23. Latina. Professional yearner. love writing but Iâm not very consistent. In love with Jason Todd, Kade Mitchell, Malachi Vize, Killian Carson and Jeremy Volkov.
Anyway my stance on fiction and online harassment is shaped by the fact that I had unrestricted access to the local library from about the age of 8 and read quite a few books with fucked up content that I might have been a bit too young for and that caused absolutely no long-term damage to my mental health; meanwhile I was bullied mercilessly by my peers for several years and Iâm still dealing with after-effects of that.
I love watching people who haven't read sotr react to the trailer bc when Haymitch goes "they're 100% as stupid as usual" it usually earns a little laugh, a knowing look, a comment along the lines of "there he is, that's Haymitch". Exactly the same reaction Katniss and Peeta had when watching that same interview in Catching Fire:
Haymitch gives them a half smile. Snarky. Arrogant. Indifferent.
âHe didn't have to reach far for that, did he?â I say.
Catching Fire, Chapter 14
And the thing is, we now know that wasn't him at all. We know 16-year-old Haymitch was sweet, and humble, and caring to a fault. We know this is the moment he invented this whole persona, and that the Capitol gave him no choice but to stick to that role for good. That they erased the traces of everything else he ever was. That following their script was the only way he could make sure that no one would ever become close to him, that they wouldn't hurt anyone else as a punishment to him.
But the people watching this trailer react as Katniss and Peeta did, and I think it's a wonderful new way to interact with this scene of them watching Haymitch's games since it didn't make it into the movie. A way to remind us that we all fell for the Capitol propaganda once. We knew from the og trilogy what happened to Finnick and Johanna, we knew that the Capitol went after Haymitch's loved ones and made an example of him, we knew the Capitol lies, we knew he was terribly protective, incredibly brave.
And still we fell for it. And still the people with no knowledge of sotr keep falling for it.
I think I finally know who Haymitch is.
They told us "now you know who Haymitch is". And Katniss and Peeta believed it. And we believed it.
then please take away my desire to be loved. because it hurts to crave something i might never have. it hurts to look at people who have someone and wonder what it feels like to be chosen, to be held, to be loved the way i wish i could be. i get tired of pretending that being alone doesn't bother me. If being alone is truly what's meant for me, then please, take away this ache in my heart. Take away this hope that someone will come, because it's painful to keep waiting for love that might never arrive.
summary: bobby has been missing for months, last seen with his manager and no other word. youâve cried, youâve put up posters, youâve answered questions. and most of all youâve waited. but one thing you didnât expect, was when he actually came back..
a/n: his back and forth was kind of inspired by nikki from obsession (besides the wish stuff and itâs just the backrooms fucking with him) i wanted to make this more than just smut, so i hope you sexies enjoy !!
The morning the call came you felt it. It came early, far too early than a call should come. One that was normal.
The shift came first. The unease settling into your stomach, your hand hovering over the phone as the bedsheets shrugged down your body. The other side, his side, was empty, cool and dull where it once would have left you kicking off the covers from your legs. An annoyed groan coming from being shoved too far into the pillow. How you missed that noise.
Your fingers wrapped the cord with a desperate hesitation. Push and pull back before you finally plucked the courage to press it to your ear.
âSo sorry for the late call. But you were the only contact.â A manâs voice comes through the speaker, tired and gruff, one youâd expect to hear from the movies. Like he was torn between duty and doing right and falling asleep where he sat.
âNo.. itâs okay, what is it?â You spoke quickly, stuttering it out as sleep clings to your eyes, falling away every second the anxiety crept in.
The officer droned on, and from consistent lack of sleep and your cheek shoved hovering over the receiver, youâd hardly listened. You waited for words, something to make your ears prick up. And it came, slowly.
âThereâs no simple way to put this..â
The breath caught in your throat, hitching and drafting in the cold. You didnât say anything, you couldnât, your heart thumped too loud in your chest and ears to do anything other than breathe. This was news. It could be anything, it could be bad, it could beâ
âWeâve got someone you might want to talk to.â
A sound escaped your mouth, about to speak, about to ask, pushing yourself up onto your one arm.
âMiss itâsââ Suddenly, his voice stopped. The other end crackling with static before settling to an anticipatory silence. And thatâs when it came, tired and shaky, and all him.
âHey baby, itâs Bobby..â
The phone suddenly weighed a ton, and it shook in your hand. You hadnât finished what you were even about to say, the way you felt the sob erupt in your throat, before you sprung out of bed. It dropped back onto the nightstand with a clatter and you didnât pick it back up. In fact you didnât pick up anything. Only a hoodie that lay on the chair, his, no car keys.
He came back to you in arms of police. Slumped on a bench in a hallway after questioning in a dimly lit corridor with his hands in his lap. The hoodie they gave him was different to his own, the clothes heâd worn the morning heâd disappeared were gone. They stitched his face in two places, one across his nose, the other at his jaw, and bruises littered in other place, his hands twitching and feet tapping impatiently.
Bobby didnât have time to speak, your had flung your arms around him as soon as you met eyes around the corner. He embraced you tighter, arms circling around your waist, and a hand holding your head into his neck. He felt thinner, his body sagging against yours as he fell into it. Your tears stained his shoulder, and his own fell into your hair, soft sobs wracking your bodies.
âGod Iâve missed you..â
âYeah, no kidding..â You mumbled through your tears, offering what smile could reach your face. Your fingers finding their way over his face as his does yours, taking each other in with a disbelief that makes your eyes grow wide.
No one else had been accounted for. Clark, Kat, even a mention of Clarkâs therapist, Mary that heâd mentioned to you once on one of his drunken rants. The time he had shouted at you and Bobby to get out of the store far before closing time. That was months ago, weeks before they all had even gone missing. But you didnât leave time to question it, and neither did the detective standing in the doorway.
He sent you both away with a curt nod, and a careful order to get him some rest and âtake good care of him, he looks pretty banged upâ. And he does, he looks like heâs been through hell. His face paled and sunken in, eyes dark around the edges, but his body is warm against you, gentle.
And he didnât let go all the way home, didnât even stop looking at you. His hand threaded through yours over the gearstick as you drove, the last hours of night falling around you.
He was here, he was home..
â
âYou might want to slow down..â
âMmhm.. no way.â His spoon scrapes the bowl with a screech and he shovels another spoonful of cheerios into his mouth. He eats the way a dog would. Shameless and happily. Though heâs never been much for manners.
Bobby, always in a rush. And he does it in a way that almost makes you forgive him on the spot. Flashing that soft grin with a mouthful you, and that twinkle in his eyes.
You hadnât asked him what he ate there, where he was, and he didnât tell you. He only began to speak of some of it in detail, the things he could remember, or rather the things he could put into words, after days.
But thereâs blips in his memory. things that donât add up.
There were walls, and doors. An endless place where nothing made sense, and he wasnât alone. The thoughts you conjure up look like something from someone on a bad acid trip, and for a while you wonder if it was. If someone laced some of his pot and he took off. But the look in his eyes says something different.
