Back in 2013, I posted a Welcome to Night Vale fic and someone commented, “I’m autistic and I see myself a lot in the way you write Carlos. Did you intend for him to autistic?”
And I was like “I’m flattered you think so! No, he’s not intended to be autistic, but I’m glad you can see yourself in him.”
Now twelve years later I spent some time this evening trying to track down that comment to give a very belated clarification. Whoever you were stranger, hey. I only said no because I based Carlos heavily on me, and since I wasn’t autistic, Carlos wouldn’t be either. Well. I’ve learned some stuff in the intervening decade that strongly support your literary analysis.
90% of age gaps don’t matter when you’re a grown adult as long as you don’t have a repeated pattern of dating people barely legal. I would date someone 30 years older than me if I liked them who gaf
This entire conversation is somehow 90% people infantilizing themselves and 10% actually people talking about the issue of men who never grow out of dating 18/19 year olds. No it is not a big deal when a 25 year old dates a 35 year old please get a grip
Chimes with a thought I've had for a while, actually; sleep deprivation might mean I explain this badly, but:
What a red flag actually means: something here is an indicator of a potential problem (but might be fine with a reasonable explanation)
What people have now decided it means: abuse
I've lost count of the number of times I've now had to read variants of "My partner takes all my money and gives me back an allowance because he says it's a man's job to control finances, but he's racking up gambling debts" being met with "Wow this man is a walking red flag" no Becky that is abuse. That is not an indicator. He is an abuser. Call the police. We have lost the concept of a proxy: a thing that indicates a more important thing. And it's relevant to this conversation because I'm actually going to go out on a limb here:
With the obvious exception of paedophilia, age gaps themselves aren't a problem at all - they are a proxy for the actual harmful phenomenon. Hea me out, let me explain
The reason we don't like age gaps is because of the implied power dynamic. If one partner, usually male, is older than other - particularly if the other is still quite young - the risk is that what we're seeing is a worldly wise predator who is exploiting the lack of life experience of a young beautiful woman by mentally abusing her until she's no longer young and pretty enough to satisfy, at which point he'll move on to the next. There have been enough examples of this in human history. It's unfortunately not an uncommon pattern. Genders can also be diverse in this scenario
We can't necessarily see that dynamic from the outside. But we CAN see an inherent element of it: the ages of the people involved. So age becomes a proxy for the abuse. And, hey, it's often correct.
But here's the thing: the ages themselves are not causing harm.
The power dynamic is. The abuse is.
Plenty of age gap relationships are loving, healthy and steadfast. Two people met and genuinely fell in love regardless of the outer packaging, and have a relationship with all the highs and lows and challenges and rewards as any more traditional pairing. This happens all the time
Is the age gap a red flag? Sure! It indicates a potential issue.
Is it inherently abusive? Absolutely fucking not.
OP is right - we need to stop focusing just on the numbers and twisting the facts to fit by infantilising the younger partners, and start focusing on the actual harms. The DiCaprio Pattern of only dating under 24s repeatedly is itself a proxy, too, actually - but a much stronger one than the simple presence of an age gap.
(Even so, in DiCaprio's case, until any of his former partners come forward and describe him as abusive, actually, even that is up in the air - my personal interpretation, given how strong a pattern it is, is that he's a loser who views women as trophies (consciously or not). If any have come forward and I don't know about it, of course, fair enough. But those women were adults capable of making their own decisions, even if they might later come to regret it. And regretting poor decisions is part of life! That's how it goes, particularly with relationships. As long as they weren't abused, there's no biggie. And just as he was looking for young-and-beautiful, there's no way they weren't, on some level, looking for rich-and-famous; it goes both ways.)
Also, another element of this: I think a lot of modern extreme puritan discourse on this is actually ironically down to the age of those taking part. Up until your late 20s, ten years is actually a huge span of time to you, because in your own life you were in a completely different developmental phase ten years ago (teenager), and a completely different phase again ten years before that (child). That skews your sense of what a ten-year gap means. Whereas once you're in your 30s and beyond, ten years is like. Yeah I was an adult ten years ago, and I still am now. That's two adults. Who cares.
(Anyway I am hoping and praying I explained that well enough, and also that Tumblr's famous reading comprehension skills are solid enough to follow)
summary: Dex takes you on an aquarium date where the glowing blue water and a heartfelt confession makes it impossible to deny how much he means to you.
who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader
word count: 2K
warnings: soulmate au, pure fluff. If I have missed any please let me know!
divider by: @uzmacchiato
a/n: Part 10 of the Glitch Series! Only one more chapter after this one! Like before feedback is welcome!
Glitch Series Masterlist
Next Chapter: You Are In Love
Previous Chapter: I Think He Knows
"Honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?..." — The Alchemy by Taylor Swift
The first thing you noticed when you stepped out of the apothecary after a long shift was Dex.
Leaning against a wall with an air of casualness that caused others to ignore him, but you could see his eyes scan the surrounding areas.
A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it as Dex straightened up immediately when he saw you.
“Hi.” His greeting was simple, yet it still warmed your chest.
“Hi.”
His eyes moved over you once, taking in your tired expression, the herbal stains on your sleeves, and the way you dragged your aching feet.
“Did you work through lunch again?”
You blinked, confused. “How do you know that?”
“You get quieter when you're hungry,” he said, grabbing your bag and throwing it over his shoulder. “You’ve usually asked me at least three questions by now.”
You grinned at his attentiveness because while many people would find it off-putting to discover that their boyfriend has learned everything about them, you know that this is one of the ways Dex shows his affection.
You also know that him knowing these things about you is also what keeps his mind clear, like a north star guiding a lost sailor home.
“You know that’s not normal, right?” You tease while grabbing his free hand.
“It is for me.” He said with a serious face while interlocking your fingers together.
Of course it was.
You couldn't stop smiling at his reply before your eyes landed on a folded brochure in the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Honey.” You pull his hand to grab his attention.
“Yeah, baby?”
“What's that?” You ask, pointing at his pocket.
For a moment, a suspiciously pleased look crossed his face. “A surprise.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don't trust that expression.”
“I know.” He grinned.
“Dex.” You whined, but the smile you were trying to hide gave away the fact that you were only playing.
He playfully sighed as he held the brochure out, showing a pair of already paid-for tickets for the aquarium you had told him about a few weeks ago.
Your eyebrows shot upward. “You planned a date?”
“Yes.”
You looked from the tickets to him. Then back to the tickets. Then back to him again.
“You planned this weeks ago, didn't you?” You asked while grinning.
“… Maybe.” He said as his cheeks warmed red.
“Oh my God.” You laughed.
“It was difficult finding a day you weren't working.”
Your chest warmed pleasantly because that sounded less like annoyance and more like a fact he'd carefully thought about.
“Come on,” he said quietly, tugging your hand gently to make you start walking.
And because you couldn't think of a single reason not to, you happily moved.
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The aquarium wasn’t as crowded as you expected, with just enough people to fill the halls with soft chatter and excited children.
You'd barely made it through the entrance before something enormous swam past one of the giant tanks and caught your attention.
“Oh wow.” Your pace immediately slowed, and you didn’t notice as Dex altered his own pace to match yours as your eyes were glued to the beautiful animal.
A stingray was gliding across your view, its movements graceful and enchanting, as it swam closer to the glass before quickly changing directions as if it was teasing everyone watching it.
A laugh escaped you. “Honey, look, it’s beautiful.”
“It is.”
You glanced at him only to find he wasn't looking at the stingray, but he was looking at you.
Your cheeks warmed instantly. “You know that's not what I meant.”
“I know.” He said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.
“Dex.” You gently nudged his side with your elbow.
A tiny smile appeared on his face as you rolled your eyes and continued walking.
But you couldn't stop smiling either.
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The jellyfish exhibit was your favourite.
The room glowed blue as soft music drifted through the darkness while hundreds of jellyfish floated through illuminated tanks like stars.
You stopped in front of one immediately as your attention was taken by the pretty pink jellyfish that drifted slowly through the water, glowing softly beneath the lights.
For several moments neither of you spoke as you admired the jellyfish.
“You're staring.” You said upon noticing Dex’s usual expression.
“I know.”
You smiled. “There’s more jellyfish over there.”
“I know.”
You looked over your shoulder, and Dex hadn't looked at the tank once. Not once.
“You paid for tickets.” You gently reminded him.
“I did.”
“You should probably look at them.”
“I'd rather look at you.” He said seriously as his hands cupped your face.
Your stomach fluttered hard at the familiar response that should embarrassed you, but instead it only made your smile grow.
“Besides, we haven’t gotten to the shark section yet, and those are my favourite.” He teased kissing your forehead.
“Dex.” You laughed while gently hitting his side before noticing his gaze not leaving your face.
“What?” You asked wrapping your arms around his waist.
“I love you.” He whispered.
Your breath caught as everything in the room seemed to stop. The people, the music, the jellyfish, all of it. But his declaration didn’t shock you because you’d known for months or maybe even longer.
You'd seen it every time he looked at you, in every gift he gave, in every text he sent, in every careful touch, and thoughtful date. But hearing him say it aloud felt different somehow. Bigger. Real. Better.
For a moment you simply stared at him as the blue aquarium lights reflected in his eyes and showed the emotions he was feeling. Love, certainty, and patience.
“You don't have to say it back.” He whispered again while gently stroking your cheeks with his thumbs.
The gentleness in his voice made your throat tighten as you realised he didn’t say it because he wanted an answer but because he wanted to be honest.
You swallowed and reached for his hand instead, with Dex immediately intertwining your fingers, and a smile appeared on his face that somehow said enough.
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The shark tunnel was quickly becoming your favourite part.
Mostly because a sweet seven-year-old boy had attached himself to Dex the moment he saw him.
“Mister, do you think sharks could beat dinosaurs?” The boy asked while tugging on Dex’s jeans.
Dex blinked in confusion while you looked away to hide your smile, shoulders gently shaking because of your quiet laughter, before turning back to face your boyfriend, who had since lowered himself into a crouch.
The boy’s mother sat only a few steps away from you with a baby in her arms and mouthed “I’m sorry”, which you waved away with a kind smile.
“Which dinosaur?” Dex asked, and the child gasped happily.
Apparently this was the correct answer.
Ten minutes later, Dex and the boy, who you have since learned is called Sammy, were not only discussing which dinosaurs a shark could beat but also their favourite dinosaur and why.
While you happily watched from several steps away, now sitting next to Sammy’s mother and cooing over Elena, her four-month-old daughter whose toothless smile was stealing your heart.
Eventually Sammy’s father returned with baskets of fries in each hand, and the small family made their way to the outside picnic area.
“Bye-bye, dinosaur shark man!” Sammy shouted while aggressively waving goodbye.
You smiled as Dex waved back before he turned and found you staring.
“What?” He asked, tilting his head in confusion.
“You like kids.” You grinned.
“No.”
“You absolutely do.”
“No.”
“You just spent ten minutes discussing sharks and dinosaurs.” You teased him.
“He asked.” He defended himself as you laughed so hard you had to grab his arm for balance, which Dex looked very pleased about.
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The gift shop was challenging your self-control.
