#which he does and Wayne's in the crowd

[idyllcy]

sparkling green eyes, dazzling green lines

word count: 8.8k

summary: "Habibti." The words slip past his tongue naturally as he reads the text on your wrist, and you stare up at him, eyes wide, pupils blown, fascination all over your face— you're in love with him.

حبيبتي.

You trace it on your skin each morning, gentle smile on your face, dumb like a lovesick idiot. It reminds you that you're loved, even if you have never met your soulmate, ever, in your life. Even when you didn't know, you had panicked and asked your friends if they knew what it was, in which the next seven hours after your seventh birthday was spent crowded around a computer on your iPad, trying to imitate the foreign language on your skin.

After seven hours, your mother, bless her, had noted it was in Arabic. Your father returned home shortly after, helping you translate the word.

Habibti. It meant beloved in Arabic.

Your young heart swelled as your friends gushed over it.

Beloved. Your soulmate calls you beloved at first meeting.

You had clung onto it, heart full and spinning. You told yourself that your soulmate must be a romantic just from the fact that he would call you his love first meeting. You had dreams of a fairy tale meeting, falling in front of him in the hallway during school, accidentally bumping into him while out, a stranger offering you an umbrella in the rain, the list goes on. Your friends had gotten tired of you after the second week, all of them off to find their own soulmates. You didn't know anything about him.

But the passion for finding your soulmate wears off just as fast as it had arrived, quickly realizing that you wouldn't be able to find him if you were in a town where you knew everyone. No one would call you that upon first meeting. Even if it was halfway across the world, you stopped dreaming about meeting your soulmate after you started college. If you wanted to meet him, you'd have to travel. You don't know where, but wherever you were allowed, you went. Even if it emptied your pockets and left you desperate in the streets, you had some of the best experiences of your life, all in the name of looking for your soulmate.

Even at graduation, when you're throwing your cap into the sky with your friends, wrist out for the world to see, the characters traced and colored in gold thanks to your friends, the green of the letters shimmering, you're thankful for everything you've poured your soul into. Your soulmate was someone you no longer craved, the world at your fingertips, a job in your pocket, your life set out before you. Fate was strong in your hands, another string in your life. You followed it with fervor, spinning and chasing after it with some childish will in your life.

You push everything related to your soulmate mark back when you step foot into Wayne Enterprises, nodding slowly at the three men as they welcome you to the team. You had expected the older boys, but you didn't complain. Not when Bruce Wayne himself was part of the three men.

"These are my two sons. Tim Drake, he's my third," You shake Tim's hand. "And Damian Wayne. My youngest."

You smile at him too, taking his hand.

"Habibti." The words slip past his tongue naturally as he reads the text on your wrist, and you stare up at him, eyes wide, pupils blown, fascination all over your face. Damian raises a brow at the way you react, breath catching in his throat at how enthralled you are with him, features pulled back, eyes sparkling.

"Woah." You manage, a smile breaking onto your face as the words slip past. Damian does not know you. Hell, he's just met you, yet you were staring at him as if he was your world. You had that lovesick look that he had seen on Dick's face way too many times, and he was getting a little uncomfortable. It must be some sick joke. There's no way his soulmate could look at him like that the first time they meet. Yet, as you stare into his eyes, sun sparkling in your eyes, he finds himself breathless. Shit.

Bruce clears his throat behind the two of you.

"Sorry!" You let go of Damian's hand, the loss of contact knocking the air back into his lungs. "Not many people can read my soulmate mark here in the States. I was just surprised."

"So? Is he your soulmate?" Bruce's lip quirks upward.

Damian lies through his teeth. "No. My words are different."

Tim raises a brow behind Bruce, and Damian gives him a warning look.

"Well, regardless," Bruce hums. "You'll be working closely with my two sons for the next couple of weeks. We're very interested in the medical research you conducted while an undergrad in your major, so we'd like to sponsor your research. Your updates would go to my two sons, and I'll meet with you at the end of the month to see if you need more time."

You nod. "An honor, sir."

"The honor is all ours." Tim smiles, shaking your hand.

"Damian will lead you to the lab."

You follow behind his youngest, eyes still wide, trailing behind him like a lovesick puppy. Even if he wasn't your soulmate, he had called you beloved first meeting. You were enthralled. The two of you step into the elevator, and you wait for the door to close before speaking up.

"Are we really not soulmates?" You blink at him.

He shows you his wrist, your words in brown. "We are."

"Oh." You smile at him again. Damian grimaces at how bright you are. The universe sent him a sun because he was grouchy, didn't it?

"This is the lab you'll be using. It is all yours." He hums. "Requests can be sent through the computer, just type it on the notepad."

You nod, glancing around the room, fidgeting.

"What is it?" He raises a brow.

"You're not big on soulmates, are you?" You smile apologetically.

"Not really."

"Alright. Thank you."

Damian is half expecting you to pester him to the moon and back just based on how you looked at him the first time you met. Instead, you spend most of your time holed up in the lab, desperate to replicate results from your previous study. He can't deny that his heart sours a little at how easily you respect his boundaries, but he asked for it himself, so he finds no reason to complain. Huh, he would have to register the soulmate mark with you.

He knocks on the door to your lab, silence answering him. After a couple of minutes, you open the door.

"Sorry, did I make you wait? I had to put everything back." You blink at him.

"We need to register our soulmate bond."

"Ah. Right." You furrow your brows. "When are you available?"

"Tomorrow after work."

"So like... three?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Should I meet you up at the office?"

"I will come down to find you." He glances at the way none of your hair is visible from the cap.

"Alright." You hum. "See you then."

Damian is grasping at anything he can to try and talk to you. He can't believe he's like this, lovesick like some teenager, desperate to talk to you as if you were the only person that mattered in his life. He feels like Dick. It's awful. He loosens his tie as he stands on the elevator, irritation all over his face.

"You look like shit." Tim clicks his tongue.

"Be quiet, Drake." Damian grumbles.

"Registering your soulmate bond?"

"Yeah." He mumbles. "How did your registration go?"

"Smoothly. I told you."

"If only we had met under better circumstances."

"My soulmate didn't stare at me like I was God." Tim shrugs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Strawn."

The man nods.

The two men shut up as Damian steps off at your floor.

"Hey!" You've taken off all the clothes you wear in the lab, dressed for a date. Damian wonders if he's dressed too formal for this. "I brought all my documents. Do you have yours?"

"The city hall has all of my files on hand."

"Forgot, billionaire and all that." You laugh. "Let's get going."

The two of you hitch the next ride down, Damian taking you to his car, opening your door for you, head racing.

"There is always the possibility of us being platonic soulmates." Damian finds himself speaking up as he fastens his seatbelt.

"Yeah." You purse your lips to think. "Would you be alright with that?"

"We are soulmates. The universe obviously has something planned."

"Then what if we're romantic soulmates?"

"Then I suppose we would have to try." Damian pulls out of the parking garage, handing the guard his ticket, driving off. "Are you against it?"

"Oh, definitely not." You smile. "There is no downside for me."

"Not even the public's eye?"

"I've been scrutinized by my family my whole life." You smile. "I blew all my excess scholarship money on travelling because I wanted to meet my soulmate."

"Where did you go?"

"I went to Palestine, Israel, dropped by at Dubai, Egypt, and then my friends and I drove from Istanbul all the way to Western Europe." You count on your fingers. "I had a lot of people greet us first and then notice the writing on my wrist. The emerald green really stands out. I hadn't expected..." Your voice trails off, eyes staring into his, Damian unable to stare back because of the road. "I hadn't expected your eyes to match so nicely. They're breathtaking."

"Do you speak to everyone like this?"

"No." You hum, looking back outside your window. "But I have been told I have a way with words."

"Yeah?" He stops at the red light, turning to stare at your eyes. "I wonder what your eyes look like under the sun."

"Weren't you staring at them a couple days ago?" You pull out your phone.

"That wasn't directly under the sun." He mumbles, starting the car again.

"Do you speak to everyone like this?"

"No." He breathes. "Just to you."

You try to fight the warmth spreading up your neck to your cheeks, failing miserably as you resort to hiding your face in your hand for the rest of the ride.

"Is there any specific thing we need to do?"

"My brothers mentioned that we need our words scanned, but that was it." He hums. "You have your passport and license, correct?"

"Yeah." You hum. "Is that all I need?"

"Yes." He grabs a ticket and drives down to park, the two of you getting out of his car. "Come on." He leads the way, eyes pining down the paparazzi immediately. You glance in the direction he glared, only for him to move to block you from their view. The two of you make it into the building quicker, the elevator door closing behind the two of you.

"That was?"

"Paparazzi." He fishes out his phone, making a call." Yes. May we head up immediately? We will be there."

You blink as he presses the top floor, and for a second, you understand what it's like to live as a billionaire. A single phone call puts you at priority. You shift uncomfortably when the two of you arrive at the top floor, following Damian as he steps into the mayor's room, letting you sit down first.

"Ah, Mr. Wayne." He smiles, and you detect the lack of sincerity on his face immediately. Rather, the fake smile causes you to sit straighter, a smile lacking equal truth making its way onto your face. Damian shakes the mayor's hand, sitting down as well. "What brings you here?"

"Brought my soulmate to get our mark registered." He hums. "You have all my documents, so this should be quick, correct?"

"Of course. We just need both of your words scanned, and then the soulmate's legal documents — You're quite pretty."

You smile at him, laughing lightly. "Thank you. Here's the passport."

"Not a Gotham born, eh?"

"Nope. Moved here for work."

"Do you plan on staying?"

"Well, since my soulmate is here, I don't think moving is that big of a priority right now." You hum.

"May we have your wrist?"

You hold your wrist out, scanner registering the words, and Damian does the same, your words both popping up on the screen.

"What are the characters?"

"Arabic." Your smile turns sweet, bright, even, and the words come tumbling past your lips, like you had been proud to have those as your words your whole life, holding them dear to your heart. Damian's heart stutters in his chest at how enamored you look.

"Was the "woah" first or second?" The mayor turns to ask Damian.

"After. I had read the characters, and the only reaction I was given was "Woah."" Damian hums. "Are we finished?"

"Yes." The mayor laughs. "It's very much a romantic soulmate. Have the two of you..?"

"Not yet." Damian hums, standing up, holding his hand out for you. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor."

"Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Wayne. I hope to see the both of you at the Wayne gala later this year."

Damian leads you back to the elevator, music filling the air as the two of you stand there in silence.

"When would you like our first date to be?" Damian steps to the side, turning to look at you.

"Oh, um." You frown. "I'm not sure. I'd go, but I already submitted my leave for the weekend. My friend and her soulmate are getting married."

Damian raises a brow. "Not here?"

"They're getting married in the Maldives." You laugh awkwardly. "Her soulmate is loaded."

"More than me?" Damian raises a brow playfully.

"Well, loaded in the millionaire way." You smile. "Not billionaire."

"Do you have a date? Should I go with you?"

"Oh." You pause. "I could bring you, huh?" You press your fingers to your lips, pursing them. "I put down a plus one because I was expecting to bring another friend... I suppose it could be you."

"Did you put down a name?"

"No. They do not have a seating chart."

"Mm." He pauses. "is it too fast?"

"No, no!" You smile. "I'll send you the details... via email?" You grimace at how strange it sounds.

"May I have your phone? I can give you my number."

"Yes." You fish it out for him as he hands you his phone. You type your name in, typing habibti under company. You text yourself as he does with himself. The two of you trade phones back, and you send Damian the packing list and details of the wedding immediately. Damian scrolls through the list, pausing.

"Is there a specific invitation I am required to bring?"

"I have both. I will bring them." You smile. "Any other questions?"

The elevator stops at parking, and Damian leads you out. You make a beeline for the car this time, texting your friend to confirm the guest you would be bringing. She asks you if it's your soulmate, and you tell her to check the Gotham Gazette in the morning. She sends you a flurry of texts.

"Will our soulmate bond get leaked?"

"Perhaps by the paparazzi. Why?"

"I'd like for it to be a good photo of me."

"I will let my publicist know."

You check the news the next morning, beaming at how good you look in the photo. Damian looks protective of you, and as you rush to your lab in the morning, your heart is warm. You're glad he has a good eye for that, at the very least. The groupchat explodes with people looking for you, asking if it was true your soulmate was Damian, your friend private texting you to check if your guest was Damian. You only respond to your friend, confirming his attendance. She tells you she expects an expensive gift out of you, and you snort. You joke about relaying her message to Damian.

You tuck everything away as you get back to your experiment.

The end of the day comes quickly, and as you close the lab for the night, you blink when you stare at Damian at the door. You click on your phone, checking to see if you had missed any messages from him, but nothing appears. You raise a brow as you open the door with all of your stuff. "Something wrong, Mr. Wayne?"

"Damian is fine." He nods. "I was wondering what I should bring for your friend's wedding."

"Mm," You frown. "I was going to bring her a nice bottle of wine from one of my travels, but I'm sure you have something much better than that in the winehouse at your place."

"We do. We have a screaming eagle cabernet from the 90s."

"Woah." You blink. "That sounds like a lot. Isn't that like 500k?"

"We have multiple bottles." He insists. "I can bring one."

You grimace. "If you insist."

"It can be our gift. From the both of us."

"The tabloids have already started calling me a gold digger." You laugh.

"My publicist will take care of that. I will have father get you one."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He hums. "Where do you live? I can drive you home."

"Um." You give him your address. It takes him a moment to figure out where you live, and then the two of you are off.

"I will send someone for you tomorrow," He hums. "We can take the private jet. I already got your tickets refunded."

"Oh. Wow." You blink at him in awe. "That's really kind. Thank you."

"No worries." He hums. "You should get used to it."

"Do all your brothers spoil their soulmates like that?"

"Grayson, the eldest," Damian grumbles. "worships the ground his soulmate steps on. Todd does the same, though less obvious about it. Drake's known his soulmate forever so the two of them click too well. Duke and his soulmate are platonic soulmates, but the two of them get along far better than we do as a family. Steph and Cass both have not found their soulmates and father..." he pauses. "father and his soulmate are... an interesting two."

"So your family all spoil their soulmates?"

"There is nothing out of reach with the amount of money we have. It is not spoiling if we are simply letting them get whatever they want because it is not a burden on us financially." Damian takes a turn. "We do not consider it spoiling."

"That's sweet." You smile. "How big were their rings?"

"Grayson's soulmate got the biggest diamond in existence. None of us could believe our eyes." Damian hums. "How big of a diamond would you want?"

"I'd like you to hand make a ring for me." You grin. "Of course, if you don't have time, I want something the color of your eyes to match my soulmate mark."

"Why not both?" He stops at the door to your apartment.

"How about you?" You open the door, tilting your head at him.

"Whatever color your eyes are."

You hate how good he is with his words.

Damian drives home, your words in the back of his mind. A handmade ring. Maybe you'd be willing to wear his name on your skin if he makes you a ring with a gem the color of his eye. Though, he'd be rushing. Even if his skin burned to touch you and his heart raced to be held by you, he did not wish to rush it. Messing up with you was far scarier than getting hurt during patrol.

He texts the family chat that he would be using the jet the next day, to which Dick had asked eagerly where he was going. Damian leaves him on read. He finds you at the door in the morning the next day, taking your suitcase from you as you yawn.

"Did you have breakfast yet?"

You blink at him, rubbing your eyes. "No. Do you have food?"

"You can have some of Grayson's cereal."

You blink harder as he hands you a bowl with the cereal and milk, and you stare at the cereal brand.

"Wow. The amount of sugar in this could kill someone."

"Some days I wish it were enough to kill Grayson."

You pour out a little bit of the cereal, pouring the milk in, and then dig in. You read the ingredients as Damian goes upstairs, pulling his own luggage down the stairs, meeting you back in the kitchen when you finish. You clean the dishes, setting them to the side as Damian comes to get you.

"You did not need to wash the dishes."

"I didn't want to leave a mess." You reason.

"It's fine. We're leaving now. You ready?"

"Yeah." You grin. "Is takeoff rough?"

"It's very smooth." He hums. "I gave the pilot the address and everything already. We land in around three hours."

"Alright." You hum.

The jet, plane, was huge. You blink in surprise at the size as Damian leads you up the steps, and you blink quietly. "Woah."

"Surprised?"

"What's the use of having such a large plane? Isn't the carbon footprint huge?"

"We usually fly first class, but I figured since your friends all wanted to see what kind of a person you were dating, I shouldn't be stingy." Damian hums.

"There's really no need." You laugh.

"Also, more privacy." He hums. "I figured you deserve to know what kind of life I live outside of the tabloids."

You tilt your head at him. "Are you going to tell me you're Batman or something?"

The plane door shuts behind him, and he exhales.

"Robin."

Your eyes widen, lips pursing, surprise on your face.

"Is that too much too quick?"

"No." You pause. "No. That's. That's actually kind of hot."

Damian raises a brow.

"Are you still Robin? Because I think—"

"No," Damian shakes his head. "I run around with another name now, already graduated from the title, but I thought I would tell you since."

"Yeah." You exhale. "What about the weekend?"

"Todd and Drake are here. There is no need to fret."

"So your whole family is in on the business?"

"Yes."

"Wow." You mumble. "That's..."

Damian braces himself for the worst. He doesn't know why, your face is far from disgusted or terrified, but he still does. Maybe you would reject him or tell him to stop. That would be a nightmare.

"And you like doing it?"

"Yes." He raises a brow.

"Um, please don't come back to me dead. Ever. Please." You scratch your cheek. "If you like doing it, then I won't stop you. I'd just prefer you don't die on the job."

"Do not worry. If I were to die, my mother would simply drop me into the Lazarus pit." Damian jokes.

"That's some lore drop there." You blink. "That's real?"

"Yes." He raises a brow. "For the same reason my grandfather is immortal, by the same logic, so would I."

"Woah." You mumble. "I heard rumors of it when I was travelling. I didn't know it existed."

"Fountain of youth."

"Is that why you look so good?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I take care of myself."

"I don't doubt that." You smile.

"And you?"

"I told you I travel." You nod. "Oh, it might be good to tell you about the friend getting married."

You tell him details about how the two of you met, telling him about your other friends at the same time, mumbling about how you thought her soulmate was actually an asshole just from the way he treated her friends, and then casually mentioning his name, Damian blinking.

"Do you know him?"

"Drake has done business with his family before."

"His family's a nightmare. The only reason I'm going is because my friend is an angel. I wouldn't go for any other reason."

Damian finds peace in the way your voice floods his senses, gathering intel on your friends, understanding who he had to avoid and who he could make small talk with. He had a feeling he'd know a couple of the people there from the groom's side, and from the way you talked about him, it wouldn't be pleasant if they found out he was your soulmate. Despite that, he finds that there is no need to worry too much. You were close to the bride's side. That's all that seemed to matter to you. You pause at some point, almost as if you were thinking of something.

"Something wrong?"

"We brought the wine, right?"

"Yes. I had the servants bring it."

"Alright." You mumble. "I'm not looking forward to what the groom has to say to me about you."

"I will stay next to you the whole time. My publicist will deal with everything."

"Speaking of which, who is your publicist?"

Damian smiles. "Grayson's soulmate."

"Ahhh." You laugh. That checks out.

There's not much jetlag when the two of you land, and you stare at the afternoon sun through your shades, hand held up. It's nice and warm, a contrast to the spring weather in Gotham. Damian leads you to the car, making a call as he does, handing you the tablet for you to choose which suite to get upgraded to.

"Are we sharing a bed?" You blink at him.

"We can order a room with two beds if you'd like."

"Would that be rude?"

"Not at all."

Damian finds that you've selected a room with a king bed instead, noticing the way your ears were flushed as you stared out the window. He confirms with the hotel on the call, putting the charge on his father's card. He wondered if you would call this spoiling. His brothers had told him that his soulmate deserved the best treatment, and Damian couldn't really tell what they had meant. He never lived a normal life. He wasn't sure if his normal was their best or if there was something better that he could give them. He opts for staring at your face instead, taking in your features.

"The upgrade." He swallows. "It is alright, right?"

"Yes." You smile at him. "It's more than okay. Thank you, a lot."

"The best, for you." He mumbles.

The two of you settle into the hotel room. Damian glances at the clothes you bring, exhaling quietly to himself when he realizes he brought a decent palette of clothes. The wedding's theme was lavender, and he was starting to get worried that he wouldn't be able to match with you at all, but he's happy to find that you've got colors similar to his.

"Do I need to call you anything?"

"It'd be funny if you call me habibti," You grin. "The bride is a friend from when I first got my soulmate mark. She was there when we tried searching up what the word on my wrist meant."

"Ah. You go back a long time."

"A very long time." You smile. "What was it like for you? Seeing your soulmate mark?"

"My family was in my room at midnight, including my mother, and everyone groaned when I got the most generic word ever. They thought I would never find my soulmate. Todd joked that my soulmate must be blown away by my face." He hums in amusement, noticing you avert your gaze. "I still owe him twenty. Dick's soulmate word was "hello" and only Drake had something remotely entertaining."

"What was it? If you don't mind me asking." You blink at him.

"I quote "We should get married." It was quite the sentence." Damian chuckles.

"That sounds funny." Your lips pull up into a smile. "I had a friend get "we should fuck" as their first sentence. Then I found out my best friend at the time had "Yo." as theirs."

"Did you like your first line?"

"I did." You beam at him, unclasping the clip for your suitcase. "I loved it. When my father told me it meant darling or my love in Arabic, I was elated. I thought my soulmate would be the most romantic man in the world, and I was ecstatic."

"Am I?" Damian raises a brow as you pull out a dress.

"Yes." Your smile stretches impossibly wider. "I'm very happy."

"I'm happy to hear that. What's the dress code for tonight?"

"You brought a polo, right? Rich boy, old money vibes. Polo shirt and khakis."

"Got it." He nods. "What color will you be wearing?"

"Everything I brought is some variation of the color palette for the wedding," You hum. "I'll be wearing this."

"I am sure you'll look dashing in it, habibti." He smiles.

You flush at the word, hiding your face in your dress.

"Is it too much?"

"No." You smile at him. "Just enough. I'll get used to it."

Damian wonders what kind of friends you had at seven. Yet, he finds himself blinking in surprise when the two of you arrive at the event.

"Woah, he's an item..." Your friend's jaw drops, patting your shoulders gently. "Damian Wayne? Pleasure to meet you. I'm your soulmate's best friend."

"No, I am." Another friend butts in.

"You're all wrong." The bride scoffs playfully. "I am."

Damian nods at them.

"We'll bring the gift tomorrow at the wedding." You smile at the bride, rushing off with them as Damian heads over to the side, making small talk with who he assumed the groom was. He finds himself with his eyes on you the whole night, only sparing glances at the people he was talking to when you would stare back at him. You look pretty. He understands why his brothers had clicked with their soulmates so quickly now. He excuses himself at some point, pressing his chest to your back, hand resting on your waist.

"Having fun? That's your second margarita, not to mention your cocktails."

You grin at him, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "It's actually my fourth."

"I think that is enough." He hums. "There's still a dinner."

"I can hold my alcohol." You mumble, and Damian takes the glass from your hand, downing the whole thing in one gulp. You blink at him, wide-eyed. "Woah."

"Let's get you seated, hm? Dinner starts soon. Cocktail hour is for after the dinner."

"Can I bring a drink to our room later?" You mumble.

