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liminalpebble · 10 months

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Blood in the Cut (Eddie Munson, One Shot)

MINORS DNI

A/N: Sorry y'all I've been going through some things so this is a big, fat, 4000 world, smutty cathartic scream of a one shot. Older Eddie Munson x POC she/her reader. Title is based on a song by K. Flay that's been bouncing around my head lately.

CW: Rough unprotected sex (consentual), violence (bar fight), racial slur towards reader from a bigot, allusions of past suicide attempt, mental illness, trauma, and wounds, blood play (sort of?)

Summary: For years now Eddie's put the traumatic year of 1986 behind him by living an uneventful life and running The Hideout. Now a gruff but good-hearted middle-aged Munson has hired you (a young lady with a sad past of your own) as a bartender. One night a brawl breaks out and you become collateral damage in the violence. Only then does the prickly Eddie open up all the way to comfort you.

Blood in the Cut

The place was a shithole, but goddamit, it had become your shithole. It was a godsend when you rolled into the little town of Hawkins. You felt crusty, cramped and drowsy from hours on the Greyhound, but you made it. 1000 miles from your hometown, from the overbearing family who branded you a failure early on for being born with the wrong genitalia but expected perfection nonetheless. 1000 miles from the psych ward you ended up in when the pressure became too much. You tried not to think about the past anymore. Scars are easy enough to cover with make up or long sleeves, and nobody cares about the career you broke yourself trying to get when you just wind up opening beer bottles and mopping floors for a living.

Well, Eddie cared, but he hid it well. If he didn't care, he wouldn't have given you a chance that day. You had walked right into his bar and gestured to the shabby “help wanted” sign, shyly offering him a dog-eared resume. He gave you a long, unnerving, inscrutable stare from those big dark eyes.

You fidgeted as he nonchalantly scanned the paper over the haze of his cigarette. As the silence became too awkward for you, you piped up. “Uh...sorry it's...um...crinkled. I didn't have anywhere to print new ones.”

His face cracked into an amused grin suddenly, and it shocked you how quickly the grizzled guy could go from intimidating to disarming once his dimples came out to play.

“You...um...you do realized that this isn't exactly a place requiring a resume, right?”, he said, a cocky, teasing tone to his lazy voice.

You finally let out an exhale, “Yeah...yeah. I mean. I figured. But I already had it with me so you know...It's a little quicker than chatting to tell you my credentials. And as you can probably already tell, small talk isn't something I'm great at.”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully, “ Well, bartenders do have to chit chat a little generally, but you're in luck, because not many customers come around here to talk.” He gestured a lanky tattooed arm to the tattered, dark, dive bar, the drunks having their liquid breakfast, and the ramshackle stage, as if to sarcastically say, behold, my kingdom.

“But anyway...impressive degree. Ivy League shit. Guess you're a long way from home. So, if you don't mind me asking, what is a young bright-eyed bushy-tailed little scholar like you doing in a shit town like this?” As he asked, his perceptive eyes darted down to your long sleeves; a bit unexpected in the warm spring air. He had an idea of what your answer would be, and it softened his heart more than usual.

You shrugged. Any attempt at pretense just dissolved in his presence. This man possessed a perfect radar for bullshit. You could tell. And besides, you'd relinquished any pride you had left at the hospital. There was no face left to save. “Well...Mr...”

“Munson...and just call me Eddie. Everyone does,” he clarified, grinding his spent filter in the ashtray.

“Eddie...Well, Eddie, I'm $70,000 deep in student loan debt from this impressive and apparently useless degree, and another $10,000 as the cherry on top for landing in the psych ward because of how I almost killed myself making sure I got it. Or rather, I tried to save my parents from their sunk investment in me, because the co-signer doesn't have to repay loans when the borrower kicks the bucket...or so I've been told. I'm 1000 miles away from it because I can't deal with my family reminding me that I'm an expensive disappointment every day of my life. But mom still calls me to shame me about how much it cost them to keep me alive...so there's that. And uh...these are more words than I've spoken in the last 5 months to anyone...so...sorry if I'm rusty at saying anything nicely.

Finally, you took a breath. Eddie just stared for a moment (that same inscrutable evaluation), nodded pensively then stood up from the bar stool. He simply reached out a calloused hand full of rings to shake yours. With a little grin he said, “Welcome to The Hideout.”

And that was that. You were here for 40 hours and 5 days a week. You tried to get overtime but Eddie always refused to let you, explaining, “you're a recovering workaholic and I don't want a relapse on my hands.” He always said it matter-of-factly with a flat expression until he turned his head just slightly from you to relieve himself of the smirk crawling across his plush lips.

Working side-by-side with him so much meant you got to observe him. You got the idea that in his youth he was probably rebellious, squirrely and bombastic, but he was taciturn and guarded now. Something had clearly pummeled that youthful anarchy out of him. The thought of it broke your heart a little. These days he kept his head down and hid under that mop of wild brown-sugar-colored curls. When he slid by you in the small space of the bar you noticed the little silver coils running through the strands, here and there. Your boss was still squirrely though; always tapping his fingers or feet in time with the soundtrack. He always seemed primed to run.

When you got a chance to look at him (really look at him) you couldn't help but wonder if Eddie knew he was a damn fine-looking man. He lived above the bar, but never once had you seen him take anyone home with him, or leave with anyone. Running this place seemed to be his life. What a waste, you thought, considering that nobody got to see that beautiful, tattooed, body without any clothes.

On slow days you'd usually hang out quietly behind the bar; both reading, and occasionally breaking the silence to talk about your books, or about the music Eddie had chosen, or about art or movies or languages or history or science. He was a bright guy and you treasured those chances to flex your academic muscles. In fact, you wondered if he hired you just to have someone to talk to like this. Hawkins wasn't exactly crawling with intellectuals and forward thinkers. Most of the local truckers, factory workers, farmers, and deputies who stopped by the Hideout would narrow their eyes in suspicion or confusion when they clocked your dark hair and tan skin. If they seemed about to say something stupid, Eddie would always nip it in the bud, giving them a warning glare that told them in no uncertain terms, not to fuck with you. Eddie felt a slowly building swell of protective impulse for you. You seemed so young and small and soft, even thought he knew you were tougher than you seemed...in some ways, tougher than him.

Once, only once, did some pea-brained idiot dare to snap at you and call you a “camel jockey”. That was the day Eddie broke a beer bottle on the counter, pointed it to the guy's beefy neck and hauled him outside, muttering quietly that if he ever showed his face here again he would end up in an ambulance. After that, word spread quickly that no one talked shit about Eddie's mysterious new bartender if they valued their lives. That was the day you began to realize you were becoming truly smitten with this man; his humble decency and thoughtful nature and even the pain behind those big brown eyes...but...he was your boss. So you weeded the idea out as soon as it began to sprout. You settled on simply saying, “Thank you,” and giving a relieved exhale.

He nodded and said, “Don't mention it. Fucking idiots. My friend Lucas and his family had the same problems. It wasn't easy for them, being the only black family in this hick town. Jesus Christ. I hoped it had gotten a lot better than this. That's a shame...they should be ashamed. Shit. I'm ashamed!” You chuckled and assured him he had nothing to be ashamed of, but he was embarrassed by proxy anyway. It was so scorching hot when he defended you like that, getting rough around the edges with righteous anger and a willingness to fight dirty. It didn't make the crush any easier to kill.

Much like dandelions, crushes have a way of popping back up, but you stayed removed and kept your interpersonal walls at a height matching his, though you would occasionally enjoy a chat from open windows in warm lamplight. You really treasured those chats and glimpses, when both of you reached out carefully from your barricades. You couldn't know that Eddie lived for those moments just as much. He'd been alone for so long, and now this fascinating young lady walked right through his door like a godsend. He was grateful for this friendship, and he would never dare to hope for it to become more. What use would an incredible young lady like you have for grumpy old Eddie Munson?, he thought.

-------

It was a Saturday night, rowdy as hell. Some shitty local band had just closed their set and packed their van, and the audience was worked up. You and Eddie and taken turns hauling keg after keg of cheap beer from the basement as they were swiftly emptied. It was an annoying crowd, but Eddie was proud of how well you kept up and you were happy for how well business was booming for him tonight.

You two were in the homestretch, but your nerves were fraying after a long night of drunken idiots. Eddie put a little ditty on the sound system called “The Closing Time Song” with the charming refrain of “get the fuck out” as he did every night to playfully alert the clients that it was time to leave. Everyone was gone aside from two knuckleheads who began screaming at each other for no apparent reason while you had begun sweeping.

You both knew the drill for this; get them outside to mitigate property damage and make their little scuffle the concern of Hawkins' finest rather than yours. Eddie was afraid to let you handle this at first, but after a few times he realized you're a lot stronger and tougher than you looked. At this point you manhandled jerks out the door with ease as often as he did. You huffed and set your broom aside. Eddie was in the back counting out the till, so you stepped up, walking swiftly towards them, grateful that it was still just verbal.

As you moved to shove the big galoots out the door, they suddenly began throwing punches, not seeing you underfoot, you got an elbow and a smack right in the face. You yelled every expletive in every language you knew as you kicked them out the door and slammed it shut, locking it behind behind them. As you turned around and strode back to the bar, you realized the noise had summoned Eddie from the back. He looked at you wide-eyed and concerned.

Through the buzz of adrenaline you didn't realize how badly you were hurt until you held your sleeve to your face and it came away soaked with blood. “Fuck,” you hissed, grabbing a bar rag and holding it to your face. Suddenly, you felt like crying. You hadn't been able to cry in months, even though you wished you could let it out. It was like the physical hit, the blood, the adrenaline, the anger, unraveled the dissociation choke-holding your emotions. You were horrified and decided Eddie would not see you cry. He'd mostly seen you being smart and tough and you'd be damned if you let him see you weep like a child.

You muttered, “I'll gonna go clean this up and grab another vodka for the speed rack. I'll be right back.” You heard him call your name after you as you flew down the hallway and down into the basement storage room. You closed the door behind you, found the janitor sink between the stock shelves. You bled and sobbed into the stained square basin, wondering what the fuck your life had come to. You prayed to a god you didn't believe in that Eddie would keep his distance. When the minutes passed without interruption, you heaved a sigh of relief, bending more deeply at the waist and resting your arms on the ledge.

You didn't hear him coming. All you saw was big hand holding out a clean bar towel neatly wrapped around ice cubes as he said in a quiet deadpan, “We don't need another vodka in the speed rack.”

“Thanks,” you huffed, wiping away the tears and blood with the old towel then pressing the ice pack to your face.

Deflect. You thought, picking up one of the bottles of Ketel One and grimacing to your boss. “Well, really, nobody need this shit, Eddie. Jesus, can't even spring for one that doesn't come in a plastic bottle?”

Eddie shrugged. He was standing with his arms crossed, leaning beside the sink. “We obviously don't have the most discerning clientele. Come here. You're doing that wrong,” he snipped, pulling out two folding chairs to face each other and ordering, “Sit. Lean forward, not back. And let me check it.”

You gingerly took the pack off of your face and he touched it, feather-lightly, to inspect it. “Huh, well, it doesn't seem broken. Just a hell of a nosebleed and probably a nasty bruise for a few days.”

You nodded, returning the pack to your aching skin. “Sounds like your know your way around getting hit in the face.”

“Oh yeah,” he said with a chuckle as he prepped another fresh towel for you. “I was bully target number 1 most of my youth. 'Hunt the freak,' they called it. My punishment for being a weird loud ugly little gremlin who played DnD.”

You shook your head, too rattled to watch your words “Idiots. Ugly little gremlin! What the fuck. Eddie, you're gorgeous. Don't pretend you don't know that.”

Eddie smiled wider than you'd ever seen him smile. His cheeks turned bright pink. His dark eyes sparkled. “What? Do you have a concussion or something?”

Oh god. I shouldn't have said that...uh deflect. “Well shit...I hope not. My insurance is shit.”

“Hey!” Eddie whined in mock-offense, “it's the same insurance I have.”

