Taken over by the urge to draw Carol in like vaguely 50s fashion. Was originally going to be absolute Carol cause she wears something kinda similar but I might make that something seperate cause Iâm really interested to see what theyâll do with her in the absolute universe (come on she canât just stay as Hectors assistant)
sol's soapbox: this request has had me champin at the bit to write for a hot second now HEHE
content warnings: body insecurity, Guy is a big fan of reader's body, biting, kissing, gn!reader
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PREVIEW:
Ain't no curves Guy Gardner can't handle.
Guy Gardner/Chubby!Reader
Itâs not an unfamiliar sight, the posture that you take before the closet mirror. The one of self-deprecative wallowing as you put yourself to the crucible of self-scrutiny.
You know that thereâs no benefit to be had in this self-flagellation, as you look at aspects of your body that have carried you through the storied moments of your life. But you canât help yourself.
You can't stop the search for supposed blemishes, as you look at the curves of your body, the plush of your arms and legs. You can feel the instinctive grimace that already crosses over your face as you continue to regard yourself in profile. As you break yourself down for a life that youâve endeavored to live as best as you can.
This is why youâre not cognizant of the face that appears over your shoulder, growing in greater proximityâat least, not until itâs perched directly behind you.
âWhatcha doinâ?â Guy asks, his reflection taking marked inventory of you in far different means.
Thereâs a wolfish look to his eyes, teeth showing in appreciative sneer, his hands already taking roaming dissertation of your body: his conclusions all positive, of course. The way that his fingers slink around you, taking crude squeezes to emphasize all the spots that have given you griefâ
âGuy,â You begin with reticent bearings, âHave I gained weight?â
Guy, in all of his inelegant fashion, is busy burying his nose in the crook of your neck, enjoying the aroma of you. His hands are busying themselves, trying to find how best to unbutton your jeans from behind and finding adequate success.
âSure ya have,â Guy grunts in quite casual manner, âSomethinâ wrong with that?â
âWell,â You continue, pressing your own gaze upon the body heâs taking detailed work to commit to his grasping fingers, âI just donât know if it looks good on me.â
âFuck's tellinâ you bullshit like that?â Guyâs head snaps up in the reflection, searches out the sight of your gaze with his own. Unmitigated rage, offense held on your behalf steams clearly through, his grasp growing ever-tighter on the sink of your body.
âNo one,â You admit, and now your eyes break hold with his own. Take that similar boulevard of self-hatred that youâve become quite familiar with. âI just thoughtââ
âThought what?â Guy asksâthe anger is gone now, replaced by gruff emphasis.
The grip he holds over you relaxes, those knuckles easing the protracted jut through the housing of his skin.
âThoughtâcha werenât the hottest fuckinâ babe I ever got my hands on?â
The reprieve was temporary, it seemsâagain, it amazes you how nimble and dexterous he can be when he wants to. Especially as his hands encourage their way around your frame, to free you from the terrible stricture of clothes.
âI dunnoâââYou begin, but thereâs a pinch in the sensitive spot above your ribs and you canât resist the involuntary laugh expelled from you. You writhe in unfettered arms determined to keep you there.
âDunno what?â Guyâs voice is wily as he works your arm around his shoulder so that he can descend the side of your body. You shriek as you feel the rasp of teeth around the soft slope of your side, an animalistic growl that snakes through the grit of his jaw.
âDunno how youâre gonna get outta bed,â Guy asks as he presses a wet kiss that summons familiar heat to the junction of your legs, âAfter I got my way with you?â
âWell, IâââYou begin, because this is starting to sound rather promising, actually.
Guy huffs in unveiled amusement at your erosion of sensibilities. He takes another bite for good measure that renders your defenses weak enough for him to strike.
You donât know if his physical education training taught him some jujitsuâit has to be some Lantern witchcraft that taught him how to wrangle you around him like this.
But whenever he sweeps you up into his arms in that possessive, proprietary way, that needful heat smoldering in his eyesâyou know he means business.
âHow âbout I show ya how much I like it?â Guy asks with a broad, wicked grin.
His arms jump to better adjust the princess carry heâs relegated you to, leaning in to press his nose, his mouth to drape down your temple, make navigation to the shell of your ear.
âIâm real convincinâ,â Guy whispers, before making lewd application of his tongue to your earlobeâyou squirm away from the touch.
âGuy, youâre gross,â You giggleâbut itâs not a no. And he knows this, from how his hands school in tighter hold upon you.