Every stuffed animal was adorable and dangerous to your purse with their beady eyes and soft stuffed bodies calling your name, especially the sea otter that sat on a shelf near the cash register.
Round, soft, and holding its own stuffed rock, the stuffed teddy was perfect and would look wonderful on your bed.
You picked it up, squeezed it, then reluctantly put it back. “No."
Dex looked away from the hammerhead shark keyring he found. “No?”
“I don't need it.” You said walking towards him.
“You want the otter?” He asked while showing you the keyring in his hand.
“I don't need it.” You stated.
“But you want it.”
“Dex.” You playfully pointed a finger at him. “No.”
He looked completely unbothered as you dragged him away, leaving the sea otter behind.
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Lunch happened afterwards at a small family-run café near the waterfront.
You chatted excitedly about all the sea creatures you saw while Dex pretended not to notice as you stole his fries before subtly pushing the plate closer.
The walk back to your apartment was slow and peaceful, with neither of you seeming particularly eager to end the day.
Your hand remained interlocked with his the entire way as you both ate the ice creams you purchased from the local gelato. It was comforting, natural, and easy as you realised that you were happy.
Genuinely happy.
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You had been home for about an hour when you discovered the sea otter sitting happily in the middle of your bed.
You slowly turned towards the living room, where Dex had made himself comfy on the sofa. “Honey.”
“Yeah, baby?” You could hear the grin in his voice.
“Why is there a sea otter on my bed?”
“I don't know how that got there.”
“Dex.”
“I've never seen it before in my life.”
You laughed happily, the sound filling the apartment as you moved towards the sofa and pressed your lips against his.
“Thank you, honey.” You said into the kiss.
“You’re welcome, baby.”
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Hours later, you were curled against him on the sofa while the film you put on had long since become background noise, with neither of you paying attention anymore.
Your head rested on Dex's chest, one of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist while his fingers absentmindedly traced patterns against your side.
The apartment was quiet except for the television and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. A few months ago that sound would have made you nervous, but now it settled something inside you.
You shifted slightly, tilting your head up to look at him, only to find Dex was already looking at you.
A smile tugged at your lips. “You're staring again.”
“I know.”
“You do that a lot.”
“You’re beautiful.” He said smiling as your cheeks flushed red.
Dex's hand slid up your back, twirling pieces of your hair around his fingers, and your chest warmed at his words. A few months ago hearing those words would have annoyed you, now it makes you feel nice. Wanted.
You leaned forward and kissed him. Only a quick press of your lips against his, but Dex immediately followed when you pulled away, chasing another kiss before you could retreat completely.
You smiled against his mouth. “Needy.”
“For you?” He questioned. “Always.”
The answer came so quickly that you laughed as he rested his forehead briefly against yours. The familiar tingles danced beneath your skin where his name lived. Like a lovely, gentle reminder.
Then his hand lifted to cup your cheek, and the look in his eyes made your stomach flutter. The soft look that he reserved only for you. Always for you.
You thought about the aquarium, about the jellyfish, the sharks, and the sea otter currently sitting happily on your bed. The way he'd held your hand all afternoon and memorised all your favourite things. The way he'd said I love you like it was the most natural thing in the world and the way he'd given you space when you hadn't been ready to say it back.
Your heart and stomach squeezed. “Dex.”
His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. “Yeah?”
For a second you simply looked at him before gently smiling. “Thank you for today.”
Something in his expression relaxed. “You had fun?”
“You already know I did.”
“I still like hearing you say it.”
Your laugh escaped before you could stop it, and the sound made him smile too. Then he leaned forward and kissed your forehead as your eyes fluttered closed briefly, savouring the feeling of being loved.
And when he kissed you again, pulling you closer until there wasn't any space left between you, you followed willingly.
Because neither of you wanted the day to end as the television continued playing unnoticed, and the city carried on outside. And somewhere between the shared laughter, quiet conversation, and stolen kisses, the evening slipped away from you both.
before you're ever good at something, you must allow yourself to be a beginner at that thing first. if you try something for the first time, chances are that you're gonna suck at it. but the beautiful thing about being a beginner is that you don't have to be a beginner forever — if you don't let the way you think "the first time I tried something, it turned out terrible" discourage you from mastering your crafts, you'll keep getting better and better. and the best thing about practicing is that you never stop getting better, there's no point you can ever reach the point where you can never be better anymore. as long as you're still alive and as long as you keep doing it, you'll only get better. you'll go from a beginner to a skilled expert and even when you're a skilled expert now, there's always more room for you to grow and be better, as long as you keep doing it. and it all starts at being a beginner and being suck at it first. there's something very humbling and beautiful about being a beginner and being suck at something ♡
description: you and shane have come to an understanding after many years of friendship and few romantic attachments: offer each other release without all the complications that real feelings bring. yeah, ‘cause that kind of thing has a history of working out.
warnings: 18+ mdni, not canon-compliant, canon-typical violence, author has not seen untamed but is somewhat aware of the plot (thx tiktok edits and online blogs), explicit sexual content: unprotected vaginal penetration (but stay safe, guys!), creampie, vaginal fingering, oral [m!receiving], dom/sub undertones, semi-public sex, praise kink, shane puts reader into a headlock during sex cuz that’s my dream!; (appropriate) use of firearms, alcohol consumption, jealousy, swearing, no gendered pronouns for reader, terms of endearment for reader [baby, sweetheart]
author’s notes: are they lovers? yes and worse! this gifset of shane honestly changed my life. thank you gifmakers for your service! and to quote my reblog, in which i quoted a line from scary movie 4, “i need to be in a room with him in which there are no others” anyways, i do have a 2nd part in mind, but idk when i’ll finish that, although feedback and reblogs are always vv encouraging & appreciated!! also running out of ideas for the smut, so if you’ve got any suggestions, feel free to lmk :)
In and out for the little moments
But the moments, they last a while
In and out for the little moments (Little moments)
I wanna make you so proud (Proud)
Proud (Proud)
— Cece Natalie, “So proud”
He’s inside you before you know it.
The stretch of Shane’s dick splitting your insides open burns more than usual tonight, what with little foreplay he offered you, which typically means he’s had a rough day. Or, he’s seen Kyle Turner, though the two have come to be synonymous these days. Whichever it is, it must’ve been really bad for him to stay dead silent on you, save for a few short, quiet grunts behind you.
Although Shane has never had the patience of a saint when it came to you, it was still admittedly startling when he wasted no time in shucking off your bottoms and underwear in one go earlier, thick calloused fingers diving straight through your folds. Luckily for him, you get wet embarrassingly fast under his touch, even with the current lack of care that guided his movements.
You don’t really want to think about why that is while he’s burying his cock inside you like he hates you.
Whether or not he’s in the middle of fucking you, Shane is normally running his mouth off like the sound of his own voice is the best thing he’s ever heard. Whenever he does talk—spitting out something that’s somehow demeaning and praising both at once in that way that Shane manages to be—you keen. That’s embarrassing too. But it’s hard to stay embarrassed for long when all feeling except for his body against yours, inside yours, is drowned out. When he sings your praises because he knows it makes you gush around his cock to be acknowledged by him.
In your daze, teary eyes squeezed shut, you vaguely feel the pressure of his arm as he curls it under and around your neck. The unwavering punch of his tip against the spot you like nearly makes you miss the way he begins to squeeze the air out of your throat—as if you already didn’t have a hard time breathing as is. But even as angry as he must be, Shane is mindful about his strength, keeping his grip on you just loose enough to where you won’t pass out. Without realizing it, your hands have clung onto his wide biceps as he fucks you further into your soft, squeaky mattress.
You have a tear-stained cheek pressed against one bicep, the hairs on his skin collecting a few of the escaping droplets. Your nose is buried into the crook of Shane’s elbow, where you can smell the musk of his sweat, along with the remnants of dirt, grime, and the woodsy outdoors that have clung onto him throughout the day. On any other man, it would have been gross and unpleasant. On Shane, it’s unfortunately intoxicating.
You don’t remember coming the first time.
The entirely obscene squelch of your slick combined with Shane’s precum, you can barely hear over the rush of blood in your ears and Shane’s labored breaths. You’re not even sure if the sharp-sounding “fuck” you heard from him was real, or if it’s just your mind filling in a void with things you’re used to hearing during these moonlit trysts.
The warm, familiar wave of your next orgasm starts to take over, Shane’s thick cock and fingers guiding you through the curve of pleasure, continuing their work beyond its peak. Your entire body squirms in his hold, tensing at the overload of sensation as his thrusts lose their tight rhythm. Despite that, Shane still manages to quicken his pace even more until he lets out a final groan into your ear. His seed floods your walls, fluttering muscles sucking him dry like they know the routine by now.
You suck in a sharp gasp of air into your lungs as his headlock finally loosens around you, becoming something more gentle as he turns you both onto your sides. You don’t make a sound of protest even though you already miss the weight of his chest on your back.
“So proud of ya, baby.” Shane groans softly into the back of your neck. “Tight cunt’s always so good to me.”
And just like clockwork, you keen.
Still high off your climax, you slip into a half-conscious, post-coital fog where you’re vaguely aware that Shane’s dick is still sitting inside you. You’re also aware enough to be a little surprised by it because he doesn’t usually stay past quickly but efficiently wiping his cum and sweat off of you with a damp washcloth he finds in your bathroom. But maybe you aren’t aware enough to tell the difference between sixty seconds and ten minutes.
Either way, Shane slips out of you, and the dip in the bed becomes shallower. A few moments later, a damp washcloth is between your legs, gently cleaning the mess that he made.
There’s a faint tap at your bare hip. “You should go piss.”
You make a muffled sound at that that most cannot discern as agreement, acknowledgment, or refusal.
Regardless of your friends with benefits status, you and Shane have upheld the “friends” end that many seem to forget altogether because of the way these arrangements tend to get ugly fast at the first sign of feelings. Over the course of your friendship, he has learned the language of your indiscriminate sounds. This one meant I’ll go later, but later is actually never because I’m falling asleep.
You don’t think about how caring it is that he helps you to the toilet before the Sandman sends you off, not until the next morning and he’s already long gone.
You don’t expect anything from Shane.
It’s why you don’t mind when you watch him shamelessly flirt with the most gorgeous person you’ve ever laid your eyes on across the bar; a tall, dark-skinned woman who looks unbelievably soft underneath her minidress, which is likely worth more than your monthly salary. It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t belong in a bar on the kind of woman who belongs on a runway in Paris, walking for Chanel.
“Ten bucks, he strikes out.”
You turn around to see Ryan Fielding getting settled onto the stool beside yours, his broad frame dwarfing the tiny seat. “Should you be betting on customers?” you ask, expression entirely unimpressed by the prospect.
He offers you a simple shrug. “I’m on my fifteen.”
“Well, then, I’m not making a bet with you I’m sure to lose.”
“Ouch.” He mock winces at you. “No faith at all? Thought you two were friends.”
“It’s because we’re friends that I know he’ll strike out.” You snort, taking a small sip of your cheap beer. “That woman looks like Anok Yai, and both are way out of his league. Big time.”
“I’m gonna pretend like I know who that is and agree.”
You let out a gasp, twisting your torso around to face him, totally appalled. “You don’t know who Anok Yai is? The model? God, I forget you guys live under a rock here.”