“Yeah, and I can't help but notice you never go to the doctor either.”

They both chuckled awkwardly, and an even more pregnant silence settled until Eddie said, “you know, you're lucky. When I would cry after being beat up, you could see it all over my face, my eyes would be red and puffy and my face and neck would be all red like I just ran a marathon. You don't even look like you've been crying.”

You shrugged, “One up-side of darker skin...I don't get red. Blushing, bruises, crying...scars...none of it shows up as much. I can hide my feelings pretty well.”

Eddie gazed at you, eyes full of bittersweet compassion. “I wish you wouldn't though.” He reached his hands out to yours.

You looked down and noticed your sleeves were pushed up from your attempt to clean up the blood. Now the ruddy splotches decorated your arms and cuffs, and beneath them, the scars on your wrist were clearly exposed in the florescent lights. You rushed to pull the sleeves over your scars, but Eddies calloused fingers stopped you, as he ran them gently up and down the slightly darker, rougher skin running up your forearms. “Please. Please don't hide it. Not with me at least. I know the story, after all, and I don't judge you.”

Deflect. God, his face is so close. His pretty pretty face. “Ah...well...you can judge me for being an idiot tonight.”

Eddie averted his eyes, sat back and then stood up. He was hoping for a more intimate moment, but you just made it clear that he shouldn't, so he played along. “Yeah....totally. What the fuck were you thinking, huh?...All 5'2 of you gonna take on a couple of meat slabs like that?”

“Hey I'm 5'4, and don't tease me about being short. The hobbits saved Middle Earth, remember?”

He turned so suddenly that you almost ran directly into his chest and you dropped the ice pack. He caught it between you. You, once again, found you were close...so very close.

You forced out a chuckle, “Nice reflexes.”

He shrugged and said absentmindedly, “well...you know...guitarist.” But he hardly knew what he was saying. He was staring at your lips.

“Yeah,” you sighed out then pointed to the ice pack. “ I don't think I need that now. The bleeding stopped.”

Eddie said quietly, “Okay, just let me check.” He gently held your face in his hands again, looking around it for any cuts or swelling. There were a few small splotches, but none serious. Before long he realized he was no longer noticing the wounds, too wrapped up in the feeling of his hands cradling your soft tawny skin as his fingertips fanned teasingly into your dark hair. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, as he tentatively stroked down the side of your face. “Does...does it hurt there?”

“No,” you said in a whisper.

“What about here?” he asked, quietly brushing hair from your temples.

“No,” you repeated.

His pointer finger ran lightly over the curve of your lips. The bottom one had a tiny cut where your teeth had grazed it. His eyes followed his finger as he asked even more quietly, “What about here?”. He took a step closer.

“No,” you repeated, mirroring his step in with your own.

“Good,” he said as he leaned in, closing the distance. Eddie kissed you with those plush delicious lips you wanted to taste for so long. He was shy at first, still cradling your face like you were made of fine china, but when you opened your mouth inviting him in, he pushed harder into you, smelling and tasting the coppery blood on your skin. Eddie's warm wet tongue met yours and explored, thirsty for you. When you pulled away you bit lightly on his lower lip before releasing him and he groaned in delight.

You looked up to meet his big sweet eyes with yours. With desperation in your voice, you confessed, “Eddie...I want you to touch me. I want it to hurt. I want to cry. I just want to feel something...let something, anything out.”

Eddie was breathing deeply. He was already growing hard and hot against you. Groaning, he said, “God, sweetheart, you don't know what you're asking for. Fuck...I want it. I want you.”

“Fight me,” you growled. And he grunted back as he lifted you onto a shelf, slotting his skinny hips between your plush thighs. He grabbed one of your wrists and licked up your inner forearm where your old scars and new blood mingled together under his hot, wet, tongue. You'd never let anyone touch you there before, and it was so intimate, so arousing, it made you limp in his arms. If this was a fight, he was already winning, and you couldn't have that.

You gripped your greedy hands into those gorgeous curls and tugged to see how he liked it. Judging by how loudly he groaned and the way his thick erection twitched against his jeans, he loved it.

You giggled. “Oh Eddie, you moan like a whore.”

He muttered, “Come on, you love it.” from where his mouth was now latched to your jugular vein, no doubt raising blossoms of blood under the tender skin. His harsh sucking and the light scratch of his teeth set off dynamite in your bloodstream

You whimpered and confessed, “Mmmm! I do. I fucking love it.”

He gripped your ass and growled into your ear, “Open wider for me, sweetheart...atta girl”. You obeyed. His arm snaked around you waist as he pulled you tight against his chest. He rubbed the cleft of your cunt over the seam of your jeans. You whimpered and melted, head lolling on his shoulder as you panted.

“These gotta go,” he said, hooking his fingers in your belt loops and grazing the button of your fly. “That okay, honey?”

You begged, “Yes...yes, Eddie. Jesus fucking Christ, yes. Do whatever you want with me.”

Eddie let out a surprised breathy chuckle and you felt it reverberate against you. “Fuck, baby, now who's moaning like a whore?” he teased, with a shit-eating grin.

You had no words, you were too rapt watching his clever hands easily undo your pants; hastily tearing away anything keeping his mouth from immediately tasting your pussy.

You shrieked at the sensation of his long tongue dancing around your wet velvety folds. After a few unhurried laps he came up for air with a gasp of awe. “God, you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, slowly teasing his fingertips along where your brown skin became a deeper, more saturated hue, like the center of a flower; rich and lovely and soft, like fine dark silk. Eddie slid a finger on either side of your clit, pinching and coaxing the little jewel to the surface. The rough callous against your most sensitive skin scratched a little, hurt a little, and the ache felt so good. He stared at where his fingers moved as if it were the eighth wonder of the world, then continued worshiping at it, like a shrine, saying his devoted prayers in mumbles as he consumed.

He sucked your clit, nestling it between his full lips, while two rough fingers moved in and out of you. You panted as he found a rhythm, demanding, “More....more please. Harder...”

Suddenly he withdrew his fingers and watched your confusion with amusement. He stared menacingly and stepped back, making a show of taking off his layers. His chains clattered against the concrete floor as he stripped for you until he was completely naked; unguarded. Despite the confident posture, his puppy eyes pleaded for approval in his vulnerability, and you were only too happy to give it to him.

You gasped out, “Jesus Eddie, you're incredible...you're so pretty. I've wanted you like this for so long.”

He came closer again and pressed an unexpectedly gentle kiss to your temple as his hands worked at your shirt and bra. He noticed your hands shaking; how nervous you were to be bare with him.

He kissed you under your ear then whispered into it. “I know you're scared, sweetheart, but you don't need to be. I want to see all of you. Let me see all of you, huh? You're so pretty.”

He stroked your now-bare shoulder. Eddie loved the hue of his pale skin against yours, the different flesh tones winding together, perfectly complimenting...meant to be.

You bit Eddie's earlobe and buried your greedy hand into his hair as you said, “I need it rough, Eddie, please. Don't be gentle.”

“Anything you want, baby. Anything,” he groaned out as he pushed into you, in one hard thrust.

Your breath caught for a moment as the ache volleyed through your body. You felt yourself crack open..shatter, finally shatter, finally release. You felt hot tears and hot arousal pulse through you in a cascade. Eddie met your eyes, concerned.

You nodded and smiled through the blood and tears “I'm fine. Eddie, I'm fine. I need this. I love this.”

Eddie loved it too. He felt a little guilty about how much he loved it, but that just made him even harder. He felt like a hungry animal gorging himself on your sweet broken body, licking at your tears and cuts as your tangled weight hit the shelf again and again. The clanging tempo built until you both came in a crescendo of shuttering, gripping, biting and grunting.

As you both caught your breath, slumped against each other, Eddie rubbed sweet little circles on your back and kissed your forehead. He pulled out gently and his eyes grew wide with shock and fear as he noticed blood mingled with his cum and your wetness.

He gasped in surprise and concern, “Oh, sweetheart...fuck...I...I didn't know or I would have been more careful with you....would...would have made it special. Shit..I...I'm so sorry.”

You grabbed his face, smiling broadly, drunk with afterglow and shaking your head, “Shhh shhh. No, no please don't apologize. I wanted it like this. Needed it like this. I had to let it all out. Thank you, Eddie....thank you.

You nuzzled into his chest and he held you tightly, kissing the top of your head protectively. He said quietly, “Okay, honey. But for now, we're gonna go upstairs and take a nice hot bath and curl up in bed together...that alright with you? I...I liked it like that too, but I want to take care of you after something like that. No hiding, got it?”

“Yeah...yeah I got it.”

“Good,” he said, smiling and kissing you. You noticed you'd left a little collection of bruises on Eddie, just as he left some wounds on you. Noticing your worried look, he held your face and met your eyes with a satisfied smile. “Hey...don't worry. I loved it. Now let's go play hospital.”

@hellfirenacht @fairyysoup @take-everything-you-can @sweetsigyn @elegantkoalapaper @veemoon @slutty-thevampireslayer @little-wormwood @leelei1980 @ladyofthestayingpower

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #Eddie Munson x POC reader #eddie munson #eddie munson hurt and comfort fic

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sl-newsie · 6 months

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Behind Masks (Dr. Jonathon Crane x OC) Ch. 6: Sympathy Empathy

“Good morning, everyone.”

It’s group therapy and the new perky voice almost startles me. I look up from the crossword Edward gave me to see a young blonde therapist carrying a handful of roses. When she reaches me her eyes light up.

“Oh! You must be Calico! My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel and I will be overseeing your group session today.”

“Hello. Um, why the roses?”

“This is to help tap into your empathy,” Dr. Quinzel explains and hands me a rose.

While the idea is inventive all I can think of is the deadly beauty behind the rose’s thorns. Ivy clearly loves this exercise since she's cradling her own rose and Nigma’s apparently trying to write a dozen flower riddles.

“So what are we supposed to do with them?” I ask as I twirl the rose.

Dr. Quinzel smiles brightly. “Give them to someone and tell them you care about them.”

Ivy rolls her eyes and ignores the instructions to continue babying her rose. However Edward jumps up right away and holds his rose up to me.

“Calico, may I offer my sincere apologies for your unfortunate predicament here. Personally I feel your young naive mind is far too valuable to be torn apart in this Hellhole.”

I take the rose and offer a weak smile. “Thanks, Ed. If it weren’t for you guys my mind might have turned to jello by now.”

“I won’t allow that.”

I turn around and find Crane standing behind me with what almost looks like annoyance at Nigma. The geek smiles and goes back to work on his riddles. I guess group therapy is over… but I didn’t get to do the activity. Unless-

I lift up my own rose to Crane, who looks at it apprehensively.

“What’s this for?”

“Dr. Crane, I want to say that despite your twisted methods of psychological treatment and outrageous experiments I think you are a very smart man with a hidden conscience, even if you disagree.”

He finally takes the rose, still looking deeply perplexed, and tucks it away in his pocket. “Calico, time to go.”

“Why not take her to the basement, hm?” Ivy jabs. “Make her your mindless puppet.”

Crane ignores her and drags me out before Dr. Quinzel can interrupt.

“Why does Ivy keep mentioning the basement?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to stay out of, dear.” He opens the gate and scoffs. “Why on Earth do you subject yourself to boorish group exercises?”

“It was just a rose, Crane. No need to flatter yourself. I could have given it to anyone.”

“But you gave it to me.”

“Because you happened to be closest,” I say simply.

We enter the operating theater once again. I’ve lost count of how many experiments Crane’s performed but so far I’ve had to endure endless hours of criticism and shouting from hallucinations of my parents. Sometimes they appear as fuzzy visions that try to slap and mock me, sometimes all the toxin does is cause their shouting to ring in my ear. As usual I step up to wait next to the platform while Crane prepares today’s dose-

“Ow!”

A sharp pain jabs into my side. I look down and see a needle poking through my jumpsuit.

“What happened?” Dr. Crane asks without looking up.