The look says others were involved, says that the evidence is all there, but even that couldnât account for what happened. Itâs real. And whatever, wherever heâs been, he doesnât want to relive any of it.
Youâve seen it sometimes in mirrors and reflections. Where he passed by the bay window and stares too long in the bathroom. His eye, his body. Itâs no different to how itâs always been, save for the bruises. But thereâs the same slouch in his frame and swagger in his hips. But he pauses.
Almost inhumanly, like when someone forgets what they doing and have to counteract and rethink. But itâs more than that with him you notice, itâs like heâs recalibrating, like how a machine would.
Shut down, start again, think it over, and carry on.
It starts with small things. And then he becomes hyper fixated on you, and how you hurt.
He notices you flinch when you burn your hand on the stove. Itâs nothing, just a quick sting, a sharp breath you barely mean to take back.
But Bobby sees it like itâs an emergency.
His eyes track your hand immediately, âThat hurt.â
You shrug it off, turning to face him, âItâs fine, itâs justââ
âIt shouldnât be.â
The way he says it isnât angry, but itâs final.
From then on, he watches. Not constantly, obviously, but itâs enough that you feel it. Like everything around you is learning you, like he is.
The next time you cut your finger, heâs already there before you even register it. He takes your hand gently, like heâs afraid of pressure itself.
âYou donât need this,â he says.
You blink. âNeed what?â
âThis.â He turns your hand slightly, studying the tiny line of red like itâs an error in something perfect. âGetting hurt and just⊠accepting it.â
You let out a breath. âBobby, people get small cuts all the time.â His gaze lifts to yours.
Itâs flat again. Focused.
âBut why should you? Why should any of us?â
There it is again, that wrong kind of logic. His voice gets breathy then, almost like heâs about to break, tears under the laughter that comes from his mouth.
You try to laugh it off, try to pull your finger back, but he holds it in his, âBecause thatâs life.â
He tilts his head slightly, like the word âlifeâ doesnât translate correctly anymore.
âYou had to adapt in there.. just to survive. It became everything.â
His thumb brushes just above the cut, small droplets beading with sting down your skin and you wince.
âAnd now you donât have to adapt anymore.â
Your words register, but he doesnât answer to them. Because itâs true, he doesnât. Whatever that seems to mean.
âIâd take it away if I could.â
You go still.
âWhat do you mean?â
His eyes donât move from your skin, and it tells you what he doesnât say.
Your hurt, Iâd take it all away if I could. I donât know how, it doesnât make sense, but Iâd try. Iâd try it all for you. Iâd make being here count.
That lands wrong in your chest.
âBobby⊠no. Thatâs not how it works.â
He finally looks up again.
And thereâs something almost offended there now. Not at you, but at the idea that he canât do that, that his brain is working far too fast for his thinking.
âI can take it away.. let me take it away for you baby.â
His hand raises to your cheek, your finger still clutched in his other, drawn right close to his face. Itâs like it had something to give, and itâs almost him, itâs so close to being. Itâs rushed and soft and careful, and it doesnât know where to land. A finger slides through your hair, your breathing sharp as your finger presses to his lips, leaving a trail of blood.
âIâm better.â
The words crack strangely, and heâs repeating something he needs to believe.
For a second something flickers across his face. Confusion like grief, a fracture opening beneath the surface that leaves his smile appearing and disappearing in the same breath.
âIâm better,â he says again, quieter this time.
And God, part of him seems almost devastated by it.
Because whatever happened to him, whatever was taken apart and put back together wrong, it left one thing untouched.
You.
His eyes search your face with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.
You know that look.
Bobby used to look at you like that when he was in love. His jaw ticking and eyes blinking carefully. Now he looks at you like youâre the only thing keeping him anchored.
Like if he can just fix enough of the world around you, maybe the pieces inside him will stop rattling. Because he tries to silence it, he wants to so bad, he wants to take away every memory from that fucked up place. But he just.. canât.
He leans closer, voice lowering, almost intimate
âI can make it better for you too.â
Your hand stays in his, threading through his fingers. But you realise, distantly, that this isnât relief breaking through him.
Itâs obsession.
Every time you wince, every time you get tired, every tiny hurt catches his attention and never quite lets it go. He circles back to them hours later. Days later. Asking if it still aches. If itâs gone. If he can help.
As if heâs collecting evidence, as if loving you has become tangled up with fixing.
And somewhere inside that fractured mind heâs decided that if youâre safe, if youâre comfortable, if nothing ever hurts you again, then maybe all of this was worth it.
Because that's when it dawns on you further. He hasn't let go since he came back. Not once. And now the way he holds you feels less like reassurance..
But it's still him. It's still Bobby, yours. And he reminds you of it. He reiterates it over and over everytime he sees the change in your eyes.
Because he does, he notices everything. The flicker of uncertainty, the gentle blow of your pupil with everything you can't name, the wanting, the longing. The fact he knows he's been missing for months and he left you alone, and that he is so sorry baby..
But he's here now. And he's good, great even, and he can prove it, he swears up and down that he can.
He just wants you.
And itâs not that you donât. You do. You feel the want in every tug in your bones, every brush of his hand and breath at your ear. Heâs been gone too long, the apartment empty and wrong. Now somehow it feels whole again. Itâs sharper now, but hungry in all the ways it ever has been. When his teeth graze your throat and hands slide down your sides. They dig in. Searching, groping at the flesh, and his breathing is so ragged it consumes you.
You pull away. Itâs instinct, itâs not want. Something creeping inside of you tells you it in harsh pangs in your gut.
He lets you, resting back into the kitchen counter, hands bracing there as he watches. His eyes follow you as you stand there, motionless and thinking. Bobby canât read your mind, no amount of burning his gaze into your skull can do that, but the weight of it undoes you.
âI think you need rest..â
He just nods and lets you again. Allows you to lead him, and to take the first few steps as you turn away from him before he pushes mindlessly off of the counter. after you.
The bed is warm with both of you in it, the sheets pulled tight over your bodies in the first bit of normality youâve both allowed yourself. He stills, splaying out on his back with one arm tucked behind his head in the pillows. You half expected him to fumble with his camera, mess about with it and keep the red light blinking for hours. Like he always has. But he doesnât. Instead, his breathing evens out, an unusual slow.
But you curl around him anyway. Heâs only just gotten home, the rest will come with time. For now your just thankful heâs even here, thankful for the fact he holds you even tighter, and you can hear the stuttering of his heartbeat in his chest, so calming that you surrender to it. The beating in your ears is a lull, its safety, its home. And heâs home. The tears almost fall again, welling at your eyes as you force them shut with a sting.
You donât want to unnerve him, not after everything heâs been through. He deserves normalcy, and time, and this is it. So you push it down, swallowing it sharply until you succumb to sleep, fingers clutching tightly just to reassure yourself heâs there.