Ryan holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, I got enough on my plate, tending to lovesick fools, shit flirts, and drunk assholes. I don’t have the time to be keeping up with fashion or whatever.”
Before you can inquire further about who the “lovesick fools” in question are, Shane approaches from the other end of the bar—beautiful woman now notably absent—a dripping beer bottle clutched in his fingers. He doesn’t say a word when he takes a seat next to you, tipping the lip of the bottle to his mouth.
Your head tilts to the side. “I take it, no home run?”
“I was just giving her directions.”
You can’t resist a snicker. “That’s what men say when they’re fishing for a number.”
“That’s true.” On your right, Ryan nods adamantly.
Shane only smirks, shaking his head with amusement. “She was just looking for directions to the nearest hotel.”
“You direct her to your tent?” You chuckle, flagging the bartender down for another beer.
An unladylike snort leaves Ryan’s mouth behind you while Shane holds onto his easy smile. “No. Only if she asked, but I doubt that kinda woman would be able to fully appreciate it anyway.”
You hate that you want to ask what kind would.
The thought plagues you even as Shane pushes you down on your knees by your shoulders in the cramped bathroom stall, forcing his flushed cock through the seam of your wet lips. You try to ignore the hard press of dirty tile against your knees, hoping you could magically will away bruises. It’s a miracle you both even manage to fit in the tiny amount of space there is in front of the toilet. It’s a good time to not be claustrophobic.
“Breathe, baby,” he reminds you quietly, bringing you out of your thoughts, a large palm supporting the back of your head.
Your eyes flutter, lashes already coated with tears as you try to inhale through your nose. It’s been a minute since you’ve blown Shane, since you’ve felt the tip of his dick sit uncomfortably at the back of your throat. He curses lowly when the warm muscles involuntarily close up around the girth of him.
“Gonna make me blow my load early if you keep doin’ that.” He holds your head still, hips beginning to thrust steadily into the warm of your mouth. “Shit, that’s it.”
Your hands rest at the back of his calves, holding tightly onto the rough denim of his dark-wash jeans. Your eyes close as you lose yourself in overwhelming sensation of him fucking your mouth.
The hand not on your head taps your puffed out cheek, trying to guide your attention back. “Eyes on me, baby.”
Shane comes down your throat the second you finally meet his dark brown gaze with tear-glazed eyes.
“Take my cock so well,” he murmurs, pulling your mouth off of him. Shane wipes up the drool and cum that’s accumulated around your mouth and chin with one hand, the other brushing away stray tears. “So proud of you.”
Rarely do you get to spend your mornings waking up to the woods surrounding Shane’s tent. Even before you started sleeping with the wilderness management officer, you’ve stayed over in his beloved, quaint shelter a number of times. It’s nice to be able to get away once in awhile, to be reminded that things outside of the Internet and giant skyscrapers exist. That not all things are manmade, but some are just born, especially the most beautiful of things.
Like the war raging on in the early morning sky, bleeding reds and oranges washing away into the deep blue ocean. Shane was an early riser through and through, something the Army and rangers beat into him, but you managed to sneak off and snag the view all to yourself this morning.
Though that’s partly due to being unable to sleep well on Shane’s stiff cot. No matter how you twisted and turned that night, the damned thing dug into your shoulders, sides, your back, and your patience. At some point, you pulled your phone out of its charger and began scrolling through an ebook you had downloaded months ago. When that lost its novelty, you began cleaning out your camera roll because that was a task long overdue. And when you quickly grew bored of that, you eventually managed to get a few moments of shuteye while Shane snored the whole night away next to you. It was maddening. You were jealous.
But now, you get to see a dawn worth thousands of LA mornings. The city’s skyline wasn’t anything to write home about, wouldn’t steal your breath away like an early morning in Yosemite could. It could never be so quiet either. Not just literally, but rather, in the way a soul could be; settled, without a voice pulling you in every which direction, demanding everything of you. A life out here feels simple, unburdened, and it makes you understand more what Shane preaches on to you about.
“Didn’t I tell you not to go wanderin’ off without me?”
Shane always sounds grumpy in the morning. You think it might be a side effect of being a chronic asshole. There’s a hint of worry underlining his tone that amuses you.
“Didn’t go that far.” You don’t bother to turn your head around, revealing to him a can of bear spray and one of his pistols waiting patiently at your side. “And you looked so cozy, sleeping like a pretty princess. Snored like one too.”
“You even know how to use that thing?” he asks with a quiet grunt, taking a seat next to you on the picnic blanket you have laid out on the hill.
“Learned from the best, didn’t I?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Sure did.”
You watch the sunrise together in silence, the night blues growing lighter by the minute. Birds chirp all around, high up in the trees. While you’d find it incredibly bothersome in the city, here the high-pitched calls sound like they belong. Much like Shane’s soft, relaxed breaths.
Another ten minutes and the night will be fully settled in its bed for the day.
“Does it ever get old?” you murmur, staring into the burning sun ahead, fluffy clouds shielding it like armor.
“Not for me, it doesn’t.”
Only then do you glance at him, rotating your head just enough to make out his profile. He’s still looking where you just were, brown velvet eyes appearing as soft as you’ve ever seen them. Shane always get that look when he talks about the great outdoors, like nature can soften out all the rough of edges of man instead of sharpening them more.
“I wish I could agree.”
You don’t blink twice when a cute guy offers you his number, scrawled out pretty on a small cafe napkin.
Granted, it’s a little old-school, but maybe that’s why you’re even considering dialing it—or maybe you should text first? God, you don’t go on a date in a few years, and it already feels like you forgot protocol. You stare at the napkin square sitting on the table in front of you like some kind of omen.
Shane plops down onto the seat across from yours, startling you. He takes one sip of his black coffee, glancing down. “What’s that?”
You shrug, fingertips brushing the soft napkin. “Some guy slipped me his number.”
He hums. “You gonna use it?”
“Jury’s still out on that one. He was cute. It might be fun.”
“Your hesitance seems like enough of an answer.”
“What, like you just jump at the prospect of a date with every girl that shows interest?” You scoff, stirring your drink around in its cup. “I’m just keeping an open-mind before I go back. Maybe he’s not interested in something long-term either. Huh, I wonder if the dating scene here is anything like it is in LA.”
“I wouldn’t know.” The chair under him creaks as he leans back, mouth pressing into a fine line.
“Can you believe summer is almost over already? Jeez, it feels like every time I come back, it gets shorter. Wasn’t like that when I lived here. Summers used to feel like a million years.”
Shane huffs. “I remember your complaining.”
Your face splits into a teasing, toothy grin. “Hey, I know you miss me now that I’ve moved away. You somehow still barely have any friends besides me.”
He just shrugs, despite your insult. “I don’t need other friends.”
“Well, that’s nice, but I—ugh, Jesus, what’s he doing here?”
Kyle Turner steps through the cafe’s door, heading to the counter to order a coffee.
While you don’t have any reason to be bothered by the ISB agent’s presence, he’s harassed Shane enough to make it your problem. Sure, your friend isn’t the nicest guy around town, but Turner’s issue with him runs deeper than legal. And as much of a shithead Shane is, you were livid when Kyle stuck a gun to his chin for no better reason than his own anger and pride. You had quickly shoved Kyle away from Shane with all your strength, nearly screaming your head off at the older man while Shane tugged you away, his bloody, shit-eating grin softening out at your worry.
If Shane was good at anything, it was stoking a flame into a wildfire. But beneath all that sarcasm and arrogance is a good man, as jaded as he may be. That’s a fact you know as well as breathing. Ryan had been wrong when he said you had no faith in Shane. You might’ve had too much.
“Maybe we should head out,” you suggest, trying to finish your drink in a single swig.
He pays Kyle no mind, still settled into his chair like he belongs there. “Why? I haven’t done anything.”
Your lips curl into a frown, your free hand clenched on your knee. “I don’t need him blowing your head off, Shane.”
“You worried about me, baby?” His mouth forms a smirk, and the sight makes your stomach flip annoyingly.
“With how seriously you take your life?” You scoff and glare at the back of Kyle Turner’s head. “Yeah, fuckin’ obviously.”
You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the hem of Shane’s flannel sleeve, dragging him out of the cafe. The napkin with the cute guy’s number goes forgotten at the table.
You remember the first time you felt the weight of a gun in your hands.
Deceptively heavier than it appears, holding a pistol feels like carrying the weight of the world between your fingers. And for some, that’s what it meant. Life or death. The world or the unknown. Everything or nothing. It’s a side you choose: to be on one end of the barrel or the other. And you should pray to not be the one staring it down.
Being ex-military means Shane has had much practice with that. Means he always knows which side he’s on.
Shane had pressed the small firearm into your hands with thinly-veiled amusement before adjusting his camouflage hat and perching a hand on his hip. He pointed to a set of beer cans he set up across the field. “Now, all you gotta do is hit those targets over there.”
You glanced between him and the empty beer cans that stood mockingly with an unimpressed look. “Shane, this feels like a humiliation ritual.”
He tsked, shaking his head. “It’s easy.” He took the pistol from you, quickly firing a clean shot into one of the metal cans, making it explode into bits.
The sudden, loud sound of the bullet piercing through the quiet, woody air made you cringe. He pushed the gun back into your grasp, staring at you expectantly.
“That was a terrible demonstration,” you said, holding the gun uselessly at your side. “You just wanna laugh at my expense.”
“Sweetheart, I already do that every day.” He smirked, stepping behind you.
You rolled your eyes at him, opening your mouth to spit out a retort, only for it to die right on your tongue when Shane all but presses his chest to your back, wrapping his arms around you to help you grip the pistol properly, lining up your shot for you. It felt like cheating, but you could hardly find the will to care when his hot breath blew on the back of your ear as he guided you through the steps. Only Shane could make his charity sound so patronizing.
“You breathin’?”
“Yes,” you said quickly, very indignantly despite the obvious sharp intake of breath that you do.
You deserved praise for how steady you kept your hands when your teacher was being much more of a distraction than anything remotely helpful.
Shane let go, taking a step back. “Take the shot.”
The beer can fell before you even realized you had pulled the trigger.
You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, eyes hurriedly darting to Shane’s for approval.
“See? Easy.”
Although you only end up making the rest of your shots with varying degrees of success, the faint traces of a proud look on Shane’s face were worth all the humiliation.
You’d like to think you know which side of the barrel you’d be on, too.
The California sun beats down even through all the natural shade the trees in the park provide, the temperature going on near unbearable with this week’s forecasted heatwave.
It’s days like these that role of Shane and the other park rangers becomes even more crucial. Because people are stupid. Little kids don’t know better when they see a cute bug crawling across a log a couple steps from the path. Animals get just as agitated from the heat as humans do.
It’s not unusual for Shane to let you shadow him while he takes care of some of his lighter ranger duties, things the average civilian can handle tagging along for. Now, is he technically allowed to do this? The answer happens to not be yes. But lucky for you, you know when to shut up and let him do his job. You know when and when not to be a distracting friend.