“Got stabbed. Medical syringe by the looks of it.”

He stops working. “Wait. What color liquid was in the syringe?’

I look back at the needle and shrug. “Green.”

Crane’s head jerks up and he gets closer to look at the needle I’m referencing. “Oh God. That’s my newest toxin.” Suddenly he grabs my wrists and leads me to the wall. “Calico, you need to stand back. If you lie down it will take longer to filter through. I’m going to bind your hands so you don’t harm yourself.”

Why is he so shaken up? “I’ve dealt with fear before-”

“No, this dose is different. I haven’t finished working out the kinks. So far the test subjects have shown fear towards the things- or shall I say the people they favor.”

His words mull through my head. “So it reverses feelings of affection?”

Crane takes a minute to answer. “You could say so. Yes.”

Interesting. A toxin that turns love into fear. It’s cruel. Part of me admires Crane for wanting to fix it. Oh well. It can’t be as bad as any other dose I’ve-

“Pathetic. Lying. Ignorant.”

Th- That voice. It’s Crane’s voice. But he didn’t say it-

“Callie, Callie, the world’s biggest disappointing psychologist,” the voice growls again with delight.

Now I see it. It’s Dr. Crane, but it’s not. He’s standing in the shadowed corner and waves a scornful finger at me.

“You’re not real,” I try to say in a determined voice. It’s just like any other hallucination-

“I’m not like any hallucination, dear. I can hear your thoughts. You like this, don’t you? You like being my lab rat. Getting special treatment. But you’re just like any other warm body with a pulse for me to torture.”

No! He’s not- It’s not right. I hate it here! Having no connection to the outside, being forced to socialize with Ivy and Nigma, having to face those intriguing eyes every afternoon- No. I don’t like special treatment? This psycho is torturing me! Despite it being all for science… No!

Crane’s shadowy figure looms closer and I back up until the cold concrete presses against me, squeezing my eyes shut. I’ve dealt with fear… Why does this one feel different?!

“Calico, look at me.”

It’s Crane. The real one. Right? It sounds like the real one.

A warm hand gently grabs each of my shoulders. “Whatever you see is not real. It will never be real.”

I keep my eyes shut and shake my head. “How can you promise that?”

“Because I don’t hate you,” the doctor replies sternly.

I huff sarcastically at his words. “Good to know.”

“I’m serious.”

“Am I?” The figure in the corner asks. “Or am I just lying to make you more compatible? It’s worked so far.”

“Shut up!” I bark.

“I didn’t say anything,” the real Crane says in a confused tone.

“Not you. The other you.” I nod my head to the hallucination.

“You see a different version of me?” Crane does little to hide his surprise. “The toxin is twisting your mind to make it seem that I hate you.”

“No shit, genius!” I hiss.

By now the shadowy figure is looming over me. The tattered image of Crane shows glowing eyes as though a demon is staring through my soul. Of all people to hallucinate, why him? Perhaps it’s because I have no one else to have any amount of affection for. Granted I don’t own any hint of love for him, nor anyone. But the toxin’s effects dig out even my deepest thoughts that show my respect for him.

“How long does the toxin take to die out?”

“It should almost be done by now,” Dr. Crane says, still staring at me.

He’s right. The dark shadow’s taunts are fading and those demon eyes along with them. But that doesn’t erase the memory.

“There you are.” Crane’s voice pulls me from my thoughts and somehow soothes me. “Your eyes aren’t feral now. That’s it, deep breaths.” He slowly takes my arm to pull me up and lead me to the platform. “You should sit down now. I’ll check your vitals before giving you the proper dose.”

Dear God. Off of one poison and onto the next. If it weren’t for the last dose’s fatigue draining my energy I’d argue. Instead I follow his instructions and sit down before my legs give out. No doubt I’ll sleep heavily tonight.

“First your pulse.”

The doctor pulls up my sleeve and presses two fingers to my wrist. After a minute he jots down some notes and goes on to flash a light in my eye.

“Your reflexes are still active. How do you feel?”

“Like I just ran a marathon,” I reply, staring blankly at the wall behind him.

“I’ll arrange for a nutrient tablet.”

Crane pulls out the selected syringe and inserts it into my arm. Once again I’m faced with my parents yelling at me to improve.

“Calico Prentiss, you are a disgrace to our family!” Dad roars.

Compared to the terror I just experienced ten minutes ago this is child’s play.

“Based on your reaction I assume you’ve begun to overcome your Atychiphobia?” Crane comments.

“Slowly, yes.”

The doctor writes down more observations and I can tell there’s something else on his mind.

“It’s been bugging me. Why is it you’ve never been with anyone? Mommy and daddy prevented you from dating?” he asks with hidden mockery.

I roll my eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually. They tried to set me up with any rich snob they could find. After they died I tried dating again. People tell me it’s fun but it’s not enjoyable at all when the people I meet don’t know a gun from a stapler.”

“So you’re attracted to intelligence,” Crane says, not bothering to look up from his clipboard.

I’ve never thought of it that way. Sure, being around smart people is a given perk. But actually having attractiveness to them, that actually explains why I’ve never dated much.

“I suppose I am.”

He hums in response and goes on to pack up his equipment. Another day, another toxin.

Bang! Bang!

The sound of someone pounding against the metal door to my cell jolts me from a deep sleep. In a frantic state I jump up and find- Crane? Huh. Why would he be down here at this time of night? The only time he visits is for experiments.

Bang! He slams his head into the door and grips the bars.

“Jesus! What-? Dr. Crane, are you ok?”

Something’s amiss. I’ve seen Crane go crazy over watching me go through his toxins but this… I’ve never seen him this berserk. Almost like his mind is miles away.

“Not here.” The doctor finally looks up at me and I see a mix of pure terror and excitement in his disturbed blue eyes. “Not here, Calico. He’s not in right now…”

His eyes tell a wild story, shifting all around as if he’s seeing something I’m not. When he does make direct eye contact Crane almost seems to ask for help.

“Hey! Get back here!” A woman’s voice shouts.

Crane jerks his head at the voice and gives me one last silent plea before sprinting off down the dark hallway. Where-? What-? I have so many questions! I can’t just sit here!

I attempt to try and pick the lock just as an approaching flashlight beam blinds me. A woman in a police uniform walks up cautiously. When she sees me her eyes go wide.

“Oh my God! Isley was right! Crane does have a patient hidden back here!”

“What’s going on?” I ask urgently.

“My name is Detective Montoya. We’re here to investigate a call from Batman. Something about the basement.”

“I knew there was something in there but Dr. Crane never told me.”

Montoya sighs heavily and starts to pick the lock on my cell. “We found evidence that Dr. Crane has been dumping an unknown chemical into Gotham’s water supply. He has now been removed from the Arkham staff due to a sudden decline in mental health. How long have you been down here?”

Good question. How long have I been down here? I lost count after a month.

“I don’t know. Can’t see the sun.”

“I’ve heard of solitary confinement but this is inhumane.” Montoya opens the door and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Has he done anything to you? Touched you? Abused you?”

Do I tell her about the experiments? After all, they weren’t as harmful as I expected. If anything, addressing my past has only helped me more than hurt me. Besides, Crane already got sacked. He’s done for.

“No. He just locked me up because a corrupt judge wanted me to be kept quiet.”

The policewoman shines her light ahead and leads me up the stairs. “You have nothing to worry about, honey. Crane can’t hurt you anymore. Seems to me like you’re just as sane as I am.”

I shake my head. “I was never supposed to be here.” At this point who’s to say what is sane? A month ago I would have called everyone in this asylum crazy. But after talking with Ivy and Nigma I realize now that even crazy people can be nice. I daresay they might even be more humane than sane people.

“Don’t worry,” Montoya assures me. “I’m going to talk to Gordon about this and get you a proper attorney. In your case I suggest Rachel Dawes.”

Okie dokie.

#jonathon crane #jonathon crane x reader #dr jonathan crane #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow #poison ivy #the riddler #harley quinn #the joker #two face #the penguin #batman #batman begins #the dark knight #the dark knigth rises #gotham #gotham tv #cillian murphy

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jungle-angel · 2 years

Text

Fly to the Moon (Maverick and Penny)

Summary: Mav knows the only way to get the boys to sleep at night

Miramar CA

Maverick entered the house, kicking his shoes right off at the door and desperate to crawl into bed next to Penny. His train of thought was suddenly broken by the crying coming from the kitchen nearby, one that he knew a little too well.

“Penny?” he asked. “Pen who’s up?”

“Danny,” Penny replied.

“What happened?” Mav asked, picking Danny up and placing him on his hip.

“I had a bad dream,” the three year old sobbed, burying his face into Maverick’s neck.

“Monsters under the bed?” Mav asked Penny.

“Nope,” Penny answered. “Apparently some snide Ivy League Navy Wife kept telling him that Ice was gonna kick the bucket.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking joking,” Mav sighed. “Let me guess, Lydia Atkinson?”

“None.....other.”

Mav’s brain soon began to tick with all the possible ways he could get back at the wretched woman. “Grampa Ice isn’t gonna kick the bucket is he Daddy?” Danny asked tearfully.

“No buddy, he’ll be fine,” Mav assured him.

Thomas came running out of his room a minute later with his blanket and his bear, another one unable to sleep. Maverick still couldn’t believe that his own nephews were calling him “Dad” instead of his brother. Yet he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“Alright,” Mav said. “I think I know the trick.”

Penny picked up Thomas as she and Mav both loaded them up into the truck, buckling them right into their carseats before driving off to the airplane hangar. They carried both boys inside, switching on the lights until it was bright as day inside, the smell of rubber and different chemicals still evident in the air.

“You boys wanna go up for a bit?” Mav asked them.

Danny and Thomas’s faces lit right up as Penny and Mav both helped load them up in the P51 Mustang that sat in the hangar, strapping them both in the back seat with their little headsets on their heads. Maverick was the last one to get in, sticking the headset on his head before starting the engines and closing up.

Penny waved to her boys as they pulled out of the hangar and taxied out onto the runway. The plane lifted higher and higher into the star flecked sky, the huge moon hanging high above Miramar and full as ever.

“Talk to’em Goose,” Mav whispered under his breath. “Maybe you can get’em to go back to sleep this time, just like you used to do for Rooster.”

He flew the plane right over most of the beach and across North Island, over their own home and the houses belonging to the rest of the Dagger Squad, wondering if they could see from below. Maverick flew on for what felt like hours, until he looked over his shoulder to find the two little boys sound asleep in the back.

Back to the hangar they flew, landing on the little strip of tarmac and pulling into the garage space where Penny was still waiting. “They asleep?” she asked.

“Fell right asleep before we could fly over the boat yard,” Mav explained.

The two of them carefully lifted Danny and Thomas out of the plane and carried them to the truck once again, this time the two of them asleep. The drive home was as peaceful and quiet as could be, Mav’s arm around Penny as her eyes began to fall shut.

“You should do this more often,” she hummed.

“If I did it wouldn’t work the way it does,” Mav chuckled. “At least we can stick’em both in bed when we get home.”

“That’s not the only thing we need to stick in bed tonight,” Penny laughed sleepily.

Mav laughed as he playfully tapped her arm with his palm. Everybody would sleep well that night....and he was damn certain of that.

