carrying the ghosts of everyone who came before.

the central thesis of persephone is how grief can be the proponent of so much change, both good and bad. part of that is bruce’s visible, living state of mourning in the manor, in the mantle of batman, in the pearls and the portrait. he is literally haunted by the alley, by the gunshot, by the darkness. but robin is haunted by mary grayson, by dick as a child and as a teenager and an adult, by jason in the dirt, by tim and steph and damian, and on and on it goes. how do u conceptualise that kind of loss?

both jason and dick’s grief is faceless. dick’s parents are remembered in colour and name, through dick’s embodiment of joy. they are transient. they are worn by children who do not know their names. they are honoured in that way, something that jason, despite not knowing robin’s origin, is conscious of —

in persephone, i knew jason would have an altar of some kind. his grief is action, but it’s also his heavy anchor to gotham. he could leave, but he doesn’t. he despises bruce for the same reason they’re similar. originally, it was a memorial to the people at his funeral, but that changed to commemorating the life he had before his death, and the people he left behind. he lies to himself and says the elephant represents robin as a whole, but it doesn’t. it obviously doesn’t.

it is a literal symbol of jason’s inability to fully abandon his life before. the body is being haunted, after all. we get to see his perspective in wolf-king, his anger at his disconnection, his isolation from others, his paranoid, neurotic interactions with dick. he has changed so completely that he cannot trust anyones intentions. he’s hurt people, and he doesn’t regret it. he thinks people see him as something he was, versus something he is. it’s dehumanising and hard. like he is memorialising something lost at the altar, so to is everyone else when they look at him. his presence in their lives is a haunting.

when a seventeen year old dick grayson sees the elephant there, he assumes he’s died and that jason is honouring him. how can jason explain that it’s to represent a past that jason himself can’t return to? after all, the only way out is through.

and then, at the end, he is given a gift — dick leaves behind a bird on the altar. not a robin, but something meant for jason the person, not the body in the box. he is remembered for what he was. and that connection to what he was is horrifying. the idea that someone recognises that grief and honours him hurts. after all, a heart is a heavy burden.

[gffa]

You know what?  I’m not picking a side in this because I get where each of these characters is coming from.  None of them are right and none of them are wrong. Tim has had his entire life burned down again, so many people he loved are dead, and it feels like this is salt in the wound, that he’s being stripped of Robin when he needs it most. Damian is a child who is saying viciously hurtful things, but he thinks he has to fight for his place in anything, he thinks he has to destroy anyone who might come for what he has, he has to destroy Drake to secure a place for himself, because that’s what he’s been taught.  Dick is the only person who has shown him anything stable in this place, of course he’s going to fight with everything he has, he’ll cut open anyone who comes at him, because that’s what’s been hammered into him since he was born. And Dick's coming at this from his own experiences--he says right there that Tim is his ally, his equal, Dick’s not his mentor.  Dick is asking for someone to help him, not be someone else he has to take care of, because when is it Dick’s turn to mourn his father’s loss, too?  When is it Dick’s turn to mourn that he’s been forced to put on the cape and cowl that he hates wearing?  When is it Dick’s turn to have someone acknowledge that he had to give up his entire life to pick up Bruce’s?  And what is he supposed to do, when he’s trying to hold everything together because everyone else is pulling things apart? Tim’s at the age (and possibly older) than when Dick knew he himself needed to become his own person, to step up into a role that was uniquely his--and I don’t think he’s wrong about Tim being ready for that, either.  Tim is traveling around the world as Red Robin here, he’s doing his own thing, he’s doing his own investigations, Tim is ready to be his own superhero, not the role of Robin. Tim’s holding onto this for what feels like less because he needs the role of Robin specifically, Batman’s protege, and more because he wants to hold onto something familiar.  I keep thinking of that scene in Adventure Comics where he tells Kon about how he tried to clone him, that he knew it wouldn’t be his Kon, but at least it would have been something.  This feels similar, in a lot of ways. Tim wants the familiar, he feels like he’s losing everything he loved, and he just wants something, regardless of whether or not it was the true thing that he was actually longing for.  That’s why he can’t have any sympathy for an eleven year old child who needs a lifeline.  That’s why he can’t see that Dick needs help, rather than help from Dick.  Because Tim’s losses are mounting too fast and too high and it’s ripping him apart. They’re all just barely holding on by their fingertips and have so little left over to give each other, Dick doesn’t have time to be gentle with Tim, Damian doesn’t have the emotional tools to be gentle with anyone, Tim doesn’t have the emotional resources to do more than just make it through the day, they’re all a mess, they’re all not right and they’re all not wrong.

[moider-time]

The Wayne family has many different New Years Eve traditions. With all those different people and personalities clashing in one spot, it's bound to happen.

You have Dick and his tradition of walking on his hands the entire day after one time when they were little, Jason said there was no way he could do it. The only time he's right side up is when he's eating. Alfred had to implement that rule after Dick accidentally knocked the roast chicken he had been working on for days, out of his hands. To this day, Dick quotes that as the scariest moment in his entire life.

Duke is a new addition to the Wayne Clan but with him he brings the tradition of karaoke. Him and his parents used to go out to a nice restaurant and then go to a karaoke club.

He mentions that offhandedly and then on New Years Eve, there was a brand new karaoke machine in the manor. No one can deny that he killed it when singing 'No Tears Left to Cry' by Ariana Grande. However, Tim butchered 'Mary On A Cross' so badly that Steph nearly sued him on behalf of Ghost. There is also a batkids version of 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road' on Spotify.

Damian and Talia used to commemorate the new year but it was more of a 'Good job you survived the previous year, let's hope you'll survive this one' celebration. So he doesn't really have a tradition to bring to the family, but he is particularly clingy on New Years Eve.

He overheard Dick telling Cass about the Y2K bug and he doesn't believe it but to be forewarned is to be forearmed. If needing to protect his family means that he needs to be snuggled into Bruce's side, well then so be it. He's just being a dutiful son.

But Jason. Jason goes along with whatever everyone wants to do. He makes jokes. He snarks that he didn't even really want to come, it's just that he was in town with nothing better to do (seeing how he's basically glued to Bruce's hip kind of invalidates his point but no one says anything)

But every New Years Eve since his rebirth, Jason makes sure that he's sitting at his grave by the time the clock hits zero. He doesn't pray or cry or sing or anything like that, he just sits. And waits. And when the clock strikes for a new year, he places a flower at his grave and leaves.

No one knows if this is some form or mourning or repentance for what he did in the past year and asking gets them nowhere. They just know that it's something that he needs to do and they'll respect that. Alfred and Bruce will always be waiting to walk him back into the manor, with a coat and hot chocolate. And if it takes him a while to get back to himself, they're all willing to wait.

( pspspsps @bruciemilf )

[eddiemunsonbignaturals]

just a pinch

summer ends way too fast; you and Eddie surprise each other.

includes smut, as in 18+ 6k words somehow lmao? most of it fluff  best friends to lovers, and it gets a little gross in an arguably unsexy but very intimate way. you're not supposed to put anyone's mouth on your new piercing until at least two weeks out don't be dumb listen to your piercer

content: boob fondling, dry humping, jean nutting, some mild threats of violence, mentions of piercings but not piercing play to my understanding

reader is described as fat, dark skinned, and referred to gender neutrally, mostly (tough guy, man, angel, sweetheart).

comments (yes, even short ones,) reblogs all v much appreciated, take care :*

So, the heatwave had been a fake-out. 

You had both expected more swim-days. Just a few more sweaty, sticky nights— sat too close and tangled together sharing a bowl of Moose Tracks by moonlight, in as little fabric as you could manage and with as much ice as one freezer bucket could hold.

But alas, the fall sneaks in one cloudy morning and makes you regret ever even thinking the word “winter.” 

You’re shivering as you shock awake and roll clumsily to the nightstand. Reaching blind for the blaring landline, your hand cringes away from too-cold plastic, and you groan long and low in mourning— it's definitely over.  While you were asleep, Summer had packed up her bag and ducked off in the dark before you could send her off properly. Goodbye, dog days.

Hello, caller. You know it’s Eddie before you pick up; he knows it's you before you speak.

“Can you believe this? Shit fuckin’ sucks,” he croaks, right off the bat and into the receiver.

“And blows—“ you sigh back, punching one satin-covered pillow and your headscarf off the bed. “We couldn’t even get, a like, temperate couple of days? It had to go straight to freeze-my-dick-off immediately?”

“ha! Please. The end is nigh, sweetheart. You know it better than I,” he almost sings. His sleepy lilt catches on the pet name, and that gravelly morning timbre gees up your morning wood like nothing else can. You kiss your teeth, honestly annoyed at how he affects you this early, and when Ed’s answering chuckle rumbles through your ears and down your jaw, it's like you can feel his breath through the phone. 

God, he sounds good. You hum into a long sigh as he talks. It warms you, everywhere, hearing his voice first thing, and if your non-phone hand drags down your chest and reaches lower to rearrange the pillow between your legs, he doesn’t need to know.

You hear Eddie fidget, as he does, and he switches the phone to his other ear. Then, there’s the rattle of the earrings against plastic– a few chunky hoops he got at your suggestion, and one with your first initial that he definitely plucked off of your desk, though he had lazily denied it. You feel a smile fight its way to your face, suddenly giddy about him, about his call. 

A snapshot of him talking himself awake is as clear in your head as the grey in the sky: a grumpy Munson, emerging from the mess of gifted homemade blankets and ancient, flat pillows. Just a pair of doe eyes, framed by a cluster of chocolate curls and a scowl. Picture-perfect.

You’ve been nursing this damn crush forever, and with the effort of punching it off the bed and out of sight with that headscarf, you’re long past exhaustion. But, in the safety of your chilly room, and with the comfort of his voice in your ear, maybe you’ve enough strength for now to entertain a butterfly, or ten.

You had worn his ring to bed— a little bat hugging your ring finger the way it had been hugging his before you’d snatched it off as payment for a dare gone unfulfilled–and you’re twirling it now, like some lovesick sap. You’re written all over each other, and you’ve been itching to do something about it. But, that’s not the issue right now.

Right now,

“I know, life is over, the globe is warming, there are only a few summers left, et cetera. We’ll still have fun.”

(the dare? you had challenged him to snatch some Hawkins PD pig or another’s goofy little ranger hat as he had passed the two of you on the street. Eddie had suggested maybe he couldn’t float past an arrest on boyish charm this deep into his twenties, and acquiesced without a word when you had held out your hand for his own. 

You’d pretended not to notice the blush creeping up his neck; he had let you hold his hand a bit longer than necessary. It had been an even trade, as always.)

Across the line, Eddie’s still snickering at you, voice fathoms deep– all crackly– when he speaks again. 

“Hold on to your dick, angel, I'm pretty sure there’s options. Like, uh, maybe clothes? Clothes usually work for me.”