"Yes." He excuses the two of you from the bride, settling down where your names were put, and he presses a patch into your skin, rubbing your arm as he waits for the neutralizer to course through your system. He probably should have asked if you were okay with it, but he has one on himself, so it's not like he was actively trying to drug you. You turn your head when you notice him rubbing the patch onto your skin, mind clearing a little.

"What is that?"

"Neutralizer. It helps with filtering alcohol."

"Oh, it works." You grin at him. "Thank you."

"Of course. I have one in my arm too."

"That sure explains why you didn't pass out from the sheer glasses of champagne you were having." You mumble.

"Who's at our table?"

"Two other girls and their soulmates. The two girls that were next to the bride and I earlier."

"Alright." He hums, letting his hand fall down to your side, staring at you as you wave your friends over. "Any exes?"

"Nope. I didn't date anyone that didn't greet me with what was on my wrist. It was pretty easy, considering that most people are ignorant. I also kept a bracelet around my wrist for the most part." You smile. "You?"

"Two. Maybe. I do not know if they count. I hooked up with them while..."

"In costume?"

"yeah."

You shrug, starting a conversation with your friend instead, catching up with her. Damian listens briefly, eyes focused on you instead, enamored with you. He's hopeless, he decides. He has no saving grace from you. He doesn't get to make fun of his brothers anymore, not when he was just like them. Your friends take notice of it, smiling when he notices their gaze. You're loved. Just from the way your friends had smiled at him and then at you, you're loved. He understands why. It'd be hard not to love you.

You excuse yourself early, exhaustion from the plane setting in late, Damian helping you up and leading the two of you back. You let the bride know with a hand on her back, and she shoos you away playfully, mumbling about how you should use protection. You sigh dramatically, telling her you'd make her an aunt on purpose. It was a joke from the way you had said it, but Damian wonders if you'd actually want kids of your own — shit, his brain was moving fast. He barely knows you.

"Were you actually tired?"

"Any longer and you would've seen how embarrassing my friends get when drunk." You mumble. "Embarassing bunch."

"How embarrassing?" He raises a brow. "My brothers are a nightmare when drunk as well."

"They won't shut up." You press your keycard on the lock. "About me."

"They love you a lot."

"They do." You turn to smile at Damian. "And I love them too, even if they don't shut up about my embarrassing stories when drunk. They're probably embarrassing the bride instead though."

"That would make more sense."

"They kept trying to get people to read the writing on my wrist last time." You hum. "That was after grad."

"So recently."

"Yeah. No one was able to read it." You laugh. "And the ones who could, they didn't say it to me. They called my friends habibti."

"You do not say it with an accent." Damian notices. "Habibti."

"Huh?" You pause while rummaging for your sleepwear. "Oh, yeah. I... my parents got me an Arabic teacher for a little while because I wanted to learn when I first got my mark. I've also visited... a lot of the countries? In part it's because I'd repeat the word to myself until I feel asleep until like..." You avert your gaze, going back to your suitcase. Damian notices you start flushing. "end of high school?"

"Ten years?" Damian exhales. "You whispered your word to yourself before bed for ten years?"

"Yeah." You finally find your pajamas in the baggage. "A little bit of a hopeless romantic, huh?"

Damian doesn't answer you, staring into your eyes instead, unmoving, barely blinking.

"Is it that bad?"

Damian breaks from his trance. "No. Not at all. It's..." endearing — but he can't say that, so he offers you a nod instead. He curses himself for the lack of game when it came to you, but as you rush to change in the bathroom, he sighs. It's hopeless. He's enamored. He understands why you had stared up at him with your pupils blown wide and lips parted upon first meeting. He does the same now, staring down at you like you were his everything, even if he knew barely anything about you outside of what you had told him. Well, he could always ask Drake to hack and gather intel on you. But it'd be a breach of privacy that he didn't want to cross with you. Ugh.

He pushes his hair back in frustration, opting for clearing his mind with work instead. Even if he had taken the weekend off with you, he should really do something that isn't thinking of all the ways he'd have your skin pressed to his at night — no, fuck. Damian opens his laptop, clicks on his VPN and the wifi, sorting through the emails from the WE teams instead. He barely notices the sound of the bathroom door opening and you step out with your sleepwear on. At some point, Tim texts him to get off his emails and enjoy the time with you, threatening to bench him. Damian grimaces, wondering how he could get benched in a company situation, but he doesn't argue back. He was trying to avoid talking to you, after all.

You're in bed on your phone, scrolling through something.

"What are you looking at?" Damian settles on his side of the bed.

"I'm watching my friend's wedding tiktoks." You smile, rolling over to show him. "The preparation ones. She's going to make more tomorrow."

Damian hums. "Can I put an arm around your waist? My arm..."

"Yeah." You grin. "You can touch me."

Damian's breath catches in his throat at how straightforward you are, arm wrapping around your torso slowly, resting his chin on your head, glancing down at your phone.

"Do you think about weddings?"

You close your phone, plugging it back in on the strand, settling yourself in Damian's arms. "Sometimes."

"What kind do you want?"

"I want your name on my skin at the wedding," You mumble, eyes already closed.

"Like bridal henna?"

"Mhm."

Damian struggles to sleep the whole night because of your words. Though, it's not like he's gone without sleep before. Instead, he spends the night matching his breathing to yours, wrapping his arms tighter around you, taking in the scent of your shampoo. At some point his eyes close, body betraying him and falling to the need. He wakes up to you shifting in his arms, turning around to get a look at his face better, lashes blinking on his skin, eyes staring up at him, sun reflecting in them.

Damian's breath hitches, and in his morning stupor, he rests his forehead on yours, staring into your eyes, nose touching yours, the love of the universe in the way he looks at you. His shoulders relax as he continues looking, sure that his pupils have expanded beyond repair, utterly enamored with how you looked in the morning. His arms squeeze around your waist affectionately, moving to bury his head into the crook of your neck, exhaling as he does.

"Good morning." He feels you smile.

"Good morning to you too, habibti." He mumbles back, smile mirroring yours, he's sure.

The wedding moves without too big of an issue, the two of you bring the wine and leave it at the gift table, Damian sits next to you the whole time, watching as you get the bouquet practically launched at you, catching it with a flinch, chasing after the bride with the bouquet as a weapon, messing up your hair in the meantime but getting a laugh out of it. Damian stands to the side, talking only briefly with the groom's family, introducing himself as your soulmate, not Damian Wayne. He was yours first before he was a businessman now. Yours. It rings nicely in his head. He was yours. He would be fine with that — being yours.

At some point you return to Damian's side, sighing with the bouquet in hand.

"When's our wedding?" You joke, putting the bouquet on the table.

"It'll take a while." Damian hums, smoothing out your hair for you. "We still have to date and get engaged."

"I should've dodged."

"You wouldn't have been able to. Your friend did it on purpose." Damian mumbles, finishing with your hair.

"Is it alright?"

"Yes." He presses his lips to your forehead. "You look great, habibti."

You smile at him, the moon behind you this time.

"When do we fly?"

"I booked the plane for tomorrow." Damian hums. "We can sleep in."

"Oh, bless." You grumble. "The shoes are killing me."

"Would you like mine?" He offers. "Or would you like for me to carry you back?"

You pause, glancing at the emptier hall.

"I wouldn't dare let you take off your shoes for me." You smile at him.

"Sit, please," and you do, settling down as Damian gets on a knee, slipping your heels from your feet, holding onto them with one hand, the other hooking under your knees as he tells you to wrap your arms around his neck. You yelp as he does, and you wave bye to the bride as he settles you in his arms bridal style, your arms around his neck for support as he holds onto your shoes.

"Please don't drop me." You mumble.

"I wouldn't dare." He steps toward the elevator, pressing your floor as you pull the room card out from your pocket. (you had shown him before, with a spin, that your dress had pockets. Damian made a note to remember you liked them.)

He sets you on bed, loosening his tie and placing your heels down by your shoes, taking off his blazer to hang up in the closet. He watches you shimmy out of the dress, naked form to his eyes, breath catching in his throat at the way the moonlight illuminates your skin. He doesn't move, watching as you pull the robe from next to him, body on autopilot as you step into the showers. He'd wash up after you, unbuttoning his shirt and ditching his pants, sorting through his own luggage to find a change of clothes.

You open the door to the bathroom, robe on, blinking at his bare back.

"You're built like a wall." You blurt.

"Am I?" Damian hums.

"Does this come with your family or something? All of you are HUGE." You rub the towel through your hair.

"I suppose it does." Damian stands up, change of clothes in hand. "It's also from the training."

"For night?" You try your best to be vague. Damian appreciates it.

"Yes." He nods. "Would you like to see when we get back?"

"Sure." You grin. "Is it big?"

"It's a cave." Damian closes the door to the bathroom.

"Woah." You mumble. "Wild."

You settle yourself in the bed, back on your phone, yawning as you respond to a couple texts, scrolling through your email, checking the CCTV footage of the experiment you were doing. You had someone checking to see if the experiment was working, and from what they had told you, everything had replicated perfectly. You let out a sigh of relief when you found out. It would be fine. You'd finish with it, and then you'd retire somewhere with the money promised you in the contract. You worked hard for the moment.

You feel the bed dip behind you.

"Looking at the updates?"

"The experiment is moving faster than before." You mumble. "I should be able to report to your father in around a week."

"And then?"

You blink. "Not sure. I was thinking of finding a high rise to live in."

"Not with me?" Damian wraps his arms around you, getting comfortable.

"Don't you still live in the manor?"

"It's comfortable there." He mumbles. "I also have an empty apartment of my own. Would you like to move there?"

"Would you move in with me?" You turn to face him, phone on the nightstand.

"If you'd like."

"Yes, please," You grin. "If you'd like."

"Then I'd love to." He mumbles, reaching over you to close the light.

Damian takes you to the Batcave first, having the servants take your stuff to the apartment without asking you, adjusting the grandfather clock and letting you inside the cave, shutting it behind him. The two of you arrive right before patrol, and you get to meet all of his siblings. All of them. Even Nightwing.

"Who's this?"

"Soulmate." Tim doesn't bother looking at you, pressing his mask on. "Showing her around already? And you call us whipped."

"Shut up, Drake." Damian spits.

"Are you on duty tonight?"

"We take turns." Damian hums.

"Are any of these liquids active?" You stare at the tubes.

"Those two are for Ivy when she attacks. Less these days, but she occasionally strikes us with sex pollen for fun. Those are neutralizers. That one's for Scarecrow's fear toxin, and that one—"

You nod along as Damian explains everything to you, waving at his siblings as they head off for patrol.

"Are you tomorrow?"

"Yes." He hums. "Did you want to come along?"

"That's too dangerous." Batman speaks up, and you pause.

"Mr. Wayne." You smile politely. "Didn't peg you to be the type to run around to try and fix crime."

"Desperate times call for desperate situations." He chuckles. "Damian, take care of her. The computer is off limits."

"Yes, father." Damian nods as he disappears too.

"Who's on patrol tomorrow?"

"Father goes every night, and then tomorrow is Spoiler, Orphan, Signal, and I."

"SOS..." You mumble quietly. "Sors. Ross. Ross."

Damian raises a brow.

"Your names." You smile. "You would be team Ross."

"If that makes you happy." He leads you back up the stairs.

"Do you have an intercom?"

"Oracle. She works every night."

"Is she a sibling?"

"No. She used to be Batgirl."

"mm." You nod slowly. "Oh, it's late, huh? I should probably head home."

"You can stay here for the night. I had the servants send your luggage to my apartment. I can drive the two of us to work tomorrow." Damian shuts the clock behind the two of you.

"You have the same hours as us?"

"Yes."

"Speaking of which, how come you and Tim don't go to work together?"

"Tim does not live in the manor. He lives with his soulmate." He leads you to his room. "This is my room. Make yourself comfortable."

You mumble something under your breath about how big the bed is before you head over to the bathroom to wash up. "Are there pajamas I can borrow?" You peek from the door.

"I'll leave them on the bed." He pulls a shirt and clean boxers from his closet, setting them on the bed, settling at his desk, reading through what he would be meeting about the next day. He had hoped Tim would've taken care of the meetings over the weekend, but he supposes he can't avoid everything. It's painfully boring. The meetings are always boring.

"Whatcha looking at?" You come out with a towel in your hair, maneuvering his shirt onto you, putting on his boxers. It's a size too big, and you have to use a hair tie to keep it in place.

"I have a meeting tomorrow."

You shudder. "I don't miss having meetings."

"Did you intern somewhere else?"

"I interned in England for a bit." You lean over his shoulder, staring at the meeting details. "Oh, on the product."

"Yes, the new birth control we're trying to release. The injection."

"It would be helpful. I can't say blocking hormones is good for the body." You mumble. "Does it work on males?"

"We're releasing both versions."

"That's good." You mumble. "It'd be really helpful."

"Dick's soulmate made us read through the entire list of possible side effects of birth control and scared us half to death." Damian hums. "Even father."

"I read through it once."

"Do you take birth control?"

"Nope. Never slept with anyone, didn't plan on sleeping with people." You shrug. "You?"

Damian pauses. "I haven't either."

"Oh, really?" You mumble. "You've dated before."

"Hooked up." He corrects. "I always felt bad after kissing."

You laugh. "That was the universe telling you no."

"Perhaps." He shrugs. "Let's get to bed."

You barely see Damian after that, the two of you busy with your own affairs in the company, busy with moving your stuff into the apartment outside of work. Damian drives you home and helps you with the boxes, but the two of you don't have substantial conversation. Even when you finish the trials and present everything to the board, Damian doesn't get to have a moment with you, invitations to speak at colleges and other locations flooding into your mail. Damian finally catches you as you finish moving into the apartment.

"Habibti." He breathes, arms wrapping around your shoulders, head resting on your head. "I was looking for you."

"You could've called." You smile at him, voice muffled by his chest.

"You were not answering."

"My bad." You wiggle to loosen his arms, smile on your face. "Bruce transferred the money to my account. I'll be taking a break for a bit before I go speak at all those invitations."

"I am going to retire." He grumbles. "I never get to see you."

"We live together." You grin. "You get to see me every day now."

"Not enough." He mumbles. "I will leave Drake to deal with the family business."

"You're needed, you know? They need you for all the charity you guys do now." You pat his chest gently. "All of the animal shelters you volunteer at too."

"Would you like to visit one with me? There's an event tomorrow at the shelter to bring a friend."

"Oh, so I'm just a friend to you?" You tilt your head at him playfully.

"A friend," He presses a kiss to the corner of your left eye. "Habibti," He presses another kiss to the corner of your right eye. "And my soulmate." He rests his forehead on yours, hands on your face, eyes on your lips. "May I?"

You press your lips to his in response.

You're a work of art. Damian finds himself with an arm around your waist much more than he could have ever thought, his own life mingled with yours to the point of no return. You meant so much to him. You were the world to him. Fingers laced with yours at events, lips pressed to your hair in the rays of the morning sun, there was little to complain about and everything to be grateful for. His own little ray of the sun to make his life a little better.

Which is why he finds himself checking for the quality of the diamond, discussing the price of the gem with the dealer, running it through tests just to make sure it was the best. The emeralds he picks are hand-selected too, calling his mother as she teaches him how to discern between the good ones and bad ones. You were still yet to meet her, but for some reason, she had not asked questions, only wishing him luck on the proposal. It would take a while between everything he had on his hands.

"You've been coming back later these days." You hum, resting your head on his chest.

"My apologies, habibti," He mumbles. "I've been busy."

"Even on the nights you don't patrol?"

"Yes." He mumbles. "I am not cheating, if you are worried."

"I wouldn't think of it." You close your eyes. "I trust you."

"I love you, a lot." He whispers, wrapping his fingers around your ring finger.

"I love you too." You mumble back, curling the finger.

Damian struggles with the first two prototypes, fingers too rough against the metal, groaning as he fails again, the jeweler only laughs affectionately, assuring him he would be fine. He tries again and again until the mold comes out how he wants it to look, the gold chosen so that it wouldn't rust. The chances of you wearing your engagement ring while working were rare, but he still wanted to guarantee that it would not rust quickly. You deserved the world, and he'd make sure of it, even in something as simple as the ring he would give you.

On his seventh try, he gets a mold that leaves him satisfied. He had gotten your ring finger fitted before on top of his nightly routine of wrapping his fingers around it, and he was sure it would fit. The gems arrive cut out perfectly, the green diamond compared to his eyes by Dick and his brothers' soulmates a hundred times, assuring him that the color matched his eyes perfectly. Damian almost got his eyes color matched had it not been Bruce himself stepping in, assuring him that it matched his eyes well. The emeralds would match his eyes in different lighting. He was fine. Only then did Damian let the jeweler settle the diamonds into the ring, making sure that the gems wouldn't just tumble out. Not that he didn't trust the jeweler — he was worried it'd fall out on accident — alright, he doesn't trust the jeweler.

On the day the ring was completed, Damian had checked it under the light, mumbling to himself about how he hoped you like it. He had made it by hand as you told him you wanted him to, and the gems were all hand selected and picked to match his eyes. You'd be happy with it no matter what he gives you as an engagement ring, he's sure, but he had held your words close to his heart. You deserved an engagement ring you had dreamed of as a child. On the inside of the band, habibti is written in Arabic, a reminder of your soulmate bond, his heart full.

"You're home on time for once!" You beam, throwing your arms around his neck.

"I missed you, habibti." He mumbles, arms wrapped around your waist.

"I made dinner for us since you promised you'd be home today." You pull him along.

As he follows you, the ring in his back pocket feels lighter, your fingers curled around his, lips pulled into a dazzling smile.

He's yours.

From the known past to the unpredictable future, he was yours, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

[thesuperiorrobin]

𝐈𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥~

Pairing: Husband!Damian Wayne x Wife!Reader

Word count: 759

Warning: suggestive at the very end

People know you and Damian belong together, no doubt about it. With making your relationship public and years later your marriage, which was also the talking gossip around Gotham for a month or two, everyone knows. But some people are too stubborn to the fact, you learn that very early in your relationship when women would just throw themselves at your lover's arm clinging to him as he tries to pray them off with an annoying expression, thinking that the son of Bruce Wayne would have the same Playboy persona just like his father, but they’re wrong forgetting the Damian Wayne is in fact, the most loyal man when it had came down to your dating and now marriage.

He would rather be with you than any other woman on earth, and for some, it was hard to face reality. You’re grown used to it over the years. But sometimes it just grows a spark inside of you. Much like tonight, in the Wayne manor that now belongs to the two of you. After Bruce’s retirement, it’s now Damian’s job to throw those galas and charity events, much to his dismay.

Secretly you do the work because he wasn’t given the gift of organization at all. So now you stand back, watching everyone. Happy with the way the nights going as you sip on your glass of champagne, it’s different front the rest. Damian thinks you deserve better than the champagne and wine that’s given out to the others. You spot his brothers in the crowd and other familiar faces that belong to a few close friends. The last face you spot was your husband, chatting away with men from his workplace. A forced smile on his face. It makes you chuckle, as a kid he hated them, and even as an adult he still does. But it’s more tolerable, well kinda.

You spot a random woman stumbling towards the ground of men, obviously sober as she tries to act intoxicated for the hell of it. She leaps for Damian’s arm that’s on his side, ignoring the one that holds his drink. He doesn’t shake her off, instead, he lets out a fake laugh along with the others around him.

That’s new you thought.

This went on for more than ten minutes which was a surprise. Normally it would’ve taken him less than five to shake them off, but instead, he’s standing there letting it happen. Which was a surprise. They’re having conversations, sometimes other people would chime in here and there.

Damian says something you can’t hear, and the woman laughs, giggling loudly to the point where you can hear her from the other side of the room. She laughs like it was the funniest thing she’s heard all night.

The horrendous laughter dies down, and she stares. Directly at you. She stares at you with a sly grin that paints her red lips. You frown and glare, gripping your glass. Almost breaking it until one of the servants comes up to you and offers you another drink, which you gladly take without a second thought.

The glare you send is hard, most people can sense it, the chilling aura that spills from you. Damian’s quick to sense it, he’s good at it, with a quick look towards you as you stare down at his arm— he gives you a genuine grin. He shakes off the women.

“Apologies. My presence is needed elsewhere” he gives a side eye down “with my wife” The woman was not happy, pouting as he watched her target leave her sight. But she puts on a facade and leaves, probably off to find another arm to cling on.

There’s a shit-eating grin plaster on his face when he walks up to you, and all you could do is roll your eyes—taking a big sip out of your drink in your hand.

“Zawjati?” he called out “Why are you here all by yourself?”

“You just seemed a little busy with your groups of friends” you hum “I didn’t want to ruin it”

The grin on his face softens, arm stretched out towards you, and you take his warm hand without a second thought. “Don’t be jealous” he chuckles “Everyone knows I’m all yours”

“Why would I be jealous?” You scuff, he was right but you would never admit that to his face. You lean into him closer, bringing him down to your level—lips brushing up against his ear “When I’m the one that ends up taking you straight to the bedroom right after every time”

[flowercrowngods]

this wouldn't leave me alone, so have my thoughts on a steve-centric "who did this to you?" steddie concept inspired by @imfinereallyy (i hope this is okay, even though it's uhhh nothing like what you mentioned)

When Eddie gets to the boathouse, he immediately notices that something is off. The door is cracked open but he can’t hear anyone talking or moving stuff around. No one ever comes here — it’s been his hideout spot since the ripe age of thirteen when he’d had hist first real fight with Wayne. 

No one comes here. But now the door is cracked open and Eddie stares at it for a good minute as though that would make it come to life and tell him who’s inside so he won’t have to look and deal with whoever decided to steal his spot. He’s really not in the mood to start any shit today, or to be called all sorts of names — most of which aren’t even half as true as people fear. 

His first instinct is to leave, find somewhere else to hide from this miserable world today, when he hears it. The sound of sniffling, followed by wet, heavy breaths. 

Oh. It sounds like someone’s crying. In his spot.

Maybe it’s some girl who got her heart broken, some dude who lost the last bit of faith in his family, or some kid who— 

Ah, fuck it, he’ll just come back later. Not his problem. Definitely not his problem. And it’s definitely not guilt or worry that gnaw at him as he turns on his heel to leave. 

But then there’s a groan. A pained groan. Someone’s in pain, and crying in his spot, and Eddie really shouldn’t make that his problem. He shouldn't. Nopbody cares when he's crying and in pain either! But fuck if he won’t be thinking about it for the rest of his life if he turns his back on whoever it is. Maybe they need help. 

They most certainly sound like they do.

With a heavy sigh, Eddie is already at the door before he can think about it too much. 

“Hello?” he asks the darkness, and immediately the sniffling stops. 

Silence falls, but only for a moment before whoever it is has to draw shaky, wheezing breaths that make Eddie swear under his breath. 

“Listen, I know you’re here.” He’s taking slow, deliberate steps, his eyes roaming he mess of boats, tools and tarp he knows so well.  “And I’m not trying to start anything. Tell me to go away and I will. But I have a first aid kit in my car and, uh, you sound like maybe you need it.” 

There’s no response, but the wheezing breaths turn into whimpers with every second that whoever it is tries very hard not to make any noise, and Eddie’s heart starts to race in his chest. He can feel worry and panic starting to rise. And overshadowing it is an overwhelming sense of dread.