âJust how you like âem,â He boasts, before he starts crucial journey to the bed behind you both. âNow lemme see if I still got that good persuasive streak.â
You think heâll have you see the light after all.
i think carol and talia are shockingly similar with enough to differentiate each other that they can bounce off each other as foils. both were established as major (and in carolâs case, primary) love interests to some of dcâs biggest heroes. both were introduced as daughters of incredibly powerful men with large organizations and strong paternalistic misogyny streaks. both are largely defined (at first glance) by these two men in their respective lives. both have whirlwind, deeply passionate, equal-but-not, tragic, doomed romances with their respective loves (who are embarrassing white guys). both are heavily, heavily gendered characters; male carol ferris and male talia al ghul would be so radically different as to be unrecognizable because both women are shaped hard by the misogyny of their worlds. both feel love so strong it hurts. and both have been ceos!
but itâs the differences that are the most interesting, because they clash so directly. compare the topic of male heirs from the first introductions of both fathers:
showcase #22
carl ferris has no sons. he begrudgingly hands ferris aircraft in the hands of his daughter so he can go fuck off and play golf or whatever. carol does an amazing job with it, but carl continuously fails to respect carolâs work because sheâs a woman beyond lip service, outright bemoaning how disappointing it was that she was born a woman. carol struggles between her need for power and respect, her internalized misogyny, and her own desires. she wants love and intimacy, but because her society has gendered these as feminine and she has been raised to understand femininity as shameful, carol represses them to focus on the (gendered masculine) pursuit of ambition, which then explodes into a cocktail of passion and violence as star sapphire and predator. carol has been fighting for respect from a father who never respected her from the day she was born, and in turn, fighting herself. even her name is a mark of the carl ferris jr. she failed at being.
batman #232
raâs al ghul (at this point) has no sons. he wants to find an heir, and passing the torch onto talia is a no-go because sheâs a girl, so he goes for a son-in-law. i wouldnât be me if i didnât point out that this is a racialised decision; how on earth could the orientals be more progressive than us at a time when we in the wonderful west are still wrapping our heads around female leaders in the great year of 1971, denny oâneil thought. but i think this is also true to taliaâs character. at this point in time, talia is only ever in the action as a reaction to someone she loves (raâs and bruce) either 1. asking her to do something or 2. getting hurt and talia goes out on a tear of vengeance (also racialised: duty over personal ambition.) she doesnât want to be heir and has zero qualms with being passed over. she is a woman who would rather be in the spa, lounging about, smoking a cig and having a gorgeous cuppa and reading a fashion magazine or blowing off her medical school work. sheâs very feminine and she knows it and likes it that way! talia is content staying out of her fatherâs business in a way that i think carol would find pathetic, which is fun!
talia is also a fair bit younger than carol, especially at the point of their introductions. she wises up to the fact that being nothing more than raâs al ghulâs little girl and bruceâs doomed love sucks big time. she has a secret baby. she leaves her father to die. she goes into a depressive, self-indulgent spiralâand then lex luthor knocks on her door and hands her the keys to his company, and not only does talia do a fantastic job of both running lexcorp and sabotaging it simultaneously, but this is her arc of identifying who talia al ghul is on her own two feet, something carol also had to do the painful way.
wouldnât it be awesome to see them meet as two brilliant women in the corporate world butting heads while finding common ground? both of whom are far more dangerous and bloody underneath those circumstances? where they can bond over their struggles with sexism and gender roles? where they can have a strong relationship with another woman, someone important in their life who wonât use that gendered relationship against them? who knows what its like?
and then in the 2000s both had their arcs and steady development snapped in half and left to rot when carol became a flat pink girl power character and talia became a dragon lady so we will never get that beautiful vision. but weâll always have the power of the word doc and tumblr post. amen
Ooh speaking of Lobo, any comic recs for him or anything? I think heâs super hot
shoutout to the homie @buggjunction who said that I could copy and paste everything he saidâyouâre hearing it straight from one of the most OG of Lobo Lovers
The Last Czarnian is a necessary read
The paramilitary christmas special is always SO good
I enjoyed Loboâs Back tbh And you got to see him as a hot woman
Blazing Chain of Love is literally just him fucking + the art is lovely
Portrait of a victim was pretty funny To Me
Unamerican Gladiators had him in a slut-ass v neck and honestly thats the only reason i read is HAHJFJCJDC
Convention Special had some fun art also
The Quigly Affair is highkey necessary reading imoâŠ..