But Bobby hears it, the bobbing of your throat as you hold everything back. He doesnât say anything, he knows better than to push. Because thatâs it, he already knows.
He dreamt every space of time in there wondering, hoping, driving himself crazy just with the hope that heâd be in your arms again, and he is. He canât seem to cry, even though he feels he could, but it claws deep in his chest, right where you lay, an empty void.
One they told him would be normal. That itâs common in his circumstances to feel an emptiness, a reintegration with society, particularly without knowing where, how and why can be difficult. It will be. But there was no telling how much.
Because where he went wasnât on some crazy bender, it wasnât a break from reality like the âkids these days and their down sides of smoking too much potâ. Where he went wasnât Santa Clara. Where he went wasnât anywhere at all, but heâd been there.
A place one youâve been, you donât truly leave.
The world around just seems surreal, like peeling back the chipped paint and cracked sidewalks would reveal everything. And maybe it could, after all itâs nothingness he fell into. His mind drifts as he stares up at the ceiling, fingers softly soothing at your back. He thinks of Clark, and Kat, and whoever else might have ever found that place. He wonders if they ever got out, or if the screams he heard were real, if the blood that caught under his nails and the dirt that sifted over his clothes were by his hands.
Thereâs no telling. But these hands, they hold you, thatâs all he can think of. And they continue to rub at your back and comb through your hair. And because of it, somehow, some part of him feels together, and heâs able to for once close his eyes and feel sleep ways over him.
â
You try to ignore his words, the odd things they come out of his mouth, the things he mouths to himself when he thinks no one is looking.
But you canât help it, itâs everywhere.
The first few days, he bounces back fast. Heâs himself, and youâre certain he is. Heâs bright and smiley, flashing you that grin even where it pulls at the stitches across his nose and chin. His hand folds into yours, threading through your fingers and curling at your knuckles and the kiss he pressed to your lips is tender.
But he has moments. Blips in his memory, like when he tells the stories of what he saw in there, he becomes jittery and lit of place.
You reassure him. You try. The store has been closed for further investigation, yellow banded tape crossed over every window and door. As if hadnât cautioned out customers before, but that was the last place, the place where he disappeared. Even after all the pointing and the answers to the questions, he gives the detectives a direction, a complete map of what he saw. But they turn a blind eye, they donât even look.
They just pave over the whole thing. Some even look at him likes heâs gone crazy.
You went through a wall?
Not through the wall, itâs.. listen, itâs a door. I donât know how it works, but Clark, he showed me. Itâs literally downstairs, the lower level I can show you.
Okay, thatâs enough kid..
He patted him on the back, turning the pair of you away. Theyâd only called him back into questioning just to get a better idea, thinking that sitting down and retracing steps would work better than forcing him to speak the night he ran into the station.
Bobby never looked so angry, so ready to jump if you didnât have your arm around you. He knows how it sounds, how stupid and crazy it sounds, and it really does. But he was there, he did go through the wall, and he didnât come back until he found himself back months later. And that was only luck.
You watch him carefully. All the things he does. The checking, the overcompensating.. The way he wants to break back into the place, to show you everything on the camcorder, everything he picked up and that the police donât want to hear. But how can he, because everytime he looks your way, the way he glances at you just to ask.
You donât think Iâm crazy do you?
â
The light reaches you before you can barely open your eyes all the way, rubbing them just to blink through the weariness. The bed dipped earlier but you thought nothing of it, just the steady warmth returning until it didnât. You could hear him in the bathroom for a while, stepping back into the room with a creak in the floorboards, and he stopped for a moment. Watching.
But he didnât come back to bed. And after a while, your body already wired, it kept you awake.
The static flickers on the tv, a dark greyish blue consuming the room.
His back faces you, his legs pressed over his knees from where he sits on the floor. Nothing plays on the video, just the grainy black and white shuffling over and over again with the noise over the top. Your steps reach the back of the couch, squinting just to see him properly.
âYou scared of me now?â His speaks through the dark almost expectantly.
âBobby what are you doing?â
âAnswer me..â
âNo Iâm not.. why..â You answer gently.
âThen whyâd you pull away.â
The shadow of his nose turns toward the light, golden strands of hair slipping into his eyes, leaving you out of view. But not unseen.
His gaze finds you anyway.
âWhen did Iââ
âThe other night. In the kitchen.â
Silence comes then, and his jaw works, chewing the inside of his cheek with everything pent up.
Like heâs chewing on something he doesnât know how to swallow.
âYou remember that?â
The question comes out quieter than you expect, but itâs not defensive, part of it is hopeful, part of it hungry.
You nod, only once and Bobby exhales through his nose. For a second his shoulders loosen, as if something had been handed back. Reassurance.
âYou stayed.â
Your stomach twists. His voice seems smaller, shaky where he canât seem to fully look at you, but he tries.
âOf course I stayed.â
His eyes flick over your face. Searching and searching. Heâs looking for the moment youâll take the words back, that youâll call him crazy like the rest of them and leave him. But you donât. And part of him knows that.
And he canât let go of that, he never could before, and he wasnât going to now. So he seizes it, rising for his feet in barely a blink and heâs in front of you. The static still mumbles on the tv, but it just shadows you both.
A hand clamps harsh around your waist, moving you in his grip to face him. His face is wet with tears, twinkling in the light where they remain following you.
âBobby..?â You call out to him softly and he only presses into you.
âShh.. itâs okay,â His breath hits your neck, breathless and snarling, but his face hardly moves. Your fingers brace around the counter he backs you both up into, his thumbs rubbing circles at your flesh where you donât move away. You donât pull away. You canât and you donât want to. But you feel the shift.
âI want you.â
His hand curls at the back of your back, backing you both into the edge of the couch, your legs hitting it with a thump. His mouth slides down to your ear, shaking you into his hold, pressing himself, his aching need into you. The motion makes you gasp, lips parting and he catches them, messy and wet with his own mouth.
âI want you to be mine again..â He mumbles against your lips, rolling the plumpness between his teeth.
âBobby Iâam yours..â His face comes into full view then, patterned by the moonlight breaking through the blinds.
âYou promise ?â
His head falls back, body contorting around you, rocking back just to get a better look at you.
In this light, his canines just look that bit sharper, longer, glinting in the crackle of the tv set. The whites of his eyes keel over and roll back as they take you in, pupils blown in a black that covers the iris completely.
You donât question it, something tells you not to. Some part of it is alluring, drawing you in like a dangerous honey, and you nod softly.
And thatâs all he takes. In every way he can, in every way Bobby does. He collides. Itâs slow but itâs desperate, his mouth consumes yours skillfully, tongue licking into yours as his hand circles to the back of your head.
âAll mine.. just mine.â
He kisses you like that until your back hits the wall and your legs stumble, just so thy he can catch you into his arms. He wraps them around his waist, carrying you all the way, shedding your sleep shirt over your head and tossing it to the floor. There is an ache in the way he takes his time, gripping and tugging at every bit of flesh, kicking the door open with a careless groan.