What the fuck is happening? 

He tries to be careful but his mind is racing and his limbs are starting to feel like lead. His wary steps become heavy and clumsy, and then he accidentally boots something that makes a terrible, horrible noise, breaking the eerie silence. Eddie cringes and is about to apologise, when finally there is movement in his peripheral vision. 

And then he sees him. There, hidden in the shadows between a boat and the far wall, his face breaten and bloodied, his eye swelling around a nasty bruise. Wait, do bruises bleed? Should they look black like that? Is it a cut? Something worse?

Even after years of constant bullying and goading in middle school and high school, he has never actually seen someone look like this. With their face completely smashed in. It makes him freeze for a horrible, horrible moment before he saps out of it.

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, hurrying over as fast as he can, stumbling over tools and tarp as he does. Something falls to the floor with a loud clunk and it makes the boy flinch again. Eddie curses. “Sorry, shit, sorry!” 

He makes it to the boat rather quickly, crouching down in front of the boy a few feet away so as not to spook him, not to crowd him. And then his heart only plummets further, because he knows this one. 

Steve Harrington. The boy who’s come to school with many a black eye over the past two years — but never this bad. The boy who’s been looking like the world might be about to end each time he rounded a corner in school; ever since things started happening around Hawkins. Since the Holland girl died and the Byers boy disappeared. 

It fascinated Eddie, the way Steve fell from grace. The way he turned quiet, and showed up with healing bruises. There are stories woven around it, because teenagers like to gossip and word spreads fast, and Eddie always listened with rapt attention as Harrington turned into a bit of a myth. A legend. A ghost story.

But fascination is not what he feels right now, seeing Steve like this.

His eyes are unfocused and Eddie knows about the danger of head injuries. He knows about the consequences of blood loss, he knows that Steve will be warm to the touch even though he’s shivering already, and… Fuck!

“Shit, Steve,” he rasps, not daring to speak louder lest he spooks the boy. Of all the reasons he’s had to be afraid of talking to Steve Harrington, this one might be the cruellest. "I..."

He takes in his wounds, his bruised and scraped knuckles where his hands are wrapped around the knees he’s pulled to his chest, and his split lip that he keeps biting. 

Eddie swallows before he asks, “Who did this to you?” 

But Steve just shakes his head clumsily. Sniffles again, and then his breath comes in wet heaves, and Eddie worries for a moment that he’s going to throw up now. 

He doesn’t. 

Steve’s just staring. Eddie isn’t even entirely sure he can see him, or maybe he did and then forgot, or maybe he’s fading. Eddie should do something, he should get help, he should— 

“Steve,” he says, and dares to touch him when he doesn’t react. 

A light touch to the knee shouldn’t make anyone flinch like that, but Steve’s whole body jumps, and then the shivers and the wheezing get worse. It almost sounds like a whimper, and Eddie curses again. Feels like crying now, scared and helpless as he is.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay, I— Jesus, okay.” He swallows hard, trying to think, willing for the panic to subside and a plan to form. “You’re okay. I... I’m gonna, I’m gonna grab the first aid kit. I have it in my car. It’s not, it’s not far. And a blanket. So you'll be warm again. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move, don’t…" He gestures wildly, caught between reaching out and pulling away. "Don’t move.” 

Eddie takes a wavering breath and moves to stand on numb, tingly legs, nearly missing Steve’s, “Can’t.” It’s barely more than a whisper, hardly even a wheeze. It’s like he’s just breathing out words because everything else is too much effort. 

Right. Right. This is messed up and Eddie’s panicking, but Steve will be okay. Because things like that don’t happen, not here, not today, and not to Steve Harrington. 

Except this is Hawkins. Where Will Byers disappeared and Barb Holland died and many people are missing and weird shit just ends up happening everywhere even though they’re all just kids. They’re just kids. And Steve’s not even conscious enough to realise that right now. 

Eddie all but runs outside, sprinting to his van with a speed that would make the coach swallow his stupid whistle if gym class only mattered right now. It doesn't. Nothing matters, because Steve is... He's hurt. And there's no one else around to help.

Grabbing the first aid kit, a bottle of water and a thick blanket he always keeps spread out in the back of his van, he makes it back to the boathouse in no time. 

He wasn’t even gone for three minutes, but still he sighs in relief when Steve is still awake. He even looks up. Blinks. Frowns in what can only be confusion and makes Eddie's heart fall.

“Munson?” 

Fuck, that’s not a good sign. That’s messed up, it’s fucked up, it’s— Focus, Eddie! 

“The one and only,” he says, voice shaky and his smile not fooling anyone. He wraps the blanket around Steve, whose eyes are unfocused again, though he tries so hard to blink it away. 

Brave boy, stupid boy. Head trauma isn’t blinked away. Though Eddie is inclined to let him try. Maybe he’ll find a way. 

“Here.” He hands the bottle over to Steve, who grabs it with clumsy hands. He can hold it, but he can’t get it open — again, not a good sign. 

Eddie opens it for him, then turns to his first aid kit. It seemed like a great idea five minutes ago, but he’s petrified now. It’s too dark in here and he can’t really see the wounds, he doesn’t know what to use, what’s in there, he doesn’t, he can’t, he— 

The bottle, empty now, is handed back to him, bumping into his hand, tearing him away from his spiralling thoughts. 

“Thanks,” Harrington breathes, and there’s a small smile visible in the darkness. Eddie just nods and takes it with hands that are still shaking.

“I wanna help you,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “But I don’t know how. You gotta tell me where it hurts, Steve.” 

A beat. “Everywhere.” 

Eddie sags, falling back to sit opposite Steve, frantically rubbing at his face. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” Steve chuckles, but it sounds so wet with tears and pain, Eddie never wants to hear it again. “Thought I could do it.” 

He’s talking. That’s a good thing, right? He can’t pass out as long as he’s talking. That’s how that works, isn’t it? So, Eddie asks, “Do what?” 

“Doctors told me,” Steve sighs, his voice slow and slurring. “Told me to... to stay out of fights. Stay out of them. Said I had to make sure my head won’t—“ 

He makes a motion with his fist, and Eddie thinks he’s simulating a punch, disoriented as it is. It makes his heart fall. Is that what happened? Someone beat Steve to a pulp? Again? Just like that?

Eddie is so stuck on that thought, trying to piece together the puzzle, that he almost misses Steve’s mumbled speech. 

“Y’know, th— Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.” He says it to matter-of-factly that Eddie’s heart stops for a second.

What the fuck happened to Steve Harrington? Not just today, no. What happened to him?

What happend to make him look up at Eddie Munson, out of all people, with glistening eyes so endlessly scared, and say, “I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture. I can't—” A wheeze, a keen, a whimper, and Harringtin pulls at his hair, uncaring that he's making things worse.

Meanwhile, Eddie is stuck on his words. Because what. 

“Can’t, can't die now ‘cause Tommy thinks he’s so… He’s… He’s just sad, man. Griev'n' and confused. But Billy’s gone, an'— And now I’ll…”

Steve looks at him now, his eyes shining with tears and something that Eddie’s written poems about and created characters around. This expression, like the world will end. And inspiring as it is, it fucking breaks his heart now. 

“They said my brain is hurt, Eddie.”

Eddie swallows the hurt and the fear and the complete overwhelm he's feeling. Steve is telling him things that Eddie doesn't know how to handle.

“You won’t die, Steve,” he says in as gentle a voice as he can muster right now, because that's the only thing he knows.

And he won’t, right? People don’t just die. Not from taking a punch, not when they just graduated high school, not when they’re Steve Harrington. Right? 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay,” Steve breathes. “That’s good.” 

Eddie wants to hug him in that moment. He never knew that this was possible, wanting to hug Steve Harrington, wanting to wrap the blanket around him even tighter and keep him safe and convince him that he won’t die. 

And then the rest of what he said catches up with Eddie and leaves anger in its wake. 

“Hagan did that to you?” 

Steve nods. “Started going off about Billy.”

Eddie’s blood freezes at that name. "Hargrove?” 

Another nod, though Steve doesn’t look too happy about moving his head, and he groans quietly. “They were friends. Tommy is angry. Grieving. Con— Confused. He was just saying shit, like it’s my fault. And it is. Kinda. But Tommy’s, he, he’s... Just saying shit. And then he punched me. A lot. And he didn’t stop. And now… is now.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes dumbly, carefully bandaging the glaring wound at his temple, needing to start somewhere. “Now is now.” His blood is still frozen as he tries very hard not to listen to Steve. Nothing that Harrington says has any right to matter anything to him; they live in two different worlds. If Harrington confesses to murder while severely concussed under Eddie’s watch, then there are no witnesses to drag either of them through the mud for it. Eddie is just gonna forget about it. Or try, anyway. “But you’re… Shit , Steve, you’re really hurt.” 

Steve blinks. Pauses. And Eddie thinks he’s lost him. But then, “Yeah. I’m always hurt.” 

And that, in this little voice, is like a gut punch. Because Eddie knows something about always hurt. “What?” 

“What?” 

There is ice in his veins as he asks, “Who’s hurting you, Steve?” 

Steve looks at him, opening his mouth once, twice, like he’s about to say something and Eddie holds his breath. But then Steve’s eyes droop and he shrinks in on himself a bit more. 

“Jus’ everyone, sometimes. God you don’t… You don’t even know.” 

Know what, Harrington? Eddie can barely breathe anymore.

“’M tired, Eddie,” Steve mumbles, closing his eyes. “Don’t wanna hurt anymore.” 

“Hey, hey, no!” Eddie reaches out, catching Steve’s head and preventing it from colliding with the floor as he’s slumping and falling over. 

And just like that, the panic is back, frantic but determined this time. He’s going to get help; there’s nothing he can do with his lousy first aid kit, not when Steve keeps going in and out of consciousness like that. Not when he can barely see anything or clean the wounds properly.

He’s going to get Steve to a hospital and allow them both to forget this ever happened. Because Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson don’t breathe the same air or share traumatic stories in a boathouse like this. 

He’ll get out of Steve’s hair the second the hospital doors close behind him, and get out of whatever trouble someone like Harrington could be in. Eddie doesn’t even want to know. He doesn't want to be part of his ghost story.

But as he’s scooping him up and helping him out of the damned boathouse, clumsily preventing him from stumbling over his own feet or tools or tarp or planks or whatever fucking shit is littering the floor of this godforsaken place, he can hear Steve speaking quietly. 

"Where‘re we going?"

And even though a second ago he was determined to take Steve to a hospital, there is only one place on Eddie's mind right now. Only one place he knows where he won't be scared anymore.

"Somewhere safe," he says, tightening his hold on the boy even though his hands are shaking now, too. He looks over his shoulders the moment they're out of the boathouse, stupidly worried that whoever did this to Steve – Hagan, apparently – would still be around, would follow them and do the same shit to Eddie.

"Safe?"

"Safe."

"Okay," Steve sighs, like he believes him. Like he trusts him. Hell, they've never even spoken before, but something inside Eddie breaks at the little sigh, at the way Steve goes slack in his arms. And even more at the little, "Thanks."

If Eddie's eyes are filled with tears and the hands around the wheel are clenched so tight to hide the way they're shaking, then Steve is not conscious enough to comment on it.

(addendum 7 december) onwards to part 2

[mrsjellymunson]

Start Something

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Summary: Eddie helps you generate a new D&D character, but that’s not the only thing that gets started that day

WC: ~2.5k

C/W: 18+, MDNI! NSFW? Physical flirting and teasing, heavy petting, sort of in public (nobody notices). Smut-adjacent? Thigh riding. Swearing. Nothing overly explicit, but it does get heated. Eddie and reader are both over 18. Trope: oh no, there aren’t enough seats, where will you sit? No y/n, one pet name. No physical descriptions of reader other than she wears a skirt (of unspecified appearance).

A/N: Should I be working on parts for my outstanding series? Yes. Would this not leave me alone until I wrote it down? Also yes. I had fun creating a new character in a different RPG and I have no idea whether this is how D&D works, so if it’s not, let’s just pretend, okay? 😆 Text dividers by @strangergraphics Dice dividers by me 🫣☺️

I have a general taglist now, let me know if you’d like to be on it 🖤

My masterlist

Eddie can’t believe his luck. You’re pretty (gorgeous, actually), insanely intelligent and have, for some as yet indecipherable reason, decided that you want to play D&D. With a load of nerdy teens. And him.

You’ve joined in with a couple of short campaigns at school, seeming to enjoy them immensely and fitting in well with the group, bantering with the boys and bonding with Erica over your shared ‘take no shit’ attitudes. At first Eddie wasn't sure how that dynamic would work, but you slipped easily into letting the younger girl show you the ropes, and Erica is clearly enjoying having more female energy around.

Eddie knows that creating a new character is one of your favourite things to do. He’d never admit it, but it’s one of his favourite things to watch, too. He adores the sparkle in your eyes, your creative brain and how excited and animated you get when you come up with new ideas. Sometimes they’re sketchy, or even impossible, which he finds hugely endearing. He also loves how you’ll always check in with him, asking his advice and respecting his opinion.

This weekend he’s running a oneshot at his trailer for the younger members and you. New characters, novel plot, the works. The plan is to create new characters in the morning, and play the game in the afternoon.

This’ll be the first time you’ve been to his home, or seen him anywhere outside of school, and Eddie’s nervous as all fuck.

He couched it as ‘a good opportunity to develop a greater understanding of the game’, but he definitely has an ulterior motive for inviting you here.

So far, he’s taken every opportunity he can to make you laugh, sit near you, even touch you. Creating scenarios where a subtle hug, or even a playful tickle is somehow appropriate. He covers it quickly by immediately doing it to someone else, hoping you won’t spot the bulge in his pants and the fact that he can’t stop looking at you.

He’s not sure for how long he can keep it up. He wants so much more, and it won’t be long before he either loses it, takes it too far, or, worst case scenario, you notice he’s being a total creep and ditch the group because of it.

He’s been trying to muster the balls to ask you out for weeks, practicing lines and imagining scenarios, but he’s found it more difficult to plan than even the most complex of his campaigns.

And although it’s unlikely given the crowd of nerds that’ll be around, he couldn’t miss an opportunity to be in your company. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d manage to get you somewhat alone and do it today.

He’s tidied up the trailer as subtly as he can, doing all the dishes and straightening Wayne’s caps, hoping the others won’t notice and ask him awkward questions. But he’s jittery and anxious, terrified that you’ll take one look at where and how he lives and decide you want nothing more to do with him…

Eddie has no idea that you’re just as nervous as he is.

You’ve enjoyed the Hellfire campaigns so far, but haven’t really managed to get all that close to the Dungeon Master, much to your chagrin. Sure, the game is enormous fun and you love all the members and how welcoming they’ve been. But the DM? Holy hell, he’s hot as sin, and being able to spend time around the larger-than-life metal-lover only adds to your enjoyment of the sessions. But you can’t imagine it’ll ever go any further than that. You doubt that a geeky D&D novice who he’s hardly spoken to is his idea of the perfect girlfriend…

But god, the physical touches? Christ. It’s as much as you can do to hold it together. You’ve shared a few celebratory hugs, and he’s even tickled you a couple of times, all of which you’ve enjoyed far more than you’d let on, and filed away in your memory for retrieval when you’re alone at night in your bed. But you know that he’s like this with everyone, and are under no illusions that you’re special. So you relish each and every contact, wishing there could be more.

What if he looks at you for too long with those gorgeous, huge, chocolate-brown eyes? And what if you forget how to speak? It’s already happened an embarrassing amount of times, but you’ve managed to pass it off as being stumped because you’re a beginner. You don’t know for how much longer that excuse is gonna fly.

And, if all that wasn’t already enough to send your anxiety levels skyrocketing, you’re also acutely aware that you haven't spent time with any of the group outside of school as yet. You’re worried that you’re going to ruin their social dynamic, or mess up the game. Or embarrass yourself with no easy way to exit, having to wallow in your shame until the mums come back later to pick you all up. Your spiralling makes you realise that although it was really kind of Mrs Wheeler to offer you a lift, you’re now really wishing you’d brought your own car…

All kinds of anxious thoughts are running through your mind, from what if your ideas are stupid, to what if everyone (okay, specifically Eddie) dislikes the cookies you’ve baked??

Neither of you should’ve worried.

As you enter his trailer, Eddie seems a little flustered, running a ringed hand through his gorgeous chestnut waves and unnecessarily straightening a pile of magazines on the coffee table. He smooths down his (new) black tee (that he totally didn’t buy especially for this occasion), and you pay it no mind, assuming he’s just always like this with visitors, and is excited for the campaign.

You barely glance around Eddie’s home, smiling softly at the trinkets you spot, and offering to help plate up the snacks in the kitchen area. You don’t look uncomfortable, and you certainly don’t pass judgment. Eddie eyes you as indirectly as he can, noticing the unusual skirt you’ve got on (that you totally totally didn’t choose specifically for today). He likes it.

Just like at school, you slot easily into the melee of pencils, paper, dice and snacks. Everyone loves your home baked cookies, including Eddie, and Erica even badgers you for the recipe.

Eddie thinks you couldn’t be any more perfect.

You think this isn’t so bad after all, and relax a little.

The morning’s character building is going well, the fact that it’s a oneshot not diminishing anyone’s efforts or attention to detail.

You still haven’t quite got the hang of the dice and numbers parts, always asking for Eddie’s help with that. His help, not any of the others, he muses with a certain amount of pride and delight. (Selfishly, part of him secretly hopes you never get the hang of it, and will always need to seek his input.)

With you now added to the group, there aren’t enough seats at Eddie’s modest dining table. Nobody notices. Initially Dustin and Will are deep in a discussion on Eddie’s battered sofa, and Mike and Lucas are rifling through the fridge, both at that ‘hollow legs’ stage of teen development and constantly ravenous.

Your character’s almost done, and you just want to clarify a few things, so you ask across the table,

“Eddie? Can I bring this over for you to check please?”

He waves you over, putting on a fake English accent and saying,

“Of course you may, my dear. You know I’m always happy to assist my flock.”

You chuckle lightly at his endearing foolishness as you get up from your place next to Erica, taking your character sheet over to Eddie for his perusal. Behind you, the younger players all convene at the table to share their progress, and all the seats become filled.

With no free spots near him, and assuming you won’t be here for long, Eddie pats his leg absentmindedly and says, “Sit here, lemme see.”

You end up on his lap, facing sideways at ninety degrees.

You initially turn towards him and bring your sheet between you, but there’s not enough room for him to properly examine it, so you turn the other way and lay it on the table in front of him, turning so your back is to him, your legs straddling one of his knees. He leans forward and begins to check it over, confirming some details and asking for more particulars on others.

Eddie’s been admiring your enthusiasm and level of engagement all morning, and he’s impressed by the depth of information you’ve already managed to accumulate.

You’re absorbed with your new character, getting excited and gesticulating wildly. Ideas bounce easily between you and Eddie, his face smiling softly and his dimples popping as he gets to see you like this.

It doesn’t escape him, however, that you’re also bouncing on… him. He flushes a little, and hopes you don’t perceive it.

As you gesture at a particularly thorny issue on your paper, it dawns on Eddie exactly what parts of you are in contact with him, albeit through multiple layers of fabric. The softness of your thighs and the heat from your core against his leg fully absorb him for a moment, and he has to ask you to repeat yourself. You don’t seem to mind, assuming it was the general clamour in the room that meant he couldn’t hear you. That same clamour covers the sound of him awkwardly clearing his throat and gulping loudly.

It occurs to him that he’s never experienced anything… like this. Occasional hookups in the woods or after gigs at The Hideout are great and everything, but he’s never before felt like he has a literal, real-life angel sitting on his lap.

And you? You are slowly realising how nice Eddie’s lap feels beneath you. It’s warm and solid, and the denim of his dark jeans feels pleasantly rough on the skin of your legs where your skirt’s ridden up. There’s a pressure against your most intimate areas that’s generating a warm feeling of pleasure in your core. You’re trying to concentrate, but it’s not easy.

It takes a few more moments for you to catch up to where Eddie is, and you register that you’re essentially riding Eddie’s thigh each time you move.

Your lips roll inwards and you swallow deeply, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to compose yourself. It doesn’t help, and only serves to focus your attention even more fully on the delicious sensations beneath your legs. This is the closest you’ve ever been to your Dungeon Master, and for the longest time. And you can’t help how flustered it’s making you.

Embarrassed, you cough and go to stand, but quickly see that there’s nowhere for you to go. Eddie scans the room and notices your predicament, and, in a broken voice that’s almost unbearably soft, tells you, “It’s okay, Princess. You can stay here.”

Fuck. A pet name? You enjoyed that, perhaps a little too much. If you were being rational you could put it down to Eddie referencing your new character, who happens to be an aristocratic mage. But right now? Right now, you’re not feeling particularly rational.

You slowly sit back down, but as you do so Eddie shifts his position, causing you to spread your knees a bit wider than they were and land further up his leg, giving you even more contact with his thigh. You hope he didn’t hear the broken little hum that escaped you.

Eddie leans forward and in a voice that’s far too quiet, and far too close to your ear, he asks, “Are you… okay?”

You can barely breathe, and all you can manage in response is a tiny, squeaked, “Mhm.”

Behind you, Eddie takes a stuttering breath in, letting it out slowly before he resumes discussions with everyone else at the table.

You each become more unfettered as the morning progresses. Further not-so-accidental encounters only serve to increase the tension between you both.

At one point, you lean forwards over the table to get one of the manuals, lifting your butt from his leg. For a moment you hope there won’t be a visible wet patch on your skirt, or on his jeans. But then you wonder whether it would actually be so terrible if there was, and whether it would actually be so terrible if Eddie saw…

Eddie saw. He hums slightly, but it sounds more like a whimper, and he attempts to cover it by clearing his throat for the umpteenth time today.

He wonders whether you’re doing this on purpose, whether you have any idea what you’re doing to him.

As you settle back onto his thigh, one of Eddie’s hands travels to your hip, holding it lightly, just resting it there. A fire travels up that entire side of your body.

You wonder whether he’s doing this on purpose, whether he has any idea what he’s doing to you.

He leans forward to reach for something on the table, and this time brushes his chest against your back for far longer than is necessary. You feel his breathing against your neck speeding up, hot gasps coming from between his lips instead of controlled outbreaths through his nose.

You reach for a die, and as you sit back you half-intentionally push your core down onto Eddie’s leg just a little bit harder. God, he feels so good. And so what if you’ve moved backwards slightly, so your thigh is even further between his legs, and your butt nudges his crotch?

You definitely feel something hard pressing against your ass. The grip on your hip tightens, and Eddie dips his head forward to hide his face and stifle a moan. Christ.

You think you hear him mumble a quiet and stilted, “Sh-it.”

Eddie can barely contain himself, this morning not going at all how he could’ve even dreamed. He had no idea whether you even liked him, and was planning to sound you out and maybe manage to ask if you wanted to do something cheesy like grab milkshakes sometime.

Having you hot and wet on his lap wasn’t even on the edges of the outside of the periphery of his radar. He’s really trying to keep it together, but he’s barely maintaining a grip on his actions.

Attempting to focus, he leans forward again to explain a character point. You turn your head and look into his eyes attentively, whilst simultaneously rocking your hips ever so subtly and chewing on the inside of your bottom lip.