“Don’t get cute! I'm fat, you clown, I sweat-- I don’t need clothes. And, I belong in the water, Munson. Its beyond fun, its—“

He cuts you off completely, ignores your scoff, and finishes for you.

“—fulfilling, healing, its what and where you were in every past life, the brain sludge is already building back up as we speak, and ‘I’ll die, I'll just about fuckin’ die, Munson,’ once it drops below 40, I know, stop bitching,” he laughs. His tone? Pure fond; your stomach somersaults. 

You hear the smile widen when he goes on to remind you, “but I guess it's fall now. IE, your favourite.”

“Say ‘bitch’ to me again, I’ll shave your peanut head.”

He takes it back, giggling something about his favourite tough guy, but you know he’s got you there. You definitely are bitching, and—

Halloween month, cider season, big soft sweater weather, rain? It is the best, but it's never too early to argue. 

“You’ll love it, angel.”

You give up, melting again at his affection verbalized. You’re humming assent as he keeps the ball rolling, asking what you’d like to do today instead of going for a swim. Come over and take turns reading the new discount novel he found? Start that mead recipe you made last year? Drive over to Stobin’s—see who can sneak in and scare the shit out of them first? 

All great ideas, you assure him, but you decided long ago that the End of Swim also marked the beginning of piercing season. Your safety moratorium on body mods of all kinds has been lifted, now that you can’t dip your fresh wounds into scummy lake water. 

You've been planning a particular pair for some time. You also decided that it would be a surprise. Your Eddie is observant, dialed in, and sure, maybe you like to play the odd game here and there. He notices you, and you notice right back.  How long, do you think, will it take for him to note a new set of nipple piercings if you don’t warn him first? You figure it’s time to test it.

So, you break his heart a little, and decline to hang out today after all. You’ll see him on your next day off, you promise, and make plans for “four days hence, Munson, quit bitching. I just remembered something else I need to do,” before hanging up on his protests and pulling on your first pair of sweats in 4 months. 

ID, water bottle, and a sweet breakfast in tow, you head for the best (note: only) tat shop you know, braced and ready for a world of pain, going boldly into the cold.

—---------

And there had been almost no pain, at first. You had yelped girlishly before the first needle went in, then felt embarrassed about how easy and quick it had been. Before you had even realized, it was over, and you grinned big at the unique beads framing each pert, dark nipple. You loved them. You loved the piercings, and more than ever, loved your tits. Couldn’t wait to go home and check them out from every angle, actually. 

Then, a malicious towel snag, a careless door-jamb bump, and a hateful sweater-thread later, you were fearing for your life. Over the last few days, you had taken to crouching around them a bit, arms wrapped loose around your stomach as a reminder and for protection. Your nipples were insanely sensitive, now more than ever, and you had never understood ‘til now how often you simply walked through and into things instead of just around.  

But, they were calming down, and with each prescribed saltwater soak you breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of visible irritation. The standard piercing boogers notwithstanding, they looked hot, you felt hot, but found yourself nervous for the big reveal. You thought you would hide them well, your mission made easier by the cool weather and baggier shirts it allowed. 

You’re in his room now. Eddie’s ideas had been good, but you had both decided on the usual– you, rocking up to his trailer and spending the day with him throwing food and trading theories, hours whiled away in artistic pursuits and cat-naps, never too far from one another. It’s been a good day– you’re doing such a good job with the piercings, you forget to hide how entranced you are by Eddie's hands. 

“Aren’t you hot?” 

You count the veins and tendons as they flip pencils and drum against whatever surface they encounter, try to guess how long he can go before he bites that right pinky nail too short again, wonder if he’s running hot today. He’s tactile, your Eddie, but you’re sitting on the floor, legs sprawled, and yeah, a little too warm in the hoodie you came in as he lounges on the bed– too far for his idle touches to distract you into admitting anything. 

You love those hands. You want to taste them one day. He’s looking at you.

Fuck, wait, he’s looking, and you haven’t answered him. You cut your eyes away, to the floor, to your nails, like an idiot. That wasn’t at all suspicious, sure. You’re reasonably sure Eddie hadn’t noticed the piercings themselves yet until, as you snack and he chats again about his sketch, he suddenly drops the pink eraser you’ve been watching his square fingers systematically tear apart.

“N...Noooooo.” He takes in your belated answer and eyes you for a second, then starts talking again. You tug your hands gingerly into the hoodie you’re in and slide the thing over your unwrapped cloud of hair without snagging anything, then toss it away, wiping the light sheen of sweat you realize is cooling on your nose.

 Fuck, here we go. You hadn’t considered you’d have to hide in conversation, just that you had to keep him from seeing. You try to keep your cool, but answer too quickly. This wouldn’t last long.

“Have you been eating weird shit again?” Eddie asks, cutting himself off from explaining the lore of his latest campaign villain. He’s sitting up more since you last looked at him– leaning back on one elbow as the other arm drapes comfy across his belly– and watching you fidget in that weird posture you’ve adopted since the piercings. 

“Eat– We–, me? Weird? What’s– What?” Nailed it. Smooth, like butter. Too player. You thank God or Dolly or whoever’s watching that your blush isn’t visible, because you can already feel your face heating up.

He stares, eyes squinted. You watch your plate, then look back at his lovely hands, fingers pale and impatient, thr-r-r-rumming in sequence against his now-closed notebook.

“What’s with the air-head act? And why are you clutching your tummy and moving like you fell down the stairs?” Okay, that one’s easy.

“Cramps.” Your reply is stiff, but reflexive. The pink in his fingertips as he drums is entrancing. Maybe you’ve saved it– you think you sound sure. He’s silent for beat, and you pick up a cracker and look out the window. Maybe you’re a genius. The fuck’s he gonna do? Argue?

“Hm. Bullshit?” You look up to challenge that, and catch him peering behind you to the stuffed possum you had gifted him when his favourite, real, live, wild possum friend stopped her brief shuffle through the fire pit behind his trailer one drizzly day. 

(Eddie had called it the best week of his life, then declared that he’d never love again.)

After another beat, as if the scruffy thing has read the room and confirmed its answer, Eddie nods once, curls bouncing, then swings his neck dramatically back to you to assert, “bullshit.” 

It's panic creeping up your throat now, because he’s going to see you,  see them, this isn’t– well– it is– but you didn’t think it through, and you aren’t a good enough liar to dodge the impending question. You hem for another moment, hands hovering over your torso, and he looks between them and your face before snapping his bulk upright so fast that the bits of pink littering his lap and thin muscle shirt fly up in the flurry.

“What’re you hiding?”

A frown tugs your lips down before you can stop it. You watch Eddie toss the notebook and, with a loud thump, collapse off the bed boneless into your nest of blankets and towards you like a mad slinky before you can finish saying, “nothing! I’m not– hiding–, wait a second!” 

In that second, Eddie has slithered the 4 feet between him and you, kind of flinging himself on top, landing more gently than you expected in a straddle and pinning your now-closed thighs under his seat before you can wiggle back and away in time. 

“Did you get a tattoo without me? You fucking did, didn’t you?” He might be verging on genuinely hurt, by the sound of it. You’d promised after he’d started his stick-n-poke journey that he’d be your first, (tattooer, that is), once he got some training together. Had swore to him–

“Le’me see– what, is it that shitty? Who the hell did you go to? You can’t be–”

“Ow, Eddie, stop!” Your screeching protest belies real pain this time, curling in on yourself and to the side as much as possible. He bumped a piercing in the shuffle, the pain expected but still shocking, and he backs off a bit and coos in sympathy, all his next words coming out in a frantic rush.

“Fuck, oh no, I’m sorry. I’msosorry, Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

You’ve crossed your arms in front of you, breathing deep through the stinging. As it subsides, he ducks his head to meet your eyeline, his paint-stained palms up, promising no contact. He’s still straddling you, most of his weight on his heels. Still locking you under him, where its very warm.

If you looked down and saw your heart itself beating its way out of your chest, you wouldn’t be shocked. You’re almost choking on it, and plotting how to get him off you without knocking the new piercings again. Its enough to spin your head, to think you’ve been found out this soon, that the bravado in your spirit has fled so quickly at the reality, not just the idea, the real life prospect of showing Munson your tits. 

But it's thrilling, him on top of you. It's always thrilling, a dream fulfilling itself, isn't it? Even if the context is off. This isn't the first time a bout of “weird” from one of you or the other has ended up in a fact-finding mission– sometimes wrestling match, or pillow fight, or wild, short chase through the woods. 

But every time he gets this close, it's like the path between your head brain to the other brain is cleared– heat is flooding the thin cotton that separates you from his well-worn denim faster than ever. He has to get up, right now. You have to keep him there forever. 

You relax as the sting subsides, uncurling and groaning a bit as those strong, clever hands fall to bracket your head on either side. Eddie leans down, sounding the creak of floor beneath you,  and scowls, bathing you in his radiating heat. Studying you, taking in your full lips pressed into a thin, nervous line, your brows turned up where they’d meet, betraying distress. 

“What is going on in there, man?" He's really worried now. When did you start keeping secrets?

“It’s…not a tattoo?” You purse your lips and scrunch your nose, and the sweet smile that flows like syrup across his face seems involuntary.

“Then what else– huh?” Eddie is trying to keep eye contact, but the wheels are turning, and his lovely smile drops. He glances at your arms crossed over your chest, and his jaw falls open, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“Not a tattoo. Not ‘a’ anything, actually. Two things.”

“No, you didn’t. No way, not a chance.” Eddie seizes your wrists and ignores your protests, pinning each arm by your ears where his once were, and tries to x-ray inspect you through your shirt. It's dark, but not thick enough to weather this kind of scrutiny. Those telltale bumps are right there in front of him, the middle of each trio hardening as he inspects. So, you give up trying to argue, and shrug, suppressing a smile. 

“With— wha?” Eddie’s looney-tunes double-take makes you hoot a laugh as he swings his head and bouncy curls up and down, looking at you, glancing back at your chest, and up again as he processes what he’s hearing. What the fuck is he hearing? 

Your eyes stay low but your brows arch together as you scoff at him, dork. “You’re really telling me you hadn’t seen them?”

“I’ve– not–wha– I’m sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean–”

But, you had been talking shit. He couldn’t have seen anything in the dark shirt you had been wearing all day unless he’d been staring when you weren’t looking– had he been staring at your tits anyway?

 Did he do that often? Your jaw doesn’t drop so much as glide mischievously open. Surprise dawns and Eddie realizes he has, in fact, given himself away too quickly. Coolest dudes in Hawkins, you two.

He changes tack, slapping the floor by your head, still a little shocked.

“You got your nipples pierced? I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you! You’re full of shit.” His voice is almost petulant in its disbelief, high and tinny.

Your eyeroll is audible, “I mean. I can prove it, Munson.” 

“When?” He gasps, indignant, and slaps the floor with the other hand. 