I enjoyed Loboâs Back tbh And you got to see him as a hot woman
OH CONTRACT ON GAWD ALSO
Recent lobo issues are also beginner friendly as they detail like most of his important backstory shit
Enjoy at your perusal and happy hunting friendâŠâŠ
wild west ain't a place for a little thing like you, darlin'
Logan Howlett/Reader/Lobo, Guy Gardner/Reader/Gal Gardner, Benjamin Poindexter/Reader, Dick Grayson/Reader, Jonah Hex/Reader, 5.2K
a/n: something indulgent for my birthday, hope u all enjoy; inspired by @lechelovestoyap âs wonderful Outlaw!Roy fic
cw: drinking, cursing, societal behaviors, minor power imbalance, love triangle between reader/Guy/Gal, gn!reader
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PREVIEW:
But it seems like the good folk of this town don't know what they're getting when they run into you.
DC/Reader, Marvel/Reader
Logan Howlett and Lobo, Bounty Hunters for Hire
The two of them are purported to take residence in one of the lesser-traveled saloonsâthe one thatâs on the far side of town, where all the various unmentionables and various riffraff arrive to do their dirty dealings.
And you suppose that youâre not exempt from this either. After all, youâre searching them out so that you can plea clemency for their services.
This is why you fix your jaw and score back your shoulders as you push open the swinging doors of smoky saloon, ignoring the drag of all types of unsettling eyes that take visual purchase on you.
All you care about are the two sets that are taking gander of you in the far, darkened corner. The one that all people advising you away told youâjust where you would find them.
The tall oneâthe paler one, with the facial tattoos he claims he got from a tribe out in the wildernessâno one believes himâgrins.
He is schooled back against the corner where he has advantage of sight and reactive time to shoot if he needs it. The other one, the stockier of the two, sits in his chair and works a stogie that molders orange-hot embers from the end.
Both of them donât move, but they watch you with the track of your eyes. And you stop before the perimeter of the table the shorter one has his legs crossed over ankle upon. They donât say anything: after all, youâre in their territory. You have to earn your keep to get their company.
âI need you to track down my no-good, lyinâ husband that stole all my savings âcept what I had tucked where he couldnât find it.â And at this, you produce a small bag that clinks with the heft of bullion as you settle it on the table. From the way the shorter one cocks his head up, eyes the width and shape of pouch: you know you have their interest.
âHeâs gone out to the Oklahoma territory,â You continue, placing down your secondary item. Thatâs your waste of a wedding portrait, where the two of you posed nicely for camera in hopes of better futureâall but spurned. This prompts the taller one to cock his head from under his Stetson and snort at the pathetic mien of your spouse.
âIf you bring him back to me so he can face justice,â You declare, keeping your voice low so that other witnesses to this will have to strain to hear, âI will give you a quarter of whatever savings remain.â
You sniff, swiping the dust that collects everywhere from the underside of your nose. âThere ainât enough time for him to gamble it all away before yâall catch up to him.â
You level eyes with the shorter one who removes the cigar from his mouth with pinch of his forefinger and thumb. âThat is, if the two of you are as good as everyone says.â
The taller one lopes over to you real casual, demonstrating truly how much of a difference in height there is between the two of you. When he sizes you up, you know that heâs taking regard of what youâd look like without all of the frills and dressings you wore for the occasion.
âWhatâs quarter of what heâs got?â Lobo asks, grinding his teeth into less-than-amiable grin as he watches you for fear that you have yet to display. You roll your fingers into a fist, willing yourself to stay calm.
âA grand if you bring him back naked and with the fear of God put into him.â You say with utmost sincerity, without purpose of blinkingâso the two of them know you mean it. Lobo laughsâthe shorter, Logan, makes grunt that indicates approval.
âDonât think youâre gonna reconcile with him?â Logan asks from across the tableâhe doesnât move save to press the unlit end of the cigar to his pursed lips. He exhales arterial smoke as he watches you.
âThe only reconciliation heâs gonna get,â You reply, âIs either with a judge, or with the end of a shotgun.â
Lobo laughs again, a wicked, dirty noise. âWhat if we want some of that good credit up front, honey?â
His hand reaches out for your chin, draws his thumb up the edge of your jaw. Takes good visual assessment of you.
âNot talkinâ about the money type, neither.â
You lock eyes with him, keeping your tone level though you think it threatens to break. âThen you donât get paid.â
Logan chuckles at thisâthough Loboâs hand draws in tighter degree around your face. Like heâs liable to test just how much you have nerve to back up your words.