But today isn’t a usual day, and you decided that rather than lounge around at your parents’ house all day, you would try to be a bonafide adult and do the recommended hour of physical activity. Which is how you ended up following Shane around for the last fifteen minutes, already sweating up a storm in spite of the early hour.
When there is a heatwave, it is often recommended to not stay outside for too long because of how fast it could get dangerous. Heatstrokes are no joke. But you don’t intend to stay for more than an hour, not including the walk back to civilization, which you’ve learned to recognize like the back of your hand over the years of being Shane’s friend. You do actually listen whenever he drops his unsolicited survival tips the same way your aunt says you’d get a boyfriend if only you worked on your looks more.
The only way you got Shane to agree to let you join him this morning is on the condition that if anything serious is called in, he’ll leave to deal with it while you head back around the way you came.
“Anything interesting happen before I got here?” you ask Shane, gravel crunching under your hiking shoes.
He stays in step beside you, twisting his cap backwards, tufts of greying dark blond sticking out the hole in a rather attractive way. “Nah, just had a couple of German tourists looking for a bathroom. And I had to shoo off some deer away from a group of hikers.”
“Exhilarating.”
“Better that than a missing person,” he says, shrugging.
You hum a form of agreement, taking in your surroundings. The wind has started to pick up a bit, allowing you a little bit of reprieve with some airflow that feels like a luxury on your heated skin. Pulling a water bottle from your backpack, you take a long drink to cool your insides before tipping it in Shane’s direction. He accepts the offer, fingers brushing against yours when they wrap around the bottle. He takes a short sip of water, slipping it back into your bag’s side pocket for you.
The vastness of Yosemite National Park never fails to steal your breath from you. It’s mostly just a bunch of green in front of you as far as the eye can see, but you know that there are mountains in the distance somewhere. The air is grossly hot but still fresher than the air in most of the zip codes that make up LA County. But Yosemite is much like its own universe, yet to be fully explored because of just how expansive its territory spreads. That’s why it’s so easy to get lost in its unforgiving depths. It continues to amaze you that Shane doesn’t find any bit of it frightening, managing to live all by his lonesome in the middle of it. Few things seem to scare him, you think.
“You ever think about moving back to real human civilization?”
“Nope.”
Your mouth forms a tiny smile, gently knocking your shoulder against his. “Just you and the trees then?”
“You’re there sometimes, too.”
“Yeah, for like four out of the fifty-two weeks in a year. What about the other forty-eight? I can’t grace you with my presence all the time, especially not if you ever wanna find a partner.”
“A partner?”
“A significant other, your other half,” you clarify teasingly.
He frowns like the thought of finding someone has never once crossed his mind. “What for?”
You scoff, the toe of your shoe kicking some pebbles forward. “What do you mean ‘what for?’ Is your plan to really die alone out here drinking shitty canned beer?”
“I ain’t really got a plan,” Shane admits, scratching his stubbled jaw. “But it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”
Even though you’re the one who started digging this hole in the first place, you’re not sure you want to press any further, fearing that the answer to your question is one you won’t enjoy the taste of. Maybe he won’t ever settle down. It’s not his style. Maybe he will, just doesn’t want to with you. You’re not the type worth changing his style. Truth has always been the most bitter pill to swallow.
“What’s the look for?”
“What look?”
“That look.”
“That’s my face.”
“It’s not,” he insists. “You look like a constipated raccoon.”
You stare at him incredulously. “Have you actually ever seen that?”
“No, but I’m imaginin’ it’s pretty similar to the look on your face right now.”
“You ass.” You scoff with indignation, shoving him to the side as you try to restrain the smile.
Shane grins, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just tellin’ it like it is.”
“Well, tell yourself to shut up.”
He slings his arm around you, pulling you in closer. “Only if you say ‘pretty please.’”
“I’m not begging for a damn thing.”
“Oh, but you do it real good,” he whispers lowly, his warm breath ghosting your ear.
With as much will as you can muster, you hold back a shiver, knowing you wouldn’t be able to blame the cold. As you continue down the trail together, your brain runs a million miles a second trying to stitch together a response that’ll embarrass you the least.
Lucky for you that you both spot a little kid just ahead, looking incredibly lost and like a great distraction from your inability to take some of Shane’s teasing in this cursed heat.
The boy looks no older than six, teary eyes darting around the woods, unable to recognize anything resembling his parents anywhere in the brush. Shane immediately goes into responsible ranger mode, peeling himself from your side to crouch in front of the distraught child in less than an instant.
“Hey, buddy,” Shane says as softly as his gruff voice allows. “Where are your parents?”
The boy sniffles with his entire little body, tears mixing with his snot. “I dunno. I want my daddy.”
You stop in front of him, crouching down to his level like Shane with a gentle, comforting smile. It’s then that you notice a scrape along his left knee, the small injury still bleeding a little. “We’ll help you find your daddy then. What’s your name?”
“Ben,” the kid chokes.
Shane asks with a small smile, “How old are you, Ben?”
“Almost s-six.” Ben holds up six small fingers as a visual aid.
You laugh, voice coated in a tone of disbelief. “Six? Wow, I thought you must’ve been ten! You’re so big!”
The brunet boy smiles wide, shaking his head. “Not yet!”
On your left, Shane calls in the lost kid you’ve found on his radio, trying to see if the boy had already been reported missing. He has not, which hopefully means his dad has only just lost him and is still within the area.
While he’s still on walkie with another ranger, you lead Ben over to a wooden log a few feet away, getting him to sit down while you fish out your first-aid kit.
“What happened here?” you ask, pointing to his knee.
“I fell.” He points in the direction you came from.
“Did it hurt?”
He nods. “It hurt a lot.”
You hum, trying to carefully brush away the rest of the dirt and rock still stuck to his tanned skin. “Well, I’m gonna clean it up and make it better for you, okay? But it might sting a bit.”
You reach into the kit for some disinfectant and wipes, giving Ben another warning right before you start to thoroughly clean his wound. He winces at the burning sensation, hands braced on the log, but takes it better than expected for a kid his age.
“You remember what you saw earlier when you were with your daddy?” asks Shane behind you, perhaps trying to distract him from the pain.
“Uh… we saw water.” Ben throws his arms out suddenly, nearly startling you. “Lots of water! Up in the mountain. It went woosh.” Another visual reference: his hands fly down fast, presumably mimicking the movement of the water.
Shane tilts his head curiously. “Like a waterfall?”
“Yeah, waterfall!”
“Almost done.” You smile, rubbing some antibiotic ointment over the scrapes before tearing open a large bandaid to cover his knee. Carefully, you adhere it to his skin. “Feel better?”
Ben nods enthusiastically. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, buddy.” You chuckle, packing away your kit. “If your dad is okay with it, I’ll buy you an ice cream cone later for being so strong. You like ice cream?”
“Uh-huh!”
Shane lets out a short, amused sound behind your shoulder. “Nobody’s called anything in yet, but I think I know the waterfall he was talkin’ about. Ain’t too far from here. We can walk over and see if the father’s retraced his steps.”
“Sounds like a plan, Ranger Rick,” you say, coming to stand at your full height. You hold your hand out to the boy, clasping it with his when he accepts it. “C’mon, let’s go find your dad.”
After ten minutes of walking, the three of you hear the roaring rush of water before you see it. Through a couple of thick trees, you find a small, breathtaking lake at the bottom of the waterfall. But unfortunately, Ben doesn’t recognize any of the sightseers wandering around.
After twenty minutes of walking, you hear a soft little yawn escape past the little boy’s mouth next to you, making you chuckle. “You sleepy?”
Ben rubs his eye with his other hand, nodding. He lets out another longer yawn.
Shane hands you his pack and crouches down suddenly, gesturing with a nod of his head for the boy to climb onto his back. “Hop on, kid. I’ll carry you back ‘til we can locate your dad.”
You watch the park ranger hoist up the child on his back, Shane’s large forearms supporting the back of Ben’s knees. The sight is almost cruelly domestic, reminding you of an impossible fantasy that lives quietly in the back of your head, accosting you with its pathetic presence once in a blue moon.
The gesture is surprisingly sweet for a guy like Shane, who you sometimes think forgets how to interact with actual human people after living such a secluded lifestyle. But more likely, his selective bedside manners is a choice, one of the reasons he prefers his way of living in the first place.
Bears are easier than people, he once told you.
Everything is easier than people, you retorted then. And you’re impossible.
It’s not even half past eight yet when you return to the entrance of the hiking trail, even with the amount of stalling that happened because Ben kept pointing his finger around and asking Shane questions about the wildlife.
You know deer can jump up to ten feet in the air? People can only jump about a foot.
If you ever spot a bear ‘round here, it’s gonna be a black bear. All the grizzlies died out about a hundred years ago, and the brown bears haven’t adapted to Yosemite as well as the black bears did.
Most of the park’s black bears are actually brown.
You had also been a little surprised by Shane’s willingness to entertain the kid until he fell asleep about ten minutes back, leaving the two of you in silence. Shane had not much patience when it came to people. (Ironic for a man in a customer service adjacent profession.) And he never seemed very chirpy around little children either, as far as you knew. He had a couple of younger cousins he’d complain to you about whenever he was forced to attend a family reunion, deeming them nuisances despite being totally glued to their devices.
Neither of you dared to speak until the radio strapped to his hip hissed to life, a crackly woman’s voice requesting for him. Since his hands were busy, you unclipped the walkie-talkie from his side, holding it up to his mouth for him to reply. It had been good news: the father wasn’t that far from your position and would reach you any minute now.
“You look so… fatherly,” you muse aloud, looking at the way Ben’s little cheek is propped against Shane’s shoulder.
Shane huffs, giving you the look of a man unamused.
You shrug. “What? It’s cute. The people love a single dad.”
“Well, I ain’t a single dad.”
“I mean, I could get a picture right now for your Tinder profile,” you tease, pulling out your phone camera.
You snap a few pictures of the tall ranger giving the boy a piggyback ride, wearing the most unenthused expression one could possibly come up with. How utterly lame, you pout. You don’t think Ben’s dad will mind. At least, you hope not. Ben’s face is hidden in the crook of Shane’s neck anyways, and it’s not like you intend for the photos to live anywhere but in your camera roll.
“Oh, thank God!”
You turn around to see one of the hottest men to ever grace the earth heading your direction. That’s Ben’s dad?
His salt and pepper hair is tousled rather fashionably, like despite the number of times he’s worried his tanned fingers through the waves, it stubbornly couldn’t look anything shy of perfect.
His cries make Ben blink awake, who lights up at the sight of his father. “Daddy!” he exclaims, moving off Shane’s back and into the man’s arms where he belongs.
“You can’t just wander off like that, Benny. How many times have I told you?” He hugs his kid tighter, pulling Ben’s face into his shoulder with a ringless left hand. (Ugh, what the hell’s wrong with you?) “Oh, God, I’m just glad you’re safe.”
After a few moments, Mr. Single Dad finally acknowledges you and Shane, thanking you both profusely.
The dirty blond park ranger only smiles politely, lifting his camouflage hat to smooth down his sweat-soaked hair. “Just doin’ my job, sir. It happens more than you’d think, but make sure you keep a better eye on ‘em next time.”