“You barely have your ears pierced-“ he exaggerates. “Who the hell did ‘em? Was it a guy? You let some guy–”

“Please, some professional? Can you be serious?”

“You can’t take the pain, angel, not without my moral support, there’s no way. You’d have been whining about them being sore all fuckin’ week if you’d gotten your—“ 

He looks at your tits again, jaw slack, but in his shifting sends them undulating with the movement. His whole body goes still, except to inhale very slowly.

You’ve maybe never been this self conscious in your life, but his distraction emboldens you.  

“The idea was ‘surprise’, not ‘ambush’. But,” you drawl, smirking as you twist a wrist easily out of his now slack grip and push yourself up onto your elbows. 

“Do you—well.” Your eyes falter when your voice does. You want to offer proof. You’re not that bold yet, but you’re working up to it. 

He gives you room to sit up completely, hovering over your calves, back almost on his haunches. His heat leeches into your legs, swells in your chest and behind your eyes.

You want to touch him, like you always do. Eddie's deep brown eyes are wider, his mouth slack. His breathing is a little harder too, and you wonder for a second— do you want to un-ring this bell while there’s time?

“No,” he answers. “I mean, yeah, I—“ He rolls his plush lips into his mouth and then parts them, trying to work out how to ask. It’s not a dare anymore, and you feel a shyness completely unfamiliar, laid out in front of your best friend in the world. 

You wilt a little; Eddie finds his courage.

He swallows, and you watch his throat work while he figures out what to say, maybe as nervous as you are.

“Can I see?” He sounds hopeful, gentle, but to soothe you or himself, you can’t tell.

You dont quite answer with, “I’ll have you know, they didn’t hurt. At all, actually. It was...cold. Uncomfy, totally, but not painful— just a bit of a pinch? The last week has been worse than the actual needles were.” 

Eddie seems to realize he’s really staring, and cuts his eyes to the left, almost shy, and he seems to wipe sweat from his palms down the length of his strong thighs.

Your own hands pick at the hem of your shirt, and his gaze is split between your mouth and chest. Then, he shifts his weight, leans back like he’s about to give you space, when you reach for his warm, toned tricep, his skin shifting over muscle as he fidgets, and you’re ready to tell him the rest of the story. You can’t bear to miss his warmth on top of you, you realize. Now or never, you think. 

“I…” you croak, “I thought of you.”

 You hear him choke, like actually choke on his spit, then watch him shake his head like he’s rattling himself out of a haze. Eddie’s locked in on your eyes, searching for even the hint of a joke as you lift the shirt up just your stomach, exposing all the graceful cresting hills of your soft middle to his hungry gaze.

“When I picked them out, I mean.”

“Youf, you– fuc– You did this for me?” He sounds so absolutely incredulous, and breathless, all bravado bled out, or rushing to his reddening cheeks. It's like Eddie opened the next Discworld and found a dedication in his name, like the heavens have opened above him. For him? For him?

“Not for you, you clown, of course not. But like, maybe I wondered which ones you’d say I should get. And maybe... I thought you’d appreciate my pick.” Your crooked smile feels small, and you feel like offering something more substantial. 

So, you do.

“Appreciate..? I. Oh, god, Jesus, I.” You had been lifting your shirt so casually as you spoke, palms sliding up across your skin and dragging cotton with them, a caress so careless it seemed incidental. But you avoid hitting the new bars through each hardening nip, chills putting a mild tremble in your hands that he first catches, and is then distracted from. You watch Eddie’s short-circuit for a bit, feel his thighs tense around yours. You decide then that boldness is the only path forward. 

At the last rounding, you let them hem of the shirt catch on the underside of your bust, and just before its dangerous, lift them up by the hem and then drop them a bit, so they bounce for him, putting on a little show, posture straighter than before in presentation.

You’ve killed him. His plush lips try and fail to form a word, any word, as he lets out another shakey breath and leans back in to you by centimeters.  

“Eddie?” you prompt at his silence, voice quieter now. He’s still a little wide-eyed when he gasps out,

“What. Appreciate? Fuck, you’re beautiful. So, so beautiful. Jesus Christ, I never thought— Are those bats?” He’s moon-eyed and gaping like a dry fish, and you’re too keyed up to even tease him about it. You didn't just think of him, you conspired to match with him, to carry a little bit of him with you.

You know he wants to see you, more than just the piercings, and that teasing smirk is a distant memory, much like your patience. 

“So you hate them, huh?” He’s shocked into laughing before you can finish the question, restoring the quiet to something like normal as he raises his ringed hands to frame the low curve of your breasts. But he takes them in only with his eyes, flitting back and forth between them.

“They look, so so good, so good, god. The color you picked, even,” a warm gold that picks up the warmth in the soft creamy brown of your skin, “it glows, like, perfect. Gold’s your color, Sweetheart. It's all your color.” 

Bravado is fickle. You order him through barely parted lips, like you didn’t mean to say it out loud, then almost slur the hasty backtrack, “touch them. If-you-want, I-mean, if-you—.” 

In Eddie’s mind’s eye, gold falls from the sky; from his mouth tumbles a bewildered, “'If i want?' Are you insane?” 

As he reaches, you nod and sit up a bit straighter, feel heat rise in your cheeks, and take his confession with a crooked smile.

“I dreamt this.”

Here’s you, insufferably coy through a giggle: “Yeah? How’d it go?”

 His own knowing smirk is back, and you shiver, wanting fathoms deep as Eddie's hot hands envelope the heavy mounds of your breasts from below, cupped in the way he had threatened before you granted permission. Eddie seems to weigh them as he holds you, committing to memory how the plush fat of them sits in his palms, how they pebble across with gooseflesh at his very gentle fondling. 

You’re so soft, and warm, and he’s touching you; his mind splits in two. Some of him prays to any god for escalation, the rest could die happy right here.

On contact, you sigh together. Heavy, whispering things— you were both holding your breath— and inhale together, too. Your eyes flutter closed at the the drag of each body-warm ring as they poke into you. His calluses are almost sharp against you where they glide, some of the time ghosting over your skin, but mostly kneading you warmer.

It's your soft little hum of pleasure, how you arch, helpless, into his touch— the indiscreet rub of your knees together, and your thighs into his seat, the way you fight the smile back— these bring him back to himself,  and he checks your face again, watching the small smile grow as your eyes flick up to his. 

“Different,” Eddie intones, low and slow. “We’re out of order.”

You’re watching his pretty mouth again while he feigns serious, but as he moves just one hand to the floor behind you and leans in close, warm Cheez-It-breath tickling your face, setting alight every nerve that wasn’t already screaming for deeper contact. You meet his penetrating gaze and gasp at the pleasure-pain of that ringed thumb finally, finally, swiping up along one pert nipple. 

It's a shocked moan, not a gasp, that opens your mouth as he collides with it, timed perfectly with the upward jolt of your hips into his hardening cock. It's Eddie’s turn to gasp— his rushes out hot and quick, as if from a gut-punch. 

He's fighting for his life trying to steady his voice, act casual. “Usually, I get my mouth on your first.”

With that, he closes the gap again, but this time pulls away with a wet smack, a kiss so brief you’re compelled to chase him and get your licks in.

“Then, my hands,” he says, as he closes his fingers around as much of you as he can grasp with each hand to squeeze. Its at once electrifying and comforting, leaning into him and running from the cold. You want him pressed against you completely, but he's focused on the pillows of supple skin and heat in his hands.

“Promise,” he chokes, “ahhh, promise to tell me if it hurts, angel?”

“Eddie, touch me— I promise— touch me,” you positively beg, and your Eddie, egged on by your fingers now pulling deliciously at the hair on his sensitive nape, recovers fast. He’s on you before he can take his next breath in, and bites down around your bottom lip, pushing you with him gently as he leans forward, mashing your noses together.  

And you kiss Eddie back, hard, sucking his trembling lip between yours and earning yourself a groan that sends a lovely buzz through your jaw where you meet. That fucking noise, and his hand still on you, now not as gentle, sending little shocks of pleasure as he swipes gently along the outer dark ring crowning your nipple. The skin there is tightening, growing impossibly sensitive, and each brush and nudge shocks you between your clamped thighs, makes your body rock a little, sending kinetic energy across you that has him enthralled. So much evidence of his effect on you, the movement anchors him to reality.

"Good?"

"Really good, Eddie, yeah." You squirm under him as he massages one side, then both, then rests his forehead against yours to gaze down, intent on his project. 

“You feel good too, angel,” Eddie groans again, enjoying himself in earnest, crowding you gently together, then letting each breast roll in his hands, rough digits brushing in tandem against beads so taut it almost hurts, so intense its almost too much, but you need more.

“You know what’ll feel even better?” You ask him in a pant, breathless and focused– you need him between your legs too, and desperately, so you nudge one of his, asking to widen so you can rearrange. Eddie obliges, planting one solid knee right against your aching core and letting you fall back, propped up on both elbows. 

Neither of you wastes a second. This kiss is a hot, wet collision of sighs and spit, grinding sloppily into each other through just too many layers of sweet, stiff friction, whining into each other’s open mouths. 

While you nearly lift your hips off the floor, chasing the worn denim between your legs, tension in your lower gut building faster than it ever has alone, Eddie rides your linen-covered thigh just above your bent knee, murmuring between love-bites to your chin, the chubby apple of your grinning cheek, then the crook of your neck, where he finds and then latches onto a spot that makes you seize under his weight, clamping your thighs around the one at the very center of your focus. 

You clasp a hand at the back of his head again, scratching a bit at his neck and forcing a long shaky sigh out of his mouth as the rhythm of his swirling hips grows rough, devolves into a stuttering staccatto race to the finish, and he’s talking himself through it into your shoulder as you barrel him down.

Ed's heaving whines are gorgeous, ragged, as he sighs into your neck about how good you feel under him. He can’t finish a sentence as he groans into your shoulder, all about how good you smell, how he can’t believe you did this for him, how badly he wants to taste them. 

“Taste? I,” you cut yourself off with a near-panicked whine when his leg slinks heavily down, the relief of his wet but still straining crotch-tent another brief sliding kiss against your now soaking cunt, and you resist seizing him by the scalp, to keep him up with you, but only just. You’re both so close; he’s stalling?

No, tasting.

Through your horny fog, your mind starts to process his goal. Eddie works his body down yours urgently, never really breaking contact, and as he slips away all you can do is watch him watch you.

In a thrall, as he draws a scalding trail of open-mouth kisses down the heaving swell of your exposed breasts. The wet kisses cool fast in the chilly air of his room, and it feels so good you don’t care how needy your sighs sound, how obscene and high your breaths echo in your own ears. Then he pauses in his descent to admire you again, breaking eye contact for a few awe-struck moments, dropping a chaste peck just left of the left nip, then resting his forehead on your sternum. When he fully squishes your tits into his cheeks it makes you laugh out loud, and you feel his smile and then chuckle against your stomach.