âI like âem.â Logan says, and he champs the cigar in between his teeth. Lowers his legs easy-like from the edge of the table. The chair creaks as he finds footingâand Lobo reluctantly ceases grasp upon the span of your jaw.
Loganâs eyes never cease in their cant upon you as he makes rounding perimeter of the table. As he exhales smoke through his nostrils just like those dragons of yore that you remember your mother reading to you in soft, arable voice.
âHow longâs he been out?â He asks, drawing up close enough that he could be asking you to dance. Behind him, Lobo leers at you, sizing up the situation with abject amusement.
âThree hours.â You respond back smartly. âI came here soon as I realized what heâd done.â
Logan makes another noiseâyouâre vengeful. Thereâs something respectable that he can glean from that. He slides a thick plume of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, the closest approximation of etiquette he can offer you.
âThousand from whatever we pull from him,â Logan asserts, âAnd dinner, the night we get back.â
You blink at this addendum. Taking stock of the immobility of his face, at the way that Loboâs grin widens as he adjusts the barrel of his long revolver against his temple, taunting you. Waiting to test your mettle.
âIâm not a cheap date.â You take aim with this offensive as you try to school your racing heart.
âNever said you werenât,â Logan replies, rolling the cigar in his teeth. Watching you for your reaction. âWe like to earn our keep.â
The implications donât escape you. But you scoff, crossing your arms over your shoulders. âYour tab, then.â
âWouldnât want it any other way.â Logan returns back. With this matter settled, your heart thudding in caging of your ribs, he turns. âLobo, get the horses ready.â
âBe seeinâ you tomorrow, sweetheart,â Lobo chuckles as they make way to depart. And you feel like youâre in for a heap of trouble when they return back over the sloping horizon of this dusty, dirty town.
Guy Gardner and Gal Gardner, The Cattle Ranchers
Youâre the eldest child of the family that they herd cattle for. Itâs on beautiful land, with gusting breeze that makes the limber grass bow and bend with each ghosting whisper through rolling hills.
This means that you have a lot of duties to attend to: cooking, washing, cleaning, feeding members of the familyâand when you can spare food, to the cattle drivers that slink through the fields dotted with meandering cattle.
But this also means that youâre gopher for waterâand this means, specifically, that youâre gopher for the twins. You were confused the first time that you were asked to go do it, and then second and thirdâbut you didnât ask why until fourth time.
Your mother had looked at you with reticent expression, something lined in her face that you couldnât decipher, before shuttling deep sigh through her nose.
âTheyâre a pain in the ass to deal with,â She had replied, âBut for some reasonâthey take liking to you that they donât show to anyone else. So go handle them nice.â
This had been revelation to you, considering that you were oftentimes frontline bystander to the twins and their antics as they interacted with their corpsmembers of pastoral call.
And you had witnessed the way that they had interacted in coarse manner to your family as they bade semblance of good morning and goodnight. Hell, you had seen the way that they interacted with each other.
But you didnât question itâso off you went, toting water bucket in game stride over to the two figures that dotted the distant edge of the herd on horseback. As you near, you can hear that coarse, crude tone that they speak withâand feel the press of their eyes as they latch onto you.
âHey,â Guy leers from horseback, turning the reins one-handed so that he can get better eyeful of your approaching form, âLook whoâs walkinâ our way, Gal.â
Gal turns, her arms filling out the starched cotton shirt that collects the sweat and exertion of a long day in the sun. But the look of bemusement soon is replaced by broad, toothy smile as she looks at you.
âAinât you a sight for sore eyes,â Gal drawls as she makes similar adjustment to better draw up sidelong to you, the clop of hooves heralding her approach. âYou come all the way out just for lilâ olâ us?â
âDonât give yourself too much credit,â Guy jeers, ââSpecially when you know theyâre here for yours truly.â
Gal snorts as you find yourself centered in between both of their horses that nicker softly, hot air snorting on your shoulders. It does little to alleviate their stares as they take you in, watching you from all sides.
âJust wanted to make sure that you were gettinâ water, Guy, Gal,â You respond back as politely as you can. âWho wants first drink?â
At this, you hold up the bucket that sloshes wetly, ladle bobbing in the meniscus. Before you can react, Guy leans down to haul the bucket one-handedâthe scrape of his glove rasps against your bare hand and you shiver, though you donât mean to. The smile he gives you sends another flare of heat up your spine.