“And I was just trying to be a good Samaritan,” you say, waving off his kind words. “He seems like a good kid. Oh, and make sure to put something on that scrape on his knee. It wasn’t too nasty, but I put some cream on it, so hopefully it heals over faster.”
“That’s very kind of you. I can’t thank either of you enough for taking care of my boy.”
“Um, I promised Ben an ice cream cone after I patched up his knee.” You fish out a five dollar bill from your wallet, adding quickly as you offer it to the man, “If that’s alright! He took the disinfectant like a champ, so I just wanted to treat him a little.”
“Yay, ice cream!” Ben swipes the money from your fingers and cheers.
The older man flashes you a swoon-worthy smile, making a soft suggestion, “How about I treat you to dinner tonight? To say thanks.”
You think you and Shane both make the same strangled noise at the proposition and its glaring innuendo.
“Oh! Um, sorry, that was… unexpected,” you stammer, itching the back of your neck. “I—“
“I hope you don’t mind my being forward.”
You suck in a breath, pulling out an awkward smile. “No, no, not at all.”
Shane makes some kind of disgruntled huff next to you.
Hot Dad’s (You don’t even know his name!) attention returns to Shane, bouncing between the two of you with a flicker of realization. “Oh, sorry, are you two…?”
You shake your head adamantly, feeling your insides shake as well. “No, we’re not… But um, I appreciate the offer, it’s just—I’m not really looking to…”
“Oh, well that’s a shame.” He gives you a dejected (but still awfully sexy) smile, nodding his head in understanding. “You’re very beautiful.”
“Th-thanks, you too.”
Oh, my God, you need to die.
‘Thanks, you too’?
‘You too’?!
You can feel the mortification burst into flames up your back, through your neck, and to the rest of your body.
He chuckles more kindly than you’d expect, and Ben and his hot dad are gone the next time you blink.
You swallow thickly, turning your head to look at Shane, who you can tell is doing his real best to not howl. “Oh, my God, I need to die.”
Mercifully, he snorts instead, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seems like the cute kid didn’t help after all.”
“I’m… different.”
“That’s for sure.”
You wake up with a lingering hangover and a heavy heart.
Another summer in Yosemite is quickly coming to a close. And while you should be expecting it each year with the way it lives on your calendar, it still only hits you when you’ve got less than a couple days before you’re hopping on a plane back home to Los Angeles. Back to a criminally expensive apartment with a great roommate but who’s unfortunately not Shane-shaped.
Truthfully, you never miss all that much about Yosemite. Sure, the air quality is astronomically better up north, but you’ve still got air back home. You will miss the clear skies, where the twinkling stars aren’t hidden away behind smog and pollution. You won’t miss the millions of bugs, the hundreds of mosquito bites you accumulate like a loyalty stamp card without any of the benefits. You will miss the ex-Army ranger you call a best friend, whose dark blond hair is greying beautifully when you’re back in the city.
Is it bad to say you sometimes miss him more than your own parents? It’s just, with Shane’s more isolated way of living, he rarely has the signal to text, let alone call you. He tries when he’s in town, but even then, he’s busy managing the giant park he calls home; searching for idiot tourists who stray off the trails (which are marked for a reason!), helping crying, snotty kids find their parents after they wander off alone, scaring off snacky bears and thieving raccoons—the list goes on.
So yeah, you do miss Shane more than your parents who are always at the touch of the call icon.
You barely manage a few hookups whenever you’re back home, too busy to be seriously pursuing anyone and nearly too busy to even be horny. Your hand, ironically, becomes your best friend, but your touch is still nothing compared to Shane’s. His fingers are longer and thicker than yours, almost enough to match the girth of his cock, always enough to make you come in record time.
And you will miss the rare days in which you get to wake up next him, curled up into his warmth like the rest of the world no longer exists, even if that stupid cot of his is your back’s sworn enemy. But in those short moments, your mind can pretend something it’s never openly voiced. You can pretend to be his—in every sense of the word—not just quietly, not his wrapped up in the intense moans of your pleasure, or his split by his merciless, fat cock. It’s a fantasy you allow yourself to indulge in in those early morning hours, tucked away from the rest of humanity by the wilderness. The one place people where don’t have to hide, or maybe, the only place they do.
It’s not a fantasy you think he shares.
Shane Maguire has never struck you as the type of guy who settles down, even if he ever meets the girl of his dreams. That is, if he even had one in mind. Hell, it’s a miracle the guy even finds the time to piss during the summer months, when tourist traffic and stupidity are at an all-time high and his best friend/seasonal hookup is in town. The two of you are steadily, rapidly, pushing forty, and although you aren’t in any rush to settle down either, the thought definitely keeps you up some nights.
It doesn’t help either that you subconsciously compare every guy you’ve dated or shown interest in to Shane in some way. You tell yourself it’s the thrill of sneaking around that keeps you coming back to him, not the ranger himself and his stupid wilderness facts and his taste for canned beer that tastes like motor oil and despair. It’s just insanely attractive that he knows how to fire a gun with incredible accuracy, stealthily track the park’s wildlife (and people), and survive off of just a couple of items in a tiny pack.
You feel the short buzz of your phone, which is currently laying MIA somewhere in your tangled sheets. You paw around for a minute, finding it hiding under one of your many pillows.
Ranger Rick sent you a message:
Your folks still home? Got any eggs?
You tap the text notification, typing quickly:
idk, just woke up. prob not. yes
Ranger Rick: It’s 10
You: u say that like it’s supposed to mean smth to me
Ranger Rick: Be there in 15
Just like he said, Shane shows up at your door exactly fifteen minutes later (You suspect he was already on his way long before he bothered to text.), dressed in his usual casual attire: a tight, dark blue t-shirt and cargo pants.
He makes you eggs in your own house, navigating the kitchen with the kind of familiarity one has in their own home. It’s a quiet morning, much like the ones you spend together in his tent. To not be completely useless, you pour two glasses of orange juice, but not without a long yawn that makes him glance at you.
“You sleep enough last night?”
A quiet, grunt-like hum leaves you as you pull out the silverware drawer and grab two sets of forks and spoons.
No, but will have to make do.
Shane sets the plates of bacon and eggs down on the dining table while you very carefully pinch the two slices of toast from the toaster like you’re the surgeon in the very delicate game of Operation. Your impatience leads you to burn the tips of your fingers anyway, making you wish you actually had a pair of Operation tweezers.
He rolls his eyes at your wince, grabbing your wrist to guide your stinging fingers into his warm mouth, sucking gently. The sight is far more erotic than you can possibly handle on a Thursday morning, but you can’t get yourself to look away either.
“Shane,” you murmur warningly.
He pulls your thumb and finger from between his wet lips, smiling innocently at you like he ain’t got a clue what he’s doing. “Yeah?”
Your best friend crooks a finger around the thin strap of your tank top, teasing it over your bare shoulder enough to bare your breast. Hungry, brown eyes flicker down and soak in the sight of your hardening nipple. He licks his thumb, rolling the sensitive peak under the pad of his thumb, drawing quiet whines from your mouth.
He grins like a fox, wetting his lips. “Look at you, makin’ all these pretty noises for me.”
You keen like it’s a command.
Because he’s evil, Shane pinches the strap of the top between his fingertips, leisurely lifting the fabric back up your arm right where it belongs, as if it never left. You shuffle away with what little is left of your dignity, sitting down at the table to discover two small painkillers sitting next to your orange juice. You nearly forgot the headache you’d had since waking up after his little display.
The rest of breakfast is not so erotic.
When you both finish your meal, you’re quick to climb into Shane’s lap like a cat, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses from his collarbone up to his sharp jawline. He wraps one arm around your back, hand supporting your side. The other dances along your thigh, fingers mindlessly rubbing across the smooth expanse of skin, just below the hem of your flimsy cotton shorts. You practically purr when they ghost teasingly over the fabric covering your slick heat, the tip of your nose brushing the column of his throat.
Without looking, Shane’s mouth finds yours with incredible assured ease, the kind that is born out of the same familiarity that guides him through your kitchen like it’s his. You feel his demanding tongue prod your soft, sealed lips, parting them open to taste you. His kisses are light-headed, stupefying, and orange-flavored.
Few things top a lazy morning make out.
Calloused fingertips circle your clit through your shorts, the movements devastatingly unhurried. Despite the relaxed pace in which Shane works, you can already feel the growing wet spot seeping through the thin cotton. And so can he. He doesn’t spare you the knowing smirk, the expression obvious against your mouth. He does spare you the teasing comment, likely too focused on kissing you as thoroughly as possible.
“Want me to make you come like this?” he breathes against your kiss-swollen lips. “Or does my pretty thing want more?”
Or not.
“More,” you decide.
Granting your soft-spoken request, Shane crooks two fingers under the fabric of your shorts and tugs it to the side to reveal your aching cunt. “Barely done a thing, and it’s already weepin’. All this for me, baby?”
Again, you purr.
Skilled fingers work you open, your folds parting easily for the thick digits. Your hips rock against them, and a long moan escapes your lips when they’re finally seated fully inside you, curling against spots you can somehow never find with your own hands.
“Being so good right now,” he praises you, quickening his ministrations. He even rewards you by rubbing your swelling clit faster. “Proud of you, baby. So proud.”
Shane spends the whole morning finger fucking you until all your earlier sadness disappears out though your pleasured cries.
On your last day in town, you end up back at the bar for one last drink. The place is unusually slow at the moment, quiet even for a Monday evening. An R&B song plays in the background, too low for you to make out the words, but you know it sits somewhere in the back of your mind.
You’ve been sipping on a cocktail for the better part of an hour, some sugary concoction Ryan made on the house since you’re going back home. Although, you were going to treat yourself anyway after only consuming grossly cheap beer all summer because it had only mattered that you got to the point of a warm belly and loose limbs, not how. (And also because it’s all Shane drinks, wielding a similar depressing philosophy.)
Right now, you’re at the point where you’re unable to contain the bright giggles that keep escaping your lungs at whatever gossip Ryan is dropping to you. Slow nights are good for that. With all the downtime between customers, he can pretend he’s wiping down the bar when he’s really shit talking the regular sitting four seats over who never tips well, despite smelling like a brewery by the time he closes his tab.
Ryan stops right in the middle of his sentence, blue eyes scanning the establishment and then twice at the clock on the wall. “Where’s your ranger?”
“I came here by myself.”
“Well, I can see that,”—the bartender rolls his eyes—“but I figured he’d stop in to see you by now.”
You stir the ice in your drink around with your thin straw, mumbling, “Why? It’s not like we’re attached at the hip.”
“Oh, but you so are.” Ryan wipes a stubborn spot of dirt on the brown countertop with his damp rag until it’s shiny.
“Well, we’re friends. It’s not crazy that we spend so much time together.”
He tsks, muttering under his breath, “‘Friends’, my ass.”
“Not this again,” you complain into your drink.
Pointing his dirty rag at you, he accuses, “Either you two are great liars, or you’re both fuckin’ clueless idiots. I mean that lovingly, babe. But there’s something going on in whatever that is you’re calling a friendship. ‘Cause you’re hot, but I don’t eye fuck my friends.”
