includes marvel, dc, star wars, stranger things, kick-ass, shadow and bone, rings of power, good omens, wicked and resident evil
key: ✧ - fluff, ☾ - angst, ♡ - smut
marvel
link to separate masterlist
dc
bruce wayne
always, inevitably ✧ ♡
synopsis: bruce wayne's best kept secret. some would say it's batman, he would say it's you. on the surface, you're friends who occasionally sleep together. but to him, you've always been more.
star wars
cal kestis
sunrise ✧
synopsis: life on bracca may not be the best. but the one person that makes it all better seems to like waking you up way too early in the morning.
cassian andor
pretty words ✧ ☾
synopsis: it's hard to describe your relationship with cassian. he comes and goes as he pleases, but what happens when you ask him to stay?
yesterday was ours ☾
synopsis: one moment, you're kids on ferrix. the next, you're fighting the empire on opposite ends of the galaxy. but even so, some things never change.
stranger things
steve harrington
your orbit ✧
part one
synopsis: amidst a night of board games, junk food and extraordinary company, the only thing steve can think about is you.
part two
synopsis: after breakfast, a shopping trip and a walk through downtown hawkins, things finally start going right for steve.
heaven in a picture ✧
synopsis: during an evening spent with friends, there's only one girl who matters the most.
kick-ass
dave lizewski
common factor ✧
synopsis: after getting stood up, you seek out the one person who makes everything better.
just like me ✧
synopsis: dave has been crushing on you for months before he finally gets the courage to ask you out. and lucky for him, you like him back.
shadow and bone
nikolai lantsov
heart ✧
synopsis: everyone has a purpose on the volkvolny. when you lose yours, nikolai shows you you're worth a lot than that.
rings of power
valandil
halo ✧
synopsis: mornings with valandil always feel like a slice right out of heaven.
good omens
crowley
favourites (platonic) ✧
synopsis: the presence of an unwelcome archangel allows you to bond with your father figure. unsurprisingly, he gives you a hard time doing it.
wicked
fiyero tigelaar
hopeless ✧
synopsis: fiyero is an interesting, if not irritating, presence in your life. but he surprises you most when he asks you to tutor him.
poppy fields (social media au) ✧
synopsis: fiyero is your friend. your best friend, even. sure he flirts, but that's all you'll ever be. right?
resident evil
piers nivans
cute (social media au) ✧ ☾
synopsis: chris gets a new puppy! while you, a bsaa communications officer, take every opportunity to poke fun at piers.
DIGITAL BATH [EP] ☆ ~4k
ben poindexter x gender neutral, journalist!reader
read part 2 here!
summary: after publishing a passive-aggressive article about the avtf's aggression, you've been on the municipal government's (read: fisk's) shit list.
your editor at the daily bugle tells you writing a series about the "unfortunate" task force killings will prove that you're unbiased and in support of the mayor. she thinks she’s doing you a solid with this assignment. you think it's her way of driving you insane.
an avid reader of yours totally gets it.
warnings! written depictions of snuff films, stalker!dex
☰ Outlook
☰ File Home
(No subject) 04/06/2027
(S.I) Scopum Impetum
To: × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle
[TF-009.mp4 ▼]
Like the last eight messages, the subject line of this email is blank. The video attachment is labeled simply: you’ve guessed in your infinite wisdom that TF stood for Task Force, and the number corresponds to the day’s planned assassination in this ongoing series. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters you can’t find significance in. The domain is archaic, an actual @netscape.net address.
You didn’t bother continuing a trace on the address after your first attempt. The tech lady at The Bugle said that she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) sink her teeth into it before booting you out of her office. You then ran Scopum Impetum through a Latin to English translator and got something like “Hit Target” or “Hitting Target.”
Bullseye.
Rather on the nose with his intimidation. One of three things you’ve learned about him the past month, the other two being that he likes to pick off AVTF squads on their patrol routes or house calls. Massive, bloody, nightmarish killings that always made the news because it was impossible to mask them as typical New York violence.
You also learned that while the patrol killings were random, the videos were special. All videoed victims were elite officers with significant power, or members who had amassed large red-pilled followings online.
All ironic kills. All final laughs in Fisk’s face.
You open TF-009.mp4. There’s no thumbnail, but the video outline is vertical in cell phone dimensions.
You hit play. The framing is steady. Bullseye either uses a tripod, or has very solid hands.
You watch a man in AVTF tactical gear—you think his badge reads 4091, you’ll look him up later—crawl backward across a warehouse floor. His leg is bent at an angle that suggests his femur bone has been turned into several smaller bones. Pieces of it stick out, shards of white in crests that burst through skin. It reminds you of the Sydney Opera House.
He’s begging. You can’t really make out the words over the wet rasps of his uneven breathing, but it’s easy to guess what he’s saying. Please. Please.
The camera doesn’t move. There’s no voice here, and the video’s ambient noise doesn’t sound like it’s been scrubbed over by an A.I to remove speech. You make a mental note of that. Bullseye’s always been quiet with killing. No video reveals a voice.
Then a long, thin, yellow projectile sinks into the man’s left eye socket with a sound like a melon splitting.
The video ends.
Before you can think about it, you click the replay button. Bone shards, the wet choke-gasps. You skip over some of the tense anticipation until Bullseye throws. The projectile flies, and you see in this second viewing that it was a pencil that killed this officer. A pencil splintered in his skull and separated the soft flesh of his eyeball. You see the white orb deflate like a sad birthday balloon. It leaks red and small fleshy chunks over the officer’s face until he stops screaming.
You close the player. You open Word.
task force victim no. 9
badge #4091?
pencil through eye
location tbd. warehouse district? low lighting. probably killed at night
still no visual proof of attacker being bullseye
You don’t write: victim begged for his life
You don’t write: bullseye did us a favor.
☰ Outlook
☰ File Home
No new mail
Three weeks ago, Adriana called you into her office. The glass walls around her desk made you feel like you were entering a snake terrarium at the back of the Bugle’s newsroom, and you were the next mouse to be swallowed alive.
“Morning,” you’d said. You didn’t sit down because people never sat unless Adriana told them to.
Adriana slid a folded letter across her desk. The paper had the mayor’s emblem stamped over it. “This came in for you. Give it a look-see.”
You pick up the creamy paper. Officially, it was an acknowledgment of your “balanced coverage” of city affairs, and it urged you to cover things “closer to the heart of the administration.” Unofficially, it was a target drawn on stationery being pinned to your back.
“Mayor Fisk read your piece on the Task Force’s budget allocation,” Adriana said, folding her hands. “The one where you pointed out the civilian engagement metrics.”
You said nothing. You put the letter back on Adriana’s desk.
“He hated it,” she continued. “And because he hates it, everyone who works for him hates it. And because everyone who works for him hates it, you’re going radioactive here.”
You said nothing.
“Because I like you, I’m giving you a lifeline.” Adriana tapped the letter. “Bullseye. The Task Force killer. You’re going to cover him, and you’re going to humanize the victims. Make everyone cry. No ifs, ands, or buts. Show the city that you care about justice.”
“The Task Force,” you began, “is a fascist death squad.”