He seems to paise there for a few moments, content to nuzzle, and your high whine-sigh takes even you off guard. Eddie looks up at the sound but stops himself saying whatevers on his mind. Instead, he double-takes between your mouth and chest once, and again, then and finally asks, “sweetheart?”

He’s got that look like he’s up to something, and you can’t say you mind it. 

Eddie drags his lovely nose across the wide valley between your bust, your shoulders cave a bit with the shiver, and he continues, “can I?”

Taste. Yes, “please, Eddie, yeah,” and he closes his hot mouth over one hard bead, swirling that devilish tongue around and over, knocking it roughly enough to pull a harsh hiss from between your clamped teeth. Your hands are both in his hair again, and in a little pain you pull at his sensitive scalp and feel the buzz of his moaning around you, closing the little pleasure circuit between you.

You feel every wet swipe of tongue like a brand, on your sensitive chest and melting, shocks of heat driving down in your sex, chasing the pressure and pushing your body into his chest where he lays against you. 

One of his hot hands mimics his mouth’s rhythm on the other tit, and the lewd sounds of his deep moans around you are only matched by the obscene slick of his hand finding the soaked core of you under his torso, his fingers tingling over the used cotton.

You nod assent before he can even ask, catching his eyes as he pulls away from your chest to check on you. He finds your open pant, you low lidded attention on only him, and smiles. Then, he grinds his own hips into your leg where he straddles it, lower than before, moaning again around your mound and sucking this time, a new kind of pressure that pulls the neediest cries from you yet. His fingers finally breach your underwear from the side, and the calloused contact jolts you to the precipice, climax just within reach now that your clit has direct, emphatic attention. 

His tongue swirls faster, and Eddie matches that pace with his slick fingers between your cunt lips, circling the trigger and nudging just the top of your gasping hole, pace quickening, just what you're begging him for. Your free leg hitches around his back and pulls him into you, then you clamp up and pull hard at the hair in your grasp, gasping his name over and over as you come shaking, curling around his head, pussy drooling on his rings and wrist, hips frantic in their desperate chase for friction. 

Eddie’s not far behind, rhythm incomprehensible as he’s distracted by his own big finish. He bites down almost too hard around your breast and fucks down onto your trapped leg, groans buzzing through you as he drools and sputters and comes a warm wet mess into the washed-out black. 

The grey light is blinding, you can’t open your eyes at first. But you start to collect yourself when you feel him pull off, sliding his hand slowly out of your panties. You open your eyes to him watching you again, eyes half closed, to him catching his breath, and with no regard for the mess on his hand he gathers your collar in his fist and hauls you forward for another kiss, other hand tucked in the soft folds of your waist, grasping, clutching, pulling you in.

“Ouch.” You say, with no heat at all. 

As he scoffs, Eddie slinks back down again to kiss it better, another gentle peck just to the side of the most sensitive bud of your breast where he sucked and nibbled hard enough to bruise. Just a pinch, indeed.

“Aw, I’m sorry, angel,” he promises, only a little sarcastic, and finally rounds his mouth around your right nipple, which he had neglected until now. 

Then, you hear the slightest crunch. Like crumbs rubbing together.

Eddie smacks his lips a couple times, tasting, considering.

"Salty," he says. No way.

Oh, god, no. No fucking way. He still licking you clean but you freeze, then he does, but Eddie, knowing exactly what he just set you up for, loses it. He buries the cackle in your tummy as it dawns on you, and you do some quick math– you last showered this morning, which means you last soaked your piercing this morning, maybe 10 hours ago.

Eddie crawls back up your body as you wail, “ohhh, my God, Munson, why would you—? I cannot–” and lands eye-level, with you spent and boneless on your back, him in a table-top pose, arms propped by your shoulders. 

He hadn't been neglecting your other side, he had been saving it.

10 hours. More than enough time for new “crusties” to form, so more than enough time to build your own nightmare from natural scratch. And he didn’t hesitate, or mention it at all, that your piercings were clearly crusted over as part of the usual healing process, he just sucked them off anyway like they were in the way.

“You– absolute– freak! Eddie what the fuck! Did you fucking eat it? Are you insane?”

“What? I helped! And it’s probably, like, I don’t know, nutritious somehow. Protein?” He shrugs, smirking in the face of your horror, your embarrassment. You hadn’t thought to look at your own tits when the idea of his eyes on you had been more than enough to deal with.

You punctuate every few words with sharp shoves, which barely register as nudges to him from your angle, still under him, fighting his weight and gravity itself. Little by little, he sinks against them, and you tire yourself out before his chest traps your arms between the two of you.

“You– sicko, I didn’t– give you permission– to snack on me.”

“You even said ‘please,’ sweet heart, no take backs. I believe they’re my boogers now.” His smile is just content now, mischief subsumed by all the love in his eyes. You were in his mouth; now you’re on your way through his system. He thinks its romantic.

He ate it. Like a weird pet left unattended too long, he saw something new and simply put his mouth on it. Your-- friend? hardly, you think-- Eddie Munson just ate the new piercing boogers off you, straight from the source as he came in his jeans. You don’t even know what to do, so bewildered you shove his shoulders and chest as rough as he’ll allow before he seizes your wrists and pins you again, only this time, your tits are still out. 

“Without full knowledge, that’s twisted– you’re sick.” Your smile betrays you. What a weirdo, sure, but who else would full-send like that? You can’t think of anyone you’ve dated– anyone you’ve let touch you– that has ever been so close, and you haven’t even seen his cock yet. 

God, what a freak– your freak, you think with a thrill.

“Yeah yeah, heard it before."

Its quiet for a bit as you stare at each other, smiles crooked and soft.

"Well. Cat’s out of the bag?”

“Seems that way.” So, there's your "what are we" convo' all sorted.

“Good. So you know— " Eddie ducks his head to tap his nose against yours, then pulls back again to hover a little closer than before, "clothes are no longer an option.”

“What. The hell are you saying.”

“I'm saying,” he whispers, suddenly against your ear, dragging out each syllable, and slides his thumb and it's cool bat ring now poking out of a soft fist across your collarbone and up your shoulder, just to see you shiver again, just to watch you shake.

“hu-.. what, Munson, spit it out!” Now, you grab him by both wrists, and the quick movement brings his eyes to your tits again, gold titanium winking in the gray light. The soft wave of your body warms his core. He's half-hard already just watching you move.

“Too late, ha.” You groan, still grossed out, and anticipating this, he groans with you, mocking. You feel it through your own chest, feel it down your pinned leg.

Then, Eddie’s voice is soft too, at once dreamy and deadly serious, when he says, “You,” drops a kiss on one shoulder, “were so, so right,” and another on the other, “you won't need clothes ever again.” 

—--------------—

Its only days later, your next day off, when your favorite metalhead greets you at your front door. You don’t even have time to say hello before he’s flashing you; Eddie yanks his shirt up, fast as he can, to show off two glinting barbells, twin gold angel wings framing each nipple, still red and a little swollen from the piercing.

He beams at you, proud of the shock written all over your face, and before you can recover, cradles your face with one ringed hand and swoops in to plant one on your open mouth, grinning all the while. 

[sasayego]

lazy sundays (2)

prompt — your fiancé is supposed to be dead. you reminisce.

tags — some mentions of struggling mental health, (s/h), some mentions of potential alcoholism

“you cannot do this to yourself,” damian says, looking at you. he’s always been smarter than you at most things, with what being a literal genius. but he has been affected by dick’s death the same way as you. “it is … unhealthy.”

you sit in a favorite cafe of yours and dick’s—was a favorite. everything reminds you of him. the sunset you’d see out the window. his favorite coffee came from this place.

“what’s unhealthy?” you ask, numb. every word is dulled down and your eyes are looking at your plate. even the foam on your cappucino reminds you of him.

“locking yourself in your apartment. staring at your feet all the time and not doing anything you love. you hardly even go to work. it’s been seven months.”

you slam your fist down on the table. “seven months is too little to mourn,” you nearly cry out. “he was the love of my life, damian, and this stupid life he led killed him! i’m never gonna hear him say a stupid joke. we’re never gonna travel to japan together for our honeymoon. our marriage is never gonna happen.”

damian swallows and looks up at you. he can’t say anything so you stand up and pay the bill. as you do; he squints at your ring finger.

one shiny ring, glinting like the love you have for him.

* * *

haley keeps staring out the window at night. you toss around in your bed, your hand going through your hair. the apartment you have is too expensive to pay for it, but bruce pays for everything.

“haley,” you groan, shoving a hand through your hair. “please, be quiet.”

she doesn’t stop barking. it’s pretty agitating.

you finally drag yourself out of bed, wearing dick’s old navy blue “dog dad” shirt he got from petco. you open the window and peak.

nothing. just quiet whistling. you sign and rub your head. “there’s nothing there,” you sigh, frustrated, and walk back to bed.

in your dreams, you’re there. some utopian city. is it japan? you can’t tell. there’s flying cars up in space and something in your gut tells you that this is a perfect world.

then all of a sudden, you turn around and you’re in a sky high apartment like you’ve always dreamed of living in. you see the lights, the people. they all see so insignificant down below.

“hey pretty girl.”

and he’s there. he leans against the doorway, smirk on his face, twinkle in his eye. his arms are crossed and he has that classic james dean look in his eye.

“dick!” you scream so loud the world notices. you’re running and you throw your arms around him and kiss him, hard on the mouth. he catches you and twirls you around.

“i missed you—“

“wait.” you suddenly stop. “are you a dream?”

he laughs. “what kind of question is that? of course—“

“don’t answer that,” you suddenly say. “i don’t wanna know. if i did, i’d never want to wake up.”

* * *

you’ve been waking up in the same earth that took out your fiancé for the past six to seven months.

it’s cold when you wake up, and you look at your phone the first thing. the cuts on your wrists are dried now, but you have the urge to keep letting yourself bleed.

thirty-three voicemails. all from damian. you frown and recall damian back.

“—this is damian al ghul wayne. do not waste my time with frivolous calls—“

straight to voicemail. jesus.

“good morning, haley,” you groggily say to your dog who stares at you with wide eyes, awaiting her breakfast.

she just barks gently in recognition. lately, you’ve been drinking a bit and she knows not to make the only parent she has left too annoyed. you try to tether yourself, but your isolationism has its limits.

“how’s my pretty girl today?” you ask her as you take her food out.

“i don’t know, how is she?”

you freeze. there’s no way. very slowly, you turn around and look at him. blood rushes into your cheeks, so scarlet it was maroon. blue eyes so deep they remind you of the mediterranean. black tousled hair, a few new scars.

and that damn smirk.

he leans against the doorway, a smirk on his face and you feel alright. a flood of emotions. and you’re processing your emotions right there. he’s alive.

and he looks at you and whispers quietly.

“hey pretty girl.”