#top gun maverick #pete maverick mitchell #penny benjamin #maverick x penny #dagger squad #dagger squad short fics

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anotherghoul666 · 1 year

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Well, you knew this was coming, right, my dear? Sage, ivy and papyrus <3

Of course darling, but that doesn't make any less special to have you in my inbox ❤️

sage ⇢ what ‘medium’ of art (poetry, music, fiction, paintings, statues etc.) is the most touching to you? why do you think that is? Oh music, 100%. I am a very audotiry-seeking person, I tend to need an audio component to make the deepest emotional connections to things, and I love to feel the emotions in a physical way through my body. While other mediums like writing etc. can instill emotion in me, it's a detached experience. I can rationalize and internalize the written word but I'm not gonna feel it in my actual body much. Music, I feel inside my body, with the goosebumps, the vibrations of the sound, the ways it compells me to move and stim. My body is made to move in rythm, but reading is a static, often sat, experience. Plus there's live shows which can feel like literally being pummeled, emptied out, scooped out with your innards replaced by the sonic vibrations. Music for me is an experience that involved all of my senses, so it's more easily connected with my nervous system and and brain. There's something distinct about the physical experience of music, like, lyrics do it for me, but poetry does nothing to me at all, and that's cause I couldn't hear the poem necessarily and have it paired with specific tones and chords and modes to support or contrast the words. Audio's my main priprity when it comes to having an emotional response to anything.

ivy ⇢ what are your ‘tells’ for your emotions and moods? how can someone tell you’re happy, annoyed, upset or tired? Now that's a question to ask an autistic person XD My tells are clear, direct communication. Ask and I'll tell you, type of vibe. I let people know. I'm sure I have instinctive, subconscious shifts in my tone of voice, pattern of speech, microexpressions, stance, aura and what I give off in general when my mood changes. My problem with those tells is, very often people misconstrude my "tells" and assume I feel a certain way when I don't. Reading tells implies a big amount of projection and inferring things that unfortunately people don't always seek to confirm. So to me, in my experience, my tells are missread constantly. People think I'm mad so often when I'm nowhere near that state, for instance. I dunno what I'm doing to look mad all the time but I guess I have that "tell" going on loads more often than I feel that emotion. Tells are unreliable. Someone can tell what mood I'm in by asking directly! Ain't that the most autistic answer I could have given to this question hahahahha, fuck xD

papyrus ⇢ if you put your ‘on repeat’ playlist on shuffle, what’s the first song that comes up? what do you like about it / associate it with? The audio rip of this chillstep mix by Chillout Deer on youtube:

youtube

Apparently the first track on this mix is called Sleeping Forest by artist Wayr. I associate this a trip me and my mom took in the summer of 2018. There's a sort of spa retreat / nature retreat place my mom's been going to for decades. She used to go with her sister before she left, with her mom before she passed away, with her best friends before they drifted apart; she'd drag my dad even if it isn't his thing too much and he'd humor her and they'd have a lovely time. I went 3 times with her so far. This place is my mom's safe haven. In 2018 we'd planned to take the trip together for her birthday. It's about a 4 hour drive from us, my mom doesn't drive much and is scared to because she has a medical condition that greatly diminished her sensitivity in her feet so she has a hard time feeling the pedals the correct way. One of the things I did to help calm her during the drive was play those chillstep mixes. She loved them and they really helped. We had our windows down and we vibed, driving deeper and deeper in nature near the water on the shoreside. Both drives went perfectly. We also listened to those mixes in our room before and after our spa treatments when we'd get back together after. We played chillstep while doing diamong painting, while talking about our values, while trying to decide which spa treatment to go to next. That was the year we had our shetland sheepdog puppy that got a neurological condition days after the trip and we had to euthanize her. The last pictures of her we have are on the balcony of our little shoreside cabin over there. That was the year me and my life partner got together, and these few days were the longest amount we'd spent apart since we began our life together. We texted and sent pictures back and forth and I was trying to live in the moment with my mom and take in every minute of this trip while also dealing with my cells yearning for my partner. That was the year we had the best food we ate at that retreat, my mom and I sharing our menues and for once I didn't have an allergic reaction to anything, so the trip was safe health-wise for me. That was the year me and my mom made up the silliest game of trying every chair / surface to sit on in the entire property, taking pictures and ranking them, finding out best chair XD That was the year we got followed by a dog? wolf? wild canine during a walk in the woods for legit an hour, getting trailed by this animal which was terrifying and awe-inspiring at the same time. That was the last time me and my mom went to the retreat, cause my life with my partner and work and personal life took over. I should organize another one of those trips soon. Lots of good and bittersweet memories in that music.

#asks

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mrs-nate-humphrey · 4 years

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I know you have a lot of ships on gg, including Derena. So, were you satisfied that they were endgame? And if they had to end up together, how would you have changed it to make more sense? Also, how do you feel about Lily/ Rufus? :)

this is a great ask, because it’s gonna get me to reveal a nugget of truth that’ll contextualise everything, lmao. derena was, as most of you know, my first major gg ship, and honestly, they were so captivating, very few ships (esp, very few m/f ships) had won my heart like that. so. when s2 started and we had all the derena being weird bits in the first few episodes, it would be an understatement to say that i was let down. i was literally like, “i don’t want to watch this show if it’s going to slander dan and serena!!!” and i. stopped watching gossip girl.

as someone who’s finished watching the whole show, i can look back in retrospect and laugh at that moment specifically, because it was such a “damn, you ain’t seen nothing yet” kind of moment. but at the time, dan and serena - as individual characters, and as a couple, made me really happy. and uni was really dragging me down, and nothing was making me happy, so i remembered the way season 1 of gg had distracted me from like, how sad i was, and. i looked up whether or not dan and serena were endgame.

so!!! the derena wedding is THE THING that made me finish watching gg. along the way, i was surprised and taken aback by hidden depths of the characters, and the way i viewed them changed. 2x06 made me see the potential of dan and nate, and i was truly a goner, no coming back from that. out of all the canon gg ships we have, most people know, dan & blair are my favourite. like. i love the dair dynamic so much. but. i can’t really hate derena endgame, because it’s the thing i stayed for. and it’s ironic that by the time it came around, i didn’t really want it. but there was a time when i REALLY did. when i was really sad and the only thing that helped was dan & serena. so!!! that is why i go so hard for them every now and then, lmao.

uhh, if derena had to be endgame, i think dan’s character arc would need to sort of go elsewhere? like if he had the same restless need-to-leave-the-city energy to him that serena did, maybe then they’d be truly happy. i just feel like they don’t really work as an endgame relationship because of what their ideal futures would be like. dan would want to be a dad, to have one of those white picket fence kind of settled futures, which is exactly what serena didn’t want. she wanted to be free!! i also don’t feel like serena would want kids (the way she looked at dan when he was holding milo! kldhsgkhdg.) and i personally cannot see a middle ground, but i know other people can. i really just wanted derena to be best friends at the end of the show. exes on good terms.

lily/rufus is a great ship!! i am not a big fan of their characters individually - though with lily it’s kind of like, i am fascinated by how awful she is, whereas with rufus it’s like *flinches every time he does something* but i liked them as a couple! i also really love the whole premise of their pre-series relationship, it’s like a fic premise for your OTP. lead singer in a band meets travelling photographer who tours with them, she’s a sheltered girl from a shitty family, he’s.... young enough to think their story has a happy ending. idk. all these little nuggets of rufly’s past, on the road, lily accompanying him on his tours... i loved that stuff. and when they were married/established relationship, they were like, the ONE relationship that didn’t have any drama and that communicated, which, makes sense, given how many years it took them to get there. so yeah, i like rufly! i’m not in fandom for them, though, if that makes sense.

#anon #long post #derena #rufly #dan humphrey #serena van der woodsen #apparently it's ivy does a tell-all hour #also when i say im not in fandom for rufly it's like #i don't really see myself writing fic for them #or looking for edits of them #or whatever #they were cute! but im not hyperfixating

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greenteafiend · 2 years

Text

Ok I reworked that superbat snippet

Clark splashes water on his face, the cool shock of icy water going some way towards cutting through the tangled riot of his thoughts. He stares at his own face in the vanity, and wonders if he’s staring at a stranger.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Pull yourself together,” he tells himself.

So he thought he knew himself better. It’s not like it’s the end of the world to realize certain truths about oneself, especially when those truths don’t really harm anyone or change who he is on a fundamental level. His beliefs are still the same, and his integrity is intact.

It’s just… embarrassing. He’s nearly thirty for chrissakes. Isn’t that too old to be going through a crisis of sexuality? In addition to being embarrassing, it’s terrible timing.

It’s just his luck that Clark Kent would finally score a date with Lois Lane, only to accidentally fall into bed with Batman of all people hours before. He doesn’t know the man’s identity, but he knows what he tastes like, how desperate he can sound, how rough his voice gets when he—

Clark clears his throat a few times, and tries his hardest to ignore the heat in his cheeks. It’s just so hard to not think about it. The encounter had been—and Clark feels terribly guilty for thinking so considering they’d both been under the influence of Poison Ivy’s latest concoction at the time—hot. So very hot. The most charged, erotic experience of Clark’s life to date.

Maybe it was just the pollen? He thinks to himself. But the thought is half-hearted at best. The first round, sure, that had just been the pollen. But the subsequent rounds? Not so much. There’s always been something between the two of them, Superman and Batman. From the first time they met. A chemistry, a synergy.

Clark doubts that it would have ever occurred to him to take things in a sexual direction without the inhibition-cancelling, lust-inducing effects of the pollen, but now that it has happened… It’s not something that can be taken back. He’s had the epiphany, and he can’t unlearn what he now knows. He can’t ignore how it felt to be with a man—how much he liked it. How right it felt. With Batman.

The eidetic memory means that Clark will always know how the fabric of Batman’s suit feels parting beneath his hands, how warm the skin underneath it is. He’ll always know how soft and plush that unsmiling mouth can be for him, how much he liked it when Clark held his wrists down…

And now, it’s too late to cancel the date he has with a woman he’s had a crush on from probably the instant he’d met her. He has no idea what to say to her, and no idea how to approach this. It’s only a date, a first date, so it isn’t like he’s done anything wrong. Not technically, but he can’t help but feel bad. Like he’s been disrespectful. Clark Kent doesn’t sleep with one person, and go on a date with someone else hours later, except apparently, he does.

Clark dries his face with a handful of paper towels and puts his glasses back on—no more stalling. Time to be a man. Time to be Clark Kent. He leaves the bathroom and goes to their table. Every step he takes intensifies the dread and turmoil gathering in his gut.

Lois is there already, perusing the drink menu with a thoughtful expression. She’s heart-achingly beautiful, wearing something delicate and sleeveless. Her bare shoulders look soft and touchable. When she notices him approaching, she smiles reflexively. Mischievous and vivacious. Her lipstick is bright red.

Clark should have known that his inner turmoil would be all over his face—and even if it hadn’t been, the best poker face he can muster can’t hope to get past Lois Lane. The very first thing she says to him once he sits across from her is: “Jeez, what happened to you, Smallville? You look like you either had a rough night, or a really good night.”

Clark opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His face goes red though, he can feel it. Both those statements are technically true: it had been a rough night, but also… it had been good. So good.

Lois arches an eyebrow, and leans her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. Her eyes narrow. Clark has seen her look at other people like this—people she’s interviewing. It’s piercing to be on the other side of it.

“Something… something did happen,” Clark admits softly. He has to lie to Lois so much—the only lies he’s able to get by her, lies about Superman. He won’t lie to her about this. He doesn’t want to.

“Are you alright?” she asks. She reaches out and sets one small hand over his. Her nails are painted dark blue, and they match the dress she’s wearing. They match her eyes.

“Yes,” Clark answers reflexively. He’s invulnerable; it’s impossible for him to not be alright. Lois gives his hand a squeeze before letting go.

“So it was a good night?” Lois jokes.

“I… I, uh…” Clark winces.

Lois’ eyes widen, and that’s when their waiter arrives, greeting them cheerily, insensible to the tense atmosphere they’ve stepped into.

“We’ll have a bottle of the Viño Otano Tempranillo, and two shots of whiskey,” says Lois, taking charge and ordering drinks for both of them. When the waiter looks to Clark to confirm, Lois tips her chin up defiantly.

“You heard the lady,” says Clark weakly. He’s always found Lois’ take charge, no-nonsense attitude attractive. Now, he can’t help but think he may have a type, because ordering for him is probably the least of what Batman would take charge of.

“Tell me what happened,” Lois says briskly once the waiter is gone.

“Do I have to?” Clark jokes weakly. Lois gives him an unimpressed look.