“The Task Force is the law,” Adriana clears her throat. “And you’re going to write about the people dying to uphold it. Or, you can clean out your desk and see how long your freelance career lasts when every editor in town knows Wilson Fisk has a personal grudge against you. You know he doesn’t forgive easily.”
That was the final nail in the coffin.
You took the assignment.
At first, Bullseye performed for the masses. He posted six kills publicly. They were grainy the way a phone camera got when zoomed a little too far, then uploaded to fringe forums. Every video had a time stamp and was geo-tagged like he was building an archive. The Task Force would always arrive too late to the scenes, find the bodies, and hold press conferences where they promised to find the “cowardly terrorist.”
You attended one of those press conferences when you were writing about the third victim. The commissioner stood behind a podium and called Bullseye “a disturbed vigilante threat to civilized society.” You watched the officers lined up behind him—people who had, in the last six days alone, fractured an unarmed Latino protester’s skull and shoved his sister down a flight of stairs.
You felt nothing for the Task Force.
You wrote the introductory article your editor wanted. You listed the victims’ names, described their service records, quoted grieving families. The ache in the hollows of your ribs had nothing to do with sympathy for the dead.
Then Bullseye stopped posting.
You assumed he’d been caught and killed before trial. On the other end, maybe he’d finally grown bored of killing. You felt a brief, shameful flicker of relief—not because the killings had stopped, but because you wouldn’t have to watch the forum videos.
Then the first video came.
☰ Outlook
☰ File Home
(No subject) 03/29/2027
(S.I) Scopum Impetum
To: × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle
[TF-001.mp4 ▼]
The subject line was blank. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters on an @netscape.net address.
You almost deleted it instinctively. Spam mail. A virus showing you a video of the hot babes in your area. But the sender’s name was something Latin, and that raised a flag of curiosity. After running the file through a virus scanner, you opened it.
You truly wish you hadn’t.
On the forums, people usually tagged warnings. You went in with no idea that you were about to watch a woman in a Task Force windbreaker take a staple gun to the side of her neck. It clicked as it hit her, a staple injecting itself into a fold of skin. The camera didn’t shake. The video ended with a slow zoom on her face as her eyes grew unfocused.
You slammed your laptop shut.
Then, you opened it a crack. With the screen pointing down and the laptop’s volume cranked to the max, you tried to listen for any targeted messages. You found nothing. You checked the forums, the sphere of Twitter that had a dedicated group of followers reposting the kills, other news sites, and it seemed that this specific video was sent only to you.
You told yourself it was a coincidence. You told yourself the killer had simply chosen a journalist at random.
You didn’t believe it.
[TF-004.mp4 ▼]
A man in tactical gear. A rolled-up magazine. The carotid artery spurted out in pumps that arc like sticky, red fountain water. Same steady camera. A zoom on the dying eye.
You have a working theory: Bullseye isn’t sending you these videos because he wants you to stop him. Maybe it's because you were the only city journalist at an outlet who wrote the truth about the Task Force, and this was him sliding into alignment with you. A weird Snapchat streak he held on his own.
It's the nicest theory you could come up. The others lead you down a path where you're the next person he’d videotape, and the videos are the road signs on the way.
[TF-005.mp4 ▼]
You have a system. You scan the file before downloading it, as anyone should. You let the audio play first to listen for cues. You watch the video after to make notes for the articles. You log the victim’s badge number if you can see it, estimated the time of day, and the weapon used. You waited until an hour after your source at the NYPD would contact you before sending a draft to your editor. You transfer the videos to a USB you’re too paranoid to let go of, so it now lives under the insole of your left shoe.
[TF-006.mp4 ▼]
You stop pretending everything is normal.
The videos are inside you. They live behind your eyes. You’ll be walking to the coffee shop and suddenly remember the way a man’s throat opens like a zipper, thyroid cartilage visible as he chokes on blood. You’ll have to sit down on the curb to breathe until the world stops spinning. You wake up gasping, your hand pressed flat against your heart as if checking for wounds. Every creak of the radiator makes you think of footsteps, every gust of wind moving the creaky fire escape sounds like a throaty voice outside.
[TF-007.mp4 ▼]
You don’t mourn them. They weren’t good people. They signed up to wield violence against civilians with the explicit blessing of a man who, not long ago, was in the F.B.I’s custody. They had chosen power without accountability. They had chosen to become the fists of a fascist.
You do mourn the part of yourself that couldn’t watch a man die. Now you know many ways people die: a pencil through the eye, a staple gun to the throat, a domino splitting a skull and macerating the brain stem.
[TF-009.mp4 ▼]
Your phone buzzes with text from Adriana.
I need your draft on victim 8. We need the human angle. Make me cry!!!
You rub your face with your hands before opening a new Word document.
The eighth member of the Anti-Vigilante Task Force was found dead yesterday morning in an alleyway behind Josie’s Bar. His name was Marcus Webb. He leaves behind two children and a wife.
He leaves behind an impressive legacy of violence. His record in the NYPD included various excessive force complaints and two internal investigations. The AVTF had to pay a settlement to a family whose son that Webb had permanently disabled.
You wish you could publish this. Reluctantly, you hit the backspace button until you’re behind the word wife. You rub your face again, you save the document, close your laptop, and sit in the dark. You’ll deal with this tomorrow.
Your laptop flashes a notification at you.
(No subject) 04/07/2027
(S.I) Scopum Impetum
To: × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle
[TF-010.mp4 ▼]
You wonder if Bullseye knows that you don’t need the videos anymore. The question you’re afraid to ask, the one that lives in the space between each wet tear of flesh in your dreams, is whether he knows what you are becoming. He must. He’s a serial killer sending out snuff films to a civilian. There’s no reasonable reaction he can guess on your behalf besides terror.
You close your eyes that night in bed, and you see a pencil falling.
[TF-010.mp4 ▼]
The tenth video sits in your inbox for six more hours before you open it.
You tell yourself it was the exhaustion that made you hesitate. You’re busy and tired. You tell yourself that your notes are now stagnant and boring. You need to think about other things to come back fresher.
But the truth’s simpler: you’re scared.
This isn’t a horror movie with jumpscares. You’re the victim of a cyber-stalker, but you don’t feel like one. You haven’t tried contacting him to tell him to stop, blocking him, or making someone else trace the address. You let it happen and you’re saving the videos on a fucking USB drive like that hides any involvement you have.
You open TF-010.mp4.
The frame is different this time. Not a warehouse or an alley. An office. Fluorescent lights. A desk with a nameplate: Lt. Patricia Voss, Internal Affairs.
You know her. You quoted her once, in a piece about police accountability. She called the Task Force “a necessary tool in a broken system.” She smiled when she said it.
Now the camera holds steady. No voice. No face. Just her, trembling, her hands bound behind her back with what looks like a zip tie.
You watch a single playing card—the ace of spades—slice through the air and bury itself in her throat.
She didn’t beg. She only stared at the camera with wide, confused eyes, as if she couldn't understand why this was happening to someone who had played by the rules.
The video ends.
You close the player. You open your notes.
task force victim no. 10
lt. patricia voss, internal affairs
weapon was playing card
Your phone buzzes. You flip it so the screen faces up, primed for annoyance with a test from Adriana.