All at once, something shifts. Something big.

Eddie holds your gaze for way too long. Or maybe you hold his.

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, as you both silently acknowledge that there’s way more going on here than simple D&D advice.

Simultaneously, you both come to realise that your affections are most definitely reciprocated.

Shit, he likes me.

Fuck, she likes me back.

And then, as your eyes are locked and he sees your pupils blow wide, Eddie loses that tenuous grip.

Suddenly, both of his hands come to your hips, and he presses his forehead against one of your shoulder blades. He grips you tightly and moves you back and forth against him, squeezing, pulling, pushing, dragging. He’s keeping his movements as tiny as possible so as not to rouse the attention of the group, but what he lacks in expansiveness he more than makes up for with strength and intensity.

You think this might genuinely be the most erotic thing you’ve ever done with your clothes on. You’re hot and wet, and you barely care that you’re in a room full of people, supposedly playing a nerdy game.

Eddie keeps moving you. One exquisite movement spreads your sopping folds in your underwear, and your mouth drops open in a gasp, hand gripping the edge of the rickety table. You try to disguise your movements by shoving the end of a pencil into your mouth and hunching over your paperwork.

Eddie totally notices, and stills you. His warm palms continue to press against your hips, his strong fingertips digging into your flesh. Instead of continuing the back and forth movements, he pulls you down as hard as he can onto his lap whilst outwardly retaining his composure, turning the garbled sounds coming from his throat into encouraging noises for the group.

The two of you can barely focus anymore. Eddie hasn’t let his hands travel anywhere above the tabletop, lest his actions be seen by the others, but if your expression is even half as flustered as Eddie’s is red, somebody is going to notice something. And soon.

You take a couple of deep, steadying breaths.

You’ve already completed your character, so you decide to do a faux check in with Eddie, asking, not entirely innocently,

“Eddie? Is there anything else you’d want me to… take off?”

Turning, you add, even less subtly,

“What should I do now, Master?”

Eddie’s face screws up and his jaw clenches, and you feel the rock of his hips as he bucks his hips up underneath you, pressing his hardness into your flesh and muffling a grunt into your shoulder.

His head snaps back up suddenly and his voice becomes clear and piercing, as he inhales quickly and declares to the room, waving a hand,

“Okay, lunchtime! Everybody out!! You guys need some fresh air and I need a break. I don’t wanna see you for at least an hour, and you’d better come back with pizza! Goddit?”

The teens comply, bustling out the door, a few of them eye-rolling and grumbling something about how this is almost like being at home with their parents.

They’re still leaving as Eddie moves his face so close to you that you can feel his breath in your hairline, and his soft, pink lips tickle the edge of your ear.

In a low, velvety voice, he murmurs, in a tone that’s somehow both challenging and pleading,

“Please Princess, turn around and say that to my face...”

You smirk, and reach behind you to pick up a D12.

With all the sultriness you can muster, you raise your eyebrows and indicate for him to take it. He opens his hand, and you place it down, the tips of your fingers lightly skimming the hot, damp skin of his palm.

Looking into his eyes again, you’re relieved to discover that your power of speech remains entirely intact, as you murmur, with more confidence than you thought you possessed,

“Okay, Master. How about this? You roll, and the result is how many kisses you have to give me...”

Eddie swallows and almost chokes, sitting up straight and gently lobbing the die across the mess of paper and writing implements. His chocolate eyes don’t leave yours as it rolls and comes to a stop in the centre crease of one of his manuals. He struggles with the internal conflict of never wanting to break your gaze and a deep desire to check the number.

He has no idea where the rest of today, let alone this, is going, and he’s grateful he has at least the next hour in which to find out. But he does know one thing:

He’s never been so desperate to roll a 12 in his entire fucking life.

Thanks so much for reading!

(This might become part of an anthology of D&D-related adventures - let me know if you’d like to see more!)

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed this, it’s honestly like throwing breadcrumbs and roses for your writers 😃🥰

My masterlist

I have a general taglist now, let me know if you’d like to be on it 😃

Tags: @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @curlyjoequinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @wonderlanddreamer

[strangersteddierthings]

Daily Ficlet

I'm challenging myself to write a little ficlet every day, using the prompts from this list. Today's prompt is coffee smell.

-

Eddie wakes to the smell of coffee.

That's not unusual for him. Wayne drinks coffee like water, has it both to wake up and go to bed. It's just that, usually, the coffee smell is fainter, having to make its way from the kitchen and through the door to his bedroom.

Did he leave the door open last night? That'd have been a bad idea, given what Steve and he got up to-

Oh. Oh shit! Steve and he-

Eddie cracks his eyes open finally. He's where he usually is when he wakes up; on the side of the bed closest to the door, on his stomach, arm hanging off the bed and face turned towards the door. The door, which is open, and Eddie knows he closed it because he remembers Steve pinning him against it as soon as Eddie had turned back around. Steve crowding into his space, one hand braced on the door beside Eddie's head, the other curling possessively on Eddie's hip. Steve dipping his head to nibble at his shoulder, before kissing and nibbling his way up Eddie's neck, jaw line, capturing Eddie's bottom lip between his teeth before kissing him properly, like Eddie has been wanting him to do since- well, forever probably.

He does a quick scan of the room, but Steve's shirt isn't on the floor by the door where Eddie had ripped it off him. And that. It's fine. Eddie's used to not getting the guy at the end of the story. There were no expectations, they didn't- well, there were promises whispered, but that's just. It's just the kind of words that slip out when wrapped up in the heat of the moment, yeah?

("God, you're so beautiful, Stevie. Beautiful and perfect for me." "Yes, yes, perfect for you. Wanna be. Wanna be perfect for you. Just you. Yours." "Mine. Just mine. You're mine, and I'm yours." "Yes yes yes yes!")

Just words said in the dark of night. Even if Eddie wants them to be real now. Wants to be Steve's and wants Steve to be his. If he just lays here, he can pretend a bit more. He can pretend that Steve's still asleep on the other side of the bed. That the door is open for any other reason than Steve slipping out while Eddie slept.

His other arm, the one trapped beneath him, is starting to get pins and needles, though, so he has to move. He heaves a sigh and digs his elbow into the mattress, using it as leverage to roll onto his back and away from the edge of the bed and-

"You awake babe?"

Eddie doesn't yelp. He'll deny it happening to the end of his days, but he wasn't expecting to hear a voice. Wasn't expecting- "Stevie."

"That's me," Steve says with a laugh. Steve, who has, apparently this whole time, been sitting up on the other side of the bed, Eddie's well-loved copy of The Hobbit in his hands, his shirt tragically back on. He tosses it softly towards the foot of the bed before shifting to drape himself across Eddie, propping himself up with an elbow near Eddie's head. Steve's other hand comes up to brush the hair from Eddie's face before trailing down his neck, across his shoulder, and down his whole arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, before Steve tangles their fingers together and gives Eddie's hand a light squeeze that he reciprocates on instinct. It's the right thing to do, Eddie decides, because the smile the spreads across Steve's face is soft and so fond before disappearing from view because Steve lowers himself down to press sweet and gentle kisses to Eddie's lips, once, twice, thrice, before peppering kisses to every inch of Eddie's face he can. Eddie is expecting morning breath, but Steve smells of coffee.

A smile spreads across Eddie's own lips, and laughter follows, because this is so sweet, so fond, makes him feel so safe and loved that the joy Eddie feels has to break free from his body somehow. He chases Steve's mouth down again to kiss him deeper, licking into his mouth to chase the coffee taste. The kisses turn lazy and eventually Steve pulls back, a dopey smile on his face that Eddie is sure is also on his own face. "Good morning."

"Good morning indeed," Eddie says, his thumb rubbing softly against Steve's where they're still holding hands. "Why're you wearing your shirt?"

Steve gives a one shoulder shrug. "Didn't think Wayne would appreciate the view as much as you do."

Eddie blinks up at him. "Wayne's up?"

"He made the coffee that lured me from your bed," Steve says, and his tone is teasing but there's something in his eyes, in the way Eddie feels him tense just the slightest that makes Eddie think 'Oh!' again.

Eddie had been so sure early, that Steve would rather slink away before Eddie woke, but he thinks Steve has the fear of being kicked out now that he's awake. Of having overstayed his welcome, or pushed at a boundary he didn't know Eddie set. Can't have him thinking that. "Well, you're probably right, he wouldn't enjoy the view as much as I. You let me know if that ever changes. I'll not have an old man trying to steal my boyfriend."

That's the right thing to say, Eddie knows immediately. Steve settles completely against him in a way Eddie hadn't known was possible. It's not that Steve gets heavier as he lays across him more, but Eddie feels him press more into him somehow. Clutches tighter at their joined hands and leans back down to rubs his nose against Eddie's cheek. "Worry not, babe. There's only one Munson I want to call boyfriend."

And that. Well. How is Eddie supposed to not kiss Steve -his boyfriend- silly after that?

[lexirosewrites]

hello again, it's the eddie's leather jacket candle anon! i wanted to submit something for slick sunday last week but couldn't think of anything, and then at 1am monday this popped into my head while i was trying to sleep lol. based on the idea that you smell like the people you're around a lot or were recently near

thinking about b!steve, overcompensating for being a beta by trying to be perfect instead. he tries to get good grades, does his best at sports, gets in with the popular crowd, dutifully obeys his father's stubborn insistence on taking the stupid vitamins for his stupid deficiency everyday... only for canon events to happen, and effort is worthless without promising results in the eyes of his alpha parents.

the summer of ’86, steve gets in a fight to end all fights with his parents when they find out about his “dalliances with” (crush on) a!eddie, and b!robin and her parents offer their basement for as long as steve needs it. robin shares a bathroom with steve and notices the pill bottle she keeps in there is emptying faster than normal. when she asks if he’s been taking some of her pills, he shrugs and apologizes for using her vitamins without asking, but they were the same kind he’s been taking since puberty hit and he’ll buy more if she’ll tell him which drugstore carries it since he can’t seem to find it on his own.

except they’re puberty blockers. omega puberty blockers. robin takes them on purpose because having a period is enough trouble without the heats, but steve has everything he’s ever known about himself and his life as a harrington turned on its head. a lot of the things he’d been scolded for (things that in hindsight are omega traits, like the “stomachaches” he gets every 3 months because of his “vitamin deficiency”) suddenly make a lot of sense. they call joyce, who lives in hawkins again and has dealt with a son going through omega puberty, and ask for her advice. through their combined research, steve concludes the best course of action is to taper his dose until he’s completely weaned off the blocker, that way the change doesn’t happen all at once.

cut to a month later. at hellfire, which now takes place in the basement of wayne’s new government hush-money house, eddie notes that dustin smells weird different, to which dustin replies he’s using a new deodorant and he even showered right before he got here today and why the fuck are alpha noses so frickin’ sensitive. eddie says whatever, as long as it keeps the BO out of his nostrils.

eddie smells dustin’s oddly pleasant strong new deodorant when he goes to make a return at family video. he asks robin if she started using the same deodorant as dustin and she whacks him in the head with the tape because no, dingus, dustin was here earlier borrowing neverending story again, dingus. when eddie asks why steve isn’t there for him to flirt with, robin says he had to go home sick. eddie eagerly offers to bring steve cold medicine or food or go to keep him company, but robin shuts that down harsher than necessary. eddie can take a hint, steve just needs the day off. as he leaves, the familiar beamer in the parking lot doesn’t strike him as odd.

jonathan doesn’t usually ask eddie for weed, especially since argyle has way better shit, but eddie stops by the byers-hopper residence anyway for a covert drop. he runs into joyce, who apparently shares the same taste in deodorant as dustin, and asks why everyone’s getting the same new deodorant, only for her to tell him that the only thing that’s changed with her is nursing steve back to health from his terrible cold. they seem to reach a realization at the same time, and eddie decides he needs to ask steve where the hell he’s getting this deodorant and why it smells better from him than when dustin wears it. (joyce, infinitely wiser in her years, reaches the correct conclusion.)

eddie manages to sneak via window into the basement where steve is staying, bringing a care package: cold medicine, a hot thermos of wayne’s soup, and a few cassettes of Actually Good music. the plan is to hang out for a few hours, maybe set the mood a little, and if eddie can’t actually get the words out he can play the cassette that contains a recited confession on how much eddie likes steve and his stupid, sexy everything and could steve please, please, please think about giving eddie a chance. he only gets halfway through the window, then falls in the rest of the way at the sight and smell and sound of steve in a full-blown heat, wearing eddie’s battle vest and fingering his dripping cunt while mewling eddie’s name. eddie can only appreciate the situation for 2 seconds tops before the panic and instincts kick in. he bursts into the house’s ground floor, tosses the care package to a bewildered robin, and halfway out the door yells that his rut just triggered and he needs to leave.

after a few very turbulent days, eddie’s planning a new strategy for How to Woo Steve Harrington when steve himself barges into eddie’s room and kisses him senseless. they talk about steve being an omega, their mutual attraction, and what that all means in the long run, which leads to flirting and ends with steve deepthroating eddie and eddie eating out steve’s pussy.

a year later, eddie tenderly kisses the mating bite on steve’s neck as they cradle their newborn child.

Steve’s omega status being hidden/suppressed by his parents for years is so genuinely awful… and such great angst. he believed them so completely that his entire identity is altered and he has to learn how to function as an omega, but Eddie will take care of him and treat him right!!! this is adorable😭💕

[werepuppy-steve]

G | 753 words

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles' prompt: graduation tags: emma verse, modern au, famous corroded coffin, steddie being over the top parents

tagging some of the emma fans: @steves-strapcollection @tboygareth @patchworkgargoyle @steddieas-shegoes @theheadlessphilosopher

@worstsequence @hammity-hammer

"Does she know where we're sitting?" Eddie asks as they shuffle down the rows of plastic seats, his bulky digital camera hanging around his neck by the strap.

(Eddie wanted to bring their tour photographer, Cody, but Steve had to gently remind him that the school already had one hired. Eddie only sulked for an hour.)

Steve levels him a look. "If she doesn't see us, then she'll spot one of these goons and follow the line." He points over his shoulder to their accompanying party.

Wayne is directly behind him, followed by Robin and Chrissy. Jeff, Gareth, Freak, and the kids shuffle in behind them. As much as Eddie doesn’t like flaunting his celebrity status around, he had to call ahead the week before to request an entire row to be reserved just to fit all of them.

His baby is graduating kindergarten, he'll be damned if he doesn't pull out all the stops. They’re even having a little graduation party for her at the house afterwards—a backyard BBQ with everyone and the rest of the tour crew and family who couldn't make it to the ceremony.

Not long after everyone is seated, Pomp and Circumstance crackles out of the loudspeakers and the kids start to walk down the aisle in pairs. It's definitely not perfect, some kids take too-eager steps and some stop to hug their parents, but the teachers do their best to guide them.

Steve starts recording with his phone the second they spot Emma, the digital chime of Eddie's camera shutter clicking away beside him. Her curls are barely tamed in the side pony she asked Eddie to put it in, but it matches the whole 'rocker' vibe she's got going on.

Amongst the sea of summer dresses and pressed toddler slacks, their little girl is wearing her black denim battle vest over a light purple Hannah Montana shirt Steve had gotten at a yard sale, with a pale blue frilly tutu and a pair of silver glitter leggings and her black boots.

She looks nervous, though. Tense. Her shoulders are drawn up and her hands are clasped in front of her. Brown eyes dart this way and that around the room trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd and it breaks Steve's heart to watch his kid be so anxious. Her teacher said she did great at practice yesterday, but that was without the fifty pairs of eyes on her.

Mike is sitting on the end and she finds him easily, her eyes lighting up in recognition, but there's still a worried crease between her eyebrows that doesn't smooth out until she's locking eyes with her dads. She gives them a tiny wave as she walks by.

They both give her encouraging thumbs up and Eddie wishes he could just snatch her up and run out of the building with her.

They eventually get all the kids filed in and the principal stands behind the podium on the stage to welcome everyone. She goes through the awards first (Emma receives one for reading above her grade level, something that Eddie is very proud of) before the kids line back up to receive their little diplomas.

Halfway through the list, Eddie suddenly elbows Steve. "Shit, I didn't hear her name, did we miss her?"

His phone is still recording. "Dude, her last name is M, we're still in the J's."

"Oh, right."

Emma's class is only about 50 or so kids so it doesn't really take that long to get to her name, but Steve and Eddie are still vibrating with the anticipation.

"Emma Munson."

Immediately, their entire entourage is up on their feet and cheering and yelling. It's way too loud for the cafeteria setting they're in, and it echos, and you can definitely tell which of them are in the famous metal band.

Emma's little cheeks turn the same color as her glasses but her grin is big and wide as she holds her certificate in front of her for the picture. Both Steve and Eddie are rapid fire pressing the shutter buttons on their cameras.

Once she's off the stage, the principal clears her throat. "A reminder to please hold all applause until the end of the ceremony, thank you." She gives them a not-so-subtle glare over the rims of her own glasses.

Sheepishly, their group sits back down and is quiet once more.

"We're gonna be worse during her eighth grade graduation, right?" Steve whispers to Eddie.

"Oh, absolutely. She'll want to kill us afterwards."

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 19

part 1 | part 18 | ao3

November

As annoyed as Steve is to admit it, Dustin’s plan actually works.

(And he is annoyed, for the record. That little shithead should be glad he’s still grounded because Steve’s sorely tempted to invite him over just to give him a wedgie.)

Somewhere in the weeks following The Abduction Incident, he and Eddie become friends. Like, real ones. Friends who talk and laugh and shoot the shit in passing, who trade movies and mix tapes and ask each other if they saw the latest headlines in the morning paper.

They haven’t really had much chance to properly hang out, but Steve sees him most mornings, because he promised Wayne to keep making sure Eddie doesn’t sleep in on school days, and sometimes when they’re both around in the afternoons they’ll have a couple beers together, share a cigarette on the lumpy loveseat on the front porch of Eddie’s place. 

And Eddie’s…

Eddie’s funny. Oddly charming. Theatrical and weird. Steve already knew that last part, but it’s so much better when it’s not being used as an offensive weapon against him. He likes being in on Eddie’s jokes. 

Just plain likes Eddie, if he’s honest. 

“Steve?”  

Which should be crazy. It is crazy; if someone had told him a couple years ago that he’d be spending his free time with The Freak — that he would regret missing the guy’s Halloween show because of a Family Video shift, or that he would spend a week working up the courage to ask him if he wants to ride to school with Robin and him in the mornings? He probably would have kicked their ass for the mere suggestion. 

But now he’s half-orphaned trailer trash who knows that monsters exist, so. Eh.

“Steve! Hello? Earth to Steve.”

Steve blinks, focuses on the fingers Robin’s snapping in front of his face. “Huh?” he asks dumbly. 

He expects her to roll her eyes and pretend to chastise him with some butchered version of his name— ‘Steven Cardamom Harrington, were you daydreaming again?’ — but she just snaps her fingers again and begs, “A little help here? Please?” Her eyes are wide, her shoulder scrunched up to her ears with stress, and Steve realizes that:

a) he’s been staring blankly at a cart of go-backs for ten minutes instead of actually doing his job, and

b) the store is suddenly packed.

Friday night, and the rain that’s been hanging over Hawkins all week finally let up, so now everyone and their mother is apparently out running errands. 

He moves to man the front desk because the line is almost out the door, and Robin buzzes around the room like a shaken can of pure panic, her bangs sticking to her forehead as she zooms up and down aisles with the restock cart. She keeps making crazy eyes at parents when they stop her to ask about new releases or the age-appropriateness of films, because the parents are distracting her from intercepting their little gremlin children, who keep putting movies on the wrong shelves on purpose just to piss her off. 

“Dumbo! Does not go! In the horror section!” Steve hears her bark at a group of third graders, and he has to crouch down behind the counter for a second so she doesn’t see him laughing when she follows that up with a strangled, “Ugh!!!”

Okay. 

Entertaining as this is, he’s not getting chewed out by Keith again for missing quotas because Robin blew a gasket and scared off all the customers. 

“Hey, Rob?” he calls out to her as he hands a woman her change. 

“What?” 

“Go take a smoke break?” 

He knows she doesn’t smoke. He also knows that sometimes rushes like this get to be too much for her — the noise, the lights, the chaos of a crowd (“the mouth sounds, Steve; good god, the mouth sounds”) — and she needs a minute or twelve to go stand outside in the cool air, flap her hands around and scream behind a dumpster or whatever until she calms down.

Her eyes flash at the suggestion like she’s about to snap at him, but then she takes a deep breath and marches herself out the back door without another word.

With Robin cleared out, the crowd thins out pretty quickly. Steve gets the line taken care of at a speed he’s definitely not getting paid enough to maintain, and the kids get bored of playing ‘rearrange the inventory’ and wander off to the arcade. 

It’s sort of soothing, the mindless flow of it: scan, click, click, make change, “thanks for choosing Family Video,” print receipt, repeat. His mind wanders again as he works, but it doesn’t sink into its usual sludge of despair; doesn’t wail ‘house bills mom pills stress fuck-fuck’ like a tornado siren in his head until he gives himself a migraine. 

No, he’s thinking about denim. About cigarette smoke.

Crooked smile; Chiclet teeth.

Patches and pins with strange names and stranger artwork.

And then he’s thinking about how this is the second time tonight he’s started daydreaming about Eddie and wills himself to knock it off.

What? The guy’s friendly with him a handful of times, and suddenly he’s, like, obsessed with him?

He’s not. 

He’s not. 

He's just… pleasantly distracted by him; that's all.

“Thanks for choosing Family Video,” he tells the last customers as he hands them their receipt. The second they turn to leave, he slumps over the counter with his head pillowed on his arms, a wave of exhaustion hitting him because holy shit that was so many people and thank god the store’s finally empty. 

The bell over the door dings.

Goddammit. 

Steve lifts his head, reminds himself not to scowl at paying customers because he really needs this job, but then— 

“Eddie! Hey!”

— 

part 20

tag list part 1 below cut let me know if you want to be added tomorrow

@heartsong18 @hellion-child @hiimlevi @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @jaytriesstuff @littlebluejane @lololol-1234 @marklee-blackmore @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @noodle-shenaniganery @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @pending-dope-username @perseus-notjackson @ppunkpuppyy @questionablequeeries @remosdeerica @runninriot @sadcanadianwinter @shamelesspatrolshepherdcowboy @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutforcoffein @solalasoforth @spookednsaucy @steddieas-shegoes @steddie-island @stevesbipanic @steves-strapcollection @taleah-bonnick @teatimeeverybody @th30ra3k3n @thealwithnoname @thespaceantwhowrites @thestarslittleking @thesuninyaface @trensu @violetsteve @wormdebut @yourmom-isgay @zoeweee @zombiecreatures

[momotonescreaming]

home

Rating: T | WC: 1.8k | Eddie & Wayne Munson Family, Angst, Hurt/Comfort [read on ao3]

“Hey, Wayne?” Eddie asks, looking over at Wayne, trying to keep his voice steady — although he’s sure his uncle heard the waver in his voice anyway. He always does. He’s the one person who knows him inside out and upside down. Every which way. “Can I talk to you?”