“Trust me, you only want me to be as mad at you as you deserve,” says Lois wryly. “And I can only do that if you tell me what you did. You look guilty, Clark. Spill. You’ll feel better for it.”

Clark stares down at the tablecloth. He wets his lips with his tongue and takes a deep breath.

“I was… Yesterday, last night, I was—I was with someone,” he admits haltingly. He can’t quite bear to meet Lois’ gaze, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t feel it searing against the skin of his face.

“Huh, with someone,” says Lois, catching his meaning without him needing to get explicit, thank God. When Clark chances a glance up at her, he finds that she looks pensive rather than angry. Her nails tap against the tablecloth—something she does when she’s thinking. “I wouldn’t have expected that of you.” She sounds honest rather than judgemental. It’s a statement of fact, not an indictment.

“I’m sorry,” Clark blurts. “It just kind of… happened?”

“Relax, Smallville. It may not be classy, but it wasn’t cheating,” replies Lois.

“Are you slut-shaming me, Lane?” He hazards a joke, and it pays off because she cracks a smile.

“No, that would be hypocritical,” she says primly, but she’s still smiling. “I appreciate your honesty, Clark. It’s actually kind of sweet that you’re so worked up about this. Must be the midwestern farm boy in you; city boys are pretty blaze about one-night-stands.” Lois blinks and goes still—it’s her epiphany face. “That’s assuming it was a one-night-stand,” she says, giving Clark a pointed look.

Clark honestly hasn’t thought that far ahead, but there’s no way he won’t see Batman again. No way they can avoid working together in the future.

“It wasn’t, was it?” says Lois, reading his expression again. “Who is she, do I know her?”

“Him,” Clark corrects her reflexively. “I don’t think you know him.”

Lois looks shocked for a second, and then her face crumples in sympathy that Clark doesn’t feel he deserves.

“Oh, Clark. Are you—”

“I don’t know,” Clark interrupts. He pushes his glasses up his nose—nervous habit. “I’ve never really considered it before. I’m sorry, though. I really like you, Lois. I was really looking forward to this, but then—with him, I…” Clark pauses to gather himself and take a deep breath. “I’ve never thought about it before, but I think I need to, now,” he says helplessly.

With impeccable timing, the waiter returned with their drinks.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use this,” mutters Lois, downing the whiskey in one go. She pushes the other glass of whiskey at Clark, and then gets started on pouring the wine.

“Tell you what, let’s put this date on an indefinite hiatus. For now, we’ll just have a drink and eat dinner. We’re still friends, Clark. We can do that.”

We’re still friends. Something tight loosens in Clark’s chest at that proclamation. He takes his shot of whiskey and follows Lois’ lead, downing it in one go.

“That’s the spirit,” says Lois, and then she pours him a generous glass of red wine. “Seeing as this isn’t really a date anymore, we may as well go over interview notes for the Maroni case article.”

She rummages through her handbag and pulls out a notebook, a pen, and some stapled together papers roughly folded in half to fit in said handbag. Clark can’t say he’s surprised—Lois has always been a consummate workaholic. Much like someone else Clark knows…

I do have a type, Clark thinks to himself.

Later that night, Clark sees Lois home. She’s a little loose and tipsy from alcohol and good food, and she accepts his jacket and leans on his arm when he offers them to her.

“It’s always the good ones,” she mutters to herself when they arrive at her building.

“I’m sorry,” says Clark, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Lois abruptly stops rummaging through her purse for her keys, and reaches up to slap her palms flat against Clark’s cheeks. With a firm grip, she exerts enough force to make a normal man tilt his head downwards and look her in the eye. Clark lets her.

“You listen to me carefully, Smallville,” she orders sternly. The tone reminds Clark strongly of his mother. “You’re one of the best people I know. Don’t be sorry for who you are. Don’t ever be sorry for pursuing what makes you happy.”

The proclamation hits Clark like a punch to the gut, so hard he actually feels a little choked up over it. His throat works but no sound comes out, and he finds himself suddenly blinking rapidly, eyes hot.

“Do you understand?” Lois demands, shaking him a little.

“Yes.” His voice is rough.

Lois stares him down for a beat until she’s satisfied her message has been received.

“Good. Don’t forget it.” She lowers her hands from his face, settling them on his shoulders instead. “And if this man doesn’t make you happy, you send him my way and I’ll set him straight.”

The genuine laugh that bubbles up out of him takes Clark by surprise. It’s just too funny and vivid in his mind’s eye: Five-foot-seven Lois Lane staring down six-foot-two Batman, telling him off for hurting Clark’s feelings.

“Well, maybe not straight. I’ll set him right, Clark,” Lois amends. “He’s a city boy, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Clark confirms. He may not know Batman’s identity, but he knows he’s a Gotham City man, through and through.

“Someone has to make sure he doesn’t take advantage of your naivety and kind nature, Smallville.”

“Thank you, Lois.” He means it from the bottom of his heart.

“Anytime.”

Lois leans up on her tip-toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. Her lips are soft, and the scent of her perfume lingers even after she pulls away and lets herself inside.

#superbat #clark kent x bruce wayne #superman x batman #my writing #lois being great #i think its better now

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sehnsuchts-trunken · 3 years

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Hi!! I saw you opened up requests so obviously here I am!!

I would love to see some headcanons about what would’ve happened if Newt had survived in tmr, bc I’m forever going to be in denial about death cure lmao

ah. this. rightttt let's just quickly establish that i've completely been ignoring that that part happens- so there's a high chance i'll cry but let's go!!

triggerwarnings: talk of death and depression and both major/minor injury, spoilers for death cure, this is sad so brace yourself

- The Ivy Trio would be t h r i v i n g I'm telling you. Certainly they still are sorrowful, they still are sad, they mourn the losses and the dead, but they are also absolutely partying. They somehow never get too annoyed by each other either. Like sure, Thomas is a bit too daring and too naive, Minho is a pain in the ass with his sarcasm and his confidence and Newt has to keep up with their shit all the time, but they're all alive and well and they're not dumb enough to let any fight destroy the friendship they built as they went through, well, all that happened.

- Newt would be the first one to re-bond with Gally, I believe. Not that the other two don't - especially Minho has been a friend of him in the maze anyway, so they do reconnect. But Thomas takes a loooooong time to do so and basically needs a lifetime to stand being in the same room as him without Chuck's death flashing before his eyes and getting the urge to kill him. Newt though, while Thomas cannot convince himself that all that happened was because WICKED was controlling Gally, knows that very well; and since he's experienced what it's like to lose control, he's absolutely trying to rebuild that friendship with Gally.

i’m also pretty sure that they become each other's therapists because they went through a quite similar thing

- Newt needs his time to recover of course, and he does change, even if sometimes that's not visible. Once they reach the Safe Haven, once he's treated and well again, he's someone else despite being himself again (Minho goes through the same). He takes a long time to smile again even when all the others have done so, and it's quite hard to make him smile ever again. Not that he doesn't, oh, he does. But it's never the same smile that he's had in the maze.

- Despite all that, he adapts again. His limp is more apparent now and stays that way, because he does not hide it and does not see it as the inconvenience he'd convinced himself it was before. He takes it as a reminder of what they went through, of what he went through, to never forget that and to never forget what they survived.

- Thomas sleeps in the same room as him. It's not because there isn't enough space for everybody, but he simply can't sleep on his own anymore. He has horrible nightmares and often wakes up drenched in sweat and sometimes even screaming, and the only way to get him to calm down again is when he sees someone else with him, so Thomas just shares a room with him. It did take quite some time for him to convince Newt that he's not doing it out of pity (because after all Newt does not want to be a liability), but they end up sorting it out and doing it that way.

- When Minho gives Thomas Newt's necklace and he reads the letter, they all cry. All of them. Thomas cries reading it and Minho sobs when Thomas hands it to him, and since Newt knows well what he's written, tears also slip down his cheeks. It's both a sad and a very... hopeful moment, in a way. There's no shame, only utter happiness that they've all come to this very point, that they've survived it and that they're still here. Thomas keeps the letter. He asks Newt if he wants to keep it, but Newt says that he couldn't bear it, so Thomas does. Neither of them read it ever again, but the fact that it's there reminds them as much of everything they've gone through as if they did.

and also because i want to end this on a happier note:

- Newt absolutely loves the sea. He takes hour-long walks on the beach and is about the first one to explore it further. He often sits and stares out at the endless water and the sky, thinking about everything and anything that comes to his mind. Even though he mostly goes alone, especially in the beginning he's often joined by Thomas and Minho and even Gally. Sometimes he meets Frypan sitting there, too, so they sit there in silence. It's peaceful for him. He's thought of places like these in the maze, and now that he's here, he thinks of the maze. And after all, the only thing that he cannot figure out and never will is which of those places was the better one.

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angeli-marco-writes · 3 years

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Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective

A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.

Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.

Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...

TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway?

“You are absolutely unbelievable!”

“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid.

“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”

“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” He mimics.

John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face.

“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”

As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs.

Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded.

“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.”

With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open.

“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake.

John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.

Can you come over? Please? SH

It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now.

Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.

He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door.

Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body.

“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.

The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek.

It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together.

That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.

“I’m here, bud.”

Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there.

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too.

His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker.

His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.

“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows.

“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.

Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”

“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”

“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.”

He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.”

And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-

Oh.

The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory.

Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face.

His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?

Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?

Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.”

She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”

“Hmm, same difference.”

Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.”

He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive.

“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”

“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise.

Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces.

As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep.

For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him.

Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone.

“May I take your shirt off?” he asks.

“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”

“Be my guest.”

In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.

His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets.

“Never undone a bra before?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”

“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”

“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling.

She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck.

“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine.

“N- fuck, no.”

“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”

“I know you will.”

She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years.

“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”

She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”

“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”

“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”

“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again.

They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little.

He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name.

“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”

“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words.

“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”

“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”

He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”

And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort.

Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off.

“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”

“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”

“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”

She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees.

“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”

Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…

“You sure you wanna go this far?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.”

He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-

“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”

He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Hmm, anything, you say?”

Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”

Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.

This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.

Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane.

Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.

“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.

A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away.

“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”

“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”

She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up.

“Touch yourself f- for me.”

“What? Why?”

Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on.

“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”

She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there.

“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”

She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers.

“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air.

She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair.

His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen…

He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him.

“Do you have a condom?” he asks.

“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”

“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”

“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”

“You have a considerably good point.”

With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.

“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”

“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”

He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Can I…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”

Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had.

His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before.

“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another.

“Please.” She all but begs.

Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.

“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing.

“Hmm, not quite.”

The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?

“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.

“So good.”

She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame.

“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns.

He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly.

The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.

“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”

He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”

Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other.

His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her.

“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him. “Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely.

Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another.

He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight.

“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”

His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them.

“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before…

She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?”

He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body.

“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.”

Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering.

“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”

He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.”

A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom.

“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”

He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner.

“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”

He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”

“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs.

He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”

As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs.

“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”

Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse.

“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks.

“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.”

He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything.

“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.”

She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly.

“Look at you now.”

After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain…

With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.

In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly.

His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?

The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton.

“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.

Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way.

“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...”

She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”

He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.

“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”

“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”

He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”

Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier.

“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”

“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”

He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”

“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles.

He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.

“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”

“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”

“No, I don’t think I ever can.”

The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’

“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs.

And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.

John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…

He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock.

It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag.

She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that .

This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet.

One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”

How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of…

Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.

John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple.

The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone.

She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”

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watchyourbluesturngolden · 4 years

Text

go big or go home

this was a request from @kk2016

Hi!! could you write about being pregnant with Harry but no one knew so you guys show up to the Grammys together and everyone can see your baby bump through your dress?

here is the link to the dress you’re wearing. I have no idea if this is a good option, I’m terrible with fashion :) but I thought it was cute! If you hate it, definitely just imagine something else :)

warnings: pregnancy

word count: 2.8k

It wasn't exactly hard to hide a pregnancy during a pandemic. You barely left the house, and if you did, you weren't recognized. The one time you and Harry had been spotted, you had only been 4 months along and were wearing an oversized sweater. So it was safe to say this baby was your family's little secret.