You drop onto the bed with a huff, arms splaying out just for a moment until heâs on you again. His knees rise over your hips, squeezing you from the sides, caging you in.
His face goes blank where it drapes at your neck. Blue eyes faded to nothing but desire and primal hunger. And need. The primal urge is all too much, it consumes him, lights a fire deep in his belly and he knows in every shiver that creeps his spine, he has to have you. His hands hook around the waistband of your shorts, shrugging them off in one quick motion along with your panties, sliding down the thin fabric down your legs.
Then itâs all mess and warmth, the steady descent of him drowning in you, giving in to what heâs spent so long thinking of, dreaming of.
The sensation coasts down your body in waves, left by open mouthed kisses sucked over your skin. His lips press sweetly before they part, biting down roughly, catching you in his arms before you can pull back. The wince wracks your whole body, shivering under his touch as his fingers dig into the flesh of your navel, following the arch of your hips. It chases the feeling against you, the hard rip of teeth slicing into your skin, drawing red marks that bruise underneath it.
The one at your thigh drips languidly, acrid and tacky in thin droplets. Blood, your blood. And itâs his tongue that smoothes over it, soothing the wound where it opens, tears pricking your eyes where you become entirely undone. Your eyelids flutter, hands fisting the sheets around you and whatever else you can grab at.
He traces down where the trail follows, down across your thigh where the blood smears, down over the mound of your pussy where it mixes with your arousal, slick and dripping in your heat.
Bobby takes one longing look, one dark one shooting straight between your legs where you can see him. His touch is reverent, his mouth is hot right where you ache, and his eyes are completely blown black. Animalistic.
He delves in shamelessly, drinking you down with a long, flat suck through your folds, tongue dragging along your hole and circling at your clit.
âTaste sâgood..â
He laps at you mercilessly, loud and unclean, claiming in a way that only comes from longing, or in Bobbyâs case, devotion. His nose drags across your swollen clit, the skin rippling where you shake and tremble but he doesnât let up. He devours you. Hands curl underneath you, tugging your further down onto him than even possible from the flesh of tour ass, your thighs fallen limp and curled over his back, the taut muscle flexing where he eagerly fucks you with his tongue.
His mouth closes over your pussy, rising just to catch where he sucks down hard on your clit, as it pulses and clenched around nothing.
âGood girl, so needy for it..â Wet muscle works its way into your hole, delving and lapping, feeling for where your moans pitch highest, working you there until you come undone. And you do. In hot pulses of pleasure that sift through your body, leaving your fingers tangled into his hair, holding and gripping as you rock yourself through his high. His tongue doesnât relent, and neither does he, simply lets you chase the high until youâre dripping down his chin, sweet wetness that he slurps back into his mouth with a dark grin.
You whine out his name, eyes fluttering closed as your head lulls back onto the mattress. Something snaps again in him, harder this time, and unrestrained. One that leaves his fingers pinned around your wrists, shrugging the rest of his jeans down right to his knees.
âOpen up your eyes.. look at me.â
Slender fingers cup your jaw, the other spreading your legs wider, thighs parting so he settles between them. He frees himself and his cock is dripping, twitching from where it sits so hard, an aching red and leaking from its tip. The sight makes you salivate, drenching the back of your throat near as much as your thighs.
âThere she is..â
His hand wraps around it once, fisting it in a heavy pump that makes him groan, his throat bobbing as he rises back over you. The muscle of his biceps tick as they frame you, laying right beside your head, fingers flexing out to pat the strands of your hair. A delicate softness for all the depraved things he wants to do, that heâs compelled to do to you.
The tip of nose brushes your cheek, breath stuttering where he slides his hardness through your slick folds, resting himself with short thrusts on your pussy. The whine catches in your chest, your breaths mingling, and he looks down at you, and it takes a few blinks for you to notice. Heâs really looking. Committing you to memory as if heâs seeing you for the first time all over again, his head tilts, only slightly, studying you once over.
His mouth claims your own, lips shoving into yours in a biting kiss, and then he gives in. He rolls his hips back to punch them into you, nestling right deep where you take all of him at once, stretching you deliciously to the limit.
âOh, fuck..â
You gasp into his mouth, breath mingled with his own as his eyes squeeze shut, cursing at the clenching of your pussy around him, sucking him in greedily.
âI know, I know.. So good for me..â He rocks into you then, silencing your whines with his mouth, slipping his tongue so deep whatever is left of your faded mind swears it hits the back of your throat. His hips grind and ride over you until it punches deeper and consumes you.
âMy angel, my girl..â
His cock drags inside of you, pounding over and over again until the breath is stolen from your lungs, constricted by his arm around your neck and the sheer weight of him pressing into you. biting into the back of your neck. Sweat coats your bodies, a sheen of arousal that grows hotter between you, beckoning him more, to give you more, to never leave your side again. And he vows it, pledges it into your body with his own.
Just like he wonât let you go.
His teeth bare sink into flesh without thinking, settling at the curve at of your jugular, not enough to tear, but enough to feel the pinch constrict. The tears fall over your cheeks, pattering in droplets right into where his mouth sits on your skin. He licks them away steadily right with the flick of his tongue, salt and sweat coating his lips with every other part of you that heâs collecting.
âCome on thatâs it.. you got another one fâme yeah?â He rasps darkly, smirk pulling where his teeth graze your ear, smug and merciless.
Your whines keen into the sheets, shoved with a gasp every time he tugs you back onto him, mouth roaming relentlessly, restlessly where he canât get enough of you. The feeling is too much, not enough, itâs burning hot where your skin slides together, his hips cracking into the curve of your ass just to drag further into your sopping pussy.
Your tits bounce with the force of his grinding, Bobbyâs fingers pinching around to cup them, face pressing further down your body, curling over you. He growls low and guttural, suckling over every patch of skin he can find, âShit.. take it baby, take all of me," His hands roam, scooping at the back of your thighs where they fall. He feels you falter, your thighs twitching and shaking, and he snags them, squeezing them as he shoves them up to your chest as he rises, moving you closer into him.
âBobby.. fuckââ
He ruts into you at a pitiless pace, fingers pinching tight as they curl around your knees and legs, snapping right into your wet heat, and the whole of your body tightens. His thumb, or his fingers, you canât tell, swipe over your throbbing clit, already too much and he circles, thumbing it in a rhythm that sends you over the edge. Your body leans forward, shooting up into him with a sharp cry of his name, heat bursting through your body, right deep where he kisses your cervix and all the way into your the tips of your toes.
Your pussy flutters around him, and the pulse is dizzying. He stutters, staggering where he tries to keep himself upright, fucking you through your high as it filters out, your hips spasming at the touch. He thrusts sloppily into you, slowly grinding down, rolling properly into you until he is collapsing.