âAge before beauty, Gal,â Guy returns back smugly. Settling the bucket on the meat of his ticked-open thighs, he balances it so that he can draw ladle to his lips, taking loud, obnoxious slurp. It would be funnier if his eyes werenât leveled upon you the whole time.
âYeah, that tracks,â Gal responds with a dry snort that Guy ignores. âStop wastinâ all the water and gimme some.â
She nears close, reaching out with extension of coiled arm that you can see musculature delineated through. You donât realize youâre staring until Galâs eyes meet yours. And when she winks, that same heat that was inspired when her brother looked your way roils up your body.
All you can do is watch as she raises the bucket to her mouth and drinks from the rim, her throat bobbing with each needy swallow she takes.
âTakes after the cattle like that,â Guy comments in over-loud admission to you. You have the good grace not to laugh as Gal shoots him a hand signal inappropriate for schoolchildren.
âGo wander off a cliff, Guy,â Gal says.
When she lowers the bucket back to your awaiting arms, she gives you a smile that demonstrates her wet jaw. âThanks, sweetheart.â
âNo problem, Gal,â You reply breathlessly. âYou two need anything else?â
âYeahâwe got a question,â Guy sneers; this prompts you to turn back to regard him on horseback, grinning down at you like youâve won some carnival prize.
âWhat is it, Guy?â You ask in innocent mien. This only makes Guyâs smile grow broader.
âWe hear that the circus is cominâ to town next week,â Guy sniffs inelegantly. âAnd we been wonderinâ if you got company to go with.â
âMy family said they wanted to go.â You return back without overture, looking from brother to sister, who exchanges stare with him.
âNah, that ainât what weâre askinâ, sweetheart,â Gal purrs, âWeâre askinâ if you got a beau yer goinâ with.â
This summons all manner of heat that creeps up your neck, under your cheeks, makes you at loss for words. Especially as Gal looks at you like sheâd like to consider how that heat tastes under her tongue.
âOhâââYou stumble over your wordsâââIâI didnât think anyone was interested in asking me like that.â
âWell, guess you got company escortinâ you to the circus all nice and fancy, then,â Guy picks up slack behind youâyou feel the need to turn, beset by this pair acting in tandem. âYou can ride into town with me, honey.â
âLike you know how to ride,â Gal jeers; you turn back to her. âYouâre ridinâ with me, honey. Come onâIâll give you a hitch back to your house to you donât have to walk.â
Her eyes burn with real fire as she stares down to you. âSee how a real cowpoke handles a horse.â
âShow you how to handle a horse,â Guy mutters under his breath, but heâs trying to put on amiable presentation for you. You have to ignore the butterflies that grow in crescendo as Gal takes your hand,?and with marked ease ,pulls you behind her.
âYou can hold onto me, hon,â Gal smirks down at you. âI donât bite.â
You wrap your arms around her waist, looking at Guy becoming distant figure in the distance as he watches you. And you try to justify the jagged beat of your heart due to the way Galâs horse tears off across the land.
But you know better than to lie to yourself like that.
Benjamin Poindexter, The Hangman
No one goes to the jail except the Marshal, whenever heâs in town. Which means that the person whoâs in charge of the keys, whoâs in charge of the prisonersâwhoâs in charge of a manâs final walk to the gallows: is Mr. Poindexter.
Youâve heard in fragments of conversation that his name is Ben. But there would be nary a plumb fool in town to call him by his Christian name.
Heâs Mr. Poindexter to everyone who sees him, even the pastor when he makes feeble attempt to convince him to save his mortal soul at service. But the hangman only responds with silent, curt nod under the brim of that black hat, before returning back to his post.
This is why you know that youâre going out on risky limb to try and even entertain this conversation. But you donât really have any other options, save going to the saloon and settling your fortunes over a game of cards that you know you canât handle.
So this is why you walk into the town jail, and look inside the dark confines of the room. Give yourself momentary second to let your eyes adjust to the dearth of light, searching for the figure that youâre hoping is present within.
You donât realize until youâve adapted to the shadows within that heâs sitting at his desk, watching you. With eyes so blue they almost take stormy gray quality, that handsome jaw set in rigid rictus. That scar from that scuffle with Mr. Murdock years ago, documented diagonal down the ridge of his cheek.
He watches you from the lionâs den, waiting to see if you even have the bravery to muster approach to talk to him. And you doâso you step forward into the cells that surround him, watching him as he takes better appraisal of you.