[youronlydarlin]

warnings: noncon/dubconish??, incest, Kylar being nasty per usual, good sibling pc, bad grammar

Kylar's probably an incest loving freak. It's been years since the terrible accident that's befallen his parents, oh, well, your parents too actually, but one thing was for sure, that none of you ever recovered from it. The mansion was never the same again, at times it was hard to even walk around, the painful memory of what was once a happy childhood collecting dust like the furniture covered in white sheets, piled in some forgotten corner of the room.

You're heartbroken, to say the least. Grieving what you've never lost, considering how you're "parents" are technically still here, but they're in the form of something that's more monster than man. Not to mention... Your brother. He's probably taking it the hardest, you think. The lil fella spending most of his days couped up in his room doing god knows what. Has he eaten..? Drank water..? What about school, how're his studies..? You worry about him, your once bright eyed little brother who always waited at the door for you, awaiting the moment you'll come home from your classes. Hugging your waist, and giving you a big grin each time, showing off his missing tooth. You'd ruffle his hair, and pinch at his cheeks, telling him that you'll have to greet ma, and pa first, then you can play together. Oh, how you've missed those times dearly. You feel as though you never treasured them enough, feels as though you should've taken each memory and put it in a chest, locked, and sealed away, till the day comes where you'd mourn them with bloodshot eyes, and trembling fingers. But till then, you have to be strong, be brave, be the person that your brother needs, you tell yourself that you owe him this..

And, oh, how Kylar loves the way you think..

His older sibling, his family, his angel..

You're the only good thing in this godforsaken world that he has left. He might not make it to heaven, but at least he has his own little slice of eden on earth. And it's all thanks to you, you, you, you. You're all he ever thinks about, your existence alone is what keeps him sane, what keeps him tied to this lonely realm. He doesn't know what he'll do without you, what wouldn't he do..?

You're so kind to him, so loving, so caring. He's convinced himself that you two are soulmates. The fact that you were born from the same womb proves that he's already shared half of his heart to you, and the whole of his soul. He's belonged to you, as much as you belonged to him. Forever, and ever, you two were fated to be together.

Kylar's a real nasty fuck, that, we all know. It's a universal fact none of us can deny, so knowing this he probably takes advantage of you, you and your sweet, loving, nature.

The horndog drugs your food probably, excusing the odd taste as him being an inexperienced cook. And you, as the most caring sibling in the world, believes him. You feel lightheaded as you do, you're halfway through your plate when you excuse yourself. Feeling bad that you couldn't even finish the food that your little brother's cooked for you. He on the other hand, doesn't seem offended at all. If anything, he encourages you to lie down, albeit on his bed. And so you do, he takes you to his room, and you have half a mind to make sense what's happening.

Kylar pushes you down on the bed, and you don't have the strength to fight him off. Closing your eyes almost as soon as your back hits the plush material of his mattress that he's layed there specifically for you.

Has a camera set at the side, filming himself defiling your body. And, this probably isn't the first time it'll happen, nor the last. At times the lil shit would spike your drink, and make you take his dick on whatever surface you land on. Sometimes he'll just plain out ask you if you could sleep together, you think he's just lonely, so you agree each time, and he uses that opportunity to fuck your thighs, sucking marks on your neck to quiet down his pathetic whimpers.

a/n: the endings kinda shitty, sorry, ran out of brain juice, and english also isn't my first language so lmk if I made any mistakes! You have a great day now, dollface..

–dolly

[002yb]

Just more amnesiac Jason working for Bruce and unknowingly taking care of his son and being kinda weirded out by his clingy, awkward boss who sometimes gets teary-eyed when looking at him

Based on this post.

Before Jason was taken from them, his boy's life was lonely.

It's something Bruce only recognizes as he's sat on an adjacent rooftop stalking watching over Jason and Jason's charge and something about that details wounds him in an egregious and damning way

Because Bruce has to tell everyone the news; they need to bring Jason home to them again and back into their lives

Only...there's so few people. Bruce doesn't even need a full hand to count them. Alfred, Dick. Because Jason - he didn't have anyone else.

No team to rely on, no friends for support. Only the small family Jason found for himself at the manor and even then...

Bruce overwhelmed by everything: the reveal that Jason is alive, the mystery of his son's revival, the realizations about the life that was lost and this new life Jason is building for himself and how Bruce can't let his boy go again

Of course Bruce has to tell Alfred first. As much as Bruce wants to keep Jason to himself for a while longer, he can't keep the boy from Alfred again. Not after Bruce failed to bring Jason home all those years ago.

Alfred chauffeurs Bruce to work and follows Bruce to his office to see for himself that very next day (and it becomes routine no matter how embarrassing it is for Bruce, grown man that he is, to be seemingly escorted through his company, but he allows it. Always. He could never keep Jason from Alfred in any capacity ever again and this -- this is all they can manage for now).

A part of Bruce being scared to share this reality with Alfred because while Bruce is confident that it's their boy, the world and universe can be so cruel. There are a million what-ifs that run through Bruce's head and they all end in, 'what if he's taken from us again?'

Bruce isn't sure he could survive it. He knows Alfred wouldn't.

But he tells Alfred anyway and Alfred sees for himself and Alfred knows it in his heart and soul - their boy.

Alfred maintains his composure endlessly better than Bruce had before and even right then (staring, marveling, mourning and celebrating all at once; all reverence and tenderness and love), but Bruce still sees the small tells of how Alfred breaks and comes together; composed but so soft as he reintroduces himself to Jason

Not as a grandfather to a son (not quiet, not yet), but as a butler to a secretary

And just like before, like nothing changed at all - like there hasn't been a lifetime lost between them - Alfred and Jason pick up right where they left off

Their meetings together are fleeting. Without raising suspicion, they chat for a brief period in the morning and occasionally when Bruce can convince Jason to let them drive him home

The companionship between Alfred and Jason flourishes with teasing at Bruce's expense, but Bruce basks in every moment of it because these two people so dear to him come alive (hah) in such a bright and delightful and warm way.

They talk like they used to - about the arts and long-running dramas. Book recommendations (new, old - because Jason's memories are scattered even with things like that) and shared recipes (of Jason's favorites) and talk of home management (best laundering practices and ideal cleaning solutions etc etc).

And Jason asks after Bruce - likes, dislikes, bad habits to be aware of ;) and promises not to work him too hard

Sometimes he'll look over at Bruce. Jason will see Bruce watching him, sometimes endeared and other times distraught. He'll offer slight smiles before returning to Alfred before the conversation comes to a close until the next time.

Anyway, Jason thrives in his new position as Bruce's assistant. Admittedly Bruce is on his best behavior, always within eye and earshot of Jason (because that means Bruce can see Jason, too; can hear him).

Hm. Nevermind, Bruce being readily available but not necessarily on his best behavior. Because more than working he just wants to spend time with his boy. So he's often slacking off and trying to get Jason to slack off with him. Meetings? Cancel them. They can go to lunch. Or on a walk. There's a gym downstairs, they can --

Jason being an expert in getting Bruce to be productive. In getting him to focus. In that same vein, being the only person within the company that can draw Bruce's attention away from whatever project has his attention. The only one that has any success in drawing the tension from Bruce's shoulders and getting him to rest or eat or breathe.

It's partly because it's Jason, partly because even after death - Jason has all the makings of Robin. Bruce is easy to keep in check. Especially if Jason stays close.

But yes, productivity dies the moment there's a lull in the day and then it's back to Bruce wanting to hang out which...are all the gossip magazines misguided? Is Bruce actually a really lonely guy? Wanting to spend so much time with his secretary is strange, isn't it? Since Jason starts working with the company, he hasn't seen Bruce go out on the town once. No salacious work hook-ups, no parking garage shenanigans like people are always on about.

HR loves Jason for keeping Bruce out of trouble, though rumors are bound to pop up about Jason at some point 👀

But that's a thought for another time (because more and more I want to write little snippets for this). For now, the next in line to interact with Jason: Tim.

Does it fit in the timeline? Don't know, don't particularly care.

Tim still running the company despite Bruce being present and accounted for is such a good thought

Bruce delegating all the tasks so that he has that much more time to spend with Jason

Tim doing the absolute most during this time between managing the company and covertly DNA testing Jason and looking into the kid Jason is looking after etc etc etc

Anyway, Tim is busy.

And Jason stays out of his way because Tim is clearly important and on a mission with no time to waste

But the kid does a lot and is running himself ragged so Jason just...helps a bit? Jason is exclusively Bruce's assistant, but Tim is doing a lot of Bruce's work so...?

Jason being MIA one day and Bruce storming the company because where is he

And Jason is with Tim helping to sort papers for a meeting and chiding at Tim to eat before he makes himself sick, ffs

And Bruce might be taken out at the knees to see his two boys interacting in this way. With Jason caring for Tim and Tim being a little shy and flustered because while Jason doesn't know who the fuck Tim is, Tim is very aware that this is Robin

Yeah. Just Jason occasionally acting as Tim's assistant and Bruce is both endeared and petty about it.

And then there's Dick. Who is of course the last to know because no one tells him anything. Again. It slips one day because Dick calls Bruce and Jason answers his phone and Dick just - he recognizes Jason's voice in an instant. But doubts himself because he's had a history with hallucinating Jason before.

So Dick feels so unsteady, almost sick. But he breathes through the panic the familiarity that voice brings. Because it's safe, he falls back on his own charms. Only that backfires because fuck, when he makes this person laugh - it takes Dick apart, wrecks him and leaves him stepping off whatever path he's on to rest his weight against whatever surface he can find. Chest tight, grief coming back so aggressively and what the hell.

Dick being a glutton for punishment, needs to meet this person. So he goes to Wayne Enterprises under the guise of meeting his dad and brother for a surprise lunch.

And that's when he meets Jason. At Jason's desk just outside Bruce's office. Not paying any heed to how Bruce watches them through the glass panes separating them because -- it's Jason. His little wing. His Robin.

Shock and confusion and hope - a fleeting look to a panicked Bruce (who has the decency to look guilty; Dick will deal with that later), but he nods and Dick breathes through how blindsided and wrecked this leaves him. He picks up on the amnesia, but it doesn't matter. Jason is okay.

And Dick is a showman, so he plays it cool regardless of how his heart races and how he wants to break with grief and relief at the sight of Jason -- healthy and breathing and warm and alive. But he doesn't break. Dick smiles instead. A genuine and crooked thing that's charming for how tentative it is.

And Bruce sees it the moment it happens - the immediate flush of color that washes over Jason's cheeks as Jason flusters

Love at first sight, Jason must think, but Bruce knows better: a persistently undying crush

Some things never change

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of One Direction fantasy fics as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading

—Louis/Harry—

🔮 forever is in your eyes by we_are_the_same / @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed

(M, 125k, mythology, statue) He wants his perfect man, but he wants him to be real. He wants Harry to be real-

🔮 There's Such a Lot of World to See by @crinkle-eyed-boo

(E, 125k, Doctor Who) Louis has seen a great many things throughout his travels in time and space, but only one he can’t explain: He keeps meeting the same boy, who says the same thing to him each time. The boy should be impossible.