Instead, it’s a text message from a number you don’t recognize.
You finally watched it.
Another one follows shortly:
I was wondering when you’d open it.
You stare at the screen. Your heart doesn't race. Your hands don’t shake. You feel a strange, almost clinical curiosity.
who is this?
The response comes in less than three seconds.
You know who.
:)
Bullseye.
You can’t do anything but watch as three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Your stomach rolls slowly.
You’re the only one who sees them for what they are.
I like to think that you think I'm doing something right.
I've read everything you wrote before the editor started making you bootlick.
You said the citizens deserve better than this.
You remember those pieces. They had been killed by Adriana, buried under a mountain of “libel concerns” and “advertiser pressure.” You thought no one read them.
You were right. They deserve better and the people who hurt them deserve punishment.
They were bad people.
*are bad people.
They’re still everywhere.
You should stop. You should block Bullseye. You should go to the police—not that they would help you.
Instead, you type back. It’s not an active choice, you more so watch your fingers press the smooth glass of your phone screen.
why are you sending these to me?
You understand me.
You always watch them so intently.
You set the phone down. A cold, slow thread unwinds in your stomach. He knows where you live. He’s read virtually everything you’ve put online, since he has your name. He can see you right now, and apparently he’s been seeing you since he sent the first TF video.
Your breath catches as your fingers go numb. For the first time on this case, you feel it: panic. The real kind of prey animal fear, sharp and deep, like a knife sliding between your ribs.
You pick it up again.
i'm not doing anything
i just watch what you send me
and that’s for my job
That's enough.
That's more than any civilian.
Don't be scared, Cronkite. I'm not going to hurt you.
☆☆☆☆☆
The texts continue over the following days. Never many. Never at the same time. He sends a single message after each video—sometimes hours later, sometimes days.
Did you see the way he moved? He thought he could run.
She had a photo of her husband on her desk. A cop. Of course.
The commissioner is next. You'll want to read about him before tomorrow to prep your article.
You never ask him to stop. You never ask him to explain. You only respond with questions of your own—small, careful questions that he sometimes answers and sometimes ignores.
why the pencils
It's funny. They're also widely available.
People can buy them in packs of 100. :)
how do you choose them
They choose themselves. Every time they put on that badge, they volunteer.
The uniforms make it really easy to single them out.
do uou even feel anything
That question goes unanswered for two days. You assume he’s done with you. You assume you crossed the invisible line, not being polite and cowering slightly.
Then, at 3:17 AM, your phone lights up.
It's really hard.
I'm not a mindless killer.
I have emotions.
I feel the same things everyone else feels, all at once.
You read the message seven times. You do not respond.
That night, you dream of the teenager who was put in a coma by the AVTF. Young and bruised, his eyelashes two small fans over his cheeks. And standing beside his bed is a shadow. No face. No voice. Just a shape that holds a pencil.
You wake up gasping.
Your phone is on the pillow beside you. A new message.
Bad dream?
You sit up. You look around your dark apartment. The windows are locked, and the blinds are drawn. The door is bolted shut and locked. But neither of those things feels like barriers.
They feel like inviting little challenges.
how thefuck do you know that
I'm closer than you think, Cronkite.
The sun rises over the city. Your phone buzzes one last time.
Video 011 comes tonight. Be ready.
☆☆☆☆☆
You stare at the message through the day. You fuck up your bodega order and eat the wrong thing numbly. Your phone is a brick in your pocket.
You should ask what he means by ready. Ready to watch? Ready to take notes? Ready to feel nothing while another human being stops breathing?
whens it happening
The response is immediate.
Around 9:20. The commissioner’s speech ends at 9:15. He’ll be walking or in his car.
His license plate is custom. It’s ridiculous.
It's 7:43 PM. You have less than two hours to mentally prepare yourself for this.
how do you know that
I pay attention. It's amazing what people post on social media.
His wife tagged him in a Father’s Day post with their new car.
And the event schedule is posted on Fisk’s campaign Instagram.
You open Instagram to find the accounts. The offending posts are pinned on both profiles—Fisk’s campaign account has a listing of the gala's entire timeline with the commissioner’s keynote speech slotted at 8:45-9:15 with some celebrity guest you don’t recognize to follow. The commissioner’s wife’s account has a Father's Day post pinned. A cute, crisp image of the whole family in front of a shiny black SUV. The license plate reads: N4SPEED. Probably the tackiest thing you’ve ever seen.
You close the app.
thats probably the easiest stalking i’ve ever seen
See? I'm not that creepy.
The three dots appear. You wait.
Most people don't notice things. They walk through the world with their eyes half-closed.
But not you. You see the gaps, and where the story doesn't match the truth.
and you’re pencilling in those gaps?
A longer pause this time. You wonder if you've offended him. If he'll stop texting, stop sending videos, leave you alone with nothing but the echoes of nine dead officers and the tenth on its way.
Something in you recoils from that possibility.
That made me laugh.
Out loud.
You’re always witty :) That’s why I like your work.
You don't feel witty. You feel hollow. But something in your chest loosens anyway.
do you ever miss
Nope.
ever?
No, lol.
I have to go now. Be ready.
You read the message three times.
You lock your phone and set it face-down on the nightstand. The screen still glows through the glass, an accusing light that says you saw this. You aren’t stopping it. You won’t stop it anyway.
Then you think about Lt. Voss. The way she stared at the camera. The way the ace of spades sat in her throat like a second badge.
You don’t feel sick anymore. Just something heavy, like lead filling the hollow spots in your bones.
[TF-011.mp4 ▼]
Did you see his face?
no
he immediatly hit the pavement
Exactly.
They walk around like the badge makes them bulletproof.
dont say something cheesy like
but im a bomb
or something
No.
I'm just better. :)
You live close to that intersection.
You go cold. Not the dramatic cold of fear like earlier—the slow, sinking cold of confirmation. You knew that he knew, but reading him admit it so casually?
how the fuck do you know where i live
I watch. You know I pay attention.
You’re very careful. I respect that.
thats not a fucking answet
It’s the only one you're getting.
You set the phone down before walking to your front door. You check the locks. It's secure. You check the window. It's closed with your curtains drawn over it. You check the locks again.
Your phone buzzes.
Relax.
I told you that I’m not going to hurt you.
You’re the only one who understands me.
You pick up the phone. Your fingers are shaking now—just a little, just enough to notice.
and what the fuck do i understand
Some people need to die.
Not because I want to kill them. Because they've earned it.
You can call it karmic debt finally being cashed in, if you believe in that.
You have to crack eggs to make an omelet. You just don’t want to say it out loud.
You read the message seven times. You think about the Black teenagers who have been harassed by the AVTF. The woman who was taken off her street and reported missing by her friends. The protester and his sister. You think about the videos—the pencil, the staple gun, the spectacle, the show.
You think about the way you felt when Lieutenant Voss died. That small, ugly sense of satisfaction.
is that so bad
you’re fucking killing people thats not exactlu a thing that normal people do
That’s what I like about you. You’re still a moral person after all this.
That's why people like me do the work for you.
You don’t say anything.
You’re still awake.