He knows you; he knows everyone. Youâre certain that everyoneâs been subjected to that gaze that youâve seen him fixate upon you from across town, as you grab feed, take laundry, do odd jobs.
Mr. Poindexter has always demonstrated such clarity when it comes to watching you. This is why you give yourself regulatory swallow as you stand before him at the desk.
âAfternoon, Mr. Poindexter,â You begin in terms of good etiquette. Best to start off on the right foot.
âAfternoon,â He responds in tone that demonstrates that his voice is hoarse from disuse. When he says your name, it is with particular stilted quality that you hear him regard everyone else in. It still shudders through you all the same.
He says no more. Heâs not the type. Very well, you pick up the slack.
âMr. Poindexter, Iâm here to ask you for a job.â You begin without preambleâbefore you can even muster through additional word, he speaks.
âNo.â He returns. âWeâre not hiring.â
Shitâyou scramble for bearings that he has carefully upended with such deliberate syllables. âWell, thatâs a problem, because you should.â
âDonât need more than one person to watch the prisoners,â Mr. Poindexter saysâas in, donât need anyone other than me to watch them.
Anyone knows better than to give him any lip once theyâre in the cellâeveryoneâs seen the expert, eerie quality that he has when he pulls the noose taut. He doesnât even wear the hood to hide his face.
âSure, but prisoners get antsy. They get hungry, they get thirsty.â You search for half-empty, tepid bucket of water in the corner. Scraps of bread meant to be distributed yet. âPlace gets too dirty, they might not make it to trial.â
At this, you spot rather exemplary cobweb in the corner to supplement you point. But Mr. Poindexter only watches you.
âThis isnât a hotel.â He returns back in hollow bearings, waiting to see how you will talk your way out of this. âWe donât intend to serve our residents lemonade and sandwiches.â
âWell, you should at least do somethingâââYou return, feeling something hot and frustrated bubble upâââConsidering that some of them will go free. Hold a grudge when they get out.â
âMost the people that get to these cells are already halfway to the gallows,â Mr. Poindexter responds. âI donât need to wait on âem.â
âWell, I can send messages for you.â You grasp at straws. For some reason, Mr. Poindexter is humoring you far more than he would anyone else. Most others would have been pointedly ignored by now.
âI can read, and writeâkeep track of the ledgers. Get letters to the post office.â
Mr. Poindexter tilts his head to the side so that he can purview of the post office across the road from the jail. âWhy do you want to work here?â
This is the million dollar question that you hesitate to answerâbut you know heâll catch a lie. He divines the truth from every man in the end.
âYouâre not a bad man, Mr. Poindexter.â You pleadâsummoning whatever empathetic tone you can.
âI know youâll keep your hands to yourselfâââAt this, he draws up a brow in arch mannerâââAnd you wonât work me to the bone. And I know youâve got a few dimes you can spare my way.â
He watches you. Silent as the graves that heâs walked over. âYou canât handle the work Iâd have you do.â
You donât know why something chirrups up the length of your body, persistent and needy. Why your throat is suddenly clottedâwhy you have the oddest notion that heâs staring at you the way a man looks at an object of desire. But itâs gone as you shore up a response.
âI bet I could handle you.â You return with abrasiveness. Your mouth falls open as you realize your faux pas, a shucked gasp making escape through your fingers as you try to muster the verbal mistake back in.
For the first time since youâve ever seen himâsince you think anyone has ever interacted with himâhe smiles. And then, he laughs.
Itâs not a nice sound, one that heâs certainly not used to exercising. But his shoulders shake, and his eyes draw to crescents. Staying upon you in that way they do when he watches you across town.
âWeâll see,â He says, and if thereâs something layered in undercurrentâyou ignore it as he rises to his feet. Demonstrates how tall and handsome and broad-shouldered he would be, were he not so without emotion. âYouâll come back at dawn to work.â
âI will, Mr. Poindexter.â You say, feeling elation as you watch him round the table, those trim hips making sway as he pulls rank in front of you.
âBen.â He saysâyou blink in shock.
âPardon?â You ask, unsure if youâve endured delirium.
âBen,â He says. âAnd Ben tomorrow when you see me. Now go home.â
You nod, not one to overlook a gift horse in the mouth, making tracks for the door.
âOhâokay. Ben.â It tastes odd on your mouth, syllabic marbles that roll around in odd fashion. âI wonât let you downâpromise.â
When he watches your figure trot off to your family to tell them the good news, youâd be surprised to know that heâs smiling.