“That’s absurd…”
You’ve never told anyone before that you and Shane fuck sometimes—a lot of sometimes. You’re not sure whether coming clean to Ryan will help your case or not, not when he’s sticking his finger around in a mess you’d much rather drink in a bottle. Your intention tonight wasn’t to get shitfaced, but four drinks in, and that might change.
“Why do you think you keep coming back?”
You frown at that, answering sarcastically, “What, can’t I see my family?”
Ryan scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “People see their families during the holidays. You’re here during the holidays and every summer, despite how inconvenient it is. Despite the fact that there’s nothing here for you.”
“Okay, ouch.”
“Except Shane,” he finishes pointedly. “You may have grown up around Yosemite, but you’ve also grown out of it. Grown out of everything here but Shane.”
You worry the meat of your cheek with your teeth, trying hard not to swallow the truth you’ve never heard spoken out loud to you before. “C’mon, it’s my last night. Must you be so harsh?”
“But it’s not your last night. You already moved away. You’re the one who keeps coming back. Are you really happy just waiting around for him?”
“There’s nothing to be waiting for.”
“You’d be settled down now if you really believed that.”
The words cut through the alcohol in your system, quickly sobering you up as well as a cold shower. You dig through your pocket, dropping a nice tip on the bar counter.
“Screw you,” you mutter, pushing yourself off the seat. Clearly not sober enough, however, because you’re stumbling off the barstool when a strong hand steadies you, grip warm and firm.
Speak of the Devil, and he appears.
Shane looks at you, his thick eyebrows furrowed with traces of worry. He glances at Ryan, who’s already disappeared to the other side of the bar to take care of another customer. “You okay? What’d that shithead say?”
He only seems to have caught the tailwind of your conversation, thankfully. The rising panic that began bubbling settles in your throat.
“Nothing,” you say quietly, swallowing thickly.
His grasp on your arm grows a bit tighter, igniting fire on your skin. “What’d that shithead say?”
“Nothing,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Really, Shane.”
The look on his face tells you that he doesn’t believe your words at all, but your own expression makes him drop it. For now. You don’t need Shane getting into another bar fight, especially not over truths you’re afraid of, tucked away in your rib cage and holding your heart hostage.
Not on your last night in Yosemite.
And because you’re drunk, sad, and greedy, you let him touch you in the backseat of his truck, parked right in your parents’ driveway. The lights of your childhood home are out at this hour, but the walls are too thin and your want too urgent. You get to moan a little louder for him out here as he drives the hard length of his cock up into you like he wants you to miss it while you’re gone. He doesn’t have to. You’ll miss it anyway.
Not long after you both come and with your cheek laying on his breathless chest, you voice something like it’s an afterthought and not with all the weight its worth, “I think I’m gonna stay in LA next summer.”
You pretend like it doesn’t sting when he never asks why.
Herding sheep, looking after kids, and playing healer in videogames: every day you're surprised of the sheer innovative genius of how they'll find the most inconvenient goddamn places just outside your reach to get hurt or put themselves in lethal danger.
The worst thing you can do, as someone who has recently realised they are transfem, is to let terves and transphobes convince you cis women will never accept you.
I was told that when I came out everyone would reject me. That I would find myself isolated from the world, and from other women especially, who would react to me with horror and revulsion.
In reality, within the first months of coming out, in no particular order:
My sister's reaction on my coming out was, "Right, so I have a sister instead of a brother. Cool. I'm taking you clothes shopping tomorrow."
A friend, when she learned I am a woman, immediately invited me to her women-only, girls-night-out birthday party the following week.
Another friend, when a friend of hers expressed doubts about my gender, immediately shut them down and reaffirmed I am a woman.
I went camping with a group of friends, and we had two tents, one for the boys and one for the girls; I was unsure as to which I should enter, to which a girl friend responded by grabbing me and physically dragging me inside the women's tent.
In the women's bathroom at a movie theatre a random woman, whom I'd never seen before and haven't seen since, stopped me as I was going into a stall, to warn me there was no toilet paper in there, because she'd just used the last of it.
All of these, and more, some from friends, some from complete strangers. All within a few months, as a trans woman who hadn't started medical transition yet, and was very visible as being a trans woman.
I've had some people reject me, true, but the vast majority, including almost all cis women, accepted me as a sister with open arms.
Outdoor in sun perfec t place for president to do speech! Outdoor very warm very soft put old man on green lawn under sun. Put old man in warm sun. no problem ever in warm sun because good view and audience can see long speech. Nice podium outdoor sunny perfect place for old president can trust warm sun to give nice view to President good luck to President. friend sun.
where does the wind go (female reader, friends to lovers, make out, not smut but it has grinding)
BatFam:
My Heart
(platonic yandere batfam x neglected!batsis!reader — conner kent x reader): Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine.
Kent!Batmom!Reader
↪ asks:
the kids cursing
damian's birth and conception — 2 — 3
damian tormenting reader — damian after tormenting reader
bruce around animals
batmom!kent!reader and clark growing up together
family dynamic if babybat was born
wayne's secretary ( part one : 2002 )
the sunshine gentleman ( part two : 2002 )
the perks of time ( part three : 2003 )
the night we met ( part four : 2004 )
a son's love ( part five : 2004 )
a ceo, a wedding . . . a robin? ( part six : 2006 )
jon's aunt — dick's mom ( part seven : 2008 )
auntie . . . again? ( part eight : 2010 )
a second arrive ( part nine : 2012 )
planning things — surprising you with others ( part ten : 2012 )
a robin leaves the nest — another is born ( part eleven : 2013—2014 )
looks like the joker did a number on you ( part twelve : 2015 )
grow wings . . . or whiskers ( part thirteen : 2015)
a restless boy or a silent girl ( part fourteen : 2015-2016 )
a masked roof, a biological appearance ( part fifteen : 2018 )
the side of everything ( part sixteen : 2018)
happy anniversary, by the way ( part seventeen : 2018 )
little blurb with ivy & harley
i'm so hungry i could eat . . .
how you get the girl ( headcanon )
how kent!reader became “mom” ( headcanon )
you can get the girl out of smallville . . . ( headcanon )
a wife's desire — a husband's insecurity ( one shot )
alternative universe
a place where you aren't you ( not connected to the series but kent!batmom!reader ) — part 2 and final : a heart torn apart (could've had it all)
↪ headcanons
↪ asks:
au!clark and his spider!sister
spider!reader as a mom — 2
alt!bruce meeting batmom!reader — og!bruce meeting spider!reader
a teen . . . mom!? ( not connected to the series but kent!batmom!reader )
Webs of Pain
platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader. roy harper x reader
Chapter One — Chapter Two — Chapter Three — Chapter Four — Chapter Five
Girl With One Eye
platonic yandere batfam x one eyed!reader
Chapter One — Chapter Two —
Clark Kent:
a resounding heart attack (clark kent x flirty!wayne!coworker!reader)
seven minutes in heaven (clark kent x female!coworker!reader)
summary | while the memory of you haunts your family, you haunt yourself. in the meantime, roy just keeps falling deeper and deeper in your web, dragging you with him; a reunion seems to bring everything crashing down.
pairing | platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader. roy harper x reader. platonic! lian harper x reader
warnings / tags | angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female. literal death, experimentation, consequences of being brought back to life. reader has severe depression and many scars from what joker and scarecrow did to her. mentions of torture because she has a backstory of how she ended up like that.
reader has fangs, is quite literally half spider while looking completely human. there is an age gap between roy and her.
word count | 4.8k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes :) please vote <3
this is NOT a yandere series, but it has dark themes that you already saw on warnings.
bruce is 45. dick is 26. cass is 22. jason is 21. reader is 21. tim and steph are 19. duke is 18. damian is 14. roy is 29
You have your special way of doing it, you always have. Forever a little girl with a huge smile and eyes too playful for your own good; you loved playing pranks on everyone around you, and you loved teasing your siblings, though never to the point of hurting their feelings.
It was as if you had always known a self-imposed limit; a limit he always thought would be your path to greatness.
Your laugh echoed in his mind, in the replay of all the videos he, your brothers, and Alfred himself took all over the years. Back when you were still . . .
He trembles at the mere memory, and he knows it's wrong, because Alfred has been so careful bandaging his broken ribs and treating the scratches you left on his skin. Even so, he knows you refrained from causing worse harm.
It could be worse. God, it could be so much worse that he can't deny the unease in his stomach, even as his heart holds so much longing and love for you that he wants to turn a blind eye to the harm you've caused.
On the Batcave monitor, the fight replays over and over. Your eyes, your fangs, your blood, his—it was the same after all, wasn't it?—. You're not entirely yourself, but you're not a stranger either.
You don't fight like you used to. There's barely a trace of who you were: your bones and muscles feel like rubber, flexible, and something in his heart breaks when you simply seem to slide down your spine, because it's not yours anymore, it's just something Scarecrow implanted in you years ago.
He can do nothing but watch you. Try to inspect his little girl behind those eyes filled with fury and bitterness: the little girl who used to run after him laughing and whistling is gone. In her place is a woman filled with rage and confusion.
He's your father. He could recognize your emotions like the fingers on his hands. He could see the pain and recognize what causes it, and he sees the confusion behind your supposed hatred. Bruce thinks he knows the reason, but thinking about it only hurts him.
You were so young when you came into his arms. Or, rather, when he saw you through that window, sad and small and alone, and knew his heart would be yours for all eternity.
You had loved your wings, and he had never tried to clip them. How could he, when all you had ever wanted was to experience the freedom of being a dragonfly?
You have lost that freedom.
He knows it when he remembers your eyes on his, when he moves and your fist crashes into his face again, when your blood and his mingle, lost in the night. He knows it when he sees your eyes and notices the tears behind the anger.
He can't help but wonder what you feel, what you remember, what's going through your mind. If you're in pain, if you're hungry, if something is keeping you awake at night.
Bruce could never forgive himself if he lets this go.
He doesn't need to turn around to know that the footsteps behind him belong to Dick, that the breath he releases is not one of relaxation but of deep perplexity.
The video continues to play on the screen.
“Jesus Christ,” his son mumbles when you bare your fangs with anger.
Bruce says nothing.
For two years, there had only been blood on concrete and a bullet hole through your skull: one that they only knew of from how much Joker mocked them about.
Dick feels sick.
Your eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, pupils blown too wide, sclera veined with crimson. Your mouth was half-open, revealing elongated fangs slick with blood—his blood. Yet none of those things disturbed them as much as the tears trapped in your lashes.
“You knew before the others.”
His son exhaled shakily and leaned against the console. “Tim thought Crimson Silk was just another violent metahuman protecting the Narrows.” His mouth twitched humorlessly. “I knew the second I saw the stupid flip.”
On-screen, frozen forever in digital clarity, your face no longer resembled the child who used to steal his coffee and replace it with hot chocolate because “you’re too grumpy for caffeine.” Yet the remnants still existed in cruel, unbearable fragments: the tilt of your head when confused, the tiny crease between your brows when angry, the way your eyes always searched Bruce first in every room.
He reached for the keyboard, fingers hovering only briefly before opening the recovered files again.
Dick visibly stiffened. “Bruce—”
“We need to watch them.”
“We already watched them.”
“We need to watch them carefully.”