I know you’re still reading these.
what do you want from me
I don't know yet.
But I don't want to hurt you.
Another pause. Longer this time.
When I send you the videos, I'm not alone anymore.
And neither are you.
You don't respond. You can't. Your throat is tight, and your eyes are dry, and you're not sure if you want to scream or sleep or laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Your phone buzzes two more times.
Goodnight, Cronkite.
Sweet dreams.
a/n: part three is in the works, thank you all for your love on this piece!! :D
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
returning from my hiatus to answer. i don't recall. maybe some game on the Wii or DS. i vaguely remember loving a Dora the Explorer Princess game on the DS 😆
< previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter >
synopsis: steve arrives at the junction, a strange place of limbo. faced with the unknown and a time limit, he has to decide what to do next.
word count: 2.6k
warnings/tags: eternity au, mentions of illness and death, crude humour, steve gets bullied lol
a/n: so sorry this took a while! it was a lot longer than i anticipated. thanks to everyone who read the first part and have waiting, love y'all <3
Before Steve realises it, he wakes up on a train. There's rumbling in the background as he rides through a tunnel. And he notices that he feels different, that everything's... louder?
An announcement screeches through the speakers as the train comes to a stop at a platform. Steve doesn't register anything that's said, his hearing suddenly much more sensitive to sound. He snaps his fingers a few times next to his ears.
Yep, definitely louder.
Steve looks up and down the carriage, noticing the other passengers. They all look as out of place as he feels. As they begin to alight the train, Steve doesn't know what else to do except follow. He travels with the sea of people along the platform towards a set of escalators. Even during the long ride up, his brain struggles to play catch-up.
He was at home. He was with his family. He was with you. Then, we went outside and then... and then what? Nothing comes to him after that.
Steve lets out a deep sigh as he nears the top. However, when he does make his way off the escalator, he encounters even more chaos. He's in a large open space. There are people everywhere, shouting all sorts of things around him. His feet carry him forward, despite having no clear destination in mind.
He doesn't get far before a woman with a handful of pamphlets comes up to him.
"All the fun of the Old West with none of the dysentery. How does that sound?" she asks.
Before Steve can question what the hell that means, another woman approaches.
"You want to sin with no consequences? We even have pickleball now!" she says.
Again, what the hell.
A third person joins the conversation. "Hey, buddy. Good to see you, you must be new-"
"Where am I?" Steve interrupts him, in no mood for pleasantries.
But the man just makes an unimpressed face, as if this is normal for him, and yells, "He hasn't made contact yet."
Whatever that means, Steve is grateful when it gets the others to leave him alone. As he continues walking, he sees a well-dressed man who seems like he could be an employee.
So, Steve asks him, "Hey, what's going on?"
But he just replies with a customer-service smile, "Your AC will be with you shortly."
Steve frowns at the unhelpful response. Up ahead, he sees another woman dressed similarly to the man.
He approaches her. "Can you help me? I-"
But again, she cuts him off with, "Your AC will be with you shortly."
She turns away, leaving Steve completely lost in this strange place. When he glances around, everything he looks at overwhelms his senses. He finally spots what appears to be a help desk. A little girl is sitting behind it, but at this point, Steve doesn't question it.
He leans over the desk to speak to her. "Hi, do you work here?"
She doesn't even look up at him. "No, honey. I'm here on holiday."
Steve ignores the snarky comment. "Listen. I have no idea where I am and no one will help me."
She finally looks up and responds in a similarly sarcastic fashion. "You're in the junction."
"Okay? What is that?" he asks. "Where's my family? My wife?"
The girl rolls her eyes. "Just take a seat. Your AC will be-"
"Be with me shortly," Steve cuts in. "Yeah, I got it."
He lets out a huff, stepping away from the desk. Out of options, he sits down. A fleeting thought about how his legs don't seem to ache as much as they usually do passes through his mind, but it's quickly dismissed. Instead, he waits and waits, watching people pass by him.
He sees people of all ages, all dressed in different ways. He sees these so-called ACs leading people away. He sees those with pamphlets, invading as many people's personal spaces as they can. There are occasional announcements about trains arriving and departing. But all of it, every single thing in this place, makes absolutely no sense to him.
As the seats around him begin to free up, Steve lies down, his body fitting awkwardly across the uneven surface. He waits some more, but soon his eyelids grow heavy. He lets his eyes close, deciding to rest them for just a moment.
"Uh, Steve Harington? Is there a Steve Harrington here?"
Steve jolts awake at the sound of his name.
"Um, yeah. That's me," he grumbles, sitting up.
A friendly-looking woman approaches him, wearing the same dark tan uniform as the other employees he's seen.
"Oh! Hey, man. I'm so sorry for the wait," she says, holding out her hand.
Steve shakes it, still a bit dazed from being asleep. "Who are you?"
"I'm Anna, I'm your afterlife coordinator," she answers.
Steve stares up at her. "That's not a real job."
Anna gives him a pitiful look. "You've passed away, Steve. You're dead."
"What? No, I'm not. I just hit my head-" Steve looks around, as if searching for something to justify what he's saying.
"Come on," Anna gestures with his head. "Walk with me."
Steve scrambles to his feet as Anna begins to lead him in a different direction.
"Hold on a moment," he begins as he trails behind her. "I was just with my family. And then I stepped outside for a moment and I, uh-"
"Died," Anna concludes.
Steve shakes his head. "No, wait, I..."
Anna stops and holds a mirror in front of his face. "Look, Steve."
What Steve sees renders him speechless. He's young again. His face is handsome, his hair returned to its former glory. And, of course, that would explain his hearing, his unburdened legs. For a moment, he just stares.
"How is this possible?" he finally mutters.
"When you get here, your form reverts to its happiest self," Anna explains as she continues walking. "That's why we get a lot of kids. But not a lot of teenagers, though."
Steve racks his brain to try to make sense of everything he's being told. He's dead. He's in some place called the junction. He's young again. He's... away from you.
"Oh god, my wife. I need to get back to my wife," he says.
Anna turns to him and sighs with exaggerated sympathy. "Oh, Steve. Look on the bright side. Your male pattern baldness is a thing of the past now."
Steve furrows his brow. "What? No, I never went bald, okay?"
Anna shrugs. "Okay, then at least your penis works again."
Now that one really offends Steve. "My penis never stopped working."
But Anna just places a hand on his shoulder. "There's no need to be ashamed. We've seen it all around here."
She leaves it at that and walks off again. Steve follows after her. They head down an open walkway, with doors lining the wall on one side and a railing looking out to the ground where he had just been on the other.
"Listen, please," he tries again. "My wife really needs me right now."
But again, Anna gives him nothing. "I'm sorry, Steve. It doesn't work like that."
Steve frowns. "Please. Is there nothing I can do?"
"No." Anna reiterates, getting frustrated. "You know, usually you old guys really cheer up about the penis thing."
"Is there someone else I can talk to? Maybe whoever it is you work for?" he asks.
"I work for Frank," she tells him.
Steve furrows his brow. "Frank? Who does Frank work for?"
Anna lets out an exasperated sigh. "Frank works for Tom. Look, we don't have time for this, alright? I got other clients, Steve. Please."