He clutches his book tighter in his hand, crumpling the pages, and Eddie finds himself not caring all that much. The gentle scratch of the paper under his hands grounds him, way more than the lumpy motel couch he’s sitting on does. It feels wrong. He feels wrong. Like he’s held together with string and rubber bands, one thread pulled and he’s about to fall apart. About to come tumbling to the ground, all tangled together.

Wayne’s always been good at knowing when Eddie feels like he’s falling apart. Knowing when to shore up the banks, when to wrap Eddie up in metaphorical duct tape until he can stitch himself together. He looks at Eddie from across the tiny living section of their motel room, slouched in an arm chair that doesn’t look anywhere near as comfortable as the one from their trailer. But it’s what they’ve got now.

“You already are,” Wayne retorts gruffly, the way he always does, but he folds down the newspaper and rests it in his lap. Gives Eddie his full attention. Like he can tell that this is going to be a bigger, more important conversation. They’ve been having a lot of those lately, after everything.

Wayne doesn’t say anything else, just lets the moment sit, and gives Eddie the space he needs to get the words out. He appreciates it. Wayne always knows when to push, and when to pull back. When to give Eddie space, and when to crowd him. Jeff’s gotten close, Steve as well now. But no one is as good at reading him as Wayne.

Everyone always thinks that Eddie always knows what to say. How to make himself loud. Heard. Understood. He’s the bard, a wordsmith, the Dungeon Master, the voice of the freaks and weirdos. Not many understand that sometimes Eddie needs the silence. Likes it, even. That he’s not always a bundle of energy and anticipation. Coiled up and ready to spring. Ready to spit and snarl and poke the bear. Antagonise the jocks and the popular kids.

He takes a deep breath, and fidgets with the dog-eared cover of his book. Picks at it with his nails, peeling back the colour. Scuffs his holey socks along the worn motel carpet. Looks up at his uncle, in his familiar blue jeans and flannel and feels his throat start to tighten. Chest clenching as he forces the words out.

“I, um,” Eddie starts, voice thick and wet and his voice wavers already. Can’t stop it this time. He knows what he wants to say — what he needs to say — and he doesn’t think it’s going to come out clear. He can’t hold it in anymore, but he’s scared of Wayne’s reaction. What he’ll say, what he’ll think. He’ll love him, Eddie knows this, but he can’t help the spiral of what if. His bottom lip wobbles, tightly quavering, and Wayne tilts his head as he listens. Gives Eddie space. “I don’t think I can do it anymore uncle Wayne. Stay in Hawkins. I don’t— I can’t— I can’t. They cleared my name and it’s like no one cares. I didn’t do anything but everyone still wants to kill me, uncle Wayne.”

He sat on the other side of the room to Wayne to give himself space. Room to breathe, to get the words out. But as soon as the words are out he regrets it. He’s on an island alone and he can’t do it anymore. The rubber bands snapping, his being falling to pieces.

Eddie’s barely left the motel room since he and Wayne moved into it. He isn’t even sure if the owner knows he’s here. If they think it’s just Wayne and the remainder of his life, all packed up in boxes. He made it out alive, physically fine and un-scarred, no longer wanted for murder. And yet. The first time he tried to go to Melvalds some man he didn’t know cornered him. Accused him of killing Chrissy, and Patrick, and paying off the cops to get away with it. Spitting vitriol and cursing his name. And then everytime he showed his face in public it was the same. Jeff invited him round, and he couldn’t even make it up Jeff’s driveway before one of his neighbours tried to chase him off with a literal pitchfork. And then everytime he went out after that was the same. Someone swearing, or yelling, or trying to kill him under the guise of justice.

He couldn’t do it anymore.

The tears bubble over, everything coming out in a deluge. There’s no going back now, Eddie doesn’t think he could handle that either. Face contorting as he cries, salty tears leaving tracks and trails down his face. He can feel it in the crease of his nose, trailing down into the corners of his mouth. He can taste the salt. Curling into himself, eyes shut, hands curling into fists as he presses them into his own face. Book falling to the floor, forgotten.

Eddie falls apart.

All he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, his hitching breath and hiccoughing cries. He doesn’t hear Wayne get up, or say anything. But Eddie feels the couch cushions dip next to him, and feels a calloused hand brush across his shoulders. Grip him tight and pull him in. Eddie lets himself fall, body tilting, head spinning. Chest cracking open with every wailing cry, desperate and hurt and he just wants it to stop.

Wayne’s holding him, tucking him into his side like Eddie’s just a boy again. Like when he first took him in. Just a wee thing. Scared and hurt and angry and lashing out like a wild animal. Wayne whispering comforting nothings — I’m here, I’ve got you, just let it out, you’re safe, I’m here Eddie — voice gruff, but soft. Not angry. Never angry. The shape of his words, the gentle slope of his accent falling around him. Pushing past the rushing in his ears and soothing him, just a little. Just enough. Eddie clutching at the worn fabric of Wayne’s shirt, desperately anchoring himself to it as his uncle holds him. Hugs him. Gently rocking them in place on the lumpy motel couch as Eddie cries himself out.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. How long he cries, how long Wayne holds him. Until his tears start to slow, no longer feeling like he’s ripping his insides out with his angry cries. Throat tight, but no longer shredding his voice on the inhale.

Eddie doesn’t move, if anything he tries to make himself smaller. Tuck himself completely into Wayne’s side. Where he can feel the warmth of him press into his side, feel the beating of his steady heart, can sink into the comfort. He sniffles, feeling snotty and gross with a tear stricken face. Still clutching Wayne’s shirt, resisting the urge to bury his face in it. Listening to his uncle gently humming now, an achingly familiar tune as he helps draw Eddie back together.

“’m sorry uncle Wayne,” He murmurs, voice still thick and wet sounding. He feels pathetic. He sounds pathetic. And yet Wayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t care that his grown-ass nephew is curled up like a kid.

“You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, kid.” Wayne replies, voice steady as if it was an easy thing to say. As if Eddie wasn’t a burden to him. Eddie can feel him rest his head on his, and he shudders out a breath as he sinks into it. Still holding him close. “I’m always here for you. Always. That’s how this works.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, and he hates how wobbly his voice comes out. How weak. How cowardly. Seeking comfort, validation, reassurance.

“Yeah.” His uncle replies simply, running a hand up and down his shoulder in small comforting motions. It’s nice. The warmth, the weight, the reassuring presence of him. “So if you say you can’t be in Hawkins anymore, I’m askin’ you where’re we going.”

Oh.

Wayne’s words settle over him with the familiar gruff scratch and roll of his voice. Like gentle rain on the trailer roof. It’s soothing in an instant. Eddie’s voice still comes out small and wobbly as he replies. “We?”

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight after this, boy, you’ve got another thing comin’.” Wayne simply says, that deadpan humour edge to his words rounding out the sounds. Lightening his tone. Eddie takes a breath. “So if you need to leave to feel safe, so do I.”

It’s only then that Eddie peels himself off of Wayne’s side, just enough that he can look at his uncle, at his face. Can read his expression and try to see what he’s feeling the way he does with him. Just sees straight through him.

Eddie feels like he has vertigo. Like he’s been punched in the face and is caught mid-recoil. Gripping Wayne’s arm, feeling the flannel under his fingers, trying to anchor himself again. He’s not sure it’s working.

“Wh— but— Hawkins is your home? Your whole life is here and you’d what — give that all up just for me?” Eddie asks, feeling a little like he’s been struck dumb as the words tumble out of his mouth. He sniffs, wiping at his face with his sleeve before continuing. “You don’t have to do that, I can get an apartment on my own, I’d be fine.”

Eddie’s voice wavers as soon as he says he’d be fine. He knows he’s lying but he has to say it. Has to push back. He loves his uncle, wants to live in the comfort of his embrace, but he can’t make him do that. He can’t. He can’t burden him like that. Not more than he already has.

His uncle clocks it immediately.

“Of course I would. You’re not forcin’ me, I’m offering.” Wayne says simply, face calm and open. “You’re my boy, Eddie. My kid. So if you feel safer movin’ out of Hawkins? If you feel better having me with you? Then we’re going together.”

“Oh.” Eddie replies, voice quiet, warmth blooming in his chest the way it always did when Wayne called him his boy, his kid. They both know it’s just one step removed my son.

“Yeah, oh. If you think I hold any kindness for a town that was so quick to vilify you, then you need a smack upside the head.” Wayne deadpans, tugging Eddie back into his side again and Eddie lets out a wet snort as he lets himself be pulled.  “Hawkins wasn’t home because of the trailer, or my job, or my friends. It was home because of you, Eddie.”

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

DC

Living Slow by kathkin

“Was that like. For real your mom?”

“Yes, Billy,” said Superman, with unwavering patience. “That was my mom.”

Billy looked at him for a long moment. He said, “Why?”

“Why?” Superman echoed. “What – what do you mean, why?”

Billy shrugged. “It’s a pretty simple question.”

“Well,” said Superman. “Be that as it may, I got no idea how to answer it.”

In the face of an extraterrestrial threat they don't fully understand, with all their usual hide-outs compromised, the Justice League are forced to go to ground. Fortunately Superman has a remote location where they can regroup. Less fortunately, it comes with some baggage.

Genome by JpegDotJpeg

Being Tim Drake-Wayne’s trophy husband and full-time sugar baby was hard work, but not without its benefits. Kon had gotten very used to getting whatever he wanted with Tim around. Clothes, tuition money.

Babies.

BNHA

someone blessed by blueseam

“Would you like to make a bet?”

It’s delivered in the same polite, measured tone Todoroki uses for almost everything, which only makes the offer more unsettling.

“Uh.”

If it will make him go away, Hitoshi might consider it.

__

Todoroki bets Shinsou that he won’t last a week in Class 2A without making at least one friend. He’s pretty confident he’ll get the money.

Too bad Midoriya only knows how to make friends by hurting himself.

ATLA

the dry grass catches fire by Anonymous

"Shoichi," Zuko says quietly, fighting to keep his voice steady. "What happened to Izumi?"

Shoichi is milk-pale. He shuffles on the spot, then opens his mouth. Zuko watches his lips move, hears the sound of his voice, and somehow does not fall apart.

"She was taken, my Lord," Shoichi says, and—

Every torch in the palace goes out.

-

A failed assassination attempt on Zuko results in his daughter being kidnapped instead. Zuko will stop at nothing to get her back.

i'll come crashing by ohmygodwhy

Li's scar is suddenly all Jet can think about. The scar, the scar, the old man’s hot hands warming his tea like he thought he could get away with firebending in the middle of a crowd.

or: After getting to know Li on the ferry, Jet sees Mushi heat his tea. Instead of assuming Li is also a firebender, Jet assess the situation and comes to a rather different conclusion.

House MD

Intensive Care by LadyEliza

Chase is sick. House won't leave him alone. The diagnostics team at PPTH has two cases to solve…

Clone Wars

a river runs through it by vizslasaber

There is a kind of fear that is unique to a Jedi.

(Cody and Obi-Wan. A lesson in attachment.)

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

VIII. whatever keeps you around.

parts: previously / next plot: bruce has a proposal for you. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, brief discussion of slight suicidal ideation/martyrdom, drug (and the injection of drugs) mentions, you will not guess what trope I managed to include in here. words: 6.9k. a/n: plotting this series makes me feel like charlie day pointing at a wall of red string

“…You won’t like it.”

It's clear what you have to do. You'd realized it when Gordon came to you, so of course Bruce did too. If you were going to make this right, you would have to face this head on. "I know what I have to do," you start, "I need to lure him out."

Bruce's expression shifts. Whatever you've said seems to be the wrong answer, "That... won't be necessary."

"What? What else can I do?"

"What did Gordon tell you about Dimitri?"

Your head throbs as you recall the memory, "Uh... he said he believes I'm next on Dimitri's hit list. He also said Dimitri hadn't anticipated me being at the house."

"Right, because Russo didn't want anyone knowing where he was." Bruce turns to his computer and brings up Russo's file, "After his divorce and the death of his son, he holed up and started erasing himself from the internet. As far as his neighbors know, he was constantly alone. You already know how hard it was to find him on your own, and unless Dimitri knew someone keeping tabs, it doesn't stand to reason that he found him any easier. But you, on the other hand," Bruce opens a search engine and types in your name. You're unsettled when the screen fills with results, most of them news articles from the night you'd been held hostage, "your name and face was everywhere after the gang war."

When the reporters had shoved cameras in your face and begged for you to tell them about Batman's heroic rescue, you hadn't thought twice about it, still fresh from the throes of gore and violence in the ER. Friends, family, coworkers: almost everyone you knew had seen it.

It clicks for you then, "If Dimitri planned on killing us both and I was easiest to find, why didn't he come for me first? I mean... it was me and Alex who ruined his life. If he wanted anyone dead more, wouldn't it be me?"

"I wondered the same thing. With the know-how and the right connections, anyone could find where you live just by name alone. Russo, on the other hand, is almost anonymous. It doesn't make sense why Dimitri would target Russo first."

"Do you think maybe it was a warning? Maybe he wanted to scare me."

"If he wanted to warn you, he wouldn't kill the guy in his house where no one checks up on him. Days would've passed before anyone noticed the flies in the windows."

"I don't get it."

"Do you remember how long it's been since you were taken hostage?"

Your mind lands on a weak estimate, "I don't know, a week and a half?"

"It's been over two weeks. According to the wardens, Dimitri stopped being a problem for them after the first few years. Friends with a rough crowd but he rarely got caught up in anything. Didn't have the heart to. So why, after 17 years, does he break out?"

Your stomach drops, "He saw me."

"And realized that while he was rotting away with nothing to live for, you were a hero," the word sickens you to hear, "on the front lines, saving lives, being saved. Your life went back to normal."

You grip the side of Bruce's desk with the sudden urge to vomit up everything you'd eaten today, which, frankly, wouldn't add up to much more than water and crackers.

You'd said it yourself: you'd gotten to live a life that Natalie, Dimitri, and Alex never would. Of course he wanted you dead. "So then I have to lure him out."

"And put yourself in danger? No."

"I’m already in danger, Bruce. What if he goes after the others? My parents? My coworkers? The other cops at the shootout? We have to end it now."

"This isn't the only way."

"It's the best way."

"Last time he had a knife, you could defend yourself. Barely. What if next time, he has a gun?"

"So what, you just want to do nothing?"

Bruce turns away from you. He gnaws on his lower lip, "No, I want to bide our time. Look into him more. I need to know if he's working with the Vipers again."

You watch him as he begins typing away at his computer, but you can't process what he's looking for through the haze of anger that washes over you. You lean on the desk, craning your neck up at his face to make him look at you, to understand how ridiculous he sounds, "We don't have time for that. His grudge is with me. I should meet him now and end this... either he gets what he wants or- or..."

Or what? Your stubbornness peters out. You don't know what. You see yourself standing face-to-face with Dimitri, his knife raised, ready to bury itself into the cushion of your chest. And nothing.

The you in this vision has no weapon.

"You don't think you're going to survive this." Coming out of your mind, Bruce is now looking at you, brows furrowed. He looks... mortified.

You scramble to cover your tracks, "That's not true. I'd have you there."

"But you don't want me there. You want to go alone. You think you deserve it."

"God, what are you? My therapist?" Your words flit out of your mouth in a rush, tongue nearly slipping up to defend yourself. You push away from the desk when you start feeling overexposed.

Bruce follows you, "You're not 16 anymore, this isn't some gang fight where you throw all your chips in because you can't see a year ahead of you. You've made a life. You've got people to lose, you said so yourself. I know what it's like... the survivor's guilt. You relive that day over and over-"

His words are making you feel sick to your stomach again and you lurch forward, finger in his face, "Don't you fucking preach to me-"

Almost as immediately as you'd raised your finger, Bruce snatches your wrist in his hand, yanking you close enough to be imposing, staring down at you with the same power that the Batman had used. It was so sudden that you quickly fall slack, wrist going limp in his grip.

It had completely sobered you of your tantrum, and for better or for worse, you were forced to listen to him, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and think. You see this ending with you dead because you want to make up for the shit you did. You think that's what Alex wants? For you to bleed out in an alley like she did?" And just like that, the fire roars in you once more, but your other hand can't slap him across the face before he's caught that one too, "No future? What about all the people you've saved? Could still save? Face it now because you may not get another chance: you're alive. Do you want to be or not?"

You want to hurt him, turn his skin red and give it a place among the other bruises that glitter and glare down his torso, and as your hand shakes in his hold, you are forced to understand that you are angry because he is right.

You'd felt this same anger before. When your parents told you Alex was a bad influence on you. When Russo looked you in the eye and told you that you didn't have it in you to pull the trigger. It was maddening. He had clocked your suicide mission before even you had, had seen you in his mind's eye the way you saw yourself: disarmed, a lamb to the slaughter, a sacrifice for the greater good, a speedbump.

You could see Batman tackling him to the ground over your dying body. You couldn't see yourself getting up the next day.

After the frustration leaves Bruce's eyes, he's looking at you with something softer. You feel known, uncomfortably so, as he waits for you to meet him there.

And when you do, you hate how you collapse into him. Even more, you hate that he takes you up into his arms, holding you steadfast, as understanding as you needed him to be with all your fear of admitting it. The solidness of his body reminds you of the night he'd first held you, and that just makes you cry harder.

It feels different from last time. Where there was armor is now warm skin, the likes of which you hadn't felt in a while. If you had told your past self you'd one day be standing in Batman's cave, hugging Bruce Wayne and crying over the permanence of your mistakes, you might have diagnosed yourself with head trauma.

You screw your eyes shut in a vain attempt to put the tears to rest, your freed hands practically clawing at Bruce's warm back for some purchase, some stability. He doesn't seem to mind. He just holds you closer.

After a few minutes, you force yourself to speak, sniffling away the last remaining tears you'd allow yourself to shed, "You said I wouldn't like it. Your plan. What is it?"

"To disappear."

You wrench yourself back. Bruce is dead serious. "What?"

"I've considered it from all angles-"

"What do you mean, 'disappear'?"

"All but one of the prisoners Dimitri broke out with are still missing. How do we know they're not all working together? How do we know that you luring him out won't draw them out too? You were the easiest target before, not anymore."

"Say what you mean, Bruce. What do you want me to do?"

"I want to hide you here," he winces as he says this, as if aware of his words only now that they're out in the open, "with me."

"You're shitting me."

After a while, Bruce's face hardens, "I told you you wouldn't like it."

Liking it or not liking it was nothing. You'd advanced past "like". You were firmly out of your depth here.

You slip out of Bruce's hold and he lets you, standing rather awkwardly as you rub a hand across your mouth. Despite earlier, it now feels uncomfortably dry. You glance at Bruce and then at his screen, the tab with your name and face plastered all over it hovering in the background. "You want me to disappear off the face of the earth while you track him down. Leave my home, leave the people I care about, abandon my job. You want me to hide."

"I don't know how else to protect you. Not until we figure out what we're up against." Bruce watches you spin away, scoffing into the air, "You noticed it when you fought him off, didn't you? Something was really wrong with him."

You see flashes of Dimitri's feral stare, the way he staggered and swung. He was like a rabid animal in a cage. "Of course there was, he was trying to kill me."

"Beyond that," Bruce insists, "he wasn't right. I've seen it before. He was on something."

"Most people are these days. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd... I don't know, gotten his hands on drops or something-"

"It wasn't drops. Gordon told me."

"The detective?"

"He said they found a syringe with traces of venom in it. Dimitri's shooting up. That's why he was so strong."

Your mouth drops open in disbelief, "Venom? Great. Somehow worse than Drops."

"If he's on that drug, he's definitely addicted. It also means you won't stand a chance against him. This is why I'm telling you to stay here," Bruce steps forward, eyes imploring yours. You're dumbstruck by the heavy earnestness there, "stay in the tower. Hide here for a few days. Let me handle this."

"If he's on venom, it means he doesn't think he can handle you on his own," you wring your hands, flitting through images of the Dimitri you remember, "he was always really small. Even at fourteen, he hadn't really sprung up. He was scrawny and small and couldn't defend himself. Suddenly Gordon's saying he's almost twice the size of what I remember. Have you ever fought someone on venom?"

"Once or twice, somewhere between fixes. Why?"

"General has this kind of... sedative that we use when we get patients dealing with the effects. It's not perfect, but it does help calm them down enough to help them. Maybe we can use it to help him."

"The strain is constantly changing," Bruce watches you deflate and clears his throat, "but if I can get that sedative, I can use it as a base to make a new one."

"You need clearance to get your hands on that stuff. I'm going with you."

"What part of disappear do you not understand?"

"One, I never agreed to do that, and two, if Batman gets caught stealing from a hospital, that'll make you public enemy number one. You need my help, so let me help you."

Bruce is looking away, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth even as you zero in on him. You're getting flashbacks of that same Bruce from when you'd first met him here in this tower. All tender-eyed, even as he tries to put on a face for you, "And I need a drink," you rub your temple next, catching a glimpse of Bruce watching you from his peripheral, "You've got those, don't you?"

It turns out Bruce has plenty. There's a whole cellar full of them, the kinds you see in MTV Cribs with the low recessed lighting and mahogany shelves gleaming with polish. It makes sense for him to have it, but less so when he tells you he doesn't actually drink any of it.

"You weren't drinking at the party, either. Even though everyone else thought you were." You brush your hand along the shelves, careful not to knock any bottles loose. "Is that a trick to keep people spilling secrets? Or to keep from spilling your own?"

Bruce hovers near the entrance with his arms folded and back pressed to the wall, carefully watching you peruse his selection, "Maybe I don't like the taste."

"That's good. Men in Gotham die from alcoholism at a higher rate than any other city in the state."

"Really?"

"Really. You don't smoke either." Bruce blinks at you, "Just get shot at. And stabbed."

He says nothing.

Your hand lands on a red aged older than your mother and you stand to the side, looking expectantly at him. You're afraid that if you try to pick it up, you might knock down the whole row.

Slowly, Bruce pushes himself off the wall and glides over to you, grabbing the neck of the bottle in one hand and looking to you for approval. You try not to shrink yourself when you nod.

You follow him out of the cellar, flinching when the lights dim behind you and the door rolls shut all on its own. He guides you to the kitchen where night still hangs over Gotham outside the window, but the time on the stove clock warns of early morning soon.

Bruce pulls out two glasses and fills yours with wine and his with cranberry juice from the fridge. You could almost laugh at the pairing.

Once he slides your glass to you, you take a seat at the island and take a sip, "I need to ask you something. I get now why you refused me at the station, but then you came back. Why did you change your mind? I mean, neither of us knew Russo would be dead when we got there. Were you just going to let me hate you?"

"Yes." His simple response draws a quick, stifled laugh out of you.

"Are you always this... chaotic?"

Bruce leans his elbows on the countertop, hunching in on himself, "I always meant to tell you who I was. I just didn't know when. And I didn't mind if you hated Bruce Wayne, but... you trusted Batman. I didn't want to break that trust. Even if it meant telling you earlier than I planned, I wanted to give you some closure."

You think about the fear that had paralyzed you back then, thinking that Bruce Wayne was some big, bad criminal hiding behind polite society. Then you think about the real man, hiding behind a mask. You fidget uncomfortably, struggling with feeling somewhere between grateful and nauseous. Your eyes catch the stitches on his shoulder and you itch to wipe away the dried blood that had dribbled from the cut, "You said you were looking for Dimitri when you got that. Did you..."