🔮 Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule

(T, 93k, magical realism) Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

🔮 Coax the Cold by MediaWhore / @mediawhorefics

(M, 86k, mermaid) When he hears whispers of a travelling freak show newly established in London claiming the existence of a monstrous sea hybrid, half-man, half-fish, Louis sees it as his ticket to credibility amongst his peers.

🔮 Tied to Fate by @littlelouishiccups

(E, 52k, ghost) After his estranged father’s death, Harry inherits a castle in England that has belonged to his family for generations and he knows nothing about. 

🔮 It's a Better Place (Since You Came Along) by @phdmama

(E, 51k, magic) When Harry Styles, a mid-level talent, Finder, and small business owner, sets off on the vacation of a lifetime with his best friend, Niall Horan, he has no idea the changes his life will undergo over the next nine days.

🔮 Mind of Stone by amomentoflove / @daggerandrose

(M, 41k, mythology) Louis gingerly moves around the statues, trying not to look at their faces. The room is quiet, probably a basement from the low ceiling. He mentally curses when he doesn’t see a door leading outside.

🔮 The Haunting of Louis Tomlinson by @helloamhere

(T, 31k, ghost) Louis is a plucky Gothic Heroine, Harry is a Mournful Spirit, and Big Country Houses are full of mystery and suspense, as Big Country Houses ever are!

🔮 Genie In a Bottle (series) by @kingsofeverything

(E, 29k, genie) As the owner of a second hand shop, Harry comes into contact with a lot of strange and unusual objects. Nothing’s stranger or more unusual than the glass bottle he came across that happened to have a genie inside—a gorgeous genie by the name of Louis who offered to make all of Harry’s wishes come true.

🔮 Don't Let the Tide Come and Take Me by kiwikero / @icanhazzalou

(M, 28k, mermaid) the one where Louis decides to set a merman free and ends up finding his own freedom along the way.

🔮 Where the World has Come Together by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(M, 26k, elves, vampires) For the crime of elven blood running through his veins, Louis Tomlinson spends his days protecting the human kingdom he’s been cast out of. 

🔮 Love Will Light The Way by @jesapeak​ 

(E, 26k, reaper) Most people throughout Louis's life thought that dying brought you to one of two gates. Heaven or Hell. Really, it brought you to a dated diner, just outside of the suburbs, skirting the beginning of the city. Where, instead of God, you met Liam Payne and his post-it notes. 

🔮 The Blood of Love by @mugglemirror

(E, 25k, witches) Harry is a nurse and Louis is a painting worth more than a thousand words. As desire and darkness encompasses him, Harry has to learn the secrets of Thorne Hills manor before he succumbs to the mystery that surrounds him.

🔮 In the Strangest of Ways by SunTomato / @sun-tomato

(NR, 17k, ghost) And when the haunting sounds of a melancholy piano piece accompanied by the vague shadow of a beautiful male figure appear, Louis is determined to find out who this beautiful man was and what happened to him…

🔮 (Make You Want To) Scream by @lululawrence

(M, 16k, bodyswap) While Louis' left hand plays with his nipple, his right reaches down and wraps around his dick and that's when he really knows something is wrong. The dick in his hand does not feel like his own.

🔮 Far Afield by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

(T, 11k, witches) Harry Styles is a witch who owns the best flower shop in Manchester. Lottie Tomlinson is planning her wedding, and brings her brother along to her first appointment. Both men have been having a bad day and sparks fly.

🔮 Just Your Jinx by @larryatendoftheday

(T, 10k, witch) Harry Styles may or may not have accidentally jinxed his extremely fit new neighbor, and it's not so easy to make things right.

🔮 Sympathy For The Devil by @taggiecb

(G, 5k, Satan, Santa) the one with Santa Harry and Satan Louis and a series of misspelled letters to Santa.

🔮 Moon Dances Over by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(G, 2k, mermaids) Louis knows that his tail is, frankly, stunning. His iridescent blue scales shimmer in even the slightest sunlight, and his fins have grown since he presented, delicate and almost transparent in their webbing.

🔮 Needle by @nouies

(NR, 666 words, magic) “You didn’t deserve this,” he muttered between hiccups. “She didn’t have the right.”

—Rare Pairs—

🔮 leave my life outside (or let me in) by we_are_the_same / @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed

(M, 52k, Zayn/Liam) Zayn is a 111 year old demon who is trying to decide his future. Liam is a 17 year old human struggling with his own life.

🔮 When We Hold On (To the Past) by @louandhazaf​ / YesIsAWorld 

(E, 3k, Zayn/Louis) Zayn could drop the subject and keep fucking him, keep the strings from getting attached, pretend that they weren’t getting closer than Louis was comfortable with. Or Zayn could choose the opposite path—which he did.

[midgardian-witch]

casings by ethel cain has so much nathan angst potential😵‍💫

I absolutely agree, anon!

I did want to write a little smth inspired by that. Not sure I managed to get the angst across as much as I would have liked but at this point I've been working too long at this and if I keep editing it will only get worse 😅

(Not) Good Enough

tags: angst | insecurity | infidelity | break up | sad ending | unhealthy relationship | mentions of oral sex and cock warming | mentions of sex with a robot

relationships: Nathan Bateman/Reader, Nathan Bateman/his fuckbots

AO3

"F-fuck. You're so tight. You’re fucking milking me."

This was a terrible idea from the start. You should have never opened those live feeds. 

Nathan always went to bed extremely late, usually stuck working on the latest update for something BlueBook related or something for his latest personal project. Meanwhile you were lying in bed, unable to sleep. So you crawled over to Nathan's desk, because of course that workaholic would keep a desk in his bedroom, and logged into his computer.

And then you opened the live feeds. 

Knowing it is one thing but seeing it with your own eyes? That hurt more than a dagger through the heart. 

While you were lying in bed waiting for Nathan to join you, he was busy bending his latest android in two and ramming his dick into her synthetic pussy. 

The sight would have been hot at some point, earlier into or even before your relationship. Now it just reminds you that you're not enough, never enough. 

You need a certain type of confidence when you're in a relationship with Nathan Bateman. It's not easy when the man you love is building androids in his basement that look like either supermodels or pornstars. And then fucks them into oblivion for their test run. 

(Ok, not his basement. His remote research facility in the middle of nowhere that he built himself and in which you both live in. Small difference.) 

And it’s a certain type of cruelty when the man you love tells you not to worry, that he loves you, that you are all he needs and wants, and then he leaves to fuck his android with bigger boobs, a bigger ass and clearer skin a few rooms down.

You had discussed it beforehand, of course. Him fucking his androids was no secret even before you got together.

"They aren't human, more like a sex toy really," or so was his reasoning. 

You knew what you were getting into. But it chips away at you slowly nonetheless. And while you know that you shouldn't compare yourself to the perfect little robots Nathan builds you can't stop yourself. 

It's exhausting having to fight your own thoughts. 

You've tried your best to be a good partner, to support him in any way you can, to please him with everything you have. You stopped counting the times you've snuck under his desk to suck his cock, to keep it warm for him while he works. Of course an android doesn't walk away from that with aching knees and a hurting jaw. No, they are perfect. And you're not. 

You've tried to talk to Nathan about your growing fears, your doubts and anxiety. In his Nathan-ness he tries his best to reassure you: 

"Do you really think I would keep you around if I didn't need or want you here?" 

Nathan Bateman; truly a man of tact, empathy and emotional intelligence. You used to enjoy the snarky banter with him, to tease him until he finally showed even an ounce of emotion, of affection. Now it's just another thing that leaves you drained and unsatisfied. 

With the perfectly pitched moans of his newly developed fuckbot as your background music you can feel yourself go numb. You're trapped, the sounds and sights of Nathan pounding into this nameless female figure looping over and over again. 

With a start you wake up from your nightmare. You haven't heard from Nathan at all since you left. Instead your own mind doesn't let you rest even if the man you used to love doesn't care about you enough to look for you. 

You still mourn your relationship, or at least how your relationship could have been. If you would have been more understanding, if he would have listened more. The what ifs are no comfort as you cry yourself to sleep at night. 

At this point you're sure there is something wrong with you, to cry over a man like Nathan. But at least he can't see you like this. And he will never know the heartache he caused.

[gvfgal]

3. Debts & Destiny

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

18+, Minors DNI!

A/n: Back like we never left!!! Make sure to go back and read the prologue & first two chapters for a refresh!! Since it’s been awhile, I’ll be starting a brand new tag list for the story, so if you’d like to be added, let me know!! Pease remember that this story is a little gritty, and has a lot of darker themes, so please read at your own discretion. There will always be warning at the beginning of each chapter per usual! Thanks for sticking with me and I’m looking forward to taking this ride ;)

Content Warnings: Explicit language, explicit sexual content, smoking, drinking, Jake being a dick, dark themes throughout.

Word Count: 3.4K

2: Our Old Friend, Death

Jake spent the remainder of the weekend holed up in your trailer. It was by no means a romantic scene, he’d slept the majority of the time, as the stress of the last few days had finally set in. He only woke up every several hours to eat, have you change his bandage, or to have sex with you, only to crash back out shortly afterwards. When you left for work, Jake was there in your bed, and when you returned well after two in the morning, you’d find him almost in the exact same spot. Snoring lightly, his limbs weaving in and out of the thin quilt, hair; a disaster.

You’d strip out of your work clothes and climb in beside him, curling yourself into his warm naked body. Sometimes he’d wake up and throw an arm around you, sometimes he’d sleep through it, but either way, you enjoyed him being there.

There had been odder things happen in your life than having a stranger you met at the bar only a few days ago all but move into your house. But to you, Jake was no stranger at all. You’d gotten pretty close to the Barbarians during your time in Genoa, and you took a special liking to Ace. And since Ace seemed to be like family to Jake, he was alright in your book.

On top of that, you felt an odd sense of comfort and security having Jake around. Your days in that trailer had been lonely, and it was nice having his company, that was, when he was actually conscious. And you knew he appreciated your company too.

But the weekend had come and gone. It was now Monday, back to business as usual for the Barbarians after days of mourning. Their meetings were held in a small room in the back of the Tavern, all 65 members packed in like Sardines, dressed in their leather jackets adorned with the Barbarian emblem.

Jake’s eyes scanned the room’s walls that were adorned with faded photographs of fallen brothers, his eyes lingering on Jaxon’s photo before looking at the large empty spot that was reserved for Rex’s. Nicky came trudging into the room, his face turned up into a scowl and littered with bruises. Jake had a couple of scrapes of his own, but a side by side comparison would show that Jake had clearly been the victor. Jake watched as he slouched down into his seat and folded his arms across his chest, still clearly upset about the brawl.