Harry knew, of course. He had been the first person to know (after Anne and the doctor who confirmed the pregnancy). You had got around to telling the rest of your families after the first trimester was over. The "inner circle," as you liked to call it, were the few people who were aware. This consisted of your parents, Anne, Gemma, Harry's band, Jeff and Glenne. That was it. Neither of you were wild on the idea of Harry's entire fanbase knowing, so you kept it under wraps as best you could.

Which, once again, wasn't hard to do. You didn't even have to go out for groceries; they could be delivered. You could buy everything for the nursery online and have it sent directly to your front doorstep. You and Harry had stayed inside for the better part of the past seven months.

However, there was one event coming up that you absolutely refused miss out on. The Grammys. At first, Harry thought you should stay home. He was worried you would get sick, and how it might affect the baby. He was worried about his fans finding out. He was worried he wouldn't win and he would have to see your disappointed face right next to him.

Of course, you were not about to let this happen. You assured him you wouldn't get within six feet of anyone besides him. You wouldn't shake anyone's hand or hug anyone. You would wear two masks, if it would make him feel safer. You would shower in hand sanitizer. You really didn't care what you had to do; you were not going to miss this night.

"Harry, I swear to God, if you keep giving me that terrified look..."

"I'm sorry!" He exclaimed, dragging a hand over his face. "I'm allowed to be a little apprehensive. This really isn't a good idea, I think it might be best if you just stay home. I just-"

"Absolutely not," you spun around, placing your hands on your hips. "I'm going to be there, in person, so I can watch my husband become a Grammy winner."

"You can watch from here!" He argued. "Plus, that way, you don't have to walk around all night. I know your feet have been bugging you, and-"

"Don't use this pregnancy against me!" You threw your head back, taking a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, I'm not," he said, stepping closer and resting his hands on your belly. "I just want you to be safe. You and our little girl."

"I know," you brought up your hand to brush along his cheekbone. "And we will be. I'm not going to get close to anyone. I'm not going to touch anything. I'm going to have two masks on the entire night. Harry, there won't be anyone safer than me this whole night. I promise."

"I just..."

When he didn't finish his sentence, you leaned in to meet his eyes. "What are you really worried about?"

"Lots of things," he murmured. "Besides the literal plague? I'm worried about people finding out and being cruel. I don't want to deal with that, and I don't ever want you to be exposed to it. I'm worried something bad will happen, and it'll be all my fault for letting you come along. And... I'm worried you'll be disappointed if I don't win." His last sentence was so quiet you barely heard it, but it still made your heart ache.

"Baby..." You said quietly, your voice sad. You ignored his other two worries for now, because this one was clearly the most important to deal with. “You think I'll be disappointed in you?"

He nodded, looking at his hands on you instead of meeting your eyes. "Everything I do, it's all for you. You and her. What if it's not enough? What if I fail?"

"Harry," you kept your hands on his face, directing him to look at you. "I will never, ever be disappointed in you. You are amazing, in everything you do. Understand? I personally think you will be a three time Grammy winner at the end of the night-" he grinned at this- "But even if you're not, I will still be so incredibly proud of you. I will always, always be proud of you, and I will always love you. Okay?"

He didn't move, but you used your grip on his face to nod his head up and down. His smile grew bigger, and he grabbed your wrist gently. He turned his head to kiss your palm, sighing softly before he pulled away.

"I love you so much," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make me feel better. You always know exactly what to say."

You shrugged with a small smile. "I'm just amazing, I think."

"I think so too."

-----

You were sitting on the couch, dressed in your normal quarantine clothing. Hoodies. Sweatpants for him, leggings for you. Why would you get dressed up for a virtual acceptance ceremony?

You bounced excitedly as they announced "Adore You" as one of the nominations for best music video. Harry smiled when you gripped his arm.

"I don't have a good feeling about this," he admitted.

"Well, you're just a ray of sunshine today," you huffed. "Here it comes!"

"And the Grammy goes to... Beyoncé, Blue Ivy, and WizKid."

You slumped back slightly, patting his arm.

He laughed lightly at your reaction. "She deserves it."

You nodded. "Not to be mean to you, but yeah, she definitely does."

-----

As the hours wore on, you could tell Harry was getting more nervous.

"It's just- it's my first performance in a while. What if it's not good?"

"Harry," you grabbed his face again. "It will be amazing. Yes?"

Again, he didn't respond. Again, you had to physically move his head up and down in a nod. Again, this made him laugh. It was a small gesture, but you could tell it helped calm him down at least a little bit.

"There's one thing we haven't talked about," he pulled away from you, going through his drawers to find his socks.

"What's that?"

"Your outfit."

You shook your head. "I already picked my dress." You pulled out the garment bag, unzipping it to show him. It was fairly simple; you didn't want to overshadow him on his big day.

He smiled. "It's beautiful."

You nodded. "We're going to look so hot together."

"Couple of the year, I think."

"We might break the internet. Seriously. You're wearing a leather jacket with no shirt and I'm pregnant. Twitter is going to explode."

He laughed again, pulling you into his arms. "Are you sure you're ok with everyone knowing? It might not be good, people's reactions can be really-"

"You do realize they will have to find out at some time, right? You can't exactly hide a child forever."

"I know," he sighed. "I just like living in our little bubble, where it's only me and you who know."

"And your mom. And Gemma. And my parents. And Sarah, and Mitch, and Adam, and Ny, and Charlotte, and Jeff and-"

"Alright, alright, you've made your point," he chuckled. "But you know what I mean."

"I do," you nodded. "And I'm ok with people knowing. Besides, it'll blow over soon. I can just stay off socials until it does."

Harry sighed again. "I wish you didn't have to. I wish people would just..."

"Treat people with kindness," you grinned. "Maybe they don't know. Maybe you should tell them to do that sometime."

He rolled his eyes playfully, pulling away from you. "You're funny."

"Hilarious, I know."

"I have to get ready," he sighed. "One last try- are you sure you don't want to stay home?"

"Not a chance," you smiled. "Now shoo so I can get dressed."

-----

His hands were shaking as he opened the door of his dressing room. You gripped his arm tighter, trying to remind him you were here for him.

"Everything's going to be ok," you said softly.

He nodded, but his hands still shook.

"I'll be right offstage, you can look at me if you get nervous," you reminded him. "This might not be the time, but I'm, like, really excited to see you perform."

"Yeah?" He gave a small smile.

You nodded. "It's been a while since I've been able to see that. And you look... very nice in this outfit."

"Very nice, huh?" He laughed. "What a compliment."

"I do have a way with words," you grinned.

"Always," he leaned his forehead against yours. "Now what was it you said earlier? Shoo, so I can get dressed."

"I'll be just offstage," you reminded him one last time, blowing him a kiss as you stepped out of the room.

-----

You couldn't take your eyes off him for the entire performance. He was worried for no reason, because he was incredible. He was born to do this, you could tell.

You cheered louder than anyone else when he finished, earning a cheeky smile from him. As soon as he could get away, he ran over to you and enveloped you in his arms.

"I told you you'd be amazing," you whispered.

He nodded, wearing the biggest smile you'd seen in days. "Couldn't have done it without you."

"I didn't do anything," you laughed.

"No, I couldn't have done it without your moral support," he clarified.

"Right, moral support," you nodded seriously before breaking into a smile again. "But really, that was amazing. You're perfect."

"That's all you, love," he returned the compliment, turning back around to watch Billie performing. He kept his arm around you, though. The camera panned to you a few times during the different performances, and you knew by this point the viewers at home had seen your bump. Your dress wasn't very tight fitting, but you were almost 8 months along. You were sure social media was exploding by now.

You didn't have to worry about that though, not yet at least. You had a few more hours of calm.

-----

Harry's nerves had apparently returned once you got to the table. His hand was gripping yours even tighter than before and his leg bounced constantly. You placed your hand on his thigh, trying to calm his frantic movements. His eyes went to yours, and you could tell he was smiling under his mask.

"It will be fine," you reminded him. "Everything will be ok. You already did the hard part, remember?"

He nodded, taking in a deep breath. "Right. And soon, we can go home, and sit on the couch, and eat ice cream."

"Exactly," you smiled. "And I can get back in my leggings and not get dressed again for the next 6 months."

He laughed at this, and his grip on your hand loosened. He still kept hold of you, but you could tell he wasn't so nervous anymore.

"Ok, shh, they're announcing it now," you said excitedly.

Harry looked down, apparently seized with nerves again.

"And the Grammy goes to... Watermelon Sugar, Harry Styles."

His eyes went wide, and your face split into a giant grin. He reached his arm out to grab yours, almost like he didn't believe what had just happened.

He pulled his mask off, standing up. He took your hand, gesturing for you to stand too, so of course you obliged. He pulled you against him, and you could feel how fast his heart was beating. When he pulled away, you smiled up at him.

"I knew you would win," you said softly, still beaming. "Now go!" You gave his shoulder a gentle push toward the stage.

"Wow, um..." He blew out a breath, looking at you before he spoke again. "To everyone who made this record with me, thank you so much. This was the first song we wrote after my first album came out, during a day off in Nashville, and I just want to say thanks to Tom, Tyler, Mitch, and everyone... Rob Stringer, and everyone at Colombia, my manager Jeffery, who has always nudged me to be better and never pushed me, thank you so much. I feel very grateful to be here, thank you. All of these songs are fucking massive, so thank you so much, I feel very honored to be here among all of you, so thank you so much. And I want to say-" he looked at you again, a smile of adoration crossing his face. "Most importantly, thank you to my wife. Y/N, I love you more than anything else on this planet, and I couldn't have done any of this without you. You make it all possible, so... thank you to the light of my life, and of course our daughter." His eyes went wide at the last sentence, like he hadn't planned to say that. He looked around nervously before he quickly made his way back to his seat.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say that, it slipped out-"

You shook your head, taking his hand. "It's ok, don't worry about it," you smiled. "I'm so proud of you."

He put his mask back on, but it didn't hide the happiness on his face.

-----

Once everything was over and you had both climbed into the car to go home, it seemed to really hit him.

"I won a Grammy," he said in disbelief, looking down at the award in his hands.

"You won a Grammy," you repeated with a big smile on your face. "Grammy winner Harry Styles."

"Yeah," he looked back up at you, his eyes still wide. "That's... insane."

You nodded. "And very impressive. And I'm so proud of you."

He smiled, scooting closer so he could put his arm around you. "Grammy winner Harry Styles... and his amazing wife."

"And their amazing daughter," you added, placing his other hand over your stomach. "Feel that? She's been kicking all night. She's excited for you."

He grinned, before his face dropped back into one of concern. "Are you sure you're ok with what I said? I really didn't mean to, I just got caught up, it-"

"Baby," you stopped him. "I promise, it's ok. Besides, everyone knew the minute I walked in there."

"Right," he nodded. "Has your phone been blowing up?"

You shrugged. "I turned it off. Should we check?"

"I'm a little nervous," he admitted.

"I'm gonna do it." You fished your phone out of your purse, eyes widening when you saw how many notifications you had. From every possible app. Congratulations texts, excited DMs, missed calls, and then there were the mentions. There were well over a hundred on your lockscreen alone.

You cleared all of them, deciding to open Twitter and see how bad it was. You were very pleasantly surprised.

"harry's daughter" was #1 on the trending page, and "harry in leather" was right behind it. Clicking on the first one, you found several GIFs of the terrified look on Harry's face when he accidentally made the announcement. You smiled, but scrolled further. Hundreds of fans were typing in all caps, apparently very excited that Harry was going to be a father.

"You're right, we broke the internet," he grinned, looking through his own timeline. "I've seen my bare chest more in the last five minutes than my entire life before this."

"What a power couple we are," you laughed. "We got the top two trending spots."

"What an accomplishment," he joked.

You scrolled for a few more minutes, still yet to see a negative message. "You were worried for nothing, babe. They're all very excited for us."