Bruce catches your eye when you fail to finish your question. "No," he answers solemnly, "which is only part of our problem." He stands to his full height, flexing bruised knuckles against the counter, "I ran into one of the guys that broke out with Dimitri tonight. That's who gave me this. Dimitri isn't working alone."

You frown, "Is he trying to shake you? Why leave clues at all?"

"Because these people want me dead. The guy from tonight? I booked him a year ago for trafficking women. Earlier led me to a fringe group of Falcone's."

"You've been looking for Dimitri all day?"

"I haven't stopped since we found Russo. I couldn't."

You rub your arms, feeling the room grow chiller by the second, "So... so he's leaving clues to people who hate you. To keep you occupied." Bruce nods. "So he can get to me?"

"After last night, he knows the Batman is on your side."

"Dimitri wasn't out when you got on the scene. Do you think maybe he's taking venom because these guys warned him about you?"

Bruce smirks, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip from his glass, "As a precaution, sure. And now he has reason to believe I know you. If he's going to go after you, he's going to shoot up each time."

"That stuff is nasty. You're big and scary when you're on it but as soon as the effects wear off-"

"You deflate like a balloon. It's also stupid expensive, so he's either got real generous prison pals or he's being used. It's why I need to know if he's working with the Vipers. They might be supplying him."

How you'd gone from an ordinary surgeon to a detective in the span of mere weeks was beyond you. You're beyond just treading water. You're diving into the abyss.

Your brain struggles to make real what is before you. Bruce, still shirtless, drinking delicately from a glass as he watches the night sky shimmer from the kitchen window. And you, sitting across from him, cracking open one of his family's expensive bottles that, frankly, puts your pantry vinos to shame. Playing vigilantes like schoolchildren. Except the blood on you both is very real.

Your arm throbs at being remembered for once tonight. Bruce notices you touch it, "You need to get some rest."

You know he's right, and you're not arguing for the sake of arguing when you say, "I can't sleep yet." But he can tell there's more on your mind as he waits silently, almost egging you on to lay yourself bare. You swear you're not arguing just for the sake of arguing, "And I don't want to disappear. I want to be alive."

Bruce says nothing. The silence isn't humiliating like you'd think it be, even if the first few seconds leave you feeling just as laid bare as you thought you would. No. It feels acknowledging. Understanding, even.

For the first time, you look at Bruce and feel like you understand him. If he was really Batman, then he would know better than anyone why you would want to put yourself in danger. But beneath that, with the meager knowledge of who Bruce Wayne is, you also think you understand him too.

He'd mentioned the survivor's guilt. While he'd played a much more innocent role in the whole ordeal, you couldn't imagine the weight on one's chest knowing that two people you love didn't get to go on but you did. It's a lot to ask of a child barely coming to understand the mortality of one's own keepers.

The choice to be alive for someone like that is a deliberate choice. Constantly made every morning.

"There is another way," Bruce muses, "but you'll like it even less."

"Don't leave me hanging."

"We could go public."

"What?"

"You said disappearing would mean abandoning your life. And it would. No one could know where you went, who you were with, but there's always the chance someone might slip up. It's the safest option but it's not what you want. So don't hide." Bruce's eye contact is deep and unwavering. Compared to earlier, he seems to trust you're willing to listen this time, "Be mine."

For the nth time tonight, you are rendered nearly speechless. Nearly. "Are you fucking with me?"

Bruce's eyes narrow, "No."

"Did you just... proposition me?"

"I made a proposal."

"You're asking me to date you."

"Publicly. Batman has more enemies than allies, but Bruce Wayne has the people. If you and I are publicly linked, it tells everyone looking for you that the world is watching. It makes you more visible, as well as anyone who comes after you."

"You haven't slept," you reason, "clearly. And you're delirious."

"I haven't slept, no." But he looks fairly sober for someone who hasn't slept in a day. He is a different breed, this Bruce Wayne.

You peer out the kitchen window and see the black sky dipping into a blue horizon, "Then sleep on it and come up with something better."

Bruce rounds the island until he's standing beside you, looking down at your barely touched wine, "There's some spare rooms upstairs. You can take your pick." It dawns on you that you may not be going back home any time soon. "You know your way around."

You suppose you deserve that dig.

Then he's leaving you, glasses abandoned, home for you to explore. You don't realize how thick the air had gotten with him right next to you until he's gone.

You half-expect Alfred to pop up somewhere nearby, but there's nothing. This far up, there is no city to listen for, no neighbors slamming doors. You are in a cold house all alone. You suddenly wish he'd stayed to keep you company, even if the weight of it was beginning to take its toll on you. Left alone, you only had the sunrise.

You watch until the sky has all but chased the night away, and then you head upstairs.

You didn't think you'd get much sleep in a stranger's bed, but you're being roused by a sharp, successive rapping at your door several hours later. It jolts you awake, kick-starting your heart, and you clumsily tumble out of the million thread count sheets to open the door.

Alfred stands there fully dressed for the day, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other still raised to knock. Upon seeing you, he lowers his fist, "Morning," he starts, looking away as soon as he meets your eyes, "breakfast is ready. Come get it before it's cold."

He does not give you a choice in the matter. He's already limping toward the staircase without another word.

After you get your heart to settle down, you follow after him, preening yourself as you pass hallway mirrors and portraits of the Wayne family through the generations. You hadn't come down this hallway when you'd found the terminus elevator, so you stumble to a stop in front of a portrait of a young Bruce grinning ear to ear.

It startles you. His eyes are soft, a gentle humming blue untouched by wrinkle or darkness. He must've been especially young here. Glancing at a nearby portrait of his parents, you find him the spitting image of his father. You look around and realize there are no portraits of Bruce at this age.

Bruce. He might be at breakfast, and the mere thought of having to discuss what occurred last night almost turns you right back around to the guest room, but your stomach rumbling begs you not to. You still walk quietly, peering around corners in case your stomach changed its mind.

You find you're cautious for naught when the only person standing in the kitchen is Alfred, chopping up fresh fruit.

"I hope you don't mind that I moved your things," he gestures with his paring knife to your surgical tools neatly congregated on the counter, "I cleaned them too."

"Oh. You didn't need to do that."

"There was blood, so I'm afraid I did." Alfred places a bit of pressure on "blood", and you quickly take note of his short tone.

Still, all the same, he then gestures to the island and implores you take a seat in front of an empty plate. Without asking, he begins pushing steaming hot food onto your plate, "Tea or coffee?" He asks, barely looking up at you.

"Uh, coffee is fine. Thanks." You watch Alfred pour you a mug and wonder if the awkwardness with him is any more preferable to the awkwardness with Bruce. Alfred is passive-aggressive, Bruce is... aggressive. You remember how the latter had left off your night together and find yourself feeling warmer toward Alfred. "How long have you been up?"

"Since 6, although I woke a few times through the night."

You wince, "Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I did think Bruce had invited you over under different circumstances, so... not as alarming, all things considered." Your grip on your fork slips and it clatters to the marble. Alfred barely reacts.

"He needed stitches." Is all you can get out.

"Yes, I'm well aware."

You glance up at him, "You saw?"

"When he first arrived home, yes. I was the one who helped stop the bleeding."

You stare at the coffee sweating in your cup, recalling something Bruce had mentioned last night, "Bruce said you were the one who used to stitch him up."

"Yes."

"If you were there, why-"

"It's what he pays you for, isn't it?" Alfred almost snaps back at you, slicing a strawberry into quarters with more edge than needed.

You recall something else next. The softness in Alfred's face the day you first came here, arguing with Bruce in the very room next door. You'd wondered what it had all been about.

"I've done alright, haven't I?"

"He said something else too," you start, careful as you choose your next words, "about how much you worry about him." You fiddle with your mug, pretending not to feel the heat of Alfred's eyes on you, "I think the reason he hired me is because he was worried about you."

You just catch the tail-end of Alfred's frown, "Worried about me? Why?"

You probably aren't close enough to either of these two to laugh about this, but you do anyway, "Isn't it kind of obvious?"

"Nonsense. We always discussed... if it would come to it, that if he were to pursue this life further, that he would recruit professionals who might aid him in his work. It was the natural thing to do."

"Maybe, yeah. But would he have really needed me if you weren't already doing everything else for him? You've taken good care of him this long. I mean, the aftercare you gave his bullet wound was exceptional. I accused him of talking to other doctors."

Alfred busies himself with scraping his strawberry halves into a bowl, "It's basic knowledge. You learn that kind of thing in the service."

"Or when you invited me to watch you two spar. You know his body probably better than he does. You're fantastic, Alfred." You couldn't say you weren't also trying to butter him up to better his feelings toward you, but you were speaking truth all the same.

In a very British way, he rebuts your compliments and spoons some fruit into a glass, beginning to layer some yogurt over top them, "Regardless of reason, you are here now, and I'll have you know that every part of your contract covers this. Wayne Enterprises will exhaust every possible legal tool at our leisure if you speak of any—any—of this to anyone. Master Bruce's identity is safely guarded, and regardless of his trust in you, I will not hesitate-"

"Whoa, whoa, hey. I would never tell anyone. Not after all Batman has done for me." You press a hand over your heart for emphasis, "He is just as much my patient as Bruce Wayne is, and he didn't have to pay me to take care of him."

Alfred still stares you down like a guard dog, paring knife still clutched in his fingers. After a moment, he looks away from you and points at your plate, "Eat. It's getting cold."

So you do. It's good so you say as much, counting any point toward his affection as a good thing. If you could get Alfred to trust you, you'd call that a win.

The tension in the air dissipates over time, and after you've licked your plate clean, you and Alfred are sharing coffee together. "Bruce isn't joining us?"

"I've stopped expecting him to be awake this early." You glance at the clock that reads 10:12. "He has adopted a near-fully nocturnal lifestyle."

"The night that he crawled through my window, he was there at the hospital the next morning like nothing happened. He doesn't do that often?"

"Before last year, it was a rare occurrence. While he's dedicated himself to his role more recently, if he can avoid it, he will."

You think back to what knowledge you do have on Bruce's charity work and his friendship with the Mayor. You'd worked shifts just as long, but you couldn't imagine showing up to work mere hours after getting shot in the stomach and having to put on a brave face about it. You almost feel bad for calling him out on it in front of everyone.

But then again, if you hadn't, would you even be sitting here?

You swirl the last vestiges of coffee in your cup, trying to picture a world in which you'd gone and found that empty office to nap in instead of toddling behind Rudy and Em and Alfred and Batman. The Batman.

The novelty of it brings a fresh wave of dizziness over you. You had been exposed to so much information over the course of the last 12 hours that it hadn't fully settled in on you what Bruce was. You didn't think that your brain would process it even if he was standing in cowl and cape right in front of you.

"I suppose you'll be staying with us for the near future, if Bruce has anything to say about it," Alfred stands from his chair beside you and puts your dishes in the sink, "shall I inform your security detail or would you like to?"

You don't know what to say to that. "I'm... I think I should talk this over with Bruce first. It may not need to come to that."

The butler shrugs. "I'll be attending to some house duties for the rest of the morning. Should you stay for lunch, let Dory know, hm?" You give him a weak nod and watch as he makes his way from the sink and heads down another hallway out of sight.

Not too long after Alfred leaves you, you hear the doorbell ring. Bruce hadn't mentioned to you that any guests would be here today, but then again, the two of you had had more important things to discuss last night. You check your reflection in the glass of the kitchen window, wondering if there were any hidden doors in the bookcases that could hide you from whatever Wayne Enterprises exec that was coming to talk business, but you wouldn't trust yourself not to break something in the process.

You hear two pairs of footsteps approaching from the elevator and turn to see who it might be. You first recognize Dory, fluttering between frantic small talk and making sure not to trip in her kitten heels as she guides her guest into the living room. You stiffen as soon as you see him.

Detective Gordon catches your eyes instantly, his own widening. Dory says something about going to fetch Bruce before she quickly ascends the stairs, leaving you and James staring at each other across the distance. In one hand is a notepad and pencil, and the other fixes his tie, almost as if at a loss for words. He greets you, hesitantly leaving where Dory had left him to approach you, "I saw the boys out front but... I didn't expect to see you here."

"Me neither." You reply. "Is everything okay?"

James glances up at the stairs as he passes underneath, "That depends. I followed up on your request."

Shit. Of course a cop would do their job when you least expect it. You slip out of your chair and rush to meet him halfway into the kitchen, "Did... did you find something?"

"I can't say much right now. I'd like to talk to Mr. Wayne, but-" The sound of Dory's heels clacking against the wooden stairs makes James lower his voice, "-you being here complicates things."

Bruce is wearing a shirt this time, thankfully, though you're not expecting him to look as put together this early after what Alfred had said. He towers behind Dory's much smaller frame in a pair of loose black pants and a matching turtleneck, looking in a fashionable state of undress as he pads barefoot into the room. With hair slicked back and stubble freshly shaved, he doesn't look like someone caught unaware. He's fixing the sleeve of his sweater when he extends a hand to Detective Gordon, bright smile and all, "Detective James Gordon, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced. If this is a bad time, I can come back." James gestures to you.

Bruce's look at you is empty, devoid of any detectable emotion or thought. It strikes you as unsettling, the same way a cashier at the end of their shift isn't really looking at you, "Oh, no. I was just on my way to work when I felt unwell. I called my doctor over but it was nothing to worry about. A little stomach bug, is all."

You do look like you'd just come over in a rush. You're still in your lounge clothes from the night before, and your medical supplies are still in the kitchen where Alfred had left them. James seems to notice, but he doesn't look any more relaxed. "That's good to hear. I don't want to keep you too long, but truth is, I have some questions I'd like to ask you if you have the time."

"Is something wrong?" James glances between you and Bruce, something the latter doesn't miss, "is it sensitive?"

"It's about the party you threw here the other night, Mr. Wayne. For Mayor Reál. I hear you invited quite a few Gotham politicians to celebrate the passing of the mayor's new bill, correct?"

"That's correct."

"And I understand you're quite invested in Gotham politics in general, much like your father."

"I am. My mother and father were very interested in the city, and Mayor Reál breathed new life into that for me after the election. I do what I can to support the cause."

"And that cause is...?"

Bruce takes the skeptical tone on the chin, smiling wider, "A safer, fairer Gotham. For everyone."

This Bruce was nothing like the Bruce you had all to yourself. He taps into that persona from the party with ease. Watching him is like watching a performance. "That's good, good. I notice you try to make an effort with charities in the city, donations and the like. You recently donated a new wing to Gotham General."

"I did. Increasing access to medical care for the citizens is important to me. My doctor, a talented surgeon at General, knows this well." You flash a timid smile when both Bruce and James look to you.

"And you also financially support politicians in Gotham."

"Occasionally. Anyone I feel has Gotham's best interests in mind."

"And have you found members of Gotham's political parties to be unusually forward in requesting your support, Mr. Wayne? Perhaps a little too pushy, maybe."

Bruce wears confusion well, "Not necessarily. I'm not easily pressured into doing things I have no interest in."

"Of course. How about any attempts to win over your support? Publicly or otherwise."

"I'm not sure what you're asking, detective. I'd love to help, but I don't think I have the information you're looking for."

James nods, holding his chin high, "My apologies. I should've been clear from the beginning. My question is: have any politicians or members of law enforcement offered you anything in exchange for your financial or public support? I have reason to believe there may be someone with high clearance exchanging confidential information with civilians. Especially ones who can pay. I'm just looking for a lead."

James frames his question well, even though any fat cat familiar with the cops could see the hidden question. Bruce frowns, tilts his head, shaking it slowly, "That's awful. I don't currently know of anyone doing such a thing, to me or anyone else. But I can keep an eye out. I can only imagine how dangerous that might be."

"Exactly. We'd like to nip it in the bud as soon as possible."

"Of course. Do you have a card? Perhaps I can contact you if I hear anything."

James fishes out his card and hands it over, "I don't want to put you in a bad position, only pass along what you know if you feel safe enough to do so."

You notice Bruce is flicking the business card between his fingers as a fidget, though he keeps his attention respectfully on the detective. "Absolutely. Thank you, detective. Dory can show you to the door."

The detective nods and follows Dory out of the room. As soon as the two are out of earshot, Bruce's expression softens as he presses his back into the counter. You wish you could sink into the floor. "To be fair," you begin, "I didn't think he'd find anything."

Bruce side-eyes you, "That was you?"

"I thought my criminal boss was going to blackmail me to keep his secrets."

"Criminal boss." You think he's trying to mock you, but his eyes are surprisingly guilty when he looks at you, "Alfred wasn't kidding. I really didn't handle this well."

"No, not really." You don't mean to kick him while he's down, but you can't lie either. Even now, you were still making meaning out of this whole thing.

By all means, you've gone from knowing nothing about him, to understanding even less, to fearing him, to this. With Batman on the other hand, you'd felt nothing but loyalty and trust in him up until the very last second. Now they were both the same person, and the meager hours of sleep you'd gotten hadn't cleared all that up just yet.

You wonder who you're supposed to see now. Batman or Bruce Wayne? Why was the line separating them blurring the more you thought of them?

"So, did you ever come up with a better idea?"

Bruce does not offer one. You'd dreaded that.

"You already know what I think. No matter how we go about this, there's going to be something. So what do you want to do?" Bruce's eyes follow your ever minute expression, laser-focused on you. "Whatever you choose, I will keep you safe. I promise you."

He feels so staunchly Batman in this moment, even with the soft voice of Bruce, watching over you. Through all your uncertainty, this you believe him on.

And you're exhausted, you find. Your arm is beginning to throb again. You crave the reprieve of a bed but not your own, to your surprise.

"I'm going to trust you, Bruce," your voice wobbles as you say it out loud, "I'm going to trust you like I trust Batman."

Bruce holds eye contact with you for a few moments, "Okay."

"Can I ask... why are you dressed so nice?"

"We're going to get the sedative."

"You're going as Bruce?"

"It's the middle of the day. Yes, I'm going as Bruce. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

You fluster, suddenly reconsidering this entire plan. You'd pictured Batman skulking on the rooftop while you Mission Impossible'd your way into the medicine cabinets for what you needed. Walking in with him—the real him—would draw attention you didn't need, "You're only going to make me look suspicious."

"I'm your patient, and more importantly, I'm a donor."

"You will stick out like a sore thumb."

"That means when people are looking at me, they're not looking at you." You open your mouth to argue but he's already cutting you off, "Do you want me to drop you off at your place or do you want me to send someone to get your things?"

You're aware of what he's really asking.

You heave a sigh, "Drop me off. I can't promise Judith won't hurt someone if she finds a stranger in my house."

a/n: mj stop having the reader move in with bruce when their life is put in imminent danger challenge impossible

[lazycats-stuff]

Hi! Could you do a Batfam x teen reader, where the reader does illegal street race, he sneaks out at night to go those race, and the Batfam found out about it !

Thank you ;)

I sure can do!

Summary: (Y/N) races illegally. The family doesn't know.

Warnings: illegal racing, (Y/N) is skilled, Bruce is mad, Jason is impressed, Damian is proud, Bruce is just done,

(Y/N) loved his dad and he often shared his interests with him. He also shared everything with his brothers. But he was harboring a secret that he couldn't tell anyone. He loved cars, which was not a secret to his family.

What was the secret?

(Y/N) raced illegally. Bruce knew that (Y/N) loved cars, but what he didn't know is that (Y/N) knew how to drive. Bruce had plans to get (Y/N) his license when he turned 18 years old, but when he was so young?

Not happening, at least in Bruce's eyes.

However, (Y/N) had an important night tonight. Last time he was on the track, a cocky bastard thought that he was better than him. (Y/N) gladly excepted.

If there was one thing that Bruce has taught him that he uses everyday, it's the fact that you should fear a person who doesn't brag about his skills. You can easily beat someone who brags. But the one who is silent?

Yeah, that will be a much more difficult task. H

Now he had to make a plan on how to sneak out. He had to wait until they went on patrol and until Alfred went down to the cave to make sure that nobody sees him.

He took his phone and looked into the hall. Alfred went into Bruce's office a few minutes prior, so he must be halfway down. (Y/N) took the opportunity to quietly walk to the garage. He tapped his pocket for the car key, checking to see if his favorite car key was in there.

That car is his baby and he would be damned if he didn't use his favorite. Bruce bought him this car last year and (Y/N) took great care of it. He cleaned it, washed it and took it outside to drive, but only in the property boundaries.

Now it was time to beat that shit head.

(Y/N) sighed in relief as he parked the car. He walked through the crowds, just enjoying the energy. It was just free, no stress, but it was also buzzing with excitement. Usually there were friendly races and talks about upgrades on your cars.

Tonight, it was a race with (Y/N) and the shit head who challenged him. (Y/N) still remembers how he first started. Everyone was nervous to have a Wayne kid, thinking that he wanted to get on the top with a snap of his fingers.

But (Y/N) kept his head down, was humble and respectful towards everyone and he showed his skills to everyone and he proved himself. He became very well liked and he made a good friend here, named Aaron.

" Hey (Y/N)! " Aaron said loudly to drown out the chatter of the other people. " Are you ready for the race? " He asked, smirking as (Y/N) pushed him away.

" Of course I am. " (Y/N) answered, accepting a water bottle from Aaron.

" I still can't believe somebody is so stupid. " Aaron mused to himself, shaking his head. (Y/N) is the best racer here and the fact that somebody new is so dense to think that he could beat him so stupid. Of course, (Y/N) is not invincible and unbeatable, but new people are often warned that (Y/N) is the best racer here.

But that doesn't stop people from challenging him. (Y/N) never hated being challenged, in fact, he loved it. No matter who it was, (Y/N) liked the challenge. Only if they aren't cocky and obnoxious about their skills.

The shit head is obnoxious beyond belief and there was nothing that could change (Y/N)'s mind. Absolutely nothing.

" Did you check the car? " Aaron said as they turned back to walk back to the car.

" I did. Yesterday, I didn't have a chance to do it today. I can't let my dad know what I'm doing. " (Y/N) confessed to Aaron who nodded in sympathy.

Aaron and (Y/N) are good friends and (Y/N) confided that this secret was a big burden on him. He didn't tell him about their night jobs of course, but he did tell Aaron that his dad has a very set moral standing. Of course, nothing is black and gray, but he would be mad if he found out.

" I know, but lets check it now. John should be somewhere near by to check it. "

John is (Y/N)'s mechanic and his mentor in a way. He took (Y/N) under his wing when he has first arrived here. John loves his job more than anything and has admitted that he sees (Y/N) as a son. The two had a very strong bond and they both cared about each other.

" Hey son. " John said, looking at the car. (Y/N) said hey back and gave him a quick side hug.

" How is the car looking? " Aaron asked, walking up to the duo.

" She looks good. Very well taken care of. Good job. " John praised, popping the hood open. (Y/N) smiled to himself, happy that his mentor was pleased.

" The engine looks good. I want you to wipe the floor with that shit head. " John said, closing the hood down.

" Yup. I heard him bragging. " Aaron said, groaning after seeing the shit head move through the crowd towards them. " And he is coming here. " Aaron said and John frowned at the shit head.

" Here is the famous Wayne. " He said, getting into (Y/N)'s face.

" Yup. I would suggest that you step away from me. " (Y/N) said, raising his chin. He level him with a bat glare that Bruce taught him. The shit head stepped back. " Now, if you are here to brag about your non existent skills, go back to wherever you crawled out of. " (Y/N) said and the shit head huffed.