He wants to keep you like this, to fill you, to do it over and over again until neither of you can take it. It burns in his chest, with every aching drag of his cock inside of you, and every loud ring of your moans in his ears.
âThatâs it, thatâs my girl..â His groan is hoarse, breaking at the edges where itâs rough, bordering on a whine as he shoves his face into your neck. His breath brushes your damp skin, inhaling your scent heavily, still suffering inside of you.
âFuck Iâll..â His chest falls over yours, unhooking your legs carefully to lay down at his dies, âIâll give you everything..â He punctuates with one last pump, stilling as his lips purse against you.
Neither of you seem to disconnect from one another, his arms releasing you just enough to curl around the back of you. The sleep that was lost before gently intoxicating you both in your bliss. He kisses at the back of your neck and your shoulder, the sheets swarmed over you and his arm that hands over your waist.
âI love you..â
Are the only words you hear, over and over again as he whispers them into your ear. You mumble it back softly with your eyes closed, falling back into the warm wall of his chest.
And only then does he drift, soothed at your side, where he belongs. Where heâs home.
â
Part of him wants back there, and itâs not conscious, itâs the twitch in his sleep and the tug in his peripheral. Part of him wants to take you with him. But he canât, he wonât subject you to that, nor even to change it. So he holds you tighter, pulls you closer.
Itâs more calculated than it once was, but itâs just as warm, inviting, sometimes too much. That you have to remind yourself to be careful, that heâs hurting and itâs going to take time.
But some things donât change, they donât change at all.
He was protective over it at first, scrolling through tape after tape just to jam up the roll so none of it could be seen again. Only the old ones came through, the soft memories, not the evidence. Screams and questions were replaced with gentle laughter and cursing when heâd drop it from zooming too close.
The camera sits in your hands, heavy and jarring. The noise whirrs sharply, echoing in the thin halls of your shared apartment, and you go to cover it, even though heâs out. You sent him on a grocery store run minutes ago, just before he slipped you a kiss through the screen door.
You flicker through every video. You wanted to see for yourself, to hear him out and find the evidence that you believe from him. But thereâs nothing, and you go to put it down. Youâre so close to. But then it comes up, flashing blue and broken before the colours come through.
Itâs titled from back then. A week or so only after he went missing. Your eyes squint at the small screen just to get a better view, and it shakes you.
Itâs Bobby. Yellow walls are tall behind him, like old wallpaper youâd find in an office, more like an abandoned one. The lights flicker and buzz around him, but itâs dark, only half of his face showing up.
âOkay. Iâm not sure what this place is.. itâs fucked up. It took Kat, I donât where where the fuck Clark is. I havenât seen either of them.. But.. this thing, whatever it is keeps coming through. Itâs followed me for days.. I donât get it, itâs like itâs trying to be me. It mimics, and it.. changes.â A sharp crackle fills the audio, and all you can see is his face. Itâs scared, panicked even, holding the camera with two hands just to keep it in hand.
You go to turn it off, clapping it in your hands just to get it to work again, but all you can hear is the buzzing, his voice following after his mouth moves.
â.. not me..â
The clip jumps, scratching along with the distortion of the video. Bobbyâs face phases out, a loud beeping sound coming from the tape, until he comes back into view.
He doesnât look panicked this time, in fact his face is relaxed, calm with an uneasy curve at his lips. Heâs smiling. Not wide, but hopeful, soft like heâs looking right through the lens and at you. The sound doesnât come through until the video fades, static covering the screen and a muffled,
âŠ..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.Â
i really love this trope when group of friends (or not friends but they all pretend to be such) kill someone together and the rest of the plot is just batshit spiral of the consequences of that and attempts to fix the mess. black humour is a must-have. it is even more funny if none of them are good people and no one cares about the victim they just want OUT. and they still hate each other. bonus points if there are still messed up hook-ups and other weird dynamics going on.
using violence to liberate people from sweatshops, unsafe mines, and grinding poverty isn't the same as using violence to impose those things on people. the idea that violence is morally repugnant regardless of context is a belief that every oppressor throughout history would love for the oppressed to hold
A COVERT OPERATION . youâre not jasonâs girl, except you kinda are. pairing ! ex!jason todd x fem!reader wc ! 4.5k warnings ! sfw. fluff. written like a disaster rom com with more com than rom, jealous ex bf! jason, mr. spanky appearance sorta, a creepy unnamed guy appears + a misogynist asshole. reader does not take any shit. so yeah. mentions of alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking (reader & jason) + nicknames used : baby & amore (towards reader).
đïž based on this request and italian-american bf jason i & ii. also yeah, heâs pathetic and grovels a little.
art creds : @/shr0uds
now playing ! why donât you do right â peggy lee đ§
The first time it happened, you felt bad for the poor guy.
âJayâs girl, huh?â You turned at the sound of the voice, the warm bar lights casting a harsh glow over the manâs frame.
Sly, slimeball, or whatever the hell the guy told the bartender his name was as he racked up his tab â eyed you up and down, dark hair gelled to the side and a finger idling at the rim of his glass. He was huge, even from where he sat hunched against the side of the bar, his head tilted to the side and legs open in your direction.
You ignored him, plucking the toothpick from your glass and sinking your teeth into the cherry. How long had it been since you and Jason broke up? A week? Two maybe? Not that youâd seen him around lately to keep the score.
He was like that, with his profound ability of becoming a ghost and slinking away to the darkest crevices of the world, never to be seen unless he willed it, which you cursed the son of a bitch for because here you were with the utter bad luck of not being able to do the same.
His neighborhood was also your neighborhood.
His friends were your friends â some who you consider family, and while it mightâve been cute at first to be known as Jayâs Girlâą from here in some washed up family owned bar all the way to the best food joints in Little Italy then to every bookstore in the Bowery and back â it afforded you no anonymity. Or rather, no time to mourn your failed relationship while pretending not to, because God forbid a girl just wants to get a drink at 9 PM without someone mentioning Jay.
âThis guy givinâ you trouble?â Paulie, sweet, pure hearted Paulie whoâd never hurt a fly â except for that one time he put three guys in the hospital for casing his joint sometime last Christmas â murmured to you, his hands busy drying a glass with the fluffy white towel slung over his shoulder.
âCause I can get him outta here if heâs giving you a hard time.â
âIâm all good, thanks P,â you smiled, lifting your glass over the bartop to nudge his wrist. âBuuuut, you can top me up again.â
âYouâre out of it, kid,â he laughed, but took the glass from you anyway. He hadnât asked you about Jason the whole night, and despite how refreshing it was, it still felt sort of odd.
Did everybody know where he was except you? Or was the alcohol finally turning you into the pitiful sap you always knew you were?
That solace turned reflection was cut short however.
âIâm just saying, everybodyâs skirtinâ around it and looking at me sideways.â The Slimeball chuckled to himself, as if he expected the tiny crowd to join in his amusement. âBut youâre a good looking girl⊠like a fine piece aâ somethinâ you know?â
Paulie, in the middle of mixing your drink, looked to you, then to the guy, and back to you again.