His face paled with sudden fury. “Carefully?” he repeated incredulously. “Jesus Christ, Bruce, she was strapped to a table screaming while Crane cut her open. What exactly are we missing?”
There were some things the human mind should never witness, and those tapes had crossed every conceivable boundary. Scarecrow had not merely experimented on you; he had dismantled you piece by piece with scientific fascination, documenting every moment with clinical precision. The Joker’s appearances throughout the footage made everything worse. Crane had been detached. Joker had been delighted.
Dick still heard your screams in his sleep.
The camera adjusted focus slowly, revealing the restraints around your wrists and throat. Your face looked thinner than Bruce remembered from those final months before your disappearance.
On-screen, Scarecrow stepped into frame wearing blue surgical gloves soaked dark at the fingertips.
“Subject continues resisting adaptation,” Crane murmured toward the camera. “However, the hybridization process has exceeded expectations.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yes,” Scarecrow agreed calmly. “But history tends to reward men like me.”
Dick stopped the video just when the needle found its way into your neck. “I can’t watch this again,” he had said it angrily, but soon lost all the fire. “Don't make me watch this again. I want to see my sister again, but not like that.”
Jason descended the stairs first, followed closely by Steph and Tim. Cass appeared soundlessly behind them a moment later, her dark eyes immediately lifting toward the frozen image of your face on the monitor.
No one spoke at first. Then Jason looked at Bruce’s bandages and scoffed. “Damn. She really kicked your ass.”
Dick shot him an incredulous glare. “Seriously?”
“What?” Jason snapped. “She’s alive. I’m coping.”
Tim stepped closer to the monitor slowly, exhaustion hollowing the sharp angles of his face. He had dark circles beneath his eyes again—the dangerous kind that appeared whenever he became too obsessed with solving something. “Any leads on where she went after the fight?”
“None,” Bruce answered.
“They worship her down there.” Steph locked her eyes on the screen. “Kids leave food on fire escapes for her.”
“. . . What?”
“They think she watches over the neighborhood,” Tim explained quietly. “Drug dealers disappear. Human traffickers end up webbed to streetlights half-dead. Predators get dragged into alleys screaming.” His mouth tightened slightly. “Crime rates dropped thirty percent in the areas she patrols.”
Bruce stared at the screen silently.
You had always hated injustice with frightening intensity. Even as a child, you reacted violently to cruelty. He remembered one patrol vividly: you had been thirteen, sitting atop a rooftop eating fries while complaining endlessly about math homework, when you spotted a man shoving his girlfriend against a wall three blocks away.
Bruce barely had time to move before you launched yourself off the roof.
Cass finally spoke, soft but certain. “She’s scared.”
Everyone turned toward her.
“Angry. Hurt. But scared most.”
Bruce’s chest tightened.
Tim rubbed his face tiredly. “We need to figure out what Crane actually turned her into.”
“Half spider apparently,” Jason said dryly.
His third son pulled several files onto the secondary monitor. Genetic scans. Medical reports stolen from one of Crane’s abandoned labs. Fragmented research notes covered in equations and observations.
“Crane used modified arachnid DNA combined with regenerative mutagens,” Tim explained. “Most of the notes are damaged, but from what I can piece together, he was trying to create adaptive predators.”
Steph grimaced. “That sounds disgusting.”
“It gets worse.” He enlarged one particular document. “Her nervous system was rewritten to survive catastrophic trauma . . . That’s probably why she survived the gunshot.”
Nobody had ever truly discussed your death in detail. The wound had always been too horrific to imagine clearly. Joker delighted in describing it anyway—the temple shot, the blood loss, the way your body supposedly collapsed at his feet.
Bruce had envisioned it every night for two years regardless.
God help him, you were alive. Not whole. Not safe. Not happy. But alive.
And somewhere in Gotham, you were breathing beneath the same night sky while believing yourself too monstrous to come home.
“So, you fought your brother.”
You sat on the kitchen counter of Roy’s apartment with one knee pulled loosely against your chest while he cleaned blood from your knuckles. He stood between your knees with a first-aid kit open beside him, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows while he focused on wrapping gauze around your hand.
“I didn't fight my brother,” you grimaced. “I couldn't hit him back. He is too small.”
The apartment itself was small, warm in a way the Manor never managed to be despite its grandeur. There were tiny shoes abandoned near the couch, colored pencils scattered across the coffee table, and one of Lian’s stuffed animals sitting upside down beneath a chair as though it had been dropped mid-adventure. The scent of pancakes still lingered faintly in the air from earlier that morning, mixed with coffee and antiseptic.
“He isn't so little anymore,” he hummed, not so much in concordance. “I mean, he is what? Fourteen now?”
“I don't even know what month I am, Roy. How could I know how old my baby brother is?”
That earned a soft snort from him. “Fair enough.”
You looked away toward the apartment window afterward, watching water crawl slowly down the glass. The sky beyond Gotham’s skyline remained colorless, thick clouds hanging low enough to swallow the tops of buildings whole.
Your body ached beneath his hoodie. The healing process always hurt now; the mutations accelerated recovery, but not without consequence. Bones shifted strangely when repairing themselves, muscles spasmed unpredictably, your skin felt too tight some days.
Roy noticed when your jaw tightened. “You healing okay?”
“Mm.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was enough of one.”
“Nope,” he replied immediately, tightening the bandage around your hand despite your annoyed glare. “Try again, Silk.”
You hated that he used the nickname so casually. Not because you truly minded hearing it from him, but because Roy had this infuriating habit of speaking to you like you were still human enough to tease.
“It hurts,” you admitted finally.
His expression softened instantly, all traces of humor fading from his face. “Where?”
You almost laughed.
Everywhere.
Inside your bones. Beneath your skin. Along your spine where Crane had altered your nervous system until your body no longer understood where humanity ended and something else began. Some mornings your jaw ached from the pressure of retracting fangs. Some nights your vision sharpened so intensely the world became nauseatingly bright.
You shrugged one shoulder instead. “Doesn’t matter.”
Roy tied off the bandage carefully before looking up at you. “You know, for someone who spent years patching up vigilantes, you’re incredibly annoying to take care of.”
“Where’s Lian?”
“At school.”
You blinked immediately. “School?”
“Yes, believe it or not, normal children receive educations.”
“I know that. I went to school too, you asshole. I just forgot it was Tuesday.”
“It’s Friday.”
You huffed, not surprised by your unconsciousness about the days.
Roy resumed cleaning the remaining cuts along your forearm while sunlight slowly brightened the kitchen in muted shades of gray. His fingertips brushed your skin occasionally during the process, warm and steady despite the tremor you sometimes fought to suppress in your limbs. Physical contact still startled you more often than not nowadays.
His expression softened into something unbearably fond. It was dangerous, so dangerous it made your heart beat with fear.
You had spent months convincing yourself you no longer belonged anywhere long enough to be loved safely. You lived in abandoned buildings. You vanished for days. You hunted criminals through Gotham’s underbelly with blood on your teeth.
You had eaten a pigeon raw, for God's sake.
People like you were not meant for soft kitchens and terrible coffee and little girls asking if your webs were biodegradable.
Roy tilted his head slightly. “What’s going on in that spooky little brain?”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
“What is to be afraid of?” He asked. “You are severely underfed, had no sleep in the last, what? Four days? And you are insanely pretty to look at. If anything scares me, it's your unstable way of taking care of yourself.”
“Roy.”
“Okay, okay,” he gave up, a small smile on his lips. “I just . . . remember who you are underneath everything else.”
“What if I’m not her anymore?” you whispered.
Roy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer again until he stood directly between your knees, close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from his body.
Then he reached up slowly—carefully, always carefully—and brushed damp hair away from your face.
“You know what I think?” he murmured.
Your pulse quickened traitorously.
“I think you survived something horrific.” His fingers lingered briefly near your temple scar. “And I think you had to become dangerous to stay alive afterward.” His voice lowered slightly. “But every single time you think nobody’s looking, you still act exactly like Bruce Wayne’s kid.”
Your breath caught.
“You protect people,” Roy continued softly. “You carry grocery bags for old ladies in the Narrows when you think nobody notices. You leave money in laundromats. You scare abusive men half to death but stop before killing them because somewhere deep down you still hear Batman lecturing you about excessive force.”
“That’s debatable.”
“You webbed a mugger to a billboard last week because he kicked a stray cat.”
“He deserved worse.”
Roy smiled faintly. “See?”
“You make it sound easy,” you whispered.
“I don’t think it’s easy at all.”
“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”
His brows furrowed slightly. “Like what?”
Your voice came out smaller than intended. “Like I’m still human.”
You had been happy before.
You had been a rich, spoiled girl who donated to every cause she could; who wore designer clothes with names no other human being could pronounce, but which you had painstakingly learned to send letters and emails signed with your name in gratitude.
At some point in your life, you had been a society icon. You would have been, you were sure of it. You had kissed your father's cheek and appeared on magazine covers. You had enjoyed elite balls. You had been free in a society that only sought to exploit you, something unthinkable.
You had been who you longed to be, something of which only broken fragments remained.
You weren't human. You were nothing, in your mind. Too human to be a spider, too spider-like to be a person. In an eternal limbo where your body found no peace. You didn't want to live, but you couldn't find the will to die; not without taking Crane with you first.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
You hated how softly he said it. You hated how your body instinctively leaned toward warmth now after years spent freezing alone.
Roy’s hand settled lightly against the side of your neck—not restraining, not trapping, simply there.
“You are so much more than something,” he said quietly. “You used to laugh all the time.”
You swallowed hard.
“You laughed when you were nervous,” he continued softly. “Or excited. Or angry. Sometimes you laughed so hard at your own jokes nobody else could even understand what you were saying.”
“Stop.”
“You used to dance while baking brownies.”
“Roy.”
“You used to whistle constantly. Bruce threatened to ban ABBA from the tower because of you.”
A broken sound escaped your throat somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Please stop.”
Roy fell silent immediately. The apartment suddenly felt too small again.
You pressed both hands against your eyes roughly. “I can’t remember her correctly anymore. That girl . . . Sometimes she feels like somebody I invented.”
“She was real.”
“She’s dead.”
“No,” he said firmly. “She’s hurt.”
“You didn’t see me that night.”
“I’m seeing you now.”
“You don’t understand.” Your voice cracked violently. “There are days I can’t stand sunlight because my skin feels wrong. Sometimes I hear people’s heartbeats through walls. Sometimes I get hungry and it physically hurts not to bite someone. I don’t sleep because every time I close my eyes I see—”
You stopped abruptly, but didn't take your palms off, as if doing it would kill you. His hand, instead, remained where it was.
“Joker used to laugh when I cried. He thought it was funny.” Your voice sounded distant now, detached from your own body. “Every time Crane did something new, Joker would sit there making jokes. And eventually… Eventually I stopped crying because I knew he liked it.”
You continued anyway because apparently once the memories started leaking out, they refused to stop.
“The day he shot me, he seemed almost disappointed,” you murmured. “Like he got bored.”
One second he was horrified, the next he had his hands cupping your face with startling gentleness. You could smell him, sense him; you could feel his pulse beneath his wrists, warm and alive.
“Roy—”
“I know,” he whispered immediately, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “I know you’re scared.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“I know.”