" Go back to your car and get ready. " Aaron said, leading (Y/N) to sit in the car. The shit head moved, his groupie following him.

" If you don't wipe the floor with him, you are going to be in trouble. " John threatened (Y/N), glaring at the stupid kid who was walking away to his car.

" I will wipe the floor with him. " (Y/N) confirmed.

" Good. " Aaron muttered, shaking his head.

(Y/N) laughed as he stopped the car. He won by a landslide and he proves why he is so good. He got out of the car and hugged Aaron tightly.

" You did it! Ha! Take that you ass! " Aaron yelled at the shit head who walked off.

John congratulated (Y/N), giving him a hug. There was cheering and clapping and (Y/N) smiled. This felt nice. This is what he loved about this place.

" I knew you would do it. " John said, patting his back.

Everything felt nice.

" The police is here! "

Now that is not nice. Everyone scrambled to run away, but (Y/N) froze as he heard a familiar rumble of the Batmobile. Oh dear God no. Shit. Hell no. Not happening. Nope. This is not good.

" (Y/N) we have to go. " Aaron said, pulling him with him.

" Leave me. I will hold them off. " (Y/N) said, shaking his head. Aaron and John looked conflicted, but nodded when they saw the look in his eyes.

Turns out it wasn't the police, just Batman and the rest of the family. (Y/N) took a deep breath as he watched the Batmobile come to a stop. At the moment, (Y/N) was scared.

What were they going to say?

His dad stepped out of the car, in his suit, Batman persona on.

" Hey dad. " (Y/N) said sheepishly.

" Please don't tell me you are racing illegally. " He said and (Y/N) looked away.

" Oh no. " Bruce said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

" Do you at least win? " Jason asked as he walked up to (Y/N)'s car.

" I do. " (Y/N) said, eyes still locked on the ground.

" That's my brother. " Jason smiled underneath his mask.

" Good. You would be a disgrace to the family otherwise. " Damian piped in out of nowhere.

Dick sighed, shaking his head. " (Y/N), that is very dangerous. "

" And what you lot do isn't? " (Y/N) retorted, finally finding some strength to talk back.

" And what do you think Tim? " (Y/N) asked. He just looked at the car, then back at (Y/N).

" I mean, you really aren't hurting anybody. You are smart and you know how to avoid trouble. You know how to not get hurt. " Tim explained and Bruce sighed.

" Okay. We are going to have a talk after we all sleep. I'm going to say something that I will regret later. (Y/N) in the Batmobile, Dick you are driving his car. "

(Y/N) wanted to protest, but was silenced with a glare from his father. He sighed quietly as he went to the Batmobile. This is going to be an interesting conversation.

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 4/12)

AHHH HERE WE GO, ENJOY!!!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: wayne is in town and eddie thinks he kind of hates you... maybe

contains: enemies to lovers trope, smoking, drug and alcohol use, scary and sticky feelings, king richie being king richie, and eddie thinks you taste sweet <3

word count: 3.8k

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| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

Eddie’s going insane, he thinks.

There’s something wrong with him. Something seriously wrong.

It’s been two days since Eddie slept in your room. Forty-eight hours have passed since you so graciously offered him the peace and solace of your extra hotel bed, and Eddie has yet to stop thinking about you.

The morning after sleeping in your room, Eddie snuck out as quietly as possible to avoid any awkward conversation, even if nothing was particularly awkward about the situation. He didn’t want to have to thank you for letting him stay with you, and he knew that if he’d waited until you woke up, he would have to thank you. So, he escaped first thing in the morning, as any avoidant and coward-like person would do.

He spent all day with fleeting thoughts of you— remembering the sight of you smiling under the light of the TV, the sound of you laughing, the visual of you swallowed beneath fluffy sheets and pillows, pouty lips parted to let out the cutest, most annoying, and fucking nerve-grating snores that gently lulled Eddie to sleep. 

He spent time wondering what you were doing, how you looked and sounded in the morning, and being annoyed with himself for depriving himself of the chance to witness that. He wondered if you looked for him when you realized he was no longer in the room— if you were annoyed that he left without saying anything, or if you didn’t care. God, why does he care? It’s not like you two fucked, he just crashed in your room.

That same morning, Eddie had the phantom of your scent all around him. Soft, inviting, and all things alluring, and Eddie wanted to sink his teeth into it and gnaw at it like some fucking teething dog. What the fuck?

There’s something wrong.

However, those weird and unwanted feelings have died down since Eddie hasn’t seen you in the past forty-eight hours. Granted, that’s probably because he’s been subconsciously avoiding you like the plague, which has been relatively easy, considering they’ve been on a short break.

Thankfully, Eddie had a solid reason as to why he fled your room so early that morning— to pick up Wayne from the airport. He took Wayne to a breakfast diner and treated him to a warm meal and coffee to ease the stress of traveling from his bones. 

And Wayne has never been to New York, so Eddie took the time to show him around. Eddie’s been to the city many times, and he likes to think he’s somewhat of a pro now that he knows his way around the subway. Eddie swears learning the subway was easier than passing senior year, and that says something.

After breakfast, Eddie took Wayne to the Brooklyn Bridge, where they could see the Statue of Liberty in the distance. From there, they took a cab to Times Square so Wayne could witness the absolute chaos that is New York City. They spent some time in Times Square, watching street performances and snacking on greasy foods, and they had a good time until a few people spotted Eddie.

Wayne always tells Eddie he doesn’t mind fans coming up to them and enjoys watching Eddie interact with his supporters. Still, Eddie gets weary of crowds becoming rowdy around anybody he loves, so he tries to keep the interactions to a minimum when he’s out with company.

And Wayne isn’t much of an expressive person, but Eddie’s been around him long enough to read his microexpressions easily and understand that Wayne seemed to like New York so far.

Eddie hasn’t told Wayne about Gareth, partly because he knows he’ll get a long talk about how violence solves nothing, but more importantly, because Eddie doesn’t want to admit that Wayne was right about Chrissy. 

Wayne never trusted Chrissy all that much. Chrissy was friendly, respectful, and all things socially acceptable, but she lacked in the caring department. Wayne didn’t like that Chrissy never supported Eddie’s dreams, never showed up to a single show, or didn’t even bother learning the lyrics to at least one song. She didn’t care to show up for Eddie, but Eddie was always there for her. Always.

Chrissy was greedy with love, and Wayne saw right through her innocent act.

And given that Wayne is quite the expert at seeing people for who they really are, Eddie doesn’t understand why he doesn’t see through your innocent act.

It’s Wayne’s third night in New York when you finally cross paths. You’d been passing by each other in the hotel lobby; Eddie, Wayne, and Richie leaving while you were on your way in— and Eddie was content with ignoring you, but god, you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?

 “You must be the infamous Wayne,” You smile as you shake the older man’s hand. Eddie stands between Wayne and Richie as he stuffs his hands in his pockets while Wayne greets you, pursing his lips and rocking on the heels of his feet as you and Wayne share a short introduction— Richie snickers beside him.

“You three look fancy; what’s the occasion?” You wonder aloud. Wayne smiles, and Eddie doesn’t know when Wayne became so kind to strangers, especially annoying strangers. “Eddie here is treating us to dinner,” Wayne explains, reaching over to pat Eddie’s stiff shoulder. Eddie thinks that may be your indication to leave, but he’s sadly mistaken when Richie adds, “Have you eaten yet? Would you like to tag along?”

Eddie thinks the age is getting to Richie’s head because Richie must be out of his fucking mind. 

His head snaps to glare at Richie, about to cut in until you speak up, “Oh! I couldn’t; I don’t want to impose.” You shake your head with a kind smile. Good, Eddie thinks. Don’t impose, stay far a-fucking-way.

But Richie— god, Eddie can’t believe Richie, “Ah, the more, the merrier,” he waves you off, “And the rockstar will pay for us. Who turns down a free meal?” Wayne jumps in, causing you to erupt in soft laughter.

Eddie has to end this, obviously.

“The reservation is for three,” Eddie chips in, and finally, the three of you acknowledge his presence, turning to him as he shifts on his feet. “And we don’t have time to wait for you to get ready.” He adds, pursing his lips and shrugging in an ‘oh well’ gesture.

If Eddie weren’t watching you so intently, he wouldn’t have noticed the tiny shift of you caving into yourself, but he does, and he kind of feels bad for a quick second. He doesn’t know why he feels bad because he wasn’t even lying. The reservation was for three, and with New York traffic, they should’ve been on their way roughly fifteen minutes ago.

You open your mouth to respond, probably throw in the flag and let the three men be on their way, but Richie opens his fucking mouth again, “Well, we can wait, and I’m sure you can pull some strings for a third chair, son.”

And Eddie could. He can definitely get a fourth seat because he’s friends with the restaurant owner, but Eddie doesn’t want to. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to pay for your goddamn meal, but, as always, despite Eddie’s wishes, Richie insists you tag along. 

He, Wayne, and Richie end up sitting in the lobby waiting for you to get dressed in your room. Wayne and Richie are sitting on opposite sides of the couch, Wayne quietly flipping through a magazine and Richie mindlessly people-watching as Eddie impatiently bounces his leg and pouts in the seat across them. Wayne doesn’t bother looking at Eddie when he says, “You’re gonna leave a dent in the floor, son.”

Eddie glares at Wayne and Richie, “Why did you invite her?” He snaps.

Wayne flips the page of the flimsy book, heavily sighing and shifting in his seat, “This is the girl you mentioned at breakfast, right?”

Richie snickers and raises an eyebrow at Eddie, “You mentioned Birdie at breakfast? That’s interesting.” He jokes, to which Eddie grumbles a short and snippy, “Shut up.”

And yeah, maybe Eddie did mention you to Wayne, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t like that, okay? You just piss Eddie off, and now that he’s not on good terms with Gareth, and Jeff is too busy with his head stuck up his girlfriend's ass, Eddie has nobody to turn to for a good rant, and Wayne— well, Wayne was just there. 

“Yes. But did you also hear me mention that I can’t stand her, or did you just stop listening after I said her name?” Eddie grumbles. Wayne smiles behind the magazine, and Eddie can hear it in his voice when he responds, “No, I heard it all… sounded like a load of bullshit.” 

Richie laughs, but Eddie ignores it as his face twists in confusion at Wayne’s words, “Excuse me?”

Wayne closes the magazine and looks at Eddie, “Boy, did fame take away what little common sense you had? You don’t hate the girl.”

Before Eddie can respond to Wayne’s encrypted comment, you appear, pulling their attention, “Thank you for waiting; I hope I wasn’t too long,” you huff while hastily adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder.

For a moment, Eddie doesn’t remember what he was groveling about or that he kind of hates you.

And you’ve always been pretty. Eddie never thought you were ugly, and quite honestly, if you’d met under different circumstances and you weren’t a pain in the ass, Eddie might’ve fucked you. But Eddie’s hatred for you outshined your beauty… most of the time. However, that film of dusty and grey disdain has been clearing recently, and Eddie’s not sure if he should turn away or keep looking because you’re breathtaking.

He doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the dress you’ve chosen and how perfectly crafted it is for you, how the colors compliment your skin in an achingly perfect way. Maybe it’s the way your eyeliner is slightly smudged and smoky from your rushed movements to avoid being late for the reservation. Or maybe Eddie’s just lost his mind right along with Wayne and Richie. For now, he’ll stick with the latter.

Eddie stands up with a loud huff, “Let's go. Before they give someone else our table.” He grumbles, brushing past you and walking off without another word.

Eddie misses the slight and amused smirk on Wayne’s lips.

Wayne, you come to learn, is funny.

You’d thought the ride to the restaurant would be awkward, given that Eddie clearly doesn’t want you here, but Wayne and Richie left no room for the tension to rise. They both told stories and jokes the entire drive, and by the time you arrived at the restaurant, your stomach was sore from laughter. Honestly, you’re not sure how Wayne raised Eddie only for Eddie to end up like… Eddie. Wayne is kind and inviting and all things opposite of Eddie. You almost believe they’re tricking you.

“Since when did you become a stand-up comedian, Wayne?” Eddie sarcastically asks as he opens the door to the restaurant. Wayne had just made a joke about how Eddie was a troublemaker in high school, which Eddie clearly didn’t think was funny, given the scowl on his face.

“I’ve always been a comedian, son.” Wayne pats Eddie on the back as he steps into the fancy establishment. You glance at Eddie and thank him for holding the door as you follow behind Wayne, Richie stepping in behind you.

Eddie was able to get a change of tables, so you were able to join, and you thanked him on your way to the table as the waiter walked you all to your new designated seats. Eddie either didn’t hear you, or he didn’t care to respond; either way, you don’t take it to heart.

Once you reach your table, Wayne and Richie take the seats on the other side of the table, leaving you no other option but to take the seat next to Eddie. Eddie scoffs upon this realization, and you subconsciously chew the inside of your cheek as you settle in the chair.

For the most part, dinner goes by smoothly. You suppose Eddie’s distasteful attitude diffused once the food satiated his hunger— and you think Eddie has the character of a toddler that’s missed their nap time, and a part of you thinks it’s cute, watching him huff and fuss until he’s happily eating. You try your best to focus on the plate of food in front of you and the conversations between the four of you, but you often find yourself glancing over at Eddie. 

Because the way Eddie moves is like a movie.

Animated and smooth and all things annoyingly beautiful. The way he speaks with his hands, the way his hair brushes and sways back and forth over his shoulders when he shifts, the sound his rings make when clinking against the silverware. The way his cheeks carve lines when his lips stretch in a smile-soaked laugh, and his eyes widen when he gets excited while telling a story.

It’s captivating.

And a few days ago, you’d thought the wine was the cause for your unwanted attraction, but alas.

You blink away the haze of your short-lived trance and resume eating. Better to leave that road untouched.

Despite Eddie’s low expectations, dinner was good.

He had a nice plate full of food he couldn’t be bothered to learn how to pronounce and a glass of whiskey to wash it down. Wayne and Richie held a good conversation, though those two have always gotten along well since Richie entered Eddie’s life. Richie and Eddie tell Wayne all about life on the road, updating him on the craziest shows and sights, and Wayne informs Eddie about everybody back home.

The kids are soaking up their last weeks of freedom before college, and Max even got a nose piercing, “Somehow, that made her even more of a firecracker, that kid.” Wayne joked.

Wayne says he doesn’t know much about the older half of them, but he runs into one of them every now and then at the grocery store and such, and Eddie makes a mental note to call and check in before the holidays.

And then there’s you.

Eddie wanted to believe you were ruining the vibe of dinner, but you annoyingly made it… better. 

You eased into the atmosphere as if you weren’t a complete stranger, asking questions about Hawkins and adding stories of your childhood in Michigan. Eddie had expected you to shy away for most of the dinner since they were mostly discussing things you weren’t there for, but you were as involved as the three of them, if not more.

And Wayne and Richie adore you.

Richie has always made it known that he has no problem with you, and some might even think the two of you have a relationship akin to a father and daughter. But Richie has always been that way. He’s always quick to accept people into their circle and give them a chance. 

But Eddie didn’t expect Wayne to warm up to you as quickly as he did.

Wayne is usually wary of strangers, and just like Eddie, Wayne hates the media. Wayne witnessed the hell Eddie initially went through with the press— messy rumors and misconstrued words— and when Eddie almost threw in the towel for good, Wayne was there to wrap it back around Eddie’s knuckles and shove him back into the game. So, you can imagine the confusion reeling through Eddie’s mind when Wayne immediately becomes fond of you.

It’s annoying and stupid, and Eddie thinks you might be a witch because you have everybody under this weird spell that makes them like you. 

After dinner, everyone decided to enjoy the nice weather on a walk back to the hotel. Even though Eddie would’ve much rather liked to call a car and make it back to the hotel in less than ten minutes, he can admit that it feels nice to just walk around in light conversation. He doesn’t get much of this anymore. Most days, Eddie is busy doing shows, writing songs, talking to the press, and rolling through each day, so he doesn’t have the time to have simple and lighthearted moments like these.

He’s walking beside Richie, blowing through a cigarette and listening to Richie ramble on about… well, Eddie’s not sure what Richie is talking about because he’s so focused on you.

A few paces ahead of Richie and Eddie, you and Wayne walk together, wrapped up in an intriguing conversation, considering how intently you seem to be listening. You’re watching where you’re stepping, but you routinely turn to Wayne and nod to let him know you’re listening, and every now and then, you even glance back at Eddie and Richie with a soft smile.

And you’re so fucking cute for that.

Eddie thinks he might admire you for that— for being so kind and attentive to Wayne. And you’re like that with everyone: kind and perceptive in a way that makes people feel like they matter, like every word they speak matters. But this… this is different, Eddie thinks.

He’s unsure what it is, but seeing how you interact with Wayne makes his chest warm— like he’s drinking tea on a cold autumn day. Like he’s spent the day shivering in a cold building only to step out into a sunny sky and thaw the cold from his ribs.

It’s endearing, watching you.

Chrissy was never close with Wayne in any way, shape, or form. And although Eddie would’ve loved to see Chrissy interact and get along with Wayne, it just never happened. Not because Wayne was adamant about hating Chrissy or because Chrissy hated Wayne but because they just… never clicked. (And yeah, maybe Wayne disliking Chrissy had something to do with that, but that’s neither here nor there.)

And Wayne is a big part of Eddie’s life. He’s the main reason why Eddie is where he is today and not following in his deadbeat father's footsteps. 

Wayne is Eddie’s family.

And the fact that you can acknowledge that and treat their relationship with such respect and care— it makes Eddie feel things that he’s not very keen on feeling.

But the moment of admiration for you is quickly shattered when he catches a snippet of your and Wayne’s conversation.

“You’re a good journalist, I take it. Will I be getting interviewed for this article, too?” Wayne jokes, and you laugh, “If you’d like to, I'm sure I can make the time before you leave.” You respond.

And Eddie doesn’t like that. He hates that actually.

It’s nearly one in the morning when Eddie knocks on your door. They returned from dinner hours ago and called it a night, but Eddie is standing at your hotel room door, knocking at one in the morning. It’s a heavy and loud knock, enough to wake you out of the deep slumber you’d been in, given the way you grimace when you open the door.

You rub your eyes, blinking a few times before settling into a visible state of confusion once you realize the person in front of you is Eddie. You clear the sleep from your throat before sleepily blinking at Eddie and asking if everything is okay. 

Eddie doesn’t waste time cutting to the chase, “Are you trying to get my uncle in your piece?”

And yeah, maybe the question could have waited until tomorrow, and maybe the question is dumb and not all that serious considering it was clearly a joke, but Eddie smoked a blunt and couldn’t stop thinking about you— and looking at you now, god, Eddie believes if he hadn’t smoked too much to teeter on the edge of paranoid, he’d kiss you. You’re so cute; painted toes digging into the plush carpet (he thinks he should ask if you’ve iced your ankle tonight), oversized shirt hanging over your body like a blanket, messy imprinted lines of sheets on your cheek from your slumber, and a cute little frown gracing your lips. Eddie’s chest tightens.

“…Huh?”

Eddie almost forgot you were stupid.

“Wayne. Are you interviewing him for the article?” Eddie repeats.

You blink a few times, glancing around the empty hallway and shaking your head, “Eddie, this— this couldn’t have waited?” Your voice teeters on the edge of whiney as you speak.

Eddie raises an eyebrow, and you huff, rubbing your eyes again before shrugging, “No, I— I don’t think so. I mean… he’s the one who offered to talk. I’m down to do it if he’d like—” “That’s not happening.”

Your eyebrows pinch together in confusion, “Excuse me?”

Eddie shakes his head, “Leave Wayne out of your stupid piece, okay? I don’t want you interviewing him, asking him stupid questions, and twisting his words. He doesn’t need any of that shit.”

And you blink up at him like you’re having trouble processing what he’s saying, and Eddie really wants to fucking kiss you. 

Too much weed, he thinks. He should’ve never smoked that much after such a long T-break.

“Um,” you hum, taking a moment to register Eddie’s words before speaking, “Okay… I didn’t realize I had overstepped. I won’t interview Wayne.” You respond. Kind, polite, sweet, and all things that make Eddie’s brain waves spike.

You yawn into the back of your hand, “Can I— can I go back to sleep now?”

And you’re standing there, blinking up at Eddie with these soft and pretty eyes, and Eddie thinks… Eddie thinks, fuck it.

Now, Eddie hadn’t exactly planned to come here and kiss you. Or maybe he had; he’s not exactly sure at this point, but he can’t find it in himself to care because kissing you feels better than any drug Eddie could ever get his hands on.

Your lips are soft and sweet and taste like the lip balm you’d applied before bed. And here, this close to you, Eddie can smell the shampoo in your hair, the clean, scented body wash you use, and the fresh linen lingering scent of the hotel sheets, and it’s intoxicating. 

You’re shocked at first; Eddie can tell from how still your lips are, but when you realize that Eddie is kissing you, god, Eddie nearly melts.

You kiss like nobody Eddie has ever kissed before. Like you’ve spent years perfecting every single move, calculated and precise and all things electrifying. And if this is how you kiss when you’re grumpy and sleepy, Eddie can’t imagine how you kiss regularly.

But he shouldn’t be imagining that, and he shouldn’t be kissing you, and he shouldn’t even be here, for fucks sake! 

It takes nearly everything in Eddie's body and soul to pull away from you, and it pains him when he loses the feeling of your lips against his, but Jesus Christ, Eddie doesn’t know what came over him.

You look at him in shock, almost like you’ve seen a ghost, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do or say.

All he can do is turn around and go back to his room without another word, leaving you speechless and confused, with only the echo of his door slamming to aid both of your whirling thoughts.

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part five

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a/n: GASSSPPP A KISS ?? LMAOO NEXT PART WILL BE A BIT MORE DRAMA FILLED SO LOCK IN BESTIES! AS ALWAYS, I LOVE ALL AND ANY FEEDBACK SO PLS LMK HOW U FEEL <3

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cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2 @mvnsonslvt @s-u-t @hereforshmut @welcometohellsock @lma1986 @animechick555 @sheneedsrocknroll92

[martyrsex]

Jason Todd x Singer reader (fem) Part 2

Author's note: First of all, thanks everyone for the amazing feedback of the first part! It made me a happier person.

summary: After the first repercussions of what you said in Kurt's interview, your agent decided it was time to do a show in Gotham. Nothing could go wrong... Right?

Here's part one: https://www.tumblr.com/margotwhites/742612810749591552/jason-todd-x-singer-reader-fem

__________________________________________________

Jason doesn't know how he ended up in the line for your show. He was at Wayne's Manor, chilling, and Steph, Babs and Dick suddenly grabbed him, made him take a shower and put a nice outfit (that they choose), a perfume and get his hair done.

And now he is on the line for the VIP entrance of your show in Gotham. The interview you did happened just two weeks ago, and suddenly there was an announcement in your social media about a show in one of the Gotham's city biggest stadium.

He didn't like the idea. Everybody knows what happens in shows at Gotham City. There's always some lunatic ready to fuck up the whole thing, always people getting hurt. That's exactly why he didn't refuse going to the show: if any shit happens, he prefers to be there to be able to kick the ass of whatever idiot that causes the commotion.

He just didn't expected to end up in the VIP.