You only shrugged. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.
âWhat? Are you shy?â The guy turned to face you now, the sleazy grin of his face growing by the second. âDonât pay attention to them, baby, focus on me.â His stool scraped the floor with a high pitched squeak and in the next second he was on his feet towards you.
Immediately, you tensed, but he leaned forward just as quickly. âYou actually need to back upââ
âHey, manâ you need to watch it. Jace doesnât play about that one,â came a random voice youâre sure you recognize, another neighborhood cousin or something.
âAnd you need to mind your fuckinâ business,â Grimey Guy whipped his head around. âCause if thatâs true, itâs his fault for not watching his girl.â
Upon turning around though, he reached a hand out to touch you.
Your drink was already raised halfway when Paulie and another guy rounded the counter and practically yanked the guy out of his chair. For good measure â and some well needed release of frustration â you downed half your drink then threw the rest in his face, after which he was dragged out back and kicked out â and maybe kicked around a bit, who knows?
But, Jayâs Girl remained triumphant, and the fairytale lived on, until it didnât. Sort of.
âWell, that sure is a sight.â Roy whistled long and low over the thumping bass. He twirled a Marlboro Red between his fingers idly, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.
Meanwhile, Dickâs mouth fell open, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as a hand reached up to clutch his chest. âNo way... isnât thatâŠ?â
âShut up,â Jason, who stood only a few steps away from their little wives-at-teatime gossip huddle grumbled. His lips were set in a deep frown, eyebrows knitted tight and gaze dark.
A humorous sight, if one were to take into consideration that all three of them were in âdisguiseâ for tonight, gathering intel on some high profile guest here at Eden, aka The Cathouse, one of if not the most popular nightclub in East End.
It was alive, electric, bass vibrating through the floorboards and the scent of fruity liquor cloaking the air.
Across the sea of bodies was you, dressed in a silky little thing that was borderline obscene, and the very picture of everything Jason did not want to see, but so desperately needed to.
In truth, this was supposed to be Royâs job but the fuck-up fucked up and so now heâs here with reinforcements â a bored Dick Grayson who shouldâve been back in BlĂŒdhaven yesterday but caught wind of the breakup, which he called âThe Great Departureâ and figured heâd stick around to boost his poor little broâs morale â so now Jason is here.
Heâs here in this shitty club where some illiterate hog had his hand inching closer to your ass by the second.
You were dancing, hips swaying and chest heaving with the rhythm, yet despite the effort you looked perfect, every bit of you.
From the slight staticky halo of your hair to the soft shine of sweat on your collarbone that looked like glitter and stardust and all things sweet, to your lips that moved in sync with the lyrics of the loud music â those lips, even when painted or lined or plain he can remember the exact curve and shape of them around the syllables of his name, the hiccup of a ti amo, the whisper of an amore mio, the shout of a fuck you, when he suggested that maybe another break is what you two needed.
âWow,â a whisper came from Roy and Dick nudged him so hard with his elbow that the fake mustache he was wearing hung loose on one side.
âShut your fuckinâ mouth,â Jason huffed, downing the last of a shot of something whoever left on the bar counter. And that fucking mustache just kept itching him, Jesus Christ.
The hog in question, God forgive him, had his hands on your hips, chest pressed tight against your back â a little birdâs chest, Jason thought.
His uncle, or really his neighbor that he called Zio Laurenzo because it was just how he grew up â would say itâs a cardinal sin to not have some meat on your bones to keep a woman warm.
Did he keep you warm? Jason wondered. He knew he always ran cold, youâd tease him for it all the time but he didnât even know why he was wondering about that now. Zio Laurenzo was a bum with a beer belly and two divorces under his belt. The only thing warm about him was his zuppa di pollo.
Madonna, he cursed in his head. Heâd been listening to punks and bums all his life, no wonder he messed up with you.
âYouâre a natural,â the guy whose name youâd already forgotten murmured against your ear. âYou related to Lola Falana maybe?â
You laughed loud and loose, just the slightest bit tipsy and feeling yourself too much. Itâs been a minute since youâve gone out, a couple more minutes since youâve entertained a guy just for the sake of it.
âMaybe.â It felt good. Not exactly fulfilling, but fun. You needed fun.
His hands guided your hips into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat matching each bump of the heavy bass.
You got lost in the music, in the heat rather quickly, your collarbones and forearms slightly slick with sweat and cold to touch but the alcohol hot inside your veins, the bumping and grinding of your hips against his even hotter.
âYou still havenât told me your name,â he shouted near your ear over the music, taking a gentle hold of your hand and spinning you around to face him. And oh boy, was he fine.
You told him your name with a playful smirk teasing at your lips, eyes hung low and a hand on his bicep.
The moment the last syllable left your mouth, the guy looked at you as if heâd seen a ghost, the heat of the club long diffused and an expression on his face that read bewilderment instead of sex.
âRepeat that?â
You said your name again and a hand came over his mouth instantaneously in utter shock. You could hardly believe it. âWoman, you tryinâ to get me killed?â He exclaimed in horror.
âWhat the hell are you even talking about?â Your lips curved into a frown.
He drew in a sharp inhale through his nostrils. âLook, youâre a nice girl and allâŠâ he met your gaze and cringed just a little, fearful. âLike what I mean is, youâre niceâ in a friend kinda wayâ like I wasnât tryinâ to put no kind of word to you or nothing like thatââ
The longer he spoke, the more your shoulders slumped and your nose scrunched up in confusion. Was this guy one of those fucking mood-swing-having kind of drunks, because the fuck?
âItâs just⊠you know, I donât know whatâs the situation with you two and if youâre steppinâ out,â he went on, scratching the back of his neck. âBut I canât go thereâ not that I was trying to, of course! Letâs get that solidâ cause youâre Jayâs girl and Iââ
âExcuse me?â
âNah, Iâm good.â He shook his head firmly. âEverybody knows he doesnât play about you.â
âEverybody knows this?â Your face screwed up in a mix of disbelief and offense. âListen, we broke upââ
He barked a laugh, right in your face. âLook, dolly, I came for a good time, not to get my ass beat. So I suggest you sing that little freshly divorced song with like, I donât know, at least six feet between us.â
âAre you serious right now?â
âYou have a good night,â he shrugged. âAnd congrats when you two get back together,â he said, giving you a quick nod before he walked away, easing between swaying bodies in the direction of the bar.
âFucking punk!â You yelled after him. What a drag.
âDo I have to keep wearing this mustache?â Dick groaned, index finger itching at his upper lip. He was sitting on one of the barstools, attempting to survey the crowd.
âOh, lookey here!â Royâs posture straightened and his teeth shone in a grin, a tiny umbrella that he plucked from a glass idly twirling between his forefinger and thumb. âCassio is steadily approaching.â
He turned to Dick who gave him a quizzical look.