"I see that," he grinned. "They've also named our baby for us, and somehow know her zodiac sign."

"Oh, wonderful," you laughed. "But really, it could have been worse."

"Definitely," he nodded. "Well, that's one way to announce a pregnancy. On live TV in front of the entire nation."

"Yeah, you know, go big or go home."

"Exactly."

Closing Twitter, you moved on to Instagram. You gasped when you saw the first picture on your feed. "Sarah posted her bump! Now we can be baby buddies in public, not just in secret."

Harry smiled, turning off his phone and pulling you closer to him.

"omg, baby buddies :)" you commented. Within seconds, Sarah had liked the comment and replied with "they will be best friends😊"

With that, you turned off your own device and leaned into his side. "What a good night. Aren't you glad I came with you?"

"I am," he admitted. "Very glad. Thanks for being stubborn."

"Always."

#harry styles #harry fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x you fanfiction #harry styles x reader fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles/you #harry styles/reader #harry styles/reader fanfiction #harry styles/you fanfiction #dad!harry #one direction #one direction fanfiction #pregnancy

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archaeopter-ace · 3 years

Text

Ectober Day 3 - Mutant

Word Count: 1.1k Characters: Danny, Jazz Summary: Danny wants what he thinks he can’t have; Jazz offers a helping hand

Sitting on the floor with his back leaning against his bed, he allowed himself to cry – quietly. Each silent sob tugged the next one out of him, an unending chain that shook his shoulders and made his breath choppy and uneven, but still he made no sound.

Too long had this feeling been building up inside of him. Today had been the breaking point, acting happy and fine at dinner, as though everything were alright, when inside he was screaming for someone to notice that he, in fact, was not alright.

Was it fair to blame his family for not realizing, when he had resolutely kept up the mask that nothing was bothering him? Perhaps not. And part of him was upset with himself for being upset over something so stupid. That was the thing. Nothing bad had happened to him, not recently, not more than usual.

He bit his fist as he fought back a whine, a thin, reedy cry slipping out of him before he could stifle it. No matter. Everyone else was already asleep at this hour. No one would notice.

Less than a minute later there was a soft knock at his door. “Danny?”

Of course Jazz would be the exception.

He wanted to respond but his breathing was still choppy and outside his control. She opened the door regardless, slipping in quietly and closing the door behind her.

“Are you hurt?”

He shook his head and buried his face in his knees, arms crossed around them.

Rather than ask him what was wrong, she sat down next to him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Danny tried to explain, wanting to be understood, but there was a knot in his throat he couldn’t speak past, so he blindly groped for the brochure at his feet and thrust it at his sister instead.

“I can’t read in the dark. Is it alright if I turn on a lamp?”

Danny nodded, and when she left his side to flick on his bedside lamp he took the opportunity to wipe his eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath.

She returned to her spot next to him before she started to read, and Danny’s stomach felt like it was boiling. He stared fixedly at the floor, not wanting to see her face, oh god what if she laughed, it was such a stupid idea.

“I d-don’t know what I’m crying for. I just – I’ve had that for three weeks, well, you know, the assembly – and today I realized the application deadline has passed. It must have passed. And I missed my chance. Only, I wouldn’t have gone, not really. I couldn’t leave Sam and Tucker behind. But.” And he hated that his eyes welled up again. “But it was nice to imagine, that it could have been possible.”

“How do you know that the deadline has passed?”

“Does it matter? I can’t go!”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Explain it to me.”

There was the obvious reason, the reason that was always present, like a toothache; and like a toothache, it hurt worse to touch it, so he didn’t, grabbing another, equally valid reason. “Because – because it’s a private school, and I’m not cut out for that. And Sam wouldn’t want me to go, she hates private schools; she proudly got kicked out of the one her parents sent her to.”

“Sam values uniqueness, and individuality,” Jazz countered. “And there’d be no shortage of that.”

“It’s too expensive.”

“They offer scholarships.” She passed the pamphlet back to him. He took it, reflexively. After three weeks, it was looking rather worse for wear, the way Danny kept folding and unfolding it, staring at the photos of smiling kids and ivy-covered buildings.

“I can’t leave Tucker and Sam, I don’t know what I’d do without them.” Of this point he was certain, if nothing else. “And if I go, then everyone’s going to know. It’s an open secret what this school is. You think it’s not going to raise eyebrows if, when a job application asks what high school I graduated from, I write ‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters’?”

The brochure crumpled under his clenched fist. Hastily, he smoothed it out, flattening the creases with care.

“And you don’t want to tell Mom and Dad.” Jazz apparently had no problem poking his metaphorical toothache.

“Yeah.” Danny looked at the glossy photos, and yearned. He’d never known he could want something as badly as he wanted to go to this school, where other kids were just as freakish as he was and he wouldn’t have to hide anymore. Where he could be accepted for all he was. He wanted it so badly it hurt, so badly that keeping his feelings hidden led him to be here, sobbing on his bedroom floor in the dark.

When they’d been called in for assembly three weeks ago, Danny had just appreciated the break from classwork. But when the representative from the school started talking about the wonderful opportunities available to students, the top-notch facilities, the quality education they could receive and all the doors it would open… then Danny allowed himself to imagine.

(Of course, after the assembly everyone kept darting glances at Brant Gosling, the only visibly mutant kid in their class. But as usual he didn’t let the attention ruffle his feathers – literally – and graciously repeated to anyone who asked that no, he would not be applying to Xavier’s; he was quite happy where he was at Casper. Danny didn’t think he would have been half as self-confident, in his place).

Jazz had gotten a lot better about not putting words in his mouth, and giving him time to collect his own thoughts. She did so now, sitting quietly and rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“It’s just… you need at least a master’s degree to get into the space program, and Xavier’s students actually have high acceptance rates into colleges.”

“It sounds like it doesn’t count against you on applications, then, to be a graduate. At least not everywhere.”

“Some people would say that’s just to fill diversity quotas.”

“Some people are bigoted assholes.”

Danny laughed outright at hearing Jazz swear, then sobered. “Mom and Dad…” he began tentatively. “We know they’re pro-mutant rights; they’ve said so.”

“That’s right.”

“But they’re anti-ghost.” Danny was once again on more certain ground.

“Danny…” Jazz hesitated. “I don’t want to tell you what you should do. You know I will support you no matter what. But it worries me to find you having a breakdown because you’ve been bottling everything up inside. This isn’t sustainable.”

“I know, I know; you’re right.” He ran a finger down the well-worn creases of the pamphlet. “At this point… It’s not that I don’t want to tell them. I just don’t know how,” he confessed.

Jazz beamed at him. “That’s okay. We can figure something out together.”

#danny phantom #jazz fenton #ectober month 2021 #ectoberhaunt 2021 #ectoberhaunt trick #based a bit on my own experiences when i wanted to apply for a vocational magnet school but didn't know how to bring it up to my parents #man it's been awhile since i've come across a good old-fashioned xmen crossover #most marvel xovers tend to be mcu these days #though given today's prompt maybe that will change ;P

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corner-stories · 2 years

Text

everyone's brother and son

Bart Allen. Joan Garrick.

Gifts. Hugs. Applications.

1233

(ao3.)

Joan Garrick roams her home on a Friday night. With her husband with the Society in New York, the place is rather quiet. Not even the sounds of the Keystone City motorways can disrupt the peace.

She ascends the stairs as quickly as her aging bones can take her, which is not that quick at all. In her hands she grasps a small item between her fingers, something that is small and wrapped carefully with a silk handkerchief. She slips it into her cardigan pocket as she makes her way to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

She knocks twice and waits for a response.

“Come in,” calls the voice of the other speedster in the house.

Joan opens the door of the bedroom and finds Bart Allen sitting at his desk. Ever since he had come back, he had slipped back into his old life rather well, either spending his time with his friends, at school, or gaming into the wee hours of the night.

Bart is practically sprawled onto his chair. His hair is an absolute mess, as per usual. He looks as youthful as ever, even when he sports one of Jay’s old rugby shirts. In front of the young speedster is his PC monitor, but instead of a round of CS:GO or COD he’s looking at something much more surprising.

In the split second between Joan coming in and Bart minimizing his screen, a page detailing on-campus life at some university can be seen. Pictures of new students smiling and roaming heritage buildings disappear just as Joan settles into the space.

“Hey.”

“Heyo,” Bart greets, spinning around in his swivel chair. As he does so, Joan notices something on his desk. There’s an open folder of college admissions brochures sitting by the corner.

Joan smiles, amused. “What are you looking at?”

Bart eyes the folder, then closes just as quickly. “Jesse gave them to me,” he says like it doesn’t mean anything. “Not like I’ll get in though.”

“You don’t know that,” Joan assures, shaking her head. She takes a step forward and opens the folder, quickly getting a look at what school he had been browsing.

The prestige of places ranges from simple, but effective community colleges, to privately funded establishments with lofty standards and even loftier tuition. Fittingly, there’s also a few flyers detailing financial aid.

“There are other places to go than Ivys, you know,” Joan reminds, smirking.

Bart shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Yeah, whatevs.”

For a few more seconds, Joan flips through the various flyers and brochures. She notices that at the very top was an info packet detailing info of an institute all the way in Ann Arbor. Apparently, Bart had taken an interest in the electrical engineering program at the University of Michigan.

“An old friend of mine used to teach over there,” she tells him as she reaches into her pocket. “I can get you a letter of recommendation if you need it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bart says, playing it cool. He fidgets with a pen in his hand and notices Joan pulling something out of her sweater. “What’s that?”

Joan smiles. “I wanted to give you something.” She hands him the handkerchief-wrapped item, then takes a seat on the edge of his bed.

Bart looks intrigued. Gingerly, he takes the item in his palm and gently removes the silk around it. What he finds inside is a wristwatch.

It looks absolutely pristine. The bezels are large and silver, the case is square with rounded edges, the face is white, and the dark leather strap looks like it hasn’t even been worn yet. The hour, minute, and second arms are positioned in the center of a circle of roman numerals, of which are written in black ink to contrast the hues of the face. The hands move in sync with the time.

For a moment, all Bart can do is stare in surprise.

“Joan, this is a Cartier!” he exclaims, shocked. He stands from his chair as aghast as can be. “Is this brand new?”

“It was my father’s,” Joan explains. “Cartier Santos. He bought it in 38’. Wore it every day he served in the war.”

Her works do little to quell the astonishment in Bart’s eyes. He’s practically holding a little piece of history, something that belongs anywhere else except the grubby hands of some speedster in the midwest. Gently, he turns the watch around and finds something peculiar engraved into the metal.

“Who’s ‘A’?” he asks, holding the watch up to expose the single letter etched onto the back.

“‘A’ was for ‘Arthur,’” Joan tells him. “But I figured it could stand for ‘Allen.’”

Bart’s eyes proceed to widen in even more shock. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, you want me to have this?”

Somehow, all Joan can do is smirk. There’s something about Bart’s reaction that she just finds entertaining.

“I was gonna give it to you on your birthday, but the watchmaker I sent it too took his damn time,” she claims, shrugging. “It should work perfectly though.”

Bart looks at Joan, then back at the watch, then repeats the little cycle about three more times. After one second of debilitation — which probably feels like a century to him — he finally finds it in him to speak.

“Uh… thanks, Joan, but I don’t think I can take this.”

Joan is unconvinced. She didn’t fish the timepiece from a box in the attic for nothing.

“Why not? A watch is made to be worn, isn’t it?”

Bart gives the watch another long, conflicted look. “But this is like… an heirloom and shit,” he stammers out. “Like Jay’s helmet. It should be in a museum or something.”

“Well, I don’t want it to be in a damn museum, I want it to be used the way it was meant to,” Joan says rather staunchly. After a near century on this bitch of an earth, she’s learned how to stand her ground in the midst of a conflict, no matter how small.

“Think about it, kid,” Joan continues on. She stands on her feet and places her hands on Bart’s shoulder. “This thing’s been gathering dust for god knows how long. It deserves to be worn.”