“I’m not…” Your throat tightened painfully. “Easy.”
“Baby, nobody in this world has ever been easy.”
Your forehead dropped weakly against his a second later, just so you could nuzzle softly against him, as softly as you could. The only gentleness you could allow yourself to let him have at the moment.
“I think something is wrong with me.”
Roy snorted softly.
You glared weakly through tears. “That was rude.”
“You’re literally a traumatized half-spider vigilante hiding from Batman in my apartment,” he informed you. “Something being wrong with you isn’t exactly groundbreaking news.”
A startled laugh escaped you despite everything, and he kissed your cheek with tenderness, cleaning away your tears.
The sound of the door opening was unexpected. Mainly because you'd been distracted enough not to notice the footsteps, which was quite unusual for your perpetually alert state.
Except you weren't alert at all, an experience unfamiliar since your return to life.
Roy didn't turn around in terror. Instead, he did so calmly, as if whatever it was couldn't possibly be that bad. You were hidden by his presence, and you didn't want to peek out, instead, sliding your forehead down until it rested on his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ, Harper, your apartment smells like a daycare and regret.”
The ginger sighed dramatically. “Good morning to you too, Jason.”
Your heart stopped. Not metaphorically, actually stopped for one terrible, suspended second before lurching violently back into rhythm hard enough to hurt.
Your senses sharpened instantly despite the exhaustion weighing your limbs. Two heartbeats. One steady and acrobatically controlled in that way Dick’s always had been, capable of slowing almost unnaturally when he focused. The other heavier, rougher around the edges, carrying the strange inconsistency that had existed ever since Jason came back wrong from death himself.
Bootsteps echoed against the apartment floor.
You hated how quickly panic climbed your spine. You stayed hidden against Roy’s shoulder stubbornly, fingers tightening unconsciously in the fabric of his shirt.
Your breathing became uneven. Roy's hand slid quietly against your back in reassurance.
“Bats sent you?” he asked casually, clearly attempting to keep the atmosphere normal.
“Not officially.”
“That means yes.”
“It means Bruce is losing his mind,” Jason corrected flatly. “And Dick here decided bothering me at eight in the morning was somehow my problem.”
“You were awake.”
“I’m always awake. Doesn’t mean I wanna socialize.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
God, you had missed them.
Jason stealing food directly from the pan while Alfred threatened murder with a wooden spoon. Dick singing terribly during patrols because he knew it annoyed everyone. The constant noise of the manor when everyone was home at once.
Dick moved closer into the kitchen then, and you could hear the faint rustle of paper bags. “I brought breakfast.”
You could leave.
You should leave.
The window behind you remained unlocked. You could be across Gotham rooftops before either of them reacted properly. Your body practically screamed at you to run, instincts flaring violently beneath your skin.
“Roy, who the fuck you had in here? Stop letting the clothes everywhere,” Jason complained, and your shirt flew through the open doors of the kitchen.
You lifted your head before you could stop yourself.
Dick looked older than the last time you had seen him properly. Not physically—he was still beautiful in that unfair way he had always been, broad-shouldered and graceful even while standing casually in sweatpants—but exhaustion had settled permanently around his eyes now. His hair was slightly longer than before, curling near the nape of his neck.
Jason looked sharper somehow, harder around the edges. His white streak stood out violently against dark hair, and the leather jacket hanging from his broad shoulders smelled faintly of gunpowder, rain, and cigarettes even from across the room. There was still something gloriously reckless about the way he occupied space, like he refused to apologize for existing loudly.
He was the first one to see you. His eyes shifted lazily toward the kitchen counter, prepared to throw another sarcastic remark at Roy, but stopped abruptly. Your scar was exposed, the scarred, red circle caught morning light with terrible clarity.
“…No fucking way.”
And he whispered your name, stopping Dick in his tracks as well.
You should have moved. You should. You would.
Your leg partially pushed Roy away, but his hand tightened slightly against your back.
“Easy,” he whispered, as if he knew exactly what your plan was.
You heard the sharp pivot of boots against tile before instinct forced your head upward automatically, eyes locking onto his across the kitchen. His shock twisted immediately into something incredulous and almost offended as his gaze snapped between you and Roy.
“You’re kidding me.”
Roy winced. “Jay—”
“You are absolutely kidding me.” Jason pointed directly at the two of you. “While Bruce is down there having the world’s most dramatic midlife crisis, you’ve been hiding here?”
“It wasn’t exactly planned—”
“And why,” Jason continued louder, “do you look domestic?”
Dick didn't have time to get offended. His coffee slipped from his numb fingers, bursting on the kitchen floor. All while staring at you like he physically could not process what he was seeing.
You suddenly became hyperaware of yourself beneath that stare. Roy’s oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder. Healing bruises dark against your throat. Your swollen eyes from crying minutes earlier.
There was too much familiarity in the room. Too much history. It pressed against your ribs painfully, threatening to crack something open inside you that had remained sealed shut for survival.
Your fingers tightened against Roy’s shoulder hard enough to bend fabric.
Your older brother's expression shifted with visible heartbreak, blue eyes darting across your face desperately as though trying to reconcile memory with reality. You watched him recognize every difference one by one: the sharpened canines visible when your breathing hitched, the strange tension in your posture, the faint red veining near your eyes, the scar through your temple.
But beneath all of it, you watched him recognize you too.
“You’re really here,” he whispered.
Not another hallucination grief invented for him.
“You’re—” His voice broke completely. “Jesus Christ.”
Roy shifted slightly. “Okay, maybe everybody should breathe before this gets dramatic.”
“Too late,” Jason muttered automatically.
Dick finally blinked hard enough to move again. “You’re staying here?”
You stiffened immediately. Roy, meanwhile, looked profoundly unimpressed by the tension suddenly infecting his kitchen. “Sometimes.”
Jason barked out a humorless laugh. “Sometimes,” he repeated. “Right.”
Your muscles remained wound tight beneath your skin, instincts still shrieking despite the familiarity surrounding you. Part of you desperately wanted to stay in this kitchen forever listening to your brothers argue over coffee. The other part wanted to disappear before they detected what you had become.
Dick seemed to notice the shift immediately. “You don’t have to run,” he said, desperate not to lose you once again.
Jason dragged a hand down his face aggressively. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Roy squinted at him. “What?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
Jason pointed violently between you both. “This! You knew about her and didn't dare say a thing? How pussywhipped are you, you fucker?”
He tried to throw a punch, but stopped at last moment, seeing you flinch behind him. His expression changed instantly. His face crumpled almost imperceptibly, and your stomach twisted violently. “You could’ve called.”
A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “And said what exactly? ‘Hey Jason, sorry I died weird?’”
His jaw tightened.
“That wasn’t funny.”
“It kind of was.”
“No,” Dick whispered suddenly. “It really wasn’t.”
The grief in his voice made your chest ache.
You looked away immediately; a bad idea, because your enhanced hearing caught it anyway—the subtle irregularity in Dick’s breathing. Like he was trying very hard not to fall apart in front of you.
Roy quietly grabbed paper towels to clean the broken coffee cup, clearly deciding everybody needed a second before emotions became catastrophic.
Jason watched you the entire time. “You look sick,” he said eventually.
“That’s because she barely sleeps,” Roy muttered from the floor.
“Shut up, you traitor,” you mumbled, evading your brothers' eyes.
Dick looked seconds away from either laughing hysterically or having a complete emotional collapse. You recognized the expression immediately because he had always looked like that right before overwhelming feelings tipped him over the edge into motion. Nightwing had never been built for stillness. Not physically. Not emotionally. Grief especially sat wrong inside him, too large and loud for a man who had spent most of his life turning pain into movement.
Now he stood frozen in Roy’s kitchen staring at you like he feared blinking might make you disappear again.
“You’re really alive,” he said again quietly, like the sentence still made no sense in his mouth.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Roy noticed instantly. His hand brushed lightly against your knee in silent reassurance before he moved toward the coffee machine again, apparently deciding caffeine remained essential under catastrophic emotional circumstances.
“Nobody freak out,” he announced. “I’m making another pot.”
Jason blinked at him incredulously. “Harper, I just found out my dead sister is apparently living in your apartment and you think coffee is the priority?”
“Yes,” Roy answered without hesitation. “Because all of you get dramatic on low blood sugar.”
“That is medically inaccurate.”
Dick finally moved then, stepping cautiously into the kitchen like approaching a frightened animal. You stiffened instinctively despite yourself, muscles tightening beneath your skin hard enough that Roy shot you a quick glance over his shoulder.
You remembered another kitchen. Another morning years ago. Dick dancing terribly while making pancakes because you kept laughing too hard to breathe. Bruce pretending to read the newspaper while secretly smiling behind it. Damian declaring everyone incompetent because nobody cooked eggs correctly except Alfred.
Home.
The memory hit so hard that you nearly stopped breathing.
Jason leaned against the counter beside him, studying you carefully now that the initial shock had faded enough for observation to settle in. Unlike Dick, who looked at you with open grief and overwhelming relief, Jason’s attention felt sharper. He recognized broken things intimately because he had once crawled out of death half-destroyed himself.
And he saw too much.
“You’re twitching,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“Your left hand.” He nodded toward it. “You keep flexing it like you’re trying not to stab somebody.”
You immediately stopped moving your fingers.
“Still getting phantom pain?”
Dick looked confused. “Phantom pain?”
Jason didn’t look away from your face. “After the Lazarus Pit, my nerves were fucked for months. Felt like somebody lit my bones on fire every time I stopped moving.” His voice remained casual, but only superficially. “You’re doing the same thing I used to.”
“It’s different,” you muttered.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “How different?”
You hesitated. Roy quietly handed Dick a mug of coffee before speaking gently. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“Yes, she does,” Jason replied immediately. “Because nobody’s telling us anything and apparently everybody decided secrets are fun again.”
Dick shot him a warning glance. “Jay—”
“No, screw that.” Jason gestured toward you sharply. “Bruce has been tearing Gotham apart for forty-eight straight hours because she showed up half-dead and vanished again. Tim hasn’t slept. Damian threatened three separate informants with a sword. Alfred keeps pretending everything’s fine while stress-baking enough scones to feed a small country.” His gaze snapped back toward you. “Meanwhile you’re hiding in Roy’s apartment looking like you’re about three seconds from collapsing.”
The Lazarus Pit had dragged him back wrong too. Different wrong. But wrong enough to recognize pieces of himself in you.
“I suppose now we both know about hiding from each other,” you mumbled back, as venom dripping from your mouth.
The only thing you got from him was a long glance, almost cold if it weren't for his frowned brows. From Dick, instead, you got immediate tears, a broken sound in the back of his throat.
He moved abruptly, making your instincts flare instantly, but instead of attacking or demanding explanations or dragging you back to the manor, he simply crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and wrapped his arms around you.
You were too cold to the touch, too dead to be alive, and you looked so sad for a girl who was once so full of life.
And still, you were his sister. His little sister, still as young as you were when he first saw you, still so small and unhappy.
But he didn't say anything about that. He just kissed your head, ignoring how your hand started trembling again, and just held you as tight as he could.
thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really? tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot? god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive. you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed
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