Steve doesn't argue back as Anna leads him to an elevator. He stands there somewhat awkwardly for a while as they go up a few floors.
"I'm sorry," Steve says eventually. "I just didn't expect the afterlife to be like this."
"You've still got a week to choose an eternity," Anna replies, having calmed down again. "That'll be your real afterlife."
The elevator doors open, and the two head down a similar-looking walkway as before. Eventually, they stop at one of the doors. Anna unlocks it, and inside awaits a living space. There's a large bed in the centre of the room, a wide window on the far wall, and a couch fitted beneath it. There's a desk, a TV and a door leading into a bathroom. It's surprisingly... cozy.
"This is where I'm staying?" Steve asks.
"For now," Anna replies. "Until you choose your eternity. But we'll get into that later."
She lays out some pamphlets on the bed, each promoting a different eternity.
She continues. "We also put some of your favourite clothes in the closet if you want to take a look."
Steve crosses the room, staring out at the view beyond the window. It's a painted backdrop, white clouds against a light blue. There's no sky around here, he supposes.
He turns, wanting to ask another question. But Anna is already gone, probably off to another client. Left alone, Steve takes a look in the closet. There are, in fact, familiar-looking garments inside. He changes out of his clothes, the sweater and trousers he was wearing when he died, into something a bit fresher, a jacket and a pair of jeans.
With nothing left to do, Steve decides to wander around the junction. He makes his way back to the big open hall downstairs. The place is lined with stands like at an exhibition, all advertising different eternities. Museum World, Sunset Eternity... Infantilization Land?
Clearly, they have something for everyone here.
As he continues wandering, he sees a sign pointing to the bar. At last, something he can get behind. He heads inside. It's a small room, dimly lit with a few booths and a line of stools at the counter. There are only about half a dozen people here, and one man behind the bar. It's quiet, but peaceful, better than most of what he's seen today. Not bad for the afterlife.
Steve makes his way up to the bar, taking a seat.
"Something strong, please," he says to the man behind the bar.
"First day?" the man asks.
Steve stares at him for a moment. There's something strangely familiar about him. "And what are you? An angel or something?"
The man smiles. "Oh, no. I'm just the bartender."
He sets a glass in front of Steve and pours him some whiskey.
"So," he continues. "Where are you thinking of going from here?"
"I haven't decided," Steve replies. "I've always wanted to go somewhere sunny with a beach. But my wife won't like that, so I wouldn't be able to stay for long."
The man raises an eyebrow. "Did your AC go over the rules?"
"No, I think she was busy," Steve answers.
"Alright, well. You should know there's no switching eternities after you've chosen. No visiting other eternities either," the man explains. "And if you don't pick within a week, you can still stay, but you'll have to work."
"What happens if I don't follow the rules?" Steve asks him.
"They'll put you into the void," he says. "I've heard it's just blackness there. Forever."
The new information makes Steve pause. It feels like another burden on his load, another thing he has to think about when all he's really worried about is you. He sighs, shaking his head.
"My wife, she has cancer. It's terminal," Steve tells the man.
He gives Steve a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry to hear that. The worst part of death is the guilt of leaving people behind."
Steve blinks, his eyes beginning to sting. "I told her that I was always going to take care of her. And now she's sick while I'm here, and I just-"
"Hey," the man cuts him off. "It was out of your control. There's no use beating yourself up about it now."
Steve nods. It doesn't alleviate the guilt, but he knows there's truth in those words.
He takes a deep breath and asks another question he has on his mind, "So, the people working here don't want to go to their eternities? Why?"
"Well, there are people like me who are still waiting for our loved ones. Then, there are some who just haven't accepted death. And worst of all are those who haven't decided where to go," the man explains.
"Right," Steve says. "So if I wanted to wait, I'd have to get a job like you?"
The man nods. "Yes, but they'll probably start you on cleaning. I only got this job because I've been here for so long."
Steve pauses again to process this. At this point, his brain's barely functioning anymore. Now, he's tired and sad, and he's still not entirely convinced that this isn't all just a dream.
Either way, it leaves him a lot to think about.
Steve returns to his room that night with many thoughts in his head. He has a week to pick an eternity. Only one, and that's it. Otherwise, it's the void, whatever that is.
Or he could wait for you, like the many others around here. But could Steve handle cleaning as his job for however long it takes for you to get here? He has no idea when that'll be. It could be tomorrow. It could be months. Or maybe you'll defy the odds, and it'll be years.
Or he could pick an eternity and wait for you there. He could set everything up just the way he knows you'd like it, make it ready for you. Make it feel like a home.
Yes, maybe that could work.
And so, Steve bides his time. He spends the rest of the week thinking about it and planning out the logistics. He decides on the beach after all. It's where the two of you always planned to retire to when you were young. And when he gets there, he could find a beach house, somewhere further away from the coast, so that the sand won't be an issue.
It'll be just the two of you, with the sun and the sea. It'll be perfect.
When his final day arrives, he writes a letter to leave behind for you explaining everything. And before long, he's packed and ready to go. Anna, who greatly approves of his plan, accompanies him downstairs.
"I really think you picked a good one, Steve," she says enthusiastically. "You won't regret this."
"Hey, wait, could you do me a favour?" he stops her, holding out the folded letter. "Could you make sure my wife gets this?"
Anna frowns. "Oh, no, sorry. That's against the rules. But don't worry. I'll find her when she gets here, let her know everything."
An announcement to board for Beach Land sounds over the speakers. There's no time left to argue.
Steve sighs, pocketing the letter. "Right, okay. This is it, then."
"It's been a pleasure working with you, Steve. Good luck," Anna says sincerely.
Steve nods, and she bids him farewell with a hug. And with that, he heads for his gate, for his eternity. He takes a deep breath as he approaches the escalator. These past few days felt longer than any he's had recently, and all he can hope is that he's making the right decision.
He steps on and begins to descend. The people around him are lively, also headed for the same destination. On the other escalator, people are going up. Steve almost pities them. At the same time, it feels surreal that he was in their position just a week ago. He watches them pass. There's someone in scuba gear, someone in their pyjamas, someone who looks like you, someone who-
Wait.
Someone who looks like you?
In a panic, Steve turns around. He spots you again. You. It's definitely you.
He calls out your name and tries in vain to run up the steps. But he makes no progress in catching up to you. Instead, he runs down to the platform and makes a 180 to head up the other escalator, pushing past anyone in his way. He finally reaches the top again and manages to spot you amongst the crowd.
There you are, as beautiful as the day he met you.
synopsis: you and steve have lived a long and happy life together. and though you're both nearing the end, a gender reveal party only leads to the start of something else.
word count: 0.9k
warnings/tags: eternity au, descriptions of illness and death, you and steve act like an old married couple, not much happens yet
It wasn't anything like what Steve expected. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, no life flashing before his eyes. One moment, he was walking down the stairs, at home with his family. Then, darkness.
Just a little while ago, he was driving the two of you back with some cake. The kids are over for your granddaughter's gender reveal party. You and Steve are squabbling in the car as usual, though it all seems insignificant now.
Steve was the big family man. He's always wanted lots of kids, to travel the country every summer and retire by the beach. He got to live that dream with you, all except for the last part.