That he says to himself as he watches your figure with fondness no one would ever expect, âI know you wonât.â
Dick Grayson, The Acrobat
Dick Grayson is a pretty, pretty face. You know better than to believe his honeyed words. Matter-of-fact, youâre certain that he tells the exact same candied lies to every pair of legs that he can get to stay in front of him for longer than a minute.
But you happen to be the pair of foolish, foolish legs that are drawn in by the gleam of those blue eyes, the cant of that gorgeous smile as he leans over the water barrel, watching you. Looking at you like youâre the only thing that he could ever be charmed by.
âYou look better than you did last year,â Dick grins at you, waiting upon your response. You arch an eyebrow, fiddling with the daisy heâs plucked to better woo you with.
âSo I looked bad last year?â You ask with a grin playing over your mouth, watching as his own grows in parallel. As he prepares himself for verbal parry that he sends your way.
âNever said that,â He says, and those eyes seem to almost beam iridescent in the lowering sun, âBut thereâs something about you this year. Youâre more mature. Moreâsophisticated.â
âSophisticated,â You repeat him with breathless quality, watching as he fixes ebullient, charming nod upon you. âThis town is the opposite of sophisticated, Mr. Grayson. The most sophisticated thing in here are the travelers that make a wrong turn here from the Dakotas.â
âWell,â Dick smirks, âThem and you.â
âFlatterer,â You return back, knowing what effect that those sterling eyes with such beautiful clarity are already doing to you.
âNever,â Dick says, âNever with you.â
And something in you wants to believeâespecially as his hand darts up your wrist, careful, gentle, deliberate. A working manâs hands, made rough but oh-so-watchful when they hold your pulse in the care of his fingers.
âYou know,â Dick continues, looking up through the fan of thick lashes up at you, âIt gets lonely on the road when we travel.â
âYou have your brothers,â You respond backâthinking of stolid Jason who tends to the animals, witty Tim who persuades passerby in, serious Damian who joins his eldest brother on the ropes. âArenât they good enough for you?â
âMan thinks about settling down on the road,â He continues along with such melancholy, heaving longing sigh, âThinks about making roots. Starting a family.â
âCanât do that with a circus troupe,â You respond back with a smile, playing along. âMaybe youâre not cut out for the life.â
âThink I would be,â Dick says, his eyes finding purchase on you, âIf I had the right person to keep me company.â
You laugh, trying to ignore the way that this makes your heart flips. As he watches you with such earnest fashion that you know there is some aspect of sincerity to his words. But not enough to convince you.
âHow many other people have you tried that line on, Mr. Grayson?â You ask with broad-faced grin. He looks positively offended at the hypothesis, putting fanning span of fingers over his chest.
âOnly the one person who keeps telling me no every single time I come into this town,â He saysâand again you have to ignore the butterflies taking prominence in your stomach. âAnd Iâll keep trying until they say yes.â
âYouâll have to keep waiting a long time, then.â You reply.
Dick groans in dramatic fashion, letting his head loll back, that gorgeous black hair tumbling down in such picturesque manner. Youâre certain that thereâs not been a single day that Dick Grayson has been without this natural, this beautiful charisma. You wonder if he would ever survive without it.
âDonât break my heart,â Dick resurfaces. âCome to the show tonight. Let me show you how good it could be.â
âThatâll take a lot of convincing,â You return with glib mannerâuntil his hands settle over yours. His eyes shine with such deliberate purpose.
âThen let me,â He swears in oath of fealty, âLet me make you see.â
You have to will yourself to breathe again in the space of those cornflower blues. âOkay.â
When he beamsâitâs like the sun has crested over the horizon once more. âWonderful. As token of my appreciationââ
His head bows so that he may press most chaste of kiss to ridge of your knuckles. But the effect is the same had he pressed his lips to your own; your body ignites with fervor that you cannot deny whenever you find yourself in proximity of Dick Grayson.
âIâll see you later tonight,â He promises. And then, heâs departed into the tent. Leaving you with nothing but a thrilling pace of heart that has stymied your ability to speak. All you can do is watch in the direction that heâs disappeared into, captured in the amber of that little slice of heaven.
âHe means it, you know,â Comes a gruffer, familiar voice. You turn to see Jason approaching with bale of hay tucked over the meat of his shoulder, great bicep flexing.
âWho?â You ask, playing innocent. He gives you a look that indicates that you best not play with him.