Bart avoids her gaze, as if doing so will somehow resolve the situation. At seventeen (biologically) he’s still as youthful as ever, but soon time will rush like a river and he’ll finally be a man. Joan had hoped that the gift of the watch would be a more subtle way of telling him that, just a subtle reminder that time is slow, but always moves forward. He won’t be a boy forever.

But perhaps she’s made the wrong call.

“But I understand if you don’t wanna wear it,” Joan says dourly, shrugging. “My father always said that-”

Suddenly Bart steps forward in a rush. In no time he wraps his arms around Joan’s torso, pulling her into a hug and letting his chin rest on her shoulder.

Joan is both humored and touched. Beaming softly, she reciprocates Bart’s hug with one of her own.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Nearly every day the world is reminded that Bartholomew Henry Allen II can break the sound barrier in a step, but once in a while it’s nice to remember that more often than not, he is everyone’s brother and son.

#bart allen #joan garrick #kid flash #impulse #flashfam #dc #i like characterizing joan as someone who swears a tad more often than her beau #she's like 100 she's too old for any bullshit

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quillsareswords · 4 years

Note

Could you do something with Damian and a really cuddly, clingy, touchy-feely reader? I feel like his brothers would be v confused about the whole situation bc Damian's just chillin and always seems neutral to what's happening while reader is just like, koala bear hugging him and stuff all the time.

Firstly. I love this concept with every fiber of my being because, oh good god, it's me. Thank you so much for bringing this to inbox, because I've been lacking on inspiration lately, and this is just what I need right now. Thanks doll!!

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

Tim stops dead in his tracks, cereal bowl nearly slipping from his hand as he halts in the doorway to the huge living room. He pauses, before cautiously asking, "What is this? What am I looking at?"

Damian's arm twitches against your back, the only give away that he's been caught off guard. You seem just as relaxed, sprawled on top of him like you've been there your whole life.

You don't even look at him, eyes still glued to the phone screen shining up at you from the floor, which you're facing with your face pressed against Damian's shoulder. "You've known me for five years and you still haven't learned my name? Rude."

He blinks. "Sure, sure. Right. Because it's absolutely normal for anyone to successfully get within a foot of Damian and not get knocked out."

You snort, but it still isn't enough to pry your attention away from your phone. Damian either, as he reads a book over your shoulder, which is settled under his chin. He must be tired or in a terrifyingly good mood, if he hasn't shoved you off in hopes of hiding emotions from his family. That's what he usually does when he gets caught with you, anyway.

He's been tiptoeing around the subject of you for a solid year and half now. It wasn't exactly easy, seeing as you're also a family friend, what with being a vigilante and all. You're Damian's partner, have been for three years, and you're in the manor often enough that you have your own room, right next to Damian's.

Still, even with no clear answers from either of you, the whole family has suspected a relationship for a long time.

But Damian isn't very touch oriented. In fact, he's been known to go to nearly astonishing lengths to avoid being touched at all.

And now here he is, you laying on top of him, out in the open, absolutely unbothered by Tim catching it.

Tim decides quickly not to risk Damian's mood spoiling while he's around, so he backpedals and heads for his room.

• • •

Jason doesn't come to the manor often, but when he does, there's usually a decently concerning reason for it. This time, he's waiting out a possible kidnapping by one king pin or another. You haven't been paying as much attention as you probably should.

Now, he's trotting down the steps from Bruce's office to fix a suspicious rattling noise his motorcycle has been making for a shameful period of time.

However, he stops beside the super computer, looking a little aghast and far too dramatic for the sight.

Damian side-eyes him, still typing away, but his head doesn't move. It really can't, because you're resting your head on top of it.

You're resting your full weight on the back of the chair, which Jason now realizes isn't the tall backed chair that usual sits there, with your cheek buried in the soft looking bush that is Damian's hair. Your eyes are closed, and your arms and draped over his shoulders, hands laying on his chest.

Jason catches himself staring when Damian's side-eyeing turns into a curious glare. Tentatively, Jason points to you, and raises an eyebrow.

Lowly, Damian somewhat patiently answers, "She's half asleep."

Your eyebrows slant together. "Hmm?"

Jason's expression becomes more confused. "She sleeps standing up?"

"Apparently," Damian mumbles.

Jason, more than a little perturbed but Damian's oddly placid demeanor and your absurd sleeping habits, shuffles the rest if the way to his bike, grabbing the toolbox on his way.

• • •

Dick sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket—correction, three blankets, facing the rest of the living room, where Damian sits on one couch, and Duke occupies the other.

"No no, I'm not saying Bella wasn't smokin, I'm just saying that those facial expressions and life decisions were questionable enough to make a guy think twice," Dick tries to reason.

Duke makes a face. "Bro, are you kidding? If a chick stares at you from across a lunch room and you've never spoke to her, you don't even try."

Damian scoffs. Duke raises an eyebrow, and just when he's about to beg for the story of who tied him to a steel chair and forced him to watch Twilight, you shoulder the double door open.

Damian doesn't look up from his newest book, which could be deemed rude if you weren't so close and comfortable with one another. "Evening, Beloved, how was your drive?"

You say nothing. You drop your bag by his feet, crawl the rest of the way onto the couch, and collapse. Your head in on a pillow between Damian's thighs and the arm of the couch, the rest of you divided unevenly between his lap and the rest of the couch.

He glances away from the pages briefly. "Traffic?" His hand slips under your shirt to gently run blunt nails up and down your spine.

For a moment, you're quiet, and neither of the two older men know how to react.

Then, without warning, you wail into the pillow. "Who the everloving fuck drives a Winnebago through central Gotham at six o'clock going fourteen miles an hour?"

Duke barks a loud laugh, before he claps a hand over his mouth in fear of a punishment. But a man can only do so much, so he sits with his hand over his mouth, giggling like a fifteen year old listening to a dirty joke with his parents in the room.

Damian chuckles lightly, white teeth peeking through a little smile that he's trying to suppress, much for the same reason Duke is doing his best not to let you hear him laugh.

Dick is more focused on the two of you, and the fact that his baby brother has grown up and changed for the better so much—

• • •

Cassandra climbs the stairs with some difficulty, thanks to two new sets of stitches and a few too many fresh bruises.

It's nothing a few days of relaxation won't fix. It was worth it, to see Poison Ivy put back behind bars—even if it did take four of you.

Shortly after arriving back, you and Damian had disappeared up to his room, after you'd both been checked over by Alfred. Aside from some intense bruising and a fee cuts and scrapes, you'd both been spared.

She knocks on his door a few times. With no answer, she loudly turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly, giving you enough time to correct her if need be. She knows at least one of you are in here, because the light is on. "Alfred sent me to tell you that there's dinner, if you want–"

She stops. You are, in fact, both in the room. However, neither of you are conscious.

Damian is sprawled haphazardly across his bed, face half squished into a pillow.

You're flopped across his back, horizontal across his bed, likely also with a pillow, but she can't see your face to be sure.

For a moment that feels a little intrusive, she stares, eyes wide. Not because he's in only boxers and you're in shorts and a sports bra (neither are necessarily a new sight, with one makeshift locker room in the Cave and a city with way too many privacy-surpassing emergencies), but because she's never witnessed Damian allowing another person to be so close to him while asleep.

Even on week long stakeouts that confine them to one room, he claims one corner for himself and doesn't tolerate that invisible boundary to be broken, especially when he's asleep.

She wouldn't even be so surprised if you were passed out in his reading chair, or even on a pile of blankets in the floor, or hell, even if you were on opposite sides of the bed. But you're literally as close to him as you could possibly be. And he's still sound asleep.

She closes the door and backs away slowly, a little smile on her face, even though she was too tired to laugh at the joke Bruce tried to crack a few minutes ago.

• • •

Bruce sits, almost impatiently, on a stone bench by the fountain the middle of Gotham City Gardens. The whole family had come here for the day, on invitation of the organization's owners. Of course, not everyone was officially recognized as family by anyone outside the Manor, so there were quite a few plus ones—you being one of them.

Of course you were. You're always invited. Over the years, it's become a running joke. A trip to the grocery store? (Y/N) must be invited. Walking from the W.I. building to an ice cream parlor and back? I bet (Y/N) is invited. At one point, Damian became so simultaneously annoyed and amused by it that for a week, you really did join him on every single outing. No one knows how exactly you made it across Gotham in six minutes flat to help him pick up cereal but by golly you managed it.

Bruce is currently waiting on you and Damian, who swore to meet him here for a few pictures (at Alfred's request). The pair of you had gone off on your own after about an hour of meandering around with his family, and no one has heard from either of you since. He would be worried, but you were both too excited about this to get into any trouble that would risk being sent home early.

Your laughter finds him before you do. It comes from around a corner of tall hedges, and shortly after, so do you.

You're smiling ear to ear, giggling like a school girl, elbows balanced on Damian's shoulders, about as precariously as you are on his back. That is to say, quite stable. Damian is grinning as well, his arms linked around you're knees at his sides to keep you as stable as you are. You've got an ice cream cone in each hand, one obviously having had more attention than the other.

Bruce's heart swells in his chest at the absolute joy on his son's face.

Damian stops not too far, shifting your weight to free one hand. You help, carefully resituating yourself to hold yourself up easily. You hand him the neglected ice cream, resting your now free hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, Father," Damian sounds a little winded, and Bruce wonders if the running he heard earlier had been you two. "Somebody found an ice cream bar and insisted we stop before meeting you." He doesn't sound apologetic in the least.

"Hey!" You laugh, flicking the back of his ear as payback.

As payback for payback, he takes the edge of his cone between his teeth, and uses his free hand to give the back of your knee a quick pinch, before he occupies his hand again to tilt the odds in his favor.

You squeal and jerk. "Damian! You're gonna make me fall, and if I go down, you're coming with me!"

Bruce laughs loudly.

• • •

Alfred is on his way to the library to finish the afternoon chores. All he needs to do is straighten up in there, and he can call it an evening. Just in time, too, as one of the local channels is running a Downton Abbey marathon tonight that he doesn't particularly want to miss.

He pushes open the doors to get a little extra fresh air, but pauses just inside the doorway.

Damian is stretched out in one of the plush leather chairs, his long legs propped up by his ankles on the coffee table, head resting limply on the back of the chair. You're curled up in his lap, head on his shoulder, legs folded up on either side of his thighs, arms wound around his back. His hands are folded together on your back. You're both fast asleep.

The elder man is suddenly flooded with memories of the boy's first few months in this manor. In this room, even. He was politely feral, as Bruce had once put it. He was so uncomfortable all the time, though he fought not to show it. It was so new to him, to be openly cared for the way his family tried to care for him. Most people he met back then treated him as the cold, rude, trained assassin that he presented himself as.

So many overlooked the terrified ten year old boy that shook beneath the armor and the weight of the mantels he was expected to take up in so few years.

Of course Alfred had been paying attention to him all this time, all the growing he's done and the man he's becoming. He's always been proud.

But it's here, in this exact moment, that Alfred really takes in how different he is now, compared to then.

Not only did he find the strength and the trust to forge a close bond with you, one that would arguably outlast just about anything it was forced to endure, but he'd fostered such a sweet affection for you. He's found the space within himself to make room for a great love for you, and his family, and his friends.

And you're so good for him. You remind him of the things he could be, if he wanted, and not of what he should be or could have been. You provide him a sense of normalcy when he needs it, and battle ready companion when he needs that.

You look past the blazing armor of controlled aggression and lessons learned to reach the beautiful soul he is. And most importantly, you love him for all of it. You manage to dig so far beyond what he's been taught and the walls he's put up, that you look at what was meant to be the perfect soldier and you see a pillow to sleep on. You trust him with everything, including your vulnerability, just as he trusts you.

Alfred marks the page of the open book on the floor, closes it, and leaves it in the table for you later. He leaves as quietly as he came, in hopes of leaving the two of you undisturbed.

#damian wayne imagine #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne headcannon #damian wayne blurb

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