âYouâre not well read at all, man,â he continued, tossing the umbrella towards a brooding Jason, leaning against the bar with his hands crossed over his chest.
âAnd who are you supposed to be, Bianca?â Jasonâs brows rose, then his expression shifted as he realized who Cassio was in question â the fucker that was dancing with you earlier.
A silence fell over the group as the guy rounded the bar and ordered a drink, scratching at his brow. He looked at Roy, then at Dick, both pretending not to look back at him.
Then he looked at Jason who was staring him head on.
âDo I know you?â The guy squinted, brows furrowed and head tilted forward. âYou from around here?â
âNo.â Jason responded, voice a little deeper for his disguise, or maybe something else entirely. Either way, it was fucking hilarious.
âAh,â the guy nodded, looking away. The air was heavy and awkward, and Royâs lips pursed with the effort of holding back a laugh.
âSo, uh,â Dick cleared his throat, fingers thrumming against the bartop. âThatâs a nice necklace, man.â
The guy looked up at him oddly. âYou tryna rob me or something?â
There was a pause, and Dick stuttered slightly before the guy chuckled. âJust fucking with you, sorry. But, yeah, thanks,â he reached a hand up to finger the chain. It was a silver cross with a few tiny diamonds. âMy girl got it for me.â
Jasonâs jaw ticked.
âOh, you donât say?â Roy grinned. Dick turned away to stifle a laugh under his mustache. âDamn. Thatâs real sweet, huh, Johnny?â
Johnny â or Jason, grunted under his breath in response. âLi mortacci tua.â
No way you moved on already. And least of all with BirdChest. No way, thereâs just no way.
He reached for the Marlboro Red that Roy abandoned on the bartop and fished a lighter out of his pants pocket. Before he could light it, Dick snatched it from his hands.
âYeah, sheâs a real nice girl⊠nags like hell though,â Random guy who you mightâve possibly moved on with, said. âJust the way these broads are, I guess.â
âItâs a bit much talkinâ shit about a lady who canât defend herself âcause sheâs across the room,â Jason intervened. Which he might as well, now that the scrub was calling you out of your name and he didnât have a cigarette between his teeth because somebody felt like parenting him on what should be a covert operation.
âOh, that one? Nah, not her.â The guy shrugged, sipping his drink. âThat one just set me up to fucking die, can you believe that shit? Came out to escape the nagging and what I get instead is a one way ticket to Death Row.â
âWhat do you mean?â Dick leaned closer, and when Roy looked at him with a bottom lip drawn between his teeth to hold a laugh, he only shrugged. Good goss is good goss.
âSheâs a real cute thing, you saw her right?â Roy and Dick nodded simultaneously. Jason scoffed. âWeâre dancing, right? And Iâm feeling her and sheâs feeling meââ
âYeah, fuckinâ stunadâŠâ Jason grumbled to himself.
âThen I go and ask her name, she tells me, and Iâm thinking to myself, where do I know this piece from, yâknow?â The guy continued. He shook his head. âMan, would you believe thatâs Jayâs girl?â
Dick and Roy exchanged a look, then shrugged in faux ignorance.
âJay? You know how many Jays are in Gothamââ Roy started.
âFuckinâ Jay from the Alley, man,â the guy exclaimed. âBig, burly son of a bitch. The one with the scar on his face. Motherfuckerâs built like a matadorââ
âOh, really?â Dick rested a hand against his jaw.
âReally,â the guy huffed. âAnd sheâs just out here looking like that and dancing on peopleâ have you seen the size of that guyâs fist? Fuckâs sake⊠I couldâve lost my life...â
Jason smirked to himself then shook his head to get rid of it. You werenât his girl, you werenât. Not really and not in all the ways that mattered.
Was he wrong for feeling a liiitle bit on cloud nine at the notion of Bird Chest the Handsy Hog fucking off because of two words? Maybe. But heâd been wrong about plenty of things in his life, he could do with another on his conscience.
âYo, Benny!â Came a shout and the guy in question whipped his head around. Oh, Bird Chest Benny. You wouldâve loved to witness this in real time, he thought.
âGo easy, fellas,â Benny said, downing the last of his drink and stuffing a few bills under the glass. âAnd watch out for that girl I told you about. Wouldnât wanna see any of you on the Missing Personsâ list.â
When Benny left the bar there was silence between the trio, a heavy, amused silence as Dick cradled his stomach to keep from bursting out into a guffaw.
Roy was the first to speak, and he sighed, long and dramatic, rising from his stool to stretch his aching arms. âO beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds onââ
ââYouâre done.â Jason interrupted, damn near lunging towards Roy who cackled with mischief, and Dick, who was still sitting there holding his stomach, had his lips pursed in intense thought.
âOh, wait a minute, I get it now!â Dick shouted, rising from his seat. âOthello!â
âNeed a light?â
Your entire body went stiff for a moment and a yelp escaped your throat. âFuckinâ hell,â you whipped your head around, cigarette dangling carelessly between your fingers and eyes wide with momentary fright.
âAnnounce yourself first, Dracula.â
Jason could only fix his face in a sheepish little smile, stuffing a hand into his jacket pocket to fish out the lighter heâd intended to use earlier but didnât have the chance.
The music from inside the club was muffled, the bass reduced to something like a tickle under your feet from where you both stood at the darkened back entrance.
You leaned forward, hands cupped and raised up to the click of his calloused thumb against the lighter, the small flame warming your fingertips.
âYou got a ride home?â Jason asked, one hand cradling both of yours and raising them nearer to the flame, the tip of the cigarette finally catching light.
âSomething like that,â you murmured, drawing in a puff, a soft plume of smoke leaving your nostrils. You withdrew your hands from his and he nodded, shoving the lighter back into his pocket.
He understood why. Of course, this wasnât a thing, not exactly and not anymore. So he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, still unable to hide the long gaze that raked over your features from where the timid light of the cigarette and the brightness of the moon cast shadows over your face. You were beautiful.
âWhatâs with the mustache?â
He blinked. âHuh?â
You were so beautiful and he was so stupid.
âOh, that⊠that, uhâŠâ Jason reached up to peel the embarrassingly fluffy, hairy thing off his face. âThat was part of a covert operation,â he said, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended it to.
You laughed despite yourself. âA covert operation?â
âWhatâs it to you, Columbo?â He grumbled, a smile stretching on his mouth. He missed you. You hadnât even been apart for long and he missed you.
You dug your heels into the asphalt, taking a deep drag of the cigarette between your fingers. With a long exhale, you looked over at him then looked away, but he caught your gaze in between, his gaze shooting to the ground.
âSo⊠you and that guy in thereââ
âIs that seriously how you wanna start right now?â You turned to look at him. âYou were watching me?â
âI was gonna say sorry,â he looked up at you. âFor ruining your night. He didnât seem to stick around long, so I figuredâŠâ
âNo, youâre not.â You shook your head, an almost bitter laugh of disbelief leaving your mouth in huffs of smoke. âNo, youâre not, you fucking assholeââ
You were laughing, hiccuping through each harsh draw of breath and wheeze of laughter. Jason bit back a shit eating grin because of course you knew him well enough to call his bluff.