"How much did you pay for this?" Jason asks Dick, staring at the small concert VIP bracelet that was placed around his wrist.

"It doesn't matter." Dick says, dismissively. Babs and Steph share a look and both start to giggle. Jason arches an eyebrow, but doesn't insist on the matter. He sighs, putting his hands on the pockets of his dark jeans.

If he was being honest, he wasn't a huge fan. Yeah, some musics were good, and overall you had talent, but it was simply not his style of music.

The line finished and they entered the VIP room; where after to show they would have access to the backstage. And actually meet you. Jason is not dumb, he knows what his siblings are in for. They weren't exactly discreet. They want to set up Jason with you.

"You guys are aware she said she likes Red Hood, right? Not Jason Todd. She probably doesn't even know me."

"Of course she knows you. You're a Wayne. She certainly have seen your face in one of the Galas footage that are around the web." Babs said, tilting her head.

"This is stupid. I don't know what you people expect to happen." Jason sighs, rubbing his temple. He wasn't exactly going to complain though.

"Look! There's food!" Steph says, walking towards the huge table with a diversity of sweets and savory. Jason follows her, but instead he walks towards the bar. He orders an Old Fashioned. He needs a drink to get his head in the mindspace.

At least he's not in the middle of the crowd. The VIP is crowded, but it's a private space with couches and other fancy stuff. Dick must've paid a hell amount of money for them to be here. Or he had some contacts. He always does.

Jason sips his drink and sighs, observing the surroundings. Well dressed people. It looks almost like a Wayne Gala. Which pisses him off a little. He sits on one of the couches, besides Barbara, who is drinking a Cosmopolitan. Steph is still attacking the food table and Dick is talking with some guys. Probably the ones who gave him the tickets.

"Take that expression out of your face, Jason."

Babs said, a smirk on her face. Jason scoffs.

"I just don't understand what the heck we're doing here." Jason replies, sipping his drink again.

"To listen to music. To have fun. To go to the backstage later."

"I don't want to meet her, anyway. The hell are we going to talk about?" Jason says, untrusting his friends plans.

"Come on! It's gonna be fun. And it's not because she said she liked Red Hood or whatever. It's because I want to meet her. Not everything revolves around you, jaylad."

Steph says, a plate full of sweets on her hands. She sits on the other side of Barbara.

"Then there was no reason for you to drag me along." Jason says, a bit irritated.

"Yes there was. Shows in Gotham always end up bad. We should be here in case we're needed."

She says, whispering. But nobody was really paying attention to them, so she relaxes.

"So why ain't Tim here too? Or hell, even Bruce?" Jason asks, rolling his eyes.

"Tim is with Bernard and Bruce is taking care of a case he's not talking about it. You know how he is."

Yeah, he knows. Batman sometimes doesn't share the cases. Especially the ones he should share. The ones he needs help with. But Jason shoves that to the back of his mind, sipping the Old Fashioned again.

A song starts to play and everyone goes towards the balcony of the VIP area. Babs and Steph grab Jason's hands and drag him towards the parapet, so they can take a better view of you, appearing on the stage. Dick joins them two seconds later.

"Good night, Gotham!" You say in the microphone, your voice echoing. With a huge smile on your face, the wind blowing your hair. He had to admit, you were more than good looking. You were gorgeous.

People are dancing and singing along, the whole stadium thrilling in your energy. You sing and move around, touching people's hands and even letting some fans get the mic for some seconds to show their own talent.

Jason can feel the energy and the music, and hell, he can't deny it. You are good. He even finds himself beating his feet in the rhythm of the songs he knows, and murmuring the lyrics along while you sing.

And then, because this is Gotham, and because Gotham can't have a single moment of peace, some shit starts to happen in the stadium floor. He can't understand what's going on - it's far away from the VIP area, but there is a strange moviment of people in the middle of the lower crowd.

"Hey- something is happening." He says, grabbing Dick's arm and pointing at a group of guys that is... fuck. Holding guns? He can't see it properly, it's too far away.

Dick observes what Jason is pointing.

"Our costumes are in the car." He says, and soon they are all moving. Jason places his drink on the parapet while Dick tells Babs and Steph what is going on. People start to scream in the lower crowd, opening space for the armed man. There are five in total. No- five in one side of the stage, other five close to the exit.

They run towards the exit of the VIP area, rushing down the stairs. A hell of an ordeal of everyone changing into their costumes inside the fucking car, losing time when someone could be getting hurt goes on, and five minutes later they are invading the entrance of the stadium dance floor.

----------------------------------------------------------------

You stopped singing as soon as you hear the screams. Something is not wrong and you should've known this would happen, because this is fucking Gotham.

Your security guards invaded the stage, escorting you out of there against your will. You don't understand what's going on, you just heard a gun noise and someone screaming, and then more loud noises and your ears start to do a high pitched sound, the world becoming a blurr in that moment. You go to the backstage, but then there are people armed there too.

A guy from the lighting team is on the floor, blood sprawling under him. Your security team raised their guns at the goons - or whatever the hell those people are - while the goons raise their guns and points each single one of them at you.

You try to stay calm. In fact, you are feeling strangely calm. There are five man pointing guns at your face, and the only strange, unsettling thought that crosses your mind is that you forgot your car keys on the bathroom counter this morning.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Dick punches one of the goons on the nose while Jason shoot's at another's leg. People start to scream even more now, Babs trying to control the crowd so nobody falls and gets trampled while everyone rushes towards the exit. Steph is already close to the stage, taking care of the five other goons.

Jason knows she can handle five idiots on her own, but even so, he runs forward, people opening space for him, and he's almost there when he sees a woman falling on the ground and almost getting crushed by other people's feet.

He helps her stand up and hears a small 'thank you' before she starts to run again. He has no time to lose. Not that armed men is a big of a challange for him and the rest of them, but people were shot. And everything that happens in a crowded space causes more casualties.

He reaches Steph and soon enough all the goons are down, people still rushing towards the exit, where now Dick and Babs take care of those who are wounded.

"I think we took them all down." Steph says, stepping closer to Jason.

But then Jason looks at the empty stage in front of him.

"Let's check the backstage." He says. Steph nods.

----------------------------------------------------------------

They started shooting at some point. You threw yourself at the ground, because you didn't know what else to do, and you felt a hand around your wrist, pulling up. You feel something cold in your back, and five masked man staring at you.

Your bodyguards are wounded or dead, and you're alone.

"Walk." The man behind you say, the gun pressed on your lower back. You take a deep breath and starts to walk, following them. You get out of the backstage through the back door, walking on the empty parking lot at the other side of the stadium, a simple white van waiting for you.

It was one of those kidnapping movies white van. That's what went through your head. You almost laughed at the thought. You would have if it wasn't so damn terrifying.

You started to think about all the possibilities of what could happen to you once you enter that van. What happens to the people in the movies? Torture? Rape? Death? Canibalism? Yeah, you saw something like that in the TV when you were younger.

Or maybe they just want your money. That, at this moment, is the best option. They'll ask for money and once they receive they're going to let you go. That's probably what's going on.

You try to calm down. The van seems so far away from you, the time is going so slowly, and so fast, because now you are being tied and blindfolded, thrown behind the van, and they are driving you somewhere.

You try to create the map of Gotham in your head: trying to perceive by the movements of the van where they could be leading you. That would be the smart thing to do, right? Maybe. But the truth is that you can't figure it out. You don't know Gotham. You have no idea where you are being taken.

You have no idea how many of your fans, the people who paid to see you, the people who adore you and who you adore back, were shot. If any of them died in your show.

It makes you try to stand up behind the van, desperate. That odd calmness you were feeling till now suddenly disappeared, and you started to do muffled sounds, trying to throw yourself against the van's back doors so maybe they would burst open and you'd be able to get out of here.

The van is at high velocity and maybe you'd break some bones, but that didn't matter. You just needed to get out of there.

Someone grabs you by the hair.

"Be quiet, slut!" A sharp slap on the left side of your face. It makes you flinch.

You were absolutely fucked.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Jason recognizes the man on the floor as your security team right away.

And you're nowhere.

"They took her." Stephanie says, through the comms for Dick and Babs. Jason observes the scene, remembering everything Bruce ever thought him.

"They're not hiding. They took her somewhere." He says, walking towards the backstage exit, towards the completely empty parking lot.

"At this point, they can't be more far than 50 kilometers." Babs say through the comms.

Jason curses under his breath at the reality that his motorcycle wasn't here. He looks at Steph, who also seems quite lost in what to do.

"There are any security cameras on the stadium or the parking lot?" She asks.

"Probably. If I was at home, I could figure it out." Babs answer. She's the Oracle, of course she could figure it out. She always does.

"Go home, then." Jason says, clenching his fists. They were losing time, damn it.

Jason just wants to get you back. He doesn't even know you, you don't even know him. But he knows you support him as Red Hood, and that's not something a lot of people do. He can't help but care for you.

He'll get you back. As Red Hood, as Jason Todd, it doesn't matter. This man is getting you back.

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Author's note part 2: Oof! I was expecting this fic to be more light than this, but my mind took a different turn. I hope you guys enjoyed!

Tags: @duduvea @cynical-ghost

[shares-a-vest]

@steddielovemonth Day 12: Love is... The tea he brings me without prompt when I’m sick (Prompt by anon)

wc: 740 | Rated: G | cw: None

Tags: Sick Fic, Eddie is Being a Total Shit, Wayne Munson, Care Giving Steve Harrington

A Case of the Sniffles

Steve knows that Eddie is sick when he knocks on the Munson’s door, its accompanying flyscreen rattling under his knuckles.

“I’ve grown weak during the night,” Eddie had informed during a too-early-for-the-both-of-them phone call, “Come quickly, my dearest King. For I fear I shan’t make it to sundown.”

But, considering the expression Wayne greets him with, Steve begins to think that Eddie’s dramatics weren’t just a ploy to get him over here.

“You visitin’ Ed?” Wayne asks, throwing his work jacket over his shoulder in haste as he steps over the threshold.

“He called me,” Steve supplies, earning the rarest of laughs from the permanently grumpy elder Munson.

But Wayne quickly stops, clearing his throat and feigning seriousness. And by the look of the hurried glance he gives his truck, Steve suspects the man is happy to be relieved of caring for what sounds like the world’s biggest crybaby.

“Good luck, kid,” Wayne says, patting Steve on the back before quickly ducking his head back in the door, “Eddie! Steve’s here for ya! There’s chicken soup leftover in the fridge!”

There’s an unintelligible whining sound from inside that leaves Wayne wincing as he ventures down the front concrete slab steps.

Steve swears the man dashes to his truck before he can even get out a goodbye.

He heads inside, sighing as he opens the front door.

It creeks away as he steps over the threshold, the sound alerting Eddie to his presence. His boyfriend's dishevelled form lifts slightly from his sick bed on the couch where he is surrounded by tissues and crochet blankets. The coffee table is even more crowded than usual, littered with discarded cups and mugs. Typically Wayne would flip out about this mess but he’s already left the place for dust.

“Steve,” Eddie rasps, raising a limp hand before letting it fall, “Come closer. I fear the light is fading.”

But Steve just snorts a laugh and heads for the kitchen.

“Eds, you have a bad case of the sniffles.”

“I am ill!” Eddie argues, calling after him with complete clarity.

He looks back to find his couch-ridden boyfriend flapping back his blanket, sending a cascade of used tissues flying onto the floor. Eddie pouts, frowning back at him like a disgruntled kitten.

“Just…” Steve begins, reaching for a clean coffee mug on the dish rack, “Give me a minute to fix you something.”

“What is it?”

Again, Eddie’s voice doesn’t have an ounce of sickness behind it.

Steve rolls his eyes, “Just trust me, okay?”

There’s a fussy grunt but Eddie flops back down on the couch without any more protesting, which thankfully gives Steve enough time to locate the teabags, boil the electric kettle and add a dollop of honey to the mug. He makes quick work of fixing a cup of tea, setting it down after making room on the coffee table.

“Drink,” he commands, nodding to the cup.

Eddie grumbles, side-eyeing the mug.

“What is it?” he asks tentatively, folding his arms underneath his readjusted blankets.

“Tea with honey,” Steve explains, lowering onto the edge of the couch.

Eddie falls silent for a long moment, very obviously stifling a smile despite otherwise not looking like he is about to budge an inch to sit up.

“Can you hold the mug for me?” he asks, with a smile that appears just as mischievous as his bright and sunny regular self.

“Fine,” Steve relents.

And honestly? Up close, Eddie does look sick. Though still not enough to warrant the theatrics.

His skin is paler than usual, his nose reddened like he has been out in the snow too long. His hair is a little greasy too as his bangs stick out every which way, making him look like what Steve assumes the townsfolk of Hawkins were thinking of months back when everyone was convinced Eddie was a wild criminal.

They just never got a look at Eddie's impossibly cute dimples...

Steve picks up the mug and gestures for Eddie to sit – surely he can manage it. And his partner does so, even though he grumbles and gripes all the way.

Eddie gulps back god knows what, all gross and throaty before puckering his lips.

“Kisses?” he requests, sniffling.

“Alright,” Steve shrugs.

He leans forward to press a quick kiss to his boyfriend's lips, earning a contented hum as he pulls back.

“Thanks for the tea,” Eddie smiles, taking the mug in his cold hands.

[thesuperiorrobin]

𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞~

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Damian Wayne x Reader

Word count: 1.9k

Warning: mentions of blood, slight cursing, might not be accurate to real ice hockey so I apologize in advance.Damian being a demon on the ice, I wrote Damian OOC, mostly likely, he’s just in love

Damian looks flawless in ice, I’m just going to put that out there. I know he would.

He gets a bit carried away, ramming people up against the walls. That’s what he’s known for when he’s on the ice so the other team tries to stay far away from him, but also try to take the puck from him. Never really works out.

Always get penalized for it too and put in penalty for 2-5 minutes. Is pissed off at that for no reason.

The MAIN reason why his team wins. (Most of the time)

Really loyal to his team. If the opposite side ‘accidentally’ hurts his teammates he’s the first one to skate over to them. Might throw the first punch but it depends 🤷‍♀️ (100% will throw the punch no matter what :))

He gets hurt a lot. Whether it’s him digging with other or simply ramming into thing to hard , theres bound to be blood, a lots of it sometimes. But he always comes back with bandages around the wounds or maybe stitches.

If he does get hurt he puts out a little signal that only you know telling you he’s okay.

His signal in telling you that he’s going to make a goalie and dedicate it to you is literally stopping right in front of you and placing his gloved fist on the clear barricade, giving you a grin.

Buys you the tickets to go to his game. You never miss one. That’s because he says your his lucky charm during the games. That’s why his team wins all the time.

First row right next to his team where he can keep an eye one you and hold small conversations before it’s his time to go back on the ice

Likes to show off.

A lot. Only does it to impress you 

Gives you the puck he made a goalie and won with (is that allowed?)

The crowds get louder and louder as the seconds count down. You're anxious and you don't know why. Damian’s team and the opposing team are tied with points. You’ve noticed Damian’s actions get more violent as time goes on. The more violent he got the more penalties he got which is a time out on the benches. Which means the other team gets a chance at scoring a point without Damian roughly ramming them against the wall. You’re cheering him on as he glides against the ice, but soon find yourself taking a break from the yelling.

Your eyes follow his figure as he glides against the ice, hockey stick in hand as he moves the puck back and forth against the base of the stick. There’s another figure coming for him, one from the opposing team. You cringe, knowing what’s about to happen to the poor person.

Lucky it wasn’t another penalty, but you would hear the crowd gasp witnessing the sight for what seemed like the nth time in less than twenty minutes. But, every time he did get a penalty and put in the penalty box, or as you call it the time out box, you can’t help but laugh. Knowing that Damian was put out for being rough much like how a small toddler would be put in the corner for not listening at all. It was always such a funny sight. Damian rams into the person hard, knocking him down.

“OH!” Dick says from behind you “that’s gotta hurt!” You know he wasn’t talking to you but you hum and nod. Dick and the others know first hand how rough he can be, having been practicing with him last time it didn’t end will with. “I think he gave him a concussion” Tim was also behind you sitting next to Dick, while Jason was no where to be seen.

‘Probably went to go shove his face with food’

Despite being on the other team you feel bad for them and the bruises they’ll be getting the following day. Not to mention the sore body’s they’ll have to work through. You’ve been sitting in the same spot for more than an hour with each game period being at least twenty minutes long, with fifteen minute breaks. Maybe they were shorter but you really couldn’t tell.

Damian misses his shot by a few inches away from the goalie, not being able to stop in time he slams himself up against the wall, the people behind it cover their mouths out of shock and you slap your forehead, shaking your head as you watch him brush it off and continue to play. However, his coach calls him out to replace him with another teammate. He compiles but has a sour look on his face, once he reaches the dry ground he throws his stick. Clearly angry and frustrated all you could do is watch for a while as he takes off his helmet, hair slightly damp from the sweat—giving him helmet hair, all messy and pointing in different directions. It makes you laugh a little. But your sudden mood changes quickly as he sits down head in his hands—running over his sweaty black locks. You don’t think twice as you tap on the screen that keeps his and your row apart.

Damian has good hearing with a small sound so it wasn’t hard to hear you tapping away. He turns to your directions, giving you a small nod. You frown and tilt your head down a little and he rolls his eyes knowing what you're implying and gives you a forced smile. You give him a thumbs up as he scoffs, he watches carefully as you pull out your phone and type away. His eyes never leave you until you place your phone, screen side up against the clear glass divider. Green eyes squinting as he reads away:

‘don’t worry. You got the next goal. I know it!’

That sentence alone makes his heart swell. Damian takes off his right gloves and pats his chest—right where his heart would be two times. A way of saying he appreciate the small gesture.

You take your phone off the glass and erase the previous sentence replacing it with a new one—placing it back on the glass: ‘Have a plan for when you get back on the ice? He quickly reads and nods his head. At least he has a plan, you thought and place your phone back in your pocket. Hands shaking for the cold and lack of warmth you had for them considering the fact that you had forgotten your mittens at home. You focus your attention back on the game. The opposite team ahead by one point— but Damian’s team can do good without him for a while.

He’s out for about half of the game until his coach decides to replace him with another one of his teammates. He taps on the glass to get your attention and once he has it, he Winks at you before making his way back on the ice.

“So are they losing or what?” A familiar voice says beside you and you turn your head, Jason takes his seat next to you with two cups in his hand. “Where the hell have you been?”

“The line for hot chocolate got long” he hands you one “I got you one too, know you stressing over the Demon playing Disney on ice right now” the warm drink warms up your hands a little.

“Thanks. That’s nice of you Jason” You ignore the comment and he hums before he takes a sip of his one drink, eyes scanning the ice before he yells out with the audience. Someone from the Damian team made a shot and they’re tied with the other team.

You go back to cheering him on, the warm drink soothing your throat from all the yelling earlier. It’s later forgotten as you place the half empty cup on the ground right beside your foot— watching the minutes pass by quickly like seconds.

Your heart skips a beat, and not in a good way when the other team shoots their shot but thankfully they fail. With time becoming shorter and shorter it was only a matter of time before Damian took matters into his own hands and his teammates are quick to learn to stay out of it when the time was cutting short and they were off by a point or two, or in this case tied, They had faith in him and so did you.

The seat is now cold from your absence, you’re up on your feet cheering and screaming right along with his brothers who seem to be cheering louder than you. Your eyes glued to Damian as you try to keep up with his figure. He has the puck, sliding it back and forth against the curve of his stick once more.

You don’t have time to think—especially when his helmet makes a horrible sound right up against the clear barrier as one of the players from the opposite team slams into him harshly. Right in front of you as you flinch back. Cheering can be heard from the opposite side of the ice rink which is where the other team supporters were.

Your side falls silent, few gasps and murmurs could be heard. Damian’s back up on his feet, his gloved fist pressed up against the clear barrier. His eyes locked on yours with a glint of mischief and something else. One of those grins grace his lips, one that makes you smile as he waved at you before he leaves.

He’s much faster this time and it makes you think if he was slacking off all this time—or maybe it was the adrenaline that runs high in his veins with these last few minutes. He was going to make a goal, dedicating it to you. Your body feels warm and your heart skips.

“ Ohh~ I know that look” Jason teases from beside you, Dick and Tim are leaning down giving you cheeky grins.

You roll your eyes trying to hide the smile that tries to form itself on your lips “I don’t know what you mean.” You play stupid as you glance back at the game.

fifty seconds left of the last game, everyone seemed to be cheering and calling out those who were on the ice. Damian pays no mind to his teammates as they let him do what he needs to do. You cheer for him, calling out his name. Despite there being hundreds of others yelling out at the same time his mind blocks them out, every single one of them but you. they get louder the minute he gets ahold of the puck swiftly, quickly making his way to the goalie.

His main priority was to get the puck around the goaltender and into the net. He was doing this all for you and you knew that. Those fifty seconds go by quickly, as if you’ve blinked and when you open your eyes ten seconds we’re now left. Everyone counted down, even you. It felt like time went slower once it hit that five second mark, you’ve quiet yourself down and the only thing you can hear is the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. You watch Damian has he left up his stick and takes a hit.

Pointing and loud gasp could be seen and heard, half of the ice rink goes quiet—as if the loudness would mess up his plan. Right as the Puck glides under the goaltender and into the net the timer makes a sound—indicating that the game is now over and Damian scores a point, officially breaking the tie. Relief washes over you, hands thrown in the air as a yell of excitement leaves you as Damian’s brothers cheer alongside you. The other side slouches, defeated as your side basically rubs it in their fasts by how loud they were being, but you didn’t care.

A win is a win.

You can see Damian, as he is pulled into a group hug by the rest of his team, some patting his pack and some patting his helmet and shoving it gently as a gesture. The part you don’t notice is him escaping from the group and skating to the Net where he had thrown the puck before he picked it up, waving it in the air like some sort of trophy—however, in this context, it was. He shows it off with pride, making his way towards you.

With a loud yelp you’re picked up by the others, Jason, Dick, and Tim, as they lift you up until you're basically above the spectating glass. Your lover stands below on the other side with his arm stretched out high, he waits. With the help of the others, they hold on to you as you lean done and over the glass.

Your own arm stretches down as you grasp the puck in your hand. His gloves are now off and so is his helmet, his hair pointing in all directions much like earlier when he was away on a penalty, his warm hand grasping yours with the puck still in your hand

“I did that just for you, habibti!” Eyes glistening, you Can’t really tell if it’s from his sweat or his love for you.

“I know!” You laugh “I love you!”

“And I too, love you!” The crowd fills itself with loud cheers and small ‘awes’, watching the sight of the son that belonged to billionaire Bruce Wayne was a rare sight to see, considering how he would rather keep private about his relationship with you.

His warm lips connected to the coldness of your knuckles , making a mental note to bring an extra pair of gloves just for you in the future.

“If you lean down further you’re going to eat shit”

“shush I’m having a moment here”

“just saying”

Tried to make it as accurate as possible bc, again I know nothing about ice hockey. I had googled the rules and watched videos

And god knows how many references pictures I tried to find about hockey. Probably spend like an hour trying to find them just to draw Damian :|

I will be taking a short break from writing requests just bc school is starting in like a few days or so. So I can get my life together and actually have time to mentally prepare myself and fix my schedule seeing as I’ve been up most night until 6 am and waking up at 2pm.