At the front of the room, Ace called the attention of all the men, and many of them began taking seats, others opted for standing along the walls.

“Alright, listen up fellas,” his gravelly voice cut through the murmurs and clinks of beer bottles, “we've had a rough last few days, but we made it through, now we’ve gotta get back to business, We have two current situations that demand our attention.”

The room fell silent as everyone listened closely to Ace, including Jake, all too curious about the fate of the Barbarians now that Rex was gone.

“For starters,” Ace continued, his tone serious, “Bobby Thompson, that scumbag of a casino owner, has been dodging our payments. We’re out half a million dollars because of him.”

Murmurs of frustration rippled through the room. The Barbarians relied on those payments to fund their operations, and a betrayal like that was unacceptable to all of them.

Jake was very familiar with Bobby Thompson. He was some low life fraudster from Genoa who asked the Barbarians for a loan to build a casino a hundred miles north some years back. This request was made with the promise that in just a few short years, the club would be able to recoup all their earnings, and become official stockholders in the company. They’d be raking in over a quarter of a million every year for the first few years, and upwards of half a million as the years rolled on.

Jake was only 17 when the deal was made, but he knew even then that Bobby couldn’t be trusted. He’d tried warning his father about doing business with someone of his character, but Rex never paid him any mind.

So in the end, the casino went up, and Bobby Thompson, true to his nature, began lying about the amount of money the casino had been pulling in, therefore shorting the payments he owed the Barbarians, leaving them in the cuurrent predicament.

Ace’s gaze shifted, locking onto Jake’s hardened expression, “and secondly, the EDS wants their million dollars. We owe it to them after that arms deal incident we had back in December.”

EDS. El Dorado Syndicate, Jake was also very familiar with them. The Barbarians had been working for them as long as he could remember, smuggling drugs, weapons, and dirty money all up and down Route 95.

The EDS was run by two ruthless twin brothers, Alejandro and Antonio Ortiz-Fuentes (they felt the need to carry on their mother’s maiden name). The last Jake had heard of them, the much more sane twin Antonio was scentenced to prison for attempted murder, leaving the crazier twin Alejandro in charge of operations.

“Now since Rex is gone, and I’m standing vice president, I will reach out to Alejandro and set up a meeting. So be prepared for a trip to New Mexico in the near future,” Ace looked around the room, “any questions? Concerns?”

A single hand went up near the back of the room.

“Barbarian rules say that a vice president can automatically assume presidential position in the death of the leader. Are you gonna step in?” Ski Ball questioned, and a few others nodded in aggreance, waiting for Ace to respond.

“I have no intentions on stepping up as president, lord knows I’m getting too damn old,” the guys chuckled, “so the next step is to have a vote, which I plan on doing, but not yet. While we try to settle these situations, I’ll be in charge just as Rex would be, I just wont take the official title,” his eyes found Jake’s again, “I’ll pick three men for us to vote for, and that will be based off of everyone’s performance over these next few months.”

Jake blinked at Ace before turning towards Nicky, who was already staring him down, his right eye almost swollen shut. But he could still see the furious determination in his eyes, a silent warning of sorts that he had every intention on taking the title.

A few more pressing matters were addressed before the meeting was adjourned, and the Barbarians poured out of the small room and into the much more spacious area of the Tavern, where they spent the remainder of the afternoon drinking and playing rounds of pool and darts.

You were busy behind the bar, making sure that the libations kept flowing, but that didn’t stop you from stealing glances at Jake every so often. You watched as he won round after round of billiards, placing bets and collecting money from other Barbarians left and right. When his glass was empty, he’d make his way to you for a refill.

“Thanks Cherry,” he’d say every time, giving you a cash tip and a wink before returning to the men.

By ten o’clock, the crowd was much more tame, and Jake came to sit across from you while you continued to work.

“I have a question for you,” you spoke to Jake as you served Ace his drink. Jake lit the cigarette he’d retrieved and puffed it once, “talk to me Cherry.”

When Ace walked away, you leaned across the bar, lowering your voice to ensure no one else could here you, “is there a reason that you’re avoiding going to Rex’s place?”

Jake took another long drag as he stared at you cautiously, “what do you mean?”

You shrugged, picking up the rag that was on the counter and began wiping, “I mean you’ve been here for what, three nights now? And you’ve spent every last one of them tangled up in my sheets. Why?”

Jake placed his cigarette in the ashtray and smiled, “maybe I just like you.”

He was being smug, but you knew there was a lot more to the situation. You could see right past the mask he was putting on, all too familiar with that act.

You stopped wiping the counter to look at him again, “you don’t like me, Jake. You don’t know me. You just like how I fuck.”

Jake’s smile grew wider, “well that may be true. But I think you’re wrong,” he picked up his cigarette and placed it back between his lips, leaning back in his chair with his eyes still on your face, “I think I do know you.”

You tossed the rag into the sink, “oh yeah? Who am I, Jake?”

He was quiet for a moment as he assessed you, taking a long slow drag before blowing the smoke out in your direction.

“I think you’re a girl that’s running from her past.”

Your heart sank into your stomach and your face went blank. How accurate he was scared you, it was as if he could see it written all over your body. His face was smug again, knowing that he’d struck a nerve, and he picked up his glass of whiskey to take a sip.

There was no way you were letting him have it. “You know what, I think I know you, too,” you offered, placing your elbows on the damp counter top.

He nodded his head at you, “who am I, Cherry?”

A smirk crept it’s way onto your face, but it wasn’t a devious one. In fact, it was almost sympathetic, “a man running from his future.”

Jake’s face scrunched up as a sudden tension filled the air, his defensive walls rising, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

Your voice was steady as you continued to hold his gaze, “I mean, I think you know you’re better than this life, better than your father. But deep down, you’re too scared to leave it all behind because you’re afraid that maybe this is… all that there is for you.”

Your words hung in he air, sinking into Jake’s consciousness. The weight of your observation struck him harder than his had done to you, ad he coudln’t deny the truth behind your words, even if he hadn’t fully admitted it to himself yet.

By the way his face began contorting in anger, you knew you must’ve been on to something. He slammed his glass down on the counter, spilling whisky over the spots you’d just wiped down. He stood from his chair, glowering at you as he stubbed out his cigarette, “I stick my dick in you a few times and you think you have me all figured out.”

You watched motionlessly as he stormed out the front door, and once he was gone, you snatched the discarded rag and began wiping again with a heavy sigh.

After a few minutes, Nicky came snaking his way up to the bar, sitting where Jake had been previously.

“Trouble in paradise?” He sneered.

You rolled your eyes at him, “Nicky, fuck off.”

He raised his hands in mock defense, “I just wanted a drink, that’s all.” You paused, waiting for him to give you his order, “Miller Lite, from the tap.”

You grabbed a tall glass and began pouring his drink, trying your hardest to ignore the way his eyes were burning holes into your ass.

“What do you even see in him, anyways?” He pressed on. From the two weeks you spent with Nicky, you knew there was no way he would drop the conversation, but you hoped that if you ignored him, he’d get the hint.

Oh how wrong you were.

“I mean really, Jake isn’t the guy you think he is baby. You and me, we were good together.”

You turned around and sat his beer on the counter, not caring that some of it spilled and you’d have to clean it again, “Nicky, we were never good together. Nothing involving you could ever be good no matter how you package it, you know why? Because you’re not good.”

A sly grin curled onto Nicky’s face as he raised his glass to his mouth, “and you are?”

An unsettling chill ran up your spine at his words. You hadn’t told Nicky about your twisted past, but the way he’d spoken those words, it seemed as if he had glimpsed the cracks in your armor.

You were growing quickly tired of the men around you doing their best to pick you apart. You’d spent years running from your past, from the choices you made that led you to this point, and how Jake and Nicky managed to ruffle your feathers all in a matter of minutes was infuriating. They didn’t know you, none of them did, and you'd never let them get the chance to.

But still, as your gaze met Nicky’s, a whirlwind of emotions surged through you. Anger mixed with self doubt, the weight of your mistakes growing heavier by the second. You wondered if maybe he was right, if your actions had forever tainted your capacity for goodness. Could you ever be truly deserving of good things after what you’d done?

But deep in the recesses of your being, a flicker of defiance burned. Summoning your resolve, you narrowed your eyes at Nicky, crossing your arms over your chest, “how’s that black eye healing up for you?”

The smug look on his face was wiped clean, replaced with malice, “fuck you.”

“Never again,” you scoffed, “on to bigger and better. Or however that saying goes.”

You gave Jake enough time to cool off before going to find him. He was still out in the parking lot, sitting on his bike and lighting a new cigarette. Truthfully, you hadn’t meant to get under his skin the way you did, and you felt sort of bad for setting him off that way. The moonlight that illuminated half of his face showed that he was looking directly at you, his face still contorted into a frown.

But it did little to deter you. With slow steps, you made your way over to him, positioning yourself between his legs and placing your hands on his thighs.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you whispered, gently kissing him on the cheek, “I’m sorry.”

You took the cigarette from his mouth and situated it between your lips, and his expression immediately softened. His hands began rubbing small circles on the back of your legs as he looked at you wit those tired eyes.

“I’m sorry for what I said back there, I didn’t mean it.”

Your fingers began rubbing over one of the small bruises on his face, your features the softest Jake had ever seen them.

“I know you didn't. We all say and do things we don’t mean sometimes.”

Jake found himself studying you again, as he did so often. The pull he felt towards you was undeniable, but what you’d said back in the bar was true, he didnt know you. Not like he wanted to. He knew that you held unspoken secrets and depths, just like most people did. But that only furthered his allure, that air of mystery that followed you around was all too enticing.

Yet still, he wanted to unravel that enigma, he wanted to know those depths like he knew his own. He wanted to know your story, understand it, nothing but a genuine yearning to uncover the truths that lay hidden within you.

Jake put his cigarette out and tucked it behind his ear, his hands returning to your legs, “can you get out of here yet?”

You smiled at him, kissing him softly and tasting the tobacco and liquor on his breath, “let m go get my things.”

“God Cherry,” Jake groaned out, his sweaty body pinning yours to the mattress as he fucked into you. He lifted his head to smile down at you and the way your lips were puckered and swollen, tiny spurts of noises escaping from them with every thrust.

“I love when you do that,” he shuddered, bending down to kiss your forehead. The action sent you reeling, it felt so intimate, too intimate for two people in your position. You wrapped your legs tighter around his torso and he grunted.

“Fuck, so good, Cherry… You’re so good.”

His head was tucked in the crook of your neck now, so he couldn’t see the way you reacted to his words.

You’re so good…

You moaned as he dug into you once more, “you think I’m good, Jake?”

His hair tickled the side of your face as he nodded, “God yes. I do baby,” he kissed your shoulder sloppily, “I really do.”

“Say it again,” you urged, nudging him to look at you again.