âThe fool up on the ropes,â Jason returns. âTalks about you even when weâre not close in towns. Making himself an honest man. Having that life.â
You stare for a long moment at him, before you return arc of gaze into the depths of the tent, where noise of preparation for the show tonight reverb out.
âIâll believe it when I see it.â You smile up at his younger brother. âGood evening, Jason.â
âEveninâ.â He returns back in that terse way, watching you go.
Only when youâre out of earshot does he say, âGuess you will tonight.â
And then, he returns back to join his family in the life that theyâve created for himself. Wondering if tonight will be the night that you finally accept his fool brotherâs proposal.
Jonah Hex, The Sheriff
This town is unlike any other that youâve proceeded into; thereâs something more respectable about the folk that walk here. Something amiable and polite in the greetings they make, in the way that they interact.
You know why: thereâs something that motivates them to act right. That persuades them to keep in good graces, lest hammer fall upon them in corrective measure.
This is why you take a gamble as you waltz into the saloon, settle yourself up on the nice, cushioned seat at the bar counter. âShot of rye.â
âYou got coin for that?â The bartender asks with bleary eyesâyour smile is easy, as is your reply.
âSure I do. Put it on my husbandâs tab.â You reply. Thereâs a moment of cross irritation as he tries to place you, or your supposed husband, and fails.
âWhoâs your old man?â The bartender asks. This is when you prop yourself on your elbows, grin up at him, and give him dignity of response.
âThe sheriff âround these here parts.â You watch as the rag heâs cleaning glass with stutters over the rim, eyes flash up to you in sheer disbelief.
âYou ainât married to Sheriff Hex,â The bartender sneers back stoutly. You shrug your shoulders.
âYou can tell me that, but you gonna tell him that when he comes to get me?â You askâthereâs a flash of suspicion as he hedges his bets. As he weighs the odds of this tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘte.
This is how you get one shot of rye. And coax the second, and ply the third.
People mill about, come and goâyou watch as the bartender sends folded note to a boy bringing supplies, whispers something hushed in his ear. You know what heâs doing, as the boy scampers into the daylight without returning.
This is why you make your way to your fourth shot of rye, enjoying the acrid burn that both sears and cauterizes down the length of your throat.
The doors to the saloon swing open. And ominous shadow casts itself over you, prominent tread echoing on wood paneling.
âEvening, Sheriff.â The bartender says, watching you.
âEveninâ, Ned,â Comes a voice with Southern twang, rich and corrugated and like molasses running hot down your throat. âCome here to get a spouseâa mine I hear rolled up to town.â
At this, you turnâand look at the pair of eyes that have settled upon to you, one wide, one squinted. Take in the desiccated mess of half his face that is set in permanent leerâand the other side that makes determined smirk.
And how it grows as you match eyes with him.
âJonah,â You grin, âThought youâd never show.â
âThat why you smell like a distillery?â He asks gruffly, though thereâs no real edge to it. Not with Jonah. Not with you.
âKeep me waiting,â You return, âI need somethinâ to keep me company.â
âThereâs Ned,â Jonah replies, though your bartender appears to be none too fond of that concept. You shrug.
âOnly rye carries the same kick of spendinâ time with you, Jonah,â You return back. He snorts through that ruin of a mouth.
âTake that as a compliment for now, darlinâ.â He says. âHow much you rack up?â
âTwo dollars,â You say. Jonah whistles through his teeth.
âGonna drink me outta house and home,â He returns back. But without looking, he produces billfold to compensate the bartender, who still looks as though heâs unsure if heâs aware or in prolonged delirium. All the while, your husband keeps level gaze upon you.
âHow about I take you back home?â He ticks his voice lower, with dedicated meaning. âSo you donât goes wanderinâ off again.â
âI like the sound of that, Mr. Hex.â You say, holding out your arms. âLead the way.â
He obliges to scoop you up in the spread of those muscular arms with nary a grunt. Holding you to the plateau of firm chest youâve become used to leaning upon.
âLost some weight,â He comments as he makes way to the door with you easily toted in his grasp. You hum against his tin star.
âGuess youâll just have to fatten me up again,â You say idly, grinning up at him.
âHmm,â The noise is rough but interested. âLookinâ forward to that. You stayinâ around?â
âLong as youâll have me,â You say as the cool air of the night ghosts over both of you.
Youâre drifting into doze as he takes you home. But you donât miss the answer he returns, as he makes tracks down dusty road to distant house.