Now the two of you are a pair of octogenarians with not much left on your plates. It's been just the two of you for a long time now, and Steve's been talking about finally finding that beach, maybe California or Hawaii.
"I mean, it's what we always talked about, isn't it?" he says, driving slowly down the street.
"I bet you'll complain about sand getting everywhere," you tell him.
"I'll be happy," Steve counters.
"Well, that's all that matters," you reply.
The conversion is interrupted as a car overtakes you, the driver hurling some insult at Steve. He grumbles something in response as a moment of silence passes between you.
Over time, you've developed your own idea of the perfect holiday destination, one that involves the snowy mountains.
"The mountains are cozy," you try to convince him. "The cold is actually comforting there."
Steve shakes his head. "Cold is just cold, honey."
"Hey, it'll have ice and snow, plenty for you to complain about. It'll be great," you insist.
"You know I don't enjoy complaining," he argues back. "That's not really something people enjoy."
You sigh, looking out the window. "Alright, I don't want to fight. It's a big day."
It is indeed a big day. A party awaits back home, a celebration of love, life and family.
But Steve is still unimpressed. "You know, people die at these things? I've seen it on the internet."
"It's a gender reveal party," you say.
"I mean, I get eliminating the surprise-"
"Just let them have their fun."
"-but everything has to be an occasion-"
"You just hate parties."
"-and everything has to be an event-"
"Can we just enjoy it?"
"-it's always big party this, big party that-"
"Steve."
He finally shuts up, glancing at you somewhat apologetically.
"Let's just enjoy it, okay?" you ask.
He sighs, defeated. "Alright, I'll enjoy it."
You let the conversation end there. Despite his reluctance, you can't help but feel the same fondness you've always felt. He grumbles and pouts and complains, but he's still the biggest softie deep down.
The two of you finally make it home. You're carrying the cake box in your hands when Steve stops you, just outside the front door.
"Sweetheart," he puts a hand on your shoulder, turning you to face him. "We have to tell them."
You know what he's talking about, the illness that's been slowly chipping away at your health for the past few months. You haven't told any of the kids yet.
"I know," you say. "Just give me today."
Steve sighs, but nods solemnly. With gentle hands, he helps roll down your sleeve, hiding the tubes in your arm that would give away that something was wrong. You give him a reassuring smile and head into the house.
When you open the door, you're immediately met with chaos, along with hugs and kisses, despite only being gone for half an hour. Steve beelines for his armchair, and you make your way to the dining room, relieving your muscles as you take a seat at the table.
Your granddaughter, Gia, approaches Steve. "Thanks for agreeing to host, Pop-pop."
Steve smiles, touching her stomach. "He's going to be a boy."
Gia laughs. "How do you know that?"
"I just do," he answers.
Gia's husband, Sam, joins them, haphazardly chucking the confetti-filled balloons on the floor.
"So, Steve. Fifty-eight years of marriage. What's your secret?" he asks.
Before Steve can answer, Gia cuts in. "You burst one of those balloons, and you'll never find out."
She walks away, and Steve chuckles to himself. She definitely gets that fire from her grandma.
Gia comes up to you next. "Oh, Nana. We found a few of your old belongings in the basement."
However, what you see immediately makes your heart stop. It's a decades-old photo; you must have been around twenty. Eddie is with you, a mess of curly hair, leather and denim. You haven't seen that face in years. He's got his guitar and his arm around you. The two of you are smiling as bright as the sun.
Your other granddaughter, Penny, who's still a little girl, carries a box over to you. You smile and thank her, pulling out the photo frame that's sitting at the top of the pile.
"Pop-pop was a rockstar?" Penny asks.
"No, sweetie," Gia tells her. "That was Nana's stupidly attractive first husband."
Sam takes the photo. "Geez, he's an alluring man."
Penny tilts her head at you. "Why would you leave him for Pop-pop?"
"Oh, no. Eddie went on tour, and he, um…" you pause to swallow. "He passed away in a car accident."
"Steve, you got really lucky, my friend," Sam jests, holding up the image for him to see.
Steve glances at the photo, not interested enough to pay it any attention. As the others continue to talk and ask questions, Steve mumbles something about forgetting the drinks in the car.
He steps outside, letting the front door close behind him. It's quieter out here, and he takes a deep breath of fresh air before heading down the stoop.
But what transpires next happens so fast.
He's walking down the stairs. He loses his balance, and his foot misses a step. And then he's falling, falling.
synopsis: welcome to the afterlife! you lived a long and fulfilling life. now you have a week to decide who to spend eternity with. will you pick your first husband, eddie munson, who died in a car accident many decades ago? or your second husband, steve harrington, with whom you lived the rest of your life? you'd better choose quickly, time's ticking!
warnings/tags: fem!reader, love triangle, eternity au (inspired by the a24 movie), no upside down, descriptions of illness and death
a/n: welp, that was crazy. can't believe the show is over. anyway, here's an au that i've been working on! it will basically follow the same story beats as the movie eternity, but with small differences. hope you enjoy and let me know your thoughts!
Congratulations on your follower milestone! That is amazing! 💖
May I please request a Rick Flag fic with “The first time you smiled it felt like the universe aligned.” and I would love for you to rip my heart out (since that is an option 😊)
Thanks and I am so excited to read all of these upcoming fics!
My sweet angel, thank you for your never ending support and love, and thank you for the request! I'm sorry for the major delay getting this done, but I hope you enjoy me ripping your heart out and squishing it under my slipper 💖
hear me
rick flag x suicidesquadf!reader
word count: 1k
warnings: ANGST SUPREME. sad ending. swearing, blood, bullet wounds, death, sad sad sad. rick is cheesy & sad. SAD. ANGST. genuinely teared up writing this bye.
They lied. Everyone who had toed that line between life and death, they fucking lied. There was no bittersweet flash of memories before your eyes. You didn’t have a lot, but shit—there’s gotta be something worth showing you, worth reliving, before you close your eyes forever.
The minutes pass, you feel the growing chill along your limbs from the steady flow of blood from the various bullet holes in your torso, and still—nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
Just Rick.
Rick bolting across the sand with your name falling from his lips. You can’t hear it, there’s a distinct shrill ringing in your ears that seems to be drowning out the chaos around you, but you see the movement of his mouth, the strain of his throat as he yells.
He comes to land on his knees next to you, a shower of cool sandy grains flicking up and dusting your black tac shirt. It glistens under the light of explosions and gunfire, and you briefly wonder in morbid curiosity how much of your blood stains the beach beneath you.
“Jesus. Oh, oh darlin’—”
You hear him then, his broken and strained mutter cutting through the surrounding ambush.
“Hey Colonel,” you rasp with a barely there smile, a sticky hot trail of liquid leaking from the edge of your lips, “how’s it lookin’?”
Those pretty doe eyes dart over the destruction of your body, his hands ghosting over your wounds in what feels like hesitation, anxiety. Which ones can be smothered with a cheap and easy dressing? What one needs the most pressure applied?
Going by the rate your body seems to be numbing, cooling in the breezy night air, they’re all pretty shit. At least there's no pain. Shock, adrenaline - whatever the fuck it is, you're thankful for it.