âYouâre right,â he nodded, the words coming as a brief mumble under his breath. âI⊠I donât know, I just canât remember why we broke up.â
âIf I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted a breakââ
He turned his body towards you and interrupted. âA break, not a break up.â Jason sighed, raking a hand through his hair. âAnd then you just started throwing shit at me, what was I supposed to do?â
âI donât know, Jason,â you flicked your cigarette away, outing the meek flame under your shoe. âMaybe call? Maybe come look for me? Maybe donât spy on me with the Jay sanctioned protection squad?â
He straightened his posture, blinking slowly. âIf this is about what happened at PaulieâsâŠâ
You scoffed. âWhat happened at Paulieâs was none of your business. I can handle myself.â
Jasonâs eyebrows rose in mock pride. âYeah, word on the street is you waterboarded the guy with a glass of rum and coke.â The smile on his face faltered slightly, and his voice came quieter. âI know you can. I know that. Itâs just different becauseââ
âBecause Iâm yours?â Your gaze met his, and youâd be lying if you said he didnât look the slightest bit pathetic. Good, he deserved that. You wasted half a rum and coke because of his stupid ass. âDonât make me laugh.â
He swallowed, taking his hands from his pockets and wiping them on his jeans. Okay, so yeah, he did deserve that. âI was an idiot. Iâm still an idiot⊠And I didnât mean to disappear on you like that.â
âBut you did.â
âBut I did,â he hung his head. âI did, and I fucked up, and you shouldnât even hear me out. Because I was too much of a fuckinâ coward to come find you but seeing you here tonight, I justâŠ.â
âYou just what?â He watched the way your mouth curved over the syllables. âGot jealous?â
âFollia,â he huffed. âDonât get hasty, I didnât say all thatââ
âOh my God, you were jealous,â you grinned wolfishly, eyes bright with amusement as you stepped closer to him. âYou thought I was with that guy in there.â
âAs if,â Jason rolled his eyes. âLook at him and look at you, in what world would you ever go for that sortaââ
âBut I was with him and not you,â your lips pursed just the slightest, a tease, but nothing short of the truth. âDid it make you mad?â
A brief silence passed between you two, his dark blue eyes drifting from your eyes down to your lips, then back up again.
âWhat do you think?â
âJealous, mad,â you raised two fingers, wiggling them slightly as you counted. âMad or jealous. Uno dei due.â
âBrava,â he hummed. âYouâre a natural.â
You tried to ignore the way your stomach did a somersault. âIâm still mad at you, and probably will be for a long time,â you said, lifting your head and pointing your nose at him firmly. âSo, if you felt jealous, boo fuckinâ hoo, thatâs your penance to pay.â
âI know that,â he nodded. âAnd I wouldnât expect you to forgive me, not unless I really worked for it, Iâm sure.â Jason reached for your hand and you let him, a calloused thumb stroking the back of your hand.
He was so warm compared to you right now, even though he ran cold. âBut I do want to apologize, if youâll let me.â
You pretended to think about it, your other hand reaching up to scratch the side of your head. âI mean, it really depends on the quality of your apology. You did leave me high and dry to go dress up as Mr. Potato Headââ
âAgain, it was a covert operationââ
âI just donât think a little apology is gonna cut itâŠâ you sighed with faux hurt.
âI swear to God, I will get on my knees right now.â Jason said, deadpan.
You quirked a brow at him. âYou wouldnât.â
Before the last syllable had left your mouth, his knees hit the cold asphalt in front of you, those dark blue eyes staring up at you, electric and determined. Your heartbeat roared all the way up to your throat.
âIâm sorry,â he said. âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry.â
âJesus Christ, Jasonââ you ducked your head in embarrassment, a shameful heat prickling your skin. You were suddenly aware of everyone and everything that could witness this display. A car driving by, a girl slipping outside to answer her phone, a guy idling on a bike parked a decent few feet away.
âGuardarmi,â he whispered. You looked up at him immediately. âFocus on me. Let me fix this.â
Your breath stuttered but you nodded all the same. âApologize,â you said.
âI was wrong,â he scooted closer. âI was wrong and Iâm sorry and I swear to youââ
âDonât promise me anything,â you interrupted, looking down at him. The faintest redness dusted the flesh of his cheeks. âApologize, better.â
âI messed up,â he continued. His hands rested on the dips of your waist. âI shouldâve called or come to you but I didnât. But Iâll fix it, Iâll do better by you. I know I donât own you⊠I know that, but when you take me backââ
âIf I take you back,â you clarified firmly. âIâm not your girlââ
Jason pressed a kiss to the hem of your shirt. âAnd if you donât like it, Iâll set it straight so no one calls you that again, you know? I never need you to be my girl â maybe not even mine, I just need you.â
âNot your girl yet,â you murmured, finishing your previous sentence. âI donât hear you apologizing.â
âMadonna Santa,â Jason nuzzled his forehead against your stomach. âI know, I fuckinâ know and Iâm begging on my knees here, doll,â he groaned. âMi dispiace, mi perdoniâŠâ
He looked up at you with those eyes and you covered your face in defense. âDonât⊠donât look at me like that, itâs cheating.â
âAmore,â he whispered but you shook your head with a muffled mm-mm. âHo bisogno del suo perdono.â
You peeked down at him from between your fingers, and he was still staring up at you with those big, wet eyes.
âOh my God, get up, you look stupid,â you huffed, but a smile played at the corner of your mouth the whole time.
âDoes this meanâ?â Jason shifted, rising onto one knee.
âFuck no,â you rolled your eyes. âAt least take me home first,â you grumbled and he deflated slightly, the sadness evident in the smallest downturn of his lips. You had to bite back a laugh.
âBut, you do owe me a rum and coke,â you continued as he rose to his feet, already walking ahead of him. Jason tried and failed to hide his enthusiasm, a grin blooming on his features.
âYeah?â
âWhat about your little entourage?â You asked and he looked at you quizzically. âThe rest of Mustache Incorporated.â
Jasonâs brows rose in realization. Roy and Dick were still inside. Nevertheless, he shrugged. âTheyâre uh⊠working on some notes about Othello for me.â
âOthello?â You chuckled, and he caught up to your side.
âCovert operation, remember?â Jason whistled. âWe have to have codenames.â
the demonization of kink is so insane to me. if it is something you donât like thatâs fine bc it isnât for you, this goes for so many thing outside of kink as well. despite what social media might make you think, not everything is created to be catered to you. sometimes you wonât like things. sometimes things will make you uncomfortable. sometimes you wonât understand things. if it isnât for you move tf on and stop playing morality/purity police just bc a girl wants a man to tell her what to do. yall just love having something to bitch about and feel superior for
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
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