When he did, you traced a finger along the cut on the round of his lip, causing him to sow his place briefly, his eyes holding confusion and the rest of his lust.

“Please… say it again.”

He’d almost slowed to a complete stop, trying his best to decode the cryptic moment. But your eyes were pleading with him, both to hear those words again and for sweet release.

Jake hitched your right leg higher up on his body before thrusting into you faster and faster, causing your mouth to fall open.

“Cherry,” his voice faltered only slightly, “you’re good. You’re so fucking good.”

With that you crescendoed, falling over a steep edge as you constricted around Jake, both of you wailing out in pleasure.

“So good, so good,” he repeated to you, thrusting a few more times before pulling out and spilling himself onto your stomach. You watched his face as he did so, completely enraptured with him in that moment, for telling you exactly what you needed to hear, even if it wasn’t in the exact context that you needed it in.

Once you both had calmed, Jake made his way into the bathroom, returning shortly with a warm damp cloth. You both were silent as he wiped you clean, then himself.

He wanted to ask you something he wasn’t sure how to ask. He wasn’t exactly sure what to ask. So instead, he laced down beside you, wrapping an arm around you as you cuddled into him, his stare fixed on the ceiling.

“I’m gonna go,” he said after a few minutes of silence, you turned to look at him.

“Tomorrow,” Jake continued, “I’m gonna go to Rex’s tomorrow. Start going through some of his things.”

You began rubbing small circles on his chest, “okay. Do you want me to come with you?”

Jake thought for a moment before shaking his head, “nah. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”

Silence found the room again, both of you laying there, but in two completely different worlds.

“I’m gonna go smoke,” you stated, “wanna come?”

“I’ll come out in a bit.”

You pulled yourself from the bed, putting on a pair of sweats that were discarded in a corner and stealing Jake’s shirt from the floor.

“I’ll be back.”

As you made your way to the back door, you scooped up a pack of cigarettes from the counter and a lighter from the coffee table.

Standing on the back porch, you looked out to the main road that ran from one end of Genoa to the other. You remember the day you first came driving up that road a couple years ago; twenty dollars in your pocket and two bags worth of belongings. Scared, no plan, no idea what to expect. You had no idea back then that this would be your home for the next two years, and though it wasn’t paradise, you were grateful for it. This was better than the alternative.

You thought back to your less than civil conversation with Nicky earlier.

“…you’re not good.”

“…and you are?”

Then, just moments earlier with Jake.

“You’re so fucking good…”

You wondered if Jake could see through you the way Nicky did, but if that were the case, would he still be so willing to say those words to you. Maybe he was clueless, or maybe he wasn’t, and simply didn’t care.

None of that mattered though. In your own mind, you weren’t good, far from it. You did good things often, but. You’d also done very awful things, things you felt eclipsed all the good.

And you didn’t deserve good things. You believed that too.

But hearing Jake say it so adamantly back there, even if it was more than likely about the sex you were having, it made you think different, if only for a moment. One fleeting, blissful moment.

4. Star-Crossed Strangers

[w0rmba1t]

random Jason Todd rant

i probably got so much wrong but this is at least how I interpreted it. Legit just started because of the hair colour and me finding it. Copy and pasted from a series of text messages that the recipient threatened me to post. I'll say right now I'm probably wrong on just about everything.

I get that it was to do an almost spiteful thing to do with Jason changing hair colour because after all the Robins eventually have black hair so it's like even after everything Jason tries to do to distance himself from Batman, he is still a Robin and still used to be connected to him some way. But like, his blonde hair after Dick's black hair in the original run was cool because it still marked him as different in both personality and appearance than his predecessor. Like, he /is/ a different person than Dick and so Batman trying to put him through the same already abusive stuff he put Dick through. The difference is, that Jason is already not all there and struggles greatly with self worth because of his abusive family, so Batman's treatment only worsens this behavior whereas with Dick, Dick was able to see the kind of manipulation Batman was doing and left the environment almost immediately when he got the chance.

And like, as Robin, whenever Jason runs into Dick Grayson who at that point is Nightwing, they end up going into a bond of "Just stick it out bud, I'm here for you if you need me" but Dick Grayson really *isn't* there for him because he has other responsibilities and he just isn't properly aware of the abuse that is making Jason down spiral in the first place because Dick Grayson when going through it was way better at controlling himself and knew what a loving and affectionate household was like due to his parents. Versus Jason Todd who's only know violent responses due to alcoholic and abusive parents so Dick Grayson swinging by every now and then and saying "it'll be okay. Brothers stick together right?" Doesn't really help him and if anything makes him feel worse because "Well Dick went through it and came out fine. What's wrong with me? Maybe I'm not as good as him" when its purely a problem with how he was raised. So whenever Dick and Jason fight it's only because their ideals and ideas are so vastly different, it makes it hard for them to see a middle ground. Whereas with Batman it's spite and hate. And you see Batman does for some amount of time mourn Jason after he first dies, he calls Tim "Jason" at one point when he's in danger so you see Batman does now correlate the danger he's putting these kids through as a direct correlation to Jason and how at every time a Robin is in danger he thinks of Jason and yet he despises how Jason turns out, because Batman mourns the child version of Jason and Alfred says as much, they were devastated when Jason died. The naive and mostly innocent one who was trying his hardest to live up to Batman's expectation. The rose tinted glasses version of the actual child Jason was during his run as Robin where he admits that he only thought of himself as "just another Robin" who could never be as good as Dick and was never good enough for Batman. So when Jason shows up and he's no longer hiding his true feelings towards anything, Batman is forced to confront that this is how Jason turned out, this is the man that Batman's raising and "caregiving" made him into. Batman also never puts up a photo or anything of him in the little memorial to dead people in the Tower either so that sets Jason off as well because it's the idea of "I died and you didn't even care".

To be goofy and read too far into it his hair colour stuff, since Batman died before hand for that photo of him in the prison Jason was no longer actively trying to distance himself from Batman because the dude's dead, he no longer has to prove "I'm not like how you remember me, screw you." So the hair kinda goes back to what it was originally because it has been confirmed that Jason dyes his hair, usually to cover up that goofy ahh white patch from the magic puddle revival, but like for this it could either be calling back to the discontinued thing of his blonde hair when he was younger and acted more like himself vs how Batman driven, anxiety recked and desperate for affirmation he gets after he's revived. Or it could legit just be ginger because he's in jail and by giving him hair close to the uniform colour it's like "haha he's a criminal and evil. He belongs here!" Which is kinda the opposite of everything Jason Todd ends up striving for but like idk, with the changing pool of writers it could've been that they didn't even put that much thought into it and just went "ginger Jason Todd".

It's the way that he isn't even actually that important of a character in the grand scheme of things 🧍🧍🧍like he's mentioned a lot by Batman in warning to Tim and Damian in that one Terminator speech of like the "he has no empathy, he doesn't have regrets, he can't be stopped" in sort of a vicious cycle of that's how he's treated and since he's always been chemically unbalanced after the death and revival and how he keeps getting abused and brainwashed and it keeps happening and getting worse and anytime he tries to disappear, they keep hunting him down because it's the "he's too dangerous to be left to his own devices" because it's not entirely wrong but at the same time he's only getting more violent because he's getting sporadic and desperate because he's fighting harder to not be seen as Batman's "biggest failure" (his own words to a kid who died) and its like, Jason only seems chill when he's with the other Robins because when Batman isn't telling them to kill Jason, Jason is usually pretty chill.

Like bro, his fight with the son of the lady who sexually assaulted him and his mentor who hates him is brought to a screeching halt because he gets a hug. And yeah that hug is emotional manipulation by Damien because he promptly tries to tazer Jason but like- Jason once again stops in the middle of a fight with a kid who's intention is to kill him, because he gets a hug. His team is made up of people who have all been rejected and denounced by anyone they had connections to for one reason or another, like he's just a genuinely broken dude who can't catch a break because anytime he tries to do what he sees as right and is objectively more successful than Batman's way of things, Batman sends another child militia after him which sends him into another down spiral of "holy shit I'm actual trash and I hate that dude and I need to do better and prove that I deserve recognition and I'm not a failure" and all that stuff because as irrational as his motivation is at this point, he doesn't know how to do anything else really because mentally he's still kind of just an arrogant kid. Like he cracks jokes when he's with the Robins but with Batman he's almost entirely serious because that's still who he counts as the main man who he needs validation from versus the Robins who all deal with that need for validation as well except they actually get it from Batman in the form of praise.

But Jason was only adopted because Batman figured he'd either adopt him, or he'd go off and become a villain because he was violent, but Jason was never as good as the legit trained acrobat of Dick Grayson so he never got praise from Batman then because it was "well Dick did it quicker/better" and so from the very beginning, this kid who was stealing hubcaps to try and provide for his genuinely trash childhood, out of his trash life with a promise of help only to be emotionally abused by his "savior" and then is never allowed to ever take pride in his work because he'll "never be as good as Dick Grayson" which is probably why he has the most fights with Dick when he returns as Red Hood because it's the idea of "if I can whole-y and fully beat you then Batman was wrong" but instead the two just go toe-to-toe a lot because Batman knows that Dick Grayson is the only Robin who really stands a chance against Jason. Jason has demolished both Tim and Damian so it shows that he's better than Tim who was supposed to be his successor and Damian who is Batmans legit son. Like Batman legally adopts Tim, so Jason is legit better, than Batman's actual sons, but that doesn't matter because Batman doesn't see that as anything that warrants praise, he doesn't see winning the fight as anything that Jason should be rewarded for because Batman uses violence as a deterrence and seeing Jason beat the snot out of the new Robins only serves in Batman's mind to reinforce "Jason's broken. It was a mistake to try and teach him how to fight" so he doesn't praise Jason for it which ends up fuelling Jason's idea of "I'll do better next time. I'll beat someone who's better and prove how good I am" which is why he takes his fights with Batman so seriously, along with his motive of "why'd you leave me to die?" Because like, Jason's last conversation with Batman before running off and getting kidnapped was then arguing because the Joker had Jason's mother who while she was abusive, Jason never got over that Stockholm syndrome type of stuff so he insisted that he needed to go save her and Batman was just kinda yelling at him and saying it was stupid so then Jason runs off, gets hurt, dies and then when he's back that initial feeling of "he's right, I wasn't good enough" to the point that his last words "Bruce, sorry." Which sets in which leads to his thing of "if I had just been stronger/faster/better etc" which is what ends up leading to his idea of needing to be the best to prove himself to Batman on the idea of "if i had survived and succeeded then he might've praised me because I'd done what he considered impossible. So if I do what he considers impossible now by beating him and the Robins, then I'll be worth something to him" but like, once again, Batman doesn't count the extra violence of anything worth praise but he's not willing to tell Jason that he's making things worse by being more violent. So then it's just Jason being frustrated that he'll never be good enough for Batman and Batman sitting back and not caring about a child who's mentality he broke"

Just based off these photos