“Fine,” he mutters, rough gloved hands instead coming to rest on your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the coarse sand and half dried blood splatters covering your skin, “you’re gonna be just fine.”
“Damn,” you breathe heavily, brows briefly coming together, “I never thought I’d hear you lie to me. None of that shit. No, no.... you gotta make it something good, Colonel.”
Confusion pinches his pretty face through the pain, and you give another strained smile.
“The last words I’ll ever hear—make ‘em… they gotta be good.”
“Don’t talk like that, you hear me? You’ll be fine. Backup’s comin’. They’re comin’, and we’ll get you patched up, and you’ll be right to back to bein’ a pain in my ass, okay?”
Oh, sweet soldier.
No.
It doesn't work like that.
They don’t send help for people like you. Suicide Squad, remember? It’s in the name. You knew what you were signing up for. He knew what you were signing up for. This is it. You’re just another classified file thrown through the shredder at the end of the day.
You blink tiredly up at him, “No one’s coming, Flag.”
He shakes his head in firm denial, strong jaw rolling in an effort to remain cool and collected.
“No, they... they have to.”
“Somethin’ good, Flag,” you remind him quietly, a heaviness now seemingly coming to rest along your limbs.
Is this it? Can’t you just have one more minute? One more minute of him crowding your vision? You don’t need a last minute life montage, not when he’s here, not when he’s carefully dragging you further into his warm embrace.
Please, just a little longer in his arms.
“Okay… okay. The—the first time you smiled, it felt like the universe aligned.”
“Oh, fuck me,” you splutter with a sudden roll of remaining energy, chest heaving and lungs screaming as you choke on a weak chuckle, “that’s a… a new low, even for… f’your s-soft self.”
“Thought you’d like that,” he drawls quietly with a grin.
It’s brief, tainted with agony stricken tears, and falls from his face the second it stretches his lips. No, sweet soldier. Smile. It’s okay.
Maybe… maybe this is why your life isn’t flashing before your eyes. It’s because it’s here—he’s here. You didn’t really have anything before this, before the Squad, before Rick. You were merely a shell of a person in your cell, angry with the unfair world and the hand you’d been dealt from childhood, but when he came along?
He gave you a chance, saw something in you no one had before. He provided you with the Squad, with friends. He got you out of your cell and into the fresh air with a new outlook. He trained you, laughed with you, ate with you in the crappy mess hall despite the frowns from his co-workers.
He saw you.
He saw you for everything you were, not for what people thought you to be.
“Think you’re the… the closest thing I’ve e-ever felt to love, Colonel. Thank you.”
It’s a decent goodbye, you decide with the final beat of your heart, slackening in relief and embracing the call of the abyss with a leftover curl still tugging at your lips. Better than you’d been led to believe you deserved, better than what Waller threatened you with.
You got a good ending.
He feels the weight of you in his arms, sees how unnaturally still your chest has fallen and how your eyes seem to stare just past his shoulder. It shakes him to the core. His heart beats at the base of his throat and he can’t help but call out to you one more time, despite knowing you’d never answer.
“Darlin’?”
You can’t be gone—not yet.
You can’t be gone, because you didn’t get to hear him say it back. He needs to say it, he needs you to hear it. He murmurs those three little words over and over, breathing them into your skin wherever he can reach, willing you to stay just long enough to hear them, long enough to know you were loved.
You need to know you’re loved.
Bile builds in his throat at the thought, but he has to leave you behind; alone, broken and bled out on the sandy beach for a sweep team to deal with later. He wonders as he runs through the dense jungle, but he’ll never know if you did manage to hear his broken, tear filled I love you’s.
synopsis: bruce wayne's best kept secret. some would say it's batman, he would say it's you. on the surface, you're friends who occasionally sleep together. but to him, you've always been more.
word count: 2.2k
warnings/tags: contains smut so 18+ mdni, battinson!bruce wayne, fem!reader, oral (f receiving), p in v, lots of kissing, reader knows bruce is batman, bruce is sad and touchstarved :(
a/n: i finally watched the batman! i don't know much outside the movie, so sorry if anything's inaccurate or ooc. battinson just has my heart <3
It's a familiar routine by now. Bruce's harsh and isolating habits ultimately leave a lot to be desired. More and more, he would invite you over for dinner, though the two of you are well-versed in what he's really asking for.
Despite everything, you're both aware of his desire for companionship. You don't blame him. You're familiar with his history, and you know him in a way no one else does. And some days, you're not so different from him, also longing for the same thing.
So, you come whenever he calls. You're not one to turn down a free meal and, of course, what comes after.
Each time you visit, your mark on his life becomes more permanent. Pieces of you are everywhere in the tower. Your scent lingers in the sheets, your belongings take up space. There are even a few things that Bruce bought just for you.
Alfred also enjoys having you around. He likes having another person in the building. But he's also grateful for your presence, much like how a parent is when their loner kid makes a friend at school.
Tonight, dinner is as it always is. Conversation is light. The heavy stuff, if it comes at all, is reserved for later in the evening. Even so, Bruce appreciates your company more than anything. He loves listening to your voice, the way you look at him and how you fill the otherwise empty space. In these moments with you, he almost feels... normal.
You're first to head up after finishing. Familiar with the layout of the penthouse, you make your way to the bedroom. You help yourself to a shower, the ensuite bathroom stocked with your favourite products. Afterwards, you slip on one of Bruce's shirts, a soft button-up that probably cost him an unreasonable amount.
You're tending to yourself at the vanity when Bruce finally enters. He pauses at the doorway, softening at the sight of you. You're freshly showered, wearing just a shirt and panties. Your hair is down and loose, your legs bare and on full display.
Shutting the door behind him, he approaches the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. You can tell it's one of those days, where he's carrying the world on his shoulders.
You join him on the bed, lying down by his side and propping your head up with your arm. He reacts by sliding an arm around your waist.
"What's on your mind?" you ask.
"Everything. Nothing. I don't know..." he answers.
You examine his expression for a moment. You've become good at seeing what he tries so hard to hide. You reach out to brush your fingers against his cheek. He softens under your touch immediately.
After a moment of silence, he speaks again. "Some old investors of the company have been trying to contact me. They've become increasingly obvious about their impatience."
You respond with a hint of teasing in your voice. "Well, some people aren't good at subtlety. I mean, just look at you."
He sighs, his eyes appraising you for a moment. He appreciates the jest, for what it's worth. "It's not just them. Every time I try to stop for a second, there's something else I need to do. It never ends."
You know what he's talking about, his duties as Bruce Wayne, but more importantly, the other guy.
"That's what you get for caring so much," you tell him.
He lets out a huff, "I can't help it."
You smile fondly. "I know."
Silence follows as his expression grows pensive. But he doesn't let himself go down the emotional rabbit hole. Instead, he tugs you closer to him, wanting to focus on you instead.
You take that as your cue to begin. You straddle him and start peppering kisses across his face, moving slowly and intimately. The effect is instant. You watch as his eyes fall shut, his breath deepening.
"I missed you," he admits quietly, keeping his eyes closed.
You smile at his confession. "Missed you too, Bruce."
You kiss a path to his lips. You start off gentle, as if you're reacquainting yourself with him. But it doesn't take long for him to deepen the kiss, driven by his desire, a quiet desperation getting louder by the second.
His hands roam over your body. Your thighs, your hips, slipping under his shirt, which, like so many other things in his life, you've claimed as yours.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
Your own hands begin to wander south, tugging at the hem of his shirt. He sits up, pulling away to allow you to lift the shirt over his head. His skin is pale in the dim light, his chest littered with scars. You run your hands over them and lean in to meet his lips again.
He reciprocates, kissing you like there's no tomorrow. You can practically feel him melting under your touch. Meanwhile, his fingers work to slowly unbutton your shirt until he can slide the fabric off your shoulders. Once free from clothing, he holds you close, letting out a soft groan at the feeling of your body against his.
Bruce takes this opportunity to roll over, laying you down on the mattress. His body slots between your legs like he was made to be there, his arms caging you in.
He kisses you languidly. He adores how soft and delicate you are. It makes him want to protect you even more, to keep you safe from everyone and everything else.
Soon, he begins his descent, trailing his lips down your neck, across your chest and over your soft tummy. He takes his time to worship you properly before reaching his destination.
He peppers kisses along the waistline of your panties and along the inside of your thighs, enjoying the way you twitch in anticipation. He places one last kiss over the fabric covering your heat before tugging the offending clothing off your legs.
He loops his arms around your thighs, locking you in place. He uses his thumbs to spread you open. You're already so wet for him. So beautiful. He doesn't wait a second longer and dips his tongue between your folds.
The taste of you almost ruins him. He licks a stripe from your hole to your clit, before swirling his tongue around the bud. You close your eyes, letting the moans escape you freely.
"Fuck, Bruce..." you murmur, reaching down to run your fingers through his hair.
He hums in response, the vibration of his voice only adding to the pleasure he's giving you.
His mouth is unrelenting. He eats you like it's his sole purpose in life, like you're the best meal he's ever had. He alternates between sucking on your clit and dipping his tongue in your hole to taste what you're giving him.
He knows you're close when you begin to squirm, your hands tugging hard on his hair. His hand reaches up to grab your breast, kneading the soft flesh as his other hand rests on your stomach.
He keeps at it, never once faltering as he makes out with your pussy. He feels it when your body finally tenses, and you moan his name like a prayer. The pleasure washes over you, all-consuming and making you light-headed.
Bruce only pulls away after ensuring he's gotten every last drop. He sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You're still dizzy as you watch him unbuckle his pants, freeing himself from the last remaining piece of clothing that separates the two of you. You almost shiver at the sight of his length.
He reclaims his spot above you and captures your lips again. Your fingers return to his hair, tangling with the messy locks. He reaches down to guide himself towards you. You feel his tip at your entrance, applying a pressure that makes you quiver. But he doesn't sink in just yet, letting his cock slide up over your sensitive clit instead.
"Bruce," you whisper weakly. "Need you, please..."
"Shh," he answers softly. "I know, honey. I've got you."
He finally gives you what you need, pushing into you slowly. He slides in easily, from the combination of your arousal and his pre-cum. You take him, inch by inch, until he bottoms out. He stays like that for a moment, your ragged breaths mingling together. He watches you, the way you're shaking, the way your eyes are begging him for more.
He begins to move, muffling your moan with another kiss. He sets a steady, unwavering pace. His hips roll against yours, sinful sounds filling the air. You can't get enough of it, of him. Each thrust is intoxicating, hitting you at just the right spot. Over and over and over again.
He takes your hand, lacing your fingers together and holding it down beside your head. His other hand cradles your cheek tenderly. His eyes never leave your face. While you're lost in the pleasure, he's focused entirely on you. Your moans, your expressions, all the ways your body is responding to him.
In this moment, it's just you and him in this cold, empty world. Not even he can deny it. He's obsessed. Completely, utterly addicted.
All of your senses are invaded by him. He's everywhere, giving you everything. Soft, but demanding. Gentle, but intense. Slow, but sure. And all you can do is lie there and take it, as the heat in your stomach begins to rise again.
He's familiar with the signs, how your grip on him grows tighter, how your moans become louder and how your walls squeeze his cock. He doesn't let up. Determined to give you irrevocable pleasure, he whispers soft praises and encouragements in your ear.
"You're beautiful."
"You feel so good."
"That's it, give me another one."
He continues to hold you close. And when you finally fall apart again, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's more intense than before. You cling to him as you cry out, your body arching against his.
He follows you over the edge, spilling his warm, sticky seed inside you. He slows down his pace to allow you to ride out your mutual orgasms. His thumb caresses your cheek, and he litters soft kisses across your face to soothe you as you catch your breath.
By the end, you're thoroughly sated, letting your eyes fall shut as you relish his affection. Your body tingles with satisfaction, warm and relaxed. But most of all, you feel safe, cared for and loved. And it's those feelings you hold onto for the rest of the evening.
Bruce barely sleeps anymore, especially at night. But it's all the better to be awake for this. Listening to your quiet breaths, feeling the weight of your body in his arms, it's the closest thing to peace he's felt in decades.
The night passes slowly. Bruce remains sleepless, just holding you. His mind is busy with its usual plethora of thoughts. But then, he notices a flash in the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he sees the bat signal outside the window, a beacon of light in the dank, cloudy sky. His city is calling for him.
He takes a deep breath, soaking in the moment for just a bit longer. Then, he extracts himself from you, doing his best not to wake you. He manages to get out of bed. But just as he's about to turn away, you stir, as if having sensed his absence.
"Bruce…?" you mumble sleepily.
His heart almost shatters at the sound of your voice. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I have to go."
You're unhappy, but you understand. You find his hand in the darkness. "Come back in one piece, okay?"
He softens even more, squeezing your hand. "I promise."
You sigh softly. Reassured by his vow, your grip loosens, and your drowsiness takes over again. On instinct, he leans in, pressing his lips to your cheek.
His kiss is gentle and loving, sheathing you in a cocoon of warmth. It only makes you yearn for more, until you're drowning in his adoration. You let the sensation lull you back to sleep.
Bruce takes one last moment to make sure you're at peace. Words hang on the tip of his tongue. The three little words he longs to say every time he sees you. Every time he's buried so deep inside of you, he isn't sure where he ends and where you start. Every time you always, inevitably, part ways with him.
He's sure he's said these words in his own ways over the years. He's sure you already know how he feels, that perhaps you return these feelings. And he's sure you'd stay with him, if only he asked you to.
But there's no time for that. Not tonight. With a sigh, he straightens up and finally leaves you to rest.
For so long, he's been focused on the same thing. His family. His legacy. His vengeance.
But when he looks at you, he sees something completely different. His lover. His future. His hope.
And before he disappears into the night, he lets himself believe for just a moment that maybe he can have both.
hope december treats you nicely and is filled with happiness!! remember to take it easy on yourself this holiday season and that there’s always better days to come <3 treat yourself to lots of sweets and make the most of your days as they get shorter and shorter. and also dress warmly and watch your favorite cozy movies!! ❄️ ⛄️🎄
